wntryngs

[wntryngs]

[wntryngs]

consider me agnostic (previously atheist) now that i've found the answer to my prayers

synopsis !! when a half-joking rumor about superman secretly dating daily planet reporter clark kent takes off, clark tries his best to ignore the headlines. and the commentary. and the theories. and the fact that it all kind of… makes sense.

a/n: not what i usually write but i was inspired by @wntryngs and their post!! :3

he should’ve known it would happen eventually.

in his defense, it wasn’t entirely his fault. it’s not like he meant to start a rumor. he wasn’t being strategic. he wasn’t being vain. he was just being clark. tired, sentimental, overworked clark kent, with a habit of losing track of where the cape ends and the keyboard begins.

but even he can admit now—sitting hunched at his desk at 8:34am, staring at the open Daily Planet site with a cold cup of coffee and a traitorous heartbeat—that yeah. okay. he maybe should’ve dialed it back.

because this headline?

“SUPERMAN IN LOVE? CITYWIDE RUMORS POINT TO LOCAL REPORTER”

paired with a painfully zoomed-in photo of him squinting up at the sky, coffee in hand, looking like he’s trying to mentally summon superman?

yeah. it’s bad.

no, it’s worse than bad. it’s tragically hilarious.

if he weren’t the subject of it, he’d be laughing. or maybe crying. or both.

instead, he just closes the tab with a weary sigh and resists the urge to chuck his laptop out the window.

the newsroom around him is already buzzing. he can feel the stares. not cruel, not mocking—just… charged. curious. amused. like everyone’s playing a game of connect-the-dots and he’s the only one pretending not to see the picture.

lois is the first to strike. of course she is.

she appears over the top of his cubicle like a shark circling blood, holding her phone up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. the screen glows with a paused video, and clark knows—knows—what it is before she even says anything.

“morning, kent,” she says sweetly. “care to comment on your boyfriend?”

clark adjusts his glasses and pretends to mishear. “sorry?”

she presses play. the video starts with smoke and sirens and then it’s him, soaring through the haze with someone in his arms, saying—

“clark is a very dear… friend. and a journalist i trust to share nothing but the truth.”

clark winces.

“he paused after ‘dear,’” lois says, grinning. “he lingered. it was practically a sonnet.”

he buries his face in his hands.

jimmy strolls by and drops a bagel on his desk, looking far too pleased with himself.

“cheer up, lover boy. at least they didn’t pick one of the worse quotes. the internet’s already calling you ‘the poet of metropolis.’”

“i’m not dating superman,” clark says, voice muffled against his palms.

“sure,” jimmy replies. “and i’m not reposting this to my story.”

clark wants the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

the real problem isn’t the rumor. it’s not even the virality. the world always needs something to gossip about, and superman’s never been immune to that.

the real problem is that, technically, he did start it.

not deliberately. but emotionally? spiritually? semantically?

he reads back over his own articles and wants to die.

“he was strength made gentle—gravity reimagined as mercy.”

“he looked down on the city not with detachment, but with impossible care.”

“even at his most powerful, he never feels distant. it’s like he’s trying to meet you halfway.”

jesus christ, clark.

he scrolls faster. it only gets worse.

every article. every op-ed. every casual column about superman is written like a love letter from someone who has memorized the sound of his own heartbeat next to another man’s silence.

and sure, he can justify it. he’s writing superman. he’s building a relationship with the public. empathy sells. sincerity matters.

but no one else writes like that. not lois. not jimmy. not even the freelancers who get paid by the word.

because no one else is accidentally chronicling their own internal dialogue every time they come home at night and take off the red and blue.

he writes about superman like he’s trying to explain himself.

and now the world has picked up on it.

he tries to say no when perry calls him into the office.

tries to explain, calmly, rationally, that maybe the rumors will die down if they don’t acknowledge them. that feeding into speculation only validates it. that he’d really rather not compromise the integrity of their reporting just for clicks.

but perry just raises an eyebrow and says, “don’t be coy, kent. i’m not asking you to propose to the guy. just get his thoughts.”

he stares.

“you know him. he trusts you. if there’s a story here, i want our paper breaking it. not some half-baked gossip rag.”

“mr. white, i really don’t think—”

“don’t make me assign it to lois.”

