He’d never been good at words, and it was two in the morning and he couldn’t think straight. Maybe in the morning he’d have the words to express just what you meant to him, how much he valued you. Even if meeting you meant being pepper sprayed in the eyes, all of it was worth it to come home to you.
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3k words of fluff with Courtland reflecting a bit on how life has changed since he escaped the Sierra program, how he's reconnected with his brothers, how he gets to come home to you each night, featuring some evening cuddles
Pairing: Courtland Gentry x reader (no use of YN)
Word Count: 3,032
AO3 Link | Courtland Masterlist
**
The Sierra program. A team of the elite, the best in their field. Sierra Six alone had a higher kill count than any of the rest, capable of tearing through highly specialized operatives with ease, trained like a dog to a whistle.
He was also forty-five years old, no longer Sierra, and exhausted.
Courtland Gentry grunted as the key finally turned in the lock and he turned the old, rusted knob. He’d have to fix that this week. He rested his weight against the door, and it didn’t budge. He grumbled and thumped his shoulder against the door, pushing a little harder, and stumbling on his bad knee when it finally slipped from the frame. He hissed when the hinges squeaked behind him entirely too loudly in the house for 1 in the morning.
He huffed and pushed the door shut behind him, trying his best to stay quiet. The last thing he needed was a moody teenager chastising him for coming home too loud. He emptied his pockets onto the counter, unloading every knife, gun—unloading the bullets from the gun and clearing the chamber—spare ammunition, his wallet, keys, and phone from his pockets and dropping them in an unceremonious heap.
They were another problem for morning Courtland.
He sat on the small bench beside the door, the one you’d insisted on keeping there. He thought it was a waste of space where he could keep a go bag, you said it was useful for taking off shoes. And when he sat down to start unlacing his boots instead of balancing awkwardly on his bad leg, he was reminded again that you were usually right.
After doing a sweep of the house, checking every window, every closet, behind every door, and every place he would hide if he were still Six, he finished vy checking every door lock. Twice. When he was satisfied there was nobody hiding in the house and nobody working on Denny Carmichael’s orders to hunt him down, he finally made his way to the bathroom to start on a shower.
He let the steam clear his sinuses as the hot water melted the aches out of his muscles. Not nearly as well as it did when you rubbed his back, but it would do.
He figured he’d be cut out for it with his history as Six, but he’d learned the hard way that private security was a different animal entirely. He was trained to locate and neutralize targets, not to catch crowd-surfers being thrown over the barrier at a metal concert. Beer in the eyes didn’t burn as much as pepper spray, but he was not allowed to throat strike the twenty-something year old boy who threw it in his face.
His ribs ached from where a crowd surfer had kicked him on the way down, his lip was split from what he was pretty sure was a demonia to the face, his ears rang from forgetting his earplugs, and it was fair to say he’d had a bad day.
So he squeezed a generous amount of your black cherry and orchid body wash onto a loofah, and scrubbed at his skin until it was red and tender and he smelled like you. He needed to scrub off the sweat and the smell of weed before he could even think of climbing into bed with you, of making the soft black sheets smell a thing like that damn concert venue.
When he was satisfied that he was finally clean he shut the water off and toweled his hair dry. He slipped on his favorite worn pair of gray sweatpants and shut the light off before leaving the bathroom so he wouldn’t wake Claire.
He cracked open the door to her bedroom, peeking in to make sure Claire was still sleeping soundly. The soft night light cast a warm golden glow through her bedroom, barely illuminating the shape of her bundled under all the blankets and the stuffed bear tucked between her pillow and headboard. He quietly crossed the room and brushed her hair away from her face, watching her nose wrinkle as he tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Mmf, Six?” She grumbled, squinting against the night light. The only person still allowed to call him Six. He shushed her and smoothed her hair down.
“Yeah, just checkin’ on you.” He whispered. She swatted at his hand and he huffed out a soft laugh when she rolled over and pulled the blanket over her head with a muffled “go away.”
He relented, satisfied that she was safe, that the house was secure, that he had finally cleaned enough of his day off, finally worthy of you.
He finally cracked the door open to your bedroom, the one he shared with you, and let out a breath when he smelled your perfume and shampoo and saw your delicate form under the comforter.
He kicked his sweatpants off before pulling the covers back, sliding under them with you, immediately gathering you in his arms and pulling you closer until your back was against his chest.
God you were so warm, so soft in his arms. He wrapped an arm tight around your midsection and crossed the other over your chest, ducking his head to bury his nose in the crook of your shoulder and nuzzle into you. You shifted and sucked in a breath as he pressed feather-light kisses to your skin.
“Hm, Court?” You whispered, voice scratchy with sleep. He hummed softly against your skin, rubbing his cheek against your throat. You giggled as his beard and stubble scratched against your skin. You reached back and cupped his cheek, turning to look at him. He pressed his cheek into your palm and you kissed the scar on his eyebrow. He lifted his chin with a soft hum and you met his lips in a tender kiss, slotting your mouth into his. He let out a quiet whine as the split in his lip stung but he’d endure it all if only to kiss you a little longer.
You pulled away and Courtland made a displeased sound. “I was asleep.” You teased, voice thick with sleep as he continued to nuzzle into you, dragging you further out of your comfortable slumber.
“Hm, need this.” He countered, pulling you tighter against his chest to nuzzle you. You ran your fingers through his beard and scratched softly at his jaw and Courtland sighed into your throat.
“Bad day?” You asked, a little more clear now. Courtland nodded wordlessly and pressed his forehead against the back of your neck. You squirmed and he grumbled in protest, but loosened his grip just enough that you could roll onto your back. Courtland allowed you to get comfortable before you reached for him and cupped his cheek again. He turned to kiss your palm and smiled into your hand before moving to settle his weight between your thighs. He laid down so his chest was pressed against your stomach and his head was pillowed on your chest just under your chin. You tucked your head and kissed his temple, then followed it with a kiss to his brow. Courtland lifted his head and met your lips again, hand squeezing the flesh of your hips as you threaded your fingers through his soft damp hair and smoothing your other hand over the scarred planes of his back.
You’d met Courtland Gentry fourteen years ago when he dragged himself through your bathroom window bloody and bruised from whatever mission he’d been on. He’d fallen into your bathtub with a massive commotion as he dragged every bottle of soap off the windowsill with him and landed in the tub with a very loud “fuck!” and a bruised shoulder.
He was twenty-eight and on his first mission by himself and had gotten out of it no worse for wear, If you didn’t count the box cutter blade sticking out of his side (And every time he told this story you insisted the box cutter did count as “worse for wear”). You were a registered nurse that had just gotten home from a twelve-hour shift and ended up pepper-spraying him in the face before he even got a chance to explain. After you had both calmed down, and you saw just what state he was in, you ended up dragging him to the kitchen to stitch him up.
He’d started showing up more after that day, usually in various states of injury ranging from a cut on his arm to being hit by a truck. Usually with blood coating his teeth, asking you to patch him up, but always with the same sly smile and flirtatious quips. He’d crash for a day or two and then disappear mysteriously. Sometimes he’d leave a note, once he’d left his jacket and you weren’t sure if it was on purpose or not but you started wearing it anyway, and when you finally upgraded from a landline to a cell phone he made sure his number was saved in it.
He finally told you exactly who he was on his 35th birthday. You had a feeling he would show up, he’d made a habit of stopping by on his birthday and your birthday whether he needed medical attention or not. You were lying in your bed, just like you were now, with his nose tucked against your throat and your hand rubbing over the scratches you’d left in his back, and you asked him what he did for work. He’d paused and you were afraid you’d pushed it too far, that he’d get up and put his clothes back on and leave like every time before.
Instead he’d taken a deep breath, and explained to you what a gray man was and how he came to be one of the CIA’s most invaluable assets. He explained that he was a murderer, killed his own father. That he was trained to be a weapon, an asset, that before he gave it to you he barely remembered his own name. He told you he wouldn’t blame you if you wanted him to leave, but you just pulled him in for a kiss, and let him stay. He’d never really stopped staying the night after that.
He groaned against your lips when you dug the heel of your hand into a particularly sore spot under his shoulder blade. You pulled back with a soft chuckle and smoothed his hair down before dragging your fingers through it again, fluffing his hair. You pressed a chaste kiss to his lips that Courtland chased when you pulled away, before you pushed at his shoulder. He grumbled but relented and rolled to the side. He huffed again when you slipped from beneath him.
“Where you goin’?” He complained. You hummed in response and sat up beside him, gently rubbing his back. Courtland settled flat on his stomach, grabbing your pillow and shoving his face into it. He shifted and shuffled as he got comfortable, tucking your pillow under his chest and turning his head to face you. He cracked an eye open and quirked his brow to watch you. Once he was comfortable, you swung one leg over his hips to straddle him and he groaned at the weight on his lower back. You smoothed a hand over his spine and he let his eyes flutter closed.
You massaged his back, and Courtland groaned as you pressed your hands into his sore muscles. This was something you’d started doing after the third time he’d shown up at your place, when he’d jumped out of the back of a truck and tweaked his back. He’d been hesitant at first but damn, it really did help. And now that he was older and fully recognizing the extent of just how badly he fucked up his body, he would never complain about a back massage.
“You want to talk about the bad day?” You asked, slowly running your hands down his back, pressing lightly to feel for any tense muscles. You knew him, knew his body, so well by now that you could usually find what hurt and fix it in just a few minutes. He grumbled and shifted his weight under you.
“Not much to talk about, took a boot to the teeth, had a grown adult dropped on my head, the usual.” He quipped. You hummed and pressed your thumbs into his lower back on either side of his spine.
Courtland let out a pleased grumble when you pushed your palms into the muscles of his back, pushing up towards his shoulders. He was, admittedly, getting way too old for the line of work he was in. You’d encouraged him to find something he liked, something that made him happy, but he’d been “six” for so long it was taking him awhile to learn who “Courtland Gentry” was again.
His first priority when he got Claire back was keeping her safe. You’d been a great help at that, offering your home, helping him get Claire enrolled in school, even finding her a therapist (trying to convince him to go, though he wouldn’t agree to go for at least four months).
His second priority was staying with you. That was easy, you stayed with him through all of it. Through the nightmares, through the diagnoses, while he figured out his medication, all of it.
His third priority was learning who Courtland Gentry was, what he wanted, what was important to him. And when he mentioned he wanted to reconnect with his brothers you’d supported him in that too.
And when Colt and Ryland had, at first, spat in his face and cursed him for leaving them, you were there to catch him when he fell apart.
He let out a quiet yelp when you pressed into the knot of muscle under his left shoulder blade, ripping him from his thoughts. You apologized softly as you continued to work out the sore spot and he burrowed his face further into the pillow.
“Oh Court, you sure you’re up for tomorrow?” You asked, breaking the silence as you worked out the knot under his left shoulder blade. He winced and nodded.
“Yeah, ‘m good.” He grumbled, letting out a growl when you pressed harder under his shoulder. The biweekly dinner just so happened to fall on his birthday and Claire insisted on setting up a party for him. Which meant Courtland got roped into grilling burgers and hot dogs on his birthday.
“They’d understand Court.” You reasoned, letting the pressure off of his shoulder and lightly dragging your nails down his back. Courtland shuddered and hummed contentedly. They would.
His brothers had come around eventually, and now the biweekly dinners were their way of staying connected to each other. Courtland loved those dinners, loved learning more about his brothers' lives. Loved the way Ryland had started to hug him again and Colt started trying to roughhouse with him as much as his bad knee and Colt’s bad back would let them.
Ryland warmed up the fastest to him. He’d been close with both of them when they were young (thirty years ago) but Ryland had always been the one who leaned on him the most, the one who climbed into his bed on the hard nights. Colt was always more hard-headed. But Ryland had talked some sense into Colt and convinced him to take Courtland up on his offer for dinner, on him, just to hear him out. Shortly after that you suggested regular dinners, so the three could get to know each other again. After the first few Colt had even started to bring his wife Jody.
Which of course led to Colt relentlessly teasing Ryland, lightheartedly, about being the only single brother. Ryland would laugh, and tease Colt right back, and Court would just smile because it almost felt like they were still kids again and the twins were poking fun at each other for their crush of the month. Until the day Ryland admitted, face bright red, that he actually wasn’t single anymore.
“We’re ‘sposed to meet Simon tomorrow,” Court countered, “can’t cancel on Ry when he’s finally letting me meet his boyfriend.” You smoothed your hand over his bare back and traced the scars over his shoulders. He shifted to look at you over his shoulder.
You let his gaze and smiled softly. “You’re a good brother.” You lowered yourself to lay against his back and kissed his shoulder gently. He hummed and shifted to nudge you.
He turned away from you, cheeks burning, and pressed his face into the pillow with a muffled grumble of protest.
“You are, but I’m too tired to push it.” You slid off his back and laid down beside him. You immediately burrowed under his arm and Courtland rolled on his side. You slipped your arm over his waist and tucked your head under his chin, kissing the hollow of his throat before settling against his bare chest. Court nuzzled his nose into your hair and squeezed your hip, before letting his eyes flutter closed.
“I love you big guy.” You whispered. Courtland smiled, feeling his heart thump hard in his chest, the way it did every time you said you loved him. He wrapped his arms around you, squeezing you against his chest and you let out a soft “uff.”
“I love you too.” He confessed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Thank you.”
You yawned and pressed your nose into his throat. “For what?” Your voice was already heavy and slow with sleep as you absentmindedly dragged your fingers over the scars on his lower back.
He took a breath, trying to find the right words. “For all of it.” He whispered into your hair and cringed. He’d never been good at words, and it was two in the morning and he couldn’t think straight. Maybe in the morning he’d have the words to express just what you meant to him, how much he valued you. Even if meeting you meant being pepper sprayed in the eyes, all of it was worth it to come home to you.
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NOTES:
Please forgive this fic, it's a midnight rambling and the first fic I've written in AWHILE and scribbled between work and the trials of adult life but I love Courtland so very much, so have this (:
Please note: NO AI was used in the making of this fic, all natural garbage from my own mind
I DO NOT CONSENT to any of my work being put through AI in any way, shape, or form.
synopsis. colt owes ryland, so he cashes in the favor by going to a blind date and pretending to be his twin brother. the problem is, he thinks he might’ve just met the love of his life but she keeps calling him ryland! (4.0k words)
find part 2 here
It’s the end of autumn when Ryland Grace finally takes advantage of the favor his brother owed him a few years back. “Hey Colt. Remember Sydney?”
The man in question, currently halfway through stealing orange juice from Ryland’s partition of the fridge, pauses in his heist to blink up at his brother uncomprehendingly.
“That doesn’t really narrow anything down.”
Ryland sighs before adding, “The rooftop?”
The memories flash by Colt in the blink of an eye, and his face clears from the confusion it held earlier to one of mortification. “I don’t like where this conversation is heading.”
He empties the carton of orange juice in a glass, desperate to flee the scene of the crime, but Ryland’s already halfway towards the kitchen to try and corner his older brother of a few minutes.
“Remember what you told me? Exact words.”
“Ryland—”
“Exact words.” He pushes, intent on what he’s asking. Colt can all but grimace at the memory.
Setting the carton of orange juice down, he sighs and slumps dramatically as if he was physically pained by the concept of the accountability of his words and actions. “I said I owe you one.”
“Good, there you go.” Ryland mimics the tone he uses on the kids he teaches when he’s trying to get a point across, and Colt all but shoots him a glare at being babied. “Well, I’m gonna need that favor now.”
“No.”
“I haven’t even asked yet!”
“Don’t care. I know that voice.” Colt points at his brother suspiciously with the empty carton. “That’s your ‘this is about to ruin my evening’ voice, and I don’t think I appreciate the sentiment.”
Ryland ignores him. “Listen. I have a blind date tonight, but apparently Ilyukhina is unaware of the blind aspect of a blind date so she showed her a picture of my face.”
Colt’s mouth drops. And for a moment, he just stares at his brother. Until a few seconds pass and he starts to laugh. And he keeps laughing—in that mouth wide open, head tilted forward, hands clutching the stomach kind of laughter. “Oh, absolutely not.”
If murder wasn’t illegal, one would’ve already been committed in this very moment.
“We’re twins. It’s not like she’s going to kno— okay, will you stop laughing?”
“Ry, you have to understand how insane this sounds. Come on, that sounds like the plot of a really bad sitcom.” Colt’s shaking his head, trying to wipe away the remains of laughter in the corner of his eyes, but his mouth is still twitching a little from the aftermath of laughing a little too hard. “Besides, why can’t you just go yourself? Are you chickening out?”
