nari

god forbid a girl is whimsical but also full of rage

[madwcman]

clark kent x reader | a/n at the bottom!

tw: smut | MDNI 18+

“i’m sorry,” clark chokes out as his hips stutter against you slowly. “i’m so sorry.” he continues to cry on top of you as his cock plunges into your tight cunt. you can’t really figure out why your boyfriend is exactly crying; you’re dazed from clark pulling two orgasms from you. he really has nothing to be sorry for.

“i’m being selfish with you.”

“it’s okay, clark.” you coo up at your whiny boyfriend, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, letting your fingers wrap around clark’s loose, dark curls.

“you just feel really good.” he cries out, rutting his hips against you. you couldn’t help but feel dizzy at the sight of clark crying just because you feel good around him. it was intoxicating.

the thought of your strong, heavily muscular boyfriend crying and falling apart from just touching you was overwhelming. it was exciting. you never had anyone so obsessed with you the way clark was.

“you’re perfect,” he stutters out, his hips still rocking hard. your heart swells at his words; he was always so sweet to you. clark always made sure you were taken care of; he always put you first.

“i could stay here forever.” clark’s large hand wraps around your thigh, hoisting your leg up higher around his waist as he thrusts in deeper.

you blink up at clark, his face screwed up in pleasure, his body glistening in sweat, and a single dark curl falls in front of his eyes.

“baby, i need—“ he sucks in a harsh breath, moving his hips over and over, hitting the spot that always made you shiver as his fingers dig into the back of your thigh.

“you need what?” you ask, trying your hardest to actually focus on clark and his words. “what do you need, baby?”

“use your words.” you coaxed, trying to get him to repeat himself as you wipe his falling tears from his flushed cheeks.

your words pull a shudder out of clark, his words getting stuck in the back of his throat, being replaced with a groan.

“come on,” you try again, your hand gently pulling on his hair. “tell me.”

“i need to come, please.” clark whimpers, his blue eyes looking brighter than they usually are from the crying. you take pity on him, leaning up you lazily place a kiss on clark’s jaw. “go ahead, baby.” you murmur into his skin.

with your approval clark picks up his pace, trying to reach his high he’s been chasing for the past hour. with just a few sharp thrusts, he spills into you with a deep groan.

“you’re amazing, baby.” clark slurs, his head falling onto your chest, kissing you there softly. “you’re so nice to me.”

a/n: i don’t know how i feel about this one, guys 🫩

[raysome]

when the angst hits before the smut so you look like this as they’re fucking

[gosverse]

fresh cherry ɞ ༘⋆₊⊹⋆ | “when they said prolific, they weren’t kidding!”

richard haywood x popular!fem!reader

—enemies to lovers, mention of murder and stalking.

𓇬 richard is popular because people are fascinated by him. because he’s clever and charming and intimidating and a little bit dangerous in a way nobody can quite explain. people gravitate towards him because they want his approval. because they want to be included in whatever orbit he occupies. he seems dangerous but no one can figure out why.

𓇬 you, meanwhile, are popular because people genuinely like you. teachers adore you, students adore you, you remember people’s birthdays, you help nervous freshmen find classrooms, you somehow know everybody’s name. you’re the kind of girl who makes people feel seen.

𓇬 which means the entire school is not at all surprised when you and richard decide you absolutely cannot stand each other.

𓇬 the first time you meet, richard is fully expecting you to be exactly like everybody else. maybe not fawning over him, but at least impressed. that’s normally how these things go. he’s richard haywood. handsome, wealthy, intelligent, captain of whatever club he feels like joining and quitting that week. people tend to react accordingly.

𓇬 instead, he makes some smug mean comment during class discussion and you immediately raise an eyebrow and say, “wow, do you practise sounding condescending or does it come naturally?” the entire room goes silent. richard just stares at you. because nobody talks to him like that. ever.

𓇬 what makes it worse is that you don’t seem angry. that’s what really gets under his skin. if you hated him, he’d understand. if you were intimidated, he’d understand that too. but every time you challenge him, you look almost amused. like he’s a particularly intelligent raccoon trying to steal food out of a bin. you’re not afraid of him. you’re not impressed by him. you’re not even particularly bothered by him. and somehow that drives him absolutely insane.

𓇬 meanwhile, you think richard is unbearable. objectively unbearable. every conversation feels like he’s trying to win something. he has this infuriating habit of looking pleased with himself after saying something clever. worst of all, everybody lets him get away with it. people laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. teachers excuse behaviour they’d never tolerate from anyone else. you find the whole thing ridiculous.

𓇬 unfortunately, richard is one of the only people who actually argues back. everyone else either agrees with you or apologises when you call them out. richard doubles down. every single time. if you disagree with him, suddenly you’re trapped in a twenty-minute debate. if you tease him, he teases you back harder. if you roll your eyes, he smirks. it’s exhausting.

𓇬 after a few weeks, your arguments become an established part of school life. people literally stop what they’re doing to watch. you’ll be halfway through lunch when richard walks over, hears the last sentence of whatever conversation you’re having, and immediately inserts himself just to disagree. not because he actually cares about the topic. because he knows it annoys you.

𓇬 and you always take the bait, always. “nobody asked.”

“you seemed lost without me.”

“i was actually having a lovely day.”

“my condolences.”

𓇬 your friends think it’s hilarious. richard’s friends think it’s even funnier. everyone except the two of you is having an excellent time.

𓇬 the real problem starts when richard begins paying attention. because initially he only notices you when you’re arguing with him. then he starts noticing you at other times too. he notices how everybody lights up when you walk into a room. he notices that you somehow manage to have conversations with people from completely different social groups. football players, theatre kids, straight-A students, goths kids, book worms. everybody likes you. and the strange thing is that it doesn’t feel calculated. you’re not collecting admirers. you’re genuinely interested in people.

𓇬 one afternoon he watches you spend twenty minutes helping a nervous student prepare for a presentation. nobody else is paying attention. there are no teachers around. nobody’s giving you credit for it. you just saw somebody struggling and decided to help. richard finds himself staring.

𓇬 because he doesn’t understand it. most people are nice when somebody’s watching. you’re nice when nobody is. somehow that’s far more unsettling for him considering he murders people for fun, as an exercise of superiority.

𓇬 the first crack in your little rivalry appears during a group project. because of course it does. the teacher pairs you together and both of you immediately protest. loudly. dramatically. unsuccessfully.

“absolutely not.”

“i agree with her.”

“thank you.”

“don’t thank me.”

“i wasn’t going to.”

𓇬 the teacher ignores all of this, naturally. and suddenly you’re forced to spend actual time together. not arguing in hallways, not sniping at each other during lunch. actual uninterrupted hours together. which turns out to be a disaster. because richard is irritating, but he’s also funny. annoyingly funny and highly intelligent.

𓇬 and when he’s not actively trying to impress people, he’s surprisingly easy to talk to. you hate discovering this. absolutely hate it.

𓇬 richard hates it more. because the more time he spends around you, the more he realises the version of you everybody loves isn’t fake. he keeps waiting for the performance to end, waiting for the sweet, popular girl act to crack, waiting for some hidden selfishness or arrogance to appear. it never does. you’re just… like that. warm and genuinely kind.

𓇬 and suddenly his favourite part of the day is arguing with you. which should probably concern him.

𓇬 richard still teases you constantly, but the edge is gone. before, he’d challenge you because he enjoyed getting a reaction. now he seems genuinely interested in what you have to say, he’ll ask questions, listen to your answers. remember things you mentioned weeks ago. it’s unsettling.

𓇬 the eye contact becomes a problem. a massive problem. before, the two of you could stare each other down out of sheer stubbornness. now suddenly every glance lasts a second too long. you’ll be in the middle of a conversation and suddenly become painfully aware that richard is looking directly at you. not at your face in general. at you. and neither of you knows why that’s suddenly making your stomach do strange things.

𓇬 richard starts smiling more. specifically at you. and that’s dangerous because richard has two smiles. there’s the public one. the polished one, the charming richard haywood smile everybody knows. then there’s the real one. the one that sneaks out when he forgets himself. softer, younger somehow, less calculated. you start seeing it more often and it becomes a genuine threat to your wellbeing.

𓇬 one afternoon you make a joke at his expense. nothing unusual. you’ve done it a hundred times before. except this time richard laughs so hard he actually has to look away. and suddenly you’re both just staring at each other smiling like idiots. neither of you says anything about it. the moment passes. but afterwards you both think about it far more than necessary.

𓇬 he starts finding excuses to stand closer to you. not consciously, that’s the embarrassing part. he’ll walk over during lunch and somehow end up directly beside you. you’ll both be looking at the same paper and he’ll lean in slightly. then realise how close he is. then refuse to move because moving would be admitting he noticed.

𓇬 everyone else notices before either of you. your friends are exhausted. completely exhausted. “you know you’re flirting, right?”

“we’re arguing!”

“no.”

“yes.”

“you’ve been standing here talking for forty minutes.”

“we’re disagreeing!”

“about what?”

then silence. because neither of you remembers.

𓇬 the turning point happens when somebody is rude to you. not jokingly, just genuinely rude, and richard reacts before he can stop himself. one second he’s standing across the room. the next he’s already involved. immediately, cold in a way you’ve never heard before. because teasing you is one thing. upsetting you is another. afterwards you’re both slightly startled by how quickly he stepped in. neither of you mentions it. but something changes. and you best believe that person went missing afterwards.

𓇬 from then on, the arguments start feeling different. softer, the insults lose their bite. the eye contact lingers too long, sometimes you’ll catch him looking at you before class starts. he’ll immediately look away. you’ll pretend not to notice. because admitting you noticed feels ... different.

𓇬 what nobody realises is that richard is absolutely losing his mind. because for the first time in his life, somebody isn’t fitting into the neat little boxes he usually puts people in. you’re not somebody he can charm, you’re not somebody he can manipulate, you’re not somebody he can outsmart and move on from.

𓇬 every time he thinks he’s figured you out, you surprise him again, and somewhere along the way, fascination becomes affection, affection becomes attachment, attachment becomes something much, much worse.

𓇬 eventually somebody asks if you’re dating another guy. it’s a completely innocent question, meaningless. except richard immediately looks up. just s little too fast, and for one horrifying second, everyone sees it. the concern, and the jealousy. especially the panic. because suddenly he realises something. he never actually wanted to beat you at anything, he never wanted to win. he just wanted your attention.

𓇬 every argument, every debate, every sarcastic comment, all of it was just the only language he knew for keeping you close.

