#they picked the wrong side of history | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

supershit-hits · 7 days ago

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the tantrums and the chilling chats, i promise

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

summary: clark takes a picture of you and it leads you to spiral. the last thing you want is for him to see you crashing out, but he’s determined to be by your side no matter what.

word count: 5.7k

warnings/tags: emotional angst, tooth-rooting fluff, comfort, established relationship, dual pov, reader has low self-esteem and does therapy, reader is shorter than clark, overthinking, introspection, miscommunication at times, some kissing, clark trying to be a supportive boyfriend, petnames, brief mentions of parenthood (in the future lol), implied smut (not explicit).

a/n: no couple is perfect. that’s what i kept reminding myself as i wrote this. it takes courage to be in love (fleebag reference), and to be truly seen is one of the most vulnerable acts a person can experience. if you realized all my female characters share one single trait (being insecure), no you didn’t <3 anyway, i hope you like it! likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

For a man who could behold the whole world at once if he wanted to, he stands by the belief that he’d rather look at you.

Clark Kent is the kind of boyfriend who makes time pass like sand slipping through your fingers. He remembers all those special milestones that are important to you, like the clothes you wore for your first date. He's the kind of guy who just lets you talk, who’ll happily listen to you go on and on about whatever you're currently obsessed with, without ever complaining.

It’s been six months of back-and-forth unconditional love, the longest you’ve ever been with someone.

It had been hard at first, because letting yourself trust him was one thing, but trusting yourself in this was something entirely different. Still, you were committed, not only to healing, but also to becoming the best version of yourself. For your own sake, and for the sake of whatever it was you were building with him as well.

But things have taken an interesting turn lately. The discomfort with your appearance and everything it symbolized had always been there; at times subdued, thought at other times highly present in every move you made.

For quite a long time, your mind had worked in the following way:

Me not pretty.

Me ugly.

Boyfriend… boyfriend?

Boyfriend think me pretty.

Then me pretty and not ugly.

Which… alright, is wrong. Totally wrong. Caveman logic, as your therapist would probably say. The thing is that back then you were younger; therefore, you romanticized love, and you thought that having someone love you would be the necessary proof to start believing you were lovable after all.

You spent many, many years thinking you were doomed for eternal loneliness, and at some point you stopped searching for the one in every room you set foot in. It was becoming dreadful, the search doing nothing but wear you down each time you came home alone.

It was only after you accepted being alone that love finally came knocking on your door.

Literally. It’s not a metaphor, although it sounds like one. You’d just gotten a new job at the Daily Planet and moved to Metropolis. The first (not to say the only) neighbor to greet you that day was Clark. As fate would have it, you found out he also worked there, and… well, the rest is history, right?

It took him a full year to make a move. He took his precious time getting to know you in every possible way. You were convinced nothing would ever happen between the two of you, that he took pity on you because you didn’t know anyone in the city, and that you and him were purely, strictly friends.

That was until one night after dinner, where the two of you sat on your couch to watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It’d been your pick, one of your favourite pieces of media. Like he always did, he let you choose, beaming at your excitement even when he didn’t know the film.

Forty-five minutes in, he pulled the oldest trick in the book: he yawned, loudly and exaggeratedly, stretching his arms dramatically over his head. You glanced at him, instantly yawning too as your body betrayed you.

Right after that, he draped one arm over your shoulders, and your whole body went rigid. He noticed this and began pulling back, already apologizing while tripping over his own words.

“I’m so sorry. I mean, I just thought—”

“Hey,” you cut him off, stopping him mid-sentence. A tiny smile spread across your face, and you held his arm right where it was. “It’s alright.”

At that, Clark stared at you for what felt like a century, and you couldn’t help but believe there was something more he wanted to tell you, simmering behind his blue eyes.

Instead, he remained silent, sinking deeper into the couch, and you did the same, rewinding the last few minutes of the movie.

It was only a matter of time before your body naturally leaned into his, causing his knee to graze yours. Clark ran his knuckles up and down your arm as you made an effort to comprehend what it was that Kate Winslet was saying in a particular scene, but you couldn’t concentrate on any of that.

Suddenly, all you could sense was him. His scent, the weight of his arm against your skin, the uneven rhythm of his breathing every time you moved. You hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped watching the movie until you felt his gaze on you, and you turned your head slightly, realizing there was barely any space left between you.

Clearing his throat, he looked down before peering back into your eyes. He seemed nervous, his cheeks were flushed, and the pitch of his voice had descended an octave. “May I—Can I kiss you?”

Nodding so fast it nearly took your neck out of place, you swallowed a gasp the moment his lips enveloped yours. That night was your first kiss, and every kiss that came after that carried the same passion and impetus that characterized him.

Half a year later, you’re still working at the Daily Planet, and your boyfriend is, thank God, still Clark, aka Superman. But Lois and Jimmy still don’t know it.

He keeps saying he’s looking for the right way to tell them, especially Lois, who’s been growing highly suspicious of him and all the interviews he lands with Metropolis’s beloved hero.

Whenever the subject comes up, one of you changes it quickly. Nevertheless, she’s one of the smartest people you’ve met, which is why you’re not sure how much time Clark has left before she starts drawing her own conclusions.

At present, you and Clark are on your lunch break, having fled to the nearest coffee shop to buy some fuel for the whole group. Your drink comes out first, so you sip while waiting for the rest of the order.

Beside you, Clark clicks his tongue. “Stay right where you are,” he says, fiddling with his phone inside the pocket of his coat. Once he pulls it out, he takes a few steps backwards, angling it in your direction.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You know I don’t like pictures.”

“But you look so pretty like this!” he objects, momentarily putting his phone down. “Please.“

You’re now aware of all the other customers in the café, and you tug at the collar of your cardigan. “I suck at posing.”

“A smile will do.” His forehead furrows thoughtfully, and later he adds, “Or just pretend I’m not even here. Whatever works for you. I don’t exist. I’m just a voice from beyond.”

He always finds a way to make you laugh, even when you don’t want to. You decide to look toward the baristas who are preparing the coffees, playing the part of a girl who doesn’t know she’s being photographed. Spontaneously, you cast him a glance, raising your coffee and smiling at him.

Clark sits down to scroll through the photos. As you notice how his face lights up, you find yourself eager to see them. “Wait, let me see,” you say, sliding into the seat next to him.

He ended up taking several pictures, and he swipes through them, pausing after each one to compliment you. “See? You look beautiful in this one. That little crinkle by your nose?” He zooms in, his eyes shifting to yours. “I’m totally using this one as my lockscreen.”

You’re gripping your coffee with such strength you even spill some of it.

The noise in your head, the one that’s similar to the grainy static on a broken TV screen, doesn’t allow you to hear whatever else he must be saying, and it only grows louder the more you glare at the photos.

You watch as his mouth moves, how he chuckles and keeps talking, but you can’t register a single word that falls from his lips. Under the table, he grips your knee, giving it a light squeeze that makes you blink at him like you’ve just come out of a deep sleep.

“Do you want me to send them to you?” he asks, and in that exact moment, your name is called again. You bolt up, rushing to the counter to grab the cardboard tray of coffees without answering him.

Back in the elevator of the Daily Planet, you’re starting to suspect you might be getting sick. Your skin prickles, and you have to pass the tray to Clark to scratch your arm.

The question you’ve been meaning to ask him bursts out of you before you can stop it: “Would you please delete those pictures from the coffee shop?”

He takes your hand between his, pulling it away from you. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“Will you get rid of them?” you shoot back, your arms now remaining at your sides.

“I will if that’s what you want.”

“Great. Thank you.” You press a chaste kiss to his cheek just as the elevator doors open. Together, you walk toward your desks, and you hand Jimmy and Lois their coffees.

After thanking you, Clark takes his own and sets it down for a moment. In silence, he watches you sink into your chair and flick your monitor back on. He glances over his shoulder before asking, “Are you alright? Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No,” you reply, peering up at him and pursing your lips. “You didn’t do anything. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re sure?” His brows pinch, and he fidgets with the nearest thing within reach, a pen of yours, twirling it between his fingers. “Because if so—”

Were you alone, you would’ve hugged him without hesitation. “I just didn’t like the pictures.”

“You looked great in them,” he nearly whispers, intending to keep his composure in front of others. You’ve both grown accustomed to not being touchy at the office. “I’d use other adjectives to describe you as well, but… we’re at work.”

You nod, trying to sound persuasive. “I’m fine. You can go on with your day now.”

Suffice it to say he doesn’t look convinced. Not in the slightest. He studies you before plucking one of your neon-orange sticky notes, scribbling something down, and sticking it beside your keyboard. Having done that, he returns to his desk without another word.

You scrutinize the note. A wobbly heart sits at the top, and beneath it, so small you have to squint and lean forward to make it out, two simple words: Love you.

Shaking your head, you gnaw on your bottom lip. You should be getting back to work as soon as possible, because you’ve already wasted so much time, and you have so many things to do, but your brain refuses to obey because you can’t stop thinking.

This is the fight-or-flight mode you know very well. You become hyper-aware of how you’re sitting, or whether your back slouches when you’re too focused on a piece you’re reading. You straighten up, squaring your shoulders, then realize that it probably makes you look weird, and your neck also feels stiff, so you go back to your initial position.

There’s a glimpse of your reflection in the darkened corner of your screen that looks back at you with an unsettling expression. Your hair looks terrible. Perhaps you should dye it a different color, or cut it, or just shave the whole thing and spare yourself this sorrow.

Even though you try with all your might to focus on the article in front of you, those images are still burned into your mind. Why is your mouth shaped like that? And what about your eyes? Clark swears they’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, but this can’t be what he says he’s so in love with. That would be impossible.

Sometimes you wonder if Kryptonians see differently than humans, or if his vision has just been compromised from all the times he’s been punched through buildings.

A while later, you stand up and flee to the bathroom. As you’re walking across the bullpen, you think the way you walk could also use some improvement. You close the bathroom door behind you and just stare at the mirror, smiling at yourself. Great—your teeth are bothering you now too.

This is what he sees. What everybody sees, actually.

You lean closer, not recognizing your own reflection under the light, until your humid breath fogs the glass. It happens most days; you’re not a confident person under any circumstances, but today all your senses seem to be heightened, along with your discomfort.

Who is this person who faintly resembles you? And why does a stranger feel so familiar all of a sudden?

That feeling never leaves you, the sense that no matter what you do, you'll never measure up to the person you want to be.

The years pass, birthdays arrive and disappear. With every new candle you blow out, that voice stays, refusing to be silenced, even when you wish for nothing else.

Turning the tap on, you splash cold water on your face, willing yourself back into the version of you who has to survive during the next few hours.

You hate candid pictures. ‘Fake’ candid pictures as well. Maybe you just hated pictures in general.

Once the workday finally comes to an end, you feel like you could cry from pure happiness.

You pack your things up in silence, and Clark, looking just as exhausted as you, doesn’t say much either as you both leave the office and head to the subway. Only then does he reach for your hand, his fingers wrapping around yours where they grip the pole, your knuckles going pale from the strain.

Instead of answering, you mimic him, and then you push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a fingertip before tipping your chin up to brush your lips against his.

It’s enough to distract him, at least until you’re standing in front of your apartment door, keys already in hand.

“I can stay at mine tonight, if you want,” he says, scratching his nose. “Not that I don’t want to be with you, because I do… but if you want space, I get it.”

You unlock the door and step inside, holding it open for him. “Come on in.”

Your keys clink as you drop them into the dish by the entrance. Clark folds his glasses and sets them beside the rest of your things, sighing as he rubs the back of his neck.

Making your way to the kitchen, you open the fridge, jutting out your hip. “God, I’m starving. We still have leftovers from the other night, or we could also order—”

He cuts you off by turning you in his hands and kissing you. His arms loop around your waist, pulling you flush against him until your heartbeat matches his, and that’s when you realize your feet aren’t even touching the floor.

It would be a crime not to melt into his touch. You kiss him back, and a whimper catches in your throat as he parts his lips and you trail after him, cupping the back of his head, fingers threading through his dark locks.

As you pull back, you look into his heavy-lidded eyes, and it makes you laugh. “Okay, I get it: you’re strong. Now you can put me down.”

He obliges, but not without peppering you with more short-lived kisses. “I missed you.”

You offer him a half-smile, toying with the rumpled collar of his shirt. “I’ve been sitting across from you all day.”

The kisses stop coming, and he traces his fingers over the inside of your wrist. “You know what I mean.”

His gaze is intense. It always is, although now it seems as if he’s trying to read your mind, and you find yourself feeling grateful that’s not one of his powers. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

The moment you’re locked inside the bathroom, you stand under the water for a long time before doing anything else.

You reach for the shampoo, and your fingers tangle in your hair as you attempt to scrub it clean. Is there a way to rinse the dissatisfaction off of yourself? You wash your body, your skin, as many times as possible, and at some point, you lose count.

Your chest rises and falls with the tears that come quietly at first. They mix with the water until you can’t even tell them apart, your forehead pressed against the cold tile.

A pained sound escapes you, and you hug yourself, muffling your sobs with the palm of your hand, which is useless, because your boyfriend has fucking superhearing and must be hearing every pathetic noise you make from the living room.

Perfect. Just… perfect.

Clark is what most people would call an empath.

He doesn’t love the term, though. Mostly because he’s noticed it’s picked up some negative connotations online.

Normally, he says he doesn’t have time to scroll through what people post about him on social media, but every now and then… something slips through. Like the comment thread complaining about him taking time to save a squirrel, which, for the record, happened only once.