“I am not chickening out. I got pulled into a meeting.” Ryland exhales sharply through his nose, voice deeper when he says 'not' and currently visibly trying not to strangle his brother with anything within reach, which is quite a number of things—the rag cloth, the strings of his hoodie, his own hands.
Instead, he continues speaking, “Just pretend to be me for an hour. I’ll try to make it after the meeting.”
And with the gravity of the situation, he adds one last word, “...please.”
Well, that one definitely lands and Colt has to pause from gulping down the orange juice he’d stolen. And he thinks he should relish in this moment longer, his brother begging him. It doesn’t happen very often. He’s usually reprimanded by his twin, not pleaded with.
“Oh, you’re desperate.”
Ryland’s eye twitches, and he resists the urge to pinch his nose bridge. “All you really have to do is show up, smile, don’t flirt too much–”
“Impossible restriction.” Ryland drops his face into his hands, groaning loudly at his brother’s response, and before he can reply with a snide remark, Colt asks, “What if she asks a question I can’t answer?”
“Colt, you’ve known me all my life.” Ryland deadpans, heaving a stage-worthy sigh.
“Fair point.” Colt sighs. “You're really asking me to commit identity theft? You think this is going to work?”
“Yes. So, will you do it?”
Colt ponders on the question because technically, he did owe Ryland a favor, and he was only asking for an hour of his time. And, in all honesty, Colt thinks he can pull of a perfect Ryland Grace so it was a way to boost his own ego. And what was a date anyway? He’s been on multiple dates before.
Even with an answer, he lets the silence stretch for a few seconds more, just to be annoying. Just so he can see the way Ryland anxiously taps on the kitchen counter with his fingers, or his feet on the ground. And when Colt has enough satisfaction, finally, he says, “Fine.”
Ryland visibly relaxes. “Thank you.”
“But if she falls in love with me, that’s on you.”
The relaxed features on Ryland’s face contorts into a somewhat disgusted face. “You’re ridiculous.”
The air is cool in that early-evening way that denotes the slow tipping of autumn into winter. The city glows a warm orange, and there’s laughter spilling out from crowded restaurants whenever the doors open.
Colt checks his phone again. Ryland had given you his number, claiming that he’d suddenly had to change numbers due to scammer calls and phishing schemes. And he all but stares at the same message reflecting, that you were on your way.
It stares back at him.
He rubs the space between his eyes and sighs. This is a terrible idea, a terrible terrible idea. Still, Colt thanks Fuck for choosing the day he’s not masked in his own injuries or little scars from stunt work, picks a day where he actually looks like he has his shit together, and not a man about to commit identity fraud.
“Ryland?,” a soft voice. 10 jars of honey in the way you speak, but Colt recognizes that this was about to be the start of an evening full of lies. And then he sees you, and Colt looks beyond amazed.
Suddenly, he’s nearly convinced there is something significant standing behind him, because what is the connotation of the beauty he’s being subjected to, the same beauty who is looking up at him with a hesitant smile.
Colt pauses, which if Ryland was here to see it would know that it was always a bad sign because it means he’s thinking, really thinking. And he is, he knows this is the exact moment he could stop everything.
Instead, he says, “yeah.”
Your smile widens just a little, and there’s something endearing about the way you press a hand briefly against your chest. “Oh good. I was terrified I’d accidentally agreed to meet a serial killer.”
Colt snorts. “Well, disappointing start for you, then.”
“You joke,” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly as you step closer, “but statistically speaking, I was taking a real risk tonight."
You look up at him, looking up at his disheveled hair from the wind outside. It curls slightly near the ends, stubborn in a way Ryland’s is too. "Your hair's a little longer than in your photo."
“Ha, you know hair. Grows… grows at no specified rate." Woah, what the hell. He didn't even mean to perfectly imitate Ryland in that moment. "Sorry, could you remind me how long do blind dates usually take before one person decides to fake a family emergency?”
You laugh, and Colt feels something shift in the air. “Maybe around twenty minutes. Sorry, we’re still a little ahead of schedule. You’re still stuck with me for 17 minutes more.”
Colt can’t help but smile back at you because the thrill in your smile is too wholesome not to. “Shall we head inside then? Got to make those 17 minutes count.”
“Yeah. That would be ideal.”
The hostess leads you toward the patio seating, and it’s quaint, but incredibly breathtaking. The warm lighting does a great deal at creating an almost comfortable environment. And it’s the perfect spot that the blurred headlights and the city lights reflect just at the huge glass window behind you. Really, perfect for a first date.
Colt pulls out the chair for you, something that’s just taught in the How To Be A Gentleman handbook, and tucks you into the table before he takes his own seat.
“I should tell you right now that I’m a little terrible at first dates.” You say the moment you're settled in.
“You seem fine.”
“That’s because you just met me. It’s only been like five minutes.”
He smiles despite himself. “It gets worse?”
“Dramatically worse.”
“Good. I’m excited to see that.”
The waiter assigned to you arrives with two menus and a bottle of service water, and you thank him politely as you take a copy, flipping through it without really reading.
And by the time you order your drinks and the food, a few conversations have already passed.
“Were you nervous to come here?” You ask more for yourself, but you’re still curious what his answer would be.
“Maybe a little.” Nevermind the reason for his nervousness was the identity theft he was committing. He’s still trying to get used to you calling him Ryland without it surprising him each time.
“Good.” You mirror his response from a few minutes earlier, and he can’t help but huff out a laugh. Though, despite his laughter, he still notices the way your shoulders visibly loosen at his response, like you’d almost hoped that would be his response.
“Good?”
“Yeah cause I was nervous too. It makes me feel less stupid to know you were too, even if it was just a little.”
Colt watches the way you fidget lightly with your sleeve as you speak. Your fingers keep smoothing the fabric over your wrists before immediately letting go again.
“You shouldn’t feel stupid.” He interjects, trying to ease your nerves.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t told you what I did yet.”
He smiles. There’s something about the way you say it, like you’re about to change his life, tell him the craziest story. “What did you do?”
“I changed outfits three times.”
“That’s normal.”
“Four times.” You glance at him, your cheeks pink, and he has half a mind to tell you just how strange the sight makes him feel.
“Still normal.”
“And I arrived way too early so I had to walk around the block twice. And then I almost cancelled.”
This time Colt’s smile softens around the edges. You’re so honest and so easy to talk to, and so quick with conversation. You’re someone who can make anyone feel at home, and you’re charming without intending to be, and that's exactly the problem. Colt has known you less than an hour and somehow you're already slipping through his walls.
"You know," he says, leaning back in his chair, "I don't think I've ever met anybody who admits that on a first date."
You groan immediately. "See? This is why I almost cancelled."
"No, I mean it." Colt shakes his head. "Most people would've taken that information to the grave."
Your smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. He watches it for a second before asking, "Why'd you almost cancel?"
“I don’t know,” you admit quietly, glancing down at the table. “I always think things will be awkward before they happen.”
“And does it feel awkward right now?”
You look back up at him then with your head tilted, and you can almost picture the glint of hopefulness in his eyes but you don’t want to assume. “Just a little.”
Colt leans further back in his chair like he’s relaxed. He isn’t, really. But he wants you to believe he is because a few minutes into the date, you’d already turned him into a sap. And relaxed is way cooler than sappy.
He really does not want to think about how sappy he feels right now. He doesn’t want to think about the feeble stutter in his heart whenever you laugh. He's already lying to you. Developing feelings on top of that feels like building a second bad idea on top of the first one.
“Oh, you’re a science teacher, right? What’s that like?”
Right. Jesus, he forgot he was still pretending to be Ryland. You really have to stop smiling at him like that. He’s starting to like you, and it’s not good on his conscience that he’s pretending to be his brother, and that you think he is his brother.
“It’s uh, good.” Colt says carefully.
You rest your chin against your hand. “What’s your favorite thing to teach?” You ask like you’re genuinely curious, and for a second Colt has the answer, but you’re looking at him so intently that his brain empties completely.
Think, Colt. You attended your brother’s graduation, what the hell was it that he studied? Astronomy? No, it’s something with little things and life.
“Molecular biology!”
Your eyes widen with immediate interest. “Really? For eighth graders?”
“Yeah,” Colt says, nodding like a man moments away from being exposed from a grave sin. “I love molecules. Tiny organisms. Cells. Little… science fellas.”
You stare at him for exactly one second before breaking into laughter, and Colt finds himself watching, drinking up your movements. You just, you laugh with your entire face, and your happiness just spills into everything and it’s so infectious. The way your eyes widen slightly, the way your shoulders fold inward, like you’re genuinely delighted instead of politely amused.
Fuck, he wants to keep making you laugh. He wants to keep hearing your laugh.
Something warm twists in his chest, and Colt has the deeply alarming realization that there is something blooming inside of him and it’s akin to romance. He certainly did not expect to meet someone like you tonight. And shit, his heartbeat is doing something genuinely humiliating inside his chest.
“You don’t really talk like a teacher,” you say after a moment. “Come on, little science fellas?”
“That’s the official term.”
“Stop lying to me!” He laughs at your being flabbergasted, eyes turning into crescents.
“Okay, okay. Here, I’m gonna talk like a teacher.” Colt straightens immediately in his chair.
Your smile turns teasing. “Oh yeah?”
“Here it goes.” He clears his throat dramatically. “The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”
He delivers it with complete sincerity. Smug for exactly one second. Then your laugh breaks loose again and his expression softens helplessly.
“Oh my god,” you say.
“Sorry. That’s all I got.”
“No, that was perfect.” You shake your head, grinning down into your drink. “You looked so proud of yourself too.”
And the scene of you smiling that greets him is so gentle, so soft, that it takes him a moment to catch up to what you’re saying. He knows you mean something else, that he should be proud of his stupid joke or for remembering something he learned in high school, but he looked proud for an entirely different reason.
He’d made you laugh again. He’d heard you laugh again.
So, he replies, in a little white lie, “I really was.”
Colt realizes immediately after, with that same deep undertow of shame, that he is caught in the jaws of a trap entirely of his own making. And he can’t stop walking willingly deeper into it.
He thanks Fuck that not long after, the food arrives and for a moment, the sounds of the city accompany the pair of you as you eat—silverware clinking somewhere inside the restaurant, distant traffic below, the low hum of conversation from nearby tables. It allows him a moment to catch himself, to try and stabilize his heart.
But how can he really when you keep looking at him. Then quickly looking away. Then back again, before darting away again. Finally, you sigh. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I keep looking at you.”
A smile twitches on Colt’s lips. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”
You laugh quietly, ducking your head in the palms of your hands. The sight of your smile makes him laugh a little too.
“Why are you looking at me?” He inquires, his grin lopsided as follows the lilt of your movement, the way you hide your face in your hands, and he can’t help but seek for your eyes. “Don’t hide from me.”
You lower your hands slowly, peeking at him through your fingers first before finally answering in such a clear, and almost sweet tone. “You just look really pretty, and you’re really good at paying attention to everything.”
Colt’s stomach twists as his ears registers your words and somewhere during it, he grows redder than before and his palms are suddenly becoming clammy and he’s rubbing the back of his neck. How do you always catch him off guard like this?
He blinks once. Then twice. And maybe ten times more.
That's genuinely the nicest thing anyone's said to him in a while. "Oh."
He’s still looking at you even after the silence that follows, amazed and flattered that someone could ever say that about him, that you could say that about him. And he’s trying so hard not to look like he’d just been called pretty.
“Sorry,” you say quickly. “Am I talking too much?”
“No.” He immediately interjects, coming back to look at your eyes. Something inside him is still stuttering as he tries to focus after you’d just complemented him.
“I usually do.” You glance away briefly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear and Colt personally has to fight down the urge to reach out and tug the slip of hair back down to your face. “I’m doing it right now.”
“Then keep doing it.”
You pause, and a smile slowly starts to creep back on your lips. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, I noticed it’s been more than an hour since our date started. Do you no longer have that family emergency you have to fake?”
Colt smiles at the repetition of the joke he’d said earlier in the evening, before realizing you’re waiting for him to say something. There’s still that same softness pulsing inside of him, slowly growing and growing and growing. “I’m invested now.”
“In what?”
He lets out a soft breath, shoulders hunching forward slightly as he bends over to be a little closer to you. His expression changes into something more serious. “You."
Your smile changes then—softer, crooked, almost shy. Your limbs are starting to feel loose, and your chest tightens and blooms with warmth.
“That’s a very nice thing to say, Ryland.”
The name lands wrong in his chest, but he doesn’t want to dwell on it. He can pretend much longer, especially after receiving a text from his brother earlier that the meeting would run later than expected. Colt had you for the night, and he intends on making it last.
“Well,” Colt says, “I like you.”
Your eyes widen slightly, and you flush at the sudden confession. Your lips part, wanting to say something, but all the vowels and consonants twist in your mouth, and all you can manage is a small “Oh.”
Shit.
You watch as the color rushes into his face, like spilling wine on a paper towel, and he’s covering his mouth with his hand, and he’s struggling to meet your eyes.
“That came out weirdly fast,” he says immediately, trying to catch himself. His eyes are wide and almost panicked, and it’s so endearing because he looks like he’s ashamed of the way he’s softening and coming unraveled and untangled in front of you.
“No, it’s okay.” You smile. “I just wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.”
He pauses, and you see him filing through potential responses or excuses but give up midway.
“Yeah,” he chooses honestly instead. “Neither was I, honestly.”
“Most people wait until at least dessert.” You tease, glancing at him over the rim of your glass, and this time, when he looks at you, his face is full of nothing but fondness twinged with embarrassment. You don’t know how the two emotions are able to coexist on his face at the same time.
“I feel embarrassed. Was that intense? It was, wasn’t it?”
“A little.” you say softly.
“Just a little?”
“Okay, maybe a moderate amount. But it was nice.”
You smile at each other, and neither of you are able to keep the blush from your own cheeks.
By the time dinner ends, the city outside has morphed into a blue-black evening with stars littered randomly in the blanketing sky. The cold air rushes in as the two of you step out onto the sidewalk together, and Colt’s hand brushes lightly against the small of your back while guiding you around another couple exiting the restaurant.
The touch lingers half a second too long.
You notice.
“I’m glad I came,” you admit quietly.
“Yeah?” He asks, almost too quiet to catch, almost like he can’t believe it.
“Yeah.”
“Even after changing outfits four times?” He nudges your shoulder with his, and you laugh.
“Five actually.”
“Five? I think you failed to mention that.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, and he’s trying so hard to fight the grin that’s threatening to show, but you just have that effect on people. You’re just so earnest. “Which outfit won?”
You gesture down at yourself. “This one.”
You say it with such happiness and enthusiasm that Colt can’t help but stare at you and the cold that catches pink along your cheeks, and your hair that’s shifting softly in the wind, and how bright your eyes look under the streetlights. God, he really thought he was doing his brother a favor by coming here, but Ryland might’ve accidentally done one for Colt instead.
His heart gives one hard, helpless thud against his ribs as his eyes travel up and down your outfit.
"I've been meaning to mention it all night, but you look really pretty."
The blood thumped so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t hear him. “Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself."
A comfortable silence falls, like neither of you want to leave quite yet. And then, "Ryland?"
"Hm?"
"I'm really glad tonight wasn’t as awkward as I thought it would be,” you admit.
Colt blinks. “So you still think it’s awkward?”
“Yeah,” you say thoughtfully. “But like… the good kind.”
“There’s a good kind?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s that?”
You look at him for a second. “When you’re nervous because you want someone to like you.”
Colt’s heart nearly stops. That was the final blow. Of all the things you could’ve said, this was not something Colt could’ve ever braced himself for. He looks away immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck again. It’s really not in his nature to falter, but then again, he really can’t help it with you, can he?
Not when this is what your heart is like. Like there’s no need to put pressure when it’s something as warm and easy as this.
“You’re blushing, Ryland.”
“I can’t really help it when you say things like that.”
He lets out a helpless laugh at the name. He has half a mind to tell you he actually goes by ‘Colt’ even though it couldn’t have been further away from ‘Ryland’.
Still, he swallows it to enjoy these last final moments with you.
“Goodnight, Ryland.”
“Goodnight.”
A silence falls between you both before you take a few steps away. He mirrors your actions, albeit a little more tentatively.
“Ryland?”
Colt immediately turns back at the interjection of your voice, looking at you with that same look from earlier. It’s almost fond, almost hopeful. And Colt hovers there, waiting.
“Do you want to walk me home?”
