#i sound arrogant or whatever there
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When I started my current position, basically all of my immediate coworkers were in the US. Probably over 20 or 30 of us. We added one in Europe to cover that time zone.
Then we got bought out a few years ago and slowly... Now there are me and 2 others in the US (near me), 1 in Canada. 1 in England, the rest in India.
One of the not fun things about that is logging on at 730 am and having a full inbox, and people who still can't figure out how to their job asking to talk on the phone.
#i sound arrogant or whatever there#but ive trained like 5 or 10 people that have come through my job title#they gave the ones in asia the title of senior and i have had to hand hold them more than anyone#I think it's cultural that they'd rather talk on the phone and that's fine#but they also dont take the initiative to explore the data and truly understand what they're doing#even though I've held SO many meetings about all of it and the reporting software we use#tbd#sorry someone thats been here over a year has been working on a report that took me less than two hours to build#that i kept as a backup in case they didn't bet it done before the deadline#and I've walked her through exactly what i did and have made sure she understands and goes on to work by themselves#and then comes back to check with me and it's just completely the wrong direction#and it's every person minus the one in the UK who is great#anyeay i am looking for another job but remote is hard to find#and startint at a different company after 12 years is a scary prospect
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I can't believe I have to spell it out but if you really really want to repost something you saw on tumblr to some other platform please credit the original creator??? And no, "credit to the owner" does NOT count 🙄🙃
#asking to not repost at all or even not miscaption things would be probably too much lol but at least credit people???#I thought it was obvious but apparently not???#I'm blocking everyone I saw doing it with my stuff but they still find a way somehow???#I know I should probably sign everything but I can't be bothered + have too many unsigned things to start doing it out of nowhere +#+ don't think most of them are That Good lol#but I still spend my own time on things even if they are silly and simple and unoriginal??? they don't materialise out of thin air???#like I don't want to sound like an arrogant bitch; fandom is just a hobby that distracts me from The Horrors -#- but stumbling upon something I made without a link to my tumblr or my username mentioned is upsetting#especially if it's done by a fandom old or whatever it's called🙄#sorry I don't want to be an anonymous content provider for your 1300 stupid twitter followers 🙃🙃🙃#I whine a lot lately don't I#but like why can't they even steal a gifset properly and have to make an ugly screenshot of it instead😭#oh and while I'm at it - attaching fics as files to download without a link to ao3 (or even the author's name) is not ok either imo ://#this most likely won't reach the intended audience BUT STILL#maybe I'm overreacting but it has been annoying me for a while now -#- and seeing A SCREENSHOT of my gifset in the wild without my name posted by someone who I was SURE I blocked was the last straw I guess 🙃
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Babe the real question is why are YOU once again wearing sunglasses so late at night huh??!
#I want him as an actual study partner#I’ve also come to the conclusion the other day that I just cannot feel any attraction to men who aren’t smarter than me or at least as smart#this sounds so shallow and arrogant but I know that I am intelligent hell i‘ve sold my soul to pursue academic achievements#long story short intelligent men have me wrapped around their finger like yes daddy#whatever you say whatever you want#and weirdly enough when they talk about stuff I don’t understand that shit gets me going#lads zayne#love and deepspace
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absolutely wild learning about my austistic leanings later in life because like
my parents just thought i was “eccentric” and found me rather entertaining, weirdness and all (plus their own probably undiagnosed AuDHD making their benchmark for normal skewed anyway) and my mon specifically was always so “mever change for anyone just be you” from a very young age so i just…
never experienced the concept of masking i guess?
Not as masking, I mean.
i would read accounts from autistic people talking about their experiences and struggles and pressure to conform and masking and the mental effects thereof and i would feel empathy because i “went through similar issues” but i th
i thought i was just being bullied for being Weird. just in general. like kids do. that this was a case of “well this sounds a lot like what i go through, but im not actually autistic so it probably isnt my place to join the conversation.”
it just never clicked that, “um. hi. these are the exact same behaviors you do. and there were moments in your life that almost led you to masking. because thats what it would’ve been. masking. but your dumb ass thought it wouldve just been ‘changing how you act and who you are in order to be bullied less’ which okay TECHNICALLY yes that is an accurate if watered down description of masking too, but.
Then you refused to on principle, because bullying is bad and fuck you and got angry about it to the point of overcompensating and INCREASING your Behaviors (tm) until you completely skipped over one of the key experiences that wouldve helped you identify with other people on the spectrum later in life.”
I just rolled through life like a steamroller of righteous, spiteful confidence that my preferences and actions were nobody’s business but my own and vice versa unless they clearly and directly affected others - so much so that I never actually set any kind of benchmark pattern for the way (NT) people around me act.
So I never had a benchmark for masking.
like im going back through all my memories of friendships that soured because i took everything at face value instead of trying to read deeper into cues. because I would always just say what i wanted people to know, straight up. like if i wanted attention i would ask for it if i wanted them to know i was hurt i would tell them. That made so much sense to me i assumed that was the norm. Because clearly. Thats logical. and obvious. So certainly other people are doing the same.
I got blinsided a LOT by the games my school friends and later some early adult friends played, yeah, but AGAIN (see: steamroller of self confidence) I simply assumed that was THEIR problem, not mine, and just… grieved the friendship and hoped for their sake they’d eventually sort their shit out 🤣
I literally thought they were the ones having difficulty with social contracts and cues and relationships.
Then over the past couple years the more I see accounts from other people in the AuDHD spectrum, like “yeah neurotypicals actually [thing i had been assuming was just an asshole trait for years without questioning it], heres what they really mean and a good script for responding” and “its funny how i [exact behavior i did for years] and no one realized i was austistic till later” im like… 🙃
And the last kicker was the post about food touching with the tag response “sometimes masking your autistic traits ends up more autistic than the unmasked trait” and my gut reactions were, in order:
…why would you bother to mask that, why is the way you eat anyone elses business?
i mean i guess it would ease up the pressure a bit, i got bullied for that too, i can see how maybe you wouldnt want to have to put… up with…
…
oHHHH SHIT IS THAT WHAT IT WOULDVE BEEN. IF I HADNT BEEN SO ANGRY ABOUT BEING ASKED TO CHANGE. IT WOULDVE BEEN MASKING. IF I’D KNOWN WHAT THAT WAS. THIS WHOLE TIME.
its just… its just been a series of months of me shaking my head and realizing my entire life has been that meme like “Am I having difficulties connecting socially??? No, it is everyone else who is wrong.”
🤣 girl help
#if its not obvious ofc this is about my personal experience with autism#not trying to say anything about whether its better to mask or not to mask i think thats up to each individual personal and their situation#whatever is most comfortable to them#…not me putting disclaimers in the tags of a personal post just in case anyone takes it the wrong way so i need to clarify#because suddenly i dont trust whether or not my tone comes across as intended anymore and am afraid of sounding arrogant#i bet THAT doesnt have anything to do with the AuDHD at ALL for SURE 🙄
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ik its my five billionth post about this but i wish more people would. idk actually be interested in being friends. instead of just looking at fucking instagram stories or something and never saying anything and calling it a day. especially if you explicitly said you're interested in being friends. like.
#nebula.nova#augh#i have so much love to give man#and i totally get people are busy sometimes!!!! me too!! but i still like... care? 😭#i just dont get how people will just never call or text to hang out for ages because theyre oh so busy and never have time for jackshit eve#though they seem so enthusiastic every time you suggest an activity but suddenly when its like fucking anything else theyre#excited#i know i sound kinda dumb right now and kinda bitter (i am kinda bitter) but i just wish people would i dunno care more#mixed signals are too confusing and too much for me#and i am sooooo fucking tired of making people bracelets and sending them songs and whatever and them just forgetting about me the#second i stop texting first#in the least arrogant annoying way possible i wish they would appreciate me in the way i appreciate them
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so i am singing that vitellia in the end... but at what fucking cost.
'you gotta sing this softer'
'what'
'this is mozart'
'this is vitellia'
'this is mozart'
'im singing about how much i hate this mf and want him dead before the end of the day'
'this is mozart'
'i wanna murder a guy'
'this is mozart'
'...'
