okay, I am still working on drink order fic requests but this has been in the drafts for a bit and i needed to post t because I'm back on my Gator bullshit after getting into more dark romance books. don't judge me. (jk, you're all just as down bad as me <3)
especially then
gator tillman x reader
He’s scarred, blind, and bitter, you’re the nurse paid to keep him alive and the only one stubborn enough to push back when he bites. Between soup disasters, sharp banter, and late-night confessions, the line between duty and desire starts to blur. You're not afraid of finding softness in the spaces where he lets you in.
wc: 15576
[smut smut smut after the initial long long opening because its meeeee and i cant stop with long exposition to save my life]
tw: blindness (post-injury, adjustment struggles), burn scars & facial disfigurement, mentions of past violence/murder, therapy sessions, caretaker/patient dynamic (blurred boundaries), unprotected sex, rough language (gator swears like it’s punctuation), masturbation, jealousy, gator being a stubborn bastard but also needy as hell, yes i cried at writing this and i hope y'all see how much i trully love this sad pathetic bastard of a man, as always no use of y/n
The thud of his palm slamming the counter echoed off the laminate walls. “Don’t need you hoverin’ like I’m goddamn five,” Gator snapped back, voice thick with frustration, edged in that familiar drawl. “Got hands, don’t I? Can still feel where shit goes.”
"You’re gonna burn the whole goddamn place down," you mutter, stepping into the tiny kitchen just in time to see him jabbing at the microwave buttons.
Gator doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even turn toward you. His face stays pointed at the humming box of plastic, one hand braced on the counter, the other hovering over the keypad like it's a landmine he’s got half a mind to trigger.
"I’m not helpless," he says, jaw tight. "Can still work a fuckin’ microwave."
"Then stop trying to cook soup on defrost, genius."
You reach around him and press three buttons in a row, clearing out whatever nonsense he’d punched in. The microwave beeps obediently and starts to whir. Gator exhales through his nose. You hear him shift, the scuffed heel of his boot scraping across the cracked linoleum as he steps back.
"You always this bossy with your patients?"
You grab a dishrag and toss it over your shoulder, not looking at him. "Only the ones who almost set fire to their drapes last week."
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. It sounds like something trying to crawl up a dry throat and dying halfway.
"I didn’t ask for you."
"No. The state did. Big difference."
That gets him quiet. The microwave hums louder than it should. This place makes noise like it’s protesting every breath. The fridge rattles. The AC groans but doesn’t blow. Somewhere in the bathroom, a slow drip ticks like a clock.
You hear Gator shift again, arms folding. "Used to come through County sometimes. Victim reports and shit. Back when you were still in scrubs. Didn’t peg you for the mothering type."
You glance at him. His face is the same as you remember, minus the way it used to carry too much smugness and swagger. His jaw’s still sharp but there’s tension in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it's the slight beard starting to grow in, maybe it's the scars, or maybe it's just the fact that he doesn’t have his eyes anymore. That tends to shift the dynamic.
"I’m not," you say. "But I am paid to keep you alive, which means making sure you don’t blow yourself up for the third time this month."
"Third?" he echoes, lifting his brows. "Thought it was only twice."
"You don't always hear about the ones I catch in time."
The microwave dings and you open it before he can try. The bowl’s too hot, so you use a towel and grab a spoon. You set it on the table where he usually eats, pushing aside the mess of newspapers and empty cans.
He waits until your footsteps pass him before moving. You can hear the way he tests the space with his foot, like he doesn’t trust the floor to stay where it was yesterday. You almost reach out, almost guide him like you would one of the other clients, but you don’t. He’d hate that. He’s already gripping the edge of the counter like he’s daring himself to make it across the six feet of floor without help.
He does. Barely. His chair scrapes back as he sits down.
“Still got it,” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t reply. You pull open the window above the sink instead, let in some fresh air that doesn’t smell like reheated TV dinners and humid bitterness.
Gator takes a spoonful and immediately hisses, half-coughs.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You tryin’ to skin my tongue off?”
You glance back. “Didn’t think I needed to remind you soup gets hot. My mistake.”
He says nothing, just sits there fuming, going for the second bite like it offended him personally.
You lean your hip against the counter, arms crossed. “You ever think about saying thank you?”
His head tilts slightly. “You ever think about mindin’ your own damn business?”
“Every day,” you reply. “But then you do something stupid again.”
There’s a silence. Not a loud one. Not angry, either. Just... there. Sitting heavy between you. You watch him take another bite, slower this time. He looks like he’s chewing memory more than food.
"You were different back then," you say finally.
He swallows. “Back when?”
“Back when you were a deputy. Still had that dumb truck. Used to roll up like a Hot Wheels car.”
You expect another jab. Another smart-ass deflection. But Gator doesn’t smile. His spoon hovers in midair.
"Yeah," he says softly. "I liked driving fast. Or at all."
You nod. “I remember.”
He sets the spoon down. Reaches for the can of soda you left near the edge of the table. He misses it by an inch. Your hand beats his, pushing it gently toward him until his fingers close around the rim.
He doesn't say thank you.
He doesn’t have to.
Because he knows you’ll be there.
Even when he’s acting like a bastard.
Especially then.
The bathroom is just wide enough for your knee to brush the edge of the tub when you sit him down on the closed toilet seat. The counter digs into your hip, and the mirror above the sink is fogged from the old radiator’s steam pipe that runs along the back wall. It always runs too hot in here, even when it’s cold outside.
“You could’ve told me you were growing a beard,” you mutter, soaking the rag in warm water. “Would’ve saved me from bringing the razor.”
“I wasn’t,” he says flatly. “Just forgot.”
You wring out the rag and lean in, pressing it against the curve of his jaw. His skin twitches, but he doesn’t pull back. The stubble is rougher than usual. Thicker. It smells like his soap, the kind you buy because he doesn’t care enough to notice brands.
“Well,” you say, voice lighter now, “you forget for another week and I’m charging double. I don’t do lumberjack grooming for free.”
Gator smirks faintly, lips barely moving. “Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to impress anybody.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “Still handsome. Stubborn, moody, difficult, but handsome.”
His brows twitch like he’s not sure if you’re joking. You are. Mostly. But it’s true, too. Even with the band of fabric he wears across what’s left of his eyes, even with the scar cutting down his cheekbone, even with that worn flannel pulled loose at the collar. He’s still himself. Still Gator Tillman. Just quieter now. Bruised around the edges.
You grab the razor and lather his face with a little of the cheap shaving cream he keeps under the sink. Your fingers are gentle but quick. He lets you touch him like this, like he’s used to it now. Like it’s normal.
“You ever nick me,” he says, “I swear—”
“You’ll what?” You lift a brow. “Scowl in my general direction?”
He exhales, and it almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.
You start on his jaw, slow strokes with the razor, careful to mind the curve near the scar. Your hand steadies against his chin. The blade whispers down skin. He doesn’t flinch.
“You know,” you say after a minute, “this is probably one of the parts of this job I enjoy.”
“You enjoy shaving me?”
“Yeah.” You rinse the blade. “It’s quiet. Focused. And you stop talking.”
“Convenient.”
“And,” you add, “you’ve got a good face. Nice jaw. Would be a crime to let it get buried under all this gristle.”
“You flirt like a truck stop waitress,” he says.
“Damn right I do.”
He’s quiet again. You move to the other side of his face, press your fingers lightly to tilt his chin. His pulse is steady under the skin. You don’t say anything else. The room doesn’t need it.
You finish, wiping away the last of the lather with the cloth. His skin is warm beneath it. Those few familiar moles and freckles are visible again. You reach to rinse your hands and toss the towel in the laundry bin tucked under the sink.
But before you can turn away, his hand reaches out. Finds yours.
He’s slow about it, like he’s not sure he has the right. Like he’s not sure if you’ll pull back.
You don’t.
His fingers wrap around your wrist, and he guides your hand back to his cheek. Presses it there. Just rests it. Your palm against his newly smooth skin. The tiniest tremble in his jaw.
You don’t move. Don’t breathe for a second.
It isn’t flirty. It isn’t seductive. It’s just... quiet. Needy in a way that aches.
And even though he doesn’t say a word, you know exactly what this is.
You leave your hand there a little longer than you should.
Because he doesn’t get this often. Not anymore.
Because you don’t mind the quiet moments either.
Because it’s the one time he lets you touch him without biting back.
He’s still Gator. Still hard-edged, still impossible. But this? This is the part of him that he never lets anyone else see.
And you’re still here.
Even when he doesn’t ask.
Especially then.
You don’t have to check the peephole to know who it is. The knock has a kind of rhythm to it. Measured. Familiar. You open the door and find Nadine standing there with a container in her hands and a smile that means she’s brought something dangerous.
"Oatmeal raisin," she says before you even ask, lifting the Tupperware like a peace offering. "Still his favorite, right?"
You breathe in the smell and nod, already reaching for it. “You spoil him.”
“Somebody has to,” she replies, stepping inside without waiting for more invitation.
She’s dressed like always, some kind of floral blouse under a light jacket, gold studs in her ears, her hair pulled back into a bun that’s starting to loosen in the front. She smells like the kind of department store perfume that clings to coat collars and car seats for days.
You close the door behind her and follow her into the kitchen, popping the lid on the cookies before your shoes even leave the mat.
“He’s gonna inhale these,” you mutter, already grabbing a small plate from the cabinet. “And then act like he doesn’t have a sweet tooth.”
“He’ll grumble through the whole first one,” Nadine says, “but I guarantee you he’ll have three gone before I get a word in.”
You like her. You always have. She’s one of the few people who knows how to talk to Gator like he’s still human, even when he’s acting like a closed door. She doesn’t tiptoe. Doesn’t baby him. She also doesn’t bullshit, which you appreciate.
She watches you for a moment while you arrange the cookies on the plate, and you know that look. It’s the same one she gives him when she knows he’s full of it.
“You heading out?” she asks gently.
“That was the plan,” you say. “Usually give you two the apartment. It’s kind of your time.”
Nadine steps closer and reaches out, setting one hand lightly on your forearm. Her grip is soft, but there’s something in the way she holds it that makes you pause.
“Stay,” she says. “Just for a bit. Not on the clock. Just cookies and coffee and a little conversation.”
You hesitate. You’ve never stayed during one of her visits. You usually use the window to grab groceries or take a break, let them have this. But her tone isn’t casual, and her eyes are steady on yours.
“I’d like you to sit with us today,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s good for him. And frankly, you could use a break too.”
You don’t argue. Not with her. You nod, slow and small, and she smiles like she’s been waiting for you to agree since she pulled into the driveway.
She walks into the living room ahead of you, calling out as she goes. “It’s me, Gator. Brought cookies.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but you hear him shift on the couch. The leather creaks under him as he turns toward the sound of her voice.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters. “Thought you got lost.”
“Please,” Nadine snorts. “I’ve been navigating this godforsaken town longer than you’ve been breathing. Don’t sass me.”
You follow them in, quieter. Normally, your footsteps would head toward the door. This time they carry you back across the living room, and the moment you cross into his space, you feel it. He knows you stayed. Of course he does. His head tips, just slightly, in your direction, and even though the cloth he wears keeps you from seeing what’s left of his eyes, you feel his attention land on you all the same.
You sit down on the armrest of the chair across from him, legs tucked close, hands folded in your lap. Nadine takes the couch next to Gator, passing him a cookie and patting his arm when his fingers fumble for the plate.
The three of you sit like that, sharing the space in silence for a few moments while he chews through the first bite and makes a face like it’s too sweet, even though everyone knows it isn’t.
“Still soft,” he says grudgingly, like it’s a complaint.
“You’re welcome,” Nadine replies, taking one for herself. “I’d ask for an actual ‘thank you’, but I know that’s not your style.”
“I don’t say thank you,” he grumbles, “I eat the damn cookie.”
“Good enough,” she says, biting into hers with a grin.
You lean back a little, letting their conversation wash over you. There’s history here. Most of it is dark, but Nadine feels like sunshine even through the dark times. You like that about her.
And even though you’re not saying anything, you feel his awareness of you like gravity. Every time you shift in your seat, every time your fingers drum against your knee, his head turns just a little. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t ask, but you know he’s listening to you the way other people watch with their eyes.
