sideblog a decade late

·✶· kinky!gator who has stared at his own handcuffs in the dark more times than he’d ever admit. Same childhood bed, walls still plastered with old half-naked girls posters. He only admits the curiosity once, half-drunk and already leaking, voice rough: “Just… curious, is all. About the cuffs. Don’t make it weird.” When you actually click them shut around his wrists and pin him to the headboard, then straddle his cock and wrap a hand around his throat, he keeps his eyes locked on the ceiling. “Fuck—tighter,” he grits out, chest heaving. Every thrust forces punched-out little grunts past the pressure of your fingers. “You’re gonna leave marks—don’t care, just—keep going.” His cock kicks hard every time you squeeze. You find out he also gets stupidly hard when you leave the cuffs on after and make him stay there while you clean him up with your mouth. He just breathes, “Jesus Christ… look at you,” voice wrecked.

·✶· kinky!gator who can degrade you for hours without blinking, “Look at you, taking it like a needy little slut” but the second you turn it back on him he short-circuits. “Look at you,” you murmur while bouncing on his cock, “my desperate little winner, so fucking pathetic for it.” His face goes scarlet, hips stuttering hard. “Shut the fuck up,” he tries to snarl into the pillow, but it comes out broken and needy. “Don’t—don’t call me that” His cock throbs so violently inside you that you both feel it. When you follow it up with a soft “good boy” right after, he makes a punched-out sound and comes harder than he ever has. “Fuck—say it again,” he breathes before he can stop himself.

·✶· kinky!gator who has a secret, filthy little thing for sucking toes that makes him feel like a freak. You only find out because one night your foot ends up near his face while he’s between your legs and he just… leans in. Warm, wet mouth closing around your big toe. “Shit—sorry, I—” he starts to pull back, ears bright red, but you push your foot deeper and he groans around it. “Fuck, you taste good,” he mumbles against your sole, eyes fluttering shut as he sucks harder, messy and hungry, spit running down. After that he never asks, but if you offer he drops to his knees without a word. Sometimes he gets so into it he mouths along the arch and the soft skin of your ankle, leaving it shiny. “Could do this for hours,” he admits once, quiet and embarrassed, before going right back to it.

·✶· kinky!gator who discovers your own buried kinks the same messy way. He finds out you get soaking wet when he’s the one cuffed and helpless. “You like this?” he asks, voice rough, watching your face while you ride him and choke him. “You like having me like this?” He finds out you love the way he falls apart with fingers stretching his ass, “Still calling it gay shit while you’re pushing back for more,” you tease, and he just groans. He finds out you get almost feral watching him suck your toes. And he finds out you like making him eat his own cum off your fingers or out of your cunt. The first time you push two cum-slick fingers into his mouth he goes cross-eyed. “Fucking hell,” he mutters around them, already hard again. “You’re sick… keep going.” Every time one of your secrets spills out he stares at you like he’s seeing you new, then dives right back in like he can’t help himself.

·✶· kinky!gator who also turns out to have a quiet, shame-soaked thing for being edged until he’s crying. You keep him cuffed and on the edge for almost an hour, just the tip of your finger circling his hole and the lightest drag of your nails over his leaking cock. “Please—fuck, please, I can’t—” he’s shaking so hard the headboard rattles, tears streaking into his hair. “I need it, I need to come, please” By the time you finally let him he’s sobbing through it. Afterward he hides his face against your thigh. “Don’t… don’t look at me right now,” he mutters, but the next time you reach for the cuffs he doesn’t stop you.

·✶· kinky!gator who finds out you’re obsessed with having your tits and nipples played with the night he’s got you on your back and absently thumbs over one while he’s talking shit. You arch so hard the bed creaks and let out this punched, needy little sound that makes his cock jump. “Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes locked on your face. He pinches a little harder, rolls the peak between rough fingers, and watches you fall apart. “These sensitive little things? Fuck, look at you.” He spends the next twenty minutes just working them: sucking, biting, stretching, flicking until you’re dripping down your thighs and begging. Every time he comes back to them after that he grins like he just found free money.

·✶· kinky!gator who learns you love his balls almost as much as his cock when you reach down one night and cup them while he’s buried deep. He stutters mid-thrust, a broken noise catching in his throat. “Fuck—careful,” he mutters, but when you roll them gently in your palm and give a light squeeze he pushes into your hand like he can’t help it. You find out he gets stupidly vocal if you tug a little, or press your thumb behind them while you’re sucking him. “Jesus—do that again,” he grits out, thighs shaking. After that he starts guiding your hand there himself when he’s close, voice low and rough: “Play with ‘em… yeah, just like that.”

·✶· kinky!gator who already had a breeding kink, but the night he realizes how deeply you are into it changes everything. He’s buried to the hilt, muttering the usual filthy stuff about putting a baby in you, when you clench hard around him and whisper “do it, fill me up, I want it.” His rhythm stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at your face, eyes blown wide. “You mean that?” When you nod he drops his forehead to yours and starts fucking you like he’s trying to breed you for real: deep, grinding strokes, one hand splayed over your lower stomach. “Gonna pump you so full it takes,” he pants, almost reverent. “Keep every drop, yeah? Don’t you fucking waste it.” He comes so hard his vision whites out, and the way you moan when you feel it makes him stay locked inside you long after.

·✶· kinky!gator who discovers you love being edged the same way he does: slow, mean, and relentless. He finds out by accident the night he keeps pulling out every time you get close, just to watch you squirm. “Look at you,” he laughs, breathless, “so fucking desperate already.” But when you whimper “please, don’t let me come yet” something in his expression shifts. He spends the next hour keeping you right on the edge: fingers, cock, mouth, stopping the second your thighs start to shake. “Not yet,” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough with how hard he is. “You can take more.” By the time he finally lets you finish you’re crying and thanking him in the same breath, and he looks wrecked just from watching you.

·✶· kinky!gator who finds out you love when he comes all over you after morning sex and then lets it dry on your skin. He’s still half-asleep, cock in hand, finishing on your tits and stomach when you start rubbing it in slow, spreading the mess over your skin like lotion. He freezes, watching. “What are you doing?” You just smile, coat your fingers, smear it across your collarbones and down between your breasts, then stand up and start getting dressed like nothing happened. His eyes stay locked on you the whole time. “You’re gonna walk around with my cum under your clothes all day?” His voice is rough. When you nod he groans, already getting hard again. After that he makes a point of finishing on you most mornings, watching with dark eyes while you rub it in and pull your shirt on over the sticky mess.

·✶· kinky!gator who discovers you both love swapping cum while kissing the night he comes in your mouth and you immediately pull him down into a filthy open-mouthed kiss. He tastes himself on your tongue and makes a punched-out sound, but instead of pulling away he kisses you deeper, messy and wet, pushing some of it back into your mouth. “Fuck—that’s nasty,” he mutters against your lips, but his cock twitches hard against your thigh. You pass it back and forth until it’s mixed with both of your spit, thick and shared. Later, when he comes inside you and you scoop some out with your fingers to feed him, he doesn’t even hesitate. He sucks your fingers clean, then kisses you again so you can taste it too. “We’re both sick,” he breathes, already leaning back in for another wet, cum-slick kiss.

·✶· kinky!gator who has a slight, mean little piss kink he only lets out when he’s already deep in it. Sometimes it’s him bullying you into it, holding your hips down while you’re straddling him, voice low and taunting: “Go on. Do it. Right on me. I wanna feel it.” He keeps talking until you’re too far gone to argue, and when you finally let go he groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever felt, cock twitching hard underneath you. Other times it’s him taking you in doggy, fucking you rough until he’s close, then pulling out last second to piss right across your ass and lower back. Hot, filthy stream marking you while he strokes himself through it. “Look at that,” he mutters, watching it run down. “Marked you up proper.” He always looks a little too satisfied after.

·✶· kinky!gator who is obsessed with spanking your ass hard, especially when you’re in doggy or riding him. He’ll start with a few testing smacks, then get meaner once he sees how you react. Open-palm cracks that leave his handprint glowing red on your skin. In doggy he braces one hand on your lower back and just rains them down while he thrusts, the sound loud and wet in the room. “Fuckin’ love how this bounces,” he growls, landing another heavy slap. When you’re on top he grips your hips and spanks upward, timing each one with your drop so the impact hits right as you take him deep. Your ass ends up mottled and hot, and he can’t stop running his hands over the marks after, almost proud. “Gonna feel that every time you sit down tomorrow,” he says, voice rough with how much it turns him on.

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i do think he listens to the hits station on the radio a lot. no shame. he is a lot more in tune with the top 100 than people give him credit for

bruce springsteen for sureeee. owns born in the USA in multiple formats

duran duran. he is a new wave fan's worst nightmare

tears for fears. specifically i think he really enjoys the entirety of songs from the big chair

falco. this is a very self-serving headcanon for me but i think he really likes falco3 and keeps a tape of it in his bmw because he thinks it's a little amusing to listen to music written primarily in german in his german car. he is a particular fan of vienna calling and rock me amadeus methinks

phil collins probably

joe keery's headcanon that he likes centerfold is also unfortunately very correct to me

hall & oates. is really devastated when they eventually grow apart

he's not above wham! and really digs george michael's hair

is known to listen to some madonna every now and then. like everyone else. she's a huge popstar, she's everywhere, material girl is really catchy okay???

this pick also gives hopper vibes to me in a way but i think he likes creedence clearwater revival. maybe his dad also likes their stuff and listening to them makes him feel a little bit closer to his dad. idk

cries to bonnie tyler in the shower. like gets emotional over his own singing. god help anyone in the car with him if total eclipse of the heart comes on

cyndi lauper....... thinks time after time is a peak slow dancing song

i do think he knows and enjoys a good amount of kate bush re: hits radio station already but especially after everything with max i think he grows very fond of her. he reaches for hounds of love the most but he also enjoys never for ever

queen. he knows every single hit. i think he really likes under pressure

speaking of under pressure, i do think he likes david bowie and listens to the entirety of let's dance with pleasure

okay. this is getting into the level of corny that centerfold gives for me, but i think he likes wang chung too idk why and i'm actually laughing my ass off thinking about this

TOTO. not elaborating

naked eyes......

genesis re: phil collins

tw/cw: guns, blood, unintentional gunshot wound a/n: gun safety is not a joke, do not play with guns and do not use a gun if you don't know how to properly handle one. do not do anything that the two idiots in this fic are doing. just like, don't. &&

The one thing that Gator had been better at, from the start, was shooting a firearm. At least, according to Gator.

His daddy had already been teaching him how to shoot when Nadine had made her move, and so Gator had already been taught how to take apart guns for cleaning. He wasn't that good at putting them back together, yet, but your daddy taught you, Gator, and your brother how in time.

To say Gator was a little overconfident was an understatement. He was convinced that because he could aim down the sight of a .22 rifle and usually hit what he was aiming at, before you'd really ever even shot any kind of gun on your own, that he was far more experienced than you and also the better shot.

Which may have been true, in the earliest days of your gun training with your dad, but as time went on, you were both pretty evenly matched.

Your parents had gone out one evening with your brother—he was a few years younger than you, so at 12, your parents were attending his very last “Meet the Teachers” night at the elementary school before he moved up to 7th grade. You and Gator, 16 and already in high school, had run of the house—including run of the gun cabinet in the storeroom in the hidden basement alcove where your parents kept all of their hunting supplies.

The pair of you had long ago found where your mother kept the key, pinky promising on being perpetual partners in crime that you wouldn't abuse it and risk her finding out that you were sneaking into the armory without parental supervision. But when you had the house to yourselves, and would for a full two hours while your parents drove into town with your kid brother, you'd agreed between yourselves that a little target practice at dusk was the perfect way to spend the evening.

