cades-outsider

Wally was always higly devoted to whatever he decided to pour his energy into; whether that was football or eating out your pussy like a man starved.

The way he'd spend what felt like hours having you on your back or your tummy just devoting his tongue and mouth to you, making you cum was truly an art form; that was starting to feel like an obsession. Of course Wally loved it when you went down on him, watching as you took him into your sweet mouth, his large hands curling in your hair so sweetly and thrusting his hips just enough to get himself off.

But the man loved to eat, and his favorite thing was you.

You swore it felt like only a few hours ago that you were in this same position, on your back, your hands buried into Wally's thick dark hair as he kissed down your body.

"Wally." You giggled, as he slowly unbuttoned your jeans and slid them down your legs, his hot hands scorching against your skin as he pulled your jeans all the way off. "I feel like we were just here."

"You know I can't get enough of you baby."

"You're obsessed." You giggled.

Wally's dark brown eyes looked up at you and you felt your giggles die in your throat. "Oh baby you have no idea." He said in a gruff voice, that already had you clenching in anticipation.

You watched as he crawled back up your body and kissed you, his lips soft and inviting as he opened you to his invading tongue. Letting it dance with yours before he ended the kiss and pressed a wet kiss to your neck, sucking harshly on the spot he knew was your favorite.

You let out a moany groan, and could already feel yourself getting slick for him.

Wally smiled against your neck, before pulling away and sitting back on his heels. His hands running up and down your legs admiring the sight of you like this splayed out before him.

"I'm gonna eat you up baby." He moaned before pulling your hips so your core was flush against his body.

You let out a sharp gasp, as his thumb rubbed against your already sensitive clit through your soft cotton panties.

"You're already so wet for me baby, you're already soaking through your panties. Just shows me how much she missed me too."

His thumb lazily circled your clit, watching as you squirmed against his hold, feeling yourself growing hotter and wetter just from that one motion of his thumb.

His hands reached under your hips and lifted you just enough to help pull those panties down and off before he smoothly pocketed them in the back pocket of his jeans.

He hummed low in his throat at the sight of you as he took his two fingers and glided them down your center and popping them in his mouth. "Always so sweet for me, I just can't get enough of you." He groaned out.

"Wally." You whined. "Stop teasing me."

"You're right baby. I'll stop teasing you, can't hold out for much longer either." You watched as he slid his body down and lowered his mouth to your center and let out a gasp as you felt the flat of his tongue press against your clit.

Wally groaned against you and to his word he stopped teasing you. You felt his tongue eagerly circle your clit, bringing it to his mouth before he sucked hard, causing you to throw your head back against the soft mats. Your hands immediately found purchase in Wally's soft hair, that was usually so neat and kempt, now wild and all over from your fingers digging and pulling at the strands, begging to Wally to stop and never stop all at the same time.

He sucked mercilessly on your clit, those two fingers from before joining in as he slowly pumped them into you bringing you closer to the bliss Wally was so good at bringing you.

"I could eat this pussy everyday for eternity." He breathed against you. "I've found heaven right here." He moaned as his tongue ran down the length of you, pulling out his fingers for a moment so he can fuck you with his tongue.

You were right to call him obsessed. He was obsessed, obsessed with you, your smell and taste. The way your little moans sounded when you were close to coming all over his face. Wally couldn't get enough of you, he didn't think he ever would. He would die all over again if he knew that finding you again would be guaranteed.

You felt your toes curl as you felt your orgasm drawing near.

Wally knew you were close too "Come for me baby, come all over my face." He added both of those fingers inside you again and sucked hard on your clit and you were done for.

You screamed as you felt your orgasm crash over you, Wally's body between your legs the only thing from keeping you from clamping your legs together, as Wally prolonged your sweet torture by eating you out lazily through your orgasm.

You felt dazed as Wally gave your pussy a little kiss, kissing up your thighs and pulling away from you.

"Was that good baby?" Wally smiled because he knew the answer, he just wanted to hear you say it. And after him doing that you obliged.

"So good baby." You moaned, reaching for him and smoothing out his hair before kissing him and tasting yourself on his soft lips.

The sound of your feet slapping on the linoleum floors echoes off the walls of the dimly lit hallways. Your lungs burn, your feet hurt and your throat is raw from screaming. Every time you breathe in, it sends bursts of pain through your chest, leaving you whimpering. But you know you can’t stop. 

For the past 10 minutes, you’ve been swerving through the halls of your high school, trying to escape from the wrath of a killer. Plymouth, Massachusetts very own, John Carver. 

Well, not actually John Carver. Exactly a year after the ‘incident’ at Rightmart during Black Friday, a psychopath decided to dress up in a plastic John Carver mask and go on a spree. He’s already claimed 2 victims in the past week alone. And, unfortunately, you’re next on his list. 

His victims (so far) were each featured in the video your dumbass friend, Evan, posted online during the incident. He stood on a cashier counter and recorded the chaos of the shoppers around him, killing each other over 20% off waffle makers. Of course, you had your very own cameo. That video alone might earn you an axe in the head.

You turn a corner, skidding to a stop as the sound of the killer's footsteps completely ceases. The school is eerily quiet, the only sound you hear is your own blood pumping loudly in your ears.

Just as you begin to relax, assuming he left, a hand wraps around your hoodie, pulling you into a dark closet.  A sharp gasp slips from your lips, filled with surprise and fear, but it's abruptly stifled as a strong hand clamps down over your mouth. Your eyes squeeze shut, worried if you open them the first thing you’ll see is the cool metal of an axe pummeling towards your face.

Instead, as you muster the courage to peel your eyelids apart, the world slowly comes into focus, revealing Ryan Baker mere inches away from your face. Seeing how close he is, you’d honestly rather take the axe.

It has been a year since Ryan abandoned you in Right Mart, a day that still haunts you. You still remember the cold tile beneath you as you sat, paralyzed, while screams echoed around you and chaos unfolded. Ryan, your ‘best friend’, vanished when you needed him most, leaving you shaking on the cold floors, blood pooling around you. So, you vowed to never speak to him again, let alone look at him.

You try to fight against his hand, but he pushes it further against your mouth, his leg trapping you against the wall. He looks through the slit in the door, and you squint, following his line of sight. Footsteps echo past the door, the sound of metal scraping against the wall vibrating through the thick wood. 

The realization hits you like a semitruck. Ryan just saved your life. The killer must’ve turned the other way and looped around. Had Ryan not pulled you into the closet, you would’ve run headfirst into the man. 

The footsteps disappear, and the only sound you can hear is the front door to the school swinging open and slamming shut. The fear and anxiety bleeds out of you once you know you’re safe, those feelings being quickly replaced with anger. Your hand finds his and you pry it off your mouth, taking a deep breath. 

“Why are you sitting in a closet like a creep?” 

He scowls, genuinely appalled at your lack of thankfulness. “I just saved your life and that’s all you can say to me?” 

With an exaggerated sigh, you roll your eyes in a mix of annoyance and reluctant acceptance, knowing he’s right.

“Would've been nice if you did that last year.” You reach for the doorknob, fingers wrapping around the cool metal. The knob doesn’t turn, instead, it makes a horrible grinding sound that reverberates through your bones. Ryan doesn't seem to notice, instead opting to run his mouth like usual. 

“Are you seriously still fuckin’ mad about that? I already told you why I left-“

“Ryan-“

“No- I’m talking! You’d be fucking dead-“

“Ryan! The door is stuck!” You yell, stopping his rant.

He finally pauses, and glances over at the knob. He turns it, the grinding sound filling your ears, making you wince. His eyebrows furrow in frustration as each turn of the knob brings the same conclusion. 

He throws his shoulder against the sturdy door repeatedly, each hit resonating with a mournful groan. Despite his efforts, the door remains in place, holding its ground.

Fuck.

────────────

He’s way too close to you. The closet is small and stuffy, leaving both of you barely any room to move. Ryan is sitting across from you, his knees pushed against yours. After sitting on the hard concrete floor for what feels like hours, you begin counting the different things that line the shelves. 27 toilet paper rolls, 18 paper towel rolls, and 3 dirty rags...  A mop, 2 brooms… Okay, you’ve officially gone off the deep end. 

Your train of thought is interrupted by Ryan. He hasn’t even moved, nor made any sounds in the past 10 minutes. It's his cologne. It fills the small space, and it makes you dizzy. The fragrance is expensive, musky. Fucking intoxicating. 

Right now, when you’re supposed to hate him, it just makes you fucking furious. He has no right to smell like that... And look at you like that. And look like that. God, why does he look so good? 

He clears his throat, his eyebrows furrowed in utter confusion. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Scoffing, you pull your knees closer against your chest. “Because I’m mad at you!”

Ryan runs his hand through his thick brown hair, a few strands falling in front of his eyes. Shaking his head in frustration, he lets out a laugh. “I can’t believe you’re still mad about that! You’re so dramatic.”

Your face drops, and you stare at him blankly. His audacity is genuinely astounding. “Are you serious?”

Ryan opens his mouth for a second, his voice dying in his throat as you interrupt him. “You abandoned me in the middle of that fucking store. You- You left me to die, Ryan!”

The boy shakes his head, laughing bitterly again. God, he’s infuriating. “You know what? You seemed pretty protected already,” He scoffs, resting his arm on his knee. You raise an eyebrow, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Countless times, you’ve argued with him over this. It was always the same excuse: “I couldn’t find you in the crowd, so I left.” But, this? This was new.

“The fuck does that mean?”

He pauses, seemingly recounting that night. “Bobby. He was all up on you. You seemed fine, so I left,” he mutters, his voice laced with bitterness and… Jealousy? Something you can’t place.

Utterly dumbfounded, you laugh in surprise, fingernails digging into your palms. “Are you fucking kidding me? Bobby?!” It was the lamest excuse you have ever heard. Last year, he abandoned you in the middle of the purge for god's sake, because he saw Bobby ‘Golden Arm’ Di Stasi breathe within 2 feet of you.

Ryan scoffs again, his 20th within the hour. “I don’t get why you care so much! You’re fine! He seemed to have it all covered.”

“Because I wanted you there! Not fucking Bobby!” You yell out, voice reverberating off the walls.

Startled, Ryan recoils, eyes widening in shock. A brief flash of guilt crosses his face before he quickly hardens his resolve, transforming that guilt into a simmering anger. “You seemed pretty fuckin’ comfortable, princess,” he volleys back, voice laced with venom.

“I’m sorry he was actually there for me, unlike you! Seems to me that someone got jealous because they saw an attractive guy on top of me,” you blurt out.

Ryan’s face twists into purse disgust. “Attractive?? Stop dick riding for one fuckin’ second!”

“What’s with you and dicks? You wish it was you?” In all your years of being friends, you never were at the point of making sex jokes with him. Now, they seem to keep spilling out.

“I don’t know, you seem to know a lot about them!” He leans against the cool surface of the wall, tension radiating from his posture. His eyes, sharp and narrow, pierce through the dim light, filled with accusation.

“God, fuck you!” You let out a derisive laugh, a sharp sound that hangs in the air, as you avert your eyes from him.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He leans forward, his voice getting deeper. You still refuse to look at him. “Me taking you, right here in this closet?” His tone is teasing, dark. It’s meant to be a joke, played off as something just to get under your skin. But his eyes gleam with challenge.

You turn your head back to Ryan, your lips almost brushing against his, the tension heavy. He slid closer during the chaos of the fight, his body trapping you in. Cologne envelopes you like a blanket, your heart hammering in your chest.

“And what if I did?” For just a split second, Ryan’s eyes widen, his pupils blowing.

Just as you’re about to fight your own words, you suddenly feel the warmth of his lips pressing against yours. A firm hand grips your waist, drawing you closer until you find yourself nestled between his legs. Instinctively, your hands push against his chest, seeking balance as your heart races. The kiss breaks, and his eyes meet yours—glossy and unfocused.

You’re nestled between his legs, the warmth radiating from him grounding you as your fingers rest gently on his broad chest. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing softly against your skin. “Shit—I'm sorry—” he stammers, just as shocked as you are, even though he’s the one who started it.

Confusion swirls within you as you try to grasp the reality of what just happened. Your eyes search for answers, but all you find is a wide-eyed stare that mirrors your own bewilderment. His lips part slightly, as if he might speak, yet silence continued to hang heavily between you.

Within a few heartbeats, you pull his lips back towards you, teeth hitting his. The kiss is all teeth, desperate and intense. He gasps against you, hands wrapping around your waist to steady your body against his own. Underneath you, he crosses his legs, pulling you into his lap, causing you to yelp.

Hands finding the back of his neck, you tangle your fingers into the thick hair at his nape. He groans softly, tongue flicking across your bottom lip, seeking entrance. Obliging, you part your lips, inviting him in. With another groan, his tongue finds yours, tasting toothpaste and something sweet.

You whimper softly, eyebrows pulling together. He pulls at your hair, giving himself access to the side of your neck. Tongue sliding against your jaw, he peppers kisses along the sharp bone. Shaky breaths escape your lips with each press of his lips. For years, a part of you wondered what the curve of his mouth would feel like against your neck.

But, now, in the present? It was better than anything you could ever conjure up in your head. A nip of his teeth at your pulse point pulls you out of your thoughts. “Fuck…” Soft whines and whimpers leave your throat, matching the rhythm of Ryan’s lips against you.

All of your movements cease as he wraps your legs around his waist, pressing his hips against yours. You pull back, blinking down at him. Through all the fabric, you feel something pressing against your core. Your gaze is drawn to where your bodies meet, as you gape at the noticeable bulge in his jeans. 

“See what you do to me?” Ryan groans out, grinding his hips up slowly, the friction making you bite your lip. In real time, you can feel him harden beneath you. Despite your many fantasies, you’d never imagined this. Ryan was just your best friend. The kid who used to bathe in pink bubbles. Never once did the thought that he even had a dick crossed your mind.

Now, sitting right on top of him, knowing you did that to him, your brain goes fuzzy. All thoughts are thrown out the window, your head filling with pure lust. Testing the waters, you grind against his jeans, watching each twitch of his face. 

Large hands slide down your body, grabbing a handful of your ass. Ryan pulls you harder against him, guiding your hips with his hands. Each movement causes fabric to rub against your clit, your fingers digging further into his bicep. He readjusts, spreading his legs apart for you, his hand bracing on the floor behind him. 

The feeling in your stomach tightens with each calculated roll of his hips. As much as you want all of him, the feeling is intoxicating. Neither of you can bring yourself to stop—even to strip. Ryan’s groans fill the closet, mixing with your escalating whimpers. The coil within you twists into knots, your hips jerking with each movement.

Ryan keeps you steady, making sure he’s hitting all the right spots. You feel your panties sticking to you, soaking straight through your too-tight shorts. Looking down, you see the denim on Ryan’s jeans darken. He doesn’t seem to mind, instead nipping at your collarbone.

“Ryan- Please,” you whimper, legs beginning to tremble softly. He leans back to look at you, grunting as he rolls his hips harder.

“Please what? You wanna come, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice mocking. All his movements stop, his fingers digging into your ass. You sneer at him, your eyebrows knitting tightly together in frustration. Heat throbs uncomfortably at your core. “Use your words.”

“Fuck you!” You spit venom at his face, your forehead pressed against his as your chest heaves. A low chuckle rumbles in Ryan’s throat, his fingers squeezing your hips. His bruising grip foils any attempt to move. 

“Come on, I know you have it in you,” he urges, rolling his hips slightly, bringing you teetering over the edge. Whimpers leave your lips, frustration bubbling deep within you. He wants you to beg? Fine, you’ll fucking beg.

“Please,” you breathe out softly, biting your lip, eyelashes batting. Ryan shakes his head, seeing right through your little act. He holds you still for what feels like hours, not satisfied with any of your answers. You can tell he needs a release too, but it’s obvious how much the ‘sick fuck’ is enjoying it.

“Please, Ryan,” you whimper, desperation leaking into your voice. Your resolve crumbles as you lose yourself in a blind desperation.

“Please, please…” you repeat, over and over, pure lust crowding your vision. Never in your fucking life–especially not in the last year–did you expect to be pleading with Ryan Baker to make you come. But here you are, panties soaked, face painted with crimson, planted right on top of his dick.

Finally, he deems your pleading good enough and he continues his movements, this time moving deeper. Slower. Within a few moments, your legs tighten around his waist almost painfully. You throw your head back, your mouth open in a silent scream. He watches you tremble with a smirk on his face, your body jerking on top of him violently. 

Obviously, his teasing was too much for you. Each time he brought you close to the edge, it just increased your sensitivity. Still, he rides you through your orgasm, his hips chasing yours, seeking his own release. Face twisting, he bites down on your neck, marking you as his. As he bites down, he groans through his teeth, hips jolting up. Wetness spreads beneath your ass, the evidence of his orgasm clear, even through his jeans.

You pull back to look into his eyes, still catching your breath. In the dim light of the closet, he looks fucking gorgeous. Strands of thick black hair fell over his forehead, his lips plump and smeared in lip gloss. Inside the walls of the closet, it’s only him. No Rightmart, no Bobby, no John Carver. Just him.

