#bug's writing

[twiceasbright]

bad friend ┃ clark kent x reader

summary: your best friend asks you to set her up with clark kent, who's your work crush. despite your feelings for him, you agree- for the sake of your friend. but things go awry when you panic and end up accidentally asking him out yourself. now you have to find a way to fix it before things go too far.

pairings: clark kent x reader

tags: fluff, angst with a semi-happy ending, sfw, daily planet shenanigans, it's all a big misunderstanding, gn!reader, no use of y/n

word count: 5.1k

a/n: i saw superman and it instantly changed my brain chemistry. this is the result. please bear with me, this is my first time writing for this fandom. i hope you enjoy, and feel free to leave any thoughts or comments!! xoxo

You’re a bad friend. A very, very bad one.

When your co-worker, work bestie, closest thing you have to a sister, tells you about her crush on Clark, it’s a shock. You’d spent months commenting on him—his sweetness, his looks, his clumsiness. You never went into detail about how deep this little infatuation went, but you were sure it was obvious. Sadie’s been victim to more than a few tangents about ‘how can one man be so perfect?’ Of all people, she knows how you felt.

And yet here she is, telling you about her feelings for the journalist you’d been mooning over for what felt like forever. You know exactly what this means. You know what she’s going to ask long before the words come out of her mouth.

“I know you guys are close, like… friends or whatever,” she tells you, acrylics tapping nervously against her coffee mug. She keeps avoiding your gaze. “I just- well, I wanted to ask if maybe you… you could put in a good word for me. Maybe set us up or something?”

You smile at her, even as your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. It’s not her fault. You’d never made more than fleeting, shallow comments about Clark. There was no way for her to know how actually, desperately much you like him. You have no reason to feel betrayed.

Besides, you love her. You’d do anything and everything for her. Including—God help you—setting her up with the guy you fantasize about falling asleep with every night.

This makes you a good friend. The bad friend part is what happens next.

You approach Clark’s desk with thinly veiled resignation. Not the usual happy, skip-like gait you adopt when you decide it’s time to bother him. Which, much to his sure frustration, happens a lot. Sadie is your twin flame at work, but Clark is… he’s a companion. His desk is right across from yours, and the two of you have become each other’s support systems.

You’d hoped that one day it would turn into more. That feels foolish now. Especially when you’re on your way to pimp him out to your best friend.

“Heyyy buddy…” you greet him—terribly, awkwardly. You lightly punch his shoulder, which makes it a million times worse. You cringe so hard internally that you don’t get a chance to admire how firm his muscles are.

Clark looks up at you, raising an eyebrow as he pushes his glasses up with a finger. He’s just as bewildered by this as you. It doesn’t stop the amused curve of his lips or the way his dimples deepen. Your knees slightly buckle under the power of that smile. God, he’s so crazy beautiful.

“Hey there,” he responds, his voice like heat in your veins. Deep, smooth, calming. You want to strangle him with his stupid (charming) tie. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, waving him away. You sit on the edge of the desk, avoiding the half-full mug of coffee next to you. You cross your legs and clear your throat. “How are you doing?”

“I’m a little worried you’re having a stroke, to be honest.”

That sobers you up a little. You press your lips into a thin line. “Yeah, sorry. That was weird.”

He’s amused, clearly, but there’s a tinge of concern in those beautiful blue eyes. Of course, he’s concerned. Of course, he’s sweet and gentle and compassionate and everything you could ever want. How the hell is this your life?

“What’s going on, jelly?” he asks, and the nickname is a little like a punch to the gut.

It’s a bit from when you first started, a teasing comment from Jimmy or Lois or someone you can’t remember. You took such an instant liking to Clark, the two of you clicked so easily, that it became a joke amongst your friends. You two go together like peanut butter and jelly. Such a silly thing to say, and even sillier that you found it so meaningful. You kept it going, hoping no one realized how important it was to you.

How important he was to you.

Now, just shy of working together for two years, you use the titles more than your actual names. He’s your peanut butter, you’re his jelly. It’s stupid and inconsequential, and you hope he never stops calling you that. No matter what happens.

“Ah, you know me so well,” you joke, and it doesn’t sound the least bit convincing. So you just smile at him and push forward. “I, um… I have something to run by you.”

You can tell his interest is piqued as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The fabric of his sports coat bulges against his biceps, and you’re very much staring. You hope to God that Sadie isn’t watching this right now. Or Lois or Jimmy. Or—you shudder just thinking about it—Cat.

“I’m listening,” he coaxes you to speak. To do what you came over here to do. You suck in a breath and let it out slowly.

“So, what’s your policy on dating co-workers?” you ask, because it’s easier to delay the inevitable. You’re a coward; what can you say? In your personal life, you’ll always avoid the uncomfortable moments.

It’s probably what makes you such an excellent journalist. Because you channel it all into work and don’t leave a single line you’re not willing to cross.

Your question takes him by surprise. His eyebrows shoot up, and you swear the tips of his ears turn the tiniest bit red. Something ugly twists in your stomach. He’s thought about this before. Someone here has captured his interest.

He hums for a moment before responding. An attempt to gather his bearings. “Well, I- I don’t really see a problem with it. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of us both being able to do our jobs, at least. Why do you ask?”

“Here’s the thing,” you exhale, grabbing a paperclip from his desk so you have something to do with your hands. You force yourself to meet his gaze, trying desperately not to get lost in the sea of blue. “Do you… Are you free tonight? Or any time this week?”

“I’m free tonight,” he says almost instantly. That little smile is returning to his lips, matching the glint in his eyes. “Are you asking me on a date, Jelly?”

Your heart stops. Literally stops. And then it starts up again, and it feels like it’s going to jump right out of your chest. You try to speak, to explain, but the words get caught in your throat. Clark’s always been the best at throwing you off your game.

He must take your silence as confirmation, because his smile grows. He leans forward, so close you can smell his cologne. The man always smells so good. It’s intoxicating.

“I accept. I’d love to go out with you,” he murmurs, like he’s afraid others will hear. Knowing how gossipy your co-workers are, it’s probably a smart choice. “I wanted to be the one to ask you, but I… I always got in my head about it.”

You swallow back an onslaught of word vomit threatening to pour out. Is this happening right now? Did you just ask Clark Kent on a date—accidentally—and he accepted? And does he actually look happy about it? Like he wants this? Like he wants you?

Your brain has left the building, so you can only assume your heart is to blame for what you say next. “Then, you’ll just have to ask me on the next one.”

His face lights up. It’s blinding, but you can’t look away. He’s too beautiful. Too encapsulating. He’s the sun and you’re just another lifeform feeding off the energy he gives.

“Deal,” he chuckles, holding out his hand so you can shake it. It’s such a cute gesture, and taking his hand in yours feels like a death sentence. You’ve gotten yourself into such a mess. “Do you just want to go right after work?”

His hand lingers for a moment longer than it needs to. His skin is so soft, so warm, and he’s so large compared to you. It’s the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.

“Yeah. Maybe around 6?”

That adorable curl bobs across his forehead as he nods. “That’s perfect.”

“Alright, then,” you confirm, smiling. Panic rises in you. Guilt and shame and a million other things are tearing at your insides. “I better get back to work. I’ll see you then, Peanut Butter.”

