#tom Ludlow fic

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

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

TW: NSFW, dubcon if you squint

You are laying in bed, not sleeping, feeling sorry for yourself when your phone rings on your bedside table. You don’t recognize the number, so you answer with a cautious, “Hello?” 

“Hi, pretty girl.”

You pause a long beat, and not because you don’t recognize the voice on the other end. “How the ever-loving fuck did you get this number?”

It’s Officer Tom Ludlow, of course. Just what you need, on this night from Hell.

“I’m a detective, remember?” You can just hear the self-satisfied smirk, and he’s lucky he’s not standing in front of you, because tonight you just might have slapped him.

You use your moderately adequate brain for some deductive reasoning of your own, and realize, “You took my number from Julian’s phone. After you assaulted him.”

On the other end he lets out a long whistle. “Baby, that’s such a strong word.”

“Do not call me baby.”

“Alright. Sweetheart.”

“God, you are such a fucking caveman.”

“Thank you.”

You sigh, too fucking tired for this shit. Your heart feels like a chewed up piece of gum, and your lady parts are pulsing angrily at you for ruining their evening earlier.

They like the sound of Tom’s deep voice in your ear, and that is so not good.

“You okay?”

The question actually takes you aback, because the smarmy shit-eating tone is gone, and he sounds…serious?

“I guess. Why?”

“That doesn’t sound okay.”

“Why do you think it’s any of your goddamned business?”

“I told you. If Dr. Bitch hurts you, it is my business.”

“He didn’t hurt me,” you grumble. In fact, he didn’t really do much of anything to you. Now that more time has passed, the more annoyed you are about that.

Fuck if Detective Ludlow doesn’t seem to hear that in your voice too. “Ohhhh. Sounds like the Good Doctor didn’t hit anything?” 

“Oh my god. I hate you. Do you know that?”

He gives a low chuckle that absolutely goes straight to your deprived pussy, and you squirm a little in bed, so grateful he can’t see you.

“You wish you hated me.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Don’t hang up, pretty girl. Tell me what you’re wearing.” His voice dips low, and smooth as velvet.

Every hair on your body lifts in response to this, your nipples pebbling into painful points. Bastard.

“A parka.”

“Pshh. You sleep in a parka? Come on, baby.” How effective that soft, coaxing tone is at dissolving your inhibitions is alarming. You can almost see yourself, as though standing at the edge of a great abyss. If you jump…there will be no going back. 

“Fine. I’ll use my own imagination. I think you’re wearing…a cute little lacy negligee that just floats on your luscious curves…”

Well, you guess you’re getting a picture of what he likes.

“Jesus Christ. I’m wearing a tank top, you pervert,” you grouse, trying to shatter his fantasy. Nevermind the fact that you are now soaking wet, again.

“Nice. No panties?”

“I am wearing panties.”

“You aren’t going to need ‘em. Do you know what I’d do to you, after dinner, my beautiful nurse?”

“Gee, I bet you’re going to fucking tell me.”

“Oh come on. We’re having fun.”

“You are having fun.”

“But you’re still listening.”

Well, he has you there, the smug sonofabitch.

“Maybe.”

He chuckles at the other end of the line, a low sound that makes you clench with need.

“You’ve got to answer a question for me first.”

“What?”

“You’ve got to dip into that sweet little pussy for me, and tell me how wet you are on the scale from one to ten.” 

You should rip him a new one for this. Or just hang up. Why can’t you just hit the button and end this nonsense? But then…you’d be alone. Your real-time reaction is less dignified, but maybe more honest. 

You laugh.

It starts as a giggle, then crescendos into an all out guffaw. “Tom…you are a nut.”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he answers, and goddamn if you don’t actually start to feel better. “Oh come on baby, don’t hold out on me. I’ve got a solid ten inches in my hand for you here.”

This makes you laugh even harder. “Ten inches?!”

“Ok. Maybe nine and a half.” 

You giggle, and you can’t stop. “I don’t know if I can handle all that, Officer Ludlow.”

You don’t know how his voice lowers even more, as he says, “Oh, I know you can take it. Don’t worry, I’ll ease it in nice and slow.”

Suddenly the bubbles of laughter in your gut go flat, replaced with an aching heat that sears your insides, your clit throbbing in response to his dirty mouth. It’s possible a kittenish little sound squeaks from the back of your throat.

You really don’t know where you get the courage to ask softly, “Yeah? Then what?”

“Then I would kiss all over those pretty, soft titties. I want those perfect nips in my mouth.”

You know you make a sound then, and he surely hears it. “Will you check them for me? Lick your fingers and give them a pinch.”

“You are ridiculous.” It comes out small, and breathy, and it doesn’t really sound like an insult at all. So what, if you do as he tells you? And so fucking what, if imaging it’s his hands on you makes you feverish with desire, a spear of longing throbbing in your cunt.

He doesn’t answer you right away, which means he’s busy with something else. Maybe Tom is just as pent up as you are from all this edging the two of you have been putting each other through. 

“Are you.. are you really?” You ask, hating how your voice exposes the fact that you’re not only pinching your nipples, but borderline feeling yourself up at the sound of his hiking breath. 

“Yeah, honey, I am.”

“Oh,” you say, because it’s the only thing you can think of. Your cunt is screaming below about how she wants to talk to Tom Ludlow because you’re doing a shit job at it. 

“Ah, fuck. Are you doing what I told you?” 

“No.”

“Good. Lick your fingers again, circle those pretty nipples for me. Close your eyes and imagine it’s my tongue. Fuck, I wanna suck on your tits so bad.” 

He doesn’t have to know that you’re following orders. That you’re grinding on the bunched blanket between your legs while you imagine his big, rude hands playing with your tits instead of your own.

“You listening to me, beautiful girl?”

“Yeah. Don’t get a big head about it.” 

“Good job. And too late.” 

“I do hate you, you know. I’m serious.” It has no real venom; in fact, it sounds more like a term of endearment at this point. 

He laughs. “C’mon, tell me how soaked she is.”

She’s flooded, is the answer. She’s dampening the pressed comforter, she’s throbbing and screaming and crying and pulsing to the tempo of his black coffee voice. 

You’re not much for vocals when you get off. You have neighbors that already have to hear about your dreams, and the act itself seems like more business than pleasure sometimes. When you were younger, you shared a room with your two sisters, so you learned to be quiet and discreet about rubbing your pussy. That all flies out the window when you sink two fingers into your sopping cunt at Tom’s direction. 

“10,” you hiss, straining to hit your gspot. Maybe you really do need to invest in one of those toys Sheila is always elbowing you about.

“Oh, poor baby.” Your walls flutter violently at his mocking tone. 

“I thought you were going to tell me what you would do to me after dinner?” Maybe you’re desperate, or just stupid. It doesn’t really matter when all you want is to orgasm on Tom’s voice.

“Thought I was? Didn’t I tell you about how I’m gonna dip into that sweet wet pussy, and play with your little clit with my thumb while I fuck you with this big cock? How do you like it, honey? Slow and deep? Fast and hard?”

You make a strangled little sound–because your fingers are just not enough, and it hurts. It hurts that he’s not here with you, filling you up, holding you down with those calloused hands and that filthy, insatiable, mouth.

“What was that?” 

His voice is strained, and you think you’re not the only one in pain here.

“Slow,” you answer. “At first.” Why exactly are you handing him this ammunition? How stupid, how dangerous, to offer up the keys to your undoing? You know he will only use this information against you.

“Mmm.” His breathing is labored, and the thought of him with his cock out, stroking himself to this dirty talk is almost too much to stand. Julian had you trussed and at his mercy right in front of him, but couldn’t keep it up. All Tom Ludlow needs is the sound of your voice. After the night you’ve had, that alone is nearly enough to make you cum.

“But then I like it deep,” you pant. “You think you got what it takes?”

“Baby, I’ve got everything you need.”

You are trying to be as quiet as you can, while you abuse your clit with your two middle fingers, practically holding your breath, getting high on the oxygen deprivation. You’re too quiet, you suppose.

“Don’t be shy, beautiful. Gotta let me hear it when you cum for me.”

“Or what?” you grouse. “Maybe I’m just…mixing pancake batter.” 

His laughter is strained, and you just know he’s close. “Or you’ll regret it, sweet girl. When I finally get these hands on you? Mmm I’ll make you pay. I’ll make you cum without mercy.” 

Again, you can’t help but compare the versions of punishment to the men in your life. Julian wants to hurt you. Tom just wants to make you cum.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah? You there, baby?”

You try to just breathe through your nose, to not give him the satisfaction–but you fail spectacularly.

“Y/n?” He calls, singing your name and making it sound so pretty and good and special. 

“Y-yeah?”

“You coming with me? I’m waiting for you.”

You’re right there, dangling over that sweet, slippery precipice that you can usually ease yourself over carefully. Tom gives you a little shove, and you’re plummeting. 

“That’s my girl.” He doesn’t sound much better off than you while you sob from the unexpected, haywire orgasm. 

It takes a long minute for you to come back to earth, come back to breathless Tom who isn’t saying anything for once in his life. 

That pleasant, floaty post coital bliss gets stained with shame when the clarity of who you just mutually masturbated with hits you. 

He talks first, what a surprise. “Do you feel better?”

“No.” But then, “a little bit.”

“At least one of us does.” You hear him shuffling around on the other end, maybe opening a fridge. It makes you smile to think of him jerking off at his kitchen table. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Why in God’s name are you still entertaining this conversation? You both got what you wanted, and if you stay here too long listening to his voice you’re going to be right back where you started—ready for round two. 

“I won’t feel better until you’re mine.” He sounds humorless, which worries you in itself even without the possessive words added. “C’mon, sweet nurse, aren’t you supposed to help me feel better?”  

“I don’t belong to anyone, Tom. I never will.”

“Oh? Bullshit.” 

“I’m hanging up.” 

Almost as if he knows you’re full of it, or maybe he just doesn’t care about talking into an empty phone line, he continues. “You’re telling me you’ve never wanted a man to take care of you? Protect you, defend you, fuck anyone up who even thinks to raise a hand or word against you?”

Honestly? That’s all you’ve ever wanted, although you’ll take that admittance to your grave. After a lifetime of taking care of other people, having someone to do that for you in return sounds like a castle in the sky. But, the thing about castles in skies? They’re imaginary. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Let me guess, you’d do all that and more?” Maybe the venomous sarcasm is a little too mean. 

He sighs as if you’re the one assaulting his date, stealing his number, and then calling to harass and annoy him. “Okay, tough girl. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“No you won’t.” 

“Mm. Night, beautiful.” 

You wait for him to hang up. He doesn’t. You don’t, either. You feel his grin blossoming through the white noise of the line, listen to him rustle about, hear bottles clinking, water running, fabric swishing. Your eyes get heavy to the sounds of his nightly routine, lashes threatening to touch cheek. 

His voice is void of its usual gruff when it permeates the pleasant, strange, foggy land between awake and unconscious. “Baby?”

“Mm, yeah?” You try to make your mouth move properly, but the words come jumbled and slurred, weighted with exhaustion. 

“Sweet dreams.” 

[johnwickb1tsch]

Excessive Force ~ a Tom Ludlow x Fem!NurseReader Fic by @treedaddymcpuffpuff & @johnwickb1tsch

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR TWENTY-FIVE

[discoscoob]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ PHANTOM

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚ Tom Ludlow x Hacker!Reader x Neo Anderson

VOLUME 001

CW: fem!reader, strong language, alcoholism, stalking

Synopsis: Veteran detective, Tom Ludlow, leads the hunt to find the hacker responsible for a cyberattack on the city’s police department with the assistance of Neo, a criminal hacker who he keeps out of jail in exchange for information. 4.0k words.

⋆｡°✩ Note: Reader has a hacker alias, like Neo, that she is referred to however this is not intended to be her real name. Although the story takes place in 1999, some creative liberties have been taken with the advancement of the technology but I tried my best to keep it realistic. I did some research but my knowledge of technology, American law enforcement protocols and hacking is limited/non-existent, so I apologise in advance if anything I’ve written is completely inaccurate. And finally, since I decided to set the story in Chicago, Tom works for the CPD rather than the LAPD. I think that’s all.

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

CHICAGO, NOVEMBER 1999

The door chimes as you step into the refuge of the intimate coffee shop, escaping the deluge of the late autumn thunderstorm. Folding up the damp newspaper you had been sheltering under, you’re greeted warmly by the gentle aroma of freshly ground coffee and cinnamon. Beaded raindrops slide off the hem of your black leather trench coat, leaving a trail of droplets over the rustic floorboards on your way towards the counter.

Exploiting the vantage point, you subtly scope the room, scanning for the individual you have arranged to meet. Amidst the ordinary and familiar, a lone hooded figure hunched in the farthest, darkest corner catches your eye.

Cradling the steaming mug of coffee you ordered, warmth flows from the porcelain, melting the chill from your fingers as you weave through the bohemian maze of tables and chairs. Upon reaching the table occupied by the hooded man, you grab his attention by tossing your damp, tattered newspaper on the cherry-wood tabletop before sliding yourself into the chair opposite him.

“Impressive.” his low rasp flows above the bumble of chatter, the whir of the espresso machine and the clatter of the crockery, as he drums his bitten-nailed fingertips over the smudged headline of the dampened newspaper.

