blackynsupremacy

[blackynsupremacy]

ima need yall to lock in and read this!! 😩😩

manchild; pilot.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

further questions, please ask me

ps: another warning... y/n is flawed and complex

summer, june 1972.

It was summer in the seventies — the kind that played like a worn vinyl, crackling under the heat of the Arizona sun. School was winding down like the last chorus of a slow-dance song at prom. One more year till college — a horizon Anakin Skywalker wasn’t ready to stare into. Not yet. Not when the sun still burned gold, the air hung heavy like incense, and the days blurred into a sleepy Technicolor haze.

He lived in a one-gas-pump desert town that looked like it’d been left behind by time — diners with flickering neon, drive-ins ghosted by tumbleweeds, and motels with signs that buzzed louder than their guests. People drifted away from here like smoke rings in the wind, but somehow, they always found their way back.

While the jukebox generation kicked off their summer-of-love dreams, Anakin’s own soundtrack had cracked mid-song. Padmé had left him at the end of spring semester — clean cut, no B-side explanation. And like a cruel twist of radio fate, two months later she was already holding hands with Rush Clovis — the kind of guy who wore poetry like cologne and probably read Kerouac for fun. The kind of guy who fit her world now.

It was golden hour — the kind of light that made everything glow like a photograph you want to live in. A breeze shuffled through the Arizona heat like a slow dance with no music. The final bell had rung, setting teenagers free with the excitement of open roads and Top 40 dreams. Talk swirled around — Bowie had a new track out, someone’s older brother just scored a new Camaro, and summer was theirs to burn.

But Anakin wasn’t thinking about any of that. He just stared off at the horizon like it might tell him something. His heart, cracked and splintered, still beat her name in every silence. Padmé walked past — glowing, laughing, alive. She wore high-waisted jeans and a lavender blouse that looked like it belonged in a Fleetwood Mac album cover. Like she was already living in a world Anakin couldn’t reach anymore.

Fives looked over at his friend — who hadn’t been the same since Padmé walked out of his life like the fadeout on a sad soul song.

“Dude… how long you gonna keep staring at her like she’s the second coming of Janis Joplin?” he asked, voice low but amused.

“Until I figure out her goddamn plan,” Anakin muttered, arms crossed over the hood of his battered ’68 Dodge Charger. The car was a wreck, always one gear-shift away from death — but it was his church, his therapist, and his war bunker. And, lately, his best spot to stake out the girl who used to be his whole universe.

Rex leaned beside him, the paper cup of cola sweating in his hand, eyes flicking to Padmé. “Her plan was a breakup, man. You still think it’s deeper than that?”

Anakin leaned back, exhaling like a tire losing air. “I know she dumped me, I do. But why, man. Why? She just woke up one day, flipped the record, and decided I didn’t belong on her playlist anymore. And now she’s with him. I mean, I still don’t understand how she just wakes up and decides to call it quits, then goes out with some guy the week after—- I mean I haven’t slept right since May. I’m running on empty and she already dates someone else.”

Fives gave him a look, pulled a cigarette from the inside pocket of his worn leather jacket — the kind of jacket that had probably seen more heartbreak than prom dates.

“Dude, you gotta let her go. I know it’s messy, and I know you really loved her — still do. But what’s your plan? Run after her until she turns around and says ‘never mind’?”

Anakin raked his fingers through his already chaotic hair. “Yeah, I know. I know. But I can’t just flip the switch. I’ve tried dating, I’ve tried letting go, but every time I do, I just keep hearing her laugh in my head or picturing how she used to look at me — and none of it compares, man. None of it.”

Fives sighed, cigarette hanging from his lips like punctuation. He lit it, took a drag, and offered one to Anakin.

“Yeah… I get it. Wasn’t easy for me and Jackie either. But eventually… it just stops mattering. Eventually, it fades. Like an old cassette left on the dashboard too long.”

Before Anakin could answer, Cal Kestis came jogging up, his ginger hair a windblown mess, eyes wide with adrenaline and teen mischief.

“Okay, okay — I scored the booze for your party, Rex,” he grinned, breathless. Then caught sight of Anakin’s stormcloud stare aimed squarely at Padmé and Clovis. “Jesus, man. You good?”

Anakin didn’t answer. Just kept watching her — like she was a dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. The kind that lingers in the morning haze and makes reality feel like a cheap knock-off.

Fives bumped his shoulder into him with brotherly force. “Peachy,” Anakin muttered, his eyes locked on Padmé and Clovis, tangled in a little sunlit world of their own.

He took the cigarette from Fives, the way a soldier accepts his last smoke before going back to war. A slow, pensive drag — the kind that fills your lungs and lets the silence hang just a little longer.

Rex gave Cal a nod, cracking a crooked smile. “Thanks, man. Well, our lover boy’s going through it — that’s why we’re gonna throw one hell of a beach party tonight, aye?” he grinned, sipping his cola like it was bourbon.

“Yessir,” Cal shot back, grin wide, sun catching in his wild hair. “You bet your ass! End of sophomore year, which means we’re gonna get hella piss drunk… except for Ani.” He slapped Anakin on the shoulder, just hard enough to jostle him back into the moment.

Anakin exhaled a plume of smoke, shooting Cal a sarcastic look. “Definitely,” he said, voice flat, but with the ghost of a smirk.

Fives furrowed his brows, puffing thoughtfully. “Dude, you haven’t touched alcohol in months. I know Padmé didn’t like it when you drank, but—bro, you can now.”

“I dunno…” Anakin muttered, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette, watching it drift like dust in the Arizona sun. “I know I can… I’m just not sure if I want to. I’ve been doing good. Staying sober, staying outta trouble.”

Rex chuckled dryly. “Yeah, but you smoke cigarettes like they’re your goddamn breakfast.”

“Yeah, but—” Anakin paused, his voice lowering, “Cigs help me concentrate. Keep me grounded. Booze… booze makes me spiral. And she hated that part of me.”

Fives leaned in, whispering like the devil on his shoulder. “But she’s goneeee, man,” he drawled with a mischievous grin. “Come on, Ani. Just a little sip tonight, a good ol’ beer, some tunes, bonfire, waves. Forget her. And I definitely know Rex invited some hot girls.”

Cal rolled his eyes and shot a look at Fives. “Fives, don’t even pretend like you’re gonna pull.”

Fives gasped dramatically. “Hey! Maybe some girls are into the bad boy with a soft heart vibe, ever think of that?”

Anakin actually chuckled — a real, worn-out laugh — as he reached for another cigarette. “I suppose you do have a point, Fives. I could… loosen up tonight. A few beers, some laughs, maybe even forget her for, like, five minutes.”

Fives clapped his hands, triumphant. “That’s my man!” he shouted, placing both hands on Anakin’s shoulders like he’d just won a football game.

Rex groaned. “Oh god,” rubbing his temple at Fives’ volume.

Anakin laughed again and shoved Fives back playfully. “All right, all right! I’ll come to your stupid party. But don’t expect me to be a full-blown drunkard, alright?”

He raised the cigarette to his lips again, a sly grin forming in the corner of his mouth.

Rex gave him a nod. “Got it, Skywalker. Alright boys, I gotta bounce and get the setup going. Also, if you see Obi-Wan, tell him I said hey.”

Anakin shook Rex’s hand, firm. “Will do, Rex.”

Then, turning to Fives, his smirk deepened. “You’re probably heading off now to ‘pick up girls’, huh?”

Fives winked, already walking backward like he was on a stage. “You know me.” He threw up his hands and, in perfect Fives fashion, backed right into a group of girls. They giggled as he spun around, arms wide. “Girls!!” And just like that, he vanished — swallowed by the scene like a Saturday night fever dream.

Anakin shook his head, grinning. “Damn dude… what a player,” he muttered under his breath, though the words tasted half like envy, half like pride.

He tossed his cigarette down, crushed it beneath his black Converse, and turned once more — instinctively — toward Padmé. She was laughing now, head tilted back, Clovis’s arm around her shoulders like she belonged there. They looked like a Polaroid of something Anakin didn’t get to be part of anymore. Too perfect. Too damn fast.

He made a face — disgusted, bitter, hurt — all tangled into one sharp look. Then he turned, walked to his Charger, and slid in with a familiar creak of old leather and old memories.

The key turned. Nothing.

“C’mon…” he whispered, already knowing how this would go.

He hit the dash. Nothing.

He cursed under his breath and kicked the clutch. The car grumbled, sputtered… and finally, with a wheezing growl, roared to life like a beast waking from sleep.

Anakin gripped the wheel and took a long, shaky breath. He looked up at the rearview mirror and there he was. Red-rimmed eyes. Messy curls. Wrinkled shirt and a face that looked like it hadn’t believed in sleep since April.

A ghost in the driver’s seat. He slammed a hand against the wheel. “Damn it all…”

Outside, the sun dipped further, turning the town into a dusty painting of goodbye. That Arizona glow—amber and honey-thick—draped everything like a fading record sleeve from a summer hit long past its prime. Inside that Charger, Anakin sat with the weight of a love lost, an engine rumbling beneath him, and a party waiting at the edge of night like a mirage.

He leaned back, elbow against the window frame, letting the warm wind tangle his curls. As the car coasted through the town’s familiar arteries, time seemed to drip slow like molasses on vinyl. The neon flicker of the old drive-in. The rust-flaked grocery sign spinning in lazy circles. The diner where his uncle played old Motown records in the back and always smelled like fry oil and sunburnt coffee. All of it passed by like ghosts waving from a moving train.

