𝝑𝑒. 𝑜h, hi! bambi is here 𓂃 .ᐟ.ᐟ girl next door 𓍯 viki latina ૮◞ ‸ ◟ ა ryan gosling 𖬺 michael robinavitch controversially young gf ⸝⸝ pisces multi-fandom swiftie bisexual 𓍼 international relations student 𝟕𝟕𝟕 lars lindstrom’s princess tea&&lace anti-ai ddde blog 𓈒
thinks about. colt with bpd reader. fluff for this one, some angst obviously comes with the topic :').
When your emotions spike and you split, he doesn’t try to “fix” you. He stays. Sits beside you or away if you need it, lets you feel it, lets you get your frustration out even if its the most awful things, reminds you you’re not too much. Not for him.
Never for him. He’s the kind of man who repeats things until you believe them—"I’m not going anywhere. You hear me? I’m right here even if you hate me right now."
With bpd, the fear of abandonment can feel louder than anything else but Colt meets it head-on. He checks in. He communicates.
He doesn’t disappear mid-conversation or leave things unsaid. Even when work pulls him into chaos, he comes back to you—calls, texts, shows up at your door like it’s the only place he actually wants to be.
And on the days you push him away, convinced it’s inevitable anyway?
He doesn’t chase but he doesn’t leave either. He gives you space without letting you feel abandoned, a balance most people never get right.
You keep asking if he’s mad at you. Colt never gets annoyed he answers every time, same tone, same words, until your breathing slows. He knows repetition helps your brain settle.
2am, you wake him up convinced he’s going to leave. He’s half-asleep but pulls you close anyway, murmuring reassurance like it’s second nature.
You tell him to leave before he can leave you. He pauses, reads the fear underneath, and calmly says, "Do you want me to go, or are you scared I will?"
Colt memorizes patterns—tone shifts, withdrawal, over-apologizing. He starts catching things early: "Hey… talk to me. What just changed?"
Keeps sour candy in the apartment or on him and makes sure you always have it because he researched it helps when emotions get out of control.
i love my man colt ik he could handle the goods and bads of someone he loves deeply. my loyal dog man ☹️🖤
developing the hots for ryan gosling because of project hail mary is so fucking embarrassing I swear to god. that is a conventionally attractive man. a noted hollywood heartthrob. he's even blond, are you kidding me? did he win people magazine's sexiest man alive? I don't know. I'm not going to check but it wouldn't surprise me at this point. it's such a mainstream taste. such a clichéd celebrity crush. like oh I fancy ryan gosling and my favourite drink is coca-cola and my favourite snack is ready salted crisps. jesus christ. 'b-b-but i only like him when he's in a science pun tshirt and playing a dorky-awkward loner type!' doesn't matter. he's still ryan 'ken from barbie' gosling. it's so trite. I feel like the weird nerd girl in a teen coming-of-age romcom falling for the super popular jock. don't I know that I have a reputation to uphold here? cringe.
I never see anything happy with this man so i thought of some insane fluff.. Imagine Dan dunne comes home to find you sitting on the couch with a stray kitten
Also, I’d love to be 💋 anon if that’s not taken! I have some ideas lol
nothing’s gonna hurt you baby — dan dunne x fem!reader. | wc: 0,6k. | welcome to the family my dear 💋 nonnie!
the front door opens with the faint complaint of old wood, a sound so small it almost disappears into the apartment.
dan hears you before he sees you. you're humming a bon iver melody, and when he looks up, your body is turned to him lying on the sofa. your arms are bent awkwardly, cradling something close enough to your chest that it disappears beneath your sweater.
at first he doesn’t understand what that thing could be. then you turn, and the thing in your arms shifts with a tiny, offended little flutter of paws.
a kitten. a tiny gray kitten that blinks up at the ceiling from the safety of your arms, its front paws pressed against your collarbone.
“dan!” you say, hurrying towards him over the floorboards, bare feet silent against the wood. you kiss his cheek rising into your toes.
he blinks at the cat, then at you.
“w—what is that?”
“this is dan junior,” you say, lifting the kitten closer to his face. “isn’t he beautiful? i found him outside looking so miserable it reminded me of you.”
dan’s brow folds at that, a crease of disbelief, and concern.
“baby, we cannot have a cat.” he gestures vaguely towards the cat, who chooses that exact moment to yawn.
“why not? i know it’s sudden, but—” your shoulders sink.
“because cats get sick,” he says, already sounding tired of the fact. “and the vet is expensive.”
you let out a huff, outraged and stubborn. “dan, he’s fine. i already took him to the vet.”
“what?” his voice lifts, alarmed now. “how much did that cost?”
“doesn’t matter,” you say, rubbing your nose gently against the kitten’s round belly, earning a tiny squeak. “i paid for it.”
“oh,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “i… sometimes i forget we’re doing this together.”
you understand exactly what he means. the words hang between you like smoke. he forgets, sometimes, that there is no longer only him to carry. that the money is not his alone. that the weight is not his alone. that he is not meant to be drowning by himself anymore, not in drugs, not in whores.
you smile as though none of it needs explaining.
“so…” you carefully place the kitten into his arms. “isn't dan junior pretty?” you ask, he takes him carefully, almost reverently. his fingers make small, uncertain movements over the kitten’s fur, soft little nudges.
“i don’t like dan junior,” he says at last, and your face falls before he adds, “the name, i mean. what do you mean, he reminded you of me?”
you laugh under your breath.
“i mean,” you say, “he was on the street when i found him.”
dan stares at you. “you didn’t find me on the street.”
you purse your lips, considering the statement. then you lift one hand and wobble it from side to side, “more or less.”
bimbo!reader that's on the hail mary not because she’s some genius astrophysicist or strategic mastermind (nope), but… well, honestly? she doesn't even know how she got picked. maybe it was luck. maybe they needed someone “motivational.”
ryland grace sees right through it. the second he lays eyes on her; bouncy hair, glittery lip gloss, that lost smile... he doesn’t hate having her around. in fact? he kinda relies on her dumb little face being there every morning at breakfast with a sunshine grin. it keeps him sane when space isolation starts eating at his brain like mold.
ortiz!rocky sends blip a to the hail mary, their first ship-to-ship communication and when the alert pings? her eyes go wide with unfiltered joy. she squeals so loud ryland jumps, and without missing a beat, she shouts: “we have neighbors now!”
bimbo!reader who adapts insanely fast to having an actual alien as her roommate. when rocky arrives and asks excitedly “where my bedroom?” her wide eyes sparkle and without hesitation she beams; “you can sleep with me!” rocky nods so hard his head might’ve popped off. he doesn’t understand human mating rules… but this girl is inviting him into her bed, to watch her sleep. his heart does a little flip.
bimbo!reader that unbeknownst to her, she accidentally starts a silent competition between the two males. every time she leans into rocky needing him to fix something, every hug she gives him or a chaste kiss on his cheek... ryland clenches his jaw slightly tighter each time. and when she turns those soft eyes towards ryland instead; bringing him coffee when he's tired or plopping down beside him during movie nights, the reverse happens: rocky feels like ryland’s courting his mate in front of him.