‘CYBERATTACK CRIPPLES CHICAGO P.D.’ it reads in bold font across the front page.

You conceal your troubled frown behind your cup of coffee, sipping slowly. Despite your best efforts to hold yourself with casual confidence, your stomach squirms with nerves as if contaminated by worms that coil and twist, leaving a weight of knots that only grows heavier with every glance over your shoulder.

When the man opposite you lowers his hood, you peek over the brim of the mug. The faint amber glow of the overhead lights casts a warm hue upon his pale face, revealing his buzzed haircut, sharp grey eyes and a cursive tattoo above his right brow that reads ‘escape.’

“I can see why you’re interested in some additional protection.” his hushed tone is laced with a knowing edge, as he leans forward, elbows resting on the tabletop, assessing you with a tilted stare.

“You got it?” you waste no time with false pleasantries, uninterested in conversation, you would rather keep this brief. Disregarding his attempt to assert control, your cool exterior remains unflinching as you nonchalantly trace your middle finger along the edge of your mug.

You catch the shift in the muscles of his cheek as he clenches his jaw and leans back into his chair. Grudgingly, he reaches into the pocket of his dark hoodie and pulls out a nondescript disc case. The clear plastic gleams under the overhead lights as he drops it on top of the newspaper with a sharp huff.

You quirk an eyebrow at his insolence, offering no more than that before your attention is snatched by the disc. Picking up the case, you turn it over in your hands and examine it with narrowed eyes.

“This is the only copy?” you double-check while opening the case with a soft click. The disc glimmers as it catches the light, momentarily illuminating your face.

“It’s custom software. No trails. No backups.” he affirms, crossing his arms over his chest.

Satisfied with his response, you scope the room once more, noting how the other patrons are too absorbed in their own lives to notice the rolled up wad of cash you slip into his waiting palm.

“Always a pleasure.” he appears pleased with the payment and stuffs the money into his pocket before he pulls his hood back over his head and leaves the table. As you take a sip from your coffee, the chime of the door echos and the draught from the storm sweeps in as he disappears into it.

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

The glaring artificial light from the monitors reflects off the lenses of Neo’s metal frame glasses while his long, jittery fingers click furiously across his keyboard. The perpetual clacking of the keys blends with the low hum of Mezzanine by Massive Attack echoing from the stereo system through the dull and bleak apartment, drowning out the sound of the storm outside. Cables snake across the bare floor, intertwining with the wheels of the worn desk chair. Neo is hunched over his chaotic desk, littered with discarded snack wrappers, empty coffee cups and energy drinks.

Locked in the digital labyrinth, Neo navigates it with unblinking eyes, the code mirrored in his pupils is no doubt permanently scorched into his retinas. The heavy shadows under his eyes are a testament to the endless caffeine-fuelled nights he spends sitting at his computer.

A heavy, insistent knock at the door shatters Neo’s focus, tearing his gaze from the monitors with an agitated groan. The distinct knock and the late hour of the visit tell him exactly who’s at his door.

With a huff, Neo turns off his stereo and pulls himself to his feet, stretching his arms over his head to relieve the tension in his stiffened joints. A satisfied moan rolls from his lips and his black T-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of his pale, sun-deprived skin as his bones click and pop. He pads softly towards the door on socked feet, stepping over tangled cables and discarded wrappers along the way.

Just as he expected, he opens his door to find Tom Ludlow in the dark hallway, leaning against his door frame with a stretched arm. The hardened, veteran detective invites himself inside without waiting for an invitation, the pungent scent of vodka clings to him and wafts into Neo’s dreary apartment as he enters.

“You look like shit.”

The gruff remark comes as no surprise, Tom isn’t exactly known for his sunny disposition.

“You don’t look any better.” Neo kicks his door shut with a grumble before slouching back into his desk chair, returning his attention to his monitors and diving back into the digital labyrinth. Meanwhile, the seasoned cop noses around the cluttered apartment with a disapproving frown tugging at his lips.

Tom lets his heavy body sink into the cushions as he drops onto Neo’s worn two-seater with a long, drawn out sigh of relief. It’s the first time he has had an opportunity to relax all day. He takes a moment to appreciate it.

“That might have something to do with the fact I just spent the last twelve hours dealing with a fucking cyberattack that’s got the whole damn department by the balls.” Tom rests his head down on the back of the couch and closes his eyes as he rubs his hand over his weary face.

“What’s your excuse?” he pauses, lifting his head, letting his eyes trail from Neo’s socked feet to his tousled, unwashed hair. “You’ve got all the time in the world, you could at least attempt to make yourself look half-decent, if you stepped away from that computer for two goddamn seconds…” Tom trails off, realising his frustration might verge on cruelty if he lets himself continue. Instead, he shifts his focus to the murky apartment. “You know, I’ve raided crack dens cleaner than this…”

“So the cyberattack really pissed you off, huh?” Neo turns in his desk chair without acknowledging Tom’s insolent remarks.

“Of course it fucking pissed me off! The entire network is shut down, there’s an encryption or something, I don’t know, blocking access to all the files and data. The Captain’s on my ass to solve this shit internally and find the bastard responsible before the Feds start poking their noses in with all their red tape and bureaucracy bullshit. You know, I always said, you can't rely on computers. The whole damn department is falling apart because everything's digital these days. A cyberattack can bring down an entire system. You couldn’t hack a piece of paper. No, you'd have to burn down the whole damn building or something to get rid of all the physical files.” Tom throws his head back on the couch again and stares up at the stained ceiling, while Neo discreetly rolls his eyes at Tom’s drunken rant and aversion to modern technology.

“Dude, I hate to tell you this, but you’re in way over your head. You’d be better off saving yourself the hassle and leaving this one to the Feds.” Neo advises Tom, clearly doubting his ability to uncover the hacker.

“What do you mean?” Tom leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You’re basically looking for the Banksy of cybercrime. A ghost. They’re completely untraceable. There are entire forums full of conspiracies — people think they’re ex-CIA, others are convinced they’re not even real.” Neo’s enthusiasm as he talks about the mystic hacker is met with an unimpressed glare from Tom, who rises from the couch and stalks toward him.

“Believe me, they’re real. A real fucking pain in the ass.” Tom grumbles sourly, hands resting on his hips. “What else do you know?”

“Just that they call themself Eris.” Neo softly mumbles, looking up at Tom from behind his glasses.

“And you found out all this on your forums?” Tom narrows his eyes while vaguely gesturing towards Neo’s monitors.

“Yeah, pretty much… I’ve been following it ever since the news broke. They’re going crazy.” Neo glances over his shoulder towards his monitors before returning his focus towards Tom when he is suddenly hit by a fresh wave of realisation.

“Hold on… you knew nothing? You mean, you’ve been chasing your tails for the last twelve hours?” Neo raises an eyebrow while barely managing to stifle a laugh.

“It’s been pretty fucking hard with the entire department’s network shut down!” Tom immediately snaps defensively. “What do you think I came here for?”

“Okay, I get it, you want my help.” Neo lets out a deep sigh, gently swaying his desk chair side to side as he bounces his leg and avoids Tom’s fierce gaze. “But Eris isn’t just some run-of-the-mill script bunny, we’re talking about a master. It’ll be virtually impossible to track down their identity.”

“So you’re telling me you can’t do it?” frustration seeps into Tom’s tone as he folds his arms across his chest and leans against Neo’s desk, causing the empty coffee mugs to rattle.

“I didn’t say that.” Neo perks up and straightens himself in his desk chair as if trying to shake off the weight of his own self doubt. “Listen, I’ll try, okay? But I can’t guarantee that I’ll find anything. You’re asking me to find a ghost.”

“Even ghosts can leave traces, Neo.” Tom offers Neo a firm, encouraging pat on his shoulder before dragging himself back over to the worn two seater couch. Exhausted after a long, stressful shift and subdued by the vodka, Tom collapses onto the cushions horizontally.

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

The faint click of keys is broken by the sharp hiss and pop of another energy drink opening as Neo scours forum after forum. The glow from the monitor is the only source of light in the room as he reads through endless streams of contradictory information and preposterous conspiracies. His attempts to reach out to fellow hackers has been predictably futile — dead ends, dismissals and wild goose chases.

When the deep repetitive rumble of snoring begins to flow through the room, Neo glances back at Tom, who is passed out cold with his arm dangling off the side of the couch. With a huff, Neo shoves his headphones on and blasts The Downward Spiral by Nine Inch Nails loud enough to drown out the sound.

Hours pass, punctuated by the clicks of his keyboard. His head feels foggy from exhaustion and the streams of meaningless data he has sifted through. But then, a pattern begins to emerge from a series of recurring orders of high-end custom encryption software from underground markets, all linked with the same digital fingerprint. A breadcrumb trail. His heartbeat quickens as he runs the information through a data-mining algorithm, leading him deeper down the rabbit hole. That’s when he finds it — an encrypted communication between Eris and a known cyber dealer.

The message is brief but reveals a meeting took place just a few hours ago at a local coffee shop, finally giving Neo a physical location to place the illusive hacker. With his pulse hammering, Neo hacks into the security cameras and pulls up the footage for the exact hour the meeting was scheduled.

Neo’s fatigued eyes scan the pixelated footage, searching for the possible suspect. His breath catches at the sight of a woman wearing a leather trench coat, walking with a confident stride. She tosses a newspaper on a table occupied by a hooded figure, before sliding into the chair opposite. Neo zooms in, every detail sends a jolt through him — her pretty face, subtle confidence, the quirk of her brow, the way her middle finger traces the rim of her coffee cup.

She’s perfect. So perfect and stunning.

Neo’s heart throbs, for once, it’s not due to the obscene amounts of caffeine in his system. A mixture of fascination and desire floods through his body and the hunt for the high-profile hacker slips to the back of his mind. He loops the footage, letting his mind drift until something in the video yanks him back to reality. He watches the man hand her a nondescript disc. After a brief inspection, she slips a thick wad of cash into his waiting palm in return.

Neo shakes his head, in an attempt to clear the haze of desire clouding his judgment. He replays the footage again, rewatching the exchange several times, until there is no doubt in his mind that she is the one he has been searching for.

Neo slumps back into his chair, defeated and elated all at once. He hadn’t expected this. Not only is she brilliant, elusive and smart but also gorgeous. It’s not fair. Staring at the frozen image on the screen, his mind races. The initial plan to assist Tom vanishes in a wave of wild impulse. Eris isn’t just another faceless criminal anymore. She is no longer a mystic ghost that exists only in the depths of endless conspiracies on hacker forums. Now, she is real, tangible and absolutely captivating. Neo knows he can’t just give her up.

“Fuck.” he groans, pulling off his glasses and burying his face in the palm of his hands with his elbows resting on the few clear spaces left on his cluttered desk. He tries to process the whirlwind of emotions flooding through his mind.

“What’s wrong?” Neo hears a faint grumble. His head snaps up, panic surging through him. He nearly gives himself whiplash with how fast he turns to look behind him. Tom, in a half-dazed state, sprawled on his stomach, his cheek pressed against the cushions and his arm dangling off the side of the couch, is just barely starting to come to his senses.

“N- Nothing… just…” Neo’s tone wavers with panic, his jittery fingers scramble to urgently close the security footage. He feels his face flush as he blurts. “I was… uh… I- I was watching porn.”

Neo freezes, his eyes widen and his face pales after those words leave his mouth without a trace of forethought as he wonders, out of all the possible excuses, why the fuck did he say that?

Still half-asleep, Tom huffs as he sits up, groaning at the throbbing ache in his skull from his hangover. He pauses, trying to process Neo’s words.

“You were… what?”

“I- I mean, no, I wasn’t—”

“Neo, are you being fucking serious?” Tom growls, his voice raising, along with his stress and frustration, his expression hardens with disbelief. “You’re telling me, instead of tracking down the hacker, like I told you to, you’ve been sitting there jacking off — while I’m right here! — like some kind of fucking creep. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“No! It’s not like that!” Neo pitches in desperation, his cheeks blazing red, realising what a freak he just made himself out to be.

“I haven’t got time for your bullshit excuses, Neo. I’ve got to get back to the station and do some actual police work.” Tom shoots up from the couch and paces, distractedly checking his pager for any updates from the department. “I should’ve known better than to trust some wannabe hacker, you can barely make it in the virtual criminal world on your damn computer, never mind the real world. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Neo jolts in his chair at the slam of the door, surprised it’s still on its hinges with the way Tom roughly swung it shut behind him after storming out. He knows Tom is stressed, frustrated, and hungover — a toxic combination — but that doesn’t soften the sting of his cruel words. They cut deep, no matter how much Neo tries to tell himself that Tom probably didn’t really mean them.

“Well done, Neo.” he mutters bitterly to himself, the sound of his own voice barely above a whisper in the now-empty room.

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

Neo is fully aware that what he is planning to do isn’t exactly sane or rational. After Tom stormed out, he spent hours combing through more of the security footage, discovering that you frequent the coffee shop almost daily. You always settle in the little nook by the alcove window, overlooking the bustling city streets, with the same order: a coffee and panini. Now, on impulse, he has decided to visit the café himself, hoping to catch a glimpse of you in person.