Eventually, he pulled into the gravel drive of his two-story house—paint peeling, porch swing swaying with no one in it. Home, for whatever that word meant anymore.

And later, down at the beach, the world had shifted. The sun was gone now, tucked beneath the horizon like an old photograph sliding back into its envelope. Stars blinked alive above them, scattered across the sky like dust from a shattered disco ball.

The beach pulsed with life—Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” spun from someone’s truck radio, Stevie Nicks’ voice haunting the salt-heavy air with that silk-and-fire sadness that always knew how to dig into the bruised parts of a heart.

The bonfire cracked and cast golden glows across laughing faces. Boys and girls tangled together—some kissed like they’d never get another chance, others drowned themselves in lukewarm beer and the feeling of now.

Anakin lingered on the outskirts of it all, his converse sinking into the cool sand. He sipped slowly from his beer, its taste dull and heavy on his tongue. That’s when she stumbled up—Cordé, tipsy and sun-kissed, wrapped in a pink bikini and cutoff shorts. Her brown hair curled wild over her shoulders, catching the firelight like it had been dipped in bronze.

“Heeey, Skywalker,” she purred, brushing her fingers along his arm with a confidence borrowed from booze and fleeting nights.

Anakin looked up with a small nod. Recognized her from school, vaguely. Padmé’s orbit. A satellite girl. “Sup,” he muttered with a half-smile, lifting the bottle to his lips again.

She leaned in close, her words slurring like a song caught in a warped tape. “You know I always liked you, right??? Like, Padmé didn’t deserve you…” At the sound of her name, Anakin’s smile cracked a little, like the first fracture in windshield glass. But he shook it off, forcing a shrug.

“Yeah, I know,” he said dryly. “You’re not the first one to tell me that.”

Cordé leaned more into him, fingers trailing over the rings on his hand—old silver, worn and nicked from too many nights punching through walls of emotion. “You deserve waaay better… I could m—”

Anakin pulled back, too fast, his body rejecting the contact before his mind could even process it.

“Look, Cordé,” he said, more tired than angry, “you’re a nice girl. Really. But I’m just here to try and forget…”

He looked over then, and of course, there she was—Padmé. Laughing like the ocean had whispered something sweet into her ear. Tucked under Clovis’ arm like she’d been there forever. Like she’d never belonged to him.

He stood up suddenly, the sand resisting his converse. His voice cut low. “Sorry, but I gotta go.”

Cordé blinked, confused. “Wait—where you going?” she called out, her words dissolving in the breeze.

“Doesn’t matter.” He said it sharp, like a closing door.

He walked away—storm-eyed and stiff-jawed—past the bonfire, past the haze of liquor and perfume, past all of it. Rex and Hunter spotted him, their relaxed posture shifting when they caught the flicker of fury in his silhouette. “Anakin, hey,” Rex called out, standing up. “Where you going, man?”

But Anakin didn’t stop. The tide was pulling him somewhere else—somewhere colder. Rex reached for his arm, and this time, it worked. Anakin turned, eyes dark and jaw tight. “Yeah—Rex, I gotta go.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere.” Rex’s voice rose, more from worry than command. Hunter stood behind him, arms folded, unreadable as always.

“What’s the matter with you, Anakin?” Hunter asked, stern and grounded like thunder. “You’ve been acting like a jerk all night.”

Anakin laughed bitterly, eyes wild and distant. “Sorry I’m not into sucking tits of girls tonight,” he said, sharp like broken glass.

But Rex saw through it. He always did. Saw the raw ache swimming just beneath the sarcasm.

Rex’s grip loosened, his voice softening. “Dude, this isn’t about girls, and you know it. This is about Padmé.”

Anakin didn’t speak. The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows that looked too much like heartbreak.

“Look—- I didn’t know she was coming tonight,” Rex added gently. “I’m sorry, man. I think it was Sabé who brought her.” “It’s fine,” Anakin muttered, jaw working again. He stared out at the crowd, at them. “I should’ve known better than to come here anyway.”

Rex stepped forward, about to speak again, but Hunter’s hand landed on his shoulder like a warning bell. “Rex—if he doesn’t want to be here, we can’t force him.”

Rex clenched his jaw, frustrated. “But we invited him. He agreed. We can’t just let him leave like this.” He turned back to Anakin, voice quieter now—earnest. “Anakin, come on, dude. Just… please stay a bit longer, okay? We’ll keep you distracted. I promise.”

Anakin sighed, shoulders sagging like a wave had just passed through him. His fingers played absentmindedly with the rings on his hand—twisting them, like turning old regrets. “Not tonight, Rex…” His voice was quieter now, softened around the edges. “But I promise you, I’ll come to your next party. That’s a promise.”

And somehow, the way he said it made Rex believe him. The kind of promise that still sounded like Rumors spinning on a turntable—fleeting, maybe, but real in that moment.

Rex gave him a look—half proud, half broken. “Alright, man,” he said, stepping aside.

Anakin nodded and turned away, the sand cool under his feet, the sky too wide, the night too heavy.

Anakin walked back to his car, the ocean sounds dimming behind him as if the night itself was moving in slow motion. He’d had a few beers, sure—but his head was still clear enough to drive. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. The weight pressing down on his chest wasn’t the alcohol. It was something heavier, slower—something like regret soaked in gasoline.

He slipped into the driver’s seat with a sigh, the leather cold against his back. The cigarette found its home between his lips like it belonged there, and he lit it with a flick that had muscle memory behind it. The engine coughed, groaned, then roared to life—old and temperamental like some broken-down warhorse. The radio crackled on just as the cigarette’s cherry began to glow.

Nirvana buzzed through the static like a voice from inside his ribs. He tapped the wheel in rhythm, eyes narrowed, the wind threading through his hair like phantom fingers. Smoke curled around his face as the Charger hummed down the empty desert road. The stars above him were endless—flickering reminders that the universe didn’t care whether Padmé still loved him or not.

Then, there it was. That old gas station neon burning softly in the distance, glowing like a memory someone forgot to turn off. A familiar landmark on the map of his boyhood. He smirked a little—blue raspberry slushie, the unofficial cure for heartbreak since ’08. He flicked his cigarette out the window with a casual snap, embers scattering like fireflies in the wind, and pulled into the station with the kind of parking job that said, I’ve had a night.

Didn’t matter.

The bell above the door jingled as he walked in, the smell of oil, sugar, and faded linoleum wrapping around him like an old denim jacket. The place looked like it had been untouched since 1956—chrome stools, jukebox in the corner playing a half-slowed Elvis song, and faded pinup posters curled at the edges.

“Hey Dex,” he said, voice low and worn.

Behind the counter, the old man turned—grease-stained apron, hands thick like they’d held a thousand engines. His face broke into a grin, warm and wide. “Well, look who it is! Skywalker, my boy! Haven’t seen you around in a while. What brings you in tonight?”

Anakin chuckled softly, the sound more air than joy, and reached over the counter for a handshake. Dex’s hand was firm, familiar. The kind of grip that reminded Anakin there were still people in this world who remembered who he was before the heartbreak, before the detachment.

“Ah, just… craving a slushie and a pack of cigarettes,” he said, flicking his hair back with the edge of his hand.

Dex’s eyes twinkled with the kind of knowing that came from years of watching lost boys pretend they weren’t. “Ah, I get that. Sometimes you just need a little something to quiet the noise.”

He reached under the counter and slid a pack of cigarettes forward like it was an offering.

“And I remember you always loved my slushies. The blueberry one, wasn’t it?”

Anakin smirked, that rare kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He reached for his wallet inside his leather jacket. “It astonishes me more that you still remember.”

Dex waved him off with a slow shake of the head. “Please, my boy. It’s on the house. Call it a friendship tax write-off.”

He turned and began working on the slushie—one scoop, two, slow and methodical, as if even sadness deserved ceremony. Anakin leaned on the counter, letting himself breathe for the first time that night.

And then it happened.

The screech of tires outside shattered the stillness like a cymbal crash in a love song. Anakin’s eyes snapped to the window just in time to see a modern Mustang lurch to a stop—gleaming, expensive, arrogant. The passenger door burst open and a girl stumbled out, her voice cutting through the quiet like glass. “Fucking stupid manchild!” she yelled, full of venom and fire.

She slammed her heel against the door with all the force of a woman who’d had enough, then raised a middle finger as the Mustang peeled away in a scream of rubber and cowardice. She stood there, fists clenched, hair wild, silhouetted in the neon glow of the station like a fallen angel still burning from the fall.

Dex glanced out the window, brow raised. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Youngsters. Always so much anger and haste in their hearts."”

Anakin didn’t say anything. Just watched her, eyes fixed, a straw slowly finding its way back between his lips. anakin didn’t say anything, just looked blankly at the girl.

The girl was none other than Y/N Y/L/N—chaotic, sun-kissed, and burning like a fire left untended too long. Her presence was like a breeze laced with gasoline: beautiful, dangerous, and full of promise. She strutted into the station like she owned the damn place, her curls bouncing wildly with every furious step, catching in the neon glow. Her knotted white shirt clung to her chest like a forgotten summer memory. Her jean cut-offs were frayed and faded, high on her thighs like the edge of a secret.

Anakin watched her with that stunned, quiet look—like she was a ghost from a song he hadn’t played in years.

They had history, buried beneath layers of time, heat, and unspoken things.