'softer. gentle. mozart'
'...ok'
#they're killing me here#i already bargained for ONE (1) note in chest (thank you so so much that i am ALLOWED to sing an A3 in chest voice <333) and now THIS#THIS is why people hate mozart. fuck you.#i recorded that rehearsal and the first version sounds SO MUCH BETTER. after i did what she asked me to do its just. so fucking boring.#i hate it here#i love this duet so much but frfr im not sure i wanna do it if i have to do it on their terms.#also like sorry to be a bitch but you're a pianist girl. just stick to your stuff and let me take care of mine.#just because you're playing this like you're constipated because tHiS iS mOzArT doesnt mean the rest of us dont care either.#its possible i never will get the chance to sing the entire vitellia so i want to do justice. as much as im able. to this one chance i get#it took me A Long While to deal with the fact that i wont be able to bark that 'indegno' and 'regno' like i always envisioned.#but like. ok. whatever. i can still make it Entertaining. THIS however. no. no fucking way.#and its not even about me being a big-headed know-it-all who thinks she's better than everyone because. lol and lmao clearly im Not#but this is about having a fucking SOUL. its about actually taking the libretto into consideration too. its about trying to figure out#WHY mozart wrote it the way he did. like sorry but this is another fiordiligi case where its CLEAR that the amplitudes the crazy jumps#are there FOR A REASON. the reason is HE WANTED A CONTRAST. some fucking EMOTION. he sure as hell didnt want it to be Soft And Gentle.#i know it because i talked to him and he told me im right about everything as always and you can eat shit girl bye#grrrrrrrr im so angry#i knos i sound so arrogant here but please. please i just want to make this music fun and enjoyable. i just dont want it to be boring#please understand my vision im begging you
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(( ok, so i’ve come across posts from people questioning why gojo is so weird when he fights jogo. like, why is he so horny about the volcano man? great, awesome question. here’s my unsolicited take on it.
warning: possible jjk s2e9 spoilers! ))
consider this: fighting is the only moment where gojo is allowed to be 100% his unhinged self, but it's rare that anything or anyone is actually able to hold up against his powers without getting immediately obliterated.
it’s akin to giving a golden retriever a toy that ends up getting destroyed bc pupper played with it a bit too vigorously. when there's no toy left, it means playtime is over. for gojo that leaves him with an overall feeling of unsatisfaction. gojo is that sad pupper who doesn't get enough endorphins released bc no 'toy' can handle him.
so, the fact that jogo can take gojo being somewhat rough towards him is enough to trigger a release of dopamin in gojo, hence the impression of arousal. (i mean.. come on, look at this. the touching, the playfulness? it's just too sensual to mean anything else. also, just to be in the clear, i'm not shipping them, lol).
tbh, i'm just trying to point out that with the immense powers this man bears, it's only natural that he is in a constant state of feeling understimulated.
tying this in with gojo's awful personality, like.. him being annoying af is probably the maximum amount of ‘normalness’ this man can muster without going insane from absolute boredom.
in reality gojo might be holding back bc he knows normal people wouldn’t be able to handle him if he were to fully unleash himself upon them. it might not seem like it, but he’s actually treating every non-enemy with as much care as he possibly can.
conclusion here is that gojo's entire personality revolves around the fact that he's finding himself constantly understimulated. in general, he's just so unimpressed that for him to even get genuinely stirred up, there needs to to be some perversion involved in the act. it just makes sense for me, okay?
so, can you blame gojo for feeling actually excited while fighting mr. volcano head? not really. but is he a freak? definitely. but honestly, shouldn't we just let this man truly enjoy himself for once. just look at how happy he is.

#character analysis#jjk spoilers#gojo satoru#i’m not even writing gojo on this blog but whatevs lmao#lol pls don't listen to me i'm just bullshitting i never claimed i was good at writing a compelling argument#this man eats fucking sweets to stimulate his brain ok#he needs a chewing toy and jogo becomes that toy for him#with the amount of power he possesses just imagine the kind of self-restraint it takes for gojo to hold back normally#poor thing is pent-up af#this is where his arrogance comes from as well#he doesn’t expect anyone to be able to handle his ferocity#i might write a short analysis on sukuna as well and draw parallels to elon musk i know it might sound insane but trust me on this#when will this be? idk man probably tomorrow probably never
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English is indeed my mother tongue and I know the context of crud like “Screaming crying stabbing” and “OP I’m gonna gut you like a fish [in a good way]” type of comments, but I would really prefer not to get compliments like that. If ya wanna say my work is bodacious then I’ll accept a buncha Heart Emojis instead of words if that’s easier lol
#That's not my bag Baby!#sorry if this sounds arrogant but I feel it's more weird to introduce violence to Pretty Pictures or whatever#like I GET the intent but uhhh... yeah no ta
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The amount of times I've seen [insert name here] complain about having memory issues and yet they're able to think of random terms, puns, references they heard god knows when on the spot with little to no time or effort, lyrics of songs they haven't listened to for months/years, quotes from all sorts of media they've experienced and people they've met. They don't have entire sections of their life completely obfuscated by unquantifiable layers of trauma and inherent flaws of my messed up mind. And yet, so many have the audacity to tell me I wouldn't be able to comprehend their struggles.
#honestly in general whenever someone hits me with the “you wouldn't get it” sucker punch#i end up being the one who understands and they end up looking at me with such a confused look#while sharing some of my experience as if I'm speaking Old Latin#what makes people develop this preconceived notion of me... the way I talk? the way I look? the way I sound or handle myself?#whatever it may be‚ i can't see how the issue stems from me#not trying to be arrogant‚ i genuinely just don't see it.#em yaps
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౨ৎ roommate!sukuna is, deep down, probably the biggest, most lovesick fool you know. he's also a massive pervert. and since he’s utterly shit at actually saying how he feels, he defaults to being a complete fucking creep in ways no normal person ever would.
he likes to stare, for starters. you can feel it whenever you walk past him – his eyes lock onto the curve of your hip, your ass, whatever part of you happens to be passing.
he tracks the sway of your hips like a predator, leaning back against the wall, maybe dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. he's not even subtle about it. if you catch him, his gaze doesn't waver.
"what?" he'll snort, all arrogance. "someone's gotta appreciate the view. consider it a public service." heat flares on your cheeks, but you just shoot him a glare, refusing to give him more reaction than that.
sukuna also likes to test boundaries with your belongings. you always thought it was weird that laundry was the one chore he never bitched about. sometimes, he even offers to do yours, which should’ve been the first red flag.
inevitably, he'll accidentally mix things up, making you sift through his boxers and worn shirts when you’re just trying to find your own stuff. then, later, you’ll find him lounging on the couch, casually inspecting a pair of your underwear you didn't even realize was missing.
"sukuna!" you hiss, snatching them back. his fingers brush yours, a fleeting contact he clearly savors.
"nice pair," he nods, eyes glinting with amusement at your blush. "i like the cartoon mice. don't blush. i'm sure they look great on you. or, off." and no, he doesn't bother mumbling that last part.
he also just happens to be wherever you are in the apartment. convenient for him, annoying as hell for you. if you're cooking, he'll suddenly need something from the cupboard right above your head, pressing his body flush against your back in a half-assed excuse of reaching.
he presses close enough you can feel the unmistakable ridge of him against your lower back through his thin sweats.
jesus, is he hard? you think, trying not to jolt away as he lingers just a second too long. (he probably thinks it's your fault; your ass just feels that good against him.)
more often than not, he pads around the apartment fresh from the shower, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. hair damp, ink stark against damp skin, water droplets tracing paths down the hard planes of his chest and abs…
god, those abs. enough to make your brain short-circuit right in the middle of a work zoom call. yes, zoom, because he has zero issues barging into your room half-naked, pretending he absolutely needed something that couldn't possibly be in there.
then, there are the nights you bring guys over. not often, but often enough to wind him up tight. the walls are paper-thin, your room right next to his. hearing you is unavoidable.
sukuna scoffs into his pillow, knuckles white where he grips the sheets. as if that panting loser could make you feel half as good as he could. he grits his teeth, the sounds filtering through the wall – your sounds – a raw torment.
closing his eyes, he forces the image: not that pathetic asshole touching you, but him. his cock sliding deep inside you, feeling that tight clench instead of the friction of his own fist. he imagines those choked whimpers and sharp cries are for him, ripped from your throat by his touch, his length filling you up.
he clenches his jaw, trying to stay quiet even as his hips start an involuntary rhythm against the mattress. fuck that, this is his place too. why should he have to be quiet when you clearly aren't bothering?
slick pre-cum coats his fingers as his eyes squeeze shut. his wrist picks up speed, jerking down his hardening dick, pulling hushed, rough groans past his lips.
it never takes long when it’s the thought of you, even with the distraction of that rat squeaking alongside you. he tries to time it, always tries to match his peak with the crescendo he hears through the wall.
a ragged groan leaves from his throat, followed by your name, broken and low, "oh, fucking hell," thick ropes of heat spurt over his knuckles, coating his lower stomach and thighs in sticky white.
his breathing slowly evens out, chest rising and falling as he tips his head back against the headboard, spent.
and hey, you're definitely not an idiot. sukuna might be, though. as you finally shove the latest disappointment out your door, you allow yourself a faint smile. your pervert roommate isn't nearly as quiet as he thinks he is.
besides, can he really not tell the difference between genuine moans and the over-the-top, fake-as-fuck performance you've been putting on lately?
one of these days, you hope he'll finally get the hint. or just grow a pair and do something about it. if you're going to be living with a creep, you'd rather live with a creep who actually has the balls to make a move.
