howdy and welcome to my blog! the name's red. here is where you'll find all my writings and rambles involving whatever current fixations i'm drowning in!
before proceeding: this is an 18+ blog only! if you're a minor or you don't have an age in your bio and you follow you will find yourself blocked! i mean it!
otherwise, enjoy! asks are open!
request/ask rules:
keep it respectful! i don't tolerate hate or any 'tudes here (and no major spamming preferably)
pls stray away from requesting anything heavily triggering (mainly darker-themed tropes involving non-con or abuse. as well as topics involving EDs/body image issues por favor)
when requests are open it may take me some time to get to your request so patience is much appreciated!
feedback is greatly valued, i love hearing what you guys think and am always trying to grow as a writer! (again, as long as it's respectful)
even if you don't have a request of some sort i'm always down the chat regardless!
i have yet to dip a toe into the smut pond so those particular requests i might not get to right away! spicy thoughts for discussion won't be turned away though lol
characters i write for:
rust cohle (true detective)
cooper howard/the ghoul (fallout)
arthur morgan (red dead redemption 2) -coming soon!
note: i mainly write for female readers but, i do my best to keep descriptors of features as neutral as possible so everyone is able to immerse themselves in my fics. as i keep on keepin' on, i will open up to writing for more characters so fear not!
prompt lists:
sensory prompts
expression/feeling prompts
200+ prompts
fluff prompts, pt 2, pt.3
angst prompts
writings:
rust cohle
(jj series - ongoing)
the first of many and the start of something new
jealousy, jealousy!
turned tables (blurb in between)
crashin' the party
if only tonight we could sleep?
souls further entwined
sunday kind of love
misc.
headcannons pt. 1, pt. 2
prompt #4
prompt #46
prompts #3 & #6
prompt #20
prompt #2
sensory blurb
jj request #1
prompt #10
cooper howard/the ghoul
misc.
request #1 (newest!)
over time this will get updated here and there. if you have any questions don't hesitate to ask! i don't bite! ♥️
finally caught up with the pitt so far and here i thought al hashimi was gonna be the devil incarnate but i really think some of y’all are just weirdos who hate brown women !
summary: pope cody doesn't allow himself much, but after a harrowing job, all he wants is the gentleness that is you...
warnings: hurt/comfort, nakedness, slight horniness but that ain't the point of this, 18+ just in case, smurf mention, canon-general violence/injury, pope's aura, etc
word count: 1.6k
a/n: been watching animal kingdom with my sister and shawn hatosy has bewitched me mind, body, and soul. let me know how you enjoy me trying to write for this freak ass mama's boy who just needs some tenderness and normalcy in his life
It didn’t take much to surprise you these days, but the last thing you expected after an impromptu girls’ night out was to find a slew of medical supplies strewn around your en-suite bathroom.
Amid the mess, stood one Andrew Cody, hardly conscious behind the steam-fogged glass of your walk-in shower. Your heart jolted as your gaze settled on an unsettling amount of blood-soaked gauze left haphazardly on the vanity’s counter.
You remember somewhere back in the muddled mess of your sobering mind something about a job that was supposed to go down tonight. He didn’t make it a habit to let you in on much when it came to his family’s work, but you didn’t think it was supposed to be that much of a complicated take this time around, despite his current stature clearly depicting otherwise.
There must have been some sort of colossal fuck up along the way if he came back like this. To get away and be with you, of all people, instead of with his brothers or even by himself.
If he’d noticed you by now, he made no move to acknowledge your presence.
With a small sigh, you bend over and grab the small waste basket nestled next to your bathroom cabinet in order to gather the soiled supplies to make room for any patching up that’s sure to take place post-shower.
When the space is made to your satisfaction, you waste no time wriggling out of your itchily glittered cocktail dress, thanks to Shauna’s insistence on wearing, along with the rest of your dainty undergarments, before grabbing some towels to set aside.
