#this was not why i turned my computer on and this is actually a terrible time to post a set

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

what’s the story about the generative power model and water consumption? /gen

There's this myth going around about generative AI consuming truly ridiculous amount of power and water. You'll see people say shit like "generating one image is like just pouring a whole cup of water out into the Sahara!" and bullshit like that, and it's just... not true. The actual truth is that supercomputers, which do a lot of stuff, use a lot of power, and at one point someone released an estimate of how much power some supercomputers were using and people went "oh, that supercomputer must only do AI! All generative AI uses this much power!" and then just... made shit up re: how making an image sucks up a huge chunk of the power grid or something. Which makes no sense because I'm given to understand that many of these models can run on your home computer. (I don't use them so I don't know the details, but I'm told by users that you can download them and generate images locally.) Using these models uses far less power than, say, online gaming. Or using Tumblr. But nobody ever talks about how evil those things are because of their power generation. I wonder why.

To be clear, I don't like generative AI. I'm sure it's got uses in research and stuff but on the consumer side, every effect I've seen of it is bad. Its implementation in products that I use has always made those products worse. The books it writes and flood the market with are incoherent nonsense at best and dangerous at worst (let's not forget that mushroom foraging guide). It's turned the usability of search engines from "rapidly declining, but still usable if you can get past the ads" into "almost one hundred per cent useless now, actually not worth the effort to de-bullshittify your search results", especially if you're looking for images. It's a tool for doing bullshit that people were already doing much easier and faster, thus massively increasing the amount of bullshit. The only consumer-useful uses I've seen of it as a consumer are niche art projects, usually projects that explore the limits of the tool itself like that one poetry book or the Infinite Art Machine; overall I'd say its impact at the Casual Random Person (me) level has been overwhelmingly negative. Also, the fact that so much AI turns out to be underpaid people in a warehouse in some country with no minimum wage and terrible labour protections is... not great. And the fact that it's often used as an excuse to try to find ways to underpay professionals ("you don't have to write it, just clean up what the AI came up with!") is also not great.

But there are real labour and product quality concerns with generative AI, and there's hysterical bullshit. And the whole "AI is magically destroying the planet via climate change but my four hour twitch streaming sesh isn't" thing is hysterical bullshit. The instant I see somebody make this stupid claim I put them in the same mental bucket as somebody complaining about AI not being "real art" -- a hatemobber hopping on the hype train of a new thing to hate and feel like an enlightened activist about when they haven't bothered to learn a fucking thing about the issue. And I just count my blessings that they fell in with this group instead of becoming a flat earther or something.

[polaritydisturbed]

Ok no, I have to get it out of my system, Conrad is bad at podcasting. And just recording anything in general.

The sound padding is doing absolutely nothing. Sure, they’ve got it slapped on the walls, but it’s off to the side. Not behind them. Not in front of them. Just... chilling. Which is useless. You want that padding facing the source of the sound so it can catch the waves before they start bouncing all over the place.

Since both Ruby and Conrad are facing forward with the padding off to the side, her voice is bouncing off the wall behind him and hitting his mic again a split second later. That would be making the audio sound muddy and hollow. Having the foam off to the side like that is like putting a bandage next to your cut and wondering why you’re still bleeding.

Right now, the foam is just there for vibes. Bad vibes.

And who told this man to record in a glass box? Glass is terrible for audio. Everything bounces. Nothing gets absorbed. It turns your voice into a pinball machine. You could have a thousand-dollar mic and it would still sound like you’re talking inside a fishbowl. Plus, that room looks like it’s in the middle of an office space? Why, Conrad, you amoeba-brained sycophant, would you record anything there ever?? The background noise alone would be hell on Earth to try to edit out.

Pop filter and foam windscreen (mic cover)??? Both are designed to reduce plosive sounds—like "p" and "b"—by dispersing the air before it hits the microphone diaphragm. While it’s not wrong to use both, it’s redundant unless you're outdoors or in a particularly plosive-heavy environment. Stacking them can even dull the audio a bit.

Your mic doesn’t need two hats. Calm down.

Not an audio note but a soft box light in the shot?? No. Just no. They should be behind the camera, pointing at you. Or at least off to the side, not pointing directly down the middle. And what really gets me? There are windows. Real, working windows with actual sunlight. And what did Conrad do? He covered them with that useless sound padding. So now it’s badly lit and echoey.

He blocked out free, natural light to keep in the bad sound.

"But what if the sun’s there right when he’s trying to record?" some might say. That’s why curtains exist. And the soft box would still be in a bad spot.

Also, his camera audio is peaking like crazy. Even if he's not using the camera mic for the final cut, it’s still useless to record it like this. You know that Xbox early Halo/COD mic sound? That’s what this would sound like.

This happens when the input gain is too high, causing the audio to clip. Basically, the mic can’t handle it and the sound gets distorted. Ideally, you want your audio levels to peak in the yellow zone, around -12 dB to -6 dB. Not constantly slamming into the red at 0 dB. That’s reserved for 13-year-old prepubescents cursing you out for ruining their kill streak. And that’s it.

On top of that, both the left and right channels on the camera audio look identical, meaning the audio’s been merged into a single mono track. Which isn’t wrong for speech, but it kills any sense of space or direction. For dynamic audio, especially in a two-person setup, you don’t want everything crammed into one lane. (OR they’re both just peaking at the same time continuously, even when they’re not talking, which means it’s picking up background noise at a level so loud it’s pushing the mic into clipping.)

And to make things worse, the little "LIVE" tag in the bottom corner implies this is a livestream. But there doesn’t seem to be any livestream software open on his laptop, so I’m assuming there’s either a second offscreen computer handling the stream, or it’s hooked up to broadcast natively.

Either way, unless those mics are also connected to the camera or that other computer, that peaky, crunchy camera audio is what people are actually hearing.

Finally... it really helps if you hit the record button. He’s just playing back audio. I think that’s more of a “show” thing, but still.

(look I got a fancy degree in this stuff and I have to use it somehow)

[themeraldee]

The Lucky Winner - Part 3

[Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 2] | [AO3]

18+ Only | 10k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Early Season 1. Voice kink (very mild mention). Awkward first dates. Awkward dialogue. Messy timeline. Established Relationship. Love confession. Emotional sex. Unhealthy Relationship.

Summary: Your life turns upside down, again, when Homelander reaches out to you asking you out on a date.

Author’s Note: This is set between the events of Part 1 & Part 2. It really is just a self-indulgent excuse to explore some relationship building and dynamics. Lot of awkward dialogue so be warned.

The next time Homelander contacts you it catches you just as off guard as the first time. Maybe even more so. You never expected him to turn up in the first place, let alone be interested in seconds.

Your phone is ringing on the bed and ever since the development from a week ago you’ve been on edge anytime your phone rang. You drop the towel you’re folding back on the pile of unsorted laundry and you nearly dive onto the bed, reaching for your phone. In the panic you drop it about three times, your shaky hands inadvertently playing hot potato.

“Hello?!” You yell into the phone, panicked. You don’t actually end up checking who’s calling, too worried about not accidentally hanging up. Plus it’s not like you could have saved Homelander’s number from a week ago anyway. It showed up as blocked on your phone’s call logs so you had no way to recognise his number.

“Hello there! Nice of you to pick up.” You squeaked in surprise and the voice on the phone turned from chipper to confused. “You okay? You sound a little—” And oh my god, it’s him! You’re talking to Homelander, again. Okay, okay, now it’s time to try and keep calm.

His voice is still gloriously rich and sweet in your ear and here you are about to most likely embarrass yourself again because for the life of you you’re incapable of coming across as calm and collected.

“I’m fine!” You immediately cut him off, your voice shrill and strained. He does not need to know the ins-and-outs of your internal struggle. But either way you’re already doing terribly. Who are you to cut Homelander off mid-sentence? Where are your manners? 

“Why are you—um—I mean, is there anything you need?” You clumsily make your way through your response. Definitely not how you wanted to present yourself but it’s a lot better than barely being able to say a word like last time!

“I’m taking you out on a date. Get ready for 7 today.” You heard it. You’re pretty damn sure you heard that right, yet not a single part of you believes what he said.

“Sorry? W-w-what do you mean?” You sputter in confusion, your brain simply not capable of computing this news. 

“I mean that I’m taking you out for dinner. What’s hard to understand?” He sounds irritated and your heart is pounding. From so many things at once. How are you meant to process that Homelander contacted you again, is asking you out for a date and now you’ve managed to irk him?!

Before you manage to apologize, following your typical spiel, Homelander continues. “Maybe you don’t know this but it’s kind of what men do when they want to get to know someone. You following yet?” 

You ignore the condescending remark and instead you focus on what he’s actually saying.

There may as well be steam coming out of your ears, you genuinely feel like a blushing teenage girl talking to her crush. You’re hot bright red in the face and you feel the literal heat coming off your face.

“Yeah but you’re not—well of course you are—but also you’re not! Y’know, just an average Joe.” How do you go about explaining that you don’t feel worthy of that kind of attention?

“Doesn’t matter, you’re missing the point. Is that a no?” You’d think he would be pissed saying that, who in their right mind would refuse going on a date with Homelander, but he sounds amused more than anything. 

Again with the reading you like a book. Because you barely manage to let out a barrage of “No! No no no no— that’s not!” before Homelander starts laughing.

“Alright, I’ll pick you up then.”

“No, wait! I can’t—I can’t do the public thing. You’re you! And as soon as I show up in public with you I won’t be left alone. I know that’s normal for you, but my life isn’t like that. I’m just… me.” You’re just a nobody. You don’t have a social media presence. You don’t bring attention to yourself. And you like to keep it that way. Going on a public date with America’s golden boy himself? You would be ripped apart by the online vultures. 

You all but freak out on the phone and for a second you think he disconnected because you can’t hear a thing over the line but he suddenly speaks up.

“Oh well. We can’t have that, can we? You better have dinner ready at your place instead.” You don’t need to see him to imagine him with the biggest satisfied grin on his face. “I’ll be there at 7. Catch you later!”

Homelander hangs up on you and you hear the disconnected tone ringing in your ear as you stand there like a fish out of water. Mouth gaping open, letting out disbelieving stutters. 

You pull the phone away from your ear, looking down at it as if it offended you. It’s then you notice the time. Shit shit shit. You have less than four hours to make your place and yourself presentable, go on a grocery run and start cooking for Homelander?! What just happened!

“Oh no no no no. This is not happening.” You rub your hands over your face as if to wipe the shock off your face. You’re so overwhelmed with the rollercoaster of emotions that you don’t know whether to have a panic attack, laugh nervously or downright cry.

Okay, first of all the pile of laundry is gonna have to wait. You don’t have the time to meticulously fold your t-shirts and panties. You gather up the clean and dry laundry into your hands, haphazardly shoving it into the closet before closing the door on what will be an avalanche of laundry for your future self to deal with.

With pure panic-induced energy that you haven’t felt in a long while you manage to just about make your place presentable within an hour. Finally managing to gather and clean up the mugs and glasses that have been cluttering up your surfaces, making your bed all neat and tidy—just in case—and shoving all unnecessary clutter into cupboards. It’s not like Homelander would use his x-ray vision to judge the inside of your cabinets, would he?

Speeding your way out of your apartment you make your way over to the closest shop. Standing in the fresh produce aisle you suddenly realize you don’t actually have a plan. What the fuck are you meant to cook for Homelander?! Even after all the content you’ve consumed you’re pretty sure there’s not a single mention of his favorites. At least ones he’s not been sponsored to promote. Sure, he’s on many products, ranging from frozen peas to whole milk but that doesn’t mean it’s something he genuinely endorses. After all you want to get to know the man behind the costume, a date is not meant to be just another PR interview for him!

You’re starting to look strange. People are passing you while you’re internally panicking over what to buy. What if he’s allergic to something? What if he goes into anaphylactic shock and fucking dies! Even if you had an EpiPen or he carried it on him you wouldn’t be able to stab it into him anyway. And suddenly you’ve killed the world’s most beloved superhero and you’re spending the rest of your life in jail with Vought most certainly making sure you pay your dues. Even if all of that was true you had no way of knowing. It’s not like Vought would ever leak that kind of information. Not very good for their brand to tweet that their best superhero is allergic to fucking nuts!  

You shake your head a little, snapping yourself out of your dazed state. If Homelander’s brand is anything it’s that red-blooded American male perfect standard. Surely he wouldn’t complain about some steak dinner right? Men love steaks! You just make sure to avoid most common allergens. You pick up some potatoes and other vegetables to roast along with a good pricey cut of steak that was easily out of your budget.

You get home just as fast and with each passing second you’re more and more on edge. You don’t know whether it’s the anxiety coiling in your guts or the so called ‘butterflies’ but you’ve never been this nervous before. With the clock ticking and the food cooking you’re suddenly more and more paranoid over everything. From your insane Homelander merch collection to even just the furniture you’ve got! Not that that’s anything you can change in the next hour but your mind is running at a hundred miles an hour and you’re trying to account for everything. 

Just before it gets to the agreed time you change into something nice but casual, straight after shoving the laundry avalanche back into its place. You even leave the balcony door open, doubting he’s gonna knock on your door like a normal person. 

And while you’re there focusing on platting up your best attempt at steak and roasted vegetables, you hear the familiar sound of Homelander’s landing. You whip your head towards the wall clock with such urgency it’s shocking you don’t give yourself whiplash. 

Shit. It was literally 7pm. You wanted to set the table all pretty and prep it perfectly but you got so preoccupied with the place looking as good as it can that you lost track of time. You’re sure he’s used to luxury and perfection. You want to do your best to replicate that!

“Homelander!” Comes out of you with a little gasp. You tilt your head to look at him. And what you see makes your heart skip a beat. 

There he is, in his suited-out glory per usual, except this time he’s holding a bouquet of roses with a dashing smile on his face that quickly turns into a self-satisfied grin as he immediately notices your panic at his presence. Even after he thoroughly reduced you to a puddle of goo just last week you were still such a skittish uncertain thing around him. 

“Wow, smells delicious in here.” He looks around taking it in while inhaling the mouth-watering smell of sizzling steak.

Homelander steps closer with calculated steps, checking you out without an ounce of shame. You don’t know if it’s just the pure intensity in his eyes that has you feeling on edge or if he really is undressing you with his gaze. “These,” he frees your hand, prying your palm open with his gloved hand, “are for you.” He places the bouquet of roses into your palm, squeezing it shut around the wrapped stems.

In a way you’re paralyzed. The reality of the situation finally hits you and you realize you’re really here about to have a dinner date with Homelander. Who just brought you expensive, gorgeous flowers, because that’s something that totally happens to people like you.

You’re standing there, staring at the deep rich red of the roses that actually ends up matching the cardigan you put on for this. Your little attempt at complimenting the suit you knew he'd show up in. 

Your mind is going a million miles a second and your other hand squeezes a petal in between your fingertips. There’s droplets of water on the velvety surface. You didn’t realize it was raining at the time. You look past him through a window as if you could make out the weather through the darkness of the evening.

Looking at the roses now, they look beautiful, pristine. He flew here right? How did he manage to keep them in one shape with the speeds he flies at.

“H-how did you fly with—” You don’t even finish the question before he’s answering.

“I don’t have to fly at super speeds all the time. You’d think my most loyal fan would know that.”

“You can read minds too?” Falls out of your mouth before you even think about what you're saying.

“No. You’re just very easy to read.” He places his hands on his hips, naturally defaulting to his superhero pose. 

And sure, maybe the way your eyes move in between the window, him and the flowers is a dead giveaway but you still don’t think it’s that easy to figure out exactly how your thought process works. 

He seems unhappy with your lack of enthusiastic response. He probably expected you to jump at him, wrapping your arms around him in pure glee that he’d do such a romantic thing. 

He nodded towards the bouquet, raising his eyebrows.

“Anyway, your flowers. You might want to put them in some water. Unless you plan on fondling each petal all night.” You don’t know whether he said it that way on purpose or if your absurd attraction to his voice is reaching new heights but the imagery that conjures is not one that would belong at a dinner table. There’s a different kind of petal-fondling you have in mind for later.

“Sorry! I’m sorry. And thank you. Really, this is very kind of you. They’re beautiful.” Finally, he’s satisfied with that response, his shoulders relax a bit, his chest puffing out as he sees you hold the flowers closer to you.

You’re all over the place and your movements are in no way elegant or thought out as you awkwardly stumble around, pulling out the biggest glass you could find. This ends up being a large glass measuring jug which you admit looks rather strange, and you don't miss the way he raises his eyebrow at the display. 

