#Ludlow Street

[zyanlll]

Tom Ludlow has officially become my second daddy

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four

TW: sexual harassment, no means yes, asshole doctors/doctor slander (sorry if you’re an actual good doctor), mentions of alcoholism/sickness, burns

You should probably decide to do whatever the opposite of man up is-pussy down?-and specifically request to not have Officer Ludlow ever be on your patient roster again. He’s bad for your health and, despite being the one always putting him back together, you’re bad for his, too. 

You’re trying not to morally question yourself about why you didn’t do something after the first, second, or hell, even third time he borderline sexually harassed you…  You’re trying not to think too much about why you don’t do it now: open the manager’s door with your shaking, clammy hand and say “hey, creepy patient, please keep him away from me”. It would be so easy. This stuff happens a lot to the other staff in the ED, and always gets solved without a problem. 

You don’t do it, though. You walk away without blacklisting Tom Ludlow. And doesn’t that just say mountains about you. But, anyway, you have your own job to do fighting disease and trauma from the mean streets of the City of Angels, so you don’t really have time for all this petty drama bullshit. 

Whatever helps you sleep at night.

You’re not really sure how it’s possible, after eight years of higher education plus residency training, but doctors really can be idiots sometimes. 

“Discharge, really?” You whisper to yourself, clicking on the order to see if it’s just a mistake-nope, legit. 

You grab the clipboard from your patient’s bedside and go hunt down Dr. Mercer, who is currently standing at the desk flipping through paperwork. 

“Hey, Julian, can I have a quick second?”

He gives you one of his signature, charming white smiles that can calm almost any belligerent patient down. “Of course. Anything for my favorite nurse.” He motions for you to sit in the swivel chair, and takes the one opposite from you. 

Julian makes it a point to give you his full attention, and that never fails to fluster you, but you can shoulder through it most of the time. The man is too handsome for his own good, and you haven’t found a female in this hospital immune to his charm-even Shelby, the housekeeper who is strictly attracted to women… and one man: Dr. Mercer. 

“You put in a discharge order for room 13?” 

“Hmm, one sec.” He leans over to click through the computer, then turns back. “Yes, is there a problem?”

“Well, I thought we would be admitting him?” 

“No, that won’t be necessary. He’s free to go home.” 

“Julian.” You’ve known this man for a whole year and should not be this hesitant about questioning a single order from him, but you take a big pause nonetheless. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem; any other doctor you could confront with ease, but Julian is so, so nice and he always gets your Starbucks order right and never lets you pay him back for it. You don’t want to be a dick to such a sweet person. “I don’t think he’s ready to be discharged. He’s a heavy drinker and his potassium is still low. Plus, he lives alone.” 

“His potassium is only one point off, y/n. And the rest of his labs look good. I can’t keep someone for alcoholism.”

Well, the good thing is that you’re not hesitant anymore, just really pissed, because obviously Dr. Mercer’s kindness and understanding doesn’t extend to his less fortunate patients. 

“Wow, that’s not okay, Julian.”

His smile fades a little bit, or just turns mean, you can’t really tell which, and he sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m very busy. If this conversation is about morals, I’m afraid I don’t have time for it.” 

“It’s not about morals.” You try to lasso your anger, but it seeps into the tone of your voice like a hiss. “I’m concerned about patient safety, and his potassium is just going to drop further if we send him back to drink himself to death. And then he’ll have a heart attack.” 

“I treat current conditions. I can’t focus on what-ifs.” He tries to put his hand atop yours, but you pull back. 

All doctors are the same? What a shocker. You haven’t met even one who didn’t eventually do this shit, and Julian is no different despite your burgeoning hope that he was. 

“I’m not giving him that paperwork,” you say. “I’m not discharging him.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m not doing it.”

“We need to free up the bed for patients who need it.” 

“Do it yourself, then.” 

His smile falls the whole way down, and you can’t find it in your bleeding heart to care.

You need to get away from him before you say something that will make him want to get you your usual coffee order and then spit in it, but he grabs your forearm gently before you can. 

“Y/n-“

“I told you I’m not discharging him.” He lets you pull back. “And I really don’t have time for this.” 

***

You should just let it go, but by the time your break comes around, you are still quietly seething over Dr. Mercer’s idiotic order, and the way he fucking talked to you. 

You’ve come a long way, but sometimes when a man talks down to you with that certain tone, you still see red. 

Maybe it’s a character flaw, but after the hell you’ve lived through, you can’t help but feel entitled to some righteous feminine rage.

You’re alone in the little side nook with its hard plastic chairs that almost hurt you more than standing. But your feet need a break, so while you massage your foot your tailbone suffers.

You need a massage. A real, full-body rub-down–why is it, that the thought calls up the memory of a certain large, strong, calloused pair of hands that may or may not belong to a certain inappropriate officer of the law?

It’s possible you are staring into space, fantasizing about burning dark eyes unabashedly boring into yours as those mitts for hands–

A soft knock on the doorjamb pulls you back to the present–and the last person you want to see is taking up the whole doorway. It takes every iota of self-control you have left not to snarl, What do you want?

“Doctor?” You even put extra sugar into your tone, which he seems to sense is utterly manufactured judging by his awkward smile.

“Y/n.”

You wait silently, allowing the lift of one eyebrow that you fear conveys all your disdain. “I believe I owe you an apology.”

You blink, certain you misheard. 

“I’m sorry?”

“You were right. The patient was not ready for discharge.”

You blink again. Has hell warmed over? “I know,” you finally answer, which for some reason makes him smile. He takes the liberty to cross the room to sit down next to you, with only one plastic chair between you. 

“It took some courage to stand up to me. Well done.”

Dr. Julian Mercer is TV doctor hot–tall, broad shouldered, handsome. His thin scrubs do very little to conceal his lithe, athletic body underneath, and everyone in the hospital loves to titter about him as he breezes by. You’re not exactly immune to his charms, but failing to advocate for a patient for fear of displeasing him wouldn’t have even occurred to you.

“I just want what's best for my patients.” That, at least, is the truth. 

The good doctor nods, his longish hair swinging into his eyes. Maybe you do feel the slightest urge to brush it away. 

“Truly commendable, y/n.” Then he points at your foot, and makes a come hither gesture with his fingers.

You don't understand what he wants, and your face shows it. 

“Is your foot hurting you?”

Perpetually, is the answer, but you just nod dumbly.

“Give it here.”

“Why?”

His smile is gentle as spring rain. “I’m offering you an apology foot rub.”

“How wildly inappropriate,” you comment while extending your foot. You’ve eyed Dr. Julian’s hands before. They may be soft, but they are big, so maybe he could be of some use to you. 

He laughs at that; a short huff of laughter that possibly softens you a little towards him. And once your foot is in his hands–ok, that feels good, maybe better than good, and maybe Dr. Julian does know something about making the human body feel better. A small noise escapes you, and you are breaking so many hospital policies right now, but god dammit they work you to the bone here.

He’s even kind enough to do your other foot too, and by the time he’s done with you you’re leaning back in your chair on your hand with your eyes closed. You open one eye with a sigh as he gives the ball of your foot a finishing squeeze.

“Ok. I’m mostly not mad anymore.”

He gives a short guffaw at that. “You were mad?” Like he’s surprised you’ve taken any of this personally.

“Of course I was.”

“Oh.”

Strangely he doesn’t seem offended by this. “You really do care about your patients.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I'm not surprised. but…”

“But what?”

“It's hard on us as medical professionals, to take every case personally. We do our best, of course, but at the end of the day you have to keep some sliver of your heart back for yourself, or you won’t survive to help anyone tomorrow.”

You raise your eyebrows at that. It never would have even occurred to you not to give your heart and soul to anyone who needed it during your shift. 

“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.”

You can’t help but notice he still hasn't released your foot, toying with the curve of your big toe through your sock. 

“Perhaps we will.”

He is looking at you searchingly, and it’s all you can do not to flinch from that intuitive gaze.

“Thank you, Dr. Mercer.” 

He opens his mouth as though to say more, but one of your colleagues walks in, and that’s the end of your little moment.

***

Surprise, surprise, when the next night, Guess Who finds his way onto your examination table.

For fuck’s sake.

“Officer Ludlow. What brings you in tonight?”

You know you sound tired, look like hell, and smell like straight up human waste, but Tom looks extra happy to see you. “You work too much.”

You don’t have the energy to argue, much less with the truth. “Yeah, and you get injured too much.” Great, solid comeback, you really got him there. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He whistles. “Bad mood. Damn.” 

“Just tell me what you’re fucking here for, Tom.” You plop down on the stool next to his bed, chin in your hand. 

He tugs his charred pant leg up, and beneath, so fresh it should be sizzling and smoking, is a nasty burn the size of your head. 

“How did you manage that?” You wince, leaning down to assess the damage. Luckily, it’s only second degree, shiny and bloody and wet and looking too painful to bear weight on. “How are you walking?” 

“Remember the sword?” 

“How could I forget?”

“Okay, well this time it was a flamethrower.”

“How are people getting their hands on this shit?” 

He shrugs, which makes you laugh for the first time all day. “Alright, I don’t think it’s third degree, but I need the doctor to-“

“Good evening Mr. Ludlow.” Julian has drawn back the curtain and stepped inside your little exam room with that branded, signature smile on his face.

“Hey, Julian-Doctor-can you take a look at this?”

While Julian looks at the burn, you sneak a peek at Tom, and see some type of look on his face-not confusion, not concern, more analyzing. Assessing. Thinking. 

“This your doctor boyfriend you were telling me about?”

