d0llainee

[d0llainee]

★ ﾟ๑ REPORTER GETS INTERVIEWED ୧ ⊹ ࣪

⌢ ꒰੭ fluff ✿ ／ down bad boyfriend, clark being an awkward pie, yapper clark allegations ──⠀──⠀⸝⸝ ◜◡◝ well im back and i didnt get to watch fantastic 4 cause of the fucking rain

"NO NO NO NOOOOooo—please still be in the kitchen. please let her be in the kitchen"

The words tumbled from his mouth in a breathless whisper, somewhere between a prayer and a plea. He pushed the crumpled sheets off his body with frantic hands, his limbs heavy with ache and regret. The air bit at his skin the moment he sat up—cold, sharp, and unkind. His pajama bottoms hung loosely on his hips, and the chill crept down his spine as he staggered to his feet.

Every step echoed too loudly in the apartment, each thud like a knock on a door that no longer had someone waiting behind it. The apartment was still. Still in that way that felt empty. Still in that way that told him, without even needing to look, that she was already gone.

The scent of her perfume still lingered faintly in the hallway—a soft, familiar trace of vanilla and something warmer, like sunlight caught in their silk bed sheets she picked. It clung to the air like a ghost of her presence, making the space feel both close and unbearably distant. The pot of coffee sat untouched on the countertop, still warm, still waiting. She had made it for him.

Of course she had.

The dishes were already washed, stacked neatly by the sink. Every gesture, every quiet act of care, had already been done. She had moved through the morning like clockwork—quiet, thoughtful, loving. And he had slept through all of it.

He hates saturdays. Period.

He rubbed at his face with both hands, dragging his palms over his eyes, as if it would scrub away the guilt sitting like a weight in his chest. "i didn't get to kiss her goodbye"

His mind repeated it like a punishment. He gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles pale.

I didn’t even say good morning. Didn’t open my eyes. Didn’t see her smile. Didn’t—

His breath hitched. God, he hadn’t even heard her leave.

His footsteps slowed as he neared the table, the silence of the apartment wrapping around him like a reminder. There, in the center, was the plate she had left for him—carefully covered, still warm enough to suggest she hadn’t been gone long. But it was the note that caught him, small and yellow, resting gently on top like a kiss.

He reached for it, almost reverently, fingers trembling a little as he peeled it off the plate. Her handwriting was unmistakable—softly curved, slightly rushed at the edges like she always wrote while standing, halfway between brushing her teeth and zipping her bag.

"Didn’t want to wake you up. You stayed late last night after that attack. You looked so peaceful, but I made breakfast—make sure to reheat it first before you eat. I love you, Clark. See you later. <3 P.S. don’t miss me too much.”

God. He was so down bad. It has been what 7 months together?

He was smiling before he even knew it. One of those dumb, helpless, crooked smiles that stretched his cheeks and made his eyes crinkle like paper. His thumb brushed over the curve of her heart doodle, and then lingered at the place where she’d signed his name, as if he could trace the movement of her fingers from memory.

She had written this just for him. Thought of him in the quiet, in the in-between, while he slept like a stone through the echo of last night’s chaos. And still—still—she loved him with this softness.

Made him eggs.

Poured his coffee.

Left a note like they weren’t living in a world that asked too much of people like them.

His smile faltered then, just a little, as the weight of it caught up with him. He should have been the one up first. I should’ve kissed her. Told her he loved her with his eyes open, not just in dreams. He had slept through all of it—through her morning, her footsteps, her quiet grace.

And now she was gone for the day, and all he had was a sticky note and a breakfast gone lukewarm.

He returned to the bedroom they never quite admitted was shared—his, technically, though she had left more than just a toothbrush behind. It smelled like her now. Like safety. Like home waiting to be spoken aloud.

He crouched low beside the bed, where two boxes rested beneath the frame. One was marked and locked—the suit, a part of him too heavy for this hour. But the other… the other was hers. Or his. Or theirs.

It was a box of quiet things—sentimental and sacred in the way only love makes objects holy. Every piece inside was a fragment of a moment he refused to forget: snack wrappers from their first late-night grocery run, laminated and dated; letters she had scribbled on bad days and worse coffee; an old newspaper, creased and yellowing, with her title in bold on the front page—“Strong U.S. Job Growth Shows Economy Is Defying Challenges”—he had nearly cried when it printed.

He nearly tripped when he found out.

But above all—were the post-it notes.

They lived in layers, paper-thin memories tucked between soft corners of the box. She wrote on them daily, sometimes teasing, sometimes reminding, always loving. And now, this new one joined them.

He turned it over and wrote the date on the back, slow and precise, as if it were a record of something ancient and delicate. Then, with a soft exhale, he brought the note to his lips, pressing a kiss to the edge of her handwriting. A kiss she wouldn’t feel, but one he needed to give.

He slipped the note inside, nestled it among the others, and closed the box with a care usually reserved for relics. Then, gently, he pushed it back beneath the bed—out of sight, but never out of reach.

He did exactly what she told him.

Like a good boy he is, isn't he.

Reheated his breakfast like she asked — eggs a little rubbery now, toast slightly too crisp, but he ate it all, every bite a kind of obedience laced with affection. He drank the coffee she brewed, even though it had gone bitter sitting out too long — still, he smiled between sips. He cleaned the bedroom, tucked in the sheets she always kicked loose, straightened the photo frames on the shelf, folded her sweatshirt that had been hanging over his chair for two weeks.

Then the rest of the apartment. Floors swept, dishes washed again just for good measure, couch fluffed, even the throw blanket she always pulled over them during late-night documentaries was folded into a perfect square. She wasn’t coming over tonight—not yet—but he cleaned anyway.