You’re trying so hard to keep your voice monotone. He’s trying so hard not to smile, and in all honesty, he should absolutely say no, he should tell you the truth right now before this turns into something impossible because he knows that if he continues to know you, he won’t be able to stop falling for you. Instead, he answers almost immediately, “I’d want nothing more.”
And while walking home, he finds himself glancing down at your hand, wondering what it would be like if he could just reach over and intertwine his fingers with yours, or kiss your cheeks, or make you laugh again.
And somewhere between the restaurant and your apartment, with your shoulders brushing once accidentally, then a few more on purpose, and your footsteps falling into tandem next to his, and your laughter warming the cold night air around him, Colt realizes he is completely, catastrophically fucked.
pairing. coltland twins au ; ryland x reader x colt
synopsis. you go on a second date with (real) ryland, and colt is devastated. his twin brother might be falling for the love of his life! (11.5k words)
note. part 2 is officially out! thanks so much to cas aka @yearningforsolitude for letting me talk on and on about this silly fic and running thru ideas w me, and to all my mutuals too who offered help. this is kind of a mess! so good luck! lmk what u thought!
part 1 is here
The first thing Colt’s conscious brain is able to discern is the faint sound of humming.
It echoes through the apartment, filling in for the persistent buzz of static. And it continues to pollute Colt’s hearing until he’s pushed himself out of his bed.
The clock reads 5:34pm. It’s been 2 hours since the man collapsed for a nap. Ryland must be home, it’s the only way to account for the hum that’s still whizzing and interrupting the what-would-have-been-silence. But, his brother doesn’t hum. Uncharacteristic for him, even.
So, who was making all the noise this late in the afternoon in their apartment?
The responsible thing would’ve been to grab a makeshift weapon just in case. Instead, Colt follows the sound. It’s not entirely unfamiliar, so any form of fear would have to remain in its dormant state.
The humming leads him to Ryland, standing in front of their shared bathroom mirror—freshly showered, sporting a button-down shirt, and apparently fixing his hair.
“Jesus, what’s with the outfit?”
Colt is leaning against the bathroom frame now, a casual non-chalance as if he hadn’t thought his brother an intruder just minutes ago. “You look like you’re about to ask someone to marry you or, you know, explain why their insurance claim got denied.”
“Is it too much?”
Colt raises an eyebrow as his twin looks down to reassess what he’s wearing. Ryland’s never given a rat’s shit for his comments before. It’s almost endearing, reminds Colt of high school prom and helping his brother fix himself up.
“Depends what for.”
“Second date.”
That definitely paralyzes Colt, almost as if a deer in headlights. There’s a voice in his head trying to convince him he had misheard, but the way Ryland had mouthed the words had been so clear. He was going on a second date.
Despite hearing the boy, loud and clear in-fact, Colt asks him to repeat. “What?”
“Ilyukhina said she’d asked for a second date.” Ryland is grinning now, trying to adjust the collars of his dress shirt. “You impersonated me so well that you got me a second date.”
Oh, no no no. Fuck. No no no.
This is the subject of Colt’s worst nightmares.
Because Colt hadn’t been imitating. Because Colt, not even halfway through the date, had slipped past the pretense of being his brother and was simply being himself. And you had asked for a second date. You liked Colt enough that you wanted to see him again.
You thought he was the love of your life, too!
The words repeat like a broken record in Colt’s head.
Somehow, the consequences of his actions on that first date are only rolling in now, flooding him, and hitting him like a freight train with no warning bells.
Questions of jealousy are soaking in, waters reaching dangerous levels as he stares at his own twin brother—Do you even know the path to her home? Do you know she laughs so unabashedly that it makes your heart twitch in a wholesome way? Do you even know how many times she had to change outfits for the first date?
(Five, by the way.)
And despite everything he wanted to ask, Colt could only manage to let out a one-word question out of the paragraphs he had been thinking of.
“What?”
Ryland laughs, completely unaware of the mental scuffle in his brother’s mind. Though, Colt might have himself to blame for that. When Ryland had asked him how the first date went, he tried to answer as vaguely as he possibly could to not accidentally confess how completely and utterly fucked he was.
Now Colt is here, and still completely and utterly fucked.
(Maybe even more than he was that first date.)
“I know. I wasn’t expecting it either.”
“And you’re going?”
Ryland turns to him, then. His eyebrows are lifted in that amused manner he does when Colt asks something questionable. One time he’d asked about snot-flavored chips and elicited the same lift of eyebrows before it turned to one of disgust.
“I’m dressed up and fixing my hair, Colt.” Deadpan. “Yes I’m going.”
“But…”
Colt’s heart is beating so loudly that he’s convinced Ryland can hear it. And his mouth, clumsy and desperate, is pushing and pulling at words before his brain can process he’s even uttered them.
“You told me she was nice, and that the conversation was easy.”
You are nice, and the conversation did come easy. But, it was with Colt! You were nice and talked easily with him. You asked him to walk you home. Colt Seavers, not Ryland!
He hopes the distress he’s feeling isn’t written plainly on his face, because he’s pretty sure he currently looks constipated.
Ryland smiles to himself, smoothening out wrinkles that aren’t there so he’d have something to do with his hands. “I figured I’d be kind of stupid to not see where it goes. She has the stamp of approval from my brother.”
She has the stamp of approval because she’s the love of my life, Colt thinks but doesn’t say. He can’t, because his face is still constipated, and his heart is beating out of his chest, and his stomach is twisting.
Instead, he settles for something equally controversial. “You can’t go.”
It’s Ryland’s turn to ask what apparently is the most common question of the afternoon. “What?”
“I mean…” Colt curses himself, almost slapping a hand on his mouth for being so rash. He’s scrambling for something else to say, scrambles. “You… shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Because she’ll end up liking you, Goddamnit! Someone kind, and smart, and who definitely hasn’t committed identity theft.
Colt thinks it’s so obvious (as if being the love of his life wasn’t reason enough), but his brother is standing there completely puzzled. Until something cuts through Colt’s head and reminds him that his brother doesn’t know about his feelings, and it would be a great time to try and save yourself and your remaining dignity.
“I was kidding.” He blurts out with a painfully rehearsed laughter that he might’ve tried out a few times in his mind before committing to it, a dismissive hand waving to compensate. “Thought it’d be funny if you actually started doubting yourself for a second.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You just tried to convince me not to go on my own date.”
“I just told you it was a test!”
Ryland is squinting his eyes suspiciously at his twin, but he doesn’t choose to overthink it. With long strides to the living room, he grabs his wallet and slip it effortlessly into his back pocket. “I might be late, so just buy your own dinner.”
“You’re not gonna give me money?”
Ryland has to. If he was going to steal the love of Colt’s life, he might as well slip in a couple bucks and pay for the victim’s dinner.
“You have your own money. Bye, Colt!”
The front door clicks shut behind him, and Colt stands alone in their apartment like he had been earlier this afternoon. It was just that, then, he hadn’t known of the dooming fact of Ryland’s second date. Now, his mental scuffle are yelling over one another.
“Fuck.”
You choose the place this time.
It’s an unbusy diner you used to frequent a lot when you were still in college, tucked away between a laundromat and another old store. Its decor is as a usual diner would be, tiles of alternating black-and-white, and a whole lot of red—walls, couches, tables. Even the jukebox has hints of red, but that hasn’t been working properly for nearly a decade now.
You think you love it because it’s a place to feel human in. Inside here, you’re never in a hurry, even back in college. At-your-own pace and smiling in front of Ryland who sits across from you in your usual corner booth.
For a few minutes, neither of you says anything. It isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it isn’t easy either. Ryland smooths a thumb along the condensation gathering on his water glass before glancing at you, looking as though he’s rehearsing three different opening lines in his head and quietly discarding every single one of them. Not a single one makes the cut, apparently seeing as he still hasn’t spoken a single word.
(Ryland, who usually blabbers anything and regrets it after saying it is also perplexed at how uncharacteristic he’s being.)
You offer him a small smile in encouragement, and he smiles back just as warmly, but the effortless rhythm you’d stumbled into on your first date seems to have been left somewhere outside the diner.
“This place is really nice.” He finally says, looking around, eyes darting from one piece of decor to another. Safe. It’s something safe to talk about.
And it’s endearing, his quiet curiosity, his want to be in a world you know, his attempt at making the moment less awkward.
“It is.” You smile, and there is a feeling almost proud in your heart. “I used to come here all the time.”
“Really? Tell me all about it. If you uh— if you want. If you feel comfortable with… sharing that with me. Yeah.”
Your smile grows even more at his innate curiosity to know you, and the way he stumbles over his words the way he hasn’t ever before. And he watches you go on and on about the place, really, and the memories you’d built on this booth all drunk, or crying over an exam, or with friends after a long day. Sometimes the owner would give you fries for free. And he listens, all with his chin in the palm of his hand and eyes fixated on you.
The great awkwardness dissipates from the air in record time, leaving only remnants of it behind.
“And they have the best pancakes.” You’re leaning forward, almost whisper-like, as if it was just a secret between the two of you.
“They serve pancakes this late?”
“They’re an all-day breakfast place.”
“That’s dangerous information for me.”
“I knew you’d like it. I guess it’s something about the teacher in you. I don’t know why I associate teachers with breakfast.”
This time, it’s Ryland who laughs. It’s different from when you’d been on your first date. He’s a little more reserved with his laughter, and there is something self-depracating about him that he hides behind sheepish smiles and dry humour.
“I’ll be sure to research the correlation between that and let you know if I find something. It’s kind of like when, uhhhh, shark attacks increase when ice cream sales go up.”
“Really?” The way you maintain eye-contact is intimidating, wide eyes full of mirroring curiosity swimming in them. Ryland doesn’t know how Colt had managed. Here you were, looking at him, listening genuinely, and smiling so beautifully.
“No, I’m sorry.” He laughs. “I mean, it’s honestly more just correlation. More people buy ice cream in the summer, more people swim in the summer, so there’s more shark attacks. But, correlation doesn’t necessarily mean causation.”
Your mouth drops, eyes now squinted with a betrayed voice to pair. “You tricked me.”
“I technically didn’t. It’s called a spurious correlation. Okay, maybe partially tricked…”
“Still tricked me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Where first-date Ryland would’ve fought back, Ryland now just mutters an apology with a shut of his eyes in a sort of embarrassment.
“You know, Ry. I notice you’re using pretty big words now. It’s honestly a massive upgrade from telling me the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”
Oh my God, Colt. That idiot.
Ryland ducks his head into a laugh before he can stop it, the sound escaping him in little bursts. It catches him off guard just how vividly he can picture Colt saying exactly that, puffed up with misplaced confidence as though he’d personally discovered the fact himself.
“So, you’re back to science teacher mode. Does that explain the change in look?” You smile at him a little intrigued, a hand reaching out to press against his cheek. It’s hesitant, ghost-like.
You haven’t been in each other’s orbits long enough for prolonged moments that drift back and forth from the line of intimacy. “You shaved.”
Ryland is trying hard to pay attention to what you’re saying, which proves to be a difficult task when he can’t stop wondering what to do with the fact that he liked how your hand felt against his cheek. “And the glasses are cute.”
A faint flush creeps onto his cheeks, instinctively adjusting them at the mention even though he has a poor habit of peering over them which has only worsened the condition of his eyesight. (Colt had scolded him a few times.)
“Must’ve been wearing contacts on our first date. Are these uh, good changes?”
“It’s cute. You’re still cute, don’t worry.”
Colt never mentioned how forward you were. Maybe if he’d known, he would’ve practiced not getting flustered so easily.
A sort of silence falls between the two of you at the moment, but the background goes on to make their noises in complete disregard of the both of you. There’s silverware clattering from plates, a little kid asking if pancakes count as dinner, and the static of a jukebox that still insists on playing even though it’s been unsuccessful for a decade.
The waitress comes back balancing two mugs of coffee and a towering stack of pancakes a moment later. Ryland had ordered the same thing, courtesy of your suggestion.
Besides, he had a little sweet tooth anyway.
“That’s enormous.” Ryland says, mouth agape at the tower of pancakes staring back at him. You glance up at his sudden comment, and it makes a smile tip over your lips.
“I told you. I’ve never actually finished it before.”
“And yet it’s still your go-to order?”
“I’m committed now. It’d feel like cheating if I ordered something else.”
You’re really blowing into his life now, sweet and warm and comfortable, and unexpected but not unwelcome. You had an endearing charm, and your smile reminds him of flowers. His bones are a-chatter as you smile more to yourself.
“Even though I always regret it around pancake number four.”
“There are six.”
“I never really learn.”
He only smiles, albeit fond. But, he doesn’t bite back longer than he should. And there’s something else, something different about him, something you keep trying to ponder on as you both eat your pancakes.
You try to insert it between conversations, between each bite, thinking and pondering and staring as you shuffle through your few memories with him.
He’s talking less, but when he does say something, it’s straight from his head in a subtype of clumsy he didn’t have on your first date. He always looks like he regrets what he’s saying instead of laughing it off, noting a habit of closing his eyes or scrunching his nose a little when he does. He’s less teasing, too. His level of playfulness seemed to have dialed down a little. Like he’s picking apart things about himself before letting you have it.
“You know…” You start, and the immediate way you have Ryland’s attention makes you look down shyly at your plate, makes you fiddle absentmindedly at the sleeves of what you’re wearing. “You seem calmer.”
“Calmer?”
“Mhm. On our first date…” You smile at the memory. “Everything that came out of your mouth surprised even you.”
Ryland looks like he’s taking in the information, like he didn’t live through it himself. He looks at you curiously. A little worried.
“Can I ask you something? It’s kind of stupid, though.”
“Those are usually the best questions.”
You let out a small breath through your nose, your smile finding its back where they belong before you brave the courage to make eye contact. “You still like me, right?”
Ryland’s face softens at a ridiculous pace, and he almost wants to reach out and ask you what prompted you to ask him, but it looks like you want to say more. He keeps his patience, and leans forward to let you know he’s listening to you.
“Sorry.” You’re laughing awkwardly now. It’s compensation. “I know how that sounds. It’s just… you’re really different today.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug, suddenly finding your empty coffee mug more interesting. “Like I said, calmer. Quieter. It seemed like you had more fun on our first date. It isn’t bad, but when I have a point of comparison… I don’t know. I guess I just got in my own head.”
“Hey, no, no, that’s not it. I’m having a lot of fun right now.”
Ryland reaches out, and it’s hesitant. He’s reaching a hand out, just enough to touch your fingertips. He wants you to look at him, to look at the softness in his features. And when you look at him, he offers you a sheepish smile. Gentle.
“I think I might’ve maybe put a lot of pressure on myself tonight.” He explains.
“You did?”
“Yeah.” His tone is low, abating the tempestuous anxieties that had been swelling in the pit of your stomach. “I kept thinking the first date went so well that I didn’t want to accidentally ruin whatever that was.”
You lean in at that, fingers moving to touch just a little more of his hands until you’ve slotted just your fingertips between his own on the table. “So you were trying to impress me?”
“Maybe a little too hard.”
I had big shoes to fill in, Ryland thinks. And he thinks it with an embarrassed smile manifested physically on his face.
He cringes a little at his words, wants to drop his head on the table at how that might’ve come off, maybe even crawl under the diner booth. But he looks at you now, and you're looking at him with warmth, and a face that’s trying very hard not to smile. “I can’t take back what I just admitted to?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “No can do, Ryland.”
You’re staring at your semi-intertwined hands, at how your fingertips are holding onto each other. And Ryland can’t help but let his eyes travel around your face, studying your features, and how you might feel about him.
“We’re okay?” He chooses to ask, and from the smile that stretches on your face, he seems to already know your answer.
“We’re okay.”
“Good.”
You reach across the table and steal one of his fries with your free hand, trying to lighten the sudden shift in the air. Your other hand remains on the table with his. “I was worried for no reason, then.”
“Were you just distracting me so you could eat my fries?”
“Maybe.”
Your laughter rings out the moment he asks, and he barely feels the twinge of your fingers against his because he’s too busy relishing in your crinkled eyes and how they’re in sharp contrast to the anxious, uneasy way it had looked earlier.
And it’s all he can think about even after he’d paid the check, and was now walking you home.
You don’t seem to mind his sudden amnesia at the path towards where you lived. You did spend the entire night on your first date bumping shoulders and trying really hard not to kiss each other, so the memory lapse would be warranted.
There is a certain beauty of the streets being reflected by the warmth of the streetlights and the glow of the moon, and every few steps your shoulders brush together. No longer accidental.