#jjk smut#sukuna x reader#jujutsu sukuna#sukuna ryomen#sukuna jjk#jjk sukuna#ryomen sukuna#sukuna#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#sukuna smut#ryomen smut#sukuna x you#sukuna x y/n#ryomen x reader#ryomen x you#ryomen x y/n#jjk
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okay I have to admit. The big problem I’m having with RBSP isn’t any of the canon characters bc I understand most of them at least 70%. The issue is specter.
#edit before posting: hmm is it obnoxious to talk about your own fic so much.. eh. whatever#the issue is him… but not in the traditional way.#the issue is also peridot. fuck peridot :(#anyway ->#he’s very nuanced in a way that is difficult to portray. I’ve had him for so long that I understand all of these things—and yet#difficulty comes in expressing them adequately in a way that is semi understandable#westalk#and I say nuanced .. it sounds almost. idk. arrogant?#but no they’re just like that. there’s 7 layers to him and every decision only shows 2-3 at a time#he’s also incredibly outwardly focused. if you noticed not a lot of the text actually explains his feelings in depth…#yeah. that’s why
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just remembered the time someone pretty blatantly ripped off one of my fics
#i know it sounds arrogant#but i compared them side by side#and so many things sounded so similar#i got over this awhile ago so i don’t wanna get mad about it again#but i just remembered it and it kind of upset me ngl#but whatever. it’s such a non thing in the grand scheme of things#:/
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Since we had that story of Y/N Cookie wanting to keep the Ancients from going out and getting themselves killed up against Dark Enchantress Cookie, how about something similar with the Beasts?
>The Beasts get corrupted
>Y/N Cookie, not corrupted, tries to fight them, and fails
>cue them starting to die
>Beasts start panicking, completely overestimating how much Y/N Cookie could take
>Y/N Cookie, in their last moments, wishes they could’ve done more to help the Beasts not get corrupted before finally going
>Witch(es) stumble upon this scene, seeing their greatest cookie having been crumbled, along with whatever other carnage is around
>cue literally everything else
Being sealed away with the guilt of spilling jam from the cookie you all loved the most fresh on your mind? They are NOT gonna be doing so hot in there.

The Tale of the Forced Hand (The Five Beasts)
Witch’s Castle witches are pretty neat.
“The story begins when this very Silver Tree was only a small sapling…When the World of Desserts was at its infancy.”
“The Witches baked six Cookies to help them in their creation of the world.”
“..harness the radiance bestowed upon you for the betterment of this world…”

“And the six Cookies imbued with absolute powers walked Earthbread as almighty envoys of the Great Creators.”
“Knowledge, Volition, Compassion, Happiness, Change, and Solidarity.”
“The Dessert World bound by these Five Virtues was nothing short of paradise.”
Gingerbrave and Wizard Cookie chimed in with their responses.
“So those six Cookies were the original owners of the Soul Jam?”
“Huh…Those “Six Virtues” are different from those of the Soul Jams. There’s six of them, yet only five today…”
“The Virtue of Compassion is what held the other Virtues so closely together, cherishing each of them equally as much.”
“Alas, for they and the perfect age were short-lived. Absolute power begets nothing but arrogance. It inevitably corrupts its wielder, bringing them to the most tragic of ends…A fate even the Witches were unable to foresee.”

“One by one, the Five, once regarded as saviors of the Cookie World, gradually turned to Darkness. And thus, the Five Virtues, too, became distorted, twisted…reduced to Deceit, Apathy, Sloth, Destruction, and Silence….”
Strawberry Cookie shuddered in worry at the mere mention of the fallen virtues.
“Deceit, Apathy, Sloth, Destruction, and Silence..that sounds really scary…
“Wait, what about the Virtue of Compassion? They weren’t evil too, were they?”
“The Virtue of Compassion was able to prevail against their descent into Darkness with their Soul Jam, whereas now the Five Beasts, the apostles of evil, began their dark crusade…”
“The Witches asked of Compassion to protect the Cookie World from the Beast Cookies, lending them what strength they could give.”
“Compassion fought bravely against the Beasts, blocking each of their blows and resisting their sickly whispers…But it was only a matter of time before Compassion slowly began to whittle…”
———————————————————————

“Come on, snap out of you all! This isn’t what you guys once were!”
“What’s the big deal, silly willy~ There isn’t anything wrong with dabbling yourself in a little bit of Darkness, you should try it with us!”
“No! This isn’t you! You were all my best friends! Come to your senses! Now!”
“It pains me to see you still cling onto false hope that you’re different than the rest of us, darling~ Can you just let go and become who you really are? For me~?”
“I can’t…I cannot forsake my oath to protect the Cookie World. You all know that! Cookies that want happy lives, don’t you want that?”
“They will all meet the same fate in the end, reduced to nothing…the futility of all this should be clear to you…”
“As if! It isn’t pointless to live life the way you want it to! It’s how you spend it and make the most of it!”
“They will all crumble in the end, so why not give them a little push! You’re starting to really aggravate me now, Y/N Cookie!”
“I won’t let you hurt them and I don’t want to hurt you all any more then I have to! Please, don’t do this…”
“……”
“Your silence says everything I need to hear from you. I tried…but I will put a stop you no matter if I’m reduced to bits!”
———————————————————————
“Woah….What happened to them?”
“The Virtue of Compassion fought for as long as they were able, their dough slowly whittling away with every blow that dealt to them. The Beasts have overestimated just how durable their former friend was…and they perished right in the middle of the circle….”
———————————————————————
“Ok, ya silly goose! You can stand right back up now! You put on a great show, let us give you a round of applause!”
“Darling, we know we haven’t hit you too hard. You can join us and we can all be together once more as Beasts…”
“Hmm…they don’t seem to be responding to us…”
“Hey, Y/N Cookie. Quit being soft and get up already, you’re..starting to worry me a bit here, you know.”
Silent Salt Cookie knelt down and placed their thumb on your wrist…jumping back when they feel nothing…
“Ahaha! Okay! This isn’t funny anymore, you softie! You win! Stand up on your two feet now! I’ll make you if you don’t!”
“D-Darling? P-Please get up. Look, I’m sorry for what I said earlier, I-WE just really wanted you to join us…”
“Burning Spice Cookie, just how hard were your strikes to their dough?
“D-Don’t put any type of blame on me! All of you were just as rough with them as I was!”
“….!”
The Beast Cookies rushed to their fallen friend in the center, clearly distraught on their faces…
“Y/N Cookie, if you don’t stop playing jokes with me right now, I’ll never forgive you!”
“Darling! Wake up! I-I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have hit you so hard! Please wake up! You have to! Don’t leave me alone!”
“It was pointless to try and stop us, Y/N Cookie. Yet…my heart cries and aches, why did you have to resist….please, wake up…”
“God DAMN IT. I-I went too far, I shouldn’t have been so brutal with my swings and now look at you, your dough..damaged and ruined….because of me….”
“….Hmph….”
Silent Salt just lowered their head to look at the ground, feeling nothing but shame and remorse for what they had done…for what they all had done….
“I wish…I could’ve done more for you all…I wished…that I had loved all of you more…to not…end up like this...”
“…..I’m sorry…..”
———————————————————————

“The Witches couldn’t bear to see what fate had befallen their creations, made even more distraught at the loss of their greatest creation among them all…they punished the Beasts by sealing them away deep within this land…”
“And planted the seed of the Silver Tree to ensure their evil power never sees the light of day again. Right where the Virtue of Compassion was laid to rest, so that at least a part of them can live on….From then on, this land where the Beasts were put to sleep, was called Beast Yeast.”
“The Witches then gathered the last vestiges of power bestowed upon the Beasts, untouched by their corruption. They further cleansed, purified it, and in the end…Soul Jam was created. The purest Soul Jam was meant to be earned by Cookies who had proven themselves worthy.”
