Credit to @bibigo-lover for this fantastic idea!
(Holland March x reader)
'Holland keeps nude photos of you in his wallet, much to Healy's disgust and Holland's embarrassment.'
Holland March was many things: a functional alcoholic, a terrible Private Investigator, and an even worse secret-keeper; but he was so stupidly in love with you that none of that seemed to matter. One example of his devotion came in the form of keeping three very explicit Polaroids of you tucked into the back slot of his wallet, right behind his emergency twenty-dollar bill and his PI license.
It was a terrible idea, but you hadn't considered the half of it when you caught him sliding one of the photos in there after a particularly enthusiastic afternoon in his bedroom. It was hot that day, and Holly was away at summer camp. You were sticky, covered in a sheen of sweat, still lying wrapped in his white sheets; he'd pulled on some boxers and a white vest, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
“Holland,” you’d said, half-laughing, half-gasping, “are you sure those aren't gonna slip out? I don't need naked photos of me scattered around LA.”
He'd grinned his crooked, boyish smile and shrugged, speaking through his cigarette.
“Baby, I like having you close," he said, circling round to your side of the bed to kiss your cheek. "What if I'm on an extra long, extra boring stake-out and need some entertainment?"
You'd laughed, smacked his arm, and pulled him back into bed.
Two weeks later, Holland and Healy were on their way back from an investigation that had mostly involved eating gas station snacks and arguing about whose turn it was to pay for coffee. Very little detective work was actually done, and they'd spent the majority of the time on the road in Holland's Buick.
“I’m starving,” Healy grumbled, fishing around in his jacket for cash. “Pull into the drive-thru. I'll pay ya back.”
Holland sighed, reaching into his back pocket, and tossed his wallet over to Healy without thinking.
"Fine. Back compartment, there's a twenty in there."
Healy obliged, flipping the wallet open to grab the crumpled twenty, when one of the photos slipped out and landed in the footwell; Healy huffed, bending over to pick it up. Curious, he turned the picture face up; Healy froze: it was a particularly compromising shot of you on your back, legs spread, wearing nothing but white socks and one of Holland’s shirts (unbuttoned).
The car remained silent except for the low hum of the engine and Holland's fingers rapping against the car door, holding the cigarette out the window, as he turned into the drive-thru queue. Healy hadn't moved an inch or spoken a word.
"You find it yet?" Holland turned impatiently to Healy, confused by his silence. Suddenly, he spotted the polaroid in his lap. He stared for a moment, cigarette falling from between his fingers into the road. Then, Holland made a noise like a dying animal and lunged across the gear shit, trying to snatch the photo out of his hands.
“Give me that! Don’t look at it! I am forbidding you from looking at it!”
Healy held the photo up out of March's reach, squinting.
“Is that…?”
“Yes, it’s her—give it to me!” Holland practically climbed over Healy's legs to grab it. It was a good thing the car was already stationary.
“You keep nudes of your girlfriend in your wallet? Next to your cash? That’s… bold, March. And stupid, too.”
Grasping desperately, Holland finally snatched the photo from between his fingers and recoiled from Healy's side of the car, shoving it into his jacket pocket defensively. His face was bright red as he returned to his seat.
“It’s sentimental, dick! I like having her with me!”
A silence settled between them as Healy smirked. Holland used this time to find another cigarette to calm his nerves, refusing to look at Healy.
"...does she have to be naked for it to be sentimental?" Healy provoked.
"She's not naked in all of them."
Healy lost it: he started cackling, leaning forward to peer at March.
“Wait, there’s more than one? Jesus, you carry them around like baseball cards?”
“Shut up,” Holland muttered, defeated. “Just shut up.”
Healy wheezed with laughter, slapping the dashboard.
“You absolute degenerate. What if you tried to pay for something and handed a cashier one of these? ‘Here you go, keep the change and enjoy the view!’” He smacked his knees, practically rolling with laughter.
Holland groaned and dropped his head onto the steering wheel for a second.
"She's gonna kill me."
Later that night, after he'd dropped Healy off, Holland confided in you what had happened. When you'd stopped smacking him and calling him an idiot for letting Healy see the pictures, he flopped down dramatically onto the couch and pulled you into his lap.
“I’m never living this down,” he mumbled into your neck. “Healy’s gonna bring it up every single day for the rest of my life.”
“You could just stop carrying them around like a pervert,” you suggested, scowling.
Holland pulled back, looking genuinely offended.
“Absolutely not! Those are my emotional support nudes." He sighed, hands sliding under your shirt mindlessly to grope you. “Besides,” he murmured against your lips, “if I’m gonna be embarrassed, at least I get to be embarrassed while carrying around pictures of the most beautiful girl in the world.”
You rolled your eyes but let him.
“Next time Healy reaches for your wallet, throw it out the window.”
HOLY SHIT I JUST READ TREAT YOU BETTER! PLEASE TELL ME UR GONNA DO PT 2!! 💳💥💳💥💳💥
SUV
(Dad’s Best Friend! Courtland x Younger! reader)
‘Your dad doesn’t turn up after work to give you a ride home. Thankfully, his best friend and colleague, Courtland, offers you a lift.’
The nondescript government building was unassuming to most, but for those in the know, it was the regional headquarters of the CIA, a building you had visited a handful of times thanks to your father's secretive job. You, like most people, knew very little about what he actually did on a day to day basis— you just knew that this is where he came when he wasn't out of the country for some operation.
