#or know how to use google

[rainbowsuitcase]

"actual writers"

everyone who writes is a writer. that is the literal definition of the word. whether you write original stories or fanfiction or drabbles or headcanons, you're a writer. people who make comics are writers. you spend your time stringing words together into sentences? congratulations, you're a writer!

[sixth-light]

I have had these thoughts bubbling away in my head for like...eighteen months or so now (it will become very obvious why shortly) but the discussion in this post has pushed me to write them down: I think societally we HUGELY underestimate how motherhood for primary caregivers, particularly first-time motherhood, can be a source of vulnerability to radicalisation.

There is obviously huge cultural variance here, but for a lot of cis women becoming primary caregiver to an infant in a capitalist Western society represents a time of immense vulnerability because in general you are:

Incredibly sleep-deprived (which has well-documented knock-on effects for your judgement, mental health, etc)

If you gave birth, recovering from a significant challenge to your physical health (even in the best-case scenario)

Isolated from your previous networks and communities of people in full-time work

Completely separated from the context of your prior career goals and achievements

Under huge amounts of stress to learn how to care for an infant (don't get me started on breastfeeding)

And on top of this, you are also be experiencing a huge amount of messaging about how all this is natural, wonderful, something you're meant to do, something you should love doing, and something that you must do for the welfare of their child. It's a huge amount of pressure and life change even when everything goes right and there's very little cultural space to express negative feelings about it.

Any group of people who offer community, support, and affirmation to cis women in this situation are going to have a really good shot at radicalising them into some very weird and dangerous headspaces and in fact we see this happen all the time - think antivaxxers and TERFs. It flies under the radar because of the hazy positive glow that associates with motherhood and babies and also because we don't take the radicalisation of women seriously I guess because they rarely shoot anybody, but...yeah. It is such a vulnerable time!

[stars-inthe-sky]

if there's solid ground below

It's been five years, but I wrote a whole fic this week thanks in no small part to the singular @iphyslitterator!

[Cross-posted to AO3]

“H—hey, Tommy?”

Tommy startles and bangs his head on the hood of his truck, recovering fast enough that none of the oil he was nearly done changing spilled but not so fast that it would have escaped Evan’s notice. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just surprised,” he says, grabbing for a spare rag to wipe his hands on. “Hi.”

“Got a sec?” Evan rocks onto the balls of his feet and back again, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a hoodie that, in southern California in May, it should really be too warm for. But he runs cold, and the layers always have the added bonus of making Tommy want to rip them off in some kind of Pavlovian response.

Had. Last summer, they’d had that effect. This summer was shaping up differently.

Evan tilts his head, a little quizzical, and Tommy realizes he’s been frozen in place for a few beats too long, dazedly dragging the rag between his fingers.

“Sorry, yeah, go ahead.” He glances down at the car, which hasn’t moved, then back at Evan, who’s still rocking but who looks, Tommy’s now realizing, noticeably lighter than he has in a while—certainly since the funeral, but maybe even more so than that night in the bar all those weeks ago. His smile is far too small, but it’s there. “Although if you need another helicopter, I’m gonna have to start charging you at some point.”

“That’s okay, I heard your fees are competitive,” he chirps, and if his grin isn’t yet lethal, it’s shifted to shit-eating. Which, for Tommy, is lethal anyway, and Evan knows it. “But no, I just…just wanted to talk this time. For real, for once.”

Oh. “Okay…?”

“You can keep doing whatever you were doing; I know you like to have something to do with your hands.”

“Uh, thanks.” He stuffs the rag in the back pocket of his jeans and fishes the oil canister out of his car’s innards. This might be easier without eye contact. “What’s up?”

“I’m taking a sabbatical from the LAFD,” Evan says. Tommy freezes again, more of a twitch than a full stop, and makes himself continue the actual task at hand. “Three months. Mostly thanks to an insane amount of unused PTO, because I realized I kinda haven’t taken a vacation that wasn’t just medical leave in like…ever. And I need a break, you know, after everything? Like, I spent a bunch of my twenties driving around, odd jobs and stuff, and the world is—is so much bigger than the firehouse, or this city, and…yeah.  I think I need that space for a bit. Just got it approved today. And then I came here.”