Clark’s grin could solve all the world’s problems. You’re sure of it. “See you then.”

You head back to your desk, fighting the urge to scream or throw something or run away forever. You are a terrible, horrible friend.

By the skin of your teeth, you avoid Sadie for the rest of the day. It helps that she’s caught up in meetings and scrambling to meet deadlines, but you scurry to the bathroom twice when you catch her staring. It’s shameful behavior, you know. You feel awful about it. But what are you supposed to say?

You know the situation is wrong. It’s deceiving in every way. You’re so full of regret that you feel sick. You know very well that the right thing to do is to go tell Clark the truth, ask him about Sadie, and then report back to her. But you can’t!

Maybe it’s fear, or something selfish that lives in you, but you can’t do it. You tell yourself a million times to walk over to him, and you stay glued to your desk every single time. His eyes land on you more than once, but you never let yourself look up. You’re just grateful he hasn’t walked over and tried to start up a conversation. You would probably burst into tears.

You want to go on a date with Clark. You want it more than anything. But you don’t want it like this. You don’t want to hurt and betray your friend to get it. Or for anyone to be deceived. You don’t want to be the person you’re being right this very second.

You decide you’re going to fix it. Tonight, when Clark comes to you at 6, you’ll tell him the truth. You’ll break your own heart, probably lose his friendship, and then you’ll go home. And tomorrow, after a night of some well-deserved wallowing, you’ll tell Sadie.

She’ll probably be mad. You just hope that the damage isn’t irreparable.

You make it to the end of your shift without vomiting or tendering your resignation, a feat in and of itself. You even got a draft finished, though there were sure to be mistakes to work on tomorrow. You’d gotten so focused that the last few hours just faded away. As far as anyone at the Planet was concerned, you were dead to the world.

You didn’t notice when Sadie left at 5, sending you a questioning glance. You didn’t look up at 5:30 when Steve knocked over the entire coffee station and everyone shouted in outrage. Hell, you didn’t even make a move when Clark snuck out at 5:45, going God knows where. You were completely captivated.

Now, with the clock showing 5:57, you pull yourself away and gather your things. There’s still a stab of guilt between your ribs, but most of it has fizzled into numb resignation. You know what you have to do. You know what you’re going to lose. There’s no stopping it.

Turning your desk lamp off, you hear footsteps and turn around. It’s Clark, of course, with his hands behind his back and a bashful smile on his face. Not even that sweet expression is enough to pull you from your misery. Not when you know you’ll probably never see it directed at you again.

“Hey,” he greets you, sounding a little breathless. “Sorry I disappeared for a minute. I had an errand to run.”

“An errand?” You ask, because you can’t help it. What kind of errands does Clark Kent run? Where’s his favorite place to shop? What are the staple items on his grocery list? It’s an affliction, really, wanting to know everything about him.

He moves his arm back in front of him, revealing the bouquet clutched in his fist. It’s gorgeous—all bright colors and big blooms. They’re the nicest flowers you’ve ever seen, and Clark is offering them to you with a soft smile. You might cry.

“You got me flowers?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. You’re taken aback by the kind gesture and the wrongness of this situation. It’s a wonder Clark hears you, but he does. He always does.

He shrugs a shoulder, as if it’s no big deal. As if he’s not your dream man in flesh and blood. “This didn’t start how I wanted, with you asking me out and all, so I just thought… I still wanted to make it special.”

No one’s ever gotten you flowers before. No one’s cared like this. You don’t deserve it; you want it desperately. But you can’t let yourself have it.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur, and they are. You’d keep them alive forever if you could. “But…”

His eyebrows raise, like he knows what you’re going to say. “Don’t worry, I got a vase too,” he explains, hurrying to his desk. He picks up the glass container and brings it over. “I thought you could just keep them on your desk for the time being.”

Your hero, always thinking of everything and coming to your rescue. Superman has nothing on Clark Kent.

You stay quiet as he fills the vase with water and puts the flowers in. He even sets it down on your desk, tucked in the corner, and it looks perfect. It immediately brightens up the space. You didn’t realize how dreary everything was until there’s something pretty to look at.

“It looks so nice there. Like a little… ball of sunshine,” you laugh weakly. When you turn to look at him, his eyes are already on you. They’re warm, adoring—as if you’re something worth looking at. “Thank you, Clark.”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” he waves you off, getting bashful again. He rubs at the back of his neck. “If you’re gonna go on a date with me, I should at least try to make it worth your time.”

Another pang of regret hits your gut. You inhale sharply. “About that-”

“I was thinking we could go to that place down the street, the Italian place? I’ve heard great things,” he explains, nipping your confession in the bud. He’s excited. It breaks your heart. “I’m definitely ready to eat.”

You press your lips together. You’re quite hungry yourself, if you’re being honest. This night’s already going to suck. Might as well get some food out of it. Besides, it’ll make you feel better if you buy him dinner.

“Well, I’m convinced. Lead the way.”

He smiles, offers you his arm, and does just that.

Clark makes conversation the entire block-and-a-half walk to the restaurant. He talks about work, the article on Superman he’s writing, and his plans for the upcoming weekend. You respond where you can. But your mind’s far away. Dreading what you have to do.

“Are you okay, Jelly?” He asks when you’re stopped at a crosswalk. He’s watching you with worry, brows furrowed and lips pursed. “You seem off.”

It’s no surprise that he noticed. The man has a sixth sense for knowing when things are wrong. And as much as you hate it at this moment, it’s always been another thing you admired about him. He’s got such a big heart—all creatures, big or small, are worth saving. You’re honored to be someone he cares about.

“Just… got some things on my mind,” you say with a shake of your head. A flimsy excuse, but you hope it’ll do for now. You’re not willing to spill everything on a crowded sidewalk. “I’ll tell you about it at dinner.”

He’s not pleased with your answer, but he respects it regardless. The light changes, and Clark presses a hand to your lower back as you cross the street. The touch is warm, electric. It sends a shiver down your spine. Everything about him has always—will always—fill you with life.

This is so much more than a work-crush. So much more than some fleeting infatuation. You don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to do this.

You arrive at your destination a few minutes later. Clark gets the two of you a table on the patio and pulls your chair out for you when you sit down. Then he’s across from you. Smiling at the server who brings you water, asking if you want to order wine, commenting on how good everything sounds. The sun sets behind him, illuminating the man in golden light.

He’s beautiful. You think you’re gonna be sick.

“Lois told me they have a really good penne rosa here,” he muses, not looking up from the menu. “She’s the one who recommended this place, actually. I thought we could trust her taste.”

You look down at your own menu, barely paying attention to all the entrees listed. “She’s definitely the safest choice.”

Something in your tone captures his attention. He glances at you, eyes slightly narrowing. “Do you want to talk about what’s going on yet?”

You huff out an undignified exasperated breath. “You’re infuriatingly observant, you know that? Like, weirdly in tune with my emotions.”

Despite your frustration, he quirks a half-smile. “I just know you well. And I’m here to help. Especially when we’re on our first date and you’re obviously miserable.”

A groan slips past your lips. You run a hand over your forehead, up and through your hair. “No, no, that’s not- listen.”

In a moment of bravery, or perhaps desperation, you reach over and place your hand on his. He starts a bit, but doesn’t pull away. Warmth blossoms in your chest. God, you wish this were simpler.

