₊𖥔 𝓳𝓪𝓷𝓮 ! ۪ ׄ໑୧ ׅ𖥔ׄ

For a man that's pretty squeamish, he's over the moon when you wake up one morning; rushing over to be sick in the toilet. He's confused initially, wondering if he'd undercooked the meat last night and accidentally poisoned his entire family. But he doesn't feel sick so that can't be right. So, why are you—

This guy bursts through the door like a bull in a china shop when it finally dawns on him. He immediately comes to kneel beside you, securing your hair behind your ears like the gentleman he is. Though, he keeps as much distance as he can — eyes looking anywhere else in the room. The last thing you needed was him being sick too.

He waits for you to recover like a child waiting to open his birthday presents, impatient and bouncing on his knees slightly. And you know exactly why.

You're reluctant at first, plagued with the possibility that you weren't pregnant after all, and your little episode had got his hopes up for nothing. But, after Holland runs to the store and returns with a pregnancy test for you to pee on — it's just the opposite.

Holland can't contain his excitement one bit when you tell him it's positive, immediately going to bang his fist against Holly's bedroom door. "Up! Up! Up! Family meeting in the living room." You've barely even had time to process it yourself before he's sitting Holly down on the couch and spilling the news himself.

She looks blankly between the two of you for a moment before her gaze stops on you.

"You…had sex with my dad?"

"Jesus!" Holland shrieks. "That's not— Don't think about that— You're gonna have a sibling! Aren't you excited?"

She doesn't look at him still. Maybe she can't. But a small smile breaks her blank expression.

"Of all the men in the world? Really?" She asks, giving a pitiful look.

You stifle your own laugh, motioning for her to come and give you a hug — which, of course, she's more than happy with; scrambling up from the couch to wrap her arms around you.

During the course of your pregnancy, Holland barely lets you lift a finger. If you're in bed reading and just finished a glass of water, before you can even set it down against the bedside table Holland shoots up and takes it from you. And best believe he's running to the kitchen at the speed of light to fill it back up again.

You make a joke one time, saying he should fan you and feed you grapes — you know, like they do in those movies. But he doesn't seem to understand the jest, all too quickly leaving and returning home with a paper fan and some grapes. The realisation finally falls on him when you erupt into a fit of laughter.

"Yeah, that's it. Laugh at the guy who just wants to do something nice." He pouts, clearly displeased as he sets the bag down on the floor. He sits on the bed next to you, shoulders hunched over in defeat.

You end up letting him do it anyway, just to put a smile back on his face. Holland enjoyed it thoroughly (and was weirdly turned on at one point.)

He's very protective over anyone that makes any sort of comment regarding your pregnancy, even with Healy who saw your bump for the first time and went "Wow! You're big." Obviously, there was no malice behind it, and you found it rather funny, but Holland immediately positioned himself in between you and Healy.

"Hey! That's my partner you're talkin' to, jackass."

Healy is shooting you a very bewildered look, to which you just shrug and shake your head as if to say 'Yeah. I don't know what's up with him'. But as soon as Holland spins back around, you fix your expression into a smile, and he proceeds to nod triumphantly to himself like he'd just saved the entire planet.

He just wants to show you that he'll be a good father to your child. He's well-aware that Holly is a real-life example, but he can admit that he's fucked up along the way due to his drinking habits, and with that behaviour rapidly cooling down since the big news, he figures he should work twice as hard to prove it to you.

But he's 100% panicking when you go into labour. He does not know what he should say, what he should do, despite being in the exact same situation before. So, he just starts rambling whilst he's sat beside you in the hospital bed.

"You know, I always thought of pregnancy like gambling."

You give him a look, as if to say 'Please don't continue. Not with the nurse in the room.' Though he doesn't seem to catch it, looking off as if he was some sort of, all-powerful, ancient Greek philosopher.

"I mean, the little one could grow up to cure cancer. How amazing is that?"

You watch as the nurse seems to smile at his comment as she's setting things up around the room.