Well, it was a lot better than if you used the bucket you keep under the sink for cleaning. It’s not like you have a perfect pretty vase ready for this occasion. Until now you didn’t have anyone bringing you flowers and you never really bought any for yourself.

He doesn’t comment on the miserable display. Instead he focuses on how wound up you are.

“Jeez, you’re even stiffer than last time. You know I usually fuck my dates after dinner, but if you need me to loosen you up…” His crude attempt at humor and breaking the ice just has your brain screeching and halting all actions. 

“What?! No, nonono. That won’t—That’s not. I’m sorry. I’m just surprised. That you’re here.”

“I did tell you I’d come. And I’m pretty sure you’re not plating up two plates for yourself there silly.” He shakes his head while clicking his tongue, as if disapproving of your doubt. 

“I mean, I’m surprised that you want to do this. With me.” 

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m here aren’t I? Last time I checked I asked you out, not the other way around. And trust me sweetheart, I don’t do shit out of pity.” He walks closer to you, his hand patting the side of your arm, settling his hand there and sliding it up until he reaches your jaw. The leather of his glove is cold, some raindrops still stuck in the crevices.

Although your heart rate picks up, you smile genuinely. Getting the straightforward confirmation that he wants to be here with you warms your heart. “Alright.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have everything ready. I lost track of time. Do you mind just sitting down, I’ll finish up in a second.”

“Yup, can do.” He sits down at the small table slapping his palms on his thighs as he does so. Already peeling his gloves off, discarding the gloves at the edge of the table. 

You finish up the plating, trying to make it as neat as possible. You bring the plates over, one in front of him the other right opposite. “Um, do you drink beer? I got some in case you do. I know you do endorse some but I’m sure that doesn’t mean you have to consume it in your free time.”

“No thanks, never got the taste for it. Have you got milk?” 

You blank a little at the request. It’s not the typical pairing by any means but who are you to tell him what to like. Instead you comply, tucking away the little preference into the corner of your mind where you keep all your knowledge about him.

“Um, yeah. I do. Again, I got one you’ve done marketing for, just in case you did like it. I wasn’t really sure. Believe it or not there’s a lot I don’t know about you.” You admit. It’s not like everything that his Marketing team puts out is all real. You're sure they leave out any of his actual preferences so future advertisers don't clash with any competition.

“With this logic I’m surprised you didn’t buy the entire store.” 

“I was close to it.” You take the carton out of the fridge, shutting the door with your hip. “Do you want it warm or cold?” 

“Cold is fine.” You nod, pouring some into a glass placing it in front of him.

As a last touch you take two roses from the huge bouquet, popping them into a narrow tall glass filled with water and you place the romantic decoration to the side of the table before sitting down.

He strangely smiles at the gesture, something about it feeling awfully domestic. It may not be perfectly manicured but it's real and it does the job just as well. It's not a perfect setting made for a photoshoot. You're just trying to impress him with what you've got. All for his enjoyment only. And that alone makes it a lot more special. 

Suddenly being right across him really set the reality of the situation. You feel a little awkward about the setting. But there is really only so much you could have done with your small apartment. And it’s not like he hasn’t been here before. He knows what you're working with.

You watch as he cuts into the steak, stabbing it with his fork and bringing a piece to his mouth.

“Wait! You’re not allergic to anything right?!” You suddenly panic, feeling cold sweat pour over you at the thought of your irrational thoughts from earlier coming true. 

He looks thoroughly amused but he doesn’t answer and instead just takes the bite. 

“Are you always this worried on dates? Or do you get them to fill out a questionnaire beforehand?” He seems to enjoy throwing all these little jabs highlighting how much of a nervous mess you are in his presence. 

“I don’t usually cook for my dates on the first date. There’s usually nothing to worry about.”

“I did ask you out for dinner. This is your own doing missy.” He waved his fork at you, pointing at you being the one to blame.

“You think I’m—oh. I’m not complaining about this, oh my god! I just didn’t really know what you like! Surprisingly not a lot about that online. They really know how to keep you a mystery. And even superheroes have allergies! How was I to know whether you’ve got one or not? But even if you did, it’s not like Vought would release that information.” You ramble on, trying to explain yourself but you’re really just digging yourself a deeper hole. Not that Homelander looks particularly put off. If anything, the amused grin spreads to both corners of his mouth.

“You know I’m not here for the food right? Though this is not too bad. Didn’t think you had it in you.” He raises his eyebrows in appreciation. 

“I live on my own. I don’t know why you’re surprised to learn that I can cook for myself.” You said feigning offense but inside you were squealing at the compliment.

“When’s the last time you’ve had a date?” He changes the topic, with each passing moment he’s less interested in the food and a lot more honed in on you and what little secrets you can let him in on. Though he’s still happily nursing the glass of milk. 

“It’s been a while, I guess.” You’re overcome with this anxious feeling in your gut. Is it meant to be a dig at the date you’ve prepared? Is he saying that you’re not desirable enough to be dated?

He catches you off guard with his smug little smile. “Thought so. Guess you’re too busy being my biggest fan, huh?”

You nearly choke on your food, surprised and flustered by his words. The tell-tale sign of heat creeps up your neck and to the tip of your ears in embarrassment. He’s hard to read and you can’t tell whether he’s trying to humiliate you or if he genuinely enjoys the reminder of having someone fawn over him right there and then.

You put your cutlery down, softly clinking it against the plate. “Look, I’m really sorry about all that. I’m a fan but I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were.” The corners of his mouth comically pull down feigning innocence with a shrug.

You playfully roll your eyes. “You insinuated. I’m just saying I wouldn’t have all this stuff out if I knew you’d ever see it!” You wave your arm in the general direction of the rest of your humble apartment. Still littered with Homelander merch. If you had more time to prepare for the date you would have maybe even taken some of it down. Replace some posters with photos of friends or family, making you appear a lot more put together. But alas, your guilty pleasure is still blatantly obvious and out for anyone to see. It's all the worse that in this case it’s being seen by the featured star of your guilty pleasure himself.

“There’s no shame in being a fan.” 

“No, but it’s different to collect memorabilia and merchandise of a beloved superhero that you don’t ever expect to witness the madness and to actually have him see it all and feel objectified. As if all there was to him is just the plastic he can sell with his face on it.”

You don’t know why you’re getting into the heavy-duty topic of someone’s worth and value but maybe part of you just wants to present yourself as someone who cares. Someone who looks beyond the obvious. 

Homelander is similarly perturbed by your words. Clearly not used to fans taking such direction with him. Thinking about it you doubt he hears more from them beyond a predictable can I have a selfie?

He furrows his eyebrows for a second tilting his head. As if he’s trying to look into your brain to read your mind. And sure he can literally see inside your skull but it doesn’t help him understand your thoughts. So instead he digs deeper. Putting the glass of milk down he looks you straight in the eyes. 

“You don’t think that’s it?” 

His resolute question makes you pause, feeling as if you overstepped. And even if, there’s no way to backtrack anymore so you continue. “O-of course not. I know you’re more than what Vought puts out there.”

You’ve spent countless hours following the content Vought markets out to the public. All of it manicured to match his perfect brand and profile. They’re slick enough to control even the content fans put out. From conventions to random street encounters. You remember following a thread of an anonymous fan sharing their experience of getting barraged by Vought’s lawyers after they shared a post about a poor experience they had meeting one of their superheroes. You haven’t heard an update from that story in a while, god knows what happened to the fan. Maybe Vought’s lawyers managed to get their anonymous account too. 

“How would you know?” Irritation seeps into his tone, shoulders tensing, feeling exposed right before he slides back into his normal casual tone and body language as if remembering that he’s meant to be talking to a date and not some nosy interviewer trying to get the next scoop.

“I mean who hasn’t put up a face to show the world their perfect self? Whether it’s on dates or in front of friends. I just imagine that doing that in front of the whole world means there’s a lot you feel like you have to hide.” With each word you feel like you’re digging yourself a hole, ruining any chance of another date. But you’ve started saying your piece and when else are you gonna get the chance to tell the man exactly how you feel?

So you continue.

“I just think it has to be exhausting. Your entire job, your life is existing in the public eye and you can’t ever slip up? Not super-abled celebrities deal with that already but for you there’s the added burden of being seen as the superhero right? ‘Here to save us all’. I just mean, do you ever get to be yourself?”

You mean to be sympathetic, not that you could ever imagine what it’s like to be in his shoes. Being as obsessed as you are, you've watched all the footage with him. You notice how often the same lines repeat, how well he’s perfected the mask of a perfect hero. The fake humble you’re the real heroes being repeated in every video and appearance. If it was you, you know you’d have enough a while ago now. The daily grind of a job is exhausting enough but to do that all under the public’s scrutiny? You couldn’t even imagine. 

You were so lost in your little monologue, spilling all the little thoughts you had about him and his persona that you miss how his casual demeanor has once again shifted into something else. He’s less irritated but he’s tense. Even more so than before. He wears an expression you’re pretty sure you’ve not seen on him before. His jaw may not be dropped but his surprise and confusion is evident without it. 

He’s speechless. Thinking about it now, has anyone ever spoken to him in such manner before?

You watch his body language and the way he’s squeezing the fork so hard you’re sure he’s bent the metal. 

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep. It’s just once I get going I can’t stop!” 

He lets out a breathless little laugh. His shoulders release in tension. He stops gripping the cutlery and sure enough it has a bend that definitely wasn’t there before but you don’t care. He’s not pissed. He raises his free hand waving you off and stopping you from apologizing any further. Something you’ve managed to do about a hundred times since his arrival. 

“No. No, it’s fine. You didn’t.” He shakes his head a little, looking at you with a different look in his eyes. No longer just looking for a little bit of excitement, now he’s truly locked in. What else can he get you to say? “Well maybe you did a little, but color me intrigued anyway.” 

He looks at you in a way that makes you feel small. You feel like you’re on your knees praying for your god to hear out your prayers knowing it’s unlikely for him to even notice you.  

“Can't say I've heard any of that before.” He concludes, slumping back into the chair now that he's relaxed again, having lost all interest in the food you've served up.

You’re embarrassed by the call out. It’s like all your efforts to not appear like another crazy fan have been pointless. He might not seem angry but that doesn’t mean he’s about to jump at the thought of another date. You may have ruined your chances at this being anything more than mild entertainment to him so you try to save yourself. “I just mean. I have always wanted to get to know you. The you without the cameras.”

“You already have. I don’t go on dates with many fans, believe it or not. And I gotta say you’re a lot more interesting than I gave you credit for.” 

And maybe it wasn’t such a lost cause yet. Have there been many people that Homelander has ever found genuinely interesting? You wouldn’t know but at least you’re one of them.

“Oh…ah-hah thank you.” You fluster under his heavy gaze. His words make your heart skip a beat. There’s very little that can match the euphoria of your hero, the hero really, saying he finds you interesting. It’s hard to calm the pounding of your heart at the thought of a man of his caliber seeking your company out.

After all you’ve managed to blurt out you feel more at ease. It’s not awkward like you expected it to be. In a way you’ve broken the ice you didn’t know was even there.

With you both losing interest or having had enough of your meals you move to the small but comfortable couch. And like any good dinner and movie date you put on the first title that gets advertised to you on the main page of the Vought+ streaming platform.

In reality the movie doesn’t get watched. Either you let it play in the background or you pause on sections just so you can continue the conversation between the two of you. And somehow it’s still mainly you literally just rambling on about him. It’s not that he doesn’t talk or doesn’t ask questions about you but you see the way he preens at all the enamored praise you send his way. 

The only parts that do get watched is the small cameo Homelander ended up having in the title and the conversation steers back to him. He gives you all the details you ask for, more than happy to talk about how great of an actor he is. 

With each minute of sitting close to him you feel your body respond to him. You feel hot. Too warm for the cardigan you’re wearing but you don’t want to seem too forward by taking it off. Especially after knowing what kind of trouble he could get up to in between your legs it makes it very hard to accidentally brush against his thigh and not spontaneously combust.

Homelander turns around to look back into the room while you’re dealing with your internal turmoil. Would it be too unseemly for you to initiate?

Your thoughts are interrupted when his bare hand cradles your jaw, bringing you in for a kiss. The whimper you let out is embarrassing but you quickly lose track of anything that’s not his hot lips melting you into a puddle. Just as things are about to get good, just when you’re about to pry his lips open with your needy tongue he pulls away. He doesn’t go too far. You can still feel his hot breath while he rests his forehead against yours. 

“I’ll have to set off. I need to get back to Vought tower.” He hums so close to you that you get goosebumps from the way his voice turns all low and hushed. Even though the words he’s saying are anything but good news, the attractive sound still soothes you.

“Oh-kay.” You nod. A little sad but understanding that he’s got things to get to. Every part of you is holding back from pulling him in for more but as much as your fingers twitch for him you restrain yourself.

“Come on now. Don’t sound so upset.” He gives your cheek a soft little pat before placing another peck on your lips with a chuckle from behind his closed lips.

The taste of your lips pulls him in anyway and he holds you close for a few more indulgent kisses. Upon separating you’re warm and flustered. His touch always seems to have that effect on you. 

“It's just… I had a lot of fun today.” And you don't want it to be over or for it to be the last time you see him. But how do you ask him out? 

While your limbs still feel like jelly, having melted into the couch, he stands up, walking over to the little dining table where he left his discarded gloves, pulling them back on.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’ll be back.” He clearly reads your expression and watches as you stumble while getting up, clearly wanting to see him out before he flies off.

His words alone are good enough to lift your spirits and you let yourself show that joy outwardly.

“Thanks for today.” When’s the last time you’ve ever felt this in the moment? Even if he never came back this moment would easily be a highlight you look back on.

“Well, aren’t you sweet?” As if he couldn’t restrain himself his eyes snapped in between your eyes and lips, his eyelashes fluttering, lips parting as he took in the sight of you. So eager to please and be there for him. He wets his lips and your stomach flips at the display. The pink of his tongue disappearing as quickly as it appears.

His eyes soften, lips stretching into a lazy lopsided smile.

“Do I get a goodbye kiss?” 

And just like that with one last kiss he’s off again, returning to his duties.

This isn’t where things end with you two. If anything, your life takes a massive turn. It’s not been the same ever since you’ve won that silly competition. And it strangely makes you want to send a gift basket to whoever organized it, no matter how much you dislike Vought itself. 

At first he comes back to you seeking comfort.

He strolls in through your balcony door which you’ve gotten into the habit of leaving unlocked—just in case. It’s not like there’s anyone else eager to fly into your home. You awake at the disruption, eyes bleary and straining in the harsh light of the nightstand lamp you’ve turned on to see what’s going on.

He doesn’t explain himself as much as he just vents to you about how he’s not being respected and taken seriously. It’s the first time he’s been back since your date and you’re surprised to see him so emotive. So unlike the perfect persona or even the carefully charming guy he presented himself as during  your date.

He’s already pacing back and forth, the thud of his boots bound to disturb your neighbors below. Not that either of you care. He’s too preoccupied with being angry. And you’re too frazzled by the thought of something upsetting your hero to this degree.

You see the angry tremor in his hands and the sharpness of his teeth, highlighted by the yellow night light. You snap out of the sleepy daze and you catch his gloved hand when he paces in front of you. 

You pull him down next to you, cooing supportive words and showing your own anger at seeing him be so disrespected by Vought. You believe they don’t know how lucky they are to have someone like him. They should revere him, yet the things he lets slip in his anger make your chest tight, fueling the rage simmering inside you. 

It’s like seeing you riled up at the way he’s being mistreated is enough to calm him down. The more you seethe the more he cools down, the energy exchange working in between you perfectly. He’s pleased to have someone in his corner. Preening at how much you parrot the words he’s saying without needing to nudge you in that direction.

Swoop-in visits like these happen more regularly. Either he comes in irritated wanting to get some frustration and anger out, fucking you throughout the night until all he can think of are your moans and cries telling him it’s too much.

Or he comes in happy, excited to share the news that his numbers are up or that the public and the on-scene reporters couldn’t stop praising him after his latest save. Those days he comes in for affection and a cuddle, wanting to hear over and over again just how well he’s done since you’ve last seen him. Treating you less like a stress ball and more like a teddy bear he’s hugged against his chest in comfort. 

You start thinking how lonely he must feel. The thought that there aren’t any people around him showering him with genuine love and friendship hurts you and suddenly you want nothing more than to keep him here with you, making sure he knows just how special he is.

As much as you’ve always been devoted to this god-like being and the idea that he represented, you never got to love the person. Until now. Now the ideology alone has seeped into your never ending love, fueling the suffocating adoration you hold for him. So strong it’s eating away at you anytime you don’t get the chance to scream how much you love him.