Making it into the shower cubicle, the mottling of bruises and severe scraping that decorated the expanse of his back like a morbid modern art display has you at a momentary standstill. The delicate freckling of his shoulders could hardly be made out, and it was a challenge to swallow the growing lump in your throat at the sight.
Your eyes drifted to one of his hands resting on the seaglass mosaic that made up your accent wall. His knuckles were marred with the discoloration of an altercation, serving as a stark contrast to the soft colors of condensating tiles.
Pope always seemed to appear slightly out of place whenever he turned up here. The complete opposite of your graceful disposition. The lived-in warmth of your home.
A makeshift weapon. A guard dog. A Criminal.
Despite all the titles he shouldered, he looked so small. As if he could break down every particle, every atom of himself, and disappear down the drain that rested at his feet.
Just wash away. Dissolve. Be nothing.
A subtle shudder rippled along his shoulders as he took a breath.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Your voice was small, afraid to shatter the quiet that lay heavy in this little corner of the world.
He shook his head no.
Things had certainly gone wrong in some way, shape, or form tonight, and as usual, it looked like he took the brunt of it all.
It was times like these when you really, really hated Smurf.
You didn’t need to voice that, though. You’d end up standing here all night until your face ran blue. He knew how you felt.
For he felt the same.
Except he’d never been confident enough to have the strength to break away. To be free.
At this point, he’s not even sure if he deserves it. A life without his wretched mother in it. One without pain being inflicted upon himself or others. It’s all he’s ever known.
It was as if his inescapable tie to that woman seemed to serve as a form of some tragic, indefinite penance.
With you, though, there’s an uncharacteristic selfishness that takes over whenever it comes to stealing a slice of unguarded peace at your mercy.
At first, he made it his mission to just stay away. Be alone. Let the weight of his existence, his sins, build up and let him drown without anyone there to bear witness.
But you were so good. So lovely. So real.
You’ve never been scared of him. Always just scared for him.
You weren’t naive about his past or present, but he kept his family life and whatever this was as separate as humanly possible. He was sure the poison of the Cody's corrupted Midas’ touch would eventually reach you some way, somehow. That it would take you without any warning, just like everything else, when it came to anything he allowed himself to want. All he could do was continue to slip away and revel in the warmth you offered in between the small gaps of time and space the universe felt generous enough to provide.
Sometimes knowing this type of fragile affection, this love, made him sick to his very core.
He still struggled with accepting that you didn’t hang around to use him. That every gesture, every touch, wasn’t some twisted way to gain control.
You existed in his orbit not for leverage, but because you cared. You had no ill will in picking up his many broken pieces. You did it because it felt right. You were selfless by nature.
“Where did you go?” The meek rasp of Pope’s voice finally filled the stretch of silence between you two.
“Shauna dumped her asshole boyfriend this morning, so Cassie demanded we go out and celebrate her new chapter of freedom.” You inched forward to loosely wrap your arms around his torso, taking extra care in trying not to disturb the darkening marks settling on his ribs.
The hand resting on the shower wall came down to gently drape over yours, squeezing lightly to ground himself in the fact that it was you resting your soft, damp skin against his, fitting like a puzzle piece against the curve of his worn spine. His chest was starting to redden from the heat of the water so he took it upon himself to switch places with you to give himself a break, making sure to twist the knob as he did so your skin wouldn’t scald under the spray.
Facing him, you were now able to get a good look at his face. There was a small split in his cheekbone with a blooming stain accompanying it, but nothing else nearly as bad as the rest of his frame.
“Tough night?” You gently cupped his jaw, running a thumb over the pale pink of his bottom lip as reddened hazel took you in. Being out for hours crammed in hot spaces didn't make it surprising to see that some of your makeup was starting to run and flake a bit, but there was nothing else more beautiful.
You, in all your glory, trusting him to take up space at your most vulnerable.
His heart ached, trying to jump out of his battered ribcage at the look in your eyes. The intensity of your love, tainted by worry, as you tried and failed to tamp it down because you knew how much he disliked being fussed over.