“I’m so happy that you want to go out with me. Seriously. It’s something- kind of embarrassing, but I’ve wanted this for a long time. It’s just… there’s more to the story than you know, Clark.”

He’s happy about your admission, blessedly, but it doesn’t wipe the concern from his face. He puts his other hand over yours, encasing you fully. “Then tell me the rest.”

You close your eyes for a moment. This is it. There’s no more delaying, no beating around the bush. You have to come clean. For the sake of your friend, for yourself, and because Clark deserves the truth.

“Okay, but I… I just wish I could have you promise you won’t hate me after.”

Those gorgeous blue eyes soften, turning your knees to jelly. His thumb rubs circles into your hand. “I could never hate you.”

Part of you believes him. But another part—the journalist, the realist—can’t take stock in his words. Clark is the closest thing to perfect you’ve ever seen. But that doesn’t mean he actually is perfect. No one’s perfect, not even this man you care so much about.

You fill your lungs with air until they ache, and then you open your mouth to let the truth spill out.

Clark glances towards the Metropolis skyline, brows twitching, as if he heard something. He blinks and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Glances at the screen to check for a message. You didn’t even hear it go off, not even a muted buzz. But when he looks up at you, expression a storm cloud of regret, you know what’s coming.

“I’m sorry, but there’s- a family-friend is having an emergency. I have to go,” he explains, pushing himself to his feet. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a $100 bill, and drops it on the table. “I’m so sorry. I promise I will make this up to you. Please get some food, whatever you want, on me.”

You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that. So you stay silent, just watching as he hurries to escape. You think your heart might be shriveling in your chest a little.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? We’ll reschedule. I’m really so sorry, Jelly,” he says, and you know he means it. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this upset. Not that it makes you feel better.

Clark turns to leave, pauses, and looks back at you. He deliberates, and then he’s leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. With one more rushed I’m sorry, he disappears from sight. And you’re left alone. At an Italian restaurant, on the patio, across from an empty seat.

You glance down at the money he left. The most expensive thing on the menu is $20.

A mix between a laugh and a gasp leaves your throat. You lay your head on the table with a muffled thunk. You ponder the science needed to make a do-over machine. More than anything, you wonder how you’re gonna force yourself to go to work tomorrow.

You end up eating dinner at the restaurant. Not because you want to, but because your emotions are a mess and you think getting something in your stomach will help. You pay ‌the bill with your own money, and slip Clark’s $100 into your pocket. You’ll give it back to him tomorrow. Alongside whatever confession you can muster.

The 20-minute walk to your apartment building is the perfect opportunity to clear your head, which is exactly what you don’t do. You spiral and second-guess and fall deeper and deeper into despair. Sadie hates you. Clark doesn’t like you like that. You weirded him out. You lost your two best friends.

Obviously, you’re doing very well.

Superman is fighting some sort of alien monster on the other side of town. It’s your one and only saving grace that both your home and your work are outside the battle boundaries. A damaged apartment would surely send you over the edge right now. You still remember when your car got stomped on last year. You still haven’t bought a new one—you don’t want to risk it.

Besides, you don’t mind walking.

The apartment door sticks a little when you try to open it, so you hit it with your shoulder until it budges. You really need to get that looked at. Whenever you miraculously find the time. Or if you can talk your shady landlord into doing it. Considering it’s been three months and your sink still leaks, you find that doubtful.

You hang your bag up by the door, kick off your shoes, and fall face-first onto your couch. Briefly, you consider cracking open the liquor cabinet, but you think better of it. Nothing in there is going to help you right now. What you really need is a long shower, a cheesy 90-minute movie, and an early bedtime. Maybe a treat for good measure.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. A big part of you wants to ignore it. It could be Clark calling to apologize again. Or Sadie trying to figure out what happened. But it could also be Perry, or one of your sources, or Jimmy needing your help to escape a bad date.

Stifling a groan, you fish it out and glance at the screen. Your stomach drops. It’s Sadie.

One thing you’ve learned about your best friend over the course of your friendship is that she’s persistent. If you don’t answer this, she will call again. And again and again and again. If that doesn’t work, she might even show up at your door. There’s no avoiding her for very long.

Pretending like you don’t feel extremely ill, you accept the call and hold the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Please tell me you’re done with your date, and you didn’t answer your phone in the middle of dinner.”

You sit up so fast that it makes you dizzy. “What?”

“Your date. With Clark. Are you done already?”

The air has been sucked out of your lungs. You clutch your phone so tight you fear it might snap. “I don’t- I need you to explain what’s happening right now.”

When she answers, humor seeps into her voice. “Honey, I asked you to set me up with Kent so you could get with him.”

Every ounce of intelligence you had has flown out the window. It’s like she’s speaking in an unfamiliar language, and you’re only picking up bits and pieces. “Huh?”

“Well, at first I thought my asking you would just get you to confess your feelings about him. But it didn’t, because you’re a sweetheart with no self-preservation. So then came Plan B,” she explains, voice crackling over the call. You wonder if Superman’s fight is affecting the phone lines. “I knew if you tried to set him up with me, he’d have to tell you he didn’t feel that way. And then maybe it could spark a confession between the two of you. That didn’t happen either.”

You’re gaping at the wall in front of you. You cannot believe what you’re hearing right now.

“At the very least, if he ended up accepting the date with me out of politeness or whatever, I could bail. Send you in my stead like the evil genius I am and get your relationship moving,” Sadie continues, oblivious to the crisis you’re having. “But you, you beautiful human, you handled it all on your own. You messed it up so badly that you ended up asking him out yourself. You did my job for me.”

“How… how do you know about that?” You ask, finding your voice after a few long seconds. What kind of maniacal plan is this?

“Lois sits right behind him, sweetie. She heard the whole thing.”

Great. Lois is in on it, too. You’re sure she’s not the only one. A headache is forming behind your eyes, and you rub ‌your temples. This is so ridiculous.

“You- what- why would you do this?”

“Because I was sick of watching you two pine over each other for no good reason!” She exclaims, though there’s no malice behind it. “You want each other, and you should be together, and I knew you just needed a push.”

She’s right. You never in a million years would have approached him of your own volition. He’s so out of your league, you didn’t think it possible for him to reciprocate. Still, this entire scheme feels like way too much effort. Not to mention how terribly you screwed it up.

“Jesus Christ, Sadie, why didn’t you just tell me that?” You groan. “Do you know how awful I felt all day, thinking I betrayed your trust? I’ve been sick to my stomach!”

She laughs. She literally, fully laughs at you. You scowl. Even though she can’t see it, it makes you feel better.

“Well, I would’ve if you’d talked to me! You spent the rest of the day avoiding me like the plague.”

She got you there. You had a skill in running from your problems. “This is so ridiculous. I hate you so much.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she giggles. You both know you don’t mean it. Hell, you’re smiling right now. “So how did the date go?”

The relief you felt at Sadie’s explanation evaporates instantly. Despite having the misunderstanding cleared up, the failed-accidental-first-date still weighs heavily on you. He’d left so suddenly. With some half-assed excuse about an emergency you don’t even think is real. It’s quite possible he just wanted a quick escape.

“It… didn’t.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘it didn’t’?”