He pauses for breath, and Tommy stares unseeing at some perfectly intact wiring he could reconnect by touch alone if asked. “That’s great they’re letting you do that, Evan. I’m sure it’ll be good for you. How’d the others take it?”

There’s a little sigh. “I haven’t told them yet. Battalion chief said I’d always have a job to come back to, but they couldn’t hold my spot indefinitely. Depends on the new captain and how they want to staff up. Makes sense, obviously, so.” His sniffle is nearly inaudible, but Tommy’s never been able to tune out Evan’s frequency.

He gives up on the car, closing the hood with a quiet click and resuming with the rag, even though his hands aren’t especially dirty. “Never thought you’d voluntarily leave the 118.”

“I know, right?” Evan’s mouth twitches, and it’s not quite a smile now, but there’s something genuine growing back. “I mean, I guess I might not be, but. Things change, and it’s…time, maybe. I’m doing this, in any case. I—I—I just need to clear my head for a while. Go visit Minnesota, never been there, but then…I don’t know, maybe touch the Atlantic Ocean again. Camp out in some national parks. Go see the sky in Montana—it’s so big, Tommy, I’ve never seen anything like it, not since those years, and the last couple of months…it’s like the smog is just in everything right now, you know?”

Tommy nods. He can relate, despite how often he gets to soar above the chokehold of Los Angeles; smoke is smoke, and heat still rises. “I get it. So…this is goodbye, then?” He swallows, bites his lip, stares down at his fingers and the rag still entwined in them.

“No!” Evan leans forward for a breath, arm lifting, but he seems to stop himself, like he’s remembering they don’t know where they stand with each other, if he’s allowed to grab Tommy’s shoulder. “No, no, I’m coming back. LA is still home, my—my stuff’s going into a storage unit next week, my sister and my niece are here, and the new baby—the job—no, yeah, I’m coming back.”

“That’s good,” Tommy muses. “So…”

“So, I wanted to ask—I—I—I’m asking if you’d maybe be up for thinking about coming with me.”

Tommy freezes so suddenly, and so thoroughly, that the rag drops to the ground. “You—you’re going on a three-month road trip to get away from it all, and you want me to come with you?”

“Yeah, I do,” Evan says softly, surely, ducking his head in that bashful way he pretends not to know is so damn effective. “I need a break from everything, and everyone—but you, you’re not everyone. I meant what I said about being together, before. I still mean it.” Tommy feels both arms drop to his sides, heavy and limp like emptied hoses, and the air jerks out of his lungs as his throat closes tight.

Evan plows ahead. “I—if—if you don’t want to, or you can’t swing it with work, or whatever—I get it, that’s why I’m asking and not—not telling you what to do. I don’t—even if you don’t come, I’d wait. And, and text or call, maybe? If you wanted to? Even if it’s just as friends, my life is always better when you’re in it. Kinda hoping that goes both ways here.”

Tommy croaks, “And when you get tired of me before we hit Reno?”

“I won’t,” he says, no hesitation. Tommy’s slack face must do something, because he repeats, “Tommy, I won’t. I won’t. I just want time with you, more time, all the time. I want to try again, so, so bad. And if we fight, we can talk, and not just think the worst, and keep going, be—because I want to eat crappy gas station food with you and not think about the inside of a gym for weeks. I want to drive out somewhere where it feels like we’re the only people on the planet, and fuck in the back of your truck, and then figure out a map that’s older than either of us because there’s no cell service. Maybe rent a chopper in Montana so we can see that sky up close—there’s, there’s so many stars, and you’re the only person I’d want to see them with like that. I want to be locked in a moving vehicle with you all day, except for bathroom stops, and see your face when you realize it’s been 16 hours and we still have more to talk about, and we’ll just keep going, because I’m never gonna get tired of you.”