Water droplets cling to his freshly showered skin, trickling down his pale frame in slow, meandering paths. A dark towel is wrapped securely around his hips, where faint tufts of dark, coiled hair peek out from beneath the terry cloth on his lower abdomen. He rifles through a haphazard pile of clothes on the floor, lifting several shirts to his nose, inhaling deeply before discarding them, searching for the freshest one.

Neo trails his sunken eyes over his reflection in the smudged mirror, a shaky breath escaping his moistened lips at the sight. His jittery fingers pat down his slicked back hair, pushing stray strands into place. The contact lenses — a change from his usual glasses — feel heavy on his tired eyes, sharpening the fuzzy edges of the world around him.

The sight of himself so neat and put together feels strange and offbeat — like a Halloween costume, if the costume was ‘Normal Guy.’

When Neo arrives at the coffee shop, he makes a sensible choice and orders decaf. He is jittery enough without the added rush of more caffeine racing through his veins. This coffeehouse isn’t his usual haunt — he tends to stick to instant coffee at home — but he can understand why you like it here. The cozy warmth and hushed ambiance even manage to unwind some of the tension coiled inside him as he settles at your usual table, the one tucked away in the nook by the alcove window. He hopes you’ll glance over to check if your favourite spot is taken — and see him. That would be enough. Then he will know you’re aware of his existence. Neo’s plan doesn’t extend much further than that for now.

The coffee, however, sits untouched as Neo anxiously taps his foot, his focus flicking between the door and the clock on the wall. His unsettled heart spasms with every chime of the door — half longing, half fretting — that it might finally be you, stepping over the threshold.

He wipes his palms on his dark jeans, feeling the contact lenses prick against his tired eyes.

Then the door chimes again.

Neo’s breath hitches. His heart leaps.

As soon as he lays his eyes upon you, the world ceases her rotation. The hushed chatter, clattering mugs and hissing steamer blur into a distant hum, drowned out by the pounding of his throbbing heart against his ribcage. You step through the door, carrying yourself with effortless confidence that, to him, seems otherworldly. There’s something magnetic about you, every cell in his body feels the tug, luring him toward you.

You haven’t noticed him. Not yet. But you will.

Suddenly, there’s too much saliva pooling in his mouth, he swallows thickly, desperately trying not to choke and make a fool of himself. His fidgety fingers twitch, reaching for his untouched coffee cup just to keep them occupied and anchor himself. He fears he might float away, like an untethered balloon, if he doesn’t hold onto something solid.

It’s an overused expression, but he truly can’t believe his eyes. You’re real, standing right there, only a few feet away. Adrenaline surges through his quivering body, sending his pulse into overdrive. His thoughts glitch and stutter, suspending him over a chasm of indecision, caught between yearning to get closer and the impulse to crawl under the table before you notice him.

Before Neo has the chance to do either, the door chimes once more.

His eyes widen at the sight of Tom following behind you.

What the hell is he doing here? What the hell is he doing with you?

His mind floods with questions that twist his anxious stomach into knots. Did Tom figure out who you are? Has he caught you already? It doesn’t look like he’s arresting you. Perhaps he is just questioning you.

Panic coils around Neo’s heart like barbed wire, his fingers tighten around the coffee cup. Neo’s eyes bounce between you and Tom, trying to piece together an explanation, but it only leaves him more confused, more anxious.

This doesn’t make any sense.

His heart hammers against his ribs, dangerously hard, as Tom leans in, speaking to you in a way that’s far too casual, far too familiar. Neo’s mind spirals. Tom doesn’t look suspicious of you — he doesn’t seem suspicious of anything. In fact, he almost seems… apologetic.

The detective's lips move with words Neo desperately wishes he could hear, he wants to know what makes you stop and listen. Neo gulps, trying to force the air trapped in his throat back down to his lungs as he watches you process Tom’s words. Whatever he said, causes the faintest smile to tug at your lips, and Neo feels an unfamiliar twist in his chest, bitter and sharp.

It only worsens when he watches a rare curve appear on Tom’s usually rigid face. Since when does Tom smile like that? It’s all because of you…

You’re… amazing. Neo knows that for certain now, you had to be to crack someone as hard as Tom. That’s why Neo is so drawn to you, your power, your allure. No one else possesses the power to soften a man like Tom. No one but you.

But what do you see in him? Jealousy coils tighter in Neo’s gut, while his admiration for you grows with every second. You’re remarkable, strong, gorgeous, untouchable. And Tom? He doesn’t deserve any of it. He doesn’t deserve your smile, your time, your company. Neo hates it.

His jaw tightens when Tom pays for your order. What do you do to him? Tom isn’t charmed by just anyone. Neo’s thoughts churn, his unsettled mind runs in circles and his grip on the coffee cup tightens as he watches, helpless, waiting for the pieces to fall into place. But the puzzle remains a mess.

Then, your eyes shift.

Neo’s heart stumbles and drops like a rock and your gazes lock. His body freezes and his tumbling heart quivers with a racing pulse. No… no, no, no…

You saw him.

Neo quickly diverts his attention, but it’s too late. That one moment, your eyes locking, that was enough. An icy shiver crawls down Neo’s spine, melting at the base as dread seeps into his veins. She caught me staring? What must she think?

Neo’s chest tightens as you lean closer to Tom, he can’t hear your words, but the way you nod subtly in his direction makes his throat go dry. You’re telling him. You told him. Panic spreads like wildfire as Neo’s eyes dart around, wondering how quickly he could bolt to the exit without making a scene, but before he can act, Tom turns. The soft smile is gone, replaced by the sharp, hardened look Neo is more familiar with.

Tom’s gaze lands directly on him. Oh fuck. Now you’re both looking at him.

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

⋆｡°✩ Note: I’m sorry this part is very reader lite but don’t worry reader is in the next part from start to finish and I’ll introduce the third mystery keanuverse character! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it enough to come back for more! VOLUME 002 will be posted in November!

[sweetwolfcupcake]

Imagine being kidnapped by Tom Ludlow.

Hmm, I'm guessing that you are referring to a yandere Tom? Or is it Canon Tom?

Canon Tom doesn't seem to be the type, but maybe to protect the reader from any other criminal or group she got involved with? Maybe a witness, maybe a target. The department isn't doing a great job. He knows it's corrupt, so he might take things into his hands. He would be sweet and respectful, I think. There will, of course, be boundaries for the reader until he solves the issue, but I don't see Canon Tom having any malicious intent, his ways are very grey and often wrong but his intentions aren't. but I think it would take a lot to get to that state for Canon Tom. Maybe a threat to his and the reader's lives.

Now, I'm not sure if I can do justice to this but here is my take on Yandere Tom.

He is a cop already, he knows the ways of criminals, from the bottom to the top. He is experienced, he has tasted the dirt and even gotten his hands dirty. I think Yandere Tom kidnapping the reader would take some time. Perhaps that would be him snapping, or last resort?

Either way, it's not a favourable situation for the reader because Tom knows how to cover up his tracks. maybe he is the one even leading the investigation of a 'missing' reader, who most probably will end up 'dead' to the world. So if the reader wants to escape, she needs to be smart about it. he knows everything related and relevant to her and his plans better than anyone else. So if anything even goes haywire, he is prepared, which is scary in this situation.

Tom is not dumb, he is brains and brawl so she should take a slow game. I think Yandere Tom would be overprotective and very possessive? he is not delusional, he knows that what he is doing is wrong, but I think he is the type to acknowledge that he is selfish wrong and messed up, but it's still better than letting the reader slips away.

Maybe this is what made him take the extreme step of kidnapping her but yes, he knows his charms, and he isn't reserved about using his charms and trying to win the reader but when the situation calls for it, he can be frightening as well. I think his anger would be the stuff of nightmares, but I do not think he would ever lay a finger on her. But he is not afraid to use force-- tying the reader for 'her own good',, locking her in a room and maybe even drugging her if things go to extremes. So, an upfront war with someone who can easily cover his tracks and has planned through it is not going to work, the reader should get to know his mind first.

I do not know if the analysis is accurate, I haven't watched the movie and most of my analysis is based on the brilliant fic written by @johnwickb1tsch and @treedaddymcpuffpuff 'Excessive Force'. Amazing fic, has me hooked. I think they can answer this better. What do you think @treedaddymcpuffpuff and @johnwickb1tsch?

[satlun]

Guyss I have an idea can someone please write one shot or a fic of John Wick x f!reader or Tom Ludlow x f!reader that sounds like this song??? Omg it's not a want it's a need! It sounds soo naughty and sexy 😭😭♥️ like you both play a game about your relationship or something like that I don't know how to explain you have to listen to it and you will understand the vibe. By the way please tag me if you write it, I wanna read. 😩

[sad-sad-times]

Did I spend the night writing Street King fanfiction instead of sleeping? Perhaps, it maybe 5 o clock in the morning but I have a Captain James Biggs smut fic so ya know, sacrifices.

James/Tom - Good?

Tom is jealous that the Captain got sucked off by that prostitute and so insists that he'd do a better job....

Warnings: smut, language, that good gay shit

Idk if you guys wanna be tagged or not but:

@thamberlinawrites @greghouse7

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Navigation

✨ 18+

✨ Most works explore adult themes, discretion is advised.

✨ My works are exclusive to this blog and ao3; any copying, reposting or translating is not permitted.

Because of the ban on certain tags, ALL warnings are posted at the top of my fics and are always emboldened. Please read all warnings (if any) carefully before proceeding.

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Keanu Reeves Characters:

John Wick (John Wick franchise, 2014-)

Tom Ludlow (Street Kings, 2008)

Jack Traven (Speed, 1994)

John Constantine (Constantine, 2005)

Julian Mercer (Something's Gotta Give, 2003)

Shane Falco (The Replacements, 2000)

Cillian Murphy Characters:

Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders, 2013-2022)

Jim (The Delinquent Season, 2018)

Chris Evans Characters:

Ransom Drysdale (Knives Out, 2019)

Andy Barber (Defending Jacob, 2020)

Frank Adler (Gifted, 2017)

Rahul Kohli Characters:

Hassan el Shabazz (Midnight Mass)

Napoleon Usher (The Fall of the House of Usher)

Keanu Reeves/Characters

Cillian Murphy Characters

Chris Evans Characters

Hozier

12 Days of Christmas Writing Event (2021)

Masterlist Page

*If the previously mentioned links do not work, a common occurrence on mobile, try "masterlist tag" in the search bar of my blog.

a03

✨ Updated weekly

Then it would only be second to death....: Hozier x reader. Summary: Following their chance run-in at the farmers market, Andrew shows up at Y/n's house. Part 2 of What if this is the last time I see you? Warnings: Angst.

Broken Chords: Yours, just as it was. Hozier x reader. Summary: Following Andrew's promises to change, Y/n travels to Ireland, even if she isn't sure if she can believe him anymore. Warnings: Angst.

What if this is the last time I see you? Hozier x reader. Summary: A chance run-in between exes at the farmers market leaves Andrew wondering if he’ll be okay never seeing Y/n again. Part 1 of 2. Warnings: Angst.

[ladyreapermc]

MASTERLIST

Welcome to my brand new master list folks.

I write for: 

Keanu Reeves (John Wick, John Constantine, Johnny Utah, Jack Traven, Julian Mercer; Donaka Mark; Tom Ludlow)

Richard Madden (David Budd; Leo West)

Karl Urban (Leonard Bones McCoy, Reaper Grimm, Eomer, Vincent Stevens) I’m also open to write for McKirk

Sons of Anarchy (For Chibs and Jax and Juice)

Mayans Mc (for Angel; Ez and Galindo)

Unless specified as OFC, all my fics are reader-insert and any smut is signaled as such. If you want specific information on what kinks a specific smut fic has, I always give the highlights in my warnings for that piece. 

If you have other questions, my asks are always open. If you wanna drop by to just say hi and chat or ask something about a fic or even offer some constructive criticism, please feel welcome to do so.

I don't write for Henry or his characters anymore, but I can point you Towards some lovely blogs that still do.

KEANU REEVES AND CHARACTERS MASTERLIST

RICHARD MADDEN AND CHARACTERS MASTERLIST

KARL URBAN AND CHARACTERS MASTERLIST

SONS OF ANARCHY AND MAYANS MC MASTERLIST

BIRTHDAY CHALLENGE MASTERLIST

[janiedean]

Since we're in topic, do you have some advices for writers? Where do you begin when you write original stories and characters? The plot, the concept, the description of characters?

spewell considering that you’re talking to ‘oh hey I have the original idea that might work but I’ve been figuring it out for a whole year and a half’ take them with the necessary skepticism but since I did come up with some decent ocs in fic apparently my advice is probably not entirely shitty lol so with the premise that writing is Not A Science and other than reading a lot no advice is 100% foulproof especially if it doesn’t work for you...