You'd sat down on the cold kerb of the building's carpark nearly an hour ago, waiting for your dad to come out and give you a lift home, but he still hadn't turned up; you listened to the streetlights buzzing overhead or the occasional car rolling down the nearby freeway with contempt, wishing you were on your way home. Usually you'd get the bus home from work, but this morning you'd forgotten your bag, leaving you without means to call a cab or even pay the bus fare. You'd figured, being only a few streets away from your dad's office, that you'd swing by after work and catch him when he finished at eight p.m; clearly he was running late, and so you were left hanging about by the front entrance, hoping he would be out before you froze to death. You certainly weren't planning on going in and asking where he was; you weren't sure he even used his real name at work: on the phone and by colleagues he was referred to as 'Four'.
And so, you waited. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen... you were practically dozing off when dazzling LED headlights swept across the lot, forcing you to shield your eyes in the sudden brightness. You rubbed your eyes, squinting as a black SUV slowed to a stop right in front of you. The window rolled down, and a man dressed in dark clothes leaned out.
“Y/N?"
The unmistakable voice of Courtland Gentry, gravelly either from shouting all day, or from not speaking at all: with Court, you knew it could be either. 'Six', as your dad called him, had just rolled out of the carpark's lower level, heading up to the ground-floor exit when his eyes had landed on a crumpled figure, slouched on the kerb of the building's entrance. His jaw tightened as he caught sight of who it was: his ex-mentor—turned—best—friend's daughter, half-asleep with her arms wrapped around herself. Who falls asleep like that, exposed and alone at night? People without spatial awareness, he supposed— what you might call PTSD or paranoia.
Your head shot up as you squinted through the LEDs' glare: you knew it was him from his voice alone, but you couldn't quite believe it. Your dad's best friend— who you'd known forever, who made your stomach flip in a way you didn't quite understand— was here in all his glory.
"Courtland?" you called out.
Six's brow furrowed, a half-smirk on his lips as he assessed the situation.
"What... are you doing?"
"I, uh—" you paused, straightening up. You were suddenly self-conscious of your slightly pathetic situation. "I'm just waiting for my dad."
He nodded once, then drummed his fingers against the car door. You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself: when you'd left this morning, it was warm, but now the sun had gone down you were underdressed.
"He not show up?" Courtland asked, a look somewhere between pissed off at your carelessness and amused by your predicament on his face. You sighed.
"Not yet, no," you admitted, avoiding his gaze. "But you know what he's like—"
"Want a lift?" Courtland interrupted, face suddenly unreadable. You smiled weakly and shook your head.
“Oh, no, it’s fine, thank you though. I can just wait—”
“I don't think that's a good idea.” His voice was calm but absolute; even in the dim light, you could see the concern on his face. “You’re not waiting out here alone. Come on, I’ll take you home. Or we can both wait together. Up to you."
You looked at him through the glare of the LEDs and thought for a moment: freezing cold kerb, or toasty warm car? You sighed and began to unhunch yourself from the floor. Courtland, ever the smug bastard, grinned and slid out of his car. Tall, broad-shouldered, and sporting an unreasonably tight black t-shirt, he looked every bit as handsome as last time— more so, even, now that he was at your rescue.
Courtland slammed his door shut, closing the distance between you in two large strides. Towering over you, he offered his hand to you; when you took it, he pulled you up easily, his grip warm and steady. He didn’t let go right away, thumb brushing over your knuckles once before guiding you lightly toward the passenger side of the SUV; he popped open the door and nodded toward it, stepping back to let you in. You scoffed a little, torn between patronised and endeared.
As you hopped up into the car, his hand floated behind you as if he wanted to place his hand on your lower back, to stop you from slipping. You breathed in as you settled. The interior smelled like him— clean, slightly woody, with a hint of gun oil. It felt oddly intimate to be in his space like this, and you worried that you were dishevelled or sweaty or oily from a long day at work.
When he was satisfied you were in, he closed the passenger door gently and made his way to his side; you watched him as he walked, heart pounding in your chest as you watched him round the car. Once again, he hopped into the SUV and looked over to you. In one swift movement, before you could even register it, he reached over and buckled your seatbelt, his face close enough that you could smell the faded cologne at his collar and see the slight nick on his cheek where he'd cut himself shaving. It was unnatural how quickly he moved: he was something of a predator to the average person. You pressed yourself back into the seat, worried you were somehow ogling him and he knew: you always felt like he knew what you were thinking, and it always made you blush madly.
"It's like a five minute drive—" you began to protest. Still leaning over you, he shot you a look that left no room for argument. You huffed as he clicked the seatbelt in and returned to the wheel, briefly grieving the close contact.
“What time did you finish work?” he asked quietly as you recovered. Courtland threw his arm over the back of your headrest, half turning to peer out the back window as he reversed. You couldn't help but admire his side profile, then to peer up his shirt sleeve and admire his tan biceps, forearms, and hands. Oh, his hands: everything about them screamed powerful, from the prominent veins to his angular, tactile fingers. You caught sight of a single silver band on his left index-finger and your breathing hitched (a wedding ring?) until you remembered that your dad wore the same one, a sort of signet ring for those in the Operation.
You turned away for your own sake, took a deep breath in, and tried to remember what he had asked.
"Oh— I got there at eight.”
"Jesus, Y/N, It's gone nine, now. Why didn't you call?" Courtland began to drive, gripping the steering wheel. “Woulda finished my paperwork at home if I knew you were outside," he grumbled.