He pauses and swallows thickly, and Tommy can’t look away. For all that Evan Buckley wears his heart on his sleeve so easily for anyone to see, actually opening it up and offering to hand it over to someone else—that’s still work. “So—that’s what I came to say. That’s what I want. J—just think about it. No rush, I’m not—I’ll wait. If it’s what you want. You…you get to want things, too. So. Yeah.”

Evan nods to himself, rubs the back of his neck, and turns to walk back to his car, parked on the street. Tommy has to move, has to say something, but the soles of his boots are melting, fused to the cement of the driveway, his throat is still closed, and Evan—Evan is walking away.

Tommy wants things, too.

He forces a breath, in and out, on a four-count, licks his lips, and asks, “When do we leave?”

Evan radiates a warmth that scatters out, tangible and visible like a sunrise before he even turns around, beaming. “I was thinking a few weeks after the baby comes, but—but—yeah?”

“Yeah, I, uh, I could chase some stars over the Rockies. With you.” Tommy’s insides unknot, and the life rushes back into his limbs. “And the rest, too. I noticed it’s my truck in this scenario?”

Suddenly Evan is in front of him, closer than they’d managed even that morning after, pressed gently against him from chest to knees, arms winding around his waist. “Much more cargo space. Very practical. And I kinda thought you might be in the same boat, you know, with the unused vacation. Maybe enough seniority to hang onto your spot.”

“Probably, yeah, they generally…” He doesn’t even know how that sentence might have ended, has rarely thought about anything more than a long weekend away, but then Evan’s kissing him, deep and slow and sweet like they might already be the only people on the planet. His warmth flashes over through Tommy, nerve by nerve, until he’s lit up and burning, flammable in places he’d spent months trying to forget this man could expose.

When Evan pulls back, it’s with Tommy’s face between his hands, his relief and hope palpable. Like life might go on, like the world might really be bigger, could even be better, sometimes, than it had been.

“Let’s go,” he whispers, so close and so quiet that Tommy can feel each syllable rumble against his skin, tires steady on a gravel road away from this scene and toward the next.

[godbirdart]

i've been so tired of google's new legal liability bot sitting on top of the existing highlighted result, taking up page space and either parroting exactly what the highlighted result said or offering completely unrelated or incorrect results, that i actually cheered when this came up:

"oh but AI is experimental -"

the bot told people to eat glue on pizza. you can talk yourself blue in the face about the bot's learning curve and how "it'll be improved with time", but maybe a bot being touted as the latest and greatest in scouring the internet for accurate information should not come with a permanent glaring disclaimer of "it's still learning / results may not be accurate!" as the generative AI ouroboros continues to keep on chewing.

[mikeluciraphgabe]

SamBucky but it’s just Sam making all of these references that don’t fucking exist and Bucky going “that doesn’t seem real but I don’t know enough about today to argue”

[deadsetobsessions]

This is based off of that one tiktok from @sorruna where it’s the audio from Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse.

——

Dick Grayson was a sneaky, intelligent little shit.

He was also dumb. These things are not mutually exclusive.

To this day, one of his best kept secrets- one of the many, many that he had now- was something he’d take to his grave.

Or to Jason’s grave, at least.

Dick sat down and began telling the story to ears that would never truly hear it.

——

Batman’s voice rumbled behind him as Dick, in his Robin suit, stood blankly on top of a roof.

“I know you snuck out last night, Robin.”

Dick froze, train of thought about his dinner derailed. Holy busted, Batman! Quick! Play dumb!

“Who’s Robin?” He asked, the years of performing in front of a large crowd coming to save his ass.

Not that dumb!

Batman sent him a dry look, reprimand already poised on his lips. Dick, however, was nothing but a good performer. Nay, a dedicated performer.

Quick! Do something out of character! He shouted at himself, panicking visibly. He stepped backwards, an idea appearing in his head. In his defense, it sounded like an amazing idea at the time. He had no idea it would blow up into a Justice League issue. If he had known… Dick would have lied better, probably. There was no way he was going to let B bench him for weeks!

“Who the fuck are you?!” He yelped. Dick apologized mentally to Alfred and his parents. Batman paused, stunned.