The plate of cookies sits between them. Nadine talks about the new pastor at the Lutheran church and how the coffee’s gotten worse somehow. Gator grunts responses that are half amusement and half disinterest. You stay quiet, sipping from the mug she pressed into your hands without asking.
And you’re not on the clock. You’re not checking your watch or cleaning up the fridge or reminding him to take his meds.
You’re just there.
And he knows it.
Even when he won’t say it.
Especially then.
The door sticks a little when you open it, just like it always does. You push through with your hip and call out a low greeting, already juggling the day’s supplies in your arms. The air smells like toast and the faint trace of whatever cologne he still insists on using, like anyone but you is ever close enough to notice.
He’s sitting in his usual spot on the couch, arms folded across his chest like someone tried to tell him how to live. His head lifts slightly when he hears the keys jingle.
“Thought that old lady was comin’ today,” he mutters, not quite facing you yet. “The one who won’t shut up about her grandkids.”
You let the door close behind you with your foot and drop your bag on the counter. “Beverly?”
He grimaces. “Yeah. Beverly. She always brings me sugar-free snacks and tries to get me to do chair yoga. Last week she told me her grandson’s ‘learning percussion’ and made me listen to a recording of him beating on a bucket. Swear to God.”
You laugh into your sleeve. “I’m surprised you didn’t fake a seizure.”
“Came close,” he mutters.
You start unpacking the bottles, setting them in their little row near the sink. One of them rattles too loud and you shake it gently to check how low it is.
“So what, you’re happy to see me instead?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but you catch the way his chin tips slightly toward your voice, just enough to count as a yes.
You smile at his silence. He doesn’t say things like that out loud. He doesn’t have to.
“You know what day it is,” you say, already gathering the gauze and gloves.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Therapy.”
“And before that…”
He groans. “Med check.”
You’re already walking over. “Face check.”
“I hate this part,” he says.
“I know.”
But he lets you do it anyway.
You sit on the ottoman across from him and snap the gloves on. The sound makes him flinch a little. He never says why. You just know it gets in his head. You grab the small flashlight and tilt your chin toward him.
“You ready?”
“Do I get a lollipop if I’m good?” It comes out like bait, a hook for you to latch onto, even if he knows you never fully will.
“No, but I’ll say something nice about your hair.”
He snorts. “That’s a lie.”
You lean in. Carefully, you reach up and unfasten the cloth wrap that sits where his eyes used to be. You try to keep your face neutral, like always, but it never stops hitting you. The damage is still raw in places, though the burns have healed over into pink, shiny skin with ragged edges where his brow used to be. The scarring is faded but still angry. You’ve seen worse, but somehow this one gets to you more.
Maybe because it was done on purpose. Maybe because you know who he used to be.
He sits still, like he trusts you more than he lets on. The flashlight flicks over the tissue. You check the edges for inflammation, infection, irritation from the cloth or the heat. You wipe around the scars with a warm cloth, slow and careful.
“You’ve still got good skin,” you say without thinking. “Takes care of itself, even when you don’t.”
He makes a noise low in his throat. “You hittin’ on me again?”
You grin, focused on the last patch of scar near his temple. “Maybe.”
He shifts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice lazy and rough. “I might not have eyes, but my hands still work just fine.”
You freeze for half a second, cloth still against his skin, before answering too quickly.
“Didn’t say they didn’t.”
That comes out more breathless than intended. You both go still, the air between you suddenly different.
You clear your throat, fold up the cloth, and snap the gloves off. Your hands feel too warm now as you settle the wrap back over his face. You move back to the counter, pretending to be busy with the pill organizer.
He shifts again, the couch creaking under him, but doesn’t break the silence.
Finally, you turn. “We should head out soon. Your appointment’s at ten.”
“I know,” he says.
You grab your keys, the bag, and the Tupperware of snacks you packed for him earlier that morning. He doesn’t ask what’s inside, but you know he’ll eat them anyway.
The door clicks shut behind you both, and for a while, neither of you say anything.
But as you help him into the passenger seat of your car, he brushes your hand by accident, and you swear he lingers there just a second longer than necessary.
He won’t say what that means.
You don’t ask.
Especially then.
The chair squeaked under him in a way that always made it sound like it was going to break, like one more hour in this place and the legs would just give out beneath the weight of his bullshit. He shifted anyway, leaned back farther than necessary, arms crossed over his chest like he had something to protect.
He couldn’t see the guy sitting across from him, but he’d built enough of a picture over the last few sessions to feel confident about the assumptions he made. Gator could smell the cologne he used — one of those cheap ones that thought it smelled like wood but really just stung the nose like pine-scented antiseptic.
“Morning, Gator,” the therapist said, voice warm and calm like it always was. Like they hadn’t been through this same dance for six weeks now.
“Sure,” Gator said, not moving. “Let’s call it that.”
The man, Todd was his name, didn’t bite at the sarcasm. He just scribbled something on his clipboard, which Gator had told him on week two was annoying as shit. Clearly, it didn’t stick.
“How was the last week?” He asked. “Anything new come up?”
More scribbling. Gator hated the sound of that pen. He knew the guy did it on purpose, kept the silence going so Gator would fill it, but he wasn’t in the mood to play nice.
“You getting out of the house at all?” the therapist asked after a beat.
“You mean besides this circus?”
“Yes.”
Gator scratched at the seam of the cloth over his face, just near the temple. “I walk. Sometimes.”
“Where to?”
“Nowhere. Just… ‘round.”
“Alone?”
Gator didn’t answer. Not right away. The truth was, he hated going anywhere with people, but he hated being seen walking alone more. The blind guy stumbling down the sidewalk with a cane and a band over his face wasn’t exactly blending in.
“Mostly,” he muttered.
The therapist nodded, Gator could tell from the subtle shift of his clothes. “We talked before about connection, Gator. About letting people in. You’ve made real progress on your mindset. You’ve unpacked a lot about how you were raised, about your father’s influence, about what was expected of you. You’ve been doing the hard work. But what we haven’t really explored yet is how to form new relationships — ones that aren’t built on power, or fear, or control.”
Gator’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet.
The therapist continued, carefully. “Are there people in your life you’d call close? People you care about, or trust?”
There it was. The question they’d been circling for three sessions. Gator let the silence hang for a long moment, just to make a point.
“Not many,” he said finally. “Most people don’t wanna… get too close to the guy who lit the family name on fire.”
“You aren't responsible for your generational trauma.”
“I know that,” Gator snapped, sharper than he meant to. They'd gone over that shit time and time again, but it still slipped out. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his thigh and exhaled. “Nadine still comes by. She brings cookies. Bitches about her book club. It’s fine.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It’s loud. But yeah. I guess it’s… somethin’.”
“Anyone else?”
Gator hesitated.
“My nurse,” he said after a moment. “Caretaker. Whatever she’s called on the paperwork. The young one. She’s ‘round my age.”
“I'm familiar. What’s that like?”
Gator shifted again, scratched at the side of his neck.
“She’s annoying,” he said flatly. “Talks too much. Makes fun of my microwave technique. Smells like clean laundry and peppermint. Keeps tryin’ to feed me shit I don’t wanna eat. Tells me when I’m being a prick.”
The therapist didn’t speak.
“She’s fine,” Gator added, quieter. “Good at her job. Better than Beverly. Beverly tells me about her grandkid’s little league games like I give a damn.”
“But this one… you let her close.”
“I let her do her job,” Gator snapped, then exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It ain’t like that.”
Todd was silent again, just long enough to make Gator grit his teeth.
“What?” Gator growled.
“You talk about her differently.”
“Jesus,” Gator muttered, throwing his head back against the cushion. “This the part where you ask if I’ve got romantic feelings like we’re in a high school counseling session?”
“No,” he said calmly. “But I am going to ask if you’ve considered the difference between isolation and independence. You’ve been alone for a long time. And it sounds like this person is someone you let in more than most.”
Gator didn’t respond. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists, then uncurled.
After a beat, he smirked.
“Most folks don’t want to fuck up their insurance benefits getting involved with someone who looks like a half-melted action figure,” he muttered.
Todd sighed, more amused than exasperated. “You’re not disfigured, Gator.”
“Says the guy with a functioning face.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Damn right I am.”
“You ever try not doing that?”
Gator leaned back again, his voice dry. “What’s the fun in that?”
And the silence returned.
Like it always did.
Especially then.
You finish lining up his meds on the counter like always, labeled for morning and night, the little clack of each cap clicking into place while he sits in the armchair by the window pretending he’s not paying attention. You’ve already made the bed, opened the window just enough to keep the room from getting stale, laid out his water and snacks on the table like you always do on Fridays in case he gets restless after you’re gone. You’re halfway out the door before he finally says something.
“You smell different.”
You pause, fingers still wrapped around your keys. “What?”
He shifts like he’s not sure if he wants to repeat himself, but then he sits forward and mutters it again, slower this time. “I said you smell different.”
You blink and glance down at your dress, then back toward him. “Okay, creep.”
“I ain’t bein’ creepy,” he says, scowling like he’s already annoyed you made him clarify. “You don’t smell like peppermint.”
“That’s what this is about?” you laugh, stepping back into the room. “You miss the peppermint oil?”
“I don’t miss shit,” he grumbles. “I’m just sayin’. It ain’t what you usually wear.”
You lift an eyebrow. “So what do I smell like?”
He sniffs once, face twisting like he doesn’t really want to say it out loud. “Cherry. And somethin’ else.”
“Bergamot.”
There’s a long pause before he snorts. “The hell is that?”
“It’s… I don’t know. It’s just in the perfume.”
He mutters something that sounds like “fancy bullshit” under his breath, but you catch it and smirk. You move closer to grab your jacket from the chair where you left it earlier. That’s when he reaches out, fingers brushing your arm — just for balance, you think, or maybe not — his palm presses against the bare curve of your shoulder.
His hand goes still.
It’s clear the second he notices.
You aren’t wearing your usual scrub top or hoodie. No soft cotton or oversized sleeves. His thumb drags lightly across the edge of your strap, and it’s quiet for just a little too long.
“You wearin’ a dress?” he asks, already knowing the answer. There’s something sharp behind the words, dulled down with effort but still biting around the edges.
You hesitate. “Yeah.”
“Huh.”
You glance at him, at the way his jaw’s set like he’s grinding down something behind his teeth. “I have plans.”
“You goin’ to a funeral or somethin’?”
“No,” you say. “I have a date.”
He leans back a little like the chair just got less comfortable. “Huh,” he says again, but it comes out lower this time. “So that’s what this is.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” you add, pulling your hair back and twisting it into a clip, “but yeah. First date.”
“Who is he?”
You turn halfway toward him, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he lies. “Just curious what kinda guy gets you smellin’ like fruit and soap.”
You don’t respond. The silence stretches until he fills it himself.
“He got two workin’ eyes?”
You blink, slow. “Jesus, Gator.”
“What? That a requirement now?”
“You’re being a dick.”
“I’m just sayin’. I got some questions.”
“He’s a nurse. I met him last month. It’s a drink and maybe a movie. That’s it.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell by the way his foot bounces once against the floor and then stops. His jaw flexes. He folds his arms tighter.
“Must be nice.”
You sigh and head toward the door again. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“I ain’t stoppin’ you from leaving.”
You pause again at the threshold, hand resting on the knob, the weight of the night pressing in against the back of your neck.
Behind you, his voice cuts through — louder now, sharper than before, riding the edge of anger even though it’s dressed up like a joke.
“You better not come back here tomorrow all sex-drunk and forgetting shit.”
You turn slowly, eyes narrowing, pulse climbing in a way you don’t like.
“I’m not gonna be… sex drunk.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
You just stare at him, both of you standing your ground, both of you pretending that nothing got said that wasn’t supposed to.
You open the door and step out into the night.
You don’t slam it.
But you don’t close it softly either.
Especially then.
The voice in the audiobook was too smooth. It irritated him more than anything. Some guy reading a western like he had ever stepped foot on cracked earth or held anything heavier than a coffee cup. Gator let it drone in the background, something about two brothers and a land dispute, but none of it stuck. His mind wandered. His jaw ached from clenching. He had turned the volume down twice already and didn’t know why he kept turning it back up again.