𓇬 and when he finally falls in love, it’s not pretty. because richard haywood is used to understanding everything, used to being in control, he’s used to getting his own way. then along comes the one girl in school who refuses to be impressed by him, refuses to back down from him, refuses to treat him differently than anyone else.

𓇬 and somehow that’s exactly the girl he ends up loving most.

𓇬 richard is absolutely insufferable for the first few weeks after you start dating. not because he’s a bad boyfriend. quite the opposite. the problem is that he’s spent weeks pretending he wasn’t completely obsessed with you, and now he suddenly has permission to be. the result is catastrophic. one day you’re his rival. the next he’s casually appearing beside your locker every morning, stealing your books so he can carry them himself, and acting offended if you walk to class without him. “you managed before.” “yes, but now i don’t want to.”

𓇬 everybody at school is horrified by how quickly he becomes attached to you. this is richard haywood, asshole extraordinaire, first class jackass, the guy who acts like emotional vulnerability is a communicable disease. meanwhile now he’s sitting beside you at lunch with one arm draped over the back of your chair, looking at anybody who interrupts your conversation like they’ve personally ruined his afternoon.

𓇬 the biggest surprise is how much softer he is in private. because public richard is still richard. smug, sarcastic and impossible. but when it’s just the two of you, there’s this entirely different version underneath. he’ll lie on your bedroom floor while you’re doing homework and just listen to you talk. he’ll bring you your favourite sweets without mentioning it because he happened to see them while shopping, he’ll buy your favourite coffee before class every morning.

𓇬 arguments don’t stop. they just evolve. before dating, arguments were genuine battles. now they’re practically a love language. you’ll spend twenty minutes debating something completely ridiculous and eventually realise neither of you even disagrees anymore. you both just enjoy the conversation.

𓇬 your friends absolutely despise sitting between the two of you. because one second you’re bickering and the next richard is tucking your hair behind your ear and kissing you without even interrupting the argument. “you’re impossible.” he says, “and yet here you are.” you tease him, “unfortunately.” he sighs, “obsessed with me.” “absolutely.” then he kisses you even more and continues the conversation like nothing happened.

𓇬 richard becomes unbelievably possessive about your time. in both an unhealthy way and a pathetic way. if you’ve been busy all week and haven’t had much time together, he starts appearing everywhere (because he’s stalking you, of course). suddenly he’s waiting after class. suddenly he’s offering to drive you home. suddenly he’s found a reason to attend functions he normally wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. when you point this out, he denies it immediately. unfortunately everybody else notices too.

𓇬 he absolutely loves that you’re one of the only people who isn’t impressed by him. in fact, once you’re dating, he starts actively seeking your opinion because he knows you’ll tell the truth. everybody else tells richard what he wants to hear. you tell him when he’s being an idiot. and weirdly enough, he trusts you more because of it.

𓇬 the first time you defend him in front of somebody else genuinely affects him more than he’ll ever admit. because you’ve spent months calling him arrogant and annoying and unbearable. then one day somebody else says something cruel about him and you immediately shut it down. afterwards richard acts completely normal. meanwhile he’s replaying the moment for the next six business days.

𓇬 richard discovers very quickly that he’s obsessed with physical affection. absolutely obsessed. which comes as a shock to you and himself. he’ll be talking to somebody while absentmindedly holding your hand. he’ll pull you closer without even thinking about it. half the time he doesn’t realise he’s doing it until somebody points it out.

𓇬 when he’s tired, all the arrogance disappears. completely. he’ll rest his head in your lap while you’re reading. he’ll close his eyes when you play with his hair. he’ll get this soft, sleepy expression that nobody else ever sees. if anybody from school witnessed it, they’d think they’d entered an alternate reality.

𓇬 jealousy becomes significantly funnier after you’re dating. because before, richard was trying desperately to hide it. now he doesn’t have to. he still won’t admit it outright, but it’s obvious. if another guy is being overly friendly, richard suddenly materialises beside you like some sort of ghost. he’ll sling an arm around your shoulders and smile politely while clearly evaluating whether the other person deserves rights. you find this hilarious. he does not.

𓇬 the thing that surprises you most is how much he values your approval. richard acts confident. sometimes excessively confident. but once you’re together, you realise how much your opinion actually matters to him. a compliment from you will genuinely improve his mood for days. he pretends otherwise, but fails miserably. every single time.

𓇬 and whenever the two of you have a real disagreement, something serious, richard is always the first one to come back. not because he likes admitting he’s wrong. he hates admitting he’s wrong. but because somewhere along the way, the idea of you being upset with him started feeling worse than swallowing his pride.

𓇬 eventually people stop being surprised that you’re together. they stop asking how it happened. because after enough time, it becomes obvious. richard challenges you, you challenge him, and neither of you backs down. neither of you lets the other get away with nonsense. and beneath all the arguments and sarcasm and eye-rolling, there’s this ridiculous amount of affection.

𓇬 the sort of affection that shows up in a hundred tiny ways. his hand automatically finding yours in crowded hallways, you being the first person he looks for in a room, him remembering every little thing you tell him, you seeing through every carefully constructed mask he wears, and maybe that’s the real reason it works. because everyone else sees richard haywood. clever, and charming, and intimidating.

𓇬 you see the boy underneath all of that. and somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, you decide to love him anyway. even though it constantly feels like he’s hiding something..

[ken-dom]

Things That Lovers Do

𝜗𝜚 Lars Lindstrom x fem!reader - 4.3k words

𝜗𝜚 Summary: Finding Bianca's lacy underwear in Lars's sock drawer leads to a shopping trip and a new experience for Lars

𝜗𝜚 Notes: I found a draft and decided to write another 3k words of it on a whim, so - surprise Lars fic! Big thanks to @eridianhearts for their kind support of my story and for making the gorgeous banner, and my sister @heresthestorymorningglory who keeps me sane and unmasked, and encourages me to write these things! Title from Toothpaste Kisses by The Maccabees. Lingerie set reader wears.

𝜗𝜚 Content: nsfw, fingering, oral (reader receiving), p in v, edging, reader wears lingerie, Lars's blanket is a main character, embarrassment, jealousy, crying, post-Bianca, hinted dirty talk, Mrs Gruner being the GOAT as always, Lars learning to explore his sexuality

݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁..

‘Lars… what are these?’

His head snapped up from where he was relaxing on the bed, eyes widening in horror as he realised he still had them.

‘I-I’m so sorry-’ he stuttered, ‘they were Bianca’s- I-’

You dropped the barely-there lace panties back into the drawer and grabbed the thick woolly socks you had been looking for instead, sliding it shut quickly.

‘You kept them, but nothing else of hers besides her sweater?’ you asked carefully, a bizarre jolt of jealousy coursing through you. You knew she hadn’t been real, but she was still very real to him.

‘N-no,’ Lars started, sitting bolt upright. ‘No. I didn’t know they were still there. She didn’t even wear them – well, not really.’

Without even realising, your eyebrows raised.

‘Oh- no- wait, not like that!’ he fumbled. ‘She arrived in them when she moved here, but they, uh… they weren’t really her style so she left them in the drawer and wore something a little more… covered up.’

Softening, you stepped forward, stopping between his legs to pull his head to your chest.

‘Lars, baby, it’s alright. If you want to keep something to remember her, you can do it anyway you want. I was just… surprised that’s all. Like you said, they weren’t really her style.’

‘I don’t want to remember her by those,’ he breathed against you, and you could feel him tensing a little, trying not to get upset.

‘Of course, I understand, but maybe it feels like she’s still around to have little things like that here and there, where they always have been?’

Lars stilled at that, thinking it through, and then he nodded.

‘I do think they’re kind of sexy, though – didn’t you ever want her to wear them?’ you asked, lowering your voice.

Lars hesitated then, stiffening against you. You could tell the idea was thrilling to him, but he didn’t want to admit it... perhaps it was time to change tack.

‘Would you like me to wear something like that for you?’ you asked, still treading gently. ‘Because I will, you know? I’ll wear anything you want if it makes you feel good.’

‘Whatever you want to wear, I don’t mind,’ he said, relaxing against you. ‘You know that I don’t mind about things like that. Or- or um… whatever you don’t want to wear. That’s ok with me, too…’

Your cheeks flushed hot and your fingers inadvertently gripped at his hair and pyjamas a little bit too hard. Lars always managed to make the sweetest and most genuine sentiments come off as sexy lately, and you were sure he didn’t even know he was doing it.

‘Let’s go shopping tomorrow?’ you suggested, trying to lighten your voice, but it still came out eager.

Lars squeezed his eyes closed for a moment before he shifted in your embrace to look up at you through those sparkling blues. He nodded, a strained smile pulling at his lips, and you slid down to sit beside him on the bed.

‘Come on, let’s get some rest. I’ll wear nothing for the occasion,’ you teased, pulling him to lay down in the bed with you, settling into the warmth of his arms as your lips pressed to his and his hands moved to help you wear exactly that.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌𝜗𝜚﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The mall was busy this morning, which in equal parts good and bad. You could get lost in the crowd, or you could bump into Mrs Gruner and her Saturday morning power walking group.

Frankly you’d trust Mrs Gruner with your life and you knew that if she saw you picking out sexy lingerie to wear for Lars, she’d probably come out with a suggestion on what would suit you best – and be completely right about it. Lars however… 

He wished he’d not worn quite so many layers today. Standing outside the lingerie store, his palm was growing clammy in yours, and you could hear his breathing, even over the loud passing chatter and footsteps and bland mall music.

You squeezed his hand tighter and turned to him. ‘Ready?’

Biting his lips together for a moment first, Lars only half looked back at you, and nodded, a faint hum coming as a reply.

Lars dragged a little heavily behind you, and when you finally made it through the threshold, he actually seemed to calm down a little because it wasn’t exactly what he’d imagined. The window displays would have you believe that the whole shop was selling nothing but sex, sex and more sex, but inside there were actually all kinds of underwear on sale – even sportswear, the woman behind the counter was wearing everyday clothes and there were no vinyl bodysuits or scary looking sex toys hung around the place. He took a deep, settling breath.

‘Doing okay?’ you checked in, ‘You know, if you don’t want to do this we don’t have to?’

Lars shut his eyes and leaned a little closer to you. ‘I want to,’ he mumbled, but it was determined.

‘Alright, well, which colour would you like me in?’

‘What’s your favorite?’ he asked, eyes flicking from one lacy set to another, the decisions seeming a little overwhelming.