“…right.”

and that’s how clark kent finds himself tasked with interviewing superman about the possibility of a romantic relationship with clark kent.

he goes home and lays face-down on the couch for an hour.

he tries to draft the article. really, he does.

but he can’t stop thinking about what it means.

not the rumor itself. not the jokes. not even the pieces speculating on how superman and clark might be “keeping things private” because of “public scrutiny” (or the very concerning thread theorizing that superman’s heat vision could be “metaphorically charged” by romantic repression—what does that even mean??).

no—he can’t stop thinking about what it says about him.

because if he’d never been caught… if no one had noticed the patterns… would he still be writing like that?

would he have ever realized how much of himself he poured into the spaces between those paragraphs?

and—worse—why does part of him not want to let it go?

he’s not supposed to be visible when he flies.

not like that.

he times his commutes with precision. stays out of sightlines. loops around the back of the Daily Planet building so no one sees the path he takes to the rooftop. he’s careful.

but now?

now there are dozens of videos. threads. discussions about the exact angle he takes when he passes the building. screenshots with captions like, “look at the way he’s looking at it. bro’s in love.”

and the worst part?

he is looking.

he always has been.

because that window—fifth from the left, third floor—is clark’s.

and when he flies by it, he’s not checking in. he’s… grounding himself. reminding himself of what he’s protecting. of who he’s supposed to be.

that’s always been the paradox.

superman is the symbol. the god. the shield.

but clark kent is the reason.

he doesn’t know how to explain that.

so instead… he writes.

and writes.

and writes.

until the words feel less like a defense and more like a confession.

“nobody asked for my side of the story yet. but i’m still part of this, somehow. so if you’re reading this, superman—and i know you are—you mean more to me than i’d like you to know. thank you for being there to protect us. and for just being there for me.”

“people will say what they want. twist what they see. but i know the truth. and it’s enough. even if no one else ever gets to hear it.”

“i trust you—not just to write, but in my life.”

“i just hope you acknowledge who you are to me… even if only half as much.”

it is, without a doubt, the worst thing he’s ever written.

he hates every line. hates the implication. hates how much it hurts to type. hates how true it feels.

he doesn’t publish it.

just saves it to a draft folder, closes his laptop, and—by accident—cracks the screen with how hard he shuts it.

the damage blooms like a spiderweb across the glass.

he stares at it, heart thudding.

then he laughs.

just once. soft. bitter. tired.

because the only thing more ridiculous than writing a fake love letter to superman…

is realizing that maybe, deep down, clark kent has been in love with himself this whole time.

or—maybe not love.

but longing.

longing to be seen. to be understood. to be known without having to explain.

and now the whole world sees him.

they just think he’s someone else.

isn’t that the real secret?

not that he’s hiding…

but that he’s already been found.

and no one even realizes it.

he wakes the next morning, eyes crusted, throat dry, laptop screen cracked and untouched.

the draft remains buried in the digital equivalent of a locked drawer: a folder labeled “work notes.” beneath it, subfolder: “planet archive.” beneath that, sub-subfolder: “pending drafts – low priority.”

no one will find it there. not unless they’re actively digging. not unless they know exactly where to look. and no one does.

because who would suspect that clark kent, of all people, has secrets?

clumsy, soft-spoken, reliable clark kent, with his tucked-in shirts and two-sugar coffee and reputation for being mildly allergic to confrontation.

definitely not the kind of guy who sits alone at night, typing out heartfelt confessions between two halves of himself.

definitely not the kind of guy who’s pretending to be less than what he is because the alternative is terrifying.

so no. the article stays hidden.

he tells himself it’s over.

and then, naturally, it gets worse.

by the time he gets to the office, the newsroom has reached the kind of energy usually reserved for major election nights and celebrity scandals. jimmy meets him at the elevator with wide eyes and a mouthful of blueberry muffin.

“bro. it’s spreading.”

“what is?”

“the theory. it’s in GQ. it’s on The Cut. GOTHAM NOW ran a segment on it. even CatCo picked it up. people are connecting dots i didn’t even know existed. like—apparently superman always avoids hitting this one air lane on his patrols unless you're working late?”

clark blinks. “how would they even…?”

“i don’t know, man, they’re pulling timestamped footage. one guy mapped your schedule to his flight patterns. it’s like a weather channel but for trauma.”

“that’s deeply disturbing.”