“Just needed a moment away.” His hand lifted to encompass the back of your head to bring you forward, kissing your forehead so sweetly you felt a sting of tears press behind your eyes. The path of his delicate affections made way down the slope of your nose, the corner of your eye, then finally, like a stalled breath let free, the awaiting line of your lips.
It was a kiss driven by sheer want. The addicting rush of relief bleeding through.
He’s still here. You’re promised another day as few and far in between as they come.
You feel the hard line of him pressing between the wet slick of your bodies, growing warm and heavy at the base of your navel as palms blindly wander over skin. Sighing into his mouth, you adjust yourself to reach down, mind thick with the heady idea of putting all of your focus into taking care of him, but his gentle grip on your wrist stops you from traveling further.
He softly shakes his head, mumbling something incoherent, something about just needing you, before guiding your hand back up on the nape of his neck and diving into your embrace with renewed desperation. He wanted to be present for more, but the day’s misfortunes could only allow for this, and you’d never fault him for it. You’d never push.
His lips drew themselves down the length of your neck, barely teasing with the soft scrape of his teeth, granting a moment for you to both retain some much needed air. The water was starting to grow lukewarm, nudging you out of your joint daze.
“Want me to help you wash?” Your fingers carded through damp curls, letting your fingernails scrape gingerly at his scalp. He let out a soft hum of approval, so you made the move to grab one of the loofahs hanging on a shelf, his own personal one that you bought for him of course, and carefully started scrubbing away any remnants of frustration or fatigue.
Once you were done, he insisted on returning the favor, though you playfully rushed him as the water’s decreasing temperature was the annoying causation of rising gooseflesh spreading rampant all over your body, and you couldn’t stomach it for much longer, as much as you appreciated his silent doting.
Drying off, you settle in the best set of pajamas you could find for both of you and sit him back down to make sure that the rest of his wounds are clean. The tenderness in which you did so almost made him melt into a pathetic puddle.
Settling a butterfly bandage on his split cheek, you lean forward to stamp a warm peck along the tender bone. His strong arms were quick to hold you there, relishing in the small action as if it could make him somewhat whole again.
“C’mon. Take these, then we need to get you snug and asleep.” You press another kiss to his lips, then pull him up to give him a couple of painkillers in hopes he wouldn’t feel like he got hit by a bus as bad in the morning.
Following you like a lost stray into the oasis that was your bed, you intertwine your limbs with his from behind, pressing close as if you could mend together and be one.
Nothing can touch you here, he decided in that moment.
summary: over 10 years of being in detective bryant’s orbit and it seems like what you want will always be just out of reach…
word count: 2.9k (ish)
warnings: unrequited love(?), pining, mentions of past abuse/torture, addiction issues, unhealthy self-concepts, stalking (oc character), reader is described/pictured with heavy tattooing but other than that no other physical descriptors, not beta read, cursing, etc
a/n: long time no see! i've been in the throes of watching southland per its recent streaming release and my new fixation comes in the form of sammy bryant. this does come with a possible series in mind so please let me know what you think! i pray that this pulls me out of this multiple-year slump and that i get into a true rhythym of writing instead of being swallowed by the mess that is my life lol
You were never going to be Sammy Bryant’s type of girl. The one he settled down with. The one he chose.
You hailed from the same underworld, sure. Seen humanity at its inconceivable worst. Seen each other at your most miserably vulnerable. Torn down to the white meat, bones and all. Exposed for only those cut from the same cloth to bear witness, let alone even attempt to understand.
The level at which you saw each other was beyond what the average pairing could probably experience in a lifetime. More than most colleagues. Even more than Nate at times. Unspeakably more than his own wife. Two puzzle pieces making up the same grand, twisted picture of the City of Angels’ criminal justice system. Working in tandem once upon a time to achieve what was growing to be a losing game.
Yet never meant to be the ones that fit together.