Okay. Maybe more than once, but he doesn’t think it should be paired with the hashtag #supershit.

If he had to put it into his own terms, he’d say that for as long as he can remember, since the very moment he first became aware of the world, he’s wanted others to be safe and happy.

His Ma used to have long talks with him about it. She’d tell him that caring that deeply wasn’t something everyone could do, and that it made him special. But she’d also remind him to be wise with that kind of gift, since feeling everything so strongly could just as easily wear a person down.

Over the years, he learned the limits of it. No matter how much he wanted to help, there would always be things beyond his reach. He could stop monstrous creatures, hold back crumbling buildings, push back anything as long as it had a name, a shape, or a way to fight back.

Yet this is completely different. You are different. There’s no clear enemy to defeat because it’s invisible to the eye, and the knowledge that he can’t fix whatever’s hurting you only heightens that awful sensation of helplessness he’s already plagued by.

He lays a hand on the bathroom door, hearing the tremor in your breathing each time you inhale and exhale. If he closes his eyes, he can almost picture you on the other side, probably folded in on yourself beneath the hot spray.

And he’s right there, listening, his powers now a curse because they're of no use at all.

Your hair is still wet, dripping all over Clark’s old T-shirt, the one you’ve claimed as your property ever since he left it behind early in your relationship. The cotton feels soft against your skin, and it smells like the laundry soap you love.

He’s at the stove, sleeves rolled up not to get them all dirty. As he scrapes scrambled eggs from the pan onto two different plates, you catch him humming a tune under his breath.

Your attention wanders to the counter, finding a stack of deliciously looking pancakes sitting beside crispy bacon. The sight alone makes your stomach growl loud enough for him to glance over his shoulder.

“Welcome back. You got out just in time,” he says, nodding toward the plates. “Tonight, we’re having breakfast for dinner, your favorite. Thank me later.”

You drift toward him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d been in there for so long.”

“No worries. I took care of it.” He leans down to give you a kiss, drying his hands with a towel and carrying everything over to the table. “We could use this as an excuse to celebrate our six months being together.”

“But that’s not until next week.”

“Well… consider this a pre-celebration then.”

Your mouth twitches as you grab two glasses and the water from the fridge. “You did all this—”

“Because I wanted to,” he concludes simply, even sliding off your chair for you to sit. You’re frozen in place, and he tilts his head to the side. “Play along. It won’t kill you.”

You eat mostly in silence, the scrape of forks and the occasional clink of a glass breaking it from time to time. Everything tastes so good you could cry… again. This is exactly what your body had been craving.

“Did you know that some animals mate for life?” The question tumbles out of you without giving it too much thought. “They pick one partner and never leave. I believe that’s cute. Nature’s strange, though.”

Clark hums around a mouthful of eggs. “Penguins, right?”

“Yes, but not just them. Beavers, bald eagles, and even barn owls do it too.” You put your fork down, staring right into your plate. “Barn owls use the same nest site each year. And when the males are courting, they spend extra time hunting to bring gifts back to their mate.”

“That’s interesting. Would you say I’m courting you in that case?”

“If we were barn owls, absolutely.”

He laughs a little. “Where’d you learn all that?”

“A TikTok video,” you answer, sipping your water. “I’ll make sure to send it to you.”

Once the plates are empty and your stomachs full, you stand automatically to gather them, but Clark steals them from your hands.

“I’ve got it.”

“Clark—”

“Honey, I’m serious.”

You linger anyway, watching him move around your kitchen as if it already belonged to him as well. He stands by the sink, rinsing every single thing he’s used to cook. The urge to close the small distance between you becomes nearly unbearable, so you step forward and slide your arms around his waist from behind.

Closing your eyes, you nuzzle your cheek into his shoulder blades and breathe him in deeply. He’s so incredibly warm it almost makes you dozy.

Your hands come to rest just beneath his ribs, and he laughs, his stomach tensing under your touch. “Someone’s clingy today.”

“That’s your fault for being such a good boyfriend,” you mumble. “Thank you for doing all this, but you didn’t let me do anything.”

“I wanted to do something nice for you,” he explains, the sound of running water mingling with his voice. “You don't always have to do things for me, or for anyone else. It's okay to take some time off and just do nothing.”

There's a pull at your heart, a familiar ache in the space behind your ribs, when he speaks to you in such a tender tone that has your eyes welling up. Salty tears slide down your face and dampen the fabric of his shirt as you draw your lower lip between your teeth.

It gets to a point in a relationship, no matter how long or how little time you've been together, that the other person knows you so completely it feels a little terrifying, and you think about this as you practically feel Clark's worry radiating off him.

The pan he was rinsing is now long forgotten, and he sets it gently back into the sink. His hands cover yours where they’re clasped at his stomach, thumbs caressing your knuckles.

“Baby, what’s going on?”

How can you put it into words without dying of second-hand embarrassment? You press your face further into his back, shaking your head in jerky motions.

“I really want to help you, but I can’t do it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

You back away, rubbing at your eyes, a dull headache settling at the base of your skull. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you mutter, looking down. “Usually when this happens, I’m alone. But now you’re here, and I don’t want to overwhelm you with something that’s stupid.”

Gently, he takes your chin between his fingers and tilts your head back up. “First of all, it’s not stupid. You’re clearly hurting. And what you said about overwhelming me? That’s not true. I’m the one who’s asking you to open up.”

“You shouldn’t be dealing with my stuff.”

“Why not?” His smile fades, his brows snapping together. “We’re a couple. That’s the way couples work.”

“Clark, you’re Superman! What you’ve got on your plate is much more important than me feeling insecure.”

“You don’t think I have time for my girlfriend?”

“Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

You watch as he pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes drifting shut.

“And now you’re pissed off because of me.”

“What? No! I’m not—” He stops dead in his tracks. “I’m just thinking of the best way to approach this without making you feel cornered.”

“I don’t feel cornered.”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?”

“Because it’s ridiculous, Clark!” Your voice rises, an exasperated laugh breaking through. “I’ve thought this way my whole life. It’s like I never grew up, at least not mentally. I feel ugly all the damn time, and when I saw those pictures you took, I realized that is what you see when you look at me.”

It’s not as if you’re telling him anything remotely new. He knows the facts, but you’ve just never been certain he understands how much they’ve been weighing on you in the silence.

He leans against the sink, arms folded across his chest. “I don’t get it—”

“I don’t expect you to.” Your fingers find a loose thread at the hem of your shirt, twisting it into a small knot until it's so tight it bites at your skin, and then you let go of it. “Maybe you were right. We shouldn’t be spending the night together. I’m not thinking straight.”

His face tightens, caught between stepping toward you and staying right where he is. Here goes another first for him: seeing you in the middle of a crash out.

“It’s just… not a good day,” you breathe, fighting the lump in your throat.

He takes a step forward, looming closer, voice laden with despair. “Do you want me to go?”

“It’ll be for the better—”

A look of perplexity appears on his features. “Stop thinking about what I need, or what anyone else needs. What do you want?”

Your lower lip trembles, body quivering inches away from him. Once more, the answer’s trapped somewhere you can’t reach, so you shake your head.

He asks again, “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

The agitated and frenzied hammering of your heart breaks under the weight of a sob, and you taste salt as you inhale. “No,” you whisper. “Please, don’t.”

He’s moving before the words have even left your mouth, and he folds you into his arms, lips pressed tightly to your temple. Shushing you, he cradles your head. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s alright.”

When he lifts you, your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and you don’t object as he carries you to the living room, sitting down on the couch with you curled in his lap. Your face burrows into the warm crook of his neck while his hands rub patterns into your back, even as your body shudders against his.

You find it all soothing to some extent, but your thoughts keep circling back to the same question: will you ever know what real peace feels like? Clark’s hands in your hair distract you a little, and you attempt to focus on the careful way his fingers are working to ease you.

That’s when you understand there’s no returning from this. After showing him the rawest part of yourself, after stripping away your skin and letting him see what’s underneath, in no world could you and Clark could ever be just friends again.

By the time your breathing evens out, long minutes have gone by. Your cheek rests on his shoulder, and he remains still, as he’s afraid to break the moment.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, but you can only manage to drop your forehead onto his.

“I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand what you feel, because when I look at you, all I can think is that you’re what I’ve always dreamt of,” he says, his eyes lit with something that mirrors your own, a feeling shared by the two of you. “You’re… breathtaking, and funny, and you have the kindest soul, the kindest heart. Everything about you is kind.”

His thumb wipes the damp trace of a tear from your chin. “Ever since I met you, you’ve done nothing but stand by me, through hell and back. You didn’t even flinch when the world found out why I was sent here. You saw me for who I was, and you understood my need to help. You never doubted my intentions. So why on earth would I not be by your side on the bad days, when we’ve already shared so many of the good ones?”

“I just don’t want to drain you.”

He takes a deep breath, drawing back. “We’re getting rid of that thought.”

“I wish it were easier.”

“I know, but I’ll help you, in any way I can.”

“That’s very Superman of you.”

“Well, you know how he is. A chronic empath.”

The emphasis he puts on empath earns a weak laugh from you. You gape at him, captivated by the tiny smile plastered on his face.

“You know, the other day, I was at the grocery store,” you say suddenly, remembering that chaotic afternoon, “and there was a mom with her kid in the frozen aisle. The little girl had her eyes. They were green, and big, and pretty, and I thought, she’s going to grow up loving that. Loving having her mother’s eyes.”

Clark’s brows knit, seemingly unable to understand why you’re even mentioning all this.

“And then I realized I’m scared of having kids. Because what if they inherit something from me that they don’t like? What if they look in the mirror and find the same things I can’t stand in myself? And what if they start hating themselves for it, and then hate me for giving it to them?”

Your throat tightens, huffing out something between a laugh and a sigh. “I don’t even have kids and I’m already scared of them not liking me.”

“They would never hate you for something like that. You’re so caught up in how you view yourself, you can’t see what you really look like.”

“But the mirror—”

“I’ll cover every mirror in this apartment,” he interrupts, the determination in his tone catching you off guard. “And mine. And the Daily Planet’s. Just say the word and I’ll do it.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am being serious. Very serious.”

“You’re something else, Kent.”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“About what?”

“Nothing.”

“Clark.”

He leans in, stealing a quick kiss from you. “Where were we?”

You press your hands to his chest, easing him back onto the couch. “Come on. Spit it out.”

“I was just thinking of how lucky I’d feel to have a kid with your face, alright?”

You freeze, wide-eyed. “You—you can’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’ve been dating for six months. You don’t say that to someone you’ve been dating for six months.”

“But I’m like a barn owl.”

“Excuse me?”

“You told me earlier that barn owls mate for life. That’s me. If you ever leave, that’s it. No more dating. Picture me, all alone and pathetic. You wouldn’t want that in your conscience.”

You laugh again, this time with more feeling. He studies your face, his gaze tracing every line and curve.

“Would you mind if I take a picture of you?” he asks, shoving his hand into his pocket.

“Clark, I’m not really in the mood—”

Instead of pulling out his phone, his hand comes up empty. “We’re doing it the old-fashioned way, back when people didn’t have cameras or phones.”

He lifts his hands, thumbs and forefingers forming a little rectangle, squinting one eye like he’s adjusting a lens. “I’ll use my memory. That way, I’ll never forget how beautiful you look when you laugh.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Hey, I’m busy over here. Overworked and underpaid, so please, just pose for me.” You roll your eyes, but you do as he says, and it doesn’t feel forced at all. Each time he mimes snapping a picture, he says, “Click! That’s perfect. By any chance, are you a model?”

You kiss him until your lungs ache for air. Cupping his cheek, your nose bumps into his, and you’re both grinning. “You’re a dork,” you murmur into the quiet of the night.

As you pop the first button of his shirt, his breath falters. “I’ve been told worse.”

“But I love you,” you say, taking his mouth in another bruising kiss.

“I love you mo—Oh?” His fingers curl into your waist when your lips trail down his neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses. “So… it’s happening?”

You snort against his jaw. “If you want to, I’m pretty much up for it.” Taking his hand, you guide it under your shirt, until he’s touching your bare skin.

“I’d have to be all bruised not to want it.”

“You mean sex?” You giggle when he turns a darker shade of red. “It’s not illegal to say the word.”

“We could also leave it implicit.”

“Why won’t you say you want to fu—”

“Alright, that’s enough,” he cuts in, and he pinches the hem of your shirt, tugging lightly at the fabric. “This is mine, isn’t it?”

“It was. Past tense.”

“You look lovely in it. Truly. But you’d look even better without it.”

Therapy is great. It’s worth it, and you’d never doubt the skill of a trained psychologist. But there’s its own kind of healing in spending the night tangled in your boyfriend’s arms, your head rising and falling with his chest as sleep pulls you under.

Come what may, you know you can count on him.

dividers by: @bbyg4rlhelps <3

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mushroom-words · 6 months ago

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Poison Heart || Tyler Galpin

Fandom: Wednesday Pairing: Tyler Galpin x GN!Reader Words: 1335 Note: This has been rewritten and reposted from one of my previous blogs. Warnings: Dark romance. Slight violence. Predator and prey vibes. Summary: Upon discovering Tyler is the monster in your story, you find yourself still ensnared in his trap. There's nowhere to run.

NEVERMORE WAS SUPPOSED to be a sanctuary for the outcasts. A place where they could be educated in their own history and become part of a larger community. It had started that way for you but had quickly turned into so much more.