“My phone died," you mumbled, scrunching your brow. "I don't wanna bother you at work, either," you scoffed. It seemed ridiculous to ask a world-class assassin for a ride home when he could be in the middle of saving the nation. Six let out a low breath, almost a sigh.
“You’re never a bother," he tutted. "And charge your fuckin' phone...”
You paused, a smile spreading across your face at the realisation of his irritation. You turned toward your window to conceal the amusement on your face.
After a few minutes of silence, he glanced over at you, huddled still in your jacket. Without hesitation, he reached over and turned on the heater, adjusting the vents so warm air brushed across your legs.
“You must be freezing,” he murmured, jaw twitching.
"I'm fine, don't worry," you replied softly. He shot you another look that couldn't be argued with, quietly turning up the heater.
The rest of the drive was just as quiet: you wanted to talk to him about work, about where he'd been, why he'd barely been round... but you didn't want to bombard him with questions. His hand eventually moved from the gear shift to rest on the centre console— close enough that his pinkie brushed against your thigh every so often— and you couldn't imagine anything other than a squeak coming out if you spoke.
When you finally pulled up in front of the house, he cut the engine but didn’t unlock the doors right away. He turned to look at you, blue eyes still intense and all-seeing in the dark.
“If he's ever late to get you,” Six said, voice low, “you call me. I don’t care what time it is. Ok? I’ll come get you.”
You nodded, chewing your lower lip to stop yourself from smiling. His expression softened and he reached over to gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, calloused knuckles lingering for just a second too long against your soft cheek. He sighed, pulled away slowly, and turned to unlock the doors. You felt mildly disappointed at the 'click' that was your cue to leave the car.
“Get some sleep,” he said softly as you unbuckled your seatbelt. “And text me when your dad gets back. That fuckin' guy,” he ran a hand over his face, "he's been late to everything for twenty years."
"Okay," you laughed softly. "Thanks, Court."
As you turned to open the door, his hand caught your wrist.
“Hey.” His voice seemed unusually firm. You turned to meet his eyes, and he dropped your wrist, suddenly aware of the contact. “You call me next time, ok? I mean it,” he said gently. The way he looked at you, then — protective and frustrated, and something else you couldn’t name— made your heart stutter.
“I will, Court," you said. "Goodnight."
And with that, you turned and exited the car, worried that if you stayed any longer you'd do something you'd regret. He watched from the driveway as you unlocked your front door, waiting until your hallway light turned on to drive off. Only then did his taillights disappear down the street, fingers drumming ruefully against the steering wheel. Still, you had a feeling he’d be keeping a much closer eye on you than you knew.
Holland March with teacher/babysitter reader and she's a total sweetheart to Holly and him and she kind of likes how pathetic he is and likes to kiss him on his cheek and wave at him when he looks a mess in the morning because he's so cute when flustered and wearing that stupid lovesick smile.
One day she just plugs one cigarette out of his mouth and places it on her, taking a drag and coughing cause she's not used to it and it makes him smile cause 'holy crap. You're kind of pathetic too and that was so cute' so to stop his rambling, she kisses him silly until he manages to press her up to the column of the entrance to his place-
Sorry, I got carried away.
Patheticute
(Holland March x Babysitter! reader)
Every morning, without fail, Holland March would stumble into the living room to wave Holly off for school looking like he'd just survived a small house fire. His tie would be crooked, his hair would be sticking up in at least three directions, and he would always freeze up when he spotted you next to Holly, about to walk her to school. There was a sort of dance that you two had perfected in the mornings, wherein he'd make a total dick of himself and spend all day thinking about it.
"Bye, dad!" Holly yelled from the bottom of the stairs on one such morning. "Oh, shoot, forgot my backpack!"
You laughed as she ran up the stairs at full speed past her half-awake father, who was only now coming down to say goodbye. Once again, he seemed to have forgotten that five days a week, you would be there: he had hired you, after all.
"Morning, Holland," you said, smiling up to him. Holland froze halfway down the stairs, and quickly pushed a hand through his messy hair.
"Hi. Hi, Y/N," he replied, mouth opening and closing like he had more to say.
"...That all?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows with a smile.
"I had more," he admitted, shaking his head. "It— uh, it left."
You laughed and he visibly relaxed, like his job for the day had been done. He knew that he'd spend the next ten minutes replaying the sound in his head while trying (and failing) to get ready for work without making more of an ass of himself.
It had been weeks of little moments like this that Holland kept in mind to get through the day: sweet, teasing greetings when you arrived; your deft hands fixing his tie in the mornings as he tried not to stop breathing; your smile when he brought you flowers (as well as a generous tip) when you stayed late because a stakeout ran over.
Yet, despite how pathetic he was for you (maybe a little because of it), you felt the same way, looking forward to every shift and trying not to stumble over your own words. Which was why, one afternoon, you made a terrible decision; an incredibly attractive decision, according to Holland March.
On this particular evening, Holland was leaning against one of the columns in the house's entrance, cigarette hanging anxiously from his lips whilst he waited for you to arrive. If he was being honest, he'd smoked about five cigarettes back-to-back just for an excuse to stand outside and greet you when you got there.
Finally, he saw you walking up the driveway, walking quickly because it was raining buckets. When you saw him at the doorway you cocked your head, squinted through the rain, and smiled: he was normally gone by the time you got there. He smiled back warmly, straightening up a little as you approached.
"Hey, Mr. March," you waved, jogging to get out of the rain.
"Hey."
His gaze softened as he looked at you, soaking wet and a little windswept: you looked wonderful, as always. "It's raining," he said, then immediately took an enormous inhale of his cigarette to try and off-put what he had just said; nice one, asshole, he thought.