“I had fun.” You tell him, playfully leaning towards him before fixing your eyes straight ahead.
“Even if I was a little different?” Hopeful. There’s a certain tone Ryland’s been giving, like he was making up for something.
“Different isn’t always bad. Just needs getting used to.”
He smiles at this, and he keeps smiling the walk back until you abruptly stop in your tracks. It isn’t something he notices right away, too in his head about the entire night, but footsteps started sounding like two instead of four. It finally warrants him to return to the real world in search of you.
You look like you’re in the middle of a decision. “You know, I’ve been trying very hard to behave myself.”
His brows knit together, tilting his head, but his smile never leaves. “Should I be worried?”
“Maybe. It’s just that I've wanted to do something. I really wanted to do it after our first date.”
“Yeah?”
Ryland thinks he knows where this is heading, and he can’t help the butterflies in his stomach. He feels like a schoolboy again, in front of his crush, waiting.
“And I’m usually good at behaving myself. But, it’s been really persistent.”
“I don’t think I’d mind if… if you misbehaved a little.” He whispers, and that’s all confirmation you need to reach up and catch his dress shirt with your hands, bunching it up between your fingers and pulling him down to kiss you. Soft, warm, and brief. And so fucking exhilirating.
When you pull away, you’re immediately smiling into the pavement, your ears burning, but Ryland has better ideas when he laces his fingers with yours, tugging you beside him.
“I’ve really wanted to do that since the first date.”
A smile slowly spreads across his face. “I’m really glad you did.”
“Did it feel nice, then?” You ask him, a little bashful as the two of you resume walking. You can see the way he’s smiling, and he’s already nodding his head before words can form in his mouth.
“Better than nice.”
Ryland doesn’t even make it past the front door before the apartment fills with him, though to a very unwilling participant.
“Coltcoltcoltcolt—-“
“I’m right here.”
Ryland barely acknowledges the response. He’s halfway out of one shoe, hopping awkwardly as he tries to kick the other off without using his hands.
There’s a smile threatening every corner of his face, one that keeps slipping back no matter how much he tries to bite it down.
He’s jittery and giddy, and it seems he’d implode if he wasn’t moving in some way. “It went well. Really well.”
“Yeah?”
A strange relief settles over Colt. Not for himself, because inside he is still bitter and irritated. But, you (the love of his life) deserve a good second date. And he’s happy his twin brother could do that for you. Happy, yet irritated.
“I don’t even know where to start.” He’s rushing to the spot next to Colt on the couch, fingers mindlessly unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt. He needs the room to breathe, especially after the exhilarating night he had.
“Usually the beginning would be a good start, but I don’t know. Maybe that’s just me.”
“Don’t be mean.” Ryland nudges him with his elbow, smile suddenly elated at the memory of your date. He really can’t stop thinking, can’t stop the way his mind and heart is buzzing.
“She took me to this diner she’d been going to since college. The owners knew her by name, it was really sweet. Apparently, she’s really committed to these pancakes that she’s never actually ever finished.”
Colt hums, trying very hard not to look like a bitter man. But it’s so hard when he’s stuck in a kerfuffle. Ryland, unaware, is trying to catch his breath as the words tumble out of him.
“But she keeps ordering them, anyway. And, we just talked a lot. She’s really easy to talk to.”
That’s what I told you, Colt thinks bitterly.
“Yeah, I mentioned.”
He wants to react more positively, but his mouth is dry. There’s so much he’s supposed to say as a supportive brother. He can’t, not when it feels like there are fingers being shoved down his throat.
Colt can picture it in his head, no matter how hard he tries not to. It’s burning in his memory, etching and bonding itself to every bone until it’s all he can think about—you, sitting in front of Ryland, elbows on the table and eating your Goddamn pancakes, and laughing over whatever the hell you were talking about.
Colt doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to taint the memory of your laughter that he thought was reserved for him, but was now apparently overused in Ryland’s hearing, too.
And the way his brother is looking at him, narrating all about your night? It feels like his heart is being stomped on, grinded to the ground, until it’s nothing but unidentifiable powder because what was Colt even expecting.
Of course Ryland would fall for you. It’s hard for anyone to spend an evening with you and not leave completely head over shoes.
“I really like her.”
Colt’s heart gives one slow, painful thud against his chest because the thought had just materialized. It had become realer than it was when it was just in his head.
“And…” Ryland’s ears turn pink at whatever thought he had conjured up. Colt doesn’t really want to listen anymore, his brother was probably gonna say something about how he had walked you home, how you’d giggled at his jokes, how you’d—
“She kissed me, and God, Colt. It was perfect.”
Colt jolts awake, his self-pity sobering up a little. Maybe it was the rush of grief that suddenly surged through his bloodstream or maybe it was simply his brain telling him ‘I told you so’, but with complete disregard for the moment, Colt stands up abruptly, and he’s running a hand through his face and saying stop-stop-stop, because his brain was already conjuring up the image and that was something he did not want to picture.
“Colt?”
He wants to vomit. There’s heat behind his eyes that are threatening to leak if he doesn’t run away. And while his face still has a smile plastered for his brother, he feels his facade cracking, and he tries to grin wider to mask it.
“That’s good, buddy. Sorry, I’m just… I feel… weirdly exhausted.”
It’s a terrible excuse, completely lame. Paper-thin. But he can’t think of anything else. Not when the love of his life has just kissed his brother. And said brother also apparently really likes her.
Ryland snorts. “It’s barely nine.”
“Long day.”
“You took a nap before I left…?”
“Weird how the body works, huh. But maaaaaan, if I stand here another minute, I might fall asleep on you.”
“You’re being really dramatic, Colt.”
“It’s one of my better qualities. Haha, but yeah, uh, your story deserves better than that. Tell me the rest tomorrow?”
“Okay. Goodnight!”
It’s only when Colt is in the comfort of his bedroom, lonely and empty, does he lean his forehead against his wooden door and sigh out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The smile he’d been sporting finally slips off.
It’s silent for a moment. A calm before the storm.
Until there’s a burn in his heart, just under his chest and it’s squeezing so tightly. When he closes his eyes, all he sees is you, and it sends ugly tears streaming down his cheeks.
The reality of the situation is dawning on him, and it is so, so painful.
A spell of dizziness sends him tumbling towards his bed, heart racing and palms sweating and tears flowing.
He curls onto his side, one arm thrown over his eyes, or somewhere that can try to block you out. But he falls asleep at the thought of you, anyway.
The transition happens without warning.
Colt stands behind a glass door, something blooming before his eyes. One step then another, and then it’s suddenly so fast-paced. It started with Ryland being on his phone a lot more than usual, and then he’d be gone some evenings.
The man ponders over waiting it out, but there is no place for him to want to be absent in his brother’s lovelife when he’s the only family member Colt has left.
It feels heavy, though. But Colt never allows himself the moment alone because he’s afraid he might think about it. Instead, he busies himself with work, with going to the gym, with teasing Ryland and apparently going over the top about it because he loves the pain he subjects himself to.
It does start small, though. He thinks he deserves at least some credit for that. Ryland would come home smiling at nothing, and Colt would tell him he looked insufferable.
And then it just escalates from there.
“Have fun kissing your girlfriend!”
“We’re not kissing, and she’s not my—”
Ryland never gets to finish his sentences.
“You know it’s getting really lonely in this apartment. My brother has replaced me with a pretty girl.”
“I haven’t replaced you with anyone!”
It gets to a point where it’s just blatantly ridiculous.
“Oh, we’re hiding messages now?”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“You never used to hide your phone from me. Come on, let me read. I need good stories if I’m gonna be your best man.”
It’s sadistic, honestly, the things that Colt does to himself. He thinks it’ll shield him from the pain, but every time Ryland goes out, he’s suffocated by the same bitter jealousy and the tears that always manage to spring to his eyes.
Mr. Number One Yearner over here.
And it might be ridiculous. You had only gone on one date, while you and Ryland were banking on four together. But, he really felt a genuine connection with you. He still thinks about how he’d walked you home, and how he almost kissed you. It’s still embedded in his memory the way you smiled at him, and walked just a little closer so your hands would brush against each other’s.
It exhausts Colt. He never has time to really think because he’s always rushing.
The watch on his wrist reads 00:04, and it’ll only be a few minutes before the noise of his own mental scuffle overwhelms him. They always do. He does the only thing he can, plugs in his earphones to try and drown it out while listening to Sad Boy Playlist on Spotify.
This is what living with a brother who’s dating the love of your life is like. He lives off of sadistically teasing his brother, jumping into stunts with a little less fear, and sleeping really late at night.
It’s been like this for a few weeks. The same routine, over and over. Colt thinks he messed up somewhere. If only he had told you that night—but it’ll be the same unsaid conversation in his head repeating. It always ended in you kissing him, and it would end there until his alarm would blare and he’s reminded of his bleak world.
He stares at the ceiling, as he does every night before falling asleep, and the only sounds that accompany him are the loud volume from his earphones and the echo of your laughter in the background.
Until, one day, he decides he’s been too cruel to himself. Apart from his heart breaking, he had lived on stale coffee on sets and the black coffee that Ryland makes.
A coffee shop would do him good.
The cafe is so busy that you almost miss him. Keyword: almost.
He’s just by the pickup counter, a baseball cap pulled lower over his forehead, and a black face mask covering the lower half of his face. One of his hands is shoved effortlessly in the pocket of his pants, while the other is mindlessly tapping against his takeout cup.
But you’d recognize him anywhere.
“Ryland!”
Colt freezes from where he’s sipping his coffee, his blood running cold at the familiar voice. He hasn’t exactly seen you since you’d gone on that first date together.
“What a coincidence.” There’s that smile on your face, the exact same one he had fallen for. The one that had rearranged his life, his routines.
You just move, and the whole world moves with you. Including him, who has suddenly forgotten he knew how to speak, his feelings overwhelming him before he can process vocabulary.
He has half a mind to tell you just how much the sight of you smiling makes him feel, his stomach twisting, his heart begging to be let out.
“Hi.” He chokes out a response after staying silent for too long, hoping it doesn’t come out awkward. You don’t seem to mind.
You stop in front of him, your own coffee balanced carefully between both hands.
“I didn’t know you came here.”
“Sometimes.”
Apparently, his feelings had also decided on one-word responses.
“I’m always here. It’s disappointing we haven’t bumped into each other sooner. Cool get up, by the way with the cap and the mask, and everything.”
He only laughs, throat stuttering over words he can’t say, so he chooses to just shift his cup to his other hand. The sleeve of his jacket rides up in consequence.
Your eyes immediately catch on something just beneath his wrist.
“Hey, is that new?”
Colt follows your gaze, eyes finding the familiar healing scrape from yesterday’s stunt rehearsal. He’s still forming another one-word response when you reach for his arm, settling feather-light against his wrist.
“That looks like it hurt.” You frown, looking up at him.
Your hand is warm, almost too warm against his. And he notices the same callouses he did that night of your date. He assumes they’re from hard work like his. There are questions at the tip of his tongue, a desire to know what kind of life put them there. It’s the same questions echoing in his head before he falls asleep.
“It didn’t.”
“Not even a little?”
“Maybe a little.”
You give him a look, but it’s playful more than upset. “Okay, brave boy. Just, uh, one second.”
Before he can ask what you’re doing, you’re already rummaging through your tote bag. There’s clatter of pens, lip balms, a few receipts are pulled out with an accompanying grumble, until—
“Got it!” You triumphantly lift a little packet, showing it to him proudly.
“You just carry around band-aids? Who are you, Dr. McStuffin?”
You laugh. “Well, yeah. My friends are kind of clumsy. One time, someone in my office cut themselves over opening a bag of chips.”
Colt laughs, too, despite himself. It’s not so much the story, but the way you say it, the way your hands move. It reminds him of that night, that one fateful night, and the same animated way you’re telling him stories.
“A bag of chips?! That seems more your friend’s fault than the chips.”
“Hey! They’re surprisingly dangerous. I’m afraid I’ll have to file some sort of complaint. Needs more hazard warnings.”
You peel it open, staring down at his stubborn scab, before looking up at him. “May I?”
Colt nods hesitantly. He can’t not say yes, not when he’s hyperfixated on the way you hold his hand, resting it on the counter and working hard on applying the bandaid.
You’re so gentle, settling it on the scrape before smoothing the edges down with your thumb. The action makes his face flush an embarrassing color. You don’t seem to notice. You’re too preoccupied to look at him in the face.
It’s a small thing, barely lasting a minute, and yet it was a curiously intimate thing for you to attempt to take care of him through a band-aid. There’s that very identifiable feeling in his heart he doesn’t want to think about right now, and there’s a subtle change in the air that he needs to address.
(Not with himself, he’s had this conversation enough times already. He might just have to talk to his brother soon.)
“There.” You smile proudly at your work, smoothening over it one last time. “Good as new.”
Your fingers remain curled loosely around his wrist, your thumb resting against the inside of it, even after a whole minute has passed. You only seem to notice when your eyes flick up to his, and back at his hand that you’d apparently refused to let go of.
“Sorry.” You let go immediately after the realization, smiling sheepishly.
“No.” Colt says, soothing you at a similar immediate pace. “I don’t mind, really.”
“Okay then, Ryland.”
Colt should’ve thought of the thrill your giggles always send him, but right now, he seems to cling to how strange it still sounds, the name of his brother, coming from your mouth when talking to him. Even until now.
‘Colt’ would be so much more comfortable to say, and it’s one-syllable instead of Ryland’s two that’s a little more clumsy to fit in a sentence. With how he feels, sometimes he forgets he’s still ‘Ryland’ to you.
He can’t help but wonder if he’ll always be just ‘Ryland’ to you.
When he notices he’s been quiet for too long, he stands up a little straighter and finally tunes back into the present. The first thing he discerns is the little cartoon bear printed on the Band-Aid.
“Thanks, though. The bear is cute. Nice touch.”
“It was that or dinosaurs.”
“I would’ve liked the dinosaurs.”
“God, I knew I chose wrong. I spent like ten minutes mulling the decision over. Gee, thanks Ryland!”
He laughs. From being in his head a lot, he’d almost forgotten how easy this was—talking to you, and being around you. It feels like stepping back into a room he was forced out of too early.
The barista calls another name in the background, and someone gets up from a table by the window.
“Oh, quick, quick! A table opened.”
Colt should leave. He should leave if he wants to make this easier for him. Instead, he lets you take his hand and guide him to the empty table. And conversation follows, like it always seems to with you.
None of you notice the untouched coffee on the table that’s now cold, nor how forty full minutes have passed. You’re so engrossed in conversation that none of it matters. Everything is just background as you talk about your coworkers and how the pigeons keep harassing the woman who works by the window, or how he had accidentally set off a smoke detector in their apartment while he was doing a science demonstration.
(He was actually helping Ryland when it happened. But, he can’t mention that.)
And the both of you are laughing so hard that your ribs are starting to hurt, and your lungs are tired from the constant inhale and exhale of recovery right after.
“No family emergency to fake today?”
“Nope. I’m stuck here with you, sadly.”
Your jaw drops in disbelief. “Sadly? I’d have you know I’m quite good company. I won ‘Most Friendly’ all throughout kindergarten.”
“That’s a surprisingly low-stakes achievement to be bragging about.”
“It was actually very competitive. I had like three people I was competing against. God, what about you? You must’ve been a nerd.”
“I was actually pretty cool back in the day. You would’ve had a crush on me. I was as charming as I am now.”
“Charming? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Worked on you.”
A blush creeps up on your cheeks, but you don’t let him win the moment. You can’t let him, not with that smug look on his face. “Suuuure, Mr. ‘Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell’.”
Colt groans, dropping his face briefly into his hands.
“I was hoping enough time passed for you to forget that one. That wasn’t very charming of me.”
“How could I?” You smile teasingly. “I laughed so hard when you said that. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”
“Might have to send a personal thank you to the mitochondria then.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been told.”
“But I think…” Your smile is less teasing now. It’s softer. Fond. And a little nostalgic. “I missed ridiculous.”
The remnants of laughter settles warmly between the two of you, and you allow yourself the time while he’s chugging down his cold coffee to study him. He doesn’t tell you it’s an excuse to hide the way his ears are tinging pink from what you’d just said. If he’s drinking, his face wouldn’t smile so much. He wouldn’t have to think of how you said you missed ridiculous. Missed him.
“Can I say something?”
He nods.
“You’re really…” You smile to yourself at the thought that’s forming. “You today. I don’t know if that makes sense. You’re just…”
You’re searching for the words, similar to him when he’d seen you that first second in the coffee shop almost an hour ago.