You'd waited until the taillights of your mom's SUV were pinpricks in the distance at the end of the dirt road that served as your driveway, and then you nodded to Gator, who'd liberated the key from the bottom of the vase full of fake flowers kept on top of the TV—old, huge, and still featuring rabbit ears. You rolled the throw rug away and Gator unlocked the trapdoor, lifting it on squeaky hinges to reveal a small, dug out cellar lined with weapons racks and other items hunters used, like salt, silver bullets, and even empty syringes to be filled with holy water or dead man's blood. You hopped down the ladder while Gator kept a look out, in case your parents suddenly pulled back up for some reason, and when you emerged with the new gun your dad had recently acquired, he grinned. It was a pistol, and most of the draw for you personally was the beautifully carved mother of pearl grip, which you admired beneath the overhead light in the living room, until Gator snatched it from your hand and loaded it with the bullets he'd also taken from you.

“Ain't s'posed ta look at it,” Gator said. “S'posed ta shoot it.”

“It's still pretty,” you huffed. “Don't you think?” You pointed at the carving of the rose in the grip on one side, and the skull on the other.

“I guess,” Gator said absently. You rolled your eyes—he had no appreciation for aesthetics.

“Let's just go,” you said. “We're wasting daylight.”

By the time you got outside, it was already mostly past sunset. The sky was blue-black, some stars plinking through the darkness as the sun dipped down past the horizon, so you flipped the switch in the kitchen for the porchlight, flooding the backyard.

“You gonna set up somethin' ta shoot at?” Gator asked, but you just took the gun back from him, running your thumb over the carving.

“All you, bud,” you said, and he scoffed as he stepped away, heading over to the shed to try and find something you could mess around with without your parents discovering you'd been shooting at it. You lowered the pistol, watching as he dragged an old piece of plywood over, and set it up right against the corrugated metal sheeting that served as the walls of the shed.

“You know if there's any spraypaint left?” Gator called, pulling open the door to the shed and stepping inside.

“So you can put a target on there so they'll definitely know what we were doin'?” you called back.

Gator poked his head out, grinning at you. “Yup!”

You laughed. “Should be some on the shelf top right.” You fiddled with the gun, making sure the safety was on before you flipped it around like old gunslingers used to do in the movies your dad liked to watch with Gator and your brother, even tossing it up in the air once and catching it on its way back down.

“Gettin' pretty good at them tricks,” Gator said. “If on'y you could shoot that good.”

“I can,” you said. “Paint the damn target and I'll show you.”

“Uh huh,” Gator said, chuckling as he painted a big X on the plywood. He looked back at you, saw your expression was just confused, and then painted a big circle on the wood.

“That's not a target,” you said.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Just aim for right here,” he said, tapping the cross of the X and scowling when the neon orange paint stuck to his finger.

“Ok, move,” you said, and waited until he was standing behind you before you removed the safety, lifted the pistol to aim at the target, cupped your other hand beneath it for stability, and then squeezed the trigger. Your first and only shot pierced through the dead center of the X, right where Gator's finger had smudged the paint.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue. “Gimme that.”

You backed up a step until you were beside him, then handed him the gun, moving back further to give him room. He smirked back at you, held up the pistol, and fired. You watched as it pierced the wood, popping a few splinters out, heard a loud metallic clink and then almost at the same moment Gator yelped, nearly dropping the gun and looking down at his leg, grimacing, in disbelief.

“What?” you asked, looking, and even as you watched, you saw blood spreading on his jeans at the side of his calf, staining them and his sock. “What the fuck? What the hell, Gator?”

“It—fuckin' shot me!” he said, nearly tossing the gun back to you as he tested trying to put weight on his bleeding leg, but he only managed a small grunt of pain and balancing half on his tiptoes.

“How did you do that?” you asked, sliding the safety back into place on the pistol and slotting it into your back pocket.

“Fuckin', I dunno!” He gestured wildly at the shed. “Fuckin' stupid ass target. Fuckass shed, god damn it!”

The shed—it hit you all at once, how lucky you'd both been that your shot hadn't done the exact same thing Gator's had: Ricochet off of the metal wall. Shooting at metal was monumentally stupid, and you knew for a fact that your father had warned you about it, too, making this all the worse.

“Ok, well, we need to get you cleaned up inside and then I'm calling my mom.”

“No. No, you can't fuckin' call yer mom. She'll go ballistic.”

You grabbed Gator's arm, the blood pooling inside his shoe now. “I have to call them. Gator, you have a bullet in your leg.”

“Y'can get it out. Just get it out 'n the bleedin'll stop.”

“I—what if it nicked an artery or something? You could bleed out.” You looked at him, a little bit of panic gripping you now. “You could d—”

“Shut up,” Gator said, but you could hear now that he sounded a little nervous too. “I ain't gonna die. Get this damn hunk'a metal outta my leg 'n see what happens. If it don't stop, call your dad.” He emphasized your father for a reason and you knew it.

You slung his arm over your shoulder, letting him favor his left leg as that was the one gushing blood. Still. Which didn't seem like the greatest sign actually.

“Downstairs bathroom,” you said, glancing back as you crossed the kitchen floor. Drops of blood left a trail you as you walked him across the tile, bringing him down the hall. You sat him on the lid of the toilet, and then without asking him for permission, lifted both of his legs and turned him bodily so they were in the bathtub, mostly so there wouldn't be a puddle of blood you'd have to clean up too.

“Think you can get your jeans off?” you asked, and he turned his head to you so sharply you thought he might pull something.

“I ain't takin' my pants off in front'a you!”

“Gator, it'll be like wearing a bathing suit.”

“You take your pants off, then,” he countered, and you held his gaze, expression firm, before tugging up the hem of your shirt and beginning to unbutton your own jeans. “Jesus fuckin' Christ!” he shouted. “Just go get the fuckin' scissors 'n cut 'em off at the knee. They're ruined anyway, all'at blood won't wash out, ya psycho.”

“Fine,” you said, and headed to the kitchen junk drawer, returning with two things: A flashlight, and scissors. Using the latter, you hacked his jeans off at the knee, then just sliced down the front because it would be easier than trying to get his shoe off. Manhandling his leg wasn't going to happen.

The wound was round and raw when you saw it, and you leaned in, clicking on the flashlight to get a better look.

“Oh, I can see it,” you said, kneeling beside the bathtub. “It's not in too deep.”

“That's what she said,” Gator quipped, and you turned to look at him, shining the flashlight right in his face on purpose and as punishment for that line. “Shit, knock it off.”

“If you can joke around, then I have time to call an ambulance and let them deal with you.”

“No, c'mon, look,” he said, gesturing to his leg. “It's stoppin'.”

He was right, the bleeding was slowing, but you still shook your head. “I think you should still go to the emergency room.”

“Just get it out, 'n I'll think 'bout that once I ain't delirious from pain, mk?”

“If you're delirious from pain, you need a doctor.”

“Woman, I am beggin' you here, please just get the damn thing out 'n then you call whatever damn kinda vehicle y'want. Just please, get it out.” He looked down at you. “'M serious.”

“This is a bad idea,” you said, but stood up to look in the medicine chest for a pair of tweezers.

“I'll mark it down right next ta shootin' at a metal shed,” Gator said. He turned his leg a little so that you would have more room to work.

“You have to promise me that after this, I can call my dad.”

“Call'm now for all I care! He won't get here b'fore ya get this damn thing out anyway.” He pulled up his flannel shirt, undoing his belt buckle.

“Oh, now you'll take your pants off?”

“Ain't takin' my damn pants off,” he said, pulling his belt out of the loops, then lifting it and sticking it in between his jaws, biting down on it. “Thf'll hll.”

You put a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up at you. “Finally, a way to shut you up.” He narrowed his eyes but didn't try to say anything else.

You did manage to get the bullet out—along with a lot more blood rushing out after it, and your first call had not been to your father, but 911. You called your dad from the ambulance, and he'd told you that it was lucky you were going to the hospital already, because he'd be fixing to send you there himself if you weren't already on the way.

When you’d expressed a real interest in following in their footsteps, Gator had too, because the boy followed around in your footsteps like he was your shadow—and when it became clear that you two were going to practice fighting, hand to hand or makeshift weapons, your parents realized that they needed to get serious about safety for this, too. That meant not only proper training to handle things like batons or blades, but unorthodox things too, like sticks or chunks of brick, and of course, your own hands.

So after all that, they been obligated to teach you to patch yourselves up. How to clean wounds, how to dress them, when something probably needed stitches. How to set bones until you could get help from an adult. How to fix things that needed fixing.

You’d eventually fashioned a flail yourself, something that you’d seen in a movie as a kid years ago, that randomly jumped into the forefront of your freshly adult mind—your 18th birthday had come and gone and it was high time for you to do something stupid badass and cool with your newfound adult agency. You’d promptly gone to your dad’s room, found an old belt, and met Gator out back where he was crouched by the line of trees, searching for a good, sturdy branch he could trim down into a spear. Y’know, like for fun.

“Find any good rocks?” you asked, swinging the belt around.

He turned to look at you, then at the belt. “Rocks? Fer what?”

“I wanna make a flail!” you enthused, the way only the kid of a hunter or a damn fool could sound.

“Out of a rock?” Gator asked, standing and facing you properly now. “‘Nd a belt?”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s easy.”

He shrugged, and together the two of you began searching through the first few feet of underbrush for a rock you deemed acceptable. He turned up nothing, but you found one you liked. Sizable, you needed both hands to move it. Grinning, you hefted it up into your lap and looped the belt around it, tightening the buckle.

Gator watched you, wary, and when you stood up and hoisted the rock off the ground, he backed away a little. “Y’know you’re gonna hurt yourself, right?”

“No I’m not!” you said, and swung the end of the belt at a tree. Sure enough, it worked like you thought it was supposed to, whacking the tree and leaving a gash in the bark. “Ha! Toldja.”

Gator snickered, watching as you tried it again. It was unwieldy, but it was working. “Cool. C’n I try?”

“Yeah.” You grinned, handing him the belt while the rock swung between you. He launched the rock at the tree, both of you grinning at the satisfying crunch the bark made.

“Nice,” Gator said, grinning. “I’m gonna go try ta find a good spear stick. Have fun.”

“Good luck!” you said as he meandered a bit further into the treeline. He’d have a hard time—finding a good stick in the small copse of trees behind your house was never easy.

You gripped the end of the belt, ready to fling the rock again. And you did—except this time, you weren’t sure what you did wrong, and the belt went up, instead of out.

You remembered at the last second a bit of advice your father had given you when he was toying with the idea of teaching you how to use a bow: Don’t look up at falling projectiles. That skill hadn’t really stuck, and apparently neither had the lesson. Because you looked up, and the rock came down, smashing into your nose with a sickening crunch.

You howled in pain, screaming every expletive you knew, tears forming in your eyes and streaming down your cheeks, mixing with the blood pouring from your broken nose. The belt fell from your hand as you collapsed to the ground, shaking hands coming up to cover your face. Your fingers trembled as you felt at your nose, trying to assess the damage, but all that did was make a wave of pain wash over you that was so severe you wanted to puke.

Distantly, you heard your name but were unable to focus on it as you tasted your own blood, getting into your mouth, and then hands were on your shoulders, strong but not as big as your dad’s—Gator.

“What the hell’d you do?” he shouted, the volume of his voice shocking you to attention.

“De rock,” you said, unable to enunciate properly. “Hit—hit byself.” Your voice sounded strange, small. “Dink by dose is broked.”

You could see Gator turning white as he surveyed you, and then reached a tentative hand to press his fingertip against the side of your nose.

You screeched as white hot pain radiated from where he’d touched you, smearing blood on his finger.

“Yeah,” Gator said weakly. “I’d say ‘s broken.”

“Fix it,” you implored. “Before bob and dad cobe back.”

“Huh?” Gator intoned. “I’m gonna go call 9-1-1, you crazy?”

“If you fix id dey wod’t dow,” you said.

“Uh, yeah, they will,” Gator said.

“Blease!” you begged. “They’ll kill be.”

Gator rolled his eyes, but put his hands back on your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing at the fronts where your collarbones extended to. “Ok, just… stay still.” He moved you so you were seated properly, legs criss-crossed in front of you, somewhat stable, or as stable as you could be while gushing blood from your face, eyes screwed up with tears.

Slowly, he reached out to put his hands on your face, and you flinched away.

“Cain’t fix it if ya don’t let me touch ya,” he said, and you nodded, turning to the side and spitting out a mouthful of blood.

“I dow, sorry,” you said. “I did’t do dat od burpose.”