“All, but Compassion. For their purity simply could not be remade again. The Witch who personally baked Compassion had locked herself away in grief after the loss of her cookie and took the knowledge of the recipe and baking of Compassion with her…”
“So, there can never be another cookie like Compassion?”
“It’s what they say, but all life powder returns to the earth. It isn’t out of the realm of possibility that the Virtue of Compassion may return in some form, someday…”
Everyone’s eyes turned to Y/N Cookie, who was casually eating some food offered to them by the Faeries.
“…..What?”
#brittle answers#cookie run x you#cookie run x reader#cr x reader#cookie run#cookie run kingdom#crk x reader#cookie run kingdom x reader#cr kingdom#beast cookies x reader#beast cookies#shadow milk cookie x reader#mystic flour cookie x reader#eternal sugar cookie x reader#burning spice cookie x reader#silent salt cookie x reader#shadow milk cookie#eternal sugar cookie#mystic flour cookie#silent salt cookie#burning spice cookie#crk#virtue of compassion au
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okay hear me out… a jack abbott inspired by imgonnagetyouback… the angst? the lust? i fear you would eat this up
never not mine | dr. jack abbot
pairing: jack abbot x f!resident!reader warnings: language, angst with a happy ending, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), reader slaps a man hehe (not jack), power imbalance (reader is a resident and jack is her attending), drug use (weed), sexual content (brief but there), jack absolutely grovels and it's a vibe word count: 3.2k summary: jack attempts to walk away. you attempt to reel him back in. it leaves you both raw and vulnerable. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. imgonnagetyouback, back to me by the marias, and honeymoon by lana all helped inspire this fic! i'm a little worried i wrote jack ooc, but then i remembered that man is a canonized yapper. this exists within the ring of fire universe, but that does not have to be read first. it is linked here if you would like to, though! i took some liberties with this so i apologize if it's not exactly how you imagined it! but i had a great time writing this! i hope you enjoy it <3 not proofread, apologies for errors!
you know exactly what it is that you’re doing. and if jack feels tortured– fine. let him. this is all his fault, anyway.
the whole time you’d been with him, whatever that even meant, you’ve felt this sense of… waiting for the other shoe to drop. you tried to tell yourself that you were crazy, that jack was good and honest and that he wasn’t going to get cold feet. that the fact that you were his resident and he was your attending didn’t bother him. that he wasn’t irrevocably haunted by demons from his past, a dead wife and an endless war that runs on a replay in his head, pain in a limb that he doesn’t even have anymore.
it’s not that you expect him to forget all of that. you just want him to be real with you.
and when he falls right into the trope, the trap that was laid by fate, you decide that you’re not going to be resentful. you’re just going to prove to him– and maybe yourself– that you’re not so easily forgotten. that you can’t be left.
it sounds both arrogant and pathetic when you think about it like that. but you don’t care. you’re going to get him back.
maybe it is cruel that you started flirting with donnie in front of him. maybe it’s evil, the way that when you all gather for your post-shift beer, it’s donnie’s bench that you settle at. when you meet abbot’s gaze from across the walkway, his eyes are always at a level of stony that make you a little bit nervous. but then you remember that he iced you out and you lift your chin up and turn your face back to donnie.
he’ll pick his poison, you decide.
when you enter lefty’s at 11pm after getting wind that the day shift– which was jack, conveniently, since he uttered the words this is a bad idea, kid. god, you want to shake his shoulders, you want to call him a coward and scream from the top of your lungs: do you need see how good it could be if you let it?
a delicate lilac top clings to your skin. you push your hair over your shoulder as santos crosses the bar to greet you with a big hug, laughter on her lips. “jesus christ, who are you trying to give a heart attack?”
your hand splays on her back and you find abbot looking at you from across the bar. you shrug your shoulders and pull back, pushing back pieces of santos’s hair. “i don’t know. maybe someone new?”
trinity’s eyebrows shoot up. “wow. spicy. i like it.”
you don’t know how much time passes. you feel a bit silly: overdressed, a beer in your hand, nothing on your mind except the man that you want to lure back in to you. your outfit is a siren song and all you can wonder is if abbot is a sailor who is as desperate as you’ve pinned him as.
if he’s as desperate as you are.
every time you look at him, he’s either already looking, or feels your gaze on him. there will be a beat of eye contact before you look away and laugh at something garcia said or engage, rapt, in a conversation with samira about the first date that she went on last week. suddenly, it’s been hours, and you’re closing out your tab when you feel a presence beside you.
it’s not the presence that you want. it’s one that’s unknown and makes you feel uncertain. it’s not abbot’s easy, calm, present demeanor beside you. the one that tells you don’t worry, i’m here, i got this. the one that washes over you like a delicious wave. the one that smells woody and warm and delicious. the man next to you is a little too clean cut, a little too polished– he smells like laundry and looks like he’s never been through a bad thing in his life.
he takes a drink of the last of his beer. “i’ve been watching you all night.”
you didn’t notice. faintly, you think that if you were twenty three, this man next to you would have been the apple of your eye, instantly. you wouldn’t be able to take your eyes off of him. but when you look at him and you see deep dimples and dark hair, all you see are dimples that are a little too deep, and hair that isn’t streaked with silver.
that pick up line strikes you as unimpressive. your finger tip circles your glass. “oh, am i supposed to say thank you?” you ask, but you manage what you try to play off as a coy smirk. absentmindedly, you look around, instinctively looking for jack. and not even because you want to see if he’s jealous. not because you want to see the look on his face, to feel that sick sense of satisfaction at the fact that you’re getting to him.
no. you want your friend. you want to give a bleak eye roll and make him smirk. you want to go back to him and say what a prick and carry on with your life. you want to go back to the normal that you’ve gotten used to– the one that, maybe, you took for granted.
if you can’t have jack as your whatever he was, you’d take him as your friend. any day.
but when your eyes scan the bar… he’s not there. the spot that he occupied next to robby is vacant. and all you’re left with is this sick sense of shame, embarrassment, and something else that you can’t quite articulate. longing, if someone put a gun to your head and forced you to put a name to it.
the man next to you says something. you don’t hear it. static rattles in your ears and suddenly all you want to do is go home, tear those lilac clothes off, wash your face, and cry. in bed.
and maybe smoke a joint on your patio, too.
he says something again. you, once again, don’t respond. you look at the bartender and answer their questions with one word answers. yes, you want to close. no, you don’t want a copy of your receipt.
“are you ignoring me, or are you just a stupid fucking bitch who can’t hear?”
at the level of shut down you’re at already, you don’t even care what he’s said. but he’s gotten the attention of the others. robby is already on his feet.
and abbot is walking down the hall from the restroom.
“i’m ignoring you,” you turn to him, spitting the words out, loud and clear. “but if calling me a stupid fucking bitch makes the rejection hurt less, knock yourself out.”
he screws his entire face up, and abbot is approaching quicker now, with that lethal anger on his face. robby isn’t far behind… or santos, either, for that matter.
“you are a stupid fucking bitch,” he says, taking a step closer to you, shrinking himself in size to be on your level. “and you’re not pretty enough to get away with an attitude like–”
abbot makes a move to lunge, and robby has to physically pull him back. the man lets out an ugly laugh and all you see is red, bright red. “oh, what’s your fuckin’ grandpa going to do?”
the crack that rings out when your palm hits his cheek could be heard around the world. it opens up a cacophony of mayhem– between you and him, the bartenders, abbot, robby, santos getting ready to throw in a punch of her own… but it all culminates with the lot of you being told to get the fuck out, this isn’t philly.
with your jaw set and your head held high, you are the first one to storm out of the bar. and maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the fact that a stranger just called you a bitch, but all you feel is an unsettled sort of anger.
you hear abbot say your name behind you.
you stop. the pittsburgh early spring still has a bite to it, especially when it’s nearing midnight. the wind makes your eyes sting, tears trailing down your cheeks. it’s the wind. it’s just the wind. “no,” you say lowly, pointing a finger in his direction. “fuck you.”
“fuck me?”
“yeah. fuck you.” you tug your jacket closer to yourself and wipe the tears away with the back of your hand. “you ignore me, you tell me this isn’t going to work, and then want to play protective… yeah. fuck you.” you go quiet, go to turn, but you can’t. you’re frozen in place. “no, it’s not even that. not really. i shouldn’t be mad at you. i should be mad at myself. i’ve been doing things, this whole time, trying to earn your affection back. trying to get you to see what you were missing, see why it was so silly to pretend that we’re not good. but… i’ve felt like shit every day, doing that. i’ve felt small.”
jack doesn’t say anything. robby has ushered all of your coworkers down the street and far away, bless him. when you assess jack’s face, there’s a myriad of things you see. you think you see regret. you know you see hurt. you want to believe you see love.
