lupin, 19. x reader sideblog. i interact with nsfw, sometimes, and may write suggestive content. this will be appropriately tagged when necessary. with that said, I write whatever I want, but any thoughts and requests are absolutely welcome.
if you want to put in a request: requests guidelines
if u want my other socials: ao3, tumblr, instagram
fandoms I write for... depends, really. im multifandom, but im currently writing heaps for gosling characters, primarily lars lindstrom, holland march, and ryland grace.
please interact... if you have any requests or thoughts or simply want to chat.
tags by agenda
*all links are below.
#lupinfics. fics i publish
#lupinficthoughts. fics i am thinking about but not writing
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How would a heartbreaking, soul crushing, angsty fic of Holland March fit ur vibe?? Could you make it work?đĽş
I know he's just a wet cat, but he's my wet, drunk cat â¤ď¸âđŠš
hello friend! im totally down for this. can you maybe just give me an idea or prompt, like a little nudge as to what trajectory you'd like this fic to go? i should have specified this in my requests guidelines, so that's completely my bad. thank you â°â (â â¸â â¸â â¸â ´â ęłâ `â â¸â â¸â â¸â )â âŻ
if you wanna request smth which im totally open to, ur at the right place.
characters i am currently writing for: ryland grace, lars lindstrom, holland march
i will NOT write: explicit smut, pedophilic dynamics / -18 reader, suicide, addiction, abusive dynamics, ANY FORM OF DISCRIMINATION, pregnant reader
i am OPEN to writing: fluff, angst, domestic life, slightly suggestive content/dynamics, uhhh forgetting stuff but ill prolly b chill with it
i am open to writing about reader with sh scars, is filipino, and or aroace if that tickles your fancy. i will NOT be taking requests about reader actively self harming.
additionally, please be a little specific with your request, with at least a one idea prompt of the sortsâ°â (â *â ´â ︜â `â *â )â âŻthis will help me write with a purpose/focus.
with that said: i do these for fun in between being a full time uni student amongst other things. so pls be patient and considerate, thanks.
bro can you PLEASEEEEE write more with lars/reader with sh scars đđđđ ts fixed me i need more
hello there friend, thank you for your kind words, im glad that you enjoyed it so much 𩷠i find a lot of comfort in lars lindstrom and i certainly will write more about this specific headcanon as it's a perpetual brain worm of mine! and if u have any thoughts abt it, please muse me! im always open to hearing other's headcanons or even writing out requests â°â (â *â ´â ︜â `â *â )â âŻ
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine
Pairing: Lars Lindstrom x Reader
Fandom: Lars and The Real Girl (2011)
Summary: In which Lars Lindstrom offers to drive you home, you ask if you can stay over at his, and watch a film about love and loss.Â
Word Count: 2.6k words
Warnings: Grief, and my absolute love for Ryusuke Hamaguchiâs Drive My Car (2021), so I bend time with my fanfiction writer powers and make it time accurate for this fic alone. Also, Lars accidentally pressing his knee against your crotch yolo.
Snow has shivered down an offensive, routine amount for the past month. It's your fifth winter in this small, washed up, religious town after relocating for the only location that offered you a steady paycheck and a decent community.Â
Winter has settled deep in your bones, leaving you blue and bruised. It's a four-cigarette-breaks during your shift type of weather, five layers to feel remotely warm type of weather, and increasing laziness because of such god-less weather.Â
You donât drive. Your apartment is convenient enough to walk to and from, and when you do driveâwhich is rareâitâs only when youâre going out of town.Â
But the weather is blistering today, your cheeks have gotten ruddy just from being indoors with little to no heating, and you donât know how youâll even survive the 15-minute walk home without hacking up a fever. Youâre ruminating outside of the office, staring with thinning hope at the desolate weather.Â
In the distance, a car comes to a stop. A man covered in an offensive amount of layers climbs out beside the car door. Clarity smoothens the confusion in your eyes, as the silhouette forms into the familiar shape. âLars.â
He smiles, all too kind in a way that you know you will never deserve. And he blinks hard, like he's always willing away a dream, always rooting himself in reality. âIt's so cold out.â
âYeah, it is,â you say. The cold gains a bony hand and strums your ribs like a lyre. Your teeth clatter.
âCan I drive you home?â Lars asks, voice all velvet.Â
You blink this time, then another. âOh, yes. Thank you, Lars.âÂ
He assists you in the passenger seat, opening and shutting the door for you before he roundabouts back to the driver's seat. The shoe-box sized car is small enough to retain some substantive warmth. As you buckle your seatbelt, a daring thought thaws like sleet in your head.Â
It is deep December, and all the trees have shed into skeletal remains, dry like parched paintbrushes. You are in the passenger seat of a beautiful boyâs car, and because we all want to be part of something worth all this suffering, you turn to this beautiful boy with your heart in your hands. Brave and braver, you ask: âActuallyâcan we go to yours? I feelâI just feel soââ lonely? ââI want to spend time with you. If you donât mind.â How clunky.Â
âYeah?â Lars murmurs. His hands recalibrate around the wheel.