You used to see these late night visits as something he does for his own benefit. With you always being the easiest and most effective balm to his troubled soul. You didn’t think he was serious with you. After all, this is the Homelander you’re spending every other evening with. 

So when he sends you flowers out of nowhere, effectively courting you, you start thinking that this might be turning into something real.

It starts with the first delivery at your door. A gorgeous bouquet bursting at the seams, tagged with a note saying it’s from Homelander. Since then he’s made sure to supply you with the most beautiful bouquets as if to keep a reminder of him on a daily basis. You finally invest in a pretty vase, knowing it’s going to be thoroughly used and displayed.

Your home always had touches of Homelander throughout it—some might even say too many. However, as your relationship grows you come to a realization that those really only represent Vought. It’s these new touches that really represent Homelander’s presence in your life. Like how he times the flower deliveries just right so your place is never empty. Always there to remind you to keep him at the forefront of your mind. Never wavering. 

You two haven’t officially said that you’re dating throughout these nighttime visits but it’s at the tip of your tongue each time he comes. You want to voice the love you carry for him like a burden. Overflowing from your arms with nowhere to go. And it feels like each second you don’t say it, it’s being uselessly spilled on the floor like sand falling from in-between your fingers.

Homelander has his own way of showing affection. Seeing as so much of his life has been in front of some sort of camera you wonder if thinking in advertising scripts and photoshoot visuals comes to him more naturally than casual and real gestures. As ever since he started with the flower deliveries he’s been showering you with gifts upon each visit. As if everyday had to be Valentine’s day and he had to bring something to symbolize the reason for his visit.

You call him out on that one day. 

“You know you don’t have to bring anything right? You don’t need to bribe me.” You chuckle at the gift box he brought with him. You’ve got dozens of similar gift boxes and bags that you feel reluctant to get rid of mainly for the sentimental value but the retail price associated with the gift they hold certainly doesn’t help. 

He clasps the gifted necklace around your neck. The dainty chain lays cold against your skin and your fingers gently caress the pendant with care. Your statement still rings true but you can’t help but feel giddy every time he brings you something he thought would look great on you. 

“Do you not like the things I bring you?” With a perplexed expression you see him trying to do mental math, trying to figure out why you could possibly not kneel or bow in gratitude. He watches you play with your new pretty jewelry with a squint. 

“No! It’s all beautiful—this one especially—just. I don’t want you to feel like that’s an obligatory part of you being here.” You laugh it off a little, still dreamily thinking about what it really means to get pampered to this degree. 

He breaks your thoughts with a simple sentence.

“Maybe I want to treat my girl.” 

Your eyes widen, and you let out a shocked stuttered breath.

“Your girl?”

“Yeah, duh.” He scoffs as if what he said is as obvious as the sky being blue and water wet.

“Because you’re mine, right?” You don’t see the way his eyes reflect his own complicated and simmering feelings. The tension in his jaw betrays how he needs you to acknowledge his words and speak them into an existence. But you don’t notice any of that because it’s like the dam you’ve been doing your best to hold together with safety pins finally bursts.

You’re nodding feverishly. No longer able to hold back you’re possessed to blurt out the words that have been threatening to fall off the precipice of your tongue for weeks. 

“I love you.” 

Homelander’s eyes widen. Surprised by your admission just as much as you are. Your heart is racing, suddenly feeling insane for thinking this was anything more than simple fun to him. The knee-jerk response to apologize spills easily from your lips.

“I’m sorry—,” but instead he interrupts you by cradling your jaw in his bare hands, stepping closer.

“Don’t be sorry.” He says in a low rumble, sending shivers down your spine. He leans in to give you a tender kiss. Just barely slotting in between your parted lips, pressing them against his. Before you get the chance to continue he pulls away with enough distance to speak up.

He breathes out, eyes squeezed shut in longing which to an untrained eye would just look like pure pain and frustration. But not to you. You’ve learned to read him better. 

He nuzzles his face against yours, dragging his lips across your cheek until he reaches your ear, growling a weak, “say it again.”

You’ve partially gotten used to the timbre of his voice in your ear. Capable of having a conversation without getting worked up by every word he says but the way he’s now needily begging in your ear has your body erupt in goosebumps. He doesn’t need to say please for you to hear it anyway.

“I-I love you.” You whimper out. The emotion alone feels thick in your throat, as if it was clogging up your airways anytime you come up for air. Your heart is pounding, you’re strung up, the butterflies in your stomach make you antsy. 

His hold on your jaw tightens. With a sharp intake of breath he smashes your lips together. No longer composed and tender. Your teeth nearly clash as he’s pressed you close to him. He’s prying your lips open with his, his whimpers easily falling into the press of your lips.

“Again.” 

“I love you.”

You don’t want to cry but you’re so overwhelmed with emotion the burn that turns your eyes glassy spills over and you’re dripping tears down your cheeks in pure emotional instability.

“Again.” 

And each time he asks he sounds more wrecked. 

“I love you.”

Homelander catches the tears with his tongue right before kissing the salty taste into your mouth. Not letting any of your love get wasted. You grab onto him, grasping where you can. Your hands tangle in between his as you wrap them around his neck. One hand grips as much of the fabric of his suit it can while the other tangles in his hair, pulling on it for support more than anything. 

You feel like you’re drowning. The intensity of the moment makes you gasp for air but it’s like Homelander kisses it back into your lungs like a lifeline. Hearing his shattered whimpers soothes you, his own need fueling yours, filling the void your tears are leaving behind.

He lifts you up and with practiced ease you automatically wrap your legs around him.

He leads you both to the bedroom while he’s continuously prompting you to continue declaring your love to him. Each again, again, again you reward with the three words that make him feverish and mad. The more you say it the less your heart feels like it’s about to explode from the burden it’s been carrying for too long.

Homelander quite literally rips your clothes off, not caring that he’s leaving his own recent purchases in tatters. He doesn’t want to separate his lips from your neck where he’s kissing trails across each inch of your skin.

You don’t have the luxury to treat his suit with the same carelessness. Even if you wanted to, the tough molded material would make it impossible. Instead you do what you can. Unclasping his belt, pulling at the front of his suit, pushing his pants down where you can reach.

He helps you with taking off the rest of it until he’s on top of you, skin to skin. You rarely get the luxury of lying with him fully stripped and each time you’re shocked at how hot he runs. Now his hot body is making you melt under the heat alone.

Neither of you have stopped kissing with the same intense need that has been laying there dormant for months. Anytime you have the chance you repeat the same words over and over again until they’re all you know how to say.

It’s the first time sex has felt anything more than a physical relief he comes to you for. You’re barely keeping it together as he nudges your legs a little open, sliding his hand down your body, his palm blazing hot as the anticipation makes you clench your core.

It’s by no means either one of your first times, nor it is the first time you’ve been together yet you’ve never felt more nervous. The first touch he descends onto your clit feels like a lightning bolt crackling down your spine, spreading the tingles out to your toes and fingertips.

“Ahh hah—fuck. Want it so bad, don’t you?” He looks as broken as he sounds when he hisses at the feeling of your soaked pussy. It makes his fingers glide too easily, making it harder to give your clit the precise rhythm he’s learned to make you see stars with. 

His attempt at his normal dirty talk is disrupted by his keen moans and broken whimpers. Part of you wonders whether his super senses include being able to feel other people’s sensations with the way he’s acting as if it was him getting his body set on fire.  

You hum and ahh in response, your tongue feeling incapable of saying anything but the words you’ve been finally allowed to repeat over and over again. 

His fingers easily slip inside the sloppy mess you’ve made for him and he moans right into the kiss he leans in to steal from your lips. And it feels good. The friction is perfect, his fingers are hitting the right spot inside you and the loud squelch is embarrassing and intoxicating in equal parts. Yet it’s not what you want.

It takes all your strength to reach down and pull his hand out of you, as instinctively you’re already clenching around the all too familiar emptiness you whine at every other time when he’s done with you. 

“I want you. Please. Just you.” You manage to breathe out, your hand reaching over for his hard cock. You give him a few shaky strokes, smearing his leaking precum across the entire length.

“Alright. Uh huh, okay. I’ll give it to you.” And he’s just as out of it as you as his normal cocky one-liners just break into a lot of grunts and stutters.

He wedges himself in between your thighs, spreading them wide open. His lips part with a wistful sigh while his eyes haze over with lust at the sight of your pussy spread ope, generously glistening with slick all made for him. 

He aligns his cock with your entrance, not even bothering to tease you. He’s just as strung out as you are. He splits you open with a single thrust, your slick pulling him in with an easy glide.

“I love you.” For the first time the confession spills from Homelander’s lips. A relief just as palpable falls upon him. It’s a different story for you. The words cause more tears to spill, a wet hiccup leaving your throat as you clench around him.

“Shh, shh.” He hushes you sweetly, already reaching back for you. 

He lays his body flush on top of yours and kisses your tears away, the heat and weight of his body on top yours grounds you. He repeats the words over and over again in between wet, messy kisses. He ruts into you in shallow thrusts as if he doesn’t want to part from you any second longer.

Nothing in the world exists but you two and neither one of you can believe how perfect you really are for each other. You’ve always felt like the way you love was overwhelming. It left the other person choking on the overwhelming viscosity of it all. Homelander isn’t like that. To him your love is a breath of fresh air. 

As long as you love him with the same unyielding intensity he’s yours. At this point, he wouldn’t know how to live without it.

He kisses you in a way that says just that. Needy and broken yet utterly completed by you. 

You’re both so worked up with the overflowing emotions it doesn’t take much more than his frenzied grinding to make you both reach the release that’s as emotional as it physical. Maybe even more so.

Because the reward isn’t just a good orgasm. It’s the love that fills the air, spilling into every empty crevice you didn’t manage to fill with your bodies.

Homelander’s whimpers resemble cries as he finishes inside you right as you flutter around him with the toe-curling orgasm wracking your nerves. 

It takes you a little while to regain your mental faculties after such an emotionally draining affair. You feel boneless, your limbs feel like jelly and you just lie there dazed. Focusing on the way your heart beats loud even to your ears. 

Homelander is doing the same thing. Listening to your heartbeat with his head on your chest.

After a long while you both pull yourself together. Still in bed but now you’ve managed to strike up a normal conversation again. Talking about everything and nothing.

You lie like this for what feels like hours. Having changed positions you rest your head against his chest, ear pressed to his pecs to listen in on the steady beat of his heart.

After this reveal your brain recognizes your relationship as the utmost priority. Because of that your eyes lock onto the Kuddle Buddy plush resting just a foot away from Homelander’s head. As if you were locking onto an enemy. You pluck it from the pillow, squeezing it in your hand.

You’re staring at it, still clutching it too hard. 

“What got you thinking so hard? You’re making my head hurt from how tense you are.” Homelander interrupts you from your thoughts. 

“Just you. This. I can’t look at this stuff these days without—I don’t know—rage? To know how much Vought has wronged you.” You furrow your eyebrows, assessing the innocent plush toy while it’s staring back at you with its stitched grimace.

“That’s what the toy reminds you of, really? It should remind you of me.”

“It doesn’t anymore.” Your furrowed expression slowly melts into one of content as your hand presses against your new necklace. “Things like these do.” 

“And these.” Your fingers continue to travel up your neck where they tap at the darkened patches you feel he has left behind. With soft nipping and sucking he left your neck coloured in all shades.

He plucks the plush toy from your hands, throwing it somewhere across the room with thankfully not enough strength to knock anything else over. You’re pretty damn comfortable and you’d rather not get up to assess any damage. 

“Maybe I should give you more reminders then.” 

You squeal as he easily pulls you up so his lips can meet yours, kissing your worries out of your mind.

Homelander lands on your balcony with a soft thud. It’s late in the afternoon, earlier than he normally arrives, and he doesn’t want to attract unwanted attention. Already predicting the shit Madelyn would put him through if he got caught regularly perusing outside some random person’s apartment.

His person’s apartment really. You’re not just a random boring nobody.

He makes his way in quietly, closing the door and stepping in. Each time coming back to your apartment has felt more like coming home than he’s ever felt at Vought. You’ve arranged your life around him. He’s noticed you cancel plans, call off events just so you could stay in in the evening, waiting for him to make his return.

You even make space for him in your small apartment. The state of which he’d normally scoff at but it’s hard to mock your financial situation when you manage to make the place feel warm.

His presence left its mark in the gifts you happily displayed or the flowers you always took good care of.

And of course, the insane collection of merchandise you’ve spent years accumulating.

Wait.

Where is everything?

Homelander looks around, breaking out of his routine and instead he scans the surroundings as if it’s the first time he’s ever been here. Only now does he realize that all the usual merchandise carrying his likeness is gone. No posters on the walls. No action figures on the shelves. No funko pops. No collectibles. Nothing.

Homelander feels his blood pressure rise. There’s no way you’d want to get rid of him. Not you too. You love him. You wouldn’t do that.

He finally notices the black trash bags pushed into the kitchen, still open and overflowing with all the things missing from your walls. 

His stomach flips. 

No. Nonono. This can’t be happening.

You can’t get rid of him like this. He can’t lose you. 

Not after he’s finally tasted what real love in cooking tastes like. Or what it’s like to wake up next to someone who instead isn’t pushing you away straight after sex. Someone who makes an effort for him. Not out of fear but out of love. 

He mentally compares everything you’ve changed his perception on. 

Like when you give him a gift or help him out it’s different. Vought employees being at his beck and call could never compare. 

He’s the most powerful man in the world, with means that don’t feel like they have an end yet he could never buy the love you give freely. For once, love doesn’t feel like pulling teeth. It feels like a warm embrace on a cold winter night. 

You make it easy. You don’t fake it. And most importantly you do it unconditionally. Love him through thick and thin, the devotion to him a part of your very core. Your love is overwhelming, oozing and sticky like he’s never gonna be able to get rid of it. Just like you could never get rid of him.

You’re the only one who hasn’t left him.

Exactly. It can’t be. You wouldn’t.

This has to be some kind of a mistake.

The shuffle of your slippers against the floor breaks him out of his spiraling thoughts. He looks up sharply. Seeking some sort of explanation.

“Hey baby. You’re early today—what’s wrong?” The smile drops from your face as quickly as he sees it and it’s only then he realizes his hand is shaking. He squeezes it into a fist, the leather creaking with the pressure as he takes in a labored breath with a jittery shake to his head.

“W-uh-what is… What are you doing?” He blinks rapidly, shaking his head pretending that his voice doesn’t quiver and waver the way it does. 

“Bit of spring cleaning. After we talked the other night I just can’t look at this stuff and not think how much Vought has used you. I don’t want those reminders. It’s not what I thought it was and now that you opened my eyes to it, I can’t forget. So. Out with it.” You say so casually, not picking up on the panic he’s been going through in his head.

“Oh—okay.” He lets out a visible breath of relief, his posture relaxing. “I thought—” His jaw tightens and he looks away. Thought so heartbreaking, he doesn't want to give it voice.

“You thought I was getting rid of you?” You stop what you are doing. Putting the box on the couch and instead you walk up to him, hand on his jaw you turn him back to look at you.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” You kiss him, and Homelander melts right into it. He lets himself melt into the loving embrace of your pliant lips.

“Good. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.” When you pull away he puts his hands on your jaw, tilting your head as if he was inspecting you. Seeing if what you’re saying is true. And he can’t see a single speck of a lie with the steady beats of your heart and the taste of love on your lips.

“So what are you doing with all of it?”

“Selling it, donating or trashing some I guess.”

“Why not sell it all?”

“You can buy a Homelander poster or card at any shop for a few bucks. I'm not gonna bother with those.”

“What if I sign them?”

“Oh please don’t waste your time. You’re not here to be a show pony.”

“Nonsense, come on. Bring it out.”

Homelander ends up taking the stack of posters with his or the Seven’s likeness from the top of the trash bag, placing them on the coffee table in front of the couch. He sits down, hooking his cape out of the way. He picks up a pen off the table already signing the first poster. 

Part of him is still upset that you feel like throwing a part of him away. Is this part of him not good enough for you anymore? It’s how he found you, how he got to know you and now it feels like you’re throwing it away. 

As if you could read his thoughts you sit down next to him, placing your hand on top of his as he’s halfway through his signature.

His head snaps up towards you, expression clearly guarded while he looks you over with his piercing blue gaze.

He carries his upset so visibly it would be hard even for someone as unaware as you to miss it. His smile is tight, not even attempting to reach his eyes.