Back then, they were kids on rusted bikes, daring each other to steal fire from the gods—or at least a Snickers bar from Dex’s. She always dared. He always followed. Summer nights filled with match flames, soda fizz, and laughter that echoed off the hollow skeletons of empty houses. He was wide-eyed, trying to be brave. She was barefoot with chalk on her palms and paint under her nails, already wild with the grief she didn’t yet know was coming.

Then time shifted. Like all things do. When her mom died, she disappeared from the inside out.

And Anakin? He went the other direction—louder, sharper, faster. Grease on his hands, silver rings on his fingers, anger he never named. She watched him from across the school halls. He never looked back.

Until now.

She walked in, barefaced and defiant, lips glossed cherry red like rebellion in a tube. She looked at the two men inside—one old, one made of shadows—and offered a sugar-slick “Evening, men,” like she hadn’t just been screaming outside like a thunderstorm in heels.

Dex raised his hand, smiling warmly. “Evening to you too, Miss Y/L/N.”

Anakin didn’t smile. He just gave her a nod. That Skywalker kind—part greeting, part warning, all unresolved memory. He felt something twist in his chest at the sight of her.

“What brings you here so late?” Dex asked, leaning onto the counter, eyes kind but shrewd.

Y/N shrugged, grabbing a pack of gum like it mattered, then turned on her heel—heels click click like gunshots across linoleum—and went to the fridge. The beer clinked softly as she grabbed one.“Eh, just getting something to drink,” she said, breezy as a summer lie.

Dex raised an eyebrow, his smile never quite leaving. “Just something to drink, huh? Are you sure you’re not running from something, kid?”

She walked back, the fridge door sighing shut behind her, and she set her things down beside Anakin’s slushie. Y/N looked like a movie character or like a hippie but with much femininity and risqué. but her personality was somehow, casual and free minded. chaotic even. She had rings on nearly every knuckle, mismatched like her moods. “Dex,” she said with a smirk, eyes gleaming, “if I were running from something, it wouldn’t be in these heels.”

Dex laughed, full and amused. “Touché. But you’re still full of it.”

Anakin stayed quiet. He was leaning on the counter, taking slow sips from his slushie, but his gaze had barely left her. She had that kind of gravity. Always did. A chaos that pulled without asking permission.

Y/N slid some money out from her bra with the same confidence as someone lighting a match. Casual. Intimate. Unapologetic.“Trust me,” she said, placing the money down beside her beer and gum, “this is the best option I’ve got right now.”

Then her eyes flicked to Anakin’s drink, lips curling into that familiar smirk. “Damn,” she said, voice dipped in dry sarcasm. “They let sad boys buy slushies now?”

Anakin’s jaw clenched slightly. He met her gaze without flinching, slushie straw still between his fingers. “You’re one to talk, princess. Last I heard, you were breaking hearts left and right.”

Y/N chuckled. Low, amused. She bent slightly, resting her elbow on the counter and chin in her hand like a cat playing with a bird. “Who said these rumors?” she said.

Everyone in school knew the real stories. Padmé had left Anakin. Then started to date Clovis. And Y/N? She was the girl who never stayed. Summer flings like cigarettes—quick, intoxicating, and over before the pack ran out.

But between her smirk and his quiet intensity, something hung in the air that neither beer nor slushie could cool.

Maybe it was the ghosts of bike rides and stolen candy. Maybe it was the fact that they never really said goodbye. Maybe it was just that they were both tired of pretending the past didn’t exist.

Dex, ever the oracle behind the counter, just watched them in silence.

Anakin looked at the crumpled bills in her hand, his gaze lingering a moment too long over the lines of her wrist, the chipped polish, the rings she always wore like armor. Then his eyes flicked back to her face—calm, unreadable. He rolled his eyes with the same nonchalance he’d perfected over the years.

“You know how gossip spreads in this town,” he said, voice low and flat. “But let’s not pretend, Y/L/N—you’ve always had your fair share of flings.”

Y/N grabbed her beer and gum, her eyes soft but casual—those doe eyes that always masked sharp thoughts. “Lord,” she said, arching a brow, “because it’s a crime to have a bit of fun in life, right?”

Anakin shook his head, a dry laugh undercutting the tension. But there was a flicker of something—irritation, maybe. Or something less honest.

“I never said it was a crime,” he said, his voice a little tighter. “But there’s a difference between having fun and using people. Or are you too busy having fun to care about that?”

Y/N said nothing at first. Just placed a fingertip—ringed and casual—on the top of her beer. She twisted it with one smooth motion, the cap popping off with a small hiss of rebellion.

“Oh, come on, Skywalker,” she said, voice cool, amused. “I don’t break hearts. That’s not really my thing.”

And it was true. Her reputation wasn’t for destruction. It was detachment. No false promises, no lingering stares in the hallway the next morning. Just soft lips, tangled sheets, and the unspoken agreement that some people weren’t meant to stay.

Anakin snorted. He had that same half-smirk now, the one he wore like a defense mechanism.

“Right,” he said, a little bitter. “No-strings-attached, that’s your thing, isn’t it? Just in it for your own pleasure.”

Y/N stepped closer, pressing the cold beer can lightly against his chest. Her voice didn’t rise, her gaze didn’t waver.

“Hey, man,” she said, flat and honest. “I’m not the one who broke your heart, alright? So don’t throw your sad-boy lectures at me. Save it for that chick who actually hurt you.”

The smirk dropped off his face for half a second. Just long enough for the honesty to cut through.

He looked down at the beer, then up again. “And why do you care?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Shouldn’t you be off with one of your flings—having fun, not giving a damn about anyone else?”

Y/N gave a crooked grin, taking a long sip from the bottle. “I wanted to,” she said with a shrug. “But my fling turned out to be an asshole.”

And with that, she turned back to Dex, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Thanks, Dex!” she called, stepping backward, her shoulders still squared.

Then she pushed open the door with the curve of her back, and the desert air swallowed her whole. The door closed with a soft thud, and Anakin stood there, slushie in hand, heart pacing like a slow drum against his ribs. Anger. Confusion. A strange, magnetic ache that never really left when it came to her.

Dex had been watching all along. Like he always did. Quiet eyes, kind mouth. The man had seen more heartbreak in his diner than a whole town’s worth of country songs. “You and Miss Y/L/N, huh?” Dex said, wiping the counter down with a rag. “Some tense there?”

Anakin scoffed lightly, stirring the bottom of his slushie with the straw. “A bit,” he said. Then shook his head. He didn’t think. He just moved.

The door creaked again as he stepped out, gravel crunching beneath his converse. The night was cooler now, the neon lights from the gas station flickering in lazy hues—blue, gold, red—like a half-forgotten dream trying to stay alive.

She was standing just outside, beer on the ground, a cigarette perched between her lips like a worn-in habit. The breeze pushed her curls back slightly, the smoke curling up toward the stars like a prayer no one meant to say out loud.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. “Oh,” Y/N said with a smirk, eyes flicking to him sidelong. “Missed me already?”

Anakin didn’t answer. He just walked over and stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

Y/N picked up her beer again and took a sip, letting the cigarette rest between her fingers. The music inside the station buzzed faintly through the door—Fleetwood Mac still crooning out into the night.

Anakin finally spoke, barely above a whisper. “You still smoke menthols?”

Y/N gave a soft laugh through her nose. “Only when I’m mad,” she said. “Or nostalgic.”

Anakin nodded once, watching the smoke disappear into the desert sky.

“Well,” he said, his voice half-joking, half-sincere, “you always did mix chaos with charm.”

Y/N smoked slow and steady, arms crossed over her chest like armor, the cigarette dancing between her fingers as she extended the pack toward him. “Definitely,” she said, voice lazy like a cat in the sun. “You changed though.”

Anakin took the pack, their fingers brushing—just enough to short-circuit something in him for half a second. He struck a match against his boot heel and lit up, the flare of orange flickering in his eyes.

“Changed, huh?” he asked, exhaling the first drag like a sigh. “In what way?”

Y/N walked toward the curb, cigarette hanging from her lips, her hair catching the breeze like wildfire. The white of her shirt glowed under the low light, and those jean shorts did nothing to help his already scattered thoughts.

She didn’t look back when she answered. “This super-wannabe-greaser version of you,” she said plainly, dropping down onto the curb, legs crossed. She didn’t say it cruel—just the kind of honest only she could get away with.

Anakin followed, slower, quieter. Watched the way she sat like she owned the sidewalk, the stars, the whole damn desert if she wanted to.

He sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees. “So…Skywalker,” she said after a beat, taking a sip of her beer, “why are you really here? Sippin’ that heartbroken slushie like a sad movie extra?”

Anakin chuckled, surprised she remembered what he always ordered. “What can I say? Sometimes a man just needs frozen blueberry to deal with a broken heart.”

Y/N popped a piece of gum into her mouth and grinned. “Ah, now we’re admitting we’re heartbroken.” She tilted her head at him, half-smirk playing at her glossed lips. “That slushie’s turning your cold heart into a sweet one.”

He laughed, the sound loose for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You’re just jealous my slushie’s better than your beer.”

She sipped it defiantly. “Nope. My beer relaxes me. Your slushie’s just brain freeze in a cup.”

She set the bottle down, turned toward him slightly. “So, why aren’t you at your homies’ party?”

Anakin leaned back, fingers splayed across the pavement. “Just needed a breather. Couldn’t deal with all the noise and drunken idiots.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Mmm. Liar.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What makes you think that?”