“i know, right?” jimmy shrugs, finishing the muffin. “but also kind of impressive. the simps work fast.”

clark walks to his desk in a daze. around him, coworkers exchange glances. someone’s whispering behind a copy of the metropolitan post. he hears his name, hears “superman” laced between syllables like a secret passed down in coded scripture.

he sits down, opens his email, and—

—sees seventy-three new messages.

most of them are inquiries. some from journalists at other outlets. others from influencers trying to book a “joint interview.” a few are deathly sincere love letters from strangers convinced they are soulmates with him because of how tenderly superman “clearly” looks at him during public events.

someone emailed a full marriage proposal with a pdf attachment labeled “wedding vision board.”

dear god.

he doesn’t respond to any of them.

instead, he slinks down into his chair and lets his forehead hit the desk.

lois appears ten minutes later with two coffees and the smuggest face he’s ever seen on another human being.

“you look like a man unraveling,” she says, placing one of the coffees in front of him.

“i’m fine.”

“you’re trending.”

“i noticed.”

“again.”

“…i noticed.”

she leans a hip against the side of his desk. “not to fan the flames, but your prose is getting studied in academic circles now. there’s a blog post titled ‘kent’s compassion: the language of longing in postmodern journalism.’”

clark groans into the woodgrain.

“hey, it’s not your fault you’re in love,” she adds, sipping her coffee. “it just… bleeds a little.”

he lifts his head. “i’m not—”

“sure you’re not. anyway, perry wants a follow-up.”

clark freezes.

“what kind of follow-up?”

“something reflective. something human. he wants to get ahead of the narrative before someone else publishes something with less nuance.”

clark stares at her. “he wants me to double down?”

“he wants superman to respond to clark kent’s article. you know. the one you definitely didn’t write yet.”

clark exhales. “lois.”

“don’t worry. i didn’t tell him about the draft.” she pauses. “yet.”

he looks at her, betrayed.

“you can relax,” she says. “i’m not here to out you. i’m just saying—maybe it wouldn’t kill you to get ahead of this. people are eating it up. and more importantly, they’re buying copies.”

clark doesn’t know whether to be flattered or nauseous.

that night, he hovers outside his apartment window in costume, unsure of whether he’s flying home or just avoiding going inside.

the city glows around him—amber and crimson and silver, fractured through high-rise glass. lights flicker like pulsebeats. somewhere below, a bus brakes too sharply and a couple argues on a fire escape and a dog barks into the static air.

it’s all so… alive. so real. so loud in the way only humans can be.

and he’s out here, floating alone, wondering how much longer he can keep pretending he’s not lonely.

because that’s what this is, isn’t it?

not romance. not attraction. not even ego.

just… loneliness.

the kind that builds slowly. the kind that creeps in through the cracks. the kind you can’t name until it’s got its hands around your throat, gentle but firm, whispering: no one really knows you.

and maybe that’s why the article felt so good to write.

not because it was a ruse. but because it was a glimpse. a flicker of something closer to truth.

he opens his phone. finds the draft. reads it again.

it still makes his skin crawl. still makes his face go hot.

but it’s honest. painfully, horrifyingly honest.

and maybe honesty is the only way out of this.

so he opens a new document.

and starts typing.

Superman Responds to the Rumors

by Clark Kent

There’s been a lot of talk lately.

About us.

Me and him. Him and me. The man I’ve spent years writing about and the man I’ve spent just as long trying to be.

For the record, I never intended for things to sound… romantic. Or maybe I did. Maybe part of me wanted people to see what I saw, to understand the weight of him.

It’s strange, trying to write about someone who’s saved your life more than once. Not just physically, but emotionally. Existentially. It changes the language. Makes it softer. Makes it reverent.

I never lied in my articles. But I didn’t tell the whole truth either.

Because the truth is—yes. I admire him. Deeply.

But more than that, I think I need him. The idea of him. The constancy. The belief that someone out there is choosing, every day, to be better.

Maybe that looks like love.