Basking in the moment for just a second, you press your lips softly against his. Maybe you’ll never forgive him, but as your legs continue to tremble, your feelings inevitably begin to change. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, sneakers slap on the floor just outside the closet.

Both your heads snap over to the door, pure fear cascading down on you, pulling you out of your fantasy. The doorknob twists, the harsh sound reverberating deep in your soul. Neither of you makes an effort to move, frozen in fear. What can you do? Beat him with a wet mop?

Suddenly something snaps and the door swings open, causing the person on the other side to stumble slightly. As the fluorescent light pours into the stuffy dimly lit room, your eyes widen. On the other side, your entire friend group gapes, way past dumbfounded.

Jess stares down at you both, her jaw hanging open. There was no getting out of this.

Eyes flicker over Ryan’s tousled hair. His lips, glistening with Cherry gloss, draw attention like a magnet before the group's gaze settles on the large damp patch spreading across the fabric of his jeans. As if your being caught sitting on his fucking lap wasn’t damning enough, they continue to stare blankly at you both, inspecting you like Sherlock fucking Holmes.

In a few heartbeats, chaos erupts. 

“Ew! What the fuck!” Gabby yells, her voice rising by almost 4 octaves.

“I thought you hated him!” Jess says, tearing her eyes away, obviously too uncomfortable to even process what’s going on. “Does getting chased by a fucking serial killer turn you guys on?!” Evan runs a hand through his hair, genuinely shocked, a state you’ve never seen him in before. “Y’all are fuckin’ freaks!” Scuba laughs wildly, clapping his hands as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

Yulia just stays silent. You knew always liked her the best for a reason.

As your friends continue to hound you both, you slowly stand up, Ryan following suit. He follows behind you like a puppy, earning a clap on the back by Scuba. Jess shakes her head at you, too lost to even be disappointed. 

You both do the walk of shame through the hallway, pants uncomfortably soaked through. As you shuffle your feet, your friends laugh and elbow you in the ribs. Ryan steals a few glances, sporting a smug smirk.

Dick.

“To outrun you,” you said slowly, furrowing your eyebrows together, “well, not you specifically, but the cops. It’s just like when they used to show up in high school and we were all out at Mr. Smith’s farm.” You responded, thinking more to yourself as you watched the girl in the video fail once again. It didn’t seem that bad. 

“You think you can outrun me?” He asked as he tilted his head in your direction, a look of disbelief on his features. Your surprise mirrored his. 

“Depends on the circumstance, but sure.” You told him seriously, feeling slightly confident as you nodded your head in agreement. 

“You’re funny, honey.” He snorted as he shook his head, pressing on the side of your phone so the video disappeared. He was looking at you seriously this time, like you were silly. 

“What does that mean?” You asked, slightly offended at his words. You could run fast, you were sure of it. 

“There’s no way you can get away from me.” He said in a matter of fact way, leaning closer to you as he pressed his fingers into your sides. You bit back a laugh, ignoring your ticklish ribs as you faced him better. 

“Sure I can,” you replied, looking at him shocked, “I most definitely can outrun you.” You told him, tugging on his vest to prove your point. 

“Uh huh.” He said as an amused grin formed on your lips. He leaned back in the chair, eyebrows slightly raised as he waited for you to speak again. He only did this when he was certain that he was right but didn’t want to argue about it. But you didn’t want to let it slide. 

“I’ll prove it to you.” You told him seriously as you stood up, placing your hands on your hips. You watched the way he laughed, how he kicked his legs out lazily in front of you. 

“Yeah?” he asked, looking upwards with a cocky smirk on his face, “and what do I get when you lose?” He asked, reaching forward enough to tug at the hem of your shirt. You swatted his hands away playfully. 

“I’m not losing, so it shouldn’t matter.” You knelt over, speaking to him realistically. You could outrun him, you knew it. 

“Not interested then.” He replied in a bored manner, eyes mirroring his tone as he linked his fingers over his stomach. You held onto his knees, tilting forward. 

“Anything you want,” you replied a second later, “but if I win, then you have to finally put that pool up.” You said with a grin, watching as he knitted his eyebrows tightly together. 

“It’s like a fuckin’ blow up pool.” He responded quickly, like it made any difference to you. You just wanted your damn pool. 

“So it should be up by now.” You teased, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He grinned for a moment before he pulled away, his hand colliding with your backside as you yelped. 

“Alright, you have yourself a deal,” he said, sticking his hand out to shake yours. He linked his fingers tightly over yours, dragging you closer with so much force that you gasped, “but you can’t be a sore loser about it. You said I can do anythin’ I want.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you nodded along, grinning as you leaned forward to peck his lips again, “you should invest in a speedo for my pool, I'll need the eye candy.” You teased, laughing at the way he snorted and dropped your hand. 

Fifteen minutes later you were both on the outskirts of the ranch, a wooden fence separating the two of you as the dry grass crunched underneath your feet. It was humid outside, unbearably hot but you weren’t going to let that get in your way. 

“You’re starting from there?” You questioned as he pulled his cruiser door open, beginning to slide himself into the seat. 

“I’m giving you a fair chance.” He said with a laugh, pulling his vape up to his lips and taking a deep inhale. You shifted back a few feet, just enough to peer at him better. 

“I don’t need a head start.” You told him defiantly, furrowing your features up in disbelief. You could outrun him easily. 

“Ten seconds isn’t bad.” He said, making your jaw drop in surprise. You had no idea how you had given him the impression that you needed that much time. 

“I don’t need that long.” You told him, watching the way he dropped his head in your direction. He didn’t believe you, not at all. 

“Five seconds then.” He debated a second later, leaving you with no choice other than to agree. You doubted that he would listen to you regardless. 

“Fine,” you shrugged, “I get to pick your speedo for the pool then.” You told him happily, already thinking about a risky little number. He snorted, taking another hit from his vape. 

“You need to stretch or anything before we begin?” He teased as he leaned forward, watching the way you frowned at him. 

“You’re the one hopping over the fence, better hope your knees don’t buckle.” You sassed back, almost positive that he would end up falling on his face. 

“Five second head start,” he confirmed as he slid back into his cruiser, making you wave your hand at him, “whenever you’re ready.” He said smugly, closing the door obnoxiously. You shook your head at the sound of it slamming shut, turning away from him. 

You balanced from foot to foot, glancing down to ensure that your shoes were tied tightly and that the ground was sturdy underneath your feet. You held your hands up to your sides, getting in position and playfully lurching forward. Your grin was large as you looked over your shoulder, only to be surprised that Gator hadn’t even moved yet. Maybe this would be even easier than you thought.

A giddy feeling filled you as you thought about how silly this was, almost ridiculous. You looked over again, ensuring that he was still in the same spot before you dug your feet into the ground; preparing to race forward. 

You pumped your arms to your sides as your legs jumped forward, the wind catching your skin as you sprinted across the field. You were feeling fairly confident at how far you had gotten by the time you heard the car door slam open and shut, a breathy laugh falling from your lips. 

Energy was still pulsing through you when you glanced over your shoulder to confirm that there was still a large gap between you, only to be horrified at the realization that he was only a few feet away. You hadn’t even heard him jump over the fence, had no idea how he’d managed to catch up so fast with all of his gear on either.

A shriek squeaked out of your lungs as you snapped your head forward once again, using whatever you had in yourself to push forward. You even did a little zigzag, hoping that you might throw him off somehow.

It didn’t even feel like a second had passed before his hands were on you, holding onto your biceps as he brought you onto the ground. He somehow managed to do it quite gently, keeping your face from slamming into the dirt as you wiggled and protested. 

“Okay, you caught me!” you protested, still wiggling about as he wrapped his fingers around your wrists. Your eyes widened at the feeling of metal on your skin, the handcuffs linking onto you a second later, “woah, woah, this was not part of the deal.”

“You said I could do whatever I wanted,” he hummed, tugging you up enough until your back was flush against his chest, “so stop fuckin’ struggling.” He whispered harshly in your ear, making everything inside of you pulse. 

“Gator-,” You began breathlessly, only to be cut off by him. 

“Who do you think you’re talkin’ to, doll?” He asked gruffly, his nose brushing against the side of your neck. His grip was still tight on you as he forced you to walk forward, making you shake your head. 

“You’re not being funny.” You told him seriously, trying to look back at him. He only yanked you in return, making you look forward once again. 

“So much for not being a sore loser, yeah?” He teased, nearly making you scoff. You weren’t such a thing. 

“I’m not a sore loser.” You defended yourself, a little yelp leaving your mouth as he held you climb over the fence once again. It was significantly harder without your hands and you didn’t dare push him away. Not this time. You didn’t want to end up being the one to fall on your face. 

“You got the right to remain silent,” he reminded you, eyes gleaming, “maybe you need something to shut you up.” He mumbled, making your heart race a little faster. 

You glanced back at him, staying quiet this time around. You couldn’t deny the electricity that was pulsing inside of you, how the excitement grew deeper. You were suddenly pleased with how this had ended, how he was treating you. 

“That’s better,” he hummed, continuing to drag you back to the cruiser, “you can listen to directions, that’s good. Maybe you’re not that much of a dumb whore.” He criticized, making your lips part in surprise. 

You didn’t get a chance to answer as he pushed you up against the hood of the car, kicking your legs apart until they were spread wide. You tried to push up a bit, only for him to press you back against the warm vehicle.

“Now don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he teased as he leaned over you, his body flush against your back, “wouldn’t want to drag you down to the station. That wouldn’t be very pretty.” He hummed into your ear, snickering at the way you whined underneath him.

Gator slowly rose off of you, relieving the pressure by just a bit before his large hands found your sides. You yelped at how aggressive he was as he tapped you down, taking his time to feel you up.

“Enjoying yourself?” You muttered as his large fingers traced the band of your bra, right underneath your breasts. He chuckled, reaching behind to unsnap the band. You gasped as it fell apart, his fingers finding your hardening nipples. 

“Makin’ sure you’re not carrying anything dangerous,” he hummed, tongue flicking out to lick away the sweat at your neck. You moaned, closing your eyes as he continued to pinch at your nipples, “can’t be too safe these days.” He responded, slowly rutting his hardening cock against the curve of your ass. 

His long fingers slowly trailed down the length of your body, spreading goosebumps across your skin as he reached for the band of your pants. He tugged them down a moment later, followed by your panties as pressed you against the car once again. You didn’t fight this time, far too eager to feel him on you.

“Cute,” he mumbled as he dragged his fingertips across your wet folds, earning a moan from your lips. The sound of his belt coming undone made you shift, desperate to feel him, “awe, such a whore. So fuckin’ needy. You want my cock that bad?” he tsked, almost like it was a bad thing. 

“Yes Gator.” You whimpered as he dragged the length of his cock across your soaked folds, the tip rubbing against your sensitive clit. You breathed in deeply, nipples hard against the material of your shirt. 

“What was that?” He asked gruffly as he pushed his cock inside of you, squeezing your wrists as he looked down at the way your pussy hugged his fat girth. You had never been with someone so big before, so thick. 

“Yes, officer.” You corrected a second later, moaning as he slowly dragged you back against the curve of his cock. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, adjusting to the heavy feel inside of your pussy. Your walls hugged him snuggly, squeezing him roughly. 

“That’s all ya need isn’t it?” he hummed, continuing to watch the way his cock slid in and out of your wet cunt, “just some cock to make you shut up. Poor dumb slut.” He mocked as he pressed into you fully, filling you to the brim. 

“Yeah, need it so badly,” you moaned as he began to rut his cock in and out of your cunt harder, your slick dripping along the length of his dick. Every movement was deep and harsh, leaving your mind foggy with pleasure, “right there, oh fuck. That’s it.” You whined, licking away drool from the corners of your lips.

Gator grunted as he pressed onto you harder, making your legs tremble as his cock continued to stretch your slippery walls out. Every movement made your clit ache, electricity pulsing inside of you as he continued to drag you back along the curve of his dick.

Your moans were rolling off of your tongue, loud and free as he grunted roughly. His large hands fell to your hips, squeezing you roughly as his balls smack against your flesh. You whimpered as you attempted to roll your hips back, desperate to feel even more of him.

“Mhm, such a greedy whore,” he whispered harshly in your ear, chuckling as he nipped at your skin. You whined at the sensation, enjoying the way his cock pulsed inside of your weeping cunt, “such a good girl for me. You want me to cum inside of you? Fill this pretty pussy with my cum?” He asked roughly as he groaned in your ear, your walls clamping down around the girth of his cock.

The feeling inside of you was so intense, so good that all you could do was moan in response. You wanted to feel his cum leaking from inside your pussy, painting your walls and leaving you a mess. The thought made your clit throb, aching with bliss as the pleasure spread hotly inside of you. 

“Fuck, right there,” you cursed as you continued to grind back against his long dick, savoring how heavy he felt against your spongy walls, “wanna feel you cum inside me, Gator. Fill me up, please, please, please.” You pleaded with him, whining as the pleasure began to burn inside of you. You were trembling around him, leaking as your high grew closer and closer.

The sound of your bodies meeting filled the air, dirty and filthy as your cunt squelched around his girthy cock. His grunts met your moans, loud and rough as he continued to dig his fingertips into your skin. 

“What a little whore,” he tsked as he squeezed at your flesh, smacking your ass a second later, “begging for my cum like a slut. Greedy little thing.” He grunted as his movements became harder, his grasp on you tightening as he rutted his cock in and out of your slippery cunt. 

You felt your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he fucked into you, his movements deep and rough. Your muscles contracted from the pleasure, heavy as the fire continued to grow inside of you. You felt hot as the sweat collected at the base of your neck, your clit throbbing and arms aching. 

You cried out as you came, your cunt hugging his cock snuggly as the waves of pleasure crashed over you. Everything felt too intense as you shook underneath him, his grip on you keeping you from collapsing onto the ground. 

His groans grew louder, his movements not as rhythmic as he buried himself deeper inside of you. You whimpered at the sensation, the sound of his low grunts filling your ears in a melodic way. He bottomed out against you a moment later, the tip of his cock pressing against your bundle of nerves.

“Fuck, fuck,” he groaned as he roughly gripped your wrists, making your hands feel slightly numb, “just like that. Such a good girl, taking all of my cum. Mhm, look at that. Little whore.” He spit out all at once, voice raspy as his spunk painted your aching walls.

You whimpered from underneath him, licking away the drool that had fallen from the corners of your lips. It was messy, but you knew he liked that. A little giggle fell free as he pushed into you harder, making your mind grow foggy once again. 

You reach around him and press three buttons in a row, clearing out whatever nonsense he’d punched in. The microwave beeps obediently and starts to whir. Gator exhales through his nose. You hear him shift, the scuffed heel of his boot scraping across the cracked linoleum as he steps back.

"You always this bossy with your patients?"

You grab a dishrag and toss it over your shoulder, not looking at him. "Only the ones who almost set fire to their drapes last week."

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. It sounds like something trying to crawl up a dry throat and dying halfway.

"I didn’t ask for you."

"No. The state did. Big difference."

That gets him quiet. The microwave hums louder than it should. This place makes noise like it’s protesting every breath. The fridge rattles. The AC groans but doesn’t blow. Somewhere in the bathroom, a slow drip ticks like a clock.

You hear Gator shift again, arms folding. "Used to come through County sometimes. Victim reports and shit. Back when you were still in scrubs. Didn’t peg you for the mothering type."

You glance at him. His face is the same as you remember, minus the way it used to carry too much smugness and swagger. His jaw’s still sharp but there’s tension in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it's the slight beard starting to grow in, maybe it's the scars, or maybe it's just the fact that he doesn’t have his eyes anymore. That tends to shift the dynamic.

"I’m not," you say. "But I am paid to keep you alive, which means making sure you don’t blow yourself up for the third time this month."

"Third?" he echoes, lifting his brows. "Thought it was only twice."

"You don't always hear about the ones I catch in time."

The microwave dings and you open it before he can try. The bowl’s too hot, so you use a towel and grab a spoon. You set it on the table where he usually eats, pushing aside the mess of newspapers and empty cans.

He waits until your footsteps pass him before moving. You can hear the way he tests the space with his foot, like he doesn’t trust the floor to stay where it was yesterday. You almost reach out, almost guide him like you would one of the other clients, but you don’t. He’d hate that. He’s already gripping the edge of the counter like he’s daring himself to make it across the six feet of floor without help.

He does. Barely. His chair scrapes back as he sits down.

“Still got it,” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t reply. You pull open the window above the sink instead, let in some fresh air that doesn’t smell like reheated TV dinners and humid bitterness.

Gator takes a spoonful and immediately hisses, half-coughs.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You tryin’ to skin my tongue off?”

You glance back. “Didn’t think I needed to remind you soup gets hot. My mistake.”

He says nothing, just sits there fuming, going for the second bite like it offended him personally.

You lean your hip against the counter, arms crossed. “You ever think about saying thank you?”

His head tilts slightly. “You ever think about mindin’ your own damn business?”

“Every day,” you reply. “But then you do something stupid again.”

There’s a silence. Not a loud one. Not angry, either. Just... there. Sitting heavy between you. You watch him take another bite, slower this time. He looks like he’s chewing memory more than food.

"You were different back then," you say finally.

He swallows. “Back when?”