You sigh, curling up against the couch cushions. “We’d just sat down, and I was about to tell him about the whole mixup when he just- he left.”

“He left?!” she shrieks, and you have to pull the phone away from your ear. She’s obviously invested in this whole thing.

“Yeah. He pulled out his phone like he got a message- which I’m quite sure he didn’t- and then he said he had to go. Something about a family emergency. I don’t know. It was weird.”

“What the hell? That’s so unlike him. What do you think happened?”

“Not sure,” you shake your head even though she can’t see you. “I’m worried I may have scared him off. I was acting pretty strange when I thought I was betraying you.”

“Very sweet, but unnecessary. I was never betrayed,” she comments unhelpfully. “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem like the type to scare easily. Especially with you. He likes you so much.”

You can’t stop the blush that spreads across your cheeks. Clark liking you so much? It’s a crazy sentiment. Damn near improbable. To even imagine it…

“Well, whatever it was, he left in a hurry. After giving me a hundred dollars to get myself dinner. Which I didn’t use.”

“Ugh, he’s such a gentleman. I love it,” she gushes. You agree, though you don’t feel the need to say it. She knows how you feel. “You should talk to him about it tomorrow. Try to figure out what happened, and how to move forward.”

“Yeah, I was already planning on it. He said we’d reschedule.”

“Oh, perfect, he still likes you then! Not that that was ever in doubt, but still.”

You roll your eyes. “I guess so. I just- God, I can’t believe the day I’ve had.”

Even though you can’t see her, you can picture the apologetic look on her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would ice me out all day. I was going to tell you.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s okay. It’s not your fault,” you assure her. “I put myself in that situation. And now that it’s over, I am so tired.”

“Alright, you should head to bed then. I won’t keep you any longer. I just wanted to, you know, debrief.” 

“I appreciate that. I worked myself into quite the frenzy.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she laughs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? And we’ll figure out this whole Clark thing.”

“Sounds good,” you smile into the phone. “See you tomorrow, evil genius.”

“Good night, lovebug.”

The call clicks to an end, and you drop the phone in your lap. Letting out a breath, you rub at your tired eyes. Jesus, what a crazy series of events.

Something tells you tomorrow is gonna have just as much in store.

[ducktracy]

sharing a very sage bit of advice from The Simpsons' own John Swartzwelder that i've been trying to hamper down in my writing and drawing alike. let your inner crappy little elf do his worst

[lilybug-02]

Maybe relying on the next generation to solve all your problems is a doomed-to-fail solution...*cough*

Bug Fact: Scientific research on the subject of yawing in insects is essentially nonexistent, but bees are thought to exhibit the phenomenon for thermoregulation.

V2 First || Prev // Next

Volume 2 Masterpost ▴♥︎▴

Okay I'll be 100% honest, I could not find a secure Scientific source for this bug fact. (yes I try to make my bug facts as accurate as possible). Theres not a lot of information on insect yawning. Who knew? (sarcasm😑).

There were a few scientific articles on bee thermoregulation, but I am not reading ALL OF THAT just to figure out if bees separate their mandibles a little bit.

I found this fact at Urban Beelife. Yawning would involve their Mandibles to open past neutral and snap back.

[jinglejails]

That feelin' when the bug starts runnin'.

✂️ - - - Korean n' English page/fully-drawn version under the cut - - - ✂️

[cowboysorceror]

re-vamping and solidifying my Jason design for "door, opening" my in-progress fic! if you don't want to read my handwriting it's all written out in alt text lol 👍 EDIT: see Dick over here!

[crevicedwelling]

here’s a fun animal I saw in Borneo: the mammal!

unlike the rest of us, mammals are endothermic and produce their own body heat—but they’re not birds! it is covered in a thick coat of hair (you guessed it, separate evolutionary origin from feathers) and secretes a fatty liquid from special glands to nurture its larvae. mammals can be found almost worldwide and are highly adaptable. this one was making odd squeaking noises, possibly begging for morsels of food.

here’s another mammal I saw. pretty sure it’s a different species but I’m not an expert on identifying them

fun mammal fact: some are curiously soft to the touch! try palpating the next mammal you see, but please be careful. some may bite!

[yuuchama]

Sometime during the VDC training camp, when everyone on team Night Raven is sleeping over at Ramshackle Dorm:

Ramshackle Dorm has no shortage of spare rooms, but their condition is another story. You've managed to get enough of them decently clean. They're not as nice as your room, which has had far more time invested in it and is well lived in, but your groupmates should be able to spend a few days at the dorm without issue and are more than free to tidy up rooms as they please.

Yet on one of the first nights, you hear the door of your room creak open. It's dark and you can't see the intruder, though you know it's not one of the ghosts. The approaching footsteps aren't as heavy as Grim's, even after he's cleared out the entire fridge in one sitting. You're also pretty confident Grim is fast asleep beside you.

"Hello?" You groggily lift your head and call out to the intruder. If it's anything malicious, you hope the ensuing scuffle will cause enough noise to wake everyone else up.

A weight pushes the edge of your mattress down and there's a gentle touch at your shoulder. "Prefect, do you mind if I spend the rest of the night here?"

"Jamil?"

You almost don't recognize him in the dark with his hair down. You feel around for a bedside light. Grim groans in his sleep when it clicks on and turns over, shielding his eyes with tiny arms.

Jamil looks exhausted. "Please, I'd really appreciate if you could let me sleep here tonight."

"Yeah, sure. Of course." Maybe it's the sleep addling your brain or your trust in Jamil. You see no reason to turn down his request and didn't question why he was coming to you instead of Kalim. You nudge Grim over to make room for one more on the bed.

The vice housewarden does his best to fit in the cramped sleeping conditions, assuring "I'll pay you back for this. Thank you."

He's turned towards the wall, back touching your side so that he doesn't fall. You wait to make sure he's fully secure in bed before turning off the light. In the calm that follows, you notice he's almost imperceptibly shaking. Sure, the dorm is cold, but not that cold. Especially with three in one bed.

"Jamil, are you okay?" The longer you spend awake, the more concerning this whole situation feels.

"I'm fine. Goodnight, Prefect." Jamil already has his eyes shut and seems adamant about not discussing things further.

"Okay... Goodnight."

You lay down and silence settles over the room once more. It's really warm between your two friends. Sleep is quick to catch up to you, you find yourself nodding off within minutes of your head touching the pillow.

Before you fully drift off, Jamil turns to face you. His hair drapes over the side of the bed and he places a hand on your pillow, lightly grazing your cheek.

"Thanks again," he whispers. "I feel a lot better with you here. Your room doesn't have bugs on the wall."

[robo-writing]

Silly little thing inspired by this post

From the moment Logan came home he was acting strange—handsy, far more than usual, a glint in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Really, how could you deny your own curiosity when you felt him against your back, bulge pressing against your backside as his hands wormed their way up your shirt.

“Been waiting for you all day,” he mumbles against your skin, pinching your nipples between his two fingers, sliding his thickening cock against your ass. “Miss me sweetheart? Because I sure as hell missed you.”

In the time it takes for you to nod your head he’s already ripped your shirt open, your gasp of surprise soon overshadowed by the moan that leaves you when his hand moves to rub against your pussy over your jeans. His voice in your ear is sin itself, the sound of it enough to have you weak in the knees.