Maybe it is.

he doesn’t send it.

not yet.

just saves it next to the other one, in that same quiet folder, and wonders if someday, when the dust settles, he’ll be brave enough to publish them both.

for now, it’s enough just to have written it.

to sit in the dark, surrounded by silence, and let himself exist—messy, awkward, longing—for just a little while longer.

tomorrow, the city will ask for answers.

tomorrow, he might give them.

but tonight?

tonight he’s just clark kent.

and maybe, for once, that’s enough.

the next day, someone sends flowers to the office.

not a fan. not an anonymous admirer. no, this time, it’s four separate local florists, each with a different arrangement, each addressed to “Superman’s Favorite Reporter.”

they take up the entire reception desk.

lois walks by, eyes wide.

“wow. you really are the main character.”

“please,” clark mutters, “kill me.”

jimmy whistles from behind his camera. “you want me to take a few photos? make it your new profile pic? maybe caption it ‘he loves me, he loves me not’?”

clark ignores them both.

he’s pretending to be fine. has been for days now. head down. mouth shut. work submitted on time. calm demeanor. no expression beyond mild confusion and the occasional humble smile. like nothing is happening. like the internet isn’t rabid with theories. like he isn’t one coffee-fueled panic away from googling “how to disappear from your own life.”

he hasn’t published anything new. hasn’t touched either draft. but the media hasn’t needed more. they’ve already built an entire mythology out of glances and quotes and his arguably unhinged prose.

there’s a fan video now, spliced together from footage of him at press events, overlaid with the slowed-down theme from interstellar. the final frame is a side-by-side: one of clark, caught off-guard mid-laugh, and one of superman above the city skyline, looking like he’s about to cry.

the caption reads:

“they’re so divorced-coded, but like, in reverse. divorced from each other by time and space and identity.”

clark doesn’t know what that means. he also doesn’t want to know.

lois prints it out and pins it to the office bulletin board under a new section labeled “Kent Watch: Week Three.”

perry doesn’t stop her.

he tries, at first, to write something sterile.

a safe, bland denial. clinical. professional. full of words like misunderstanding and public fascination. something that gives nothing and means less.

he gets as far as the headline—“The Truth Behind the Rumors”—before realizing that nothing he writes will be interpreted as neutral ever again.

because it’s not about what he says.

it’s about who says it.

and if superman says he isn’t dating clark kent?

that means superman is thinking about clark kent.

and if he’s thinking about him, then he cares.

and if he cares, then the spiral continues.

he can already see the tweets. “he’s protecting him 😭” and “he doesn’t want to put clark in danger 😩” and “they’re obviously fighting 😭😭” and “they’re so in love they can’t even lie right 🫠.”

the problem with pretending is that people start believing.

and the problem with people believing is that they start needing the story more than the truth.

and the problem with clark, of course, is that he’s starting to believe it too.

not the dating part. not really.

just the… proximity. the intimacy. the idea that someone sees him like that. that someone knows him. that someone chooses him, day after day, across headlines and rooftops and silent knowing glances.

it’s stupid.

he’s literally describing himself.

but maybe that’s what makes it worse.

because if he sees himself that way… and the rest of the world sees superman that way…

what does that mean about clark?

two nights later, he’s called to a bridge collapse on the edge of the city.

it’s late. there’s fog rolling in, thick and silver. one of those nights where even the air feels like it’s holding its breath.

he lifts the last trapped driver out of their car and sets them down safely, wrapped in a thermal blanket. before he can fly off, they touch his wrist gently.

“can i ask something?”

he turns, already tensing.

they’re young. maybe nineteen. big eyes, nervous smile. holding their phone like it’s a lifeline. he can see the recording light is already on.

“is it true?” they ask. “about you and clark kent?”

he doesn’t flinch. not anymore. but he does sigh.

“clark,” he says, carefully, “is a good man. one of the best.”

“but are you, like…” they trail off, waiting.

clark tilts his head.

then smiles. soft. hesitant.

“he knows me,” he says, finally. “better than anyone.”

and that’s it.

he flies off, back tense, throat tight, heart in his stomach.

he didn’t lie.

and that scares him more than anything.

back at home, he reads the original draft again.

it doesn’t feel fake anymore.

it feels like a mirror.

and for the first time, he wonders what would happen if he stopped fighting it.

if he leaned all the way in.

if he let the city believe—really believe—that clark kent is the only man superman has ever trusted like this.

not because it’s funny. not because it’s strategic.

but because, in a way, it’s already true.

and maybe the real secret isn’t that he’s superman.

maybe the secret is that he’s never really been alone.

he’s just never known how to write about it—until now.

so he opens the draft again.

adds two sentences at the bottom.

then hits publish.