I’d start with the concept, ie: what do you want your story to be about or what message do you want it to be about or what do you want to do with it. do you want to scare people? do you want to make people happy with quality entertainment but without writing a Serious Novel? do you want to write a sad thing to make a point? like, you need to know where you’re going with it in general;

when you have your concept, whichever it is - for one, without going in-depth let’s just say that my original novel concept that I’ve been trying to figure out for good is ‘blade runner meets high fidelity’ (don’t worry IT MAKES SENSE) -, you need to work at once both on main setting and protagonist. I mean, idk let’s just discuss a thing I wanted to write last year when I was thinking of sending original writing to this scifi anthology and then never managed because time and drama and real life happened and I couldn’t commit to it;

so, the theme of that anthology was ‘alternate peace’ ie write a short story where a situation that in history ended up in a fight/war/bloodbath is solved peacefully and write the alternate universe coming from it. so: I had to come up with the idea first because otherwise I wouldn’t have known where to start, then the worldbuilding, then the characters - ngl I think that if you have the worldbuild the characters come a lot easier but that’s me. so: I was like ‘what if I wrote something where the ludlow massacre never happens?’ (the ludlow massacre was tldr a strike in colorado which ended up with the strikers being mass killed by the national guard and in turned caused enough scandal to get unions/unionized labor a lot of traction in the US at least until maccarthysm.) then I didn’t, but in order I went like:a) if what happened is that it had repercussions on the history of unionized work in the US, if I did it so that the workers accepted a plea or smth and the rockfellers won without no one dying, those repercussions would Not Have Happened, nor it’d have created all the left-leaning literature/politics/thinking that came out of it, john reed wouldn’t have written about it etc, so I had elaborated an entire situation post-wwii where unions had all died long before, people were pretty much without any single social lifesaver and could get fired at will and it was basically dystopian hell with mccarthy being president or smth;b) at that point I was like, who do I put in this, and at that point I didn’t manage to go much forward but I had a feeling I should have some young person who was born after the not-massacre who had no idea of what went on talking to an older one that had actually been there and wished they hadn’t taken the deal;c) young dude would have been more or less cynical/not really much of a politics person, old dude would have been old school leftist who still wishes there could have been a better world and wishes the new generation would put two and two together and talk to their elders;d) young dude wouldn’t have known how to read/write because he wouldn’t have needed it for factory work, old dude would have etc;at that point I could have probably gone and gave them families (or not), or a friend (or not), and my general idea was having them discuss politics for the main part of the story, then old guy dies or smth like that and young guy actually gets the message and idk I basically wanted you to read it and feel like I felt when I listened to the ghost of tom joad, that was the general idea;that said, the characters were the last part i came up with because I needed the worldbuilding to know what character I wanted in it, which is why I’d say worldbuld first if you’re writing that kinda thing ie scifi, alternate history etc;

now, obv. if you’re writing the coffee shop au just in novel format or if you’re writing something lighter where the setting doesn’t matter, you need good characters first. I mean, if you write the coffee shop setting just to have a good love story you might want people to pick yours and not the umpteenth version of it with the same dynamic (same with the YAs with the sixteen year-old girl who thinks she’s ugly falling for the hot dude with abs and a bad attitude), so in that case I’d go for the characters. for one, if I had to write a YA, I’d make it with a girl who is actually ugly and has hobbies other than just reading and maybe plays in the school band or has some peculiar post-school job or idk can repair cars but is not good at everything she does and the guy would be moderately hot though not THE SPIT COPY OF DAMON SALVATORE JUST WITH GREEN EYES, he wouldn’t have a license and he wouldn’t think that it’s sexy to tell your girlfriend that you own her, and while I’m nowhere near interested in writing YAs, that would differentiate it from 99,9% of the YAs around from what I see, and so at that point I’d make sure I got the main two down and then I’d work on the friends and family and make them less stereotypical as possible so my YA is different from everyone else’s YA, and if any of them is a supernatural creature they suck at it and hate having supernatural magic and the likes. I mean, you want your characters to have a personality, but if you have a good worldbuilding behind them it might come after, if you don’t gaf about the worldbuilding and just want the standard setting work on the characters and try to give them depth before you plan anything else;

figure out where do you want your story to go before writing it - ie: the only reason I haven’t written the original yet is that idk what kind of spin I want the ending to have and I’m not 100% convinced so I’m not doing it yet, but if you don’t have the backbone of it planned then you’re going to lose steam or the plot will fuck you over (in my experience). like, try to have at least clear what happens in the main arc so that you know how to get from beginning to ending without needing to figure shit out as you go along, then you start, and if you change your mind while you do go with it, but try to start it knowing where you’re headed because it makes it easier imvho;

if you go for complicated shit like time travel figure that shit out before you start writing it including every possible repercussion because you’ll hate yourself if you don’t;

don’t try to re-do what others did obviously. I mean, if I wanted to write rep for non standard attractive cishet women I would not try to re-write brienne of tarth just changing the hair color. I would try to take the same tropes he’s using, change the setting and go with it, but it shows if you read a book and your character is the exact same as your favorite writer’s. like, if you read ian tregillis’s milkweed tryptich it’s going to be obvious that one of the main characters is the same tropes as jaime but that guy has enough personality differences and an enough different background and circumstances of upbringing that while you can see it has the same basics (generally nice guy forced to do horrid things who wants to redeem himself, live without his overbearing sister who wants to control him and has a generally straight moral compass), you don’t think ‘oh ian tregillis who is grrm’s friend has copied from him and put jaime lannister in a wwii alternate history trilogy’. like, we all have our tropes and our favorite writers and it’s good to take inspiration and homage them, but try to give your spin on those tropes you’re using, because otherwise it’ll just look lazy;

do whatever the fuck you want with your plot. don’t think about what others would want to read - it’s your story and you should tell it the way you want to. then please listen to criticism and find people who’ll provide it for you without tearing down your work but telling you what works and what doesn’t, but like... if you want to touch some themes or write characters from a different background or whatever do it;

also, do your research. I mean, I could have written the ludlow massacre story because:a) I read all of john reed’s articles pertaining to that specific happening and those articles include interviews with the people who were there, a description of who they were, an extremely detailed reconstruction of the facts and so on;b) there’s folk songs, two novels and one opera on ludlow not including history books, so it’s not only easily readable upon, but you also can see the impact it had in media/the american culture.so, even if I’m not american, having read all of that, I could have probably gone for it and done a decent job, find someone with a history degree to veto it and go for it. but like, again, unless you’re writing the coffee shop au or the ya or the kind of novel that does not require an established setting or you are making the entire worldbuilding up from scratch with no influences from the real world, you can’t not do at least some basic research. and when reading something, it does show if the author has at least done basic research or if they’re winging it. then they might be good enough that you don’t care they’re winging it, but still, research XD because research also gives you a lot more ideas that you might not have taken previously into account and might save you a plot detail or so;

I also would advice not to write what you know - because that’s easy and it doesn’t let you go out of your comfort zone and at some point what you know will finish -, but: write something you know. as in, my blade runner + high fidelity au should be scifi and touch stuff idk shit about, but since it’s a high fidelity au half of it is supposed to be set in a (pseudo) record shop and the protagonist miiiiiight have a thing or a hundred for springsteen. now: who has spent half of her life in record shops and is into bruce? yes, me. now, the character in question has zero in common with yours truly except for that, but let me tell you that if there is one thing I know how to write that you can’t convince me I couldn’t write is someone into springsteen who hangs around record shops. I know my people and I know why someone would be into springsteen. like, when making up characters and you want to make them relatable or you want to relate to them more, give them one thing you can relate to even if it’s dumb - idk you like strawberries? that character also likes strawberries and so on - because that will get you closer to them and your reader will feel it. it’s a thing I do with fanfic all the time - like if I have to try and write someone IC I try to relate to one thing they have if I can, because that makes the characters more relatable and it’s easier. ie when I was like ‘how do I crack the jaime pov’ the answer was ‘ALL THE BAD SELF-DEPRECATING HUMOR YOU DO ALL THE TIME GO DOWN ON IT’ bc that’s what I relate to jaime for and so on. idk that is a thing that’s always helped me when coming up with any character so I guess it might be useful advice? *shrug*

(obv: if you’re writing a 100% bad guy that you don’t empathize with then you don’t have to, I mean grrm did say he had to take a shower after writing chapters from A Certain POV because it’s horrible being in their head so like.... you can feel disgust at what you’re writing esp. if it’s the POV of a terrible person, but That Character resonated with people and felt relatable to some of them because to them they had... RELATABLE moments/humane moments too so if you’re writing bad guys but try to not make them cardboard cuts/TOO HORRIBLE it will make them stronger as *bad guys*. mvho.)

but mostly: read a lot of stuff, try to put your spin on things and don’t gaf about what people think until you finished it. then you can worry about concrit xD

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

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

Summary : After you treat him in the ER, Officer Tom Ludlow asks you out. You turn him down, thinking you know his type, but he’s not willing to take no for an answer. In fact, you find out he’s more than willing to abuse his authority in his pursuit of you. Maybe Ludlow seems like an asshole, but when you are drawn into a dangerous conspiracy that could go all the way to the top of the LAPD, he might be the only thing that stands between you and a shallow grave.

TW : Abuse of authority, alpha male, sexual harassment, the word “no” is not in this man’s vocabulary

The ER is overflowing tonight. There was a huge drug bust down on South Hampton Avenue that ended in a fire and gunfight: turned out to be a big enough debacle that they had to call a code black throughout the hospital, which basically means, at least for you, no breaks or time between patients. In times like this, charting even takes a back burner thanks to a hospital policy where everything you learned in nursing school flies out the window and you don’t have to document what you’re doing. 

It’s a good thing, because you don’t have time to log onto a computer let alone write something down with pen and paper. Burn victims, gunshots, every bed full, people boarding in the waiting room and hallways with broken limbs and makeshift pressure dressings on bullet holes and stab wounds.

The once chemical, pristine floor and walls now look like something from a SAW movie, and you’re not much better off. Bloody, dirt caked scrubs, exhausted, sweat stains. You’ve probably done more chest compressing tonight than you have in your entire career leading up. And you’ve seen more people die tonight… well, more than you’d like.

You wipe some tears off your cheeks, pretending it’s sweat, before walking into the lobby to catch the stragglers. “Thomas?”

“Call me Tom.” He’s a cop, still in uniform, sitting on the floor with a big puff of gauze pressed into his shoulder. You kneel down beside him. 

“I’m y/n, can I take a look?”

“Sure.” He winces, pulls the bloody dressing away to reveal a big, messy gash slicing into his left shoulder. It will need stitches, that’s for sure, but other than that it looks like a fairly clean cut. 

“Knife?” You ask him, pulling back on his shirt. 

“Some fucking idiot crackhead with a sword, actually,” he grits. 

You laugh a little bit. “I’m having a hard time believing that.”

“So am I.” He tries to grin at you, but it comes out more like a snarl because of the way you’re poking and prodding at him. 

Maybe it's just because you're exhausted, you've had a terrible night, and you hurt all over, but you can't help but notice how handsome this man is, even after his own ordeals on the mean streets of the City of Angels. He watches you with sharp dark eyes that miss nothing. You almost feel sorry for the criminals who find themselves on the receiving end of that stare. As it is, you almost feel a little unnerved yourself, until you notice a sparkle of humor for you in those dark orbs. However, you still get the feeling like he's studying you while you are tending his wound.

“I gotta stitch this,” you tell him, a little shy under his gaze, now. 

“Are you good at that?” 

You’re kind of in your own little world when he asks that, looking at his arms. Solid and big. Nice veins. It takes you a minute to register that he even said something. Yeah, you chastise yourself, why don’t you just start fucking drooling while you’re at it? 

“Good at what?” 

His grin tips higher. “Stitches…” 

“No, but I'm going to stab you repeatedly with a needle anyway…”

He chuffs with laughter. “You just seem a little distracted.” The way he smirks at you, you just know you're caught out. Get it together, you scold yourself. Maybe act like a professional instead of oogling the nice police officer.

“Sorry. It's just been a really long night. I promise, you're in good hands.”

“Looking forward to it,” he answers, with a beam of direct eye contact that nearly brings you to your knees. 

This is where you catch your lucky break, because this is where you start to get annoyed. Mostly, at yourself, but partly at him too. He clearly knows how attractive he is. He's just that kind of asshole. And it's been fucking forever since you've gotten laid, because the world is just so full of assholes… It's not fair, the way he uses this advantage to tease you, when you feel like an extra in a Rob Zombie film. You do your best to appear unaffected as you walk away to retrieve supplies. You also pretend not to notice him staring at your ass, which, okay, you have to admit, it’s a little bit of a confidence boost. 

It’s almost stupid to put towels under his arm as you spray him off with sterile water - this floor could actually use it. You get the edges pink and shiny, uncake the blood and the viscera. Grateful for the distraction - distraction from the big, brown eyed cop who won’t stop looking at you. 

He has that type of stare that has weight to it. You feel it, on your skin– and you hate to admit it– in the aching throb between your legs, which is the last thing you need to be distracted by right now. Ah, the stupid lady parts, always making their vote known at the worst possible time. 

Even though you let the anesthetic sit for a while, modern medicine can’t account for all the pain. He’s wincing and grunting while you tug his open flesh back together, and those gruff sounds are not helping this whole being attracted to him situation. You feel like your skin is on fire from his overwhelming stare, from the noises coming out of that long throat. Christ, he’s not even touching you…

“You alright there sweetheart? I'm the one under the needle.”

You look at him, some of that anger escaping in your tone. “Please don’t call me sweetheart.” 

“Sorry. Been a long night for me too.” He lifts one of those sculpted dark brows at you, and you feel it as your heart tries most earnestly to tap dance right out of your fucking chest. 

You sigh, narrowing your eyes so that he knows he's not in the clear. Unfortunately, he just seems to find that adorable, those dark eyes sparkling like black diamonds. 