The apartment was too quiet. Not silent — the fan still clicked every now and then from the corner, the fridge kicked on and off in its usual stubborn rhythm — but it felt like the walls were waiting for something. The kind of waiting that pressed in behind the ribs.
He leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, socked feet resting near the edge of the table. The blanket you’d folded for him sat untouched, the faint scent of whatever soap you used still clinging to it. Not the peppermint. The cherry and whatever-the-hell it was. Something citrusy and light, like lotion in a bottle too expensive for anyone normal to buy.
Bergamot. That’s what you said.
Gator scoffed quietly to himself and rubbed a hand across his face.
Fucking bergamot.
You were probably at some bar by now. Sitting across from a man who didn’t know you liked your coffee strong or that you hummed under your breath when you organized his pills. Some guy with decent shoes and clean hands, maybe a little cologne rubbed into his neck, probably wore button-ups that actually fit. Some guy who didn’t need a ride to the damn clinic every week or a guide to find the damn light switch.
The thought made him shift, restless. His fingers curled into the edge of the throw pillow beneath his elbow.
He didn’t care. He didn’t.
But the idea of that guy, this nurse or whatever he was, trying to understand you, trying to keep up with you, trying to figure out how you worked… it grated. He doubted that pretty boy had ever had to listen, not really. Bet he thought quiet was just silence and not the weight of it. Bet he thought soft touches were enough to keep a woman like you interested.
Gator knew better. Knew it in the way your voice changed when you were serious. Knew it in how you let him hear your breath catch when his hand landed on your shoulder, skin bare and warm beneath his palm. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t pulled away. He had felt the curve of your neck and the shift of muscle under his thumb. That moment had been short but it had happened. He hadn’t imagined it.
He tried to shake the thought but it followed him as he stood, slowly, body stiff from sitting too long. He took his pills with warm water and stood at the sink longer than necessary, fingers braced against the counter, chin tipped forward like gravity was trying to press him into the floor.
The apartment still smelled like you.
Even now. That scent mix clinging to the air like it was trying to haunt him. He swore he could feel it in the fibers of the carpet. His fingers twitched like they remembered the feeling of your arm. The dress. The way your voice sounded when you said first date like it wasn’t anything worth worrying about.
He turned off the audiobook and left the speaker on the table.
His bedroom was dark, only the hallway light bleeding through the cracked door. He didn’t bother undressing. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before lying back, hands folded behind his head. He tried not to think about where you were. Who you were with. If this guy would touch you the way he would. If he’d even know how.
You didn’t wear that scent for just anyone. That wasn’t a work perfume. That was a look-at-me kind of perfume.
His hand slid over his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants before resting lower.
He hadn’t meant to think about it. But now it was there and it wasn’t leaving.
He thought about how soft your skin had felt under his palm. About the sound of your voice when you laughed at him. How your perfume clung to your collarbones. How your thighs probably looked sitting across from some other man. How your legs crossed. How you leaned in when you were listening.
His palm moved lower, breath hitching with it, the fan above clicking like it was counting the seconds between every drag of his fingers. The room felt warmer than it should have, sweat already gathering beneath his shirt. He didn’t bother peeling it off. Just let his hand slip down over his stomach, rough skin catching on the waistband of his sweats, the movement automatic now, familiar. But tonight it felt like more than a routine. Tonight it felt like punishment.
That scent clung to everything you’d touched.
His hand gripped tighter, breath shallow now, pulled through gritted teeth.
He couldn’t see you anymore, sure, but that didn’t mean he forgot. He remembered how you looked when he’d see you at the hospital if he stopped in for a case. Scrubs, sure, but nothing could hide the way you were built. Not dainty, not delicate. You were soft in the way a man could hold onto, something that filled both hands and then some. You moved like you knew how much space you took up, like you didn’t care who noticed. Your hips always shifted before your voice did. Your arms had weight when you reached past him. Your thighs always brushed against the couch cushion when you sat near.
And your tits — fuck. He hadn’t seen them, of course not, but he remembered the way your shirt used to stretch a little across it when you leaned. The sound of fabric shifting when you adjusted the neckline without thinking. He used to steal glances, back when he still had the option. Now all he had were those stored-away pieces, pulled forward with every breath you left behind.
He hated that he couldn’t see you. Hated that all he had was memory and scent and the way your voice got tight when you were trying not to argue. Hated the way your shoulder felt under his hand earlier, warm and bare and real, just for a second before you pulled away.
His grip stuttered, hips pushing up toward his hand as the pressure built sharp and low in his gut. You, somewhere else, maybe laughing at someone else’s dumb joke. Maybe sitting across from some guy who didn’t even know how you liked your tea, or how to tell the difference between your annoyed silence and your tired one. Probably didn’t know how it felt to have your fingers graze his skin and not look at him like he was broken.
Even without his sight, he knew you never looked at him like that.
The thought hit hard, and he came with a rough sound caught in his throat, more breath than voice, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.
His hand stayed where it was for a minute, chest rising fast beneath it, cooling sweat clinging to his collarbone.
He didn’t say your name.
But his mind did.
Again and again.
The room felt too quiet when it was over. Too empty. The fan kept turning overhead like nothing had happened.
He pulled the blanket up past his stomach and let his arm fall across his eyes, not that it mattered.
All he could smell was you.
And all he could think about was what he’d never get to see.
And what someone else might be seeing now.
He didn’t say it out loud.
Especially then.
You come back around six from doing errands, arms full, the smell of browned meat and tater tots still clinging to your jacket. The casserole dish is wrapped in foil and still hot enough that you have to shift it from hand to hand as you move toward the kitchen. Gator’s already in his chair, angled just slightly away from the television like he’s listening but not watching anything. You’re not sure he even knows what’s on. The remote is resting on the arm of the couch untouched, and the news is just cycling quietly, background noise for a day where you haven’t really talked.
Not that anything’s wrong. Not exactly. You’d come in earlier like usual, checked his meds, done the daily routine. But it had all been mechanical. His tone had been even. Yours too. Everything said had been about what needed to be said, nothing more. You’d caught him listening hard every time you moved though. You knew the silence had weight.
You slide the dish into the oven to keep warm and set the table without asking. He doesn’t offer to help, not that he usually does, but today feels different. Tighter. The quiet clings to the corners of the room. He doesn’t ask about your night. You don’t bring it up.
Dinner is easy, solid, the kind of food that fills without needing much conversation. You set the plate down in front of him, spooned out carefully, hotdish bubbling at the edges, and he mutters a thanks like it caught in his throat.
He eats like he always does, slow but steady, like he’s thinking while chewing, like there’s something behind every bite he doesn’t want to name.
Halfway through, he sets his fork down, not dramatically, but enough that you glance up from your own plate. He wipes his mouth on a napkin, clears his throat, and then says it like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.
“You don’t gotta stay here all the time, you know.”
You pause, chewing slower, then set your own fork down gently beside the plate. “What are you talking about?”
“You got a life out there. Friends. People. Shit to do.” His voice is too casual. Too careful. “I’m not your whole goddamn schedule.”
“I know that.”
His head tilts slightly like he’s trying to catch your expression. “Just sayin’. People might start to talk. Wonder what you’re doing here every night.”
“You think I care what people think?”
“I think you should,” he snaps, too fast, too sharp. He softens it a second later. “I just mean… don’t wanna be the reason you stop showin’ up somewhere else.”
You study him for a moment. His jaw is set. The muscle near his temple keeps twitching. He was fishing for how your date went in the most Gator way possible.
“You’re jealous,” you say plainly.
He scoffs. “Of what?”
You don’t answer. Neither does he.
You clear the dishes in silence, scraping the plates and rinsing them slowly. Behind you, you hear the creak of the chair as he stands. You listen to the shuffle of his steps, slow and searching. You already know he’s heading toward the fridge before you hear the clumsy sound of the door being pulled open and something rattling inside.
“What are you looking for?” you ask over your shoulder.
He doesn’t answer at first. Then, frustrated, “Beer.”
You sigh and dry your hands quickly on the towel, walking over and nudging him slightly out of the way. His fingers are tight around the door handle, jaw clenched, annoyed at himself more than anything else.
“It’s behind the ginger ale,” you say, reaching in and grabbing one from the back. You twist the cap off and press it into his hand.
He mutters a quiet thanks that barely reaches your ears.
“You want one?” he asks, fingers already curling around the bottle like he needs the weight of it.
“I’m working.”
“Pretty sure your shift ends in an hour,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow, half-smiling. “That so?”
He nods. “You can cut out early if you want. Boss says it’s fine.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Just something simmering under the surface you don’t want to touch yet.
He takes a long drink, standing there by the fridge like it took effort to get that far. His head tips toward you again, just slightly. He can’t see the look on your face, but he knows something’s changed. He always does.
You glance at the clock, then back at him.
You grab a beer from the fridge and twist it open without saying anything.
“You wanna watch a movie?” you ask, voice quieter now.
He turns his head toward you like he’s glaring, and even without eyes, you can feel the way it would land if he could actually see you.
You walk past him into the living room without waiting for an answer.
He follows.
You put something on. It doesn’t matter what.
And then, for a little while, the silence between you feels like something else entirely.
Especially then.
The couch dipped a little when you sat back down with the beers, one in each hand, your hip brushing his as you passed him his. He took it without saying anything, fingers brushing yours, the bottle already slick from condensation. The movie was still going, volume turned low enough that he had to listen close, but he didn’t mind. He liked the way your voice filled in the gaps.
You’d been narrating parts of it for him. Not the whole thing, just the stupid parts, which was most of it. You’d tell him when one of the girls made a dumb face, or when the monster puppet looked like it came out of a pizza box. He didn’t ask you to, not really, but you did it anyway, casual, soft, like it was for your own entertainment as much as his.
It wasn’t a good movie. He figured that out from the music alone. It had that warbly synth stuff underneath the dialogue, everything sounding like it was filmed in someone’s basement on a camcorder with a dirty lens. But you laughed at it like you’d seen it before, and that did something to him. Made it easier to listen. Made him forget how close your leg was to his.
Your arm had brushed his earlier, and you hadn’t moved away. He hadn’t either. That was two brushes in twenty minutes. He was keeping count now, apparently.
The movie shifted tone around the halfway mark. The music changed. He heard the moaning before anything else. Heard it in that fake, breathy way actresses used to do when they were trying to sound hot and not bored out of their minds. You went quiet, which made it louder.
He lifted his beer, sipped once, then turned his head toward your voice, even though he couldn’t see your face.
“You gonna describe this part too?” he asked, letting the words roll out slow, just a little smug.
You made a sound in your throat like you might actually consider it.
“I mean,” you said, laughing, “I could.”
He turned his face forward again, shoulders relaxed but jaw tight. “Go on then.”
You hesitated, but then, with a breath, you actually did it.
“She’s got her shirt off. Lotta bounce. Hair’s big. Too much lip gloss.”
He grunted, amused. “Classic.”
“Guy’s not even hot. Looks like he borrowed his dad’s chest hair.”
Gator snorted. “You’d think they’d at least cast someone worth lookin’ at.”
“They didn’t cast for that. They cast for screaming volume and tit-to-waist ratio.”
He smirked. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”
“I’ve watched more bad horror than you, probably.”
“You say that like it’s a challenge.”
You didn’t answer right away, but you kept describing.
“She’s on top now. Moaning way too loud. It’s mostly shadow but you can tell the guy’s doing jack shit.”
“Christ,” Gator muttered, lifting his beer again. “Stop.”
You laughed. “You asked.”
He shook his head, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, didn’t expect a play-by-play.”
“You’re lucky I’m keeping it tasteful.”
“Sure.”
You kept talking for a little while after the sex scene faded out, your voice soft and steady as you described the next girl on screen. You didn’t always narrate like this. Just tonight. Just enough. He could tell by the way you spoke that this one wasn’t your favorite. You called her a knockoff Barbie with hair teased too high and makeup caked on like stage paint. You said she moved like a paper cutout and screamed like someone trying too hard to be hot. You described her as tall, fake-tanned, long-legged in a way that didn’t look real.