Lars had always been good at being the considerate boyfriend, caring more about your comfort and preferences than his own desires. Even with Bianca, who he technically made all the decisions for, he was the model partner.

‘I want you to pick something for me,’ you countered, smiling over at him, hand still firm in his, grounding. ‘Maybe just… a color?’

‘I… I like the pink ones… or- or the blue? The blue.’

‘I like those too, the blue over there reminds me of your blanket,’ you gestured at a set at the far side of the store.

Lars’s fingers crept immediately to where his baby blue blanket was wrapped around him like a scarf.

‘Look!’ you went on, giddy, ‘it even has the little pink roses just like it! Pink and blue, just for you, Lars. Okay, wanna go wait outside for me? I’ll take care of this and I’ll be right out.’

Lars offered a tight-lipped smile and let go of your hand, watching for a moment as you hurried over and riffled through the rack looking for your size, and then he headed for the door, where he paused, checking for any sightings of potential fellow church-goers, neighbors, friends or family.

He never used to worry about those things and a warm feeling settled in his belly as he stepped out a little more confidently than he had entered, finding a nice spot to sit by the water fountains where he could sit unbothered and watch the world go by for a little while.

It was about ten minutes later that you emerged, a small bag containing your purchase in your hand as you searched for your boyfriend. Lars stood up and waved, his legs turning wobbly at the way your face lit up when you found him.

Practically skipping over to meet him, you planted a kiss on his cheek that made him blush hot.

‘Wanna get some lunch before we head home?’ you smiled, grabbing his hand; you saw his shoulders drop when his hand was back in yours.

‘Nah… I kinda want to get home before it gets too busy here,’ he tried, but it sounded strained.

‘Lars?’ you teased, smirking a little, ‘are you anxious to see me in my new underwear by any chance?’

He almost choked at that. ‘N-no. No! I just- uh- I-’

You giggled softly, and headed for the parking lot. 

‘It’s alright,’ you cooed, ‘I’m just as excited to show you.’

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌𝜗𝜚﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The little paper bag with Pamella’s printed on the front in pretty letters sat in the back seat. Lars had wondered if Pamella was the woman behind the counter. Did she design the underwear or just sell it? Did she wear it under her demure black dress or just recommend them? He glanced at the bag a few times, partly curious, partly impatient.

He wanted to know how the fabric would feel against his fingers; silky, velvety, soft? He only saw the set from a distance, picked it out based on color, and now he’s not even sure if you’d have really bought that one or gone rogue and picked something to completely surprise him.

What he does know is that whatever you feel good in, he will feel good about.

He smiles to himself then, broad and smug. And why not be smug? He had sex last night. Good sex that ended in you wrapped around him all night, his big strong arms keeping you safe and warm. A few months ago, this would have been not just impossible for him, but unthinkable. 

Then he’d spent the morning at the mall with you, worrying about whether he would bump into one of the many people he now had the pleasure to call his friends, in case they asked him why he was there and he’d have to explain sheepishly, My girlfriend wanted me to pick out something sexy for her to wear for me. 

He’s being driven home now, wondering what you have in store for him, but not worrying about it. Just going with it, like it’s easy. He doesn’t usually need to worry about Karin pinning him down (figuratively or literally) any longer, either. She does still glance out of the window from time to time, and invite you both for impromptu dinners at the house, but she’s mostly just content that if Lars is with you, he’s doing okay.

His heart felt full as he leapt from the passenger seat after you pulled onto his driveway, and darted around to the drivers side to open the door for you. Ever the gentleman.

Lars fumbles as he unlocks the front door, dropping the keys on the doorstep, and realising as he picked them up that you were carrying the Pamella’s bag very proudly and openly. He shot a glance over to Karin and Gus’s but no curtains twitched, so he breathed for a moment, and then finally let you both in.

You dropped the bag onto the little table by the window and wrapped your arms around him after he slipped off his coat, pulling the blanket away and kissing the back of his neck.

‘Is it okay if I borrow this? Just for a few minutes?’ you purr into his ear, sending a rather pleasant shiver down his spine.

‘O-of course,’ he breathed, ‘any time, you know that.’

Your arms slipped away, and when Lars turned around, you’d vanished into the bathroom. He peered into the bag you’d left on the table, to see some plain black cotton garments inside… the underwear he saw you put on this morning. Had you worn your new underwear home? He ran a hand through his hair and on wobbly legs, crossed to sit on his bed, facing the bathroom door, waiting patiently.

The door clicked open as he sat down – you’d been mere seconds – and Lars wasn’t sure where to look first.

Your breasts were hugged perfectly by the soft, baby blue, very sheer fabric. His breath caught in his throat as he took it in, the way your nipples, hardened in the cool air, were right there behind the thin layer of that beautiful lace, embroidered with pretty little pink flowers and bows… 

His eyes dropped to the matching panties next. Just as pretty against your skin, just as sheer. He swallowed hard. It somehow felt naughtier for you to stand there covered up in that barely there but very pretty fabric – in the middle of the day no less – than it did to sleep with you naked and clutched tight against his half-dressed body after a session of thorough lovemaking.

He blinked hard. Was this real? As he opened his eyes and you came back into focus, he realised you were holding his blanket, hooked over one shoulder like a jacket on a warm spring day, so simple and casual. The colours matched perfectly, and aside from Lars noticing how tight his trousers suddenly felt, his heart leapt at how thoughtful you’d been, how carefully you’d handled this for him. 

You wanted him to feel secure while he explored this new part of your sex life, and without even questioning it, you’d achieved that in just a few hours. He felt so safe and comfortable, so loved and so turned on. His eyes welled and he shook his head, not willing to let tears spoil the moment.

‘You- you look incredible,’ he breathed, voice cracking a little, as you stepped toward him, wrapping the blanket back around his neck where it belonged, and climbing over his lap to straddling his thighs.

‘It’s okay,’ you soothed, a hand soft at his cheek, gently wiping away one stray tear with your thumb. ‘I know it’s overwhelming. If you want to stop-’

‘No,’ Lars interrupted, sobering instantly, ‘I don’t wanna stop, I- I’m just happy. That’s all.’

He smiled up at you through watery eyes, and you dipped down to close your lips over his. He remained frozen in place as you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and deepened the kiss.

‘It’s okay, you can touch me,’ you whisper against his kiss-swollen lips when you pull back, ‘however you want to. I’m wearing this for you, Lars. I’m yours.’

His lips crashed back to yours then, far more animated. His hands were shaky but found their way to you; one gliding around your back to hold you still as the other found the strap of your bra, fingers trailing down the smooth elastic until they were at your breast, squeezing and caressing over the lace.

It was surprisingly soft against Lars’s skin, and as he dragged his thumb over your nipple, it graced you with a little extra friction that Lars felt jolt through your body, so he did it again, and again.

He broke the kiss only to turn you in his arms to lay on the bed.

You made yourself comfortable on his pillows as he kicked off his shoes and climbed up to sit between your thighs, parting them carefully with his hands as he settled back on his ankles and dropped his beloved blanket to the foot of the bed.

He just took you in then, paying close attention to how the fabric fitted your form, how sexy you looked, how hot it was that you were wearing this just for him.

There was a fleeting thought that he would have liked to see Bianca properly in her black lacy thong, which sat just a few meters away in his sock drawer, but the thought popped like a bubble when his eyes fell on the damp patch at the apex of your thighs, the pale blue darker where you were wet for him.

He ran his fingers along the edge of the elastic, feeling you shudder at the feather light touch of his fingertips. You wanted him so much already, and all he’d done was sit on his bed and kiss you back.

His eyes squeezed shut for a moment as he processed that: You wanted him. You cared for him. You were giving yourself to him completely. And he knew he was able to satisfy your needs — all of them. It felt a lot to be sure of all these things, but it certainly was a pleasant lot to feel (if a little overwhelming).

Something in him snapped then. He’d done this plenty of times before, but this time it felt a little heavier somehow. Heavy in a significant way rather than an unpleasant one; this was just another step you’d helped him take in exploring his sexuality, and he needed to get into the moment before he lost it entirely.

His eyes raked over you when they opened and Lars let himself moan. It was small but loud, and you bit your lip at the sound of it as his fingers slid the soaked lace aside. 

He carefully slipped one inside and you moaned then; Lars’s fingers were thick and long and elegant. And skilled. He leant over you, watching your reactions as he pumped his middle finger slowly, curling it the way you’d taught him, to drag over the spot inside that made your back arch. 

And it did just that as he slid his finger out to drag up through your folds and circle gently at your swollen bundle of nerves. You grabbed at his sweater, legs trembling, and he watched you writhe beneath him, just from the touch of his fingers. 

He never knew it would be this simple to bring you so much pleasure, and even if he did, he didn’t think he’d be any good at it. But oh you really seemed to think so, going by the little whines lacing your every breath.

Lars moved faster with the encouragement of your reactions, pushing his finger back inside a little more roughly this time, harder, faster. Fucking you on it now rather than beckoning your pleasure to him gently. 

He couldn’t help but glance down to watch the way his hand moved against your body, his palm nestled to your clit as his finger worked inside you. This was an exact science, and with your help he’d mastered it. 

He could feel you beginning to clench around his thick digit, and he knew that meant your release was closing in. He looked back up at you, his blown pupils having darkened his pretty eyes.

‘Do you- um- do you want to… come like this, or- or later on?’ he stuttered, whispering the word come as though he’d get in trouble for saying it out loud.

But god he was so turned on he’d begun to feel dizzy.

‘You decide,’ you cooed, ‘it all feels good to me.’

Lars swallowed hard, blinked a few times and then dropped back on his heels again to shuffle back, keeping his finger inside. 

Lars’s other hand was able to hold the lace aside now so he could see you up close. The way you throbbed for friction at your clit and dripped needily around his finger… never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d ever get to witness such divine beauty.

His cock ached in his pants, but he could ignore that for now. He’d ignored it for years, but worshipping your pussy was a far better remedy than simply burning off energy by the woodpile until it went away.

Licking his lips, he leant in, slowing his finger as he lapped carefully through your folds, moaning against you as you shuddered. You were his favorite meal, and you both knew it.

It didn’t take long until your toes curled. Lars sucked softly as your legs closed around his head and your fingers tangled in his hair, and he could feel your climax approaching yet again. So he pulled away leaving you breathless and empty.

But you wouldn't complain; Lars never left you wanting. At least, not for long.