“That’s my question. Who are you?!” Bruce asked, immediately hostile. His son doesn’t curse. Well, not in any normal way anyways. Dick quickly backpedaled by yelling at him with a heavy Vlax dialect, missing his parents terribly as he screamed stranger danger in rudimentary Romany. After this, he was going to have to convince Bruce to get him a language tutor. He refused to forget one of the only ties he had left to his parents.

“Wait, wait- you’re my son.” Bruce replied back, in perfect Romany. He looked more convinced but still skeptical.

“My dad is a circus performer! Not a flying rat!” Dick screeched back. He couldn’t help but feel touched about Bruce seeing him like a son.

“Oy! Keep it down out there, you assholes! Some of us like our sleep, damn!” A random Gothamite screamed out of their window.

“Yo, shut the fuck up! The vigilantes are helping to keep the rent low, motherfucker!” Another Gothamite shouted back.

….

Needless to say, Bruce quickly brought Dick back to the cave- with precautions to make sure he didn’t figure out where the Cave was if Dick was actually someone else.

——

“You would have loved it, Little Wing. B was running around like a headless chicken. The memory loss protocol was actually made because of me, you know.” Dick chuckled, sniffling as he talked to the carved gravestone.

It did not reply.

——

The blood tests came back. Yeppers, Dick sarcastically thought, who woulda thought I’m me?

Reinforcements were called in.

Meaning, Batgirl.

“Watch him while I contact Justice League Dark.”

“You think it’s magic?” Barbara asked.

“Yes. There was no one else near our vicinity that could affect Dick like this. He has no head wounds.”

“Eesh. Okay, go. I’ll watch him.”

Bruce disappeared in his zeta tube, looking harried. So, to everyone that’s not a Bat, he looked absolutely terrifying.

“What did you get yourself into now, Boy Wonder?” Barbara sighed. Dick was careful to keep any signs of recognition out of his face.

“Stop calling me that! Where are my parents?!” He asked back. Barbara coughed and looked uncomfortably away.

That’s right, Babs. I’m pulling out the orphan card. Feel bad. Dick hid his feral grin.

“They’re… uh, busy.” Busy being dead, Barbara thought, immediately wincing at her own thoughts. Apparently, Dick thought the excuse was lame too, and he sent her an incredulous look.

“Would you like refreshments, Master Dick?”

“What?”

Alfred held out some cookies on a platter, giving Babs a quelling look as she tried to reach for his share.

“Oh, wow, these are really good!” Dick said as he shoveled cookies into his mouth. He tried to replicate the reaction he had when he tried these for the first time, and from Alfred’s satisfied look, Dick nailed it.

——

“Robin doesn’t remember who he is.” Batman rumbled as he all but dragged Zatanna and Constantine by the scuff of their jackets towards the zeta tubes.

“Hey, wait-”

“We have no time.” Batman snarled, tossing the two magic users into the zeta. He punched in the destination.

When they got there, he glared at the two magic users until they got into the cave.

“Damn, Bats. Really living up to your name, huh?”

“Not bad,” Zatanna said as she looked around.

“Robin,” Batman- Bruce- reminded them. He did a quick glance over to check on his kids, and found them satisfactorily uninjured. Though, Barbara was looking worse for wear. Bruce quickly found out why as she stalked to him.

“You deal with him.” She muttered. “I’m going home.”

Bruce blinked and nodded. “Get home safe.”

Zatanna and Constantine followed Batman as he walked towards Robin. It was odd to see the normally laughing child frown.

“It’s you! The kidnapper! Where are my parents?!”

Bruce winced which, for him, was akin to a full body flinch and recoil. No wonder Barbara was so tired.

“Fix it.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Batsy.” Constantine grumbled.

“Well help, Batman. Though… I’m not sure if he should be doing that.”

Bruce sharply turned his head back to where Dick was. Emphasis on was. Because now, he’s halfway up the giant dinosaur the Robin had insisted they keep.

“Robin, get down from there!”