bimbo!reader that starts accidentally helping them bond… without meaning to. one day rocky “trips” near her, knocking over her open notebook on the floor. just a clumsy bump, but when she bends down to pick it up? her skirt rides up just enough that both guys catch an eyeful: soft lace panties with little stars peeking out for half a second. they both look at each other with a silent mission on their minds.
bimbo!reader who is accidentally pushed straight into rocky’s lap. she yelps in surprise, but lands perfectly snug against him, his arms instinctively wrapping around her waist for balance. and she doesn't notice anything weird when she snuggles right where he has an obvious tent forming beneath his sleek pants from having a pretty girl pressed right on top.
bimbo!reader who starts to want both of them without realizing to. she also became nervous for the loneliness, and even a nice girl like her has urges. so she may or may not start to touch both of the guys in the hail mary.
bimbo!reader who accidentally bit off more than she could chew. now there's an eager rocky with his dick pressing right against her ass, slowly sliding up and down, teasing through the fabric. her panties are already damp, soaked really… and that delicate lace doesn't help at all. if anything, it makes everything worse. every little brush feels electric, and every nerve of her is screaming for more friction.
bimbo!reader who feels a sudden tap at her cheek and a gruff “open,” from ryland. she sticks her tongue out, eyes half lidded. ryland starts to slide down his dick inside her mouth. “f— f— fudge…” her lips glide over every thick vein on his shaft, tongue pressing softly as she takes him deeper. her nose nudges right into the soft hair at his base. she bobs her head up and down, trying to milk him for all he's worth.
bimbo!reader hears rocky hum low in his throat, watching her with dark amusement. he suddenly pushes two thick fingers against her pussy lips still covered by her panties. she whines against ryland’s cock, spit blabbering down from her mouth. rocky presses his dick harder, and she feels the way his eyes are fixed on her pussy. he groans, “pretty. pretty. pretty. the most pretty mate.” she swallow at his words, making the pressure in ryland’s cock harder; she hears the way he whines when he comes deep inside her throat.
bimbo!reader who swallows hard, milking him. when she finally lets him go, she opens her mouth and shows ryland the way she drank it all up. rocky is still dragging his dick against her slit, over and over, making her whine. “it’s so big,” she says. “i don't know if it’ll fit.” rocky leaves a trail of wet kisses against her tummy, all up to her neck. “rocky will make it fit.”
summary: you're a seasoned hitman tasked with the job of killing off the two private detectives sticking their noses in other people's business. the only problems with that are your ever-growing doubt in who you're working for, and the very blue eyes combined with the charming, slightly dopey, grin of one of your targets; plus, he might also be unkillable? the jury was still out on that one.
pairing: fem!reader x holland march
word count: 4.6k
warnings: canon typical violence, gangs, mentions of drugs, alcohol + cigarettes, mentions of sex work, human trafficking, murder, sexism, sexual harassment, suggestive themes, period typical attitudes, English is not authors first language
a/n: I planned for this to be a oneshot but then I already wrote over 4k without even actually getting into the plot so I guess it'll be a mini-series
inspired by this request made by @laikas-chew-toy (hope this at least comes close to what you wanted <3<3)
The hot LA afternoon sun beat down brutally on your car, making sweat gather in the crook of your neck and turning your brain sluggish. How much longer could those two idiots possibly take?You thought, blinking against the harsh light reflecting from your side mirror.
You had been sitting in your car for well over an hour now, observing the flashy establishment, and trying not to fall asleep. Your thighs kept sticking to the leather seat, and if one more passerby looked at you weirdly, you were going to start shooting.
You had been irritated ever since your boss told you what your next job would entail. When he had called you into his office yesterday to inform you, you had nearly stormed back out.
“You’re kidding.” You narrowed your eyes and your fingers dug into the orange upholstery of the chair you were sitting in.
Tiger—a large man with the kind of arrogance needed to christen himself with such a moniker—looked unimpressed at your demanding tone. “Don’t go buggin’ out now, baby. ‘S nothing personal, the job just needs to be done.”
But it was personal, you were sure of it. Ever since you had turned Tiger down, he had been handing you only less than desirable work. You stared irritated at the cigar hanging half out of his mouth, and you hoped that some of its ash would fall onto his too-tight leather pants.
“I’m too good for this shit, and you know it,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
He shrugged. “Someone needs to do it.”
“Make Nail do it. Or Petrol, or hell, I’m sure Skinny would love the opportunity.” God, what stupid fucking handles these men could come up with. It’s not like it actually protects their identity—get two drinks in them and they’ll freely hand out their government name to any woman unlucky enough to be around them.
“Baby,” Tiger sighed, rolling his eyes. He had given you that name himself in a desperate attempt to get you into his bed. Like a sucky nickname would ever actually make you suck his dick. “Close the shades and listen.”
You hated the way he used slang. As if a couple of up-to-date phrases would make people look away from his bald spot or his saggy cheeks.
“The men gotta do some other stuff. Figured you’d love the opportunity, being a strong modern woman and all that.” Some malice seeped through his voice at the end of the sentence, and you wanted to throw the framed painting of Tiger stroking an actual tiger at his head. “C’mon baby, it’s an easy gig. Just find out whether these two private dicks got their nose in my business, and if they do, bump them off. That’s it.”
You sighed, knowing that you didn’t have an actual choice, anyway. While Tiger’s business wasn’t one the largest out there, he had enough leverage over you to make it so that you would stick around until the bitter end—whatever that would entail. Plus, killing people was kind of the only thing you were good at, ever since you shot your first victim at the age of seventeen.
“Knew you’d see my way.” Tiger pulled a manila folder from his desk, throwing it into your lap. “Here’s all we got on them.”
You opened the folder and looked up, unimpressed. “It’s empty.”
“Can’t make it too easy for you, now can I, babygirl?” You wanted to retch. “Stakeout’s part of the gig. If you wanna have fun with it, have fun, but just make it quick.”
You nodded, stuffing the folder into your purse, and got up. “I at least gotta know their names.”
“Jackson Healy and Holland April.”
It was Holland March. You genuinely didn’t know whether Tiger had been trying to fuck with you or just was that stupid.
Ever since you got the job, you had been doing your research, finding out whatever you could about those two possibly soon-to-be-dead bastards.
Jackson Healy, 53 years old, former enforcer-for-hire turned private eye. Divorced, two-bedroom apartment, owner of two handguns according to the DROS. (Even though you never relied on those records—trusting either paperwork or law enforcement was a sure way to get a bullet between your eyes.) His only known associate came in the form of his business partner:
Holland March, 36 years old, a semi-reliable private eye who worked alone until last year when he and Healy joined together and started The Nice Guys Agency. Widowed, teenage daughter, rental house, one registered handgun.
You had looked away quickly when you noticed the young blonde girl walking up the driveway and letting herself into the house. You didn’t like messing with people who had kids, especially considering the girl had already lost her mother, but business was business. Maybe you’d slip the girl—Holly—some cash once you had killed her father.
Right now, the two self-declared ‘Nice Guys’ were hunting for information in a shady strip club. It was a rundown building, with windows covered by black shades and a neon pink sign reading ‘Tinseltown’ mounted over the entrance. On either side of the name was a glowing breast equipped with a nipple tassel, lighting up rhythmically.