"Yeah," you laughed, peeling the hood of your jacket from your head. "I noticed."
He smiled down at his shoes. You leaned your back against the column opposite him, catching your breath for a moment. Without a word, you suddenly reached over and plucked the cigarette right out of his mouth. Holland blinked.
"What are you... hey!"
You placed it between your own lips, taking a drag like you'd seen him do so many times before. You, unlike Holland, however, were not used to cigarettes (let alone his cheap and unreasonably strong Lucky Strikes), and the smoke hit your throat like a freight train.
"Oh, urgh—" You tried to stop yourself from coughing, but the cigarette fell from your fingers onto the floor as you cupped your hand over your mouth and began to cough— violently. Holland watched, amused, with one eyebrow raised.
"Oh my God," you coughed. "Holy—" Cough. "Holy shit."
You were laughing through your streaming eyes, now, and so was Holland. Finally, the coughing fit subsided and Holland reached down to pluck the cigarette off the floor, inspecting it before popping it back between his teeth.
"Not a smoker?" he asked.
"Obviously not."
His face was doing something strange: trying very hard not to smile, and failing miserably as he grinned down the end of his cigarette at you.
"You stole a cigarette even though you don't smoke? Why? What's wrong with you?" he laughed.
"Sue me! I was curious," you defended, wiping your eyes and crossing your arms over your chest like you didn't nearly just die from one puff. "I see you putting those things away every five minutes, I wanted to know what the appeal was."
"You figure it out?"
"Fuck no," you scoffed.
"Thought you'd look grown up? Do you feel grown up, now?" he laughed. You didn't reply, scowling at him; he continued to grin at you. "And here I was, thinking you were far too cool for—"
"Oh my God, would you shut up?"
With one determined stride, you closed the space between you and Holland, and grabbed the front of his white vest, once again pulling the cigarette from his lips and throwing it onto the ground. You pulled yourself against his lips, one hand fisted in his shirt and the other clenched by your side.
The words disappeared from his lips immediately as Holland mumbled against your mouth. When he finally caught on to what you were doing, he closed his eyes and kissed you back— deeply, needily. You pulled back to catch your breath, certain that you'd got the final word, but he wasn't having that: it was like he remembered that he was a grown man, and quite a tall one, at that.
He straightened up from his slouched position against the column, leaning over into the kiss so that your head craned upward as he walked you backward, one hand snaking around your waist and the other cupping the back of your head. You squeaked in surprise as he guided you, and a second later your back met one of the columns with a soft thump. Holland's hands rested on your shoulders, and you began to worry that you'd misread the signals.
"I—"
"There." He looked incredibly pleased with himself. "Can I finish my point, now, please?"
You paused.
"What point?" You furrowed your eyebrows.
Holland leaned closer, so that you could see the way the sunlight caught in his eyes as he stared you down longingly.
"I was going to say... that it was actually pretty cute."
You froze, then laughed; his expression softened instantly. It dawned on you that you knew this look, the one he got whenever he saw you: it was a lovesick look. You spent a moment peering up at him before he spoke again.
"You know," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours lightly, "I was trying very hard to be charming when you rudely interrupted me."
"You were failing."
"I know."
You laughed again, and Holland's smile widened: that was his job done. God, he adored that sound. Then, he kissed you before you could come up with another comeback.
By the time Holly finally appeared in the doorway, both of you were still smiling like complete idiots as Holland leaned over you, his leg resting between your thighs and his hand next to your head to suppport himself.
"Ew," Holly announced immediately; you and Holland jumped apart in surprise. She sighed dramatically. "I knew this was going to happen. I've got bets with Healy that Y/N would make the first move. Was I right?"
Holland sighed. She really was her father's daughter.
‘Convicted murderer Courtland Gentry escapes from the nearby state penitentiary and turns up at your house, pleading for help.’
The late-night news droned on in the background as you dozed off on your couch; you barely registered the anchor’s urgent tone in your half-sleep state.
"...still searching for convicted three-time murderer and juvenile offender Courtland Gentry, considered dangerous and likely armed." You cracked one eye open: an image of a broad man clad in a blue jumpsuit appeared in the top right of the screen. He had down-turned blue eyes— one swollen shut with a bruise from his apparently violent arrest the previous year— and a weathered face that looked neither smug nor regretful. You let your eyes shut again as the solemn reporter continued. "Gentry broke free during a transfer earlier today. If you see him, do not approach; contact police immediately. On to weather, we can expect sunshine starting from Wednesday...”
You must have drifted off somewhere between the weather and the next story, the 2 a.m. TV's glow flickering across your sleeping face. It couldn't have been twenty minutes later when a scrape coming from the kitchen woke you; your eyes flew open and you sat up with a jolt. You lived alone, and could not imagine what kind of an animal could have slid open your kitchen window. As you stared wide-eyed over the back of the sofa, knuckles gripping the fabric in disbelief, you watched in horror as a figure pulled himself hastily through the frame. He pulled himself to his feet, clutching his side, and you locked eyes: prison-cropped hair and stubbly, it was the man from the TV. 'Convicted three-time murderer' Courtland Gentry looked as surprised to see you as you were him.
Before you could draw breath to scream, he was crossing the room in a panic; a large, calloused hand clamped over your mouth, the other pinning your shoulder back against the cushions firmly as he reached over the back of the sofa. Your muffled shout vibrated against his palm.