“i’ll let you believe what you want.”

“just know—i’m not correcting you.”

i hope this was sort of what you were imagining...😞 this was sososo much fun to write!!! but i did nott know how to end it tbh

[wntryngs]

[wntryngs]

You love harvey specter because you see him as the peak of successful masculinity, with his extravagant lifestyle, lack of emotion, car obsession, and player attitude. I love harvey specter because I see him as an emotionally constipated man who has never really acknowledged his bisexuality until he accidentally fell in love with his associate who can't even legally practice law. We are not the same.

[wntryngs]

alright. so what i'm hearing from the good citizens of tumblr is that this hasn’t been done yet.

chat. writers. please. this is an untouched GEM waiting to be unearthed 😭🙏

it would be sooo good with so much crack potential if you think about it.

it would play out like this:

An avid Superman fan who consumes all Superman-related media notices that he only seems to be interviewed by this unknown journalist from the Daily Planet. And the way they write about Superman?

Always so detailed, sentimental, and touching...

Meanwhile it’s just Clark Kent behind the screen, second-guessing whether or not he's glazing himself too much 💀

Then someone points it out. Now everyone sees it. It becomes a citywide talking point.


Even rival news outlets and tabloids start picking it up, speculating about Superman’s personal life, and possible romantic ties to (as people find out through borderline stalking, of course) Clark Kent. Hell, maybe it even reaches the depressed citizens of Gotham.

They note how Superman, while flying, always seems to slow down and glance at the Daily Planet building specifically toward where Clark’s desk is supposed to be. And the biggest giveaway: Clark Kent is the only journalist getting exclusive one-on-ones with Superman, while every other reporter busts their ass for a single quote from the Man of Steel.

Naturally, this reaches Clark.


And no matter how much he insists he doesn’t waste time on internet gossip about Superman... sue him, okay? He’s a naturally curious being.

He starts rereading all his past pieces about (himself) Superman and realizes:
Yeah. He might’ve been a little dramatic passionate.

And if he’s noticed, then his coworkers definitely have as well. Let’s say in this scenario, Lois Lane, Jimmy Olsen, and Perry White still don’t know his identity. Lois and Jimmy start teasing him about it (while simultaneously trying to dig deeper, c’mon, they’re journalists). It’s a little embarrassing for Clark, sure. But it’s nothing he can’t handle.

Until Perry White calls him in and tells him to ask Superman for a statement.

Because the Superman/Clark Kent situation is pulling numbers, and the Daily Planet, who literally EMPLOYS the guy at the center of it, doesn’t have a single follow-up? They're clearly sitting on the scoop of the decade (LIKE WE AREEEE).

Clark tries to refuse.

How do you interview yourself about whether you're dating… yourself?


But Perry just waves it off as Clark being embarrassed to confront a crush, so he follows up by saying he’s not looking for a relationship confirmation, just Superman’s thoughts about the latest talk around town.


Clark loves his job, unfortunately, so he agrees begrudgingly. oh well.

But before he can write about the new piece, he decides to try de-escalating the situation; deny the rumors as calmly and directly as he can as Superman.

While he saves someone (let’s say a house fire and he’s carrying someone out), this enthusiastic survivor asks about him and "that cute reporter from the Daily Planet", their phone already shamelessly recording while they literally just got bridal-carried from a burning building. his answer is:

“Clark is a very dear... friend. And a journalist I trust to share nothing but the truth.”

Yeah so the internet explodes again 🥰

The people read into everything. The pause after "dear", the direct praise, and even the tense body language; Clark was panicking, cut him some slack. Lying isn’t exactly his favorite pastime.

He returns to his apartment, ready to write this godawful defusal piece about him and himself, until he got to thinking:

what if he just leans into it?

What if he actually confirms it?

It's the dumbest idea he’s ever had, BUT... if anything, it would help conceal his identity more.

If people think Clark Kent and Superman are dating, then it solidifies the idea that they’re two separate people. And look, if he doesn’t write about it, eventually someone will pester Superman until he has no choice but to give in— might as well take control of the narrative now.

If it backfires, that’s for future Clark Kent to figure out lol.

So Clark writes the piece.