The sun was slowly setting behind the club, and the ultraviolet color palette painted the scene, turning it almost romantic. Then some man lurched out of the front door of the club, hurling on the sidewalk before stumbling back inside, and you let your eyes fall closed with a groan.
Either the two detectives were perverts and in the process of getting their rocks off while on duty, or they had actually found something interesting in the club. You didn’t care which one it was, you just wanted to not continue waiting here for them, so you made a decision: it was time for some close-up investigating.
You exited your car, stretched your stiff limbs, and then started striding over to the club. Steps confident, head held high. You were aware that establishments like Tinseltown weren’t the safest for women, but you were carrying two guns, and the ability to knock a man to the floor in less than three seconds.
The smell that greeted you when walking into the club was a delightful mixture of sweat, alcohol, and lube, so potent it stung your eyes. The air was filled with upbeat music and low chatter, interrupted by the occasional whistle or shout by one of the many men crowded around the stages and throughout the room. The overhead lights were so dim that most of the room was only visible because of the many glowing neon signs scattered along the walls or standing throughout the space. When you took a couple of steps forward, the floor was sticky under your boots, making you almost turn back around. The chestnut knee-high platform boots were one of your most treasured possessions, and no job in the world was worth ruining them over.
While you didn’t make bad money, there was not much you could do with it. You had your apartment—nicely furnished with everything you might need—and otherwise you invested in your wardrobe. Without a family to support, or a big social life outside of your job, there was not much else to do with the money, so clothes it was.
Lacy tops, suede suits, tight skirts, boots, sandals—whatever you wanted, you got. You didn’t have to work in a stuffy office, so there was no dress code to follow, and you could wear whatever you wanted. That was not just comfortable for you, but it also made it very easy for you to go undercover in places; however, sometimes it worked a little too well.
With your high-waisted tight sitting jeans shorts and orange blouse knotted over your navel, you fit in a little too well in the strip club. Then again, you were sure that any woman unlucky enough to stumble into this joint would get the same kind of looks you were currently receiving, after all while your clothes were on the shorter side, anyone with half a brain should understand that you weren’t one of the workers here.
But to the kind of men frequenting this place, a pretty girl was a pretty girl—whether she wore a bikini or a winter coat—therefore flesh to be consumed.
“Heya dolly,” a slurred voice came from your right. A man was leering up at you from the red leather couch he was half sprawled over it. His eyes were glazed and teeth stained yellow. “Don’t you look pretty?”
“If you say so.” You shrugged, eyes searching the many faces for your two targets. You thought you spotted one of them near the bar, but when you tried to get a closer look, a hand wrapped itself around your wrist.
“Now, wait a second.” The man hiccupped, and you wrinkled your nose at the smell permeating from him. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”
You sighed, “Not really.” You tried to shake him off. It would be easy for you to knock his drunk ass to the floor, and while you certainly weren’t above hurting men who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves—in fact that might be one of your favorite parts of your life—you didn’t want to risk drawing too much attention on you.
“Just… c’mon, baby. Gimme a chance.”
You froze, now focusing on the man who seemed to perk up at your sudden attention.
“Baby?”
The man frowned but quickly shook it off, grinning widely. “Yeah, baby. You like that? You wanna be my baby, hm?”
“Oh, god.” You rolled your eyes. “Fuck off.”
Secretly, you were relieved, though. Tiger liked to sometimes send one of his men after you, just to ‘check in’. It was condescending, irritating, and on several occasions almost screwed up gigs for you. Plus, if he had men stationed here, it would mean that the club was one of his, or at least one he operated out of, and that thought didn’t sit right with you.
Sure, Tiger and his men did bad shit, you weren’t stupid, you knew that. Hell, you regularly killed people, a lot of whom didn’t really deserve it. But looking around you at the girls hanging off the poles or strutting around the room, with glassy eyes and worn-out smiles, you felt something burn in your chest. That wasn’t the look of women who were living out their dream lives, or at least who found some enjoyment in their work—those were the slumped shoulders and weary faces of women pushed to their limit.
And with a couple of those, the term ‘women’ might be an exaggeration; girls seemed more fitting.
The man was still holding on to your wrist, looking more hopeful by the second, as if ‘fuck off’ wasn’t enough of a hint. You twisted your hand in his grasp and were about to break his fingers—fuck the extra attention, he was starting to piss you off—when another voice spoke up from behind you.
“Hey man, she doesn’t seem interested.”
You turned, surprised, and came face to face with none other than Holland March. He wore a nice-looking maroon suit with a mustard-yellow tie, a cigarette hanging from between his lips. He was looking at the grip the other man had on you, and while he didn’t have a very threatening aura, he stood close enough to signal that he wouldn’t leave before he was satisfied.
The other man did a quick once-over of March and then scoffed, “Fuck off.”
Funny, that's what I just said, too. Is what you wanted to say, but you bit back the retort, a plan forming in your head.
Every man loved a Damsel in Distress, whether because they want to put her in the aforementioned ‘Distress’ or because they want to save her from it didn’t really matter, as long as a woman was looking at them doe-eyed and trembling, they got their kicks from it. And if March was the kind of man who’d rather protect than threaten, then that was only the better for you; he was handsome after all, there was no reason in denying that.
“You fuck off,” March retorted, sounding genuinely offended.
“What’s your issue, pal? Just wanna relax for a bit and spend some time with this pretty thing,” he said, voice thick with annoyance and intoxication. He got off the couch, swaying a bit. March was a tall man, but the other man stood a couple of inches taller.
“I’m not your pal, pal. And she’s not an object,” March said, and his words landed somewhere they shouldn’t for you. Then he went and pushed the man.
That came as a surprise not just to the man who stumbled over his feet, tripping over the flank of the couch, but also to you. He still held you, so when he went down, he took you with him.
You hit the ground hard. Half catching yourself on the cushions of the couch, which, considering the kind of establishment you were in, wasn’t that much of a relief. At least the hold on your wrist was finally broken.
“Oh, fuck,” March yelped, threw his cigarette in the closest ashtray, and knelt down next to you, hands fluttering over your back. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t—that didn’t go the way I hoped.”
While you did feel a twinge of annoyance, mainly because you were sure you had to burn these clothes now, you couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re fine. Got him off me at least.”
At that, you both looked up to where the man stood up from behind the couch. His gaze landed on you before he scoffed, muttering something about ‘teasing sluts’ before trailing over to the bar.
“That’s not—hey,” March yelled after the man before turning back to you with a dopey smile. “If you want, I’ll get someone to beat him up.”
“You’ll get someone to beat him up?”
“Yeah, I know someone. Actually, wait here a second, I’ll do that now.” March stood up, but you stopped him before he could walk away.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I—” you noticed you were still perched on the ground.
“Here.” March offered his hand, and you took it, getting up.
“Thank you.” You brushed off the crumbs from your clothes, trying not to shudder with disgust. “Seriously, though, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know,” he said and nodded as if trying to convince you of just how serious he was being. “Any time, any day. Just give me a call and I’ll be there.”
You laughed. “I don’t have your number.”
Yes, you did.
He started frantically searching his pockets but came up empty. “I swear I had one here. Healy always tells me to…” he mumbled, more to himself than you, before looking up with wide, regretful eyes. “I’ll ask Healy for a card quickly. Healy is my partner—business partner! He is my business partner.”