He didn’t say anything at first, just drank his beer and let your voice fill in the blanks. But you went quiet after a while. You stopped talking somewhere around the time she bent over in slow motion and let her shirt ride up. The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, not exactly, but different. Like something was sitting in it, watching both of you.
He turned his head toward you, didn’t need to see you to know what you were thinking. He could hear it in the way your breath caught a little. In the way you shifted your leg but didn’t move away. In the way you didn’t ask anything, but you wanted to. He felt it in the space between your words.
So he said it, casual, low.
“Never been into girls like that.”
You didn’t respond. Not right away. But he could hear you thinking.
“Nothin’ wrong with ’em,” he went on, setting the beer on the table, voice steady now. “But it ain’t what really does it for me. Sure did for a while. Had enough bikini posters in my room back at my dad's ranch. Well into my 20s. You would have given me shit for it.”
Still quiet from your side. He could tell you weren’t blinking. Probably staring straight ahead, pretending not to hear it. Wondering why he was saying this.
Hell, he wondered too.
“I like soft,” he said. “I want hips I can grab onto. A body I can fuckin’ hold, not worry I’m gonna snap.”
He heard your breath catch again. Not like before. Not annoyed. Just caught. Like you hadn’t expected him to keep going.
“Wanna feel her chest press up when she’s on top. I wanna know she’s really there. I don’t like dainty. Don’t want someone I can pick up with one arm. I want someone who’ll ride me until the couch breaks.”
He let that one sit.
Then, quieter, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “You know what I mean.”
You hadn’t moved, not really. But everything about your body had shifted. He could feel the tension in the way your knee stayed against his. The way your next breath came through your nose instead of your mouth. The way your beer bottle didn’t clink against the table yet, even though you’d stopped drinking five minutes ago.
He didn’t need eyes for this part.
He could hear it. In the air. In your silence. In your body betraying your mouth.
And it was doing something to him too.
Especially then.
You’re halfway through some garbage midnight rerun on the fuzzy local station. Something about mutant turtles, maybe? You aren’t even sure anymore. You’re just there. Still sitting too close on the couch. Still holding half a beer you forgot you were drinking.
It’s later than you’ve ever stayed. Quiet in that way that starts to feel like it means something. You’re stretched out beside him, feet resting against the coffee table, arm close enough to feel the heat of his skin. And for once, it’s not awkward. Not tense. Just easy.
You don’t even know how it comes up. Something dumb on screen. Some residual tension from his earlier words. Some bad pickup line in a parking lot scene. You snort. He scoffs. And then somehow you’re saying,
“Can I ask you something weird?”
He grunts in a way that means yes.
“Have you…” you hesitate, then push past it. “Have you had sex since you’ve been, y’know. Blind?”
Gator doesn’t turn his head, but you can feel the shift in him. The low flick of a breath from his nose.
“Wouldn’t you know? You’re here all the damn time.”
You let out a short laugh. “I mean, I’m not here when Beverly’s here.”
He lets out a sound between a scoff and a cough. “Yeah, okay. We’ll I’m sure as shit not fuckin’ Beverly.”
You frown. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well what’d you mean then? You think I got a fuckin’ lineup out the door? You think that’s what I’m after now? Walking around with a cane and a fuckin’ scarred up face looking for someone to pity-fuck me? Ain’t exactly in the market.”
You blink, a little stunned by the sharpness of it. But he doesn’t seem mad. Just honest. Tired.
“Wasn’t getting much play before anyway,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Half the time it was just about the badge. And I ain’t him anymore.”9
You don’t say anything to that. But your fingers flex on the bottle, and he hears it. You know he hears it.
He exhales again, like he’s dragging the memory out with him. “Cop buddies tried to take me to Bare Assets after I got out. Thought they were doing me a favor. Got me a dance in a private room. One where it ain't ever just a dance. One of those real feel-good, you-earned-this kind of things.”
He shakes his head, like he can still hear the music. “Was just sad. Couldn’t even get hard. All that perfume and fake giggles and hands on my legs and nothin’. Felt like they were feeding a dog scraps just to watch him beg.”
You blink again. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”
He turns his head slightly. “Not sayin’ I can’t get hard. Just sayin’—”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Yeah, well. I can.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
You laugh softly, nervous. “I believe you.”
“It’s just…” He shrugs. “It takes certain things now. More about the other senses than just imagining a good pair of tits. Like I gotta actually pay attention to shit now. Voices, tone, smell. Touch. Not that I get much of that now.”
Silence again. Longer this time. Thicker.
Then—
“Pretty sure I’m halfway there right now.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes wide, and he doesn’t need to see your face to know you’re stunned.
You see him grinning then, it's not as smug as usual. It's almost nervous then.
Especially then.
He could tell the second you stood up that you were rattled. The shift in your weight, the scrape of your knee against the cushion, the way you cleared your throat like it might buy you a second.
“I should go,” you said. Light. Dismissive. Trying to pass it off like it was nothing.
He didn’t move. Just cocked his head. “Thought you weren’t on the clock.”
You let out a sharp little laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat. “I’m not, but I also can’t believe you’re propositioning me right now. Real classy.”
He huffed, slightly offended. “Ain’t proposin’ nothin’.”
You kept talking anyway. “I mean, I know Beverly says this job can be uncomfortable sometimes, but I didn’t realize bedside handjobs were part of the care routine.”
He grinned, just barely, but didn’t rise to it. Not all the way. Because he could hear it in you now. That edge. Not just your usual bite. This one was shakier. Like you were trying to push something away before it stuck.
He waited until your steps circled back toward him. Until he knew you were close. Then he reached out, slow and sure, and caught your wrist in his hand.
“Hey,” he said. Quiet, but firm. “Don't go.”
You froze. He had never asked to directly like this.
He could feel your pulse skip under his fingers.
But then it came, sharp as ever. “What is this, Gator? You think I’m just gonna stick around and what, crawl into your lap ‘cause you’re lonely? You think I need this job that bad?”
His jaw twitched. He let go of your wrist, hands up like he’d touched something too hot.
“That's not what I meant,” he muttered.
“Then what did you mean?” you snapped. “Because that’s what it sounds like. You flirt and tease and say shit and then when I react, suddenly I’m the one who’s reading too much into it?”
He didn’t answer right away. He sat there, back against the couch, mouth tight, fists loose on his knees. He could still feel the shape of your wrist in his palm.
“You're not reading into it too much.” He muttered it like it was forcing its way out of his mouth.
His therapist’s voice surfaced, unwanted, in the back of his head. Telling him to make meaningful connections and shit.
Dammit, Todd.
He rubbed at his jaw, annoyed with himself. “Look. You wanna know what it is?” he said. “It’s that I like you. Alright? Not in some sad broken man way. Not ‘cause you wipe my counters and cook me shit. I like you.”
You didn’t speak. He kept going.
“I think about you when you’re not here. Wonderin’ what smartass thing you’d say about whatever trash’s on the TV. Thinkin’ what you smell like when you’re out on a date with some douche. I listen to you hummin’ while you fold towels and I swear to God it makes me feel like my fuckin’ ribs are cracked open.”
Your breath hitched. Just a little.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and reached for your wrist again, slower this time. Not pulling, just holding.
“And I know it ain’t your job to listen to this shit. I'm a bastard most of the time and I know you got no reason to care. But if I don’t say it now, I’m gonna choke on it.”
You didn’t pull away. Not this time.
So he held on.
And you stood there in front of him, too close to pretend you didn’t hear him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo, soft under all the heat.
His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, slow.
"I think about you other ways too. At other times. When I shouldn't." He cleared his throat, the words rough, the honesty rougher. "Think about how you'd sound. How it'd feel to have you on top of me. I've thought about it."
Your breathing was louder, unsteady, like it had to push its way through. His thumb slid slowly along your inner wrist. Up and down, tracing a gentle arc over the thin skin.
"You don't look at me like I'm broken. I mean..." he let out a breath of a laugh. "I can't fuckin' see it. But I know you don't."
"You're not. Broken, I mean." You finally say. The words feel like a secret, a quiet confession.
He nods, slow, and turns his head a little, just enough that you can see the shape of his profile against the pale yellow light spilling in from the kitchen. The edges of his jaw and chin and throat. The shadow of his mouth. His thumb keeps moving. Up and down. Over your wrist, then the side of your hand, and then back.
"You're always callin' me handsome and shit. Which is fuckin' wild, by the way. You must be goddamn delusional. But I get it. I hear the tone in your voice when you say it. I can tell the difference. I know it ain't a joke. So that's somethin'. I still got some parts worth lookin' at."
Your chest is so tight it hurts to breathe.
"Gator."
"I do. By the way." He smirks in a way he hasn't done in a while. "Got other parts worth lookin' at. Ones you haven't seen yet."
You let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it was a little stronger. Your voice is quieter now. Less angry. Less annoyed. Just a little... something else.
"I've seen your dick, Gator. I had to make sure you didn't fall in the shower the first couple weeks."
He knows that and he's a little mortified by being reminded of it in this moment. "Okay, well you haven't seen it hard."
That bit of crass boyish humor and defiance were definitely still in him. Todd couldn't cure everything in therapy.
"You think I'd want to?"
"I know you do."
Silence.
"You ever think about me?" he asks. "Beyond the flirting you do every damn day and then try to say it's for my ego. Do you?"
You swallow hard.
"Do I what?"
"Do you ever think about me like that?"
It's your turn to smirk now. "Do you really want me to answer that, or are you just asking to hear yourself talk?"
"I'm blind. Not deaf. And yeah. I want an answer."
He stands, letting go of your hand. You take a step back.
"You're a good-looking guy, Gator."
"That ain't what I asked."
"You're right."
"So."
"So what?"
He reaches for your hand again, fingers searching for a second before finding the shape of it. "I remember what you look like."
It hits you harder than you realize when he says that. And he notices. You know he does. He doesn't miss a single fucking thing.
"Your skin. Your hair. The curve of your waist. How big your eyes are. I remember it.."
Your mouth is dry. Your pulse is racing. You want to kiss him and run away and hide and scream all at once.
"Your scrub tops when you worked at County? Fuckin' hell. All stretched across your tits. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the shit that did to me. Be in the hospital takin' witness statements while half hard." He let out air through his nose, shaking his head. "Then found out you moved on to outpatient stuff and I didn't see you anymore. Then that fucker burnt my eyes out. Sure there's a fuckton more in between everything, but that ain't important right now. The real torture of it all is you're around me everyday now and I can't even fuckin' see you."
He said the last part like it pissed him off more than he could admit. More than he had the words to.
"You can hear me." You say, whispered.
He lifts his head up more, confused look on his face. "Yeah. I can."
You move his hand to your hip, where you have soft sweatpants on. "You can feel me."
Still in that whisper soft tone. It was undoing him. Was this...?
"And you can definitely smell me.. Won't shut up about my scent half the time."
His thumb brushes your hip. "You're wearing that cherry shit again."
"Then use those, Gator. If this is what you want. Then take it."
You didn't mean for it to come out like a challenge. But it does. And you can tell he likes it. Likes that tone. The one where you're daring him.
He's always liked a woman that would talk back to him, he can admit that now.
He slides his hand across the curve of your waist. Fingers spread out and pressing into your skin. The shirt you're wearing is thin, so he can feel your warmth. He pulls your body closer.
"I don't wanna be a joke to you." He whispers.
"You're not." You reply.
He slides his hand down your ass. "Or a pity fuck."
"It's not."
"Then what am I?"
"You're a guy I care about. Who has been hurt and needs someone who cares enough not to hurt him anymore."
His breath hitches and he grabs your ass more firmly, pulling you to his lap. You're straddling him now. His hands are on either side of your hips, still grabbing.
"And what are you gonna do?" he asks, voice a deep growl.
You're both breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours. You reach out, running a hand through his hair.
"Whatever you want me to."
He kisses you. Hard and hot and desperate. His hands are on your back, holding you to him. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair. He groans into your mouth, hips bucking up.
"Fuck, I need you," he pants, pulling away. "You feel so fuckin' good."
"We should go to your bed, this couch is awful."
"Yeah."
You stand up and take his hand, leading him. He follows, and he's glad the house isn't big. He'd hate to get lost now.