“Stranger Danger!” Dick hollered back.

Batman- Bruce Wayne- sighed.

“That’s high level magic,” Zatanna hummed. “I can’t feel anything, but I know for sure that he won’t die. Magic like that either dissipates naturally or…”

“Lasts forever,” Constantine finished.

Bruce groaned, shooting off a grappling line and swooping upwards to catch Dick as he fell from the giant dinosaur.

——

“I pretended to get my memories back later,” Dick chuckled. “And pretended to forget the whole thing. Bruce was so relieved that I stopped knocking things over and trying to do cartwheels in high places that he totally forgot I snuck out.”

Dick patted the headstone.

“But between you and me? I’m pretty sure Alfred knew. I think B pissed him off that week.”

[paradoxolotl]

Thinking about how Neil doesn’t want to say “I love you” so instead he traces it in different languages like אני אוהב אותך (ani ohev otakh) on Andrew’s skin when they’re in quiet moments

Andrew thinking it’s mindless patterns

But the action of Neil softly brushing over his skin is nothing but comfort and brings him peace

And the kiss he presses to Neil’s shoulder means the same, in a language just for them

[felicitea-art]

can you draw peridot on a bike

peridot vs hyperrealistic bike

[ink-the-artist]

holy shit I did NOT realize how popular my "I will remove my teeth, for I want to remain kind despite my anger" quote is. I just googled it for fun to see what would come up, a bunch of people are quoting it not knowing who its from, an artist called Kuma made an album titled that, so bizzare

[anti-ao3]

if you still donate to ao3 even though:

ao3 censors any support for palestine

they barely improve the website despite surpassing their donation goals every single time

they do not see anything wrong with RPF that sexualizes REAL minors

they excuse racist fanworks, they actually suspend anyone who does not feel comfortable with pedo/incest shippers, or literally anyone who labels themselves antis or anti p/roships

they also don't see anything wrong with ai generated stories that most likely steal from real writers that put their heart and soul into their works

and perhaps a lot more things they do that i might be forgetting

seriously.

if you get mad at marginalized ppl calling out ao3, and you act entitled when your fandom interests are being threatened, then you're a privileged asshole. if you call everyone "puritans" or "stupid kids" for being critical of ao3, you're a privileged asshole. this is not about you. this is about the actual harm ao3 does to real people. your favorite fanfictions should not be your priority. especially if you want to keep supporting palestine or people of color in general, you can't just get mad when they point out the flaws of ao3 and stop supporting them when they're not convenient to you.

[jey-chan]

alfred, after reading 2 leters taht had ben delibered to him by a glowing green dog, noded an started to prepare diner before puting a single mesage on the family and friends grup chat.

Ined, this neded a stomash full of food.

Some time later and Alfred decides to drop the bomb.

Alfred: So, today a letter aribed to the maneor. It was sended by both, the CSD and that facility that aided the laters Masters Tom and Marta Wayne..."

Bruce, all confused because no one told him he was a in vitrus boy: My parents what?"

"...Its apears that a tragic had happened in the adoptive home life of Master Bruce´s biological litle brother, and both the state and the Infinite Realms sems to think this house is the perfect place to him and his mirror born twin sister. I expect you all to read this informative triptic because Yung Masters Dany and Dani (neme changing pending) are now half of a rare and prety multidimencional guarded species. An I will be damed and put my two weeks advice if my litle new sons are damaged by this emotional conspirational family"

Jackson was the frist one to react.

"Holy shit! this time te suprised new silbing one is Bruce?!"

"Oh so is it hereditary... " was Dick reaction

"A rare and delicated species you said? I shal go to therapy then." was Damian two cents before going to the library in seearsh of a good candidate.

Menawile... Bruce had yet to rebot.

Tim: okay but how jung?

Alfred: human 11 yeears old, and in ghost form 5 months old. Little Dani is just 2 months old. ¿Could you belive it? Please Miss Kent, go and give this nasty Master man a beaten up could you? i would go after him myself but i need to take care of the litles halfas.

Batfamily: WHAT THA FUCK?!