“Nothing wrong with the other kind, too.” You grinned.
“Of course!” March basically tripped over himself to agree with you. “Nothing wrong with it. Love is… love is beautiful, no matter who with whom, right?”
You nodded. Fuck, he was endearing.
“But we are private detectives. Worked with the DOJ last year. Well, kinda, but… anyway, lemme just get that card for you.”
You stopped him again. While you were certain he’d come back to you as quickly as humanly possible, you didn’t want Healy to get involved right now. From your prior research, it became clear that Healy was the more serious and reliable one of the two—if one of them was going to spill their secrets, it wasn’t going to be him.
“Do you have a pen?” You asked.
March started patting his jacket before taking out a silver pen.
“Perfect, just write your number on my arm,” you said, holding out your right arm toward him.
March first turned a shade paler and then three shades darker. A rosy flush spread over his cheeks. “You want me to… yeah, yeah, that works. It’s actually perfect!”
He gently took hold of your elbow with his left hand, holding it steady while he started to write with his other hand . His hand was warm on your arm, and he was lightly moving his thumb back and forth, seemingly subconsciously. He had large hands, and you—you have to get your mind out of the gutter.
“Your skin is so soft,” March whispered and then flinched, smudging some of his writing. “Oh, Jesus, that wasn’t—” He grimaced. “Sorry, I’m not usually this…”
“You’re fine.” You smiled, and then, as if just getting an idea, bit your lip, looking away coyly.
“What?” March asked. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you to make up for all of this?”
“No, it’s nothing.” You almost started dragging your foot across the floor, but then figured that’d be a bit overkill. “Really, it’s—whatever.”
“No, c’mon. Now you've gotta tell me.” He was grinning widely now.
Hook, line and sinker. It’s so easy.
“I, um, well, the reason why I’m even in here is that my car kind of broke down,” you said. “And I was just going to ask to use a phone to call… well, someone—I wouldn’t even know who to call, to be honest. But it’s already getting late and it’ll be dark soon, so maybe you could—”
“Yes!” he said, nodding vigorously. “This is not a good place for a woman to be stuck, believe me. I’ll do what I can to help.”
“That’s really kind, thank you.” You smiled bashfully up at him, and he practically started swooning.
“Oh, it’s—it’s nothing, really.” He waved you off and then held out his hand as if to say, ‘Lead the way’.
When the sweaty evening air hit your face, you took a deep breath. LA air was passable on its best days, and while today definitely wasn’t one of those, everything beat the stench of desperation wafting out of the men present in Tinseltown—present company mostly excluded.
You walked over to your car, March hot on your heels.
“This really isn’t the best place to get stuck for a beautiful woman. I mean, this whole side of town, honestly.”
“I should pick a better one next time, I know.”
“Probably. I mean, it worked out great this time, but who knows who’ll be around if it happens again.”
You hold out your arm. “I figured you’d be, now that I have your number.”
He chuckled. “I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t have to under those circumstances. But, sure, call me and I’ll be there.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” You turned and winked at him. He winked right back, and you had the sudden urge to grab him by the tie and pull him closer.
But luckily, at that moment you reached your car, and now had to focus on the bigger issue, which was that you had to fake a car emergency with him right there, watching you closely. You opened the hood of your car, and he stepped up next to you.
“Can I be honest for a second?” March asked, looking between the car and you.
“Sure.”
“I don’t know anything about cars,” he admitted and patted the hood lightly.
Perfect, you thought.
“You can’t be any worse than me.” You noticed a square shape in the pocket of his pants. “You got a cigarette?”
He pulled the packet out of his pocket, and while he was occupied, you quickly pulled one of the wires from its place, tearing it. Fuck, I hope I didn’t just ruin my car.
“Here.” He handed you a cigarette, also taking one for himself. He lit up his first and then motioned for you to get closer to him so that he could light yours. You inhaled, relishing the slight burn of the nicotine.
“Alright,” March said, and clapped his hands. “Let’s see what we can do here.”
────────
Nothing; you couldn’t do anything there, and neither could he, as it turned out. March even dragged Healy out of the club to take a look at your car, but when he saw the torn wire, he just shook his head and explained to you with narrowed eyes that in whatever way that happened, it couldn’t simply be reversed.
Healy had left to call AAA and hadn’t returned yet, which left you and March sitting in your car, talking. Sure, you had ruined your car for it, but this was the ideal situation you had hoped for.
“—and then we just handed over the por—the film, and our job was done.” March looked proud detailing the gig that had led him and Healy to start their own business. It all sounded rather chaotic, and more like they had a bunch of dumb luck instead of actual investigative prowess, but who were you to judge?
“Wow, that sounds dangerous.” Your voice was thickly sweet, and you almost couldn’t believe that March was buying the act—Healy certainly hadn’t. But March was eating up every one of your honeyed words; you could almost see his ego growing by the second.
The worst part, however, was that it worked in reverse, too. With every heavy-handed but delightful brag, all the little grins, and his seemingly real and well-intended attentiveness for your safety, you could feel yourself melt into the seat of your car. Every now and then you had to pinch yourself to remind yourself that it wasn’t unlikely that you had to kill him soon.
“Ah,” he shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal and then continued talking in a voice that made it clear that actually it really was, “Sure, but we’re professionals.”
With that, he shot you a grin that made you glad you were already sitting. You needed to get back to your original topic, and quickly!
“Is that what you were doing in there?” You tilted your head toward the club. “Working on a case?”
He nodded, brushing nonexistent dust off his jacket. “Been working on this case for quite a while.”
“What’s it about?”
The answer to his question would either lead him to your bed or his coffin, and you tried not to show how that affected you.
“I probably shouldn’t talk about it,” he said, chuckling.
“Oh, come on. Who am I gonna tell?”
“Alright,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “There is this semi-successful gang running business through this side of the town. At first, it was just drugs and booze, that sorta thing. Then last month we were approached by a woman who swore up and down that her daughter had been taken, and guess who some of the last known associates of the girl were?”
Your stomach turned a bit, and you looked away from March’s eyes to gaze out at the night sky. Before you could answer him, he continued talking, which you were more than okay with.
Yeah, take a fucking guess with whom, baby.
“The Stripes—that’s the name of the gang.” God, I hate that fucking name. “Apparently, she hung around them quite a lot. Healy and I then did some of our own investigating, and it seems like The Stripes progressed from drugs to ladies rather quickly. Turns out she’s not the only young pretty girl gone missing in the last couple of months.”
“Yeah, but it’s LA,” you said weakly, not knowing what you were trying to prove, and to whom.
“Sure, but four of the seven girls had ties to at least one member of The Stripes that we know of. Now, we’re mainly trying to find the girls and get them home safe. If we take down the gang while we’re at it, that’s a bonus, of course, but mainly there are a lot of mothers missing their daughters,” March said.
The atmosphere in the car was heavy, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Shame was gnawing at your insides, to the point where you were sure that if you were to open your mouth, you were going to start spewing blood all over his nice suit.
He seemed to notice the tense mood as well and shrugged playfully. “And grateful people pay well, so there’s that.”
You could only nod, lips pressed together.