âYeah.â
He nods. âOkay.â
Ever since Bianca, Lars moved back into the main house with Karin, Gus, and now their little boy. But the three are out right now, Lars explaining that the fresh family frequently go to playdates with kindergarten friends in the evenings and they probably wonât be back for a while as itâs someoneâs birthday party.Â
Five years ago, Lars had emerged from the banality of the workplace. If you were being true, you would say that Lars merged well in the monotony of motion. He kept his head low, moved with routine and spoke very minimally if not at all. That was until Bianca came along, the blow-up sex doll that swooned the town and you included.Â
âCan I put a movie on?â you ask as Lars returns with two generous cups of scalding tea.
He sets them on the coffee table.âOkayâwhat movie?â
âDrive My Car,â you answer as you procure the DVD case. How ridiculously convenient you had just rented it out the same day. âIt's Japanese and requires English subtitles. And er, some explicit scenes, but it's important to the plot. Do you mind?â
Larsâ cheeks dusts in blush. âI don't mind.â He rests beside you.
It's a little childish, perhaps even lazy, when you drop on all floors to crawl to the DVD player tucked beneath the TV station in the living room. You nimbly slot the disk in after a quick, gentle blow at the surface. Crawling back on the other end of the couch from Lars, the small TV screen settles into the title page to which you accept press play.Â
Against his words, Lars does mind the sexual scenes, but he doesnât say anything. The storytelling is taboo, but itâs intriguing enough for Lars to not be completely embarrassed and flee the room. Perhaps itâs movie-magic, the way each rolling sequence of the jungle network of automobiles and the Red Saab glides along Japanâs highway systems, and the simplicity of the soundtrack is what lulls you to speak. It's with seamless ease the way in which you can talk to Lars, and you trust that your words will be held gently. So you dare, so you say: âYou know, I moved here because I wanted to get away. I wanted to disappear. And it worked for a little bit. But it's winter, and I feel like I'm slipping away more than I'd like to.â
You're nestled in the corner of the couch, knees tucked to your chin as your eyes are fixed to the television screen. âI just don't feel real, sometimes. I don't know if that makes any sense. So many things don't make any sense.â
In the time you've known Lars, all the versions of him; pre-Bianca, during-Bianca, post-Bianca, he has never been a talker. But he listens. He always listens in an unshakable manner.
âYou're real,â he says steadily, staring at his kempt, clean hands. âYou're very real.â
You look at him then, warming a thousand parallel universes in your hands.Â
You remember when you first met Lars, retracing history and unshedding the years like shaking off layers of thickened coats. In another life, you meet Lars when you're both younger. Perhaps he is still the same, still reserved not out of disdain for the world but out of sheer sensitivity to all its jagged edges. And you frown at how foolish you are: of course, Lars would be the same. He was born knowing grief. How can a baby know love in its final stage, in its absence and wholehearted, beating presence in your own existence? In another life, then, you're born by his side. A family friend, perhaps, a next door neighbour situation, maybe.
But in this life, you're sorry, so you do not say anything in return.Â
You sit in the schism of this silence until Lars shuffles closer to you.
âCan weâ?â
Your knees are still cramped beneath your chin as you owlishly peer at him. âWhat?â
He blinks, then blinks and blinks. âCan I hold you?â
The silly thing is that people often mistake you and Lars to be an established couple. That couldn't be anything further from the truth.Â
Itâs not that youâve debated the situation before either. Karin has repeatedly approached you without fail wondering about the status of you and Larsâ relationship, friendship, companionship. You'll often find yourself confused, too, as Lars is a traditional man and by now he likely would have asked you to be his girlfriend. He's seen you undressed multiple times, out of sinless curiosity, and you've bathed him many times before that. But there is always a barrier, some kind of cloth that eliminates skin-to-skin contact, the burning.
But you understand. Of course, you do. Dating is simply such a large commitment, and something so daunting requires gentle landings. Itâs much more than a plastic concept such as Bianca, and itâs much more entangling and much more ephemeral and all the more frightening in the possibility of disappearance. You permit him this comfort of a gentle landing, so you do not question, do not fret.Â
After all, thereâs astute affirmation in his allowing. In how he allows you to take up space in his life, in how he allows you to hold him gently. Itâs unconventional, but you wouldnât have it any other way.Â
âOf course, Lars,â you say as you unsprawl your body, limb by limb. You beckon him in the cave of your body, and when he crawls into your arms, would you look at thatâa perfect fit.