“You’re a lot like our first date.”
His heartbeat quickens.
“I kept wondering if maybe our first date had just been… one really good night.” You toy with the sleeve around your coffee cup. “But today, well, I don’t know. You’re looking at me like that again, and making me smile, and making my stomach hurt so much from laughing. It just feels like I got you back.”
Your smile turns impossibly fond. “I guess you do still like me.”
“I really do.” Colt’s response comes out quicker than intended, without the executive decision of his brain. It seems, his heart just went ahead and answered what it’s been shouting for a few weeks now.
You grin so brightly that it almost splits your face. “Good. Cause I really like you too. Show me this side of you more often, please?”
“Okay.”
It’s in moments like these that have Colt reconsidering how forever would feel like, and how he wouldn’t mind having this moment last for a little bit longer than it should. Sitting here with you, a mere spectator amongst the warm glow of the cafe’s lighting, makes Colt feel hopeless.
It makes him wish he could freeze time, keep this moment untouched, something that you break by glancing at your watch. Couldn’t you have spared him a few more minutes?
“Oh, wow. I didn’t realize the time. I should really get going.”
Disappointment flashes across his face before he can hide it. “Right.”
You stand, gathering your bag and slinging the strap over your shoulder. “Don’t look so upset. I’ll see you later, Ryland!”
The name lands in his chest like a bruise that he doesn’t process what your parting statement had implied. And this time, it lingers a little longer.
He watches you disappear through the cafe doors. And only after you’re gone does he look down at the little bear band-aid on his wrist.
He doesn’t take it off. At least, not for the rest of the day.
You meet Ryland again later in the day for a fifth date. And you’d think after meeting a while that the nerves would be worn off, but it never completely washes away. Not completely, at least.
There are still moments where your heart forgets what it’s doing whenever Ryland smiles at you a little too long, or brushes your hand without meaning to, or makes you laugh like he did all that afternoon. The thought of its repeat makes you a little nervous tonight.
But the constant reminder that this was your Fifth date has softened down the nerves a little, comforted them and asked them to keep down for a moment.
Tonight, he meets you outside the little independent bookstore you’d been insisting on taking him to for almost two weeks now. He’d told you over text that from the number of times you’d talked about this place, it was about time that he actually saw it with his own two eyes.
So now he stands outside beneath the flickering storefront sign, hands buried in his coat pockets against the evening chill.
“You made it.”
“I’m just finding out there’s a little restaurant inside.”
“I was trying to save the best part as a surprise.”
“Good choice.”
You spend almost an hour wandering the aisles, going through book titles and synopsis, and on occasion, imitating the book covers. Ryland, on the other hand, picks up every science book he can find, reading blurbs aloud with the innocent enthusiasm of someone who genuinely forgets other people are around.
You have to physically steer him away from a shelf after he spends ten full minutes debating whether an author misunderstood a science concept you don’t even remember.
“I don’t think arguing with a book is a good look for you, Ryland.”
“If I told you I was winning, would that change your mind?”
“Not quite, but I was swayed a little.” You laugh, and he pockets it as a victory on his own part, finally putting down the children’s book he had been criticizing for the misinformation on the science aspects.
Ryland is very passionate about teaching children correct information early on, even if that means arguing with a book meant for a five-year-old to read.
By the time the two of you settle into the bookstore’s restaurant, there’s already two steaming mugs waiting for you at your table, and you’ve laughed enough that your cheeks are starting to feel a bit sore. Though, not as much as your ribs had stung earlier in the afternoon.
You watch him stir his hot chocolate, and he catches you looking. You’re never really subtle with the staring, you’ve noticed.
On the first date, you had told him he was really pretty.
“What?”
You smile, shaking your head. “Just that… there are so many versions to you, did you know? It’s always a surprise to know which Ryland I’m going to get.”
Tonight, Ryland had felt like a friend. You pondered over it over your own cup of hot chocolate. You’d been feeling weird for quite a while. The past few weeks, that was how Ryland felt to you. But meeting him this afternoon had sent a surge of romance through your bones that you almost forgot how giddy you had felt that first date.
Ryland’s spoon pauses halfway around the mug. ”I don’t think I get what you mean.”
“It’s not anything bad.” You say, elbows propped on the table and palms resting on your cheeks. “It’s kind of interesting. I mean, there’s first-date Ryland. And there was second-date Ryland. And really, who could forget Science-teacher Ryland who just argued with a bunch of children’s books.”
“I like that Ryland.” He mumbles, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose once he feels it start to slip.
“Of course you do.” You laugh, and then you think of the last Ryland, the one that had made your heart flutter earlier. “And then there’s coffee-shop Ryland.”
Ryland’s smile falters. He doesn’t have any memories with you in a coffee shop. And he’d consider his memory quite good, remembering pieces of information that he needs to as a teacher. There is always information locked behind his mind, and this, this was not one of them.
“Coffee shop?”
“The cafe this afternoon. He was cute. You looked like you never wanted the conversation to end. It was funny, really, because we already had plans tonight.” Your smile softens at the memory of sitting with him by the window and laughing at God-knows-what.
“You just kept finding new things to talk about. You even let me put that stupid bear band-aid on you. And, even after all that, you still looked disappointed when I had to leave.”
That… wasn’t him. He wasn’t in a coffee shop that afternoon. He had been in his classroom, teaching his kids. And—
Horror dawns on Ryland immediately when he realizes. His brother had come home wearing that bear band-aid. He remembers because he’d made fun of it. The same brother who had barely looked him in the eye when he’d asked how the afternoon went. Kept repeating the same words, “nothing interesting”.
That can’t be it. No, Colt would tell him.
Wouldn’t he?
Something flashes in Ryland’s mind, just in that split second of questioning—his brother persuading him not to go on the second date, the look on his face that morning, the redness in his eyes he said was from lack of sleep.
Ryland feels something cold settle in his stomach, freezing his bones, his lungs, his heart, until it seeps into every part of him. It spreads slowly, water seeping and searching for every crack, and by the time the realization reaches his head, he thinks he might actually be sick.
“Ryland? Are you alright?”
Your voice pulls him back. You’re looking at him with concerned eyes, but he can’t seem to brave eye contact.
“You’ve gone somewhere else.”
Every memory from that first date belongs to someone else. Every detail you mention always seemed to hold a semblance of his brother in there. There was always more fondness when you’d talked about your first date, and when you were talking about the coffee shop he’d never been to before.
That was all Colt. Colt who had been the one on your first date, who had walked you home that night, who you had thought about kissing, who stayed at that coffee shop because he couldn’t bear to leave you.
“Can I ask you something?”
You’ve asked that question so many times that it feels weird being redirected back at you. Odd, but not unwelcome. “Sure.”
“When you said…” He clears his throat, trying to find the right words to get his point across. “About coffee-shop Ryland. Did you like that version of me better?”
There is no mistaking the confusion that morphs into your face, trickling into every feature of yours that it almost isn’t necessary to say what you ask next. “What?”
“Were you happier with me then?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Now, there’s a hint of frustration in your voice you can’t hide. You’re confused, and a little frustrated because why is it that the question is necessary. Had you been conflicting with your feelings?
At the end of the day, he was all entirely one Ryland. Everything was him, so what did it matter which version of him you liked more?
“It doesn’t matter. I liked who you were on our first date, and the second, and even today when you’re arguing with books. I liked you this afternoon, too. I just like you.” You spread your hands helplessly. “All of those people are you.”
Ryland feels his chest tighten, averting his gaze elsewhere in the habit of being scolded. And, in a softer voice, he says, “Not entirely.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Just answer the question, please. Did you like me more then?”
You sigh, eyes shutting in that same frustration you’d been branding since he asked it in the first place. “You looked like you liked me more then. And I couldn’t stop smiling. So, maybe, yeah. I like when you’re that version of you. I never have to think about what’s in your mind, because in those moments, it feels like I already know.”
Ryland goes quiet.
His eyes drift somewhere just beyond you, unfocused, as though he’s trying to solve a problem that keeps changing every time he thinks he’s reached the answer. He never quite gets to the right answer.
His chest tightens with a dull, unfamiliar ache. It isn’t jealousy. It isn’t even heartbreak. It’s the sort of realization that all this time, he had been trying to compete with someone who he’d never be. You had always imagined that he was Colt.
“I see.”
Ryland rubs both hands over his face. He’s unsure of what to do, and you’re not sure how to perceive this conversation anymore. There are many things you understand with ease, but this is asking far and beyond for you.
Why was he reacting so greatly to this?
“Can you…” Ryland laughs, he actually laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “This is going to sound completely insane. I just…”
He looks at his phone on the table. There is only one thing to do.
“Can you give me five minutes?”
“You’re leaving? I don’t think we’ve finished our conversation.”
“Just five minutes. I just… I need to talk to someone.”
“Right now? It can’t wait til later?”
“Please.”
The laughter that leaves your lips is dry, almost incredulous. “I’ve been trying to understand your absurd questions and your vague responses for the past few minutes, and you suddenly want to make a phone call right now?”
“I promise it’ll make sense. I’m sorry. Please.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes shut for a moment as you try and breathe out the things you’re not understanding to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Okay.”
“Okay. Thank you. I just… I should’ve realized sooner. Will you please wait?” He tries to smile gratefully, and he hopes you saw it from how he’s already reaching for his phone and stumbling out the bookstore with Colt’s contact in hand.
The phone rings. Under his breath, Ryland mutters, “Pick up, you idiot.”
The apartment is loud now that Ryland has left and gone on another date with you.
Ever since Colt’s recent new heartbreak, he had invested in buying his own speakers. Sometimes, the plugs in his ears aren’t enough anymore. He needs the songs blasting and echoing around his walls. It’s not like Ryland’s home to complain anyway.
That’s how Justin Bieber ends up in his apartment.
If I was your boyfriend—
“No.” Colt points accusingly at his phone, rushing to pick it up and switch it to the song he’s intending. Because he wasn’t your boyfriend. It was an evil, sick joke his phone was playing on him to remind him exactly that. “Wrong song.”
Everybody’s laughing in my mind, rumours spreading ‘bout this other guy—
“There it is.”
He throws himself dramatically across the couch, laughing at his pathetic state as the tears keep streaming from his eyes down to his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.
“This is a healthy way to cope.” He says into the air, voice congested from all the crying. He doesn’t know who he’s defending himself to, but he felt it necessary to be said out loud. As if Whoever The Fuck was judging him in this moment.
He buries his face into one of Ryland’s throw pillows, leaving behind wet patches of his tear strains. He’s sure they’ll dry by the time Ryland comes home. This is fine.
The song continues as he sobs pathetically.
That should be me… This is so sad…
“Exactly.” He points at the ceiling this time. “This really is so sad. That should be me feeling your kiss!”
His phone buzzes, but Justin Bieber’s making some pretty good points through the speakers. Ryland can wait.
He silences the call, letting Bieber preach his truth.
Ryland’s probably just calling to geek out over you anyway—how you’re so incredible, how another date is set for tomorrow, how beautiful you are. But that should be him! So for now, Colt has the right to ignore him.
The song ends, music switching to another Taylor Swift song, and Colt can only groan louder at the pillow.
“I am not the kind of girl who should be rudely barging in on a white veil occasion…”
“And you are not the type of girl who should be marrying the wrong boy!” Colt finishes for Taylor, purposely switching out the pronouns so he can feel his misery more. As if, in some way, he was directly talking to you.
Because it is You. You’re going to get married to Ryland, and he will be forced to watch. You’re probably planning your wedding dress right now, the type of cake you’ll want, the flowers, and Ryland’s going to make him best man, and oh God, he thinks he might vomit—
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The phone keeps buzzing. Because who is Ryland if not persistent? (Despite Colt’s misery.)
Taylor barely has time to belt out her bridge when the buzzing was starting to kill the mood. Colt groans loudly into the pillow, kicking his legs around in a mini tantrum. Can’t he have this one moment to yell along the lyrics, to vicariously live through Taylor as she finally ‘speaks now’.
After his tantrum, and a few more frustrated tears, he finally picks up.
“What.” He sniffles right after, and he can only hope that wherever Ryland is is full of noise to mask the pathetic way he had sniffled.
“Where the hell are you?”
“Home? Where else would I be?”
“I’m sending you an address.” Ryland sounds extremely panicked. He only sounded like this when he was missing a deadline. “I need you here.”
Colt sits upright at that, Ryland’s throw pillow still clutched tightly in one of his arms. Another sniffle. “Why?”
“Why didn’t you just tell me, Colt?”
“I’m afraid you’re not really making sense right now, bro—“
Ryland’s voice climbs. “That you like her!”
Colt finds that multiple words are stuck at his throat, it dries and thickens, and it’s getting a little hot in this room, and is the airconditioning still on? It’s impossibly hot and sweaty right now.
“Buddy, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tries to deflect. A palm wipes at tears? sweat? whatever was gathering on his cheeks.
“Cut it, Colt. I know you’re in love with (Name). I, just, since when, Colt?”
He coughs as a response.
“Answer me, Colt.”
“Since the first date.”
“Jesus.” If Ryland didn’t sound stressed before, he definitely was now. Colt can almost picture him tugging at his hair, eyebrows furrowed in the way it does when he worries. “You didn’t think I’d want to know?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It mattered! It definitely mattered! If you’d told me—” Ryland almost shouts, but he’s quick to calm himself. It’s like a switch, really. Like he’d somehow remembered the years of teaching himself patience.
Instead, he starts speaking in a smaller voice. Quiet. Almost guilty. “I would’ve never gotten in the way. I wouldn’t have gone on that second date if you’d told me.”
“I’m sorry—“
“No time. Look, I’m outside of this bookstore trying very hard not to accidentally ruin her entire week. So, get your ass here, Colt. Or I swear to God.”
Panic suddenly settles in Colt. He stares at his phone for a second too long. His thoughts are suddenly everywhere at once, tripping over each other before any of them can fully form.
“What am I supposed to do when I get there?”
I’m sorry for pretending to be my brother? Sorry that I ended up falling for you? Sorry that I was just crying to Justin Bieber a few minutes ago?
“Just get over here and fix this.”
Ryland’s right, and Taylor’s right. He has to speak now. This is his last chance.
“I have to speak now or forever hold my peace.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Ryland stands outside the bookstore for a full minute after the phone call before he gathers up enough courage to go back in.
There are multiple things he’s going to say to you to stall for some time. It’s not like the bookstore was far from his apartment, so he’d only need to say the words he had practiced and are in his head at that moment. A few apologies, a heartbreaking parting line, anything.
Unfortunately, none of his rehearsed words ever survive long enough to reach your table because when he walks in, you’re already putting on your coat.
His heart drops at the sight.
You look up at the exact same moment, lips in trial of a smile. “I think I should go. I just suddenly feel a little embarrassed. I think I got a little ahead of myself tonight.”
“You didn’t.”
You sling your bag over your shoulder, and it makes Ryland even more frantic. He’s fumbling over getting you to stay, all while trying not to touch you disrespectfully. If it had been anyone else, he’d have just grabbed onto your arm, but he can’t do that to you. Anyone but you.
He glances toward the door, then back at you, and then at his phone like an answer would suddenly present itself. “Just a few more minutes, please.”
“Ryland.”
“(Name).”
He really is persistent, following you all the way to the front door all while pleading you to stay for another minute without exactly explaining why, just that “it’ll all make sense”.
The second the door opens, cold air slams into both of you. It’s raining, hard and nasty and harsh, sheets of water swallowing the street until it almost disappears behind the downpour. Wind rushes into the bookstore, tugging loose strands of your hair across your face and sending the little bell above the door into a frantic fit.
You instinctively step back.
Ryland, on the other hand, almost laughs.
Of course it starts raining now.
He’d finally worked up the courage to tell Colt to get over here, finally accepted that you were never his in the first place, your heart had always belonged to the boy on that first date with you. Of course, the universe had apparently decided to make getting here as difficult as humanly possible.
“You’ve got to be kidding me…”
A crack of thunder answers him.
Ryland tips his head back for half a second, eyes falling shut. At least it got you to stay a little bit, despite the sudden awkwardness growing.
Right when he’s about to give up, he spots movement in the corner of his eye. It looks a lot like someone running across the street, sprinting through the harsh heavy-hits of the rain.
Your eyes narrow at the figure that is very much running towards the direction of you and Ryland. It’s almost uncanny, a little bit creepy.
The man reaches where you’re sheltered, bent over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath the moment he’s finally escaped the rain.