[elumish]

every day I am appalled by the degree to which people on all sides of the partisan spectrum do not understand the government

[dreadknightcassandra]

Grey Warden Rook dialogue ideas

Emmrich: "Rook, how would you like your remains handled after you perish?" Rook: "I don't think you'll need to worry about that." Emmrich: "What do you mean?" Rook: "When a warden takes the Joining, we consider our deaths pretty early on. Even when there's not a blight, most Warden bodies aren't really recoverable without risking even more lives. We either die overrun by darkspwan on the surface, or die overrun by darkspawn miles below the surface while hearing a deafening song. If a warden falls in battle or goes on their calling, their name is added to a cenotaph, a while feather is sent to their next of kin, and the rest of us move on." Emmrich: "That's.... I hadn't considered that. In Nevarra, it's rare for someone's remains to be unrecoverable, and even when it is, there are ways to ensure they are properly enshrined. Sometimes, the Grand Necropolis will find them of it's own accord. I wonder if there are any of your lost fellows buried in the depth of the Necropolis without us knowing?" Rook: "The upside, the Wardens don't need a body to be remembered and honored." -------------------------- Neve: "Sometimes it feels like what I'm doing is pointless. If I defeat Aelia, what's to stop someone else like her from coming along and causing problems? All the efforts i put it, undone by a city that doesn't seem to care" Rook: *after an extended silence* "Ten thousand darkspawn" Neve: "Excuse me?" Rook: "Young wardens will often start trying to count how many darkspawn they've killed and ask senior members what their kill count is. And a lot of the elders will give the same answer, ten thousand darkspawn." Neve: "I assume because they lost count?" Rook: "Because the count is irrelevant. It doesn't actually stop the darkspawn forever. A thousand Wardens could march into the Deep Roads, burn every warren they can find, slaughter dozens of broodmothers, and it will still be a temporary reprieve." Neve: "Quite the motivational statement." Rook: "It's also a reminder why we do this. It's not about killing darkspawn, it's about protecting the world from them. Every darkspawn I kill won't make a dent in their numbers, but it does keep the innocents near me safe for another day. There's nothing that will stop another Aelia from coming back and terrorizing Dock Town. But stopping her still saves the people here and now, and keeps the world brighter for another day." Neve: "Rook.... You being here with me, it's dangerous. It's starting to make me think this is actually possible." Rook: "I drank a cup of poison that makes me hear music a decade ago and I'm still in fighting shape. You'd be surprised what's possible."

----------

Lucanis: "What's happening in Treviso.... we knew the blight is bad, but to see our own civilians turned into those... things. It's horrific." Rook: "Wait, what?" Lucanis: "People who are infected by the blight, they eventually succumb and become darkspawn themselves. We didn't realize it at first until we saw it for ourselves. Why did you not warn us about that?" Rook: "Because that's not how the blight normally affects creatures! This has to be the work of Ghil'anain." Lucanis: "What normally happens when someone becomes blighted." Rook: "They die. usually painfully." Bellara: "Wait, then where to darkspawn normally come from?" Rook: "I promise, your life is better for not knowing."

[crossbackpoke-check]

blessed be (lorscher bienensegen) | telling the bees (wiþ ymbe)

"Bees" [remixed, abridged], Claudia Emerson // "Letter to Someone Living Fifty Years from Now" [remixed. abridged], Matthew Olzmann // "Letter to my Great, Great Grandchild" [remixed, abridged], J.P. Grasser | Len Redkole, Nina Weiss, Brian Babineau, Christian Peterson, Mitchell Leff, Dave Isaac, Megan DeRuchie

[starmonsterrr]

[ * I wanted an excuse to draw a crossover. here. I accidentally made my own design for Dashie here. Also originally I was gonna have them handshake but I wanted to make it 20% cooler ]

[themeraldee]

AY the southern stylist ask was delicious ik that was a while ago but I'm scrolling through lol. But like what if he came in one day, really rough day, madlyn was on him, the media too. Just pissy baby energy. And then she sees him and immediately can tell something is wrong, especially when he doesn't chat or smile like he usually does and before she can think she's cupping his cheek and just going "Sugar, you seem down. What's wrong baby?" Of course in like that southern way where baby can be used platonically but she sees the effect it has on him and goes 'oh mommy issues, that makes sense. Welp gotta lock in now'

[follow up to this - sort of]

Stupid Stan and his stupid fucking lectures. Homelander slams the door to the dressing room open. It leaves a dent in the wall but he doesn’t care as he slams it back shut.