“Oh, shit,” March groaned. “That was probably a lot for you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just… you asked, and most of the time there are only two people who I talk with about this stuff, and they love all the horrible parts.” He grimaced, hand coming to pat your shoulder. “You good, sweetheart? Deep breaths, that’s it. You don’t gotta worry though, me and Healy will get this under control. Just maybe avoid this side of town for a while, yeah?”
Headlights suddenly blinded you. It was AAA pulling up in a truck, and you gritted your jaw. Get it the fuck together; it’s a job, nothing more.
You turned to him, trying to ignore how good his hand on your shoulder felt. “Why are you here, though? At the club, I mean.”
March looked surprised at the sudden shift in your mood, but went along with it happily enough. “Oh, that’s one of theirs. You see that orange wriggle over there on the side of the club? That’s their calling card. An S for Stripes but also a tiger’s tail. Creative bunch, those guys.” He chuckled again, but you couldn’t join him, gaze frozen on the all too familiar signal.
This seedy, bottom of the barrel club, where the women looked dead and the men all too ready to indulge in that, was part of the same group of associates as you were. Well, kind of. Sure, you were a contractor but then again, Tiger had given you a name, a contract that couldn’t possibly be legal in any way, and tried to make you get the tattoo all members of the gang shared—and when was the last time you worked for anyone outside of The Stripes?
The next couple of minutes happened, but you couldn’t really say what transpired. March talked with the mechanic while you stood quietly next to him, eyes continuously trailing back to Tinseltown. While your car was getting hooked up, March led you to the passenger side of the tow truck, a soothing hand on your back.
“I mean it, I can give you a ride home. Don’t need to get into any cars with strangers if you don’t wanna.”
“You’re a stranger,” you mumbled.
“Well, not really.” He pointed to your arm. “You got my number.” He said it in a way that made it clear that he wasn’t just joking, you could call him if you needed anything. That fact only made you feel more nauseous. Because as you got in the truck, and watched March close the door for you, you knew two things for sure: firstly, The Stripes were partaking in the kind of illicit behavior where it was almost impossible to turn a blind eye to, and secondly, you now knew for sure that you had to kill March and Healy.
March grinned at you through the open window, tilting his head toward your arm. “Call me, and stay out of trouble, yeah, sweetheart?”
I KNOW YOUR REQUESTS ARE OFF MOMENTARILY BUT WILL YOU EVER MAKE A PART 2 OF THE STALKER X STALKER FIC??? oh my gosh its so gooooood
hi, my bambi!! you can totally send your request even if my requests are "closed." i decided not to close my requests anymore in the sense of, "if you send me a request right now, i'll ignore it." now, when i say my requests are closed, it's more like, "i'm probably studying right now 😭." but you can totally send me your ideas!! please do!!
i woke up at 7:49 am (after going to sleep at like 5:30) just because i had the best idea for a driver one shot and i was like "I NEED TO WRITE THIS DOWN" ... bro.
sugar daddy jacob who met you on a random dating app because he was bored one night. jacob wasn’t really the type to participate in online dating. he believes that his charm is twice as compelling when the person he’s trying to woo is right in front of him. nevertheless, he gave in one friday night because he was in dire need of entertainment.
sugar daddy jacob who, after hours of swiping only left and very little right, came across a profile that drew his attention. all of the pictures were with your cat, with silly thick rimmed glasses over your eyes. everything about you screamed “nerd.” and jacob wasn’t known to be attracted to nerds. especially those who look way too younger than him.
even so, you were cute. way too cute. and from the pictures alone, it almost seemed like you were resembling more like the cat you were holding in jacob’s eyes. and he’s always had a soft spot for cute things like you.
sugar daddy jacob who wasn’t expecting the two of you to match immediately when he swiped right. but didn’t waste a second to start the first conversation. he immediately went with the “hey, beautiful” that he knows works with everyone. and it’s easy enough when he has the best pictures of himself in his profile. everyone will get what they expect. obviously. he’s not a fraud.
sugar daddy jacob who was immediately hooked by your pleasing personality. you were clearly the shy type as expected. you didn’t know how to respond to his flirty messages, but you tried. it was also very clear that you’ve probably never done this before. or maybe if you have, you haven’t done this a lot.
sugar daddy jacob who was confused at first as to why you were so gullible, but eventually took advantage of it because it served him a better purpose. you were always quick to send him pictures if he asked. even the naughty ones whenever the conversation will get a little heated.
that’s the cutest pair of panties i’ve ever seen in my life.
thanks! i have like 6 of these
would you mind sliding them off so i can see what’s underneath?
okay! but u have to send something in return bc this is like my 10th nudes and u haven’t even showed me urs
that’s not for you to decide, baby.
sugar daddy jacob who spoils you with everything else instead of actually showing you his dick. not because he’s insecure. but he just likes this little power play between the two of you. that you’re always so eager to please him no matter how hesitant you get. and that you know you have no say whether or not he participates with the whole sending nudes thing.
after getting your address, jacob would send a bunch of shit without ever telling you first. at first, they were all relatively innocent; that one action figure you’ve been dying to get your hands on, the textbooks you’ve been saying up for, the limited edition hardcover of the fantasy book that you really love. until the gifts turn into lingeries, vibrators, a small dildo to stretch yourself out, and a buttplug that you’re still scared to touch. he’s also not scared to send you a thousand bucks if you promise to send videos of you playing with your clit with the vibrating rose toy that he gave you.
sugar daddy jacob who finally set up a meeting because he couldn’t take it anymore. but he wasn’t the kind of gentleman who would take you out for dinner first, no. jacob drove to your address himself to pick you up after a business trip abroad, and he skipped all the “get to know each other” part because his dick was throbbing painfully in his pants that he could feel your eyes bashfully taking secret glances to it.
“i would offer you to touch it but i don’t want us to crash.”
“it’s just… a bit weird now. i’ve never seen it before so i didn’t know it’s that big.”
jacob can’t help but let out a scoff. he’s heard that so many times before. he’s never going to get sick of it.
sugar daddy jacob who didn’t waste his time shredding off your clothes and throwing you on his ridiculously huge bed. meanwhile, he stayed very much fully clothed and enjoyed the lewd contrast between the two of you. him covered up, you all bear and naked and cold underneath him.
he shamefully let his large hands squeeze your soft breasts, while his knee was slotted in between your legs and ordered you to grind your cunt against his clothed thigh.
sugar daddy jacob who secretly took out his phone when he made you flip over on your stomach to present yourself. he filmed the way you arch your back, the way you pressed your perfect ass right on his cock that was bursting through his pants, the way your cunt lips opened up and the way your asshole peaked out in between your cheeks when you spread your legs a little wider.
and when you looked back, you were horrified to see him with his phone out.
“jacob! you didn’t say anything about filming!”