Looking around you both at the ground, Gator reached for the flail you’d dropped. unfastened the buckle and held the belt out to you. “Wanna bite down on this? Fer the pain?”

“Does dat really help?” you asked.

Gator nodded. “Little bit. Remember when that bullet ricocheted and got me in the leg? Bit down on my belt when you were fishin’ the damn thing outta me. Helped then.”

“Ok,” you said thickly, turning to the side and spitting again, but there wasn’t much blood this time, just pinkish saliva that tasted way too coppery.

You curled your hands into fists around the belt and lifted it to your mouth, biting down on the worn leather as you kept your eyes on Gator’s. The day was overcast, but their hazel still sparkled a little as he looked back at you.

“This’s gonna hurt like a bitch,” he said, and instead of reaching for your nose he first cupped the sides of your head, smoothing your frizzy hair back, then dropped one hand to your cheek. The bruise was already blooming across your face, and he let his thumb brush over it before nodding. “‘M sorry.”

“‘Sok,” you mumbled.

“Count’a three,” Gator replied, and you nodded. Even with the scent and taste of blood overpowering you, you could still smell, just barely, the woods on him, the smell of leaves and earth on his hands. It was a small comfort, and you held your gaze on his eyes, which were a comfort too, one you’d never noticed before. “One,” he said.

You closed your eyes, your grip tightening around the belt, jaw clenching down on it. Saliva dripped down your chin on one side, mixing with the blood, staining your shirt.

“Two,” Gator said, and you took a deep breath, readying yourself for three—when he did it then, before the count, his thumbs coming to square themselves on either side of the displaced cartilage, snapping it back right with just as much pain if not more as the first time it had moved.

You screamed, the belt falling from your mouth as you let go of it and instead punched the heels of your hands into Gator’s shoulders, knocking him backward as you stood up, breathing heavy, fuming.

“You said on three!” you shouted, fists clenched.

“You gotta go on two,” he said, laughing a little at your reaction. “Ev’ryone knows that.”

“Fuck you, Gator,” you said, but your heart wasn’t in it and you both knew you didn’t mean it. “Shit.” You tentatively poked at your nose, the pain still radiating but a bit less.

“Y’know ya still gotta get that looked at, right? Can’t have it healin’ all wrong ‘n have ya lookin’ even fuglier than normal.”

“Adding insult to injury is beneath you, Tillman.” You rubbed your fingertip over the end of your nose, hissing.

“Lemme drive ya out t’the hospital,” he said. “I ain’t havin’ yer deviated septum on my conscience fer the rest of forever.”

“Let me get cleaned up first,” you said, then stepped over to him, holding out the less bloody of your two hands to offer him help up. He hesitated, then took it, your grip strong in his, and he got to his feet, looking down at you. He didn’t let go of your hand, and in fact tugged you a little closer.

“Lemme just… take a look.” You stood still as he leaned in, eyes roving over your face. You had to look wild—hair out of place, eyes watery and tear tracks on your cheeks, blood coating your lips and chin, shirt beyond saving. But he wasn’t looking at you like you looked feral—he was looking like he really saw you, and you weren’t sure what else you could do besides hold his gaze, mouth slightly opened because breathing through your nose wasn’t really an option.

His eyes dipped down to your lips, and when they did, his own parted just a fraction too.

“Gator?” you said, barely audible, and he met your eyes again before he looked away, west, toward the hospital he’d bring you to once you gingerly washed your face.

“All right, boss, bathroom then truck. Le’s go.”

&&

Chapter Navigation (ao3 links):

part one Chapter 1: Where Do We Belong? Chapter 2: Anywhere But Here Chapter 3: To Waste My Time Chapter 4: Let Me Look A Little Older Chapter 5: Late Dawns and Early Sunsets Chapter 6: Love Threw Me Away Chapter 7: It's A Different Blue Chapter 8: When Routine Bites Hard Chapter 9: It's You and Me Through All These Inconsistencies Chapter 10: I'm Wide Awake, Why Can't I Dream Anymore? Chapter 11: Kids Don't Wanna Come Home Chapter 12: I Don't Just Want To Be a Footnote Chapter 13: It's Cold Outside Chapter 14: If I Will It All Away Chapter 15: It's Just In My Nature Chapter 16: That Was Just a Dream Some of Us Had Chapter 17: I Just Wanna Let It Go Chapter 18: I Was Never Meant To Be a Martyr In Disguise Chapter 19: Now It's 3am, Everyone Goes Home Alone Chapter 20: You Know My Ways, I Know Your Fears Chapter 21: I Hate You For What You Did

Other content:

The family business, something you'd grown up knowing about, then learning about when you decided you wanted to follow in your parents' footsteps. They'd long since been semi-retired, only really taking on jobs in the local area, too old to travel the country, too rooted in with a family to worry about. They couldn't very well head too far out of town with a couple of elementary school kids tucked in at home.

You'd grown up near Lehigh, right on the outskirts, your family's home barely more than a glorified cabin with the basic essentials. The plumbing was a recent addition, added by your father a few years before you and your brother were born.

From a young age you'd been trained up: Taught to fight and defend yourself; schooled in keeping quiet and gathering information; what to look for, why, and when to take action. Typically the “action” in question was “Come home and tell Mom and Dad” but you rarely ever had to—there wasn't much supernatural activity in Lehigh.

There was another family nearby—the Tillmans. They weren't hunters by trade, as far as you knew—at least neither of your parents had ever heard of them, and the hunter lines in your family went back generations. No, they weren't hunters, but the Tillmans were well known for other, even less appealing reasons. And it was when the head of the family, Roy Tillman, found his second wife, that things took a turn.

Your parents knew Nadine. Had for years. She was another hunter, though not from a longstanding family like yours, or the Harvelles, the Winchesters, Bobby Singer. She'd turned to hunting because she had to, homeless and scared, pulled into the life without want or need, forced to it. Learned a lot from her time on the streets. Learned a lot about Roy Tillman.

Nadine had taught you and your family that sometimes the monsters weren't actually monsters at all. They were people.

She'd shown up on your doorstep with the child from Roy's first marriage in tow, a young boy around your age named Gator. He couldn't have been more than 7, same as you—and when Nadine left him with you and your kid brother, pulling your parents into the other room to speak in low voices, you didn't really wonder why Gator didn't want to talk, and why Nadine's clothes had been streaked with blood.

&&

About fifteen years had passed since then, and as you'd gotten older, your parents' work only intrigued you more. Your brother, studying at an out of state college, hadn't felt the pull, not the way you had. Not the way Gator had either.

Your parents saw to it that Gator was trained up, the same way you'd been, and even though you'd had a head start, he took to it exceptionally well. His daddy had been teaching him to shoot a gun when he was still alive, and so he already had the basics. Your parents laid on the gun safety part a bit thicker than it seemed Roy had, and eventually Gator was well a truly a junior hunter in training, just like you.

Both of you were adults now, both of you ready and waiting for a job, reaching out to your parents' contacts for something small you could try to tackle together. Not that you thought it would be easy, but you had to start somewhere.

The call came a couple of weeks after you'd put out feelers. Gator was at work down at the sheriff's station, having secured a deputy position after graduating from the academy, while you were a waitress at the diner in town, a little west past Lehigh. Every day you and Gator put on your respective uniforms—tac vest, steel-toed boots, handgun in a thigh holster for him; white apron, bobby socks and Keds, combat knife in a thigh strap (hidden well underneath your skirt) for you—and hopped into his truck. He'd drop you off at the diner before gunning the engine and making his way further into the city toward the sheriff's station.

You were in the middle of pouring a cup of coffee for a patron at the counter when your phone rang in your pocket. You jumped a little, startled at the sudden vibration, and nearly spilled the coffee before righting yourself and smiling at the man who you'd almost doused in decaf. Then, you excused yourself, put the pot back on the burner, and slipped into the kitchen.

The line cooks didn't give a shit if you skipped out for a few minutes through the kitchen door, but if your boss was around, he'd give you hell and you knew it. You swiped to accept the call, the ID showing you it was “BS Hunter”—Bobby Singer.

“Hi,” you answered, listening as the man on the other end spoke quickly, calmly, and gave you precise details. A vampire nest had been taken care of recently a little north of where he lived in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, but there were still some weird news reports coming out of the area that indicated there might still be one or two vamps left around. Your parents—well, you, now, and Gator—were the closest hunters who could get there reasonably quickly and weren't in the middle of some other job, and he wanted to offer it to you rather than taking care of it himself, since you were looking for something to get your feet wet. You nearly threw your phone with how excited you were at the prospect, jumping up and raising your fists in the air in sheer glee. Your first real hunt. Yes, maybe you were the only option available, but still, Bobby had called you rather than someone else. This was your chance to prove yourselves, to become actual hunters just like your mom and dad, just like Nadine. Just as you tried to dial Gator, you heard the kitchen door creak open behind you—thankfully it was just one of the cooks, but you could tell by the look he was giving you that your boss was going to appear imminently, and it would be best for you to get back to work.

Adjusting your skirt and making sure the serrated knife you always carried on your person was still hidden beneath your pink striped uniform, then walked back into work as though you didn't just get lifechanging news.

&&

You were waiting outside the diner when Gator pulled up in his truck to pick you up after your shift—he would drop you off back home, then head back to the precinct. Or maybe he wouldn't, not after what you had to say.

You climbed into the cab of his truck, practically vibrating. He noticed—of course he did; your parents had trained you both to pay attention to the small details.

“Hell's got inta you?” he asked, shifting the car into drive and moving his foot from the brake to the gas pedal.

“I heard from Bobby,” you said, and Gator looked over at you, even though he was mid-turn back onto the main road.

“Singer?”

“Singer,” you confirmed, beaming. Your joy was infectious, though you suspected that even if you hadn't been grinning, Gator would have been thrilled to hear this from literally anyone.

“What'd he want?” Gator asked, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.

“Some other hunters took care of most of a vampire nest down in this city, Watertown, kinda near Sioux Falls,” you said, “but he thinks they left a couple alive. We're the closest hunters who can take care of it right now.” You watched as Gator's eyes brightened when you said you were hunters. Real hunters, not just a pair of twenty-somethings who knew how to use weapons, in theory, on things like vampires.

“When d'we leave?” Gator asked, and you shifted a little in your seat, too amped up on the possibility to actually sit still.

“We have to talk to my parents,” you said. “But, I mean—tonight?”

“Tonight?” Gator repeated. “Y'really think—tonight?”

“I mean—we should go as soon as possible, right?”

Gator shrugged, eyes on the road as he watched for the turnoff to your house. Even living there for almost two decades, you for your whole life, it was still hard to notice, which you knew your parents had kind of done by design, or at the very least, didn't do anything to help fix that. “Guess we'll see what yer folks say,” he said, turning into the dirt road that turned into your home's driveway.

&&

Your folks were not on board.

“You're too young,” your mother said. “It's too far away for your first hunt.”

“Sioux Falls ain't that far,” Gator said. “Wouldn't even take us half a day t'drive there. I been there fer work a coupl'a times.”

“Yes, for work,” your mom said. “Police work, when there are other officers around, available to help you, quickly contacted by radio,” she went on, gesturing at the wired apparatus Gator still had slung on his shoulder.

“If anything were to happen, we're the closest hunters, and that's not close enough,” your dad interjected.

“What about Bobby?” you said, holding your hands out in desperation. “Sioux Falls is, like, an hour away.” More like ninety minutes, but you were making a point.

“It's not close enough,” your mother said.

“Mom,” you said, straightening yourself up. You knew that it wouldn't do to beg or whine; you had to act mature, because you were mature. You were almost 25. Well, in a couple years you'd be almost 25. You could definitely do this. “I know you're worried. I know that you still picture us as those little kids we were when Nadine first brought Gator here.” You gave her a smile, stepping closer to Gator. He was taller than you, but you knew your arms were just as toned as his were, legs thick and muscular, able to match his pace just fine when you went out for a run. “We're not anymore.” You glanced over at Gator, but he seemed perfectly fine letting you handle this. “You guys—” you said, stepping forward and taking your parents hands, one in each of yours “—trained us for this. You were—are the best—and you taught us everything you know.” You appealed to your dad, because the other thing your parents had taught you was that your mom was bad cop and your dad was the big softie, at least where you were concerned. “We can do this. We're ready.” You looked at Gator now, who gave you a nod, a restrained smile. “And you know we always have each other's backs.” Gator's smile widened, just a fraction.