He wanted her to walk in and feel peace. He wanted her to know she was thought of, even when she wasn’t there to see it. By the time the clock struck 10:30, the silence was unbearable.

No calls. No emergencies. No distant cries from alleyways or sirens that pulled him out of himself. No one needed saving today.

And for that, truly, he was grateful. But God — he was so bored.

His body didn’t know what to do with stillness. His fingers kept twitching like they missed the feeling of a cape slipping through them. His eyes flicked to the window every few minutes, waiting for… anything. A spark. A scream. A car crash. A mugging. A kitten stuck in a tree. Something.

Nothing came, only the chatter of people in cafes, or his neighbours snoring, screaming on the phonecall.

The usual boring time.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even painful. It was just… constant. Like background noise he couldn’t turn off. The way his apartment felt too big when she wasn’t in it, too cold even when the sun was out.

He could bath himself in sunlight, he live for the sun.

But, damn he is so bored.

After hours, of saving, losing sleep for writing articles, cleaning, having dates. It's his break right, he should be thankful. He got to rest.

I am so restless.

He lay back on the couch, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling like it owed him answers.

“I know I said I wanted a break,” he muttered, voice flat. “But this? Really?”

The ceiling didn’t reply. Neither did the universe.

So he sat up, rubbed a hand through his hair, and stared at the kitchen like it might blink back to life. He stared at the ceiling like it might give him answers, sprawled across the couch with time ticking dully around him. But his thoughts, once quiet, began to stir.

She will probably skip lunch again.

She always did when she was deep into something — when the words demanded all of her, when the world turned too loud to remember something as basic as eating. He could see it now: her hunched over her desk, fingers tapping rhythmically against the keys, the dim desk lamp casting a warm glow over her shoulders. Maybe her stomach hurt. Maybe she pushed through it. She always did.

What if her head aches? he thought, his brows drawing together.

What if she wanted to make another cup of coffee, but didn’t want to stand up because she was afraid she’d lose her train of thought? What if she was cold, too focused to realize it? What if she just needed something — anything — other than ink and paper and the echo of her own determination?

And what if no one was there to notice?

Of course, I will notice but I'm not there.

Oh man, I'm not there.

His chest tightened, that low ache blooming into urgency.

She wouldn’t ask. That was the thing — she never would. But that didn’t mean she didn’t need.

He sat up fast on the couch. Then stood even faster.

“Alright,” he said aloud, voice firm now. Completely speaking to himself. “Lunch. And her favorite flowers.”

He moved with purpose, already heading toward the kitchen. His feet found rhythm on the tile, each step filled with a new kind of urgency — the quiet now replaced by the thud of cabinet doors opening and the rustle of tinfoil and instinct.

He started with a two loaf of bread, then paused, eyes narrowing.

No. That wouldn’t do. Not today. A sandwhich, really clark?

Probably at mid-day snack, never lunch.

This wasn’t a sandwich day. This was a Reader is too in her head and forgetting to eat again day. And he knew what she loved on days like that — something warm, something homemade, something that tasted like comfort and reminded her that someone loved her enough to know these things.

He reached for the pink bento box, a little worn now, but still cute — she liked cute things when no one was looking. He filled the base with kimchi fried rice, the way she made it once and he never stopped thinking about it since. Not too spicy, extra garlic. Just the way she liked it.

Then the egg — not hard-boiled, not soft-boiled, but somewhere in that sweet, perfect middle. The yolk just barely melted, golden and trembling when he set it in place like a jewel.

He added some strawberries, her favorite. Peeled the edges of the orange because she hated the pith. Slipped in a piece of dark chocolate, hidden between the chopsticks and the fruit. She’d find it last, he knew, and roll her eyes, but she’d eat it anyway.

He didn’t pack a love letter. He didn’t need to. Wait, Should I? I'll just leave a post it note.

He sealed everything with care, wiping the edge of the thermos, straightening the chopsticks, folding a napkin into a neat triangle. He pressed the post it note inside, a secret small message. He smiled like a school boy in headlights.

He grabbed his keys, the bento box carefully secured in his other hand, thermos tucked under his arm. He was already halfway to the balcony, ready to take off into the sky like it was second nature — because, well, it was.

But he stopped.

Feet planted. Brows drawn. A single breath of hesitation.

Wait a minute.

The city was alive today — he could hear it even from here. The hum of traffic, car horns, the distant sound of street musicians, children shouting over melting popsicles. It was midday, and the streets were bustling, no doubt.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the alley beside the Daily Planet — his usual landing spot when he didn’t want to draw attention. But he could already feel the crowd there, smell the pretzels from the food cart that always parked at the end, hear the footsteps of too many people on their lunch breaks. Risky. Way too risky.

Then his eyes flicked to the rooftop — cleaner entry, sure, but the security cameras were always a little finicky. Perry had just installed the new tech last week and—

He paused again.

Am i shirtless?

He looked down.

Bare chest, pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, thermos pressing into his ribs, pink bento box clutched in hand like some fever dream version of a rom-com delivery boy.

Yup he is.

“Jesus Christ, Clark,” he muttered, turning back into the apartment with a resigned groan.

He set the box gently on the counter, then made his way back to the bedroom to throw on a clean shirt — something casual, something that said totally normal boyfriend bringing lunch, definitely not a man who can hear satellites. A navy henley, and some dark trousers. That would do, she bought this for him — FOR HIM. He isn't going to work today, he will just call Carla-the-clerk to ask for reader then, sneak a kiss and a see you later. Life is a bliss.

He bought the flowers downtown, just off the corner where the park met the bookstore with the creaky sign. It was the usual stall — tucked beneath a faded green awning, surrounded by mismatched buckets of color and perfume. The old woman who ran it had hands weathered like soft leather and a smile that reminded him of home.