You stay like that for a while. At some point, you're not sure when he allowed you to brush your fingers through his hair. Youâre not sure when Lars tells you, âI donât want you to disappear,â testing the shape of the sound in his mouth. Then he says it again with grounded determination. âI donât want you to disappear.â To which you respond in a weak whisper because you believe you can keep this promise, âIâm not going to.âÂ
Physical intimacy is a fickle thing between you two, a suspenseful dance that unwittingly holds your lungs tighter than your ribs, a consistent uncertainty of whether you've done something right or not. But you're sure you're doing something right as he's still in your arms.
Lars rolls around, elbows knocking and adjusting to look up at you from between your body.Â
âYes, Lars?â you ask, and it takes everything in you to not take his adorable face in your palms.Â
He smiles up at you. âNothin,â he says. âJust wanna look at you.â
âNot watch the movie?â you joke.Â
âItâs a, noâŚno, itâs a good movie.â Lars glances at the television screen, where Yusuke is directing the rehearsal of his theatre group. âI just wanna look at you.â
Okay, screw itâhow can you resist when he looks so lovely? You cup his face like youâre holding the whole world in your palms. âOkay,â you say softly.
Larsâ breath hitches, and for five seconds you think heâs about to swat your hand away, until he whispers impossibly softer, âCan I kiss you?â
âLars,â you start.
âWeâve worked on it,â he reasons, murmuring, referring to Dr. Dagmarâs therapy. âIt still hurts, but, we can tryââ
âI donât want to hurt you.â
âIâd let it hurt if itâs you.â
You narrow your eyes. âDonât say that.âÂ
Lars takes the end of his baby blanket from his neck with eager eyes. âHereâwill this be okay?â
And just like that, you find yourself nodding weakly like the wildflowers bowing after a downpour.Â
He props himself closer, chest against your chest, knees against your crotch and something about this affair is strangely erotic. You kick that thought aside like an abandoned box. Back pressed plush against the couch armrest, you take his baby blanket and cover his lips. Cupping the side of Larsâ face, you wonder if this is the emotion that the poets try to capture when they spin tales about the wild geese and early springs. You begin to understand why Orpheus looked back, why cities collapse beneath lost loves. Mouth veiled with baby blues, you kiss him tender.Â
Itâs awkward in all the ways a first real kiss with a real human being would be, perhaps amplified by Larsâ baby blanket curtaining both of your lips. But despite the knitted fabric that is rough like nettle, Larsâ lips are softâand weirdly, he knows how to kiss.Â
He kisses you like you're fragile, to which you kiss a little firmer in return because you are anything but. You paw at his tawny hair as Lars presses his knee with impossibly harder pressure against your crotch in a botchy attempt to lean even closer. Jesus Christ, Lars, you want to wheeze because there's no way the boy is aware of what he is doing.Â
Lars withdraws first. He lowers the baby blanket, doesnât wipe his lips. Instead, he rolls it inward like a butterfly curling into itself. And out of nowhere, between a second and a minute, he melts into a cry.Â
âOh, my boy,â you croon, panic washing over your lungs. âLars, my sweet boy.â
It takes a while to remember the motions of comfort. After all, what you would typically do for another person completely turns upside down with Lars. Where you would offer them a hug, Lars shirks away like a shivering critter. Where you would ask if they'd want space, Lars will take the space to the max and disappear off the face of the earth. When Larsâ social predictably spins out of orbit, god, you're afraid, you're so afraid you may scare him.Â
But comfortâthis is a universal desire achieved through various avenues. As Lars shrinks into himself, propped upright and face buried in his hands, on the television screen, Yoon-a asks Janice if she is happy. Here, in Larsâ living room, you want to ask him if he is happy.Â
But life is no Chekov play. âLars,â you begin gently instead. âDid I overwhelm you?â
He vigorously shakes his head through the tears. âNoâno, you're so good to me. It's just me.â
âYou did well, Lars. Just stay there, okay?â you say.Â
âNo, I wannaââ he looks up, eyes glassy but true, âI want to hug you.â
âDoesn't it hurt?â
âIt's not that. It'll always hurt.â
And isnât that so, for what is love if not burning?Â
You widen your arms, then, as the orchids open up in the spring to welcome the honeybees home. Lars stumbles into your embrace with all his damning density. He buries his face in the crane of your neck, and he holds you so tight until youâre both shaking from the immensity of his sadness. Give me your sadness, you want to say as you cradle from side to side, fingers combing through his hair and his neck. Give me your despair.Â
Itâs a quiet affair. Somewhere in this state of blurred consciousness, Larsâ crying has subdued and you're now simply holding each other just as humans should. The film rolls on in a dreamy wash of driving through nighttime and sea, Yusuke forced to recontend his role as Uncle Vanya. Misaki brings him back to her hometown covered and wrecked by snow.Â
The two charactersâso full of grief and empty handsâhug each other. What has love given Yusuke? What has it taken away from him? These questions permeate the alabaster winter within the film as Yusuke declares something akin to a prayer: âThose who survive keep thinking about the dead. In some way or another, that will continue. You and I must keep living like that. We must keep on living.â
Soon, the finale begins, panning into a television screen overseeing the centre stage.Â
Yoon-a prepares to deliver her monologue as Sonya in Korean Sign Language. Her arms unfold and beckon like the flutter of a pigeonâs wing folding the sky like laundry, painting that of an imagined homeland where pain is a past thing.Â
An ugly tear drop crawls down your cheek as you trace your thumbs beneath the crescents of Larsâ wet eyes. If Karin or Gus were to return home right now, they would see two humans hugging each other so tight, theyâd mistake them for a heart.