Somewhere, you always fell short. Respected and cared for, yes. A fact about your friendship you’d never found yourself in doubt of.
But unfortunately, nothing more.
Something you’d come to terms with time and time again. Like a desperate dog tearing at the same old ragged wound, only to find itself suffering in the agitated ache of healing all over again.
Over ten years of the same tired tale. The subtle push and pull of almost. Of weighted maybes.
He was Sam. A clean cut, upstanding guy. Structured routines and pressed polos. A big heart with big dreams of a white picket fence and the nuclear model family.
You…you had too much to carry. The way your work had shaped you was more visible than most got out of the game. Hardened around the edges in ways that were palpable even to the untrained eye.
You didn't fit the tender vision of the life he sought to achieve.
It’s just how it was set to be.
You wipe the thought away with the same alcohol-logged rag you’d been using for the past fifteen minutes on the bartop of Declan’s.
Tonight had been the longest shift at the pub of your fucking life. Not in the too-busy, out-of-control crowd kind of way. It was a Tuesday, a too quiet one at that. Leaving you with more than the allotted time to ruminate over things gone wrong since the moment you got out of bed earlier in the afternoon. You pause to sneak a glance at the clock.
Only nine. Of course.
You sigh with an unrestrained force for no one but a few scattered regulars to barely notice, and start to wipe at the case of fresh glassware your coworker, Dylan, brought from the back. It was only you two and a cook on shift with a night this dead, something you didn't actually mind more often than not, but tonight was not favored to be one where you mentally beat a decade-old horse in vain.
The entrance door’s bell rang, and the sight before you made you sour at the obvious notion in your desire for cured boredom:
Be careful what you wish for!
Samuel Bryant and his partner Nate Moretta mosied on in with the normal lazy swagger of LA’s most notorious gangland detectives. It wasn’t surprising to see them, albeit slightly irritating given your current headspace, despite it being a little shy of a month since your last run-in.
“Honey, it’s been a minute.” Nate flashes a warm smile, the old nickname easing your apprehension by just a smidge.
“How’s it going, guapo? Mariella and the kids okay?” You set a glass down to lean over and give him a brief kiss on the cheek before letting your gaze flit briefly to his second half. If Sam bristled slightly, you didn’t pay attention for long.
“They’re good, amor. Petey’s got a birthday coming up, can you believe it?” Nate’s natural enthusiasm roped you right back in.
“Geez. Another one around the sun. I remember him coming home from the hospital in that little outfit your mom made him.” You smile, resuming your cleaning duties. Sam had yet to break your bubble of catch-up as Nate continued,
“You should come by this Saturday. It’s been awhile and he’s been asking around for you.”
“I think I work but I can probably switch. Send me his birthday list, and we’re good as gold.”
Nate was about to brush off your offer of bringing anything before Sammy finally broke,
“I know it’s…it’s been awhile but we actually came to ask you some stuff–...well tell you more importantly.” There was an awkward pause, Nate sighing at his friend’s lack of subtlety. Sammy was stiff, abnormal from his usual laid-back demeanor whenever they did happen to stop by.
The nature of these exchanges was nothing new. As said before, you three shared the same background many moons ago. Though compared to them, you handled the city’s crime world from a more undercover frame of employment. Intensive to the point of early retirement, and that’s putting it mildly.
You had the scars and years of mental warring to prove as such.
Despite the career change, you’d all kept in touch. Working at a pub downtown had its perks, including intermittent second-hand news. You may not be in the shit like you used to be, but settling into the role of pseudo-informant was good enough to feel useful while never being tempted to throw yourself back into the force ever again. You gave the scoop if something floated within your range, they’d stop by for a drink or two and tip more than what was extra.
Thus, the dubbing of Honey. You could always set a trap, and flies were bound to follow.
It was copacetic, simple.
Which is why the indication of you needing to be told something as opposed to doing the telling struck you cold.
Sammy's lack of a good poker face wasn’t any comfort.