Jericho used to be nothing more than a blip on the map that you hadn’t even realized existed. If only it had stayed that way. You wished you had never come to Nevermore. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been swept up in some monster hunt whose main target was now the boy you had come to love.

Tyler Galpin had reeled you in with his boyish charm that shrouded the literal beast inside. You hadn’t wanted to believe it—had wanted to continue to brush off his increasingly strange behavior with lame excuses—but you couldn’t deny it when faced with the evidence. Especially after Wednesday had come to you with everything she had learned during her research.

Dead leaves crunched beneath your feet as they wore a small patch by Crackstone’s Crypt. Principal Weems had expelled Wednesday just a few hours ago for her determination to hunt and take down the Hyde. Everything felt like it was crumbling through your fingers down to the last speck of dust. Wednesday was expelled, Xavier was in jail, and Tyler was a free beast who still managed to have your heart in his lethal claws.

“Fuck!” You paused your pacing, picked up a rock by the steps, and threw it as hard as you could into the depths of the woods. It ricocheted off a tree and scaled away strips of bark. You let loose a breath, plopped down on the steps leading into the crypt, and buried your face in your hands.

How had everything gone so terribly wrong in such a short amount of time?

Footsteps carried someone around the side of Joseph Crackstone’s final resting place. You whipped your head towards the sound. A familiar face rounded into your view. One that you had once been eager to see. But now, as they approached you, the only thing you felt were the icy fingers of fear.

You leapt to your feet and staggered back a few steps.

Tyler paused to raise his hands. “It’s just me,” he said. Despite looking exhausted, he still sported that smile that used to melt your insides to the pathetic mess of a teenage girl with her first love.

He took a few steps towards you but stopped again when you retreated. The smile fell immediately. Hurt shuttered his eyes. Eyes that had always looked at you with a soft warmth that made you feel safe. Your heart twisted painfully.

“(Y/N),” he chuckled wryly, “you don’t really believe her, do you?”

You didn’t want to believe her. You wanted to deny it until you’d convinced yourself that it wasn’t true. You wanted to lie and make yourself believe that he wasn’t the Hyde that had been slaughtering his way through Jericho. But you couldn’t. You knew the truth.

The answer was written all over your face without you even having to say anything. You wrapped your arms around yourself as a gust of wind blew through. Tyler smiled again at your silence and closed the distance between you. Your muscles were primed to run, but your feet felt rooted to the earth beneath them.

He stopped in front of you. Your breath stilled in your throat as he studied you. Then he pulled you in for a hug. His body felt warm against your chilled skin, acting as a shield from the unfavorable weather, but his muscles were stiff. Rigid. He’d just gone through hell. You told yourself that was the reason for his tense hold as you slowly wrapped your arms around his middle.

He tightened his arms around you. “You’ve always been a bad liar.”

His hand suddenly snatched the back of your neck and pulled you back to look at you. Any trace of the Tyler you’d thought you saw had been erased. The malign smirk he gave you had shivers skittering up your spine.

“You’ve known for a while.” It wasn’t a question. He’d known you’d had your suspicions as much as you’d tried to believe otherwise. You’d known that something was wrong. That he was connected to the murders in some way.

Your round eyes watered as he held you in place. It wasn’t often you were left speechless. But any words you could say crumbled to ash on your tongue. There wasn’t anything you could say that would change the truth. You could deny, you could confess, you could evade—but none of those options gave you any insight to a possible outcome.

Tyler hummed, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the nape of your neck. “I enjoy it, you know,” he said. His other hand slithered to curve around your hip—a touch that had once felt so intimate, but now had your heart pounding for a new, frightening reason. “The screams and the blood, the fear… I can taste it, and you know what, (Y/N)?”

He pulled you in closer. So close that his lips nearly touched yours. Your hands flew up to his chest, but you didn’t know whether it was to keep him at bay or invite him to continue.

“It tastes delicious,” he whispered, “and I can smell it on you now.”

You whimpered as the fear banded your chest. Your legs felt weak, like they were going to collapse on you at any second, leaving you further at his mercy. They might have buckled had he not been there to hold you in place.

Tyler pressed forward to kiss you. His lips felt hard and cold against yours. Nothing like the soft and passionate kisses you’d shared in the past. He moved his hand around to the small of your back to press your body flush against his. You knew he could feel how hard your heart pounded in your chest.

Nobody would be able to come save you in time if you were to scream out for help. There was no way for you to overpower him. Not even long enough for you to try to make a run for it. Especially not once he transformed into the Hyde. He seemed to be in control of his actions right now, but you feared he wouldn’t once the monster took over. No one knew if Hydes had any control over what they did. Even Faulkner had died before being able to answer that question.

“We’re in this together, (Y/N). You and I.” Tyler touched his forehead to yours. The tears clinging to your lashes slowly trickled down your face while you trembled in his hands, terrified beyond sanity yet not having the strength to fight back against him. “What do you say? Hmm?” he murmured.

Knowing there was no way out, you nodded your head just enough for him to detect the movement. He clicked his tongue and leaned back. His fingers grabbed your chin hard enough to leave throbbing imprints against your chilled skin. You winced and tried to jerk your head back. He yanked your face back to his.

“Say it,” he demanded. Darkness bled into his eyes as he stared at you. This wasn’t your Tyler. Not anymore. He’d stopped being the boy you fell in love with the second he went through the transformation. The loss wrenched your heart inside of your chest.

Your head started to swim dangerously. “You and I,” you whispered roughly.

Tyler seemed pleased with your answer. He wiped the tears from your cheeks and cradled his face in your hands. You closed your eyes and let your fingers curl around his wrists. His lips came down to yours once more, and against your better judgement, you kissed him back this time.

Tyler Galpin might not have been the devil, but in that moment, you felt as though you had just signed your soul away.

#wednesday #wednesday netflix #wednesday x reader #tyler galpin #tyler galpin x reader #hunter doohan #🍄.ffn

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ldrfanatic · 8 months ago

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and now i'm covered in you

theodore nott x fem!hufflepuff!reader

"You know, you can stay if you want to." + "I think I'm in trouble." + "Damned if I do, damned if I don't."

synopsis - theo finds himself crushing on hogwarts' resident ball of sunshine hufflepuff but tries to force himself to stay away.

don't question the mechanics, go with it. do we want more down bad theo?

warnings - cursing, over-used amortentia love confession trope, theo is treacherously in love

slytherin boys works

"hnnnnggghhh."

mattheo looked up from doodling in the margins of the potions assignment he'd begrudgingly been blackmailed into working on by theo. said boy had his chin perked up onto his hand and was staring across the library at y/n, hogwarts' resident happy huffle.

in all honesty, theo didn't really give two shits if mattheo did his homework or not. he just needed someone to come with him to spy on you during your weekly wednesday study session. and while mattheo seemed like the last person who'd ever be in a library (all too true assumption), he was the only slytherin that theo had any blackmail material on.

so the pair of them sat at a table in the far corner, secluded in darkness that made it relatively difficult to pick them out from the leatherbound books of the ancient history section. theo had a clear view of you, but you'd have to strain your eyes to see him, which is what made this the perfect hiding spot.

theo let out another sigh, this one so dramatic that mattheo had begun to worry that his friend's testicles had simply fallen off.

"what the hell, man?"

"look at her."

mattheo's eyebrows immediately drew together in a look that was nothing short of incredulous.

"are you obsessing over that little puff in the corner?"

theo's hand shot up to grab the other boys' hand which was gestured lazily in the direction towards your figure. you were huddled up in a tutoring session with a pair of firsties in catty-corner to them. while theo was most certain you couldn't see him, he still didn't want to chance this buffoon giving him away.

the smile you gave them was so bright that theo found himself wishing that you were even slightly aware of his existence so that maybe, you might smile at him that way. his thoughts began to wander as he thought of all of the ways that he wanted you to smile at him. a large portion of them were decidedly not friend-like.

lost in his thoughts, theo hadn't caught your approach until you stood in front of them in your bright white sneakers. though they were a little beat up from your regular trips to the gardens, theo found them undeniably adorable. maybe because they had cute little yellow flowers embroidered on the sides of the heels. or maybe he just loved them because he loved you.

"hi matty!"

the moment the endearment was out of your mouth, theo's lovesick stare turned into a glare. he had no idea that you were even acquainted with mattheo, let alone that you had a nickname for him.

"hey there, y/n." mattheo, the cocky bastard, had a shit eating grin on his face that told theo that he knew exactly why your sudden arrival had irked him. "have you met theodore yet?"

your face twisted a little and a redness crept up your neck, settling on your cheeks. you muttered a quick no, clearly embarrassed about something.

"hi theodore. i'm y/n." you extended your hand towards him and theo was certain he'd explode if he didn't get the chance to touch your skin. so, with more eagerness than was probably necessary, theo took your small hand in his own.

now would've been the perfect time to do something flirty like compliment you or press a gentle kiss to your fingers. but when theo opened his mouth, something else entirely came out.

"don't call me that."

your face fell and you snatched your hand back to pull nervously along the ends of your hair. shit, shit, shit. that came out completely wrong.

don't call me that?? what kind of asshole said stuff like that to a girl he liked? honestly, you could call him whatever you want so long as you said it in that sweet voice of yours.

"oh. sorry."

"i just mean-- theo. i'm theo... to you..." theo's tongue felt too large for his mouth as he stumbled to get his thoughts to come out of his stupid mouth correctly. "you can call me theo. if you want."

mattheo was trying, and failing, to hide his snicker as he watched his best friend make a complete fool of himself. it wasn't very often that theodore the womanizer became so flustered for a piece of ass. of course, that was the catalyst here. you were clearly far more to theodore than just another piece of ass. that much was abundantly clear to mattheo based just off this interaction alone.

"well, good night, matty... and theo." you said his name hesitantly, almost as if you were worried the boy might spaz out again. with another breathtaking smile, you turned on your back heel and fluttered out of the library.

only after he watched the heavy oak doors close behind you did theo finally allow his head to thud against the desk.

mattheo had given up on hiding his laughter and was inches away from crying actual tears of amusement. he caught his breath momentarily, if only to mock theo's earlier fumble.

"don't call me that?" another fit of giggles stopped him mid-thought. "merlin, theodore, do you like this girl or not?"

theo waved his arms out in front of him in a gesture that was surely meant to be interpreted as "clearly i fucking do". mattheo was inclined to agree with the sentiment. he was most certainly down bad for this little hufflepuff.

"don't worry theo, daphne and i will help you out."

theo really should've known better than to accept help from his crazy best friend, and, if possible, his crazier girlfriend. but after what could only be described as a pathetic first meeting, he would try anything.

"fine."

"oh, c'mon y/n!"

you were uncharacteristically unamused by daphne's antics at the moment. you weren't really sure what she was playing at, but you did know for certain that her plan would land you an awful potions grade.

professor slughorn had been gracious enough to allow you to choose your own partners for today's assignment. the catch was that you weren't sure what you'd be brewing until after you were paired up. this shouldn't have been too much of a problem except, you were abysmal at potions.

daphne had insisted on being your partner, which you didn't understand the benefit of since your friend was equally as awful as you were. "daph, if we partner together, we'll fail."

daphne faced you with a pleading puppy-eyed look that you hadn't known any slytherin capable of producing.

"please. you're my only option to not get stuck with enzo."

as if on cue, the dark haired boy's robes caught on fire as he attempted to light the flame under his cauldron a few stations back. a rather girly yelp left him as he shoved his robe off and onto the floor before stomping on it a few good times to suffocate the fire.

you winced in sympathy towards daphne, still silently scanning the room to see who else might rescue you from a failing grade.

hermione would normally be your first choice, but draco had unfortunately decided not to skip today and snagged his girlfriend before anyone else could. you noticed theo sat next to a grinning mattheo two rows behind you.

you'd only just met the boy yesterday, but you could tell by the disbelieving frown on his face that he was unhappy with his partner. theo was amazing at potions and you were certain he normally paired with blaise, who was the most semi-competent slytherin of the lot when it came to potions. but for some reason, blaise was paired with pansy today. neither of them looked upset by the arrangement, so you tried to put it out of your head and focus on your own situation.

which brought you back to now. the amortentia that you were supposed to be brewing was notably lacking in both luster and pink-ness. it smelled like moldy old socks, which you knew by the mouthwatering aroma in the air that it was not supposed to smell like that.

after nearly 45 minutes of torture, slughorn finally called an end to the brewing and made his rounds about the room. surprisingly, only three potions were made correctly.

hermione's, which you knew would happen after you saw her smacking draco away from the ingredients and cauldron the whole time. pansy and blaise, who despite having succeeded, looked thoroughly worn out from the endeavor. and theo's. it was more shocking than anything that he'd managed to accomplish anything with mattheo as his partner.

"wonderful, class! now, i want everyone to gather around one of the three successful cauldrons around the room. go on." slughorn waited patiently until the class had split itself somewhat evenly into three groups all huddled around each workstation. theo was the closest to you, so you and daphne joined their group.

"now, with your classmates, take turns and tell each other what you smell."

unsurprised when daphne and mattheo smelled each other, you leaned forward hesitantly for your turn. you didn't really know what you'd smell. on your first whiff, two smells in particular hit you hard. "i smell books and wildflowers. and... something else. something... fainter."

slughorn leaned into your small group with a delighted smile. "amazing, miss y/l/n. it's common to smell faint hints of something in amortentia when either the brewer has not acknowlegded a love of something or when a love for that thins is still developing. go on. tell us what it is my dear girl."

"i think it's... fresh cut grass? i can't place where from, though."