You pull the pen out of his grip, instead wrapping your hand around his. The other one goes to his hair, scratching your nails down his scalp until you reach his undercut where you play with the shortly buzzed hair.

“I’m not getting rid of you. Not now. Not ever.”

At that he leans into you, nearly purring at the pleasure your scalp massage brings him. The way you touch him with no hesitation will never cease to amaze him. There’s enough love pouring off you to almost fill the black hole in his heart. 

It was exhilarating to have someone so eager to keep him in their life. Everyone else has just pushed him away, entertained him until they got what they wanted. Not you. You give and give and give. Sometimes he’s scared you’ll run out of love to shower him with. However, one look at you tells him that the love you carry feels just as much of a burden as his need for it does to him. You free each other by sharing the love. You feed his insatiable beast of a heart and he lets you burst the dam free without feeling like you’re not allowed to.  

The posters are forgotten about. Any hurt brushed away with a press of his lips to yours. Needy and hungry, wanting to see if you can prove your words with actions. Again and again.

And you do. Like you’ve done a hundred times before and just like you will do thousands of times over.

[Next -> Part 4]

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged when I post a new Homelander fic)

@morishitoshi @ker0senebunny @itsvaleriesucka @thychuvaluswife

@nervoussystemss @littlegaaby @natliecole @thatvintagefanboy

@infinetlyforgotten @rafecamsgirlll @hom3landr @mrsdesade

@nommingonfood

[httpsserene]

Can I get the one from the kink list role play with Ocon, Alonso, Norris, Stroll and Gasly

🧽🪣 would you like a complimentary car wash? — send me any five (5) drivers and one (1) kink from this list, and i will rank the drivers in order of who i think is most to least likely to participate/avoid, or love/hate that kink !!! each driver will have a small blurb written xxx

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. ngl when i saw this request come in i was like “fuck, i have no idea what to write for this.” but now, you can definitely tell that my keyboard starting smoking on some of these blurbs. happy 3k🩷 love !

⌕ 3k v-day celly nav | all 3k requests | main nav | table of contents ↻

𝐦𝐭𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 fem!bipoc!reader x ln.4 | pg. 10 | fa. 14 | ls. 18 | eo. 31. cw under the cut.

humor? is that a cw? pierre is rp-ing johnny sins. was gonna have lando's include him dressing up in a maid dress, but it ended up going a veryyyy diff way...

𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭

pierre takes to role-play like a fish does to water. he’s your masseuse, giving you a deep tissue massage, and you struggle to keep yourself quiet while the lingering, wandering press of his fingers seduces you into letting him stretch your tightest muscles. he’s the plumber you called to fix the leak underneath your kitchen sink, and instead of money as payment for his services, you spread your legs for him to leave something leaking out of you. don’t look too deep into these scenes; you might notice that in all of them, you two aren’t dating—you’re strangers to each other. 

post-race, lando’s alone in his hotel room sporting a half-chub before the webcam is even turned on. the image of you—wearing nothing but his hoodie and lingerie—washed in the blue light of the computer screen shakes as you set up the best angle for his viewing pleasure. you’re airy, shallow breaths are picked up through the microphone of your wired headphones, sounding pixelated from the terrible quality. lando’s camera will remain off the entire time; the only way he’ll interact with you is through the text chat as a faceless viewer. you greet lando as if he’s a frequent watcher, a fan—not your man—and you explain tonight’s show as your hand slides underneath the hoodie to fondle your nipples. however, the true power lies in lando’s hands. you’re persuaded to do what he asks of you, though it’s not what you decided on, since he’s sending you a pretty amount of money that increases with each of his requests. his messages are riddled with more typos than usual as he struggles to type with one hand—and his orgasm is so delicious that it leaves him craving for another taste. lando will have his full feast when he returns home for proper victory sex.

fernando admits that he’s a deeply unserious man, which is probably why role-playing is hit or miss with him. he has to be in the right mindset, or he will not immerse into the scene and break with laughter. there’s a higher chance of success when he’s playing a role of authority over you. you’ve left him no choice but to bend you over his lap when you walk into his office wearing a tight skirt—one that’s against company dress code, specified in the employee handbook he watched you read before you accepted the position as his assistant. fernando’s going to fuck you into his desk so roughly that you’ll have the wood-grain of it imprinted into your thighs. you’ll be forced to wear longer skirts or slacks to cover the bruises, unless you want the entire office to know that you’re a slut. hopefully, that teaches you the importance of respecting the dress code.

esteban would never be into role-play, or so he thought he wouldn’t ever be. he was proven wrong last halloween. the two of you decided (he begged, actually) to do a couples costume as spider-man and mj. it’s just that esteban didn’t expect for you to pretend that you didn’t know who he was underneath the mask, nor did he know that the payment for saving your life (he stopped you from walking into incoming traffic because you never pay attention to the light cycles when he’s with you), was sex. he may have taken the suit off, but the mask stayed on—because spider-man wouldn’t reveal his identity, even to mj. esteban swears that he intended for it to be quickie—because, one, you were going to be late to your friend’s party and, two, spider-man can’t step away from patrolling the streets for too long because who knows what crimes are occurring in his absence—it’s not like the role play made him cum embarrassingly quick, or anything. but he can’t find the confidence to tell you that he wants to do it again. he’ll just wait until halloween comes around again, hoping that you won’t mind repeating the same costume and that there’s an opportunity for spider-man to save your life once more.

lance could never be convinced to try out role-play again. he can admit that you giving him a lap dance and strip tease pushes him past the point of turned-on, but it becomes substantially less attractive when you’re pretending to be a random stripper and that he’s a paying customer. and, he can’t help that he finds every scenario weird or cringy. he doesn’t see the allure of the pretend-dynamic of escort/client or professor/student,  or even calling him daddy—it’s simply not for him, and he can see that his distaste for it stems from his awkward and possibly self-conscious nature. on the other hand, he’s more than satisfied with you using handcuffs to secure his hands behind his back while you make him suffer through a teasing rock of your hips; don’t say he’s under arrest, though, you’ll ruin the vibe. 

𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

© httpsserene — do not reupload. photos in header from pinterest. mdni divider by @cafekitsune.

[clouduru-chan]

Hi! How are you? English is not my first language, so I apologize for any spelling or translation errors.

I hope you like it.

Não sei mais editar nessa buceta-

Mark Grayson Variants with a Cynessa!Reader

Mark Grayson

- He thinks you're a complete freak. Damn. You're wearing a corpse as clothes;

- You're a planet eater, of course you're a threat. The dumbest threat he's ever dealt with;

- Mark can't stand the smell of rotting flesh and the metallic, bone-shattering sound his body makes;

- Fighting you is a struggle, even though you're a piece of rotten meat it's hard to take you down easily. He can even rip your head off, you can put it back on like it was nothing. You're a damn cockroach;

- The disturbing fact that you say you'll love tasting his meat, because you've never tried viltrumite meat;

" You were fighting for half an hour, Mark looked around intently, expecting at any moment the reader to teleport in front of him as if he were a damn computer bug. Soon he heard a metallic sound, yellow glitches appeared behind him, when you teleported in front of the invincible with a huge smile on your face that tore the flesh and muscles of your rotting cheek.

Mark turned around quickly, grabbing you by the neck, looking at you furiously through the lens of his mask's glasses, you had a manic look and a big smile on your face as you looked at him with amusement.

"Why are you so angry?" he asked sarcastically, his voice distorted, robotic and glitchy, it sounded like his voice box was broken. – "sarcastic laugh" – this damned failure to speak his actions left him disturbed – "relax, when you're done... I'll love to taste your meat... You know, I've never tasted viltrumite meat" – this was not a warning.

Mark was disgusted, the smell disturbed him, blood and oil dripped down that failed replication of fucking Frankenstein.

"shut the fuck up"."

- Mark after restraining you, he was intrigued, you were a threat, for sure, you couldn't leave any technology near you, as there was a high chance you would corrupt it. But damn... You're a misfit idiot;

- When you are confined in a prison that prevents you from using the solver, Mark always visits you;

- He wants to understand this grotesque aberration;

- You're always complaining, but you like the visits from the invincible one, he's a fool... but a nice guy;

- You keep drawing him and you (like awkward sticks on paper) holding hands;

- Mark now keeps buying you hair bows, you have terrible hyperfocus with it;

- You keep complaining that you want to devour the earth and you have the ability to do so, but it would be a total pain if you killed him to achieve your goal. Since it wouldn't be cooler if Mark wasn't with you... He considers it a step forward;

Sinister Mark

- At first he hated you, you're a damn pest;

- It was hard to kill you, you could rip your limbs off, but you would regenerate or even put them back in place. It was impossible to actually hurt you, and you kept that damn shitty smile;

- You were fast and physically strong, he had to admit, and to make matters worse you had the absolutesolver ability, which always threw you;

- Mark loves meat, obviously he does, but damn you were rotten, he would just kill you;

- But after all that destruction, you didn't die, one of two things: he gets incredibly angry or he admires you;

- If he gets angry, he will do everything he can to kill you;

- If he admires you, he will stop fighting with you, he will ask you what the hell you are;

" Mark's yellow cape flapped behind Mark's back, he glared at Reader. You were a slut, and you were testing Mark's patience.

"What the hell are you?" he asked, you just appeared causing more chaos than he caused on earth. You smiled broadly, showing your deformed teeth – "What am I? Intelligence of absolute absotura, the void, the exponential end." – the aberration says what it was while several strange codes appeared on the creature's face.

Mark arched an eyebrow beneath his mask. "What?"

- You're a fucking piece of shit, how can a planet eater, in your words "The intelligence of absolute absolution", be a complete imbecile?;

- Let's say you became friends, but there's no way he's going to give you the land to devour;

- Let's say you had a nice cup of tea and used severed fingers as spoons to stir the contents in your porcelain cups, while the owner of the fingers cried in front of him;

- He felt incredibly chic drinking tea;

- You are a fun freak.

Omni Invincible

- He fucking hates you;

- You are weird and unnecessary, you shouldn't exist;

- Its existence is a mistake;

- Mark is fast, he wants to incapacitate you, but baby, you are unstoppable;

- He finds the tricks of holograms to deceive him unbearable, it's a dirty game, he hates it;

- Can't stop the void;

- Even if I dismember you, it seems impossible to kill you, but of course you are a damn robot that wears a human body like a fancy dress, that would be like asking for the sense in you;

- He can tell you're having fun;

"The buildings were destroyed around him, Mark flew above the rubble, his cape slowly swaying behind him, giving an aura of seriousness. While you were on the floor looking at him with a huge smile on your face.

"It seems like I irritated you.... Giggle... Hehehe I am so naugthy" – You laugh in amusement, finding his frustration hilarious. The Viltrumite growled at that smug attitude of yours, how could you be so annoying?

Angry, he advanced towards you, punching you in the face and throwing you into the wreckage. The sound of flesh tearing, bones breaking and metal crumpling from the impact was not a pleasant sound, it was far from a pleasant sound. It was grotesque.

You got up with difficulty, the solver regenerated you instantly, but your smile remained on your face.

"Just die soon" – he growls in irritation."

- You didn't die and now you're chasing him like a plague;

- You gave up on consuming the planet, and now your life goal is to make it hell;

- You jump on his back and put a hair tie on his head, telling him that look suits him;

- He obviously hates you for this.

Mohawk Mark

- You two are a freak, but you outdo yourself;

- You guys fought a lot, but you got bored quickly and started teasing him;

- Mark found it amusing when you pinned him against the wall with one of your crab claws that emerged from your back while you glared at him manically;

- Its smell is unpleasant, but bearable;

- You two are little shits;

- He wants to expand his empire and you want to devour planets, the unlikely dynamic is fun;

- The healthiest game you two can have is playing volleyball with a severed head;

- Your friendship is the basis of violence;

"You are now Mark's best friend, and you have decided to break into a guest house to play one of your violent pranks. You entered, kicking the door open with your strength, even though you are a "corpse" you have very brute strength.

You decided to sing a silly and grotesque song while destroying the place and killing the people who were there.

"Violence! Violence! You're the one for me!"– you rip out the heart of a random human who tried to run away from you, the heart still beating through one of your metal hands – "I'll steal your heart!" – you squeezed it crushing it – "And then I'll crush it into smithereens" – You throw it on the floor as if it were nothing, and climb on the table finishing your song. – " You're my special fella. We'll slaugther all our enemies. And send'em staight down to hell" – Mark thought it was fucking funny, you're a clueless idiot. He flew towards you, both of you covered in blood. – "Damn that was awesome!"

Violence brought you together"

- He loves to have fun with you, even though you're a big idiot.

No Goggles Mark

- You're so fucking funny;

- You both share the same neuron when it comes to violence;

- He loves the fact that you want to devour him, you bite him and tear off pieces of his flesh, it's fun;

- It's funny when he rips your head off and you go after him to get it back;

- Your two favorite game is who can kill the most people in a short period of time, and he always wins, because you always take a break to devour your victims;

- He likes to play with you;

" Mark saw you lying face down on the floor, in front of you was a Sylvanian Families dollhouse, in your hands were two Sylvanian Families dolls, they were two bunnies.

You were hitting each other, it looked like you were kissing, it was adorable if you didn't know the context.

"Are you playing house?" – he asked, you just nodded – "Are they kissing?" – Grayson asks in a provocative way, so you answer in a simple way – " no... They are fighting to the death ".

Mark found it funny and amusing, he also lay down on his stomach and took one of the dolls from your hand, and the two of you began to play.

The two little rabbits were crushed in his hands."

- You two are unpredictable, this makes you extremely dangerous;

- Mark loves it when you put multiple hair bows on him.

Viltrumite Mark

- You deceived him, and that's why he kind of doesn't like you very much;

- He was on Cooper 9, as there was no life on the planet, it was easier for him to obtain its natural resources;

- But you were there, pretending to be a human wearing a spacesuit, and you were on that planet (which was a colony of Earth) and was responsible for fixing the problem that arose with an anomaly;

- In fact, you were the anomaly. You were there to get rid of an antivirus patch that could kill you, and with Mark there, it would be easy to get past security;

- He pretended to be a good Samaritan and so did you;

- He was the first to betray you, "killing" you at the first opportunity;

- But you stood up, put your head back on your body, and removed your spacesuit, revealing the dead body you wore as clothing;

- Mark was surprised and disgusted by you, obviously you fought;

- He wanted that planet for the Viltrumite Empire, what about you? Get rid of the fix patch and devour the planet;

- His arm went through his chest, ripping out his heart (its core) and crushing it;

- But it didn't kill you, it just made things worse for him;

"After crushing his heart the reality around him was adulterated, Mark was attentive. The colors disappeared, gravity wasn't working, and soon a black hole expanded, swallowing them, everything was dark, Mark didn't understand anything that was happening around him.

There was a small yellow glow over his hand where he crushed its core, a small black hole.

Soon he heard grunts, flesh tearing, and metal grinding, slowly approaching, his wrist was held tightly with one of his hands.

He saw his black eyes, oil and thick blood running down his cheek, nose and mouth. His grunts were terrifying to hear.

The Viltrumite didn't have time to react, you lifted his hand and put it in your mouth, swallowing the black hole.

"LET ME GO" - He was disgusted by her attitude, feeling her metallic tongue on his heated skin.

You removed his hand from your mouth, his hand was covered in thick black liquid, which made him feel sick.

His eyes now returned to those neon yellow X's, and his smile widened as reality returned to normal."

- Now you torment him.

I hope you liked it, I would have liked to have done it about the other variants, but my creativity died hahaha. Maybe I'll do part two.

By the way, there are some more projects to post here.

For example:

• Mark Grayson with reader who has Andrew and Ashley Graves as brothers (maybe I'll put the variants).

• Mark Grayson and variants with J! Reader

• Mark Grayson and variants with Brazilian reader;

• Mark Grayson headcanon nsfw.

(edit: KKKKKKKKKKKK EU ESCREVI ERRADO, EU SOU BURRA KKKKKKKKK)

[moonlight0934]

You're No Better

Damian flings a notebook at Tim, who just dodges with a laugh.

“What was that? Your aim is terrible.”

Damian huffs, and turns away.

“I’m just kidding anyway. Your people skills are fine. The cops are absolutely the problem as they have been for every single Robin.”

Damian hums, somewhat satisfied with the conversation. He had been telling Tim about how rude the cops were when he was on patrol, and Tim had jabbed at him that it was probably his lack of people skills.

“Anyway, you shouldn’t take anything the cops say to heart. Most of them are either stupid or high all the time.”

“What if they’re not the only ones saying it?” Damian asks quietly.