“You two look about ready to shit yourselves. Lay it on me.” You fiddle with one of your many rings, your usual choice of a long-sleeve shirt felt like a poor choice of uniform right about now as the two men visibly mulled over the best way to present to you whatever it was that had them looking green in the gills.
“We got news-” Nate began, but Sammy blurted,
“Illya’s out.”
For a minute, you couldn’t hear. A shrill ringing hounding your eardrums, just like those dramatic moments in the movies. Everything falling into slow motion. Your heartbeat skipping out of rhythm as you try and fail to respond to what he just said.
There was no fucking way.
“Honey-” Nate grasped your hand.
“How long?” Your voice was that of a splintered whisper, a pathetic imitation of who you were just seconds ago. Your eyes fixated on the inked plains of your hands, seconds into retreating back into the shell of a person you never thought you could be again after all this time. One you worked so hard to repair with thousands of broken pieces and a frayed sense of resilience. Sammy could see it in real time, his heart reaching desperately for yours. He promised this would never be a reality. He was certain justice had been achieved. A life sentence given for the brutalization and near-fatality of an officer. Of a friend.
But justice, he was learning more and more recently, was a fucking farce.
“He’s been out for a week, but it wasn’t brought to our attention until today.” Sammy’s soft rasp did little to ease you out of your growing disquiet. The laugh, borderline sob, you bark out is nothing short of jaggedly panicked.
“Come on, let’s sit down.” Nate came behind the bar and guided you with a gentle arm around your quivering shoulders to the nearest booth. Sam took off his beat-up leather jacket and enveloped you with a warmth you often dreamed of on your most hopeless of nights. It had that familiar spice and rare earthy tang of petrichor from this week’s surprising forecast of rain in August.
A glass of water, already sweating with condensation, had manifested in front of you. Sam’s calloused hand silently urging you to take a sip in hopes of calming you down. The glass itself felt ten times heavier than it normally would, but with a shaking grasp, you indulge him.
“There hasn’t been any other news so far, but we just wanted to keep you in the loop. Has anyone…unwelcome passed by lately?” Nate’s baby blues held a concern you hadn’t had directed at you in ages, and it was unnerving.
“No…at least not that I’ve noticed.” You picked at your nailbeds, Sam’s hand settling atop yours to get you to stop. You froze; his warm eyes met yours. While Nate displayed a muted fear, he burned with simmering frustration. An anger you also hadn’t been in the same room with in quite some time. A sense of ruthless protectiveness that once would've brought you peace of mind.
Now it just made you scared.
“He’s going to look for me.” It wasn't a question, your friends shifting at the reality of this newfound situation.
“We won’t let anything happen to you.” Nate implores but you shake your head.
“It happened before. Ilya’s not some run of the fucking mill gang leader. He’s russian mob, and I was the hopped-up idiot with a chip on her shoulder sent in for years to try and get rid of him at the expense of who I used to be. Shit, I was dead for-”
“Don’t.” Sam’s voice plea was hard, desperation slipping through the cracks. He lived it once. Facing this all again was a whole other playing field.
“Three years of my life working to build that case, all of those seeing and doing terrible things. Being Baba Yaga. Two years of being his bitch, his toy, just to get something damning enough. Five days of being beaten to shit when I was given up. Three minutes pronounced dead. One month in an intubated coma, waking up alone. Another year’s worth of physical therapy after that. We can’t forget the next three years in and out of rehab after several relapses because the department didn’t care how deep I was in it all, just for the sake of a shitty cover.”
Neither of them liked thinking back on just how many times they almost lost you. They, out of everyone, had been the most dedicated through the thick of it. There wasn’t a time when your sacrifices hadn’t been fought for tooth and nail,
“The judge and jury were both fucked. We all knew that and here we are. I can’t–...I won’t sit here and act like everything is going to be under control. I don’t have a badge as protection anymore, as if it did shit back then. When he’s done flying under the radar he will look for me. You know it.” Your eyes watered, voice refusing to break any further out of pure, stubborn will.