"that's alright."

slughorn slinked away without any further explanation. two girls you didn't recognize went next, not at all caught off guard by their smells. then, it was theo's turn and you found yourself more interested in what he smelled than you cared to admit out loud.

"i smell my nonna's fettucine, the grass on the quidditch field, and... some kind of flower."

always quick on the upswing, your face reddened as you realized that the grass you caught wind of earlier was in fact, quidditch field grass. and based off the knowing smirk from mattheo paired with his not so subtle glances between you a theodore, you smelled each other.

the class dispersed shortly afterward, thankfully with no new revelations for your already flimsy love-life.

what you hadn't expected, was for theo to be waiting for you outside the classroom door.

"oh, hi theo. i thought you might've left already."

"i tried. but mattheo threatened to die my hair green, so."

you tried not to be disappointed that he hadn't wanted to stay and talk to you. a long huff from theo had you looking up from the stonework of the floor.

he said something to himself under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "merlin i'm awful at this". before you could ask him to clarify, he'd taken your hand in his and brought it up to his mouth for a soft kiss.

"let me start over. hi, i'm theodore and i've been unashamedly in love with you for the past forever. join me in hogsmeade this weekend?"

#slytherin boys #slytherin #theodore nott #theo nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #slytherin boys x reader

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ivyues · 8 months ago

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Unlocked Trust: Stray Kids' reactions to the sharing of a phone PIN

Bang Chan (your)

You’re in the kitchen preparing a snack when your phone buzzes on the counter.

“Chris, can you check that? My hands are full,” you call out.

“Sure,” he says, walking over.

“The pin’s 0921,” you add casually.

He freezes, eyes widening for a moment before he chuckles. “Wait, did you just give me your PIN without hesitation?”

“Yeah, why?” you reply, glancing at him.

“No reason. Just didn’t think you’d trust me that much,” he teases, smirking as he unlocks the phone.

“Are you seriously doubting my trust now?” you quip, rolling your eyes.

He checks the message, his expression softening as he reads it. “It’s your mom. She says hi. By the way, I’m remembering your PIN as proof of my VIP access.”

Lee Know (your)

“Minho, can you look at my calendar real quick? I think I have an appointment tomorrow, but I can’t remember the time,” you say, restricted by the cat in your arms.

“Where’s your phone?” he asks.

“On the couch. Pin’s 0412.”

He picks it up, muttering, “If this isn’t my birthday, I’d be disappointed.”

“Why would it be your birthday?”

“Because you should’ve honored me with such a privilege,” he deadpans.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He quickly checks the calendar, then grins at you. “Yeah, 3 PM tomorrow. Oh, and I’m changing your PIN to my birthday now.”

“Excuse me?” you tease, pretending to be offended. “You think I’m just going to hand over my PIN to you like that?”

He raises an eyebrow, locking your phone with a smirk. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Changbin (his)

He’s driving while you’re in the passenger seat, and his phone buzzes.

“Can you reply to that text for me?” he asks.

“Sure, what’s your PIN?”

“0309,” he says casually.

You pause, typing it in. “Isn’t that your mom’s birthday?”

“Yeah,” he admits with a grin. “She’s the queen of my life. But you’re a close second.”

“Wow,” you say, pretending to be offended. “Second place, huh?”

He laughs, glancing at you. “Fine, you’re tied for first. Happy now?”

You give him a side-eye, smirking. “Tied for first? I’ll take it… for now.”

He chuckles, eyes back on the road. “Don’t worry. You’re first in my heart.”

Hyunjin (your)

You’re folding laundary when you realize your phone is across the room.

“Jinnie, can you put on some music? My phone’s over there.”

“Sure. What’s the password?”

“1010,” you say, not looking up.

“1010? That’s so symmetrical. Why?”

“Because it’s easy to remember,” you reply.

He types it in, then teases, “Guess I should memorize this for emergencies. Or when I need to snoop.”

You laugh. “Snoop all you want. My search history is just memes and dog videos.”

He swipes through your phone, humming along to the music that starts playing. You glance at him, amused by how he seems to have completely settled in. “Just don’t start getting any funny ideas with my PIN.”

However, since that day, you've noticed a significant increase in selfies of your boyfriend filling your camera roll.

Han (his)

He’s lying on the couch, arms wrapped around a giant pillow, while his phone buzzes on the coffee table.

“Jisung, your phone’s ringing.”

“Can you answer it for me?” he mumbles sleepily.

“What’s your PIN?”

“4321,” he says, eyes still closed.

You laugh as you unlock it. “Seriously? 4321? That’s your password?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” you tease, “except a toddler could guess it.”

He opens one eye and grins. “But you’re the only one who knows now, so it’s genius.”

You raise an eyebrow, a playful smirk on your face. “Genius, huh? I’ll make sure to tell everyone you’re a mastermind.”

He groans, pulling the pillow over his face with a dramatic sigh. “That's how you abuse my trust.”

You laugh, putting his phone back onto the couch. “Your secret’s safe with me. But just so you know, this is going down as one of your most questionable moves.”

Felix (your)

You’re baking cookies, hands sticky with dough, when your phone buzzes on the counter.

“Lix, can you check my phone? I think it’s a text from my sister.”

“Yeah, what’s your code?”

“0420,” you say.

He snorts as he unlocks it. “Isn’t that the date we first met?”

You grin. “Yep. Thought you’d like that.”

He looks at the text, then smiles warmly. “Your sister says hi and asks when we’re baking together again.”

“Tell her whenever she wants,” you say.

He leans in, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “Will do. And by the way, I like how you made our first meeting a memorable one… for both of us.”

Seungmin (your)

You’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through your laptop, when your phone buzzes beside you.

“Seungmin, can you check my phone? I think it’s a notification from work.”

“Sure. What’s your PIN?”

“0525,” you say casually.

He freezes, then smirks. “That’s not my birthday, is it?”

You laugh. “No, it’s my dog’s birthday.”

“Of course it is,” he mutters, unlocking the phone. “I guess I shouldn’t expect to rank higher than your dog.”

You glance up, teasing. “It’s almost the same thing, right?”

He raises an eyebrow, a little smirk playing at his lips. “Me and your dog? Really?”

“Yeah, well, my dog’s loyal, cute, and always there when I need cuddles,” you reply.

“Okay, okay,” he sighs dramatically, “I’ll take second place… but I’m keeping my spot as your favorite human.”

You grin. “Tied for first, remember?”

He looks at you, still smiling. “I’ll take it.”

I.N (your)

You’re sitting on the couch, reading a book when your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

“Innie, can you check my phone? I think I got a message from the group chat.”

“Sure. What’s your PIN?”

“0802,” you say absently.

He freezes for a moment, eyes wide, then grins. “Isn’t that my birthday?”

“Yep,” you reply, still focused on your book.

He chuckles, his voice light with excitement. “I can’t believe you gave me your PIN so easily. I guess I’m extra special, huh?”

“You’re the only one who knows it now,” you say teasingly, glancing at him.

He laughs, checking your phone. “It’s from the group chat, asking when we're all hanging out next. And don’t worry, I’ll keep your PIN secret… unless I need to buy something nice for myself.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

masterlist

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orimuraa · 4 days ago

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• Falling for you - OT7 ↳ ┊: bored! - ningning

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆when filming a silly challenge goes wrong, and you’re falling for them—literally ⨾

۶ৎ idol!enhypen x 8th member fem!reader┆fluff, crack┆petnames, pure chaos┆wc 901

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: thank you to the anon who requested >< i lowkey panicked and didn’t know how to write out this idea so i hope it’s okay TT this is the video it’s based off of from the request >3<

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

𝑳𝒆𝒆 𝑯𝒆𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈 - 이희승

"are you sure this is safe?...." you ask nervously, suspiciously eyeing the video heeseung wanted to recreate. it was simple, just a cute way of picking you up, but you had your doubts. "yes! angel pleaseee," he gives you his bambi eyes, making you give in almost immediately. you have sunoo film for you, as heeseung sweeps you off your feet, into his arms, successfully holding you up. unfortunately though, he gets a bit too clumsy and ends up turning too close to the wall, knocking your head slightly into the side. you yelp, tumbling out of his arms and lying flat on the ground. "i am never trusting you with this again."

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑱𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒈 - 박종성

after your "incident" with heeseung, it seemed that it was now a challenge among the boys to see who could do it perfectly. to jay, it was gonna be a piece of cake! he was way stronger than heeseung and he could a hundred percent succeed. "jay, no." you deadpanned, not letting history repeat itself. "too bad! you don't have a choice!" jay shouts out, nodding to jake to film. he hoists you up by your waist, securing you in his arms as you protest to put you down. "jay wait-" too late. his hand has already slipped and snagged your skirt, making you flinch and roll out of his arms, straight onto the floor just like you did with heeseung. "park jongseong, count your days."

𝑺𝒊𝒎 𝑱𝒂𝒆𝒚𝒖𝒏 - 심재윤

somehow, after jake watched and filmed you and jay's...failure, he wanted to give it a go as well! how hard could it be to lift you up, twirl you around, and then get a million views on tiktok for it? turns out, harder than he thought. "alright hee, start," he motions for heeseung to start filming, ready to claim victory and the best tiktok ever. he comes up to you, easily lifting you up by your legs and waist, leaving you whining as you already have so many bruises from the other two boys who dropped you. "ah- wait-" somehow, you managed to tickle jake by just existing in his arms, making him giggle and drop to the floor, letting you yet again, roll out of his arms and onto the ground. you lay there, face down, contemplating life, and your choice in members.

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒏 - 박성훈

how hard could it be that all of the hyungs had failed to film a simple, charming video with you? it was now a full on competition to see who could actually succeed in winning this stupid tiktok in the enhypen dorms and you were just about ready to throw each and every one of your members out the window, and let you and your manager, yuki, get both dorms. "princess, can we try the challenge?" sunghoon asks, watching as you sigh and turn to him. "if you drop me, i will come into your room at night, and disorganize each and every drawer and collection you have," you warn. he tells you to wrap your arm around his neck as he hoist you up by your bum. he actually succeeds and twirls you around, until he walks through the doorway, knocking your head into the frame. the next morning, he woke up with his belts secured in his glasses box.

𝑲𝒊𝒎 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒐𝒐 - 김선우

sunoo actually had very little faith in himself that he could succeed in the challenge, but he wanted to attempt nonetheless. "sun...i don't think you should be doing this-" you state nervously, hoping he would agree and then pass on it. "it's fine! i got this," he smiles, swiftly hooking his arms around you and hoisting you up, princess style. "hey i think i got i-" his hand slips from your side, causing his grip on your legs to weaken and then ultimately take you and him down to the floor. "yeah i don't think you got it," you grumble, rubbing your knee. "sorry," he laughs halfheartedly. "i'm burning your mint choco."

𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝑱𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒘𝒐𝒏 - 양정원

jungwon was actually the one you had expected to succeed because of his experience in carrying all the members in choreo. "wonnie, i trust you with this," you warn, praying he wouldn't drop you. all he does is smile, his dimples appearing, as he scoops you up with one arm, wrapping the other around you to support your bum. it's all going well until your hair supposedly tickles his nose, making him flinch and loosen his grip on you. this cases you to drop straight out of his hold, crumpling to the floor. "i trusted you," you whine, still collapsed on the floor. maybe he's no longer certified to carry the members.

𝑵𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒂 𝑹𝒊𝒌𝒊 - 西村力

ni-ki planned on beating his hyungs, knowing he was stronger than most of them. "ready to beat the hyungs?" ni-ki smirks, rolling up his sleeves. he had sunghoon film, ready to catch his success on camera. you wrap your arm around his neck, letting him use the same strategy sunghoon used, and he picked you up by the bum. from there, he quickly adjusted you in his arms, safely securing you and twirling your around. he gently sets you down, very pleased with himself that he didn't drop you like his hyungs. "power maknae for sure," you laugh, grateful this dumb challenge came to an end. in the end, ni-ki managed to rack up millions of views, adding to his nonchalant resume. but engene definitely got a kick out of the whole story.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication, @melodiessvy, @soona-huh, @kiwicup, @yuuuraaa, @manariee, @ryuunaaa, @biradoobee, @haniipie, @sojumimi

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cute-sucker · 9 months ago

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rafe with a girl who’s very studious and serious about school and one day she fails a big test after studying for it for hours and she just sobbing while he’s trying to calm her down :(

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ "THIS DOESN'T MAKE SENSE...I FAILED RAFE! I FAILED," you sobbed into the phone, holding the phone to your chest. you can hear a slight sigh at the end of the phone, and then his soothing voice.

"fuck. is that the one you studied for hours on end? the one i had to test you during our date?"

you hiccup, swaying from side to side as you wipe your eyes, "yes rafe. that's the one. i studied so hard, and i got a sixty percent." you can hardly get yourself to say the number, nevertheless look at the wrinkled paper that you checked over and over again. when you got it, you believed that there must have been something wrong. wrong marking, different grade, switched up grade, sabotage, but once you made it to the teacher and they told you what it was...you couldn't help but gulp with despair. it truly was a bad grade, there was no mistake except the one you made.

that was a d. that meant that your shiny gpa was down the drain. you couldn't think straight as you stared at the red-marked grade. and you got it in history. even worse. the one class you couldn't even keep up. your grades were everything that kept you together, you studied everywhere—the bus, the grocery store, the bookstore, and the fancy country club that rafe brought you to—

but it hadn't worked. so what could you do? you just held the paper, tears dripping down your chin, you heard rafe's voice again, "i'm coming over."

suddenly you're scrambling for the phone again, "no, forget about it. i'm a mess, and i failed, and you have an important meeting probably."

then you hear a slight shuffle on this side, almost as if he's moving papers around.