He pulled off his sweater, ripped his shirt open (you’re pretty sure a button flew across the room), and leaving his final two undershirts on, he hastily pushed his pants off. His underwear was soaked with precum, and he winced as he removed it, too, placing it carefully away from the rest of the clothes he’d been a little more careless with.

You giggled to yourself at the memory of the first few times when Lars would take his clothes off methodically, neatly folding them into a pile before getting into bed with you. What a difference a sexy lingerie set can make!

He fumbled in the drawer beside his bed where you’d placed a box of condoms for him, and slid one on the way you’d taught him – careful not to put it on upside down, pinching the end to make some space and rolling it on all the way. He couldn’t help but take a moment to admire his work, but it was split second at most. Before you knew it he was on top of you again, kissing you hungrily.

‘I want us to come together,’ he breathed when he pulled away, lips swollen from eating you out and kissing you hard. He sounded unsure, like it might be a step too far, but your hand on his cheek settled him.

‘Fill me up,’ you whispered, voice shaky with desire, and his cock throbbed.

There was something about the idea of pumping you full of his seed that made him feel feral, even if he knew it was just a fantasy.

He shuffled back to slide your panties off, stuffed them in his mouth, and propped himself above you to guide himself inside.

You groaned and closed your eyes as you adjusted – his cock stretched you so perfectly. You weren’t sure you’d ever get used to the way it burns in the most gorgeous way every time he buries himself inside.

You gently tugged the panties from between his teeth and he dropped his head to press his forehead to yours.

‘Does it feel good?’ he asked, voice low and husky with just a hint of desperation.

You nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his shoulders to keep him close.

‘Mmh- so tight,’ he breathed, to himself more than anything. You’d been introducing dirty talk and it certainly seemed to help him open up. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes. Please-’ you tried, not needing to elaborate. Lars knows what you need.

His hips are steady at first, setting a slow pace as he moves with your comfort in the forefront of his mind. Once he feels your heels dig deeper into the small of his back, and your nails clawing at his shoulders, he rocks into you faster and begins to lose control.

Lars whines against your cheek, as he fucks into you with decreasing rhythm, sliding a hand between your flush bodies to stroke your clit – your pleasure always his first priority.

He’s surprised he’d lasted this long, with your moans and the way you were clinging to him overriding every other attempt at coherent thought, and when you breathed out his name he finally let himself go.

His hips snapped against yours with such force the bed creaked beneath you and the lewd, desperate slapping of skin against skin echoed around his apartment. Lars let out a strangled cry as he came undone with your walls contracting around him.

He slowed to a stop, rolling with you to lay facing one another and stayed buried inside you for now, safe and warm, as you stroked your fingers through his thick, messy hair.

‘You okay, baby?’ you asked as you caught your breath.

Lars nodded, smiling as a single tear trickled over his cheek.

‘What is it?’ you asked, wiping it away. ‘Too much?’

Biting his lips together he shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. It just feels really good to make you feel good.’ He paused for a moment and then, mildly panicked, ‘It did, didn’t it? It did feel good for you, too?’

‘It was incredible,’ you chuckled. ‘You were incredible.’

His brow furrowed as he thought back through it all.

‘Sorry for making you wait for me… I wanted to see how it feels to get there at the same time. I hope that was okay?’

‘More than okay. You know there’s a name for what you were doing.’ You thought it best to save the topic of edging for another time when he wasn’t quite so fucked out. ‘Anyway, how did it feel?’

Lars swallowed hard, trying to find the words. ‘Intense,’ he confirmed eventually, settled with his choice. ‘The good kind.’

‘Yeah, same,’ you smiled.

‘Could I uh-’ he gestured to where your legs were still tangled together, his cock softening and twitching through the aftershocks still inside you.

‘Oh!’ you exclaimed, carefully moving your hips up to help him slip out.

You both rolled onto your backs, staring up at the ceiling.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ Lars started, ‘but your underwear from this morning- it’s um… in the bag?’

‘Oh yeah, I tried this little set on in the store to make sure it fits, and asked the cashier if I could just keep it on.’

‘So you’ve been wearing it the whole time… the ride home? You were going to take me to lunch wearing it?!’

‘Yep,’ you grinned, and Lars let out a little whistle of pleasant surprise. ‘And I’ll wear it a lot more often now I know how riled up it gets you.’

Lars blushed, and after a beat added, mostly to himself, ‘So that’s what was taking so long in the store.’

‘Oh, no,’ you countered. ‘I bumped into Mrs Gruner.’

Lars’s eyes were suddenly wide as he turned to you. ‘You saw- you- okay. What did- oh no. Oh no.’

‘It’s okay, Lars, I’m pretty sure she knows we have sex.’

Lars’s hands came up to cover his face, but yours were gentle, carefully wrapping around a wrist to pull one down so he could see you, peeking through one eye.

‘She didn’t see what I bought, don’t worry,’ you soothed. ‘She just saw me stuffing my boring plain black underwear into the bag at the counter, and she hadn’t seen you at all. I told her you were somewhere in the mall running errands and that I’d stopped here on the spur of the moment.’

Lars settled a bit at that, lowering his other hand. ‘You’re sure she-’

‘She didn’t suspect a thing.’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You really think she knows we have sex?’

‘Well, I can’t be sure. But she did point out this very lingerie set to me and told me I’d look darling in it.’

Lars couldn’t really argue with that, no matter how hot this made his face feel.

Mrs Gruner was, as always, right.

[rockylandphm]

just confess

pairing: ryland grace x reader

synopsis. in which ryland asks his twin brother, colt, for help on how to confess to you or where colt harasses his brother to just confess

word count. 1.7k words

note. i might make a part two of the actual confession .. lmk if you guys would want that or if this is enough !

There are very few things Ryland Grace can admit to without shame–the love he has for his kids, how teaching has been such a great outlet for him, his hard spent years studying Microbiology, to name a few. 

What he can’t say is a slightly longer list, and if that list was made and kept somewhere, he’s sure this very moment with his twin brother would be at Number One. Yes, even above calling the leading scholar in his field a staggering waste of carbon. 

It was this moment, asking his fuckass twin brother Colt for help on how to confess to you.

He thought he could do it himself, thought of so many ways to talk to you. But when time came to actually do it, he found that he’s grown two pairs of feet and everything but your eyes were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

So, he needed help. Because as much as he enjoys spending time with you, grading papers together and sneaking conversations between classes, there are times when all he really wants to do is wrap his arms around you after a long day of work, or brush away that stubborn strand of hair that always seems to fall over your eyes, or kiss the creases that form on the skin between your eyebrows when you’re deep in concentration.

But he can’t. 

Because even after knowing you for three years, he just can’t look you in your eyes and tell you that he is so fucking in love with you. He instead resorts to small gestures and acts of service so you’d hopefully be able to tell that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

It doesn’t work.

And then he’ll have to pick himself back again and have will-induced conversations, laughing at the pathetic corner of love inside his head. He’ll have to look you in the eyes again and pretend he isn’t affected when you look up and smile at him, or when you whisper a little too closely during shared library visits with your students.

He’ll be stuck at square one again.

And quite frankly, Colt can’t handle it anymore. If he has to listen to Ryland laughing at himself again for his inability to confess to you–whereby laughing, it’s melancholic, lonely chuckling–he will throw himself off the window of their shared apartment.

Which is something Colt can definitely do, and will do if he has to hear the heavy tone of love laced in his brother’s voice as he talks about you (because apparently, you are Top 5 Topics in their shared space) again. Besides, Colt has always been his polar opposite. When Ryland hesitates, Colt just does it.

“You’re too hesitant.” Colt says, grabbing a few papers Ryland has yet to grade on the living room table to look over what he was checking. He returns it immediately with no interest. 

Ryland is stressed, his glasses askew on his face and his hands pulling at the ends of his hair. “I know I am! It’s not like I’m not self aware. In fact, I’m too self aware and that’s the problem.”

“Just go up to her and tell her you like her.”

Ryland really wants to strangle his brother right now. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re….you! You jump into fire and fall out of tall buildings without hesitation. I’m not– I’m not brave like you.”

Colt nods sympathetically, whispering an “I am”, and murder is almost committed. Instead, Ryland chooses to just drop his face into his hands. This plan was futile from the beginning. Colt doesn’t know shit about giving advice. He has approximately one brain cell. That is almost close to none.

“Ryland.” His twin brother tries to get his attention, and Ryland slowly peels his hands off his face. “Just tell her. Tomorrow. Get it over with.”

“No, not tomorrow.”

“Okay, then how about next week?”

“No. That’s– it’s too fast.”

“Before the end of the world?”

“Uh, yeah. I can… I can do that. I like those chances.” 

“Good. Glad we're narrowing it down.” Colt sighs so loudly that the sound resonates through the room. In return, Ryland throws his pen at him in irritation, but it's caught one-handed by his brother without even looking. This only pisses him even more.

“You are approaching this like it's one of those big scary conferences you nerds like going to. It’s not. It’s way simpler than that.”

“Actually, I’d argue conferences are way fudging easier than confessing. I’d be backed up with evidence and years of research, but this?! It’s like I’m going in naked. That’s never a good thing.”

“Ew, don’t say that. I don’t want to picture you naked.” Colt cringes, and twists his face especially more at the self-censoring. “But didn’t you write a step-by-step process on what to do when she rejects you written on the whiteboard in your room?”

“That is for emotional preparedne– wait, you were in my room?!”

“Dude, you’re doing too much. You’re already assuming she doesn’t like you back before giving it a chance. And you’re refusing to give it a chance by not confessing to her. You’ve liked her for three fucking years, and I’ve had to listen!”

Ryland opens his mouth to say something, but words don’t come out. Because Colt was right, it had been three years of rambling about you, of assuming you could never feel the same way, of refusing to confess because he’d already feared the worst.

“So just,” Colt says after a heartbeat passes, stressed out of his goddamn mind. “Okay, how about this? Walk me through your ideal confession. I’m sure you’ve played this out in your head multiple times, so just tell me.”

Ryland’s eyes widen tenfold, shaking his head with so much adamancy, even with his hands flouncing around. You’d have thought somebody had asked him to go skinny dipping in front of all his co-workers.

“No way. Absolutely no way. No no no no no.” 

“Why not?”

“Because you'll make fun of me.”

“I make fun of you regardless. That's unrelated.”

Ryland stares at him in a deadpan. Colt just stares back, shrugging his shoulders.

The staring contest is a battle Ryland loses, and with a sigh, he says, “I'd just want it to be ordinary, I guess.”