“Just…let me finish you off so you can get out of here.”

“Didn't know you performed that service here,” he quips with a smirk, and you're almost relieved he drives this final nail into his coffin, even if the suggestion makes a spear of desire shoot through you. 

“I'm starting to side with the crackhead now.”

“Ooo, ouch,” he snarks, unaffected. “Take your time, this is the most fun I've had in a while.”

You decide not to answer, concentrating on your work. This man has a quick comeback for everything, you have a feeling. Worse, you kind of doubt a girl like you has a chance in hell of outmaneuvering him.

As you're bandaging him up, he senses your time together is coming to a close. His demeanor changes a little– if you didn't know any better,  you'd think he was sad about it. “Thanks for stitching me up,” he says, surprisingly humble. He rolls those big dark eyes up to yours, and you feel your resolve to be a stone cold professional crumble–a little.

“You're welcome.” It's possible your touch on his shoulder lingers just slightly longer than it should. 

“Hey…” He clearly feels bold enough to catch your hand in his. And holy shit, that hand. Your little mitt disappears in his, wrapped up in long, blunt fingers. The things you bet that hand could do to you…

It's definitely not a helpful thought.

“Any chance I could give you a call sometime?”

Your initial, knee-jerk reaction to this question, from this fine-ass man, is Yes, please and thank you. You're sure he sees it in your eyes, the way you're practically ready to sit up and bark for him.

But then, past experiences raise their hands to the situation, and how grateful you are. 

You know this guy's type, you convince yourself. Handsome, and macho, and they think they're so cute they can say anything and you'll just keep eating out of the palm of their hand, grateful to be their girl. You've starred in this show before– and it always ends in tragedy, with your heart in shreds, and them shrugging you off before moving on. 

Not tonight. 

“Sorry, but…I think it's best we keep this professional.”

Why does it hurt to say it?

You expect him to sulk, maybe even get mean, the way so many manly men do when a woman bruises their fragile egos. However, it seems this man is different. He just smirks, and you realize with a skip of your heartbeat, that he is not deterred at all.

“If you say so, sweetheart.”

With your heart in your throat, you have a feeling this is not the last you see of detective Tom Ludlow.

[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.

[discoscoob]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ PHANTOM

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚ Tom Ludlow x Hacker!Reader x Neo Anderson

VOLUME 002

CW: fem!reader x mystery keanuverse character

Synopsis: You reconnect with an old college flame amidst the chaos of the cyberattack and navigate a web of suspicion and danger while trying to hide your involvement. 3.6k words.

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

CHICAGO CITY POLICE STATION, 8:56 A.M.

“So, what’s a guy gotta do to get a bit of cooperation ‘round here?”

The familiar voice ripples through the air with a wave of nostalgia but is quickly swallowed by the rising tide of chaos. A torrent of voices swell and crash, merging with the static-laden chatter of the police radios into an unintelligible roar; only the occasional shout manages to surface before being swept away by the hectic current. The shrill cry of an unanswered phone cuts through, sharp and relentless, echoing like a buoy’s bell lost in a storm. Beneath the harsh fluorescent glare, officers wade through a sea of desks drowning under piles of manila files, while the faint smell of burnt coffee lingers in the air.

Special Agent Utah rests casually against your desk, transporting you back to your college days, when he was Johnny, the star quarterback at Ohio State and you were the awkward computer nerd that somehow got pulled into his orbit. Even amidst the whirlwind of chaos surrounding you, it’s impossible to resist gazing at the outline of his body and admiring how snuggly his fitted trousers hug his firm rear. Back then, your cheeks would’ve turned a blazing shade of red if he caught you staring, now the flash of his lopsided grin only encourages you.

“I thought you were avoiding me.” you disguise genuine doubt with a playful lilt. You had wondered if he even remembered you when he stepped into the department this morning. That scorching summer of your final term was etched into your memory, while for him, it might be a chapter he looks back on with reluctance.

Your paths should have never crossed. You were a solitary creature, usually found nestled behind a flickering screen in the campus library, while Johnny was out on the field making touchdowns, racing towards a promising future lit by stadium lights and roaring crowds. But then it all came crashing down on a buckled knee that shattered his aspirations. The future he had mapped out was ripped to shreds, and suddenly, he was stranded. All he knew was that he had to get good grades if he wanted to get anywhere. He needed a tutor and that’s where you came in.

What started out as awkward tutoring sessions gradually blossomed into something else, filled with stolen glances over textbooks and late-night talks that had nothing to do with what was on the syllabus. The memory of him leaning against your dorm room door frame, flashing that lopsided grin, flickers in the back of your mind like an old film reel. At the time, Johnny was nursing a broken heart too — his high school sweetheart had lost interest the moment his future in football vanished. But when he was with you, the weight of his frustrations seemed to melt away, and before long he started stopping by your dorm for reasons that had nothing to do with his grades.

By the time the leaves started to fall and a mellow breeze swept away the heat of summer, you parted ways without any hard feelings, knowing life was pulling you in different directions. Johnny set his sights on Quantico, chasing new dreams with the FBI Academy, while you were bound for Chicago. You shared a fleeting summer romance and left with the lingering memories that you keep tucked away like an old photograph.

“Avoiding you? Come on, Y/N, you know I always save the best for last.” that cocky smirk you remember all too well plays on his lips, as charming as ever, blasting away any lingering doubts. Even now your traitorous heart falls victim and thumps wildly in your chest at the sight.

“I’m last? Already?” you glance at your watch, genuinely surprised he managed to work his way through the whole department in just a couple hours.

“Yeah, they’re not a very talkative bunch.” Johnny’s frustration over the department's lack of cooperation sours his smirk into an irritated frown.

“You’d think they have something to hide.” you answer in a conspiratorial tone, referring to the cold shoulder he’s been getting all morning.

“Do they?” he asks, like any investigator instinctively would. His voice is warm with curiosity as he casually leans closer, folding his toned arms across his chest, his rolled shirt sleeves reveal sun-kissed forearms — evidence of his time spent under the Californian sun. So distractingly gorgeous, the sight stirs memories of his touch, warm and tender, on those hot summer nights. It’s almost dangerous. You hate to admit it, but you practically have to gulp back the urge to reveal all your secrets at once.

“That’s your job to find out, Agent Utah.” you tease, as tight-lipped as the rest of the department.

When the playful warmth fades from Johnny’s rousing gaze, clouding with the chill of something bitter, you assume you have disappointed him with your lack of cooperation — until you realise he is looking over your shoulder.

Following his gaze, you glance behind you. Detective Ludlow stands rigid, glaring as he watches Johnny casually lounge against your desk like he owns the place, talking to you with the familiarity of someone stopping by for a social call. The click of a stapler somewhere nearby punctuates the sudden heaviness in the air, and you can almost feel the tension sharpening around the three of you.

“Ludlow… right?” Johnny controls his features, offering Tom a curt nod as he pushes himself off your desk and slips his hands into his pockets. “I’m Special Agent Utah—”

“So the Bureau sent over a rookie to meddle in my investigation.” Tom’s sharp tone cuts through the hectic bustle of the station, scrutinising Johnny’s youthful appearance with a critical glare.

“I’m just here to help, Detective. Without cooperation you’re only going to make both our jobs a lot harder.” Johnny diplomatically responds over the steady hum of voices.

“You might need my help but I sure as hell don’t need yours. I’ve got this under control.”

“Really?” Johnny cocks his head, his tone laced with condescension. “‘Cause from where I’m standing it sure doesn’t seem like it.”

“I don’t need some fresh-faced Fed, who thinks he’s some big hotshot, telling me how to do my job. I was taking down bad guys when you were still wetting the bed.” Tom steps towards Johnny, his tone sharp with a rumbling edge. You blink, observing the hostile exchange from your desk chair, wondering if you should intervene.

“Yeah, I bet you were taking down bad guys left and right back in the day, old timer,” Johnny barely flinches when Tom looms closer, “but that was a long time ago and from the stench, it seems like the only thing you’re taking down these days is shots.”

Tom swallows thickly, struggling to bounce back from the impact of the brutal truth in Johnny’s stern words. Reluctantly, he retreats, his gaze flickers briefly in your direction, you catch a fleeting glimpse of the sorrow and torment whirling behind his hollow stare before it falls shamefully to the floor.

That brief glimpse triggers a pang in your chest you weren’t prepared for. Truth be told, Tom Ludlow intrigues you. You’ve heard whispers around the precinct about his past, how his wife died three years ago — before you ever set foot in the department. You never knew the man he was before everything fell apart. Sometimes, you try to imagine a man who’s not weighed down so heavily by his grief, not so hardened and bitter, not ensnared by his demons. You often wonder if that man still exists, buried somewhere deep inside him beneath the sorrow and torment, waiting for someone to pull him back to the surface.

When you first joined the department, a couple years ago, your role as a digital forensic analyst was still a relatively new one within law enforcement. You were stepping into a world where solving cases meant hitting the pavement, heading out into the streets to fight crime with badges and guns. To most officers, fighting crime from behind a computer screen was seen as a novelty, and Tom Ludlow was no exception. He didn’t exactly hide his skepticism; he would barely glance your way during briefings, convinced that your role couldn’t be considered real police work.

Despite the department's reluctance to accept you as an integral part of their team, you persevered. There were cases where your findings on a hard drive or some obscure email chain provided the breakthrough that all their street-level work couldn’t, and slowly, things started to shift. You remember a moment when Tom nodded at you, it was the closest thing to praise he had ever given you. Since then, he has been different. Dare you say he respects you now? But you knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of his cynicism.

“Ludlow! My office!” a sharp bark carries over the commotion, cutting through the tension and pulling your focus back into the moment. Everyone’s attention snaps towards the Captain, who’s standing halfway out his office. “Now!”

“Run along. Best not keep your Captain waiting.” Johnny’s brows quirk teasingly, his lips twitching with the barely concealed urge to quirk in amusement.

Tom’s jaw tightens and he shoots Johnny a snarling glare before shoving past him, his footsteps heavy as he trudges towards the Captain’s office.

You watch Tom go with an uneasy feeling burrowing deeper in your chest. He intrigues you, sure, but you’re still not certain if you can trust him.

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

The L barrels along on the elevated tracks overhead, clattering like thunder as you weave through the swarm of pedestrians. Your boots click over the uneven pavement, splashing through shallow puddles lingering from yesterday’s storm. Even the congested streets of the city offer an appreciated reprieve from the suffocating environment of the hectic department.

The low autumn sun peaks between the high buildings, casting long shadows over the city — a welcome contrast to the harsh fluorescent lights, and you’d gladly accept the distant wail of sirens and honking horns over the incessant blare of the unanswered phones any day. But as much as you crave to free yourself from the burden that weighs you down, you know that no matter how far you walk, it will always follow.

Some would call it paranoia, but after the stunt you pulled you’d say your hyper-awareness is justified, albeit draining. You’re constantly on edge with a gnawing sensation that clings to your spine and never. lets. go. It’s exhausting, but you can’t sleep either. Every time a stranger glances in your direction, it feels like a threat. Eyes watching. Ears listening. Footsteps too close behind. You know you’re being wary, but it’s hard to ignore the feeling there’s a target on your back.

Of course, you knew the risks involved with such drastic measures, but you could think of no other alternative. You had to be cunning. You couldn’t just stand by, not with what you knew. Maybe if you’d given yourself more time, you could have come up with a different plan. But in that moment of distress, the cyberattack had seemed like the only way. A wildfire that would capture everyone’s attention, putting all eyes on the department. Everyone knows it’s harder to hide secrets when you’re the centre of attention.

With your knowledge and position in the department, covering your tracks was the easy part. But it doesn’t shake the feeling that someone will eventually catch up to you.

At least Johnny’s arrival brought you a semblance of relief, you had no idea that he would be the FBI agent assigned to the investigation, but it feels like a sign that you’re on the right path. Knowing there’s someone in the city you can trust, who might understand, gives you a flicker of comfort in the midst of all the chaos. But that comfort comes with a price. The last thing you want to do is make him a potential target too, the mere thought sends your gut sinking like a rock. So as much as you might want to, you can’t confide in him, to unburden some of the weight you carry. You can’t. The less he knows, the safer he’ll be — whether he likes it or not.

Above the low hum of the city, a voice calling your name pulls you from your spiraling thoughts and you spot Tom weaving through the crowd to catch up with you. What does he want? When your heavy sigh meets the brisk autumn air, a cloud fogs from your lips before the long-serving detective reaches your side.

“I’m on my lunch break, Tom.” you don’t even try to hide your irritation. There’s only a limited window of time for your lunch break and you’re someone who appreciates a healthy work-life balance.

“I know,” he replies, undeterred. “I just want to talk.” he falls into step beside you, walking over the collage of red, orange and yellow leaves that clump together on the damp pavement.

You glance at him, surprised by his persistence. He just wants to talk? Since when did Tom Ludlow speak to you outside of work? Sure, you may have earned his respect but as far as you were aware, your relationship didn’t extend much beyond solving cases and the occasional exchange of work-related pleasantries.

“Is it urgent? Can’t it wait ‘til I get back to the station?”

“I wanted to speak to you alone.”

“Why?”

“You and Utah looked pretty cozy earlier.”

That stops you in your tracks. Out of all the things Tom could have chased you across the city to talk about, this was the last thing you expected.