You can almost hear the sizzle of heat making its way up your neck to your cheeks. This fucking bastard. Embarassing you at work, trying to catch you out in your lie. He levels that penetrating gaze with you, just the tiniest tick at the corner of his mouth betraying his amusement.

Yet he is not the only perceptive man in the room. Julian looks between the two of you, and you swear he reads the situation as clearly as a book. Without losing a beat, god bless, he goes into Full Authoritative Doctor Mode. “I am, not that my relationship with Miss y/n is any of your concern.”

Either of them could have pushed you over with a feather–you can hardly believe Julian is playing along.

“Sorry, doc. I’m a detective. Just curious by nature.” Ludlow levels Julian with a stony look, conveying that he didn’t believe the doctor–or he really didn’t like what he’d said.

“I’m sure you are,” answers Julian, throwing you a knowing look that only makes the fire under your collar ten times worse. “Can you go check on Mrs. Andersen in room 10, y/n? I can handle Officer Ludlow.”

Somehow, you kind of doubt that, and you find you’re reluctant to leave them alone in the room together. But, you’ve already been insubordinate once this week. They’re grown men. What’s the worst that could happen? 

Yet as you’re making your exit, you can’t help but feel like you’ve just left Dr. Mercer at the mercy of a wolf. 

You are glad you went to check on Mrs. Andersen, because she needed some warm assurance, on top of a slight adjustment of her IV. When you walk back out into the hall, headed for the nurses station, it’s almost as though the atmosphere has changed. No one else seems to sense it, but somehow you just know something is off. With dread in your heart you scurry back to where you’d left Ludlow and Mercer, bursting through the curtains.

They are standing toe to toe, nose to nose. It’s made a little more ridiculous by the bulky dressing on Tom’s calf, but you still don’t doubt his ability to wipe the floor with Dr. Julian. Which is a ridiculous fucking thing for you to have to worry about, but here you are.

You don’t raise your voice, not wanting to draw attention, but you do not hesitate to put yourself between them. You try not to notice how solid Tom’s chest is beneath your hand, compared to Julian’s. “That is enough.” You direct this at Tom, of course, because you have zero doubt as to who started it.

“Why are you yelling at me?” Tom complains childishly.

“Because I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not stupid. But this asshole seems to think he owns you.”

You do lift an eyebrow at that, but it’s so not the issue at hand. “Do you want to be escorted out by security?”

“I think I’m done here anyway.” Ludlow picks up his jacket, glaring at Julian. “Thanks for the dressing, Doc.” His tone, however, more conveys Eat shit and die. Then he looks at you, and those burning dark eyes send an uneasy thrill to your toes–by way of your treacherous pussy, who does not seem to understand that men like Tom Ludlow are very bad for you. She has gotten you into so much trouble before, and by god you are not letting her run the show this time.

“Be seeing you, sweetheart.”

“Not on these hospital grounds, you’re not,” asserts Dr. Julian, and Tom, damn him, just laughs.

There is just something about that man’s presence that leaves behind traces of him in a room, long after he has gone. You just stand there, maybe rather stupidly, struggling to process what just happened. What is it about you, that attracts these cocky assholes that just can’t take no for an answer?

“Are you alright?” asks Julian, and you actually believe that he cares about you, concern written in his achingly handsome features, his kind hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah, sure. Sorry about him.”

He gives you a gently amused look. “You are not responsible for that man’s bad behavior.

And you won’t be treating him anymore.” 

You would argue, assert yourself, do that thing where you’re strong and independent and take care of the own sore skin on your back, but you really don’t have the energy right now, and Julian-fuck him-he’s right, you should not be Ludlow’s nurse anymore for his sake and yours. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and close your eyes, wishing it was the end of your shift. “Alright.” 

At least the rest of the night goes by fairly quickly, although that means you’re busy enough not to have another break, however, Julian-apologetic Julian, who brings you a turkey sandwich and makes you sit down and eat it and drink at least half a bottle of water-is making things a little better. 

The doctors don’t really get into the shit like you and your fellow nurses, although they are just as busy, and the fact that he takes time to be concerned about you after the emotional beginning of your shift really touches you. He knows he fucked up the other day, and he’s in full sweet cinnamon roll mode to try and rectify it. That’s why you can’t-and, if you’re being honest-don’t want to tell him no when he catches you in the parking lot before you get into your car. 

“Here, you left your stethoscope.” He loops it around your neck, then opens your driver’s door for you. 

“Julian, it really is okay.” You reach up to pat his lab coat shoulder in reassurance. “And I’m fine. Tom is just a big bully.” Why do you feel like you’re betraying him by talking shit to Julian in the parking lot? 

He looks down at you like he’s made up his mind about something, and grins. “Have coffee with me?”

You blink at him. “Like, right now?” 

“No, Saturday morning. Seven AM?” He grabs the spiral notebook and pen from his breast pocket and writes you his number. “Since I’m your boyfriend, I should take you out on a date, don’t you think?” 

Well, at least he’s asking nicely instead of being an asshole about it like some people… 

You chuckle, tuck the note and your hands into your scrub pockets, and hope the heat isn’t visible on your face. “Guess you’re right.” 

You might be playing a dangerous game, here, but hell, there’s a reason you work in the ED of a level one trauma center; you’re a sucker for cheap thrills

[johnwickb1tsch]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE AMAAAZING @treedaddymcpuffpuff 😘😘😘) - Chapter Thirteen ---> (all chapters)

TW's: abuse of police authority, manhandling, unfair power dynamics, unreasonable hotness in a man this annoying

Days go by, and you don’t hear from Tom Ludlow again. You think to yourself that it’s fine, that that’s exactly what you wanted, but deep down you’re a little pissed off, and more than a little needy. 

Maybe that’s why the next time you have to drive home late at night, you go back to your old, faster route of taking the highway. Defiance roils in your bones like lava churning in a volcano, and you just refuse to be intimidated by that man, even if it means digging your own grave. Figuratively speaking, of course. Officer Ludlow doesn't want to hurt you. He wants to fuck you, and maybe even buy you dinner first, and you might have come around to him eventually if he just hadn’t been such a fucking dick about it.

You’re not hoping that you get to see him again, here on the empty highway. But if you do…you kind of want to fight him. Because someone should tell him what a reprobate he is. Not because you love the fiery feeling you get in your veins, or the spark of wicked enjoyment in his dark eyes.

You’re almost to the exit, and there is no cop car in sight. No flashing red and blue lights. No little wooo of the warning siren behind you. Why are you worried? Why are you disappointed? Why are you pouting like the baby who got their candy taken away? 

There’s a few options, and none of them appeal to you. Sure, maybe you should be delighted that this meathead has decided to either let it drop or get fatally injured—your stomach lodges in your throat at that second thought. That means you won’t have to deal with his antics anymore. But, god damn you, you were starting to really like those antics. 

Tom Ludlow pissing you off has become a vital reason for your willingness to get out of bed, and that thought terrifies you, because this shit never ends well. At least not for girls like you who love too much and expect the same in return. You pulled your heart from your sleeve and zipped it back into it’s protected, designated cavity after a slew of failed one-sided relationships (whether the friend or romantic kind), and now the treacherous organ is trying to claw right back out again for Tom Ludlow to squeeze dry in his big hand. 

You get home, and you feel empty. Bored. Worried about a man who has made your life kind of, if you’re being honest, a living hell. Does that stop you from sticking your hand down your pajama pants and fantasizing about him? From wishing he’d call again? No. Not at all. 

You are loath to admit it, and you’ll take this to your grave, but you’re actually relieved, the next night, to see the twinkling red and blue lights following behind you while you’re pushing 90 in a 70 only half on purpose. 

Your heart transforms into a mini circus as he walks up to your driver's door and taps on the window glass. 

Before he can even open his big mouth, you start in on him. You’ve been planning this spiel for days now, after all, and it would be useless to waste it. “You.” You have to take a minute when you see that he doesn’t sport his usual smirk. “What is a detective like you doing working the complaints desk, and now working traffic at night?”

“So what?” He folds his arms over his chest, biceps bulging through the thick uniform shirt, distracting you from your resolve and switching on cavewoman brain for a minute. 

You almost have to shake yourself to snap out of it. “Are you just playing cop? You’re not even actually on duty right now Officer Ludlow.”

This smile is less ‘playground bully’ and more ‘hungry wolf’. “Are you challenging the law, Miss y/l/n?” 

“No, I’m challenging some dickhead who thinks he’s top dog just cuz he wears a plastic badge. Where’d you get it, anyway? Fisher Price?” 

“Please exit the vehicle, Miss y/n.” 

“This is bullshit.”

“Please be calm.” 

It is the absolute worst thing he could possibly say to you. After a twelve hour shift, your feet are killing you, you’re covered in the grime of your long day, and to add insult to injury–you’re mad at yourself as much as him, because he made you miss him. That is when you do exit the vehicle, and your finger stabs into the middle of his broad chest (and you know part of that bulk is a vest but jesus fucking christ this man is burly in all the right places) and snap, “I’m tired, I’ve had a long fucking day and I don’t need this shit from you.” 

Officer Ludlow takes one amused look down at that finger in his chest and suddenly you are turned around, your palms on the hood of your car. He is tall and broad and warm behind you and fuck you if the cavewoman part of your brain does not respond in the worst possible way, a soft but utterly audible little cry escaping your treacherous lips. You know he hears it by the way he pauses behind you, the way a wolf perks his ears at the sound of a rabbit in the brush. You seem frozen in this ridiculous position for several seconds longer than what is necessary (not that any of this is necessary) and you get the sense that this man is savoring this closeness with you.