It’s cheesy as hell. Clark wants to die. He wants to laser his own eyes— if that's even possible.
Probably includes something like:

“I trust you — not just to write, but in my life.”
Superman looked down for a moment, then added:
“I just hope you acknowledge who you are to me… even if only half as much.”

Every word physically hurts to type. He ends the article with:

"Nobody asked for my side of the story yet. But I’m still part of this, somehow. So if you're reading this, Superman—and I know you are— You mean more to me than I’d like you to know. Thank you for being there to protect us. And for just being there for me."

And with that, Clark saves the draft, closes his laptop, breaks the screen from the force of impact, contemplates regretful life decisions, and concludes that he is the most pathetic man alive to create a fake relationship.

With himself.

I wanna continue this and really explore Clark Kent’s thoughts and internal battles with himself as the whole thing spirals, and also continue that fake piece. But I'm getting tired of typing and also I don’t have the brain capacity to write allat.

So to all the dear fanfic writers out there, I am BEGGING on my knees for you to hear my plea!!!
I am willing to sacrifice my unborn child for this.

Also, if it wasn’t obvious yet: I only know Superman from the new movie 😭
So if any OG or comic fans see this, please tell me what spin you’d put on this to make it more in-character or realistic.

does anyone have any fic recs where the people of metropolis thinks clark kent and superman (are two different people and) are dating? it'd be funny as hell especially since clark seems to be the only journalist who superman is willing to "interview" him lol. please help your local reader out!!

[wntryngs]

does anyone have any fic recs where the people of metropolis thinks clark kent and superman (are two different people and) are dating? it'd be funny as hell especially since clark seems to be the only journalist who superman is willing to "interview" him lol. please help your local reader out!!

[wntryngs]

[wntryngs]

DID I JUST FUCKING MANIFEST THIS?

ship so rare they don't even exist in the same universe 💀

now, would yall fw the pairing i like to call- daveward:

it's edward from twilight and dave from kickass. guys. please tell me you see the vision. i've been going insane for the past 3 months making fake scenarios about them.

no cuz HEAR ME OUT:

The story would happen in the Twilight-verse, and Dave Lizewski would be like a mix of Jacob and Bella. Instead of Bella being the new transfer to Forks High School, it's Dave, who's actually a shifter, though he doesn’t know it (yet).

HOWEVER, the weird Cullen siblings can smell it—especially Edward, who the other students notice is much more.... interested in the new student than the others.

Now the Cullens are constantly trying to stop Edward from hanging out with Dave, because, you know. treaties, centuries-old blood feuds, potential wars between vampires and werewolves blah blah blah. But even Edward is struggling, because he doesn’t want to get close to Dave… but it’s like he just can’t stop himself. (Dave is Edward’s singer???)

So there’s major mood swings; Edward’s hot and cold, avoiding Dave one day and staring at him the next. And Dave—still unaware of his own nature and the real identities of the Cullens—starts getting pissed, because he has no idea why Edward’s acting that way, or why the Cullens seem to hate him for no reason.

On top of that, Dave’s character in Kick-Ass being this nice, nerdy, and funny guy (with zero social power and way too much idealism) would play so well with Twilight’s style of storytelling.

In Kick-Ass, Dave starts out as a typical awkward teen. But once he decides to become a superhero (with zero powers. bro was determined through sheer will.) or I guess in this scenario, once he finds out he’s a shifter, it would fit the narrative PERFECTLY. He’s kind of a comedic relief character who suddenly becomes emotionally central to the plot.

And it's amazing because there are so many possibilities for how Edward and Dave would interact. Would they hate each other at first? Would they keep each other’s secrets, or use them against each other? Would they find each other annoying or endearing? Or maybe both at the same time?

Just imagine the chaos.

Basically what I’m saying is:

What if Twilight was gay?

What if Twilight was more tragic?

What if Twilight was more toxic?

What if Twilight was perfect?

If only I were a fanfic writer. Then I could spoil myself with so much content. Unfortunately, I am a mere dummy (and a pervert) with an active mind.

sigh.

[wntryngs]

ship so rare they don't even exist in the same universe 💀

now, would yall fw the pairing i like to call- daveward:

it's edward from twilight and dave from kickass. guys. please tell me you see the vision. i've been going insane for the past 3 months making fake scenarios about them.

no cuz HEAR ME OUT:

The story would happen in the Twilight-verse, and Dave Lizewski would be like a mix of Jacob and Bella. Instead of Bella being the new transfer to Forks High School, it's Dave, who's actually a shifter, though he doesn’t know it (yet).