“For her?” she asked, the moment she saw him.

She always asked that. Same gentle tone. Same mixed outfits she wore. Same twinkle in her eye, like she already knew the answer before he even opened his mouth.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, ducked his head a little, and smiled like he couldn’t help it.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, full of something tender. “For her.”

She nodded knowingly, her fingers already busy picking the stems she knew he’d want — a bit of blush pink, soft whites, a sprig of eucalyptus just for scent. She always built the bouquet like it was a secret she was helping him keep.

Sometimes he wondered if she was just that kind. Other times, he swore she was a psychic. Maybe not in the traditional sense, but in that way only old women and mothers could be, like his mom — the kind that looked at your face and knew the weight sitting behind your smile.

Guy Gardner would love her, he thought absently, the corner of his mouth twitching. Or be terrified of her. Probably both.

She handed him the flowers wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine like always. He offered her a few bills — she always waved off the full amount with a dismissive flap of her hand.

"Hope she liked it," She handed with a smile graced on her chapped lips, tucking the change into her blue apron.

"She always does" He said with a grin, Clark held the bouquet close as he left with a small wave towards the lady, the paper crinkling against his chest, the scent of freesia and freshly cut stems rising with each step.

He was speed-walking through the park, half-focused on the path ahead, half on the bento box in his hands. Each step was calculated, careful — not too quick to jostle the egg, not too tight a grip on the bouquet to crush the stems. His fingers curled just right around the paper wrapping, and the thermos rested in the crook of his elbow like a fragile promise.

The sun was climbing, casting everything in that golden hour softness that made the city look almost gentle. He glanced at his watch — 11:29. Almost lunch. Almost there.

He nearly collided with the jogger who always ran this route at noon. The guy shouted a half-hearted “yo! man!” as he swerved, and Clark barely had time to mutter, “Sorry—sorry!” before steadying the bento again like it was a newborn, sighing as he checked the inside with his vision, still warm, still fine.

Then it happened.

He felt it before he heard it — the distinct presence of someone stepping into his path, just enough to disrupt his rhythm. He halted abruptly, feet catching on the edge of the path. The bento box wobbled. The flowers trembled in his grip. His heart jumped into his throat.

He nearly dropped both. Maybe, his dignity also.

“Whoa—!” he gasped, gripping the bouquet like it might save him from further embarrassment. He righted himself, standing a little too straight, his expression caught somewhere between startled and please let me disappear now.

“Sorry!” he blurted out again, eyes wide, voice soft. “I wasn’t looking—”

The girl standing in front of him smiled like she’d just caught him in a love confession. She had a dress the color of sunshine and a microphone discreetly tucked at her collar — he noticed it immediately. Not the usual type. Lapel mic. Wireless. Influencer. Interviewer.

His stomach dropped. He doesn't know what to do, he is always the interviewer, not the one IN IT.

“Can I judge you, sir?” she asked, sweet but playful, like it was a game she already knew the outcome of.

Clark blinked, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Judge me?” he echoed at her.

He looked down at himself — slightly sweat-damp from walking too fast, bento box in one hand, flowers in the other, hair windblown, heart still beating fast from the near collision.

He smiled — awkward, crooked, helpless.

“Uh… sure,” he said, voice barely above a chuckle. “I guess.”

“Can you confess what you’re most guilty of at the moment?” She said it with a tilt of her head and a playful squint, already side-eyeing her cameraman like she could sense something soft brewing.

Clark didn’t hesitate. The words stumbled out of him faster than he could filter them.

“Not saying good morning to my girlfriend.”

He blinked, caught off guard by his own honesty. A flush crept up his neck, brushing his cheeks pink. He hadn’t even said that out loud before — not to anyone, just himself, over and over again all morning like a quiet mantra of regret.

The girl raised her brows, lips curling as she side-eyed the camera like “oh we are in it for the ride.”

But Clark was already spiraling. “Today’s Saturday, right?” he asked, as if needing confirmation. She nodded dramatically. “Yuh. Yuh.”

“I’m off today,” he continued, the words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them. “But she’s working. She works weekends sometimes and I— I slept in.”

“Oh no,” she said to quickly, in synch, leaning in, hand to chest. He nodded, a hand lifting as if pleading for forgiveness. “And I didn’t even get to say good morning. Or take care. Or cook for her — she cooked for me, for both of us actually, but I know she was thinking of me too, and—” He stopped, sighed, laughed once under his breath.

“I was so mad. Not at her — never at her. But at myself. I promised to cook for her when I could. And now that I actually could, I just… didn’t wake up. She left breakfast. And a note.” He paused. His voice softened.

“God, I love her.”

The interviewer didn’t say a word. Just slowly backed up, pacing with her hands on her hips like she needed to process. Her cameraman muffled a laugh behind the lens.

“And she didn’t even wake me up!” he added, as if that made it more criminal. “So now I’m heading to her work,” he said, lifting the lunch box slightly. “I packed her lunch, ‘cause she always forgets to eat. And flowers. Just because.”

The girl stopped. Froze.

Then she sprinted back into frame, practically leaping beside him like she’d just won the emotional lottery.

“MMMH, YEAH SIR!” she shouted, causing a few people nearby to turn.

Clark blinked, confused at her actions.

The millennial pause.

Before he could speak again, she whipped out a tiny gavel — God knows from where — and held it high.

“Sir,” she declared. “You are guilty.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Guilty?”

She pointed the gavel at him with gleeful finality. “Guilty of being madly, stupidly, unapologetically in love with your woman.”

Clark pressed his lips together, fighting a grin. He bit the inside of his cheek and gave a tiny, sheepish nod. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I am. But I’m not ashamed.”