“Let’s go upstairs darling, wanna show you just how much I missed you.”

Like hell he needed to tell you twice.

Logan’s got you on your knees within minutes, large palms gripping your hips with certainty, the movement of his hips against your backside leaving you starry-eyed—You don’t know what came over him, but you do know that whatever it is, you love it.

Rough, predatory even, he folds himself against your body, grunting with each thrust as his cock batters into you, sweat lining your skin as you try your best to keep up with each movement of his hips. Even so, you can’t help how badly your body burns with exhaustion. An arm wraps around your stomach, pulling you toward his chest, keeping you steady as he fucks up into you like a man possessed.

You’re on cloud nine, floating above your own body, so beside yourself with pleasure that you give yourself fully to Logan, letting him fuck your weakened body like a toy. Your vocabulary becomes limited to cries of his name, your fingers splayed against his thighs, his voice growling into your neck.

“Good girl, stay just like that, lemme make you feel good,” he says, lapping at your open mouth. “Lemme think for you, just focus on how good it feels, yeah? Stay with me doll.”

Your head lolls to the side, a sloppy attempt at a kiss before you separate with a whine. The mounting pressure has your fingers moving towards the base of his cock, surprise gripping you when you feel how it swells beneath your fingers.

That’s certainly new.

Logan’s none the wiser, if anything the presence of your fingers only spurs him further into your warm cunt, drooling at the sudden overstimulation. “Holy shit—keep your hand right there, Jesus Christ—“

Somehow his hips move even faster, battering his swollen cock even further into your poor, abused pussy, desperate to fit himself as far as he can inside you. Your warnings fall on deaf ears, even as you beg him to listen Logan’s far more interested in stuffing you nice and full to give a shit. “Fuck, fuck, Logan—“

“Shh, fuck—“ His fingers against your clit silence your protests, your legs shaky as he continues to fuck into you. “Just be quiet f’me, that’s it—oh god—“

He keeps you nice and pliant in his arms, too cock-drunk and brainless to care about the fact that the pressure inside your pussy is growing, or care about the fact that Logan’s practically drooling against your neck, biting, licking, sucking at any exposed skin his teeth can reach. “Feel so good, so fucking good—“

You cry out his name when you cum, your juices running down your thighs and soaking his cock as he continues to fuck into you, pinning you by your arms even further into the bedsheets. Back arched, face down, ass up—his weight against your back makes you seize, your breath caught in your chest when you suddenly feel something growing larger inside of you.

It’s soon followed by the familiar warmth of him spilling inside of you, so much more than you’re used to. His cum fills you up, so much so that you feel it slipping free from where his cock is plugged inside of you, his hips still moving even if his cock is firmly locked inside of you.

It takes you far longer than you care to admit to gather yourself, your fingers reaching down to touch where his cock swells, your hips tentatively shaking only to find that it doesn’t move from you an inch. The action has him pulling you back into him, his hot breath fanning against your cheek.

“Don’t move, please,” he begs, desperation laced in his voice. “Too fuckin’ sensitive, fuck—“

“Logan,” you whine, trying to pull yourself away again. “Can’t move, you’re heavy—“

He grunts in response, slowly turning the both of you on your side, his large arms hugging you still as he’s locked inside your pussy. It’s now you can look down and see just how fat the base of him is, lodged so far inside of you that it makes your stomach bulge just that bit more.

Your whisper is that of morbid curiosity and a bit of awe, fingers tracing where your stomach protrudes with the weight of him. “Logan, what the fuck?”

“What?” He mumbles half-heartedly, and you have to grab his hand and show him exactly what you’re talking about, his head lifting to see his swollen dick disappearing in your cunt.

“What the fuck…” he whispers back, equally in awe of…whatever the hell this is.

“Is that normal?” You ask, and he shakes his head.

“No it is not,” he says, hissing when he gives an experimental thrust. “Feels fuckin’ good though.”

[memento-morri-writes]

whump-loving writer: *experiences something Bad*

whump-loving writer: I NEED TO TAKE NOTES!! I CAN USE THIS!!

[flamingpudding]

Code: GHOST

It all started when a number code flashed across the screen of the Batcomputer while Tim was working on a case.

7 8 15 19 20

Flashed across the screen several times to the point it made Tim think that someone somehow managed to hack into the Batcomputer. It was also a number code he was not familiar with at all. So Tim reported it back over their comms in hopes that maybe one of the others knew what the numbers meant. Because all he managed to figure out from it was that the number code was an alert on the Batcomputer, one that came with coordinates that lead into the middle of nowhere.

Tim was about to join the discussion Dick and Jason were having on it when Bruce silenced them all apruptly speaking up.

"Answer code 2 1 20, sent them to the coordinates attached. I will be in the cave in ETA3 and take over from there."

The sudden silence on their communication line spoke volumes especially when Tim new the numbers was a simply code for Bat. He still did what Bruce asked him to do but that didn't stop the questions running through Tim's mind. He watched on the screen of the Batcomputer how the moment he sent the code in return, Programs started like on autopilot. A map opening that contained nothing at first but then changed into a map of a whole good damn city. Tim could only gap at what was happening on the Batcomputer before Bruce appeared and pulled him away from his seat to take over himself.

Bruce without a beat of delay started to input more codes and apparently access codes too as more and more windows opened on the Batcomputer. Tim did not realise that with time Dick, Cass and Damian had joined him as they watched Bruce work away on the Batcomputer. At some point an audiotrack opened but all they could hear was only static. They thought Bruce was going to run it through one of the noise filtering programs.

But to the shock of them, Bruce suddenly triggered a hidden compartment on the console, causing it to flip over and reveal communication link build in a way non of them had ever seen before. It was silver with green accents and looked far... older and less sleek than any of the ones they used. It was clearly not designed to stay completely hidden if put into your ear.

They watched how he simply put that earpiece on and then replayed the audiotrack.

The batkids shared a look of confusion. Non of them sure what to make of the situation until suddenly Bruce stood up from the Batcomputer.

"Prepare for a rescue mission. Nightwing, Orphan and Robin will come with me, the rest of you will stay in Gotham." Was all the man said before storming of towards the Batplane.

"Bruce what is going on?!" Dick instead of going to prepare asked stoping the man before he could get away from them. "What is the meaning of that code? Aside from the fact that simply translated it means ghost."

Bruce eyed the batkids present for a moment before letting out a grunt. "Ghost is finally ready to join the family."

"Ghost?" Tim echoed confused, never having heard that alias for any of them.

"Father what do you mean, 'join the family'?" Damian chimed in clearly frowning with suspicion.

The man eyed them once more his eyes going over each of his children, it looked like he was contemplating telling them more for a moment before he stood to fully face them and let out a sigh. "Like Clark, I too have clone child."

There was a stunned silence. No one speaking up until Dick did. "How long...?"

"14 years ago"

The silence continued as they all did the mental math. Once more it was Dick who spoke up first, clearly stunned. "You had a clone since I was eleven and now is the first time I hear of that?! You never bothered telling any of us?!"

There was a long suffering sigh. "We got to Danny before he was aged up, he was a normal baby even if created in a laboratory, so it was best for him to grow up normally, with the league we arranged for him to be sent to selected family since I had my hands full with you and-"

"Danny?!" Dick cut in. "His name is Danny? Does he even know about us?"