Lars in your arms, you think about the promise of beginnings, of endings, of this life. And most of all, perhaps most simply of all, you think about love.
âWe'll live through the long, long days, and through the long nights. We'll patiently endure the trials that fate sends our way.Â
Even if we can't rest, we'll continue to work for others both now and when we have grown old. And when our last hour comes we'll go quietly.
And in the great beyond, we'll say to Him that we suffered, that we cried, that life was hard. And God will have pity on us.Â
Then you and I, we'll see that bright, wonderful, dreamlike life before our eyes. We shall rejoice, and with tender smiles on our faces, we'll look back on our current sorrow.Â
And then at last, we shall rest. I believe it. I strongly believe it from the bottom of my heart. When that time comes, we shall rest.â
/
Authors Note: hello all, this is completely drive my car (2021) propaganda. the monologue at the end that i so love is found here if you are curious. but i highly recommend the entire film if you have the chance to. speaking which, it reminded me a lot of lars, and so this fic was born. the title is extracted from mary oliver's lovely poem, wild geese. i have so much to do but i've been actively procrastinating by writing this fic, and i simply need to let it go so i won't fail my finals. i hope everyone is staying safe and well :)
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Rocky shifts. âI am⌠you do not have the word yet. Eridian who works alone often, not close to many other Eridians.â
âWhat, mechanical engineer?â
Rocky chitters. âAcceptable.â
âIs Adrian your only friend?âÂ
Rocky draws back, like heâs taken offense. âI have friends. Coworkers. But different.â
So just Adrian. And him.Â
âThis worries you,â Rocky says.
âAdrian is your mate,â Grace points out. âIâm not your mate.â
âCorrect. You are not. You do not like to be a mate.â
Grace isnât sure how to respond to that, so he ignores it.
âIâm your friend,â Grace says.Â
Rocky hesitates, for a second. â...Correct.â
âLike your coworkers.â
âNo.â
Grace sighs, rubbing his hand across his face. Okay, maybe thatâs fair. Itâs not like he felt about any of his coworkers like he feels about Rocky.
âBest friend,â Grace amends. âYouâre my best friend, too.â
Rocky hums. âAcceptable.â
âJust acceptable? Now you are offending me. Can you just explain?â
This makes Rocky fall silent for a minute longer than usual. Grace is half-ready to apologize and to say letâs move on and to retype his own name without the superfluous my.Â
âThe Earth âbest friendâ is not strong enough,â Rocky says finally. âIt does not translate this way.â
Grace runs his fingers through his hair, a little nervous, for some reason. âOkay.â
âIt isâŚâ Rocky pauses. He has to pause more often, now that theyâre not using the translator, to simplify his language. âIt means that I am not Rocky without my Grace. You are part of⌠of the whole. When I wake up, I think of you. When I work. When I eat. When I think I am going to die.â
Rocky speaks slowly, but itâs still a lot of Eridian for Grace to grasp all at once. Even as he works out the sentences in his head, he can feel hot tears rising in his eyes.
âIt means that when you are sick, I am sick,â Rocky continues. âAnd it means I will take care of you, because taking care of you is taking care of myself.â
Grace bunches up his sleeve, wiping it across his face, blinking furiously.
Rockyâs voice is soft. âSo Grace is part of Rocky. Grace is like a cell. You see? My Grace.âÂ
Grace is quiet, for a moment, trying to get himself together. When he speaks, his voice is shaky.
â...Oh.â
Rocky hums, pressing his carapace gently against Graceâs arm. âYou are leaking. Does this make you sad?â
Grace shakes his head, sniffing, crossing his arms across his knees and resting his chin on his sleeves. âNot at all.â
âGood, good.â
âI feel like that,â Grace mumbles. âJust like that. Just exactlyâexactly like that.â
âAbout your old mate?â
âDonât act stupid. You know Iâm talking about you.â
Rocky hums, burrowing closer. Grace curls one arm around his carapace. Thatâs not enough, so he leans over, dropping his head down so his forehead presses against the xenonite.Â
âMy Rocky,â Grace whispers in English.Â
âMy Grace,â Rocky echoes in Eridian. Grace can recognize the note at the start. He will add it when he plays Rockyâs name.Â
âHow long have you called me that?â Grace asks. âMustâve been a while. I didnât notice it change.â
âLong time,â Rocky agrees. âLong, long time.â
currently writing a oneshot of teacher! aroace! ryland grace x teacher! aroace! reader who are a secret third thing and i just feel truly in my element when i write abt him because he gets it. he so so so gets it
okay crack driver x reader idea wherein reader is a fuckin chauffeur. im talking drive my car (2021) misaki chauffeur for high end actors and actresses in l.a. because drive (2011) and drive my car (2021) are sibling movies in my head don't even joke lad.
you and driver met ages ago at shannons automobile repair garage, where you often get your car fixed because it's your #localbusiness. driver has attended to you multiple times throughout your long time loyalty, to the point you're well acquainted because wow hat a lovely trustworthy mechanic. driver is intrigued by you as of course, he's a bit enthralled by a reserved person who drives for a living as well.
one day, driver needs to have his car left overnight at the repairs. your car is finished being fixed so you naturally offer to drive him home, to which driver says with quiet reluctance, "okay."
that evening, driver discovers that you're the smoothest driver he's ever known. not that he's ever been driven by others, but the way you drive is as if you're a ghost, transluscent, while he drives the complete oppositeâall too present, all too dense with blood and bones behind the wheel. it's a bit haunting, actually, he's internally freaked out by how calmly and smoothly you drive that would lull even the loudest baby asleep.
all the more reason to be completely obsessed with you. he learns quick that you're the only person he'd trust to drive him, which is a massive feat, since his comfort is being behind the wheel himself, to be in control. your driving calms him, soothes him in ways not even sleeping in his own bed could bring. its like an oasis in motion whenever he's in your car, driving to nowhere in particular. so to say that he finds all kinds of reasons to have you drive him becomes more frequent, you of course oblige and offer him that service.
â
authors note: is some of this probably inaccurate to the story of drive (2011)? probably, but i also do not care thanks cheers
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lars lindstrom x reader who has sh scars is perpetually stuck in my head. first time lars sees your scars, he's a bit shaken up because let's be honest, in a small town there's probably not much exposure to such phenomena. so when he sees a glimpse of your arms for the first time, it's an accident.
it goes like this: you're in the office and you're stapling up some reports. lars is waiting behind you to use the stapler, and because you're a clutz, you itch up your arm because jesus christ do they get itchy no matter how old they may be. your sleeves roll up a little, and before you even notice you've exposed yourself, lars has seenâwide-eyed, blinking hard.
it's clear you hadn't wanted him to see. when you glanced at him, realise what he's looking so shocked at, you immediately flatten out your sleeves. you promptly completed your stapling and swerved past him without so much as a word.
so, you're thinking to yourself, of all people, it had to be lars.
meanwhile, lars is disturbed. not necessarily out of freakishness, but out of concern. only issue is, he doesn't know nor does he have any courage to approach you about it at all. what he does do is research it online. he scrolls through chatrooms and websites regarding self harm behaviour, and that there's various ways it manifests like more subtle ways like deliberate isolation, poor hygiene, etc. i also hc that lars has engaged in self harm behaviour before, just not consciously, but that's something to unpack another time.
i also think lars would ask dr. dagmar about it. he wouldn't name drop you, but he would ask about the phenomena with reluctant anxiety. he cares about you more than he thought he did, and his anxiety is evident to dr. dagmar to which she says, first of all, he is not a professional responsible for therapy, but he can offer indirect support and acceptance. much like how dr. dagmar told karin and gus to accept lars' delusions.
while lars may not completely understand why you do it, he completely understands the sentiment of wanting to be treated normally despite it all. it explains why you always wear long sleeves and multiple layers, why you minimise physical contact, and perhaps your somewhat distant behaviour.
so the next time you're engaging with biancaâ"oh, what beautiful outfit you're wearing today, bianca. i personally enjoy knitwear, too, especially in this weatherââ, lars will tell you, "bianca was a nurse. you know, she's told me god put her here on earth to help people. so, if you need anyone to talk to, I'm sure bianca wouldn't mind listening. right, bianca? see? how beautiful."
and of course, knowing lars, this means heaps to you. that you're not met with fear (sure, maybe a little bit of walking on eggshells, but that's a given), but total acceptance and support. and most of all, in lars' own little way.
sebastian wilder x reader and youre the saxophonist in his quartet, you guys have an established relationship everything goes well until an argument and neither of you wants to say sorry first so you solve it fleetwood mac style on stage one night at the bar WAITT LOWKEY
also why is there a shortage of seb fics you guys dont think he looked good there??
i have two ryland grace wips in my head where 1) reader and ryland meet in the petrova task force and ends tragically, 2) reader and ryland meet as teachers and ends tragically. i seem to have a certain style when it comes to writing certain narratives, i think.
lars lindstrom x reader but reader has sh scars and is equally always as covered up as lars, mostly out of habit as they know they wouldn't necessarily be outcasted. they're withdrawn and while they want to connect, always find themselves fitting in social settings jaggedly, as if misplaced.
so when bianca comes along, reader absolutely spoils her and reads to her and makes crafts for her as a way to connect to the rest of the community and lars. through this, lars and reader have a chance to connect indirectly. overtime, lars gains an interest in them, whether that be friendship or romantically or a secret third thingâhe just knows he wants to connect đŹ
perhaps the pivotal point in their relationship is when reader is reading bianca poetry. probably stops by, invites themselves when they tell lars at work about picking up a new poetry collection and asks if they could read it to bianca sometime. i think lars would begin to consider reader when they read wild geese by mary oliver and it's an intense moment, albeit softly passing, because im a sap and i think lars would really enjoy mary oliver. because yes lars lindstrom, no matter how alone you feel, you are still a part of this world, in the family of things. tell me about despair, yours, and i will tell you mine.
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Summary: Holland March calls you an arsenal of pet namesâbaby, sweetheart, pretty, and whatnot, despite not being romantically affiliated in any sense. But youâve developed a reasonable narrative that this is simply Holland; charismatic, single-bored-father who does not miss the opportunity of making a woman feel special. Unfortunately for you, you have a massive, stupid crush on the man that he doesnât help with shirking off by simply being Holland.
In a conversation over far too many cigs and a few drinks in, when Holland's routine pet names sink into your ribs and swarm your stomach with abrasive butterflies, you finally protest. But because Holland is Holland, he pushes backâunfortunately for you, quite hard.Â
Word count: 2.1k (of nothingburger vibes and conversation and a kiss at the end lalalala)
Holland March is by no means a daydream. Despite catching a dangerous, spiralling crush on him ever since you moved into the apartment complex adjacent to him a year ago, you've never dared to allow your mind to wander the possibilities of breaking the boundaries of friendship and camaraderie. This decision is staked in a quite simple pragmatic: you don't do crushes.
Sure, you find Holland attractive. Of course, you find him hot. He's musky like any man who chainsmokes as if he could afford all the tobacco in the world, and his stupid moustache frames his stupid face in a stupidly endearing way. Adds to the whole single father look, you guess. But all these observations roundabout back to the simple pragmatic that you do not do crushes.Â
Unfortunately, it's safe to say that Holland makes this pragmatic tricky for you to keep afloat.
âSmokinâs bad for you, baby,â he says, cigarette between his lips, because he is an asshole.
You light your cigarette, fingers shielding the flame from the wind. Once the end catches fire, you tuck the lighter back in your jacket pocket and mumble past the smoke, âMan, shut the fuck up.â
âOuch,â Holland feigns hurt. âJust some medical advice. Don't want your pretty voice to be ruined.â
âI've been smoking since I was 16,â you snap because it's true. You sink deeper in your shitty pull-out camping chair.Â
You shrug and take another huff, then another, desperate to chase that nicotine high. âJust had a rough day, you know. These L.A. journalists are so hungry for gossip and itâs taking everything in me to produce words and words and words, and I just canât.â
âThen donât,â Holland says like itâs so simple.Â
âOf course youâd say that,â you snarl. âYouâre shit at your job most times.âÂ
âAnd the other times?â Holland asks, unphased by your criticism. Heâs heard worse from Holly.Â
You shoot him a point-blank expression. âAbysmal.â
Holland merely shrugs, shoulders raised to ears and continues to smoke. As minutes crawl forward towards midnight, Holland doesnât say anything about your particularly deeper drags, though you know that he knows, and he knows that you know that he knows. At stalemate, you quickly finish that cigarette and onto the next.
âI know youâve had a rough day, but you'll get dizzy if you smoke that quick, sweetheart. That's not how you enjoy cigs,â Holland finally speaks.Â
Perhaps it's the lilt of his tongue that shapes that nickname into a sound that softens you more than it should. Or maybe it's just a bad day, where you think again of how many other women Holland has shamelessly flirted with because that is just Holland: charismatic, funny and an ass. âStop calling me that,â you bleat weakly.
âWhat's the problem with calling you sweetheart?â he asks, raising a brow. If he can sense your internal pandemonium, he makes no expression that suggests it. âCall you it all the time.â
You consider yourself a good liar, because you can clothe an act like second skin when you exhale another smoke. âJust don't. Don't like it.â (Technically, true.)
Holland is on another cigarette already too. He leans over to pick up a bottle of beer you purchased earlier for the occasion, and maybe you're seeing things, but a pout downturns his lips. âBut I like it.â
And there it is.
That dangerous, beckoning line that you swear is charged with some semblance of truth. Holland may be a bad person, but he wears at least half of his heart on his sleeve. But how much is this theoretical truth purely Holland's personality as a charismatic man, or genuine interest in you? It's these precise theoreticals that make you turn the other way and act oblivious and unwanting.
You take this moment to evade the potential path this conversation could go with no reply. Because maybe both of you are tipsy and smoked through a pack of cigarettes respectively, Holland does not urge you to. Soâso. Silence blankets the both of you, and despite all odds, it's warm. Everything is always warm with Holland.Â
Youâve finished your cigarette already, and youâre already reaching for another one like a practiced dance. Holland swipes his lighter before you can procure your own, to which you slant him a curious expression. The unlit cigarette lackadaisically hangs from your lips, and you inch closer to him as he's already attending to lightning your cigarette. And godâhe is so attentive, so close. Hand cupping around your cig to catch the fire, his face so near yours. You couldn't do anything but stare at the flame, as was he in complete concentration. If you look at him, you are certain one look will expose a year's worth of your idiotic, withheld yearning.Â
After a deep inhale and exhale, you nod. âThanks.âÂ
Holland leans back with a thud, his chest deflating with a prolonged sigh. He tempers a thought or two or twenty in the fog of his head, before he rolls his lips with fervent chagrin. âCan't just do that to me,â Holland whines, voice small.Â
You slowly blink, bewildered by his angle of approach. You're way too drunk for this. Heâs way too drunk for this. âDo what, Holâ?â
âJust say that I can't call you sweetheart.â
âAnd baby,â you add.
âAnd baby!â Holland exasperatedly says, throwing his arms up and here is when you can tell he's really drunk. âThat's impossible.â
âUhm, no, it isn't.â Holland is theatrical when he wants to be. âYou surely can call at least one woman in your life by their name or nothing at all,â you ramble, the alcohol surging your words like spitfire because intoxication seems to set things straight in your head. Surely you could be imagining all this.
Holland spears you with an almost affronted expression, it startles you. âBut you're the only woman in my life.â
A laugh bursts out of your chest unwillingly. Alcohol tends to do that; loosen all the limbs that otherwise keeps you all together, contained and measured. Sure, you can form coherent-ish thoughts, but you cannot contain laughter . âThat's a complete lie!â you giggle because it is. And even if it isn't a lie, it's still hilarious. âYou're so dramatic.â
âI'm not lying!â Holland protests a bit too sharply.
You frown. âOh, come on, dude.â
âIt's true,â Holland says so seriously, you can hear a full stop at the end of his words. He levels you with a look that looks eerily sober for a second. âHey, you're so pretty tonight. When did you get so pretty?â
âWhen you got drunk,â you assert, voice warblingâgod-willing. âHolland, you've had too much to drink. Now go to bed.â
Holland huffs, stubbing out his cigarette in the mountains of char and bullied cigarette butts in the ashtray. âYou can't just tell me what to do.â
âYes, I can, because this is my apartment. Holly is all alone and you need to go back.â
âActually, she's sleeping over at Jenny'sââ
âJessicaâs.â
ââSo I don't need to go back,â Holland says with finality.Â
âThen go to sleep,â you say slowly. âYou know where my bedroom is.â
But you're still smoking, still situated comfortably in your shitty, half-broken camping chair and opening up your nearly empty cigarette pack for another smoke. Which Holland interprets that you're not going to sleep anytime soon.
âWhy not come to bed with me?â he asks.Â
You stare at him, owlish. âI'm taking the couch.â
âYouâre doing that thing againâthat thing,â Holland blurts.Â
âWhat thing?â Â
âThat thingâ! You always back out when I, when I suggest something remotely, I dunno, when I'm trying to flirt with you! But it's like talking to a brick wall!â
Your jaw slackens and you lower your freshly lit cigarette, which says something, because you always at least take two deep drags when freshly lit to keep the flame. A beat dampens the atmosphere, and to his expectant expression you say with fashionable responsibility, âHolâ, you're drunk.âÂ
âOh my god, what's stopping you?â Holland explodes. He begins listing items off with his fingers, words slurring but strafe with conviction it makes your head dizzy. âWe're the same-ish age, five years ain't no big difference. We're neighbours. You're hot, and don't think I haven't noticed you staring at me when you think I'm not looking. You're smart, cute, and you take care of Holly well and you careâyou care so much. I don't get it, why do you act like you don't see me?â
You stutter. I do see you is your first instinct to reply. Of course, you see him. Many sentences start and stop at the tide of your tongue, but they certainly stumble out unfinished. Finally, after the sloshing of sound blearing in your ears, when you recalibrate in sustained silence, you admit: âI didn't know this was happening. I thought you were just being friendly. It's safe to not assume.â
Holland balks. âWell, that's stupid.â
âHey, it's not stupid,â you reprimand, irritated. You proceed to ramble, because after all, you are still tipsy and you can't believe this isn't a dream, that Holland is telling you you're stupid for mistaking his flirting as friendliness, because truly, where does that line end and begin? Youâve witnessed Holland make crude comments with many women before. It had been safer for you to assume this is simply Holland being Holland. âMomma told me to not read into anything unless it's explicitly stated. I've had many guys who have carried my jacket for me, I thought they liked me, but turns out they were halfway in going out with some other girl and they were genuinely just being friendly.â
âYeah, yeah, you're uptight, I get it. But I'm a simple man, baby,â Holland murmurs, eyes flickering to your lips, then back to your eyes. He shifts, a hair too close for your comfort. âAnd if I kiss you right now, would you still think this is me being friendly?âÂ
You purse your mouth, stomach flipping upside down and lodging your lungs in your throat. âHolâ, you're being mean,â you say, and in retrospect already, it's childish, but is true. He's being a mean flirt when he knows you're already disarmed, when you're not ready to be soft.Â
But then again, when will you ever be ready?
An imperceptible smile smudges Holland's face. âCan you read me?â
Your eyes flicker to his lips, bitten behind his teeth and back to his eyes. Itâs Sunday evening and Monday morning you may regret this plunge. But it is Sunday evening, not Monday morning, and right now, you want many things like kissing Hollandâs face silly, running your hands through his mussed hair tousled from the dayâs whirlwinds. Brave and braver, you nod. âYeah,â you breathe. âCan read you.â
You don't know who leans in first, but it's a slow, savouring kiss. The first thing you feel is the prickles of his stache, then the smell of his musk that has always made you feel woozy and love-addled whenever youâre too close to him. You donât know when Hollandâs hands had grabbed your waist, or when your palm was placed on the side of his face but eventually, it all culminates to the overwhelming realisation that shit, youâre kissing Holland March.Â
You don't say anything. You pull back, flushed and nerves leaping, as your first reaction is to reach for the final cigarette in your now emptied pack. When you look out to the towering, urban expanse that offends the tranquility of the even larger than large night sky, you lit your cigarette with practiced ease.Â
âSorry,â you murmur around the cigarette with shame, because who the fuck smokes a cigarette after kissing their crush who apparently reciprocates your emotions? âJust haven't kissed anyone in a while.â
âThat's okay,â Holland replies, seemingly unafraid of your shaken reaction. Perhaps a bit confused, you canât discredit the slight uncertainty in his face, but you werenât running out of your apartment in fear, so that must account for something.Â
Heart and heavy, you admit another truth: âI'm scared.â
âWhy are you scared?â Sometimes, Holland can be soft and genuine.Â
A shrug. âDunno. Justâyou really like me?â
âYou want me to make it more obvious?â
This earns him a snort, to which you finally look at himâreally look at him with steady eyes. âNo, it's not you. I just can't wrap my head around the idea that someone may like me.â
âWell,â Holland smiles, doppily and drowsy, âgotta get used to it, pretty.â
You smile in return. You don't scold him for the petname this time.Â
/
Authors note: baby first holland march fic, posting this with finals rapidly approaching with no mercy, neglecting my coursework, so this fic aimless and vibeful as FUCK. maybe i'll invest time in crafting a much more complicated fic, but yakno i just do this for the creative muscles and place my fandom thinking into something at least a little personally productive. speaking which, i'll prolly write and finish more of my fanfics, x reader and character studies alike. i'll likely write for more gosling characters like ryland mothafreaking grace and my baby sweet boy personal friend lars lindstrom. aside from gosling characters, i will definitely write for dazai from bsd sometime, because he's my og whore and well, who knows what else.