“Back when you were a deputy. Still had that dumb truck. Used to roll up like a Hot Wheels car.”

You expect another jab. Another smart-ass deflection. But Gator doesn’t smile. His spoon hovers in midair.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I liked driving fast. Or at all."

You nod. “I remember.”

He sets the spoon down. Reaches for the can of soda you left near the edge of the table. He misses it by an inch. Your hand beats his, pushing it gently toward him until his fingers close around the rim.

He doesn't say thank you.

He doesn’t have to.

Because he knows you’ll be there.

Even when he’s acting like a bastard.

Especially then.

The bathroom is just wide enough for your knee to brush the edge of the tub when you sit him down on the closed toilet seat. The counter digs into your hip, and the mirror above the sink is fogged from the old radiator’s steam pipe that runs along the back wall. It always runs too hot in here, even when it’s cold outside.

“You could’ve told me you were growing a beard,” you mutter, soaking the rag in warm water. “Would’ve saved me from bringing the razor.”

“I wasn’t,” he says flatly. “Just forgot.”

You wring out the rag and lean in, pressing it against the curve of his jaw. His skin twitches, but he doesn’t pull back. The stubble is rougher than usual. Thicker. It smells like his soap, the kind you buy because he doesn’t care enough to notice brands.

“Well,” you say, voice lighter now, “you forget for another week and I’m charging double. I don’t do lumberjack grooming for free.”

Gator smirks faintly, lips barely moving. “Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to impress anybody.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “Still handsome. Stubborn, moody, difficult, but handsome.”

His brows twitch like he’s not sure if you’re joking. You are. Mostly. But it’s true, too. Even with the band of fabric he wears across what’s left of his eyes, even with the scar cutting down his cheekbone, even with that worn flannel pulled loose at the collar. He’s still himself. Still Gator Tillman. Just quieter now. Bruised around the edges.

You grab the razor and lather his face with a little of the cheap shaving cream he keeps under the sink. Your fingers are gentle but quick. He lets you touch him like this, like he’s used to it now. Like it’s normal.

“You ever nick me,” he says, “I swear—”

“You’ll what?” You lift a brow. “Scowl in my general direction?”

He exhales, and it almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.

You start on his jaw, slow strokes with the razor, careful to mind the curve near the scar. Your hand steadies against his chin. The blade whispers down skin. He doesn’t flinch.

“You know,” you say after a minute, “this is probably one of the parts of this job I enjoy.”

“You enjoy shaving me?”

“Yeah.” You rinse the blade. “It’s quiet. Focused. And you stop talking.”

“Convenient.”

“And,” you add, “you’ve got a good face. Nice jaw. Would be a crime to let it get buried under all this gristle.”

“You flirt like a truck stop waitress,” he says.

“Damn right I do.”

He’s quiet again. You move to the other side of his face, press your fingers lightly to tilt his chin. His pulse is steady under the skin. You don’t say anything else. The room doesn’t need it.

You finish, wiping away the last of the lather with the cloth. His skin is warm beneath it. Those few familiar moles and freckles are visible again. You reach to rinse your hands and toss the towel in the laundry bin tucked under the sink.

But before you can turn away, his hand reaches out. Finds yours.

He’s slow about it, like he’s not sure he has the right. Like he’s not sure if you’ll pull back.

You don’t.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, and he guides your hand back to his cheek. Presses it there. Just rests it. Your palm against his newly smooth skin. The tiniest tremble in his jaw.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe for a second.

It isn’t flirty. It isn’t seductive. It’s just... quiet. Needy in a way that aches.

And even though he doesn’t say a word, you know exactly what this is.

You leave your hand there a little longer than you should.

Because he doesn’t get this often. Not anymore.

Because you don’t mind the quiet moments either.

Because it’s the one time he lets you touch him without biting back.

He’s still Gator. Still hard-edged, still impossible. But this? This is the part of him that he never lets anyone else see.

And you’re still here.

Even when he doesn’t ask.

Especially then.

You don’t have to check the peephole to know who it is. The knock has a kind of rhythm to it. Measured. Familiar. You open the door and find Nadine standing there with a container in her hands and a smile that means she’s brought something dangerous.

"Oatmeal raisin," she says before you even ask, lifting the Tupperware like a peace offering. "Still his favorite, right?"

You breathe in the smell and nod, already reaching for it. “You spoil him.”

“Somebody has to,” she replies, stepping inside without waiting for more invitation.

She’s dressed like always, some kind of floral blouse under a light jacket, gold studs in her ears, her hair pulled back into a bun that’s starting to loosen in the front. She smells like the kind of department store perfume that clings to coat collars and car seats for days.

You close the door behind her and follow her into the kitchen, popping the lid on the cookies before your shoes even leave the mat.

“He’s gonna inhale these,” you mutter, already grabbing a small plate from the cabinet. “And then act like he doesn’t have a sweet tooth.”

“He’ll grumble through the whole first one,” Nadine says, “but I guarantee you he’ll have three gone before I get a word in.”

You like her. You always have. She’s one of the few people who knows how to talk to Gator like he’s still human, even when he’s acting like a closed door. She doesn’t tiptoe. Doesn’t baby him. She also doesn’t bullshit, which you appreciate.

She watches you for a moment while you arrange the cookies on the plate, and you know that look. It’s the same one she gives him when she knows he’s full of it.

“You heading out?” she asks gently.

“That was the plan,” you say. “Usually give you two the apartment. It’s kind of your time.”

Nadine steps closer and reaches out, setting one hand lightly on your forearm. Her grip is soft, but there’s something in the way she holds it that makes you pause.

“Stay,” she says. “Just for a bit. Not on the clock. Just cookies and coffee and a little conversation.”

You hesitate. You’ve never stayed during one of her visits. You usually use the window to grab groceries or take a break, let them have this. But her tone isn’t casual, and her eyes are steady on yours.

“I’d like you to sit with us today,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s good for him. And frankly, you could use a break too.”

You don’t argue. Not with her. You nod, slow and small, and she smiles like she’s been waiting for you to agree since she pulled into the driveway.

She walks into the living room ahead of you, calling out as she goes. “It’s me, Gator. Brought cookies.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but you hear him shift on the couch. The leather creaks under him as he turns toward the sound of her voice.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters. “Thought you got lost.”

“Please,” Nadine snorts. “I’ve been navigating this godforsaken town longer than you’ve been breathing. Don’t sass me.”

You follow them in, quieter. Normally, your footsteps would head toward the door. This time they carry you back across the living room, and the moment you cross into his space, you feel it. He knows you stayed. Of course he does. His head tips, just slightly, in your direction, and even though the cloth he wears keeps you from seeing what’s left of his eyes, you feel his attention land on you all the same.

You sit down on the armrest of the chair across from him, legs tucked close, hands folded in your lap. Nadine takes the couch next to Gator, passing him a cookie and patting his arm when his fingers fumble for the plate.

The three of you sit like that, sharing the space in silence for a few moments while he chews through the first bite and makes a face like it’s too sweet, even though everyone knows it isn’t.

“Still soft,” he says grudgingly, like it’s a complaint.

“You’re welcome,” Nadine replies, taking one for herself. “I’d ask for an actual ‘thank you’, but I know that’s not your style.”

“I don’t say thank you,” he grumbles, “I eat the damn cookie.”

“Good enough,” she says, biting into hers with a grin.

You lean back a little, letting their conversation wash over you. There’s history here. Most of it is dark, but Nadine feels like sunshine even through the dark times. You like that about her.

And even though you’re not saying anything, you feel his awareness of you like gravity. Every time you shift in your seat, every time your fingers drum against your knee, his head turns just a little. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t ask, but you know he’s listening to you the way other people watch with their eyes.

The plate of cookies sits between them. Nadine talks about the new pastor at the Lutheran church and how the coffee’s gotten worse somehow. Gator grunts responses that are half amusement and half disinterest. You stay quiet, sipping from the mug she pressed into your hands without asking.

And you’re not on the clock. You’re not checking your watch or cleaning up the fridge or reminding him to take his meds.

You’re just there.

And he knows it.

Even when he won’t say it.

Especially then.

The door sticks a little when you open it, just like it always does. You push through with your hip and call out a low greeting, already juggling the day’s supplies in your arms. The air smells like toast and the faint trace of whatever cologne he still insists on using, like anyone but you is ever close enough to notice.

He’s sitting in his usual spot on the couch, arms folded across his chest like someone tried to tell him how to live. His head lifts slightly when he hears the keys jingle.

“Thought that old lady was comin’ today,” he mutters, not quite facing you yet. “The one who won’t shut up about her grandkids.”

You let the door close behind you with your foot and drop your bag on the counter. “Beverly?”

He grimaces. “Yeah. Beverly. She always brings me sugar-free snacks and tries to get me to do chair yoga. Last week she told me her grandson’s ‘learning percussion’ and made me listen to a recording of him beating on a bucket. Swear to God.”

You laugh into your sleeve. “I’m surprised you didn’t fake a seizure.”

“Came close,” he mutters.

You start unpacking the bottles, setting them in their little row near the sink. One of them rattles too loud and you shake it gently to check how low it is.

“So what, you’re happy to see me instead?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but you catch the way his chin tips slightly toward your voice, just enough to count as a yes.

You smile at his silence. He doesn’t say things like that out loud. He doesn’t have to.

“You know what day it is,” you say, already gathering the gauze and gloves.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Therapy.”

“And before that…”

He groans. “Med check.”

You’re already walking over. “Face check.”

“I hate this part,” he says.

“I know.”

But he lets you do it anyway.

You sit on the ottoman across from him and snap the gloves on. The sound makes him flinch a little. He never says why. You just know it gets in his head. You grab the small flashlight and tilt your chin toward him.

“You ready?”

“Do I get a lollipop if I’m good?” It comes out like bait, a hook for you to latch onto, even if he knows you never fully will.

“No, but I’ll say something nice about your hair.”

He snorts. “That’s a lie.”

You lean in. Carefully, you reach up and unfasten the cloth wrap that sits where his eyes used to be. You try to keep your face neutral, like always, but it never stops hitting you. The damage is still raw in places, though the burns have healed over into pink, shiny skin with ragged edges where his brow used to be. The scarring is faded but still angry. You’ve seen worse, but somehow this one gets to you more.

Maybe because it was done on purpose. Maybe because you know who he used to be.

He sits still, like he trusts you more than he lets on. The flashlight flicks over the tissue. You check the edges for inflammation, infection, irritation from the cloth or the heat. You wipe around the scars with a warm cloth, slow and careful.

“You’ve still got good skin,” you say without thinking. “Takes care of itself, even when you don’t.”

He makes a noise low in his throat. “You hittin’ on me again?”

You grin, focused on the last patch of scar near his temple. “Maybe.”

He shifts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice lazy and rough. “I might not have eyes, but my hands still work just fine.”

You freeze for half a second, cloth still against his skin, before answering too quickly.

“Didn’t say they didn’t.”

That comes out more breathless than intended. You both go still, the air between you suddenly different. 

You clear your throat, fold up the cloth, and snap the gloves off. Your hands feel too warm now as you settle the wrap back over his face. You move back to the counter, pretending to be busy with the pill organizer.

He shifts again, the couch creaking under him, but doesn’t break the silence.

Finally, you turn. “We should head out soon. Your appointment’s at ten.”

“I know,” he says.

You grab your keys, the bag, and the Tupperware of snacks you packed for him earlier that morning. He doesn’t ask what’s inside, but you know he’ll eat them anyway.

The door clicks shut behind you both, and for a while, neither of you say anything.

But as you help him into the passenger seat of your car, he brushes your hand by accident, and you swear he lingers there just a second longer than necessary.

He won’t say what that means.

You don’t ask.

Especially then.

The chair squeaked under him in a way that always made it sound like it was going to break, like one more hour in this place and the legs would just give out beneath the weight of his bullshit. He shifted anyway, leaned back farther than necessary, arms crossed over his chest like he had something to protect.

He couldn’t see the guy sitting across from him, but he’d built enough of a picture over the last few sessions to feel confident about the assumptions he made. Gator could smell the cologne he used — one of those cheap ones that thought it smelled like wood but really just stung the nose like pine-scented antiseptic.

“Morning, Gator,” the therapist said, voice warm and calm like it always was. Like they hadn’t been through this same dance for six weeks now.

“Sure,” Gator said, not moving. “Let’s call it that.”

The man, Todd was his name, didn’t bite at the sarcasm. He just scribbled something on his clipboard, which Gator had told him on week two was annoying as shit. Clearly, it didn’t stick.

“How was the last week?” He asked. “Anything new come up?”

Gator shrugged. “Didn’t die. Didn’t kill anyone. Banner week.”

More scribbling. Gator hated the sound of that pen. He knew the guy did it on purpose, kept the silence going so Gator would fill it, but he wasn’t in the mood to play nice.

“You getting out of the house at all?” the therapist asked after a beat.

“You mean besides this circus?”

“Yes.”

Gator scratched at the seam of the cloth over his face, just near the temple. “I walk. Sometimes.”

“Where to?”

“Nowhere. Just… ‘round.”

“Alone?”

Gator didn’t answer. Not right away. The truth was, he hated going anywhere with people, but he hated being seen walking alone more. The blind guy stumbling down the sidewalk with a cane and a band over his face wasn’t exactly blending in.

“Mostly,” he muttered.

The therapist nodded, Gator could tell from the subtle shift of his clothes. “We talked before about connection, Gator. About letting people in. You’ve made real progress on your mindset. You’ve unpacked a lot about how you were raised, about your father’s influence, about what was expected of you. You’ve been doing the hard work. But what we haven’t really explored yet is how to form new relationships — ones that aren’t built on power, or fear, or control.”

Gator’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet.

The therapist continued, carefully. “Are there people in your life you’d call close? People you care about, or trust?”

There it was. The question they’d been circling for three sessions. Gator let the silence hang for a long moment, just to make a point.

“Not many,” he said finally. “Most people don’t wanna… get too close to the guy who lit the family name on fire.”

“You aren't responsible for your generational trauma.”

“I know that,” Gator snapped, sharper than he meant to. They'd gone over that shit time and time again, but it still slipped out. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his thigh and exhaled. “Nadine still comes by. She brings cookies. Bitches about her book club. It’s fine.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It’s loud. But yeah. I guess it’s… somethin’.”

“Anyone else?”

Gator hesitated.

“My nurse,” he said after a moment. “Caretaker. Whatever she’s called on the paperwork. The young one. She’s ‘round my age.”

“I'm familiar. What’s that like?”

Gator shifted again, scratched at the side of his neck.

“She’s annoying,” he said flatly. “Talks too much. Makes fun of my microwave technique. Smells like clean laundry and peppermint. Keeps tryin’ to feed me shit I don’t wanna eat. Tells me when I’m being a prick.”

The therapist didn’t speak.

“She’s fine,” Gator added, quieter. “Good at her job. Better than Beverly. Beverly tells me about her grandkid’s little league games like I give a damn.”

“But this one… you let her close.”

“I let her do her job,” Gator snapped, then exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It ain’t like that.”

Todd was silent again, just long enough to make Gator grit his teeth.

“What?” Gator growled.

“You talk about her differently.”

“Jesus,” Gator muttered, throwing his head back against the cushion. “This the part where you ask if I’ve got romantic feelings like we’re in a high school counseling session?”

“No,” he said calmly. “But I am going to ask if you’ve considered the difference between isolation and independence. You’ve been alone for a long time. And it sounds like this person is someone you let in more than most.”

Gator didn’t respond. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists, then uncurled.

After a beat, he smirked.

“Most folks don’t want to fuck up their insurance benefits getting involved with someone who looks like a half-melted action figure,” he muttered.

Todd sighed, more amused than exasperated. “You’re not disfigured, Gator.”

“Says the guy with a functioning face.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Damn right I am.”

“You ever try not doing that?”

Gator leaned back again, his voice dry. “What’s the fun in that?”

And the silence returned.

Like it always did.

Especially then.

You finish lining up his meds on the counter like always, labeled for morning and night, the little clack of each cap clicking into place while he sits in the armchair by the window pretending he’s not paying attention. You’ve already made the bed, opened the window just enough to keep the room from getting stale, laid out his water and snacks on the table like you always do on Fridays in case he gets restless after you’re gone. You’re halfway out the door before he finally says something.

“You smell different.”

You pause, fingers still wrapped around your keys. “What?”

He shifts like he’s not sure if he wants to repeat himself, but then he sits forward and mutters it again, slower this time. “I said you smell different.”

You blink and glance down at your dress, then back toward him. “Okay, creep.”

“I ain’t bein’ creepy,” he says, scowling like he’s already annoyed you made him clarify. “You don’t smell like peppermint.”

“That’s what this is about?” you laugh, stepping back into the room. “You miss the peppermint oil?”

“I don’t miss shit,” he grumbles. “I’m just sayin’. It ain’t what you usually wear.”

You lift an eyebrow. “So what do I smell like?”

He sniffs once, face twisting like he doesn’t really want to say it out loud. “Cherry. And somethin’ else.”

“Bergamot.”

There’s a long pause before he snorts. “The hell is that?”

“It’s… I don’t know. It’s just in the perfume.”