“What do you-” Tim is cut off by their phones buzzing in unison. “Barbara set off the alarm, but there are no details.”

Damian opens the notification, but there’s seriously nothing attached.

“I guess we should head down to the cave to see if we can reach her over comms. Maybe she butt dialed us again,” Damian suggests, and Tim shrugs.

“On my day off too. Though I guess it’s better than being at work and getting an alert.”

Damian smirks as they walk down the stairs together. Bruce is already on the line when they get down there.

“Can you ask Gordon what the problem is?” he asks, sounding annoyed.

“I tried, but he’s not answering. I can tell you that nothing obvious is happening, because no one is freaking out. There’s no sign of any major psychopaths, but Dad just stopped answering. I’m worried about him.”

“We can go check it out. I’m with Robin,” Tim replies, leaning against the desk that the computer sits on.

“That would be great. I’ll send you the address of the distress signal now,” Barbara says, sounding relieved.

“Be careful. I can’t get out of work right now unless it’s an emergency,” Bruce says, his voice tight.

“We will be as careful as humanly possible,” Tim says, rolling his eyes.

Damian bites his lip to stop himself from smiling at his family’s drama. He goes to change while Tim waits for the location. He’s fully ready by the time Tim goes to change. The location is right on the outskirts of town in a mostly abandoned area. In fact, WE is planning on doing something with that part of town though Damian can’t remember what it is that they’re going to do. It’s a quick trip since they’re on Tim’s bike.

“Put your mask on. The air quality in this area is atrocious right now,” Tim says, putting a hand on top of Damian’s head.

Damian makes a face, but puts his mask on. Tim does the same, and they head to the building that Gordon sent the distress signal from. The fog is really thick through that area, making it hard to see. Damian stays on his toes, straining his eyes to see through the smog. Tim is right beside him until they actually reach the building.

Then he says, “We should split up. I’ll take the door on the opposite side of the house, and you take this one. I don’t know why the Commissioner would be in a condemned house, so we should be careful.”

Damian nods, then waits for Tim to walk around the house. He gives him plenty of time to reach the other door before he opens the one in front of him. As soon as the door opens, something hurdles straight at Damian’s face. He ducks, but it still manages to catch his jaw. As soon as he straightens back up, he realizes that something is very wrong. The world is spinning, and he can’t seem to see more than a couple of feet in front of him. He blinks hard, and shakes his head.

The darkness only gets worse, and eventually it completely takes over his vision. When he wakes up again, he’s in the cave again. He’s on one of the cots, but he’s not only still in uniform, but his hands are covered in blood. There’s dried blood on his boots, and flecks up his arms.

“What?” he whispers, looking down.

Jason walks in, leaning against the doorway.

“Well, you finally woke up.”

“What happened? I only remember going into the house.”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Damian. It’s too late for that.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to. Can you just be straight with me, Todd?”

“You’re just like your family, aren’t you?”

Damian is confused for a second, wondering which one of their siblings he’s comparing Damian too. When Damian realizes what family Jason is talking about, it’s like ice was poured down his back. He bristles, immediately trying to shut himself off from the situation.

“There you go again. You’re no better than they are, and you’re no better than you were when you first got here. You’re just better at masking now, aren’t you? You’re a murderer, Damian, and you did it again.”

Damian looks around.

“What is going on? What happened, and where is Timothy?” Damian asks, his voice tight and scared.

“Tim’s in surgery right now. You weren’t fast enough, and you left him without backup. Then you killed everyone else there. Why is that always your first response to your own inadequacy?”

Damian sniffles, trying to take in a breath. Jason rolls his eyes.

“Again with the drama. You are so predictable. I’m going to get Dad, because I do not want to deal with you.”

Damian pulls his knees up to his chest. He’s shaking, and it’s actively getting more difficult to stay still by the second.

Timothy isn’t ok. I killed someone? I don’t remember killing someone. Could I still kill someone and not even remember it? What is Father going to say?

Bruce walks in, his eyes scanning Damian with a disappointed look on his face. Damian doesn’t say anything to defend himself, or even explain. He doesn’t cry, or beg.

He just stares straight at Bruce and asks, “Are you sending me back?”

Bruce sighs as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Yes. I’m sorry, but we’ve tried everything. I can’t allow you to do those kinds of things in my city.”

“But you allow Todd to stay. I don’t even know why he’s mad at me.”

“Don’t talk back to me. You’re going home to your mother. The difference with Jason is that I’m not responsible for what Jason does anymore. You live in my house, so you have to follow my rules. You’ve proven that you can’t, and I can’t trust you. I am sorry Damian, but I can’t work with you if you don’t work with me first.”

Damian nods, still shaking like a leaf. He’s not sure why though since he can already feel himself shut down. Normally he’d be running on autopilot by then without any physical signs that he’s not ok. He doesn’t let it bother him too much since his mind can’t move past going back to his old life. 

Dick sighs as he steps away from his desk to answer a call from Barbara.

“Hey, Barbara, what’s going on?”

“I can’t get a hold of your dad right now, and I think Tim and Damian are in trouble.”

“What’s going on?”

“There was a distress signal from my dad, but he just showed up at my apartment. He said he never sent it out, and I don’t know who did. Your brothers aren’t responding, and apparently your dad isn’t at work anymore. No one knows where he is either.”

“Send me Tim and Damian’s location. I’ll head there now. Dad can take care of himself, so he can wait. Can you call Jason too? He can probably get there faster.”

“Yeah, ok. I’ll do that now, and I just sent the location.”

Barbara hangs up before it even comes through. Dick races to the location, but it still takes him half an hour to drive there. Tim’s and Jason’s bikes are outside the building already though there’s zero motion from inside. Dick slips a comm in his ear.

“What’s the situation, Hood?”

“We’re a few buildings down in the really big community center. Batman is already here, but Red and Robin are both out of the game,” Jason says, the sound of gunfire in the background.

Dick runs to the community center. Tim is in the lobby, his head bleeding, but he looks otherwise ok. Dick keeps going to find Jason and Bruce fighting an ungodly amount of goons in the other room. He helps as Bruce slips out of the room.

“Scarecrow went that way,” Jason explains as he shoots the last guy.

“Should we go after him? Also, where’s Robin?” Dick asks, trying to catch his breath.

Jason flips his comm on.

“Batman, you need help?”

“No, take care of the boys.”

“Hood.”

Jason points to the corner where Damian is curled up. His head is tucked into his knees, and he’s shaking. His cape covers most of his form, but it’s still not hard to tell how hard he’s shaking.

“Did he get-?”

“Gassed? Yeah, we think so. Red got hit in the head, but we think Robin got hit with the actual toxin. He hasn’t let anyone touch him yet, and we got jumped before Batman could really try anything.”

Dick walks over, kneeling down a few inches away from Damian.

“Hey, Robin, can you hear me?” Dick motions Jason over. “Get some of the anti-toxin out.”

Jason pulls some out while Dick reaches out to Damian. Damian flinches, but doesn’t pull away when Dick touches his arm.

“Come here, Baby Bat,” Dick whispers, pulling Damian closer to him.

Damian doesn’t resist, or fight him. He just goes limp in Dick’s arms. Dick holds his hand out, and Jason offers him the syringe. Dick is careful when putting it into Damian’s arm in case he freaks out. He doesn’t, and stays still against Dick aside from the occasional shudder. Dick scoops Damian up as soon as he’s sure that the serum has had time to work.

“We need to get them back to the cave,” Dick says quietly.

Jason nods.

“I’ll get Red, and we can take your car.”

They barely get back to the lobby before Damian starts to quietly whimper.

“Shh, it’s ok. I know, buddy.” Dick turns to Jason. “I can’t imagine what he was seeing with all of the horrors he’s had to endure.”

Jason shrugs, kneeling beside Tim.

“Hey, Red, you’re not going to freak out and punch me in the jaw, are you?”

Tim scrunches up his nose, but doesn’t open his eyes. Dick frowns, realizing that Damian’s shuddering is getting more and more pronounced. He looks down, brushing a few locks of Damian’s hair off of his forehead.

“Jason.”

Jason stands up, walking over quickly. Damian’s face is red, and he’s panting now. He’s shaking really hard, and Dick gently sets him down.

“I think he might be having a seizure,” Jason says, pressing two fingers to the underside of Damian’s jaw.

“Why?”

“I guess it’s a new strain. The serum must not have fixed it. What should we do?”

“I guess give him another one, and hope that it overpowers it. Can you call Leslie or Alfred so they can meet us there?” Dick asks as Damian finally starts to go still.

Jason nods. He calls Alfred, putting it on speaker phone. He grabs Tim, and heads outside. Dick gives Damian another dose of anti-toxin before picking him up. He unlocks his car as he walks out. Jason is holding Tim in a bridal carry as he talks to Alfred. Dick opens the car door, and motions for Jason to put Tim in the passenger seat. Jason does, and Dick climbs into the back, still holding Damian. He puts Damian on his side with his head in Dick’s lap.

He’s stayed oddly quiet and calm for him to still be hallucinating. Dick presses his fingers to Damian’s pulse point as Jason climbs into the driver seat. His heart is beating far too fast, and now that it’s quiet, Dick can tell how strained Damian’s breathing is.

“Hurry up, Jason. He’s really struggling.”

“I know, I’m trying.”

He speeds up, but Damian starts to shake again as they’re pulling into the cave.

“He’s having another seizure. Go get Leslie, or Alfred.”

Jason climbs out, running as soon as his feet hit the ground. Dick just gently brushes his fingers through Damian’s hair, making sure that he stays on his side. The car door opens, and Leslie appears on the other side. Jason is behind her, and he looks just as scattered as Dick feels. His hair is stuck up from all of the running and pulling his hands through it. His eyes are darting between Tim and Damian quickly.

“Jay, he’ll be ok. You just need to calm down,” Leslie says, holding a syringe out to Dick. “Give this to him if he’s still having an active seizure.”

Dick nods, then gently presses the needle through the costume. Damian’s seizure abates almost immediately, but he also lashes out at Dick less than thirty seconds later. The heel of his hand smashes into Dick’s jaw, almost taking part of his tongue off. Dick grabs his wrists.

“Calm down, Dami. You’re ok, but you need to let us help.”

Damian whimpers, dropping back into Dick’s lap. Dick picks him up, and slips out of the car. Leslie takes some blood to analyze what’s in his bloodstream already.

“Get him set up in the infirmary. I’ll give him a few things to help with his blood pressure and possibly bring down his heart rate.”

Dick sets him in one of the beds, then unclips his cape. He gently unlaces Damian’s boots and takes them off too. Bruce comes in a few minutes later to Dick holding Damian gently. His heart rate is still high, but Dick is trying to soothe him the best he can.

“Is he ok?” Bruce asks, his voice soft as he walks over to them.

Dick shrugs.

“I don’t know. We can’t tell what he’s seeing. He’s been quiet and still most of the time, but he did manage to hit me in the jaw earlier.”

Bruce nods, putting a reassuring hand on Dick’s shoulder. He lets his other hand rest on Damian’s leg. It’s still another hour before they’re able to put together something that will work, so Dick and Bruce stay with Damian for that time. Damian starts crying as soon as he wakes up, pulling away from Dick and Bruce. Dick and Bruce exchange a quick look.

“Damian, it’s ok. It was just fear gas,” Bruce says softly, reaching back out to Damian.

Damian doesn’t move, but he keeps crying.

“I don’t want to,” he sobs, pulling his knees into his chest.

“Dami, it’s ok. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Whatever you saw wasn’t real.”

That seems to click because Damian peeks over his knees at them.

“I don’t have to leave?” Damian asks, breathless and sad.

Bruce pulls Damian into his arms.

“Of course not. We’re nevering going to send you away. You’re my son, and I love you.”

“Timothy?”

“Tim’s fine,” Dick reassures him.

Damian tucks his face into Bruce’s chest, sniffling.

“It’s ok. Everything’s going to be ok, Damian.”

[isadollie]

hello !! i saw your reqs for hcs and scenarios were open so i thought i'd send something in. can you do the OM brothers w/ an s/o who isn't really tech savvy? coming from someone who grew up surrounded by technology but absolutely sucks at it. thank you !! <3

obey me! brothers x bad at technology gn!s/o

a bit funny (or so i tried), pretty unserious sorry 😭

— Lucifer:

• this proud expression on his face

• gets all cocky

• secretly glad to be the one who teaches you all this

• would give you head pats probably,,,

• starts to explain with a gentle tone

• then diavolo calls for him and he gets annoyed cause his precious time with you has been disturbed

• helps diavolo as fast as he can and comes back to you

• he's like "okay, so... where did we leave off?"

• and then you say "oh no, it's okay, Levi already showed me everything when you were gone"

• and then Levi went missing

— Mammon:

• a wicked smile instantly forms on his face

• says you picked the right person to teach you (you picked the worst person to teach you)

• "Aww, don't worry, it's okay. The Great Mammon will teach you everything you have to know!"

• *some time later*

• "okay, so basically, this is the only app you need for now. the bank app. now look, here you type my name... yes, good. and now you type, hm.. let's say, 1000 grimm. perfect! and now you click 'send'! just like that! amazing!"

• "also forgot to mention, this is a very important operation for your phone. so you have to repeat this process twice a day, okay? make sure you type my name there or else it won't work"

• then he runs away and prays you won't tell Lucifer about it

— Leviathan:

• will actually help you!!

• or at least he claims to do so

• 100% called you a normie but well, he does that all the time

• explains what he thinks is the most important

• and you think to yourself "oh, okay, cool, i get it!" and you're eager to learn more cause he's actually helping

• eventually it ends with him showing you where you can watch the whole hana ruri movie for free

• then wants to play games with you

• end of learning

— Satan:

• side eye

• "why would you want to learn such things anyway? the real knowledge comes from books"

• gives you like 10 different books to read, obviously none of them is related to the subject

• it ends up being a cute reading date

• in reality he's just too proud to admit that he's terrible at technology himself

• poor man just doesn't want to embarrass himself in front of you

— Asmodeus:

• will be so happy you asked for his help!

• in fact, you didn't ask, he offered it himself, but would tell everybody that you came to him first

• but forgive him for lying, cause he's actually helping

• he shows you the most important apps you should have on your phone, what do you when this or that is wrong with your computer, how to order at akuzon and ask for a refund and honestly everything you can think of

• is also pretty chill about it, seems like it brings him joy to share what he knows with you

• only disadvantage is, he will cling to you the whole time

• will hold your hand at all times and if you try and dodge his touches, he will stop talking unless you hold him back

— Beelzebub:

• doesn't really wanna help

• would prefer to take you out to a restaurant

• but you insisted

• so he agrees, cause he always agrees to whatever you say sooner or later

• takes your phone and downloads every possible food delivery app

• proud of himself

• but then he gets hungry (who would have thought)

• and tells you to order you two some food from your phone

• you do it and he's happy cause 1. he feels like he taught you things and 2. he'll get food

— Belphegor:

• alright, no problem

• at least that's what he says

• then it turns out there is a problem

• cause he doesn't know how to turn on the computer

• you said it's okay, you can try another time

• but he says no, he will figure it out in a minute

• more than a minute passed and he didn't figure it out

• you two gave up and just went to Levi's room

hope it's okay haha, it was pretty fun to write ngl

requests for scenarios/hcs always open!