You close the door behind him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed. You walk toward him, stopping between his legs.
"Lie down." You say.
He does.
You climb onto the bed, straddling him. You grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up and over your head. It lands somewhere across the room.
Gator hears the material hit the floor. He can feel your body hovering over him.
You lean forward, kissing his lips. Then his cheek. Down his jaw. His throat. He can feel your bare tits against him, heavy and warm. He lets out a low moan.
Your hands are on his chest, roaming, reaching for the hem of his black t-shirt.
"You ain't wearing a bra when you're workin'?" He pants out.
"You can't see me. What's it matter?"
He groans. "It matters."
You laugh, pulling his shirt up. "Then let's get this off."
He sits up slightly, arms over his head, and you slide the shirt off. It falls to the floor, joining your own.
The dark chest hair and beauty marks strewn across his toned chest are even more handsome up close. You trail your hands down his torso and he makes the prettiest sound.
"Fuck. You touch me like you fuckin' love it."
"Because I do." You confess, and press a kiss to his shoulder.
He shudders. You can't tell if it's from the touch or your words.
You reach for the button of his jeans.
"Do you want these off too?"
"Fuck yeah. Take 'em off."
His cock strains against the fabric of his black boxer briefs once his jeans are off. His hands reach out, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants. "So no bra..." he says, sitting up a little. "Any panties?"
"You'd have to find that out yourself, wouldn't you?"
He smirks, hands tugging the sweats down, exposing your naked thighs. His hands roam from your waist to the crease at your hips where your tummy meets your thighs, searching for a bit of fabric. He finds none.
"No panties," he whispers. "Fuck."
You kick your sweatpants all the way off, now just completely naked on top of him.
"This is gonna sound fucked up..." you start, a nervous laugh spilling out. "But I'm kind of happy you can't see me right now. I always feel...self conscious? When I'm on top."
He can hear the vulnerability. The softness.
"Why?" he asks.
"I don't know. I mean, I'm not perfect. Always worried the view is going to disappoint."
"Oh, so I'm the blind one and you're the fuckin' deaf one. Got it." He says with a little snort.
You can't help but laugh. "What?"
"I spent the last half hour tellin’ you what I liked."
"Yeah, but.."
"No fuckin' buts." His hands grip the plush softness of your ass. "You think this doesn't turn me on? You think I don't wanna squeeze your hips and thighs and feel those fuckin' tits bounce while you're riding my cock? You think I can't imagine how you look when you're panting and wet? Or how pretty you'll sound moaning my name?"
You're taken aback, but you still manage to clear your throat with a small laugh and tease him. "How do you know I'll moan your name?"
He growls, squeezing you a little harder, and bucks his hips up, grinding against you. You gasp at how good the friction feels.
"I'll make you," he pants. "Trust me, I'll make you."
He's kissing you again, his hands roaming your back. He grips your ass again, hard, pulling you against his cock, just the fabric of his boxer briefs between you.
"Take 'em off," he grunts. "I need you to take these fuckin' things off."
You sit up, moving off him and grabbing the waistband of his boxer briefs. "Lift your hips."
He does and you pull them down, tossing them aside.
"Get on top of me," he commands.
"Bossy." You reply, but you get a good look at his cock as you do and, fuck, he wasn't lying. It's thick and hard, a pretty pink at the tip that matches his plush lips.
You climb back on top of him, settling over his hips.
"Fuck," he groans, feeling your heat. "I wanna touch you."
"You are touching me," you say, breathless.
"Not like that." He replies. "Let me feel you."
You guide his hands to your chest. His fingers brush over your nipples, and he hisses a low curse as he palms your tits.
"These things shouldn’t be fuckin' legal," he groans. "Spillin’ over my hands."
You moan softly. He squeezes them a little harder, teasing your nipples, and you whimper.
"Yeah, that's it. I wanna hear you," he growls, and sits up. "Want these in my mouth."
You lean forward, bringing your tits to his lips, and he groans, laving at them. His hands are on your waist, then your ass, squeezing. He looks so good like this, his mouth on you, sucking, licking, grabbing, moaning.
"Think about these every day," he mumbles, voice muffled by your chest.
"Yeah?" You ask, and he hums, nodding, pulling his head back.
"Always had a thing for 'em. Love a woman with a good pair. Wanna bury my face between 'em."
He kisses you, hot and hungry.
"You're a fuckin' wet dream. God this shit feels like a dream. You know your senses get heightened and shit when you can't fuckin see?"
"I went nursing school, yes." You laugh against his mouth. "But it's more like you develop your other senses more over time like--"
"I'm gonna develop my dick into you, okay? Not the time for anatomy lessons."
"You're cute when you're horny."
He growls. "Shut up."
You grind down on him and he curses, the feeling taking all the bark out of him. "Fuck. Shit. Yeah. I wanna fuck you so bad. God. Need to be inside you."
He can't see your blush, but he can feel the heat coming off you.
"I'm on the pill, but I don't have condoms," you say, hoping that it doesn't ruin the mood.
He groans, leaning his forehead against yours.
"I'm clean, swear on my life. Sure you could get that info anyway. Ain't been with anyone since..." He swallows hard, his next words barely audible. "Since before."
He's scared, you can feel it.
"It's fine," you whisper, hands in his hair. "I trust you."
His cock twitches and he hisses.
"Fuck, I want you."
"Then have me," you say. "I'm here."
He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers brushing your pussy. You're wet, slick against his touch, and he groans again. His thumbs finds your clit, circling slowly.
"God..." you whine out before biting your lip. "No man has an excuse for not finding it now."
"No man is gonna have the fuckin’ chance."
You shudder at his possessive tone, and he feels the shift in your hips.
"That's right. You're mine. Just mine." He grunts, pressing the pads of his fingers harder.
He rubs your clit for a moment longer, until you're squirming and gasping and rocking your hips.
Then he grips his cock, stroking it a couple times, before guiding the tip to your entrance. "C'mere."
You sink down on him slow, letting him stretch you open. You both moan, the sound a harmony, his low and raspy, yours soft and sweet. He feels bigger than you expected, but the pleasure is sharp, not painful.
"Oh, fuck." He curses. "Jesus, fuck."
You start moving, rocking your hips against him, taking him deeper each time. He groans, his hands gripping your ass, holding you as you ride him.
"Tell me how it looks," he breathes, his voice strained. "Tell me what you look like. I wanna know."
"I don't...I can't say that shit… what if I sound stupid?" You pant out.
"You won't. Please."
You can't say no to him when he begs.
"Your cock...it's so thick and pretty and hard, and it's sliding into me, and the way my pussy's wrapped around it, God..."
He groans, thrusting up. “You like it? How it looks when I'm fuckin’ you?”
"I love it. Fuck."
You're moving faster, rocking your hips in a rhythm, the room filled with the sound of your skin slapping against his. He's thrusting up to meet your hips, and you can't stop the sounds that spill out.
"Wanna feel your tits bouncing," he pants.
You move one of his hands from your hip to your breast. He squeezes one and groans, hand resting just under to feel them bounce.
"God, I love the way they move. They're fucking perfect. You're perfect."
He moves his other hand up, feeling your neck, then your jaw.
"Open," he rasps.
You open your mouth, and he slips two fingers past your lips.
"Suck," he orders.
You do, swirling your tongue around them. He hisses.
"Just like that. Jesus. Your mouth's so wet. Like a pussy."
You whimper, and he feels your tongue lap at his fingers. He pulls them out and moves his hand to your face, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. The hand still on your hip digs in harder, moving you faster.
"Ride me harder, baby," he pants.
"Yes," you breathe, and you bounce harder, the angle making him go deeper.
"Oh, fuck." He grits. "Feels so fucking good. Your pussy's so tight. So fucking wet. God, the sounds you're makin'."
His words are particularly special or flowery, but the praise is still doing something to you, making heat pool in your belly. Suddenly you're grateful that he never shuts the fuck up.
"You're close," he pants, and you nod, forgetting he can't see it.
"I am," you reply, voice shaky. "Are you?"
"Yeah, baby. So fuckin' close."
You reach down and rub your clit. Gator feels the movement and lets out a broken moan.
"Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck, yes. God, you touching yourself.?"
"Gator," you cry out, and he can feel how much you're shaking.
"That's it," he pants. "You're gonna come on my cock. You're gonna come all over it, and then I'm gonna fill you up. Fuck. That's what you want, isn't it? My cum so deep in your pretty little pussy."
You whimper, his words and the movement of his cock and the way he's moaning and growling and hissing sending you over the edge.
"Fuck, baby," he grunts, and you're coming, crying out and shaking and rocking your hips, his name on your lips.
"Yes," he groans. "Fuck yes, that's it. Fuck. Keep going. God, you're so wet. I can feel it. You're milking my cock. Fuck, I'm gonna come. Oh, shit. Fuck. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna—"
"Please," you whine.
"Oh, fuck. You're beggin' me. Fuck. Say it again. Beg me."
"Please," you moan. "Please, come inside me."
He's not sure if it's the words or the way you sound when you say them, or the feeling of your pussy pulsing around his cock, but he's coming hard, holding you down on him and filling you up. He's cursing, the word fuck spilling from his mouth over and over, and you're crying out again, your body shaking as you come a second time.
The sound he makes when his cock starts pulsing in you, the way he fills you, it's like nothing you've ever heard before. He's not quiet, not even a little. And you've never felt this kind of release, not from any other man. You feel lightheaded, dizzy almost, the room spinning around you.
He's panting, trying to catch his breath, his hands still gripping your hips. You can feel his cock softening inside you, but it's still buried deep.
You're both silent, trying to recover, the air thick with sweat and sex.
"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "Fucking hell."
"Yeah," you agree.
There isn't much else that can be said. He’s a sightless man who just fucked someone so thoroughly, it was like he could see every inch of her body.
You reach for the nightstand, finding the glass of water he keeps there. You drink half and offer him the rest, bringing it to his lips. He takes it and gulps down the remainder.
You collapse onto the bed next to him, still naked. His arm is thrown over his face, and he's panting.
"I'm gonna get us cleaned up. Then we'll talk," you say.
The arm that isn't over his face reaches over to stop you as you get up.
"No you're not." He says, his voice hoarse.
"I'm not sleeping like this and neither are you." You say with a lighthearted eyeroll. "I'll be back."
He huffs but he doesn't actually say anything, keeping his hand on you.
"What is your issue?" You ask, confused now.
"I'm supposed to be the one doin' that shit for you!"
He yells it, but there's nothing mean in his voice. Just frustration and something else. Something sad.
"Gator." You whisper, and move the arm from his face.
He doesn’t cry in the usual way. The damage to his tear ducts and lacrimal glands was too severe. You’ve only seen it once before, early on into working with him. His sockets don’t glisten or brim over like other men’s might. The burns left them scarred and hollow, the skin puckered and shiny in places where the grafts took, ragged in others where the heat had eaten too deep.
When emotion breaks through him, it shows as a raw wetness that seeps at the edges. The sound gives him away more than anything — his breath hitching, his voice breaking, the rough sniffling that seems to scrape at the back of his throat.
"Oh."
"Oh," he parrots, even with his voice breaking. "I can't take care of you the way a man should. I can't..." He shakes his head. "Fuck. I really am useless."
You have the words for it because Todd made sure you did. You remember him sitting across from you in that first collateral session, explaining what to watch for if the past shoved its way into the room. The hitch in Gator’s breathing. The lock in his jaw. The way shame can masquerade as anger. You see all of it now, strobing through the dim. And it feels like none of that actually prepared you for this moment.
Useless.
The word lands wrong in your chest because you know where he learned it. You picture the way he told you about his father in clipped notes and hard pauses, a man who measured worth in bruises and obedience, who called softness a weakness and turned love into a job no one could keep.
The word useless lived in that house like mold, got into the walls, into the food, into the boy who learned to clean his plate even when it tasted like rot.
You know why the word hits you like a thrown glass now. You can see him reaching for it the way someone reaches for an old injury, pressing just to make sure it still hurts.