“What?” There’s a deep crease between your brows when you stare at him in disbelief. Rushed pedestrians brush past, muttering curses under their breath at you both for blocking their path.

“It seemed like you were hitting it off.” he avoids your gaze as he says this, like he’s trying to act nonchalant.

“Hitting it off?” you repeat the words slowly, like you’re trying to figure out what language he’s speaking. “He was asking me about the investigation.”

Of course, you aren’t going to mention your history with Johnny to Tom — there’s no reason for him to know about that. What happened between you and Johnny belongs in the past and it’s private. Besides, bringing it up now would only complicate things, and you’ve always been careful not to blur the lines between your personal and professional lives. This situation is already tangled enough.

“What did you tell him?”

You can tell Tom is trying to play it casual, to seem aloof. But there’s nothing casual or aloof about chasing you halfway across the city just to find out what you said to an FBI agent. He hides it well, but there’s an undercurrent of anxiety in his question, a tension that betrays his concern over what you and Johnny might’ve discussed.

“Why? Are you worried?” you ask, letting a faint chuckle escape your lips, breathy and light as if to disguise the weight of the question. If Tom is trying to mask his anxiety, you’re going to disguise your suspicion with humour. By the time the words are out, you’re already resuming your stride, mindful of the ticking clock. You’ve barely twenty minutes left to grab your lunch.

“You should be careful about what you say to him.” Tom answers after a pause, his voice hushed. It’s hard to decipher if this is a genuine warning bred from concern or a thinly veiled threat.

“What could I possibly say to him that’s got you so rattled you felt it necessary to chase me down through half the city… during my lunch break?”

the last part is punctuated with a grunt.

“I’m not rattled.” Tom snaps, but his tone betrays him. His brows furrowed, his jaw clenched tight. “You don’t know how much the Feds complicate things. We don’t need them sniffing around.”

“It wasn’t so long ago you would’ve said something similar about me.” you snort, reminding him of his reluctance to accept you when you first joined the department.

That hits the mark. A flicker of guilt passes behind his mahogany eyes, his gaze drops to the pavement. Neither of you have ever discussed the way he treated you since both of you were happy to sweep it under the rug and move on. Before he can find the power to muster a response, you brush past him and slip into the coffee shop on the corner.

You stride into the familiar comfort, the tension eases from your shoulders as the sweet aroma of freshly baked pastries wafts welcomingly through the air, tempting you to treat yourself.

The chime of the door rings again as Tom steps in behind you, the cold air from outside drifts inside with him as his voice cuts above the comfortable ambiance. You tilt your head slightly, just enough to catch him in your peripheral vision as he lingers a step behind.

“I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did when you first joined the department. I was an asshole. But after a couple decades on the force, you become set in your ways. It’s hard to adapt.” his words are unexpected as they reach your ears, spoken in a rough tone, as if he’s torn between letting them go and holding them back. “And I can be a stubborn bastard. I gave you a hard time and you didn’t deserve it but I figured if I pushed you enough, you’d leave.” his gaze drifts to the floor, like he’s looking for the right words in the cracks between the floorboards. “It felt like everything I knew was getting pushed aside. So, yeah, I wanted you to leave. Because if you stayed, it meant I had to face the fact that things weren’t gonna be the same anymore. And I wasn’t ready for that.”

For a moment, everything fades away and it’s just the two of you. His apology lingers between you and the silence stretches as you let his words sink in. Many responses roll through your mind, but you don’t utter any of them, instead you say, “you know, if I left, they would’ve just replaced me with another digital forensic analyst.” a faint smirk tugs on the corner of your lips.

Your response draws a huff of laughter from Tom, a brief, relieved sound that seems to ease the tension in his shoulders. He almost looks grateful, like he appreciates that you didn’t dwell too much on the sentiment behind his apology and let the moment pass without making it something heavy.

“For what it’s worth… I’m glad you stayed.” the sincerity in his words catch you off guard, you can tell it’s not an easy admission for him, he’s not used to sharing sentiments. You suppose he has been pretty closed off emotionally ever since his wife passed, but for a brief moment, you feel like you’re getting a glimpse of the man he used to be, before the walls went up.

“Well, you know, I’m pretty stubborn too.” you fold your arms across your chest, proudly displaying the smirk on your lips with a raised chin.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Tom lets out a faint chuckle, shaking his head.

For the first time since you’ve known him, a real smile breaks through the usual hard lines of his face. It’s subtle, but genuine, softening the hardness in his features. His eyes, usually shadowed with a weariness you’ve grown accustomed to, seem lighter — like the clouds parting for just a moment.

The sight captivates you, like a rare total eclipse. The hardened detective having such a bright and boyish smile surprises you, catching you off guard. You realise you like his smile and mourn the fact that it’s such a rare sight.

You approach the counter in tandem with Tom, after you place your order for takeout, he takes it upon himself to pay, handing a ten dollar bill to the barista before you even have the chance to grab your own wallet.

“It’s the least I can do after gatecrashing your lunch break.” Tom shrugs, cutting through any protest you were about to make.

You’re unsure how to navigate this new dynamic that seems to have blossomed between the pair of you, over the span of a single lunch break. As Tom waits with you for your order, the silence stretches — not awkward, but untravelled. Your gaze drifts, searching for something to fill the silence, when you catch sight of a man sitting at your favourite table.

He’s staring. The moment your eyes lock, he swiftly averts his gaze, pretending to focus on something just past you. But it’s too late. The brief moment of connection hits you like a jolt. Those dark eyes weren’t just looking, they were assessing, lingering far too long to be random curiosity. The intensity of his gaze lingers, prickling along your skin and leaving you feeling unsettled with an icy weight in your chest. The unease that creeps over you, crawling down your spine warns you — something isn’t right. His deep irises pierce through your layers, it’s as if he knows more than he should, noticing something you have concealed from everyone else.

You glance away, trying to ignore the growing unease, but it stays with you, crawling under your skin. Is this paranoia again? Or is he a genuine threat? You instinctively lean closer to Tom, your voice barely above a whisper as you murmur, “that guy is staring.”

Tom, immediately on edge, follows your gaze towards the younger man tucked away by the nook. The tension around you thickens. Strangely, he almost looks relieved when his eyes land on the mysterious stranger. You catch an unmistakable flicker of recognition flash across his features, stirring your suspicions.

“You know him?”

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

⋆｡°✩ Note: thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Full disclosure, I have no idea when the final parts will be posted, I am not satisfied with what I have written so far for the next part and I am going on holiday on Monday so I won’t be writing for about a week. I’m hoping that the break will help and I’ll come back to it refreshed and with a new perspective!

[malkaleh]

OT3 Fic Snippets Expanded 

“No, stay like that” Henry says and he can see a slight blush on Tom’s skin as he settles himself back into the window seat. Henry stands a moment, just watching this man he loves so much - Tom had thrown aside his customary high necked black robes and chain and had been sitting reading in his undershirt and hose - the sunshine picking up the shine in his black hair. Henry finds himself transfixed between the desire to simply watch and drink in the other man or to walk closer to him, to run his hand through the other mans hair as he kisses him. 

“You are so very lovely, Tom” and Henry shakes off Tom’s denials with a firm look. 

-

The children are all around them on this beautiful day - Elizabeth, every inch the perfect princess at fourteen is reading, her checks still flushed from riding earlier. Her brother Thomas is by her side, excitedly recounting his first few months at Ludlow while George, their curly haired Duke of York is throwing a ball to one of the family puppies and William and Margaret (who have always had trouble sitting still) are play fighting with toy swords while Owen sits by his mother watching the new babies with intense concentration. 

-

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter Map Twenty-Six

TW: choking, noncon, dark shit, Julian

You’d be a liar, if you said you weren’t floating on a little cloud, as you go about your duties at the hospital. You’re smiling stupidly to yourself for no reason at all–and it’s all Tom Ludlow’s fault, of course. 

Later, when you’re sort of able to think clearly, you marvel at the way that man let you have your way without actually getting mad about it. You weren’t really sure what you were getting into, as you snapped the cuff into place. And maybe you’re still not sure who actually manipulated who. 

Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

All’s well that ends well…and that ended very fucking well, if you don’t say so yourself. 

You’d actually almost managed to forget about Doctor Julian for a little while. That is, until you hear a crisp click click outside the door when you’re getting something out of a supply closet and you jump three vertical feet in the air.

Ok, maybe not that high, but your soul certainly attempts to leave your fucking body. 

When you whirl to confront him–he’s gone. 

Bastard. 

Then several cases come in one after the other. Two gunshot wounds, a stabbing, a car accident, a gnarly burn. You are too busy to think about anything else but saving lives. 

Looking back, Julian undoubtedly banked on that, near the end of your shift. You are exhausted, and covered in grime, and hungry too because you missed out on your sandwich. It turns out that man can move stealthily as a cat, sneaking up without a sound behind you, until it’s too late and he’s bundled you into the lab, which sadly is rarely if ever occupied. 

You struggle, of course, to little avail. The way he bares his teeth as he pins your arms behind you betrays his enjoyment of this little ambush–too fucking much. His mouth crashes over yours, a punishing kiss that clashes teeth and bruises lips. He draws away just as you try to bite down on his wicked tongue. 

“Get off of me,” you snarl, though even now you're conscious of drawing attention, keeping your voice down. 

“Just wanted a little preview of our weekend festivities. Are you looking forward to it as much as I am?”

“No.”

Too late, you realize that’s exactly the answer he wanted. You can tell by his pleased smirk. He doesn’t want you to enjoy this at all. It would absolutely take the fun out of it for him. He makes it seem easy, to hold both of your wrists together in one of his large hands, his other lifting to brush away a stray lock of hair from your face. In any other circumstance the touch could have almost seemed tender–but you are a lamb in the jaws of a wolf, and you begin to tremble in his grasp. 

They do this–abusers. They lull you with some nugget of sweetness, put you off guard so that the violence is even more satisfying when they strike. It’s strange in a way, to compare this outwardly dignified man to the handsome redneck who used to knock you around back in Kansas. But really they are just two sides of the same fucking coin. 

You should fight back. Knee him in the groin, or maybe try out a headbutt. But your limbs seem to have forgotten how to function–and Julian has that little piece of damning lead in a baggie that could completely upend Tom Ludlow’s world. 

He feels it, as you remember that, the fight leaking from your bones.  “I’m proud of you, y/n. Someday, you won’t fight me at all.” 

You’re smart enough not to tell him this will not be an ongoing thing. Once you have that piece of evidence in your hands…you are gone. Maybe you’ll have to switch to a different hospital. Anything, not to have to deal with this asshole on a daily basis. 

Or, you could tell Tom, and this motherfucker will be unalived faster than you can say workplace harassment. Ok, maybe that’s not a good option, but it feels good to think about at this moment, when you are helpless in this monster’s clutches.

His touch migrates to your jaw, squeezing just this side of too hard. “I’m feeling…peckish, y/n. I think I’d like a little amuse bouche to tide me over until Saturday.”

Your heart drops to your feet.

“Amuse bouche? Who do you think you are, the Marquis de Sade?”

“Funny you should mention him. I think he had some very interesting ideas.”

“Julian…we’re at work.”

He just smirks, that cold glint in his eyes like a bared blade. 

“I think you mean to say, ‘Yes, Doctor.’”

You glare at him, and he waits, squeezing your wrists in his vice of a grip uncomfortably. 

“If you break my hands you will be in so much fucking trouble.”

He only finds your threat amusing at best. “Useful thing about being a doctor. I am well versed in the limits of the human body.” He squeezes harder, and you gasp. It makes his eyes shine like a kid outside the gates of Disneyland.

“How’s this for a limit? If you mark me up, Tom will come after you. He sees me naked every day.” You’re not sure if it's a good thing you mention this, but in the heat of the moment your protector’s name spills from your lips, invoked like your household saint. And you will admit, it feels good, to see Julian’s eyes darken at the mention of your intimacy with Tom.

“I think you're forgetting who holds the cards here to your boyfriend’s future. You had better come up with some good lies for Saturday, because I intend to leave my marks all over this beautiful skin.” He lets go of your wrists, but only to run his hands over your forearms, raising gooseflesh as he goes.

“How’s it feel to be a fucking creep?” You ask, genuinely, actually curious about the answer, trying not to give any reaction to his fingers teasing higher up your arms, putting every single nerve on high alert. 

His hand envelops your throat, fingers pressing against the sides and closing just enough to make it hard to breathe. “Please, go on,” he nods, looking down at you with a snarling grin. 

You don’t give him the satisfaction. You let him choke you in varying degrees and intensities and angles, saying nothing while he works at your throat like a he’s learning an instrument; what makes you cry, what makes your eyes roll back in your head, what makes you sputter and cough and gasp for the sweet air he’s depriving you of. 

Maybe you wish he would just strangle you to completion, instead of torturing you like this. Every time he lets you breathe it just makes the next instance of his huge hand around your throat that much worse. 

“Beg me to stop,” he hums against your ear, snaking tongue flicking at your soft dangling skin. 

You do. You beg, sweetly even. You beg for breath, which is something you never thought you’d have to do again after the freeing age of 18…and then after the horribly abusive first ex. 

But here you are. 