He mutters something that sounds like “fancy bullshit” under his breath, but you catch it and smirk. You move closer to grab your jacket from the chair where you left it earlier. That’s when he reaches out, fingers brushing your arm — just for balance, you think, or maybe not — his palm presses against the bare curve of your shoulder.

His hand goes still.

It’s clear the second he notices.

You aren’t wearing your usual scrub top or hoodie. No soft cotton or oversized sleeves. His thumb drags lightly across the edge of your strap, and it’s quiet for just a little too long.

“You wearin’ a dress?” he asks, already knowing the answer. There’s something sharp behind the words, dulled down with effort but still biting around the edges.

You hesitate. “Yeah.”

“Huh.”

You glance at him, at the way his jaw’s set like he’s grinding down something behind his teeth. “I have plans.”

“You goin’ to a funeral or somethin’?”

“No,” you say. “I have a date.”

He leans back a little like the chair just got less comfortable. “Huh,” he says again, but it comes out lower this time. “So that’s what this is.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” you add, pulling your hair back and twisting it into a clip, “but yeah. First date.”

“Who is he?”

You turn halfway toward him, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he lies. “Just curious what kinda guy gets you smellin’ like fruit and soap.”

You don’t respond. The silence stretches until he fills it himself.

“He got two workin’ eyes?”

You blink, slow. “Jesus, Gator.”

“What? That a requirement now?”

“You’re being a dick.”

“I’m just sayin’. I got some questions.”

“He’s a nurse. I met him last month. It’s a drink and maybe a movie. That’s it.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell by the way his foot bounces once against the floor and then stops. His jaw flexes. He folds his arms tighter.

“Must be nice.”

You sigh and head toward the door again. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“I ain’t stoppin’ you from leaving.”

You pause again at the threshold, hand resting on the knob, the weight of the night pressing in against the back of your neck.

Behind you, his voice cuts through — louder now, sharper than before, riding the edge of anger even though it’s dressed up like a joke.

“You better not come back here tomorrow all sex-drunk and forgetting shit.”

You turn slowly, eyes narrowing, pulse climbing in a way you don’t like.

“I’m not gonna be… sex drunk.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just stare at him, both of you standing your ground, both of you pretending that nothing got said that wasn’t supposed to.

You open the door and step out into the night.

You don’t slam it.

But you don’t close it softly either.

Especially then.

The voice in the audiobook was too smooth. It irritated him more than anything. Some guy reading a western like he had ever stepped foot on cracked earth or held anything heavier than a coffee cup. Gator let it drone in the background, something about two brothers and a land dispute, but none of it stuck. His mind wandered. His jaw ached from clenching. He had turned the volume down twice already and didn’t know why he kept turning it back up again.

The apartment was too quiet. Not silent — the fan still clicked every now and then from the corner, the fridge kicked on and off in its usual stubborn rhythm — but it felt like the walls were waiting for something. The kind of waiting that pressed in behind the ribs.

He leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, socked feet resting near the edge of the table. The blanket you’d folded for him sat untouched, the faint scent of whatever soap you used still clinging to it. Not the peppermint. The cherry and whatever-the-hell it was. Something citrusy and light, like lotion in a bottle too expensive for anyone normal to buy.

Bergamot. That’s what you said.

Gator scoffed quietly to himself and rubbed a hand across his face.

Fucking bergamot.

You were probably at some bar by now. Sitting across from a man who didn’t know you liked your coffee strong or that you hummed under your breath when you organized his pills. Some guy with decent shoes and clean hands, maybe a little cologne rubbed into his neck, probably wore button-ups that actually fit. Some guy who didn’t need a ride to the damn clinic every week or a guide to find the damn light switch.

The thought made him shift, restless. His fingers curled into the edge of the throw pillow beneath his elbow.

He didn’t care. He didn’t.

But the idea of that guy, this nurse or whatever he was,  trying to understand you, trying to keep up with you, trying to figure out how you worked… it grated. He doubted that pretty boy had ever had to listen, not really. Bet he thought quiet was just silence and not the weight of it. Bet he thought soft touches were enough to keep a woman like you interested.

Gator knew better. Knew it in the way your voice changed when you were serious. Knew it in how you let him hear your breath catch when his hand landed on your shoulder, skin bare and warm beneath his palm. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t pulled away. He had felt the curve of your neck and the shift of muscle under his thumb. That moment had been short but it had happened. He hadn’t imagined it.

He tried to shake the thought but it followed him as he stood, slowly, body stiff from sitting too long. He took his pills with warm water and stood at the sink longer than necessary, fingers braced against the counter, chin tipped forward like gravity was trying to press him into the floor.

The apartment still smelled like you.

Even now. That scent mix clinging to the air like it was trying to haunt him. He swore he could feel it in the fibers of the carpet. His fingers twitched like they remembered the feeling of your arm. The dress. The way your voice sounded when you said first date like it wasn’t anything worth worrying about.

He turned off the audiobook and left the speaker on the table.

His bedroom was dark, only the hallway light bleeding through the cracked door. He didn’t bother undressing. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before lying back, hands folded behind his head. He tried not to think about where you were. Who you were with. If this guy would touch you the way he would. If he’d even know how.

You didn’t wear that scent for just anyone. That wasn’t a work perfume. That was a look-at-me kind of perfume.

His hand slid over his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants before resting lower.

He hadn’t meant to think about it. But now it was there and it wasn’t leaving.

He thought about how soft your skin had felt under his palm. About the sound of your voice when you laughed at him. How your perfume clung to your collarbones. How your thighs probably looked sitting across from some other man. How your legs crossed. How you leaned in when you were listening.

His palm moved lower, breath hitching with it, the fan above clicking like it was counting the seconds between every drag of his fingers. The room felt warmer than it should have, sweat already gathering beneath his shirt. He didn’t bother peeling it off. Just let his hand slip down over his stomach, rough skin catching on the waistband of his sweats, the movement automatic now, familiar. But tonight it felt like more than a routine. Tonight it felt like punishment.

That scent clung to everything you’d touched.

His hand gripped tighter, breath shallow now, pulled through gritted teeth.

He couldn’t see you anymore, sure, but that didn’t mean he forgot. He remembered how you looked when he’d see you at the hospital if he stopped in for a case. Scrubs, sure, but nothing could hide the way you were built. Not dainty, not delicate. You were soft in the way a man could hold onto, something that filled both hands and then some. You moved like you knew how much space you took up, like you didn’t care who noticed. Your hips always shifted before your voice did. Your arms had weight when you reached past him. Your thighs always brushed against the couch cushion when you sat near.

And your tits — fuck. He hadn’t seen them, of course not, but he remembered the way your shirt used to stretch a little across it when you leaned. The sound of fabric shifting when you adjusted the neckline without thinking. He used to steal glances, back when he still had the option. Now all he had were those stored-away pieces, pulled forward with every breath you left behind.

He hated that he couldn’t see you. Hated that all he had was memory and scent and the way your voice got tight when you were trying not to argue. Hated the way your shoulder felt under his hand earlier, warm and bare and real, just for a second before you pulled away.

His grip stuttered, hips pushing up toward his hand as the pressure built sharp and low in his gut. You, somewhere else, maybe laughing at someone else’s dumb joke. Maybe sitting across from some guy who didn’t even know how you liked your tea, or how to tell the difference between your annoyed silence and your tired one. Probably didn’t know how it felt to have your fingers graze his skin and not look at him like he was broken.

Even without his sight, he knew you never looked at him like that. 

The thought hit hard, and he came with a rough sound caught in his throat, more breath than voice, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.

His hand stayed where it was for a minute, chest rising fast beneath it, cooling sweat clinging to his collarbone.

He didn’t say your name.

But his mind did.

Again and again.

The room felt too quiet when it was over. Too empty. The fan kept turning overhead like nothing had happened.

He pulled the blanket up past his stomach and let his arm fall across his eyes, not that it mattered.

All he could smell was you.

And all he could think about was what he’d never get to see.

And what someone else might be seeing now.

He didn’t say it out loud.

Especially then.

You come back around six from doing errands, arms full, the smell of browned meat and tater tots still clinging to your jacket. The casserole dish is wrapped in foil and still hot enough that you have to shift it from hand to hand as you move toward the kitchen. Gator’s already in his chair, angled just slightly away from the television like he’s listening but not watching anything. You’re not sure he even knows what’s on. The remote is resting on the arm of the couch untouched, and the news is just cycling quietly, background noise for a day where you haven’t really talked.

Not that anything’s wrong. Not exactly. You’d come in earlier like usual, checked his meds, done the daily routine. But it had all been mechanical. His tone had been even. Yours too. Everything said had been about what needed to be said, nothing more. You’d caught him listening hard every time you moved though. You knew the silence had weight.

You slide the dish into the oven to keep warm and set the table without asking. He doesn’t offer to help, not that he usually does, but today feels different. Tighter. The quiet clings to the corners of the room. He doesn’t ask about your night. You don’t bring it up.

Dinner is easy, solid, the kind of food that fills without needing much conversation. You set the plate down in front of him, spooned out carefully, hotdish bubbling at the edges, and he mutters a thanks like it caught in his throat.

He eats like he always does, slow but steady, like he’s thinking while chewing, like there’s something behind every bite he doesn’t want to name.

Halfway through, he sets his fork down, not dramatically, but enough that you glance up from your own plate. He wipes his mouth on a napkin, clears his throat, and then says it like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.

“You don’t gotta stay here all the time, you know.”

You pause, chewing slower, then set your own fork down gently beside the plate. “What are you talking about?”

“You got a life out there. Friends. People. Shit to do.” His voice is too casual. Too careful. “I’m not your whole goddamn schedule.”

“I know that.”

His head tilts slightly like he’s trying to catch your expression. “Just sayin’. People might start to talk. Wonder what you’re doing here every night.”

“You think I care what people think?”

“I think you should,” he snaps, too fast, too sharp. He softens it a second later. “I just mean… don’t wanna be the reason you stop showin’ up somewhere else.”

You study him for a moment. His jaw is set. The muscle near his temple keeps twitching. He was fishing for how your date went in the most Gator way possible.

“You’re jealous,” you say plainly.

He scoffs. “Of what?”

You don’t answer. Neither does he.

You clear the dishes in silence, scraping the plates and rinsing them slowly. Behind you, you hear the creak of the chair as he stands. You listen to the shuffle of his steps, slow and searching. You already know he’s heading toward the fridge before you hear the clumsy sound of the door being pulled open and something rattling inside.

“What are you looking for?” you ask over your shoulder.

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, frustrated, “Beer.”

You sigh and dry your hands quickly on the towel, walking over and nudging him slightly out of the way. His fingers are tight around the door handle, jaw clenched, annoyed at himself more than anything else.

“It’s behind the ginger ale,” you say, reaching in and grabbing one from the back. You twist the cap off and press it into his hand.

He mutters a quiet thanks that barely reaches your ears.

“You want one?” he asks, fingers already curling around the bottle like he needs the weight of it.

“I’m working.”

“Pretty sure your shift ends in an hour,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow, half-smiling. “That so?”

He nods. “You can cut out early if you want. Boss says it’s fine.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Just something simmering under the surface you don’t want to touch yet.

He takes a long drink, standing there by the fridge like it took effort to get that far. His head tips toward you again, just slightly. He can’t see the look on your face, but he knows something’s changed. He always does.

You glance at the clock, then back at him.

You grab a beer from the fridge and twist it open without saying anything.

“You wanna watch a movie?” you ask, voice quieter now.

He turns his head toward you like he’s glaring, and even without eyes, you can feel the way it would land if he could actually see you.

You walk past him into the living room without waiting for an answer.

He follows.

You put something on. It doesn’t matter what.

And then, for a little while, the silence between you feels like something else entirely.

Especially then.

The couch dipped a little when you sat back down with the beers, one in each hand, your hip brushing his as you passed him his. He took it without saying anything, fingers brushing yours, the bottle already slick from condensation. The movie was still going, volume turned low enough that he had to listen close, but he didn’t mind. He liked the way your voice filled in the gaps.

You’d been narrating parts of it for him. Not the whole thing, just the stupid parts, which was most of it. You’d tell him when one of the girls made a dumb face, or when the monster puppet looked like it came out of a pizza box. He didn’t ask you to, not really, but you did it anyway, casual, soft, like it was for your own entertainment as much as his.

It wasn’t a good movie. He figured that out from the music alone. It had that warbly synth stuff underneath the dialogue, everything sounding like it was filmed in someone’s basement on a camcorder with a dirty lens. But you laughed at it like you’d seen it before, and that did something to him. Made it easier to listen. Made him forget how close your leg was to his.

Your arm had brushed his earlier, and you hadn’t moved away. He hadn’t either. That was two brushes in twenty minutes. He was keeping count now, apparently.

The movie shifted tone around the halfway mark. The music changed. He heard the moaning before anything else. Heard it in that fake, breathy way actresses used to do when they were trying to sound hot and not bored out of their minds. You went quiet, which made it louder.

He lifted his beer, sipped once, then turned his head toward your voice, even though he couldn’t see your face.

“You gonna describe this part too?” he asked, letting the words roll out slow, just a little smug.

You made a sound in your throat like you might actually consider it.

“I mean,” you said, laughing, “I could.”

He turned his face forward again, shoulders relaxed but jaw tight. “Go on then.”

You hesitated, but then, with a breath, you actually did it.

“She’s got her shirt off. Lotta bounce. Hair’s big. Too much lip gloss.”

He grunted, amused. “Classic.”

“Guy’s not even hot. Looks like he borrowed his dad’s chest hair.”

Gator snorted. “You’d think they’d at least cast someone worth lookin’ at.”

“They didn’t cast for that. They cast for screaming volume and tit-to-waist ratio.”

He smirked. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”

“I’ve watched more bad horror than you, probably.”

“You say that like it’s a challenge.”

You didn’t answer right away, but you kept describing.

“She’s on top now. Moaning way too loud. It’s mostly shadow but you can tell the guy’s doing jack shit.”

“Christ,” Gator muttered, lifting his beer again. “Stop.”

You laughed. “You asked.”

He shook his head, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, didn’t expect a play-by-play.”

“You’re lucky I’m keeping it tasteful.”

“Sure.”

You kept talking for a little while after the sex scene faded out, your voice soft and steady as you described the next girl on screen. You didn’t always narrate like this. Just tonight. Just enough. He could tell by the way you spoke that this one wasn’t your favorite. You called her a knockoff Barbie with hair teased too high and makeup caked on like stage paint. You said she moved like a paper cutout and screamed like someone trying too hard to be hot. You described her as tall, fake-tanned, long-legged in a way that didn’t look real.

He didn’t say anything at first, just drank his beer and let your voice fill in the blanks. But you went quiet after a while. You stopped talking somewhere around the time she bent over in slow motion and let her shirt ride up. The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, not exactly, but different. Like something was sitting in it, watching both of you.

He turned his head toward you, didn’t need to see you to know what you were thinking. He could hear it in the way your breath caught a little. In the way you shifted your leg but didn’t move away. In the way you didn’t ask anything, but you wanted to. He felt it in the space between your words.

So he said it, casual, low.

“Never been into girls like that.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away. But he could hear you thinking.

“Nothin’ wrong with ’em,” he went on, setting the beer on the table, voice steady now. “But it ain’t what really does it for me. Sure did for a while. Had enough bikini posters in my room back at my dad's ranch. Well into my 20s. You would have given me shit for it.”

Still quiet from your side. He could tell you weren’t blinking. Probably staring straight ahead, pretending not to hear it. Wondering why he was saying this.

Hell, he wondered too.

“I like soft,” he said. “I want hips I can grab onto. A body I can fuckin’ hold, not worry I’m gonna snap.”

He heard your breath catch again. Not like before. Not annoyed. Just caught. Like you hadn’t expected him to keep going.

“Wanna feel her chest press up when she’s on top. I wanna know she’s really there. I don’t like dainty. Don’t want someone I can pick up with one arm. I want someone who’ll ride me until the couch breaks.”

He let that one sit.

Then, quieter, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “You know what I mean.”

You hadn’t moved, not really. But everything about your body had shifted. He could feel the tension in the way your knee stayed against his. The way your next breath came through your nose instead of your mouth. The way your beer bottle didn’t clink against the table yet, even though you’d stopped drinking five minutes ago.

He didn’t need eyes for this part.

He could hear it. In the air. In your silence. In your body betraying your mouth.

And it was doing something to him too.

Especially then.

You’re halfway through some garbage midnight rerun on the fuzzy local station. Something about mutant turtles, maybe? You aren’t even sure anymore. You’re just there. Still sitting too close on the couch. Still holding half a beer you forgot you were drinking.

It’s later than you’ve ever stayed. Quiet in that way that starts to feel like it means something. You’re stretched out beside him, feet resting against the coffee table, arm close enough to feel the heat of his skin. And for once, it’s not awkward. Not tense. Just easy.

You don’t even know how it comes up. Something dumb on screen. Some residual tension from his earlier words. Some bad pickup line in a parking lot scene. You snort. He scoffs. And then somehow you’re saying,

“Can I ask you something weird?”

He grunts in a way that means yes.

“Have you…” you hesitate, then push past it. “Have you had sex since you’ve been, y’know. Blind?”