“Listen to me," he whispered, voice low and calm like he was trying to sound as non-threatening as a fugitive could. "I’m not going to hurt you, but you need to be quiet." His face was inches from yours, sharp blue eyes staring down at you expectantly, a smear of blood along his jaw visible in the TV's blue glow. “Do you understand?”
You froze, trying to recall advice for what to do in such an event: all you could think was to cooperate and give him whatever he wanted to try and stay alive.
As you nodded frantically, your gaze drifted to the dark stain spreading across the side of his shirt: fresh blood. He sighed in relief and removed his hand from your shoulder, placing it against his bleeding torso and wincing as he pressed down on what was an obviously grievous wound.
"I need your help,” he nodded down to his side, grimacing. “Got shot on the way out. Don't think it's life-threatening, but I can’t keep moving like this. So," he continued, "bandages, first-aid kit... got any?"
Again, you nodded frantically, eyes gesturing over to your bathroom. He turned his head and nodded once in silent understanding, then paused, hand still over your mouth. You could feel the tremor in his fingers as he spoke.
“I just need somewhere to lay low a couple hours, then I’ll be gone.” His eyes searched yours, intense and surprisingly calm given the situation. “You have my word. Now, if I let go, are you going to scream?” He waited, watching you carefully with raised eyebrows.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. A dangerous convict was in your flat, bleeding on your furniture, and yet you found yourself shaking your head no and believing it. He looked like a man who had run out of options as you stared up at him. His blue eyes were sharp but exhausted, pain etching deep lines around them. After a long, terrifying second he carefully lifted his hand from your mouth, ready to clamp it back down if you screamed. You didn’t; the only sound was some midnight TV segment chuntering on in the background.
“Good,” he murmured, voice rough with relief. “Thank you.”
He eased back just enough to give you space to sit up.
“I— I have a first aid kit,” you whispered, scared to speak too loudly, "but it's in the bathroom." Your hands trembled as you pointed behind him to the bathroom. Courtland watched you carefully, like an uneasy dog.
"Alright. I can work with that."
Shell-shocked and in a daze, you returned clumsily to the living-room with the first-aid kit. Courtland had lowered himself onto the couch and turned on a small lamp next to the sofa, wincing as he peeled his shirt up and off. The sight of his bare torso as you approached from behind— lean muscle, old scars— made your stomach twist; nonetheless, you kneeled in front of him, placing the box on the table and carefully prying the latch open. You looked up at him for permission to move closer, and, when he nodded, you slowly crept forward, squinting at his abdomen; up close, the gash was ugly and deep, much worse than the odd graze you had ever treated. You wondered whether this twenty-year-old, dusty, household first-aid kit would be up to fixing a bullet-wound, but Courtland interrupted your spiralling doubts.
"This isn't my first rodeo," he gestured to his scar-addled torso. "If I could reach it, I would do this myself, but I can't, so I'm going to talk you through it, ok? Just need to do what I say." It was comical that he was trying to reassure you when he was the one sporting a bullet-wound.
Your eyes darted between his and the bullet hole: this man was dying and you had nothing more than a girl-scout first aid kit to retrieve the bullet, sterilise and pack the wound. Still, you nodded, resigned to cooperating.
"Okay. Clean the tweezers."
You obeyed, trembling hands ripping open the plastic of the individually packed anti-septic wipe and shakily wiping down the tweezers. Courtland peered down at you as you worked.
"Now pull bullet out." He said it like it was just another instruction in a recipe: you clenched your jaw and moved closer, tentatively placing one hand on his torso to peer into the wound.
“I'm sorry,” you mumbled, an advance apology for the pain you were about to cause. He let out a humourless huff, gritting his teeth.
“Just do it.”
And so you did: he squeezed eyes shut, save to look down a few times to direct you, and grit his jaw as you finally pried the bullet from the wound. Your stomach churned as you dropped the bloody metal onto the coffee table.
"Good," Courtland affirmed. "Now we need to clean and pack it."
You cleaned the gash as gently as you could; he tensed under your hands, jaw clenched tight, but stayed perfectly still. A low groan escaped him when the antiseptic hit the raw flesh.
“Easy… easy,” he breathed, eyes half-closed. One of his hands came to rest lightly on your shoulder— not restraining, just steadying himself. His palm was warm and rough. “You’re doing good."
The closeness was overwhelming. His scent— sweat, blood, and adrenaline— filled the small space between you with heat. Every time your fingers brushed his skin, you felt goosebumps rise.
After five minutes of silence, you found yourself a little bolder; you'd pulled a bullet from his side: you felt you were owed an explanation.
“Why my place?” you prompted softly as you packed gauze into the hole. Courtland replied immediately, as though he were listing off attributes of a safehouse. You had an inkling he was not your average con.
“Lights were off. Ground floor. Looked… safe.” His thumb brushed absently against your shoulder. “Didn’t expect anyone to be home, let alone someone like you—” he hissed suddenly as you hit a tender spot.
“M'sorry," you muttered. "'Someone like me'?”
He looked down at you, eyes intense through the discomfort.
“Kind.”
You didn’t answer. Instead you focused on taping the bandage securely, wrapping it around his lean waist. Your hands kept brushing the hard planes of his abdomen, and you tried to ignore the way your pulse jumped every time.
When you finished, you sat back on your heels. Courtland tested the wrapping with a careful breath, then reached out and took your now-bloodied hand.
“Thank you,” he said, sincerity cutting through the rough edge of his voice. “I meant what I said, by the way. I’ll disappear in a few hours. Won't come back again." His thumb stroked once along your knuckles before he let go. You peered down at your hands, conflicted.