"Dick." Bruce called out his tone warning. "Of course I kept an eye on Danny's life. And I did made contact with him when the time was appropriated considering some of the things that were happening for the boy as he grew up, however he is not aware that he is a clone and it will stay that way. He will get to know all of you once we finished this rescue mission."

Before Dick or any of the others could say anything more Bruce spoke up firmly again. "Get ready now, we do not have any more time. Anything else will be handled later."

[heich0e]

shouto always facetimes you when he's wearing a suit even if he has nothing to actually say, so one afternoon when you answer his incoming call and are greeted by the sight of his buttoned-down and lapelled chest, your face immediately feels hot.

"shouto?" you ask, your voice infuriatingly flustered even though you had tried your very best to choke it back. "what's up?"

and then he tilts the camera back up to its usual position—a little too high, so really it's just the bridge of his nose, his eyes, and the top of his head left at the very bottom of the screen. and simply he goes: "i'm wearing a suit."

"i can see that," you reply, resisting the urge to drag your hand down your face—equal parts frustrated and horrifically endeared to your boyfriend's familiar antics. "is that the reason you called?"

"i know you like when i wear them so i wanted to call and show you."

[creatingblackcharacters]

“The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth” - Violence, Violent Imagery & Black Horror

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of death, violence, blood, hate crimes, antiblackness, police violence, rape

Note! I am going to be speaking from a Black American point of view, as my identity informs my experience. That said, antiblackness itself is international. The idea of my Blackness as a threat, as a source of fear and violence to repress and to destroy, is something every Black person in the world that has ever dealt with white supremacy has experienced.

There are two things, I think, that are important to note as we start this conversation.

One: there is a long history of violence towards Black bodies that is due to our dehumanization. People do not care for the killing of a mouse in the way they care about a human. But if you think the people you are dealing with are not people, but animals- more particularly, pests, something distasteful- then you will be able to rationalize treating them as such.

Two: even though we live in a time period where that overt belief of Blackness as inhuman is less likely, we must recognize that there are centuries of belief behind this concept; centuries of arguments and actions that cement in our minds that a certain amount of violence towards Blackness is normal. That subconscious belief you may hold is steeped in centuries of effort to convince you of it without even questioning it. And because of this very real re-enforcement of desensitization, naturally another place this will manifest itself is in how we tell and comprehend stories.

There are also three points I'm about to make first- not the only three that can ever be made, but the ones that stand out the most to me when we talk about violence with Black characters:

One: Your Black readers may experience that scene you wrote differently than you meant anyone to, just because our history may change our perspective on what’s happening.

Two: The idea that Black characters and people deserve the pain they are experiencing.

Three: The disbelief or dismissal of the pain of Black characters and people.

You Better Start Believing In Ghost Stories- You’re In One

I don’t need to tell Black viewers scary fairytales of sadists, body snatchers and noncoincidental disappearances, cannibals, monsters appearing in the night, and dystopian, unjust systems that bury people alive- real life suffices! We recognize the symbolism because we’ve seen real demons.

Some real examples of familiar, terrifying stories that feel like drama, but are real experiences:

12 Years a Slave: “This is no fiction, no exaggeration. If I have failed in anything, it has been in presenting to the reader too prominently the bright side of the picture. I doubt not hundreds have been as unfortunate as myself; that hundreds of free citizens have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, and are at this moment wearing out their lives on plantations in Texas and Louisiana.” – Solomon Northup

When They See Us: I can’t get myself to watch When They See Us, because I learned about the actual trial of the Central Park Five- now the Exonerated Five- in my undergrad program. Five teen Black and brown boys, subjected to racist and cruel policing and vilification in the media- from Donald Trump calling for their deaths in the newspaper, to being imprisoned under what the Clintons deemed a generation of “superpredators” during a “tough on crime” administration. And as audacious as it is to say, as Solomon Northup explained, they were fortunate. The average Black person funneled into the prison system doesn’t get the opportunity to make it back out redeemed or exonerated, because the system is designed to capture and keep them there regardless of their innocence or guilt. Their lives are irreparably changed; they are forever trapped.

Jasper, Texas: Learning about the vicious, gruesome murder of James Byrd Jr, was horrific- and that was just the movie. No matter how “community comes together” everyone tells that story, the reality is that there are people who will beat you, drag you chained down a gravel road for three miles as your body shreds away until you are decapitated, and leave your mangled body in front of a Black church to send a message… Because you’re Black and they hate you. To date I am scared when I’m walking and I see trucks passing me, and don’t let them have the American or the Confederate flag on them. Even Ahmaud Arbery, all he was doing was jogging in his hometown, and white men from out of town decided he should be murdered for that.

Do you want to know what all of these men and boys, from 1841 to 2020, had in common? What they did to warrant what happened to them? Being outside while Black. Some might call it “wrong place wrong time”, but the reality is that there is no “right place”. Sonya Massey, Breonna Taylor- murdered inside their home. Where else can you be, if the danger has every right to barge inside? There is no “safe”.

It is already Frightening to live while Black- not because being Black is inherently frightening, but because our society has made it horrific to do so. But that leads into my next point:

“They Shouldn’t Have Resisted”

Think of all the videos of assaulted and murdered Black people from police violence. If you can stomach going into the comments- which I don’t, anymore- you’ll see this classic comment of hate in the thousands, twisting your stomach into knots:

“if they obeyed the officer, if they didn’t resist, this wouldn’t have happened”

Another way our punitive society normalizes itself is via the idea of respectability politics; the idea that “if you are Good, if you do what you are Supposed to do, you will not be hurt- I will not have to hurt you”. Therefore, if my people are always suffering violence, it must be because we are Bad. And in a society that is already less gracious to Black people, that is more likely to think we are less human, that we are innately bad and must earn the right to be exceptional… the use of excessive violence towards me must be the natural outcome. “If your people weren’t more likely to be criminals, there wouldn’t be the need to be suspicious of you”- that is the way our society has taught us to frame these interactions, placing the blame for our own victimization on us.

Sidebar: I would highly suggest reading The New Jim Crow, written in 2010 by Michelle Alexander, to see how this mentality helps tie into large scale criminalization and mass incarceration, and how the cycle is purposely perpetuated.

You have to constantly be aware of how you look, walk and talk- and even then, that won’t be enough to save you if the time comes. The turning point for me, personally, was the murder of Sandra Bland. If she could be educated, beautiful, a beacon of her community, be everything a “Good” Black person is supposed to be… and still be murdered via police violence, they can kill any of us. And that’s a very terrifying thought- that anything at any point can be the reason for your death, and it will be validated because someone thinks you shouldn’t have “been that way”. And that way has far less to do with what you did, than it does who you are. Being “that way” is Black.

My point is, if this belief is so normalized in real life about violence on Black bodies- that somehow, we must have done something to deserve this- what makes you think that this belief does not affect how you comprehend Black people suffering in stories?

Hippocratic Oath

Human experimentation? Vivisection? Organ stealing? Begging for medicine? Dramatically bleeding out? Not trusting just anyone to see that you are hurt, because they might take advantage? All very real fears. The idea that pain is normal for Black people is especially rampant in the healthcare field, where ideas like our melanin making our skin thick enough to feel less pain (no), an overblown fear of ‘drug misuse’, and believing we are overexaggerating our pain makes many Black people being unwilling to trust the healthcare system. And it comes down to this thought:

If you think that I feel less pain, you will allow me to suffer long before you believe that I am in pain.