The girl let out a high-pitched laugh, practically hitting her thigh as she spun back to the camera. “YOU ARE FREE TO GO, SIR. GO GET THAT WOMAN!” The lady shouted with glee.

He gave a little wave, awkward but sincere, and with a final soft “Bye,” he turned — the bento secure in his hands, the flowers still intact — and picked up his pace again, that quiet dopey smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He ran for his dear life.

Well—ran, in the way a man in love runs while still protecting a bento box like it's fragile cargo and carrying a bouquet like it's sacred. His strides were long, almost buoyant, but his arms were steady, careful, clutching the lunch and flowers like they were made of spun glass.

He smiled at the guard as he passed through the doors of the Daily Planet, a soft, breathless “hey, man” as he waved. The guard gave him a knowing look — the kind reserved for familiar faces who don’t usually show up on their day off holding pink chopsticks and peonies.

Inside, the cool air of the lobby greeted him. The usual clatter of keys and the murmur of reporters filled the room like a song he hadn’t realized he missed.

Arla, the receptionist — sharp bangs, sharper tongue — glanced up from her desk, catching sight of him instantly. Her brow arched, unimpressed but faintly amused.

“What are you doing here, Kent?” she asked, voice flat but her smirk betraying her curiosity.

He gave her a sheepish grin, adjusting the lunchbox in his hands. “Hey, Carla… can you call Reader in for me?”

Arla didn’t miss a beat. She rolled her eyes, already reaching for the intercom.

“Sure, lover boy,” she muttered, half fond and half exasperated. Pressing the button with red nails, matching her wittyful? Is that a word, but that matches her personality. As he tapped his foot at the polished tiles, hearing carla specifically said “Reader? You’ve got a delivery down at reception. Says it’s urgent.” Her voice had that exaggerated tone — as if Reader would somehow miss the innuendo laced in every syllable.

Clark stood there, trying not to look too giddy. He failed miserably. His smile was practically carved into his face, soft and full of anticipation — the kind of expression that made people stop and think, God, I hope someone looks at me like that someday.

Minutes stretched and twisted, hearing the same stomps of shoes and heels clicking at the polished tiles. Time slowed the way it does when hearts beat louder than clocks — when anticipation curls in the chest like a held breath.

He could hear her. From floors away.

The faint rhythm of her heels moving through the bullpen, then the soft ding of the elevator as it arrived. He straightened, his pulse skipping, stepping closer just as the doors slid open.

And there she was.

Polished. Composed. Effortlessly radiant. That was definitely a new button-down — navy blue with tiny white polka dots, tucked neatly beneath a cream vest that shouldn’t look that good in a newsroom, and yet on her, it did. Her hair pulled back just enough to show her earrings — the ones he got her from a street vendor in Metropolis last winter.

God, he thought. She’s beautiful. I'm here. She’s mine.

She saw him — and her face lit up like sunrise spilling through glass.

Clark’s own grin bloomed before he could stop it, wide and boyish, almost relieved. He didn’t wait. His feet moved on instinct, closing the space between them, and in one sweeping motion, he scooped her into his arms.

“Clark—!” she laughed, startled but delighted, as he spun her once — just once — right there in the middle of the lobby, bouquet still half-clutched in one hand, the lunchbox dangling from his fingers.

She laughed into his shoulder, head tipping back, her voice the only music he ever needed. And when he set her down, she was still smiling, cheeks flushed and eyes full of something warm and speechless.

She lightly slapped his chest as soon as she was down on the polished floor, just above his heart — not out of annoyance, but because she didn’t know what else to do with the way he made her feel. The laughter was already bubbling in her throat, eyes narrowing as she tilted her head at him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, a half-laugh caught in her voice, her brows arched but her eyes already softening. Laced with affection that he always knew.

Clark’s grin widened, dimples and all.

“I brought you lunch,” he said simply, lifting the pink bento box with pride. “Don’t worry, It’s not pancakes.” He quickly added.

She laughed, short and melodic — the sound tugging something loose in his chest. Her hand lingered against his shirt, and then, before he could speak again, she leaned forward. Her voice laced with teasing “You’re never gonna let me live that pancake disaster down, huh?”

He leaned forward, nose brushing hers. “Not a chance.”

She kissed his nose — quick, playful, the kind of kiss that said you’re ridiculous and I missed you all at once. Then it was slower, she kissed his lips. More like a peck, but he quickly closed his eyes. Before he could lean in more, she pulled away and his brows rose.

“Clark,” she whispered, resting her forehead lightly against his. As he hummed, as he heard the breathy "Thank you, love." His grin, wider like the break of dawn as he pulled the flowers dangling on his hands. The way his name left her lips — soft, barely there — made his breath catch. He hummed in response, the sound low and warm in his chest, as her words followed like a promise made in passing winds: “Thank you, love.”

He smiled — wide, boyish, a little crooked — the kind of smile that looked like morning sunlight spilling through curtains. Without a word, he brought the flowers forward, the stems slightly wilted from the way he cradled them through his frantic journey, but still perfect in her eyes.

She gasped — a quiet, delighted sound — as she reached for them. “You shouldn’t have,” she murmured, even as her fingers curled around the bouquet like it was spun gold. He only shrugged with that same goofy charm.

“Have a nice day as always, m’lady,” he said, bowing slightly as if he were still in Kansas and she was royalty. What they do, when alone in exact 12 midnight. “Don’t miss me too much.”

She giggled — that rare, real laugh that pulled at his chest — before brushing the bouquet gently against his cheek in a playful slap. Then, with a final lingering glance, she slipped from his arms and stepped toward the elevator just as it dinged open.

Clark stood there, heart full, but then blinked down — the bento box still in his hand.