You looked back at your parents, and your mother's scowl seemed more pronounced, but your dad moved closer to her, putting a hand on her arm. “We were barely older than them when we started,” he said, his voice low but not low enough not to carry. “And she's right—they'll be together.”

Your mother lifted her hand to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose as she closed her eyes, sighing heavily. She looked at you, then at Gator. She studied him. For a long moment. Longer than you'd have thought, and then she looked back at you. “Fine. You let Bobby know he's on call for you two, and I'll be checking in with him myself to make sure he's aware.” She shooed your father a few steps to the side, then crouched down and lifted up the area rug you were all standing around, revealing the trap door that you all knew was there but never talked about. She pulled it up, the metal ring clanking against the floor as she let it fall open, then stood up straight again and nodded to the two of you.

“Gear up.”

&&

You were back in Gator's truck a few hours later, changed into new clothes, going through the inventory of items you'd brought with you in the backseat while he drove to a hospital you'd found during a quick map search a couple hours into your drive. He'd replaced his police firearm with one of your mom's from the basement armory, while you'd picked your way through the various blades your parents had collected over the years. A gun wouldn't kill a vampire, but it could slow one down if needed. You'd chosen two machetes, one for each of you, and made sure you still had your combat knife, though this time the strap would on the outside of your clothing.

“You think you'll be able to get it?” you asked, as you packed everything back into the duffel bag your dad had provided, after you'd climbed out of the below-ground storeroom.

“Yeah,” he said.

“And you brought the fake badge, right, deputy?”

You saw his eyes flick to meet yours in the rearview mirror. “I ain't as stupid as I look.”

You grinned, and though you couldn't see his face, you saw the corners of his eyes crinkle, which meant he was grinning too.

Gator pulled the truck into the parking lot of the hospital, parking crooked across two spots, and hopped out with you right on his heels. You had both changed before leaving, knowing you'd need to look presentable for your first pitstop on the way—you'd both need to pose as detectives for this part, which meant you needed to dress up. You'd chosen a pair of black slacks, a blue blouse, and a suit jacket, all of which you'd taken from your mother's closet and changed into after tossing your waitress get-up into the corner of your room. Gator wasn't necessarily pretending to be law enforcement the way you were, but he'd ditched the tactical vest and casual fare he normally wore, instead choosing a smart black button-down and a pair of dark blue jeans. He'd even brought a tie, which you helped him knot around his neck in the setting sunlight in the parking lot, your trembling fingers brushing his throat.

“Y'nervous?” he asked, as you looped the tie through itself.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “Aren't you?”

“Nah,” he said, looking down at you as you met his eyes. “We've been waiting for this for a long time. I'm jes'... fuckin' ready.”

You tightened the tie. “Hopefully this gets it out of my system,” you said, nodding toward the hospital.

You expected a joke, maybe, or a quip, but instead you got his hands on your upper arms, thumbs rubbing over them to soothe you. “Hey,” he said. “I'm with ya. Y'ain't got nothin' to worry about.” He held your gaze, like he was waiting for you to respond, but when you didn't, he just nodded and backed up a step, letting his hands slide from your arms. “Let's get goin'.”

Together you crossed the parking lot, the main doors sliding open automatically as you approached. The reception desk sat lonely in the middle of the atrium, only one man seated behind it, who looked up, bored, when you approached. “Visiting hours ended at 8,” he said, pointing to the large clock hanging on the wall well behind him, which showed the time as 8:24.

“Thanks,” you said, “but we're not here for visiting anyone.” You held back the cringe, but that...could have gone better.

Gator stepped in, more comfortable with this part. He flashed the badge—you hastily did the same, and it was so awkward you almost wished you didn't—and spoke. “We'll need to get into the morgue,” he said. “Can you escort us, or...?”

But apparently the badges were all you needed to show, because he had lifted the phone and pressed a few buttons, then mumbled something about he needed an orderly to escort a couple of cops down to the basement. He hung up the phone and looked at you, eyeing you both, but particularly you, like he didn't believe you were a real police officer. “Someone will be up in a moment,” he said. “You can wait over here.” He gestured to the side of the reception desk. You shuffled over there with Gator, who was eyeing you as well, and once you were out of earshot, he spoke.

“You suck,” he said, almost laughing a little. “No way you'd'a pulled that off without me.”

“Yeah, thank you,” you said, genuinely, which seemed to take him aback. He looked you over—you were still trembling, like you had been when you were helping with his tie.

“Hey,” he said, stepping closer, glancing back at the receptionist, who was watching something on his phone and not paying you any mind. “We'll be fine.” You looked up at him, conscious that the orderly would be coming soon, but you moved in toward Gator too. As you did, the hand that he'd been trying to aim onto your forearm landed on your waist, and you inhaled sharply at the sudden touch, even though the jacket you were wearing. He'd never touched you like that before—barely touched you at all, ever—but the stress of the situation and Gator being the one to calm you thrust you into a new place you'd never even thought of before, where Gator was more than a friend, he was your rock, your stability, a partner. Yes, you always had each other's backs, but that was before it could very well come down to life and death. The idea of it—of relying on another person that way, felt a little overwhelming. And the idea of that person being Gator? That made the feeling even stronger. There had never been anything between you two, not like that—but the feeling of his hand on your waist, well. Maybe there could be, if you survived this.

What the hell kind of thing was that to think? This was a job, this was not the time for distractions. Even in the form of Gator.

“Evening,” came a voice, and while you stepped back quickly from Gator, he didn't startle, didn't react other than to slip his hand into his pocket.

“Hi there,” Gator said, reaching out his free hand to shake—the orderly took it, even though he hadn't been extending his own. You watched as Gator easily laid the groundwork. He flashed his badge—by the time you got yours out of your pocket, he'd already moved on to giving your false names, explaining that you needed guidance to the morgue, and most importantly, discretion as this was an active investigation.

The orderly only nodded, eyes wide as Gator impressed upon him the gravity of the situation—really laying it on thick, in your opinion—and then led you over to the staff elevator, allowing you to step in as he held the door, then followed you on, inserted the key into the panel, and pressed the button for the basement.

The elevator descended in silence, and when the doors opened the orderly led you to the morgue. He unlocked the doors, gestured for you to let yourselves in, and then backed up a step. “I'll be right here, detectives,” he said. “Just let me know if you need me.”

“Thank ya,” Gator said, opening the door and letting you cross through first, then pulling it closed behind him.

Sickly blue-green light illuminated the room, stainless steel examining tables glinting as you passed them. You stood still for a moment, steeling yourself; the antiseptic odor of this room hit you right in the stomach, and you pursed your lips—it didn't smell worse than any other room in a hospital, but just something about being down here...you didn't like it.

Gator, though, he strode forward confidently, reaching for one of the drawers that you assumed housed cadavers. This part wasn't something you had ever anticipated, at least not for your first job, but before you could bring yourself to look, Gator was pushing back past you, shoving his hand into his pocket as he reached the door. He looked back at you, jerking his head to indicate you needed to come with him.

“I got it,” he said. “Let's go.” You hurried after him, and he made his way back to the elevator, you and the orderly in tow, and then you were back on the ground floor making your way across the lobby.

“That was fast,” you said, as Gator loosened the tie and pulled it over his head.

“Hope I got enough,” he said. “Got three of 'em before I—couldn't no more.” He reached into his pocket with his free hand and showed you the syringes, which in the moonlight looked filled with black ichor.

“Wish there was something better to use than dead man's blood,” you said.

“Wish your parents kept a supply on ice,” he retorted, handing you two of the syringes and keeping one for himself. “I ain't lookin' forward to doin' that ever again.” He unlocked the truck and you climbed in.

“Maybe if we start doing this for real,” you said, and he looked over at you as you buckled your seatbelt, “we'll... you know, get to keep our own stock of stuff.”

“So you're dead set on me as a partner?” Gator asked, and you felt that same rush you'd felt when he touched you earlier.

“Well,” you started, but he cut you off.

“'Cause I gotta say, boss, that wasn't it,” he said. Your face fell, and he seemed to realize that he'd fucked up. “Hey, a'right,” he went on. “I'm just fuckin' with ya. First job, yer bound ta be a little nervous. I mean, I almost fuckin' puked everywhere when I was—getting that blood shit.”

“Can we do this?” you asked. “I thought I was so—so ready.”

“Hey,” Gator said again. “You are. Yer a dead shot if I ever seen one, fast as fuck too. So ya ain't so great with people—that's what I'm for. 'Nd you'll handle the creepy crawlies.”

“Maybe,” you said, and Gator lifted a hand from the steering wheel, reached over, took your forearm in his.

“Trust me,” he said. “Ya do, right?”

“Yeah,” you admitted.

“'Zactly. So, trust me when I say, yer gonna be a great hunter. I know it, Bobby Singer knows it—hell, yer parents know it. They wouldn't'a let ya come out here if they didn't think we could do this. If they didn't think you could do this.” You didn't react right away, so Gator pressed his fingertips into your arm, and you expected him to pull away. He didn't. He actually doubled down, sliding his hand first to your wrist, and then let his palm cover yours, fingers lacing between yours. “You know me, 'nd you know I wouldn't bullshit ya.” Your gaze stuck to the side of his face, but he didn't turn toward you, not even a little. You felt your cheeks warm as his fingers rested between yours. “Yer gonna be a great fuckin' hunter.” He released your hand and put it back on the steering wheel. “Mark my fuckin' words.”

&&

Another couple of hours in the truck got you to Watertown, and you called Bobby once you were close, informing him that your mother was mandating that he be “on call” for you, though you didn't anticipate needing him. He just laughed, gave you some directions to the area the vampires had last been known to be holing up, and told you to call him if you needed anything.

“Do you think we should rest up first?” you asked Gator, as he followed the directions Bobby had given you to a desolate area of the city, appearing to be a lot of old warehouses, abandoned, broken windows, graffiti. He pulled the truck over toward the sidewalk, not that it mattered—there were no other cars around, considering it was almost 11PM and you were in an industrial area.

“Probably,” Gator said. “Feel like I got tunnel vision, drivin' all damn day.”

You blinked, cocked your head toward him. “Really?”

He laughed. “Fuck no, I'm ready ta take care'a this shit. Did he give y'an address?”

“Yeah,” you said, rattling it off as Gator tapped it into his phone's GPS, checking the location against yours.

“We ain't too far,” he said. “Might get lucky 'n find somethin'.”

“Park here,” you said. You were between streetlights, and as you opened the car door the cool air of the night washed over you, actually easing some of the tension in the back of your neck. Gator shifted into park, cutting the engine and pocketing the keys, sliding out of the truck as you jumped down to the sidewalk. You both opened the back doors of the cab, you leaning in to grab the clothes you were going to wear for your actual activities for the evening (a pair of black jeans, some sturdy boots, with a t-shirt and thin jacket to wear) while Gator started going through the duffel bag. You hoisted yourself into the back of the truck, letting the darkness shroud you as you stripped quickly, pulling on the second set of clothes; Gator turned his back to give you some privacy, fastening the thigh holster around his leg, giving his gun a quick once over.

The two of you readied yourselves in silence, your combat knife back in its familiar spot, within reach, ready for you should you need it, while Gator hefted each machete in turn, testing its weight, then holding one out to you, the blade in its sheath between his fingertips, the handle jutting out toward you.

“This one feels a little too heavy for me,” he said. “You wanna try it?”

You took it and unsnapped the sheath, holding it out at arm's length, spinning it in your hand forward and backward before taking a test swipe through the air. “Feels good.” You slung the strap over your shoulder, made sure your combat knife was secure, and then stowed the syringes of dead man's blood in your jacket pocket. Across from you, Gator was doing the same, patting himself down to make sure all of his equipment was where he expected it to be, then repeating it just to be sure. You slammed your door first, rounding the hood to wait for him. You'd secured your hair back with an elastic headband, to ensure it wouldn't impede your vision, and when Gator joined you, slipping his gun back into its holster, he met your eyes and smiled.