I was psychologically spiraling I was in so much pain after my wisdom teeth removal, and my surgeon was more concerned about “addiction to the medication”. Only because Hot Chocolate’s mom is a nurse, did I get an effective medicine schedule. My mother ended up with jaw rot because her surgeon outright claimed that she didn’t believe that she was in more than the ‘healing’ pain after her wisdom teeth were removed. She also has a gigantic, macabre (and awesome fr) scar on her stomach from a c-section she received after four days of labor attempting to have me… all because she was too poor and too Black to afford better doctors who wouldn’t have dismissed her struggles to push.

As a major example of dismissed Black pain: let’s discuss the mortality rate of Black women during childbirth, as well as the likelihood of our children to die. When we say “they will let you bleed to death”, we mean it.

“Black women have the highest maternal mortality rate in the United States — 69.9 per 100,000 live births for 2021, almost three times the rate for white women, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Black babies are more likely to die, and also far more likely to be born prematurely, setting the stage for health issues that could follow them through their lives.”

Even gynecology roots in dismissal (and taking brutal advantage of) Black women's pain:

“The history of this particular medical branch … it begins on a slave farm in Alabama,” Owens said. “The advancement of obstetrics and gynecology had such an intimate relationship with slavery, and was literally built on the wounds of Black women.” Reproductive surgeries that were experimental at the time, like cesarean sections, were commonly performed on enslaved Black women. Physicians like the once-heralded J. Marion Sims, an Alabama doctor many call the “father of gynecology,” performed torturous surgical experiments on enslaved Black women in the 1840s without anesthesia. And well after the abolition of slavery, hospitals performed unnecessary hysterectomies on Black women, and eugenics programs sterilized them.”

If you think Black characters are not in pain, or that they’re overexaggerating, you’re more likely to be okay with them suffering more in comparison to those whose pain you take more seriously- to those you believe.

What’s My Point?

My point is that whatever terrifying scene you think you’re writing, whatever violent whump scenario you think you’re about to put your Black characters through, there’s a chance it has probably happened and was treated as nonimportant (damn shame, right?) And when those terrifying scenes are both written and read, the way their suffering will be felt depends on how much you as a reader care, how much you believe they are suffering.

There’s a joke amongst readers of color that many dystopian tales are tales of “what happened if white people experienced things that the rest of us have already been put through?” Think concepts like alien invasion and mass eradication of the existing population- you may think of that as an action flick, meanwhile peoples globally have suffered colonization for centuries. The Handmaid’s Tale- forced birthing and raising of “someone else’s” children, always subject to sexual harassment by the Master while subject to hate from the Mistress- that’s just being a Mammy.

There’s nothing wrong with having Black characters be violent or deal with violence, especially in a story where every character is going through shit. That is not the problem! What I am trying to tell you, though, is to be aware that certain violent imagery is going to evoke familiarity in Black viewers. And if I as a Black viewer see my very real traumas treated as entertainment fodder- or worse, dismissed- by the narrative and other viewers, I will probably not want to consume that piece of media anymore. I will also question the intentions and the beliefs of the people who treat said traumas so callously. Now, if that’s not something you care about, that’s on you! But for people who do care, it is something we need to make sure we are catching before we do it.

“So I just can’t write anything?!”

Stop that. There are plenty of examples of stories containing horror and violence with Black characters. There’s an entire genre of us telling our own stories, using the same violence as symbolism. I’m not telling you “no” (least not always). I’m telling you to take some consideration when you write the things that you do. There’s nothing wrong about writing your Black characters being violent or experiencing violence. But there is a difference between making it narratively relevant, and thoughtlessly using them as a “spook”, a stereotypical scary Black person, or a punching bag, especially in a way that may invoke certain trauma.

The Black Guy Dies First

The joke is that we never survive these horror movies because we either wouldn’t be there to begin with, or because we would make better decisions and the narrative can’t have that. But the reality is just that a lot of writers find Black characters- Black people- expendable in comparison to their white counterparts, and it shows. More of a “here, damn” sort of character, not worth investment and easy to shrug off. The book itself I haven’t read, just because it’s pretty new, but I’m looking forward to doing so. But from the summaries, it goes into horror media history and how Black characters have fared in these stories, as well as how that connects to the society those characters were written in. I.e., a thorough version of this lesson.

Instead, I wrote an entire list of questions you could possibly ask yourself involving violence or villainy involving a Black character. Feel free to print it and put it on your wall where you write if you have to! I cannot stress enough that asking yourself questions like these are good both for your creation and just… being less antiblack in general when you consume media.

Black Horror/Black Thriller

We, too, have turned our violent experiences into stories. I continue to highly suggest watching our films and reading our stories to see how we convey our fear, our terror, our violence and our pain. There are plenty of stories that work- Get Out, The Angry Black Girl and her Monster, Candyman, Lovecraft Country (the show) and Nanny are some examples. There’s even a blog by the co-writer of The Black Guy Dies First who runs BlackHorrorMovies where he reviews horror movies from throughout the decades.

Desiree Evans has a great essay, We Need Black Horror More Than Ever, that gets into why this genre is so creative and effective, that I think says what I have to say better than I could.

“Even before Peele, Black horror had a rich literary lineage going back to the folklore of Africa and its Diaspora. Stories of haints, witches, curses, and magic of all kinds can be found in the folktales collected by author and anthropologist Zora Neale Hurston and in the folktales retold by acclaimed children’s book author Virginia Hamilton. One of my earliest childhood literary memories is being entranced by Hamilton’s The House of Dies Drear and Patricia McKissack’s children’s book classic The Dark-Thirty: Southern Tales of the Supernatural, both examples of the ways Black authors have tapped into Black history along with our rich ghostlore.” “Black horror can be clever and subversive, allowing Black writers to move against racist tropes, to reconfigure who stands at the center of a story, and to shift the focus from the dominant narrative to that which is hidden, submerged. To ask: what happens when the group that was Othered, gets to tell their side of the story?”

For on the nose simplicity, I’m going to use hood classic Tales From The Hood (1994) as an example of how violence can be integrated into Black horror tales. Tales From The Hood is like… The Twilight Zone by Black people. Messages discussing issues in our community, done through a mystical twist. Free on Tubi! If you want to stop here before some spoilers, it’s an hour and a half. A great time!

In the first story, a Black political activist is murdered by the cops. The scene is reflective of the real-world efforts to discredit and even murder activists speaking out against police violence, as well as the types of things done to criminalize Black citizens for capture. The song Strange Fruit plays in the background, to drive the point home that this is a lynching.

The second story deals with a Black little boy experiencing abuse in the home, drawing a green monster to show his teacher why he’s covered in wounds and is lashing out at school.

The fourth story is about a gangbanger who undergoes “behavioral modification” to be released from prison early. Think of the classic scene from A Clockwork Orange. He must watch as imagery of the Klan and of happy whites lynching Black bodies (real-life pictures and video, mind you!) play into his mind alongside gang violence.

Isn’t Violence Stereotypical or antiblack?