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

my favorite mulder moments from s6

doing his best to analyze the fragments of the x files left after the fire in episode 1, because he will never give up on anything he sets his mind to

veeeeery carefully handing the mystery beast’s claw to scully for analysis ("is that an animal?" "ain't rupaul")

accidentally traveling through a time warp in episode 3 and attempting to convince the ww2 soldiers that the war is actually over, then giggling at his own luck in tracing down the missing ship (NERD! nerd)

then finding ww2 era scully and being so confused as to why she doesn’t know him because… that’s scully!!! who knows him better than anyone in the world!

being trapped in the body of someone else in episode 4, and when he sees the photo of that guy’s wife and kids, he sadly whispers “scully” (and then when his “wife” slaps him awake, he AGAIN mumbles “scully”... yeah, she really is your family, huh?)

trying so hard to convince scully it’s really him trapped in someone else’s body: “your mother’s name is margaret, your brother’s name is bill jr. he’s in the navy and he HATES me” and the desperation in his voice when she still doesn't believe him :(

episode 5: “hey scully? i, uh, know it’s not your normal life, but thanks for coming out there with me” (there will always be bonus points for emotional communication and then even MORE bonus points for his reaction to discovering the waterbed right after. i'd frame it if i could)

maurice roasting him in episode 6 for being “prone to obsessive compulsiveness, workaholism, antisocialism- fertile fields for the descent into total wacko breakdown” <- get his ass

“you know why you think you’ve seen the things you do?” “because… i have seen them?” <- the SASS in that delivery! oh my!

finding the case file that spender shredded up in episode 7 and taping it together so he could investigate himself… lmao, that’s a man that gets results!

and then his great strategy for getting answers on that case being to annoy a demon until something happens... and it works <3

his reaction in episode 8 to scully being referred to as “the missus”; he mouths “oh!” and fidgets a bit, looking both terrible awkward and pleased, haha

and who can forget the iconic “i do not GAZE at scully”? surely not i!

finding skinner sick in his office late at night in episode 9- claiming he's just saying hello, then asking him if he’ll be okay, turning off all of the lights so he felt more comfortable, and angling a desk lamp so scully could inspect him

getting very jealous when scully gets assigned to the case of the mysterious death photographer in episode 10 without him: “i’m thinking murder by telekinesis. i’m thinking maybe a shamanistic death touch. i’m thinking about the muslim superstition that to photograph someone is to steal their soul” (and his righteous fury at the idea of them being separated 🙁)

being nosy throughout the whole episode because somehow he ended up with the files from kersh’s computer and calling her for frequent updates (and using a silly voice to say “we used to sit next to each other at the FBI” to make her smile while she's super annoyed with terrible agent ritter)

hunting through the FBI archives at 9 am to track down information for scully’s case, and when he learns that she is in danger and not picking up her phone, immediately calling trash agent ritter to go check in on her

when said trash partner SHOOTS and nearly KILLS scully, he goes to visit her in the hospital a week later, and corners him, saying only that he is a lucky man. you KNOW he wanted to get violent. amazing self-restraint on him!

grabbing scully’s hand in her hospital bed and smiling, telling her the doctor said her recovery is amazing- she’s still so sad, and he says “death only looks for you once you seek its opposite”

gym mulder in episodes 11 and 12... the basketball... yeah ❤️

trying to be kind in episode 13 and it immediately backfiring in that cringe-inducing fashion that only he is capable of achieving: “stay there, mrs. suarez. we're going to make sure your baby makes it safely into the world” “well, thank you, but i’m not in labor. and my name is not suarez, it’s villareal. he tells people i’m his wife. like he’s so macho”

the wind-up chattering teeth on the desk in episode 14 <3

how wildly excited he was to play house in episode 15- “hey, oooh wait a minute, you didn’t let me carry you over the threshold”

and then taunting all of the neighbors with his stupid basketball hoop, LMAOOO

in episode 16, he knows off the top of his head how many years ago the wanshang dhole went extinct

rare communication w for mulder in episode 17 when they get into their usual spat about his theory not being scientifically possible and he decides to instead focus them on what they both agree on: the need to find june

opening up about how important baseball is to him in episode 19: “it’s like the numbers talk to me, they comfort me, they tell me that even though lots of things can change, some things do remain the same. it’s-" "boring?” (pouty mulder face as scully teases him)

AND his recitation to arthur dales of how many home runs mickey mantle hit with each hand

chatting with arthur dales and telling on himself when it comes to his feelings: “do you believe that love can make a man shapeshift?” “i guess… women change men all the time” “i’m not talking about women” (they then share hot dogs, pizza, and chinese takeout)

AND paying that little boy to help him surprise scully with the baseball date- sharing something that is both personal to him and plain fun with her

scully asks him what more he hopes to find in episode 22, and he answers “my sister” 💔 because that is still at the heart of every single action he does after all of this time… no matter which way the plot veers, who the bad guys of the week are, or where life leads him, it's always about samantha and that guilt he harbors over her

[awhoreintheory]

(different anon) another angst idea :D Peter seeing his uncle using a gun, a weapon he despises because it so easily took away his uncle's life and destroyed his world

It will probably cause conflicted feelings for Peter

Also welcome!! Thank you for the ask :) I hope I did it justice <33

Peter won't lie. He may have gotten... attached.

Ok, ok, it sounds like a recipe for disaster. Spending time with his not-uncle from another universe? Definitely not what Mr. Falcon would've recommended, but it was actually really... nice.

He— Jason, not Benjamin here— was so like his Uncle Ben. The way he spoke, the way he laughed, even down to his reading taste. But he was so different, too. He carried himself with caution, he had more scars, his mannerisms were just slightly off, and doesn't talk about family. Ever.

Uncle Ben had loved his family so much.

His uncle had been a firefighter, then when he retired he became a police officer. He was a good man who wanted to give back to his community.

Jason wasn't a firefighter or a police officer. He said he handled real estate, and that's why he had so many apartment buildings. But, unfortunately for Jason, Peter wasn't born yesterday.

Jason was still a good man, and he did good, just... not in the same way as Uncle Ben. Peter assumed he was running with that crime lord, Red Hood. In Peter's opinion, he sounded a little scary. Who wouldn't think that when he first appeared with the flourish of eight severed heads?

But the Red Hood guy (crime lord? Anti hero? Vigilante?) Also actively tried to help Crime Alley— where Peter was currently squatting, so he consequently cared for.

Peter trailed behind Uncle— Jason, just Jason. His spidey sense adored the guy, and he knew all the cheapest places to get groceries. Also, everyone steers clear of him. No one's ever so much as attempted to mug him, which is a genuine accomplishment in this place.

"So, how long are you plannin' to follow me, kiddo?" Jason asked around a smirk, turning around just as Peter lost his cover.

Seriously, how does this guy do that??

Peter gave an exaggerated frown, running to catch up with Jason's long strides. "Seriously, how do you do that?? Are you sure you're a normal guy?" Peter gave a skeptical look, but fell into step with with his not-uncle.

"You follow me every Saturday. Are you sure you're a normal kid?" Jason gave him a skeptical look back, but otherwise slowed down for Peter.

"Hey! You always find the best prices for groceries, I need your tutelage." Peter gave a small, teasing grin. It really was like arguing with his uncle.

Jason reached out, ruffling Peter's hair. Peter batted him away, sticking his tongue out. "Ok, but in return, I need some help with my computer. It ain't workin' again. I'll pay ya'."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "You're seriosuly terrible with tech." Just like his uncle.

Jason swatted at him playfully.

Peter wasn't sure if, or how, Jason knew he was homeless, but he always helped him buy non perishables that didn't need a refrigerator or to be cooked. He was thoughtful like his uncle, in that regard.

It was... nice. Being able to shop with his Uncle. Or, well, Jason. (He really needed to start enforcing that distinction before it backfired on him.) Aunt May had been a terrible cook, so Uncle Ben did most of the cooking. He taught Peter most of everything he knew, too.

Peter thanked his uncle Jason for the help shyly, promising to make it up to him by fixing his computer for free. (Jason never let him do it for free.)

Jason watched the new Alley kid, Peter Parker, walk away. From what he'd heard, he was a skittish teen who knew his way around the shadows. A little naive, but otherwise he held his own. And, for some ungodly reason, he'd taken a shine to Jason. Not Red Hood, not Jason Todd-Wayne, just Jason the apartment guy who knew where all the good sales were.

Peter looked at him sometimes like he hung the moon, and other times with bitter nostalgia. He was about 94% sure Peter was an orphan, so maybe Jadon reminded him of a parent? Or at least someone who wasn't around anymore. It was hard to tell, with how the kids had no records, and getting him to talk about his past was like pulling teeth out of a Super.

Jason let Peter turn the corner before he started to follow. Ducking into alleys and staying a healthy distance away, Jason just wanted to make sure the Kid got back to his squat ok.

Except, just a couple minutes from where Peter was staying, he was suddenly dragged into an alley. No one looked or noticed, but Jason did.

Jason did, and he was fucking pissed.

Grabbing his spare gun, Jason rushed to help his kid Peter.

—

Peter was getting mugged for his groceries. Which wasn't desirable, as his stomach was an endless pit the consumed enough for a family of six, so he was ready to knock a guy out then head back to his place.

Except... then his uncle came rushing in, telling the man to "get the fuck away before you get hurt".

His Uncle always came rushing in like this in his nightmares. Unarmed and with that limp he got from a burning beam falling on him with he was younger and a firefighter. He would rush in, yelling and unarmed, trying to save his dumbass nephew from getting shot.

He would always get shot, he'd fall, the mugger would run away, and he'd bleed out in Peter's arms.

It was his nightmare that repeated every so often, typically joined with a nightmare about May and Tony's death, too.

Except this time... his uncle had the gun.

Jason had the gun.

"I said, back the fuck away before I blow your brains out." Jason snarled, his finger flexing over the trigger in warning.

Peter stared, his mouth filling with cotton and everything going mute.

His uncle was pointing a gun at someone, ready to shoot.

His uncle was holding the thing that killed him.

Peter felt ready to throw up.

The would-be-robber dropped his knife, running away. But Peter's eyes never left his uncles hands, in the smooth and familiar way he operated the gun. How ready he was to shoot someone with it.

Its not... Peter knows, second amendment and all. It's a person's right to own a gun. It should be for protection, but it could just as easily end someone's life.

It ended his uncles.

As a police officer, sure he owned a gun, but it was always kept firmly locked up. He'd never even seen his uncle in the same room as a gun, much less holding one.

It was wrong.

"Pete, hey hey, you're ok, Peter?" His uncle kneeled in front of Peter. When had he ended up on the ground?

He continued to stare at the gun. His uncle took the hint and tucked it away with a practiced motion.

Peter's eyes watered, and he leaned over, expelling the hot dog his uncle bought him earlier. His uncle rubbed his back as he threw up, comforting him, albeit a little awkwardly.

When Peter looked back up, he saw his uncles blue— green eyes, his white and black hair, and the unfamiliar 'J' shaped scar marring his cheek, and remembered.

'This isn't my uncle.'

'This isn't my home.'

And the worst part? He felt sadder about his uncle than his home.

He had nothing to go back to, after all.

[alexanderwales]

I use Windows Night Light to help my sleep schedule, and it sucks so much. Half the time it doesn't even turn on. When that happens, I have to manually go click "Turn Off" (even though it was clearly not on), then click "Turn On" again, at which point it works.

So I went to go see whether there was a fix for this, and I saw all kinds of inconsistent suggestions, and I tried some of them, and it didn't actually fix anything. There are complications that come with having certain graphics cards, or drivers, and ...

Alright, look, I was a software engineer for many years, I know that sometimes things are more complicated than they seem. However, I cannot fathom why "adjust monitor colors at X hour" is so difficult that there are pages upon pages of complaints about it not working. It should work in the vast majority of cases, and what shouldn't fix it is just clicking a button to stop it and then clicking a button to start it again.

What I'm saying is that I'm in the market for a program that will do this very simple job, since apparently the bad behavior of this one is something that's just not getting fixed.

flux is not it. While I'm exasperated by the continual issues with Night Light, I am actively angry with flux. I live fairly far north by American standards. Sunset for me, right now, is 4:30PM. I like to have normal colors on my computer when I am, e.g. watching a show, playing a game, looking at pictures, etc. I only really need the warm colors in the three or four hours before I go to sleep. Flux is free software, so I try to keep my cool, but "please let me set my time manually rather than by location" is their single most requested feature, and every time they say "oh actually flux is for having your screen be in harmony with the natural environment, you don't need that". Maybe this is just steadfast refusal to engage in scope creep, but I've read a bunch of forum messages asking for the same feature that I want, and the answers are always "I don't understand why you would want that" or something equally infuriating in spite of how many times someone says "I'm a Finnish graphic designer with weird working hours" or equivalent.

The standard workaround seems to be telling flux that you're located in a different part of the world than you actually are, but this is terrible UI, and you would also need to change it in accordance with the time of year unless you spent some time figuring out the correct spot that you don't live which works year-round for you.

(I saw another hilarious workaround on the flux forums where a guy set up a scheduled Windows task to kill and restart flux at specific times.)

So I hate flux, in spite of my commitment to not hate free software that did not cost me anything and has never asked for anything from me.

[the-s1lly-corner]

Various CRPs x Reader who knew then before their incidents

Prize request 3/5 for @coldsushisworld ! I hope you enjoy!

Characters in this post: Jeff, Puppeteer, Eyeless Jack, Masky and Ben Drowned

Notes: Reader is GN! Some of these may be shorter or vaguer than others but that's simply because my brains is a little foggy on the details of things!

CW: Mentions of suicide in Puppeteers part, mentions of death and murder in.. well almost all the characters..!

MASKY

JEFF

Similar to Ben's part, you find out what happened. Your parents didnt tell you all of the details that happened the night Jeff went missing, and you'd later find out why when you got older. From the man himself, actually. I enjoy the idea that between the actual canon event of the source and my take hes mellow out.. just a bit, at least hes not going to take you down the second he gets the chance. It's been.. years, you thought he had died at some point actually. Hes loud and arrogant, but for one reason or another he trusts you. You havent turned him yet, and that's saying something. Sometimes things are just like how they were before; the two of you are joking with each other and sharing stories. You don't see him often due to him just.. dropping off and doing who knows what.. but he always comes back to you eventually

BEN DROWNED

You were both childhood friends. The day Ben died, you were told he had moved away. You didnt find out what happened until years later, when you started asking around. When fate brings you both back together everything feels. Wrong. Hes a ghost, and primarily confined to technology- currently hes worked himself into your computer, proving himself to still be the mischievous guy he was in life by subtly messing with your files.. but you grew up, and he didnt. Despite still being friends, there just wasn't enough for the two of you to relate to anymore. In a way it reminds me of Anohana (need to rewatch it but I recommend it). If Ben notices the rift he doesnt say anything

The terrible thing is that you dont know what happened to him. One day he was here and the next? Gone. On top of that, are you even aware that he doesnt seem to.. remember all that much about you? It's almost as if hes an entirely different person. Out of all the characters, your relationship with Masky needs to be rebuilt from the ground, simply because it didnt exactly exist before. You were friends with Tim, of course. To you, you're trying to jog his memory and do things you two have done before. To him, you look.. desperate. Overtime you do both grow closer but the relationship will never be like how it was before, and you're going to have to readjust to this new situation- though is that not the case with the rest of these characters?

EYELESS JACK

You had heard on the news what happened at his college. It looked like there was a massacre, and your friend was no where in sight. Even before Jack became eyeless, he was still.. closed off and reserved. However reunited with him he seems to have sunk deeper into that, even trying to get you out of his life again because of.. what was happening to him and what was changing. Your insistence almost breaks the both of you, but despite everything you manage to safely reenter his life. His new eating habits.. are something.. and that's assuming he even tells you.. he probably would, out of guilt for keeping it from you and just guilt in general for needing to conform to his new diet. It's very strained and tense for a long time in the beginning, even if you're the most open minded person. Jack's not going to let it be easy

PUPPETEER

You were.. friendly with each other before everything. But you weren't exactly all that close. Of course when you found about how he took his life, you felt horrible. But life goes on. You move on, and go on with your life plans... and you were doing good at that, before a figure appears in your room one night. Its terrifying, actually, and if it didnt start talking to you like you were an old school friend you would have tried to make a run for it. Maybe it was the shock that kept you in place? Of course, the figure was.. him.. he doesn't seem to recognize the name you knew him as, in fact you cant tell how much he actually remembers. He basically just invites himself to live with you, not all that bothered with the idea that you might not want that. Hes.. kind of a dick, actually, but hes charming enough for you to keep him around. Having conversations with him is interesting, as well. Hes usually respectful enough but theres some level of... sass.. that keeps you invested. Hes so much like how he was before, but also not. Hes still there but it's like hes been flipped on his head

[ladysomething]

The amount of lestappen content we've gotten lately is amazing!

I've reread wygig like 4 times now I love it so much

Any chance of another snippet before Wednesday????

are you ... not sick of wygig? I did not realise it had that level of re-readability. but I'm delighted that it does!!

probably no more snippets .... I think ...

oh actually!!!

I started dicking around with a random concept after seeing @hotmandrivefast's recent fan art of lestappen kissing during Max's stream, so you can have everything I've written from that so far.

ridiculous vibes as is becoming my brand when I'm not writing wygig lol.

The problem, Charles thinks, is that he and Max have been together too long. 

A secondary, equally alarming problem, is that Charles has also clearly let Max have too much sex with him. The novelty has worn off. 

He’s boring. 

And how exactly has Charles come to these conclusions? 

Because he is laid out on the bed of their hotel room, shirtless, and Max is just . . . ignoring him. For his games. 

His computer is propped up on the bed, and he’s sitting on the floor, frantically poking at his controller and shouting in dismay. 