“Ready?” he asked, and for the first time since you'd left your house, you were.

“Yeah,” you said, stepping away from the truck and leading Gator a few blocks over to the address you needed to investigate.

The streets were quiet, the only sound your footsteps echoing off the brick and concrete, the occasional metallic click of a part of Gator's machete hitting into his gun, or the soft whisper of leather against your jacket as you adjusted the strap across your shoulders.

You felt a hand loop around your arm as you passed a doorway, a burned out lamp above it. Gator had pulled you to a stop, pushing you against the building next to the door.

“Hold on,” he muttered, and you saw why just as he shifted the both of you into the entryway, trying to block you from view. A figure was standing at the end of the lane, but you could tell it wasn't facing you. It was trying to open a door at a building across the street—the building that, if you weren't mistaken, was the one you were looking for.

Craning your neck, both you and Gator peeked around the corner of the doorway to see the figure slip into the shadows of building across the way, and then you were alone once more.

“Well,” you whispered. “I don't think they got them all.”

Gator nodded. “How many did Bobby say there's s'posed ta be? Two?”

You shook your head. “He said one, maybe two. But we shouldn't assume that's all. It's been a while, they might have made more.”

“Ok,” Gator said. “So don't go in gun's blazin'.”

You nudged him. “You wouldn't do that for vampires anyway,” you said, and he smirked down at you. “Stick together. No hero crap.”

“Hero crap?” he repeated.

“Yeah,” you said. “How many times has your name been in the paper? Friggin' refrigerator's covered in newspaper clippings from everytime you save a cat from a tree or whatever.”

“Hey, it ain't my fault if yer ma takes pride in me,” Gator said. “I'm jus' doin' my job.”

“Yeah, well, this is your job right now. So, no hero crap. Got it?”

“Got it,” he acquiesced. “You takin' point?”

“Yeah,” you said, stepping out of the alcove where the door was, and leading Gator across the street.

First thing you were going to do was look for a different way in—the vampires used this door, which meant it was watched and not safe for your entry. You continued past the door, checking to make sure Gator was still behind you, and rounded the corner. The entire expanse of the building on this side was solid brick save for a few windows, and they were set high enough that you wouldn't be able to see into them, but Gator could.

You tilted your head quickly to the side, indicating you wanted him closer; he approached, and you looked up at the windows. “Can you see anything?” you said, voice low. He raised himself onto his tiptoes, not peering in from the bottom of the dirty glass but instead from the side, only a sliver of his head visible and hopefully not noticeable from the inside.

As you watched, you saw Gator's throat bob as he swallowed, unblinking, before he leaned away from the window to take himself out of sight and then looked directly at you. Slowly, he nodded. You felt your heartbeat kick into overdrive, adrenaline rushing your system already. A smile spread over your face, and you crouched a little, just to make absolutely sure you weren't visible through the windows. You continued on, Gator ducking down along with you, as you rounded the next corner.

No doors here either, but one of the windows was broken out, and you could tell just by looking it was covered from the other side with only a dirty swath of cloth, nothing physical that would bar you from entry.

“All right,” you said, reaching into the back pocket of your jeans and pulling out the gloves you'd stashed there, just in case, pulling them on and then nodding at Gator to do the same. With his connection to the sheriff's department, neither of you could be too careful about leaving fingerprints.

“Help me up,” you said, and Gator knelt down without question, cupping his hands for you to step in so he could give you a boost up and over the sill. You stepped the toe of one boot into his hands, and he propelled you up, helping you vault into the room. You caught yourself on the sill, balancing there carefully, and held the cloth out of the way to look around, but it was empty. This room was small, the door closed, but you could see firelight flickering underneath it from the other side. You hummed quietly to yourself, then looked back at Gator, giving him a nod.

Silently, you slid off the windowsill, holding onto it as you lowered yourself down, toes finally touching the floor so you could drop down easily and not have to jump the distance. You backed away and after a moment, you saw Gator's hands appear over the sill too, heard his boots scrabbling just a little for purchase as he easily pulled himself up and through the window, turning himself around the same way you did, quietly dropping to the floor beside you like a cat.

Your heart was still thrumming in your chest, and as you met each other's eyes again, even in the dimness of the room, you knew you were both smiling.

“Ready?” you whispered.

“Fuck yeah,” he replied, and he drew his machete from its sheath with no further ado. You opted for your combat knife, tugging it from the strap around your leg, but holding it in your non-dominant hand, because you'd save that for the machete when you needed it. Besides, if you needed to grab for the syringes in your pocket, you didn't want to have to fumble with your knife.

You placed your hand gently on the door handle, easing it down. The door was unlocked, and you pulled it open just a fraction. Nothing happened but a sliver of light fell into the room. Another inch—another silent moment passed. Gator stood in the middle of the room, a few steps back from you, ready to take action if needed—but you were able to open the door enough for both of you to slip through it with no difficulty, and you heard nothing in the building other than the crackling of fire.

The closet you'd exited was tucked off into a corner, like it had been built there first and then the rest of the building was an afterthought. The warehouse was cavernous, with pallets and barrels stacked around, insulation hanging from the ceiling, part of the HVAC system collapsed at the far end, partially blocking the door you'd seen earlier, which explained why the figure was having trouble getting in.

Otherwise, the place was a mess. You could see that the fire was built in one of the barrels at the far end of the room, and around it were not one, not two, but three figures, who thankfully had not noticed you yet.

“Don't do anything,” you said, “until they show fangs.”

For once in his life, Gator didn't sass you. “Got it, boss.” That felt good. Your fingers tightened around your knife, patted your pocket to make sure the syringes were positioned in a way you could grab one if needed.

Second thing you were going to do was make sure these were actually vampires. Bobby's intel was usually good—your parents had talked about him for years, and he was one of the first names you remembered hearing them talk about from your childhood—but you didn't want to put yourself, Gator, or this other group in a position none of you could come back from without being completely certain of what you were doing.

You stuck to the back wall, eyes trained on the group by the fire as you made your way around the periphery of the building. You weren't sure what else to do—provoke them to see if they attacked? Try to lure them out and get them to expose themselves? You should have called Bobby before you came in here, gotten some advice from an actual hunter before dragging yourselves into a possible nest—

Gator's arm wrapped around your middle at the same moment a hand took your wrist and twisted it the wrong way. You were pulled in two different directions for the briefest moment, Gator yanking you away from whoever had grabbed you, and a woman in front of you with feral eyes, a mouthful of sharp teeth, clinging to your arm with such crushing strength you felt your bones grinding together.

With your knife, you struck out at her, feeling the blade just kiss her flesh, and when she drew back, releasing your arm, you saw a slash across her face already dripping blood down her cheek. Her shriek caught the attention of the other three figures around the fire, and you felt three pairs of eyes land on you as Gator pulled you backward, allowing you to reposition defensively as they all hurried to their feet.

The vampire was on you again within seconds—you didn't have time to unsheathe the machete so all it meant was you only had your knife until you were able to get enough space between you to buy the time you needed and properly arm yourself. With your free hand, you unsnapped the sheath so you could draw it when you had time, but for now you tossed the knife up in the air, just enough to allow yourself to adjust your grip, catching it on its way down and flipping it so that the flat of the blade was parallel to your forearm, the edge of the blade facing out. If she tried to grab your arm to wrest the knife from you, she'd cut her hand. Though, as she gnashed her jagged teeth at you, her hands weren't really what you were worried about.

Behind you, Gator had enough time to pull his machete and tighten his grip on it, the three other people—vampires, he could see now—rushing at him all at once. His first move was a large swipe outward with the blade, causing them to stop in their tracks lest at least one of them sustain a vicious wound to the neck. They all stopped and looked at him, grinning widely, their terrible smiles and hard eyes only steeling his resolve even further.

You and the woman were past squaring off—she had circled you a bit, forcing your back to the wall, and then she rushed you, just as you managed to stick your hand in your jacket pocket. She wrapped her hands around your neck and savagely pushed you into the wall, your head knocking against the cinderblock, making your vision spotty as you fumbled with your pocket, the syringe stuck at an odd angle.

She tightened her grip around your neck, and you kicked at her legs desperately, making her rearrange how she was standing—in the shuffle, you managed to wind up and drive your knee into her stomach, making her lurch away from you, hands slipping off your neck.

Gator was in the middle of trying to wrestle with two of the vampires—a man and a woman, while the third was stepping around his side. You could see blood pooling on the ground out of your periphery, but had no way of helping when your hands were both occupied, and your own vampire was readying another lunge toward you. You could hear Gator grunting with effort, saw his arm retract and then thrust forward again, and one of the vampires wailing in pain—music to your ears—as you finally managed to extricate your hand from your pocket, palming one of your syringes. Flicking your thumb, you uncapped the needle and waited for the vampire to close the distance between you again, which she did, her fingernails just barely scraping the skin of your neck raw as you shoved your hand into her gut, the needle piercing her skin, the heel of your hand pressing against the plunger and injecting the dead man's blood straight into her. She moaned in agony, twitching, her nails clawing at your neck, trying to rip your throat out but her strength failed the longer it was in her system. She fell to the ground at your feet, not out for the count but out for right now.

You rounded on the other group—Gator had nearly chopped the arm off of one of them, which explained all of the blood, but he was also being triple teamed by three extremely strong, tireless vampires, and he'd sustained some injuries of his own. His shirt was torn, his hair mussed, a large bruise already forming on the side of his face, and you saw one of the men leaning in, his mess of a mouth already bloodied, seemingly for another bite.

“Hey!” you shouted, pulling your own machete out of the sheath you wore across your chest, now brandishing two blades both singing to be stained in red. They barely paid you any mind, though Gator looked over at you, blood dripping from the corner of his grinning mouth before he turned back to his attackers, headbutting one and driving him back. The woman who'd been on Gator turned to you, lowering her face and smirking as she stepped closer, even as you raised the machete and took a swing—

It connected, though she bowled you over, sending both of you to the floor where you fell atop the vampire you'd paralyzed with the blood from the hospital. You groaned in pain as you felt the ooze of her blood soaking through your shirt, and with your other, smaller knife, you stabbed her wherever you could reach, mostly to get her off of you so you could try to swing on her again with the larger weapon.

Somewhere above you, you heard Gator shouting something, whether he was saying words or just hollering, you couldn't tell—not that it mattered, because after a moment you heard the clatter of metal against concrete and then a strong pair of hands was gripping the shoulders of the vampire on top of you and throwing her down beside you, your machete still stuck in the meat of her shoulder, the angle not nearly enough to take off her head, which was the goal with vampires.

“Gator,” you gasped, “behind you—”

As you watched, trying to push yourself up, trying to regain the breath that had been knocked out of you after you'd been sandwiched between two vampires, he spun, armed only with the syringe of blood. In one smooth movement, like he'd planned it, Gator embedded the needle in the neck of the man who'd been about to grab him from behind, and pushed the plunger with his thumb. The vampire gagged, slumping to the floor while the other two, still living, gathered themselves up for one final round. You saw, and would be rather impressed later upon reflection, that Gator had managed to lop off the arm of the male vampire, but he was still raring to fight, and he started running full speed at Gator, who had nothing to defend himself with, save the gun at his side which would be useless.

“Duck!” you shouted, knowing this was a last ditch effort and could fail completely—but Gator listened, dropping to his knees in a hunched crouch as you reeled back your arm and flung the knife at the vampire, hoping beyond hope that your skills with your off hand weren't as rusty as you'd probably allowed them to get. But—

The vampire screeched, calling you every name under the sun as your knife stuck out from his face, embedded in his eye socket, the handle sticking out in a way that, had you not been in a fight for your very life, would have been fucking hilarious. He was clutching at his face, as though trying to decide whether to pull out the knife or leave it, and while you let Gator handle that one, his machete back in his hand, you turned to the other vampire, the second woman, who was—gone.

She wasn't where she'd fallen after Gator had pushed her, and you saw that your machete was absent too, either still jutting out of her shoulder, or your own weapon was about to be turned on you from somewhere unknown.