He fills the silence with a breath that shakes. “Guess the old man was right about—”
“Stop.” You lean in, press your mouth to the strip of skin above his wrap, right where his skin is smooth and warm below his hairline. “Do not put his voice in your mouth. Not here.” You keep your lips there a second longer than necessary, then pull back only far enough to whisper. “You are not useless.”
He lets out a hollow laugh, the sound dry and stubborn. “Yeah. Fine. But, as much as I can’t stand Todd and his perfect hair and golf tan and dumb boat shoes… he has a point.”
You blink, caught off guard by the picture. Todd is all sweaters and salt-and-pepper and lace-up boots that look more library than lake. You almost correct him, almost say he has a gray beard and a tweed problem and probably gets sunburned looking at a window, but you swallow the impulse. Let him have the cardboard villain if it makes the medicine go down.
Gator turns his face toward your voice like he can find you by the heat of it. “Point is, he keeps sayin’ I gotta say things out loud or they fester. So.” He swallows. His hand flexes on the sheet. “I was a real piece of shit before. I know that. I acted like a man who deserved more than he gave. I liked bein’ mean. I liked when people backed up. I thought the badge and the name made it fine.” He pauses. “It didn’t.”
You slide your palm up his forearm, slow and steady, the way Todd told you helps when the edge gets sharp. He doesn't pull away. You hate that the muscles under your hand are tight and trembling, like he is bracing for a hit that never comes.
“I ain’t like him,” Gator says, voice roughening. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to scare women. I don’t want to hurt ’em. I did enough hurtin’ walkin’ around blind to my own bullshit before I lost my eyes.” His mouth flattens. “And that lady I killed… in my head I said it was an accident like it made a difference. Maybe it does on paper. But I still did it. I was still on my way to murder someone that night, just ended up bein’ the wrong person.”
Your thumb moves in slow, steady circles against his skin. You don’t bring up the facts again. Don’t repeat what the report said, or what the lawyer said. You just let him hold the thread in his own hands.
“Now… I wanna take care of somebody,” he says, voice low and raw. “Not own ‘em. Not control ‘em. Just… take care. Bring their coffee the way they like it. Fix the crooked shelf. Keep a hand at their back on the ice so they don’t fall. Sit through the boring shit ‘cause it matters to them. Hold ‘em when they’re sick. Touch ‘em like I know where they’re sore and where they’re strong.” He lets out a breath, soft and wrecked. “And I can’t even see if they’re rollin’ their eyes at me. I gotta ask where the cups are in my own kitchen. Gotta have someone check my goddamn face for infection. It’s funny, in a mean kinda way. Like the universe waited for me to want the right things just so it could get locked behind fuckin’ glass.”
You lean down and kiss the space above his wrap, then the ridge of his temple, then the curve of his cheek where the graft meets the old skin. “You are doing it,” you say. “You’re taking care. Right now. You’re talking. You’re telling me what you want. That counts, a lot more than you realize.”
He breathes like he doesn’t believe you—but maybe wants to. A small laugh escapes, smaller than his pride, shaped like a bruise. “Feels like one of those twisted jokes,” he murmurs. “Soon as I decide I’m ready to be good at somethin’ that actually matters, I’m short a couple tools.”
Your hand slides from his forearm to his bicep, a firmer grip that says don’t run. Don’t look away—even if looking’s different now. He turns his face toward you again, closer this time, like he’s learning you by sound and warmth.
“Yeah,” you say, soft. “Maybe it is a joke.”
You let the beat stretch, then add, calm and sure, “But the punchline’s not that you failed.”
He swallows. Nods once. Your foreheads almost touch.
And you stay like that, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, your mouth on his temple. Both of you listening to the same breath, until the room remembers how to be small and safe again.
Then you tilt your mouth toward his ear.
“Do you want to take care of me,” you ask, quiet but clear. “Right now? ”
He huffs a laugh, trying to pull the moment back to something he can joke about. “Think I could go another round.”
You snort and tap his bicep, gentle. “Not like that.”
There’s a small pause while he tries to figure out what you mean. You can feel him searching the space for you, head turning a little.
“Do you trust me?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then he adds, dry, “You helped me the week I kept gettin’ turned around in the shower and cussin’ at the faucet like it was personal. Pretty sure I gotta trust you by now.”
You laugh, soft and fond, and squeeze his hand. “Come on.”
You help him sit up, then stand, then you guide him with your palm at his at his elbow. The little bathroom off the bedroom is warm from the radiator, mirror fogged at the edges, tile cool under your feet. You set him lightly against the sink, steadying him until his knuckles find the porcelain. He’s still flushed from before, chest rising slow, hair mussed from your fingers. A line of dried sweat glints along his collarbone. His mouth is a little swollen. He looks wrecked in the best way, a good kind of used.
You take the wrap from his head, careful with the knot, careful with the edges. He holds still, jaw set. When the cloth comes free, he lets out a breath you can feel on your wrist.
“Isn’t it weird,” he says, voice low, “how I still wanna look away or close ‘em when I can tell you’re lookin’ at me like that?”
“Like what?” you ask, already reaching past him to turn the shower on. The pipes knock once, then settle, steam lifting in a thin veil.
“Like I’m somethin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says, almost a whisper.
You test the water with your fingers, then glance back at him, water pattering louder now. “That’s because you are.”
You step him into the tub with you, guide his hand to the tile so he can place his feet, then tug the curtain closed. Warm water finds both of you in a steady sheet. You lift his hand and set it at your hip, then tip your face up and kiss the corner of his mouth. Slow. You kiss his jaw next, then the notch of his throat, then the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. You tell him what you love as you go, soft against his skin.
“This throat,” you murmur. “How your voice sits low here when you’re bein’ stubborn.”
You kiss the slope of his shoulder. “These shoulders. Big enough to lean on.”
You kiss along his collarbone. “This. Warm. Strong.”
Your mouth trails over the center of his chest, the dark hair gone flat under the spray. “All of this. The way you feel under my hands.”
He breathes out through his nose, steady, like he is letting the words soak in the way the water does. Your palms smooth down his ribs, over the curve of his waist, around to the small of his back. You kiss the flat of his sternum and feel his fingers flex at your hip.
“What happened to me takin’ care of you,” he asks, a half-laugh caught in it, like he is trying not to ruin whatever you are doing.
You smile against his skin and look up at him. “We’re gettin’ there.”
You find the body wash and the little bath pouf tucked on the caddy. “One of those fluffy things,” you say, half laughing.
He makes a face you can hear. “Hate that damn sponge-ball. Feels like bathin’ with a tutu.”
“You’ll live,” you say, smiling as you squeeze a ribbon of soap onto it. You work it until it foams, then curl his fingers around it and lift his hand. “Here. Help me.”
You guide him to your throat first. The puff glides over your skin, slick and warm under the spray. He follows your touch, slow, careful, the lather sliding down to your collarbones. You tip your chin so he can reach, and his breath brushes your cheek when he leans in to keep his balance.
Then his hand drifts lower.
He circles the top of your breasts and you hear the soft sound he makes when the pouf sinks against you, soap clinging, bubbles collecting at the curves. He moves under, patient, thorough, the drag of mesh and his knuckles leaving heat in its wake. You let out a quiet sound you did not mean to make.
“There’s more than those,” you whisper, teasing.
“Yeah, well,” he says, a smile in his voice, “there’s a lot of ‘em. Gotta make sure they’re extra clean.”
You laugh, breath catching when he lifts and cups you from beneath with the pouf, then you tap his wrist and steer him on. He runs over your shoulders and down your arms, slow from biceps to wrists like he is memorizing your shape through foam. You turn to give him your back and he follows the line of your spine to the small of it. His hand settles at your hip before sliding lower. He soaps the curve of your ass, careful and firm, then between your legs with a touch that is reverent more than greedy. You guide him, small nudges at his wrist, and he listens without argument, washing your inner thighs, the backs of your knees, down your calves to your ankles.
“Good,” you murmur, flushed and clean and dizzy. You tug him forward so both of you stand right under the water. The spray warms your face and rinses the lather off your skin in shining sheets.
“My turn,” you tell him, taking the pouf and running it up his chest. The suds cling to dark hair and stick to his sternum. You work the lather over his ribs, his sides, the planes of his stomach. He stands still, trusting your hands, only shifting when you press his hips so you can get everywhere. You soap his shoulders and the cords of his neck. He tips his head for you without being asked.
You turn for the shampoo on the shelf. Your back finds his chest, the weight of him a solid line. You pop the cap, squeeze the clear gel into your palm, and work it through your own hair first. Then you lift his hands and lace his fingers with your sudsy ones, pulling them up into your hair so he can feel it slip and catch as he lathers. His thumbs skim your scalp. His mouth finds your shoulder, a soft kiss against wet skin.
“Thank you,” he whispers into the curve there, barely louder than the water.
You swallow, then turn to face him. You pump more shampoo into your hands and reach up, working it through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow circles. He goes quiet the way men do when something good undoes them. You rinse him with your fingers spread, then step closer and tilt your head with his so the spray catches both of you. You close your eyes while the water runs clean, while the last suds slide off your shoulders and down your bodies.
You stay like that for a while, chest to chest, water drumming on your crowns, the bathroom small and warm around you.
His thumb finds your mouth first, tracing the shape of your bottom lip like he is reading a word he loves. He leans in and kisses you, careful and slow, nothing like the hungry mess from before. You can feel how he is touching you just to memorize you. He pulls you closer, chest to chest under the warm hiss of the shower, and you breathe the same steam.
“See,” you whisper against his mouth, “you can be good at taking care of me.”
He grumbles a little, more embarrassed than annoyed.
“And even better,” you add, smiling so he can hear it, “we can take care of each other.
Another soft mutter, as if he's trying to protest but knows you'll see right through it.
“It’s pretty obvious you like me taking care of you,” you tease, and he kisses you soft again, a little longer this time, like he is sealing something.
You turn the water off and help him step out. Everything after is a blur of warm towels and dripping hair and the small bathroom’s heat. You put a clean wrap on his eyes. You hand him a fresh pair of boxers. You grab one of his black T-shirts from the dresser and tug it over your head, then stop halfway and catch his hands.
“Help me,” you say, guiding his palms along the hem, over your ribs, up to the collar so he can feel how it hangs on you. He smooths the cotton down your sides. It catches on your curves and you laugh. “Kinda tight… my ass is half out.”
“Not gettin’ any complaints here.”
He finds your fingers, and even though you could guide him, he turns and leads the way to the bed with the surety of someone who knows every inch of his room by heart. You climb in, the sheets cool, his body warm. You tuck yourself against him.
“Is it okay if I stay?” you ask. You already know, but you want to hear it.
He lets out a quiet laugh and hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to share a breath. That is the answer.
“Ain’t really done the stayin’ thing,” he says after a moment. “Used to just do it and go. Don’t know if I kick in my sleep. Might snore. Could talk, too. No idea.”
“It’s okay,” you say. “We’ll find out.”
He exhales and settles, one hand open on your hip like a promise.
After a long minute he says, almost sheepish, “You probably can’t be my caretaker anymore. Pretty sure this is a violation or whatever.”
“Oh, it’s a violation,” you say, laughing into his chest. “A big one. But I can still be here every day. I’ve got other clients. I’ll be fine.”
“So I’m gonna be seein’ a lot more of Beverly,” he groans.
“You’ll live,” you say. “Just don't end up doing this with her, cause then we’re really screwed.”
He snorts. “Yeah, right.” Then he tips his face toward you. “Ain’t doin’ this with anybody but you.”
You feel his words settle between your ribs. He tucks you closer. You let him.
Theres not much after that. A kiss or two. Maybe a quiet conversation. Something about his father or yours. Something about a dream, or the kind of future you would want if the world was different.
The morning will come and the coffee you make him will be too sweet, but he'll drink it anyway.
Beverly will show up, late and with another story about her grandkids.
He'll call Karen, just to talk to the girls, and leave another message that goes unanswered.
There will be a text from Todd. A reminder about his appointment.
But right now, in the warmth of his bed, he isn't alone.
And when he wakes up, you'll still be with him and he'll realize, in the small hours before the sun, that it is enough.
The world will go on spinning. But for a moment, right then, everything will feel right.
Especially then.
WOW SORRY FOR THAT EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER!