You’re about to step away from the stranger, trying not to get yourself wet, when he suddenly looks up. Your breath hitches at the sight. Absolutely fucking not. There is no way.
“Hi.”
You look at him, and back at the person beside you. And you start laughing. Actually laughing with a serene smile to the absolutely fuckery that was your life right now. Like you’re almost sorry for yourself for existing in this exact moment.
“I think I’m hallucinating.”
If one more thing fucks your head up today, you swear you’ll start crying.
You look between them again, still shaking your head in a bewildered laughter. Like you can’t quite believe it. This must be the peak of your satirical life.
“There are two of you. I’m gonna need someone to start talking or I’m actually going to pass out.”
Ryland—the dry one—lets out a sigh. “That would be my cue. Just know I’m really sorry, (Name). But uh, he’s got this one.”
He pats your back gently, and then he’s pulling at his exact replica, whispering a harsh, “Dude, were you crying before coming here?"
“Of course not, what am I? A fucking loser? Go, go. Go away.” The wet one is shooing him away, and you really are about to pass out. This must be a simulation, a mockery of your life for believing someone as attractive as Ryland could hold feelings for you.
He’s looking at you now, with eyes red and puffy, and easy to discern trembling lips. His hair is plastered to his forehead, rainwater rolling down the bridge of his nose and off the sleeves of his sweater.
And despite the tear strains that look like trembling contrite, you’d be able to make out that face in a crowd of thousands. It’s the same face you’d stared at for a long time that night—that first night you’d gone on a date with him—trying desperately to behave yourself and not kiss him.
He had the same stubble, the same scar just beneath his jaw from an injury that probably never healed.
“Ryland?”
The guilt on his face is immediate, and there is a lonely, melancholic chuckle that leaves his lips at the name. “No. That… would be the guy who just left. I’m Colt.”
You stare, with furrowed eyebrows, like you still don’t understand.
“We’re twins.”
“I don’t— I don’t understand. The first date, and a while ago, that was—“
“That was me.” His shoulders droop just a little.
“And tonight, that—“
“My brother.”
Rain drums loudly against the awning above you. Colt, you now know, is dipping his head, hand linked behind his back, and his expression schooled into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks like he’s trying hard not to start crying again.
“Then that means— I don’t…” You’re stumbling over your words, stepping back a little from him. You don’t understand, even with the facts laid out. You don’t understand how this could’ve happened.
“Ryland was busy that first date, so he asked me to go for him.”
“Oh.”
“It was only meant to be for an hour.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better? Now, I just feel like a victim of some awful prank. I feel like I’ve been… played with.” You frown at the thought.
“No—“
“Was it fun, then? Switching between the two of you and laughing cause I never found out? Was this all some sort of sick joke you’re playing as twin brothers?”
There’s a strain in your voice now, and fuck, Colt doesn’t think he can bear the sight of your tear-strained eyes, doesn’t think he can handle the quiver in tour lips.
“No, no, no. You have us—me all wrong. It wasn’t like that at all.”
“What was it like then?” Your voice wavers, and he can see you sucking in a deep breath. Your eyes shine in a way they hadn’t before. It’s confused, and hurt, and betrayed enough that Colt almost has to look away. But it also breaks his heart that you’d ever imply that.
The accusation hits him harder than the rain had earlier. He would never play with your feelings like that.
“Everything was real.”
“I don’t think that’s fair to say.” Tears are slipping past your eyes, and you move to wipe them on instinct. “You introduced yourself as someone else.”
“I know.”
“And you kept pretending to be someone else, even this afternoon.”
“I know.”
“You should’ve told me.” Backed up by feeling like everything had been one-sided, your fingers tighten around the sleeves of the top you’re wearing, and you’re shaking your head at his mere audacity.
“I should’ve, and it was my mistake. I should’ve told you after that first date, at the coffee shop, at any point. I should’ve told you.” Colt drags a hand over his soaked face. “But I was afraid. I was afraid you liked my brother more, I was afraid I was only a placeholder, a hostel until a house in the form of Ryland came.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.” The words taste bitter in your mouth.
“I wanted to tell you, I really did. But then you’d smile at me, and you’d talk, and you’d make me laugh, and you’d put that bear band-aid on my arm.” Colt’s having difficulty speaking, especially with the lump in his threat, and the tears that had been spilling for a while. His thumb brushes over the cartoon bear still stuck beneath his sleeve. “But I kept thinking of Ryland, too. What was I going to tell him? By the way, I met with the girl you were supposed to go on a date with, and now I’m in love with her.’”
The words leave him in one breath. They flow, through strings and untangled spools, and he says it straight that it makes you wonder how long they’ve been rehearsed in his head.
“I didn’t know what to do. I wanted the best for my brother, but I’m so in love with you. So, I didn’t— I couldn’t tell you. I’d rather my feelings hurt than his.”
He sounds ashamed, and the break in his voice does nothing to disguise his guilt.
It’s silent for a moment, like you’re thinking real hard about his words. There’s still a frown on your lips that slowly morphs into a sort of heartbreak he doesn’t know could manifest on the mouth. There is chewing of your bottom lip, trying hard to keep it from trembling, and there is the hesitation in your eyes as you look up at him after staring at the wet floor for a long time.
“Was any of it really real?”
He doesn’t allow a second to pass before he replies, “All of it.”
“The first date?”
“My favorite night I’ve had in years.”
“And the coffee shop?”
“You left me, and I spent way too much money on coffee that I let turn cold. I was basically heartbroken twice.”
Your lips twitch, barely.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You said you missed ridiculous.”
You look back down at the puddles collecting around your shoes, letting out a breath. “I do… I— I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What about Ryland?”
There is softness in your voices now, a sort of gentle compared to the frustration it had held.
“He didn’t know until now that I like you. He’s a good person, he’d never do anything to intentionally hurt you. He’d never do anything to hurt me.”
You remember the look on Ryland’s face before he left, when you’d told him you liked the version of him in the coffee shop better, and every single time you referenced your first date. “And the dates?”
“They were real, too. He liked you. How could he not?”
But Ryland was never the one you kept asking about, now that you know Colt. You’d kept asking and asking him if he still liked you, but you didn’t know he didn’t have the answer for that. You’d been asking Colt, and he wasn’t Colt.
“But I just kept thinking he was you. I feel… God, I feel so guilty. I kept talking to him about you. I thought he was you.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I really should’ve just told you.” He sighs, and with a more tentative voice, a question follows. “Would it be wrong of me to ask if I totally fucked up my chances with you?”
You think about it, and Colt spends the entire silence of your thinking with the same constipated face, albeit a bit hopeful.
“You pretended to be someone else. And you lied to me. And you made me cry just now.”
“All fair points.” His voice is thick and heavy, looking at your eyes for a second before looking down on the pavement. Like he doesn’t deserve to look at you yet.
Colt looks dejected at the reminders, eyes still puffy, and there is a pathetic voice in him telling him to smile even though he feels like he’d just lost.
“I don’t know. But I…” Your eyes trail to the rest of him — wet hair, slumped shoulders, slightly trembling hands. “I’d still like to get to know Colt despite it all.”
He looks up at you suddenly, like he hadn’t heard you properly. “Really?”
Colt blinks, frozen in front of you. Suddenly, he feels lightheaded, like he didn’t think that answer could’ve been possible. He might even be on cloud nine, he can’t tell from the blood rushing to his ears and making it ring. You could’ve answered with anything, and he would’ve thanked you and apologized at the same time. He just didn’t expect that. That you’d say something about wanting to know him.
You nod your head. “This time, maybe you could… introduce yourself properly.”
“Okay. Yeah, of course.” The relief that washes over his face is almost comical, his shoulders straightening after being hunched the entire evening. And he’s offering his hand, outstretched and patient.
“Hi. I’m Colt.”
“A bit late.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He smiles sheepishly. A last sniffle. “But I figured I still owe the girl I’ve been in love with since our first date an honest introduction.”
Your heart melts, and you find yourself mirroring his smile.
“Hi, Colt.” You take his hand in yours, shaking it once. His name from your mouth could’ve made him faint, heartbeat thumping and thudding impossibly at finally hearing it. “I’ve known you for quite a while, but it’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Can I take you out of here, (Name)?”
“Depends, Colt. Will there be a family emergency to fake this time?”
don’t be mad (holland march x f!reader)
summary: holland misses out on family date night and you're not pleased. he uses his hands to try and make it up to you
wc: 3.1k
cw: SMUT with a smidge of angst, pathetic/begging holland, praise, vaginal fingering, excessive pet name use, consensual somnophilia !!! MINORS DNI !!!
a/n: holland march save me save me holland march please holland march
The creak of the front door was loud in the late night (early morning?) stillness of the March residence, where the only sounds besides the whispered ‘shit’ by the man stumbling on the stoop were the cicadas outside and the barely present hum of the fridge.
You could tell by how the door was opened- a tiny creak, followed by a long pregnant pause, then a faster squeal and quick click of it shutting- that Holland knew he was in trouble and was trying to make his entry as indiscreet as possible. He was most likely pleading to any higher power that would listen, praying that you were already asleep and he would have the luxury of waiting until morning to prepare for your verbal lashing.
Unfortunately for him, you were wide awake.
Sitting on your bed and leaning against the headboard, the book in your lap had been mostly untouched all night, words barely legible in the dim light the lamp on your nightstand provided anyway.
There was some shuffling in the living room, a click of the lock on the front door, a set of keys dropping on the kitchen table, then slow steps to your bedroom that paused just outside the threshold.
You knew he could see the dim light through the crack in the door and you knew his heart was dropping into his ass because you were awake. Good.
For a second, you wondered if he would even come in at all, or if he’d decided to cut his losses and spend the night on the couch on his own accord, but he did eventually push the door open. His entry into the room was at a snail’s pace- so slow and so hesitant.
You didn’t deign to look at him, pretending to read while he stepped into the room so cautiously you’d think a lion was hidden in the closet.
When you said nothing but also didn’t start tearing into him, Holland carefully shut the door behind him and moved to the dresser. You studied him through your peripheral vision.
Just as you expected, he’d been drinking. His suit was rumpled, hair mussed and cheeks rosy, fingers fumbling to undo the buttons on his shirt. He wasn’t completely plastered, so at least there was that. If he was blackout drunk, he wouldn’t have thought about being careful and quiet when he got home- he probably would’ve flung himself onto the bed and promptly passed out.
Holland purposely kept his back to you as he undressed, to protect himself from meeting your steely gaze that he could probably feel between his shoulder blades. From the way he shifted his weight back and forth on his feet, you could tell your silence was killing him but he didn’t want to be the first to talk, unsure of what to say.
You didn’t mind being the icebreaker.
“You’re late-“
“I’m so sorry, baby!” He blurted, verbal dam breaking entirely once you’d made the first crack. His apologies exploded from him as he dropped his shirt to the floor and stumbled around the bed to your side. “The investigation ran way later than I thought it would and by the time we were done, I already would’ve been an hour late and then Healy said he needed a drink because he’d had a stressful week with it being the anniversary of his wife cheating on him with his dad and then dealing with this sleazy broad he met at a strip club that won’t leave him alone after he helped her deal with this other guy that wouldn’t leave her alone so I told him I’d go with him because I think he needed the company and then next thing I know it’s 1:00 am.”
While his hands waved in the air, you quietly took in his story and folded your arms over your chest. The leftover cigarette smoke, cologne and sweet tang of alcohol drifting off of him permeated the room, calming your racing heart.
Yes, you were upset Holland hadn’t made it home to join you and Holly at the movies, which was intended to be a family outing and something you had planned a week in advance. You’d given him strict instruction to be home by 8pm. When he hadn’t come home and you hadn’t received a phone call like he always promised he’d do if he was running late, you started to worry. Holland’s job wasn’t the safest at times, so when he wasn’t home when he said he would be, you couldn’t help the terrified feeling in your gut.
After you’d walked into their lives, Holland didn’t stay out drinking as much as he usually did. He was more punctual, responsible and generally only had one drink in his system at times instead of ten. On occasion, he would stay out to drink with Healy but he usually let you know in advance, calling the landline from a payphone with a gentle ask of permission if you’d be ok with it. You always were. But tonight, when the phone hadn’t made a peep, you assumed the worst.
So, in an attempt not to panic too early just in case he had simply forgotten to call, you and Holly went to the movie anyway, had a great time together and eventually split ways into your bedrooms for the night. But you couldn’t sleep. There were no messages on the machine and no missed calls. You tried to distract yourself with reading but all you could think of as you stared at the pages were a slew of worst case scenarios- such as Holland bleeding out in an alleyway after an altercation with a client or someone a client paid him to find. Your mind was a whirlwind.
Only when the crunch of gravel and the quiet familiar purr of an engine in the driveway drifted through the windows, did you finally breathe a sigh of relief.
Now you were just agitated.
“I promise I’ll make it up to Holly tomorrow. I’ll take the whole day off and take her to that bookstore she likes- I’ll buy her any book she wants and take her out to eat. Then you and me, baby? Date night. Sunday. Anything you want. Maybe Holly can go to a friend’s for the night? I’ll make you a nice candlelight dinner. And then? I’ll rock your fuckin’ world, sweetheart. Anywhere in the house, any position, any time honey. I’ll-“
“Go shower, Holland. It’s late and you’re not getting under these sheets smelling like cheap booze.”
Holland deflated. You never called him Holland. Always Holls or a pet name. But never Holland. He didn’t argue with you, only giving you one last longing glance before dragging himself to the bathroom. He’d given you the same look when you’d told him he couldn’t put a pinball machine in the living room. One of pure, genuine sadness.
You weren’t mad at him. Not really. You were relieved he was safe and knew his job didn’t always have a predictable schedule that would meld around your plans. He didn’t have control over that. Now, going out to drink afterwards was another thing but if Holland truly believed Healy needed the company tonight, you trusted him. While you tried to include Healy in as much ‘family time’ as possible, you knew he was still lonely and knew Holland also tried to help fill that emptiness when he could, usually by going out for drinks after a long job.
Holland’s shower was long enough that you abandoned your book (you’d barely read a page all night), turned off your light and tucked yourself in. You kept your back to Holland’s side of the bed. While you weren’t angry at him, he didn’t deserve a warm welcome either.
His walk to the bed after he emerged from the bathroom, steam billowing into the room after him, was hesitant and illuminated only by the streetlights outside.
Since he’d insisted on a California king bed when you’d moved into your newly constructed home, claiming he wanted to shower you in the best of the best, you barely felt the dip of the mattress when he sunk into it and the thin sheet covering you moved only a centimeter when he crawled under them.
And, as he did most nights, Holland was crowding your side of the mattress in no time. This time with a purpose.
One arm tucked under your pillow and the other wound carefully around your midriff to tug you into him, Holland spooned you for all he was worth.
“‘m really sorry about tonight,” he whispered, mustache tickling your neck where he mumbled against your skin. His thumb was delicate over your exposed navel.
The PI wasn’t wearing a shirt, chest still humid from the blistering shower, and judging by the familiar fabric brushing the backs of your thighs, he only donned a pair of boxers.
“Let me make it up to you. Please? I’ll do anything.”
“I’d like to go to sleep,” you mumble.
“No. They say not to go to sleep angry.”
“Who’s they? And I’m not angry.”
A shuffle against your shoulders. Shrug.
“Just people- I dunno, it doesn’t matter. And you are angry! You won’t even look at me!”
He squeezed you tighter and you tried to hide your giggle- his mustache tickled. Holland clocked it of course and he smiled too.
“C’monnnn, beautiful! What can I do, huh? Want me to do something stupid? Embarrass myself? That's easy. Or I can sing you a little song~” he cooed in a pitchy voice right into your ear, having you flinching away with a real laugh this time. His hand ghosted over your hip.
“I can spend all night worshipping you, if you’d like. With my hands or my mouth or my dick? Or all three, I’m not picky.”
“Holls, we can’t. Holly is asleep in the other room, it’s too risky. You know how she is, she’s probably still awake reading-“
“Then you better be quiet, lovely.”
The long, perfect fingers holding your hip rubbed along the seam of your panties, slowly trailing to your front to tease the elastic, snapping it lightly against your skin.
“Holland!” You chided. You tried to put some fire behind your reprimand but it was hard when the small snap of your panties delivered a dull throb to your core.
“Just one, baby. Let me make you cum once- on my fingers. You don’t have to move at all, just lay like you are and I’ll do all the work. Please? Pretty please?” He whined. The gentle purr of his voice shot shivers down your spine.