“We won’t let him touch you. We promised that.” Nate hands you a napkin, giving you a moment to dab at your waterline.
“Illya will get what he wants until either of us is dead this time. That was his promise.” You sunk into the worn leather of your seat, Sammy’s jacket creaking along with it.
The silence between you three stretched longer this time. More patrons began filtering in, forcing you out of your miserable reverie. You crumble the salt-dampened napkin into your clammy palm before standing and shrugging the makeshift safety blanket off of your form.
“I’ve gotta get back. If you get anything else you know where to find me.” You lay the jacket on the stained wood of the tabletop, abandoning the shred of safety offered to you at its owner’s feet before smoothing out your apron to join Dylan back at your post. Nate rubbed at his temples with an increasing stress beginning to blossom by the minute,
“I wish that had gone better.”
“There was no way it could, man. Listen, just...head on home. I’m gonna stick around for a bit, make sure she gets home alright. Okay?” Sam gave a gentle pat to his partner’s shoulder, who wearily agreed before heading out into the night and back home to his family.
Sammy’s worn gaze wandered back to you at the bar, resolve steeled as if the previous conversation hadn’t occurred at all. Like everything you’d done to piece yourself back together wasn’t crumbling in vain.
He knew better than anyone else that that was far from the truth.
-
Closing up shop with as much restraint as you could muster, you figured Sam and Nate had been long gone by now. Nate with his loving family waiting. Sam with a hopefully docile Tammi and loyal companion Richter offering him some reprieve.
You had the dismal promise of an empty house. A lame meal from Fatburger with some Desperate Housewives reruns at this hour at the very best. No one eager enough to notice the absence of your presence of the day.
No one to miss you.
Maybe you could stop by China Town and get one of those mini turtles in the neon plastic enclosures you always see for sale. Adopt a cat or something from the Pasadena shelter.
That could be enough. Pets don’t care what baggage you have. You’ve read enough studies to know they factually love without judgment.
Fatburger, tv, and pulling up some adoption websites. The night could have a chance of looking up.
Parting ways with your coworkers, you take the kitchen exit to the parking lot to make the journey back to Monterey Park. A lone figure leaning against your car was enough to have you make the jerky move of reaching in your purse for your gun, but they quickly held their hands up,
“Whoa-! Hey, it’s just me-”
“The hell are you doing in the dark, Bryant! I could’ve shot you, stupid-”
“First of all, not dark; there’s a street lamp. Secondly, I’d be a quicker draw, no contest.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” You scoffed, adrenaline vibrating through your veins as you stepped closer.
“I don’t know…you seem a little rusty. Should get you back at the range, sharpen you back up to standard.” Sam teased, his endearingly crooked teeth poking out at your bitter expression.
“Might have to with all this bullshit circling back.” You fidget with your keys, matching his posture against the car. He rubs a nervous hand across the back of his neck,
“About that…I wanted to–...I don’t know, see where your head's at now that it might’ve settled in.”
You stop your restless motion to think.
“I feel…hopeless. I guess. Life’s been okay, sure, but…I’ve never felt like I can truly move on.”
“What do you mean?’ He shifts closer to you, that warm spice invading your senses once again.
“I’m recovered, and I’ve worked hard to get to a state of normal, yes. But, I’m damaged goods, Sam. I haven’t felt like there’s gonna be much more for me than this. Some grungy bar and lonely after hours. This is as good as it gets for what happened to me, and now that he’s…back I just feel like I was on borrowed time all along.” Sam was stunned into silence.
“That’s bullshit.”
“Sammy-”
“No, Honey. That’s bull.shit. Damaged goods? Borrowed time? What the fuck are you talking about? Huh?” He crowded your space.
“Look at me. Look at me,” He grasped at your jaw, firm but never hurtful. Dark hues bored into yours so intensely you felt your stomach drop. There was a lack of metal adorning his left hand that you hadn’t noticed earlier.