"nah' i'll be there in ten."

before you can tell him that it's fine, he hangs the phone and you're left with trembling hands on your phone. you get up, dusting yourself off, swallowing your pride as you look at the paper again.

rafe's always been so supportive of your studies, thick eyebrows furrowed when he hears your rants about your grades. see, you knew he wasn't the brightest, but he held on his own with you. he let you spend his money on different tutors, different college club things, different textbooks and apps you needed to get the best grade. yet...here nothing had worked.

so there you were, pathetic and sniffling as you leaned near the doorway. after a few minutes you heard the key turn, and in came rafe cameron. he was in a nice polo shirt, biceps straining, and a concerned look on his face as he looked down at you.

you couldn't even hold yourself together, as you crumbled around him, "i failed rafe. i failed. i—"

"shh, shhh," he muttered, eyes flickering around the cramp space you called home. your papers were sprawn on the floor, and a soup that you'd made earlier was laid cold and forgotten. dishes were stuffed in the dishwasher, and there was one dim light on.

he was almost too big in your small apartment, but you could see the earnestness in his eyes as he treaded carefully. picking you up, he muttered softly to you.

"now, i don't even know what to do rafe! i don't know what to do."

"the grade doesn't define you'know? that's all bull," he started passionately, and then gestured to himself, "i mean look at me. barely passed high school but i'm doing fine. more than fine." rafe muttered, scratching the back of his head as he watched you sniffle.

you let out a soft wail, "but it does matter! i—" then you just shake your head and grab him by the shirt. then you decide that it's not worth it. it's not worth to scream or fight. you're too tired for that, instead, you just lean into his warmth.

"i just want to be close to you, forget about it all."

suddenly rafe softens, "yea. c'mere," then he bundles you up, and you feel yourself succumbed to sleep

EXTRA:

"hey and if matters at all, you're a 100% for me," rafe muttered into your hair, as you woke up. you rubbed your eyes, before you squirmed away from him, scowling at him. "i think that's an a+"

you groan. "too soon?" he murmured, pulling you in closer.

"way too soon.

"yea, shoulda known. sorry."

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rememberwren · 1 year ago

Text

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Easy breezy beautiful premature ejaculation. Hypersexual!Simon/fem!reader. Discussion of edging. Cumming untouched.

“If we do this,” he says around his cigarette, “then we do it my way.”

“I’ve never done this before,” you admit cautiously, turning your hands palm up as if to show you have no weapons, no tricks up your sleeve. I’m innocuous, your posture says. His own says: I’m still deciding, with his tense shoulders and narrowed eyes. “This weird, femdom thing. So I appreciate your guidance. Because I know fuck all—“

“You’re no femdom—Jesus, fuck, I can’t talk about it anymore,” he grits out. He takes a step back and away, creating distance, exhaling a plume of smoke that makes him look strangely ethereal in the evening light. Against your will, your eyes flicker down to just below his belt buckle and oh god. He’s hard.

“Just from talking about it?”

The look he gives you could melt ice. It could sublimate it. You cringe, knowing you were in the wrong, wishing you could reach out and snatch the words right out of the air. He’s trusting you with this. The last thing he needs is to feel like a joke.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I shouldn’t have—you’re not a, a science experiment or something—“

“Wouldn’t mind that so much. Might figure out what the fuck’s wrong with me. Less interested in being treated like I’m part of a circus troupe,” he grumbles. He drops the cigarette and grinds it to ash beneath his boot. He asks: “Inside?”

Gingerly, so gingerly, he undoes the button of his jeans and unzips them. He holds his breath as he works the denim down his thick thighs. God, is he built: muscles made for more than just show. His history is inscribed on his body in its strength and in its scars, scars of white and pale pinks that darken to purple in the lamplight. He’s wearing boxer briefs, straining at the front from his erection, and they are soaked. You’re surprised that he hasn’t soaked straight through to his jeans.

“Don’t look,” he grits out through his teeth. You look away, unsure where to cast your eyes to, and settle for shutting them. He explains: “Can’t take the way you’re looking at me.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, feeling your face flush hot.

“Just—let me—” you hear the sound of fabric rustling. He kicks off his jeans—you can tell by the soft sound of them landing against the floor off the side of the bed. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” you ask, eyes squeezed shut, hands clenching in your lap.

“Nothing just—fuck. No way I’m going to last.” He sounds bitterly disappointed.

“That’s the point of this, right? To get better at lasting?”

He sighs, a long-suffering sound, like this discussion is well worn and frustrating to him. Something in you shrivels, and it takes your body with it as best as it can, sending your shoulders hunching inwards, your head ducking down. You pick at one of your nails by feel alone, eyes still closed, and nearly jump when his fingers brush your knee.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “You’re right. That’s what this is for. Might as well get used to embarrassing myself.”

“That’s the spirit."

He snorts. More fabric rustles, and at length he says: “Alright. You can look. Just…you can look.”

You open your eyes hesitantly. His cock is right there—and Jesus. It makes sense, proportionally, but it is frightening in a very real sense. You’re already doing the math, measuring in your head and comparing to your past precedents. Ghost would have them all beat, quite comfortably, in length and girth. He’s cut, which surprises you, but isn’t a turnoff. He keeps himself landscaped nicely, which you appreciate, even if it isn’t necessary.

He is flushed a ruddy pink, the head darker than the rest. As you stare, it jerks, a bead of precum welling at the tip. Suddenly one of his large, scarred hands reaches down and grips the base of his cock in a painful hold, hissing in a breath through his teeth.

“Can’t look at me like that,” he admonishes again.

“Like what?” you ask, a little defensive. You’re just looking! You have to look, right?

“Like you want it,” he mutters.

God, does he really have no idea? No inkling of how badly you want to sit on that monster in his hands? No notion of how wet you’ve been since your conversation in the parking lot? Sure you aren't like him, not about to spring off if the breeze was just right, but you are anything but unaffected. Still, it seems like the wrong moment to educate him on your attraction to him and his cock, so you do your best to morph your expression into one of unimpressed ambivalence and hoped it helps.

“I’m ready when you are,” you say, interrupting his deep breathing exercises. He nods but doesn’t give you the go-ahead, not for another minute or two, until his chest stops heaving and he can remove his hand from the vice grip he has around his balls. His cock has a near purple tinge, and you wonder if maybe he should have rubbed one out in the bathroom beforehand just to take the edge off. Oh well, it’s a thought for next time.

“Go ahead,” he says, like he’s giving you permission to pull the trigger on him during a game of Russian Roulette.

You reach out—his cock twitches, a nice warm welcome if you’ve ever seen one, but you hesitate. Your hand is dry. Should you ask for lube? How does he usually jerk off? Dry? You have a feeling he doesn’t mind the discomfort; he seems like he has a self-destructive streak a mile wide. His eyes are fixed at a point on the ceiling, his chest unmoving as he holds his breath. You decide that some sort of lubrication is better than none—so you lick a broad stripe up your palm.

“Fuck,” he whispers, a little punched-out sound. Sometime between opening your mouth and licking your palm, his eyes had transferred from the ceiling to your face, to the flash of your tongue and your wet palm. His eyes widen, irises swallowed up by the pupils, and he says again, more urgently: “Oh fuck.”

He reaches down to grip the base of his cock again, but it is too late: he cums. His abs are thrown into sharp relief as he tenses with each pulse, cock jerking against his brutal grip. He doesn’t even jerk himself off—just ruins it as you stare with your mouth open and your hand wet, watching him splatter seed against the coarse line of hair that runs from his belly button to his cock all because he watched you lick your hand.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, throwing one arm across his eyes, breathing heavily. His mouth is flushed a pretty red, like he has been kissing. His hand clenches into a fist as he says: “I’m sorry. I tried not to.”

“It’s okay,” you say, your nearly brain blue-screening from how turned on you are. You lower your hand and wipe it dry on your leggings. “That’s what this practice is for—so you don’t do it when it really counts. We can try again tomorrow or something.”

He snorts. “Tomorrow? Give me five fucking minutes.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader

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xan-izme · 11 months ago

Text

Double life 13 (ATSV x reader x batfam)

summary: You can't get a break. Not even for a second

TW: Angst, mental health issues, cursing, hallucinations, mentions of death

Part 12, Part 14

Bruce was the world's greatest detective. And a father. So, he was bound to pick up on a few things. He had suspicions of you hiding something. But he assumed it was due to it being an effect of losing your mother.

But ever since Jason began to stay at the manor longer than a day or two(which was surprising) he began to notice small things. He began to notice how you two would often be together. Not as often as you were with Damian of course. But wherever you were Jason was there as well.

He assumed you two were just getting along. And he was happy about that. But he would catch you two giving each other small knowing looks. The two of you whispering to each other or giving each other signals.

Yes, everyone else in the house does this with each other as well. But the way you and Jason would do it was more like a secret. A secret only you two would have with each other. Maybe it was some inside joke or some odd bonding thing you two had.

Bruce tried not to pry into your life too much. Especially after the argument you two had.

But the more he sat and thought about the argument instead of sulking. Something he said to you ticked you off. Of course, his words got you pissed, but he has this, itching feeling that his words meant far more than you led on.

So, he put you in therapy. And might have bribed the therapist to install a nanny-cam so he can see and listen in on your sessions. . . yes not his most honorable moment. But that itching feeling just kept growing and growing.

So, every session you had. He was watching. And he was slowly seeing you in a more, brighter light. You would laugh as you crack up jokes. Your smile made him smile. The way you would play with some of the toy's Mrs. Dean had warmed his heart. (He might have bought a few dozen plushies to give to you soon)

You spoke about him. And you had no resentment. You even spoke about how you wanted to apologize to him. How you felt like you were in the wrong.

Bruce honestly felt like he didn't deserve you at this point. You were so kindhearted. You spoke about him and everyone else with so much love.

But don't think Bruce didn't pick up those small moments of hesitations. When Mrs. Dean would try and dig deeper into you in any emotional way involving just you. There would be this, small pause that felt like more than a minute. The look in your eyes. The same look he saw you with at that party with your mother's side of the family.

He knows that look far too well.

You hate yourself.

This realization. Kind of broke him a little. His little girl hates herself. Why didn't he see this sooner? he feels like a fool. He's trying to piece everything together. Why would you hate yourself. Your perfect. A little broken. But that just makes Bruce love you more.

As he's trying to piece things together. To understand fully of what was going on with you. There were always blank spots that he couldn't fill in. This was a puzzle. I not a hard one but not easy either. He was able to dig deeper in on you.

He went as far as to hacking into your phone. Yes. His overstepping it but he wasn't going into your messages or socials. Only your call history and photos. It was very sad to see most of your recent calls were to your mother's number, of course those calls were not answered.

Your photos were filled with family pictures and- odd. Pictures that seemed to be in an almost hidden file was filled with unfamiliar faces. He scans the faces through his system. But he found nothing. That, that was odd.

Tim walked into the Batcave, he wanted to report to Bruce and tell him he was going to be playing games with you tonight instead of going out on patrol. As he walked down the stairs. He hears what sounds like a recording of a woman talking.

He's brow arched up curiously as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Bruce doesn't seem to notice him yet.

"You don't seem to be the type to hold a grudge."

The voice of the woman who spoke just now was unfamiliar to Tim.

"Oh no. I hold grudges."

Another voice spoke. Younger. It sounded a lot like. . .

"If I fully give you my trust and loyalty. I expect it not to be broken or abused."

It was you. A recording of you speaking to someone. Why would Bruce be listening to this.

"Uh . . .Bruce?" Tim finally spoke up. Bruce turns around, looking a little like he was caught off guard. Too focused on listening to the recording. Tim walked closer looking confused.

"What are you-" Tim was cut off as your voice was heard once again.

"If I give my trust and loyalty to someone. I give them my heart."

Tim frowns. He's realizing what Bruce was listening to. "Is that- Are you spying on Y/n's therapy sessions?"

Bruce was quick to shut off the recording. Letting out a deep sigh.

"Weren't you the one who didn't want us to invade her privacy?" Tim was reasonable. You going to therapy is actually a good thing, because at least someone in their family was going to therapy.

But just to find out Bruce was spying on your sessions was just. . . disappointing.

"For a good reason." Bruces statement just angered Tim even more.

"Good reason? Bruce, she's a 16-year-old girl who's pouring her heart out to someone you paid to listen to her problems. If you were going to just going to do this. Talking to her would have been a better option." Tim crossed his arms with a deep frown.

"She won't talk to me Tim. . . she's hiding something." Bruce sighed as he looked back down at the recording.

"That doesn't mean you should be doing whatever this is!"

As Tim and Bruce argued, Dick came down with a box of pizza and a smile.

"Hey, I brought Pizza-" Dick cut himself off as he stumbled upon Tim and Bruce arguing.

"Whoa, whoa. What's going on here?" Dick walks up to the two with a slight nervous smile. Tim doesn't look all too happy.

"He's been spying on Y/n's therapy sessions!" Tim's words caused Dick's smile to slowly drop.

"Oh. . . oh Bruce that's not. . ."

Dick was trying so hard not to give Bruce a look of hard judgment. But in his attempt to do that his face forms cringe.

A school trip to a museum was giving you Daja'vu from your last field trip. Didn't go well due to the result of getting bitten by a spider and having long-lasting trauma from there on out.