You didn’t fight when he carefully began inching his hand into your panties, nor did you fight the breathy sigh that escaped when they found your sex. He kept his touch light, brushing over your clit with a couple of swipes before sliding into your folds which were, to your embarrassment, already soaked just from his husky, alcohol laced voice alone. His strokes were calculated, precise and tailored to what he knew you enjoyed after years of experience.
Holland hummed against the nape of your neck, nose buried in your hair where his breath warmed. He didn’t comment on your wetness, only appreciated with his fingers.
While he explored every familiar stretch of skin, blindly searching for your entrance, one of his knees nudged low between your thighs and he mumbled, “Throw your leg over mine, will you beautiful? It’s hard for me to make you feel good when you're squeezing my hand like this. Not that I mind when you squeeze me like this, it’s nice but I can’t move as much-“
You did as he asked, hooking a leg back over his. This gave him much more free range with his hand and exposed you to the cool air of the room through the thin, damp, minuscule fabric that covered you. Holland mumbled a thanks and his middle and ring fingers found no resistance as they found what they’d been searching for and slid into your heat.
Holland chased the tiny moan you let out, slowly pumping his fingers at a languid pace to start building up the coil in your gut and preening when your hips shifted back into him. His boxers were already tented, the poor flowered pattern stretching to accommodate him.
Thumb applying soothing pressure to your clit, circling the bud gently with the pad and coaxing more noise from you, you quickly started to forgive the detective for everything. With skills like his, it was hard not to.
“Jesus, you’re so tight. Squeezin’ me,” he kissed your shoulder, wet hair brushing your cheek.
When the fingers working your pussy curled forward and found that spongy spot in your walls that had you seeing stars, your hand whipped back from where they’d been fisting the sheets to tangle in his hair. Holland groaned at the zing of pain from your tugging, hips thrusting forward into your ass.
“Careful. Keep that up and I’ll cum in my pants.” He mouthed at your neck.
“That wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you gasped, curling forward when your abdomen tightened from Holland’s relentless pressing against your clit. He curled with you, chest molded to your back and enveloping you as much as he could.
His fingers didn’t stop. The delicious drag of the digits against your insides and the rhythmic tender circling of his thumb had you struggling to remember to keep quiet. God if Holly heard you, you’d never hear the end of it. She’d berate you for giving into her dad’s apology so quickly. But how could you not?
Your orgasm was fast approaching, and you knew he could feel it because his speed increased, coaxing the climax from your gut and letting it shudder through you. It felt like the man curled around you was the only thing keeping you grounded amidst your tired, lust muddled mind.
Holland’s arm tightened around your waist when your walls clenched desperately around his fingers, begging for more. “I-I’m-“
“I know, baby, I can tell. I’ve got you.” And he did. When you came, it was intense. So much so, dots danced in your vision but Holland worked you through it without pause. Soft lips and praise against your cheek, a hand that kept pumping until your insides stopped spasming around it.
By the time your high ebbed, you were trying to catch your breath and Holland’s hand was drenched from your juices.
Breaths synced, Holland let out a sigh that pressed against your spine. He kept his hand against you, cupping your sex for a prolonged amount of time before finally pulling out of your panties and replacing the now empty space between your legs with his thigh.
The sounds the PI made when he sucked the juices off his fingers were obscene. Holland always made sure to clean up his mess after having his fun, claiming that you were even more addicting than his undeniable obsession for whisky.
While he was occupied with cleaning his fingers, you gently massaged his scalp where you’d squeezed the roots and smirked at the still prominent boner you could feel on your tailbone.
“I hope you know I’m not helping you with that tonight. It’s your punishment.”
“I know,” he mumbled around his fingers. “‘s fine. It’ll go away.”
You doubted that very much. He was so hard, you swore you could feel the hot pulse of blood down his shaft where it lay against you.
Holland’s hand found its way to your front again, this time gliding under your top to cradle your ribs, thumb smoothing under your breast. You groaned in fake disgust at the saliva he smeared there.
“D’you forgive me, baby? Am I forgiven?”
You hummed in consideration and shrieked a laugh when Holland blew a raspberry into your neck.
“I’m not sure, Holls. I think I’ll have to sleep on it and let you know in the morning.”
He made a sound that mirrored the whine a dog might make as it begs for table scraps. “I gotta wait until morning?”
You hummed in affirmation and snuggled back into him, pulling your hand from his hair to tuck it under your pillow and twine with his that still rested there. His fingers wrapped tightly around yours and he sighed into your hair. “Fine:”
He was already forgiven and had been since he’d explained how his night had played out. But you didn’t have an issue letting him stew in mild worry for the rest of the night.
“I’ll let you know my decision in the morning, but in the meantime, just remember to call next time you’re going to be late, will you?”
A lengthy pause. “I did call?”
“No, Holland, you didn’t.”
“Yes I did!” He propped himself up on an elbow to look down at you, still damp hair hanging over his forehead. “Around 9, I called and no one answered so I left a message.”
“I checked for messages when we got home from the movie, Holls! There weren’t any messages or missed calls. You probably dreamed that-“
“I wasn’t drunk yet, there’s no way it was a dream!”
The two of you sat in silence for a moment before your eyes rolled back into your skull, not from pleasure this time.
“Holland March… did you call the wrong number? Did you call the old rental that we used to live in? The rental that we haven’t lived in for two years?”
His face was tell enough. The detective slowly lowered himself out of your view, back onto the bed without a word and only an embarrassed cleared throat.
You sighed a sigh that rivaled any sigh you’d ever sighed.
“You’re lucky I love you so much or I’d have Healy here within the hour to nail your balls to the wall.”
His shudder shook your back. “Please don’t joke around about that kinda thing, honey. I like my balls where they are.”
When you woke up the next morning, not to the sun or the sound of Holly finding breakfast in the kitchen, but to your thighs spread and the gentle suckle of a mouth on your clit, you forgot what Holland had done to make you mad in the first place.
a/n: computa, show me this guy's balls please. also, those fueling the neighbor!holland agenda, I HATE YOU because it’s all I can think about these days
› summary: you've been hooking up with holland march off and on for the better part of two years now. one night, he needs a little more from you than the usual routine.
› tags/warnings: smut (minors DNI!), no use of y/n, reader has female anatomy, PIV sex, oral fem receiving, pet names, soft!dom holland, condescending praise and some very light degradation, pull and pray method, really just shameless smut, reader talks so much shit on him but likes him so much, fuck buddies with crushes they won't admit to, smoking
› wc: 4.2k
› masterlist
ᯓ★
The first time, you could probably play it off as a heat of a moment sort of thing.
Adrenaline gets you going. You can't help it, so why fight it? Your ears were still ringing from the gunshots earlier. You'd gotten into a skirmish with some guys that were looking for the same perp as you, March, and Healy, getting out by the skin of your teeth.
Healy had been furious with March for almost getting everyone killed, and insisted on calling it quits. The passenger door of March's car slammed shut behind Healy as he stormed back to his apartment, and then March had met your gaze in the rearview mirror, an odd look in his eyes.
"I need a drink," he'd said, and it sounded more like an invitation than a statement.
"Okay," you'd said. You got out of the car and slid into where Healy had been sitting moments before, and March drove the both of you home, the Los Angeles night coasting by.
And that had been that.
You try not to make a habit out of it. Both running with the "Nice Guys" and sleeping with Holland March. You like to work alone, and March is too much of a mess for you. He drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney, with no intention of slowing down, and it affects his work. Sometimes you worry he'll get himself killed, but he always comes out mostly unscathed. Besides, it's not any of your business.
Sometimes your paths will cross, hunting the same person or chasing the same lead. This city is big, but it's not that big. And, without fail, you and Holland March fall into bed together every time you run into each other. You're pretty sure Healy knows, but he never mentions it in front of you, which you're thankful for. It's already embarrassing enough.
You don't have a similar excuse for the second, third, or fourth time. And so on. You have to be somewhere close to twenty now, after the last two years, and pushing forward steadily.
"Hey, you."
You glance up from where you'd been digging around in your purse for your keys. March is in front of you, leaning against your car. His suit is a dark green, a white tie—or is it beige? You can't tell in this lighting—sits snug against his throat. One hand is shoved in his pocket, the other ashes a cigarette onto the asphalt. He looks so obnoxiously smug that you consider slapping it off of him.
"Why are you here?" You look around the empty parking lot with no small amount of suspicion.
You'd been working a case tonight, talking up some patrons of a bar your client's missing brother went to sometimes, but came up frustratingly empty handed. You haven't seen March or Healy in a couple months, not since June, at least, and you have no idea what his business could possibly be, tracking you down like this.
Well… you have some ideas.
"I'm a detective, baby," he says, making a vague gesture with the hand holding his cigarette. "It's my job."
"You're washed up," you say, but you're smiling. "And don't call me that."
"I know you like it," he says, and now he's smiling, too. "Seriously, what are you doing tonight?"
"Nothing involving you. Move."
He pushes himself off of where he was resting against the driver side door with a dramatic flourish. You unlock your front door and he opens it for you, allowing you to get in but stopping you from closing the door, a hand wrapped around the frame.
"Woah, woah, woah," he says. He places the cigarette back in his mouth, smoke curling around his face, and you pause where you were about to jam your keys in the ignition. "Where are you goin'?"
"I'm going home, March," you say, unimpressed.
"Without me?"
You wrinkle your nose. "Why would you come with me?"
You know why. You know exactly why. And March knows you know, too, because his grin widens, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly.
"Can't a guy just wanna see a girl he misses?"
"Not if it's you," you say, "and not if it's me."
"That's too bad, baby, 'cause it is me, and it is you."
You roll your eyes. "I hate you."
"Can I get in?"
"Fine."
March lets out a triumphant whoop and skirts around the hood of your car. You lean over to unlock the passenger door from the inside to let him in, and before you know it he's buckling himself in beside you and you're driving back to your apartment.
He's the same as he always is, moronic and charming and irritatingly handsome. He messes with your stereo and turns the music up, rolls down your window to flick his cigarette out and thumps his hand against the door in time with the beat of whatever's playing. You think if you got into a fatal car crash you wouldn't be too upset about it, but a part of you knows you can't say no to him even if you try your hardest.
This is the first time either of you have seen each other outside of work bringing you together. You wonder what made him want to seek you out—if he'd been thinking about it, or if it was a spontaneous itch he wanted to scratch. You also wonder how he found you, and how he got to you without his car. Stupid bastard.
The ride to your place is short, less than ten minutes, and the moment you've closed your front door behind you, March is on you.
His hands are everywhere, at your waist, your back, sliding down to squeeze your ass, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you in to press your mouths together. You want to tease him for being so desperate, but you're just as bad.
You kick your heels off without breaking away, grabbing him by the tie to keep him close. His mouth is warm and wet, tongue sliding against yours with familiar ease. He tastes like cigarette smoke and cheap beer and mint, and you wonder for a moment if he brushed his teeth before coming to see you.
You both stumble backward in the vague direction of your room. March fumbles with the zipper on the back of your dress, managing to tug it down so it loosens around your chest, the straps slipping down your shoulders. You get him to slide his suit jacket off, and it falls to the floor, forgotten.
"Been wantin' this so bad, baby," he murmurs against your lips. "Missed you so much."
"Missed you, too," you breathe against him, and the noise he makes at your words is worth the admission, even if you know he'll never let it go.
Despite having semi-regular sex and your obvious interest in him, March is always chasing your praise. Any compliment, encouragement, any notion of flattery, whether it be sexual or work-related, has him eating out of the palm of your hand. It's a bit pathetic, but you like it that way.
March wants to be good for you, and who are you to deny him?
He pushes your door open and walks you backward until your legs hit the bed. You sit, pulling him down into another kiss, teeth clacking painfully with the force of it. You thread your fingers in his hair and your other hand smooths over his shoulder, nails digging into the muscle of his back through his dress shirt. When you pull away, he gives a small sound of protest, his mouth chasing yours.
"March," you say, and you're nauseated at how wrecked you sound, scratchy and needy.
"'M sorry," he mumbles, and you know he has no clue what he's apologizing for. He mouths at your neck, moving down to nip at your collarbones, leaving bruises for you to deal with tomorrow.
You don't respond, instead opting to flatten your hand over his shoulder, pushing him down gently.
You regret any time you thought, or told him to his face, that March is an idiot. Right now, he's a very, very smart man. He kneels on the floor, positioned between your legs, and looks up at you with big, glassy eyes. His irises are slivers, pupils blown wide with want, and a thrill crawls down your spine, landing right in your core.
"This what you wanted, hm?" he asks, his words slightly muffled by your skin as he peppers kisses along the inside of your knee.
"Yes," you say, swallowing hard.
He doesn't waste any time shoving the material of your dress up above your waist, exposing your underwear and the damp patch over your center that tells him exactly how much you want him. His mouth trails from your inner thighs to hovering over where you need him most, and he waits.
"March," you complain. You dig the heel of your foot into his back to urge him forward, but he doesn't budge.
"Holland," he says. His breath is warm against you and you're aching, aching so badly for something, anything. His mouth or his hands or his cock—you don't care. And he's not giving it to you.
"What?" you ask, and it comes out as more of an impatient growl than an actual question.
"C'mon, sweetheart." An unhurried kiss is pressed to the space just above your clit. For a man that could hardly wait to touch you earlier, he sure seems to be perfectly happy taking his sweet time when it comes to devouring your cunt. "You know what I want."
"Are you fucking with me?" March hasn't once given you any indication that he cares what you call him. Before, if you'd told him you wanted a dog, he would have gotten on his knees and barked. Now, you're not so sure.
"I wish I was," he says wistfully. He yanks your panties to one side before you can respond, a thumb swiping through your embarrassingly wet folds. You shudder and let out a small, shaky exhale, your hips jolting.
"Okay," you say, your voice pitched a bit higher than normal. You gasp as he repeats the motion, this time letting his thumb settle over your clit. Maybe you should be disappointed in yourself for folding so easily, but your desire is a pulsing thing, and you'd do anything to soothe it. "Okay, fuck. Holland, please."
He smiles, victorious, and pulls back slightly in order to tug your panties completely off. "Since you asked so nicely."
He rewards you immediately, lapping at you with poorly contained groans and hums. You fist his hair, thighs tightening around his head. Your head lolls back, a low, throaty moan ripped from you as you feel two of his thick fingers slip inside you with little resistance.
He alternates between licking and suckling your clit as he pumps his fingers, obscene squelching sounds filling your bedroom, his eyelids drooping in self-satisfied pleasure. You think if he went at it long enough he could come just like this, untouched. His free hand digs into the soft skin of your hip, keeping you close even as you writhe underneath him. The scrape of his facial hair against your inner thighs is a pleasant sting, grounding you in the moment.
"Holland," you pant, unable to stop yourself from grinding against his face. "Fuck, yes, that's so—feels so good."
He moans into your cunt, the vibrations sending heat rippling through you, your chest, down to your toes that curl involuntarily. He works you toward the edge with a patience that could be considered cruel. You come with a choked sob, the world dissolving into a white-hot wave of bliss. March lifts his mouth from your clit, the bottom half of his face glistening with your arousal, but he doesn't stop pressing his fingers into you, curling with every plunge until you really are about to cry, dazed and overstimulated.
Your hand shoots down to clamp around his wrist, pausing his motions, and he finally relents. He pulls away, leaving you to clench helplessly around nothing, and holds his sleek digits in front of your mouth. Your lips part and he pushes them inside. You suck eagerly, head spinning, and keep your eyes fixed on his as a loud breath escapes him.
"So pretty, sweetheart," he says, a note of condescension coloring his tone. "Do you like that? You like how you taste?"
Your approving whimper is muffled around his fingers. He takes pity on you, drawing them out, smearing your own saliva over your lips and chin. He sits back on his knees, fumbling to get his tie off and unbutton his shirt. He throws them both on the floor and stands. You find his belt and start unbuckling it for him, hands trembling with impatience. He tugs roughly on your dress so your breasts spill out, then helps you out of it completely, sliding the fabric down your legs.
He kicks his pants off, nearly tripping in his haste to get his boxers to follow, which has you smiling despite the tense, electric atmosphere. As soon as he's steady on his feet, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock. He's so hard that it must hurt, and he's heavy, hot in your hand, precum smeared on the head. You give a few slow, velvety pulls, giving a pleased hum when March's knees nearly buckle under your touch.