“would you mind indulging me tonight, baby? haven’t i been treating you like a princess all month long? time to pay daddy back. don’t worry, i won’t share it to anyone. you have my word for it.”
sugar daddy jacob who took his condom off mid-fuck and shoved your dirty panties in your mouth when you tried to argue. he said something about “i’ll take care of you and our baby if i get you pregnant, princess. but for now, let me fuck it raw” while pistoning his hips and ramming his cock so far inside you, his belt slamming against your hips and leaving marks.
sugar daddy jacob who made you wear your glasses back again when he was just about to come. and he crawled on top of you to hold your head in place while he fucked his fist vigorously. “open your mouth, stick out your tongue,” he said, and when you do, jacob groaned so loudly as he painted your lenses with thick white ribbons, his hand still a blur on his crotch as he milked himself dry.
sugar daddy jacob who took pictures of you covered with his come. and he didn’t even let you clean yourself before he’s flipping you in a different position and doing it all over again.
a/n: for that one anon who wants icky jacob hcs. not sure if these are THAT icky but i cant stop thinking about sugar daddy jacob and i apologize. hes eating my brain
i woke up at 7:49 am (after going to sleep at like 5:30) just because i had the best idea for a driver one shot and i was like "I NEED TO WRITE THIS DOWN" ... bro.
— ring ring… hi.. guess who LMAO anyway i’ve got a request… 👀👀👀
stalker!reader x stalker!driver. none of them knows that the other’s stalking them too. then one particular night they catch each other stalking the other.
i wanna seeeeee how this one gets written esp cuz i LOVEDD how u wrote my seb wilder req!
- ☎️
THE ONE SHOT TURNED DARKER THAN I EXPECTED IT. but the creepy vibes are still there and that was my mission 🫡🫡. hope you like it, love<3 here it is!
summary: the first thing you noticed about him was his jacket. white and padded, with a golden scorpion stitched into the back.
word count: 4,2k
tags: fem!reader, stalker!reader x stalker!driver. taking photographs and following people without their consent. cursing!!! reader doesn't know driver's name so she calls him... "him." no beta!! english is not my first language, abuse of italics, and uhhh... i think that's it.
a/n: tried a new aesthetic for the one shots! i hope you guys like it :D title from: paparazzi — lady gaga. i loved writing this!!
before him, you’d always thought there was something fundamentally wrong with the way you saw the world.
from the biggest detail to the smallest flicker of movement, there was undeniably something wrong with you. you were aware of that; it was not the kind of thing a person could fail to notice about themselves, and even if it were, you noticed everything.
not because you wanted to. maybe because the instincts inside of you were different. those instincts that stayed dormant in everyone else seemed, in your body, to be awake all the time, alert and trembling and whispering that you were prey.
so you noticed everything in the way a skittish rabbit notices the shape of the field before it dares to move.
the first thing you noticed about him was his jacket. white and padded, with a golden scorpion stitched into the back. it was a normal jacket, you suppose. but it caught your eye anyway, just for a few seconds. you didn't even properly register his face before he was already gone.
he had looked quiet, you thought. the sort of quiet that made you wonder if he had been born that way or taught it, piece by piece, by whatever had raised him. a jacket like that felt like it belonged to someone louder, someone who took up more space in a room.
maybe it had belonged to someone else. an older brother, perhaps.
maybe it was borrowed, or inherited, or simply the only warm thing left in a crowded house where clothes passed from one child to the next. you imagined a mother with too many mouths to feed.
none of it had to be true, your mind supplied possibilities the way lungs supplied air.
you looked back down at your notebook, without remembering picking up your pen, you’d already written two words: blonde hair.
your unconscious was already building a list.
you bit your lower lip, wondering whether it was worth it.
you supposed it was.
next to it, you wrote; black coffee. no sugar. his order.
you wondered what else there was to learn.
——
you didn't fall in love with him the second time you saw him either.
that would have been too simple, too neat. too easy to explain, too… clean.
it was only a coincidence, really, being in the same place at the same time. after all, you had lost the trail of him after he left the cafeteria. there hadn’t been enough to follow, not really. l.a was far too large to search with nothing but blonde hair and a memorable jacket.
you were at the laundromat when the bell over the door chimed in. your headphones were in, old house music filling your ears. you were sitting by the dryers, the television in the corner played a soccer match no one seemed interested in watching.
that was when your eyes found the jacket again, golden braided scorpion on the back. you nearly dropped the coins in your hand.
your gaze caught on everything it could: his boots, his hands, his jeans, the set of his shoulders. heavy boots with worn soles, hands rough enough to suggest work rather than hobby and fresh scratches across his knuckles.
there was grease on his clothes. he must have been working on something. a car, probably. a mechanic? or someone trying very hard to become one because paying someone else wasn't an option.
there were dark circles under his eyes, he didn't sleep much.
huh, you didn't either.
you waited until your clothes were done drying. you pretended to watch the soccer match on the television, though your attention never really left the room.
when he left, you left a few seconds later.
you watched him get into a car. a chevrolet something. you weren't especially good with car models, but that seemed like the kind of detail you ought to memorize.
you watched him drive away until the taillights disappeared around the corner.
you walked three blocks before ducking into a bookstore. a folded map of the city cost less than lunch.
the laundromat had to be close to his apartment, you thought. far enough that a car made the trip easier. you were sure he had an apartment. he didn’t look like a house man. he looked like someone who lived in rooms with thin walls and small kitchens.
you marked the laundromat with a red circle. then you opened your laptop and started searching for apartment complexes nearby.
six, at first.
you needed cheap places. he didn’t look like a big money man.
then four.
still unlikely, the parking lots were too small.
two.
you wrote the directions in your notebook and stared at them for a moment. tomorrow, you supposed, you would take the bus and see them.
your fingers brushed against the camera resting in your bag, you wondered if it would be worth bringing.
——
you had luck in the first location. the 73’ chevrolet was there in the parking lot, exactly where you had hoped it would be. you took a picture or two of the car before walking back to the elevator.
your breath caught when the metal doors slid open and he was suddenly there, in front of you, eyes fixed on your face.
fuck, had he seen you? there’s no way. you had checked the angles from the parking lot before taking the pictures. there weren't any windows overlooking the spaces. you had made sure of that. you always made sure.
he didn't leave the elevator. instead, he shifted slightly to one side, making room for you.
only then did you notice the blonde woman beside him, short-haired, holding a grocery bag in one hand.
you gave them a small smile, your pulse felt impossibly loud inside the small metal box.
what if he asked about the camera? what if he said he'd never seen you around before? what if he asked your name?
you could ask his first.
you weren't very good at starting conversations.
before you could try, the woman pressed the button for the fourth floor.
“i like your hair,” you told her, shy and careful. “it suits you.”
she smiled, her hand instinctively brushed against it.
“i like your coat,” she said back.
the man’s eyes were on you now.
you let out a little laugh that didn't sound quite real. “thank you. it’s thrifted.”
your gaze moved to him. you smiled, just briefly.
the elevator chimed, and they both got out. you watched him pull out his keys and unlock his door.
apartment 405.
four. zero. five. you repeated the number to yourself until it stayed.
the woman disappeared inside with him. friends, you assumed. the groceries suggested familiarity.
the receipt had come from the convenience store three blocks away.
you stared at the closed metal doors for another few seconds.
you supposed it was time to get a new job.
——
you started building your entire week around the possibility of seeing a man you didn't know for mere thirty seconds.
you spent your mornings in the coffee shop where you had first seen him. you went to the laundromat every friday, because that was where you had seen him the second time. you learned when his apartment was usually empty because those were the hours you could photograph the hallway without anyone asking questions. you kept your camera close, always.
then you got a job, partly because it seemed practical, and partly because there was always a chance he might come in.
and one week later, he does.
he buys only two things: a carton of milk and a pack of gum. he isn't wearing the scorpion jacket. you almost ask him where it is, before realizing that would have made you sound like a fucking weirdo.