She chewed her gum slowly, tapping ash from her cigarette like it was punctuation.

“Because I know when someone’s lying. And you? You left because Padmé was there.”

Anakin’s expression darkened. His jaw tensed like old reflex. He looked away, letting the smoke drift from his lips instead of answering. “So what if I did?” he muttered. “Why do you care?”

Y/N lifted her hands like a peace sign. “Chill, I’m not here to clown on your heartbreak.”

She crossed her bare legs, cool as ever.

Anakin sighed, the weight dropping out of his chest a little. He looked over at her, and this time there was something raw behind his eyes. “I just… I can’t seem to escape her. Even when I try.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She watched him—really watched him—but kept her face still. The same face that used to laugh until it ached on hot summer nights. It was weird, talking to him again. But then again, her night was already shot. Her so-called fling turned out to be a first-class jerk with zero rhythm.

She sipped her beer again, then wrinkled her nose like she remembered something sour.

“Yeah, well, let me tell you—Clovis? Not good in bed.”

Anakin choked on a laugh, head whipping toward her. “Nice to know I’m not the only one with a vendetta.” His smirk was back now, crooked and dangerous, but warmer than it had been in days.

Y/N shot him a sly grin, but her eyes stayed out on the highway. “Why’d she dump you anyway?”

Anakin exhaled hard. His cigarette burned low between his fingers. “She said she wanted to focus on herself. Her ambitions. Said we were holding each other back.”

Y/N clicked her tongue, unimpressed. “Damn. That’s some Hallmark movie excuse right there.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’re preaching to the choir. Clovis is a total ass.”

He took one last drag, flicked the bud out into the dark, watching the ember fizzle against the gravel.

Y/N looked up at the sky, eyes glassy under the haze of citylight and desert stars. “Yeah—I slept with him twice. Only ‘cause I needed his homework.” She said it like it was no big deal, like it was just another Tuesday.

Anakin stared at her, half-shocked. “Wait. You slept with him for homework?”

Y/N grinned, wicked and proud. “I’m a genius.” She sipped her beer, gum snapping softly. “Besides, I hated Mrs. Jocasta. And Clovis kept bragging about his grades, so I figured—might as well get something out of it.”

Anakin was still recovering from that bombshell when she turned the conversation again, voice soft but cutting.

“Anyway—listen, Skywalker. She’s not worth it.” She met his eyes now, fully. No smirks. No gum popping. “I mean it. Padmé’s like every other girl in this high school. Polished on the outside, but not a clue how to love someone who doesn’t fit in a pretty little box.”

Anakin’s stare held hers, long and unreadable. Something in him wanted to argue, maybe even defend Padmé. But more of him was tired. Tired of pretending it didn’t sting. Tired of playing it cool when all he wanted was something real. “I just… I don’t know. Thought she was different, ya know?”

Y/N turned to him, softer now. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the wind, maybe it was just old muscle memory kicking in from nights long gone. She wanted to understand—maybe not to heal him, but at least to hear him. “What did you even like about her?” she asked, not judgmental. Just curious. Like trying to understand a song someone kept on repeat.

Anakin leaned back, shoulders folding in like a wilted paperback. “Everything, I guess. She was smart. Kind. Beautiful—like she stepped out of a dream I wasn’t supposed to have. She just… got me. Saw through all my bullshit and still wanted me anyway.”

Y/N gave a slow nod, cigarette balanced between her fingers like an afterthought. “Huh—sounds romantic. How long were you two doing that heartbreak waltz?”

He looked away, the horizon smearing into amber and shadows. “Not as long as I wanted. Off and on for a while. But… two years, officially.”

Y/N let out a theatrical gasp, almost offended on his behalf. “Damn.” Her voice carried down the street like a thrown match. “That’s, like—- okay you know, It’s okay to cry about her,—two years is a lot.”

Anakin chuckled, low and rough. “Nah, I won’t cry about her. She doesn’t deserve my tears.”

But even as he said it, the ache behind his eyes told on him.

Y/N raised a skeptical brow, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, that nonchalant look? Doesn’t work on you.” She pointed a polished nail at his face. “The evidence is here, dumbass.” Her finger hovered near the tired smudges under his eyes.

Anakin sighed, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. The weight sat heavy in his bones. “I guess I can’t fool you.”

“Never could,” she said, lips curled into that signature crooked grin. “And also—come on, you’re too pretty to pout for free.”

Anakin rolled his eyes, but a smirk tugged at his lips. “You really know how to boost a guy’s ego, don’t you? First I’ve got heartbreaker eyes, now I’m too pretty to pout?”

Y/N shrugged, dramatic as ever, pouting for emphasis. “And it worked. I know men more than you realize.” She stood up with a theatrical sigh, brushing off imaginary dust from her shorts. Her beer clinked lightly against the curb as she stepped out onto the street to glance around.

Anakin watched her with amusement. “Oh really? And what exactly do you know about men?” he asked, lifting a brow.

She raised her hand, thumb pointing out, eyes scanning the road. “That if I do this,” she said, smirking, “someone will stop.”

Anakin blinked. “You think just sticking your thumb out is enough?”

“It’s worked a couple times,” she said with a smirk and a shrug.

Anakin raised his brow, mildly impressed despite himself. “Well, look at you. Hitchhiking queen.”

Y/N nodded, hair catching the breeze like something out of an old photograph. “Man, I wish I could show you my trick—but it’s too late to catch a ride now.” She glanced down at him, still sitting curbside like some brooding James Dean knockoff.

Anakin smirked, letting the moment stretch. “Oh no, now I feel like I’m missing out. What’s this magical trick of yours?”

Y/N fidgeted with her shirt—tying the knot a bit tighter beneath her chest. It left her collarbones bare, skin sun-kissed and glowing under the flickering streetlamp. A very 70s look—half western, half rebellion. “To catch a ride home,” she said, matter-of-fact. “’Cause these heels? They’re not made to walk a mile.”

Anakin’s gaze flickered down—lingered a second too long. Her skin, the curve of her ribs, the exposed midriff. He looked away quickly, lips twitching. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “if you’re looking for a ride, I guess I can’t let a damsel in distress walk home in those heels.”

Y/N turned, faking a scandalized frown. “Wow. Damsel? Really? You just called me a helpless maiden?” But the corner of her mouth curled into a grin anyway. “…but I’ll take the offer though.”

She walked toward his car. Anakin stood slowly, brushing dust from his jeans, arms crossed as he watched her. “Don’t get used to it. This is a one-time deal.”

She tugged the door handle—stuck. Of course it was. “Yeah, don’t worry,” she said dryly, yanking harder. “Your car’s a piece of junk.”

Anakin walked up beside her, laughing under his breath. “It’s vintage, thank you very much.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s rust with wheels.” He popped the lock with a practiced hand and opened it for her. “Ladies first.” She gave him a side glance, dramatic as hell, then slid into the seat with an exaggerated groan.

“So,” she said as he circled the hood and got in, “where’s the playlist? Or are we driving in depressing silence like a sad film?”

Anakin grinned, key turning in the ignition, engine sputtering to life. “You think I drive around without Fleetwood Mac ready to go?”

Her laugh cracked the night open like a bottle. “Skywalker, you softie.”

The desert swallowed them as the music started, tires rolling into the dusk like they belonged to it.

📀 HELLLOOOOO, i am back! I am super excited to release the first pilot to my new series, which I am currently writing on.... c.ia. (no judgement pls.) but I loved the story so much, I had to share it. so this is the first glance to a summer love with flaws and cigarettes. have fun with it, and fell in love with y/n as I do, cause we love complex girls!

📀taglist: @blackynsupremacy @speaknow-sw @alelo23 @collywobblvs @newnewtheicon @angelsgalore @tvdelrey @girldisaster2007 @tinainaction @mariswxt @crazycaoticsimp @star-wars-stuff-1

[blackynsupremacy]

ladies and gentlemen, i present, black!veronica lodge.

credit: comically relevant on pinterest ig: @sabermonet

[blackynsupremacy]

Drink more water bitch

[blackynsupremacy]

Joke's On You - Joker x Black!Reader

Summary:  In a world where Batman chooses the city over the girl

Joke’s on You

You wake to darkness—and a throbbing pain that radiates from head to toe.

Your wrists burn against the metal, and your ankles are numb from straining against the rusted chains. The air tastes like gasoline, rust, and something sweet and rotten. Your head hurts. You feel congested, as if every breath was being taken the moment you sucked in air. 

Then the light flickers on overhead—buzzing, and broken. You’re alone, but you know it’s not for long.

From the shadows, he steps out, humming something tuneless and mad. His face is painted, a hauting look. Red smeared like blood across his lips, eyes ringed in black, with skin too white to be real. He looks at you like you’re a puzzle he’s halfway finished with.

“Oh, there you are,” He murmurs with a grin. “Sleep well, cupcake?”

You don’t answer. He doesn’t expect you to.

He circles you slowly, hands clasped behind his back, assessing you with a curious gaze.

“I gave him a choice…Isn’t that romantic? Save you… or save Gotham? One beating heart, or a million screaming ones?”

He leans in, whispering to you in a low voice. The words make you shudder. “He only gets to keep one.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest. You want to believe he’s lying, but deep down, you already know—this is how Joker plays. Not to win. Not even to break. But to show.

So you wait. Bound and silent. You wait for the thump of boots, the glide of a cape, the growl of a voice that would tell you it’s over.

But it never comes.