"But what now?” you whispered, still perched on the floor in front of him.
Courtland leaned his head back against the couch, eyes sliding shut for a moment before he spoke.
“Now… you wash the blood off your hands, go to bed, and decide whether you’re going to turn me in tomorrow morning.” He cracked one eye open, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
You found yourself fighting back a smile of your own.
'Ken wants to cuddle, but it's the middle of a heatwave. He negotiates his way into your arms.'
The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, doing almost nothing against the thick, humid heat that pressed down on the bedroom like a weighted blanket from hell. The windows were swung open, but the night air outside was just as oppressive. You lay on top of the sheets in a tank top and shorts, already glistening with sweat. Ken, of course, was undeterred. You'd been rejecting his hugs all day because of the heat, and he had had just about enough.
He scooted closer on the mattress (wearing just his heart-patterned boxers), his blond hair slightly damp at the temples: when someone from Barbieland starts sweating, that's how you know it's hot. Still, his big, hopeful eyes locked onto you with puppy-like longing.
“Babe...?” he asked softly. You knew immediately from his tone what he was about to ask. “Can we do even a little cuddling? I can be the big spoon, if you want? I’ve been practicing my form— look!” He turned onto his side and stiffly demonstrated his new 'technique', smiling up at you proudly as he did so.
You turned your head toward him, giggling despite the discomfort.
“Ken, you know I want to, but it’s just so hot. If we cuddle I’m going to actually dissolve into a puddle, and you’ll have to explain to everyone why you're dating a pile of Y/N soup, and it'll be a whole thing." You huffed and wiped some hair from your damp brow, exhausted even by talking.
Ken’s face fell, earnest tragedy flashing across his features once again. He flipped onto his back with a theatrical sigh, one arm dramatically draped over his forehead.
“But we always cuddle at bedtime,” he whined, staring at the ceiling with wide sad eyes. “I need the closeness, the connection, the… the 'Ken and Y/N forever' energy to fall asleep!” You patted his arm sympathetically, then returned to your spread eagle position, trying desperately to let the lukewarm air hit as much as your body as possible.
He was quiet for a beat; you could almost hear the pink, plastic cogs turning in his head.
“Okay, how about this,” he said, rolling onto his side enthusiastically, propping his head on his hand. “What if we do cold spooning? I’ll go take a cold shower, and become a human ice pack. You won’t even notice the heat!” It was beyond endearing that he'd be willing to do that for you, but still: the idea of flesh-on-flesh right now sent a trickle of sweat down your spine.
"I dunno Ken..." you began, "still sounds a bit suffocating."
He furrowed his brows, then doubled down.
"We could put one of those cooling gel packs that you got for my sprained ankle between us? Like a little, cold chaperone. A chilly third wheel, if you will!” He beamed at you. You shook your head.
Ken's suggestions became increasingly ridiculous, ending with a final suggestion of his climbing into the fridge every ten minutes of spooning. When you gently but firmly said no to all cooling contraptions (because even that sounded sticky and awful right now), Ken nodded solemnly and sighed, like a man accepting his tragic fate.
He rose from the circular bed, and disappeared into the bathroom for a minute. When he returned, his hands were carefully carrying two damp washcloths he’d run under cold water. He placed one across your forehead with great gentleness, and laid the other across his own chest like a tiny blanket. Droplets of cold water ran down his hard flank, and you both sighed in relief.
“See? I’m adapting,” he announced proudly. “I’m being very independent. Look at me, not cuddling: I’m basically a zen master.”
He lasted about four minutes before he started scooting his foot over until just his ankle brushed yours— the tiniest possible point of contact. You shot him a look that said 'I see what you're doing'. He smiled innocently at you. You laughed softly and let him keep the ankle contact.
Eventually, he settled on his back, but reached out so his pinkie finger could hook with yours on the mattress between you.
“This is good,” he said quietly, though his voice was still a little wistful. “I just like knowing you’re here. Even if we’re both turning into puddles… I’m your puddle, and you’re mine.” After a moment, he added with a small, cheeky grin, "but when it cools down, I’m getting full cuddle tax. With interest".
"Of course," you giggled, giving his pinkie a squeeze. He curled contentedly into the bed, blankets thrown aside.
You fell asleep with pinkies linked, the damp washcloth cooling you down, a content little smile on your faces despite the heat.
I watched the notebook over the weekend (I cry at everything so that was a good idea) and I LOVE Noah. What do you think a date with him would look like?
Noah Calhoun First Date Headcanons
Noah is nervous as HELL before picking you up, even though he hides it well. like he spends way too long fixing his hair and changes his shirt three times because he's not sure if he looks too formal or too casual.
eventually shows up at your door five minutes early (wants to make a good impression) in his nicest button-down (sleeves rolled up to compensate for formality) with a small bouquet of wildflowers he picked himself before jumping in the car
forgets how to speak when he sees how nice you look at your door. you'd be lying if you said you weren't pretty nervous too, having heard stories about Noah before ever even meeting him. He's got a bit of a reputation as a hothead but he is actually really sweet and shy for you <3
i think either he takes you to the carnival or out on the lake at sunset in his rowboat bc it’s his favorite place in the world, and he wants to share it with you.