“and i don’t want to feel small,” you sniffle and wipe a fat, real tear away. “i don’t want to wear a cute outfit because you might see it. i don’t want to flirt with donnie to watch your knuckles go white. i want– i want to sit on your fucking couch. i want to watch some stupid show with you. i want to lay in bed and listen to the police scanner after sex. i want you to want me. and if you don’t, if this is all too much for you, then…” you look him up and down. the body you know intimately, the person you’d be with forever if he let you.
“then no hard feelings.”
you don’t give jack the opportunity to respond. maybe that’s its own special brand of self preservation. you turn, and you walk away from him, towards an empty apartment.
–
when you get home, you do exactly as you cited. you rid yourself of your clothes. you furiously wash your face and then go through the rest of your skin care. you roll yourself a joint, and you bring it out to your patio, and the small table, chair, and ashtray that sit out there.
your apartment isn’t as high up as jack’s. you live in an old building on the third floor, one of the world war two types, with the radiators and beautiful hardwood floors and all of the character in the world. in exchange, you get no dishwasher and a patio that probably isn’t up to city code.
lighting the joint with one hand, you take in a long, nice, inhale. you lean your head back against the wall. you grab your phone and put the marias on and let those big tears roll down your cheeks freely.
the low rumble of a truck pulling up gets your attention. you lift your head up and watch as the vehicle that you’d sat in countless times goes into park. you hear the door open. you watch jack round it, and his eyes are instantly drawn to your patio. he holds his hand up in a wave.
you flip him off.
the chuckle that gets out of him should infuriate you. but it doesn’t.
“yeah, i deserve that.”
“you’re a dick,” you reply, marijuana leaving you honest. you stand up and lean on the railing, looking down at him.
“i am.”
his hands are in his pockets and you can see a war going on in his mind, but then he starts talking. “i’m not good at this part. the… communication, part. i’m not good at this part at all.”
you raise your eyebrows. he continues. “when annie died, i was content to not be with anyone. ever again. a random fuck there and again, just to get it out of my system, sure. but i was content with not opening myself up to that. i always just thought… i thought i was already so fucked up, and since annie knew me before i was so fucked up. i told myself that she was the only one that was going to get it. get me.” he stares up at you. “now, i know that i was wrong in that. obviously.”
you give a slow nod of your head. “but i lived in that reality for so long. that i wasn’t going to be open to that again. and then we started hanging out, and at first, i was able to convince myself it was innocent. i’m your mentor. no lines would get blurred. and then, obviously, they did. but i told myself it was all casual. and when i told myself that, i felt like… yeah, i could do that. i could be good to someone in that capacity. but then,i felt greedy with you. i felt like i wasn’t going to be able to let myself walk away if i stayed any longer. so i forced myself. thought i was doing you a favor.” he rubs the back of his neck. “thought i was doing right by myself. like, the safest option. and then i talked to my therapist.”
you smirk. “the age old solution.”
“yeah, right?” he smirks back at you. “and i told him all of this, yesterday. and you know what he said?” he waits a beat. “he told me i’m a fucking idiot. and i responded, and said that i know i was. because deep down… deep down, i knew it was all bullshit. a defense mechanism.”
he walks closer and puts his hands on the railing of the first floor patio, staring right up at you, you staring down at him. “i should never have made you feel small. and all i want is to show you that i mean it.”
nodding your head slowly, you mull over his every word. you open and close your mouth a couple of times. “i want to tell you to fuck off,” you say honestly. “i want to think you’re just bullshitting me. but…” you meet his eyes. “that’s probably my defense mechanism.”
the quiet overtakes the two of you. all there is is the lull of traffic and the faint whistle of the wind. “it wasn’t about you,” you say. “i knew why you were pushing me away. i understood. i just wanted you to see why those things weren’t real. and i thought that i could control that. and then i just left myself feeling disappointed, and desperate, and messy.”
the two of you watch each other like feral cats, unblinking and unwavering. maybe that’s what you are.
“i’m sorry,” he says, voice softened. “i was a dick. and you were right.”
you nod your head. “come inside before you catch a cold.”
most of the time, you went over to his place. when he steps over the threshold into your apartment, you think that it feels good to have him in your space. to watch him set his shoes by the door, hang his coat up on the little rack. there’s this awkward sort of tension that simmers between the two of you. he must sense it, because he gives you a sideways look. “that wasn’t all i had to say.”
“yeah?” you ask with a playful smile, filling up a glass of water and taking a big gulp from it.
his hands pin you in at your kitchen counter. all of the air is sucked right out of the room. “you told me that you wanted me to want you. right?” you give a nod of your head. “i wanted to be face to face with you when i said this part.” he ghosts his fingertips over your cheeks. “i want every fucking part of you. your wild, messy parts included. especially, even.” his eyes darken a shade. “do you know how crazy you’ve made me? flirting with donnie, that purple you wore tonight?”
you roll your eyes, mostly at yourself. “that was sort of the plan.”
“it worked.” his thumbs brush your hipbones. “every day, i went home to an apartment that had you all over it. a coffee mug on the counter with a lipgloss mark. the blanket that you love and curl into almost every single night. your book on my coffee table. i felt stupid. i felt small, too. i felt like a coward. i was a coward. and i just–”
you raise up your hand, pressing it against his chest. not pressing him away, just… there. his brows furrow. you say, “you ramble when you’re nervous and when you want someone to feel better.” your hand slides up his chest. “i forgive you.”
the relief that washes over him is a visible, tangible thing. you feel it in the way he grips your hips as a result, the way his face falls into the crook of your neck. you close your eyes and run your hand through the silver streak you love so much. he pulls back and there’s a little tear shining in his eye. and he says three words that are simple but profound, that strike you where you stand. “i love you.” he nods. that steady, stable, self-assured version of himself is there again. “i know that now. i knew it then, too.”
you nod your head slowly. “i know you do,” you say, because you do, you really do. “and i love you too.”
those dimples shine at you. not too deep. just right. he pulls your body in flush with his and it’s like you melt away into nothing but a glowing ball of light. fuzzy and warm.
a switch is flipped. your hands go hungry and your lips find his. jack leads you to your bedroom. he lays you down and he spreads you out. he takes off each article of clothing, slowly. he lowers himself until his head is between your thighs and apologizes with his tongue, until you arch off your bed. he climbs up and he sinks inside of you in one satisfying motion. you’re all nails down his back and relentless eye contact, and you’re the kind of desperate and messy that you want to be. he’s just the same– his pace is consistent, deep, and each thrust tells you just how sorry he really is.
you finish with an explosion behind your eyes, and he tumbles over off that cliff after you. he rolls off of you and you lay on your backs, staring up at the ceiling. your hand goes to rest on his chest. he takes it and presses a kiss to it before he raises, comes back with a damp cloth and cleans you up with care. love. he leans down and presses a kiss to your lips, tender and right.
he starts messing with the covers, brows all screwed up. “what could you possibly be looking for right now?” you ask, chest still heaving.
“this,” he says, locating his phone. he stares down at it until he puts it between you. a faint static emits from it.
“what the hell is–”
“3B60, the subject is fleeing on foot.”
you between him and his phone, police scanner coming from the speaker, incredulously. he just grunts as he settles back into bed, pulling you into him. “i’m just listening to what you want, kid.”
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Classified Information
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Francesca Howard (Original Character)
Summary:
Liam Lawson tries to flirt with Red Bull’s new CTO.
Turns out, she’s Dr. Francesca Howard.
Also known as Max Verstappen’s wife.
And the mother of his son.
Oops.
Warnings and Notes:
....Poor Liam is really going through in this.
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Liam Lawson liked to think he had good instincts.
They had served him well in his racing career—knowing when to attack, when to defend, when to push and when to back off.
But apparently, those instincts failed him spectacularly the day he walked into the Red Bull factory for his seat fitting and met Francesca Howard for the first time.
He had heard the name before, of course. Everyone in the industry had. Francesca Howard—brilliant, ruthless, and the woman who had taken over as Red Bull Racing’s Chief Technology Officer after Adrian Newey’s departure.
What Liam hadn’t heard, however, was that she was also absolutely stunning.