Charles frowns at him. 

Maybe he needs to break up with Max, just for like five minutes, so that Max appreciates him more. It’s slightly drastic, maybe, but there is literally nothing wrong with the way Charles looks. Actually, he gets endless compliments on his body and face. 

He is so fuckable. 

He’s so fuckable it’s like a selling point. 

So why is staring at his loser boyfriend, pointedly not being fucked right now? 

It’s atrocious. It’s terrible. It’s a state of affairs that Charles finds, frankly, unacceptable. 

He gets up on his knees, crawling over to kneel behind Max’s computer, and then pokes his lip out into a pout. 

Max, like, barely glances up at him, gaze lingering on his bare chest for only a few seconds instead of the usual ten, and then he looks back down to his game, groaning loudly. 

“Yeah, I know,” he grunts into his microphone. “Sorry—got distracted for a second. Yeah, I know.” 

Charles frowns, which quickly turns into a pout again. He taps the top of Max’s laptop pointedly, and mouths, “Max.” 

Max flicks his eyes up to him again, then says, “Guys, once second.” 

He lifts his hands to the headset, presses whatever buttons he needs to press, then pushes the mic away from his mouth. 

“Everything okay?” he asks, not anywhere near concernedly enough for Charles. 

Charles blinks, thrown off by Max not immediately devouring him. 

“I want to cum,” he announces, deciding that a no nonsense approach will work best. 

Max stares at him, clearly perplexed, and then says, “Okay?” 

Charles huffs. There is something seriously wrong here. Maybe he should revisit the idea of breaking up with Max for a few minutes. 

“So?” Charles asks pointedly. 

“So . . . what? You don’t need my permission.” 

Max is an idiot. No, maybe Charles is an idiot, for falling in love with an idiot. 

He retreats to the bathroom to lick his wounds and stroke his humbled ego, but he doesn’t cum. 

He has way more pride than that. 

The next problem Charles encounters is that now he’s come to see the original problem, he sees it everywhere. 

He texts Max to ask him on a date on Wednesday, and Max says he’s busy, sends a love heart emoji, and then an hour later Charles gets a notification saying that a Redline stream has started. So what if he always streams on a Wednesday? Surely one time he could skip it. 

He surprises Max by coming around, bringing Max’s favourite take out for lunch and a brand new toy for the cats to keep them distracted while they have sex, but Max says he can’t hang out that day because he’s in the middle of a stream. So what if the stream is for charity? Charles is still banished to the lounge to eat and play with the cats alone. 

He shows up for their breakfast date, ready to burn the eggs and bake a doughy croissant, but Max answers the door with an apologetic look saying that he’s got to spend a few hours in the sim. And so what if the RB20 sucks and he’s trying to hold onto his Championship lead? 

Charles has needs, goddammit. Vigorous needs that involve him regularly drooling into a pillow and being fucked so good he can’t see, or fucking Max until he cries and begs to be allowed to cum. He doesn’t really care which way it goes, as long as someone’s dick is up someone’s ass. 

And they have a healthy sex life. They have a great sex life, based on the way their friends judge them for being unable to keep their hands off each other, or the times they’ve been walked in on, or the way Max had to put a firm ban on sex during race weekends when Charles had been uncomfortable in the car one too many times. 

He just wants more. He wants so much more, all the time, he wants to sleep with Max’s dick inside him and he wants to have dinner while Max is kneeling and slowly sucking his cock, he wants to have a plug left in his ass so he’s ready for Max at any time and he wants to fill Max with so much cum it leaks out of him. 

He’s ravenous, hungry, a black hole of want, and he knows none of that is reasonable but he wants it anyway. 

Begrudgingly, he settles for sex when they can manage it, but right now they could manage it a whole lot more.

[kenyuluvme]

chronic fuck-me eyes.

-> byr!! reader has hair that can be tucked behind her ears + she wears a skirt. nothing spicy happens, just exploring the idea of higuruma having fuck-me eyes/eye-fucking you lol. might make another part with actual smut let's see.

he wasn't aware of it. higuruma was barely attentive to anything aside from work-related affairs, so it wasn't hard to imagine that he was in fact incognizant of one of his most outstanding character, or rather physical, traits: his "fuck-me" eyes.

the same eyes that were indiscreetly ogling you from across the office you shared with him and shimizu.

you concentrated hard on not physically shrinking under his gaze (you already did mentally), but that was hardly feasible, what with the way in which he's been staring at you for the last few minutes. his large orbs that you happened to be fond of, half-lidded yet alarmingly keen, pored over every single part of you they could reach as if you were being undressed by him; and despite his mouth being covered by his balled up fist, you could swear you caught sight of him chewing on his bottom lip twice or thrice.

the long lashes that decorated his eyes fluttered slowly every now and then, adding on to the suffocatingly erotic aura that oozed out of him. the only thing that kept you somewhat distracted from his blatant eye-fucking was the clicking of your keyboard, which was the reason why you were pressing the keys with more vigour than the average person would.

you had to admit, you were doing a terrible job at not crumbling.

you lost count of the number of times you've momentarily let go of the keyboard to tuck a stray lock or two behind your ears, or the number of times you readjusted your skirt to see if that would make him look away, yet you'd be lying if you said the idea of your handsome boss shamelessly checking you out wasn't stroking your ego in ways unknown to man.

this was far from being the first time that higuruma has made you the target of his chronic fuck-me eyes. ever since your arrival in the firm, he's been eyeing you in this exact manner; a half-lidded, overtly sexual and intense stare. first time it happened was during your second week in the firm and you were trying to figure out the bizarrely vintage espresso machine they used, when, from your peripheral vision, you saw him leaning with his back against a window, sipping his bitter drink and plainly gazing at you through his lashes.

your lips had fell and you had awkwardly let out a "uhhh" before he moved from his spot, approaching you with a barely noticeable grin and a cool demeanour. "need help, new girl?," he said, his voice husky and low, and that combined with the label he gave you was more than enough to have you widen your eyes in slight frenzy.

ever since that fateful meeting, you've become more and more conscious of his habit of following you with his gaze and it was almost as if he liked to do it when you were alone in the same place as him.

you raised your eyes to read the time. 36 minutes left then you could clock out and scream into your pillow. yet, you didn't want to let him go without doing something in return, or at least showing him that you weren't all that unaware of what he's been doing.

not removing your eyes from your computer screen, you gently but firmly killed the silence, "is something the matter, higuruma? you've been staring at me for quite a few minutes now."

after finishing your words, you sharply turned your head to meet his gaze, and you were frankly taken aback by how he took what you said. he was no longer ogling you salaciously, and in the stead of that, he seemed...flustered?

"oh, my apologies, i was just lost in my thoughts. not professional for an attorney, huh?," he tried to humour you a bit to cover up his embarrassment. he then proceeded to grab some random papers and run his eyes over those instead.

you couldn't help your jaw dropping a bit. was he actually oblivious to what he's been doing for god knows how many months now? was he genuinely not aware of the gaze that was nothing short of an invitation for you to walk over and jump his bones?

these questions bounced in your head for the remaining minutes before you hurriedly packed your papers and items then left the office with an awkwardly nervous "goodbye".

he blinked, confused at your sudden reaction.

nevertheless, higuruma considered this another win in his book, as he recalled how cute you looked trying to remain calm, and he began to ponder the other ways in which he could make you lose your cool, but he knew that you weren't ready for that yet.

higuruma was, in fact, aware of his fuck-me eyes.

-> hmmm, in my head, this was wayyyyy less story-like and more about his whore eyes and what he thinks about but it turned into a drabble ig. lemme know if a part 2 with actual sex or something that's close to it sounds nice. byeee :)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, clashing personalities, exclusion, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: moody boy Curtis Everett x bubbly, plus-size reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Another Monday. Is this what life is? Mourning the weekend as you try to wipe the sleep from your eyes. It's too much, you should be cuddling squishes and snoring.

You hop off the bus and head towards the building. Once you're at your desk, you can pretend you're awake. If you get the right angle, you can just doze off a bit. Just a couple minutes more.

The elevator nearly knocks you with its slow rise. You shuffle between cubicles but before you can claim your chair, you find something unexpected. A cushion. A pink and white ergonomic cushion with a matching pad clung around the back rest. Um, this isn't your chair.

You look around confused. Someone will be real mad when they realise they lost their fancy chair. People do seem territorial around here. You turn the chair as you search for its owner.

“Did I get the colour right?” A grizzly voice has you leaping in place. You face Curtis as he rests his hand on the side of your cubicle, “they had purple too.”

“You?” You gasp.

“I…” he shrugs and his eyes wander to the ceiling, “I'm tryna make it up to you. I was and asshole so–”

“Nope, nuh uh,” you turn and tear open the velcro, detaching the back pad, “keep ‘em. I don't want your charity.”

“It's not–” he steps forward, “it's an apology.”

“Apology? For stealing? Well, I can't forgive a liar.”

You shove the pad against his chest, “I think I was clear. You should be happy I was because I have a terrible habit of rambling. My mom says I could talk the dead to life.”

He reluctantly clasps onto the pad as he scowls. You grab the seat cushion and press it against the other one. He reluctantly hooks his other arm under it.

“I was gonna give it back,” he grumbles.

“So why'd you take it?” You challenge.

“I don't know,” he mutters.

“I do. You're a bully. I left those behind in school,” you put your hands on your hips, “so go away and keep your hands off my things!”

His nostrils flare as his eyes meet yours. They're the shade of blue that makes you think of storms and the ocean and butterfly wings. He'd be cute if he wasn't so mean.

“You shouldn't talk to me like that,” he warns as he squeezes the cushions.

“Take your own advice, meanie! You had your chance.”

“I've been nice,” he rasps as he looks you up and down.

You're unsettled by how the glint in his eyes changes, how his shoulders square and his jaw ticks. He meets your gaze and narrows his eyes.

“You don't know what mean is.”

You flinch as he spins on his heel. He marches past you, a gust of air tickling your cheeks as he flees. You turn and watch him go, your stomach knotting.

Maybe you were a bit rude, even pushy, but you're trying to be better about drawing lines. You don't have to be a doormat to be nice. Even if it is easier.

You put your bag on your desk and sit, squeaking at the harsh impact of your ass on the thin seat. Gosh, there may as well not be any padding. You sniff and swivel close to the desk, booting the computer as you wait and think.

He's mad but he'll get over it. He made it clear he has no interest in you before so why this sudden change. Oh well, you never really understood men or their brains.

🩷

You stare at your pen cup and frown. You miss your happy penguin pen buddy. As you ponder his absence, that suspicion nips at your ears. Maybe he took those too.

Does it matter? You're moving on. You ordered new pens on Amazon. You're starting over new!

You get up to get a fresh coffee. You really should cut back. Maybe you could do some hot chocolate but you get a bit silly when you have too much sugar.

You enter the break room and immediately want to storm out. He's there, glaring at the machine as he watches it brew. You smell the dark roast you bought him. How could you have ever been so nice to someone like him?

Curtis takes his mug and you sidle along the wall, certain to get well out of his way. He turns and stops as he sees you. You stare at the ceiling as you wait for him to go.

He snarls but makes no move to leave. You bounce on your heels with your mug in hand. You can wait.

He's not going. So you go to the machine and peruse the selection. Maple shortbread, huh, that's a curious choice.

You sense him lingering. You do your best to ignore him, the scuff of his shoes putting you on edge. You're not the best at reading people, obviously, but you can feel his anger.

As he looms closer, you take a step forward. You spin and throw an arm up as if blocking an unseen strike. Your hand flips Curtis’ mug, spilling the brown liquid down his grey shirt. He backs up and looks down at the mess.

“Why would you do that?”

“Personal space,” you wave your arm up and down, drawing the invisible wall before you.

“I'm trying to… you're crazy, you know that?”

“So what does that make you?” You pout, “I told you to leave me alone.”

He puffs, lip curling as he grips his mug tight. He scoffs and whips it past you so it smashes against the wall and the bits litter over the counter. You let out a squeal as he stomps out, leaving you in shock, standing before a puddle of coffee.

You gulp and face the remnants of his mug. You should clean that up before anyone cuts themselves. You cross to the counter and set to carefully plucking up the shards.

“What happened in here?” Melanie asks as she enters, “oh it's you.”

You ignore her as you focus on the glass. Of course she assumes it was you. Seems like everyone thinks you're a disaster.

[aquarelliwrites]

Go For Broke, Chapter 1: First Loser, Second Loser

the Monaco 2022 Grand Prix weekend retold. // series masterlist

Picture the Monaco riviera on a Thursday morning. Mechanics buzzing around cars and stacks of tyres, reporters and photographers streaming in through the gates, and a Ferrari driver sitting squeezed between the pit wall monitors and the wall on the second story of her garage. A thick pane of glass muffling the chatter and racket growing louder by the minute.

Away from the overwhelming sea of rich tourists, camera lenses and microphones, sleep clawed at the edges of her vision and the cobwebbed peripheral hallways of her mind. The iced coffee and half-eaten pastry on the floor next to her weren’t doing a good job of holding it back on their own.

A long, quiet stanza shattered with the note of a simple “Ciao.” 

“Fuck!” Her hand came up sharply - to punch her teammate in the face, or rest over her heart to calm it? She couldn’t know.

“Wouldn’t have pinned you for fight, puzzone. You seem more like a flight type of person.” He - Charles - laughed, fiddling with the vlog camera in his right hand. “Good morning, by the way.”

“Good morning, my ass. Gave me the scare of my life just now.”

The liar grinned. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“Sure. What are you doing up here, anyway?” Giving the floor right next to her a little pat, she prompted him to sit down and join her behind the wall of computers. It’s not like anyone was there to tell them they were in the way.

“I’m recording a behind-the-scenes vlog this weekend. This seemed like a good place to get some aerial footage, but I was going to go up to the terrace as well, to see which was better.” His answer was enthusiastic, and she smiled and nodded as he continued to talk about his camera specs and when the lighting on track should be the best. Alas, it didn’t distract him as well as she’d hoped. “Why are you sleeping up here?”

“I couldn’t sleep very well last night.” Understatement of the century. The heels of her palms rubbed her eyes in a vague attempt to somehow rectify an entire night’s worth of tossing and turning.

“How come?” Finally setting his camera down, he glanced back at her. “Oh, you smudged your, um..”

“Eye pencil? Of course I did.” With a sigh too deep to be indicating exclusively frustration over her messed-up makeup, she swiped whatever smudges she could from her under eyes. “I don’t know. At first, everything was too loud. Then it got too quiet, so I had to put on music. Then it was too hot, then too cold. I think I also spent a while staring at the ceiling.” And crying. That part went unsaid, though. “I’m just a bit nervous about the weekend, I think.” 

Did she say ‘understatement of the century’ earlier? She was fairly sure this beat the record. It was a miracle she'd managed to keep down the few bites she did.

He grimaced slightly, extended his hand to hold hers, gave it a slight squeeze even. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll do well.”

“No worries. Not your fault, monello.”

A smile reappeared on his face at the childish nickname. “Come on, you’re the only one of us who actually likes media day.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She managed a small smile. Now that she was distracted, he managed to swipe the rest of her pastry - not without earning a slap to the wrist in the process.

“Hey!”

“You weren’t eating it!” He yells in complete defense of his actions. Had she been actually hungry, she might have killed him then and there. 

“It’s fine. I was done with it.”

Media didn't suck as much as she expected it to. Not that it usually did.

There were the ever-present questions, of course. It was a mental checklist, maybe bingo card, every week: 

Are she and Charles dating? (No.)

How does it feel to be the first woman in Formula 1 since Lella Lombardi to score points? (Good, but there should have been women before her.)

Which brands of haircare or skincare did she use? (Lots, but what did it matter when she wore a helmet most of the time?)

Does she feel like she can keep up with the rest of the grid? (This one usually just received a blank stare until the interviewer got too uncomfortable to wait for an answer.)

Was it sad that she got excited to actually talk about the car she'd be driving? Incredibly.

The rest of the interviews were crammed full of hopes that Charles would finally do well, that the team would do well as a whole, that- well, you get the point.

Minutes later, the photographers that managed to walk out first got treated to a great shot of supposedly sworn enemies - two Ferrari drivers and two Red Bull Racing drivers - standing near the exit of the media pen and watching reporters file out.

Chatting with Sergio - Checo, she and everybody else called him - was the best way to spend the, seemingly, geological eon Charles and Max took to debrief each other about… well, about everything. Those guys didn't talk all that much outside of the paddock, and they were practically neighbors. It's weird.