You felt like shit for having that tantalizing spike of unadulterated hope.
“The shit you’ve been through? I’ve never known anyone strong enough to do what you’ve done. To see what you’ve seen. You’re worth more than anyone–than anything, you hear me? I never want to hear that coming from you. Ever. Illya’s not fucking worth that. No one is.”
You hadn’t been this close since-... it didn’t matter. Your mind was too numb at his proximity to form a coherent thought, so all you could do was nod. Barely satisfied, he let his grip drop down the length of your neck, intently tracing the script etched into the softness of your skin.
Дела, а не слова. Deeds not words.
Ain't that the truth.
“I can stay with you for a bit. Until we can get this sorted at the very least.” His tone found a new frame of quiet, his touch setting you alight with every pass of his thumb.
“And have Tammi on a rampage? Don’t worry about-”
“We’re separated.”
Two words voiced with such finality that it left you winded.
“We’re done. She cheated and she’s pregant but…we’re done.” Despite his earnestness, you shook your head.
“It’s never that simple, Sam.” You stepped around him to settle into the driver’s seat.
“What do you mean?-”
“Listen, you’ve got enough on your plate at the moment. Just…go home for now, okay? Let’s not worry about things until we really have to.” The smile you gave was broken, Sammy’s impatience at your refusal showing plain on his face even in the muddied lighting of the parking lot.
“I always worry.” He frowned as you shifted into drive, lines marring his handsome face.
“That’s the problem, Sam. Get home safe.” Was all you said before pulling out and off into the street. Distance creating an unsettling pang in his chest. He wasn’t lying about what he said, and maybe it was a problem. This feeling wasn’t necessarily unfamiliar within the bounds of your relationship; it just wasn't something confronted often.
Lately, however, it was starting to take on a new shape. One he was terrified to acknowledge. One that might be too late to name.
reader that isn’t a bimbo? Reader that is put together and likes dressing up? Reader that’s older than 18-20? Reader that’s not white-coded??? Reader who doesn’t have daddy issues? Reader who does have daddy issues in a “man hater” way? Reader who’s taller than 4’11-5’0?? Reader who’s quiet and reserved and not in a robotic way or stuttering way? Reader who’s Tina Belcher coded? Reader who gives off the vibe of a creepy barn owl but somehow it’s endearing? Reader who’s charismatic and charming? Reader who’s-
summary: clark can only find healing in his sunshine...
warnings: light descriptions of injury, clark being a dork, helpless idiots in love, yearning only poets could dream of between two individuals, language, etc (not truly proofread tbh)
word count: barely 1k
a/n: just a short drabble type thing to throw my hat in the superman ring! feedback is always appreciated <3
"Clark, honey, we really need to move you out to the balcony." You plead softly with the half-conscious hulking krypotonian that was currently a sprawled out mess on your glass-dusted living room floor.
(Krypto could only do so much when trying to bring Clark’s battered body home to safety in a flurry).
"M'fine..." Your boyfriend managed to slur, hardly intelligible as the deep rasp of his voice sounded out in a defeated wheeze.
Upon quite literally bursting through your sliding glass door, he had barely been able to retell the prior happenings resulting in his sudden crash landing brought to you by his overzealous canine companion. Vaguely explaining the myriad of nasty abrasions littering his pretty face, no thanks to the unsatisfactory tussle with whatever egregious intergalactic villain of the week you'd barely gotten a sneak peek of on the news. A crimson trail had dribbled from the corner of his endearing pout as he mumbled through his story, also beginning to sport a concerningly plum shiner to top off the night's misfortune.
Fine, your ass.
He was always finding ways to make your fretful heart lurch. At this rate, you'd be lucky if you ever made it to forty.
Krypto had already distracted himself with gnawing on the weathered leg of your kitchen barstool, opting himself out of helping you any further with the gargantuan red and blue lump in your lap until further notice.