She stood near the RB21 chassis, tablet in hand, deep in conversation with a few engineers. Her tone was sharp but calm, confident without arrogance, completely in control of every discussion around her.
And, Liam noted, she had a hell of a presence.
He adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie, rolling his shoulders back. He was good with first impressions. No harm in introducing himself, right?
He took one step forward—
And suddenly, he felt a hand grip his arm like a vice.
“Nope.”
Liam turned, startled, to find Gianpiero Lambiase looking at him like he was the biggest idiot to ever walk into the Red Bull garage.
Liam frowned. “What?”
GP sighed heavily, like this was already too much effort. “Don’t do it.”
Liam blinked, confused. “Do what?”
GP nodded toward Francesca. “Whatever you’re about to attempt over there—just don’t.”
Liam scoffed. “I’m literally just introducing myself.”
GP leveled him with a look, looking at him like he had just tried to run slick tires in the rain. “And yet, I’m still telling you not to.”
Liam folded his arms. “Why? Is she scary?”
GP snorted. “Not to me.”
That wasn’t an answer.
Liam narrowed his eyes. “Alright, what’s the deal?”
GP sighed again, rubbing his temples like he was too old for this conversation. “Lawson. I know you think you’ve got game. But trust me—not this time.”
Liam tilted his head. “What, is she taken or something?”
GP didn’t even bother looking up from his laptop as he muttered, “Something like that.”
Liam hesitated, suddenly feeling like he was missing some critical piece of information.
But then he shook it off. How bad could it be?
“C’mon,” he said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
GP sighed again, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “rookies never learn” before shaking his head.
“Fine,” he said, stepping back and folding his arms. “Do what you want. But when this backfires, I’m not saving you.”
Liam rolled his eyes and kept walking.
How bad could it possibly be?
At worst, Francesca Howard would roll her eyes at him and shut him down politely. No harm done.
So he straightened his shoulders and walked over.
He liked to think he was pretty smooth, after all.
Not in an arrogant way—just in a self-aware way. He had a certain charm, an easy confidence. People liked him. Women liked him.
What was the worst that could happen? Mild embarrassment? He’d survive.
So he walked up to Francesca Howard, clearing his throat as she studied something on her tablet.
“Miss Howard,” he greeted smoothly, flashing his most easygoing grin. “Liam Lawson. Figured it was time we officially met.”
She looked up, brow arching slightly, her expression somewhere between amused and unimpressed.
“Dr. Howard.”
Liam blinked. “Huh?”
Francesca tilted her head. “I have two doctorates. If you’re going to address me formally, at least get it right. Otherwise, you can just call me Francesca. It’s my name.”
Liam froze.
Two doctorates?
Two?!
He cleared his throat. “Uh. Right. Dr. Howard.”
Her smirk did not help his sudden feeling of impending doom.
Behind him, GP sighed loudly.
Liam could feel himself slipping.
Not in a physically tripping over a curb way—though, honestly, he wouldn’t put that past himself at this point—but in a mentally trying to keep up and failing spectacularly way.
Francesca Howard was too smart for her own good.
Or, rather, too smart for his own good.
And she knew it.
“So,” he started, recovering as best as he could. “Two doctorates, huh?”
She gave him a patient smile, the kind teachers gave students who had just asked an embarrassingly obvious question.
“Yes,” she said. “One in Aerospace Engineering, one in Physics.”
Liam nodded slowly, stalling for time.
“Right. Cool. Just… y’know, casual, two whole doctorates.”
Francesca smirked. “You only need one to replace Adrian Newey. I like to be thorough.”
GP, still lurking nearby, snorted loudly.
Liam ignored him.
“Well,” Liam said, shifting his weight, trying to regain some sense of control in this conversation, “I guess it’s a good thing we have the best of the best in charge.”
Francesca hummed, looking entirely unaffected. “I know.”
Liam blinked. “You know?”
“Yes.”
“No hesitation?”
Francesca shrugged. “Why would I hesitate? It’s a fact.”
Liam opened his mouth, then shut it.
Then opened it again.
Then shut it again.
There was no winning here.
Behind him, GP sighed loudly, shaking his head. “I told you, kid.”
Liam Lawson had officially lost control of this conversation.
Dr. Francesca Howard—too smart for her own good, owner of two doctorates, and completely unbothered by his attempts to charm her—had thoroughly handed him his ass in a simple conversation.
And now, he was trying to figure out how to exit gracefully without admitting defeat.
(There was no graceful exit. He was so screwed.)
But before he could say anything else, a new voice cut in.
“You’re making this too easy for her.”
Liam turned—only to freeze at the sight of Max Verstappen walking into the garage.
With a baby in his arms.
Liam blinked. What.
Francesca’s expression instantly softened, her entire demeanor shifting as she abandoned whatever she had been working on and zeroed in on Max and the baby.
“There’s my boy,” she murmured, ignoring Liam completely as she reached for the baby, lifting him easily into her arms.
Liam blinked. What the hell was happening?
The baby—who had Verstappen blue eyes and a suspiciously familiar frown—giggled, grabbing at Francesca’s hair.
“Did Papa bring you to see me?” she cooed, pressing a kiss to his tiny forehead.
Max, standing there with all the smugness of a four-time World Champion who knew exactly what he was doing, crossed his arms. “He missed you. You’ve been working too much.”
Francesca hummed, rocking the baby slightly. “That’s because someone keeps breaking parts, Maxie.”
Max did not look even a little guilty.
Liam, meanwhile, was still trying to process the absolute madness unfolding in front of him.
Papa?!
My boy?!
MAXIE?!
“What,” Liam said, voice slightly higher than normal, “the actual hell is going on?”
Francesca turned to him, just now remembering he existed.
She sighed but lifted her left hand, flashing a wedding band so obvious that Liam genuinely hated himself for not noticing it earlier.
Liam’s entire brain short-circuited.
“We’re married,” she said casually.
Liam choked.
“You’re—WHAT?!”“You’re—” He pointed between them. “Since when?!”
Max grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “A while now.”
Liam turned back to GP, who looked entirely unshocked by this development.
GP sighed. “Tried to warn you.”
Liam needed a second.
No—he needed several seconds.
Because nothing about this situation made sense.
Dr. Francesca Howard—Red Bull’s new Chief Technology Officer, terrifyingly smart, and the owner of two doctorates—was married to Max Verstappen.
And, apparently, they had a whole baby together.
A whole baby.
Liam had spent months hearing rumors about who would replace Adrian Newey. He’d even done his research—looked into Francesca’s background, her achievements, the way she was basically a walking encyclopedia of aerodynamics and engineering.
But nowhere in his research had it said, Oh, by the way, she’s married to a four-time World Champion.
And definitely nowhere had it mentioned, They have a baby together, too.
Liam opened his mouth, then shut it. Then opened it again.
Then shut it.
Francesca, still holding the baby like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, raised an eyebrow. “You okay, Lawson?”
Liam pointed between her and Max, looking vaguely like he was on the verge of a breakdown.
“You—you—” he sputtered. “This—How did nobody tell me this?!”
Max, clearly enjoying every second of this, shrugged. “We don’t exactly make announcements.”
“You—” Liam gestured wildly at Francesca holding the literal Verstappen baby. “—You have a whole kid together!”
Francesca tilted her head, unimpressed. “Yes, Liam. That’s generally how it works when you’re married.”
Liam let out a strangled noise.
Max chuckled. “You thought you had a chance with her, didn’t you?”
Liam groaned, dragging both hands down his face.
GP, still entirely unshocked, clapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder.
“Lesson learned?” GP asked, smirking.
Liam exhaled sharply, looking so very done with this entire team.
“Right,” he said finally, voice still slightly higher than normal. “So, just to recap—”
He pointed at Max.
“Four-time World Champion, absolute menace on track, king of the grudge-holders.”
Max smirked. “Correct.”
Liam turned to Francesca.
“Chief Technology Officer, too smart for her own good, owner of two doctorates—”
Francesca looked far too amused. “Correct again.”
Then Liam gestured wildly at the baby.
“And now you—together—have a whole child?”
Francesca, unfazed, adjusted the baby against her hip. “Would you prefer we only had half a child?”
Liam let out a deeply pained groan.
Max chuckled. “You’re making this too easy for her.”
Liam ignored him and turned back to GP, who was completely unbothered, like he had seen this exact scenario play out before.
“You knew,” Liam accused.
GP snorted. “Obviously.”
Liam threw his hands in the air. “Does the entire team know?!”
Max shrugged. “The ones who pay attention.”
Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to know.”
Francesca, still holding the baby like Liam’s existential crisis was just background noise, turned to Max.
“I’m assuming you didn’t just come down here to break the rookie?” she asked dryly.
Max grinned. “No, I wanted to see you. And I think Joshua missed you.”
As if on cue, the baby—Joshua, apparently—made a happy babbling noise and patted Francesca’s face.
Francesca melted. “Oh, my love, I missed you too,” she cooed, kissing his forehead.
Max leaned down and kissed Francesca, quick and familiar, like it was second nature.
Liam immediately looked away.
“Right,” he muttered. “Nope. That’s enough for me today.”
Max pulled away, still looking far too pleased. “You sure? I could tell you how we met.”
Liam pointed aggressively at him. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
Max just laughed.
Liam exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. Fine. You win.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “We were playing a game?”
“I don’t know, Verstappen,” Liam muttered. “But if we were, you won.”
Francesca, still very much focused on her baby, hummed. “I always win.”
Liam shot GP a pained look. “Does she ever turn it off?”
GP snorted. “Nope.”
Max, smug as ever, leaned in slightly. “She’s always been this way, mate. You just had the misfortune of walking into it.”
Liam groaned. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”
Max grinned. “Not a chance.”
GP clapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “We’ll let this slide, since you’re new, but you might want to brush up on team dynamics before making a fool of yourself again.”
Francesca, finally tearing her attention away from her son, smirked at him. “You’ve learned an important lesson today, Liam.”
“Oh yeah?” he deadpanned. “What’s that?”
Francesca tilted her head, eyes sharp with amusement. “That I’m completely out of your league.”
Max let out a bark of laughter.
GP clapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder, offering zero comfort. “You’ll be fine, mate. Just... maybe do your homework next time.”
Liam shot him a deeply betrayed look. “You really let me dig my own grave, huh?”
GP shrugged. “I considered warning you. Then I didn’t.”
Liam groaned. “This is actual bullying.”
Francesca, clearly still amused, adjusted Joshua on her hip. “To be fair, you also called me Miss Howard.”
Liam winced.
Yeah. That had been a mistake.
“Right,” he muttered, shaking his head. “My bad, Dr. Howard.”
Max, absolutely no help at all, laughed.
Francesca pressed a kiss to Joshua’s temple before looking back at Liam, her expression turning mockingly sympathetic. “It’s okay, Liam. You’re not the first person to underestimate me.”
Liam groaned again.
“I wasn’t underestimating you,” he muttered. “I was just—” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t know! Trying to be nice!”
Max smirked. “By flirting with my wife?”
Liam turned bright red.
“Okay,” he said quickly, backpedaling so hard he could have reversed an F1 car. “I wasn’t flirting. I was just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “—being polite.”
GP snorted. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Liam exhaled deeply.
Francesca, clearly having had her fun, glanced at Max. “I have a meeting soon. Can you take Joshua?”
Max nodded, easily reaching for the baby. “Of course.”
The moment Joshua was in his arms, he lit up, giggling happily as Max bounced him slightly.
Liam watched, still trying to adjust to this absolute fever dream of a reality.
Max Verstappen—the most intense, hyper-focused, emotionally guarded driver on the grid—was a whole dad.
And, somehow, it actually suited him.
Liam shook his head, still slightly dazed. “I need to sit down.”
Max chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.”
Liam seriously doubted that.
Francesca, still smirking, patted his shoulder. “Don’t take it too hard, Liam. You never stood a chance.”
Liam groaned.
Max grinned. “Welcome to Red Bull.”
#max verstappen fanfiction#formula 1#max verstappen#max verstappen fic#f1 fanfiction#formula 1 fanfiction#max verstappen fluff#mv1 fanfiction#max verstappen imagine#max verstappen fake instagram#f1 smau#max verstappen social media au#max verstappen x reader#mv1 x reader#f1 x reader#formula 1 x reader#mv1 fic#max verstappen x you#f1 grid x reader#f1 grid fanfiction
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From annoying to beloved
Homelander x fem!Reader
Synopsis: The new member of the Seven annoys Captain Patria with their habit of doodling in the corners all the time, but he didn't expect to end up liking it.
During the fourth season, it can be read as both romantic and platonic.
Warnings: Swearing, mentions of murder, the reader has the power to control plasma, fluffy.
The reader is also kind of anxious.
Word count: 2.9k
"You gotta be fucking kidding with me." Homelander interrupted abruptly upon hearing snores in the room. "Is Noir sleeping?"
"Mmhmm," Firecracker murmured in agreement, but the masked superhero jolted awake when The Deep kicked his chair.
"Oh, shit! Sorry, guys." Black Noir straightened up, while the Captain shook his head in disbelief, unable to fathom what he had just witnessed.
"Ah, what the fuck." The blonde furrowed his brows, eyes darting around the room quickly, then fixing on a specific point when something else caught his attention. He had noticed you earlier with a notebook and pencil, but now you're not writing but drawing. The irritating sound of the graphite scraping against the paper had been bothering him for some time, but he had tried to ignore it, assuming as a newcomer you were taking notes.
He wouldn't lie. Though he found taking notes utterly stupid, he liked to think someone was that focused on what he said. Not that he needed it, just opening his lips and everyone would be watching him. But as if that weren't enough, he finally realized you were dressed in regular civilian clothes.
"Radiance, where's your suit?" He asked slowly, but angrily. "Can't anyone do anything right around here?"
You finally tore your attention from the paper, meeting Homelander gaze directly. It's not that you weren't paying attention—in fact, you were, maybe more than anyone else there. It was easier to absorb things while doodling, a way to calm your nerves. Well, that or rubbing your sweaty fingers together until they hurt.
No one ever understood. Even back in school, your parents used to receive complaints about you drawing during class, no matter how high your grades were or the fact that you were the top student.
This was your first meeting with the Seven, and the last thing you wanted was to give the impression of being careless or not caring about being there. It could be said that one of the best days of your life was yesterday when Vought sent you a notice, letting you know that the greatest superhero of all had personally chosen you to join the team. After so many "retarded" - in his words - he had been forced to accept into the Seven, Homelander saw in you, above all, the opportunity to make up for Firecracker's ridiculous weakness.
When Ashley began talking about your powers, he had no doubt the last spot was yours. It was simply brilliant. Who the hell would have imagined someone would have powers to control a state of matter? You could maneuver fire, generate electrical discharges, disrupt magnetic fields, and damn it, you could split atoms as if slicing butter.
Vought's scientists said they didn't know if it was possible, but you could destroy the damn out of a star one day. Homelander wasn't a science guy, but in one of his moments of boredom, he got curious and did some research. He didn't even know that plasma crap was all that, he thought it was a cell thing or whatever.
He always thought someone with a power as peculiar as yours, and at your age, would be arrogant or just plain dumb. But you were actually the complete opposite. You didn't speak unnecessarily, and while you seemed very aware of your own actions, you had no clue how powerful you were, or perhaps ignored that fact. The blonde thought you were an idiot for it, but he appreciated the inferiority you submitted to, especially in relation to himself.
"I don't have one, sir," you replied to his question, feeling small with everyone looking.
"What the hell?" He continued, focusing on you with incredulous voice, he couldn't believe it. How did someone end up here without even having a superhero suit?
The truth was, you had never been part of any team before, nor had you received any sponsorship during your life, or even attended Godolkin University. The only thing you had were your powers, which were indeed impressive. You never chased after any position, nor were you ever obsessed with being a famous superheroine, but lately you thought it would be a good adventure to radicalize your life. That's when you applied to join the Seven.
"How do you have a name and not have a fucking suit?" He asked, boiling with anger, fists clenching tightly behind his back.
"They gave me a name when I filled out the application," you answered honestly. That day, after they chose to call you Radiance, a random and easily commercial name, you couldn't complain much and didn't want to bother, so you left it at that.
"You'll be introduced as an official member of the Seven tomorrow, how do you not have a suit?" He took his hands off his back, moving them as he spoke to express his confusion, and for a few moments you followed it movement like a child who can't keep their attention on anything for long. "Who's handling your marketing?"
You couldn't answer, so you stayed silent and no one else dared to say a word either. You had no idea who was handling your marketing, not knowing you should even have that. You glanced quickly around the table, perhaps seeking some kind of help for the situation, but everyone looked down when they realized you were staring at them. They were enjoying themselves, and that made you exhale through your nose in embarrassment.