"Shoot. Wait—!"

He rushed forward, nearly tripping over his own feet, sliding one palm across the elevator doors just before they shut. She turned, halfway in, surprised.

He pressed the bento into her hands, careful not to jostle the coffee tucked at her side, and before she could say anything, he stole a quick, soft kiss from her lips — brief but charged — and winked.

“Don’t forget to eat, okay?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.

As the elevator doors finally closed, his last glimpse of her was that same smile — fond and exasperated — and a little wave goodbye. He exhaled, standing alone infront of the closed elevator door, heart loud in his chest, cheeks flushed pink.

God, he love her so much.

"You are, such a sap. Kent" He was pulled away, as Carla rolled her eyes while filling her nails. He just sheepishly smiled as he waved at her goodbye.

"Thanks Carla, Bye" As he slipped out of the lobby with a grin. And a man who has done his task for the day.

#Productivity

★ ﾟ๑ credit scene ୧ ⊹ ࣪

@ judgyseries | Down bad (posture) #judgy #downbad #dating

user47264240290 I love a good nerd

brilovesbannananaan i want what they have

nanaoh sir, that posture is not it

chaynhz DOWN BAD BF >>>>>>>>

visnez I just know she's super hella pretty

shittyballs its the bare minimum BUT WHY SO SMEXY

[d0llainee]

hii! could you do a johnny cade x fem!reader where she lies to her parents about having extended cheer practice so she could see johnny at the drive-in due to her parents being strict (especially her dad), at the theater it’s all puppy love, but when he walks her home, they kiss for the first time and her mom sees but doesn’t say anything when she walks in. (inspired by the priscilla movie)

of course!! I love this idea, thank you for the request !

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ㅤㅤㅤ⋆｡‧Extended Practice ɞ˚‧｡⋆

you weren’t supposed to be here.

not here, not tonight, not at the dusty little drive-in with your pom-poms still hidden in the trunk of your best friend’s car and your cheer skirt folded neatly beneath your sweater. you were supposed to be at “practice” — or at least, that’s what your daddy thought.

practice had ended two hours ago.

but how could you not see him?

johnny cade had a way of making you forget what rules were. not because he was reckless — no, nothing like that. he was soft-spoken and sweet and never pushed, never asked for more than what you could give him. but with the way he looked at you — like you weren’t just some pretty girl in a pleated skirt but something softer, something worth waiting on — it made you want to break all the little rules you’d been raised on.

and tonight? you wanted to break them all for just a little while longer.

the drive-in was half-empty, warm summer wind slipping through the wide night sky, brushing loose strands of hair across your lipgloss. johnny sat beside you, quiet as usual, his knee just barely brushing against yours in the back row of those old iron benches.

your heart fluttered so hard you swore he could hear it.

“y’sure you won’t get in trouble for stayin’ out so late?” he asked, voice soft and sweet like he didn’t want to ruin the quiet between you.

you smiled, tucking your chin shyly. “they think i’m at practice.” you bit the inside of your cheek, leaning in a little closer just because you could. “besides… it’s worth it.”

johnny’s cheeks flushed pink under the glow of the projector. “yeah?”

you nodded. “mm-hm. ‘s worth it to see you.”

truth was, you’d been doing this for weeks now — stretching practice an hour longer here, catching a ride home from your friend’s boyfriend there. your mama was always the softer one. she’d believe you no matter what you said. it was your dad you had to fool.

but right now, none of that mattered. right now, there was only you and johnny and the movie you weren’t watching and the hush of the wind slipping between you.

he reached for your hand slow, careful, like he wasn’t sure if he should. his fingers were warm, a little rough from work, but his thumb brushed over your knuckles like he thought you were made of something fragile.

you squeezed his hand. smiled again. watched the way he smiled back, all soft and nervous, like he couldn’t believe you were really here with him.

the movie ended too fast.

walking home, it felt like your heart was pounding right up in your throat. johnny kicked pebbles with his old sneakers, stealing glances at you like he couldn’t help himself. your house wasn’t far now. just a block or two more.

“hey, uh…” his voice broke the quiet. “i… been wantin’ to… well, i mean, if it’s alright with you…”

you turned to look at him. big brown eyes. soft mouth. hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he didn’t know where else to put them.

“what is it, johnny?”

he swallowed hard. “can i… kiss you goodnight?”

your heart about flew out of your chest. “y-yeah… yeah, you can.”

he smiled, a little shy, a little proud of himself. and right there beneath the streetlamp, in front of the white-picket fence your daddy built with his bare hands, johnny leaned in slow. like he had all the time in the world to figure you out.

the kiss was sweet. a little nervous. soft lips, soft sighs, soft hands cupping your jaw just so he could tilt his head the right way. it wasn’t perfect. but it was good.

and when you pulled away — breathless, giggly, dizzy — your heart froze.

because standing at the window? behind the sheer lace curtain?

your mama.

watching.

but when you walked through the front door a minute later, she didn’t say a word.

just smiled that small, secret kind of smile. the kind mamas give their daughters when they remember what it’s like to be young and in love and breaking tiny rules for the first time.

“how was practice, baby?”

“good,” you whispered, touching your lips like they still burned from the kiss. “real good.”

and your mama just nodded.

“mm-hm. i bet it was.”

I loved the way this turned out, and I really hope you did too! thank for you reading xoxo💌

[d0llainee]

Need damon x angelcore girl type shi 😩

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๋࣭ ˖ 𐔌 Like Me ࿐ . ۫

you didn’t belong here.

not in this house, not in this town. not anywhere near him.

you belonged in white dresses. belonged to soft mornings and flowers pressed between pages. you belonged to kind words and quiet days and lace curtains that fluttered in the breeze like angel wings.

you were not supposed to belong with him.

but there you were, sat pretty on the edge of his leather couch in a dress you knew was too opposite to this place. pale blue and covered in eyelet lace, little ribbons tied at the shoulders, something too sweet for a house that smelled like whiskey and danger.