Gator doesn’t turn his head, but you can feel the shift in him. The low flick of a breath from his nose.

“Wouldn’t you know? You’re here all the damn time.”

You let out a short laugh. “I mean, I’m not here when Beverly’s here.”

He lets out a sound between a scoff and a cough. “Yeah, okay. We’ll I’m sure as shit not fuckin’ Beverly.”

You frown. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well what’d you mean then? You think I got a fuckin’ lineup out the door? You think that’s what I’m after now? Walking around with a cane and a fuckin’ scarred up face looking for someone to pity-fuck me? Ain’t exactly in the market.”

You blink, a little stunned by the sharpness of it. But he doesn’t seem mad. Just honest. Tired.

“Wasn’t getting much play before anyway,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Half the time it was just about the badge. And I ain’t him anymore.”9

You don’t say anything to that. But your fingers flex on the bottle, and he hears it. You know he hears it.

He exhales again, like he’s dragging the memory out with him. “Cop buddies tried to take me to Bare Assets after I got out. Thought they were doing me a favor. Got me a dance in a private room. One where it ain't ever just a dance. One of those real feel-good, you-earned-this kind of things.”

He shakes his head, like he can still hear the music. “Was just sad. Couldn’t even get hard. All that perfume and fake giggles and hands on my legs and nothin’. Felt like they were feeding a dog scraps just to watch him beg.”

You blink again. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”

He turns his head slightly. “Not sayin’ I can’t get hard. Just sayin’—”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, well. I can.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

You laugh softly, nervous. “I believe you.”

“It’s just…” He shrugs. “It takes certain things now. More about the other senses than just imagining a good pair of tits. Like I gotta actually pay attention to shit now. Voices, tone, smell. Touch. Not that I get much of that now.”

Silence again. Longer this time. Thicker.

Then—

“Pretty sure I’m halfway there right now.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes wide, and he doesn’t need to see your face to know you’re stunned.

You see him grinning then, it's not as smug as usual. It's almost nervous then. 

Especially then.

He could tell the second you stood up that you were rattled. The shift in your weight, the scrape of your knee against the cushion, the way you cleared your throat like it might buy you a second.

“I should go,” you said. Light. Dismissive. Trying to pass it off like it was nothing.

He didn’t move. Just cocked his head. “Thought you weren’t on the clock.”

You let out a sharp little laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat. “I’m not, but I also can’t believe you’re propositioning me right now. Real classy.”

He huffed, slightly offended. “Ain’t proposin’ nothin’.”

You kept talking anyway. “I mean, I know Beverly says this job can be uncomfortable sometimes, but I didn’t realize bedside handjobs were part of the care routine.”

He grinned, just barely, but didn’t rise to it. Not all the way. Because he could hear it in you now. That edge. Not just your usual bite. This one was shakier. Like you were trying to push something away before it stuck.

He waited until your steps circled back toward him. Until he knew you were close. Then he reached out, slow and sure, and caught your wrist in his hand.

“Hey,” he said. Quiet, but firm. “Don't go.”

You froze. He had never asked to directly like this.

He could feel your pulse skip under his fingers.

But then it came, sharp as ever. “What is this, Gator? You think I’m just gonna stick around and what, crawl into your lap ‘cause you’re lonely? You think I need this job that bad?”

His jaw twitched. He let go of your wrist, hands up like he’d touched something too hot.

“That's not what I meant,” he muttered.

“Then what did you mean?” you snapped. “Because that’s what it sounds like. You flirt and tease and say shit and then when I react, suddenly I’m the one who’s reading too much into it?”

He didn’t answer right away. He sat there, back against the couch, mouth tight, fists loose on his knees. He could still feel the shape of your wrist in his palm.

“You're not reading into it too much.” He muttered it like it was forcing its way out of his mouth.

His therapist’s voice surfaced, unwanted, in the back of his head. Telling him to make meaningful connections and shit.

Dammit, Todd.

He rubbed at his jaw, annoyed with himself. “Look. You wanna know what it is?” he said. “It’s that I like you. Alright? Not in some sad broken man way. Not ‘cause you wipe my counters and cook me shit. I like you.”

You didn’t speak. He kept going.

“I think about you when you’re not here. Wonderin’ what smartass thing you’d say about whatever trash’s on the TV. Thinkin’ what you smell like when you’re out on a date with some douche. I listen to you hummin’ while you fold towels and I swear to God it makes me feel like my fuckin’ ribs are cracked open.”

Your breath hitched. Just a little.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and reached for your wrist again, slower this time. Not pulling, just holding.

“And I know it ain’t your job to listen to this shit. I'm a bastard most of the time and I know you got no reason to care. But if I don’t say it now, I’m gonna choke on it.”

You didn’t pull away. Not this time.

So he held on.

And you stood there in front of him, too close to pretend you didn’t hear him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo, soft under all the heat.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, slow.

"I think about you other ways too. At other times. When I shouldn't." He cleared his throat, the words rough, the honesty rougher. "Think about how you'd sound. How it'd feel to have you on top of me. I've thought about it."

Your breathing was louder, unsteady, like it had to push its way through. His thumb slid slowly along your inner wrist. Up and down, tracing a gentle arc over the thin skin.

"You don't look at me like I'm broken. I mean..." he let out a breath of a laugh. "I can't fuckin' see it. But I know you don't."

"You're not. Broken, I mean." You finally say. The words feel like a secret, a quiet confession.

He nods, slow, and turns his head a little, just enough that you can see the shape of his profile against the pale yellow light spilling in from the kitchen. The edges of his jaw and chin and throat. The shadow of his mouth. His thumb keeps moving. Up and down. Over your wrist, then the side of your hand, and then back.

"You're always callin' me handsome and shit. Which is fuckin' wild, by the way. You must be goddamn delusional. But I get it. I hear the tone in your voice when you say it. I can tell the difference. I know it ain't a joke. So that's somethin'. I still got some parts worth lookin' at."

Your chest is so tight it hurts to breathe.

"Gator."

"I do. By the way." He smirks in a way he hasn't done in a while. "Got other parts worth lookin' at. Ones you haven't seen yet."

You let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it was a little stronger. Your voice is quieter now. Less angry. Less annoyed. Just a little... something else.

"I've seen your dick, Gator. I had to make sure you didn't fall in the shower the first couple weeks."

He knows that and he's a little mortified by being reminded of it in this moment. "Okay, well you haven't seen it hard."

That bit of crass boyish humor and defiance were definitely still in him. Todd couldn't cure everything in therapy.

"You think I'd want to?"

"I know you do."

Silence.

"You ever think about me?" he asks. "Beyond the flirting you do every damn day and then try to say it's for my ego. Do you?"

You swallow hard.

"Do I what?"

"Do you ever think about me like that?"

It's your turn to smirk now. "Do you really want me to answer that, or are you just asking to hear yourself talk?"

"I'm blind. Not deaf. And yeah. I want an answer."

He stands, letting go of your hand. You take a step back.

"You're a good-looking guy, Gator."

"That ain't what I asked."

"You're right."

"So."

"So what?"

He reaches for your hand again, fingers searching for a second before finding the shape of it. "I remember what you look like."

It hits you harder than you realize when he says that. And he notices. You know he does. He doesn't miss a single fucking thing.

"Your skin. Your hair. The curve of your waist. How big your eyes are. I remember it.."

Your mouth is dry. Your pulse is racing. You want to kiss him and run away and hide and scream all at once.

"Your scrub tops when you worked at County? Fuckin' hell. All stretched across your tits. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the shit that did to me. Be in the hospital takin' witness statements while half hard." He let out air through his nose, shaking his head. "Then found out you moved on to outpatient stuff and I didn't see you anymore. Then that fucker burnt my eyes out. Sure there's a fuckton more in between everything, but that ain't important right now. The real torture of it all is you're around me everyday now and I can't even fuckin' see you."

He said the last part like it pissed him off more than he could admit. More than he had the words to.

"You can hear me." You say, whispered.

He lifts his head up more, confused look on his face. "Yeah. I can."

You move his hand to your hip, where you have soft sweatpants on. "You can feel me."

Still in that whisper soft tone. It was undoing him. Was this...?

"And you can definitely smell me.. Won't shut up about my scent half the time."

His thumb brushes your hip. "You're wearing that cherry shit again."

"Then use those, Gator. If this is what you want. Then take it."

You didn't mean for it to come out like a challenge. But it does. And you can tell he likes it. Likes that tone. The one where you're daring him.

He's always liked a woman that would talk back to him, he can admit that now.

He slides his hand across the curve of your waist. Fingers spread out and pressing into your skin. The shirt you're wearing is thin, so he can feel your warmth. He pulls your body closer.

"I don't wanna be a joke to you." He whispers.

"You're not." You reply.

He slides his hand down your ass. "Or a pity fuck."

"It's not."

"Then what am I?"

"You're a guy I care about. Who has been hurt and needs someone who cares enough not to hurt him anymore."

His breath hitches and he grabs your ass more firmly, pulling you to his lap. You're straddling him now. His hands are on either side of your hips, still grabbing.

"And what are you gonna do?" he asks, voice a deep growl.

You're both breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours. You reach out, running a hand through his hair.

"Whatever you want me to."

He kisses you. Hard and hot and desperate. His hands are on your back, holding you to him. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair. He groans into your mouth, hips bucking up.

"Fuck, I need you," he pants, pulling away. "You feel so fuckin' good."

"We should go to your bed, this couch is awful."

"Yeah."

You stand up and take his hand, leading him. He follows, and he's glad the house isn't big. He'd hate to get lost now.

You close the door behind him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed. You walk toward him, stopping between his legs.

"Lie down." You say.

He does.

You climb onto the bed, straddling him. You grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up and over your head. It lands somewhere across the room.

Gator hears the material hit the floor. He can feel your body hovering over him.

You lean forward, kissing his lips. Then his cheek. Down his jaw. His throat. He can feel your bare tits against him, heavy and warm. He lets out a low moan.

Your hands are on his chest, roaming, reaching for the hem of his black t-shirt.

"You ain't wearing a bra when you're workin'?" He pants out.

"You can't see me. What's it matter?"

He groans. "It matters."

You laugh, pulling his shirt up. "Then let's get this off."

He sits up slightly, arms over his head, and you slide the shirt off. It falls to the floor, joining your own.

The dark chest hair and beauty marks strewn across his toned chest are even more handsome up close. You trail your hands down his torso and he makes the prettiest sound.

"Fuck. You touch me like you fuckin' love it."

"Because I do." You confess, and press a kiss to his shoulder.

He shudders. You can't tell if it's from the touch or your words.

You reach for the button of his jeans.

"Do you want these off too?"

"Fuck yeah. Take 'em off."

His cock strains against the fabric of his black boxer briefs once his jeans are off. His hands reach out, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants. "So no bra..." he says, sitting up a little. "Any panties?"

"You'd have to find that out yourself, wouldn't you?"

He smirks, hands tugging the sweats down, exposing your naked thighs. His hands roam from your waist to the crease at your hips where your tummy meets your thighs, searching for a bit of fabric. He finds none. 

"No panties," he whispers. "Fuck."

You kick your sweatpants all the way off, now just completely naked on top of him.

"This is gonna sound fucked up..." you start, a nervous laugh spilling out. "But I'm kind of happy you can't see me right now. I always feel...self conscious? When I'm on top."

He can hear the vulnerability. The softness.

"Why?" he asks.

"I don't know. I mean, I'm not perfect. Always worried the view is going to disappoint."

"Oh, so I'm the blind one and you're the fuckin' deaf one. Got it." He says with a little snort.

You can't help but laugh. "What?"

"I spent the last half hour tellin’ you what I liked."

"Yeah, but.."

"No fuckin' buts." His hands grip the plush softness of your ass. "You think this doesn't turn me on? You think I don't wanna squeeze your hips and thighs and feel those fuckin' tits bounce while you're riding my cock? You think I can't imagine how you look when you're panting and wet? Or how pretty you'll sound moaning my name?"

You're taken aback, but you still manage to clear your throat with a small laugh and tease him. "How do you know I'll moan your name?"

He growls, squeezing you a little harder, and bucks his hips up, grinding against you. You gasp at how good the friction feels.

"I'll make you," he pants. "Trust me, I'll make you."

He's kissing you again, his hands roaming your back. He grips your ass again, hard, pulling you against his cock, just the fabric of his boxer briefs between you.

"Take 'em off," he grunts. "I need you to take these fuckin' things off."

You sit up, moving off him and grabbing the waistband of his boxer briefs. "Lift your hips."

He does and you pull them down, tossing them aside.

"Get on top of me," he commands.

"Bossy." You reply, but you get a good look at his cock as you do and, fuck, he wasn't lying. It's thick and hard, a pretty pink at the tip that matches his plush lips.

You climb back on top of him, settling over his hips.

"Fuck," he groans, feeling your heat. "I wanna touch you."

"You are touching me," you say, breathless.

"Not like that." He replies. "Let me feel you."

You guide his hands to your chest. His fingers brush over your nipples, and he hisses a low curse as he palms your tits.

"These things shouldn’t be fuckin' legal," he groans. "Spillin’ over my hands."

You moan softly. He squeezes them a little harder, teasing your nipples, and you whimper.

"Yeah, that's it. I wanna hear you," he growls, and sits up. "Want these in my mouth."

You lean forward, bringing your tits to his lips, and he groans, laving at them. His hands are on your waist, then your ass, squeezing. He looks so good like this, his mouth on you, sucking, licking, grabbing, moaning.

"Think about these every day," he mumbles, voice muffled by your chest.

"Yeah?" You ask, and he hums, nodding, pulling his head back.

"Always had a thing for 'em. Love a woman with a good pair. Wanna bury my face between 'em."

He kisses you, hot and hungry.

"You're a fuckin' wet dream. God this shit feels like a dream. You know your senses get heightened and shit when you can't fuckin see?"

"I went nursing school, yes." You laugh against his mouth. "But it's more like you develop your other senses more over time like--"

"I'm gonna develop my dick into you, okay? Not the time for anatomy lessons."

"You're cute when you're horny."

He growls. "Shut up."

You grind down on him and he curses, the feeling taking all the bark out of him. "Fuck. Shit. Yeah. I wanna fuck you so bad. God. Need to be inside you."

He can't see your blush, but he can feel the heat coming off you. 

"I'm on the pill, but I don't have condoms," you say, hoping that it doesn't ruin the mood.

He groans, leaning his forehead against yours.

"I'm clean, swear on my life. Sure you could get that info anyway. Ain't been with anyone since..." He swallows hard, his next words barely audible. "Since before."

He's scared, you can feel it.

"It's fine," you whisper, hands in his hair. "I trust you."

His cock twitches and he hisses.

"Fuck, I want you."

"Then have me," you say. "I'm here."

He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers brushing your pussy. You're wet, slick against his touch, and he groans again. His thumbs finds your clit, circling slowly.

"God..." you whine out before biting your lip. "No man has an excuse for not finding it now."

"No man is gonna have the fuckin’ chance."

You shudder at his possessive tone, and he feels the shift in your hips.

"That's right. You're mine. Just mine." He grunts, pressing the pads of his fingers harder.

He rubs your clit for a moment longer, until you're squirming and gasping and rocking your hips.

Then he grips his cock, stroking it a couple times, before guiding the tip to your entrance. "C'mere."

You sink down on him slow, letting him stretch you open. You both moan, the sound a harmony, his low and raspy, yours soft and sweet. He feels bigger than you expected, but the pleasure is sharp, not painful.

"Oh, fuck." He curses. "Jesus, fuck."

You start moving, rocking your hips against him, taking him deeper each time. He groans, his hands gripping your ass, holding you as you ride him.

"Tell me how it looks," he breathes, his voice strained. "Tell me what you look like. I wanna know."

"I don't...I can't say that shit… what if I sound stupid?" You pant out.

"You won't. Please."

You can't say no to him when he begs.

"Your cock...it's so thick and pretty and hard, and it's sliding into me, and the way my pussy's wrapped around it, God..."

He groans, thrusting up. “You like it? How it looks when I'm fuckin’ you?”

"I love it. Fuck."

You're moving faster, rocking your hips in a rhythm, the room filled with the sound of your skin slapping against his. He's thrusting up to meet your hips, and you can't stop the sounds that spill out.

"Wanna feel your tits bouncing," he pants.

You move one of his hands from your hip to your breast. He squeezes one and groans, hand resting just under to feel them bounce. 

"God, I love the way they move. They're fucking perfect. You're perfect."

He moves his other hand up, feeling your neck, then your jaw.

"Open," he rasps.

You open your mouth, and he slips two fingers past your lips.

"Suck," he orders.

You do, swirling your tongue around them. He hisses.

"Just like that. Jesus. Your mouth's so wet. Like a pussy."

You whimper, and he feels your tongue lap at his fingers. He pulls them out and moves his hand to your face, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. The hand still on your hip digs in harder, moving you faster.

"Ride me harder, baby," he pants.

"Yes," you breathe, and you bounce harder, the angle making him go deeper.

"Oh, fuck." He grits. "Feels so fucking good. Your pussy's so tight. So fucking wet. God, the sounds you're makin'."