"You know what? Fuck it, doesn't matter." Homelander brought his fingers to his furrowed forehead, letting out a loud sigh as he calmed down. "Just... don't show up like this in public until someone gives you a suit."
"Yes, sir," you replied tensely, relieved that he had resolved the matter.
Sister Sage widened her eyes in relief when she finally saw the superhero sitting beside her. She opened her mouth to begin speaking, as she had intended from the beginning, but when some sound was about to come out of her mouth, Homelander spoke to you again, this time pointing an accusatory finger at you:
"And stop drawing, damn it," he ordered, causing you to slowly drop the pencil on the table, as if caught doing something wrong with the weapon of the crime in hand. You stared at your lap throughout the entire meeting, embarrassed for messing everything up on your first day.
When the meeting ended, you followed most people out of the room, but stopped nearby in one of the hallways. You slid down the wall, crouching in a hidden corner, and lightly tapped the sketchbook against your forehead in annoyance.
"Stupid," you murmured softly to yourself. It was so ridiculous, yet it embarrassed you so much. Maybe this first day wasn't so bad after all. You would have plenty of time to prove your worth to everyone, no need to dwell on this situation. Even though you had been corrected in front of some of the most iconic supers by Homelander himself, this situation could be overcome. It was thinking about it that kept you from letting the burning tears fall.
"I can hear you whining," Homelander voice made you jump to your feet, startled to be caught once again doing something you shouldn't. He didn't seem happy, and his expression was so intimidating that you felt like Mariah Carey performing for a crowd of Eminem fans.
He approached you in slow steps and you held the sketchtebook protectively to your chest, as if that could protect you from something. He glanced down to briefly see the object in your hands and looked at you with disgust.
"If you don't straighten up, I'll kick you out. Got it?" Everything about him exuded threat. Maybe if he weren't so imposing and powerful, that sentence would have sounded a bit like the janitor from your old school scolding you for spending too much time in the bathroom during class.
You were paralyzed standing there and all you could do was a nod. But your gesture made him more aggressive.
"Answer with your mouth. Are you mute or something?" And there he was, hands behind his back again. He seemed to enjoy that pose.
"I won't mess up, sir," you said, swallowing your saliva.
"And get rid of that. Or burn it, do whatever, just get rid of it. And I better not see you with that again," he said referring to your notebook, walking away faster than before. "These kids..." you heard him mutter distantly.
After that happened, you didn't destroy the sketchtebook, but you were afraid of being caught and kept it safely tucked away in the back of a drawer in your room. What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't feel, right? You mentally made a promise to yourself not to use it anywhere else but here, to avoid causing more trouble.
It's been a week since you've been with the Seven, and several strange things have happened. You quickly realized that Homelander wasn't the pristine and merciful hero everyone believed him to be. But the truth was that deep down you already expected that. Everything about heroes always seemed too perfect and pure, there had to be a catch. Despite everything, you still remained yourself, never intentionally hurting anyone or getting involved in murders and conspiracies.
You were comfortable helping out with some minor crimes that Vought sent you to solve, but by now you suspected that sooner or later Homelander would ask you to do some of his atrocities. It was still hard to think about how to feel about it, but you weren't naive, you were already mentally preparing to submit to it or else be killed.
During that time, as you adjusted and interacted with the team, it didn't go unnoticed by Homelander that you were drawing on your own hand, or on napkins and on random sheets you found lying around, even though you hadn't shown up with your sketchtebook again. This was starting to wear on his last nerve, but he tried to ignore it. As long stayed as you were, without asking too many questions and obedient, he made an effort to continue overlooking your makeshift drawings.
"Meeting's over," the blond suddenly declared, interrupting another of the Seven's weekly gatherings while cutting off The Deep's rambling about his ideas.
"But I haven't even talked about the flying shark yet," he tried to defend himself.
"Shut up," Homelander's voice rang out sternly in the room, issuing a warning that the man promptly obeyed.
"Right. Meeting's over." Ashley nervously moved to gather the portfolios on the new soda advertisement she had come to present, but as soon as she touched the first folder, specifically the A-Train one, the superhero exploded in rage:
"Ashley! Get out!" She immediately dropped the folder in place and hurried out in her heels, unable to run in them. "All of you! Get out of here."
Everyone got up from their chairs, even you, and filed out through the front door, leaving the folders on the table. Sister Sage hesitated, thinking she might be an exception, but when his scowl deepened, she understood she should leave too.
With the room empty, Captain Patria took a few minutes to admire the view from the tower. He enjoyed staring at it sometimes, even when bored.
"Bunch of idiots," he muttered to himself, shaking his head in denial, indignant. If he had to spend one more minute with these morons, he would have a heart attack, even though that was technically impossible for him.
He threw his cape back as he turned to leave, looking down and not focusing on anything in particular. But his eyes caught something different from the other folders. It was obviously yours, with a huge drawing covering the text and images printed on it.
That was the first time he actually saw something you had scribbled. And damn, it was perfect. It was a drawing of everyone in the room, with him in the center looking angry. Just as he was. His ego flared up as he noticed that his figure was more detailed than the others'. You must have started drawing him first, hence had more time to detail him. The idea of you making him the main focus of this particular drawing made his pupils dilate. He used his super hearing to check if anyone else was around and secretly took that sheet for himself.
The next time he saw you drawing in the Seven's room, he couldn't help but wonder if you were drawing him again. As soon as he noticed you sneakily reaching for a pen that belonged to Ashley, he looked in your direction. The noise that used to annoy him now sparked curiosity. And after staring at you for so long, it didn't take long for you to look back at him too. The blond thought you would be embarrassed, like most people, but you just grinned as if you were used to being caught looking. And indeed, you were.
You began drawing Homelander more frequently when you realized he never caught you watching him. It was easier and avoided awkward situations with other people. After two whole weeks of drawing him continuously while taking advantage of this freedom, you felt capable of drawing his face without even needing to see a photo, having memorized most of his distinctive features.
Well, it seems he's finally noticed you.
Sometimes, when alone in your room, you took out your sketchbook and started practicing the memory of his facial features you had developed. Just like every other time, you became absorbed in the drawing, focusing only on the voices around you to understand what was being said. This was also a way to keep yourself engaged during conversations, so you wouldn't get restless from being still while being a mere spectator of everything. After all, you never participated much or gave opinions; Deep already did enough for two.
The meeting had already ended, but you stayed in your chair, even as everyone else left, to finish just a part of the hair. You thought no one would mind, and then you would leave as usual, but a voice caught you by surprise:
"Can I take a look?" Homelander asked, for the first time, using a gentle voice beside you. His expression was enigmatic, somewhat relaxed, and shy at the same time.
You turned the stack of post-it notes, also taken from Ashley, for him to see what you had drawn, fearing what he would say. You weren't ashamed of drawing people, much less of them catching you doing it. You feared because he found your habit annoying.
He observed the drawing, seeing his posture from the side, upright and imposing. He wondered if you drew him exactly as you saw him, or if it was just another caricature of reality, like those Photoshopped pictures spread around. He looked much better than he imagined, though he had that superiority complex that made him see himself as a god.
For a moment, he was offended to see his image stamped on such despicable things as scraps of paper and these damn post-it notes. Your fingerprints were also visible stains, and the paper was slightly wrinkled from his sweat. He had noticed that sometimes you drew calmly, as if you had all the time in the world, and other times it was like drawing on a boat in a storm. Today seemed to be the latter situation.
"Do you like drawing me?" He glanced at you.
"I do," you shrugged. That was the simplest and most truthful answer you could give. "Sorry, I won't do it anymore," you said, thinking he was bothered by it.
"Why?" He ignored your apology.
"You're drawable... I guess," you stared at the table, not understanding the flow of the conversation.
"And what the fuck does that mean?" He asked in a louder voice, turning to face you, obviously confused. "Is this some artistic shit?"
"It's just that you're easy to draw because you have unusual characteristics. It's a good thing," was your answer, and it inflated his chest with narcissistic pride. Unusual, that's what you said, but to him, it was like being called extraordinary.
"Next time you draw me, try using a sketchbook," he said sternly, pretending to reject your work, but deep down, he just didn't want to show that he really liked it. That statement was his way of encouraging you to continue, but at the same time, it was so ironic, considering he got mad at you just when you were drawing him in the sketchtebook that day.
"But you asked me to get rid of mine," you said simply, your voice dwindling with each word of the sentence, not wanting him to find out that you had never thrown it away.
"I'll get you a new one," he said dismissively, taking the entire stack of post-it notes with him, including the drawing, as if you wouldn't notice.
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