Instead, Joker’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out with a flourish, his eyes scanning the screen as he reads before turning it towards you. The glare of the light is bright, your eyes squint as the letters come into focus.

“I choose Gotham.”

– B.

The world tilts.

You don’t scream. You don’t cry. And Joker… he doesn’t laugh.

Not right away.

He watches you with something close to fascination. He squats down in front of you, tilting his head.

“Well, well,” he murmurs. “Didn’t see that coming.”

Joker taps a finger to your forehead.

“You thought you were special,” he coos mockingly. “And now look at you. A leftover. A sacrifice,” He pauses, his gloved finger grazing the old scar on you collar bone. Your skin, like brown sugar, glistened with sweat underneath your torn shirt. It captivates him for a moment. Like studying something new. 

“But you’re interesting now…aren’t you? Broken things always are,” 

You stare at the floor as the light above you buzzes, your eyes starting to water. It flickers a few times, and he’s laughing abruptly before getting quiet. 

“You and me,” he whispers, grasping your face to tilt it upwards. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

JOY

The days blur.

It begins with silence, with numbness. You stop struggling. Not because you’ve accepted anything—but because there’s nothing to fight for. You sleep when you can. You eat what he gives you. You listen to his stories, his jokes, his monologues, his violent fits of laughter that rise out of nowhere and vanish just as fast.

You don’t laugh. Not at first.

But he notices when your lips twitch. He always notices.

“I knew there was a spark in you,” He murmurs, crouching beside you with that same gleam in his eyes—the one that never seems to leave. “Didn’t I say you’d be more fun this way? Unmoored. Forgotten. Free.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t look away, either.

And that’s enough for him.

JOY

The collar loosens one day. Not gone. Just… loosened.

You’re allowed to walk—under watchful eyes and tighter boundaries. But freedom tastes strange now. 

Joker paints while you sit on the floor. Big, erratic splashes of color across canvas and walls alike. He asks you what you see in his work.

You glance up at him, brows slightly furrowed. “Chaos…madness…” You didn’t know if that were the right answer, but he tilts his head and grins.

“Art imitates life, sweet thing.”

JOY

He tells you about Batman sometimes. You never ask. He offers it up anyway. Like a confession or a love letter.

 It makes you angry. How dare he talk about him? Say things that weren’t his to say? Then again, how dare Batman leave you here? Abandon you? You thought about it all time. He did it before. He always came to save you. Always. He would’ve figured it out. He would’ve. You could’ve done it together. 

“He never breaks,” Joker says one night, lying across a table, one boot kicking lazily in the air, breaking you from your thoughts. “That’s what makes him boring. You? You’re shattered. Beautifully. Completely.”

He looks at you then—hungry and fascinated.

“And you’re still here.”

You wish you hated him. You wish he’d kill you. But you’re still here, too. He’s hopping from the table like a madman, rushing towards you as if he were on a mission. His movements were smooth and fluid like a dance but clumsily as if he couldn’t stand up straight. Like a love struck fool. 

As if he could read your thoughts, he crouches down to become even with you, his hand touching across your cheek with a gentleness you didn’t expect. For the first time, you don’t flinch. “My little darling of the dark…you’re in better hands,”

JOY

After some time, he stops calling you “bait” or “leftover.” Now it’s sweet thing, my tragedy, or my darling of the dark. 

When he took you to his room for the first time, all decked out in purple fuzzy things, he seemed almost…nervous. Watching you with such intensity, his stare boring into the side of your face as you looked around. His walls were covered with news clippings, hearts, daggers, silly pictures that seemed placed like a child. Your eyes catch the few of yourself when you weren’t looking, half of them when you were asleep. Red hearts drawn in lipstick or crayon…maybe both, around your face. To your horror, you chuckled. 

You could feel him then, like a looming darkness behind you as your shoulders dropped. Maybe in defeat? Maybe in relief? You weren’t sure. But in this moment, you didn’t feel scared. Not of him. That was the scary part. You weren’t scared of him. You felt…safe. 

“Welcome home my dear,” He murmurs, his lips pressing a kiss against the crown of your head. 

JOY 

You stopped dreaming of Batman the first night you slept in his bed. You tossed and turned at first, mumbling things in your sleep. The silk sheets were soft, a wonder against your freshly clean and shaven skin. 

Joker upgraded your essentials, hygiene products, clothes, even your food. You had a buffet waiting when you emerged from the shower, and was out like a light within the hour. 

Joker noticed your restlessness one night, staring down at you with varying emotions. Jealousy is what crossed his mind first. Dreaming of the horned devil while in his kingdom? Then amusement. Your mind was so twisted. So…torn. Then pity. A broken plaything. His broken plaything.

He lets you toss for a while, deciding to indulge a hot shower before dressing in his own purple pajama set. The moment he got into bed, he surprised even himself, gently brushing a freshly dried coil from your face. He’s caressing your cheek, eyes mapping every frown and crease of your eyebrows. 

“Bruce” You mumbled, shifting in Joker’s direction. He didn’t know a Bruce, his mind wandering a mile a minute at who you could be dreaming of. The only Bruce he knew of was Wayne. A playboy man with nothing better to do than smile at cameras. Why would you-

You’re turning into Joker’s side, cuddling against him with such ease, calming down almost immediately. He’s humming slightly, grunting as you nuzzle your face into his shirt. He’s caught off guard by your sudden sniffling. Your eyes are slightly cracked open, watery. “There there sweet thing…I’m here now,” He coos, his hand soft against your skin. 

@1andonlytashae @ellethespaceunicorn @motivation-idontknowher @tranzpurent @cyberughh @winters-doll @iwudbutnah @blackynsupremacy @queenofviolenceandnerds

[blackynsupremacy]

LORD THEM DIMPLES

THE DISHEVELED HAIR

THE ABSENCE OF A TIE AND CUFF LINKS AFTER A LONG DAY OF WORK

THE SLEEVES SLIGHTY ROLLED

DAVID CORENSWET as CLARK KENT/SUPERMAN SUPERMAN (2025) dir. James Gunn

[blackynsupremacy]

thank you for 2.2k!!

[blackynsupremacy]

if you’re a black reader and love scream you NEED to read this!

Red Licorice (Scream x Black Reader)

Scream - Soundtrack - Bitter Pill - By The Connells -

“Ah, lemme guess? You wanna play a psycho killer and I play the helpless victim?” Tatum Riley

PT2

“Now now settle down!” Randy spoke over the crowd gaining their attention. “Me and my apprentice have brought enough movies to keep you all entertained for the night!”

(Y/n) snorted on the couch beside Sidney a look of disbelief on her face. “I’m most definitely not an apprentice! More like the right hand man who knows everything!”

The male smirked, “You were the one who questioned the selection I brought.” Emphasizing his point he grabbed the bag spilling out all the movies onto the table. 

Sideny looked at the selection, “The Fog, Terror Train, Prom Night-,” She giggled as (Y/n) accidentally got some cupcake icing on her nose before continuing, “How come Jamie Lee Curtis is in all of these movies?” 

Randy held up his hands in exasperation, “She's the scream queen.”

“With that set of lungs–she should be.” 

The voice behind her made the girl flinch. Turning her head and tilting up she came face to face with Stu already looking down at her. Pursing her lips she assessed the boy in front of her. His eyes were slightly red and puffy around the edges and his face flushed. His shirt was still pristine and unwrinkled, no signs of a struggle or a bit of fun taking place. But yet his eyes–she'd seen that look so many times when they were younger, it was all in the way his smile was forced, eyebrows trying to unravel the expansive trouble on his face, and his temples flexing slightly. 

Stu Stu was upset. 

‘Are you okay,’ she mouthed up at him with a frown. 

The male seemed to flinch slightly at the question, but threw on a softer, more sincere smile this time, moving to give her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. One that had her skin get goosebumps from the warmth of his palm, she resisted the urge to relax as he kneaded the thumb into her shoulder. 

He didn't answer though, and instead looked back towards the kitchen, frowning. In the archway stood Tatum, her arms crossed before heading back into the kitchen where she seemed to take refuge. 

“Let's take a vote!” Randy’s voice bellowed, gaining the two's attention back, “Evil Dead,” He held up the tape. Many hands shot up a good bit and (Y/n) nodded impressed, “How about HellRaisers?” The majority of hands go up, much to her dismay. 

“I know you guys are not choosing that one!” She scoffed from the couch. 

A random boy in the crowd in black scoffed back “What's wrong with HellRaiser?” 

“I'll tell you why,” another boy mumbled to him. 

The following crowd began to murmur in disagreement– a clear displeasure that not everyone was on the same page. 

Randy frowned at the brown skinned girl, “Now look what you did!” He meant it as a light joke, a slight smile on his face, until his gaze traveled back to Stu behind her and his hand resting on the girl’s shoulder. A frown grew on the male’s face, remembering the conflict the two shared earlier in the day. Randy flinched, seeing cold dead eyes staring right back through him. 

Thinking quickly, Randy threw on a fake smile, “Hey host, ya mind grabbin’ me a beer?” 

Stu refrained from snarling at him, “What do I look like? Your maid?” 

“I can’t leave the people waiting, you did invite me to serve your guests.” He replied smugly, “All I'm asking for is a drink to help our dear guests get situated.”

Noticing the growing tension between the two men, (Y/n) began to get up, “I’ll get it–”

A knock at the door cut the girl off and in walked the woman of her nightmares. An uncharacteristic snarl made its way onto her face. 