“Fuck,” you breathed, glancing down at the vampires on the ground—both still lying there, not moving. For now. You just had to hold out hope that they'd stay that way.

You reached into your pocket for the second syringe, uncapping it and looking around. Gator was struggling with his vampire, who despite a blade stuck in his eye socket was still putting up a fight, not allowing Gator to get close enough with his machete to matter. You narrowed your eyes, trying to focus after your vision was still swimming from the knock to your head from earlier. You heard it before you saw it, the whistle of a blade swinging through the air, and you whipped around just as the vampire you'd swung on before was now using your own machete against you. You raised your arm to shield your face, twisting away at the last second; she caught you at an off angle, but you still felt the red hot slice of the blade against your forearm. Even so, you could tell that her grip was weak due to the gash in her shoulder, and while she had cut you, it wasn't as terrible as it might have otherwise been.

With no hesitation, you slammed your fist against her chest, bringing the needle down and watching as it pierced the base of her neck—but before you could inject her, she aimed a punch square at your face. You turned at the last moment, catching the blow on your cheekbone, but even in your stupor you could see the needle still sticking out of her skin.

She sized you up, watching you wobbling on your feet, and parted her lips into a grim smile, the ghost of something that had been human once but no longer was. She opened her mouth, enough that you could see her pass her tongue over the fangs, clearly readying herself for a bite.

“I don't fuckin' think so,” you heard Gator say, striding forward, stepping cleanly around you and answering the punch she had given you with one of his own, knocking her head back before he grabbed the needle from her neck, pulling it out and then stabbing it back into her harder—you saw her flinch unconsciously from the pinch of it entering her flesh again—and this time, he pushed the plunger. She tried to resist for a moment, but before she could, she, too, collapsed to the floor of the warehouse. Gator watched for a moment, then turned around, surveying the damage. You coughed, clearing your throat, and he ducked his head for a moment to look at the scratch marks on your skin.

“Jesus,” he said, reaching out to gently move his fingertips over your neck. He felt your throat flutter as he skimmed over them, and you shuddered, pushing his wrist away.

“We're not finished yet,” you said, shaking your head a little to try and reorient your brain, then crouched and picked up the machete from where the second vampire you'd dosed with blood had dropped it.

“Got those two,” Gator said, pointing; you glanced over your shoulder to see the decapitated corpses of the two vampires. “You got these?”

You gripped the handle of the machete tight, swallowing thickly. Your mouth tasted of copper and bile. “Yeah,” you said. “I got 'em.”

&&

By the time you piled back into Gator's truck, both of you sweaty, sticky with blood, stinking of gore and ash, the fire you'd set in the warehouse was gaining traction. You could see the smoke billowing even against the night sky, and you'd made your way as quickly as you could back to your vehicle, wanting to get the fuck out of dodge before the fire attracted any attention.

The streets were still deserted as you drove back up north, though you did see flashing lights heading in the direction of the warehouse as you made your way out of the city. You'd shrugged off your jacket and stripped out of your t-shirt, using the part that wasn't already saturated with vampire blood to soak up the your own blood from the slice in your arm. You donned your jacket again, leaving it open over the sports bra you'd chosen to wear for this hunt, not bothering to feel self-conscious. It wasn't the first time Gator had seen you wearing something similar; you worked out together more often than not.

As the streetlights illuminated the truck in bursts, you took several deep breaths, trying to get yourself back together. Your cheek was killing you, and you were pretty sure Gator had a bite wound somewhere that was still trickling blood every time he flexed his arm, but you'd survived. You were still, mostly, in one piece. You were alive.

First, you called Bobby. He congratulated you, thanked you for the help, said he'd follow up if anything came of it, but he had some connections in the police departments up and down the state, so you'd probably be fine. When you told him about the gloves, he'd just chuckled.

Then, you called your mom. You'd needed to hold the phone a full six inches away from your head as she shrieked with how happy she was to hear from you, how she hadn't slept at all yet, and then asked if you were ok. When you told her you were, she asked after Gator. You put her on speaker phone and let him tell her himself how you were both fine. A little beat up, but fine. You wished that he hadn't said that, because you could tell she was about to tell you to drive through the night to make it home faster, but your dad intervened and told you to just find a motel and drive home in the morning.

“Proud of you both,” he said, and you shared a small smile with Gator. “Now get some rest. We'll celebrate tomorrow.”

“Thanks Dad. Mom,” you said. “We're pulling into a place now.” You pretended to stifle a yawn. “Goodnight.”

“Love you kids,” your mom said, and you ended the phone call, stowing your phone, then lifting your hands to rub at your temples.

“Lyin' ta your parents,” Gator said. “I'll fuckin' be.”

You leaned your head back against the headrest of the seat, closing your eyes. “I don't want them to worry.”

Gator hummed. “I'll pull inta the first motel we see, don' worry.”

“Which of us looks better?” you asked.

“You by default,” Gator said, not looking away from the road. Up ahead, miles along the lonely highway, you could see lights, indicating a town that might have a motel.

You groaned. “Yeah, but if they see a young woman with a fucked up face, they might think the guy she's with is, uh... a bastard.”

“They'd be right,” Gator said. “'S fine. I'll go in 'n book the room when we find a place.”

You sighed and nodded, agreeing because you didn't want to think again until you had to.

The highway droned on, and you weren't sure if you were falling asleep or just drifting when Gator spoke again, rousing you.

“Hey,” he said. You lifted your head from the headrest and looked over at him.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks fer... saving my ass back there,” he continued.

Huffing a laugh, you sat up a little straighter. The lights you'd spotted before were a bit closer now. “Could say the same to you. Like, three times over.”

He was still looking at the road, but you saw the way he shook his head a little, a faint smile rounding up his cheek. “Guess ya owe me.”

You laughed. “Guess so.” You paused. “You get bit?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Shoulder. Hurts like a motherfucker.”

“I'll look at it when we get to the motel,” you said, leaning back in the seat again.

“Figured,” Gator said, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel. “I'll get yer arm. Think ya need stitches?”

“No,” you said. “It's not deep. It's just...it just needs to be wrapped. Tight.”

He nodded. The next ten minutes passed in silence until he flicked on the blinker and turned into the lot of a motel set back a little ways off the road. You hunkered down in your seat and pretended to be asleep while Gator swept his hair back over his forehead, making himself look a bit more presentable as he walked into the office. You peeked out of the truck, watching him interact with the desk clerk, then pull out a wad of cash and peel off a few bills, exchanging them for a room key. He nodded, said something, nodded again, then shook his head and stepped out of the office, walking back over to the truck.

“All good?” you asked, as he hopped back in and drove over to the far end of the motel, parking the truck in the furthest open spot.

“Yep,” he said. “Guy didn't ask no questions, just what we want.”

You nodded, pushing yourself up from the seat and opening the door, sliding out of the truck and moving to the back door, pulling it open to grab the bag of extra clothes you'd both packed and left in the backseat, not wanting them in plain view, as Gator shouldered the duffel bag. You walked up to the motel room door together, clutching the bundle of clothes to your chest as he unlocked the door, pushing it open to let you in first. You stepped over the threshold, noticing that there were two beds, both neatly made, a television, and a bathroom, which you made a beeline for after dumping the clothes on the floor next to the first bed.

“Wait up,” Gator said, pocketing the room key, closing the door, locking it, and then drawing the curtains, shrouding the room in darkness.

You flicked the bathroom light on, and Gator did the same with the switch next to the door, the lamp in between the two beds blinking on and glowing golden.

You didn't wait up—you were in the cold white light of the bathroom, pushing open the door to the shower stall. You removed your bloody jacket, tossing it onto the tile, carefully avoiding looking at yourself in the mirror because you didn't want to see how beat up you looked. You already felt dog tired, you didn't need proof.

Biting your lip, you heard Gator drop the duffel bag on one of the beds and follow you over to the bathroom. It was a small space, crowded with just one body occupying it, but with him hovering behind you, it felt even more claustrophobic.

“Let me see that arm,” he said, moving to your side, leaning one knee on the closed lid of the toilet as you glanced over at him from where you stood in front of the sink. You unwrapped your ruined t-shirt from your arm, slowly, the layers of the fabric peeling away increasingly soaked with blood as you got closer to unveiling your skin, and when you finally pulled it away fully, you saw that the cut wasn't really just a cut—there was a flap of skin pulling away from your arm, too, and you took a stuttering breath as it fell back against your arm with a small, wet plop. Now it hurt, once you saw it, the rush of pain smacking into you and you closed your eyes, bracing yourself with your good hand on the countertop, dropping the shirt into the sink, ducking your head with your eyes closed, trying to compose yourself with your bloody arm pressed against your front. You'd never been injured like this before, lingering, throbbing, your heartbeat in your fingertips. Worst you'd ever had was a broken nose.

You were so focused on your breathing that you didn't even notice that Gator had left, nor him returning, so when he put his hands on you, you startled.

“Sorry,” he said softly, gently guiding you to sit on the toilet lid. “Just set right here,” he said, reaching for your injured arm, one of his moving easily, the other with measured and calculated movements—the bite. He was hurt too, you'd all but forgotten.

Like he knew what you were going to try to do—get up and inspect his wound before letting him treat yours—he tightened his grip on you and held you in place.

“Nuh uh, you first. Mine ain't that bad.” You looked up at him, but let him maneuver your arm over the sink, where he'd begun running water. He tested the temperature. “Hold this,” he said, pushing the small plastic Toy Story 2 lunchbox your dad had supplied as a homemade, makeshift first aid kid into your lap. You accepted it, letting it rest on your thighs, and even opened it for him, popping the top open. He met your eyes for a brief moment, then picked up a few gauze pads and the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“It's clean,” you whined, but he silenced you with a look. You slumped back against the toilet tank, defeated, looking pointedly away as he began cleaning the cut with the alcohol-soaked gauze. You bit back each hiss no matter how badly you wanted to loose them, until finally he picked up the roll of gauze and began wrapping your arm, tight but not overly so.

“We'll check that tomorra',” he said. “How's it feel?”

You extended your arm, wincing a little, twisting and bending it, then nodding. “Fine.” You stood up, snapping the lunchbox closed, and jerked your chin toward the toilet. “Your turn.”

You swapped places, though Gator actually sat on it backwards, straddling it, and you could see it was because the bite he'd sustained was on his left shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was torn but the patch hadn't been ripped away. You set the kit on the countertop as he unbuttoned the shirt. He shrugged it off his right arm with no trouble, but you helped him slide it off his left arm, throwing that into the shower stall as well, before turning back to look at him.

It was bad. Yours was definitely not worse—his skin looked gnarled, ground up almost. The cut in your arm was nasty, yes, but it was a clean slice. This looked like he'd taken the blade of a blender to the back of his arm; the vampire's fangs had sliced through muscle and flesh.

“Jesus,” you muttered.

Gator looked back at you over his shoulder, grinning a little. “That pretty, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” you said. “I don't—this needs to be washed out, I can't do it in the sink.”

He cocked his head to the side. “You askin' ta shower with me, boss?”

“What?” you asked. “No!”

He chuckled. “I'll keep my skivvies on,” he said, clearly mocking you. “I thought ahead, packed some clean pairs.”

You felt your face warm, but again you resisted checking your expression in the mirror, not wanting to see how exposed you really were. “That's fine.”

He stood up, unbuttoned his jeans. You let him step past you back out into the room, undressing to just his boxer briefs, then returning to the bathroom, where you'd flattened yourself against the far wall, suddenly very aware that you were in just your jeans and a sports bra. He gave you a look, amused, then stepped into the shower, kicking your jacket and his shirt as far into the corner as they could go before turning on the water. It sprayed out brown at first and he just huffed a laugh, but it turned clear after running for a few seconds.

Poking his head out past the sliding door, he met your eyes. “You gonna help?”

“Yeah,” you said, but still didn't make a move. You hadn't expected this kind of thing on a hunt. But you'd just taken out a vamp nest, so you were pretty sure you could manage helping your friend—your partner, your Gator—clean the bite wound he'd only gotten because you didn't notice the vampire directly in front of you and gotten him jumped by three others.