“you shouldn’t be here,” damon said from the doorway, lazy smirk pulling at his lips, crystal glass swirling in his hand. “someone like you… shouldn’t even look twice at someone like me.”

you swallowed, looking down at your knees, at the hem of your skirt brushing over them. “i… wanted to see you.”

he laughed. soft. dark. like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“you’ve got no idea what you’re playing with, do you?”

maybe not. but you knew how he made you feel. like all the warnings in the world couldn’t pull you away from him. like all the soft, gentle things inside you wanted to run headfirst into the fire just to see how close you could get without burning.

“i’m not scared of you,” you whispered.

his head tilted, eyes flashing something sharp beneath all that lazy charm. “you should be.”

he moved closer. slow. like a wolf circling something helpless. and still — you didn’t move. didn’t flinch when his hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing over the soft skin there, tipping your chin up so he could really look at you.

“so pretty,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “what’s an angel like you doing falling for the devil, hm?”

your breath caught. you hated how your heart skipped beneath the softness of his touch.

“you don’t seem like the devil to me.”

his grin curled, wicked and knowing. “that’s ‘cause you’ve only seen me like this. careful. gentle. behaving.”

he leaned in then, slow enough you could’ve pulled away if you wanted to. you didn’t.

“but i won’t be gentle forever, sweetheart.”

your hands curled in the lace of your skirt, breath stuttering somewhere between nerves and something warmer.

“then don’t be,” you whispered. “not with me.”

and oh, the look that crossed his face — like a man starved finally being given permission to eat.

“careful what you wish for.” he said, voice low, rough at the edges. “i’ve ruined things softer than you without even trying.”

but his mouth found yours anyway, pulling you into something slow, something dangerous, something that tasted like whiskey and sin and something you were never, ever going to walk away from.

your soft hands on his chest, his in your hair, crumpling up all that sweet ribbon and lace.

what’s an angel doing with the devil?

falling.

[d0llainee]

do you write smut <3

helloo !! I am perfectly fine with writing suggestive content or insinuations, but unfortunately I don’t write smut until I would say I can. Thank you ! 💌

[d0llainee]

Hi! I want to send in a request but I don't know what you're comfortable writing or are not comfortable writing? Thanks in advance!!

hii !! I do believe I put on my one of my posts that I could link later on what I was and wasn’t comfortable with writing, but I’ll gladly put it again! I’m perfectly fine with suggestive content, but I don’t believe I have it in me to write any actual smut ! Sorry. I don’t write anything other angst and fluff for minor characters, and no character x character. and of course, absolutely no non con! Those are the main things I would say I’m not comfortable with, thank you for asking !! 💌

[d0llainee]

If you’re still taking requests for Logan fics I would love to read one about a reader who seems unassuming and weak but beats Logan in a sparring match. Maybe she’s a teacher and doesn’t necessarily participates in X-men missions but gets sucked into combat training and surprises Logan by pinning him. I am picturing this with Logan in X2.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨ don’t blink ୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

🩰 A/N : loved this idea! I live for reader being confident in fics <3

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You weren’t an X-Men team member.

You taught Comparative Ethics and Tactical Strategy at the school—dressed in cardigans, drank tea with honey, and always left a peppermint on your desk for your students.

You weren’t flashy. You weren’t intimidating.

You weren’t supposed to be a threat.

But then again… no one had ever seen you fight.

Until today.

Logan rolled his shoulders as he stepped onto the mat, his usual scowl in place. “You sure you wanna do this, sweetheart?” he asked, brow raised. “You’re not exactly built for combat.”

You gave him a tight smile as you tugged off your sweater, revealing a fitted tank beneath.

“Good thing we’re not judging by size.”

A few students lingered around the training bay. Word had spread that you had gotten roped into a sparring demo after Beast bailed.

And Logan? He thought he was doing everyone a favor. Teach the dainty academic a lesson. Show the kids how real fighters move.

He didn’t know you’d trained with covert units before becoming a teacher.

Didn’t know you could read his footwork, predict his moves like chess pieces.

Didn’t know that beneath your soft smile was a steel edge.

The match began.

He lunged—too confident, too fast—and you pivoted, fluid as water. His claws weren’t out (thankfully), but he still swung with force. You blocked, swept his leg, and ducked under his arm all in one motion.

He grunted as he hit the mat. “The hell—?”

“Don’t blink, Logan,” you said sweetly, offering a hand to help him up. “You might miss something.”

He took it—and tried to twist into a grapple.

Big mistake.

You countered, twisted his wrist, and in three efficient steps, had him flat on his back with your knee pressed firmly to his chest. The wind left him in a shocked oof.

Silence from the observing students.

Then—“Holy crap,” someone whispered.

You leaned down just slightly, breath calm. “You telegraph your left hook. Might want to work on that.”

Logan stared up at you, chest rising beneath your knee, eyes narrowed—but not angry. No, he was… impressed.

And something else, too.

When you stood and offered your hand again, he took it with a low chuckle. “Alright, teach. Remind me not to piss you off.”

“Noted,” you said, brushing your hair back into place. “Same time next week?”

He smirked, rubbing his ribs. “You’re on.”

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[d0llainee]

Could you please please do sweetheart soc x Dallas where theyre dating and he has a soft spot for her?!! Love your account by the way!!

⋆˚࿔ playing dangerous ♡ ֺֺ

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You weren’t exactly the kind of girl people expected to see with someone like Dallas Winston.