And, of course, that would've been a lovely thing to say on its own. However, the problem was — he was not finished and he'd lulled the poor woman into a false sense of security.

You, on the other hand, you were trained by experience to know something else was coming.

"Or, they turn out like Ted Bundy— But, I'm sure it'll be fine, baby. We won't let that happen." He rests his hand on your own, giving it a quick pat, offering a reassuring smile. A strange smile considering the nature of what he just said.

You can only hope the baby decides to make an appearance sometime soon. Because as soon as it does, Holland will fall into a blissful silence — cradling the little one in his arms, mumbling little greetings as he leans in closer, promising that he'll be the best dad in the world.

Relationship is turbulent at the best of times, the both of you being far too quick to start an argument and just as quick to fuck and forget about it, until the next issue came up and the cycle continued.

You’d broken up because of a particularly explosive argument that ended in you storming out of his trailer; he’d usually follow right after you, immediately getting all handsy and speaking directly into your ear.

“Am sorry baby, come back to me. I’ll make you feel so good, promise.” While he’s pressing long kisses against your neck from behind, grabbing a hold of your hips and pulling you into him to feel the bulge in his jeans.

It was wrong really, but he got turned on whenever you yelled at him, whenever you were angry with him. He wasn’t sure exactly why. He just thought it was ridiculously sexy that you could hold your own against him. He liked how mouthy you got.

But you were also responsible for the toxicness of the relationship, your strategy of breaking up with him and storming off was nothing but an empty threat — only enjoying the feeling of him chasing after you, grovelling his way back into your pants in a matter of 5 minutes.

It was routine at this point. every couple of nights you’d tell him you were leaving him, running off only to end up right back where you started. In his bed, being pounded into oblivion while he’s muttering the dirtiest things in your ear.

“You wanna walk away from me, baby? I’d like to see you try now”

But one night he doesn’t follow. You hang at the exit of the trailer park for a moment, hoping you’ll spot him emerging from the darkness. But he never comes.

You simply roll your eyes after deciding you waited long enough, trying to rid them of the tears quickly pooling as you make your way home. Boyfriend-less.

In the next week, you purposely bring a date to the carnival to provoke him. In fact, you sought out a date just for your plan — and oh my, does it work.

He’s watching you the whole time, cigarette in his hand, eyes scanning all over your legs in your short skirt (remembering how they feel wrapped around his waist).

Luke’s more amused than anything, he’s smart enough to clock that you’ve come here on purpose, and this was your own twisted way of letting him know that you miss him. And of course, he misses you too.

He’s unbelievably smug about it, smirking when you meet his gaze. Possibly trailing your hand up your date’s chest but looking dead at him instead, offering him an irresistible look.

He’s had enough by this point, he just wants his hands all over you so he’ll stride over even in the presence of the other male.

“Sorry, this one’s mine.” He’ll put simply, bending down to throw you over his shoulder, his arm strategically securing the hem of your skirt to the back of your thighs as not to flash everyone at the carnival.

You go along all too willingly, not even bothering to put up a fake fight — only giggling and kicking your feet, enjoying the feeling of being in his arms again as he whisks you away to his trailer.

He wastes NO time, instructing that you ride him while he just stares at you, both of your moans filling the room. He looks at you like you’ve just given him the world, full of admiration as you bounce up and down on him.

“Fuck, come back to me baby. Need you on me like this all the time. Shoulda’ came after you i’m an idiot.”

But, you weren’t going to make it that easy for him.

“Beg for it.”

He lets out a loud chuckle at your antics, the sound quickly strangled by an even louder moan. He leans upward from where he’s laying, hands firmly pressed against your hips as he fucks into you from underneath and does just what you asked him to.

He begs right into your ear, in the huskiest voice you’ve ever heard, and you know you’re done for.

Between the things he’s saying, the fullness of him inside you, and the most intense orgasm of your life, you’re 100% taking him back. And he knows it.

Oh and best believe he’s praising the FUCK out of you too.