You stared at a painting, a spider devouring a butterfly who was unfortunate enough to be caught in its web.

"Kind of a sad painting don't you think?" Someone spoke up.

You turn your head and see Jason. You don't seem surprised; you slowly turn back to the painting.

"Didn't think paint museums were your thing." You say as your eyes stayed trained on the spider eating the poor butterfly. Jason couldn't help but chuckle. "What do you think my thing is exactly?" He asks as he tilts his head while staring at the painting with you.

"Bird cage maybe. Isn't that where a bird like you should be?" You spoke almost mockingly. "Actually, I feel like that painting over there would be more of your taste." Your head jesters to a painting behind the two of you. Jason glanced back to see a painting of a bird being attacked by a black snake with green eyes.

What was painfully ironic about the painting, was that the bird was a robin.

". . ." That was a personal jab. Jason would usually get angry and curse someone out. But this was you, and he honestly understands your hate. Even when you say something cruel, he knows it's not aimed to him directly. But to yourself.

Jason stared back at the painting of the spider and butterfly. Then stared at you. You stared at the painting with, sympathy . . .?

No. Thats not it. Empathy maybe?

"The butterfly, do you feel bad for it?" His body facing you while his eyes stayed focus on your expression.

"It's the spider I pity."

Jason's brow raises from your words. "The spider?"

You stay silent for a moment.

"People hate the spider, for something it can't control. Kind of unfair if you ask me." Your stare didn't seem to be focused on the painting, seeming to be beyond that.

"Your weird" Jason mumbled. Not fully understanding what you were meaning.

Suddenly your spider senses spiked up. You were quick to grab Jason and pull him away causing you two to fall to the ground, right before a bomb was set off.

Jason was quick to get onto his feet

"Stay." Was all he said before running off. You got off the ground and scanned the area before running off to try and help others to get up and evacuate. Your spider senses were going crazy. People were screaming and the building was shaking.

you were so distracted you didn't notice something rolling to your feet. A smoke bomb. But the moment you noticed it, it was too late. Red smoke exploded into your face.

The sound of a ticking clock, the lights dimmed. You were in a chair, blinking a few times. Trying to process how you got here, you look up to see Mrs. Dean. Sitting on the chair across from you.

". . . Mrs. Dean?" Confusion was quick to take over you.

The air felt eerie, and oddly damp. You glanced around and see your in her office. You see Mrs. Dean talking. Her mouth moving but you heard nothing.

"I- I can't hear you-"

"Do you blame yourself?"

You stayed silent for a moment, Confused. You were getting this, unsettling feeling, causing you to grip the onto the chair you seem to not be able to get off from.

"What?" You spoke, almost in a whisper

"Well, it's quite common in this situation for a patient to feel a sort of guilt"

Your brows furrowed by Mrs. Deans statement.

"What situation. . .?"

Mrs. Dean doesn't answer. She freezes almost. No movement. Like she's been paused.

Your surroundings glitch.

And you're standing outside. In the rain, ruins around you. You couldn't process anything. Because you were staring down.

Starring down at a motionless body. The face. She doesn't have a face.

Where is her face. She's supposed to have a face, right? why doesn't she have a face? What is it supposed to look like?-

. . . who is this?

Your supposed to know who this is. But you don't. Why can't you remember? This isn't right. . . .

different faces glitch onto the woman. But none of them were right.

Why can't you remember?

what's wrong with you?

Why can't you remember?

Suddenly your body began to move. Your hands slowly move up to reveal blood. Your breathing increased, panic, dread. Utter dread.

"AAAAHHHHH!!!"

"Shit!" Jason struggled to hold you down. Bruce shouted for Dick to open the pod to get you out of this hallucinating state you were in due to the fear toxin. Your blood curdling screams echoed throughout the Batcave.

Your body thrashed as you screamed and cried. Your screaming was throwing Jason off. And it hurt. It hurt seeing you like this more than he would think. Bruce took hold of you and told Jason to grab a syringe to knock you out.

Bruce held onto you tight. You screamed out.

"Please! No- NO NO PLEASE NO!"

Jason ran back with the syringe and stuck it into your neck. You flinched, your head falling back as your eyelids slowly close.

"Mama . . ." You whispered, only audible for Jason and Bruce to hear. Giving the two men a few seconds of silence before Bruce quickly carried you to the pod.

--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__-

A/n: Yup, I'm back. Hope y'all are having a good school year for those in school. Hope y'all liked this one and feel free to give me any tips on making more unsettling seance (I just noticed I reached 1,007 followers. You guys going crazy with this)

@huening-ly,@mariadvorak, @superherosdystopiafreak, @chelluv, @houseissofine, @esposadomd, @greyeyedmockingbird, @1-800-daisy, @c0c0-puffsxxx @arthurswife, @h0rr0r-10ver-69, @josiepapen, @natashanice165, @amber-content, @mahbeanz @azurewisteria, @seraph101, @skepvids, @lara20aral, @iwasveronica, @jackrabbitem, @nickey-diano, @idonthaveanameforthisacc, @sekidekiboombeki, @masters-blog, @lulpeepkins, @sgarrush-blush, @redsakura101, @danart501, @definitely-not-sammie, @khaleesihavilliard, @reallynotsoconfident, @uknowimdumb, @bat1212

#atsv x reader #miles morales #miguel o'hara #x daughter!reader #bruce wayne x daughter!reader #damian wayne #batfam x reader #bruce wayne #dick grayson #angst #delusional #death mention tw #mental health #hallucinations tw #tim drake #jason todd #alfred pennyworth

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96z · 3 months ago

Text

i know many of you do not give a damn and that is a problem in its own regard but i am posting this in hopes that those who are unaware and who value their morals and their integrity over music will hopefully take something from it.

this seventeen album should be boycotted at all costs. i have been a carat for seven years now and i have a lot of love (as well as frustration) for these guys. i am endlessly proud of them for making it ten years in an industry designed to tear them down and wear them out, to take everything from human beings that it can— and then some. however i cannot allow this to overshadow the negative things surrounding this album, nor should you.

i will preface by saying that seventeen will not see a huge impact from a boycott. they make pennies on the dime per stream, $0.003 cents. seventeen are also far past comfortable financially, they are by all means rich, particularly woozi. they will be a-ok. this will not cause any damage to them outside of potential bruised egos, which is an unfortunate impact however not more important than the overall issues.

i also want to say that we know that boycotting is an effective tool to put pressure on companies to change their ways, but it needs to be an organized effort. it's not something you do for a few months and give up. it's also not something you pick and choose with — you don't avoid streaming songs and then buy a lightstick from the weverse shop because it was pretty, or attend a concert.

that said, you all should be boycotting hybe anyway. this is for multiple reasons. first is their employment and collaboration with people such as scooter braun, a staunch zionist who was outright thanked by the official israel twitter account. when scooter braun found out he was on the zionists in music twitter account, he said it was an honor and he never could've dreamed of such a thing happening to him. scooter braun has a long, problematic history i would encourage all of you to thoroughly research.

hybe has also recruited artists like johnny goldstein to work on their tracks. he is credited on enhypen, illit and txt tracks, and he has also worked closely with j-hope of bts. johnny goldstein is both a ccfp member as well as a former iof soldier. he is quite literally a child murderer and he is sitting in rooms with your favorite artists. that should infuriate you.

if that is not enough, consider the level of overwork that these artists have faced. seventeen is on their sixth album in approxiately 365 calendar days between whole group projects and individual unit projects. these all have one common factor: jihoon. he has produced six albums, short or otherwise, in one year. in one year, seventeen has also done one world tour, a japan tour, caratland, and headlined three festivals. does any of this sound sustainable for human beings? they are treated like products by their company, not human beings.

for these reasons there has been a boycott in place for over a year. many carats have chosen to break it out of 'love', but in reality, they are complicit in the mistreatment of their idols.

if none of this concerns you, there are also massive red flags with this current album.

first, bad influence, which makes up a third of the group songs on the album, is produced by pharrell who is a known zionist. in april 2024, in spite of the current social climate and despite readily available information, pharrell chose to accept an invitation to sing 'happy' to iof soldiers at a fundraising event. this is while carats in gaza are packing their photocards up while they flee their homes. pharrell made the conscious choice to be on the wrong side of history.

next, wonwoo's track credits el capitxn, who in march, took to instagram to brag that his company, vendors, produced a song for kanye's album which kanye himself said was based on 'antisemitic sounds'. they worked on the track ww3, which includes verses about epstein island, voting for djt, and 'rockin swastikas'. all he had to say regarding it was that he was 'proud of his boys' and 'they make it happen'.

you either stand in one of three places.

one, you believe seventeen does not have much autonomy. in that event, you should be angry and embarrassed that such individuals have their hands in their music, muddying everything seventeen is meant to stand for. you should not stand for it and the way to make a stand against it is by boycotting.

two, you believe seventeen does have autonomy and they have the ability to deny or to okay these things. if that is the case, you should feel frustration towards them for not doing their due diligence in these matters, when they are thirteen grown men with full, unrestricted access to the internet, when they have been called out for similar behavior before, when at least one of them has to know better. you can make that frustration known by boycotting.

or you don't really care, and at the end of the day you'll always be spineless, a so called 'real fan' who will buy into everything they do and reserve all your anger for those who want them to do better, who consistently call them out, instead of wishing they would make fewer mistakes. you will always buy the albums and the photocards and the concert tickets because you don't have the strength to be anything more than another cog in the capitalist machine. just know that you are not a fan, you are a consumer, and that your blind support and willingness to throw your money at every endeavor ultimately harms your artists before it helps them.

if you do care... take a stand. take a stand against mistreatment and overwork, against seventeen being pushed towards being another mass produced, western pandering act. take a stand towards seventeen's music having filthy hands involved in it everytime you look up. you should be embarrassed, you should be frustrated and you need to do something about it or nothing will ever change.

there should never be a time in modern history where we are proud for our favorite artists to work with zionists and people who shake hands with nazis. there is no excuse.

seventeen will survive losing streams and chart positions. they will live. and maybe their company will learn a valuable lesson for it. we have the power to do something and it's high time we wake up and do it, all of us.

nobody is saying you can’t listen. but instead of opening spotify up, download the tracks from a third party instead. they will be ok, i promise. boycotting takes no effort, it is literally an act of not doing something. if seventeen means something to you, this is how you should express it right now. please, i want better for them and you should as well.

#long post

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lcatala · 4 months ago

Text

Inspired by this post by @thanergetic-hyperlinks, I present to you

Tessellations of the Nine Houses

(Or "I can't really draw figurative art so my Locked Tomb fanarts are geometrical vector drawings")

"A tessellation or tiling is the covering of a surface, often a plane, using one or more geometric shapes, called tiles, with no overlaps and no gaps." — Wikipedia.

Making tilings themed after each necromantic House seems obvious: for each House you pick a tile with the same number of sides as the number of the House; but this does present some challenges for some of the Houses.

note 1: this might give the impression that I first decided on the symbols and then found patterns to match them in a very organized and motivated manner; in practice it was much more chaotic and multidirectional, the patterns informing the symbols as much as the symbols informed the patterns; this is fine since symbolism is entirely associative and arbitrary anyway

note 2: I added alt-texts for all the images, but I have no idea of how to properly describe abstract geometric art; if you feel you can do a better job than I did, feel free to put your fingers where your mouth is--wait, hang on-- I mean feel free to provide better descriptions if you can

note 3: looking forward to the geometry nerds explaining to me how I got basic geometric details wrong, friggin nerds

The First House

The First House seems obvious, as a shape with one side is an ellipse (of which the circle is a special case). There's just one problem: ellipses do not tile the plane. No matter how much you stretch them and deform them, the very nature of ellipses means you'll always have gaps or overlaps.

So we cheat and we work with overlaps: turns out there is a history of tilings that use circles as a construction pattern, then turn the overlapping sections into the actual tiles. Such patterns have been used extensively in European and Middle Eastern art, and have also been associated with the New Age movement, so it fits Jod's style perfectly. And so we get this:

The different cells correspond to different House colors, with the resulting gothic stained-glass appearance quite in line with the Roman Catholic Empire vibe Jod is going for. The overlapping circles convey the intricacy of the relation between the First House and the eight other, both autonomous from it yet intrinsically part of it.

The Second House

There's a variety of geometrical shapes that have two sides, but most of them don't tile the plane, altho there is one that does — if we take a crescent shape and slightly thicken it so that the inner and outer curves are identical, we can do this:

The waving pattern is of course evocative of the flag of conquest which the Cohorts of the Second House have planted on many worlds.

The Third House

With the Third House things get a lot easier, because equilateral triangles are one of the three regular polygons (where all sides are the same length and all angles are identical) that tile the plane all by themselves without needing any other shape! Which however doesn't mean we have to be boring; we can have a little bit of fun:

Flowers for the beauty and ionizing radiation warning signs for the rancid vibes.

The Fourth House

Squares are the second regular polygons that tile the plane by themselves, so again our job is easy here, altho we still want to not go for the easiest option in order to be able to work in some symbolism:

The four big navy squares with a small white square at the center of course evoke the number five and the shadow of the Fifth House's regency over the Fourth.

The Fifth House

Regular pentagons do not tile the plane, so we have to use a more unusual shape — there are many options, but obviously we want to again pick one that offers some interesting numerical symbolism:

The cross-like patterns of course bring up the number four and the hold of the Fifth House over the Fourth. As for the crosses themselves and the fact that they appear to be made of wooden stakes, well uh… Abigail Pent, Vampire Hunter??? She does have Van Helsing vibes.