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen

TW: noncon, angst, trauma, PTSD, don’t read this if you like hot doctors named Julian (he was probably an actual sweetheart in canon, but we decided to flip that around in this, so read with that in mind)

You really should have foreseen it, before letting yourself hang out alone in the breakroom. But you are tired–exhausted, actually, and you can only blame so much on the work at hand.

Tom fucking Ludlow.

You find yourself grinning like an idiot at your sandwich–which is exactly how Dr. Julian Mercer finds you, of course. You don’t even fucking hear him approach. He just appears at your side like a ghost, and you nearly jump out of your skin as he says in a low voice, “Y/n.”

“Jesus Christ,” you wheeze, clutching your chest. “Julian…”

“Maybe Doctor would be more appropriate.” It probably would, but you’re not sure if he’s asking for this out of the cold indifference his tone suggests–or that other little extra meaning it has for the two of you.

“Okay, Doctor Mercer. Creep around like a fucking ghost much?”

“No. You were just distracted.”

You blow air between your teeth. You really don’t want to fight with this man right now, but it feels like he’s spoiling for something. “What do you want?”

He takes your hands in his, running gentle fingers over marks on your wrists that have now mostly faded. You hate to admit it–but this careful, questing touch sends a thrill across your skin. “The animal,” he growls under his breath. “Clearly no clue as to what he was doing.”

Hoo boy, was he wrong about that.

“Did you have a safeword at least?”

“No…?”

“Fucking amateur.” 

You don’t know how to tell him, that rendering sex absolutely clinical with boundaries and safewords beforehand just doesn’t do it for you. You just…trusted Tom not to hurt you. And he didn’t. 

“Julian…”

“Doctor.”

“Yeah, that. What do you think you’re doing?” You try to pull your hands away, but he holds on, just firm enough to keep you. Despite what Tom likes to taunt, Julian is not little, or weak.

The look in his eyes is that of a man drowning.

“Losing my mind?”

“You are being ridiculous. You have got to let it go.”

“I’m trying, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

This is absurd. Men do not lose their shit over you. They use you, then throw you away at their first convenience. You give a fat sigh that you hope conveys your annoyance. 

“Julian, have you seen the women that walk around this hospital? Better, Have you seen the women in your BDSM club? Have you never thought of trying one of those girls out? I mean, they are into the same stuff.” 

His thumb presses on the dark marks the belt left on your wrist, making a little diffuse ache light your skin. “You are clearly into BDSM, y/n. Just the unsafe way of doing it, I suppose.” 

Okay, now he’s just plain pissing you off. Once again, a man insinuating that you’re too stupid and naive to advocate for yourself. Too weak to take initiative, too gullible to know that you have to. You wrench your hand back from him, and he glares after it like it called him a dirty name. “Are you kidding me?” You say, not hiding the bite of your words, “and setting people on fire is just so safe, right? Whipping someone’s feet is the safest thing you can do in sex, yep, boy howdy, you’re absolutely right, Julian. How stupid of me.” 

Your aim is to hurt him with your words, although now you’re regretting it when he looks back at you with those big, brown, sad orbs. Fuck, you can just never win with this man and his multiple personalities. He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re with him, then?” 

“I’m…” you take a breath and try to step outside of yourself for a minute and view the situation objectively, just like you learned to do in therapy, and what you’re seeing is a misguided man who doesn’t know he can bag any freaky woman he wants become overly attached to you because he was vulnerable with you that one time. “I’m not.” How do you word it without sounding pathetic? “I’m not that great of a catch. I promise you there is a much better person out there for you.” 

“I don’t think so,” he says quietly, intensely, sending a shudder through you that freezes and burns all at once. “Do you love him?” 

“What?” You ask incredulously. “I just met him.”

“Well, then, I still have a chance.” 

Your fist clenches unconsciously, ready for a fight. Maybe a metaphorical fight, but a fight nonetheless. “No,” you tell him, swallowing your nice, “you don’t, Julian.” 

“What if…I promised not to punish you?”

This does make you pause, and you swear, not because you’re actually considering it, but because you are surprised he would even think to compromise his needs, for you. 

It’s a heady feeling, if not entirely misplaced.

“No,” you answer, much too late. “No, no, nope.”

“I can see you’re intrigued.”

“No, I’m…flabbergasted. It wouldn’t be any fun for you.”

He looks you up and down, blatantly checking you out. You swear you will never get used to that look in a man’s eyes, trained on you. “I wouldn’t say that.” Then his attention turns back to your wrists, tracing the marks Tom’s belt left again with fascination. “Just let me…do this to you. God, the things I would do to you.” He inches closer as he says this, until before you know it you are standing nearly chest to chest, and your heart is beating at a mile a minute.

You have to try twice, before you find your voice. “That’s exactly what scares me about you, Julian.”

He dares to touch you, turning your face up to his with his palm on your jaw. “That you might like it, y/n?”

You take a deep breath, and you step back, away from Julian. Away from your sandwich too, unfortunately. But you guess you’re going to have to write it off. Or circle back later. You have no further clever quips to offer Dr. Julian Mercer. For lack of a better word–you flee.

At the nurses’ station a bright and cheery reminder of someone else’s devotion awaits you. A happy bouquet of sunflowers, with a simple card that reads, Dorothy, Thinking about you. Glad you’re not in Kansas anymore -T It is just the boost to morale you need, after your chilling little interlude with Julian.

However, you don’t get to take them home. They disappear while you are working, and you think you know who is to blame for the childish act of revenge. Rather than letting it drop, you decide to prove to Julian that you have boundaries and he can’t just push you around like this. 

You catch him as he’s about to get into his car, and get Deja Vu from the scenario. The parking garage isn’t well lit, empty of other humans, and damp with oppressive LA heat. Maybe it’s not the best place to confront a man, but you never claimed to be a complete genius. And, now that you’re here…

“Julian, do you know where my sunflowers went? From the desk? Tom got them for me.”

He looks down at you with dark eyes. “Fresh flowers are a health code violation. I had to dispose of them.” 

And you thought Tom could make you livid; Julian is here proving that he can spike your anger from a two to a ten in one simple sentence. “And what about the flowers you got me that stayed at the desk? Huh? Those were fine, right?”

He shrugs. “No.” 

“So, what the fuck?” You’re raising your voice, feeling the heat of anger singing through the blood in your body like a vengeful choir. Your fist clenches to actually punch him—God, you want to. 

“I’ll buy you more flowers,” he says, as if that’s going to fix the problem. 

“I don’t want your flowers,” you growl, “I don’t want you, Julian!” 

Before you know what’s happening, he has you gripped up in his hands and pressed against the door of his car, mouth on your own, bullying inside to suck and bite and bruise. You try to push and kick and thrash against him, but his long body is pressed firmly into yours, holding you steady against warm metal. His blunt fingers dig into the flesh of your upper arms and make you gasp, which allows him further entrance into your mouth.

You can’t fucking breathe with him latched onto you like this, and your frantic hands reach to tear at his scrubs, his belt, his skin. He pulls away, blessedly, panting and wild eyed, and you immediately start in on him. “Get the fuck off me, Julian.” You writhe in short, shallow breaths, lungs crushed by his heavy torso and unable to entirely fill. 

“This is what you want,” he says, ignoring your demand. “You want someone to take advantage of you. Make you, force you. And if that’s what you need, that’s what I can give.”

“I don’t want that,” you reply. “I want the opposite of that! Get off me! I will scream.” 

His mouth edges into a terrifying smile. “You think anyone’s going to hear you?” He asks, looking around the empty parking garage. “You think anyone’s going to save you if I decide to take you home for a few days and do terrible things to you?” He grabs your chin, fingers spanning the entire bottom, reminding you of the size difference and making you whimper in pain. He presses his lips against the shell of your ear. “Make you regret having nerve endings…” 

Your whole body is shaking violently with adrenalized fear. Sweet Doctor Julian is a fucking wolf in sheep’s clothing, and he’s hungry for your flesh and blood. You should have known. You should have seen this coming. Shouldn’t you be an expert on narcissists and abusers by now? Shouldn’t you have been smarter? Shouldn’t you do the smart thing now and convince him to let you go?

“Please, Julian.” Disgust bubbles in your gut, reacting vehemently to the pathetic, pleading voice that leaves your mouth. “Please don’t.” 

He pulls your chin up a little higher. “You can beg prettier than that.” 

“Please, Doctor.” You swallow the raging hatred you have for yourself. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll be a good girl.” 

He hums and kisses you temple, lips ghosting into your hairline as he inhales your shampoo choice. “You’re lucky I don’t put you on your knees right here and make you choke on my cock for a while, pumpkin.” 

“Please.” You give him your best impression of a beaten dog with wide, owl eyes, hoping you can somehow get out of this without actually getting hurt. All you can think of is Tom; how you wish he was here to beat the fuck out of Julian, how you should have let him beat the fuck out of Julian on your doorstep. 

His hand moves down, pressing softly into the front of your throat, just enough to make it uncomfortable. “It’s refreshing to see something so wild become so tame with fear.” Fear is an understatement. Pure panicking terror is what consumes you. Bred from C-PTSD and Julian’s heavy, big hand on your throat. You’ve been here before, small and terrified under a man with power… And, suddenly, you’re her again, that little girl trembling and cowering and cornered. You don’t know that you’re crying until a little tear tickles down your cheek. 

He kisses that saltwater trail, peeks his tongue out to taste your sad desperation and shivers against you. “You taste delicious.” 

Fucking Hannibal Lector, Psycho, serial killer. How did you not see it? How? 

It occurs to you that Tom saw it, saw straight through the mask, to the beast beneath Julian Mercer’s carefully constructed facade, all along. He’d warned you, but like the stubborn little idiot you are, you didn’t listen. 

Tom. Somehow it’s the thought of him, how he looks at you like you are precious, like you’re not stupid, like you are something worth saving, that breaks your thought pattern, your desire to just freeze and hope this man with his hand on your throat isn’t going to hurt you, hope that the bad thing goes away if you’re still enough, small enough, don’t draw attention to yourself. You think on what Tom would have you do.

You hear Ludlow’s voice, plain as day, cutting through the fear: c’mon, you have just enough room to fuck him up. 

You drive your knee as absolutely hard as you can into Dr. Julian Mercer’s gonads. 

The good doctor crumbles with a groan that sounds like his soul leaving his body. 

You run. On your shaking legs as fast as you can to your car, barely able to unlock the door with your trembling hands trying to manipulate your keys in the lock. You feel like you’re in a horror film. Instead of being the one yelling at the screen, Don’t run up the stairs, stupid!—you are the stupid girl, and you have so much sympathy for the girl being chased by the Big Bad with a knife and having no idea what to do with your hands. 

No. You are not dying today. You are not letting this monster win today. You are not fodder. You are Final Girl material, goddammit. Maybe you never believed it before, but Tom’s voice is still in your head. You can hear him ordering you what to do. Put in your key. Twist. Open. Get in. Lock the door. 

 You manage all this somehow, just before Juian slams against your window, his face a mask of fury. “Open the door, y/n.” 

Maybe still channeling Tom, and maybe acting completely on your own now, you press your middle finger against the window for him before starting your engine and peeling away. He barely manages to stumble back in time to save his toes from getting crushed by your racing tires. 

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter Map Twenty-Eight

TW: nsfw, past traumas + mental health discussion, domestic violence mention

When you finally return to your apartment together you are tired, yet happy, with Tom’s hand engulfing yours, his other arm filled with takeout from your favorite Thai eatery and a bag full of fresh blueberries for his famous morning breakfast.

You feel like somehow, everything is going to turn out ok. You have this warm glow in your chest that you suspect might be an elusive thing like peace, or acceptance, or some other such nonsense this steadfast man beside you is making you believe in again. 

That good feeling disintegrates like cotton candy in the rain, when you realize your apartment door is ajar. Tom notices a moment after you do, and immediately he is pushing you behind him, the bags forgotten on the floor as he retrieves his gun from his ankle holster.

“Stay here,” he tells you in a whisper, as he goes to investigate. You watch while he uses the wall for cover, kicking the door open and advancing inside, sweeping your tiny apartment for intruders. 

You trail behind him after he tells you it’s clear, in shock for the mess before you.

Your apartment is trashed. Completely turned inside out. Destroyed. 

All the contents of your cabinets and drawers are emptied. Your chairs are missing legs. Your pictures are knocked off the walls. Your couch cushions are slashed. Every pot of every plant in your kitchen is broken on the floor, shards of terra cotta and earthy soil scattered across the linoleum. 

Numb, you stand amidst the rubble, finding it hard to process that this is your space. Your tiny little cozy cube that you’d made just for yourself, your personal hideaway from the world, broken to bits. It feels so personal, and you can’t fathom why someone would do this.

It doesn’t even look like they took anything. The tv is still there–with a kitchen knife through the lcd screen. You don’t own any expensive jewelry, or keep stacks of cash around. The only other real thing of value you have…is your laptop. It was on a side table, and now…it’s gone. Fuck.

If you are numb, Tom is furious, his dark eyes blown black with rage as he looks around your ruined sanctuary, his gun still hanging loose in his hand at his side.

“It’s not safe for you here, baby. See if you can get a bag together. If too much is ruined, I’ll buy you new stuff on the way.”

“Tom…don’t we need to call the cops or something?” You were sure you’d need a police report for your renter’s insurance claim, at least.