“That’s it. Yeah. My beautiful fucking baby, aren’t you? Tell me you love me— Please, wanna hear you say it when I finish. Almost there.”

Luke’s orgasm is pretty intense too, he can feel how differently the build-up warps in his body so he lays back down just before, head against the pillows to watch you in all your glory. But also because he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t thrash you off the bed purely by accident.

Bouncing up and down on him, hands against his abs to steady yourself; scratching the skin of his stomach when you squeeze, telling him you love him, that you’ll take him back.

Luke’s not going to heaven, but he’s sure this is the closest he’s going to get.

He’ll hold you close all night after that, threading his fingers through your hair and pressing soft kisses against it, even if you’re fast asleep by this point. He doesn’t care. He’s just happy you’re there with him.

He’d notice your phone lighting up too, being spammed with messages from your friends who happened to check your location. Finding you exactly where you shouldn’t be. Where you said you wouldn’t be ever again.

If he’s feeling particularly invasive, he’ll read through a couple of them while you sleep — but he doesn’t take them to heart, he finds it funny if anything.

The constant stream of “Please tell me you didn’t.” “WHERE ARE YOU?!” “Emergency meeting.”

Luke knows what the two of you have is complicated and messy, and likely not be understood by anyone outside of the relationship. But he’s not concerned with what anyone else thinks. Just what you think.

And with you all cuddled up at his side, sleeping soundly and comfortably; he’s pretty sure you’re happy.

𑣲 the first time it happened:

He was hunched over the hood of a broken car, hands working tirelessly at the retrospective parts that needed fixing.

He’d dropped you off at your shift earlier that day, insisting that when you finished you should walk to the garage so that he can take you home after he’s done.

Driver was far too protective, albeit paranoid, to let you within an inch of any form of public transportation — he knew what kind of people were out there, looking for someone like you. So, he gladly took on the responsibility of chauffeuring you around, to and from wherever you needed to go.

He’d often be busy when you got to him, not leaving much room for conversation as his head was practically buried in the hood of the car.

Though, you’d quickly grown to like the lack of attention, allowing a prime-time window of around 30 minutes to shamelessly ogle him.

His frame bent over the front of the car. His hands and arms covered in oil, seeping into his obnoxiously white t-shirt, leaving little brown patches that he’d end up scrubbing later.

The toothpick that hung from the corner of his lips, waggling in slow-motion whenever he moved.

The wince in his face when he had to exert himself a little harder, the muscles of his arms flexing in the process. To top it all off, he’d make a little grunt every so often, prompting your tongue to poke against your inner cheek with a small smile.

All of a sudden, he seemed to freeze. He’d caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye, watching like your life depended on it. Like you couldn’t look away.

He felt a quick pressure in his stomach as he craned his head to get a better look at you. He found you as he first thought, immediately flinching his head back to where it was previously with eyes blown-wide.

He almost expected you to say something. Surely, you wanted something, that’s why you were staring. However, the silence that hung in the air caused a tight feeling in his throat. He was nervous. Alarmingly so.

What once was a small glimpse became all he could really focus on, your shadowy figure in the corner, staring him down like a tiger seeking out its prey.

“Do you…want something?” He finally mustered up the courage to speak, fully turning himself to you as he perched on the end of the car. His tone was unsure, cautious, as if you were going to abruptly lunge at him.

“No. I’m okay.” You smiled reassuringly.

He’d expected you to flinch away, even apologise, maybe you hadn’t realised you were staring. Maybe you had just zoned-out. But, your quick response told him that you knew full well what you were doing.

“Right. Good.” He gave a half-smile, turning back toward the car with a frightened look on his face, having to bite back a small whimper of fear that threatened to fall from his lips.

𑣲 the second time it happened:

He had invited you over to his apartment to watch a movie. He’d seen it on the home-page of his TV, thinking it sounded like something you’d enjoy — pulling out his phone to call you.

“Yeah, I’ll come up. Give me 5 minutes.”