If you guys haven't placed a fanfic drink order, please do so here! I'm having so much fun with them so I'm extending it until end of October!
| summary: Gator just arrested a pretty girl today and can’t stop thinking about her, that’s when she finds him and takes care of it.
| w/c: explicit smut! 18+, dirty talk, p in v, overstimulation, phone sex, praise kink, big dick gator.
Gator’s on-call that night—bad luck, honestly. He was halfway through a beer at his dad’s mayor house when the radio crackled to life with dispatch.
He groans, grabbing his hat and shoving it on as he stomps out to the truck. The address is a convenience store near downtown—the kind with flickering neon lights and too many security cameras for its own good.
The street's dead quiet when he rolls up, no sirens or flashing lights yet—just him pulling in slow like maybe it's nothing. But then.
A figure darts from the back alley behind the store.
Gator squints.
That silhouette looks like…a woman?
Gator’s blood runs cold. That stance—the way the figure ducks low, moving fast. It was definitely a woman.
His heart does something weird in his chest—not anger, not yet. Just… shock? Confusion?
Without thinking, he kills the engine and steps out of the truck quietly, keeping to shadows as he starts following your trail from a distance.
The back door of the store is slightly far—a dead giveaway—but no alarm's gone off yet. You were sneaky.
A cop would notice that immediately.
Gator freezes in the alley’s dim glow, his sheriff instincts kicking in hard. The second he sees you—hood up, backpack slung low—he knows.
For a heartbeat, he just stares. Then his face darkens like storm clouds rolling in.
“Hey! You!”
His voice is quiet but sharp as broken glass—the kind of tone that cuts through silence and makes your spine lock up.
He takes one slow step toward you… then another… not running yet, but moving with purpose. The cast on his arm looks ridiculous under the streetlight right now.
You stay quiet as he keeps getting closed from your back, but as soon as he was going to reach out, you take your pistol and aim at him.
Gator stops dead the second he sees the gun. His eyes—wide, startled—lock onto the barrel pointed at his chest.
For a split second, pure shock flashes across his face. This isn’t some petty theft or dumb mistake anymore.
His hands instinctively go up—not fast enough to be threatening, just slow and visible in that universal cop-surrender pose.
"Whoa…Let’s…Calm down ok?”
His voice is steady now but strained—like he's trying to keep it from shaking because *holy shit*, you're holding a gun on him.
The alley feels smaller suddenly. The tension could choke someone.
“Don’t fucking move.”
Gator doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Every muscle in his body locks—cop training kicking in, but also pure primal instinct: *don't get shot.*
His hands stay high, palms out, fingers spread. The streetlight casts shadows under his hat brim—you can see the whites of his eyes like a deer’s.
"Okay” he says softly—the first time you've ever heard him sound anything but cocky or angry. "Ok…I ain't moving."
A beat passes where the only sound is your shaky breathing and distant crickets somewhere down the block.
Then Gator does something stupid: he slowly starts to lower himself onto one knee—not attacking, just… trying to seem smaller? Less threatening? Like a man disarming a bomb with words alone.
“Take all your guns off, and if you try anything stupid i’ll kill you.” you say almost shaking.
Gator’s face does something complicated at that—disbelief, anger, a flicker of fear? But mostly… disbelief. That you *threatened him*. A sheriff. In his own damn town.
Finally, he exhales through his nose and nods again—this time slower, more deliberate.
A pause.
The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smirk but close to it because oh hell no this man isn't scared of your hypothetical threat.
“You think i’m kidding?” You say smirking, the gun getting closer to his face.
Gator sees it—the shift in your grip, the way your finger might be tensing on the trigger. That’s all the warning he needs.
In a flash—faster than you’d expect from a guy with a cast—he ducks to the side and slams his good shoulder into you, not aiming to hurt, but to knock you off balance. The gun goes flying out of your hand as he tackles you toward the brick wall behind him.
A second later, his weight pins yours—not enough to crush but enough that struggling is pointless unless you’re stronger than an angry cop twice your size.
"You’re under arrest.” He growls through gritted teeth.
“Don’t.—fucking pig.” You struggle to say anything in this moment.
Suddenly, you feel a bulge growing at his pants, you wonder if it’s one of the guns he carries.
“I’m a good girl, officer.” You teased, slightly humping your ass on him.
He notices.
Gator’s grip is iron—one hand clamps your wrist to the pavement, the other presses down on your shoulder like a weighted blanket. His face hovers inches above yours, jaw clenched so tight it might crack.
For once, he isn't smug or sarcastic. Just furious—the kind of rage that comes from being betrayed by someone who was supposed to be harmless (in his eyes).
He shifts his weight to pin you better and yanks out his cuffs with his good hand—metal clicking as he starts reaching for your wrists.
"Fucking women.”
The whole crew of officers finally arrive.
The officers unlock the holding cell door, stepping inside with calm professionalism. One of them gestures for you to stand.
"You’re being transported to Stark County Detention Center for booking," One says in a monotone voice—they’ve done this a thousand times.
Gator watches from outside the bars as they guide you out by the elbow. His face is unreadable now—no anger, no lingering tension…just detached sheriff mode.
Later that day, Gator is at his home, alone, watching tv and thinking about you.
Gator’s living room is quiet—just the hum of the TV and the occasional crackle of a commercial. The news isn’t on; it's some mindless crime drama, irony not lost on him.
He slouches into his couch, beer in hand… but he isn't really watching. His mind keeps circling back to you: your breathing hitching, how easily he catched you, that stupid thief.
A part of him feels satisfaction—the arrest was clean. Justice served.
But another part? That part remembers all that messed-up tension between you two.
The remote gets flipped absently between channels as Gator sighs—annoyed with himself for still thinking about a criminal hours after booking her in jail.
He hears something outside of the house.
Gator’s blood runs cold. The thud at his front door is loud—deliberate. Not a raccoon, not wind… someone is trying to break in.
A chill crawls up his spine.
"The hell—?” He mutters, shoving the beer bottle aside and grabbing the pistol from under the couch cushion (always loaded). He creeps toward the window to peek through the blinds.
Then suddenly, he hears a feminine, smooth voice behind him. “You did a great job today, Sheriff.”
Gator whirls around—heart slamming against his ribs. The bedroom door is wide open, and there you are, leaning against the frame with that same damn smirk.
“What the fuck?” he barks, gun still raised out of pure instinct… but he doesn’t fire. Can't.
The house is dead silent except for your voice—and the fact that you somehow broke into his home after being arrested is insane.
“Oh, you missed me?” You say getting slowly closer to him.
Gator doesn’t lower the gun. His finger isn’t on the trigger, but it hovers. Trained law enforcement reflexes kicking in.
"You’re supposed to be in jail.” He says through gritted teeth, voice low and dangerous. “How the hell did you—?"
He scans your outfit quickly: no cuffs…Just you. Did you escape? Bribe someone? The logistics don't matter right now.
“I know you’re not gonna shoot.” You say smirking.
Gator’s jaw clenches. You’re right. he won’t shoot you. Not unless you pull a weapon or lunge at him… and right now, you're just standing there, smug as hell.
But the gun is still raised—not pointed directly at your chest, but close enough to make his stance clear: back off.
“Why are you here?" He demands, voice colder than it's ever been with anyone. “You escaped custody? That's a felony on top of everything else."
A part of him wants to call for backup… but his phone is downstairs.
You take one more step closer to him.
Gator’s stomach does a weird, traitorous flip at your words. This shouldn’t affect him.
But the truth? Yeah…he thought about you all damn day.
The gun wavers slightly in his hand as his resolve cracks for half a second.
“This is insane," He mutters… but it's not anger anymore. It's confusion. “You robbed a store and got arrested like six hours ago."
“Are you scared, Sheriff?” one more step closer.
Gator’s throat goes dry. You’re testing him—pushing his buttons, seeing how far he’ll let you go.
“No," He lies automatically…But the way his pulse jumps betrays him.
Scared? Not of you physically. But of this situation—of whatever the hell is about to happen next.
The gun hangs loosely at his side now, forgotten in a way that would get any rookie officer fired for negligence.
A third step closer from you…And Gator finally does something reckless: he closes the gap himself.
The tension is palpable. You’re so close to him you can feel his breathing hitching.
“Your heart is beating really fast” You tease him.
Gator freezes. How the hell can you *hear* that? His heartbeat is loud in his own ears, but he didn’t think it was visible—or audible.
Unless… you’re close enough to feel it. Which means—
Before either of you can overthink it, Gator surges forward and crashes his lips onto yours.
The gun clatters to the floor.
A reckless, stupid move for a sheriff with a fugitive on the run… but right now? He doesn't care.
The kiss is fierce—all pent-up tension, frustration, and that weird dream-fueled attraction finally exploding. Gator’s hands find your waist on instinct, pulling you closer as his back hits the wall.
For a second… nothing else exists. No robbery charges. No escape from jail. Just this.
Then reality slams back in—Gator abruptly breaks the kiss, breathing hard.
“I can't…" He rasps. “You're a fugitive."
But he didn't push you away.
“Yeah. We shouldn’t. This is very wrong.” You say back. Breathing hard.
Gator’s breath stutters as your hands trail down—every nerve ending lighting up. This is wrong. Illegal, even.
His dad would have a damn aneurysm.
But the way you say "this is very wrong"… like it turns you on more… sends heat straight to his gut.
A shaky exhale escapes him as he catches your wrist—not to stop you, but to press your palm flat against the hard plane of his stomach instead.
“We shouldn't,” He growls—but leans back in for another kiss anyway.
“We definitely shouldn’t.”
Gator’s self-control snaps. That stare—dark, defiant, hungry. Does him in.
He crushes his mouth back onto yours, hands sliding into your hair as he backs you toward the bed. The sheriff part of his brain is screaming that this is career-ending insanity… but the man part?
“Fuck it.” He mutters against your lips before pushing you down onto the mattress.
Your hands start to unbuckle his belt.
Gator’s belt clinks as you undo it—no hesitation, no second-guessing now. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, messy and desperate like neither of you can get enough.
His hands are everywhere: your hips, your back, tangling in your hair to tilt your head for better access. Every rational thought about consequences has evaporated.
The bed dips under his weight as he follows you down… belt loosened, shirt half untucked… the line between lawman and lover blurring fast.
You start to unzip your jacket.
Gator’s gaze drops to your hands as you unzip the jacket—his breathing ragged. The fabric slips off your shoulders, revealing whatever’s underneath… and his throat goes dry.
For a split second, he just stares, drunk on the sight of you. No cuffs. No jail jumpsuit. Just you—close enough to touch.
Then he surges in again, one hand sliding up your bare side while the other grips the back of your neck, kissing you like it's his last night on earth.
“Don’t you want to arrest me, officer?” You tease him.
Gator growls against your lips at the taunt—half pissed, half turned on by how much you’re enjoying this twisted power play.
“I should," He admits roughly, nipping at your bottom lip before claiming another kiss. “But right now i wanna do something else."
The sheriff’s badge is still clipped to his belt… but it might as well be a million miles away. His hands are busy peeling off layers of clothing instead of cuffs.
“Tell me what you wanna do then.” You start to kiss his neck.
Gator’s head tips back the second your lips hit his neck—a weak spot he hates that anyone ever finds out about. A shiver runs down his spine.
“Christ…" He breathes, fingers tightening in your hair.
Instead of words, he captures your mouth again, kissing you deeper as his hands slide under the fabric of whatever you're wearing… exploring with zero patience left.
You put his hands inside of his boxers, feeling his huge cock twitching.
Gator chokes the second your hand makes contact—his entire body tensing like he’s been electrocuted. A sharp, involuntary noise escapes him, something between a groan and a curse.
”Fuck—" His hips jerk into your touch on pure instinct, his cock already hard as steel under your palm. The friction is electric. Too much and not enough at the same time.
You remove your hand. Leaning on his bed. You take all of your clothes off. Turn into your back, waiting for him to just enter, and he immediately gets the message.
Gator’s breath hitches at the unspoken invitation. Your position—ass in the air, back arched. Says everything.
He doesn’t need more encouragement. In one swift movement, he strips off his remaining clothes and kicks them aside… then lines himself up behind you.