His words are particularly special or flowery, but the praise is still doing something to you, making heat pool in your belly. Suddenly you're grateful that he never shuts the fuck up.

"You're close," he pants, and you nod, forgetting he can't see it.

"I am," you reply, voice shaky. "Are you?"

"Yeah, baby. So fuckin' close."

You reach down and rub your clit. Gator feels the movement and lets out a broken moan.

"Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck, yes. God, you touching yourself.?"

"Gator," you cry out, and he can feel how much you're shaking.

"That's it," he pants. "You're gonna come on my cock. You're gonna come all over it, and then I'm gonna fill you up. Fuck. That's what you want, isn't it? My cum so deep in your pretty little pussy."

You whimper, his words and the movement of his cock and the way he's moaning and growling and hissing sending you over the edge.

"Fuck, baby," he grunts, and you're coming, crying out and shaking and rocking your hips, his name on your lips.

"Yes," he groans. "Fuck yes, that's it. Fuck. Keep going. God, you're so wet. I can feel it. You're milking my cock. Fuck, I'm gonna come. Oh, shit. Fuck. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna—"

"Please," you whine.

"Oh, fuck. You're beggin' me. Fuck. Say it again. Beg me."

"Please," you moan. "Please, come inside me."

He's not sure if it's the words or the way you sound when you say them, or the feeling of your pussy pulsing around his cock, but he's coming hard, holding you down on him and filling you up. He's cursing, the word fuck spilling from his mouth over and over, and you're crying out again, your body shaking as you come a second time.

The sound he makes when his cock starts pulsing in you, the way he fills you, it's like nothing you've ever heard before. He's not quiet, not even a little. And you've never felt this kind of release, not from any other man. You feel lightheaded, dizzy almost, the room spinning around you.

He's panting, trying to catch his breath, his hands still gripping your hips. You can feel his cock softening inside you, but it's still buried deep.

You're both silent, trying to recover, the air thick with sweat and sex.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "Fucking hell."

"Yeah," you agree.

There isn't much else that can be said. He’s a sightless man who just fucked someone so thoroughly, it was like he could see every inch of her body.

You reach for the nightstand, finding the glass of water he keeps there. You drink half and offer him the rest, bringing it to his lips. He takes it and gulps down the remainder.

You collapse onto the bed next to him, still naked. His arm is thrown over his face, and he's panting.

"I'm gonna get us cleaned up. Then we'll talk," you say.

The arm that isn't over his face reaches over to stop you as you get up. 

"No you're not." He says, his voice hoarse.

"I'm not sleeping like this and neither are you." You say with a lighthearted eyeroll. "I'll be back."

He huffs but he doesn't actually say anything, keeping his hand on you.

"What is your issue?" You ask, confused now.

"I'm supposed to be the one doin' that shit for you!"

He yells it, but there's nothing mean in his voice. Just frustration and something else. Something sad.

"Gator." You whisper, and move the arm from his face.

He doesn’t cry in the usual way. The damage to his tear ducts and lacrimal glands was too severe. You’ve only seen it once before, early on into working with him. His sockets don’t glisten or brim over like other men’s might. The burns left them scarred and hollow, the skin puckered and shiny in places where the grafts took, ragged in others where the heat had eaten too deep.

When emotion breaks through him, it shows as a raw wetness that seeps at the edges. The sound gives him away more than anything — his breath hitching, his voice breaking, the rough sniffling that seems to scrape at the back of his throat.

"Oh."

"Oh," he parrots, even with his voice breaking. "I can't take care of you the way a man should. I can't..." He shakes his head. "Fuck. I really am useless."

You have the words for it because Todd made sure you did. You remember him sitting across from you in that first collateral session, explaining what to watch for if the past shoved its way into the room. The hitch in Gator’s breathing. The lock in his jaw. The way shame can masquerade as anger. You see all of it now, strobing through the dim. And it feels like none of that actually prepared you for this moment.

Useless.

The word lands wrong in your chest because you know where he learned it. You picture the way he told you about his father in clipped notes and hard pauses, a man who measured worth in bruises and obedience, who called softness a weakness and turned love into a job no one could keep. 

The word useless lived in that house like mold, got into the walls, into the food, into the boy who learned to clean his plate even when it tasted like rot.

You know why the word hits you like a thrown glass now. You can see him reaching for it the way someone reaches for an old injury, pressing just to make sure it still hurts.

He fills the silence with a breath that shakes. “Guess the old man was right about—”

“Stop.” You lean in, press your mouth to the strip of skin above his wrap, right where his skin is smooth and warm below his hairline. “Do not put his voice in your mouth. Not here.” You keep your lips there a second longer than necessary, then pull back only far enough to whisper. “You are not useless.”

He lets out a hollow laugh, the sound dry and stubborn. “Yeah. Fine. But, as much as I can’t stand Todd and his perfect hair and golf tan and dumb boat shoes… he has a point.”

You blink, caught off guard by the picture. Todd is all sweaters and salt-and-pepper and lace-up boots that look more library than lake. You almost correct him, almost say he has a gray beard and a tweed problem and probably gets sunburned looking at a window, but you swallow the impulse. Let him have the cardboard villain if it makes the medicine go down.

Gator turns his face toward your voice like he can find you by the heat of it. “Point is, he keeps sayin’ I gotta say things out loud or they fester. So.” He swallows. His hand flexes on the sheet. “I was a real piece of shit before. I know that. I acted like a man who deserved more than he gave. I liked bein’ mean. I liked when people backed up. I thought the badge and the name made it fine.” He pauses. “It didn’t.”

You slide your palm up his forearm, slow and steady, the way Todd told you helps when the edge gets sharp. He doesn't pull away. You hate that the muscles under your hand are tight and trembling, like he is bracing for a hit that never comes.

“I ain’t like him,” Gator says, voice roughening. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to scare women. I don’t want to hurt ’em. I did enough hurtin’ walkin’ around blind to my own bullshit before I lost my eyes.” His mouth flattens. “And that lady I killed… in my head I said it was an accident like it made a difference. Maybe it does on paper. But I still did it. I was still on my way to murder someone that night, just ended up bein’ the wrong person.”

Your thumb moves in slow, steady circles against his skin. You don’t bring up the facts again. Don’t repeat what the report said, or what the lawyer said. You just let him hold the thread in his own hands.

“Now… I wanna take care of somebody,” he says, voice low and raw. “Not own ‘em. Not control ‘em. Just… take care. Bring their coffee the way they like it. Fix the crooked shelf. Keep a hand at their back on the ice so they don’t fall. Sit through the boring shit ‘cause it matters to them. Hold ‘em when they’re sick. Touch ‘em like I know where they’re sore and where they’re strong.” He lets out a breath, soft and wrecked. “And I can’t even see if they’re rollin’ their eyes at me. I gotta ask where the cups are in my own kitchen. Gotta have someone check my goddamn face for infection. It’s funny, in a mean kinda way. Like the universe waited for me to want the right things just so it could get locked behind fuckin’ glass.”

You lean down and kiss the space above his wrap, then the ridge of his temple, then the curve of his cheek where the graft meets the old skin. “You are doing it,” you say. “You’re taking care. Right now. You’re talking. You’re telling me what you want. That counts, a lot more than you realize.”

He breathes like he doesn’t believe you—but maybe wants to. A small laugh escapes, smaller than his pride, shaped like a bruise. “Feels like one of those twisted jokes,” he murmurs. “Soon as I decide I’m ready to be good at somethin’ that actually matters, I’m short a couple tools.”

Your hand slides from his forearm to his bicep, a firmer grip that says don’t run. Don’t look away—even if looking’s different now. He turns his face toward you again, closer this time, like he’s learning you by sound and warmth.

“Yeah,” you say, soft. “Maybe it is a joke.”

You let the beat stretch, then add, calm and sure, “But the punchline’s not that you failed.”

He swallows. Nods once. Your foreheads almost touch.

And you stay like that, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, your mouth on his temple. Both of you listening to the same breath, until the room remembers how to be small and safe again.

Then you tilt your mouth toward his ear.

“Do you want to take care of me,” you ask, quiet but clear. “Right now? ”

He huffs a laugh, trying to pull the moment back to something he can joke about. “Think I could go another round.”

You snort and tap his bicep, gentle. “Not like that.”

There’s a small pause while he tries to figure out what you mean. You can feel him searching the space for you, head turning a little.

“Do you trust me?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then he adds, dry, “You helped me the week I kept gettin’ turned around in the shower and cussin’ at the faucet like it was personal. Pretty sure I gotta trust you by now.”

You laugh, soft and fond, and squeeze his hand. “Come on.”

You help him sit up, then stand, then you guide him with your palm at his at his elbow. The little bathroom off the bedroom is warm from the radiator, mirror fogged at the edges, tile cool under your feet. You set him lightly against the sink, steadying him until his knuckles find the porcelain. He’s still flushed from before, chest rising slow, hair mussed from your fingers. A line of dried sweat glints along his collarbone. His mouth is a little swollen. He looks wrecked in the best way, a good kind of used.

You take the wrap from his head, careful with the knot, careful with the edges. He holds still, jaw set. When the cloth comes free, he lets out a breath you can feel on your wrist.

“Isn’t it weird,” he says, voice low, “how I still wanna look away or close ‘em when I can tell you’re lookin’ at me like that?”

“Like what?” you ask, already reaching past him to turn the shower on. The pipes knock once, then settle, steam lifting in a thin veil.

“Like I’m somethin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says, almost a whisper.

You test the water with your fingers, then glance back at him, water pattering louder now. “That’s because you are.”

You step him into the tub with you, guide his hand to the tile so he can place his feet, then tug the curtain closed. Warm water finds both of you in a steady sheet. You lift his hand and set it at your hip, then tip your face up and kiss the corner of his mouth. Slow. You kiss his jaw next, then the notch of his throat, then the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. You tell him what you love as you go, soft against his skin.

“This throat,” you murmur. “How your voice sits low here when you’re bein’ stubborn.”

You kiss the slope of his shoulder. “These shoulders. Big enough to lean on.”

You kiss along his collarbone. “This. Warm. Strong.”

Your mouth trails over the center of his chest, the dark hair gone flat under the spray. “All of this. The way you feel under my hands.”

He breathes out through his nose, steady, like he is letting the words soak in the way the water does. Your palms smooth down his ribs, over the curve of his waist, around to the small of his back. You kiss the flat of his sternum and feel his fingers flex at your hip.

“What happened to me takin’ care of you,” he asks, a half-laugh caught in it, like he is trying not to ruin whatever you are doing.

You smile against his skin and look up at him. “We’re gettin’ there.”

You find the body wash and the little bath pouf tucked on the caddy. “One of those fluffy things,” you say, half laughing.

He makes a face you can hear. “Hate that damn sponge-ball. Feels like bathin’ with a tutu.”

“You’ll live,” you say, smiling as you squeeze a ribbon of soap onto it. You work it until it foams, then curl his fingers around it and lift his hand. “Here. Help me.”

You guide him to your throat first. The puff glides over your skin, slick and warm under the spray. He follows your touch, slow, careful, the lather sliding down to your collarbones. You tip your chin so he can reach, and his breath brushes your cheek when he leans in to keep his balance.

Then his hand drifts lower.

He circles the top of your breasts and you hear the soft sound he makes when the pouf sinks against you, soap clinging, bubbles collecting at the curves. He moves under, patient, thorough, the drag of mesh and his knuckles leaving heat in its wake. You let out a quiet sound you did not mean to make.

“There’s more than those,” you whisper, teasing.

“Yeah, well,” he says, a smile in his voice, “there’s a lot of ‘em. Gotta make sure they’re extra clean.”

You laugh, breath catching when he lifts and cups you from beneath with the pouf, then you tap his wrist and steer him on. He runs over your shoulders and down your arms, slow from biceps to wrists like he is memorizing your shape through foam. You turn to give him your back and he follows the line of your spine to the small of it. His hand settles at your hip before sliding lower. He soaps the curve of your ass, careful and firm, then between your legs with a touch that is reverent more than greedy. You guide him, small nudges at his wrist, and he listens without argument, washing your inner thighs, the backs of your knees, down your calves to your ankles.

“Good,” you murmur, flushed and clean and dizzy. You tug him forward so both of you stand right under the water. The spray warms your face and rinses the lather off your skin in shining sheets.

“My turn,” you tell him, taking the pouf and running it up his chest. The suds cling to dark hair and stick to his sternum. You work the lather over his ribs, his sides, the planes of his stomach. He stands still, trusting your hands, only shifting when you press his hips so you can get everywhere. You soap his shoulders and the cords of his neck. He tips his head for you without being asked.

You turn for the shampoo on the shelf. Your back finds his chest, the weight of him a solid line. You pop the cap, squeeze the clear gel into your palm, and work it through your own hair first. Then you lift his hands and lace his fingers with your sudsy ones, pulling them up into your hair so he can feel it slip and catch as he lathers. His thumbs skim your scalp. His mouth finds your shoulder, a soft kiss against wet skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers into the curve there, barely louder than the water.

You swallow, then turn to face him. You pump more shampoo into your hands and reach up, working it through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow circles. He goes quiet the way men do when something good undoes them. You rinse him with your fingers spread, then step closer and tilt your head with his so the spray catches both of you. You close your eyes while the water runs clean, while the last suds slide off your shoulders and down your bodies.

You stay like that for a while, chest to chest, water drumming on your crowns, the bathroom small and warm around you.

His thumb finds your mouth first, tracing the shape of your bottom lip like he is reading a word he loves. He leans in and kisses you, careful and slow, nothing like the hungry mess from before. You can feel how he is touching you just to memorize you. He pulls you closer, chest to chest under the warm hiss of the shower, and you breathe the same steam.

“See,” you whisper against his mouth, “you can be good at taking care of me.”

He grumbles a little, more embarrassed than annoyed.

“And even better,” you add, smiling so he can hear it, “we can take care of each other.

Another soft mutter, as if he's trying to protest but knows you'll see right through it. 

“It’s pretty obvious you like me taking care of you,” you tease, and he kisses you soft again, a little longer this time, like he is sealing something.

You turn the water off and help him step out. Everything after is a blur of warm towels and dripping hair and the small bathroom’s heat. You put a clean wrap on his eyes. You hand him a fresh pair of boxers. You grab one of his black T-shirts from the dresser and tug it over your head, then stop halfway and catch his hands.

“Help me,” you say, guiding his palms along the hem, over your ribs, up to the collar so he can feel how it hangs on you. He smooths the cotton down your sides. It catches on your curves and you laugh. “Kinda tight… my ass is half out.”

“Not gettin’ any complaints here.”

He finds your fingers, and even though you could guide him, he turns and leads the way to the bed with the surety of someone who knows every inch of his room by heart. You climb in, the sheets cool, his body warm. You tuck yourself against him.

“Is it okay if I stay?” you ask. You already know, but you want to hear it.

He lets out a quiet laugh and hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to share a breath. That is the answer.

“Ain’t really done the stayin’ thing,” he says after a moment. “Used to just do it and go. Don’t know if I kick in my sleep. Might snore. Could talk, too. No idea.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “We’ll find out.”

He exhales and settles, one hand open on your hip like a promise.

After a long minute he says, almost sheepish, “You probably can’t be my caretaker anymore. Pretty sure this is a violation or whatever.”

“Oh, it’s a violation,” you say, laughing into his chest. “A big one. But I can still be here every day. I’ve got other clients. I’ll be fine.”

“So I’m gonna be seein’ a lot more of Beverly,” he groans.

“You’ll live,” you say. “Just don't end up doing this with her, cause then we’re really screwed.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right.” Then he tips his face toward you. “Ain’t doin’ this with anybody but you.”

You feel his words settle between your ribs. He tucks you closer. You let him.

Theres not much after that. A kiss or two. Maybe a quiet conversation. Something about his father or yours. Something about a dream, or the kind of future you would want if the world was different.

The morning will come and the coffee you make him will be too sweet, but he'll drink it anyway. 

Beverly will show up, late and with another story about her grandkids.

He'll call Karen, just to talk to the girls, and leave another message that goes unanswered.

There will be a text from Todd. A reminder about his appointment.

But right now, in the warmth of his bed, he isn't alone.

And when he wakes up, you'll still be with him and he'll realize, in the small hours before the sun, that it is enough.

The world will go on spinning. But for a moment, right then, everything will feel right.

Especially then.

WOW SORRY FOR THAT EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER!

If you guys haven't placed a fanfic drink order, please do so here! I'm having so much fun with them so I'm extending it until end of October!

It starts off as any other hookup; both of you intoxicated by poison of choice, just enough for that warm buzz. It doesn't matter who's under the mask, it could be anyone, and it's even hotter when you keep it anonymous.

The masked stranger stays in costume, crawling over you on god knows whose bed in an empty room, hands all over you. He gropes you roughly, kneading your breasts through your costume, breathing heavily as your back arches, pushing into them.

“Off,” You grunt, tugging at His shroud. He shakes his head silently, and you huff, frustrated. “Fine, but I’m not gonna be the only one naked here.”

A hiss floats out from underneath the mask as you roll your hips up into his. You smirk, but it’s quickly wiped off your face as something gleams in the stranger’s hand.

Something sharp.