His brother listens intently, chin propped on his hands and perched on the living room table.

“Ordinary how?”

Ryland picks at the end of the paper he’s currently checking, rolling it and unrolling it and folding it and unfolding it. “I don't know. Maybe after work.”

“Okay.”

“We're grading papers.”

“Very romantic.” A playful smile tugs on Colt’s lips.

“Shut up.”

“Go on.” 

“And maybe she's making tea.”

“She drinks tea? I thought she drank coffee.”

“Obviously she drinks tea.”

“How is that obvious?”

Ryland rolls his eyes at the smirk forming on his brother’s lips. “Nevermind that. She’s making tea, okay? And then I just tell her. That… that I like her.”

Then, he backtracks. “But I can’t do that. I mean, statistically speaking, that's a terrible plan. If I tell her, she’ll reject me. Then I lose my best friend. Which leaves you as my only friend, and no offense, but if the entire social structure of my life can be represented by a sample size of one, something has gone horribly wrong. Like horribly wrong.”

“I feel like I should be offended. Wait, you’re trying to change topics on me. Ryland.”

“Colt.” He repeats.

“Buddy, you spend every single day together. She likes you.” Colt pushes himself out of the couch, suddenly acting like he just cracked the case. “And! And most of all, she laughs at your jokes.” He points accusingly. “Your terrible, god awful jokes. She’s into you.”

Ryland is defensive. “People laugh at my jokes!”

“Let’s not kid ourselves. Just…” Another exasperated hand is thrown around as Colt tries to embed the thought in his brother’s mind. “Stop acting like she's doing charity work by spending time with you. Sometimes you forget you’re the best thing that’s happened to a lot of people too.”

Colt grimaces as the room grows quiet, and he’s aware he’s suddenly gone sappy over his little brother (by four minutes), but Colt has never known a life without his brother, and it’s getting real annoying listening to him be so self deprecating as if he doesn’t have a doctorate in Microbiology, as if a million single mothers haven’t had crushes on him.

“Wow.” he says. “You just said something nice about me. I feel… weird.”

“Don't act like I don’t ever say anything nice about you.” Colt says, not unkindly. Because he has, on multiple occasions even. He’s always stood up for Ryland, even since they were little kids. “Now ask her out before I have to hear another two hour monologue about how she likes her coffee. Though, apparently, she drinks tea now. Unrelated. The point is I literally know everything about her, and I haven’t even met her!”

Ryland opens his mouth.

Colt points a warning finger at him. “Just do it. Do the whole world a favor and just confess. Or just do me the favor."

The room falls quiet and a moment later, Colt disappears down the hallway readying himself for another early day tomorrow, leaving Ryland alone in the living room with half-graded papers and a pit at the bottom of his stomach when he comes to the realization that his brother might actually be right.

Not about everything, obviously. Colt is wrong about a lot of things. Most things, actually.

But maybe he was right about this.

Because for three years, Ryland has done nothing but wait. Three whole years of lingering after work just to talk to you for ten more minutes, of remembering every single story you’ve ever told him, of finding any excuse to be with you.

And another three years would pass exactly the same way if he didn’t do anything.

The thought makes him grimace, makes him want to vomit. Because Ryland Grace has done things far and beyond a simple conversation. He has a list of things he can admit to without shame, and even those with shame. He could do it.

And to hell if he'd go on another day without the permission to kiss you, and hold you, and take your hand in his.

The feeling still sits heavy in his chest, but it's different now. Less like dread and more like standing at the edge of a diving board, but this time, he’s a little more ready to make the jump.

And if by some miracle you feel the same—

Oh. Could you imagine?

Ryland can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth at the possibility.

Maybe he’ll finally listen to his brother for once in his life and tell you how he feels. Tomorrow. 

For now, he’ll keep grading his papers and writing romances with you in his head during the few minutes of break he allows himself.

[dailyflicks]

BLUE VALENTINE (2010) dir. Derek Cianfrance

[rockylandphm]

pushing it down and praying

pairing: colt seavers x reader but also not rly but also ryland grace x reader honestly it's up for interpretation (coltland twins agenda)

synopsis. when ryland grace is taken by the stars, you and his twin brother are left behind with nothing but shared grief or in which, you keep looking for your lost love in colt’s eyes, and colt keeps pretending it doesn't break his heart

word count. 2.1k words

note. uhhh this is my first fic for the goose universe so please take it easy on me. this was loosely based off of that scene of harry and hermione dancing in deathly hallows. and also inspired by this fic

The thirteenth of February was the last time when everything was all right. The day when, back in the Earth you knew, the Earth that held Ryland Grace, soft feet padded to where you’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Another late night waiting for your boyfriend to come home, and another night waking up as he carried you gently towards your bedroom. 

“‘M sorry for coming home late again, honey.” His voice was quiet. Almost afraid. Like he didn’t want to startle you awake. You try to mumble a response, it’s inaudible, but it makes Ryland smile. “After tomorrow, I’ll be yours again. I promise.”

Ryland had said it with so much sureness you thought was true.

“I love you.” The last words you’d ever hear from him, in a voice so calm and so gentle. The tone forever haunts you in your dreams, and how you were never able to say it back.

Later, and perhaps for the rest of your life, you will think that maybe if you’d said something, if you’d been a little more awake, you could’ve changed what happened next. Instead, you fall asleep without knowing it’ll be the last time you would ever see Ryland Grace.

–

The next few months of missing Ryland have been slow, yet so fast. Time proves itself to you the way it did when he left, painful and with no explanation. You remember checking the clock when you left on Thursday–it was 9am. Now it’s Sunday, 6pm. 

But sometimes, it almost feels like February 13th, and in those days, there is a slither of hope that he’d come running home to you.

It never happens.

It’s quiet in your apartment, save for the sound of the rain that seemed a little louder in the living room, and the distant radio you’d left on in hopes it would fill in the gaps of silence. You think quiet is something you should be familiar with, but you can’t seem to escape the strangeness of how certain sounds can be so deeply missed–footsteps padding to pick you up, the scratch of a pen, the rustling of papers, the clicking of a laptop, and the mumbling under his breath. 

The only other sound accompanying the rain now is your stifled sobbing, trying not to be loud, trying not to be deafening–as if volume has something to do with taking away the pain. 

You crave to be released from the world that was once Ryland’s too. Now he’s fallen out of it, and you’re stuck mourning someone you’re not sure is dead or alive, or is coming back to you. You’re stuck pleading the dimming sun for answers, for reasons why. You futilely ask if somewhere, in a place between Earth and wherever he was headed, he feels the same weight of a heart coming down with pain, your pain.

You don’t think you can take the quiet anymore. His silence is deafening. The apartment used to be brilliant, used to contain his constellations of ideas. Now, it was a grave of buried hopes and buried conversations that you will never have with him.

To satiate the silence, you call the only number you know. The only other person who bears the same weight of unanswered questions when Ryland left, the same pain. His twin brother.

And maybe Colt shouldn’t have been surprised. This isn’t something he isn’t used to–your number, calling at odd hours of the day. And like routine, he drops anything he’s doing so he can accompany you. That’s the least he can do for his brother.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

There’s something very sad and lonely in the air when Colt enters what was once your shared apartment with Ryland. You’d given him your spare keys when news broke of Ryland in space, and his twin brother has been trying his best to take care of you, to pick up the pieces that Ryland had left without warning.

“(Name)?” 

Colt hears you before he sees you, quiet sniffling leading him to the living room. 

You’re anchored on the seat by the window, staring dimly at the harsh patter of the rain with your back hunched over. Your leg is folded, chin on your knee, and you don’t notice how drenched the poor man is beside you, braving through the rain because of one call from you. 

He notices the traces of tears on your cheeks, like you’d been crying for hours. He ponders over leaving you alone—maybe he could sit quietly on the couch, waiting until you addressed him, or maybe he should talk to you. 

The pour of the rain is punctuated by the sound of the radio, and a familiar tune plays on the radio. 

An idea pops in his head. 

Colt walks over to where you’re seated, standing there, staring at your hands. There is a hesitation in his breath, in the way he moves to outstretch his hand towards you. 

You move to look at him, and the sight of him shocks you every single time.

He looks exactly like Ryland, the same expressive brows, the same blonde hair falling untidily across his forehead. Even his eyes. His eyes that are currently fixed on your face and on your hands are the same color–blue and brilliant.

There’s a stirring in your chest that parallels heartache. 

Colt still has his hand outstretched, and you’re not sure what he wants to do. Your eyes are still red and swollen from crying, and you’re sure your nose is in a similar state.

You look at him with a questioning look, but he just gestures at his hand. You comply with your own, and almost instantly, he closes his fingers around yours. 

The shape is familiar, the same broad palms, the same nails. But his hands are rough and scarred where Ryland's would've been a little smoother. Calloused from years of stunt work and hard landings. There are tiny scars scattered across his knuckles. Evidence of a life entirely his own.

You try hard not to think about it, flattening the thought before it can grow teeth.

Before you can ask what he's doing, he's pulling you toward him. Not close enough to be alarming. There’s still a good gap between you both, just enough for you to feel the most human you’ve felt in a while.

You don't realize you're moving until you are.

Colt sways the pair of you gently to the music, just a little off-beat. His movements are uncoordinated, and he’s swinging your intertwined hands back and forth. You’re not sure he’s done this before, and in this light, he looks nothing like Ryland. Just Colt, a stranger turned friend trying to make you smile. 

“You’re bad at this.” You whisper.

“I know.” 

Before you can stop him, he’s spinning you beneath his arm. The suddenness allows a startled laugh to escape from your mouth, and the sound surprises the both of you. It only encourages him. 

He has spent months trying to drag sunlight back into a room and has finally managed a single ray. A silver lining.

You and Colt dance in the living room, cheeks nipped crimson by the sandpaper winds of the rain and the cold summer, and your feet stumble against his, and he nearly trips over his own feet, and you've danced through almost the entirety of the space of your apartment, and you’re not quite sure he should be leading, but he doesn’t seem to be backing down.

Because that’s just who Colt is. He has always thrown himself into extreme situations, thrown himself into danger, into sadness, and he commits to it completely. He is someone who is not afraid of anything, the same person who keeps you grounded with his cheap clothes and messy hair, and a deep caring you never asked for but need.

Colt takes another step toward you before spinning away again, under your arms, you under his, and his timing is so fucking awful, and at one point he almost crashes into your dining table, but he never once lets go of your hands. 