You didn't step into the stall with him, especially since you had a freshly-wrapped wound yourself, but you did use your left hand to gently wash out the wound, cautious, tentative, not wanting to pull any of the loose skin, the jagged edges. You saw his muscles twitching as you rubbed soap and water against it, cleaning it out, a loose trickle of blood streaming down his back which lessened with each pass of your hand. He tipped his head forward into the water, letting it run over his hair, his face, hands rubbing at his eyes and cheeks, and for a moment you forgot yourself, your hand tracing over his back, middle fingertip moving between some of the birthmarks scattered across the expanse of his skin. He froze; you didn't. You changed the angle of your hand, now your middle and ring fingers trailing over him, down his spine; he turned slowly, and you yanked your hand away like his look had shocked you, suddenly aware of everything now that his eyes were on you.

“It's clean,” you said, stepping back, letting the fogged up glass of the shower door hide your faces from each other. You grabbed a folded up towel from a shelf above the towel rack on the wall and dried your arm before holding it out to Gator. A few moments passed, then the water shut off and he took the towel from you, still mostly hidden by the opaque glass of the shower.

“Dry off,” you said, “and I'll dress it for you.”

You grabbed the lunchbox/first aid kid and left the bathroom entirely, depositing it on the nearest bed and pacing for a second. What the fuck was that? What had gotten into you? It had to be the adrenaline, still. But even you knew that was bullshit—you'd crashed from the adrenaline rush a long time ago. Maybe it was the bang to the head you took—addled your fucking brain, probably. That was it. You slumped down onto the bed beside the duffel bag.

Gator padded out of the bathroom slowly, holding the bulk of the towel in one hand, using the other part to dry his hair and face. He stood in the doorway, water dripping from his lower half onto the carpet, as he mussed his hair, wiping his face one last time before starting to towel off his chest. You only saw it in your periphery—you refused to look up at him.

“You gonna clean up?” Gator asked, nodding at you with his chin. You turned slightly toward him at that, but didn't meet his eyes. “Still got blood all over ya.”

You looked down at yourself—he was right. Your arm was clean, but there was still dried blood on your chest and stomach, and the constricting athletic bra you had on was stained with red too. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Bathroom's all yours,” he said, and you stood up, crouching to grab a few things out of the clothing bag you'd carried in, and then passed him, head down, and closed the bathroom door behind you.

You leaned back against it, looking at yourself in the mirror, arm bandaged up like a mummy and your hair sticking up in wisps around the headband you still wore. You sighed and leaned in to the mirror, examining the red mark on your cheek where the vampire had punched you, prodding it a little and wincing as pain shot through you. Your parents might be expecting to celebrate, but once they took in the sight of you, you were sure they'd be reluctant to let you go on another hunt any time soon.

You stripped off the bloody bra, throwing it onto the pile of clothing now collecting in the shower and grabbing one of the washcloths on the shelf beside the rest of the folded towels.

Wetting it, grabbing the soap from the shower, you scrubbed your chest and neck clean, the water so hot and your touch so rough that your skin bristled with each pass of the cloth. Your neck was tender, the scratches from the vampire itchy and sore, and you could even see a ring of bruising where she had tried to choke you. You thought about it a little too hard, because the next thing you thought of was the way Gator had brushed his fingers over your throat gently, and your body reacted in a way that you didn't expect—you had to press your thighs together as you sighed, imagining his touch on you again. Your own hands touching him, like you had minutes ago.

The washcloth joined the pile that you'd have to bring home with you tomorrow and burn, but for now, you just toed off your boots and kicked out of your jeans, knowing you could just give them a good washing and they'd be fine. You examined the rest of your body for any other bruises or scrapes you might have missed, but your lower half seemed fine except for a couple of bruises on your thighs. You slipped yourself into the clothing you'd grabbed—a loose pair of shorts that belonged to your brother, you thought, and a t-shirt that you'd gotten for free from a radio contest back in high school.

Steeling yourself, you flicked off the light and then opened the bathroom door. Gator was in a pair of sweats, going through the duffel bag with his back to you. He didn't turn when you stepped out of the bathroom, and you were confronted with the bite on his shoulder, still uncovered, still raw and exposed.

“Shit, Gator,” you said, forgetting your own stupid crap for a moment and reaching for the lunchbox, popping it open hastily. “Why did you let me go in there without covering that first?”

He looked over at you. “'S fine,” he said. “Let it breathe a lil' beforehand.” His eyes dipped down to the kit in your hands.

“Sit,” you said, stepping back so he had room to do so with the duffel bag taking up half the space at the edge of the bed. He did, and you climbed onto the bed, walking on your knees until you were able to settle behind him. You dug around in the kit, pulling out a large enough gauze pad to cover it, then pushed around the other contents until you found the medical tape. Carefully, you held the pad down with one hand, using your teeth to tear off pieces of the tape to hold it in place. He bowed his head forward as you worked, hands light as feathers as you pressed the tape down, making sure it stuck to his skin well enough to keep the gauze stationary, flattening both hands and pressing gently against the edges before sitting back on your knees and fully retracting your hands, not trusting yourself to let them linger on him for more time than absolutely necessary.

“Thanks.” He spoke after a moment, shifting himself so he was perpendicular to you now, his leg bent in front of him on the bed, his knee brushing yours. He looked at you, so pointed that you couldn't look away. “This shit's pretty crazy, huh?”

You nodded. “Yeah,” you agreed. “We make a pretty good team though.”

His eyes looked especially green in the warm light from the lamp behind you, flecks of brown and gold reflecting as he looked at you, a half-smile on his lips, and he replied to you after a beat. “Yeah, I guess we do, boss.”

You lowered your face—you'd never been good with people, even Gator. That was all him, always had been. “Boss,” you repeated, clearly amused.

“What?” Gator said, not a question, his voice serious. “I ain't sayin' it as a joke. Y'know that, right?”

“I guess,” you deflected, and he moved closer to you, his thigh resting against both of your knees now.

“I ain't jokin'. Hey.” You watched him reach out a hand toward you, then stop briefly, and then just take hold of your waist again. You felt your stomach kick and lifted your eyes to his. “I admit I donno many, but after all'at shit back there, yer a fine fuckin' hunter. You kiddin'? The way y'threw that knife at Fangs 'n took his eye out? 'Nd—'nd I mean, might be a weird kinda compliment but you fuckin' tanked that punch t'the face.” His hand lifted from your side, and you watched as he curled his fingers against his palm, letting the backs of his first two brush over the red spot on your cheekbone, his skin cool against the warmth of the forming bruise. “Yer a fuckin' force.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Jus' glad I'm on your side.”

Gator left his hand where it was, fingers resting against your cheek, and you lifted your hand to circle around his wrist, holding onto him as you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes. The last thing you saw was his hazel, gold-flecked eyes locked onto yours, and then you felt the bed dip toward you, his fingers pulling away just to be replaced with his palm, fully holding your face. You knew what you would see when you opened your eyes and it wasn't something you wanted to wait for, so you didn't keep them shut any longer.

Gator's face was only inches from your own, and you ran through all of the times you'd touched in the last twelve hours leading up to this, his hand on you at the hospital, his fingers laced through yours in the truck, his arm circling your waist in the warehouse, and before, wrapping your arm in gauze. His thigh currently pressing against your knees. And now, just now, the tip of his nose brushing yours as he tipped his chin up a fraction to let his lips move against yours; you felt your heartbeat in your fingertips again, in your head, your knees, your stomach—every part of you attuned to it as you not only let Gator kiss you, but you kissed him back, parting your lips before he could even try to deepen it on his own. You let him in, and once his tongue pressed gently against yours, tasting you, you bowed your back and stood up on your knees, moving closer to him, your thighs parting to sit on top of his lap as best you could, arms coming to rest around his shoulders as you sucked his tongue, his lower lip, taking everything you could from him while giving him just the same in return.

His hand moved from your face down, down your front, cupping your breast through your t-shirt before sliding both of his hands to your back, gathering up the loose fabric but not moving to tug it up and over your head just yet. Rather, he clung to it, like he needed something to restrain himself, to keep himself in check as he let you lead the kiss, moving with you as you pulled back, or pushed into him; it was a give and take, both of you eating up the space the other offered, fitting perfectly into each other as fiercely as you'd protected each other a handful of hours ago in the abandoned building. You moved your hands over his front, touching him while you felt him tug at the hem of your shirt. You pulled against his grip, leaning into him, so much so that he fell back against the stiff pillows on the bed, your palms skimming over his front, grazing through the thatch of hair centered on his chest, his nipples, the slight pattern of his ribs before you gripped his waist tight, sliding them down beneath his back to hold him against you, letting the weight of your body press your front tight to his.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, so softly you thought you might have imagined it, your hips over his, and you kissed the corner of his mouth before pulling back.

“Your shoulder?” you asked, worry in your eyes as you reached a tentative hand up to rest it against the front of his injured arm.

“What?” he replied, absently, looking up at you even as you rubbed his freckled skin, moving your hand down his arm to rest on his bicep. “No, no—no. You—this.” He released your shirt and placed his hands on your bare thighs, sliding them up, pushing your shorts up and over your legs, exposing them to him.

“Too much?” you asked, trying to lift up and off him, but his hands held you firmly down against him.

“Not enough,” he half growled. You let the words hit you for all they said and all they didn't, and then you lowered yourself back down against him, licking into his mouth, deepening the kiss immediately as this time, you curled your hands around the shirt, pulling it up and breaking the kiss only to pull it over your head, arms behind your back as you wrested the garment off and tossed it somewhere behind you.

Gator's hands splayed out on your back, pressing your front down against his, holding you tight, tight enough that you weren't entirely surprised when he flipped you over, rolling your bodies so he was on top of you, your legs still spread beneath him so he fit between them easily. With his weight on top of you this time, you felt the ridge of his cock pressing against you—he wasn't hard yet, not totally, but he you could tell he was chubbed up as he ground his hips down against your core, breaking the kiss to look down at you, his hand coming up to cup your face again even as he worked his front against yours, drawing a small moan from you. His thumb brushed over your lower lip.

“Gator,” you whispered, lifting your hips up into his, and he closed his eyes at the feeling of you wanting it, just as bad as he did.

He kissed you again, then moved down your body slowly, lips trailing over you as he did, one hand cupping your breast and rubbing his thumb over your nipple, even as his mouth traveled further along your front, until he was level with the waistband of your shorts. You helped him push them down and off, along with your panties, not bothering to try and be shy or modest when you wanted him like this, when he wanted you just the same. His hand was still at your chest, circling your nipple even as it peaked beneath the pad of his thumb, but he lowered himself to lie between your legs, kissing the thick of your thigh before he turned his head just slightly and then he was kissing your pussy, the act itself almost chaste except for where his mouth was. You sighed his name, and once you did, he opened his mouth, the pink of his tongue peeking out; you just barely caught sight of it before he lowered his mouth to you again, tongue parting your folds and making you shudder as he flicked the tip against your clit.

With a sharp movement, almost like you couldn't control your arm, your hand shot out to curl into his hair, but instead of just carding through it, soft and loose after his shower, no longer held flat with pomade, you gripped his hair in your fist and held him against you, spreading your legs even further.

You watched as his shoulders flexed and he managed to pull away from your cunt, lips wet and eyes shining. “Oh,” he said, like he'd just understood something fundamental. “Y'like to play.”

Adjusting your hips beneath his chin, you shrugged the shoulder of the arm holding his hair, watching, amused, as his head moved along with you. “Maybe.” He grinned a little.

“Maybe,” he echoed, his back jumping a bit as he laughed to himself. His tongue flitted over his upper lip. “How's this, then?” he asked, and leaned in again, sucking your folds into his mouth, devouring you, nearly pushing his whole face into you before inching upward and taking your clit between his tongue and his teeth, worrying it gently; you gave a shuddering gasp, the hard press of his teeth combined with the soft pressure of his tongue had you arching up off the bed, your shoulders off the pillow behind you, your hand pulling at his hair, but he didn't let up, didn't stop, until you felt yourself almost reaching your peak, just from him teasing you the way he was. You couldn't decide if you wanted to finish or if you wanted to push him away, and before you could spend more than a moment or two thinking about it, you were coming, the sensation of his mouth on you, teeth tongue lips driving you over the edge, his name on your breath over and over as you exhaled.