Bless him for not giving you that ‘I am the cops’ look. Instead his dark brows are drawn together in serious thought.

“Yeah. We’ll get a team to dust for prints. But I think I already know who did it.”

“Who?”

“Our shooters, sending us a message. I think I’ve got some names. Coates, and Freemont. Working on a location. With any luck…I’ll have ‘em by tomorrow.” 

You’re guessing just by his tone that have ‘em does not exactly mean due process.

He looks around at the chaos, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, baby. We’ll fix it, I promise.”

You nod absently, still feeling disjointed from it all, though a well of tears has finally started gathering in your bottom lids. You shuffle over to your prized vanda orchids, picking one up and setting it in a pile of bark medium back on its shelf. At least it will get a little light, until you can repot it.

A warm pressure lands on your shoulder, then molds into the rest of you, engulfing your body in heat and comfort, and as soon as you are hidden and safe with your face tucked into Tom’s uniform, you begin to sob. 

Wordlessly, he picks you up, and makes to leave, probably deciding he doesn’t even want you to be here anymore because you’re such a wreck of a human that can’t even handle her own apartment being robbed, but your fist gripping his shirt and incoherent words stop him in his tracks. “My…My plants. My—“

“Shh, baby, s’okay. Forget the bag, I just need to make sure you’re somewhere safe…Hey. Hey, look at me.” 

You do, quivering and feeling as tiny as a broken winged bird in his arms even though you are a whole woman. There’s no pity in his eyes, just worry and something else. Something bright burning that lights his black orbs gold. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. Maybe realizing this is not the right time to say what he wants to, but rather what you need to hear. 

“I don’t care what happens, you’re going to be safe. I don’t care if I have to burn this city down and then the LAPD along with it. I will do anything to keep you safe. Even if you do decide that I am an asshole and you hate me after all. I need you to tell me that you understand that. That you’ll trust me to keep you safe.” 

“I do,” you manage to choke out. “I do, Tom. Fuck, I do.” 

“And if there is anything. Anything you are keeping from me, then I need to know right now.” He pins you with that impossible to hold gaze…and you look down, earning a tsk. 

It was worth a try. 

And you know he means something you’re not telling him about the case, about the shooting, but all you can think of is Julian—cheating on Tom—how stupid you are. 

You lie. Right to his face. You lie, because you don’t know what else to do. “There’s nothing, Tom.” 

You know you’re lying, he knows you’re lying. Hell, the fucking dying plants know you’re lying. Luckily, it’s not hard to change the subject into more pressing matters, like how you’re sobbing uncontrollably again and burying your face into his thick shirt. 

Thank God that he is a good man. A good man who doesn’t get pissy with you about emotions. A good man who doesn’t tell you to cut the bullshit. A good man who holds you tight and mumbles words of comfort into the top of your hair. 

You don’t deserve him. Not one bit. So, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold on for dear life. Tom is wrong, he is not Poison Ivy’s boyfriend, nor Batman or the Punisher. He is Superman and you are a selfish, pathetic civilian who tricked him into loving you. He could be with Lois Lane or Wonder Woman, and here you are holding him back. 

***

“Y/n? Baby?” 

“I’m in here—the bathroom.” 

“Can I come in?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Hey, I—what in the hell.” An amused, lopsided grin cuts through the serious concern on his face as he looks down at you curiously. Probably wondering why you’ve taken every crisp, cheap hotel blanket and pillow and made a nest in the bathtub with them. 

“I like the hotel bathtubs,” you tell him, glowering, in such an obvious mood that a smile dare not even tap you on the shoulder lest you throttle it. 

Tom has other plans for your pity party. He chuckles, and leans down to kiss-whisper into your forehead. “I really didn’t think you could get cuter.” 

You flush, grab his collar, and pull him down, into the porcelain kingdom with you, not exactly thinking about how he is long and the tub is short. You just want his big solid body on top of you whether he breaks a leg or not, and thank god he’s sturdy. 

Because he bumps his head on the rim, slams his elbow on the bottom basin in an attempt not to shove it into your tummy, and both his legs end up hanging out the side by the knee joint in what looks to be a very uncomfortable position.  

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” you tell him, trying somehow to maneuver his heavy torso and put him back together. He laughs, maybe because you’re tickling him, and definitely because you’re so concerned about his well being. 

Somehow, you both situate, and it’s with you fully on top of him, curled against his chest with his legs bent in half so he’s able to barely fit inside the bowl. You bury your face into his pleasant, itchy stubble, and sigh contentedly. 

“Bathtub a safe space, hm?” 

You nod, and he gets it, stays silent with you wrapped up safe against him, occasionally humming, kissing your hair, running his fingers over the curves and pocks and shiver-inducing spaces in your back. Tom is not built for contortionist work at all, but if he is uncomfortable, he does not voice it. 

You wonder, as your eyes are fluttering closed and your breathing is deepening with the threat of sleep, if you should tell him that you can’t remember a time—ever—where you felt this safe. 

Usually…lately…it’s the bigger part of your brain—the one that is doubtful and cynical and self critical—that plays highest bidder in the auction of your devotion. Not here, in Tom Ludlow’s arms. Here, critical brain function takes a backseat in the trunk of the cerebrum locked inside a tight suitcase, because the rest of your mind (And Heart) is sure that this long man will burn LA down for you, just like he said. 

It's a heady feeling. Tonight, you’re just selfish enough to hold onto it. 

You wake up drooling on his uniform, feeling gross and hot and cramped and sweaty. His head is angled awkwardly against the hard walls of the bath, and you pat his cheek to wake him up. “Tom,” you whisper. “Tom.”

“Yeah, what—what’s up?” His snores cut off abruptly, and he jerks to life, restrained by the confines of the small enclosure. He smiles when he sees you, and you really hope it’s not because of your trainwreck hair and smeared mascara. 

“Can we go to bed?” You ask him, rubbing some drool off the side of his mouth. 

Except sleeping is the last thing you can focus on when he stretches his full body, bare out on the cool linoleum after taking his clothes off. For some reason, you think back to your neighbor, and how she was a strong lady for not having an instant heart attack when he knocked on her door in probably only boxers. 

Speaking of your neighbor…

“Did you talk to the lady next door? Is she okay?” 

He stands you up and pulls your scrub top off. “She’s okay.” A kiss to the spillage of your breasts. “She didn’t hear or see anything, but wasn’t home most of the day.”

“Do you think they’ll come back?” You ask him, sharp little breaths pumping your chest while he kisses up your collar, over the heaving skin on your throat. His fingers pull at your bottoms, discard them in a puddle with his own dirty clothes on the floor. 

“No,” he tells you, smoothing back your tangled, puffed hair. “No, they won’t. They got what they needed. I have some of your pajamas, you wanna put them on?” 

“No,” you reply, the word cut by a hungry kiss. 

Despite the day’s events, or maybe yesterday's events—you can’t tell, because it’s pitch black outside; the kind of devouring dark that only comes after midnight—your cunt still swells and weeps for this man, and you end up sitting on top of him with his cockhead nestling your cervix and his big hands digging into your plush hips. 

You’re too tired to keep a rhythm, or really do anything but whine and grind, but it’s enough to make you both cum and stain the sheets, even though you promised yourself you wouldn’t be the asshole person in the hotel room that gets bodily fluids on everything. It’s hard, however, to think about that—or anything—when this man is bare, hard, and leaking in front of you. 

He’s still softening inside of you when you fall asleep, and you don’t even stir when he gets a warm towel to clean you up, or when he wraps his arms around you and follows you into dreamland. 

The next time you wake up, there is invasive, awful sunlight peeking through the curtains, and you are screaming. 

Soak and wet, soapy Tom is by your side in less than a second, trying to wipe your tears and just getting your cheeks wetter with his mid-shower hands. “Baby…baby. Hey, it’s okay, I’m here.” 

You’re pathetic for doing this to him. A burden through and through. Your parents were right, the man who was just starring in your violent dream was right. They were all right about you and being too much and ruining lives with the burden of your existence. 

No, no no no no. You have to pull yourself back, get it together. PTSD nightmares be damned. It’s been a while since you’ve had one that bad, but you have the skills to rationalize through it and get off the ledge before these violent, hating thoughts eclipse reason and reality. 

Tom’s there to help with reassuring words and damp fingers and the heat of his body. He lets you cry for God knows how long, even with the water still running in the bathroom. 

The first thing you can say through ugly hiccups and heavy breaths is, “is the water going to get cold?” 

He murmurs a soft laugh into your cheek. “No, baby, they keep it warm. C’Mon.”

By the time you're freshened, cleaned, rinsed, and moisturized with little bottles of complimentary lotion by Tom’s big hands in what seems to be his way of soothing you, you feel a lot better. He even tries to brush your wet tangled hair, although it doesn’t work out because he’s way too gentle and afraid to do anything but press the bristles to your outer strands. 

When you rake it through to show him how, he snatches the paddle back, giving you a hard look. “You’re tearing it out!”

You laugh at him. “I’ve been doing it that way for my entire life, Tom.” 

“Doesn’t it hurt?” He holds the brush higher as you try to snatch it back. 

“Not really, my scalp is strong. Give me—“

The phone ringing stops your reaching hand midair. 

“Scuse’ me,” he grins, going to answer and taking your brush with him, obviously underestimating your ability to comb through it with your fingers instead. 

But you don’t, because you like it when he just barely pulls the tips through your locs, fingers tickling over your shoulders and neck and ears. It’s fine, he can brush it all day if he wants, especially if it keeps him holed up in this little hotel room with you. 

You put your wild mane into a loose bun on top of your head, brush your teeth, and grab the clothes you have prepared from the back of the toilet, not expecting such a familiar smell to waft from the pile and physically push you back two steps. You drop the cotton dress and the black shorts as your back hits the sink lip with a painful thud. 

You’d recognize that cheap, Walmart cologne anywhere. It could bring you back from the dead. Hell, it probably has a few times when he hit you hard enough to knock you unconscious. 

The stench puffs from your clothes in a billowy cloud that turns your stomach sour. You have to turn and lean over the sink, get your head right, close your eyes to guard against the onslaught of ruthless memories jostled by this abrasive odor.

Grounding yourself involves picking out three things you can see, and three things that you can hear. It's all you can do to prevent another panic attack. 

Tom’s muffled voice talking on the phone, the drip of a leaky faucet, the whirring air conditioner, the pristine white porcelain of the sink, the bright blue of your toothbrush, the open bottle of Tom’s cologne…Oh.

Trauma is a funny thing. Too many triggers happen too close together—it makes your brain play tricks in the quest to keep itself safe. Brain wants to hide, jump right back in the bathtub and lock this bathroom door and stay huddled up in the damp shelter for the foreseeable future. 

You grab Tom’s cologne and take a whiff, then breathe a heavy sigh of relief when you realize that the smell has the same musky undertone, but none of the gaudy sweet notes that your mind was fabricating. 

It wasn’t from your now wet clothes—they smell like your detergent, and you put them on despite the patches of liquid that cool your skin and make you shiver. 

You walk out of the bathroom, and Tom is sitting on the couch in his jeans and tshirt, legs spread wide, looking at something intently on his phone until his attention is captured by your presence. He looks so good, all sprawled out and formidable, and all you want to do is wrap yourself around him like a soft little koala hugging a thick eucalyptus. 

“Are you leaving?” You ask him timidly, arms crossed defensively against an answer you don’t want to hear. 

“No, I’m not,” he says.

“You can if you have to,” you tell him, lying, forgetting that this man can read you like the alphabet. “I know you have things to do.” 

He tilts his head at you, mouth perking up just a tiny bit in that way that makes your insides flare with fiery fervor. “How about you?” He muses, “you have somewhere to go?”

“Well,” you start, now that he mentions it, “I should go and clean up my place, maybe.”

“You could…” He seems to think on this matter, eyes darkening mischievously. “Or you could come sit on my lap.” He pats his knee, and you giggle at his usual antics.

“Mmmm…I dunno, Tom.” You attempt a sly, flirty grin, hoping you’re not resembling more of an awkward alligator than a pretty fox. Seductive feels a little strange for you right now…You might have to settle for the Koala. “Maybe you should beg me to sit in your lap?” 

Tom Ludlow, bless his heart, and despite all that testosterone dominating his personality, settles back into the couch cushions and submits to you. “Please, baby, please come sit in my lap. I need you.” 

It feels a little wrong—he’d be a bad actor—and it makes you giggle at him, covering your mouth to keep the snorts away. 

He pouts at you, and it makes you laugh harder, because he looks so adorable, and because a scary, big man should not look so adorable, and because you fucking love him and it’s driving you insane. 

You don’t realize he’s pulling you on top of him, falling back to the couch with you in his arms—you’re too busy laughing, then crying, although for an entirely different reason now. 

“Honey,” he whispers, pushing the wisps of loose hair away from your teary, sticky cheeks and letting you snot on his fresh, laundered shirt. “Honey, I’m sorry. I’ve got you.” 

But that’s the problem. He’s got you—your little thin skinned heart right in his strong hand, and it’s so ready to burst like an overripe cherry at any moment and kill whatever part is left of you that cares enough about human connection to let someone baby and shush and pamper you. You try to push him away, and he holds you tighter. 

“Tom…”

“No.”

“Okay,” you say around a sob, coiling up in his lap, giving in to clinging for dear life.