"I can't move you all by myself. Work with me, superstar, c'mon-" You grunt out in a burst of strain, arms feeling like jelly as you shakily try to assist alien-level deadweight to safety. Clark could only manage to groan and nuzzle himself into the space of your chest as if someway, somehow the muscle fluttering at near supersonic speeds was the answer to his ailments.
"Clark, please." You huff, tired eyes starting to sting as your worries continued to mount. You hated seeing him like this. Hurt. Fragile.
Defenseless.
Never did it not frighten you to your very core that one day there could be something or someone who potentially succeeded in carrying out Clark's demise. That, despite his immense power and impenetrable goodwill, one of the insurmountable threats that endangered the planet and people he held so dear would someday come out on top.
It would be your end. Not a thought made in dramatically hysterical passing, but a factual truth. If there were no longer a Clark, there couldn't possibly be a you.
"I don't...don't need to go out...m'sunshine's right...here..." Even in peril, his undeniable warmth and adoration in regards to you never failed to make themselves known.
A jarring twist in your chest took your breath away, catching his attention despite his battle-fatigued delirium. The hand that lay resting at the curve of your hip slowly crept its way up to the ends of your hair, fiddling gently with delicate strands as if they were spun gold.
"Don't be silly. We gotta get you outside. I don't want you like this for long. It-...it hurts." You trail off in a feeble whisper, letting your trembling fingers card through inky curls as a means to ground your fragile soul, trailing down toward the blooming bruise staining his fair skin.
Thick lashes dusted dark circles beneath his eyes, fighting to keep himself present in your reverence. Guilt gnawed at his being for being the cause of your visible strife, but he felt no less lucky to be the one true object of your undying affections, as selfish as it could feel at times.
"M'not silly...m'Clark..." Those enchanting dimples of his began to carve out space near a growing grin accompanying his weak attempt at a joke. You gracelessly snort. You'd swat at him if there wasn't a chance of causing him further distress.
"Only you could manage such a lame joke right now-"
"M'serious...jus' wanna lay here with you..."
"But you need to heal-"
"This s'enough. You're enough, baby."
An obnoxious lump began to form in your throat.
"Please. I'll move soon...promise." His voice cracked, and somewhere along the line, your resolve did too. The large hand previously stationed in your hair moved to grip back at your hips, bringing you closer as if he could find a home in the space between the ivory of your ribs.
Sighing with an ache that was untameable, you pull him closer to you, grateful that by the permission of whatever higher power exists above, he was able to return home to you. That you could hold him tighter for longer. Granted the ability to love him and be the source of his sanctuary. Somehow possessing the infinite well of his trust, out of every human imaginable on earth. An oath you would never take lightly.
"Okay, but as soon as the sunrise hits that skyline, I'm getting Krypto to haul your ass back up so help me God."
"Y'love this ass." This time, you did swat him lightly, thankfully without being met with a sudden hiss or flinch. Maybe he was actually getting better, albeit a lot slower than he normally could in his desperation to cling and find comfort in you.
"Swearing on me now? You must be really beat." Clark's body shook with a quiet chuckle. The anxiety-fueled unease from before was starting to melt, much to your shared relief.
"I love you...Thank you." Five words. The most simplistic of sentences, yet it successfully managed to convey everything he felt for you in this moment.
No one else could give him what you so effortlessly provided. Peace. Safety. Unconditional devotion. It drove his sense of purpose, reciprocity given in the form of selfless acts, big or small, and working at keeping the world as you knew it safe. No harm could reach you as long as he got up every day and tried. You gave him flight. You made his heart soar beyond what was thought to be conceivable. Something most could only pray to be fortunate enough to know and cherish.
A love that would undoubtedly transcend eons.
You leaned forward to kiss the space between his softened brow, lingering a moment longer to press another upon the defined tip of his reddened nose as golden light began to spread over the dawn's new sky,
"Love you too, superstar. Thank you for always getting back to me."