You realized after coming down that you were still holding his mouth on you, but he was licking now at your slit, slowly, letting his tongue dip inside of you every few passes. Gingerly, you released his hair, fingers tight from holding on so adamantly, and he gradually pulled away.

“Liked that, huh?” he asked, licking his lips, and your eyes locked onto his mouth, your arousal shiny on his lips, his chin.

“Maybe,” you said, coy, and he laughed out loud, a real one, you could tell.

“No 'maybe',” he said, leaning in again and licking a long, thick stripe up between your folds, taking his time. “Got pretty fuckin' wet for me, boss,” he said. He kept his head ducked down, but flicked his eyes up to yours. As you watched, hips shifting a little, he sucked at the inside of his cheeks and splayed his hands out on your thighs, holding you open with his thumbs—and then, with no preamble, spat your own come mixed with his saliva back onto your pussy. You felt yourself clench down on nothing, arousal coiling again when he let one of his thumbs slide through it, over your slit. “'Maybe',” he sneered up at you, not nearly as derisive as you know he wanted to sound; there was too much affection there.

“Whatever,” you managed, weakly. “Let me eat you out and see how you like it.”

At that, Gator rose onto his elbows, interest piqued, an eyebrow quirking upward. “Oh yeah?”

You licked your lips this time, shrugging your shoulder, nodding your head to the side as you did. “Yeah. No 'maybe'.”

He shifted onto his knees, still between your spread legs, looking down at you. “You think I'm gonna say no,” he said; a challenge.

“You think I won't really do it,” you replied; one of your own.

He studied you, then smirked, moving over your leg and off the bed. “I ain't playin' chicken w'you,” he said, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and pushing them down and off, revealing to you in one fell swoop that he'd had nothing on under them the whole time, despite all his talk about packing extra underwear.

“I ain't either,” you said, flexing your bandaged arm a little, checking to make sure you weren't bleeding through the bandages; Gator clocked it, but trusted you to know your limits, and instead just reached a hand down his front, taking his cock in hand and stroking it once, twice, trying to take the edge off. You saw his stomach twitch a little, muscles kicking on impulse as you eyed his dick. Not that you spent much time thinking about his cock, but it was bigger than you expected, and you pressed your thighs together, not quite hoping you'd get that far, but wondering if, maybe, you just might.

“Where ya want me?” Gator asked, pulling you back out of your reverie, and your eyes shot up to his face.

“Right here,” you said, pointing to your chin and settling back into the pillow, which was actually just uncomfortable enough to be a good support for your neck.

Gator looked half amused and half impressed. “Yeah? Just like this?” He surveyed your naked body.

“Just like this,” you said, curling the same finger you'd used to gesture to your face to beckon him closer.

After barely a moment's hesitation, Gator placed his knee on the bed and then swung his other leg over you, facing away, and you took a moment of your own to allow a brief, tiny, silent little Oh my god mouthed noiselessly to yourself because you were about to let Gator sit on your face and, of all the insane things that had happened to you today, this wouldn't have even made your list of possibilities.

And then your hands were on his hips, guiding him down, his legs pressing in on either side of you and you craned your neck to meet him midway before your nerves got the best of you and you called it off.

Tentatively, you moved your hands, spreading him apart above you and let your tongue trail over his hole. He sighed, the sound a low rumble in his chest, and it only spurred you on. You tried again, a little firmer this time, and he lowered himself against your face a bit more.

“Mmn,” you hummed against him, not consciously meaning to make the noise but doing it anyway. You retracted your tongue and, just as he twisted himself to turn, to look down at you to see why you'd stopped, you spat the saliva you'd collected on your tongue onto his hole, following it up with your tongue, spreading the wetness over him as you licked eagerly now, your heart thrumming in your chest as he made that same noise again, this time falling forward, his hands on your thighs, gripping them tight.

“Fuck,” he said, as you worked your tongue into a point and pressed it against his hole, the tip breaching him just enough that you could work the muscle inside of him. You felt his body tighten up around your tongue, his knees pressing in against your sides, and you stopped, pulled away again. He sighed at the loss of you licking into him. “Where you goin'?” he asked, just this side of breathless.

“Nowhere,” you said, splaying your hands out on his ass cheeks and pulling them open for you again, before spitting right onto his hole a second time, and you felt his forehead come to rest on your thigh, his hair tickling you a little as you dove back in, letting your tongue slip inside of him easily, fucking him with it, your fingertips digging divots into his ass as your tongue moved in and out of his hole. He sucked at your thigh hard enough to leave another bruise there, one with different, better meaning than the others already marking your skin, and then he straightened up, arching his back, and moving one of his hands sideways, down between your legs.

You barely registered what was about to happen before it did, and as he curled two fingers into your cunt you moaned right against his ass, pressing your mouth into him a bit further, sucking at his rim as he scissored his fingers inside you, stretching you out before fucking you with them. Your hips kicked upward into his hand, and you licked over his hole, lapping at it slowly, teasing him by almost, almost letting your tongue dip inside him but not quite.

You could hear how wet you were as he was fingering you, the slight noises of skin against skin just reaching your ears, and then you felt more than heard it—he'd bowed his back again, letting a mouthful of saliva drip out onto your pussy, making you even wetter, the sounds of him finger fucking you even louder, and your hips curled up, almost rising off the bed as he pushed them inside you even deeper.

“Fuck, Gator,” you said, closing your eyes and pulling away from him to catch your breath—he was going to have you coming a second time before you'd even gotten him off once, and as benevolent as that was, you preferred an even playing field. So you redoubled your efforts, pulling him backward against you by his hips, holding him tight against your face as you fucked his ass with your tongue, flexing your hips so he could finger you, but now reaching around him to take hold of his cock.

As soon as your hand encircled his length, his gut kicked, he twitched in your hand, and you felt a huge glob of precome roll down the underside to wet your fingers too. No wonder Gator liked it wet—he was leaking like nothing you'd ever seen, and you were grateful for it too, as it eased the slide of your hand over him, jerking him off at the awkward angle, both of you working each other over with your hands. He'd added a third finger and just had them as deep inside you as he could, crooking them upward to press against your g-spot, rubbing at it, his thumb now circling your clit. You felt his breath hot on your thigh, and you licked inside of his hole, your own thumb teasing the head of his cock, smearing each bead of precome back and forth over the slit as it creamed out.

“Fuckin' killin' me back th-there,” Gator said, his voice weak, and you didn't pull away, didn't stop, only continued stroking him off as you ate his ass, trying to hold back your own orgasm as he rubbed your clit, fingered your pussy, kept pulling you closer and closer to your end until he slowed, stilled; his knees pressed even closer against you, squeezing your ribs as he came, his cock twitching in your hand as you jerked him off, milking everything he had out of him, and slipped out from his ass, licking over it with the flat of your tongue instead. His come was hot on your stomach, sticky as he let his front rest against yours, legs boneless, unable to hold himself up any longer. He gradually began fingering you again, moving his thumb over your clit, and your orgasm picked up right where it had let off—close and gunning for you. You let your head rest back against the pillow, and hands on Gator's thighs, holding on tight to them as you felt him pull his fingers out almost the whole way, spreading your folds apart, and you knew what was happening before he did it—but he spit on your cunt again, fucking it into you with his fingers, and then you were coming, cunt pulsing around him, your thighs shaking as he lowered his mouth to your leg a second time, sucking a harsh kiss there again, marking you as his all over again.

After you relaxed around his fingers, he clambered to the side, the pair of you panting a little, matching bruises on your faces, matching grins.

He turned to face you, still sitting on his knees, and reached for your good arm to pull you upright beside him; once you were relatively at the same height, he leaned in with no hesitation and kissed you, hard then soft, his nose against yours as he lingered against your lips.

“Feel ok?” he asked, reaching down and brushing the backs of his fingers over the gauze wrapped around your arm. He was resting his forehead against yours.

“Yeah,” you said, then jerked your chin toward his shoulder. “You?”

“'M good,” he mumbled.

There was a short lull, quiet, the only sound the muted buzz from the lamp that said the bulb was going to burn out soon, and the canned laughter from whatever the person in the room above you was watching on their TV.

You kept your face close to Gator's, tipping it slightly to the side, the end of your nose moving against his, and then he was kissing you again, like there was nothing else to it, like it was the only natural course of action either of you could take, his hands on your chest, your waist, and yours on him too, fingers moving carefully through the hair on his chest, over his shoulders, making sure to avoid the bandage you'd stuck onto him as you pulled him down on top of you.

“Thought you were gonna die,” he admitted, face buried in your neck. “Thought I was gonna watch that fuckin'—bloodsucker rip yer throat out.”

“She did-didn't, you were there—” you tried to say, but he was talking over you, his cock still hard against your thigh; he was grinding against your hip, his hand reaching down to hook beneath your leg, groping your ass.

“'N before that,” he said, almost like you hadn't spoken at all, “you fuckin'—fuckin' threw that knife—”

“Couldn't lose you,” you said absently, opening your legs to make room for him, letting him slot between them.

“Can't lose you,” he said. “'F I lose you, what's the fuckin' point?” He sucked at your neck, then moved up to take your lips again. “Ain't gonna do this without ya.”

“I couldn't do it without you,” you countered, reaching down your body as you felt his hand scrabbling between the two of you, reaching for his cock.

“Ain't gonna,” he repeated, lips against yours, kissing you rough, deep, tongue delving into your mouth and moving against yours, letting you suck on his tongue as you curled your fingers around his where they were wrapped around his dick, the pair of you guiding his length down between your folds, the head notching into your slit, and he pushed in desperately.

“Gator,” you whined, the stretch intense but staggeringly satisfying, the feeling of him finally hitting home within you, starting to fuck you with abandon before you could even get used to him, his hand back on your thigh, pulling your leg up and over his hip. “Gator—”

“That's right,” he muttered, between kisses, “if—if almost dyin's what—what gets me ta, fuck,” he tried to say, your arms wrapping around him, hands pressing against his lower back as if to keep him fucking into you.

“Gets you to what?” you asked, needing to know if he thought the same thing you did—that almost dying made you feel alive enough to admit you'd wanted more, even if you never understood that was what you were looking for, and with him no less.

“Gets me ta—ta show ya how I feel 'bout ya,” he managed, punctuating every couple words with a forward snap of his hips, taking your body for his own, giving you his in return. The give and take, again and again.

“Gator,” you half sobbed, turning your head toward his, kissing the underside of his jaw, his throat, until he finally found your lips with his, eyes closed as he kissed you, and it was in stark contrast to how he was moving inside of you—soft, slow, loving—deferential.

“That's it,” he said. “Go on, come for me. Come for me, come—I'm comin', fuck, I'm—I'm comin', come for me, please—”

You were still wound up from your previous orgasm, barely minutes before, and so wrapped up in Gator that you didn't think you could stop yourself, not that you wanted to—he was touching you everywhere, kissing you, fucking into you, stretching you on his cock, you were so fucking wet around him you could feel it on your thighs, your fluids dripping down over the curve of your ass, and you knew that he had to be right behind you, right there with you, so you bit down on his lip, sucked it into your mouth, kissed him wanton and shameless—and let yourself go, your cunt squeezing down tight on him as you came, again, came for him as he asked you to repeatedly, his hips slapping into your front, thighs spread wide to take him in. You felt it as he finished inside you, filling you up with his release even as he kept fucking you, his spunk dripping out of you too, staining your legs, the sheets.

“Oh god,” he said, his nose against your cheek, “oh fuck.”

Your breath was thin and short as you lifted your hands from his back to let your fingers cut lines through his hair, holding his face close to yours as you kissed him on the cheek, your legs tangled together, chests rising and falling in sync.

“Gator,” you whispered, and he turned to look at you properly, eyes sliding back into focus, fixing on yours. “We're both still here, baby,” you said, unsure of the pet name but wanting to try it out. Gator seemed to approve, a small smile curving his lips.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching up a shaking hand to cup your cheek again, his thumb smoothing over the bruise. “Both still here.”

He kissed you again, and again, both of you reveling in each other. Both of you, still there.