Luckily, you lived in the same apartment building so all you had to do was get in the elevator; press the right button, and you were there.

He let you sit down next to him on the couch, quickly reaching down the side of the furniture to grab a plush blanket; draping it over your body as you cozied yourself up to his side.

He let the film play, getting invested in the story-line himself before a familiar pit began pestering at his stomach. The same one he had the other week when you— oh.

This time, he couldn’t look. His frightened, slightly down-turned eyes honed in on the TV screen with an intense purpose — seemingly as intense as your stare, that burned into the side of his face.

“Film’s good. Don’t you think?” He managed to croak out, clearing his throat in the process, eyes moving to focus on the imprint of your knees underneath the blanket.

They were brought up to your hips, your arms folded across the end of his shoulder — jesus, were you just laying on his shoulder and staring right at him? He became all too aware of your breath fanning against his neck, feeling a sudden tingling sensation.

“Yeah, I’m glad you called me over. This is great!” You hummed excitedly.

‘You’re not even watching it’ Driver thought to himself, attempting to steady his trembling hand by placing it on top of your knee, feeling how your head now nuzzled its way into his shoulder; an indicator you weren’t looking anymore.

Phew.

𑣲 the third time it happened:

The two of you had gotten stuck in the elevator, majorly overdue on its maintenance after checking the little warranty sticker in the corner.

You pulled out your phone with a frustrated sigh, typing the correct number into your phone that would send saviours your way. Though, instead of pressing the call button, you handed your phone over to him.

“Oh. You want me to call?” He took the phone from your hands carefully, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Please. I hate being on the phone.” You whined, silently begging him with your eyes — something he couldn’t resist, no matter how hard he tried.

He let out an amused exhale in response, shaking his head in disbelief as he looked down at your phone. His fingers paused at the screen for a moment, offering you one of his infamous side-eyes.

You were doing it again.

Driver had no escape, stuck between the walls of the elevator. So this time, his fear provoked him into dropping his arm to the side, still clutching your phone between his fingers. He’d had enough of being so startled.

“Why do you do that?” He asked, almost breathless. He turned to you rather quickly, positioning himself so that his feet were facing your own.

“Why do I hate being on the phone?”

“No. Not that. You keep…looking at me.”

“Am I not allowed to look at you?” You protested a little too quickly, flinging your arms up in your own defense.

The elevator went eerily quiet as he stared you down with his eyebrows raised, looking as if to say ‘You know that’s not the issue’.

“It’s intense, I just wanna know what you’re thinking.” He attempted to reason, worried he’d somehow pushed your buttons. Now stuck in an elevator with a grouchy partner giving him the silent-treatment.

“I don’t know, I just like looking at you. Objectively, you are nice to look at.”

His fear was quickly replaced with something else, the pit in his stomach quickly subsiding, replaced with a warm and fuzzy feeling that seemed to spread throughout his body.

“Okay. Good.” He breathed out, mainly thanking you for putting one of his brain’s endless questions to rest, but also half-directed at your compliment. “You should see yourself. I kept thinking you were going to kill me.”

He watched in amusement as you rolled your eyes at him, gesturing your hand at his, wafting it ever so slightly. “Can you just call the company?” Your tone was a little sharp, clearly not as amused as he was.

“Not yet.”

Was all he said before his free-hand pressed against your stomach, walking you backwards to bounce off the wall of the elevator. His face hovered above yours for just a second, before he suavely dipped down to press his lips against your own.

It was awhile before he let the two of you get rescued.

The lobby was somewhat stuffy, past the point of comfortable but not exactly teetering over the edge of a sauna; just enough to dampen your forehead, flyaway strands of hair sticking to the skin, though in your current predicament you couldn’t do anything about it.

Your hands were obnoxiously occupied, three overwhelming heavy cardboard boxes stacking up to lean against your chest, your fingers death-gripping the bottom most box to keep it all steady.

It was a gruelling task— not the most glamorous either. If you could see properly over the boxes you’d probably notice people’s passing glances of confusion. Of course, they’d never help, that would require too much effort for someone they didn’t know, selfishly noting that they wouldn’t get anything in return. So much for altruism.