Something deadly.

Fear courses through your veins, igniting your skin with awful, scorching dread.

“Wa- wait—“ Your words stumble as you stutter, hands shoving forward to stop the stranger above you. Your palms plant against his chest, barely able to keep them at bay; the action only does so much, more performative than anything.

A chuckle escapes them, catching you by surprise. The sound is dorky and soft; a stark contrast to his disguise and demeanor.

His free hand shoots out to grab your wrists, but loses balance, face planting into both your body and the bed instead. You whimper as you struggle underneath them, trying to wriggle free.

 Despite his clumsiness, he's still much stronger than you. His knee shoves its way between your thighs, parting them, brushing against your barely clothed core.

"Stay st- still." You do, but he still warns, "Or I- I'm gonna—" 

Oh, dude has no confidence at all. Maybe this is a sick prank, at best.

"— I'm gonna gut you like a fish."

Never mind. That came out way too fucking easy.

Balling your fists in the sheets, you keep them still and by your side, shallow breaths as you hold tension, trying not to set the stranger off.

Though your bunny costume— a cute, cropped sweatshirt with bunny ears on the hood, and a matching thong and thigh-highs— is still on, it leaves little to the imagination, as most Halloween costumes do these days. It's still too much fabric, too much of a barrier for the masked tormentor.

He slides the dull side of the blade's tip along your leg, chuckling when you whimper and restrain yourself from squirming. When the blade's past your knee, it crosses from your inner leg, slowly to the outer side, dragging slowly up to your hip.

Pressing the broad side of the blade against your skin, the metal sends shivers down your spine. He attempts gliding it under your thin waistband, but it slices into your skin. It's faint, nearly no more damage than what a paper cut would leave behind, but it makes you wince.

That's not what upsets you. It's the blade turning so the serrated edge catches on your waistband of your panties.

"No, n- no wait—" 

A gloved hand shoots out, grips your throat, and your pleas die right on your tongue.

"What'd I say?" He husks, voice trembling underneath the bravado. "What— you shouldn't move."

Tears well up along your lash line, and the hand loosens, but stays heavy around your neck. 

"… But I… I really like this costume." The stranger tilts his head, like he's listening intently, though you can't quite be sure under the mask. "It- it cost a lot, I had to save up f- for awhile, and—"

He yanks his arm upward, slicing through the elastic of your costume. The bikini cut bottom-half falls loose, pooling around your thighs, leaving you partially exposed.

"Shouldn't have paid s- so much for scraps," he mutters, ripping the damaged fabric away, only to shove it under his mask. Inhaling your scent deeply, he releases a feral groan. "Fuck…"

The sick fuck leaves your panties under his mask, breathing you in as he watches you quiver with terror. 

Without warning, he raises the knife high above his head, fear freezing you in place as you begin to hyperventilate.

Move, move, fucking move—

The stranger plunges the knife through the air, and you scream, anticipating the worst pain of your life as your blood already runs cold. 

Except… you feel nothing.

Instead, the knife punctures the mattress, right between your fucking legs.

At first you think, by pure luck, he misses his target. But he sits back, head tilting again as he leaves the knife stabbed through the bed. He's silent, like he's expectantly waiting for something.

He could've killed you. Why didn't he kill you?

Tears burn along your lash line; you try blinking them away, but they only build. "I don't… I don't understand…"

The Walmart-brand Ghostface barks out a laugh, rooted in cruelty and sick pleasure. "Ride it."

Your wide eyes dart to the knife's handle, and back up to him. "What?"

"I said," he leans close again, cradling your face softly, gritting out, "ride it."

Again, you look at the knife, nestled in the mattress between the two of you. The handle isn't a replica of Ghostface's knife; this one's rounded, smooth that it wouldn't hurt like the original.

Christ. This is fucked up.

When you make no attempt to obey, just keeping frozen in sheer terror, he presses something cold against your neck. He tilts it slightly, and a sharp edge begs to split the skin.

Really? Another goddamn knife?

"I'll cut your—" He pauses, rephrasing himself- a habit he seems to have- "I'll slit your th- throat if you don't move."

"Okay, okay," you breathe, careful not to nod and lean into the blade. "But I- I can't move if you keep the knife on my neck."

To your surprise, the knife is pulled back, and he sits back again, nodding and pointing to the other knife with the point of the one in hand.

A beat passes before you kneel above the handle, finding a position that'll make this as comfortable as possible— if that's even an option right now.

"H- hang on," he stutters, sounding far more boyish than when he threatened you moments before.

Hand disappearing under the black cloak, he unzips eagerly- a stifled sound, but you still hear it as you hold your breath- and hikes up the cloak to expose himself.

Stiff and swollen with a fucked up desire, he strokes his length, precum dripping onto his glove. Thrusting himself closer to you, he orders, "Spit."

Saliva glistens as it spills from your lips, draping itself onto his cock below. On contact, he groans lowly. Stroking himself a few more times, he mixes your spit with his cum, gathering most of it on his hand.

He reaches under your heat, grabbing the knife handle to spread the slick on the surface.

This is a filthy, fucked up nightmare… and yet, you're soaked.

Afraid to be threatened again, you begin sinking onto the knife's handle. It's… well, it's not ideal, not really comfortable… but the more you take in, the more your own desires warp to embrace this fucked up game.

The man shudders under the mask, murmuring something like "oh, shit" when your cunt eventually swallows the hilt.

"C'mon," he rasps, hand still wrapped around his cock. "Fuck it for m- me."

You slowly lift up, feeling the ribbed surface drag against your walls. When a moan slips out, small, yet telling, he chuckles.

The humiliation in his voice, the shameful pleasure from riding a fucking knife handle, only makes you drip more. Your slick glistens down the hilt, dripping onto the sheets below.

This shouldn't feel good. This shouldn't fucking feel good at all.

There's only heavy breathing and grunts escaping from under the man's mask, stroking himself over the pathetic sight of you, but memory isn't enough for him.

You're glancing down between your legs when something bright flashes above you. Startled to a halt, your head snaps up to find the masked stranger pointing his phone at you.

"Did I s- say you could stop?" His grip falls away from his cock, grabbing his other knife. Reaching around your backside, he takes the broadside of the knife and smacks the metal against the swell of your ass.

What the fuck?

Did this freak just spank me with a fucking knife?

Much to your surprise, a moan slips out, so he spanks you again. This time, the blade catches slightly on your skin, scraping a thin laceration along the surface. 

"Ah!" You hiss, jaw clenching. "Fuck, what's your problem?! At least do it right, asshole!"

Despite his clumsy demeanor, he's swift, dropping the knife to choke you, while he shoves his phone in your face, flash continuous. The light blinds you, eyes watering already from his grip on your throat.

"A- are you fucking recording me?" You rasp, gasping for air when his large hand trembles as his fingers tighten.

This isn't breath play. This isn't to tease with your blood flow. This is straight up choking you, and fuck, it hurts.

Which, no shit, but it's not particularly a situation you ever imagined you'd be in while in bed.

A chime echoes out from his phone, with a tinny, monotone voice, "LOL, don't kill her yet, bro."

This guy isn't just recording you, he's fucking live streaming you.

What kind of sick fuck watches something like this? 

If you manage to survive this night, you're never hooking up at any future costume parties ever again.

His grip falters, head tilting slightly to his phone screen. You greedily gasp more air into your lungs. 

"I don't wanna—" he pauses, redirecting himself, "Don't m- make me hurt you."

Another chime, another comment read aloud: "Gotta be more convincing than that, dude."

Then another, "You're not scaring her enough LMAO"

And another— "C'mon, just get to the good part already!"

To your surprise, he releases his chokehold on you; you sputter, gulping down air in between coughs.

While you try catching your breath, dizzy by the rush, he drags the knife up your thigh, phone following with it in a shaky grip. When he reaches your ribs, tip of the knife gently scraping into your skin, you manage to hold your breath, keep still.

Last thing you need is to be stabbed between the ribs. Or stabbed anywhere. Yeah, best to avoid that altogether.

Sure doesn't stop your mouth from running, though. Out of panic, or desire, you're unsure, but you rush out, "I- I wanna suck you off."

He pulls the knife back, though the phone stays pointed at you. He's stiff, like he doesn't know what to do. You manage to keep grinding on the knife's handle, bending forward to press your face against his cock. You kiss and lick at the head softly, tasting the saltiness of precum still weeping out.

Tilting his head down, the elongated chin of the mask prevents him from really seeing you while it bumps against his chest. He grumbles something incoherent, shuddering out a moan as you wrap your lips around him.

"F- fuck it."

He rips the mask off, right as you glance up at him. He's cute, and he shouldn't be.

Brown hair disheveled and greasy, eyes hooded with lust despite their crazed stare, cheeks flushed red— he's got no right being cute. 

God, why couldn't you have fucked the guy dressed as Superman instead?

A chime rings out. "Kurt, don't go soft on her now lol."

Another, "His dick better not get soft either LMAO."

… Wait. You know him.

You pull back, just enough to speak up, while a string of spit keeps you leashed to his cock. "You're that guy… th- the Spree killer?"

Kurt's lips tick up into a smirk, like he's proud of it. He nods wordlessly.

Fear courses through your veins, though you keep calm. "I thought you… y'know…"

"Died?" He rasps out, smile growing, reveling in the recognition. "Nah, looked like it though, huh?" 

There's no chance to answer when Kurt grabs the back of your head, forcing you down on his cock again. You're quick to bob on his length, drooling around the thickness of his shaft; you know better not to bargain with a killer… and you'd be lying if you said you weren't into this right now. 

Jesus Christ, I'm fucked. I'm so fucked in the head for this.

He thrusts into your mouth, head falling back with a breathy moan. A chime startles him, makes his cock kick between your lips. "Man, hold the camera up!"

Kurt chuckles, all breathy and almost stupidly cute— y'know, if he wasn't a fucking murderer. 

He points the phone down at you, right as he spills his seed into your mouth without warning. He shouts while comments come through, mocking him for being a "one pump chump" and such. The others are a blur while you choke him down, Kurt shuddering out such adorable moans, making your stomach flip.

You barely finish swallowing before he drops the phone, and roughly brings you back to his face. Panting, lips covered with proof of his arousal, you get a better look at him. Take in his cute freckles and moles and the perfect angle of his nose.

Again, butterflies. Wrong place, wrong time, that won't stop them, though.

Kurt rips his gloves off, running a thumb along your bottom lip, phone forgotten for a moment. He pushes any traces of his cum back between your lips, while you suck gently on his thumb without asking.

He mumbles, and it's not sultry, it's nothing thrilling; it's more monotone, a reminder to himself to stay on track rather than a promise to you: "M'not done with you yet."

————————————

Kurt, masked again, stares through Ghostface's eyes to meet your gaze in the mirror. He shoves you forward, giving you little time to grab the edges of the sink before you smash your face into the porcelain. 

There's not much warning, just the cool metal smacking your ass again. You yelp, clenching your thighs together until he kicks his foot between your own, spreading them apart.

He leans over you, placing the phone by the faucet to prop it up, front-facing camera capturing the depraved scene live for— Jesus fucking Christ— 27k+ viewers?!

You've got tears in your eyes, running down your face into your makeup, already wrecked. Your hair's disheveled. You look like hell.

On screen, you watch Kurt behind you, belt buckle being fumbled with before he unzips his pants, letting them crumple to the floor. With his gloves long gone, you can feel his bare hands caress and sloppily grip your ass. They knead into the plush of your body, finding purchase in your hips as they wander up. 

A chime startles you out of a daze. "She likes it. What a slut."

You don't catch the moan in time before it slips out. Another chime echoes out.

"Fuck her already!"

Kurt drops to his knees while pulling the mask up, and though out of sight, you feel him bury his face into your cunt. He's sloppy, absolutely has no experience, clearly going off whatever porn he's watched before tonight, but you're so horny, none of that matters.

He groans, broadening his tongue flat against your clit, licking through your folds, over your entrance, and to your tight, puckered hole. You cry out, not expecting his mouth to explore there.

He laps at the tight ring, circling it before dragging his tongue back down to trace along your slit, sucking your clit as soon as he reaches it. You steady yourself on the sink, bouncing back on his face, chasing whatever kind of messy pleasure he has to offer.

"Taste so good," he moans, voice low and trembling against your clit. He licks down to your entrance, tapering his tongue to fuck into your core. You're doing the work, though, he's just filling you. "Need you to— you better fuck me like this, t- too."

This is all too much, and it's honestly embarrassing how fast you're hurtling towards a high, chanting his name like you're not afraid of him now.

But, he stops.

Kurt fucking stops.

His fingers dig into your hips, stilling them, pulling his face away from your core. He stands, lines himself up behind you again, slamming his cock into you without warning.

"Fuck!" The wind's knocked from your chest, nearly head butting the damn phone on the sink.

He's huge, you knew that, but Jesus Christ, he needs to learn how to drive that damn thing.

"Don't be shy," he murmurs, eyes meeting yours in the mirror— his eyes, his with the pretty hazel hues holding a crazy stare, not shielded by the mask— he smirks lazily, slamming his hips into your ass. "You should—" he pauses, dragging himself out of you just to thrust back in, dazed smirk growing over your tortured moans. 

You feel the knife's tip trace on your thigh, trailing up to your ass again, dragging and marking along the plushest part.

✦   YOU’RE COMPLETELY ASLEEP. soft snores are the only sound that’s left your body for the last hour or so. kurt’s already stripped you of your outfit, nervous hands diligently but clumsily removing each piece of clothing until you were fully nude. he sighs quietly as he climbs onto the bed, spreading your thighs apart.

guilt isn’t something he should be feeling at the moment. you asked for this, after all. a couple of weeks ago you’d suggested it while watching a movie on the couch, cuddling against his chest. “i think it might be hot,” you’d murmured, “waking up and then… feeling that you wanted me. or being woken up by you.” it wasn’t until today, though, that you actually asked to try it, batting your eyelashes and biting your lip after dinner. aroused, clearly, but willing to wait possibly hours for… what?

kunkle’s not sure he understands what’s so appealing about being asleep. even so, he’s never been good at saying no to you. he’s a dog of a man in the best of ways, unquestioningly loyal and eager to please. when you asked, he merely nodded and went to fetch a sleeping pill and a glass of water. he made sure you were sure, then asked if he could record— you said yes, much to his delight. thirty-ish minutes later and you were out like a light. he’d carried you from the dinner table where you’d passed out to the bedroom, figuring it would be a more suitable location. then kurt stripped you down, hesitated, and now it’s been an hour since you slipped into slumber and he still hasn’t touched you.

he’s done worse things with less permission. hell, he’s done worse things with no permission. this is different, though, this is you. with or without consent, kunkle wants things to be perfect; the camera was already set up perfectly, at least, perching on top of a tripod and flashing its red recording light over and over. he runs his hands along the meat of your right thigh, caressing before moving it over some more. “okay,” he breathes out. gently, he reaches between your legs, parting the outer lips with his fingers. “look at that,” he coos to himself and the camera, sliding his index along the slick that coats your cunt, “god, you’ve been soaked for a while, huh? can’t believe i didn’t notice when i took off your underwear…”

a sliver of pink darts out from between the lips of his mouth as he stares down at you. it makes sense, suddenly, why you’d want to try this. it’s a show of love, isn’t it? i love you so much, i trust you to take care of me when i can’t. you’re saying it to him with every rise and fall of your chest. i love you so much, i’ll let you handle me even when i’m vulnerable and defenseless. “i get it now,” kurt mumbles, rubbing your right thigh some more, “i get it, baby.” he leans down, kissing along the pubic hair leading down to your pussy. “i love that you trust me. trust me enough to make you feel good even in your sleep.” his voice remains low as he thinks aloud, half of his words spoken into your skin.

the brunette lets out a pleased hum before moving his hands away from your thighs and to the cheeks of your butt. he squeezes twice, then lets go. “i can do whatever i like, see?” kunkle chuckles to the camera. “so far asleep, there’s barely even a reflex. fuck, i kinda… kinda wanna eat this pussy.” he grasps your legs again, tilting your body onto its side just enough for the camera to get a better view your cunt. he drops one leg down, holding the other up as his free hand spreads your folds once more. “see that? breakfast, lunch, and dinner. and, today’s dessert.” the other leg is left to drop now, landing against the bed with a very soft and dull thud. “watch,” kurt says to the camera, grinning, winking, and then lowering his head between your thighs.

he’s always been a messy eater, but it’s more audible whenever he eats you out— today is no exception to that rule. it’s a noisy affair, his tongue lapping at every drop of wetness your sopping cunt can give him. he traces around before letting his tongue slide flat along the whole of your pussy— “mmm, mm,” kunkle hums in satisfaction, “sweet thing just gets wetter and wetter for me.” the thought of stopping doesn’t enter his mind, even when your thighs start to subtly twitch. he’s lost too in the pleasure of licking and sucking and slurping on your cunt to care about you slowly waking up. “so delicious,” the brunette drawls, lifting his head just to beam at the camera once more, “i’m so lucky to have a baby that trusts me… and that tastes good, haha. not a lot of guys can say that, i bet.”

he returns back to suck on your clit shortly afterwards, eyes closing as he focuses on you. your taste, your body, your smell… a groan leaves his lips. his hard-on presses along the bed, pulsing and leaking pre-cum just from him eating you out. “s’good— s’fucking good.” it’s muffled, but it’s there, those desperate and whiny sweet nothings that always slip from kurt’s lips during sex. your hips raise ever so slightly as you get closer and closer, your breath hitching every so often. the camera watches as you become more aware, more responsive, and at the same time, your boyfriend becomes less controlled and more needy.