The way the golden light hits your face makes him forget what he was saying mid-sentence and he's all shyyyyy about it and equally the way his muscles flex up under his shirt as he rows makes you blush
he's calling you “darlin’” and “sugar” in that drawl that makes your stomach flip
Noah packed a simple but thoughtful picnic because he's big on making sure you're fed. that's his love language, being a Southern boy
He tells you stories about growing up in New Bern— stories about the trouble he and Fin got into when they were kids that make you howl with laughter, and he can't help himself but keep telling you things he thought he'd never tell anyone (let alone on a first date) just to hear you laugh again.
when he stops rowing and you setlle down on the lake, the tension is thick. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek, heart racing
He’s a gentleman the whole evening, but after a while he’s not shy about flirting. You warm up to eachother real quick and it feels like he's known you for a lifetime.
mmm lots of intense eye contact, compliments that feel very earnest (“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,”) while his hand is resting on your lower back or knee, if you'll let him be so cheeky (it's 1940 something: this is scandalous for the time!)
if the sun goes down and it gets chilly, he wraps you up in his jacket and pulls you close before you have time to protest that he's gonna get cold. "can't have you gettin sick- what would your mama say?"
You stay just chatting in the boat, listening to music playing faintly from a distant house on the shore.
The date doesn’t have a strict end time; he’s perfectly happy staying out on the water with you until the stars come out. but when he finally rows you back (he's very conscious that you might not have had as good a time as he did) he walks you to your door
queue him freezing up then deciding, fuck it, and cupping your face to give you the sweetest, most heart-stopping goodnight kiss
if you kiss him back knowing him he's probably walking you backwrd against a wall and letting his hands roam until he pulls away and says something stupid about your dad shooting him if he sees you two.
‘You first meet Driver at your Uncle Shannon’s garage. When you find Shannon dead weeks later, Driver makes it his responsibility to keep you safe.’
The first time you met Driver was in your uncle Shannon’s garage.
You’d stopped by after class to drop off some paperwork that he'd asked you to print because he couldn't figure his out. You'd reluctantly agreed, preferring to avoid the garage when you could: the place stank of motor oil and metal, and you always found yourself standing awkwardly, unable to do anything useful. Of course, you were happy to help your uncle: he'd practically raised you, after all.
As you walked through the garage to the back, you spotted Shannon through the window of the office arguing animatedly with someone on the phone. About what, you didn't know— some lowball offer, you assumed— but you weren't about to interrupt. When he slammed down the phone moments later, he looked more scared than angry; he ran an oil-blackened hand over his face and dropped his gaze to the floor contemplatively.
Tentatively, you raised a knuckle to gently knock on the glass. Shannon's head shot up— he was never usually this jumpy— but his features relaxed into a smile as you waved and held up the papers through the glass.
"Hang on," Shannon called through the window, limping round to the side door, "gimme a sec."
You adjusted the bag on your shoulder and walked the short distance to meet him at the office door.
"Hey, kid!" Shannon smiled, pulling you into a hug that left a small, oily smudge on your top.
"Hey, Shannon," you nodded, ignoring the desire to wipe at the stain: you didn't see Shannon as much, these days, what with him constantly working and your schoolwork, so you tried to overlook the things that bugged you about him— one being his ever-stained hands, and another being his aptitude for trouble (hence his limp).
"The papers," you nodded and handed the stack out for him.
"Knew I could could count on you," he beamed and jovially patted you on the shoulder. "Just gotta check they're all there before I send them off, won't be a second," he nodded enthusiastically before steering you toward his work station in the garage. "So, how's school? You been working hard?"
"Always," you smiled.
"I taught you well, right?"
You braced yourself and began to answer the bombardment of questions, which were met with even more questions: it was never a quick affair with Shannon.
Shannon stopped at a worksurface strewn with tools, which he swiped to the side with one calloused hand. As he leaned over the stack of papers, flipping through them, your eyes wandered round the garage: nothing had changed since the last time you were here. At least you thought so, until a handsome, tall man in a long sleeved, denim blue work shirt stepped out from under the hood of a silver Chevy, looking across at you: he hadn't been there last time, you were sure of it. You offered a small, awkward smile; he merely looked at you curiously before returning to his work under the bonnet. Disappointed, you dropped your gaze and turned back to Shannon, who was still muttering under his breath as he flipped through the stack of papers.
"...didn't need its belt changed but I had to charge for the converter...not sure when that'll expire."
You zoned out, picking idly at your finger nails, until a voice made you jump.
"Shannon," it said, "eleven-inch wrench over here?"
You looked up: it was the man who'd been working on the Chevy.
"Sure, here you go," Shannon distractedly passed him the wrench, barely lifting his head. “Oh. Sorry, kid— this is my niece, Y/N. Y/N, this is Driver. Best wheelman I know.”
Driver nodded courteously and a small, barely-there smile rested on his angular lips.
"Nice to meet you," he said, allowing his eyes to meet yours at last. Up close, he had an intense gaze: you could already tell he was the kind of man who didn’t need to say much. You realised you'd not replied.
"You too," you blushed.
Driver gave you a small nod, blue eyes dancing with quiet amusement, staying on yours for a little longer than necessary as Shannon pored over the papers. Then, he turned and walked away. That was it: no small talk; no handshake. But something in the way he looked at you stuck with you.
Some weeks later, Shannon called asking you to take five grand out of his bank in cash and to bring it to the garage. This wasn't out of the ordinary for Shannon and, since discovering Driver, you'd been more keen to do your uncle favours as an excuse to swing by the garage; you assumed he needed it for a car part, so you agreed and planned to head over that evening.
The day dragged on and the queue at the bank was long; you arrived later than expected and rushed straight toward the back office, cash in tow.