You didn’t know until now how much you needed a moment like this. The both of you. A moment that felt sweet, that finally allowed a few minutes of rest. A comfort that momentarily interrupts the sadness that is bound to seep its way in again in a few hours. 

For a second, grief loosens its grip.

You’re swaying now, left and right and left and right and your fingers are still tangled together, and the song is dying down, but neither of you make an effort to speak. You simply look at each other, letting the memories of the past few months pass. There is a ghost of a smile brushing on both of your lips.

There is something strangely intimate about this moment, about being seen when you are grieving. You’d never told him, but you’d seen him too, crying when he thought no one was looking. You’d heard him mumble a prayer, a plea to bring his brother back home. Similarly, Colt’s seen it all–the continuous calling, the sleepless nights, the way your eyes always seem to wander, always searching the sky. 

He knows enough to memorize the shape of your sadness, knows enough to know where it lives. And he’s trying so desperately to keep the both of you afloat.

“I’m sorry for calling you,” you say suddenly. “You really don’t have to come all the time whenever I do.”

Colt’s features immediately soften at your sudden confession.

“I just…” You swallow. Your throat feels dry. It feels hard to speak. “I don’t know. It’s a little easier with you here.”

His heart drops to his stomach. “I’ll always come.” Colt says, and it sounds dangerously sincere. And he’s looking at you a certain way. Like he wants you to really listen to what he’s about to say. “I’d do anything if you asked.” 

You hate that he’s being so kind, and you hate the way your heart flutters at his words. You don’t want to think about what that means, what he means. 

The distance between the both of you suddenly feels important. Necessary. A safety buffer from a line neither of you are supposed to cross. 

You shift your weight from side to side, shuffling your feet, and you feel his hands squeeze yours. You almost wish he could be a little closer, but you know if he were, you’d feel suffocated with the pressure of guilt, or from something else entirely. You’re not so sure anymore.

And just as easy as this moment had come to you, pain rushes in again, relentless in its pursuit.

Ryland and Colt are not the same people. 

Colt was not the boy you had lost to the stars.

You know this. You have always known this. Yet some selfish, grieving part of you keeps searching, trying to find traces of the man you lost, trying to gather pieces of him in the person who looks exactly like him, but just isn’t him.

You selfishly imagined him in every moment with his brother, imagined dancing with him, imagined looking into his eyes instead. And you’re unknowingly breaking Colt as you search to remember Ryland. 

You had broken into his walls, shattered them down, tried to steal Ryland’s likeness, and Colt let it all happen. He stands there, answering every phone call, staying awake with you through nights when sleep feels impossible, and he watches you search his face for someone else. 

And he sees the devastation in your eyes, when you realize that he didn’t have Ryland’s habits, his light, his entire being. You loved a man among the stars, not the one grounded on Earth. And yet he still tries to make you smile, and every time you do, he’s unsure if it’s genuine or because you’d imagined giving it to someone else–and it fucking hurts. 

It hurts because somewhere along the way, he stopped seeing you as his brother’s girlfriend, stopped seeing you as an obligation. And he feels guilty because he knows it’s wrong, but he can’t stop himself from wanting. There is nothing moral about falling in love with the woman his brother left behind, but he can’t seem to stop himself. 

And he tries so hard to convince himself he’s only seeking you because you are the closest thing he has left of his twin. You are the last thing his brother loved. Colt tells himself that often–a repeated prayer, a continuous and painful reminder that you are not his. It’s just grief reaching for grief. Loss recognizing loss.

Nothing more. 

Nothing more.

Nothing more.

And yet, he will still pick up your calls in a heartbeat, and do anything you asked him to. And he will keep letting you because he loves his brother, and he misses him too, and you remind him of a time when he was still a twin.

Outside, a deep black blankets the sky. The stars start to scatter themselves across the sky, and Colt sees the familiar distant look in your eyes, the wandering gaze to the skies, searching for the man that neither of you can reach.

You don’t know how to stop searching. Colt doesn’t know how to tell you that every time you do, he feels himself losing his brother all over again.

[gosverse]

rumour mill 𓃮༶⋆ ☀︎.| “there’s a blue light in my best friend’s room.”

lars lindstrom x barbie!fem!reader | [pilot]

—coworker and neighbour strangers to more than friends.

WHEN you left barbieland, nobody understood why. that wasn’t entirely surprising. barbie land wasn’t really built around the concept of leaving.

people danced, they had beach parties, and changed outfits three times before breakfast. everything was bright and pink and loud and wonderful. sometimes overwhelmingly wonderful.

and after a while, you’d found yourself wanting something different. not better, but just different. you wanted mornings that weren’t perfectly choreographed and conversations that weren’t happening over a soundtrack.

you wanted a life that felt a little less predictable. so one day you packed a suitcase, hugged approximately three hundred crying barbies and kens, promising them to write letters.

and you left.

which was how you ended up in a tiny midwestern town that seemed permanently trapped somewhere between autumn and a postcard. the houses were small, the streets were quiet, everyone seemed to know one another, and nobody wore sequins before noon.

it was lovely, a little strange, but lovely.

your first morning there, you woke up excited. new town, new job, new life. you spent nearly an hour getting ready, not because you needed to. because you enjoyed it. back in barbie land, dressing up wasn’t an event, it was breathing.

you pulled on a brown button up and matching suit pants, small golden hoop earrings, a matching coat, leopard heels that clicked satisfyingly against the floor and enough perfume to make an impression. this barbie was going to work in a small autumnal town, so the outfit had to match the warm earthy tones of the area.

then you stepped outside and immediately noticed your neighbour. he was standing on the porch across the road with a coffee in hand. he was tall and seemed to be having a quiet morning.

he looked like somebody who belonged perfectly in the sleepy little neighbourhood around him. then he saw you, and froze completely.

you smiled immediately, because that’s what you did. “good morning!” he just stared at you. for a second you worried he hadn’t heard you. then he lifted a hand in a tiny awkward wave. his voice was so soft you didn’t catch what he said, so you assumed it was a “morning.”

you grinned, “i’m your new neighbour.”

“i … see.” he says just a little louder, his ears turned pink. adorable! you decided immediately that you liked him. “well, i hope we become friends.”

his expression suggested this possibility had never occurred to him, then you waved once more and headed towards your car. all the way to work you kept thinking about him. the shy neighbour.

this ken seemed nice.

you didn’t realise he worked at the same office until an hour later. you’d just been shown to your desk when you spotted him walking down the corridor.

the moment your eyes lit up in recognition, he nearly dropped the folder he was carrying.

“neighbour!”

half the office looked up, and lars looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. you walked straight over. “we work together!”

“apparently.”

“this is exciting.”

he nodded once. you got the distinct impression he wasn’t used to people describing office jobs as exciting. “what’s your name?” you ask, and he looks a little confused for a second, “i’m lars.” he says, voice quiet. “nice to meet you, lars!” you smile. lars still looked confused as you walked back to your desk. no one was ever this excited to learn his name.

your first day at the office is wonderful. everyone is friendly, everyone is welcoming, they all seems nice. except for one thing. there’s a strange pattern you begin noticing almost immediately.

people are kind to lars… technically, but from a distance. they smile politely, they acknowledge him, but there were small things that didn’t make sense to you.

the sort of thing most people probably wouldn’t pay attention to. when groups formed around desks, lars somehow ended up on the outside, and when people chatted during breaks, conversations flowed around him rather than through him.

when lunch arrived, everybody sat together, but lars sat alone. not because anybody told him to, because nobody invited him. it made absolutely no sense to you. he wasn’t rude or anything, he certainly wasn’t unfriendly. he was simply quiet and seemed a little awkward.

back in barbie land, quiet people got included first, otherwise they might spend the whole party standing beside the punch bowl.

so naturally you picked up your lunch and sat opposite him. lars looked up from his sandwich. blinking at you, “hi.” he muttered, not really looking at you. “hi, lars!” you smiled. “how’s your sandwich?” he stared for several seconds, “good.”

“that’s great.”

it was a quiet few seconds before he asked, “how’s yours?” your smile widened. you’re happy he’d asked. you weren’t entirely sure why that felt like such a victory. “excellent.”

and from that moment onwards, lunch became your thing. your invite him to sit with you everyday, sometimes buy him a drink or some cookies from the vending machine. you didn’t like seeing him be left out.

at first lars assumed it was temporary. you were new and overly friendly, eventually you’d make proper friends. eventually you’d realise he wasn’t particularly interesting. eventually you’d stop sitting with him.

that was how these things usually worked.

except you didn’t, the next day you sat with him again. then again, then again. after two weeks, your coworkers had simply accepted that wherever one of you was, the other probably wasn’t far away.

you asked him questions, genuine questions about books, films, his hobbies, questions about the town. and to lars’ endless surprise, you actually listened to the answers when most people didn’t. not really.

they usually waited for their turn to speak. you actively listened. it made him feel strangely important.

being neighbours complicated things, or improved them… depending on who was judging. because now you kept running into one another, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.

you’d wave at him every morning, sometimes from your porch, sometimes from your mailbox. sometimes while carrying enough shopping bags to qualify as a structural hazard.

and gradually those tiny interactions started getting longer. five minutes became ten, ten became twenty. you’d lean against at wall while lars chopped wood and talk while the evening light faded. sometimes about serious things, sometimes about absolutely nothing.

lars discovered you could somehow make absolutely nothing interesting. he wasn’t entirely sure how.

you were fixing any reason and excuse to talk to him, whether it was giving him a plate of picture perfect cookies, asking if he could chop wood for your fire place, and gifting him jazz records, you just wanted to talk to him because you found him so genuinely interesting. and lars couldn’t help but feel both taken aback and flustered every time. you seemed to really care.

from everyone else’s perspective, it starts innocently. the new girl sits with lars. okay, that’s nice, very kind. good for her. then she keeps sitting with lars, every day, for weeks. then she’s saving him seats, and bringing him coffee, and walking out with him after work.

suddenly people start noticing, and they’re talking. because it’s a small town, and word gets around quick.

nobody has ever seen lars like this, not ever. most people know him as polite, quiet and reserved. but around you? he laughs, he makes jokes that make you laugh, he actually starts conversations.

the transformation isn’t dramatic. it’s subtle but it’s there, and everybody notices. especially because they keep catching him looking at you.

poor lars, he’s thinks he’s being discreet when he’s actually no where near it.

you’ll be standing across the room talking to somebody and lars’ eyes automatically drift towards you. not consciously, he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. he just likes knowing where you are, likes seeing you happy, likes hearing you laugh, it’s become instinct.

unfortunately for him, everybody else has functioning eyesight.

there’s one particularly devastating afternoon where you show up wearing this absolutely stunning vintage-inspired outfit. soft chocolate brown, cinched waist, heels and perfectly styled hair.

the sort of look that would have had half of barbieland applauding. you walk into the office carrying coffee for you and lars. the entire office practically short-circuits. people stare, people compliment you, somebody accidentally walks into a filing cabinet.

and lars?

lars completely forgets what he’s doing. he’s holding paperwork, then suddenly he’s not processing any information whatsoever. just staring, completely captivated. you, meanwhile, are completely oblivious.

which somehow makes it worse. because you walked over and smiled at him. “good morning, lars! i thought of you this morning, so got this coffee for you!” and suddenly his entire day improves. you were thinking about him. actively. wow.

the funniest thing is that people are far more confused than judgemental. nobody’s saying lars isn’t good enough. they’re saying they genuinely don’t understand how this happened.

because from the outside it looks like a glamorous movie star accidentally wandered into a small-town romance.

one elderly woman eventually corners you at a community event at church on a sunday morning. she looks between you and lars, then back at you, then back at lars. like she’s trying to solve a maths problem.

finally she says: “you know you’re very pretty.”