“come on my tongue,” he begs to you, right into your cunt, speaking against it, along it, by it. “please come on my tongue, i want to taste it, gotta taste you—” his efforts increase tenfold, sucking hard on your clit until you finally whimper. kunkle drags his tongue around the puffy nub before dragging it down, teasing your entrance, and in his mind he can only think: i know you want to come for me, right on my tongue. i know you want to come. paint my chin with your cum, let me taste it, let me savor it. i know you want me to.

and he’s right. it doesn’t take long for you to finish, your hips raising up before falling down. a creamy white spills out of you, dribbling onto his tongue and chin before dripping onto the bedsheets beneath you both. kurt laps up every last drop, even licking along the sheets to collect the pearly drops that fell below. panting softly, he brings his head up. he lets his fingers card through his own brown locks before he presses a kiss along your tummy. then, he glances at the camera, smiling sheepishly. “well, that’s how i like to do it. i think i got a bit carried away but… well, it’s good eats, you know.” he laughs a little at his own joke, shifting away from your quivering cunt just as you let out a soft yawn.

“looks like it’ll be wakey-wakey time soon,” kunkle muses to the recording camera lens. “well, babe, if you’re watching this, i’d say this was pretty awesome. something we could try again, for sure. and, for any kurtsworld followers, if i’m given permission to post this— that is how you eat pussy. right babe?” the brunette nudges your lower calf, eliciting a soft groan-like noise from you. “exactly! oh, and make sure to follow me for the lesson. just check out hashtag the lesson; it’ll be even more exciting than this one!”

kurt kunkle somno has been on my backburner since i first watched spree, but i finally got the time recently to write something for it!!! this turned out cute, i think. he’s such a dork, i love him.

“Oh,” she says, "Wow. Okay. Hi.”

“Hi, Robin.”

Before she can answer, the back door swings open and Steve walks out with a stack of tapes in his arms. He spots you immediately and stops dead in his tracks.

“Oh no. Nuh-uh. Nope.” His voice cracks as he throws up his hands., “we close in five.”

"Looks like I made it just in time then," to smirk and Robin grimaces like she’s physically in pain.

“I’m a customer, Steve,” you say sweetly, "you have to let me browse. Besides, it’ll be quick. I know exactly what I want.”

“Oh my god,” Robin mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No. I’m not staying for this. Whatever this is.”

Steve shoots her a warning look. “Ro—”

“No. Don’t. I’m going home,” she groans, already gathering her jacket. “If you two set the store on fire or emotionally destroy each other again, I’m not filing an incident report.”

“Robin,” Steve says sharply, “I can handle it.”

“Sure,” she deadpans, pointing two fingers at her eyes then at you. “Good luck surviving whatever she’s about to do.”

She grabs her stuff and slips out, the bell jingling behind her.

Perfect.

Steve exhales hard, rubbing the back of his neck. “So,” he mutters, “what do you want?”

You don’t answer, instead, you turn and walk straight to the back corner of the store.... the explicit section.

Steve fumbles a tape so hard it clatters onto the counter.

You trail your fingers along the rows, selecting one tape… then another… then a third. Each with the raunchiest cover art you can find. You carry them back, set them gently on the counter, and meet Steve’s wide eyed stare.

“See?” you say softly, "told you I'd be quick.”

He crosses his arms, trying to muster annoyance through the pink flushing his cheeks. “Yeah, no. No. You don’t get to just show up after weeks, looking like that, grabbing… these, and acting like it’s normal.”

You lean in a little, voice dropping, "and why not?”

“Because! Because it’s... you’re..."

You rest a finger on one of the tapes, dragging it slowly.

“Steve, baby," your words cut through him like a knife, "… I really do need them.”

“No you don’t,” he says quickly, "you're messing with me.”

“Maybe, or maybe I’m lonely.” You pout at him and he freezes.

“Lonely?” he echoes, voice softer, breath catching.

You nod, leaning in just enough for him to smell your perfume.

“I haven’t been with anyone since you. Haven’t wanted to. But nights get long. And quiet. And… I thought these might help.”

His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes flicking between your mouth and the tapes.

“You shouldn’t say that to me,” he whispers.

“Why?” you breathe.

“Because,” he says, voice cracking, boyish and desperate, “if you mean it—if you really mean it—then I don’t know if I can stay over here.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, “I don’t want you to stay over there.”

It’s sudden, like a snapped rubber band. One second he’s rooted behind the counter; the next he’s rounding it, closing the distance in long, hungry strides.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he croaks at you.

“Like what?” you whisper, even though you know.

“Like you want me again.”

You barely get a breath out before he grabs your waist and pulls you in, your back pressing into the shelves behind you. The tapes rattle from the impact. His chest is warm against yours, his forehead almost touching yours.

“You can’t just walk in here,” he whispers, breath ghosting over your lips, “looking like the exact thing I’ve been trying not to think about.”

His hands are on your hips now, firm, trembling. He's not sure whether to pull you closer or push you away.

You tilt your chin up. “Then don’t think.”

That’s all it takes. He kisses you.

Not the soft, patient kind he used to give you. This is hot and frustrated, like a starving dog finally being fed. His hands slide up your spine, holding you to him as his mouth claims yours, slow only in the way that makes it worse.

You gasp when his lips trail down your jaw, his voice a rough whisper against your skin.

“You drive me insane,” he breathes against your throat, the words vibrating through your skin.

You shudder, clutching his shirt.

“Good,” you whisper and his jaw flexes. Something sharp flickers through his eyes — hunger, frustration.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he mutters.

His hand drags up your side, fingers sliding around the base of your throat, not squeezing, just holding. Claiming. Measuring your reaction.

Your breath stutters; your thighs press together involuntarily.

He feels it.

“Oh,” he says quietly, smirk ghosting his lips. “You like that.”

You swallow, pulse kicking against his palm. “What if I do?”

That’s all it takes.

He closes the distance in two strides, grabbing your waist and slamming you back gently but firmly against the shelf. Tapes rattle behind you. His fingers tighten around your throat just enough to control your breath, not enough to hurt.

Your lips part on a shocked, needy gasp.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, "there she is.”

His thumb strokes your jaw, teasing, testing.

“You came here wanting this.”

You don’t get a chance to answer.

He kisses you hard and messy. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming your mouth with a hunger that’s weeks overdue.

You moan, and he drinks the sound like it’s fuel.

His free hand is already under your skirt, stroking up your thigh, squeezing, gripping. “You’re dripping, aren’t you?” he mutters against your mouth.

You nod, breath shaking. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your knees weaken.

“Words,” he orders softly.

“Yes," your voice cracks, high and desperate. “I’m wet. Steve, please....”

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead dropping to yours. “Don’t beg unless you want me to lose every ounce of control I have left.”

You lean into his palm, offering your throat more openly.

He groans again, low and guttural, like you just broke him.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he whispers.

His hand slips into your underwear, and the second his fingers touch you, your hips jerk violently.

You gasp, eyes fluttering and he presses your throat a little firmer to keep you still.

“Hold still,” he orders, "let me feel you.”

Two fingers slide inside you, deep and perfect. You choke on a moan, the sound thin and strained through his grip.

“Jesus,” he mutters, thrusting his fingers slow, “you’re soaking. For me. For the guy you walked out on, huh?"

Your nails dig into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, breath shaking. “I missed you, I'm sorry....”

He pulls back enough to get a good look at you, your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, his hand around your throat.

“Open your mouth,” he says softly.

You obey slowly and his eyes darken and his hand tightens just a little.

“That’s it… good girl,” he rasps before leaning in to spit into your mouth..... slow, deliberate, filthy.

Your entire body jolts.

“Swallow.”

You do. Instantly. Desperately.

Steve’s groan is almost a growl.

“Oh, you’re fucking mine,” he whispers. “I don’t care what games you're playing, you’re mine.”

He lifts you suddenly, your back pressing harder into the shelf as your legs wrap around his waist. His grip on your throat loosens just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you look away from him.

He rubs the head of his cock against your entrance, dragging through your slick. You're so overwhelmed you didn't realize he dropped his pants around his ankles long ago.

You moan weakly.

“Steve—please—”

“You want me inside you?” he murmurs, aligning himself. “Right here? At my fucking job?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Steve.....”

He pushes inside you in one long, deep stroke. Your mouth falls open on a silent cry, and his hand clamps around your throat agaitn, controlling every tiny movement your body tries to make.

“Holy shit,” he groans, eyes closing, "you're so tight… I forgot how tight—fuck.”

He thrusts again, deeper and you choke on a moan, grip tightening on his arms as the shelf rattles behind you.

Steve’s voice is wrecked, breath hitting your lips.

“You feel incredible,” he pants. “I missed this, I missed you, I missed how you fucking clench around me—”

You gasp, the pressure around your throat making every thrust sharper, hotter, overwhelming.

“Fuck, baby," you whimper, “I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he pants, fucking you harder, shelf shaking.... “Cum for me then. Cum on my cock, c'mon.”

He squeezes lightly, perfectly, cutting off just enough breath that your climax slams into you so fast you arch against his hand.

You gasp, shaking, clenching so hard around him you see white sparks.

Steve groans loudly as your cunt sucks him in, thrusting deeper until his rhythm shatters. He curses against your mouth, grip tightening at your throat as he spills into you with a low, desperate sound.

When he finally stills, chest heaving, he loosens his hand and cups your jaw gently, thumb brushing where he held you.

He leans in, kissing you slowly then, he whispers:

“So, you staying… or are you running again?”

You’re still trembling when he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, chest heaving. The heat between your legs has barely settled, your skin still tingling from the sloppy, desperate fucking in the back of the store.

Steve kisses your temple, lips soft now, almost reverent. “You okay?” he murmurs, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face.

He studies your face for a long beat, eyes dark, unreadable. Then, without a word, he slips his hand into yours gently.

“I’m taking you home,” he says simply.

The ride is quiet at first. Downtown blurs past in streaks of neon and streetlight, the world outside the car irrelevant. You curl into the passenger seat, still flushed, still aching from where he left you open and spent.

Steve glances at you now and then, jaw tight, fingers tapping absently on the wheel. He finally breaks the silence:

“You’re… something else, you know that?” His voice is low, rough, still heavy with what just happened.

You glance at him, heart hammering in a mix of desire and relief. “I missed you,” you admit quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs, hand brushing yours in a silent squeeze. “I missed you too. Too damn much.”

You exhale, letting some of the tension drain from your chest. The ride feels like a slow return to reality, a gentle landing after the storm of need you both just survived.

By the time he pulls up outside your place, the air between you is thick with unspoken things — need, frustration, longing, and a fragile, rekindled trust. He doesn’t rush to let go. He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans over, kissing your temple, lingering, holding your gaze. “I’m not letting you go again,” he murmurs, fingers curling around yours. “Tonight… you’re mine. Tomorrow… you’re mine. Until you don’t want me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the first real sound of softness since you walked into the store. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it,” he says. “So get inside. Let me make sure you get some rest… after that, we can figure out everything else.”

You nod, still trembling, as he carefully opens your door, hands steadying you. There’s something tender in the way he touches you now, something that makes the raw, messy heat from minutes ago feel safe, cherished.

“Call me tomorrow,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice soft but impossible to ignore.

Kurt’s already hard, impressive length bouncing underneath the flimsy cotton of underwear you’re sure he’s had forever.

He rolls the pillow up a bit and pins it to the mattress. Spreads his legs a bit and then gyrates against the pillow. And you’re not sure where to look. The perverted action happening or his trembling biceps as he’s trying to hold himself up or his greasy hair falling in front of his eyes. He shakes his head to get it out of the way, but it just goes right back. And obviously the simple friction is distracting enough because he doesn’t try to fix it again, but he moans softly and his hips give a pathetic thrust. Pink, plush lips opened in an ‘o’ shape. Another moan tumbles from them as he grinds down a little harder.

It’s obscene, has your body tingling all over. And you feel powerful. Because you asked for this. And Kurt will do just about anything for your attention.

“Feel good?” you ask him over the FaceTime.

He nods enthusiastically, mutters out a wrecked little, “Yeah…” all breathy and shaky.

You give him a soft giggle and it encourages him a little further. Kurt starts moving his hips faster, using the pillow to feel good. Humping against it just like you’d asked. Part of you wants to touch yourself but you also just want to watch him. It’s a real pretty sight.

His face is all contorted in ecstasy and it’s gorgeous. He’s so sensitive, he’s barely started and he’s already falling apart. However, you want to see more.

“Kurt,” you interrupt him and his body freezes. He lets go of the pillow and rises upright, still on his knees but turning his torso to look at his phone.

“Yeah? Am I doing it wrong? Can you see? Should I move the phone?” he rambles on, causing you to giggle again.

“No, no, it’s perfect. Just wanna see more. Take off your underwear for me?” you ask, biting your lip as his face reddens.

Kurt pushes his hair off his forehead, nods and then his hands move to the waistband of those cotton briefs. He pushes them over his round ass, freeing his cock and you’re so happy you asked for this. It looks almost painfully hard, pink and angry and leaking at the tip. Quite possibly the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

He’s awkward and a bit clumsy as he tries to get them off all the way, falling forward and onto the pillow he’s been gyrating against. His face gets a touch more red, embarrassment flooding him until you sigh happily and tell him just how cute you think he is. Then Kurt’s matching your smile.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be cute right now,” he says, kind of matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, well, you’re cute all the time. Now get on with the show.”

Kurt shakes his head, but there’s a smile on his lips. He reaches for the pillow again, holds it tight and then rolls his hips. His cock is trapped between the pillow and his abdomen. But obviously the friction is enough because he tilts his head back and moans, tightens his grip on the pillow.

Now his hips work faster. Each thrust dripped in desperation. Starts arching his back with it. Putting on quite literally the best show for you.

“You’re such a good boy, Kurt,” you say, your own voice sounding wrecked with desire.

That pulls a wonderful, needy and shaky moan from him. His eyes squeezed tightly shut while he humps the pillow. The moans don’t stop, each one sounding more high pitched and desperate. He’s reaching his climax quicker than you’d anticipated but you’re so excited for it.

“You gonna cum for me?” you ask, trying to sound sultry but you know you sound just as needy as he appears to be.

“Y-yeah!” he whines, dragging his cock against the pillow repeatedly. “G-gonna… oh, fuck!”

And with that, he spills all over the pillow and his sheets. Kurt collapses with it, no doubt getting the front of him all messy and sticky with cum. He’s breathing heavily, face seems satisfied and happy. Eyes still closed and the dreamiest smile spread across his face. Then once he comes down, his eyes open abruptly.

“Was that good?” he asks, hopeful.

You nod at him through the phone, smiling wide, “It was perfect. You’re the best.”

His smile widens and then he sits upright. Reaches for the phone and you’re met with his beautiful face again.

“I’m gonna cleaned up… can I call you back?” he asks.

“I’ll be waiting,” you tell him.

“I’ll be quick, I promise. Love you,” he says and hangs up.

You cried out as your orgasm crashed over you, legs shaking, back arching off the bed, head tilting back. Tyler cursed under his breath when he felt your pussy flutter around his cock, but he kept the steady pace of fucking into you, helping you ride it out. 

“Oh, good girl…” He moaned, gazing down at you through half-lidded eyes, a self-satisfied smirk gracing his lips. “Look at you, trembling for me.” He chuckled softly. 

“T-Tyler,” you choked out through a mewl. As your orgasm finally faded, overstimulation took its place. You whimpered pathetically and squirmed under him, but you were pinned under his body. “Please…” You whined. 

“Hm?” He asked innocently, tilting his head with mock curiosity.  

“Hurts.” You could barely get the word out with how overwhelmed you were from sensitivity. When you reached down to weakly push his hips back, he laughed softly and grabbed your wrists, bringing them up to pin above your head. He continued rutting into you with hard, unrelenting thrusts that jolted your entire body. 

You cried out as your orgasm crashed over you, legs shaking, back arching off the bed, head tilting back. Tyler cursed under his breath when he felt your pussy flutter around his cock, but he kept the steady pace of fucking into you, helping you ride it out. 

“Oh, good girl…” He moaned, gazing down at you through half-lidded eyes, a self-satisfied smirk gracing his lips. “Look at you, trembling for me.” He chuckled softly. 

“T-Tyler,” you choked out through a mewl. As your orgasm finally faded, overstimulation took its place. You whimpered pathetically and squirmed under him, but you were pinned under his body. “Please…” You whined. 

“Hm?” He asked innocently, tilting his head with mock curiosity.  

“Hurts.” You could barely get the word out with how overwhelmed you were from sensitivity. When you reached down to weakly push his hips back, he laughed softly and grabbed your wrists, bringing them up to pin above your head. He continued rutting into you with hard, unrelenting thrusts that jolted your entire body.