That last story from Tales From The Hood leads into a good point. It can be! But it does not have to be! Violence is a human experience. By suggesting we don’t experience it or commit it, you would be denying everything I’ve just spoken about. We don’t have to be racist to write our Black characters in violent situations. We also don’t have to comprehend those situations through a racist lens.

Even experiences that seem “stereotypical” do not have to be comprehended that way. I get a LOT of questions about if something is stereotypical, and my response is always that it depends on the writing!!! You could give me a harmless prompt and it becomes the most racist story ever once you leave my inbox. But you could give me a “stereotypical” prompt and it be genuine writing.

Let’s take the movie Juice for example. Juice in my honest to God opinion becomes a thriller about halfway in. On its surface, Juice looks like bad Black boys shooting and cursing and doing things they aren’t supposed to be doing! Incredibly stereotypical- violent young thugs. You might think, “you shouldn’t write something like this- you’re telling everyone this is what your community is like”. First- there’s that respectability politics again! Just because something is not a “respectable” story does not mean it doesn’t need to be told!

But if we’re actually paying attention, what we’re looking at is four young boys dealing with their environment in different ways. All four of them originally stick together to feel power amongst their brotherhood as they all act tough and discover their own identities. They are not perfect, but they are still kids. In this environment, to be tough, to be strong, you do the things that they are doing. You run from cops, you steal from stores, you mess with all the girls and talk shit and wave weapons. That’s what makes you “big”. That’s what gives you the “juice”- and the “juice” can make you untouchable.

I want to focus particularly on Bishop, yes, played by Tupac. Bishop, the antagonist of Juice, is particularly powerless, angry, and scared of the world around him. He puts on a big front of bravado, yelling, cursing, and talking big because he’s tired of being afraid, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it otherwise. So when he gets access to a gun- to power- he quickly spirals out of control. His response to his fear is to wave around a tool that makes him feel stronger, that stops the things that scare him from scaring him.

Now, that is not a unique tale! That is a tale that any race could write about, particularly young white men with gun violence! If you ever cared for Fairuza Balk’s character in The Craft, it is a similar fall from grace. But because it is on a young, Black man in the hood, audiences are less likely to empathize with Bishop. And granted, Bishop is unhinged! But many a white character has been, and is not shoved into a stereotype that white people cannot escape from!

Now would I be comfortable if a nonblack person attempted to write a narrative like Juice? Yes, because I’d worry about the tendency to lose the messaging and just fall into stereotype outright. But it can be done! The story can be told!

“But if Black violence bad, why rap?”

The short answer:

“In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political, I must listen to the birds, and in order to hear the birds, the warplanes must be silent.”

Marwhan Makhoul, Palestinian Poet

First, rap is not “only violence and misogyny”. Step your understanding of the genre up; there are plenty of options outside of the mainstream that don’t discuss those things. Second, every genre of music has mainstream popular songs about vice and sin. The idea that Black rappers have to be held to a higher standard is yet another example of how we are seen as inherently bad and must prove ourselves good. We could speak about nothing but drugs and alcohol and 1) there would still be white artists who do the very same and 2) we would still deserve to be treated like humans.

That said, many- not all- rappers rap about violence for the same reason Billy Joel wrote We Didn’t Start the Fire, the same reason Homer first spoke The Iliad- because they have something to say about it! They stand in a long tradition of people using poetry and rhythm to tell stories. Rap is an art of storytelling!

Rap is often used as an expression of frustration and righteous anger against a system built to keep us trapped within it. I’m not allowed to be angry? Why wouldn’t I be angry? Anger is a protective emotion, often when one feels helpless. Young Black people also began to reclaim and glorify the violence they lived in within their music, to take pride in their survival and in their success in a world that otherwise wanted them to fail. If I think the world fights against me no matter what I do, I’d rather live in pride than in shame with a bent head. Is it right? Maybe, maybe not. But if you don’t want them to rap about violence, why not alleviate the things leading to the violence in their environment?

Whether you choose to listen to their words, because the delivery scares you- and trust, angry Black men scared the music industry and society- doesn’t make the story any less valid!

Conclusion

I am going to drop a classic by Slick Rick called Children’s Story. I think listening to it- and I mean genuinely listening- summarizes what I’ve said here about how Black creators can tell stories, even violent ones, and how even the delivery through Blackness can change how you perceive them. Please take the time to listen before continuing.

I’ve been alive for 28 years and have known this song my whole life, and it just hit me tonight: not once is the kid in this story identified as Black! My perception of this story was completely altered by my own experiences, who told the story, and how it was told.

That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can tell stories of violence that involve Black characters. I love and adore a good hurt/comfort myself! But you need to be cognizant of your audience and how they’ll perceive the story you’re telling, and that includes the types of imagery you include. It’s not effective catharsis via hurt/comfort for the audience if your Black readers are being completely left out of the comfort. “I wrote this for myself” that’s cool, but… if you wrote racism for yourself, and you’re willing to admit that to yourself, that’s on you. I’d like to think that’s not your intention! You can write these stories of woe and pain without mistreating your Black characters- but that requires knowing and acknowledging when and how you’re doing that!

@afropiscesism makes a solid point in this post: our horror stories are not just fairytales full of amorphous boogiemen meant to teach lessons. Racial violence is very real, very alive, and we cannot act like the things we write can be dismissed outright as “oh well it’s not real”. Sure, those characters aren’t real. But the way you feel about Black bodies and violence is, and often it can slip into your writing as a pattern without you even realizing it. Be willing to get uncomfortable and check yourself on this as you write, as well as noticing it in other works!

If you’re constantly thinking “I would never do this”, you’ll never stop yourself when you inevitably do! If you know what violent imagery can be evoked, you can utilize it or avoid it altogether- but only if you’re willing to get honest about it. You might not intend to do any of this, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t change the pattern, because as always, it’s the thought that counts, but the action that delivers!

[lilybug-02]

Sam is catastrophizing.

Bug Fact: Their ears may be on their legs, but katydids hear a lot like humans do! Scientists have found fluid-filled vesicles resembling and functioning like eardrums.

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Volume 2 Masterpost

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[the-raindeer-king]

Simon would love a little freak (affectionate) of a partner. Like you collect weird things, like taxidermy or bones? Say less, babes. He's getting you an animal skull for your birthday.

Is your thing clowns? Man is scouring the internet for some obscure clown clock because you saw it on Ebay once and complained about the price.

You likes bugs? Great, he's got a friend named Roach. Y'all be freaks (affectionate) together. But also he's building you a butterfly garden, or buying you a pet spider, or whatever.

It doesn't even have to be weird. You could just really like the ocean, or horses, or whatever. And I just realized what I'm getting at is that Simon would love a neurodivergent partner...

And he would!! He'd listen to you ramble and rant, and he'd be making a mental list of things to look for when he buys you presents. You could be hyperfixated on literally anything, and Simon would find a way to get you a present related to that interest. This man would move heaven and earth, if it meant making you happy.

[shepscapades]

Posted to Twitter for the first time in 5 years /silly DSFGNFGB So here’s my atttempt at a more finished piece, inspired by Doc’s newest episode :D

Actually recorded a short timelapse for this one too, so that’s below the cut :D

[sleepypatho]

More Coraline AU 🧵🚪