The Sixth House

Hexagons are the third and last regular polygons that tile the plane on their own. But this is the Sixth House we're talking about, things need to look orderly but in a convoluted way. So how about multiple levels of recursion:

The apparent complexity of the pattern is created by different orientations of a small number of elements, either 3 irregular hexagons, or 1 patterned regular hexagonal tile, depending on how you look at it, in line with the kind of hermetic scientism one imagines the Sixth House indulges in. The result is those apparent three-dimensional elements and emerging higher-order patterns, including that of ꙮ, the Multiocular O found in exactly one word of one 15th century Old Church Slavonic translation of the Book of Psalms ("серафими многоꙮчитїй" many-eyed seraphim).

The Seventh House

Regular heptagons do not tile the plane, but they don't need much tweaking to work, which is fine since for the Seventh House we want something deceptive yet simple (deceptively simple? deceptive in its simplicity?):

Hearts for the beauty, snake scales for the poison [the Seventh House is on Venus, the planet named after the Roman Goddess of love, but etymologically "Venus" is actually the same root as "venom", and of course "Septimus" resembles "septic" — tho in that case there's no etymological connection, it's just a happy coincidence].

The Eighth House

Octagons do not tile the plane, but they come pretty close, so we can give the Eighth House a simple, stern, but slightly threatening pattern:

Boring sterile bleached temple mosaic, with just a little bit of passive-agression, a perfect fit for Evangelical Christians Tumblr puritans the Eighth House.

The Ninth House

And so we reach the Ninth House. Now the thing about the Ninth House is that, even by imperial standards, they're huge freaks, like they're completely unhinged heretical weirdoes. So, when it comes to their tiling, we need to get weird, like, a lot weirder than we've been so far, and this will require some context, so get ready because now we're officially going on a wild tangent.

So far all the tilings we've seen were periodic. That is, they were drawing a pattern that repeats itself indefinitely in all directions.

But starting in the 1960s, mathematicians began to study aperiodic tilings, tilings that don't repeat; you can keep expanding them forever and never exactly find back the original pattern you started with. The first mathematical proof of such a pattern was made in 1964 and theoretically required 20,426 distinct tile prototypes… This was soon refined to just 104 tile prototypes, then a mere 40. By 1971, it was mathematically demonstrated that you could make such a pattern with just 6 tile prototypes.

Except that was a lie.

Note that I said mathematically demonstrated. As it turns out there was an aperiodic pattern with just 5 tile prototypes, known as Girih, that had been used in Islamic art… since at least the 13th century — but it had historically been treated merely as an element of architectural design, and its mathematical properties weren't studied until 2007.

Then in 1973 this guy Penrose came along and demonstrated you could make an aperiodic tiling with just 2 tile prototypes. So now the goal was to find the ultimate aperiodic tiling, the one that would use only one tile prototype. Given how fast the field had progressed so far, it seemed that this discovery was imminent.

It took 50 years.

Not only that, but it was the work of amateur mathematician David Smith who accidentally discovered a 13-sided polygon that could make an aperiodic tiling all by itself (he then had his discovery checked by and co-authored a paper with a number of professional mathematicians).

EXCEPT THAT WAS A LIE AGAIN.

In turns out an aperiodic tiling using only one tile prototype had already been found… in 1936. But since the study of aperiodic tilings only started in the 60s, its significance in that domain wasn't understood at the time. It was seen as significant, but for an entirely unrelated reason: it was the first demonstration of a polygonal shape that needed only two copies of itself to completely enclose the original one — many mathematicians before that point thought the minimum possible was 3 (think of the Triforce from Zelda, with one equilateral triangle completely enclosed between three other identical triangles).

And coincidently, that shape happens to be a highly-irregular nonagon [yes "enneagon" is """technically""" more correct but "nonagon" has been used since the 17th century and is more common and it has Nona in it and Nona loves you]. So here it is, the Voderberg tiling, the freakish freakish tessellation of the Ninth House:

Like you see this and you're like "what is this, what is that thing, that's not a tiling, what the fuck is that" — but it is, it is a tiling, you can keep adding the freaky polygon and it keeps expanding outward forever, with no gap, no overlap, and with an ever-changing pattern. A double-spiral radiating outward, for Anastasia and Samael, Anastasia and Alecto, Alecto and Harrowhark, Harrowhark and Gideon.

And if you were thinking that this last one must have been significantly harder to draw than the other ones, you would be correct.

#the locked tomb #the locked tomb fanart #tessellation #tiling #geometry #vector art

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dolicekiss · 1 year ago

Note

Hi,

may I request a Hannibal one-shot, in which he is marrying a traditional women (saving herself for marriage etc.). With the main focus of course being the wedding night?🫣😂

Untouched Virtues

CW: smut (18+, mdni), first time, inexperienced reader (like very), arrange marriage, sort of plot, age gap (unspecified but hannibal is older), messy kissing, tension, cunnilingus, unprotected sex (p in v), starved hannibal, riding, mating press, swearing, breeding, oblivious reader

Your leg shook violently, a testament to your impending anxiety as well as the anticipation which burned in your stomach. You'd exchanged vows with Hannibal, even kissed but whenever you thought about your wedding night — nervousness adorned your once serene features. Hannibal was a grown adult, so were you. It was easy having the conversation and he told you he would wait until you were comfortable.

But it was never about comfort as you had already find comfort in his presence. It was more about the actions, the emotions and the intensity of them which brought you embarrassment. You had concealed your desire for Hannibal, as you did find him attractive.

He was beyond handsome.

A beauty that is only found within the art of ancient history.

People danced, laughed, engaged in conversations and connected with each other. You were greeting a few guests, friends of your parents and when you raised your gaze from their table, you found your husband with his own gaze fixated on your small frame.

Hannibal sent you a short smile which you happily returned.

To you, everything was fine but within Hannibal there was a battle.

Of restraint, of concealed feelings, of urges.

The first time he saw you, he had fallen hopelessly in love. It was true that the love he felt for you was too potent, enough to consume his whole being and he was aware of your coyness. It was what pulled him towards you. He could not express his desires properly, not with how your cheeks would bleed crimson at a mere compliment about your hair or your dress.

The party was going to end soon and Hannibal looked forward to it. He'd comforted you that he would wait, as long as you wished for him to but that didn't mean he would not try seducing you, after he did acknowledge your attraction for him. It oozed out in all your actions, your ministrations.

The man was cunning and he knew his way around the human mind — even if that was somehow morally wrong.

Time passed by, quite agonizingly for Hannibal and finally it was night time for you.

Hannibal had brought you to his house and it was posh, had very little color but it was beautiful nonetheless. His room was a mix of greens, whites and browns and it matched his personality too as the man was always reserved and composed. You rarely ever found him losing his composure which was good for you.

You were yet to change out of your wedding dress, leaning against the wall as you looked out the balcony into the open sky, which glimmered with stars all over.

It was a beautiful sight.

You turned around upon hearing footsteps and found Hannibal had stepped out of the bathroom. He was still in his black tux and it made him look as dashing as a model. The sight before you was gorgeous and you couldn't help but stare ahead.

“You enjoy watching the stars?”

You nodded coyly at his words. “They are beautiful, and lonely.”

You whispered back and Hannibal nodded, not following it after with something. Instead the man found his place next to you and you noticed the glass of champagne he picked up on the way.

He was leaned on the other side of the wall, sipping his poison as he gazed at you rather the stars. To him you were the most brightest and beautiful star.

“You're more beautiful than the stars.” He spoke softly and your gaze found him, cheeks beetroot red. He had a way with his words and at times Hannibal would say things that could be compared to poetry in itself. “I could watch you for hours while you watch the stars.”

“You flatter me,” came a soft chuckle from you, palm laid flat across your chest as your cheeks rounded up.

Hannibal stared at you, his stare darkening at the mere thought of ripping the dress apart and claiming you as his. The adoration tainted with lust as his eyes fell lower and lower, eyeing how your legs would look, wrapped around his shoulders. How you'd sound — how breathless you'd be when he would defile you and claim you as his forever.

Hannibal inhaled, finishing his champagne.

He decided to take a step forward, and immediately your eyes captured him. Like a deer caught in headlights, you were looking at him with the most innocent eyes and Hannibal took that as an invitation. He closed the distance between the two of you and pressed your short frame against the wall rather gently, still mastering control over his rough needs. Brawny hands found your waist, holding you in place as he towered over you and the strong whiff of your scent almost drove him insane.

“I want to kiss you.” Hannibal whispered and you looked into his eyes, pupils blown fully and then you nodded.

That was all he needed.

Even if you were not willing to sleep with him, he knew the permission to kiss could lead to something more, he'd see to it.

He leaned in and captured your lips in a soft kiss and you expected it to carry on like that but that was where you were wrong. Hannibal occupied your lips — at first in a gentle lock — but soon it grew into something more. Haste urges to pry open your lips with his tongue, to slither it inside your wet cavern and explore it.

A battle amongst your tongues.

You whimpered when Hannibal sucked rather aggressively on your lower lip, one hand gripping your waist firmly while the other shifted against the wall, to wrap around your nape as he locked you in place.

You were breathless and your inability to keep up with his pace oozed out in all your actions as your small hands attempted to push at his chest for an ounce of air. Hannibal forbade you — kissing you like your lips produced the finest honey and he was a starved man.

“Hanni—” Your endeavor to speak was futile as the man was too far gone, saliva belonging to you both staining your lips as well as his.

After awhile Hannibal retreated and you nearly succumbed to the floor, plush breasts rising up and down in desperate attempts to inhale oxygen. Hannibal stared at you, in pure awe at how fucked out you seemed by a mere kiss. The man didn't waste time as he hoisted you up in his arms, earning a squeal out of you. Leading you to the bed, Hannibal peppered soft kisses along your neck while walking over to the bed in the middle of the room to lay you down.

Once he had you pressed into the bed, his fingers worked their way to your back to unzip your dress.

You gasped. “Listen—”

“You would still deny me?” Hannibal stalled, looking up at you and you fucking melted at the way he was looking at you.

Like a needy pup starved of affection.

You shook your head. “No, just slow down a little please. You know it's my first time.”

Hannibal felt the urge to punch himself. Of course it was your first and you being a sensitive soul did not help either. He nodded and leaned in to press a kiss against your forehead, hoping that would calm you down.

It did work.

You sent him a smile as his fingers dragged down the zipper of your dress, curving underneath the neckline to pull it down. Your arms flew to cover your breasts when they were revealed while Hannibal rid you of the dress, his eyes hungry and full of lust.

You were dressed in some lace white lingerie, forced into it by your mother for your husband to unravel you like some gift. You softly gasped as the cold air came in contact with the uncovered parts of your body, leaving you a bit flustered.

Hannibal made his way to your neck, pressing kisses down in a deformed line. Littering them over your plush cleavage and as well as your navel — moving down to your bikini line and pausing at the hem of your white lace underwear. In a fraction of few minutes, he tugged that off you as well and then unhooked your bra, sliding it off.

You were fully bare now and you felt breathless, bare to him. Hannibal’s gaze laid on your cunt, as he pried your thighs open. All you could do was hide your face and blush furiously while the man actually did unwrap you like you were a fucking christmas present.

“You're absolutely beautiful,” he whispered against your core, “such a beautiful cunt, my love.”

You flinched at his words but the throbbing in your soaked cunt told you this turned you on more than you thought it would. Your attempt to close your eyes was failed as Hannibal curved his arms around your thighs, holding them apart steadily as he buried his face between your legs.

Your breath hitched, the cooling sensation of his tongue over your sticky folds earning an almost whine out of you. “Hannibal.”

He chuckled a little, gliding his tongue across your soaked folds. Going up and down and then moving his head left and right, as his wet muscle prodded at your twitchy little bud.

He shoved his tongue into your hole and your back rose up from the mattress, thighs twitching from the obscene act. Hannibal fucked you with his hand, moving it inside you and lapping up at your juices like an animal. Tip of his nose brushed against your clit all while he grinded his face into your cunt.

Your taste had him addicted.

And your little whimpers too.

How breathless you sounded, soft little sounds reverberating in the whole of this room. It was satisfying enough, this validation you gave him. Hannibal slurped up at the essence of arousal you produced, using his tongue so that you would come.

You felt your stomach tighten — a foreign feeling spreading in your abdomen. A fire unbelievable. This was the first time ever someone had touched you this provocatively and sensually, a virgin you were. Chaste, pure and this was all too inundating.

Yet you relished the pleasures once unknown to you brought by your husband.

“Hannibal! I feel it, oh my god.” You knew how it felt to release, you've made yourself come on multiple occasions.

Hannibal buried his face deeper into your cunt as both your hands laid flat across his head, trying to make him dive deeper. Your vision became a blur as overwhelming pleasure consumed you. His soft tongue prodding and licking at your sensitive bundle of nerves and then sliding down to enter inside your soaked hole — it drove you wild and as a searing orgasm tore through you, your eyes rolled back into the depths of your skull and white came up front in your gaze.

Veins hot with pleasure, the blood rushing and coursing at the speed of light.

Hannibal licked at you, like a thirsty dog, licking the remnants of your orgasm as you dragged in harsh breaths.

He'd made you realize it was worth the wait, it was so fucking worth it.

Hannibal, after peeling off his own button up shirt and pants, paired with his briefs, moved between your legs. Holding his cock which you were left baffled by, eyes enlarged at the sheer size of it. You let out a soft sigh, hand moving to press at your husband’s chest.

“It wouldn't fit.”