Fucking Stormfront. Where does Stan get off thinking he gets to decide who goes in the Seven for god sakes?! Undermined again, being made to feel like a petulant child—again!

He’s so frustrated there might as well be steam coming out of his ears. And now he has to prance around at a premiere for fucking Tek Night Lives and pretend like his life doesn’t feel like it’s unraveling. 

Homelander sits himself in the makeup chair staring at a reflection of himself. He can’t even contort his face to a neutral state. He watches as his jaw tightens, his Adam's apple moving with a gulp and his tongue pushing his lip out when he runs it across the top of his teeth in frustration. He can’t stop fidgeting and flexing his muscles. He’s doing anything he can to take away the urge to scream and tear anyone nearby piece by piece.

He’s so distracted, stewing in his own persistent thoughts that he gets caught off guard by the two gentle hands that land on his shoulders, jumping a little in surprise.

For a moment he forgot about this. About you. About the only good thing he seems to have left these days. Something positive to come back to.

"Honey, you look all kinds of stressed. What's eatin' at ya? You alright baby?" The honeyed drawl of your sweet southern accent almost does the job at untangling the coil of frustration and anger in his gut.

“It’s nothing.” He raises his hand sweeping it through the air, brushing it off with a tight fake smile. He doesn’t want to appear so frazzled in front of you but he’s so on edge, filled with this angry energy that there’s no way for him to keep calm.

“Now, don’t you go tellin’ me it’s nothin’. I can see it all over your face.” You brush your fingers through his hair as if to expose his face even more, not allowing him to hide behind any loose strands.

“Come here.” You walk around the chair, your hand sliding down from his shoulder all the way down his arm so you can slip your hand into his gloved one, pulling him out of the seat.

Vought always spends too much money on things that don’t matter. That’s why this dressing room is fully decked out. To your advantage now, it also includes a nice couch that you lead him to.

Sitting down on the edge you urge him to follow you. Homelander feels even more lost now but for a different reason. Yet he’s not one to refuse close contact. Grateful that he still holds some respect among Vought employees as the increased time he’s demanded for his hair and makeup prep is coming in handy now more than ever. At first it was a thinly veiled attempt at seeing more of you, at hearing more from you. Now it comes with extra perks he didn’t even think would be an option. 

“Come on now, don’t be shy, sugar. Rest your head here, you need to relax.” You tap your lap, giving him the green light to continue. 

He slowly lays down on your lap, his head facing away from you.

“There ya go. Nice and relaxed.” Your hands automatically slide into his hair, your nails gently scratching his scalp, as if scratching the tension right out of him.

Homelander lets himself melt into you, accidentally humming out loud in pure bliss. How can something so simple do him so much good? 

“Feels good, don’t it baby?” The way your fingers manage to melt the tension out of every inch of his body makes Homelander think that you might have a superpower of your own.

“Sure does.” He says in a lazy tone, a dead giveaway to his blissed out state.

He ends up turning around to face you and the ceiling. After a few minutes of pure indulgence he catches your hand before it does another round of running through his hair and stroking down his cheek and instead he brings it to his lips, kissing the back of it soundly, closing his eyes to enjoy the gesture as much as he can. 

He sits back up and you lean in to place a sweet kiss on his cheek. One that gets him all flustered, his once tense exterior now replaced with that cute boyish smile and a carefreeness spread across his face. “That’s better.” You comment on his smile.

"Now, how 'bout we get you back in that chair so I can work some of my magic on your hair after I’ve gone and messed it up some, huh? What do ya say, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, let’s.”