“Resisting an officer is a misdemeanor, you know,” he says in your ear, and that low baritone sends a thrill to the marrow of your bones, ties your belly up in knots, makes you wet between your thighs. Hearing him through the phone is one thing, having his breath tickling your skin is an entirely different beast. 

You turn your head slightly towards him, and you know some of the venom goes from your tone but you just can’t help it.  

“What about harassing a civilian?” 

“Depends on the civilian.” Well, isn’t that the truth. Like you needed a reminder that you are, in fact, a nobody with no connections in this town. Although, you doubt that he's telling the truth about it “depending on the civilian”, because he handcuffed and assaulted a popular, lawyer ready ER doctor just days ago. Which is just great, because if he felt entitled enough to do that to Julian, what’s stopping him from doing much worse to you? “Are you armed?”

“Clearly,” you snark, because you’re wearing your cute blue scrubs and it would take a miracle to hide something under the thin fabric. 

“I mean besides that fiery temper.” 

He kicks your legs a little further apart, just hard enough to make your feet slide in the loose gravel of the shoulder, and you think you might self-immolate right there. It’s all you can do, not to arch back into him like a cat in heat. It really has been too fucking long since you got laid. Something firm pokes into the curve of your behind, and it had better be his fucking utility belt. 

He actually starts to pat you down, the cheeky fucker, those big hands making their way lightly down your sides. You know he can feel you trembling under his touch–with fear or excitement, it’s hard even for you to tell. Maybe that’s what makes him bold when he reaches your thigh, those long fingers giving you an appreciative squeeze. 

It reminds you of that time not so long ago, when you’d drunkenly wanted him to slide his hand up your skirt, and he’d refused you. You shouldn’t want that from him, but you do, and that makes you so angry you could spit. Now he thinks he gets to feel you up? Your foot flails out, catching him in the shin with your Croc-clad heel. It totally throws you off balance, sending you down onto the hood of your car, but you are mad and you don’t care. 

“Watch it!”

He, however, couldn’t be more delighted. You can hear the practical glee in his tone as he sings out, “Assaulting an officer? Someone’s just asking to get booked.” 

Maybe you’re a healer by nature, but there is just something about this man that makes you want to commit murder. Just the once. You even think Florence Nightingale would understand. 

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

That’s when you realize he probably, absolutely fucking would dare. So far he has proved that he gives jack-all for the rules that should apply to him as an Officer of the Law. And you cannot have that on your record. Even if you told the truth and it turned into some He-Said She-Said bullshit that would drag out for months–years, possibly, even–your license could be suspended. You live paycheck to paycheck in this expensive fucking city. You cannot afford something like that. 

“You asshole.”

“Maybe. But you’re lucky I’m not actually a bad guy, y/n.”

“How do you figure?”

Somehow, his voice lowers an octave, and no matter how livid you are, your lady parts absolutely rebel with an almost violent ache between your thighs. “Because if I was I’d spank that beautiful behind of yours for kicking me. With crocs? Really? I’m going to have to show you a few things, you scare me honey.” 

Is this man offering to teach you to defend yourself in the same breath he’s using to blackmail you? You’re nearly cross-eyed from the whiplash.

“Sorry, I’ll be sure to wear boots next time.”

“Great. Wear them to dinner, tomorrow night. And we’ll forget this ever happened.”

How he knows you’re free tomorrow, you don’t really want to know. 

You feel yourself deflate, knowing he’s finally got you over the proverbial barrel. The thought should not excite you the way it does. “You’re serious.”

“I tried asking nicely.”

“Most men get the picture when you tell them ‘no’ more than twice? A million times? I forget how many.”

“Maybe, except I see the way you look at me, when you think I’m not looking and my ass is hanging out of a hospital gown. I know how pretty you sound, when you orgasm to my voice while I talk you through it over the phone. And when you’re in trouble, I’m the one you know you can call, because I’ll drop everything to make sure you’re safe. So, you’re finally going to give this thing between us a chance, whether you like it or not. Pick you up at eight?” 

You sigh, shoulders slumping, head resting against the warm car. His eyes immediately hone in on the column of your throat, and the way he wets his bottom lip doesn’t seem intentional, which just riles you up even more. You grit your teeth, but it doesn’t really look like you have a choice. “Sure.” Asshole. 

This time, you’re smart enough to keep that to yourself.  

As though he heard you think it, he spins you around, practically picking your feet up off the ground, and braces you against the door of your car, one hand on either side of your head, full wolfy grin sending a thrill of danger through your spine. The way he can just manhandle you like you weigh nothing crosses some vital wires in your brain–you cannot think. 

You try to stay defiant, raise your chin to look up at him, keep some semblance of pride. It’s not fair that he has such sway over you and you seem to have absolutely none over him. You have to even this playing field somehow. 

“Maybe you have a badge and you think that makes you hot shit, but at the end of the day you’re just a bully, Tom.”

His gaze travels up your neck, over your face, until he lands on your own guarded, defeated stare. Something changes in his expression. “You think I don’t know you? Well, maybe you don’t know me either. But you’re going to find out, sweetheart, I’m not a bad guy.”

You eye him suspiciously. “I guess I don’t have a choice, right?” 

He leans down, brings his nose an inch from yours, invades your personal space. For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you, and it makes you go stiff and lax all at once. The heat of his breath tickles over the nerve rich plump of your lips, and they part for him despite your brain’s vehement protest. 

“Right.” He’s gone as soon as he comes, dropping your stomach from throat to feet. You hope he doesn’t hear the desperate, quiet sound that you try to burrow under your tongue.

You think he’s just going to walk away and leave you here in the warm, damp, lonely, dark highway like a sitting duck, but instead he opens your door and motions for you to slide back into your seat. 

“Don’t forget to buckle up, honey.”  As he saunters away, thumbs looped through his belt—God, he’s fucking painfully sexy—you don’t bother hiding the way you watch his ass move this time.

[ghcstpyre]

Imagine being kidnapped by Tom Ludlow.

tom ludlow x f!reader

cw: kidnapping

the most terrifying thing about being kidnapped by tom is the fact he knows his way around the system; knows what kind of place to take you to where the two of you won't be found or disturbed, knows when to text your friends and family from your phone as to not rouse suspicion, knows what to say if anyone were to come sniffing around should they get suspicious.

thanks to his job and connections he already knows almost everything there is to know about you on paper. with a bit of digging he's able to get his hands on the basics - you're not in the LAPD system (of course you're not; sweet, innocent little you) but it's not too much of an issue for him to get the info he wants. he is a veteran detective after all. everything else, the nitty-gritty, the more personal things he'll have plenty of time to find out once he has you.

he knows you'll be frightened, completely terrified of him at first - it's only natural of course, waking up in an unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar face would instill fear in anyone - but he's sure that with time and a lot of care and patience he can chip away at that, bit by bit.

patience was never his strong suit, but for you he has all the patience in the world.

"sshh baby," tom cooed, his voice a deep rumble as he wiped away the tears rolling down your red, blotchy cheeks. "c'mon now." you sniffled and hiccupped, doing your best to squeeze your eyes shut against any more fat globes of sadness and fear that prickled behind your lids and threatened to fall. tom hadn't outright hurt you since snatching you away from your life, but considering he did snatch you, you wouldn't put it past him. and it's not like you could defend yourself against anything he could possibly do to you. without looking you knew your hands were handcuffed behind you, the cool metal biting at the soft skin of your wrists; not tight enough to be painful, but enough to cause discomfort and make sure you were secure. in a similar fashion your ankles were bound with zip ties to the front legs of the chair in which you woke up in, pinching your skin and surely leaving angry, crimson marks. tom's big, meaty hands cupped the sides of your damp face. "look at me." the tone of his voice was stonier now, a complete juxtaposition to the gentle way in which he caressed your cheeks. you did as you were told and opened your eyes, having to blink away any remaining tears that still clung to your long lashes. through your bleary vision you could just about make out the corners of his plush lips curling upwards into a satisfied smirk. "that's it, atta girl. no need to cry - i ain't gonna hurt you."

of course, tom tells himself it's all to keep you safe and far away from any harm. he's seen what a nasty place the world can be for those who can't fight for themselves. deep down, however, there's a part of him that knows he's only feeding that need for control.

lace divider by @/strangergraphics

[youjustcantrefuse]

Chris Evans and Keanu Reeves in Street Kings, 2008

[discoscoob]

Conor O’Neill is Tom Ludlow coded

[reallongwire]

Behind the Scenes: STREET KINGS (2008) Keanu Reeves does combat training to prepare for his role of the hot-headed antihero cop, Detective Tom Ludlow.

I ask you not to download or post my edit elsewhere.

[satlun]

Seduced in Blue: Tom Ludlow x Fem!reader

Genre: nsfw, romance Trigger Warnings: age gap (LEGAL), swear words, slurs, oral (m!receiving)

Taking care of him after a long day of his work.

Author's note: can't get enough of him so I needed to write. Enjoy guysss. *English isn't my first language.*

“Fuck...” Tom swears sharply before walking into the bathroom. “What... baby?” You mumble when you hear him swear. It's Friday morning, he's late now. Tom came home late last night and also had sex with you, that's why he can barely wake up in time this morning. You both have been dating for a year and a half. He's much older than you, you're in your mid 20s meanwhile Tom is in his early 40s. He met you one night at the bar nearby, the first time he saw you he was so attracted by you, the way you talk with other people, the way you make drinks. You're so sweet and sexy at the same time. And when you both start dating, you're like an innocent girl who is clingy with him, that's his favorite thing.

You're still lying and stretching on the bed with only underwear and your oversized t-shirt while he's dressing up. Tom looks at you through the mirror while you're stretching your legs and arms like a cat, the curves of your body just beautiful that he just wants to touch you right now but the fact that he can't. It's almost 9am. “You're looking at me.” You noticed it so you said that with a tease. You look at him through the mirror while he's doing his hair. “Can you really blame me?” He said. Tom with his uniform is the best combo actually, he looks extremely hot in it. His tight body can be seen obviously. You just don't want him to go to work at all but you can't do anything, you don't want to act like a silly kid. “I don't want you to leave.” You can't help to not say anything at all but you really really don't want to act like a silly kid. “But it's okay.” You apologized. Tom didn't say anything just noticed the way your shirt falls down a little bit, revealing your bare skin on your shoulder. So smooth and soft like he touched last night. He doesn't want to leave either.

Tom walks towards the bed and sits down on the edge. You just look at him without saying anything further. You don't want to restrain him when he's already late to work. Tom's eyes are scanning all your face and your shoulders. The way you see his eyes scanning around your body is just make you feel something. He doesn't want to leave, you're sure. His finger gently brushes your hair away from your pretty face. It's so hard for him to see you like this, he just doesn't want to leave. The way his fingers touch your face makes you want him more, more of his touch. You immediately crawl onto his lap and give him a big kiss. Your legs wrap around his waist while he's still wearing his blue uniform which is hot as fuck. Tom is almost caught off guard but he does finally grab your hip so both of your bodies can get closer even more. Tom moves his hands on your thighs while you're kissing him. His hands now rest on your inner thighs while you break the kiss so sudden, you tease him, you want him to want you more. “It was a morning kiss. You can go to work now.” He can't believe that's all you say after doing that. Who's gonna take the responsibility? You are about to move away from his laps but he grabs your waist first, keeping you on top of him. “Where are you going?” You look down at him while both of his hands are in your tiny little waist. “You're late.” You tease him more. He's already late and you're making it hard for him to leave you right now. “And whose fault is that, huh?” He asked while keeping his gaze on you intensely. “Not my fault. It's your fault that you can't resist me.” You talked back like a little brat. “Yeah? It's my fault I can't resist you looking like that, all sleepy and needy and pouty sitting on my lap?” He touches your soft cheek. His eyes burning on you. You just chuckle at him, that's all. It makes him raise his eyebrows. Look at you. When you're playful and cheeky like this he just wants to keep you all for himself only. Tom slowly moves his hand under your oversized t shirt. His skin which is so rough from working or handing a gun all the time slowly run your bare back, it makes you goosebumps. You try to speak to him without your shaken voice. “Tom, you're gonna be late and your boss is gonna kill you.” He doesn't give a shit now. The way your skin slightly goosebumps makes him satisfied. You tease him more just because you want to know that he will stop or not meanwhile you're letting him slide his big hands under your shirt. Sassy little girl. Tom smirks with the reason you gave him. “Is that supposed to encourage me to leave?” He asked.

All you do is remaining silent and shrugging your shoulders instead. You flash a little smile to him before give him a little kiss three times, just a little kiss. You kiss and you break it over and over. The third kiss is enough, he grabs your hips and pull it against his waist. You can feel his cock slightly moves under his trousers while you groan unintentionally. Tom feels your body brushing against his, he swears again. “Damn it...” you're gonna respond to this, that's what he thinks. When you hear that you just chuckle at him, you love when he swears. The way you're so cheeky makes him want you so badly. The tiny voice that comes from your throat makes him want to kiss you. You tease him by moving your body on his lap a little, just want him to feel more. “Are you enjoying this?” You act like a little innocent girl who doesn't know what he's talking about. “Enjoying what?” He is staring into your beautiful eyes. “You know exactly what I'm talking about.” He demanded. You give him a cheeky smile before leaning over and kissing his jawline. He's satisfied with that. “You act like such a brat...” you always know how to turn him on or how to make him feel good. You always know. You're his weakness. “I love when you're in this uniform.” You whisper then gently kiss his ear with one hand draw a line on the collar of his uniform meanwhile the other hand now is on his trousers and slowly unzipped it before putting your hand in his boxers. Tom can feel your soft skin rubbing around his cock which is now obvious emerging through his trousers. You turn him on now. Your thumb starts to play with the top of his cock slowly and gently. You don't need to rush. Tom groans at you. “Fuck...” his one hand places on the mattress while the other is on your waist. You really do love when he uses swear words, it's just hot. Tom now looks at you with desire while your hand is still in his trousers. “You're gonna kill me.” He said. “What should I do? I don't want to go to jail, officer.” You just call him that. You can feel his cock against your hand now. “You will go to jail for driving me insane-” he doesn't have a chance to finish the sentence, you already pull your hand off his trousers. He's caught off guard again. You make him want you and you now tease him by stopping it. You're naughty. “I will continue after you get home.” It's 9am now. “How am I gonna concentrate on my work?” He asks as if he's begging you to continue. “You can do it, baby.” You give him a little kiss on his cheek and stands up. Tom can't do anything except leave the house. “See you later.” You said.

9 hours later

Tom finally gets home after a long day of working, thinking about you as well. The way you slid your hand into his boxers earlier this morning makes him can't stop thinking about you for the whole day.

The television is playing while you're sitting on the couch, eating snacks. Tom opens the door and you look at him with snacks in your hand. “You put me through hell all day.” He said before putting down his belongings. Tom looks a little bit tired. Of course, his work needs to move a lot.

You stand up and walk towards him. “It's not just you, it's me as well.” He raises his eyebrows when hearing that. Tom notices that the shirt you're wearing on is his which is much bigger than your body. It makes you look casual than usual. You seem to hesitate for a moment, as if you want to say something and he waits. “I needed to touch myself to pretend that you're here.” You're the death of him. His eyes widened because you're driving him insane with only words. The way you're looking and speaking makes him feel so much. “Damn it...” he swears again but this time much more serious. “You're trying to kill me.” He said while keeping the stare at you and your body. “And I only have this picture of you...” You grab the picture of him in his uniform from the table and show up right in front of him. He knows what did you do with it when he went to work today. Tom looks away to breathe, he looks back at you while you're staring at him with those doe eyes again. You're such a brat. “I thought you were trying to behave yourself.” He hoped that you would stop teasing him and making him want you more while he was at work but here he is watching you acting like the same little brat he knew this morning. “You know exactly what you're doing to me.” He muttered under his breath. You just keep looking at him with the same innocent expression. “Can't help it. I'm here all alone and I only have this picture with the smell of you from this t shirt.” You look down at your shirt in case he doesn't understand. Tom can't take it anymore, he wants you so badly. He just waits for the whole day to see you and fuck you until you stop acting like a brat. His voice is low, you barely hear it from him because he always speak so softly to you. “What exactly you were doing while wearing my shirt?” He asked. He played dumb, you know. “You know it.” You demanded. He grabs your waist and pull you closer to him, you stumble a little bit before leaning in his chest. “I want to hear you say it.” He's much taller. You need to look up to him while talking. “It's embarrassing...” you act like a brat again but this time with your tiny voice. You pretend that you're shy to keep looking at him so you look away. “No. I want to hear you say it. Tell me. What did you do while wearing my shirt?” He asked firmly and moved your face to his. Your answer is silence except you grab the bottom of the shirt and show it right in front of him. There is white stain on it. “Jesus...” he groans. He can't stop taking his eyes from looking at the white stain. His mind is now imagining you doing it while wearing his shirt, the way you sit on this couch that is behind you, the way you pull up your shirt to smell his scent and the way your fingers rub on your pussy. Now all he thinks is he wants you fuck you hard. While he's imagining it in silence he notices the same white stain on the couch. You follow his eyes and say sorry, acting like an innocent girl who made the couch dirty. “I’m sorry, baby. I will clean it up...” you look back at him meanwhile he pushes you gently against the couch. You're leaning on it now. “No. Don't. Leave it right there.” You raise your eyebrows with confusion. He can't deny that he likes it, it will remind him about what did you do when he wasn't home. Tom shifts his gaze in you again. “Are you enjoying this?” He means playing with him, messing his mind up. You drive him insane like every day and he loves it as well.

You just give him a smirk which it wipes all your innocent expressions away. “So much, baby-” Tom pushes your shoulders down suddenly, so now you're beneath him, kneeling on the floor. You look up at him with confusion of his sudden action. Tom starts to unzip his trousers. You try to hide your smirk so you turn your face to the other side, Tom grabs your chin and moves your face immediately. “Look at me. Why did you look away?” He takes off his boxers, revealing his big cock which is now ready to be sucked by you. You are sitting like his good dog, waiting for some food. Those doe eyes keep staring at his cock. Tom looks at you as a sign to do something with it, not just keep staring. You slowly use your hand to wrap around it and gently move up and down. Tom moans as he still keeps his eyes on you. The way you slowly use your mouth kisses on it and give it a gentle lick. One of his hand get through your hair, wipe your hair off your pretty face. He doesn't want your hair to get dirty by his cum. Not so long that you use your tongue and your hand, you finally put it into your mouth, fully. “Fuck...” Your small mouth almost can't take it. Tom gently presses your head from the back, he moves his hip slightly to let his cock slide within your little mouth. Your eyes don't look away, your gaze remains strong and intense. He looks down with satisfaction in his eyes. “Yeah...” Tom looks up at the ceiling, feeling it inside your mouth. After a moment, he feels like he's about to cum so he moves his hip faster meanwhile you almost can't breathe because of his cock that is in side your mouth fully. “Fuck yes- Yes...” Tom moans in his throat while all of his cum was released in your pretty mouth. You slowly move your mouth out of his cock, your saliva which now is mixed with his white cum. You never try to swallow it before, usually you just let it flow out of your mouth. Tom looks down at you, noticing your hesitation. “If you don't want to swallow, you know I've never forced you to.” His soft side is back. He has never forced you to do things you don't like but this time you want to try it. Your gaze slowly look up to face him meanwhile you slowly swallow his cum into your throat. Tom notices your neck that moves a little. He knows that you swallow his cum this time. His eyes are still on you, notice your reaction. It's warm with a little bit of salty. You finally swallow all of it before wiping your mouth. Tom leans down to you and gives you a gentle kiss to comfort you. “I love you.” You say quietly as he breaks the kiss. “I love you more.” A pretty smile forms on your face, he smiles back.

END

© satlun, 2024 : DO NOT PLAGIARISM OR ANY OTHER WAY OF REPHRASING

[nyc-looks]

Tab, 23

“I am wearing 90s black boots by MIA, an early 2000s brown cotton skirt, a 1993 skinny puppy t-shirt, and a hand-knitted sweater from the 70s. I'm very inspired by 90s fashion and nature/ earth tones.”

Mar 4, 2023 ∙ Lower East Side

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six

TW: violence, choking, mentions of bdsm, abuse of authority, cops, unfair power dynamics, harassment, body fluids and drug use mentions, mentions of harm/accidents

For California, it’s a bit chilly out this morning. The sun is getting a lazy late start, just beginning to yawn golden orange and fiery yellow over the horizon. Julian’s hair in that light is the high shine of fashion magazine model locs, and you’re, as usual, opening your mouth before you think. “What shampoo and conditioner do you use?”

He seems thoroughly amused. “Honestly? You’re going to be mad about it.” 

“Try me,” you prod, slipping inside his little sports car that smells like lemon air freshener and coffee. 

He seems a little cramped in the seat, knees bent up and head almost touching the ceiling, and you wonder if he actually even tried to get into this thing before buying it. 

“It’s a rental,” he explains.

“Did you get into an accident?”

“A truck hit mine while it was parked.” 

“How are you so calm about that? I’d punch someone.” 

He looks over at you with a sculpted, raised brow. “I just cannot imagine you hurting a fly, y/n.” 

“Flies are innocent, truck drivers are free game.” 

He gives you a big laugh that strokes the flame of your ego. “You’re hilarious. I use men’s body wash.” 

“What?” Okay, he’s right, you are a little mad. You use shampoo and conditioner that are specifically supposed to soften your hair, but the poof on your head absolutely pales in comparison to his soft, beautiful mane that gets the luxury of … what? Old spice? Axe body wash? 

“I told you,” he sings, turning on the engine. 

Genetics is a bitch. 

He takes you to a fancy little French inspired coffee shop cuddled into the center of an outlet mall with salt lamps and big ferns and comfy chairs. You settle into a nook closests to the sunned windows so Julian can keep an eye on his rental, which is understandable. No part of LA is good to have a Porsche in, but especially not the inner city. 

“This is delicious,” you tell him through a mouthful of warm croissant, covering your lips in embarrassment when you realize that your table manners are less than adequately prepared for a date with a doctor. 

“They have the best coffee,” he agrees, taking a sip of his steaming latte. 

You don’t have time to stop your brain from comparing Julian to a certain cop you know who prefers his coffee black and bitter, or at least that’s what he told you when he saw you drinking your vanilla cream cold foam at the nurse’s station. 

Julian is talking, you think, and you’re only half listening while you remember how Tom had snatched that drink right out of your hands and held it up in the air. 

“Give it back!” You hissed, reaching up on tiptoes while he laughed at the pathetic rescue attempt. 

“Careful, honey, don’t hurt yourself for this pathetic excuse of caffeine. What is it anyway? Is there even coffee in here?” 

After he walked away with his discharge paperwork, your coworkers were understandably curious about the tall, puckish cop who fucked with you any chance he got. 

Miguel watched his ass move the whole way down the hallway and out the glass exit doors while literally clutching the rosary under his scrub shirt as if a devil had just walked by, then looked over at you. “What a man.”

“Are you alright?” Julian asks, bringing you back to the present conversation with a hand over your forearm. He does seem concerned, and it makes you feel like a piece of shit. This guy is a gentleman and here you are on a date with him fantasizing about the brute that is Tom Ludlow. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You wave away his concern. “Tell me about you, Julian. What do you do for fun? Doctor-by-night, Violin-player-by-morning? 

He chuckles. “Nothing that cultured. I like riding motorcycles.”

“Really?” You ask, genuinely surprised and trying to imagine Julian in a gang of bikers with cracked leather skull and snake jackets. 

“I love them.” He nods. “I have three that I take for long rides along the coast. You get lost in it, the wind and salt and sand. The rumble of the engine under you.”

“I’ve never been on one,” you tell him, “and I’m honestly surprised you ride them after what we see in the ER. Don’t you remember that guy that had his calf hanging on by a tendon? Or that woman who had half her face missing?” 

“Yes, I do. But I go the speed limit and wear the proper gear. And I like the thrill.” 

It’s not just the casual t-shirt and worn jeans or the way the light halos his thick silk nest of hair or the roguish grin that makes you see Julian in an entirely new way, now. “You’re wild, Dr. Mercer.”

He licks spilled cream at the ridge of his coffee cup, rubs at the skin of your forearm with his fingers, and winks. You wonder what he would look like between your legs doing the same thing, except with your fingers gripping that luscious hair. 

“You should let me take you for a ride, sometime,” he suggests, and for a minute you forget you’re talking about motorcycles. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Julian.”

“C’mon.” He nudges your knee under the table and relaxes back into his seat, now reminding you too much of someone else you know. Same height, same hair color, same facial structure. 

Fuck. Really? 

“Good boyfriends take their girlfriends on long, romantic motorcycle rides.” 

“But you’re not my boyfriend.”

His smile droops a little bit and it makes you feel bad for being so illiterately ignorant. Well, you feel bad until he opens his mouth. “I am, though.”

He paints it playful, but it sounds a little bit pushy-bossy, even. “I don’t know about that, either, Julian.”

He tries a different angle. “You know, believe it or not, most women would consider me quite the catch.” 

You hope your face doesn’t betray the little bit of ick you get from him saying something so egotistical. “I don’t doubt it, and you deserve someone that can give you what you’re looking for.” 

“You think you can’t give me what I’m looking for?” He leans across the table in sudden intensity, and you balk at the notion. 

“No, I honestly don’t.”

“Why?”

You start to say something, but he cuts you off. “And, I really mean why? Why can’t you give me what I’m looking for? Enlighten me.” 

“I’m not-I have too much baggage.” You unconsciously lean away from his swelling intensity. 

“That’s a little vague.” He frowns. 

“I’m not normal, Julian. You seem like you would like normal women.” You cringe at the childish sentiment, but truly have no idea how to get the point across except for basically telling him that you’re a freak with a bad past and worse coping mechanisms. You eat slices of bread for dinner and drink out of the milk carton. Julian probably irons his shirts. This will not work. 

“You’re assuming I’m normal?”

“Yes. I guess I am.” You lean back and cross your arms over your chest. 

“Well, I’m not. In fact, I’ll prove it to you.” He takes out his wallet, pulls a laminated card from it, and slides it over the table to you. 

“What..” It’s a little red card framed in black with big bold letters on the front advertising a BDSM club in the heart of downtown Venice. “What is this?” 

“BDSM is bondage, domination-“

“I know what that is,” you interrupt. “I just meant.. You go here?”

“I do.” He nods and takes a drink. “I occasionally engage in scenes.”

You decide that you should coat your suddenly very dry mouth and drink a big gulp of your coffee. “Like with a dominatrix?”

He laughs at you, puts his head in his hand and shakes his head. “No. I prefer to be the dominant one.” 

You look at-really, really look at this man for the first time and honestly cannot imagine him taking that role. 

He must see the confusion on your face, because his laughter grows. “That’s the usual reaction I get.”

Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed the-you know what, fuck it. 

“So, what do you do at the club?” 

“A typical play scene, you mean?” How in the hell he can be so casual and relaxed about this you’re not sure. Because you can already feel the cold sweat breaking along your shoulders and neck. 

“I guess? Yeah.”

“Well, ideally the woman is tied up in some fashion, and of course there’s a safe word, negotiated limits. Perhaps a punishment scenario with pain play. Are you okay?” 

He looks at your table-clutching, white knuckled hands, searches your face, giving you a genuine concerned expression that makes you wonder what actually is going on with you right now. You feel like you're on a tightrope over a ravine of crocodiles and Julian’s on the other end lazily sawing at the rope with dull scissors.

“I’m fine,” you say breathily, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about all that.”

His gentle smile is nothing less than kind, though maybe also, a little disappointed. “I get that a lot too.”

“Is that…the only way you enjoy sex?” you ask quietly, leery of the blue-haired old lady just two tables away.

“No,” he seems happy to tell you. “Though it is…the way I enjoy sex most.”

You blink, digesting this with understandable trepidation. He’s basically telling you that it would be impossible to be in a relationship with him without dipping into this eventually. And you…? 

Are definitely intrigued, and you’re not really sure why.

“You said you have baggage,” Julien probes cautiously. You can feel him looking at you, but you’re not quite up to eye contact with him yet. You fix your gaze out the window. “Well, I do too. I haven’t had a perfect life. No one does, and I’m not interested in a perfect girlfriend. I like you, y/n.”

You feel your breath go out in an audible whoosh. It actually makes him smile-you feel it like rays of the sun. How can this man be so warm, and yet have such a dark side?

Well, maybe it’s not a dark side, you reason. Maybe it’s just…a thing he likes, and between consenting adults, what’s the harm?

“So…” You can’t help but think about how odd this is, discussing this in this coffee shop filled with mild-mannered caffeine addicts. What you really want to ask, is what happened to him that makes him like this kind of sexual play, but you know it would be too far, and you damn well don’t feel like talking about your own fucked up past. But there is something you do feel you have a right to know. “Is this something you want to do to me?” 

Again, he fixes you with that bad boy smirk that gives you chills and utterly ruins your panties. “Since the moment you stood up to me over that patient,” he admits. And maybe that should alarm you, that he wants to tie you up and hurt you for being defiant about something that deserved defiance. It does alarm you, but… It also… It sounds a little thrilling. “In fact-“

Julian and the rest of the world and even your own thoughts disappear when you meet a pair of familiar, sun tinted eyes out the window of the coffee shop. He’s grinning-when is he not grinning at you like he knows what it does to your helpless insides?-and licking his fingers, tearing off a yellow parking ticket to slap it under the windshield of Julian’s rental.

“Uh, Julian-“ 

“Just let me finish,” Julian insists. His bossy tone irritates you, but Tom brightens the mood by making a jerking off motion towards the doctor, and then winking at you. 

You can’t help but laugh. It’s honestly involuntary, the loud wheeze that tears from your chest and makes Julian look outside to see the yellow ticket shining under his wiper as Ludlow’s ass saunters away. 

You’re not sure what Julian’s plan is when he storms outside to catch Ludlow by the arm, but you’re definitely following ten strides behind to prevent his untimely death. 

“I’m parked legally.” His voice is a menacing growl instead of the smooth honey you’re used to, and yeah, maybe now you can see a little bit of that Dominant Persona he was talking about. 

“Not after 9AM,” Tom says, unbothered by Julian’s anger, still grinning like an idiot. 

“It’s eight-thirty,” Julian argues, tugging on Tom’s sleeve-that earns him a bent back arm and even the appearance of handcuffs. 

“Tom, stop it, fucking really?” 

“Sorry, honey, your boyfriend’s going to jail.” 

“For what?!” You and Julian both demand at once. 

“Putting his pristine fucking hands on what’s mine.” Tom tugs Julian up on his toes and clicks one handcuff into place. 

You hope he means his uniform, but you have a feeling he doesn’t. 

“That’s way too tight and you know it,” Julian grunts. 

“What, someone likes to dish it out but can’t take it? Don’t be a bitch,” Tom muses, grabbing Julian’s other arm and twisting it-not gently-behind his back. 

“Tom, you fucking dickhead.” 

He looks at you as he’s putting the other cuff on your date. “Oh, I’ll deal with you later.” His grin looks more like a snarl at this point, and you think that Julian could probably take some pretty good Dom pointers from Tom, because your heart is galloping and your clit is pulsing despite the absolute absurdity of the situation. Also-it's a miracle-your sassing mouth has snapped shut. 

After Officer Ludlow practically throws Dr. Mercer into the back of his Charger, slamming the door, he turns to you with a smirk and his thumb in his belt. Goddammit, if that fucking look doesn’t go straight to your lady parts.

“Tom…you cannot do this.” 

A tow truck has pulled up, and is in process of impounding the sweet little Porsche.

He steps up to you in those big black boots that make him a mile tall.

“You’d be surprised what I can and cannot do, sweetheart.”

“Please.” You hate how desperate you know you sound. 

He taps his chin. “Well, I do like the sound of that. But it would be a lot more convincing if you got on your knees and said it.”

“You asshole,” you seethe, even as you can feel the moisture pooling between your legs.

“That kinda language definitely isn’t going to get Doctor Bitch Boy out of my car.”

“What the fuck do you want then?” You know it was a stupid question the moment it flies from your mouth. He’s going to reply with something filthy, and demeaning, and-

“Have dinner with me.”

You’re going to need another tow truck just to get your jaw up off the ground. 

“You’re going to get in trouble for this,” you say. “This isn’t harassing a lowly broke-ass nurse. He is going to sue the shit out of you.”

Tom just snorts at that, unimpressed. “Did you know your friend likes to hang out at a BDSM club in Venice Beach? Whips and chains and shit? Bet this asshole has mommy issues from here to Pasadena. Come on, y/n, you don’t need that in your life.”

It almost sounds like he’s…worried about you?

Officer Ludlow has no idea how badly he’s misjudged you, now that he’s pissed you off. “Maybe I like it,” you snipe back, stretching up so you’re almost in his face. “Fact is, it’s none of your fucking business.”

Ludlow just narrows his eyes down at you, those dark orbs glinting like sharp obsidian. “Well, sorry, guess he’s not tying you up tonight, baby. He’s gotta cool down in the tank.”

He makes to go, but you reach out, not grabbing him, per se, but just touching his chest. He freezes, and you can practically feel him vibrating beneath your hand. With excitement, because he fucking lives for being an asshole, or…you hate to think you know the real answer.

His mitt of a hand covers yours, holding it just above his heart.

“Tom….” Caught up in this tension between you, you’re not even sure what you’re asking now. 

You expect him to say something dirty, or snide, but instead you swear that just for a moment, his gaze softens as he looks down at you. “Dinner?” he asks again, with a note of hope in his voice that is almost endearing, if he wasn’t being such a class A jerk.

“I can’t.”

His demeanor changes in less than a second, drawing up to his full height, his shoulders squared. He flicks down his sunglasses that were on his head, so you can no longer even see his eyes. His voice changes, drops an octave, something. The authority in it makes you shudder inside. “Wave to Dr. Bitch Boy, y/n, we’re going for a little ride.”

Before you can grab him, or do anything, really, Tom is behind the wheel, speeding off with a very pissed off Julian in the back seat.

Your heart drops to your feet as you are left standing there alone on the sidewalk without a ride, and completely at a loss as to what to do.

***

“I’m going to fucking sue you,” Julian grits, kicking the back of Tom’s seat for good measure. 

“Yeah, yeah, with your doctor money,” Tom grumbles, taking a big swig of coffee with one hand and steering recklessly with the other because it’s fun to watch that skinny fuck bounce around helplessly in the seat. 

“I’m not getting booked tonight, Officer Ludlow. I’m calling my fucking lawyer.”

“Sorry, Doctor Bitch, your Lawyer’s busy until tomorrow afternoon, didn’t you hear?”

“You son of a-“

Tom gasses the car over a big pothole and it sends Julian flying into the opposite door. It’s a sight he could almost get off to.

Julian, big goose egg swelling up on his temple, gets yanked out of the squad car and tossed on the shit smeared, needle peppered streets of South Central. “They probably need you here more than the hospital, Doctor. Have fun–”

“Wait! Fuck. I’m still cuffed for fuck’s sake!” Tom gives the little guy credit for being able to get up on his feet so fast with his hands behind his back and a probable minor concussion. “You can’t leave me here.”

Tom pauses with his hand on the lip of the hot car door, but only to memorize the sight of a sweat-stained, wild eyed, trembling distinguished doctor about to get his shit wrecked on the mean LA Streets. He’s guessing Julian’s never visited much outside of Hollywood, Venice, and Santa Monica, and the cute little horrified expression on his face is testament to that. 

Tom taps the hood of his car. “See ya, Doc.” 

“You know,” Julian says, “this isn’t going to stop me from seeing her, Tom.” 

Well, if he wants a fight. 

Tom slams the charger door, whips off his belt, backs Julian up until he falls on his ass into a steaming puddle of unknown origin, and loops the leather around his neck. 

He tugs him up by the belt, onto his toes, eliminating that fraction of height difference just so he can see the whites of this prick’s eyes. 

He doubles the wrap of the belt in his fist, and Julian sputters something unintelligible through a thick choke. 

“What’s wrong? Thought you liked this shit?” Tom pretends to wait for an answer that he prevents. “Oh, that’s right, you like being the one doing the choking. That gets your dick wet, huh? Beating on women?” 

He wants nothing more than to choke this fucker unconscious and leave him on the streets for the hepatitis rats to chew on his toes, and, fuck it, if he ends up passing out by the time Tom’s done saying his peace, then so be it. 

“You can see her all you want, asshole. Take her on as many dates as you like. But if I see one fuckin’ bruise on her-one red mark on that pretty skin-I’m gonna make the rest of your short life very fucking unpleasant. Comprende?” 

[johnwickb1tsch]

Excessive Force : a Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE AMAAAZING @treedaddymcpuffpuff 😘😘😘) - Chapter FOURTEEN ---> (all chapters)

trigger warnings: mention of police shooting, child trafficking, past childhood trauma, abuse, etc. plz take care!

“Are you serious?!” You have to move the phone away from your ear to avoid a blown drum from Sheila’s screech. 

“Yup.”

“Okay, why don’t you sound as excited as me?” 

“I’m nervous. He’s really forward. And, I haven’t been on a date in forever.” That didn’t end horribly… You’ve decided not to count the fiasco with Julian. You’re in your room, fingering through the limited collection of nice clothes in your closet. You briefly debate wearing a turtleneck and thick linen pants just to piss him off. But, also, there’s that little sundress you bought at the mall that you’ve never gotten a chance to wear… The pretty, soft color would pair very nicely with your silky cream bra and panty set—that you also have never worn. You’re starting to re-think the whole not being a prude thing. 

Plus, it’s hot outside.

Sheila pulls you from your search. “Listen, if he tries anything, just kick him in the dick. Works every time.”

“He’s like eight feet tall. I don’t know if I can reach his dick… with my feet.” 

You both giggle. 

“That’s why they make step stools.” 

“Like, for that exact reason?” 

Sheila’s one of those people that has proven to be supportive. You met her on a bus tour your first week in LA and have been buddies ever since. It works perfectly since you both have hectic work schedules and don’t really expect anything from the other one. She calls you for drinks, you call her for lunch. Sympatico. 

“Obviously. So, he’s tall. Is he hot?” 

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth when you think back to his bare, bruised body on your exam table, those mile long, strong thighs that caged you in and felt more like they belonged to an Amazon Boa rather than a man. 

“Okay, that silence either means hell yes or hell no, so which is it?” You hear the grin in Sheila’s voice.

“First one.” 

You end up telling her about his persistent hospital visits, him pulling you over, maybe omitting some—okay, no, a lot of the details just so she doesn’t want to kill him just yet. You also haven’t told her about the Julian debacle–or that Tom basically rescued you. 

You also leave out that he just happens to be the new superhero on every news channel right now. You’re still processing that yourself, and it’s not boding well for you keeping your cool with this man. 

As it turned out, it was the news that informed you of Officer Tom Ludlow’s whereabouts those lonely night’s you’d missed him harassing you on that lonely stretch of highway. He wasn’t ignoring you. He was rescuing two teenage girls who had been kidnapped and trafficked by a gang. According to the report, Ludlow had entered the house after hearing a cry for help, alone, and gunned down every single one of the gangbangers before setting the girls free.  

Parts of this story should have alarmed you, but there had been a time in your past when you would have given anything for a person of authority to ride to your rescue, red tape be damned. How many times had the cops come to your house for a domestic disturbance between your parents, and left you in a bad situation because of some legal technicality or another? How had they seen you, scared and dirty, cowering in the doorway, and left you behind? The horrors you could have told them, if only they’d cared to ask without your parents there to overhear and threaten you, but every time until the last time, they’d just left you in the hellhole that had been your childhood home.   

How different your life—your sister’s lives—would have been if you had a Thomas Ludlow back then.

The twin girls’ MISSING posters and billboards were all over the city. Most anyone with the power to do something had given up on them as a lost cause, just another sad story, written them off as tragically probably dead in a gutter, but not Ludlow. Ludlow had risked his neck (and possibly his badge, because you’d heard of the old “I heard a cry for help” trick to gain entry, and it was almost always code for “I didn’t have a warrant, what are you going to do about it?”, to get them out, and goddammit if that didn’t just warm you to your toes and soften your heart.

Worse yet, you feel like the biggest asshole for calling him a fraud, to his face, the night after it all went down. He’d just taken it on the chin, and he still asked you out. 

Ok, he technically extorted you, but it just doesn’t feel as sinister now as it had last night. He’d been bold, and borderline needy for some human tenderness, and fuck if you didn’t understand all too well why now. 

Now, rather than having to keep yourself from tearing him a new one, you were afraid you were going to have to restrain yourself from crawling into his lap at the first opportunity, and fucking his brains out for being such a goddamed hero. 

“Oh, he’s a freak!” Despite saying this, she sounds like she’s twirling her hair and kicking her feet. 

You snort. “He’s got..uh…nice hands.” 

You decide on the sundress and the bra-panty set, but you don’t bother laying them out in preparation, because you’re still telling yourself that this isn’t that big of a deal and you’re not that invested and that if Tom Ludlow kisses you, you won’t burst into flames.

You want to take a bath, leave some scent of those seldom used lavender lemon oils lingering on your skin, but decide against it. 

No. Actually. You’re doing it. Taking a nice,  warm, spiced soak, rubbing lotion over every piece of you except the very sensitive bits, shimmying into the undergarments. The panties end up being cheekier than you like, but your butt looks cute, and the dress covers everything pretty good, anyway—well, everything that matters. 

After putting your hair up in a messy bun and throwing some mascara on, you’re ready for—actually, who the fuck are you kidding, you are the opposite of ready. Borderline panicking at the thought of this man coming to pick you up and taking you out and putting on his lewd charm and ruining this cute underwear. 

By the time he buzzes downstairs, it’s too late to decide on another pair of shoes. You have to live with sandals—with the fact that he might just look down and get a full, unfiltered view of your toes curling when he opens his pretty mouth. 

You’re totally fucked, here. 

You think it again when you open the door, finding his lean form all in black, leaning on the wall with his hands in his pockets and his full bottom lip between his teeth, like he’s already thinking about eating you up. You literally feel it as his eyes look you up and down, from your messy bun to your pink painted toes. It’s been two seconds, and already you are soaked between your thighs. 

Doomed. You are just fucking doomed, and a part of you is just ready to surrender, because it takes so much goddamn energy to fight your attraction to this man. You can feel it like live electricity crackling over your skin. 

Of course, there’s that other part of you that wants to run right back up those stairs and lock yourself away from this gorgeous devil.

“Hey, beautiful.”

Your mouth opens to reply, but your brain takes a few seconds to catch up, utterly short circuited by how ridiculously handsome he is in his black button down, his dark pants belted low on his hips, those big feet in black boots. It’s a little strange, seeing him without his badge or his gun on his hip–but you can work with this. 

“Hi,” you answer, scathingly clever as ever. 

“Ready to go?” 

You’d brought down your purse, to avoid inviting him into the private sanctuary that is your little shoebox of an apartment, but now you almost regret it. 

“Yeah. Where are we going?” You step out the door, but he doesn’t move back, relishing your close proximity with a smirk. But there is a new softness in his brown eyes as he looks down at you that makes you a little weak in your knees. He reaches up to touch your cheek, feather light, and it boggles your mind how this man can be such a beast, and yet so gentle when he wants to be. 

“You’ll see.” You narrow your eyes at him, but for once, it’s more playful than fueled by annoyance. “Relax,” he says, his shapely mouth dancing as he suppresses a smile. “You’re in good hands, honey.” 

You don’t even flinch, as he drives this final nail into your coffin, the wave of desire inspired by the thought of those oh-so-capable hands and what they just might do to you tonight buzzing down your spine. This is how you die–you are strangely, almost, ok with it. 

When he has you safely ensconced in the passenger seat of his sleek black Charger you look over at him, his long arm draped over the wheel as he navigates the hostile environment of LA traffic like a shark patrolling a reef. “So…I saw you on the news last night.”

He lifts one of those dark brows, though his expression remains otherwise unreadable. “Haven’t really looked at what they’re saying,” he admits, like he’s used to the media getting the details wrong towards their own ends. 

“They said that you saved two underaged girls that were being traffiked?”

His mouth turns down, and you wonder if you’ve killed the happy vibe of the evening so soon with your nosy questions. But then again–you need to know. It’s a gnawing curiosity in your gut not just for the events that transpired, but the man who orchestrated them. Who you are currently alone in a car with, so you reason you have a right to know.

“Yeah,” he simply answers, not keen to crow his own praises. 

“And you…killed all those guys?”

He gives a sigh that seems to come from the bottom of his soul. You sense a weariness in him that he’s never shown on the outside before. 

“Yeah.” A long silence draws out between you, before he adds, “They were very bad dudes, y/n. Please don’t be afraid of me.”

You can’t exactly say that you’re not–but ironically, the news of him shooting down those gangsters really has nothing to do with it.   

“I’m not. I mean–if they were abusing those girls, then they deserved it.”

He looks you over then, an appraising look as though you’ve given him some new information about your character. Maybe information you didn’t exactly mean to give away, but it’s out there now. He’s going think you’re a kindred spirit–or a blood thirsty gremlin. 

Either way, you don’t really want to discuss why you sympathize with those girls, and with him. 

“Are you okay?”

This question seems to take him aback, like he truly wasn’t expecting it. He’s surely used to being a pillar of stoic manhood, but you know this shit takes its toll. “Yeah. I’m fine, sweetheart. Thanks.”

You eye his hand resting on the center console, and a part of you very badly wants to reach out to him and take it. Almost as though he can sense it, or maybe because he wants it as badly as you do, he holds out his hand palm up in invitation. It’s possible you stare at that hand for a beat too long, his wide calloused palm and long blunt fingers. Long enough that he tries to play it off, starting to take it back, before you quickly lace your fingers with his. The way he smiles to himself sends warmth blooming all the way to your toes, and you’re glad he’s driving because they do, indeed, curl in your sandals. 

You give him a little squeeze, relishing the way your hand feels so tiny and protected in his own, and say, genuinely, “I’m sorry. For calling you a fake cop.” 

He clicks his tongue. “I’ve heard worse from people that aren’t half as pretty as you.” 

You want to fight with him on that—scoff, roll your eyes—but you just can’t, because as much as that small, whiny part of your brain tells you he’s lying, the bigger, rational part absolutely knows just by the sincerity in his tone that he thinks you really are a pretty, sublime creature. 

“But I still kinda think you’re a jerk,” you half tease. 

“Mmmm, what happened to that feisty little thing I know? She change into a cute sundress and suddenly become sweet?” 

You are loathe to admit the real reason for your change of heart. 

“You wish.” 

He chuckles. “Bet I can make you sweet.” 

You’re a total idiot for what comes out of your mouth, and your underwear is the one that will more than likely end up paying for this mindless insolence. “How?”

He brings your hand up to his mouth, lips brushing over the thin skin of your knuckles, sending a spear of desire through your arm and into the rest of your body. You make a tiny choked noise when his tongue peeks a taste of your skin, going unfocused and fuzzy, radio static and full throttle cavewoman. 

He kisses the center of your hand, then murmurs, “With sugar, silly girl.” 

It's not only the panties that pay a high price, but also your throbbing heart, pleasantly tense and hot and full of desire. 

He must find your slack jaw and blank stare immensely entertaining, because he’s laughing low and soft, rumbling in delight. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. 