“Hey, guess who’s here? It’s that bitch from Inside Story,” Stu snickered ruefully, sizing up Gale who dared to enter his home after the stunt she pulled this morning with his precious. “What exactly brings you here?”

“Shit Dewey!” Tatum emerged from the kitchen out of sorts and swaying a bit on her feet, “What is she doing here?”

Dewey eyed his sister’s state before answering carefully, “She’s with me. I just wanted to check on things.” 

The deputy knew that it would be risky to bring Weathers into the party, however in some way he thought if she was able to get a few interviews in from some of the teens on how they're feeling she would possibly leave early and wouldn't bother them for the rest of the night. 

The guys in the room broke out into whispers and smirked, eyeing Gale like candy. After all, it wasn't like you would be able to see a famous newscaster up close like this everyday. The fame and self awareness of their possibility to be on camera was going faster than the booze they ingested into their stomachs.  

(Y/n) glanced at Stu, gasping in surprise to already find the male staring down at her in concern. 

“You want me to make her leave? I’ll kick them off the property.” 

She opened her mouth to respond only to be cut off by Tatum behind her, “So you did– now leave….and take that media bitch with you that causes nothing but trouble.” 

The older Riley was taken back buy the girls tone, “Tatum, you know what ma says about calling people out their name–”

“I'm sorry that I have no sympathy for a woman that dared to publish a dead girl's diary and cause her best friend distress!” 

Gale seemed to turn pink at the girl's response, only to become more aware of the teens around her as well. The one thing the reporter didn't like and it was the youth, not because they were all bad of course– it was due to their honesty sometimes and their lack of fear with authority. She would like to think she was like that once upon a time, however, growing up in a small town taught her a thing or two: who to cross and who to keep your mouth shut around. And here she thought the buzzed out teens would be more mindful with their words. 

“This must be huge to be on Inside Story,” Joshua muttered to Autumn in the corner. 

“Huge,” Gale muttered to herself, reminding herself the reason she came here in the first place. The killer could be in the very house with anyone of them and they have no clue. She turns to eye the bookshelf above the television, she coughs subtly and reaches into her bag turning on the camera. 

“Lemme guess you wanna interview us, “A teen said excitedly. 

“Sure…interviews,” Randy rolled his eyes, “Let’s pretend to be grief stricken students for an interview and all say really nice things for our friends who were murdered senselessly” He crossed his arms and cut his eyes at the bitchy reporter exasperated. “Also let’s make sure to say how we would’ve accepted our closeted gay friend who was outed by a money hungry reporter.”

“I can cry on cue.” A guy laughs dramatically. 

“Maybe later,” She coughs again to gain more attention to her fake discomfort, “Can I trouble you for some water?”

“How about a beer?” Stu snidded, although he didn't want this woman in his home, he didn't want to lose the persona he built around the student body, “Hey Randy–get the lady a beer!”

Randy scoffed, flipping through some of the films Macher already had at home judging his display, “You get it.” 

Sidney hovers beside (Y/n) as they stick beside Dewey in the foyer, The girl kept gazing back at Gale, a sickening feeling began to emerge at the bottom of her stomach. 

“Have they found my father?” Sidney questioned hopefully. 

Dewey gave the girl a sad look and shook his head, feeling the weight press down on him, “Afraid not.” 

“Should I be worried?” The girl whispered. It was very strange for Sidney's father to go this long without saying nothing to her in return. A call from any location would suffice. Not to mention the growing bond they formed after her mothers death. It was almost like the man was scared to have her stray too far. 

The man pursed his lips together tightly before responding in a white lie, “Not yet.” 

Dewey felt horrible lying to the girl, but orders were orders. It was best the girl stay uniformed about her father being a prime suspect 

Randy rolled his eyes back in the room and looked back at Tatum who was fuming in the corner, “Hey Tatum, you mind grabbing the beers?” 

Tatum frowned, shaking her head, “Are you serious? Who do I look like– the fucking maid?!” Her face grew even more flushed at the proclamation. 

The male gave the girl a deadpan look, “Listen you're sitting around doing nothing and know the ins and outs of the house, you know where they are, just grab me one please, it's not like you're gonna disappear on us.”

The girl huffed, rolling her eyes making her way to the kitchen, shoving past couples getting frisky. She roughly grabbed the fridge door staring in a drunken haze, she jolted in remembrance of another fridge in the basement holding the extra drinks. 

She stumbled her way through the corridor making way to the basement ignoring the slight thump in another room as she passed. Opening the garage she took notice of the semi lit atmosphere and the creepy vibes from the place, but in theory no one really has a non-creepy basement as she's ever seen one. 

She finds a button and hits it expecting the lights to turn on only to have the electric garage door to rise. Wrong switch. She thinks with a huff, hitting it again and watching it close.

Tatum finds another switch overhead, at last a light bulb illuminates the space as best as possible for a two car door garage displaying pockets of shadows along the wall. 

Tatum spots the refrigerator against a far wall and heads for it, not seeing the kitchen door, quietly, slowly, closing behind her, sealing her off from the rest of the house. Tatum stumbles to the refrigerator and throws it open. Its light casts a glow across her face displaying the red eyes and puffy face from crying, and the bleak effects of intoxication. 

Tatum jumps, spinning around just in time to see a cat escape through a large pet door that's built into the garage door. She smiles at her jumpiness. Gathering as much beer as her hands will carry, she heads back to the kitchen doorway.

At the kitchen door, she juggles the beer, reaching for the knob. It's locked.

“Fuck, that’s great! Just my luck!” Tatum huffed before proceeding to bang on the door once more, “Hello! I know there’s someone in the kitchen to let me back in!” 

She sighed hearing nothing but the loud voices on the other side. This night wasn’t her best, first she gets dumped, then was ordered around to get drinks, and now she’s locked out of a party that might be her last in this very home. A home she imagined spending the rest of her days in with the boy hosting it. 

Until she grew involved. 

A knock in the corner of the room drew her attention to the left, causing her to flinch slightly. An uncomfortable feeling swelled within her chest as she began to look over in the area where the light didn’t reach. 

“Hello?” The strawberry blonde called out, “Is someone there?” She walked over slowly, cradling the beer bottles for dear life as if they were her only salvation. 

Looking around behind the crate of boxes in the corner she found nothing in sight but a rock out of place. Letting out a frustrated huff she opted to turn around heading back to the garage opener switch she’d seen Stu open many times before. 

The garage door began to open with slow creaks, a satisfied smile graced her lips as he headed over only to grow frustrated as the door started to go back down suddenly. Much to her dismay. 

Furrowing her brows she turns back to the door, only to grow shocked at the sight of the Ghost Faced Masked man’s hand on the switch staring dead at her. She let out a gasp backing away before giving a playful drunk look in response. 

“Really Randy?” Tatum laughed, “Is this your funny idea of a prank tonight? (Y/n) and Sidney are going to be so pissed!”

The killer seemed to freeze at her statement, as if considering her words for a moment before holding the knife to her chest. Shaking his head no. Because this wasn’t Randy. This was the male that was going to draw her last breath for the stunt she pulled upstairs. 

The male could barely contain his shaking, the anger that radiated off of him was in waves that the girl couldn’t detect. Her words ringing in the back of his mind of all the horrid things she put his favorite people through the past year leveling up to this moment. 

“Ah, lemme guess? You wanna play a psycho killer and I play the helpless victim?” The girl teased playing along with the masked male in front of her. 

She received a nod in reply. 

“Let me see !” Tatum pouted, turning up her lips to stare into the dead black holes of the mask, “No, please! Don’t kill me Mr. Ghostface! I want to be in the sequel!”

Someone should’ve told Tatum Riley sooner. Wicked little things don’t get a sequel. Nor do they leave flowers on their graves . 

The girl frowned as he grabbed her abruptly, causing her to struggle and look at him in confusion. “Wha—cut it Casper that’s a wrap!” The Ghost Face male grip tightened, yanking her towards him abruptly causing her to struggle dropping the beers she worked so hard to fetch for the others. “Randy—what the hell are you doing?!” 

The strawberry blonde suddenly gasped, startled as the sharp gleaming knife came into view cutting her off. Her heart thudded in her ears, panic sinking in of the reality at hand. 

This wasn’t Randy. He’d never take it this far. 

“Yo what the hell–“ The Riley girl cut off with a scream as she felt the blade be dragged down her arm deeply. The cut out fire into her arm causing her to let out a pained shrill. She pushed her attacker off, backing up into the far wall stumbling into the pool chair. 

With a grunt, she got up and ran over to the other direction, Ghostface fast on their heels. Grabbing the refrigerator door she opened it slamming it into the male making a comical thud landing him on his back from the unexpected impact. 

Just for that alone Billy wanted that bitches guts on display. 

Tatum wasted no time to run towards the garage door opener, quickly flipping the switch and turning around to find the killer up and approaching once more. The girl's frustration from the night's events began to rise, her crumbling resolve starting to heighten as he began to grab beer bottle after beer bottle, striking the masked killer in front of her. 

“FUCKER!” Tatum growled, landing the first hit to his genitalia, “This is for Sid!” She grabbed another one, lading it to his head, “This is for (N/n)—“ 

Upon ducking for another bottle,the killer launched himself at the girl, missing by a hair as she ducked in time. In the heat of the moment, Tatum panicked looking towards her only exit in the vast space of the garage. 

The doggy door. 