“that’ll be $12.47,” you say.
he slides the money across the counter and doesn't even thank you.
you wonder what made him so closed off.
you need to know.
before he leaves, you reach for the camera you kept beneath the register almost without thinking.
——
“he’s cute,” one of your friends says, because you do have friends, even if it doesn't always look like it. “is he your friend? a model?”
your stomach tightened, you had forgotten to hide the last two pictures you took of him. your room has a board for everything you know about him—photographs, addresses, receipts and timetables—, though right now it is tucked away in your closet.
“yeah,” you lie. “he’s a friend of mine.”
he isn't, but somehow he has started to feel like one.
“what’s his name?” your friend asks. “is he single?”
you look at her.
it's not exactly a mean look, more like a confused one. the question felt oddly invasive, as though she were asking about someone she had no right to know.
she raised both hands in surrender.
“okay, okay," she laughed. “he's all yours.”
yours. the word stayed with you after she’d gone.
funny. you still didn’t know the sound of his name.
still, he was yours.
you finally took the board out of the closet. it looked exactly how conspiracy boards always looked in films, all photographs and notes. ridiculous, almost embarrassingly obvious. it felt cliche, painfully so, the kind of thing people rolled their eyes at in movies.
but it worked.
your brain had always understood the world better once it could spread it out in front of itself.
you pinned up the newest photographs, shifting older ones a few centimeters to make room. his apartment, his car, the laundromat, where he worked. the grocery store, fridays. coffee. black, no sugar.
lately there had been one question you still could not crack, and it had begun to eat at the edges of your mind.
you knew he went somewhere at night.
you didn't know where. not every evening, not always at the same hour. but somewhere.
you had spent enough time hidden in the dark mouth of an alley across from his building, watching the square of yellow light appear in his apartment window.
you kept looking at your board, straightening the timeline of the last places you had followed him, pressing each photograph into place. the pictures you took at the grocery store were finally up.
then your phone rang.
the sound dragged a loud sigh out of you before you could stop it. your thoughts scattered at once. you answered, still half trapped inside your own head, it was your friend.
“what’s wrong?” you asked.
“you’re going to kill me,” she said, “but my car broke down in the middle of the road.”
“are you okay?” you asked immediately, already reaching for your bag and keys.
“yeah, yeah. i’m fine.” you could hear the dismissive little wave of her hand through the phone. “but i know this might sound weird, because you don't have a car, but do you know a good mechanic?”
well, if it wasn't the universe handing you a cleaner excuse.
your eyes drifted to the business card resting stuck on the board. shannon's garage.
you picked it up between two fingers.
“i might know one,” you said. “do we need to call a crane?”
your friend laughed. “as if we could afford one, girl. we’re pushing it.”
you groaned into the phone.
——
your hair sticks to your forehead. your jacket is tied around your waist, sleeves hanging loose against your hips, and the graphic t-shirt you'd thought was a good idea this morning now feels like punishment. the heat has worked its way beneath your skin, settling there until even standing still feels exhausting.
“hi,” your friend says to the man you assume must be shannon. “we just pushed my stupid car all the way from reseda boulevard. i have no idea what the hell is wrong with it.”
“oh, girls, you are both sweating. let me get you a glass of water,” he says immediately.
you want to tell him there is no need, there absolutely is.
you lean your weight against your friend's car, letting the warm metal hold you up for a moment. your eyes close. just for a second.
then your friend says, “hey, do i know you?”
your eyes open at once, you feel your stomach drop.
fuck.
he is standing there in a mechanic's coverall, sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking at you. there is no way he doesn't recognize you. but this really was a coincidence. you could have sent your friend to any garage in the city, any street, any corner with an open sign in the window. this looked like a coincidence, right?
“no, i don’t think so,” he says.
“yes, i know you,” your friend insists, nudging your arm. “don’t we know him from somewhere?”
you let out a nervous giggle.
“i don’t think so,” you say quickly. “sorry, she does this with every handsome guy.”
he actually looks embarrassed by that, color rises faintly across his face before he looks away.
your friend turns to you, offended. “no, i don’t— i mean, yeah, but—”
shannon returns with two glasses of water before she can finish.
“here you go,” he says. “can’t believe you pushed it from reseda. can you hear that?” he adds, glancing at the younger mechanic.
“we’re strong,” you say, while your friend beside you drinks the entire glass in one go.
you shoot her a look, but two seconds later you do the same. when you lower the glass, he's still looking at you.
shannon glances between the three of you. “oh, you two know each other?”
your friend turns to you with a huge smile and a look that says told you so.
“no,” you say too fast. “i mean, maybe. i don’t know.”
“you work in the grocery store, down at—” he starts.
“yes!” you cut in before he can finish. “yes, i do.”
you are absurdly relieved that this is why he recognized you.
your friend looks at you, surprised. “you changed your job? why didn’t you tell me?”
“it was sudden,” you say. “it doesn’t matter. your car is the priority right now.”
you look at her with pleading eyes that say please do not make me explain this right now.
shannon walks over to the front of the car, and the younger mechanic follows. the hood lifts with a metallic clunk.
“found the problem,” he says.
he opens a cap you recognize immediately. oil filler cap. you have been doing your homework.
“there’s no oil in your car.”
your friend frowns at him. “that can’t be. i just changed it three days ago.”
he slips a finger inside and lifts it back out. almost dry. proof, plain and rude and undeniable.
your friend looks from his hand to the engine, eyes looking lost. you shrug, without knowing what to say.
“but i don’t have that much money,” she says, smaller now.
you reach into your bag immediately.
“i’ll pay for it,” you say. “don't worry.”
her eyes go watery so quickly it almost hurts to watch, and for a second you are sure you see something soften in his face too.
no, that’s probably not real.
your crush is making you delusional.
well, more delusional than usual.
——
“hey, i’m taking a break,” you say to your coworker.
she nods without really looking at you, a cigarette held lazily between her fingers while she counts the money in the register, lips moving silently with the numbers. you are close to closing. people don't usually come in this late, and the store has already begun to feel emptied out, stripped down to its fluorescent bones.
there’s a plastic chair near the trash bin, the kind your coworker drags out every night so she could smoke. you sit in it anyway.
the heat is still unbearable even at night, and the thick fabric of your uniform makes it worse. it clings to your skin like it’s trying to keep every trace of the day inside you.
you close your eyes for a second and let the city happen around you.
distant traffic. a siren far away. someone laughing on the sidewalk. the low, electric hum of a place that never really sleeps.
then, suddenly, a crash cuts through everything.
two gunshots.
your eyes open at once.
“what the—?” you whisper, your attention snapping towards the mouth of the alley. you know robberies happen almost every night around here. you know because everyone knows. but you have never been this close to one before.
your coworker yanks the door open. “get the fuck in. there’s a lunatic shooting.”