With your pearl earrings, manicured nails, and light colored cardigans, you didn’t blend into his world—you stood out like a flower growing through a sidewalk crack. And yet, there you were, sitting cross-legged on the hood of Buck’s car in his front yard, pink bubblegum between your teeth and Dally’s leather jacket slung over your shoulders.

“You’re gonna catch a cold dressed like that,” Dallas muttered, lighting a cigarette as he leaned against the car beside you.

You tilted your head, flashing him a grin. “You gave me your jacket, remember?”

Dally grumbled something about how he should’ve kept it, but when you slipped your hand into his, his fingers curled around yours without hesitation. He always tried to act tough, but around you, the edges of his sharpness softened. Just a little.

He had a soft spot for you, and everyone knew it—even if he’d never admit it.

Once, Two-Bit teased him about it when you brought cookies to the Curtis house in a heart-patterned tin. “Dally’s got himself a real-life sweetheart,” he snickered, popping a cookie into his mouth. “What’s next? Matching sweaters?”

Dally rolled his eyes and muttered threats, but didn’t say a word when you placed a kiss on his cheek and wiped a crumb from his mouth with a napkin. His ears went pink, though. You noticed. You always noticed.

“Why me?” you asked him one evening, curled up in the backseat of his car under a blanket you kept there just for nights like this.

Dally glanced at you, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “’Cause you’re real,” he said after a pause. “Ain’t a lotta real in my life.”

You didn’t say anything—just laid your head on his shoulder, your perfume lingering on his jacket, and felt his hand gently brush through your curls.

Hard and soft. Rough and sweet. Tough and tender. Leather and lace. The greaser and the Soc. But somehow, you made it make sense.

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giggled the whole time writing this 💌 xoxo

[d0llainee]

୨ MAIN MASTERLISTS 💐 . . . ୧

THE OUTSIDERS . . . ♡

THE WALKING DEAD . . . ♡

SCREAM . . . ♡

X - MEN . . . ♡

GLADIATOR II . . . ♡

THE VAMPIRE DIARIES . . . ♡

[d0llainee]

Outsiders masterlist 🔪 . . .

Ponyboy Curtis . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Sodapop Curtis . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Darrel Curtis . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Two-Bit Matthews . . . ♡

None yet, send in a request!

Johnny Cade . . . ♡ - prom night with Johnny

Dallas Winston . . . ♡ - moodboard

- Dallas with Bob’s sister

Steve Randle . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request! Cherry Valance . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

here’s the master list I will update for the outsiders anytime I write for any of these that I have listed, and only these characters! sorry if a fav of yours isn’t here 💌xoxo

[d0llainee]

X-Men Masterlist ⭐️ . . .

Logan Howlett . . . ♡ - In the snow with Logan

Wade Wilson . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Jean Grey . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Ororo Munroe . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Scott Summers . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

here’s the master list I will update for x men anytime I write for any of these that I have listed, and only these characters! sorry if a fav of yours isn’t here 💌xoxo

[d0llainee]

Gladiator ii Masterlist 🏛️ . . .

Lucius Verus . . . ♡ none yet, send in request!

Marcus Acasisus . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Emperor Geta . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Emperor Caracalla . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Lucilla . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

here’s the master list I will update for gladiator 2 anytime I write for any of these that I have listed, and only these characters! 💌xoxo

[d0llainee]

Vampire Diaries masterlist 🎧 . . .

Stefan Salvatore . . . ♡

none yet, send in a request!

Damon Salvatore . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Elena Gilbert . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

here’s the master list I will update for the vampire diaries anytime I write for any of these that I have listed, and only these characters! sorry if a fav of yours isn’t here 💌xoxo

[d0llainee]

twd masterlist 🧟‍♀️ . . .

Rick Grimes . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Daryl Dixon . . . ♡ - He finds you lost

Glenn Rhee . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Maggie Greene . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Rosita Espinosa . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Michonne Grimes . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

here’s the master list I will update for the walking dead anytime I write for any of these that I have listed, and only these characters! sorry if a fav of yours isn’t here 💌xoxo

[d0llainee]

scream masterlist 🎸 . . .

Ethan Landry . . . ♡ - headcanons

Tara Carpenter . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Sam Carpenter . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Amber Freeman . . . ♡

none yet, send in a request!

Mindy Meeks-Martin . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Jill Roberts . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Charlie Walker . . . ♡ -headcanons

Billy Loomis . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Stu Macher . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

Mickey Alteiri . . . ♡ none yet, send in a request!

here’s the master list I will update for scream anytime I write for any of these that I have listed, and only these characters! sorry if a fav of yours isn’t here 💌xoxo

[d0llainee]

could u do a prom pov?? like johnny cade and fem!reader are going to prom together

STOP THIS IS SO CUTEE

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Prom Song (Gone Wrong) ｡ﾟ ୨୧

The gym didn’t appear a gym anymore. The walls had been covered in glittery fabric and strung up what felt like a thousand fairy lights, each one twinkling like a little star, casting everything in a soft, golden glow. Balloons floated lazily along the floor, and the faint scent of punch and flowers hung in the air.

You smoothed your dress nervously, the silky material whispering against your skin, and took a deep breath. You were excited, sure, but you were also so, so nervous. Partly because it was prom — the big, perfect, once-in-a-lifetime kind of night — and partly because Johnny Cade was your date.

When you finally spotted him standing near the entrance, your heart just about stopped.

Johnny looked like he had walked right out of a dream. He wore a black suit that didn’t fit perfectly — the jacket was a little too big at the shoulders, and the tie was slightly crooked — but it was so Johnny that it made your chest ache. His dark hair was combed back, though a few stubborn strands still fell over his forehead, and he clutched a small bouquet of flowers like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold it.

He caught sight of you, and it was like time slowed down. His big brown eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing for a second like he couldn’t find the words.

“Wow…” he breathed, his voice so soft you barely heard it over the music. “You look… real pretty. Like an angel or somethin’.”

You could feel your cheeks heat up, and you hurried toward him, giggling a little as you took the flowers from his hands. They were a little lopsided — some daisies, a rose or two, and a bunch of greenery that didn’t quite match — but they were perfect. Perfect because he had picked them out for you.

“You look handsome too, Johnny,” you said, your voice sweet and light, trying to settle the butterflies in your stomach.

He ducked his head shyly, kicking at the ground with the toe of his shoe. “Ain’t really used to all this fancy stuff,” he admitted.

You reached out and laced your fingers through his, squeezing gently. “Neither am I. But… we’re here together. That’s all that matters.”

Johnny smiled then — really smiled — and it felt like the whole room faded away until it was just the two of you.

The first dance was slow, and a little awkward at first. Johnny kept looking down at his feet, mumbling apologies every time he accidentally stepped on your toes. But you just laughed, clutching onto him tighter, swaying gently to the music. And little by little, he relaxed, resting his forehead lightly against yours, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist like he couldn’t believe you were actually real.

“You’re really somethin’ else,” he murmured, so close you could feel his breath against your skin.

The night melted into a soft blur of laughter and slow dances, of sneaking little bites of cake when no one was looking, of sitting on the bleachers and just talking when your feet got too sore to dance anymore. At one point, Johnny pulled a crumpled photo out of his jacket pocket — a cheap photo booth strip of the two of you making silly faces.

“I’m keepin’ this forever,” he said seriously, folding it back up like it was something precious. “Like… in my wallet and everythin’.”

The night ended with you slow-dancing in the parking lot under the stars, no music, no people — just you and Johnny and the cool spring breeze.

“You made tonight the best night of my life,” he whispered into your hair, his voice a little shaky.

You pulled back just enough to see him clearly, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “You made it mine too, Johnny.”

And when he leaned in, timid but sure, and kissed you — soft and slow like a promise — you knew this wasn’t just a prom night you’d remember. It was the start of something even sweeter.

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This was so much fun to write thank you for the request! I hoped this was what you had in mind 💌 xoxo

[d0llainee]

BOB SHELDONS SISTER X DALLAS!!

I love this idea!! ofc ! 🍓

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⊹ ࣪𐙚꒰ Queen of Disaster ꒱｡⋆

- You were the “good” Soc girl on the surface — always perfectly dressed, hair done up with a ribbon, lip gloss always shining — but deep down, you craved a little chaos.

- Dally noticed you one night at Buck’s, standing out like a sore thumb in your pink cardigan and polished smile. He couldn’t believe a Soc chick was brave enough to step onto his side.

- At first, he just wanted to mess with you — call you names and ruffle your hair to get a rise out of you — but you never reacted the way he expected. You’d just smirk, tilt your head, and call him out right back.

- Secret late-night meetings by the lot — you in your big convertible, him hopping into the passenger seat like it was the most normal thing in the world.

- He loved seeing you in your prim little outfits while you climbed over fences or sat on the hood of his car, your white Keds getting dusty.

- You’d tease him about his rough hands and he’d roll his eyes, but secretly he thought you were the prettiest thing he’d ever touched.

- Dally was insanely protective of you, but never in a sweet way — it was gruff, possessive. If a Soc guy so much as looked at you the wrong way, Dally was throwing punches.

- You loved painting your nails while sitting on his bed, half-listening to him talk about New York, and he’d pretend he wasn’t watching you out of the corner of his eye, very much fascinated.

- Bob would lose his mind if he found out — Dally loved that part too. . .

The night was heavy with heat and tension when you spotted him across the lot — Dallas Winston, all leather jacket and lazy smirk, lighting a cigarette like he had nothing to lose. You tapped your polished nails against the steering wheel of Bob’s shiny Mustang, a wicked little idea curling up inside you.

Before you could second-guess it, you were out of the car and crossing the cracked pavement in your white skirt and matching heels. You heard the rough laughter of his friends — Two-Bit whistling low, someone muttering something about “Blonde Chicks.”

Dally didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you with that cocky tilt of his head, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“You lost, sweetheart?” he drawled, voice dripping with mockery.

You smiled sweetly — a practiced smile — and plucked the cigarette right out of his mouth. “Maybe,” you said, holding it up between your fingers like it was a trophy. “Or maybe I’m just bored.”

The lot went silent. Even Dally seemed caught off guard for half a second before his mouth stretched into a dangerous grin.

“You’re Bob Sheldon’s kid sister, ain’t you?” he said, stepping closer, so close you could smell the leather and smoke on him.

You didn’t flinch. “Guess that makes me trouble.”

Dally leaned down, voice low. “Oh, you’re the kind of trouble I like.”

It started from there — whispered conversations in alleyways, stolen kisses in the backseat of your brother’s car. You’d show up to Greaser hangouts in pastel skirts and perfect hair, sitting on Dally’s lap while he ran his calloused hands along the hem of your dress like he couldn’t believe you were real.

He liked calling you “Sweetheart,” but not in a mocking way anymore — it sounded almost… tender, when he said it, though he’d rather die than admit it.

You were supposed to be enemies. But under the stars, with the city buzzing quietly around you, none of that mattered. It was just you and Dally, a girl in pearls and a boy in a leather jacket, daring the world to stop you.

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I can’t tell you how much I loved writing for this idea! Sorry it’s so short, I just write very little. But if you’d like this to be a series, I’d totally do it! Hope you enjoyed it 💌 xo

[d0llainee]

give me requests pleaseee im sobbing and need to distract myself ♡