Gaining her bearings Tatum raced towards the doggy door, managing to fit a part of her head and right arm through the hole. Her heart began to thud again in her ears, her eyes tearing up as her front torso wasn’t able to fit through the small space. Things began to get worse as she realized she wasn’t able to pull herself out. 

No! NO!

The masked killer got up, cocking his head to the side for a moment before stepping up by the steps and hitting the garage door opener once more, causing the door to life with Tatum in it. 

“Wait no-“ The girl began to struggle, her legs dangling out of the door as she’s lifted into the air, cocking her eyes up to see the view of the ceiling she would be crushed against. “S-someone! Someone help me! Dewey! Sid!!”

“Stu! (Y/n)!”

The garage door shook with the teen’s weight and her cries and struggle testing its limit. Hoping that by some miracle she’d be heavy enough to drop down. 

However for Tatum Riley there was never a sequel for her. There were no miracles for the girl to revel in for she’d done enough. Or maybe she didn’t, after all we all have plans for ourselves futures that we never get to see due to death. 

For her, she’d reached her final destination. 

Tatum let out a scream right before the sickening crunch was heard of her head connecting with the garage door ceiling, her neck snapping in two at an odd angle. Her arm and legs hung limply through the doggy door, drops of blood leaking to the ground. 

Billy stood by the door, behind the mask he held a grime expression: part of satisfaction, and part regret. 

Don’t fuck with the ones I love, bitch. 

~ ☿ ~

“So let me get this straight,” Gia griped at the officer before her, “You’re keeping me here for ‘protection’ because you have a theory that Neil is behind the murders and that I’m next on the list of victims?” 

It’s been three hours since Gia had been pulled away from her shift at work by the sheriff department claiming ‘protection’ was needed.Within the next hour,her things were packed at the office and she was escorted in a police cruiser to the station. The woman wouldn't have minded it as much if her niece was with her in the same room, however–it seemed like no one wanted to tell her where her beloved niece was at the moment. 

Exasperated, Gia swiped  another sprinkled doughnut from the  table provided an hour ago due to her overzealous campaign about her hunger within the first few minutes of arrival. Apparently she couldn't have access to her numerous snacks and the dinner she packed for work due to ‘evidence’. 

She called bullshit. She wanted her damn animal crackers.

Cassandra Williams smiled softly at the woman before nodding her head, “Yes ma'am, and it's for the best we hold you here while we come up with a solution to keep you safe in the meantime.” 

The older (L/n) huffed, chewing on the last bit of the sticky sweet treat before relaxing back in the chair the best she could, her back was killing her. She winced slightly trying to get comfortable. 

Deputy Williams started to get up in concern, only for Gia to hold up a hand allowing them to sit down and get settled once more. 

"Why isn't my niece here?” She mutters in concern, “She's the one who has been attacked, and Sidney has been attacked what? Two times now?”

The Deputy nodded in response, “Were on the lookout for (Y/n) dont worry shes in good hands,” The woman pushed her plump lips together before taking in Gias state once more. 

The woman was very agitated the last few days seeming to lose sleep, although she doesn't run on coffee thankfully as she's rejected it from officer Montana several times. Backaches seemed to be another issue, the police cruiser the woman even asked to lay down to become even more comfortable in her state of transport.

“I-I would like to ask you a few questions about your…..relationship with Mr. Prescott if you don't mind?” 

Gia stilled for a moment before sitting up a bit straighter, “What relationship?” 

Cassandra opened her mouth for a moment, closing it before proceeding with caution, “So far we've had a couple of witness statements about the two of you being seen together around town as of late.” The other woman shifted in her seat again, hands instinctively going to her stomach–something the Deputy caught but didnt point it out at the moment. 

“We’re just friends,” Gia muttered softly, “Nothing more.” 

Cassandra looked through the window of the interrogation room, watching as her fellow officers walked around talking, bags underneath their eyes from the many patrols taking place every hour no matter how long the two hour breaks are to switch teams. 

Looking back at the woman in front of her she decided to finally let loose a bit. After all, she knew what it could look like. A black woman officer questioning another woman of color about a potential interracial relationship–with a man whose wife was murdered a year ago from this exact date. 

In front of her needed understanding–a friend and colleague. Something that she wasn't sure she even had. It must have been so lonely taking care of (Y/n) all by herself, wondering how she was going to feed her, pick her up from school, work, and make even the slightest time for herself. 

When did Gia even have time for love or even the solitude to understand where she was in life?

“Would Neil agree with you-” 

“It's Mr. Prescott to you.” Gia’s eyes widened for a second at her own tone, not realizing how hostile she sounded at the moment. It was something she wasn't used to–and very much out of her character. Shame quickly crawled up her spine as her face grew warm in hot embarrassment. 

“I-I’m so sorry!” She sputtered out, hot tears clouded her vision as she wrapped her arms around her stomach for comfort, “I would never respond to someone like that-” 

“It's honestly alright Miss (L/n). Let's try to take deep breaths-” 

“How can I take deep breaths when I don't know who's attacking my niece and I don't know where Neil is?!” Gia stood her heart racing as she looked through the other window facing out into the night sky and lights of Woodsburror. “I raised that girl for god knows how long–and I failed! I failed somewhere to keep her safe like I promised (D/n) and (M/n).” 

“There's only so much a girl could do at the time of being twenty seven! I mean my life was just getting started, I got a masters and got a job at the hospital. I moved closer to family here to find a sense of community and not even five months later I had to bury my own brother–”

Cassandra shook her head with a frown, “I’m so sorry love–”

Gia waved her off with a sob, “Being sorry doesn't bring them back for their daughter. I can handle losing my brother–naturally–but murdered! With no leads? And having to tell a little girl that she's slowly comprehending things around her?” The woman rested her head against the cool glass, taking in her own reflection of swollen red eyes, and puffy face. She closed them taking long deep breaths to stay somewhat sane before turning to the other woman. 

“You think I'm still doing a bad job don't you? That these mistakes I've made make me a horrible caretaker for her? That my brother is probably turning over in his grave every night as I fail him?!”

Casaandera held her arms out cautiously, her eyes searching for permission. When Gia didn’t shake her head or pull away, only did she wrap the woman up into a warm embrace. The woman gently loosened her embrace after the others shoulders stopped shaking, resting her palms on Gia’s forearms. “You’re not a failure, Gia. Not even close. Look at everything you've held together. You’re raising a whole human being while grieving a family you didn’t even have time to properly mourn.”

“But I’m still messing up,” Gia whispered, her voice hoarse. “I’m not married, and now—” She trailed off, hand instinctively moving to her stomach again. She didn’t finish the sentence, but Cassandra noticed the way her eyes flickered with something deeper. A silent confession.

Cassandra tilted her head. “You’re carrying more than just grief, aren’t you?”

Just like that the walls slowly started to build back up, and Gia didn't reply for a moment, causing the deputy to sigh. 

Cassandra leaned forward, her voice low but strong. “It’s the 90s, Gia. And there is nothing wrong with loving who you love. You’re allowed to stumble—you’re still learning, too. Just like (Y/n). You’re both figuring things out, and neither of you have to do it alone.”

Gia blinked through the tears and let out a shaky laugh. “It’s funny. I’m almost thirty six and still feel like I’m twenty-nine sometimes. I thought I had time.”

“You do,” The other hummed, “God really doesn't place an hourglass in front of us when we want him to.” 

The older (L/N) laughed softly, not bitter–but not happy either, “He wouldn't answer this sinner.”

Cassanmdra smiled in reassurance, “My father always tells me there's a blessing through verydoor.” She started to help the woman back to her seat at the table for comfort, “Sometimes when we least expect it.” 

When Gis started to reach for another doughnut on the table smiling sheepishly, Cassandra finally felt in-tuned to open her mouth once more. Afterall there wasn't a smooth way of asking in this situation. 

“By any chance would you possibly be-”

Just then, the door creaked open, breaking the emotional moment.

Officer Montana poked his head in with a clipboard and an unapologetically bored expression. “Sorry to interrupt the kumbaya, but I need a pee sample.”

Gia blinked at him, confused. 

Cassandra stood, folding her arms with a glare. “She’s clean of all substances. You know that.”

Montana shrugged. “It’s not for drugs.”

[blackynsupremacy]

CLOCK IT!

If BIWOC readers, nonbinary BIPOC readers, plus size readers, and any readers who don't fit conventional beauty standards could survive years reading fanfiction that only featured white women, y'all can handle reading fanfiction with BIWOC, nonbinary BIPOC, plus sized, etc. leads!