In the midst of a particularly wordy, psychological rant in your head, you hear the elevator’s chiming.

You silently thanked the universe for your fortune, otherwise you’d have been pretty stuck, an obnoxious absence of wiggle room to press the necessary button. A small, embarrassed voice coming out from behind the boxes to ask for some help, reminding you of that emotionally scarring time you lost your parents in the candy aisle. You’d rather suffer.

You carefully stepped into the warmly-lit elevator, extremely cautious as not to trip over where the door connected to the floor. You gently leaned against the side of the elevator with a small whimper, seemingly gaining the attention of the man across from you — you couldn’t exactly see him, but you could feel that he was facing in your direction, a direct view of just the top of his hair awaiting over the expanse of the box.

“Floor 4?” The blonde man’s voice seemed to bounce off the walls of the elevator, a little quieter so as not to startle you in your physically-taxing state. Though his voice had a slight timidness to it, he sounded confident in his assumption, leading you to believe he resided on the same floor.

Finally, a helpful stranger.

“Yeah. Thank you.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, slowly nodding your head behind the boxes, proving to be an extremely useless social cue when it dawned on you that if you couldn’t see him properly, then he definitely couldn’t see you.

The air seemed to swell thicker, more unbearable, now painfully aware of the dull ache spreading across your arms. In order to compensate for the pain, you attempted to shift the weight of the boxes momentarily but you were met with no luck; accidentally making it harder than it was in the first place.

“Moving?”

He didn’t seem like someone that had much social interaction, from your current observations his tone always seemed to have a hint of uncertainty hidden beneath the surface, as if he wasn’t really sure how to communicate.

“Shoot! What gave me away?”

He let out an amused exhale through his nostrils, before more of his head came into vision; an indicator that he was creeping toward you, that and his gentle footsteps tapping against the floor. He lifted the top two boxes like they were empty, seeming light as a feather in his grip whilst he lowered them with, not so much as a tremble in his arms as he hung them low.

Oh, a handsome, helpful stranger.

Realistically, he could’ve just taken one — but he didn’t. He grabbed them both, a true knight in shining armour as the threat of your arms giving out grew far too imminent, replaced by the slow returning of your limbs normalcy.

The man was silent again, almost flinching away from your eye-contact with an awkward smile; his head faced straight forward, staring at the elevator door like it was something he’d never seen before.

He was visibly awkward, which seemed to make you less nervous about the whole move-in, surely if you were living next to a master criminal they’d be a slither more assertive, and outspoken.

The sound of the elevator doors opening pulled you from your trance, eyes quickly flinching from the man you hadn’t even realised you were still gawking at.

Something about him was stare-able, maybe it was his slightly pathetic-leaning blue eyes, a deep entanglement of sadness in his pupils that seemed to draw you in even deeper; grasping every fibre of your being with the threat of never letting go.

Maybe it was his spotless, white t-shirt that seemed to be covering a particularly hard chest, the short-sleeves revealing the length of his muscular arms, ending with his large hands that were clutched around the cardboard box; the expanse of his fingers making it seem smaller than it was in reality.

He remained fixed to the floor until you stepped out of the elevator first, slowly trailing himself behind you, but you could imagine his entrancing eyes riveted to your back; tracing you all over in complete silence, like he was trying to savour the sight of you behind his eyelids.

The thought provoked a sudden hot flush in your cheeks, quickly trying to shake it away before you had to turn back to him.

Reaching the door to your new apartment, he appeared in your left-field of vision — slowly, and carefully laying the boxes down on the floor in the same manner as if he was transporting precious porcelain.

Before you could bend down to place the box on top of the others, his free hands snaked their way under the box; his rough fingers gently brushing against your own in the process of taking it from you. This time, he watched you carefully, his gaze soft yet all too intense for your already flustered state, feeling like he was granted a view straight to your soul.