"No, baby," he says, and it's his turn, now, his big hand coming to cover yours, making you pause. "Not tonight. C'mon, I wanna fuck you. Let me fuck you, please…"
How romantic. Your brow pinches, and he laughs softly, a bit sheepish, as if reading your mind. He slides from your fingers to encircle your wrist, pulling it away from his erection. He crowds in on you, his free hand pressing against the small of your back, guiding you to lie down on the bed and slotting between your legs once more.
You watch with wide eyes as he grabs your other hand, pinning both your wrists above your head. He rests a bit of weight on them, pressing into the mattress. If you tried to escape, he would be strong enough to force you to stay put. The thought sends goosebumps prickling over your skin, the hair on your arms rising and the back of your neck tingling in anticipation. March would never do something like that, you know in your heart, but the idea that he's even capable of it sends a new flush of arousal cutting through your post-orgasm haze.
Keeping hold of your wrists, his free hand snakes between your bodies. He fists his cock, stroking a few times before dragging the head over your entrance, collecting the slickness gathered there. His head drops, chin tucked to his chest, as if unable to look away from the lewd sight.
"You're so wet," he says reverently, more to himself than anything. "All for me, huh, honey?"
You nod, trying to lift your hips up, hoping his cock would catch and he'd slip inside, or at the very least grind against your clit, but he shakes his head.
"Let me hear you say it," he says.
"March," you grumble, face reddening.
You glance away, prepared to argue, when he releases his hold on himself, delivering a light slap to your pussy. You yelp, jerking in surprise at the sensation. Your eyes snap back to his face and you have a brief moment of clarity in which you wonder what the actual fuck this guy's problem is. The last two years have been full of secretive hook ups, quickies, entirely vanilla sex (though still thoroughly enjoyable), so something must have put him in an exceptionally punishing mood to be acting like this.
Not that you're complaining, if you're honest.
"Holland," he corrects.
"I'm sorry," you plead. "Holland, I'm sorry. Just, please…"
Another slap. Your words break off into a feeble moan. You arch your back, wrists straining against the death grip he keeps you in.
"Oh, fuck," you gasp out, feeling as though the air has been punched from your lungs. Your brain is starting to feel fuzzy, overwhelmed with both verbal and physical stimulation, you can hear it in your voice, the way your words slur together. "It's for you. It's only you, Holland."
Content that you've learned your lesson, Holland lets go of your hands. They fly to touch him as though with a mind of their own, one squeezing his forearm and the other sliding over the muscle of his abdomen, nails ghosting over his skin. He leans down, nipping at the shell of your ear.
"What a smart girl," he coos. He pinches one of your nipples, rolling it between forefinger and thumb until you're crying out, then switches to give the other a similar treatment. "So smart, and beautiful, but you're such a slut, too. Isn't that right?"
You nod. It's like you're floating, somewhere halfway between heaven and earth, in a way that only Holland can make you feel. He knows it—can see the euphoria written on your face—because as you look up at him, eyelashes fluttering, he's wearing a proud smile.
"I know, sweetheart," he says, mockingly sympathetic. "I know. Don't worry, I'll give you what you need."
He enters you in one smooth thrust, your breath faltering at the sudden intrusion, the sudden fullness. He curses, hissing through his teeth, and when you glance up, you see his eyes screwed shut, reveling in the feeling of you around him. He gives you a moment's reprieve before he slides almost all the way out, driving back into you with a sharp snap of his hips. You claw at his back in an effort to keep him as near as possible. The heat of his chest against yours is comforting, in a way. He feels more real like this, as the head of his cock drags deliciously against your walls, and you think you could stay in this moment forever.
Holland scoops your legs up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders and folding you into a mating press. He braces himself on his hands, caging you under him. He sets a harsh, incessant pace, both of your moans rising in volume at the new, deeper angle.
He whimpers your name into your neck and bites down, firm enough to make you shudder but gentle enough not to break the delicate skin. You clench mindlessly around him, keening a string of words that hardly passes for English. He lifts his head and a droplet of sweat rolls from his hairline down his nose, landing on your mouth. Your tongue glides over your lower lip without thinking, and you're only allowed to relish in the tang of salt for a moment before he's kissing you again.
He stays like that, noses brushing, hips slamming against yours and groaning into your mouth. Every thrust caresses your cervix, pleasure sparking behind your eyelids. You mewl, powerless, unable to do anything but take what he gives you.
You're lucky that Holland is feeling generous tonight.
"Holland," you babble. "Fuck—oh, my god, Holland, yes. Don't stop, please don't stop, I'm so close, I'm so close—"
"Yeah," he rasps, "I know, honey, I've got you. Come for me."
Your orgasm is startling in its intensity, your spine tightening with tension and releasing with pleasure as you convulse. Your walls spasm, squeezing Holland as he moans in response. You're gripping his back so hard you're certain you've drawn blood, but he doesn't seem to mind.
He fucks you through it, unrelenting even as his pace stutters, strokes becoming erratic while he chases his own climax. It feels good, you think, to be used like this. To be used by him. He pulls out at the very last second with a whine, spurts of come coating your stomach and breasts, hot on your skin. When he's ran himself dry, he tilts his head down and leaves absent-minded kisses on your mouth, then your cheeks and your throat. His cock, already beginning to soften, rests on your pubic mound, and he grinds against you once, then twice, as if to savor the feeling.
You don't know how long you linger there, pressed together and breathing heavily. Holland's back is slick with sweat as you run your fingers up and down the ridge of his spine, exhaustion already beginning to lull you from consciousness.
Eventually he pulls himself off of you, leaving you utterly boneless. You can hear the rustle of fabric as he yanks his boxers back on, then the sound of him rummaging around in the closet. He returns to bed quickly, familiar with where you keep your things, a big sleep shirt and a clean towel in hand.
"Hey, baby," he says, settling beside you once more. You don't even have the energy to tell him to stop calling you that. He cleans you off with tender, reluctant swipes, like he would rather keep you like this, painted in his come as evidence that he had you, at least for a little while.
When he's finished, he tosses the towel away and hands you the shirt. You put it on, running a hand through your hair. It won't fix anything; Holland has affectionately told you before that you get "sex hair" (he claims to be the one that invented this term), but it calms that small, bashful worry in you, so you do it anyway.
It's a wordless exchange, one you're both acquainted with by now—the way he rolls you onto your side, curling up behind you and pulling the sheets over you both. His chest presses against your back, breath tickling your neck, slinging an arm around your waist. He flattens his palm against your stomach as if to bring you closer despite the entire length of your bodies touching, and a warm, fluttering feeling blooms in your chest.
You know, in about ten minutes, Holland will kiss your shoulder and get out of bed. He'll gather his things, say a quick goodbye, and be on his way like someone lit a fire under his ass. You try to stay awake in order to be there when he goes, struggling against the sleep that threatens to overcome you, but you are so, so tired.
It doesn't take long for you to fall asleep in the warmth of his arms, childishly wondering if tonight was so different simply because he's finally planning to stay.
When you open your eyes, the other side of the bed is cold.
Morning light paints your room in stripes, bleeding through the slats of your blinds. You shift, your body sore and protestant, and wipe the bleariness from your vision. Holland must have left without waking you, leaving you to sleep through the night.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, chiding yourself. Did you really expect him to stay? You're being ridiculous. You and Holland have an arrangement, and it works because neither of you ask for more. You occasionally team up for cases and have casual sex. You're hardly even friends.
But… you do want to ask for more, don't you? And you think you have for a while now. Even then, maybe last night had been a mistake. It's more than likely you had misinterpreted the way he was acting—like you might disappear if he went too long without touching you, like he needed you to breathe, to live—and you're reading too much into things. The only way this will end is with you hurting your own feelings.
You sit up, coming to the unfortunate conclusion that you should probably end things between you and Holland, or at least start going out of your way to avoid him and hope he gets the hint, when something catches your eye on your nightstand.
Propped against the lamp, stark white against the dark wood, is his business card. You pick it up and frown, wondering what the hell you're supposed to do with it. You know Holland's number, have for a while now from working together. Why the hell would he leave it here for you?
You can't chalk it up to the card slipping from his pocket. For one, it was laid out far too neatly to be an accident and secondly, you'd think you'd find something like this on the floor, rather than your nightstand. You run your thumb over the illustration of Holland's face, the big block letters spelling out "THE NICE GUYS AGENCY" and mill it over in your head.
He wants you to call him.
The realization hits you hard, the cold, apprehensive knot that had been building in your stomach melting into an elated heat that pinkens the tips of your ears.
"What a coward," you murmur, turning the card over in your hand. He took the easy way out, using plausible deniability in case you either didn't pick up on his message or rejected it entirely. It's smart, in a stupid way.
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh, and reach for the phone.
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› A/N: here it is, as promised!!! soso thankful to @pixiebuggz and @qoemchu for being the coolest betas and hyping me up to post this because i was NERVOUS! i honestly intended for it to be pretty vanilla because it's my first time really writing smut but the heart wants what it wants, which is... whatever this is, i guess. i think i'm going to make a post so people can ask to be tagged in all of my rygos posts, because sometimes when y'all ask i'm not sure if you mean just for direct address or for my other writing, too. so it will be nice to be able to differentiate. as always if you feel i missed a warning or tagged smth incorrectly please correct me!
Warnings: None, slightly follows canon plot of movie / mentions of Bianca
Prompt: Lars Lindstrom always has glittery residue after meeting you.
An: This is my first time writing for Lars Lindstrom ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´- This was such a wonderful movie!! Hope you enjoy!
Word count: 1.0k
The first time Lars Lindstrom noticed the glitter, he was sitting in his cubicle at the office, trying to focus on the spreadsheets in front of him. Margo had been by earlier, but she'd left after his usual monosyllabic responses. Then you appeared, practically glowing in the fluorescent light.
"Hey, Lars," you said softly, setting a stack of files on the corner of his desk. "These need your signature."
He nodded, reaching for them, and that's when he saw it…tiny flecks of shimmering gold on your fingers. His eyes traced upward, noticing more glitter dusted across your cheeks, a fine layer of sparkle that made your skin look like it had been kissed by fairy dust. Huh.
"Thanks," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
You smiled, and he noticed your lips were glossy and shimmering. "No problem. Let me know if you need anything else."
You left, and Lars found himself staring after you, his heart doing something strange in his chest. He shook his head, forcing himself back to work, but throughout the day, he'd catch glimpses of you across the office. There was always that subtle sparkle, like you were a constellation.
ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ
It was Karin who first pointed it out.
"Lars, honey, what's that on your face?" she asked one evening when he'd come over for dinner. She reached out instinctively, then caught herself, remembering his aversion to touch.
Lars's hand flew to his cheek, and when he looked at his fingers, they were dusted with fine, iridescent glitter. His face flushed a deep crimson at the embarrassment. How did this even get on his cheek?
"Oh," he said. "I must have...uhm I was near someone at work."
Gus raised an eyebrow at his brother's response but said nothing. Karin's eyes lit up, absolutely curious who was coming near Lars so much that he had glitter on his cheek, of all places.
"Someone in particular?" she pressed gently.
Lars shook his head quickly. "Just...someone. It's nothing."
But it wasn't anything. The glitter kept appearing; on his collar, on his hands, even once on the pages of a book he'd been reading at lunch. He couldn't seem to escape it!
He also couldn't seem to escape you.
You were everywhere…in the break room, at the copy machine, in the hallway. And every time you passed, you left a trail of sparkle in your wake. Lars found himself looking for it, watching the way your highlighter caught the light at different angles, noticing how your eyeshadow shifted from rose gold to warm copper.
One afternoon, you approached his desk with a small container.
"Here you go," you said, setting it down. "I noticed you've been getting glitter on you somehow. This is a cleansing balm; it's good for sensitive skin. It gets rid of makeup and glitter residue really well."
Lars stared at the container, then up at you with slightly widened eyes. "I...you don't have to.."
"I know," you interrupted, smiling as you lifted your hand. "But I feel bad. It's probably- no, it's for sure from me. I'm kind of a glitter addict and didn't realize I should be setting my makeup better." You laughed. "My friends say I leave a trail everywhere I go."
"I don't mind," he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "The glitter, I mean. It's...nice. It's very pretty.”
Your smile widened, and Lars felt something warm spread through his chest.
ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ
Two weeks later, you were sitting beside him in the church hall during Bianca's funeral.
The whole town had turned out. It was a testament to how deeply they'd come to care for Lars, for all his quirks and peculiarities and the delusion of Bianca. And you were there, your shoulder occasionally brushing his in a way that made his heart stutter.
"Are you okay?" you whispered during the service.
Lars nodded, though his throat was tight. He looked at the small coffin, at the flowers arranged around it. But beside him, you were a lovely presence, and when he glanced at you, he saw the glitter on your cheeks catching the light from the stained glass windows. Despite the sad event, you looked almost ethereal.
After the service, the crowd slowly dispersed. Margo lingered nearby, but when Lars looked at you, something shifted in his chest.
"Would you like to take a walk?" he asked.
Your face lit up, and Lars felt like he'd just been given something precious. "I'd love to," you said softly.
ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ
You walked through the quiet streets of the town, past the frozen lake where Lars had said goodbye to Bianca, past the church and the school and the homes of people who had become his support network.
"You know," you said, breaking the silence, "I've been trying to get you to talk to me for months."
Lars ducked his head, his cheeks flushing. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm not very good at...this."
"At what?"
"People," he admitted. "Touching. Talking. All of it."
You stopped walking, turning to look at him. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over everything, and Lars could see the glitter on your skin more clearly than ever.
"I don't mind," you said, echoing his words from weeks ago. "I like you, Lars. All of you."
"Even with all the...the strange parts?"
"Especially the strange parts," you said, stepping closer. "I think they're what make you who you are. And I like who you are."
Hesitantly, Lars reached out. His fingers brushed against your cheek, and he felt the subtle texture of the glitter there, the warmth of your skin beneath. He'd spent his whole life avoiding touch. Touch felt like burning. He feared it, and yet, with you, it felt like the most right thing in the world.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
You nodded, leaning into his touch. "It's more than okay, Lars."
And then, for the first time in his life, Lars Lindstrom leaned in and kissed someone.
Your lips were soft and tasted faintly of that glittery cherry lip balm you always wore. When he pulled back, he saw the shimmer transferred to his own lips.
He laughed, feeling the glittery grains against his lips. "I'm covered in you."
You grinned, reaching up to touch his face. "Good. That's exactly how I want it." ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃⋆.
You knew what you were getting into when you started dating Lars. Everyone warned you, even Lars himself.
“He's a very…sensitive person,” Karin said once, the first night you had dinner with them.
You had bristled at the time, at the implication that you weren't aware of who Lars loved.
You were very aware. And you loved him despite it.
You've been dating for two months and the most Lars has done is hold your hand. And you truly, sincerely, don't mind. You would be content not touching him for the rest of your life as long as you still had him.
You stay the night sometimes at his place. He was a bit apprehensive but you promised nothing would happen. And it was true. You would just talk into the night with him until he eventually had to go to bed. He was a working man, after all.
However, he lived in a small garage with only one bed. Without even asking, Lars had set up a small cot in the corner that he insisted he would sleep on while you took the bed. You tried to refuse but he was so adamant and the gesture was so sweet.
So you slept on the bed that smelled like him. It was comforting. His bed was nicer than your own. And with all the blankets surrounding you, it's like Lars was surrounding you. You fall asleep like that, surrounded by his scent and his small snores from the corner.
And it stayed like that for a while.
Until one night.
You were trying to sleep, and you were just at the cusp of it, honestly. Then suddenly the bed dipped. You froze. Not out of fear. But confusion.
Why would Lars be crawling into your bed? Slowly, oh so slowly, the covers were dipped back and you felt Lars slide in along your back. He wasn't touching you, his body was kept a couple inches from yours, but you smiled.
You could hear Lars holding his breath. You were so proud of him for this and you didn't want to ruin it so you stayed silent. You kept your eyes closed.
It was quiet for minutes after. You almost thought he was asleep, but there were no snores.
And then, the lightest touch on your back. You had to fight not to move. Fingers splayed across your back, slowly moving down and resting on your hip.
And then his whole body shifted and he was right against you. You could feel his body heat radiating off him and his breaths were right in your ear.
You stayed completely silent, not wanting to risk spooking him. You tried to keep your body relaxed. If you were tense, it would only freak him out, thinking you weren't okay with this.
You were so okay with this.
It felt like hours but eventually, his breaths petered out until you heard those familiar snores.
You sighed, quietly. God, it was better than you dreamed of. It didn't take you long to fall asleep, surrounded by the comforting mass of Lars.
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