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I'm sorry for not being talkative

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Rest peacefully Ananda Lewis (March 21, 1973 – June 11, 2025)

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the puppy interview :: official photos

help i'm perishing from the cuteness i didn't know they actually posed with the puppos

sir are you fucking kidding me--

the puppy. the arm. i am going to fucking melt

@lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @michelleleewise @mochie85 @fictive-sl0th @xorpsbane @ladyofthestayingpower @loopsisloops @joyful-enchantress @acidcasualties @liminalpebble @alexakeyloveloki @dangertoozmanykids101 @mischief2sarawr @simplyholl @vbecker10 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @lokiprompts @give-me-a-moose @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @holymultiplefandomsbatman @wheredafandomat @caffiend-queen @km-ffluv @kikster606 @itsybitchylittlewitchy @glitchquake @gigglingtiggerv2 @november-rayne @viv-annelore @five-miles-over @gruftiela @coldnique @smirkingkitten @raqnarokr @jaidenhawke @mrs-elsie-barnes @tallseaweed @chantsdemarins @cabingrlandrandomcrap @jiyascepter @cl-0-vr @foxherder @queenofstarsign85 ++

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LYRIC JAMES’ DIGITAL

DIARY HEADCANONS

pairing: smallville!clark kent x blackfem!oc

fandom: smallville (2001-2011)

guest starring: aaliyah haughton as lyric james

summary: as lyric james settles into her new home of smallville, kansas, she utilizes her camera to create an album of new memories with her new friends in a new environment. with every shutter of the lens, there’s always a story. as they say, a picture is with a thousand words.

contains: fluff, non-chapter headcanons, character lore, some made up places, 2000s vibes, good old fashioned fun, bonding.

want more? check out my masterlist!

taglist: @sabrinasopposite @greengoblinswifey @austeenbootler @hnch33rios @ellethespaceunicorn @stargirl-mayaa @hopefully-saturn @jkr820 @rafeysvenicebitch @xoxoglittergossip @afrogirl3005 @gxuxhdjdu @exqorcism @simply-lovley44 @thabiddie23 @afro @supaprettyg @motherismotheringggg @niteskysx @oscarisaackissmykitty @elitesanjisimp @stereotypicalbarbie @camiesully

a/n: hey, hey, hey! i told ya’ll i’d come through. i missed clyric a lot! even though this is not a chapter of tsay, it’s a little something that gives you more insight about the characters. i would like to model chapter 5 after a written episode or make up something where it’s action packed (any suggestions would help!) thank you all so much for your support and patience! i hope you all enjoy. also, i apologize if i didn’t tag anyone that i normally do. some of you changed your @ or left and i can’t remember. charge it to my head and not my heart, please. 💜

• photo 1: clark kent. clark is lyric james’ new next door neighbor. ever since she found her mischievous feline hunkered down on kent farm, clark and lyric’s connection had only strengthened as time passed. some say it was past platonic, but not at the romantic stage either. it was a chemistry that no one could describe no matter how long they observed the two. one day during study hall, lyric and clark were cramming for a history test. not much studying was going on as lyric and clark couldn’t stop getting off topic. with her northern wit and sass, lyric cracked a joke which made the farm boy’s smile appear on his face. lyric spotted a jovial glimmer within his blue eyes and his pearly canines drew her hands to her trusty camera that was in her backpack. with the right aim at her target, she captured the photo of the giggling kent, thus beginning the diary of her new life in smallville.

• photo 2: main street melody. smallville’s local music store. being the avid music lover and vinyl record collector, lyric is always looking forward to expand her collection. she heard about it from pete ross, a mutual friend of her neighbor, clark kent, while the teens were out venturing to downtown smallville for lyric to grab a glimpse of after her first day of school. she never got to see it that day, but after the completion of her first week, pete and clark went with her to check the spot out. as he was occasionally a deejay, pete took the lead as he’s been there a couple of times to pick up the latest cds of his favorite artists and songs that he could mix together. lyric was thoroughly impressed at the setup of the establishment. from wall to wall were shelves stacked with an array of genres and musicians from the past til now. she could feel the allowance in her pocket crying out to be spent all in one day, lyric didn’t completely resist the temptation. she got to purchase about three albums (one she wanted, a suggestion pete, and one more suggestion from clark) from her favorite section of the shop. before they departed, she retrieved her trusty camera, to snap a shot the perspective of when one steps their foot at the entrance.

• photo 3: a sidewalk of downtown smallville. this was actually taken on the same day after lyric walked out of main street melody. it was golden hour on a crisp friday afternoon in autumn. how could she not take a photo of the scenery before her? that sidewalk was only a fragment of the town that she still has to explore.

• photo 4: the torch. this was the space where all of the highlights (and hot gossip) of smallville high was born. it was ran by clark’s friend, chloe sullivan, she was the author of every juicy scoop that caught her attention in and out of the four walls of school. just as lyric saw value in her photography, chloe had the same sentiment towards journalism. while pete and clark were off to god’s knows where, lyric decided to stay after school to help chloe with whatever tasks she needed assistance such as organizing files or proofreading articles. chloe often joked that lyric should consider joining since clark has been absent for his journalistic duties. the blonde was about to write a column that consisted of a poll titled “what is your deepest desire?” lyric skimmed through the black inked responses. some were realistic while others were just—bizarre, but not too much so that with chloe’s permission, lyric captured a photo.

• photo 5: noir. lyric’s cat and best friend. she could be a pain in the ass with her naughtiness, but lyric would kill or die for noir. if it wasn’t for her, lyric and clark would’ve never crossed paths. speaking of her naughtiness, noir had gone on another escapade while lyric was helping her mother, crystal around the house. you’d think lyric would get used it for this being noir’s third time doing this since the james family made their home in smallville, but the girl couldn’t help, but be perturbed for her pet’s whereabouts. her fears instantly calmed once she had an idea of where the night-shaded fur ball would be. with her satchel in tow, lyric didn’t wait to make the brief trip over to kent farm, walking the path that she started to know well given her previous visits. once she stopped to step onto the porch, she spotted noir. there she was, lying cozy in a brown cardboard box with her tail softly swishing back and forth, as if the cat bed her owner saved up for wasn’t worth the time of day. clark’s mother, martha kent, sat in a rocking chair with a amicable grin as lyric made her presence known. lyric expressed her gratitude to martha and they both had a laugh. earlier, martha had heard the mewling of the kitty and created a makeshift “bed” just in case noir wanted to spend time at the kent’s. noir was in great hands. lyric took out her camera, capturing the yellow-green pupils curiously keeping focus at the shuttering lense of the girl.

• photo 6: the sunrise. this was the first photo that lyric ever took while living in smallville. before starting her first day at school, clark invited her to the loft for them to watch the sunrise together. it was so beautiful for her to witness this moment in real time. she felt alive because this was also her first picture since a life changing event from the year prior, it was like she was herself again. now that she looks back it, it was worth waking up at five am for—just not everyday!

• photo 7: hot chocolate. after visiting the talon for the first time, lyric was anticipating to go back. this time she wanted to take her father, joseph, since he actually had the day off and he wanted quality time with his daughter. joseph followed every directed that his daughter explained to get their destination. joseph was amazed at the set up of the coffee shop that was the talk of the town amongst the adolescent crowd, it made him feel nostalgic. lyric even introduced him to lana lang, the owner, and once she heard that lyric’s father was a firefighter, his order would be on the house. lyric craved for hot chocolate with marshmallows, so her dad just ordered the same. as they sat and drank, they caught up, cracked some jokes, and just reveled in this much needed father-daughter time. she glanced at the porcelain cups containing the warm, sweet concoction and captured a photo to seal this event in her memory.

• photo 8: apples. after school one day, clark and lyric had just departed from the school bus to finally relax after a day of academic torture. clark usually walks lyric home before goes back to the farm, but on the way there, they spot none other than martha kent standing near a tree with a large woven basket in her arms. the teens walk down the path to see what she’s doing and they’re informed that she’s picking the best apples for a pie. before the woman could ask, lyric offered to be a helping hand with clark following suit. she’d rather aid in making dessert rather than do homework any day. after being granted permission from her parents, lyric and the kent’s got down to business to seek apples worthy of the pie. clark was even kind enough to pick the apples that were way out of reach on the high branches. it was a vibrant day for such an activity, lyric noticed the mix of the blue sky, green leaves, and it’s red fruit hanging painted the picture of an easy relief after a hard day of (school)work. before they took the apples inside to prepare, lyric snapped the photo of the view of her afternoon with the kent’s.

• photo 9: bowling. the first friday night after school, lyric agreed to go bowling with pete, clark, and chloe at smallville lanes. lyric’s parents wanted her to stay in focus on her studies at her new school, but with enough begging from their daughter, they decided that she deserved some fun. to say that the teens had a good time was an understatement. they engaged in a friendly competition of the sexes in bowling. lyric was amazed, yet puzzled at how clark could carry a sixteen pound bowling ball with such ease—it was as if he were carrying a six pounder made for a kid. they made a wager that the loser would buy pizza and drinks for the whole group and so, the game began. one by one, they each strategically rolled their balls down the shiny, beige lanes to achieve a strike or a spare. they were at neck and neck during the last round, pete attempted to get a spare, but with no such luck. it was now on lyric to get a strike, so her and chloe can get the strike to victory. the james girl even handed her camera to the blonde, snapping a photo of a smirking lyric before she threw her arm back and lunged it forward to release the ball. the group of teens watched in anticipation as the ball was steady, rolling in the center of the lane before it diverted to the left and ended into the gutter. the girls groaned with an eye roll as the boys chuckled and dapped at their win. the loss wasn’t too devastating though. lyric hasn’t had this much fun in a long time and she was grateful, despite having to use her and chloe’s allowance to treat the gluttonous appetites of clark kent and pete ross—she’ll get their asses next time.

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iman shumpbert rn:

The hand placement??? He’s a freak your honour!!! A fiend I say!!!😭😭😭

[blackynsupremacy]

smallville!clark kent be like: i gotta keep my powers under wraps, so people don’t get sus.

also him when he saves people: throws open doors with his bare hands, carries a whole family with one arm, and super speeds them to safety. ALL WHILE THEY’RE CONSCIOUS! 

and when people try to ask him about it, he’s gonna gaslight his ass off!! he think everybody boo boo the fool 😂😂

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Thank you God a thousand times

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MJ: Jigga!MY NIGGA!

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reel took me the fuck out