“i think they’re robbing lucius’ store,” you say, body still half outside.
a car bursts past the alley before the words have even settled, moving too fast to be anything good. the windows are dark, tinted so heavily you cannot see much of anything inside.
nothing but a flash of pale hair beneath the windshield.
your stomach drops, you know that type of blond.
your coworker grabs your arm and forces you inside, muttering something mean about your reaction time, but you barely hear her. your thoughts have already gone elsewhere, gone soft and sharp at the same time.
“are they common?” you ask, though your attention is somewhere else entirely.
“what? robberies?” she looks at you like you have asked something deeply stupid.
“no, i mean—” you hesitate, because now the question sounds ridiculous even to you. “the getaway cars?”
your coworker stares. “yeah. fucking stupid question.”
you give her a thumbs-up while she keeps complaining, but your mind does not stay with her for long.
you cannot stop thinking about the hair.
that blond. that exact shade. it could have been the light. it could have been your imagination, your brain reaching for him in the wrong place because you miss him more than you are willing to admit. you hadn't had time to see him much this week. you’d taken extra shifts to pay back the money you gave your friend for the oil change.
you don't regret it.
you just wish you had a better job.
you walk to the lockers, leave your uniform behind, and pull your real clothes back on. a loose t-shirt and an old pair of thrifted jeans that have softened with time.
in the full-length mirror on the wall, the yellow light makes your hair look darker than it really is.
there is no fucking way you could have confused his hair with anyone else’s.
your heart stumbles at the realization.
oh, god. that is where he goes every night. to be a getaway driver for criminals.
your lower lip catches between your teeth as the thought settles in.
does his boss know? does the woman with the grocery bags know? would he have trusted you with that kind of truth if you had met under different circumstances? if you had been someone else? if he had been someone else?
your coworker bangs on the door.
“what the fuck is taking you so long?” she yells. “you’re closing the store now.”
you huff in surprise, because she scares the hell out of you more often than she should. you hurry out and find her standing there, already irritated, keys wrapped around her hand, dangling them in front of you.
“i’m leaving now,” she says. “try not to get yourself killed. again.”
she laughs at her own joke and shuts the door behind her.
you start locking up every other door and window.
a car parks outside.
you don't think much of it at first. cars always use the lot at night. people leave their cars there overnight all the time.
but this one doesn't turn its lights off. the beams stay on, aimed directly at the door you are about to close.
your skin prickles.
for a second, your mind fills in a stranger in the driver’s seat, a drunk man, a threat with no shape yet, only intention. your pepper spray is in your bag, but you're not sure it would help enough to matter, fear feels familiar to you now.
still, you go outside.
you close the door behind you and the click of the lock sounds louder than it should. the awful part is that closing the door means you will be the one to open it tomorrow, too. but that almost feels impossible now. you're not sure you're going to sleep much at all. there are too many things about your mystery crush that need thinking through.
then your gaze shifts from your bag, to the car.
a silhouette stands against the hood, leaning there with an almost lazy stillness
the headlights of a ’73 chevrolet malibu hit your eyes directly, bright enough to make you half-close them. you lift a hand to shield your face.
as your vision adjusts, the silhouette becomes a person. you can see him now.
“you saw me?” he asks.
you nod, and then immediately regret nodding.
“yeah,” you say. “yeah, i did.”
“are you going to tell someone?” he asks.
“no,” you answer at once. then, quieter; “i don’t want you to get in trouble.”
he licks his lips. he doesn't have the toothpick with him tonight. you wonder, briefly, if he keeps one there to stop himself from biting his skin raw. if he is as restless as he looks.
“get in,” he says, opening the passenger door.
you do. without hesitation.
——
the city unfolds outside in streaks of amber and neon.
neither of you says a word.
the radio is on, but low enough to barely be heard. the window is down, and the wind brushes your face with the kind of cold that feels almost kind after the day you’ve had.
you wonder if he is going to say something. you’ve imagined talking to him in every possible way, in every possible version of yourself. you’ve thought of a hundred opening lines.
but your mouth refuses to open.
you steal a glance at him.
his hands stay firm on the wheel. his eyes stay on the road. he looks tense, though not from fear exactly. more like focus.
he doesn't look at you.
still, you have the feeling that every other sense he has is fixed on you.
you stop trying to think of something clever to say.
instead, you watch the city lights wash over him in blues and golds, turning his profile into something unreal for flashes at a time.
this is the closest you’ve ever been to him. at least physically.
then you notice a storefront passing behind him that looks familiar. the same stretch of road that runs just around the corner from your apartment.
fuck.
your head turns sharply towards him before you can stop it. he doesn't react. he keeps his eyes on the road, as if he cannot feel your stare boring into the side of his face.
the car slows, then stops outside your apartment building.
for a moment, neither of you moves.
“how did you know where i…?” you begin, and the question sounds ridiculous the moment it leaves your mouth. slightly hypocritical, too, which is almost embarrassing enough to swallow the rest of it. but he isn't you. he couldn't possibly…
he glances at you once, briefly.
“you need to be more careful,” he says.
you almost laugh.
him? talking about being careful? you have a whole board back home covered in photographs of him.
he gets out of the car and comes around to your side, opening the door for you. you understand the hint.
you step out, still looking at him.
he leans against the car and tips his head towards your building.
your face twists in confusion, but you do what he wants anyway.
you run up the stairs to your apartment, unlock the door faster than you ever have in your life, and drop your bag to the floor the second you get inside. then you go straight to the window.
he is still there, watching you.
you watch him back.
instead of feeling afraid, you move closer to the glass. he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and takes something out.
a cap.
one of those football caps with a stitched logo on the front.
you've seen that cap before.
but where?
you close the curtains and press your body against the window, trying to think, trying to pin the memory down before it slips away from you.
you have seen it before.
in the cafeteria. long before you noticed the white jacket, he had been sitting behind you.
how did you not recognize him?
you’ve seen that cap in the stairwell of your building, just behind you. you’ve seen it at the laundromat. long before that friday. long before you thought you were following one man when in truth he may have been following the edges of your life the entire time.
a shaky gasp leaves your lips.
you can hardly believe you didn't notice sooner. you notice everything.
your hand trembles as you pull the curtains open again.
he hasn't left. he is still watching your window, watching you.
to 🗽 anon, i promise you, my love, light of my life, fire of my loins: I'VE SEEN EVERY ASK YOU'VE SENT ME, AND I'M WORKING ON THEM!! i haven't forgotten you. you're the love of my life 🤧💗 you come to me like a long-lost friend with whom i once picked apples in papa's orchard.
is there anyone/anything that you wouldn’t write for
except for the obvious one (cough cough the believer), i think he also portrayed real people, so that's a no for me!!
but please tell me who you're curious about, and i'll answer <3 also, regarding the "anything" aspect, if you read my rules, you'll see what i don't write :3! i think i'm pretty open to everything otherwise, so yeah! ask away <3
I think I need to check my flo app because the only things that’s been on my mind is dad luke (actually any of them being dads)
SHUT UPPP I'M LITERALLY OVULATING RIGHT NOW (idc if it's tmi if you send me an anon we're automatically besties), AND OH MY GOD!! dad luke... 🤤 god he'd be obsessed with your pregnant belly and with the fact that your tits are bigger!! yes, he's happy you chose him to start a family but he's still a pervert who wants to get the first taste of your breast milk 🤧🤧