You could only offer him a half-smile as gratitude, pressing your lips together softly whilst fighting urgently to prevent the real smile that threatened to splay across your lips, becoming far too comfortable with a stranger who never even said much.

Nervously, you fidgeted around in the pockets of your jeans, fingers clutching around the keys that the landlord had given you a few days prior; settling them in the keyhole with a faint jingle.

Before you even had time to process the door opening, he was already through it, swiftly and strategically carrying the three boxes into the expanse of the room, once again, like they weighed nothing.

He looked around for a moment, side to side, before his eyes fell on you. His head motioned at a free-space in the corner of the room, still staring, blinking.

“There?” His voice still had a softness to it but had evidence of more strain than before, likely due to three boxes stacked up against his chest. He was taller than you, his head, shoulders, and most of his chest visible over the boxes in contrast to your limited vision.

“Anywhere is fine.” You spoke faintly,

Technically, that was a lie. Anywhere in the room was fine.

After setting the boxes down, he seemed eager to leave the room, like he was somehow uninvited; trying his best to remain polite and respectful of your solitary space, his feet carrying him out the door as fast as he entered, but he remained just outside the open-doorway.

He propped himself up with his elbow, slender wrist just about crossing the line between the hall and your apartment.

Walking over to him, the heart in your chest appeared to beat faster the nearer you grew, settling yourself just in front of him. The motion of his arm allowed a subtle waft of his cologne, soft and musky, filling your nostrils in the politest way possible; sending your head into a faint spin before you spoke.

“Thank you, really. I uh, well— Yeah, thanks.”

Smooth.

He nodded in response, taking a longer blink than necessary as a faint smile appeared across his lips before he backed away — walking off out of vision to his apartment next-door.

In the midst of your encounter with the kind, handsome stranger, you’d failed to recall the numerous boxes still crammed into the trunk of your car; the imminent threat of labouring even more boxes up into your apartment provoking you into doing something you never thought you’d do.

Asking for help.

“Hey.” You called after the man, stepping outside your apartment to find him a couple feet away; his frame turning his back toward the sound of your voice with a tilt of his head. “Are you busy, or anything? It’s just— I have a few more boxes and—“

He didn’t even let you finish, spinning on his heels to stand to attention with an almost relieved smile. He gave another affirming nod, walking himself over to the elevator and holding it open for you.

This time, it was mostly your turn to stare at his back, noticing how the creases of his shirt folded over his muscles due to the strain at his front — shamelessly checking out the man for anyone in the lobby to see if they happened to peer over.

It didn’t take long to retrieve the boxes with the extra set of large helping hands, always carrying a great deal more than you were, somehow still managing to free a hand to alert the elevator down to the ground floor.

However, what did take a long time was unpacking all the boxes. The countless hours of mental turmoil, hauling your belongings across the room, second-guessing whether that vase did actually look good there, breaking out into a hot sweat from pacing back and forth.

Thankfully, these activities were all in absence of the helpful stranger, whose name you’d forgotten to even ask for. His presence still lingered in the room, like a ghost, eerily overseeing every little move you made; finding it impossible to shake the thoughts of him away.

The pacing back and forth never stopped, though this time you had a pen in hand, twiddling it gently between your fingers, a notebook you’d unpacked discarded on one of the kitchen counters — laid open on a painfully blank page, next to all the baking equipment you’d unpacked.

You nodded affirmingly to yourself, finally reaching the conclusion you’d been searching for, strolling over to scribble on the corner of the paper with your tongue peeking out from your lips.

Cookies or brownies?

Tearing the corner of the page off, you left your apartment to stand just outside his door; slowly crouching down to push the note underneath, silently praying that he didn’t instantly swing open the door for unrelated reasons.

That would be awkward.

Almost immediately after you settled back into your apartment, a small whooshing noise came from the direction of the door, followed by some fading footsteps that seemed to echo throughout the hall; almost in perfect harmony with your heartbeat as you approached the door.

Picking up the note, you turned it over.

Cookies :)