"Shannon? It's Y/N. Got that cash you needed. Sorry I'm late, I got held up. Want me to—" You froze: bloody boot prints were leading away a parked car where Shannon lay limp in a pool of his own blood. You dropped your bag, cash and all, hands shaking as you crawled toward him to cup his cold face.
"Sh—Shannon? Shannon!" You shook him; you screamed; you cried, begging him to wake up. It looked like he'd taken a serious wounding to his forearm, and had bled out before you'd arrived. Before you could become aware of your name being called, a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist and hauled you up off of your knees, jeans now soaked in Shannon’s blood.
"No! No—"
"It's not safe. We need to leave. I'm sorry."
You were squealing down the highway in Driver's silver Impala less than two minutes later, almost unaware of how you got there. Every time you closed your eyes, the image of Shannon's body burned the back of your eyelids, so you stared with glazed over eyes out of the front window, slack-jawed and silent.
"Shit." The first word Driver had said since he got you into the car. Your eyes locked on to his profile, trying to gauge what was going on. His eyes darted between the road ahead and the rear-view mirror, and you twisted your body to look out the back: two black SUVs were gaining.
"We're being followed?"
Driver didn't answer your question; he didn't even glance over, but you could have sworn his grip on the wheel tightened.
“Stay low,” he commanded. You obeyed, sinking in your seat. You did not like where this was going.
The engine roared as he shifted gears, taking a sharp right without braking. The car drifted perfectly around the corner. Gunshots cracked behind you. Driver didn’t flinch. He just drove faster, one hand occasionally leaning over to brush your shoulder like he needed to remind himself you were still there. He took every shortcut, every hidden turn, losing them block by block. When the last SUV finally disappeared in the rear-view mirror, he let out a slow breath and finally looked over at you: you were still sunk low in your seat, peering up at him in fear.
"Think we lost 'em."
He drove for another hour, making sure they’d lost the tail completely, before pulling into a quiet motel on the outskirts of the city. He paid in cash, got a twin room, and began to lead the way to your room. Weak in the knees, still in shock, you dragged behind a little; Driver shot a look back over his shoulder at you and stopped momentarily, considering. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he spun around.
"Gimme that," he murmured before pulling your bag off your shoulder, slinging it over his, and taking your hand in his gloved one. "Come on. Not far now."
He led you up the stairs, glancing over at you worriedly. You didn't have it in you to look back, or to offer any reassurance that you were ok: you weren't.
At the door of the room, Driver dropped your hand to fish for the right key. He pushed open the door and stood back, waiting for you to walk in. You shot him an unsure look; he responded with a small nod of reassurance; you stepped through. The room was nothing special: peeling blue wallpaper, décor that hadn't been updated since it was first put in fifty years ago, and two twin-beds that looked like they must just collapse at any moment. Driver followed you in to the room, closing the door behind himself quietly and purposefully, and slinging the latch into place. You stood in the middle of the room, awkward and tired.
"Why don't you get yourself cleaned up."
You turned slowly to face him, confused by the mundanity of the statement. As his eyes fell to your lower body, you realised: you were soaked in blood.
"Right."
When you emerged from the shower, wearing just the top and panties you came in, blood-soaked jeans discarded in the bath, you found Driver pacing the room, checking the window locks and tightening the curtains. Glazed over, you took a seat on the edge of the furthest bed and watched as he obsessed peered cautiously out of the window. He checked every lock twice before he finally let himself sit at at the small plastic table in the corner of the room.
"Why are we here?" Your voice broke the silence that had settled between you two. The AC suddenly felt as loud as a motorbike in the wake of your question.
Driver paused, eyes still glued to the floor, then he rose and walked toward the bathroom silently, the sound of his boots heavy on the carpeted floor. He peeled off his driving gloves, threw them on the counter, and washed the blood from his hands in the sink. You fiddled with your thumbs from the bed, waiting. The tap turned off with a bang, and he turned to you from the doorway.
"People from Shannon’s life think you know too much. They were going to kill you and take the money as soon as you got back to your apartment—"
"But I don't know anything at all!"
"They don't know that. To them, you're a loose end that needs tying up."
You felt your stomach drop.
“So what do we do? I can’t just… hide forever.”
As you spoke, he dried his hands slowly on the thread-bare towel. Then, he crossed the small room and crouched in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. His touch was surprisingly gentle for someone who had just dragged you out of a murder scene.
“Not forever,” he said, voice low and steady. “You’re staying with me until I make sure they’re not coming after you. I’ll handle it.”
You stared at him, heart racing. “You could get yourself killed doing that. You could've gotten yourself killed like Shannon just coming to get me tonight.” You shook your head in enthusiastic protest.
“I know.” His gaze didn’t waver. “But Shannon was a good man. And I…” He paused, jaw tightening like the words were difficult. “Shannon knew this was coming. He told me to look after you if anything happened, and that's what I'm going to do."
You swallowed hard, the weight of everything crashing down on you. “I don’t understand. Who are these people? Why Shannon?"
Driver exhaled slowly.
"You need to rest We'll talk more in the morning, okay?”
He stood and gently swung your legs up on to the mattress on which you perched; Driver pulled the thin blanket over you, then hesitated for a moment before sitting on the edge of the mattress beside you.
“You’re safe with me,” he said quietly. His hand brushed a strand of hair from your face. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
You nodded, too exhausted to argue. As you lay back against the stiff pillows, Driver stayed where he was, watching over you.
“Get some sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be right here.”