A beat of anticipation hangs thick in the air before Gator finally pushes forward—slow at first, letting you adjust to him as he sinks in completely.
“F-Fuck. You’re s-so—“ You even stuggle to say it.
“I know baby, i know, dont worry. It will fit.” He says so close to your neck that it sends you shivers down your whole body.
The moment Gator is fully sheathed inside you, a guttural groan rumbles from his chest. The sensation—tight, warm, perfect. Is overwhelming.
For a second, he just stays there… forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as he breathes through the intensity. Then instinct takes over.
His hips roll back before pushing in again—Deeper this time—a slow but purposeful rhythm starting up.
“Fuck—You’re so—hot. I imagined this too many times today.” He struggles to say it.
“Oh yeah?” i smirk at him from my shoulder.
Gator catches your smirk over your shoulder. And the look in your eyes undoes him.
“Yeah," He growls, suddenly surging forward to kiss you hard—messy, all teeth and tongue. The pace of his thrusts turns more urgent now, less controlled.
One hand cups your jaw as the kiss deepens; the other grips your hip tighter—like he needs something solid to hold onto while this heat consumes them both.
“Oh god— F-Fuck you’re so big.” You moan, almost like a scream.
Gator’s ego swells at your praise—both literally and figuratively. A smug, breathless chuckle escapes him as he feels you clench around him.
“You like that?" He rasps, voice dripping with newfound confidence. His thrusts grow bolder now—deeper, more possessive. Like he wants to brand the memory of this into your brain.
Then suddenly,
His phone buzzes up, Tommy is calling him.
Gator freezes mid-thrust at the sound of his phone buzzing. Tommy’s caller ID flashes on the screen—probably checking in about your escape from jail.
“Shit.” He mutters, torn between ignoring it (and risking a missed emergency) and… well, this.
Tommy calling is rare unless something's wrong.
A conflicted grimace crosses his face as he hesitates. Still buried inside you.
You push him down to bed, and straddle him, sinking slow into him, while you offer his phone “Pick up the phone.” Your voice is weak, but demanding.
Gator’s eyes widen as you take control—flipping the script and pinning him beneath you. The sudden shift in power is dizzying… especially with his cock still sheathed inside you.
He grabs the phone just as it buzzes again, Tommy’s name flashing insistently. With one hand braced on your hip (to keep from completely losing his mind), Gator answers:
“Yeah?"
His voice is strained—way too breathy for a normal call—but he tries to sound professional.
Meanwhile, Tommy has no idea what's happening.
“Hey man, I have some news, can you…talk right now?” Tommy heard his heavy breathing from the phone.
Gator’s jaw clenches. Tommy sounds serious—this isn’t a casual check-in.
And he’s lying here, half-naked, with you riding him — which makes this the worst possible timing.
“Uh… yeah," He manages, voice tighter than usual. He clears his throat and sits up slightly (as much as your position allows), trying to sound normal.
Meanwhile, his free hand grips your thigh unconsciously. A silent plea for you to not move too much while he talks.
Gator’s stomach drops. Tommy just announced your escape… and Gator is literally fucking the escaped convict right now.
“What?" He forces out, playing dumb—voice impressively steady for a guy in this situation. “When? How’d she get out?"
Tommy has no idea that "she" is currently grinding on him.
You start to go faster, your head falls back and a smooth moan is escaping from you.
“Are you…ok Gator?” Tommy asks on the phone.
Gator’s breath hitches as you pick up the pace—your movements sending jolts of pleasure straight through him. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to make a sound.
“I'm—" He grits out, voice suspiciously rough, “—fine. Just tired."
A lie so obvious it hurts. Tommy pauses on the other end, probably sensing something's off.
“Are you coming to the searches?” He asks on the phone.
“Y-Yeah.” He finally answers, forcing professionalism, “Give me twenty minutes to shower and change."
A half-truth—enough time for a quick exit. He ends the call fast before Tommy can ask more questions.
The second the line goes dead, Gator tosses the phone aside.
“Are they looking for me, officer?” You say moaning, struggling to even breathe.
Gator’s eyes darken at your moan—and the way you call him officer like that. It shouldn’t turn him on… but it does.
“Yeah," He admits, hands sliding up to grip your hips tighter as he flips you onto your back in one swift move. “They're searching for you right now."
The irony isn't lost on him: his coworkers are out there hunting a fugitive… while said fugitive is currently under him, getting railed.
He kisses you hard—equal parts passion and panic.
“Fuck—Fuck—I—I’m gonna—cum.” You say struggling.
Gator feels your body tense—the telltale sign you’re about to come. His own release is right there, coiled tight in his gut… but he wants you to fall first.
“Yes, fuck— Cum for me.” He growls against your lips, thrusts turning sharp and precise—hitting that sweet spot over and over.
The bedframe creaks louder as the pace gets frantic. Both of you chasing the edge together now.
The tension snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you—body clenching around him, a breathy cry tearing from your throat as pleasure whites out your vision.
Gator’s control shatters the second he feels it. With a groan muffled against your shoulder, he follows right after—pumping into you with ragged thrusts until his own release rips through him.
A heavy silence settles… just panting and tangled limbs in the aftermath.
Gator collapses half on top of you, still catching his breath. His heart is pounding—both from the intensity of what just happened and the lingering adrenaline from Tommy’s call.
For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. Then reality crashes back in: You're a fugitive. They're searching for you.
And Gator’s supposed to be leading that search.
He lifts his head slightly to look at your face… conflict flashing in his eyes.
“Are you going to arrest me now?” You ask him, stil panting.
Gator studies your face—the flush on your cheeks, the swollen lips from kissing… and something in his chest twists.
But he’s a sheriff. He took an oath.
A heavy sigh escapes him as he sits up, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His uniform is downstairs… cold coffee waiting too.
“I gotta go.” He mutters finally—not answering your question directly. Coward.
| you’re a content creator who talks mostly about films and music, when you heard that Djo was going to Lollapalooza at your country, you didn’t measured efforts to arrange an interview with him.
—————————————————————————————————————
when you found out that one of your favorite artists were going to this big festival at your country, you immediately contacted your agent to ask for a chance to get to interview him.
you absolutely adored his songs since his first album, the way he singed, the lyrics, everything about it was art for you.
you reassure his talent with music in most of your videos, reviewing his albums, his singles, everyone who followed you knew you were a big fan of his music.
so when the answer finally came, you were shaking. as soon as you heard the answer from your agent you had to internally calm down for a bit and not transpire to her that feeling of anxiety and nervousness
the day had finally camed. the whole set was quiet, you could only hear a little with the artists playing on the background, you were nervous. anxious. you were shaking just at the thought of being in his presence.
thats when you finally saw it.
he was wearing a black tank top, some cargo pants, and some sunglasses. his hair was blonde, he had an overgrown moustache, and some hiking boots
“hey, i’m joe. nice to meet you” he said with a soft smile in his face, like you didn’t know him, like you were not aware of who he was, but you absolutely were.
“oh. i know who you are” you joke “i’m kate. nice to meet you too.”
he seemed to let out a soft laugh as he heard the ‘i know who you are’ line of yours.
you two sitted on the chairs of the set, side by side in front of the camera, his groupmates were all behind the camera talking to each other while the camera men was preparing his stuff to the interview
you were trying to calm down by the fact he was so near to you at that moment, you picked your questions with care just so he doesn’t realizes you’re so nervous that you were shaking a little, but he do realizes.
“is it your first interview of the day?” he asked, his voice was low so you could only hear each other. “yeah. it is, actually. sorry if i say something wrong, i’m kinda nervous.” you said trying not to look to him, this could only be worse
“oh. no. don’t worry, i’m kinda nervous too. have you seen how many people are out there? what if i sing something wrong?” he was trying his best to calm you down by joking on the fact he was super anxious too. still with that soft smile in his face.
“you guys can start now” the camera men finally started to record.
the whole set went quiet so you could start without interruptions, that just made you more nervous, but you had to calm down.
“we have a very special guest today, that you might know from TV, or from his music, but you absolutely know him” you turn to him and finally look to him at his eyes. “joe thank you so much for this opportunity”
“thank you so much for having me” he smiled at you.
“first of all, i have to say, i don’t think you know but we are one of your most active listeners”
he raised his eyebrows “really? i didn’t know this. i mean, i’ve been here for almost one week now, we had been visiting the places, trying the food, meeting new people, it’s honestly an honor to me, this is such a beautiful country”
“is this a hint that you will come back to perform for us?” you said smiling. you couldn’t stop smiling.
“absolutely, i loved this place, honestly.” he said with the same smile.
“what’s your favorite thing so far?” you asked, but this was not on the question card, at this moment you were just talking like there were no cameras there.
“there’s so many great things, i have to say…” before he finished his sentence, one of his groupmates said loudly on the background “beautiful women!”
joe coughed as soon as he heard this, trying to distract his laugh. “oh my god, i’m so sorry” he said laughing.
“that’s okay” you said laughing, “that’s not a lie” you joke looking at the camera
“not at all” he said. smiling to you.
you hold his gaze for some more seconds until you finally ask the next question to him
“ok, next question is, do you have a favorite song of yours to perform? like that you get really excited to sing on stage and hear people singing with you?”
he thinks for some seconds
“i think probably egg, is like a very strong song and has this bridge in the middle that i think it’s so interesting. i don’t know if you ever heard it. but…”
“oh i absolutely have, it’s one of my favorites from your last album”
he seemed surprised, not that it’s an unknown song, but most people just listen to his famous ones
“really? thank you so much. what is your favorite one?” he asks leaning a bit closer to you.
“uhm…” you can’t seem to realize, maybe assuming that he might be flirting with you, but maybe was just an impression “my favorite one of all time is decide, i think that i could hear this album for the rest of my life and never get tired of it” you can’t stop smiling at him, is this the effect he has on women?
“yeah, you seem like a decide kind” he said with a soft laugh.
“i’ll take as a compliment” you joke to him
“it is” his gaze changed to something more teasy, more intimate.
your heart is racing, you feel your body heat up, but try to keep on the interview and focus
“so last question joe, so you will be finally free” you joke, and he immediately laughs. “what can we expect from this point of your career, more music? more films? what can we expect right now?”
“i feel like this year has been so far about touring and producing new songs, so for this year i think you can expect music, and for the future, who knows right? i love acting and i’m so grateful for getting to do something so interesting in this life.”
“not just doing but being good at both things, that’s not for everyone” you added
…
“thank you so much. that’s very nice of you to say.” he finally responded after some seconds of just looking at you after your comment, he was truly happy.
you finally turn to the camera again remembering you were not just in a conversation between each other
“ok, this was the interview” you turn towards him again “joe, thank you so much for accepting this”
“oh, it’s over? no, c’mon, don’t you have more questions?” he adjusted himself in the chair, his eyes were directly on yours
you let out a soft laugh
“unfortunately, we reached the limit time that we booked with you” you say with a smile, trying not to go crazy over the fact he wanted to talk more with you.
“really?” he seemed so interested in talking with you.
“yeah. but i’ll watch your show from the crowd, don’t worry” you said smiling. still disbelieved that he wanted more time with you.
the whole crew off the set started to disassemble the equipments, and you got out of the chair to help them
he looked at his phone, looked at his groupmates, and after some seconds he reached out for you
“i’m sorry if this is weird but, would you like to see the show from backstage?”
idk if you write but this idea with the friends thing OMG
I KNEW I WASNT CRAZY RIGHT
like just imagine
they are sitting on the bar with their friends and Joe is right on your side, it’s a cozy restaurant, and everyone is so drunk they don’t even realize that joe suddenly got so quiet
you hear all the laughing around some random topic they are discussing and suddenly
you feel it.
his hands getting on your knees, slowly circling around your skin with his fingers
the heat of the place and all the wine you drinked during the night beated at you all at once with just his touch
you finally decide to look at him as his hand starts to rise under your skirt
his face says it all.
he gives you a little wink before finally touching around your panties
do you guys think joe has a “friends with benefits” thing w someone? always wondered this
what if it’s like in his personal group friend and they’re like hanging out together while nobody knows that when everybody goes home they’ll go to his apartment to just fuck and then talk all night about random topics…?
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