“thank you.”

“and he’s lars.”

you blink very slowly, suddenly feeling a lot of emotions. protective, annoyed, upset. because why would she say that when he’s right there?

“what’s that supposed to mean, old lady?” you ask, a question that would receive loud gasps and dead silence in barbieland. she just slowly backs off.

the thing people slowly realise, however, is that you never seem confused. everybody else is. you very much aren’t. people keep expecting you to wake up one day and suddenly notice the difference. the difference in popularity, in confidence, in appearance. whatever the case may be. but you never do.

because from your perspective there isn’t a mystery. when you look at lars, you aren’t comparing him to anybody. you aren’t seeing social status. you aren’t seeing the awkward man everybody tiptoes around. you see the person who remembers your favourite flowers. the person who always asks how your day went. the person who carries groceries for elderly neighbours. the person who listens when you talk. really listens.

the person who makes room for everyone else despite spending most of his life being left out.

and eventually other people start seeing it too. because once somebody points it out, it’s impossible to ignore. they notice how gentle you are with him. they notice the way he watches for your reaction whenever he says something. they notice how his face lights up when you arrive. they notice that you somehow make him comfortable.

you always make room for him, no matter the situation. at a party, if someone talks over him, “wait, lars was saying something.” if there’s a meeting at the office, you’re placing your handbag on the seat next to you to reserve it for him, always making sure to show off his skills, “well, lars is a actually really good at carpentry. you should see him chop wood, he’s the best at it.”

always making sure that he’s comfortable enough to be himself.

the real turning point comes when somebody asks you directly, because eventually somebody had to. one of your coworkers catches you smiling after a conversation with lars and says: “serious question, what exactly do you see in him?”

the question isn’t exactly cruel, just genuinely curious. and you look completely baffled, because to you the answer is obvious.

“everything.”

the coworker laughs, you don’t. “you’re not funny. why are you laughing.” and the coworker immediately stops laughing, and is a little shocked. you’re usually so sweet, they just expected you to laugh too. “do you think you’re better than him or something?”

the coworker just awkwardly stands there, “he’s kind, he remembers things, and he makes me feel safe. so what, he’s different. you’i’ll never be above him. you can only wish you’re like him.”

meanwhile lars overheard this entire conversation, and is blushing like a schoolboy. you were willing to defend him like that? at the office in front of everyone? oh, his heart was about to beat out of his chest.

everyone else saw you as this beautiful, impossibly glamours, fashionable sweetheart who’s always with quiet little lars lindstrom. but you saw your best friend, the man that brings you hot chocolate when it’s too cold outside, the man that makes you little wooden sculptures of birds just because, the one person who saw you as something that isn’t a perfect pinup girl.

people stop asking “why lars?” and start wondering, “well, who else could it have been?”

between every lunch, every conversation, every morning wave, every time you chose the empty seat beside him when there were dozens of others available, every time you looked at him like he was somebody worth knowing, somewhere between neighbour and friend, he’d fallen completely.

the most wonderful thing of all was that, you had fallen too.

[larsandthewritergirl]

Modern Holland standing too close to the tv while Holly watches icarly "fuck this is really good... I like that lesbian too... the blonde one who is mean to Fredrick the guy with the camera. She's hilarious."

[pontifikado]

Is it possible to do an ask???

Do you think Grace would eat box? If so, head-canons? Haha…

Seriously, your stuff is amazing 🫶🫶🫶

hell yeah he would. you might also be interested in this post on my main; it's sort of related

more about Grace and cunnilingus under the cut [hcs] [mdni]

eating pussy is probably one of Grace's favorite things to do for you, whether it's to help you wind down or to prepare you to take him; it's a way for him to affirm his love (and obsession...) for you.

Grace is convinced that he eats you out for your own pleasure, and while that does hold some truth, it doesn't paint the entire picture. he gets hard at the sight of you spread open for him, all wet and eager to be sucked and licked and fucked by his tongue.

if you listen past the slick sounds of him eating you out, you can hear his soft "ah, ah, ah" that's perfectly timed with his rhythm. it's how you know that he's far gone and all he can think about is you on his mouth.

it's a very comforting experience for him; to be nestled between your plush thighs, laying down on his tummy while being presented with something meant for him to devour over and over again. after the first few times of eating you out, Grace already knows his way around; how much pressure you like on your clit, how fast or how slow you want it circled with the tip of his tongue or how hard you want him to suck (or nip... he does that sometimes as a little treat for you and himself) on it. Grace is intelligent — it's one of his defining traits. who's to say he won't use that in eating you out?

Grace would hold you down with his hands; he isn't rough (although if you asked him to, he's more than willing to satisfy your request), but his hold is firm enough to keep you anchored and glued to wherever you're laying so he can focus on pleasuring you with his mouth. you'll feel him lovingly feeling you up during the act too: he's groping your ass, ghosting his fingers over your stomach in such a deliciously tantalizing pace that it makes your head spin even more — if he's feeling particularly aggressive that day/night, he'd have his palm splayed firmly just above your pussy, pressing hard as he gorges upon you. his other hand is holding your thigh open and pinning it down so you can't hide from him at all.

Grace knows how to use his teeth, too; never to hurt you, of course; that's the last thing he wants to do — he knows he can drive you crazy and have you squirming and whining when he nibbles on your clit by the slightest feel of his front teeth. he's a bit cheeky in this area. he'll look up and over his glasses at you, slowly lower his mouth as his breath grows hotter and hotter against your cunt, until you finally feel it: the faint yet irresistably tingly sensation of his teeth softly grazing at the nerve endings that's designed to deliver you to ecstasy. Grace interchanges between that and sucking and it has you gripping his hair like a lifeline. fuck this man. literally.

a continuation of his evilness: he loves attaching his mouth to your pussy and just doing whatever he can: prodding at the tight seam of your entrance, laying his tongue flat and licking a broad, sensual path from the bottom up to continue getting a taste of you.

oh and you know Grace uses his nose, too. he knows it's the one thing that sends you spiraling downward faster than anything else, so he incorporates it sparingly. he'd surprise you with it. you'd think he's content with what he's doing, and then it happens; he spreads your pussy with his fingers and he tilts his head at an angle, leaning in to aim the tip of his pretty nose at your swollen clit and nuzzling into it as his tongue laps at you. he loves it because it almost always results in you whining and pushing at his forehead. he doesn't budge though, because he knows you love it.

Grace grows even more relentless and needier when you start getting close. he buries his face in between your legs, whispering hotly into your skin a string of words to coax and beckon you to your release. "cum in my mouth, that's it, that's it... give it to me," he rasps, matching his desperation with your equally rapid ascent.

he drinks up everything you give him like a man dying of thirst. if anything gets on his chin, or on the perimeter of his lips, he's gathering that up on his fingers and licking them clean. you can see how affected he is in his eyes: blue yet blown with lust, lidded as he examines your limp, panting form.

then, when he knows you've come down, Grace gets up on his knees, his hand rubbing up and down your quivering thigh as he takes you all in. the other is already fisting his cock, pumping himself to give it the attention it's been longing for since he started eating you out. "my pretty baby," he coos and smiles sweetly — yet it's anything but sweet — he's scooting closer to you and nudging you open once again as he hovers over you. you feel the tip of his cock press at your entrance. "you're ready to take me now, yeah? i'll make you feel even better..."

[ken-dom]

Vampire henry whose been smoking to avoid needing any blood cause all of it tastes shit to him finds you whose just as mentally fucked and use his bites to avoid harming yourself to.

Uh also he puts his cig in your mouth when he goes in for a bite and also it gets you wet and also also also now he smokes less and you SH less but now everyones hornier.

-love ♟️/ Artemis

Ohhh this is so juicy...

Content: afab!reader, nsfw, creampie, vampire!Henry, SH implied, smoking, biting, blood, oral sex (reader receiving)

∘₊✧──────────────✧₊∘

Henry's hips are lithe between yours, rolling smoothly as he holds his cigarette to your lips. You take it like it's your lifeline and he licks his lips, dipping lower to pierce your neck with his sharp fangs, the sweet relief of the pain he gives you making you clench around him as he laps the blood it elicits from your sweet neck.

It's a perfect arrangement; he needs to drink, you need to feel without harming yourself, and you both need the release it offers you. How could you not when both of you find the others needs to incredibly intoxicating?

Henry's never had someone want him to bite them. The thought alone makes him harder than ever, and the way he moans as he drinks you... god, it's like warm honey dripping in your ears.

As he finishes up his meal, he groans, guttural and loud as he empties inside you with your cries ringing in his ears and your fingernails digging in his back almost as sharp as his teeth in your flesh.

Some nights, he'll eat you out and then drink from your thigh with the taste of you fresh on his tongue mixing with the delicious blood he's just as hungry for.

And every time you part, you know that in a few days you'll be back here, doing the same again.

[bimbosicko]

DOGGY WITH LARS

cw : doggy, ooc lars, nsfw mdni ⋆˚࿔ blurb | 420 words ۶ৎ based on this post! this is so shit, bro. i really wanted to write something just like this with colt or ken but this ended up so badly i decided to wrap it up early.

your back arched hard; lars groaned at the sight of you. tits heaving and thighs shaking from the fact that he had already made you cum twice with his thick fingers before pounding his aching cock inside you.