HOWEVER, the weird Cullen siblings can smell it—especially Edward, who the other students notice is much more.... interested in the new student than the others.

Now the Cullens are constantly trying to stop Edward from hanging out with Dave, because, you know. treaties, centuries-old blood feuds, potential wars between vampires and werewolves blah blah blah. But even Edward is struggling, because he doesn’t want to get close to Dave… but it’s like he just can’t stop himself. (Dave is Edward’s singer???)

So there’s major mood swings; Edward’s hot and cold, avoiding Dave one day and staring at him the next. And Dave—still unaware of his own nature and the real identities of the Cullens—starts getting pissed, because he has no idea why Edward’s acting that way, or why the Cullens seem to hate him for no reason.

On top of that, Dave’s character in Kick-Ass being this nice, nerdy, and funny guy (with zero social power and way too much idealism) would play so well with Twilight’s style of storytelling.

In Kick-Ass, Dave starts out as a typical awkward teen. But once he decides to become a superhero (with zero powers. bro was determined through sheer will.) or I guess in this scenario, once he finds out he’s a shifter, it would fit the narrative PERFECTLY. He’s kind of a comedic relief character who suddenly becomes emotionally central to the plot.

And it's amazing because there are so many possibilities for how Edward and Dave would interact. Would they hate each other at first? Would they keep each other’s secrets, or use them against each other? Would they find each other annoying or endearing? Or maybe both at the same time?

Just imagine the chaos.

Basically what I’m saying is:

What if Twilight was gay?

What if Twilight was more tragic?

What if Twilight was more toxic?

What if Twilight was perfect?

If only I were a fanfic writer. Then I could spoil myself with so much content. Unfortunately, I am a mere dummy (and a pervert) with an active mind.

sigh.

[wntryngs]

my favorite divorced couple deciding to give it one more shot for the baby

[wntryngs]

time to be controversial but gax is what lestappen wishes it was

[wntryngs]

im suddenly so okay with verstappen going to mercedes because then i will finally have PROPER TOXIC YAOI.

max to mercedes with george as his teammate would result in brocedes levels of toxicity but without any of the real baggage just two men who hate each other for the love of the game

[wntryngs]

oh I see what you're doing nando I hope you'll hit it some day🥺🙏🏻

[wntryngs]

Lance and Nando realized that they were losing their spot as the best age gap paring in the paddock to Nico and Gabi. They had to step up their game. They had to remember everyone that they were here first.

[wntryngs]

fuuuuck i just realized that the future idealized version of myself cant exist without current me being the catalyst for change and doing hard things. has anybody heard about this

[wntryngs]

With the F1 Movie release lingering closer and closer, it’s time to have an uncomfortable conversation.

Forgive me for going all feminist on you (I’m not sorry), but have a seat and let’s chat, yeah?

Let’s discuss the negative impact this movie is going to have on women in motorsport as well as female fans, shall we?

Of course the obvious conversation is about the women working in motorsport. Imagine how poorly the plot is going to reflect on them. Why? Oh, well let’s see. You’ve got an entire plot that revolves around the main character (who’s played by a misogynistic wife beater, by the way, great casting choice!) sleeping with his fucking female engineer.

Now bear in mind how that’s going to negatively affect the PR of women working in motorsport. Especially Laura Mueller, who is the sport’s first ever female race engineer in its entire 75 year history. Who literally already has incels on the internet saying the only way she got her job is because she slept with someone.

And of course, consider the female fans.

There are so many of us out here every day fighting with male fans who think we “don’t know anything” and “only watch F1 because the drivers are hot.” We are constantly ostracized in this fucking sport and feeling like we have to prove that we’re even allowed to like it.

Can you imagine how poorly the F1 Movie will reflect on us?

All this movie is going to do is push the harmful, negative stereotype that F1 is a “man’s world.” It’s just going to make women feel like they don’t belong in a sport where they already feel shoved aside.

So, and maybe I’m being a little dramatic here, but if you happen to know a female F1 fan, please be kind to her. Please check on her.

And to all my ladies, we do belong in this sport. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. 💜💜

[wntryngs]