Hannibal moved his hand to cup your face and smiled, swiping his thumb across your round cheek. “It will. I've prepared you enough.”

Hannibal guided his cock along your soaked slit, moving the cock head up and down and prodding at your swollen bud with it. You whimpered at the friction and arched your back, making Hannibal push you back against the bed. Then you felt it — the painful stretch making you cry out as your arms found solace wrapped around his nape.

Hannibal shifted, snapping his hips as he slowly entered more of him into you.

Your eyes welled up, tears like pearls sitting against your waterline. Your husband was being extremely gentle but Hannibal had his own limits. The way your tight cunt gripped him like a vice made him want to snap all of his cock inside you in one singular thrust.

But he knew you were fragile, sensitive.

“Focus on me, beautiful.” Hannibal whispered in your face, peppering soft kisses everywhere and you nodded.

Lost in his sweet affection, you hadn't realized as Hannibal filled you with the whole of his cock in little thrusts. He groaned as he bottomed out, head dropping in your neck while his arms tightened around you, locking you in place.

He pulled out soon, once having realized you'd adjusted to his size and then snapped back inside you. Your body jolted forward as you moaned out, hold tightening around his nape. Fingers grabbing onto his hair from roots, you braced yourself.

“You'll break me, beautiful. Be a little merciful and loosen up.” Though his words were soft, Hannibal had commanded you.

You nodded and tried to relax underneath him. Hannibal began to move and you felt each vein embedded within his cock graze against your walls – your breath shuddering as he delivered impactful thrusts to your cunt. His balls slapping against you, the sinful sound reverberating through the whole room.

“Hannibal, oh god.” You cried out, when you felt him pummel into a spot that was left untouched mostly in your cervix. Tears sliding down your face, he continued fucking into your sensitive cunt.

From the orgasm from before, your walls had had grown sensitive. You whined as his arms unwrapped around you, hands moving to toy with your breasts. Squeezing them and fondling the fat like it was art, fingers and thumbs sending aggressive flicks to your buds.

“Yes—oh yes.” Hannibal grunted, thrusting inside you at a rough pace now. “You're so tight, Darling. Your little cunt will have me coming any moment now.”

You sobbed, feeling overwhelmed. Your cunt was heightened when it came to sensitivity and the way Hannibal continuously toyed with your hardened peaks worked harder to tear another climax out of you.

You cried out as Hannibal pummeled his cock inside you, his own peak near. Hannibal’s grunts mixed with your whines had elevated the room with palpable tension. You were so worth the wait as Hannibal relished your moans, the way your little body twitched underneath him.

Your stomach tightened, your cunt as well and Hannibal groaned – feeling his cock throb and twitch. He delivered harsh thrusts and you couldn't hold it back anymore, your eyes rolling back to your head and your lips falling apart. Another hot orgasm overwhelmed your body and you cried out, fingernails digging into his skin and evoking blood.

The heat from your cunt and how you tightened around him, Hannibal finally released inside you. Rope after rope being emptied inside you and you whined, feeling how he pumped you full of cum.

Hannibal felt his balls throb, and soon he pulled out after spending fully inside you.

You panted, attempts to drag in oxygen into your expanding lungs. Hannibal stared at you before falling on the bed, next to you with his arms already extended to wrap around your frame. He held you tightly and brought you closer, pressing a kiss to the back of your ear.

“How do you feel, hm?”

You let out a soft sigh of contentment and let out a chuckle. “The best I have ever felt.”

#hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter smut #hannibal lecter #hannibal smut #nbc hannibal #mads mikkelsen fanfic #mads mikkelsen smut #hannibal fanfic #hannibal fanfiction #smut #hannibal x reader #hannibal x you

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thewriteadviceforwriters · 1 year ago

Text

The Telling Truth: When 'Show, Don't Tell' Doesn't Apply (You Don't Always Have To Show, Don't Tell.)

Hey there, fellow writers and beloved members of the writeblr community! 📝✨

Today, I want to talk about something that's been on my mind lately, and I have a feeling it might resonate with many of you too. It's about that age-old writing advice we've all heard a million times: "Show, don't tell." Now, don't get me wrong – it's great advice, and it has its place in our writing toolbox. But here's the thing: it's not the be-all and end-all of good writing. In fact, I'd argue that sometimes, it's perfectly okay – even necessary – to tell rather than show.

First things first, let's address the elephant in the room. The "show, don't tell" rule has been drilled into our heads since we first picked up a pen (or opened a Word document) with the intention of writing creatively. It's been repeated in writing workshops, creative writing classes, and countless craft books. And for good reason! Showing can create vivid, immersive experiences for readers, allowing them to feel like they're right there in the story.

But here's where things get a bit tricky: like any rule in writing (or in life, for that matter), it's not absolute. There are times when telling is not just acceptable, but actually preferable. And that's what you all will explore today in this hopefully understandable blog post.

Let's start by breaking down why "show, don't tell" is so popular. When we show instead of tell, we're engaging the reader's senses and emotions. We're painting a picture with words, allowing the reader to draw their own conclusions based on the details we provide. It's a powerful technique that can make our writing more engaging and memorable.

For example, instead of saying "Sarah was angry," we might write, "Sarah's fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tight as she glared at the broken vase." This gives the reader a clearer image and allows them to infer Sarah's emotional state.

But here's the thing: sometimes, we don't need or want that level of detail. Sometimes, efficiency in storytelling is more important than painting an elaborate picture. And that's where telling comes in handy.

Imagine if every single emotion, action, or piece of information in your story was shown rather than told. Your novel would probably be thousands of pages long, and your readers might get lost in the sea of details, losing sight of the main plot or character arcs.

So, when might telling be more appropriate? Let's explore some scenarios:

Summarizing less important events: If you're writing a story that spans a long period, you don't need to show every single day or event. Telling can help you summarize periods of time or less crucial events quickly, allowing you to focus on the more important parts of your story.

For instance: "The next few weeks passed in a blur of exams and late-night study sessions." This sentence tells us what happened without going into unnecessary detail about each day.

Providing necessary background information: Sometimes, you need to give your readers some context or backstory. While you can certainly weave this information into scenes, there are times when a straightforward telling of facts is more efficient.

Example: "The war had been raging for three years before Sarah's village was attacked." This quickly gives us important context without needing to show the entire history of the war.

Establishing pace and rhythm: Alternating between showing and telling can help you control the pace of your story. Showing tends to slow things down, allowing readers to immerse themselves in a moment. Telling can speed things up, moving the story along more quickly when needed.

Clarifying complex ideas or emotions: Some concepts or feelings are abstract or complex enough that showing alone might not suffice. In these cases, a bit of telling can help ensure your readers understand what's happening.

For example: "The quantum entanglement theory had always fascinated John, but explaining it to others often left him feeling frustrated and misunderstood." Here, we're telling the reader about John's relationship with this complex scientific concept, which might be difficult to show effectively.

Maintaining your narrative voice: Sometimes, telling is simply more in line with your narrative voice or the tone of your story. This is especially true if you're writing in a more direct or conversational style.

Now, I can almost hear some of you saying, "But wait! I've always been told that showing is always better!" And I completely get it. I'm a writer myself and prioritize "Show, Don't tell." in my writing all the time. We've been conditioned to believe that showing is superior in all cases. But we can take a moment to challenge that notion.

Think about some of your favorite books. Chances are, they use a mix of showing and telling. Even the most critically acclaimed authors don't adhere strictly to "show, don't tell" all the time. They understand that good writing is about balance and knowing when to use each technique effectively.

Take, for instance, the opening line of George Orwell's "1984": "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." This is a perfect blend of showing and telling. Orwell shows us it's a bright, cold day (we can imagine the crisp air and clear sky), but he tells us about the clocks striking thirteen. This immediate telling gives us crucial information about the world we're entering – it's not quite like our own.

Or consider this passage from Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice": "Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character." Here, Austen is clearly telling us about Mr. Bennet's character rather than showing it through his actions. And yet, it works beautifully, giving us a quick, clear insight into both Mr. Bennet and his wife.

The key is to use both techniques strategically. So, how can you decide when to show and when to tell? Here are some tips:

Consider the importance of the information: Is this a crucial moment in your story, a pivotal emotion, or a key piece of character development? If so, it might be worth showing. If it's more of a transitional moment or background information, telling might be more appropriate.

Think about pacing: If you want to slow down and really immerse your reader in a moment, show it. If you need to move things along more quickly, tell it.

Evaluate the complexity: If you're dealing with a complex emotion or concept, consider whether showing alone will be enough to convey it clearly. Sometimes, a combination of showing and telling works best for complex ideas.

Consider your word count: If you're working with strict word count limitations (like in short stories or flash fiction), telling can help you convey necessary information more concisely.

Trust your instincts (Important): As you write more, you'll develop a feel for when showing or telling works better. Trust your gut, and don't be afraid to experiment.

Now, let's talk about how to tell effectively when you do choose to use it. Because here's the thing: telling doesn't have to be boring or flat. It can be just as engaging and stylish as showing when done well. Here are some tips for effective telling:

Use strong, specific language: Instead of using vague or generic words, opt for more specific, evocative language. For example, instead of "She was sad," you might write, "A profound melancholy settled over her."

Incorporate sensory details: Even when telling, you can include sensory information to make it more vivid. "The room was cold" becomes more engaging as "A bone-chilling cold permeated the room."

Use metaphors and similes: These can help make your telling more colorful and memorable. "His anger was like a volcano ready to erupt" paints a vivid picture without showing the anger in action.

Keep it concise: One of the advantages of telling is its efficiency. Don't negate that by being overly wordy. Get to the point, but do it with style.

Vary your sentence structure: Mix short, punchy sentences with longer, more flowing ones to create rhythm and maintain interest.

Remember, the goal is to create a seamless narrative that engages your reader. Sometimes that means showing, sometimes it means telling, and often it means a artful blend of both.

It's also worth noting that different genres and styles of writing may lean more heavily on one technique or the other. Literary fiction often employs more showing, delving deep into characters' psyches and painting elaborate scenes. Genre fiction, on the other hand, might use more telling to keep the plot moving at a brisker pace. Neither approach is inherently better – it all depends on what works best for your story and your style.

Now, I want to address something that I think many of us struggle with: the guilt or anxiety we might feel when we catch ourselves telling instead of showing. It's easy to fall into the trap of second-guessing every sentence, wondering if we should be showing more. But here's the truth: that kind of constant self-doubt can be paralyzing and ultimately detrimental to your writing process.

So, I want you to understand and think: It's okay to tell sometimes. You're not a bad writer for using telling in your work. In fact, knowing when and how to use telling effectively is a sign of a skilled writer.

Here's some practical ways to incorporate this mindset into your writing process:

First Draft Freedom: When you're writing your first draft, give yourself permission to write however it comes out. If that means more telling than showing, that's absolutely fine. The important thing is to get the story down. You can always revise and add more "showing" elements later if needed.

Revision with Purpose: When you're revising, don't automatically change every instance of telling to showing. Instead, ask yourself: Does this serve the story better as telling or showing? Consider the pacing, the importance of the information, and how it fits into the overall narrative.

Beta Readers and Feedback: When you're getting feedback on your work, pay attention to how readers respond to different sections. If they're engaged and understanding the story, then your balance of showing and telling is probably working well, regardless of which technique you're using more.

Study Your Favorite Authors: Take some time to analyze how your favorite writers use showing and telling. You might be surprised to find more instances of effective telling than you expected.

Practice Both Techniques (Important): Set aside some time to practice both showing and telling. Write the same scene twice, once focusing on showing and once on telling. This can help you develop a feel for when each technique is most effective.

Now, let's address another important point: the evolution of writing styles and reader preferences. The "show, don't tell" rule gained popularity in the early 20th century with the rise of modernist literature. But writing styles and reader tastes have continued to evolve since then.

In our current fast-paced world, where people are often reading on devices and in shorter bursts, there's sometimes a preference for more direct, efficient storytelling. This doesn't mean that showing is out of style, but it does mean that there's often room for more telling than strict adherence to "show, don't tell" would allow.

Moreover, diverse voices in literature are challenging traditional Western writing norms, including the emphasis on showing over telling. Some cultures have strong storytelling traditions that lean more heavily on telling, and as the literary world becomes more inclusive, we're seeing a beautiful variety of styles that blend showing and telling in new and exciting ways.

This brings me to an important point: your voice matters. Your unique way of telling stories is valuable. Don't let rigid adherence to any writing rule, including "show, don't tell," stifle your natural voice or the story you want to tell.

Remember, rules in writing are more like guidelines. They're tools to help us improve our craft, not unbreakable laws. The most important rule is to engage your reader and tell your story effectively. If that means more telling than the conventional wisdom suggests, then so be it.

As I wrap up this discussion, I want to leave you with a challenge: In your next writing session, consciously use both showing and telling. Pay attention to how each technique feels, how it serves your story, and how it affects the rhythm of your writing. You might discover new ways to blend these techniques that work perfectly for your unique style.

Writing is an art, not a science. There's no perfect formula, no one-size-fits-all approach. It's about finding what works for you, your story, and your readers. So embrace both showing and telling. Use them as the powerful tools they are, and don't be afraid to break the "rules" when your instincts tell you to.

Remember, every great writer started where you are now, learning the rules and then figuring out when and how to break them effectively. You're part of a long, proud tradition of storytellers, each finding their own path through the winding forest of words.

Keep writing, keep growing, and keep believing in yourself. You've got this!

Happy writing! 💖✍️ - Rin T.

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