“I’m fine.” There has never been a more heinous lie uttered in this entire state. 

You’re fairly new to LA, but you soon realize from your surroundings that he’s taking you to the Santa Monica Pier. 

You are thanking the universe and the gods when you arrive at your destination. Five more minutes—hell, seconds—trapped in that car with him and you would have climbed into his lap and started barking. 

When he swings into a parking space designated just for Law Enforcement you turn to him with a lifted brow, as though to say, Abuse your authority much? 

But you already know the answer to that. This date is a product of it. And so far…it’s not so bad. 

“Do you like fish tacos?” He asks, keeping your hand and massaging that bulky thumb over your wrist.

“Shouldn’t you have asked that before you made a reservation?” you taunt him. 

“No reservation,” he informs you with a quirk of his mouth. “But the manager owes me a favor.” 

He waves around the busy avenue and beach walk bustling with people, peppered with colorful shops and restaurants of every kind. “Pretty sure we can find you something you like, if Mexican food with an ocean view isn’t your thing…” He says it with a smirk, and you’re seriously not sure if you want to kiss this man or smack him. Maybe both, but save it for later, sings out the little devil on your shoulder before you can tell it to shut the fuck up. 

Good lord. 

You’ve heard of the restaurant–and that it’s famously hard to get into. You wonder if his connection is a product of a favor for a good deed, or a bit of blackmail. Maybe a little bit of both. You’re finding more and more that it’s hard to put this man in a single box. 

“Honestly…?” You make him wait for it, and you can tell your effort to put this confident man on the spot only half succeeds, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. “That sounds pretty amazing.”

This evil, evil gentleman. He opens your door for you, helps you out of the car, stands patiently while you fix your dress, only half looks at your exposed thighs before you pull the hem down and cover them up again. 

Then, he threads his arm with yours and leads you onto the pier. You can’t believe you’ve never taken the initiative to come here before. It’s beautiful, lit up like a modern carnival of neon lights. 

“Oh, can we go on the Ferris wheel?” You ask, looking up at him. 

“Let’s get some food in you, and then we can do whatever you want.” He really needs to stop being so…caring. It’s seriously starting to mess up your insides. 

You turn into a fascinated kid as you walk down the salt coated slice of wood built out over the ocean, looking this and that way, pointing things out, mentioning possible after-dinner activities. You feel like you’re getting annoying, but Tom just seems amused by your sunburned tourist behavior. 

You pass by a little shooting booth with huge stuffed bunnies hanging from the rack, and he must see the way you’re ogling them, so he leans down close to your ear. “I could win you one of those?”

You grin back up at him. “I can win you one.” 

“Oh? Little sharpshooter?” 

It sounds like he doesn’t believe you, so you stick your tongue out at him between smiling lips. 

He pokes your forehead in retaliation. “Anybody ever tell you how fucking cute you are?” 

The restaurant lives up to its popularity and then some. It takes a while to get here, but you just know it’s worth every foot blister when they sit you down and immediately serve a popped bottle of iced sparkling water and delicious, warm salsa and chips. 

You made it just in time to catch the purple orange sun sinking below ocean level, and the front row seats really just make the view that much more spectacular. At this point, you wouldn’t be surprised if a dolphin jumped from the water, illuminated by the dying sun, just like in the movies.  

“This is… amazing.” You grab some tortilla chips to munch on while he pours you both glasses of the fancy water. “Have you ever been here before?” 

“Once.” He doesn’t elaborate, so you don’t want to push the issue, but you can tell there’s some kind of ache behind that simple word. 

“Okay, so you’re obviously not from LA—where are you from?” He leans over the table a bit, curious. 

“Kansas.” 

He opens his mouth, but you stop him because you already know what he’s going to say. 

“Don’t do it.” You point a warning finger at him, giggling like an idiot. 

“God, but I really want to,” he groans. 

“So,” you say, taking another bite of chip. “Why did you become a cop?”

“You start with the heavy questions, huh?” he teases you. “Thought I was the one who was trained in interrogation?”

You suppose he’s right, considering your earlier line of inquiry in the car. But you shrug in response. Considering how you ended up here, you see no reason to tiptoe around things. “Just curious.”

He offers up an easy smile, letting you know you didn’t offend him. “Well, I actually always wanted to be a dentist.”

You snort with disbelief, trying to imagine this man’s bedside manner. But then, dentists do get to cause people a lot of pain… “Ok. Maybe that tracks.”

“I’m fucking with you,” he informs you with a smirk. 

You do your best to appear annoyed, and fear you fail at it badly. “Guess it’s not hard to imagine you pulling teeth, is all.”

He huffs at that. “I always wanted to be a cop, since I was a kid. My old man was a detective. Killed in the line of duty. I guess I felt like I needed to pick up his unfinished business.”

You blink at that. You and your big fucking mouth. “I’m sorry,” you say, reaching for his hand across the table. He curls his fingers with yours, playing with your aqua painted fingernails with his thumb.

“It’s alright. Happened a long time ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

You squeeze his hand in yours, saying nothing. 

“What about you? What made you want to be a nurse?” 

You don’t really feel comfortable enough to tell him your whole coming-of-nurse story, so you give him the cut version: “when I was young and felt like I had no one, a nurse comforted me.”

“How young?”

“Ten.”

He winces. “Maybe I’ll get the full version of that story one day?”

There’s an epiphany, here, in this little restaurant with the comfy blue chairs, and it’s that Tom Ludlow scares you because he makes you feel something deep, deep inside your chest that you can’t even remember being there before he came along. Julian was easy, child’s play; although it stings, you’re writing him down as just another failed fling. You know if Ludlow gets his hands on your little sensitive heart, it will be a very different story. 

You take a big drink of water to wash down the salty crunch. “Sorry.”

“For?”

“Being so…cold.”

He chuckles. “Oh, you are so cold. Gonna have to make it up to me.”

Warmth floods the top layers of your skin. “I already said I’d win you the bunny.”

You’re amazed at how easily he can transition back into a smooth, carnal beast. “I don’t know if that’s enough for me to forgive you.” The fake hurt in his tone should not make you squirm in your seat. 

You bite like a dumb, good little fish should: “okay, then, how do I make it up to you, Officer Ludlow?” 

You’re hoping to faze him with the sultry innocence of your tone, but it just fuels his devilish aura instead. “We can start with me turning you over my knee.”

You don’t have a retort, but your vagina absolutely does, and she gets you squirming in your seat. 

He leans forward, knowing smile sure to be your undoing one way or another. “Would you like that?” 

“Thought you didn’t want to hurt me?” You challenge, trying to keep cool despite the blazing Ludlow heat. 

“Who says spanking has to hurt? Dr. Bitch?”

You can’t help the giggle that rolls out of you, and he seems to find it entertaining that you have to cover your mouth to hide it. “No, Tom, believe it or not, I am a grown woman who has lived an experienced life.” 

“And how was it?”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“You know, when you asked one of your vanilla boyfriends to swat that gorgeous, plump ass a little bit? Just to see how it would feel.” He leans his chin on his palm, listening intently for your answer, and you think you might be on your way to spontaneous combustion. 

How in the fuck can he just hit the nail right on the head like that? Know about parts of your life that you haven’t shared with anyone—not that there were many to share with. Are you really this readable? 

Once again, he has your sharp tongue dulled with arousal and embarrassment, and you shift in the chair. “He did it, like, once and then stopped.” 

“And did you like it?” He presses. 

“Yes.” 

He takes a little sip of his water, raising both dark brows over the glass at you. “Good to know.” 

Tom recommends the margaritas and fish tacos, so you let him order for the both of you while admiring the view. You can’t decide which one you like better, his handsome face or the ocean scape.

As you are finishing your delicious dinner the last rays of the sunset are putting on a five star show for you, the sky painted that impossible deep blue and purple, the water shimmering like color-changing opals.

“It’s so beautiful here,” you sigh, and you catch him looking at you out of the corner of your eye with a softness you haven’t seen from him before. You get up the courage to meet his eyes, and he smiles at you, but for once not like he intends to eat you.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, sweetheart.”

“Goddammit.”

He laughs at that, a real belly laugh that makes you warm all over even without the aid of your two nursed margaritas. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to out shoot you for that little bunny now.” 

This wins you more genuine laughter. “Alright, Annie Oakley. Lead the way.” 

[casuallyobssessed]

so has anyone written Tom Ludlow OR Jack Traven x Reader based on Playing Dangerous by Lana Del Rey?

bc if not, I feel like I should take one for the team and write it 🫡

[vknotfound]

Imagine having a threesome with the good-hearted Keanu Reeves and his villain role Donaka Mark 😏❤️

i can just imagine keanu as my most intimate bestie, almost like my homie, my mate, or some shit like that. someone i would meet somewhere to drink some beer or soda while we gossip. However, what i can imagine is something like this: Donaka's imposing and expert hands gently squeezed your hips, keeping a slow and deep rhythm that managed to successfully hit that sweet spot that was begging to be filled by his blessed seed… While on the other side there was that policeman: Tom… (or idk, I really could have put Johnny Utah, but obviously it didn't fit. Or well, I wanted expert people here?maybe Scott Galban could have been useful, but neh) He was different from Donaka since his touches were more aggressive, assertive. The swaying his hips did without any care was something glorious. You could hear the little splash from the wetness of your own mouth every time he went back and forth again and again for his own pleasure, making your saliva slide down your chin... yeah i can imagine him in this way

[youjustcantrefuse]

Street Kings , 2008

[discoscoob]

He’s doing my hair 🥺

[aneverydaything]

Day 1602, 11 November 2022