“ah! ah!” he whined, thrusting. “i missed you; i missed you so bad." his words were slurred, as if his tongue and lips were refusing to cooperate.

your face was pressed against the pillow. your breathing came out in short, ragged gasps, chest rising and falling urgently as you desperately tried to fill your lungs with air. it was as though your body was refusing to cooperate with you; your eyes were puffy and watery, your eyelashes fluttering gently, and you could feel your own hips twitching up involuntarily as your walls clenched around him in an almost desperate manner.

“i missed you too." you could hear the rawness in your voice, husky and low as it rasped with every breath. “i— fuuuck,” just as you were about to speak again, lars silenced you with a deep, hard thrust, his thick cock filling you open.

“you feel so good, bug,” he murmured, voice raspy and uneven, nodding as if talking to himself. his hips never slowed. “don’t you? so good.”

the sounds of his dick plowing in and out of you in squelching noises filled the room, each snap of his hips hitting the back of your pussy. mouth hanging open against the pillow as drool seeped into the cotton. you didn’t even notice. all you could think at the moment was the force of his hips pistoning inside you.

you strained to lift your head up; you knew lars was about to cum. maybe it was the fact that his hips faltered slightly, once. then twice. his cock pulsing deep inside you like a warning and you needed to see his face.

your hair was disheveled, lips slick and glimmering with saliva where they'd been pressed into the mattress. your eyes met lars's ones. one of his hands, which had been previously holding your wrists down, pulled away slowly and gave a tiny, wobbly wave.

you buried your face into the pillow again, trying very hard to stifle your laughter. you lifted your head and, despite knowing better, matched his wave. fingers mimicking his gesture.

“hi lar— oh fuck,” you moaned, greeting long forgotten. your eyes rolled back as he reeled in his hips and shot hot ropes of cum deep into your cunt, pouring deep inside you.

[romanticgumchewer]

Colt with costume designer girlfriend.

oh YES

colt who met you when you were still just with the costume department as a dresser, getting people into costume and checking continuity. you grew closer and closer every time you put him into a costume. he's very chatty and asked you so many questions about how you got into the business and what you really wanna be. eventually, when he has a bit of down time before he has to be on set, you show him your sketchbook. full of costumes that you've designed, for books you've read or from movies you've worked on that you thought could use some improvement. he's so encouraging for you to pursue your dream that you can't help but ask him out.

the rest is history.

eventually, you get your big break. eventually, colt gets to work with you on your first big break. eventually, you get to put him into costumes that YOU designed yourself.

oh okay they're kinda cute

[snoopysupe]

clark trying to convince you to live in the fortress of solitude 😭😭😭

i know this was just an observation but it made me want to elaborate that moment between clark & reader 😭

FORTRESS OF UNIFICATION — Clark Kent

pairing: clark kent / f!reader. word count: 582. content: addition to this fic. established relationship. silly bickering over where to live.

clark kent masterlist

“No.”

“What—?” Clark followed you into the kitchen, hands grasping at the air in desperation, “Honey, come on!”

You turned on your heel, face soured as you went through the motions of the conversation at hand that had lasted all of ten minutes before it shifted into the shallow end of a brewing argument.

The topic being: where to live.

Clark stood with his shoulders rounded and wore an incredulous look that—in your humble opinion—was a little dramatic given what he was asking you. You both stood in his Ma and Pa’s kitchen, both parents long retired to their beds when the housing topic arose at the dinner table.

It was time to combined two homes into one. And, neither of you felt like budging.

“I’m not moving into that…that thing.” You crossed your arms across your chest.

Clark’s brows raised into his hairline. “That thing? You mean to say, my home—your husband’s home?” When you threw your hands up in the air and moved past him to get into the living room and save yourself from being cornered, Clark followed hot on your heels. He then added, “Come on, honey. It makes sense. It’s safe, far enough away from…well, everything.”

“Yeah. That’s why it is called the Fortress of Solitude. Alone. Secluded.” You piled onto the description of the place, shivering at the memory of the last time you had visited. Mainly because it was freezing amongst other factors.

(Clark soon found out you might be one of the only humans on the planet that didn’t like the Fortress of Solitude.)

As the slander left your mouth, Clark pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “We can call it the Fortress of Unification. Two hearts unified. Together.”

“You can’t just change the name of something once it’s been named, Clark. Just ask the creator of the Bean in Chicago, who desperately reminds everyone it’s actually called the Cloud Gate.” You bent at the waist to pick up a blanket from the floor and chucked it back into the basket next to the sofa you and Clark had been cuddling on. You mumbled, “So dumb. It’s clearly a bean.”

Clark dropped his head back, his eyes closed as his nostrils flared in frustration from getting nowhere with you. When you turned around, you watched him openly, molars grinding out of your own frustrations and guilt rising in your chest.

It was a silly argument. Something that could be squashed in a less juvenile state, but you really needed Clark to realise you had just wrapped your head around the Metropolis Subway, and you didn’t want to undo all your hard work by living in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of robots to keep you company on the weekends.

“Look. If it’s the cost of apartments in Metropolis, I can find another job.” You said quietly.

Clark dropped his gaze to you. A full pout on his face. “Money isn’t the issue for me. I just think, I’ve got a perfectly good place to live!”

“You sound like a mother.” You argued with a laugh. “I’m going to bed. We can sleep on this. I love you.” You stepped into Clark’s space and kissed the pout on his lips before sauntering down the hallway to the spare room.

Clark rubbed the wrinkles on his forehead and broke into a speedy walk to catch up with you.

He whispered sharply, “What about the Fortress of Partnership?”

[danitcx]

The Problem With Being Superman

Clark Kent x female reader

Sinopsis: Clark Kent has spent months trying to get your attention in the only way he knows how: quietly, sweetly, and awkwardly. But when Superman saves your life and begins visiting your apartment at night, Clark realizes he may have accidentally made things far more complicated for himself.

Warnings: secret identity, near-death experience, bus accident, mild danger, jealousy, emotional confusion

WC: 5,000 words approx.

If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.

That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.

He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.

Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.

Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?

And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.

He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.

Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.

But anyway, that was not the point right now.

The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.

The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.

While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.

“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.

“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.

“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.

“Connections to who?”

“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.

That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.

But that was exactly what happened.

Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.

Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.

But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.

But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.

He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.

When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.

Superman stood in front of you.

Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.

“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.

You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.

“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.

Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.

You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.

No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.

Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.

You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.

You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.

“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.

“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.

You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.

There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.

Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.

It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.

You were just his coworker. Nothing more.

But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.

Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.

After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.

A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.

The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.

He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.

He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.

You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.

You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.

“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.

Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.

Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.

“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.

You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:

“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Of course you were not easy to fool.

She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.

But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.

You only seemed curious.

You only seemed… interested.

“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.

“Really?” you asked skeptically.

“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.

He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.

Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.

He came back.

He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.

“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.

“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”

Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.

You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.

“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”

He took the plate carefully.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”

Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.

And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.

The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.

One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.

“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”

Clark smiled inwardly.

Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.

So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.

After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.

And now you shared that with Clark.

Well… with Superman.

But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.

One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”

“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”

Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”

“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”

“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”

Your eyes widened.

“What?”

“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.

“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”

“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.

“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.

The two of you ended up laughing.

You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.

That became his favorite part of every day.

Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.

But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.

And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.

Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.

Because he had someone waiting for him.

And that someone was you.

That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.

You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.

In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.

And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.

Oh, God, he thought.

He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.

But he still wanted to test it.

He needed to know.

So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.

Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.

“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.

His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.

You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.

“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.

Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.

He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.

Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.

“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.

You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.

“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.

Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.

“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.

He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”

Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.

“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”

Superman lowered his gaze.

He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.

You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.

“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”

That made everything worse.

Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.

Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.

“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.

Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.

You looked at him with a frown, still worried.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.

Superman nodded slowly.

“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.

You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.

Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.

“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.

You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.

“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.

“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”

Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.

“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”

He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.

“I never imagined,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.

“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”

Clark felt his stomach flip.

“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.

You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.

“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.

You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.

Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.

“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”

You let out a short laugh.

“I already know that.”

“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.

He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.

“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.

“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.

Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.

So he simply nodded again, harder this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”

Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.

“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.

Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.

He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.

He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.

He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.

Nothing else mattered.

Only you.

Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.

Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.

He was going to ask you out.

That was a fact.

He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.

Or fly around the world.

Or both.

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz@lunaryoongie@hikari-michiko

[larsandthewritergirl]

I’m back and I’ll send Noah thoughts later but for now

Noah kissing kink. That man has an oral fixation

🫧

Okay okay okay okay walk with me

Coming home to him just sitting on the couch and he is BRICCCKKKEDDD UP and you're like "oh god how long have you been like that what can I do what do you need from me?" And he's like "just sitting there baby get on my lap and just kiss me"

And he slowly grinds against you and ruts into you while you kiss

OHHH the way he grabs allies face and pulls her into kisses i know he is sloppy with it and goes in tongue first WOWOWO

[larsandthewritergirl]

I always have headcanoned that in reader and Hollands relationship you breakup at least once and after that break up he is a MESS

Because he knows he's stupid and he probably did something stupid like Healy got him a lap dance for his birthday and he didn't deny it or just some stupid guy thing

So he literally goes full PI and stalks you and will be chilling outside of your apartment and when you walk out and spot his car, making full eye contact with him he will yell "oh fuck oh shit!" Knowing you caught him then put his seat all the way back

Once you go up to his car, banging on the window he will oh so slowly roll the window down and his seat back up just smiling at you like everything is normal "oh... hi sweetheart. How are you?"

You get in a big fight in the street and literally dent his car with your heel, a full audience on the sidewalk watching the two of you

And by the end he's literally crawling toward you in the middle of the road, cars honking at him and yelling at him, him of course screaming back at them "go around me then motherfucker! I don't know what to tell you!", even flashing his gun as he's literally in the middle of the road on his hands on knees

"Baby please, I know I'm fuckin' stupid. I'm an idiot. I'm dumb. Please. I know I'm a dick but just- I won't do it again. Please. I want to be yours again."

He's literally got his hands wrapped around your ankles, your heel still in your hand from when you hit his car and he's resting his head on the heeled foot literally just begging for you back

A GROWN man with a teenage daughter by the way

Okay idk... let me know if this thought is insane but I thought it was a little funny but also feels correct for his character idk

LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS LOL

Using/ writing my ideas/ headcanons/ intellectual property without proper credit will warrant an immediate block :( plagiarism is a big deal!