She always found Checo more approachable, anyway. Whenever she even walked past his Dutch teammate, she could practically feel his icy gaze shooting daggers through her. If looks could kill, she'd have died a hundred times over.

Not that she didn't return the glares - she found it quite enjoyable to produce a staring contest out of thin air, and it would usually end up with him looking away, the slightest of unnoticed blushes settling upon the tips of his ears.

Today, Checo had a delightful surprise - a guy on Twitter doing imitations of F1-related personalities. She laughed along at the stuttering blunders of Will Buxton and the monotone accented voice resembling Checo's uncannily, and even the one of Max struggling to open a can of Red Bull and swearing profusely upon receiving radio instructions, but what really got her to look aghast was the next impression. Of her.

“Come on, that's no girl voice!” She was sure they were attracting attention with their laughter, since their teammates both looked over in confusion. “He sounds like he inhaled helium!”

“No, no, he sounds correct to me.” Checo faux-wiped a tear from his eye.

“It absolutely does not!”

“Here, Charles, Max, take a look at this.” They complied - and unfortunately, did not agree with her.

“I don't know, that pretty much sounds like you. Whenever I hear you speak it's like a caffeinated chipmunk squeaking at me all angrily.” Max laughed, and she felt blood rush up to her face, embarrassment and anger mixing dangerously.

“I don't know, Verstappen, you not being able to open a can of Red Bull on your own also seemed fairly accurate.” Her sweet tone did nothing to disguise the way the words dripped with acid. He grimaced like they actually burned.

“Sorry, schat, my mistake. Truly, will you ever forgive me?” He turned away - to speak with her teammate once more. 

The guy was fucking insufferable. And the nicknames he gave her only fueled a desire to crush him out on the track. What the hell did schat even mean?

Charles squinted behind his sunglasses. “What in the fresh hell are they doing?” 

A long, obnoxiously loud slurp identical to that of a nearly empty plastic cup that used to store iced coffee sounded off from next to him. “Will you stop that?” He huffed a laugh.

“Stop what?” The second slurp managed to sound more ear-grating than the first. He wasn't sure how that was possible.

“Just… look over there, right?”

The pair stood on the third-story terrace of the Ferrari garage - a feature unique to the Monaco race - and stared out into the harbor. The Red Bull Energy Station was a raft, and it was huge, so the commotion near their swimming pool was easily visible to anyone higher than the second floor.

“That's Max and Checo, Charles.”

“No, idiot, I know that. Look at what they're doing.” He gestured, exasperated, so she cocked a hip and leaned forward over the railing to get a better look.

“They're putting rubber ducks in the pool. Or just a bunch of…” she squinted as well, “tiny yellow blobs. I’m guessing ducks, though?”

“I'm at a loss for words.”

“Charles, you are so dramatic. They just had me blindfold you to drive a sim lap in Imola a couple of weeks ago.”

“That's different.”

“We've done shit more insane than releasing a couple dozen yellow duckies into a pool.”

“Okay, and?

They observe as Max seems to… fish one out of water? A couple of moments later, he's speaking to someone on the phone, and Checo looks like he'll burst if he doesn't let go of his laughter.

“This has to be for the YouTube channel, right?” She half-turned to him to see the confusion and disbelief visible all over his face.

“Definitely. Max wouldn't agree to do that if it wasn't some sort of PR.”

“Okay, loverboy.” His encyclopedic knowledge of Max would annoy her to death if she didn't know every fact she could dig up about him. Some would call it obsessive - she'd just explain it as studying her rival's weaknesses. 

“What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Okay, see, he just looks like he's crying again!” Charles’ voice raised a little.

“I don't understand why you're so worked up over this.” It was his turn to observe his teammate's nonchalant, if a little curious, exterior.

“You're- ugh. Whatever. Now he's just calling someone again.”

“Oh, to be a fly on that deck. I'd kill to know what Checo was laughing at.” With a final slurp, she rediscovered one last sip of her drink that had missed her entirely.

“Ooh, be careful.” His voice was laced with a teasing undertone behind her.

She shot Charles a confused look.

It's Friday now, and all their successful data gathering in both practice sessions earned them the privilege - she'd beg to differ - of an ice bath. She's tried and failed to kick, scream, and claw her way out of them (metaphorically, of course) before.

It was, however, a relief to finally get to take her hoodie off. It had been sensible clothing mere hours earlier, but it was positively stifling then. She let out a dramatic gasp at the freedom of weather-appropriate attire.

“What do you mean?”

“Getting changed? In front of everyone? What will the media think?” His voice was nothing but crystal clear sarcasm, with his face distorted in an expression of faux disapproval. “Scandalous. I thought I taught you better.”

A puzzled laugh escaped her. “Wh-? Why the hell are you shaking your head at me? I have a top on.” She gestured to the, realistically, fairly modest swimsuit top on herself.

“Did you even think of the poor engineers who will be so distracted from working on our cars?” 

The level of this man's theatricality was show-stopping and infuriating simultaneously. “Charles. Darling.”

“Hm?”

“You were literally flashing your tits to, oh, I don't know, about… what, half the paddock? And thousands of SkyTV viewers? Like, ten minutes ago?”

“What? Me? I could never.” He even did a pearl-clutching motion at the very implication. She rolled her eyes.

“You are literally wearing less clothing than me right now. Like, if you turn around, you'll count approximately… two dozen Paddock Club girls drooling over your biceps as we speak.”

“No… Well, touché. They want us in the tubs now, though.”

“That's- yes, why else did you think I was undressing?”

“You can never know with you.”

She rolled up the towel in her hand in order to smack him as hard as she could, but he only laughed. “Prick.”

The ice bath was terrible. Awful. She wished she could be poetic and compare it to a breath of winter's night, or a fireless hearth - that would not do it justice. Plunging into the tub was the ninth circle of hell, with Dante and Virgil observing her slow and painful eternal fate.

The media people were having a field day with Charles. She didn't know how he managed to keep his composure enough to let them film thirst traps.

“Fuck me, this is miserable.” Her teeth were chattering so hard that she thought her lower jaw would soon start creaking on its hinges from the motion. She watched the goosebumps blooming all over her thighs and arms. And Charles was fucking laughing, the bastard.

“Mon dieu, I don't know what I did to wrong you,” she uttered through gritted teeth towards the sky, “but I swear never to do it again.”

The sky, of course, didn't respond. Her teammate thought it was a good time to pipe up, though.

“You took me out two years ago, in Alfa Romeo. This is karma.”

Her head snapped towards him, if only to lower her sunglasses and glare at him over the tops of the frames. He didn't bother looking up from checking his fingernails.

“That wasn't even my fault- Fuck, this is so cold.”

When the Ferrari social media girl let her know she'd start filming her then, the only thing she could do is nod curtly, jaw clenched.

“How are you feeling after FP1 and FP2?”

“Very… very positive about the weekend.” If nothing else, every single muscle in her body seizing at the freezing water might finally be the thing to give her better abs.

“And how are you feeling?”

“What, right now?” The girl nodded. “Arguably worse than before I got in. I'll be loving it when I get out in- when can I get out?” 

The small gaggle of Ferrari employees around her laughed. “Oh, yes, hilarious, I bet.” 

“Ah, you're being dramatic now. It's not a duck's cold.” His badly translated French idiom forced a small smile onto her face. Both of them being multilingual more often than not meant one of them being stared at in confusion over a poor choice of words that got mistranslated on its way over their tongue. 

“I'm just saying, it's a perfectly pleasant and sunny day. I don't understand what need there was for a plastic tub colder than a Siberian lake?”

An ice cube hit her head. Her glare only made Charles smile sweetly.

“If I wasn't under threat of all of Monaco skinning me alive at any harm done to you, I'd throttle you right now.”

He blew her a kiss. Bitch.

Champagne bubbled past her lips on the second step that Sunday. It was a Red Bull 1-3, with an incredibly disappointed Charles down in P4. She only managed to spot his melancholic expression down in the crowd of navy and red when the Mexican anthem was playing its last notes. 

The race was a spectacle by Monaco standards - an incredible 21 overtakes and a fight for P2 for the entire duration. She had barely managed to drag the Ferrari over the finish line on mediums so torn up, they might have punctured on the following lap. Really, she was just counting her lucky stars.

She blinked rapidly, wiping alcohol from her eyes. Or was it still sweat from the race? Taking a long drag from the bottle seemed to cool her down enough. Checo was chatting with Max, both of them soaked just like her. She was delighted at his win, and happier more when she realized she beat Max. A smile grew on her face uncontrollably at the thought of the way she practically skipped past the third step and straight into second place - his eyes burning holes in the side of her head the entire time. If looks could kill, they’d be cleaning her dead body off the floor before any trophies could even be handed out.

Had she glared back at him, he’d have turned his head abruptly to avoid notice.

To be entirely honest, she wasn’t even sure when a rivalry between them began to form. They never karted together - maybe she only saw him a couple of times when she was very young and he was in a category above hers. While he had skipped F2 altogether and left Charles his F3 seat, she was still fighting through regional F4 championships. When she was in Alfa Romeo with Kimi in 2020, he was already winning with Red Bull.

Maybe she had grown tired of the news of his wins; or he had had it with her successfully playing the media darling; or both of them started growing abrasive every time the other flaunted a better result as proudly as a championship win.

To put it shortly: If the two of them were involved, it tended to be tense.

Flashing Max a proud and mocking grin from behind Checo’s back only resulted in a scoff and a roll of his eyes. Or at least she guessed - the champagne stuck to her lashes made her vision a kaleidoscope a little more than she would’ve liked.

After they had their picture taken, she gathered her trophy against her hip and the open bottle limply in her other hand. Had she walked off the podium any faster than she did, she wouldn’t have caught his muttering.

“You always have to one-up everyone, huh?”

“Not everyone.” She smiled, sweetly. “Just you.”

“Aw, I’m honored.” He spoke in a tone that was anything but honored. “You only try so hard to keep up with me, schat?” Again with the ridiculous nickname. Was he calling her shit?

“In your dreams, Verstappen. S’not my fault I’m just so naturally talented, and you’re… you. You know?” Anyone who heard her dry reply might have doubted she even believed the praise she threw at herself. Except Max.

“Was it natural talent when-”

“Alright, children, enough.” Checo’s arms came around both of their shoulders as he led them off the podium. “Kid, do you want to come to the energy station- Max, don’t look at me like that- do you want to come watch the pool dive? Horner said he might wear a… what’s it called? The swimming underwear?”

“Um, Speedos?”

“Yes!” The snap of his fingers rang behind her right ear. “A Union Jack Speedo.” 

“That’s… supposed to be enticing?”

He shrugged, letting go of both of them now that the trio was away from cameras. Max left immediately. “Invite Charles. I’ll see if I can get any other drivers to come.”

“Me and Charles? I thought we were practically Public Enemies #1 and #2 over there?”

“Ah, well… yes. Maybe don’t come in red.”

“Incredibly helpful as always, Checo.”

Raising his pointer finger at her, he looked more like a dad than ever before. “Don’t give me that tone.” He received only a sly grin and an eyeroll.

“Any plans for tonight?”

“You’ll see it in the groupchat.”

The Red Bull Energy Station ended up looking more like a millionaire’s- no, billionaire’s college pool party that afternoon, with more and more people filtering in by the minute.

In a show of solidarity towards her teammate, she had stolen the P2 champagne for him and herself to share in a walk around the marina. Already, they observed yacht owners getting ready for the afterparty of the year all around them.

“You look surprisingly somber.” He said after a long silence. 

She simply took a long swig of lukewarm alcohol to avoid answering.

“Are you-” He stopped. Hesitated. “Is- Um, how are you doing?”

“Good.” A response typical for someone who most definitely was not good. “Very good.”

“Are you su-”

“Y’know, I’m very excited for tonight. I don’t get to party it up in Monaco much.” Cutting him off looked to be the best option right then. “Last year was more chill.”

“...Yes, we went for a picnic up to that viewpoint with Charlotte and… who were you dating then?”

“Oh, Antonio? I wasn’t serious with him.”

“Oh?” He gratefully took the bottle when she offered it. “I thought you were.”

“It’s hard to be. You of all people should know how the media reacts to our relationships.” Among other things.

Having not even realized it, they were now standing before the Red Bull hospitality - if that was a correct term for the frat raft it appeared to be.

“Shall we?” He said. She swallowed.

“Might as well.”

To be fair, the deck was comfortable. And loud. Incredibly loud. They were offered Red Bulls - which they accepted, as they weren’t, y’know, animals. In a few minutes, she found herself sitting on the railing to get a better look over everybody else’s heads, while he leaned against it right next to her. 

And to her mixed disappointment and relief, Christian Horner did not wear a Union Jack Speedo while jumping into the pool. He didn’t even jump - Max shoved him in after Checo.

The little party went on for a little while, but her social battery was dying and relying on Charles’ charms didn’t work as well as she’d hoped. When she announced her decision to leave to him, he agreed quickly, still carrying her souvenir bottle for her.

Unfortunately for them, nobody else had. The crowd was still there, much like a great number of immovable concrete walls, and they struggled to make their way to the stairs. Charles, being a bit taller and more broad-shouldered, went first in an attempt to push his way through. She, however, got separated fairly easily and had little control in being accidentally herded to the pool’s edge like cattle.

“Hey, wait-” Someone she had no time to see collided with her, sending her right into the water.

Or they would have, if her arm wasn’t abruptly grabbed by the most irritating, bothersome individual who she could have possibly crossed paths with at that moment.

He had an annoyed look in his eyes. “Watch it.”

“...Thank you.” It was painful for her dignity to say while he pulled her back to a standing position. Not waiting for a response, she hurried after Charles.

And left Max standing alone in the crowd. 

NOTE: Honestly, I'm not that happy with this but I am glad that I finally got it out. Slightly anticlimatic for a first chapter? Yeah, nothing I can do about that now. Also this wasn't beta read, sorry for the mistakes you were forced to endure lol

TAGLIST: @falk0r3

Liked this? Check out my masterlist!

[foone]

So Warframe added a "Pom-2" Alternate 1999 computer (that's needed for weird void magic future science wizardry). Thoughts?

Only thing I have that's a sort of question mark is that I don't know of many setups that would have needed a 5 1/4" floppy in 99 (or why it has both the tower and the under monitor unit)

ugh. OKAY, so... the tower and desktop combination is just weird. I have, on one occasion, run a "server" that was two towers, and the original PC supported a DUAL-DESKTOP mode, but both types together? nonsense.

dual monitor was rare but possible in 1999 (win98 added native support), so I think the best interpretation here is that this is actually two computers. maybe the one on the left is missing the keyboard and mouse because it's being used as some kind of server for the other computer? I used a little case like that to run my first linux server, which was also acting as a router for my internal network.

The OS is weird. The icons above the menu-bar look like win98, the dialog box is windows 3.x, the menu-bar icons on the bottom are pure os X (although they remind me of like a web-TV kinda system, like hotkeys for email/internet/etc), but the greyscale is very classic mac system. Actually it kinda reminds me of C64's GEOS, but GEOS was very classic-mac.

Like most CRT-filters, they turned the scanlines up WAY TOO HIGH. No CRT I've ever seen looked that fucking terrible. The monitor buttons are a bit odd: You didn't get monitors with buttons on the front until long after they were all color... but maybe it's a color monitor that's showing a monochrome OS?

as for the floppies: yeah. There are multiple mistakes here.

5.25" in 1999 is just silly. If you still had 5.25" disk drives in 1999, you were intentionally doing some retrocomputing stuff. For reference, around 2001 my PC repair job would specifically ask me to copy data off 5.25" disks, because they didn't have any 5.25" drives anymore, and I was their only tech who did.

The other mistake is that they have THREE floppy drives. so the PC doesn't really support that, natively? You can do some tricks and make it work (The youtuber Tech Tangents did a video on how it could be done), but realistically two was the normal max.

The final mistake is that all the drive activity lights are on. Those are only supposed to be on while the drive is reading or writing... and I don't see any disks in those drives! Let alone a situation that would involve turning all three on at once (I don't think that's even possible on most floppy controllers!)

In fact, the main time you'd end up with the drive lights stuck on like that is when you've installed the drive cable upside down. That ends up with them getting stuck on and non-functional. So this computer looks, to me, like it was put together incorrectly and no one noticed.

I don't believe that font would be on a black & white retro computer. Nope. Too smooth and too big.

There's also a USB icon on that OS: I don't think there's ever been a monochrome OS that supported OS, and looking at that computer case I don't believe that it has USB. Maybe the tower would, but the desktop? no.

That keyboard is off a Gateway 2000 computer. Something like this: