#A/B testing tools

[brrandommedia]

How does­ A/B­ Testing­ Help­ Businesses­ to­ Boost­ Leads­ or­ Conversions?

An A/B test determines which version of a marketing campaign performs better by testing it for a certain period of time. This strategy method helps test new assumptions by continuously challenging the same through optimization of landing pages, content and headlines, CTA components, user experience, and more. For further details, check out the blog: https: //brrandom.com/how-does-a-b-testing-help-businesses-to-boost-leads-or-convertions/

[tridentabusa]

Maximizing Conversion Rates with AB Testing on Shopify

A/B testing is the best tool to compare the performance of different versions to see what performs better.A/b testing is a crucial aspect to improve the performance of your Shopify store and conversion rates through A/B testing. Trident AB provides the right strategy so you can make data-driven decisions that transform your Shopify store into an income source. For more details about ab test on Shopify visit the website of TridentAB.

[summercosmos]

Kendra lifted a beautiful circlet out of the water, wrought of a metal like radiant silver and inlaid with pristine gems, including a large white jewel in the front. The details were exquisite, the circlet formed by multiple strands in a perfect simulation of woven vines. Kendra knew instinctively that she had never held an object nearly as valuable.

My crown, the Fairy Queen explained.

the colors look so bad on mobile omfgggggf👊💥 anyhow. this is one of my favorite scenes out of all the dw books!

[blogpopular]

Marketo: Uma Plataforma de Automação de Marketing Inovadora

A automação de marketing é um dos pilares para o sucesso de empresas que buscam eficiência e impacto em suas campanhas de marketing digital. Uma das plataformas mais reconhecidas nesse cenário é o Marketo, uma solução robusta e abrangente que oferece diversas funcionalidades para ajudar as empresas a gerenciar, otimizar e medir o desempenho de suas campanhas de marketing. Neste artigo, vamos…

[realjdobypr]

Supercharge Your Content Strategy with AI Technology

Overcoming Challenges in AI Adoption In the rapidly evolving landscape of technology, the adoption of Artificial Intelligence (AI) has become a crucial aspect for businesses looking to stay competitive and innovative. However, this adoption is not without its challenges. In this blog section, we will delve into two key challenges faced by organizations in the process of integrating AI into their…

[honestlyvan]

This is also your reminder to

✨ Switch To Firefox On Desktop ✨

✨And Mobile (Android & iOS)✨

Yes, even if you're on the Tumblr app, I recommend switching to Firefox For Mobile instead. Mobile Firefox has gained support for multiple security and utility -focused addons such as uBlock Origin, NoScript and ✨Tampermonkey✨, and is now nearly as powerful as desktop Firefox.

[image: a banner for AO3 ReKudos Converter: Comment Assist Mode. Between the Kudos button and the Comments button is an Uno Reverse type symbol surrounded by angel wings in the style of the Celeste Assist Mode icon]

This is a companion script to Ao3 Rekudos Converter that automatically prompts you to leave a comment when you try to leave a kudos on a fic you have kudosed before!

>> Get the script here <<

The script was made to work with Tampermonkey, so you may need to change the formatting to work with other JS userscript managers.

You can install Tampermokey for Firefox from here.

The script comes with three levels of assistance:

1: A commenting guide for people who have never done it before. 2: A short comment prompt that gives you a jumping off point to write your own comment. There’s about 30 different ones 3: A simple reminder to leave a comment.

In the userscript version, this is the first setting under “SETUP”. Rekudo and Assist mode are independent – you don’t need one to run the other – but if you want, you can run them on top of each other, and Assist Mode will take priority.

As of 19.06.2023, the extension version of Rekudos Tools has been discontinued, because mobile Firefox has an official Tampermonkey extension.

Wings on the icon are designed by Freepik

[designleadershipcdnm]

Visual Diary 6 - Netflix A/B Testing

I've always wanted to do A/B testing for a learning solution but haven't worked it into our process yet! I imagine many streaming platforms use A/B testing. In my research, I found this interesting blog series where Netflix designers explain how they use A/B testing to inform their decision-making.

[maxtermind]

something based on ‘casual’ by chapell roan or ‘sharpest tool’ by sabrina carpenter with f1 drivers 🥹🥹🥹🥹

is it casual now?

★ : summary :: when you mistake your fuckbuddy for a lover ★ : feat :: max verstappen, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris ★ : genre :: ANGST; no hea; kinda smutty ★ : word count:: 6.1k+ ★ : a/n:: im afraid there will be no part 2s to this.. the premise of the song is a vicious cycle so NO happy endings!! hope y/n was smart enough to get him tested and use protection yikes.

MAX VERSTAPPEN

“then, baby, get me off again.”

You watched with hazy eyes as Max moved above you, his body pressing into yours with a rhythm that left you gasping, begging for breath. The pulse under your wrist raced in time with his movements, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through your ribs. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin with a desperation that had your mind spinning.

Every time he thrust back into you, it sent a shockwave of pleasure rippling through your body, making your back arch a bit more. You could feel it building, the tension between you teetering on the edge of something explosive.

“Fuck, b-baby,” Max growled, voice thick and raw, the sound of it sending shivers up your spine, making your blood hum. His breath was ragged, his eyes locked onto yours, dark with need as if he was barely holding himself together.

Your heart raced even faster, chest tightening, and you bit your lip, smirking as you shifted slightly running your finger across your lip, driving his attention back to the deep red lipstick you knew was driving him wild. His gaze flicked down, his pupils dilating as he caught sight of it, and you saw the way his breath hitched, his body faltering for just a moment as he fought to keep control.

“That fucking lipstick…” he groaned, the words half-muttered, half-moan, and you could feel his grip tighten on you, his fingers pressing harder into your skin.

Your head was spinning, legs shaky beneath his weight, every nerve in your body alive with sensation as you dragged your nails down his back. “Ins-inside me, Max,” you whispered, your voice a breathless challenge.

The words seemed to push him over the edge, his finger on your clit flattered, his pace becoming erratic as he thrust into you one last time, his entire body tensing as he came undone. The sensation of him finally letting go pulled you under, your own release hitting you in waves so intense it left you trembling beneath him, vision hazy.

For a moment, everything was quiet, the room filled only with the sound of your labored breathing. Your body was heavy, every limb buzzing as you lay there in the afterglow, Max collapsing beside you, his arm still draped over your waist. You turned your head to look at him, the lazy, satisfied smile on your lips reflecting the warmth spreading through your chest.

“That was…” you started, voice soft and shaky, your heart still racing. You couldn’t find the words to finish, but the look in your eyes said enough. It was perfect. It was everything.

Max chuckled, low and rough, turning his head to meet your gaze. “Yeah, baby, it was,” his thumb brushing lightly across your hip, grounding you in the moment. For a second, it felt like nothing could shatter this— like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Then his phone buzzed.

The sharp sound sliced through the room, breaking the intimacy in an instant. You watched as Max reached for it without hesitation, his movements almost casual, but there was something about the way his body shifted- just a little too quickly- that sent a shiver down your spine. Your stomach clenched, heart dropping as you felt that familiar knot of uncertainty begin to form.

You didn’t say anything at first, trying to ignore the tension building in your chest, but when you saw the way his eyes refused to meet yours, how he turned the screen away from you slightly as he checked the message, you couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

“Who’s that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, but he could hear the edge of insecurity in your tone. Your heart hammered in your chest, blood rushing to your ears as you waited for his response, hoping it wouldn’t be what you feared.

Max glanced at you, too casually, placing the phone down without really answering. “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice light, but it felt forced, like he wasn’t taking this seriously. He tried to brush it off, turning back to you with a small smile. “Just a friend.”

Your stomach dropped. The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and suddenly, your whole body felt cold, legs unsteady as you sat up in bed. Your mind raced, the warmth from moments ago replaced by a growing sense of dread. You knew this feeling all too well, the doubt creeping in and wrapping around your heart like a vice.

“A friend?” you echoed, barely able to keep your voice steady as the room spun slightly. Your fingers gripped the sheets tightly, trying to anchor yourself. “What’s just a friend, huh?”

Max sighed, clearly not wanting to have this conversation. “Come on, Y/N, it’s not a big deal,” he said, his tone frustratingly calm. “You know how it is.”

But you didn’t know how it was. Not really. Each beat of your heart sent waves of anger and hurt crashing through you, blood rushing so loud in your ears you could barely hear him. “What do you mean, ‘not a big deal?’” you asked, your voice shaking as your breath quickened. 

You could feel your throat tighten, the sting of tears threatening to form behind your eyes, but you fought them back. You needed answers. This game of guessing and hoping was getting old now.

Max rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable now, as if he wanted to be anywhere else but here, dealing with this, dealing with you. “Y/N, we’re not together,” he said, finally, his words blunt, like a slap across the face.

Your world tilted. You froze, unable to process his words for a moment, your chest tightening so painfully it felt like you might not be able to breathe. We’re not together. We’re not together. We’re not together. We’re n- The sentence echoed in your mind again and again, each word hitting harder than the last.

Your vision blurred as you pushed the sheets off your legs and swung them over the edge of the bed, standing on shaky legs that barely supported you. The room felt like it was spinning, and you had to steady yourself against the wall as you tried to hold it together.

“We’re not together?” you repeated, voice barely audible. You felt your heart break in real time, the cracks forming so fast it left you breathless. It was useless, this was all useless but our mouth wouldn’t shut up. “So what the hell have we been doing, Max? What am I to you?”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, just a fleeting second, you thought you saw a flicker of guilt cross his face, but then it was gone, replaced by indifference. “It’s just laid back between us,” he said, his voice still maddeningly calm. “Don’t make it more than that.”

Your blood turned to ice, legs almost giving out beneath you. That’s all it was to him. Just fun. You felt sick, a cold wave of nausea rolling over you as your chest tightened, the weight of it making it hard to breathe. You had let yourself believe you meant something more to him, that this connection wasn’t ‘laid back.’

You swallowed hard, fighting the tears that were now almost on the verge of falling. “I can’t do this,” you said, voice barely steady, as you started grabbing your clothes from the floor, your fingers trembling. “I’m not just s-some girl.. I’m not a laid back girl.”

Max sighed, standing up and running a hand through his messy hair. “Y/N, come on, don’t do this,” he said, but there was no urgency in his voice. No real concern. Just a tired resignation, like he’d been through this before ample times and for once, you knew that he has.

Screw your heart for hoping for something better though. You slipped on your shoes, moving toward the door with legs that felt like they could give out at any second, nodding your head as you tried to make sense of what exactly was happening.

As your hand reached for the door handle, you heard him say your name. There was a slight panic in his voice now, but it was too late. You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t be the girl who stayed.

Without turning around, you stepped into the hallway, letting the door close behind you. But as soon as the elevator doors shut, trapping you inside, the sobs came. You pressed your back against the cool metal, sliding down to the floor as your legs gave out beneath you, the weight of it all crashing down at once. Your heart was shattered, your mind spinning as you tried to make sense of what had just happened. You had meant nothing to him. Nothing. It was just cruel of him to confirm it instead of comforting you.

Two days later, you stood in front of the mirror in your bathroom, the events of that night replaying in your mind on an endless loop.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You glanced down, seeing his name flash across the screen. Your heart skipped a beat, fingers trembling as you picked it up, the pain still fresh.

You good?

You worked in a haste after that, applying your makeup robotically, working off of muscle memory. till suddenly your handstopped. The lipstick suspended just above your lips. The question seemed so casual, so empty. After everything that had happened, all he could do was leave a text?

Your chest still ached, your eyes red from crying, but your hands were steady as you applied the deep red lipstick that had always drove him crazy. You stared at your reflection, the bright red color a sharp contrast to your pale, tear-stained skin. You felt hollow inside, but you were determined not to show it.

You took a deep breath, staring at yourself in the mirror, and then put the phone down without responding, finishing your lipstick with a steady hand. You didn’ have to text him back to let him know that you were coming over.

LEWIS HAMILTON

“and i try to be the chill girl, that holds her tongue and gives you space, i try to be the chill girl.”

The bathroom was colder than you expected, the chill from the tiles seeping into your skin as you leaned against the sink, your heart racing with anticipation. You gave your reflection a quick once-over, fixing your hair and adjusting the neckline of your dress.

You felt pretty, wanted, and the night felt like it could be perfect—the first real date with Lewis. It wasn’t some glamorous dinner, but he’d asked you out, and that was enough to send butterflies fluttering through your chest.

With one last deep breath, you stepped out of the bathroom and made your way back toward the bar. But as you approached, the sound of his voice- low, smooth, flirtatious- stopped you in your tracks. Your stomach twisted, the butterflies quickly turning into a knot of dread.

“I can’t believe someone like you is single,” Lewis said, his tone dripping with charm, the kind of charm that had reeled you in not so long ago.

Your steps flattered as your feet stopped moving, your heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. You moved closer, just enough to peek around the corner, and there he was. Your Lewis, leaning against the bar, his body angled toward a blonde woman sitting beside him. She was smiling, twirling her hair around her finger, her laughter light and flirtatious. And he wasn’t just letting her do it—he was engaging, smiling that same smile that used to make you feel special.

Your breath caught in your throat as you watched her lean in closer, her fingers brushing against his arm. He didn’t move away. He didn’t stop her. Instead, he laughed, that deep, charming laugh that you had fallen for, and replied to something that woman had said, “Maybe I just haven’t met the right girl yet.”

It made you want to throw up.

It was a punch to the gut. Your legs felt weak, your head pounding so hard you thought it might burst. You swallowed hard, trying to keep the emotions bubbling up inside you under control. Be cool, be chill. You weren’t going to make a scene. Not here, not now. You were supposed to be the girl who didn’t get jealous, who didn’t lose her cool.

But fuck, it was killing you inside. Lewis was killing you.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over, forcing a smile even though your entire body felt like it was on fire with hurt and jealousy. As you approached, Lewis glanced up and spotted you, his expression shifting for just a moment- was that guilt?- before the charm was back. “Hey,” he said, sliding his arm around your waist firmly, like nothing was wrong.

The blonde woman blinked in surprise, glancing between you and Lewis, clearly caught off guard. “Oh… I didn’t realize you were with someone,” she said, her voice uncertain now, her smile faltering.

Lewis smiled, a little too nonchalant for your liking. “This is Y/N,” he said, his hand still resting on your waist, burning into your skin through the clothes. “She’s just a friend.”

Your throat felt tight, the words hitting you like ice water. Just a friend. The knot in your stomach tightened painfully, but you forced a smile, trying to hold it together. You nodded at the woman, just to acknowledge her.

It was not her fault but fuck you hated her and how pretty she was. Of course, Lewis was picking her over you. You could feel your throat tightening, the sting of tears threatening to blur your vision, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him or her.

The bartender, who had been quietly pouring drinks nearby, glanced at you with a look that made you want to disappear. She looked uncomfortable, like she had just witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to. “Can I get you something?” she asked, clearing her throat, her voice a little awkward.

You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak. You needed to get away, to breathe, but you couldn’t move, your legs rooted to the spot as Lewis gave the blonde one last charming smile before turning back to you.

“You good?” he asked, his tone too casual, as if he hadn’t just flirted with someone else right in front of you. His arm tightened around your waist, and you felt like you were going to explode.

Your pulse quickened, blood rushing in your ears as your mind raced. You wanted to scream, to ask him how he could do this, but instead, you bit your tongue, forcing yourself to stay calm. You were supposed to be the chill girl. The one who didn’t make a scene.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper. The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything else.

The blonde, sensing the awkward tension, quickly excused herself, slipping away into the crowd. You watched her go, the hurt bubbling up inside you so fast it made you feel dizzy. You turned to face Lewis, your chest tight with the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

“Really?” you asked despite every nerve in your body begging you not to, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Just a friend?”

Lewis sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly not wanting to deal with this right now. “Come on, darling, don’t be like this,” he said, his tone light, dismissive, like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t a big deal.

Your heart twisted painfully, but you forced yourself to keep your voice calm. “You invited me out tonight. We were supposed to spend time together, and I come back and you’re flirting with someone else?”

He shrugged, his expression indifferent. “I was just being friendly. It’s not like we’re together or anything.”

Those words sent a sharp pain shooting through your chest, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You stared at him, your heart sinking, feeling like the floor had just dropped out from under you. Not together. The truth of it hit you like a slap to the face.

You swallowed hard, the sting of tears burning behind your eyes. “Then what are we doing, Lewis?” you asked, your voice small, almost pleading. “Because I’m not just here to be another girl you take out for fun.”

He sighed again, looking away like he was bored with the conversation already. “We’re having fun, Y/N. Why do you have to make it more complicated than that?”

Your heart broke a little more with every word, but you refused to cry. You refused to let him see how much this was hurting you. “I’m not asking for much,” you said, your voice cracking slightly. “I just… I thought maybe this was more than just casual.”

Lewis looked at you then, really looked at you, you expecting something- anything, love, affection, misery— hell just regret would’ve worked too. However, you got nothing but a dismissal. “I do like you, Y/N. But you know that I’m not looking for anything serious.”

The final nail in the coffin. Your breath caught in your throat, and you had to look away, your vision blurring as the tears finally threatened to spill over. You felt like you were crumbling from the inside out, but you couldn’t let him see that. You had to hold it together, at least until you were out of here.

“I see,” you whispered, nodding as you tried to swallow the pain, blinking rapidly.

Lewis reached for your hand, his touch warm but not comforting anymore. “Look, I’ll take you home if you want. Or… we can head back to mine. It’s up to you.”

Your heart stuttered, the decision hanging heavily between you. So that’s what today was about? He was giving you an out, a chance to walk away from this before it hurt even more. But deep down, you knew you weren’t ready to let go. You weren’t ready to walk away from the hope, no matter how small, that maybe, just maybe, things could change.

So you nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Your place sounds nice.”

The words felt like a betrayal to yourself, but you couldn’t take them back now. As Lewis led you toward the exit, you glanced back at the bartender, who watched you with a look that seemed to say I’m sorry. But you weren’t sure if she was sorry for what she’d witnessed, or for the fact that you were still walking out with him.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Because tonight, you had again chosen heartbreak over being alone.

CARLOS SAINZ

“i know what you tell your friends, baby, get me off again.”

As you sat on the edge of Carlos’ childhood bed, strapping on your heels, the warm glow of his family’s home lingered in your mind. The day had been a whirlwind of laughter and warmth, filled with his mother’s delicious cooking and moments that made you feel like you truly belonged. You felt hopeful, almost giddy as you shared dessert with his sisters, swapping stories and jokes.

It was a stretch, you knew but the smile wouldn’t get off of your face, imagining a future where you were part of this family.

But now, as you glanced at yourself in the mirror, the reflection staring back felt fragile. The soft makeup you had carefully applied that morning seemed like a mask, hiding the anxiety brewing inside. Your heart raced as you replayed the events of the evening—how comfortable it had been to be with them, how easy it was to laugh and connect.

Just as you finished adjusting your dress, you heard Carlos’ voice float down the hallway, mingled with his sister’s. You froze, your heart sinking as you listened intently.

“Did you really bring her here thinking it wasn’t serious?” his sister’s voice was sharp, filled with disbelief.

“Can you just drop it?” Carlos replied, his tone a mix of irritation and indifference. “It’s not like that with us.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat, a chill running down your spine. It’s not like that with us. The words echoed in your mind, slicing through the warm memories of the evening, leaving only the cold sting of reality.

“She’s so sweet, Carlos. You’re just going to let her think there’s something more?” his sister pressed, concern etched in her voice. You felt thankful, maybe not every single person in this family was heartless after all.

“Not that it concerns you but it’s casual,” he said dismissively. “We’re not together, so just… let it go.”

Your heart dropped at his words, the sound of laughter from earlier now feeling like a cruel joke. You had let yourself believe that maybe this was something real, that you meant more to him than just a passing fling. But hearing him brush off your feelings so easily made you feel sick.

Fueled by anger and hurt, you stood up, shaking off the numbness that threatened to overtake you. You walked down the hallway, heart pounding in your chest, determined to confront him.

As you stepped into the living room, the cheerful atmosphere felt suffocating, his sister was nowhere to be found, probably leaving after her brother’s disgustig actions. 

“Carlos!” you called, cutting through the silence like a knife. He turned, surprised, and you could see the tension in his shoulders as he faced you.

“Hey, ready to go?” he asked, his voice casual, but you could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes. He knew why you were looking at him in disbelief and he did not know why it made his heart hurt.

You took a deep breath, forcing the words out. “Is this really just casual for you?” Your voice wavered but held an edge of steel.

“You were listening to us?” His expression hardened slightly, reason untold but he didn’t lose his cool, shrugging off with indifference. “You know what I mean. We’re not serious, and you can’t expect me to change that.”

“Why not?” you shot back, feeling the heat rise in your chest. “I spent the entire day with your family, Carlos! I laughed, I connected—I felt like I was part of something. And you’e just shrugging it off like it’s nothing?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you pressed on, needing him to hear you. “You brought me here, made me feel welcomed, and then you act like I’m just some random fling. Do you even realize how that feels?”

Carlos’ eyes softened for a moment, but then he crossed his arms, a defensive gesture. “I didn’t mean for you to get the wrong idea. You know I like having you around.”

“Like?” The word slipped from your lips like a bitter pill, body shuddering. “Is that all it is to you? Just something you ‘like’?”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he replied, his voice steady but distant. This was not the carlos you fell for, this wasn’t your carlos or maybe you were just blind. “I’m not ready for something serious.”

You shook your head, frustration boiling over. “You’re not even trying, Carlos. You keep me at arm’s length and expect me to just accept that? You seriously need to figure out what you want.”

He stared at you, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you two. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he wrestled with your words.You knew now that you were wrong to think that he set up this family lunch to introduce you to the family. He was just a clueless asshole in denial of his feelings.

“Maybe I don’t want to figure it out,” he said finally, his voice low. “Maybe I just want to enjoy what we have without any pressure.”

You scoffed, the pain in your chest feeling like it might burst. “Enjoying something doesn’t mean it has to be casual! It feels like I’m just a placeholder for you, and that’s not fair!”

Carlos opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, he looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read—was it regret? Or was it the realization that you were right?

You stood there, heart pounding, waiting for him to say something, anything. The seconds stretched painfully, each tick of the clock echoing your unspoken feelings.

Finally, you broke the silence. “You know what? I deserve more than this half-hearted relationship. I’ve been here, waiting for you to reach half way while you hold back.”

His eyes softened further, and he stepped closer, but you held your ground. “Don’t. Just… don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I can’t keep doing this if you can’t even acknowledge what we have.”

With that, you slipped away from his reach, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You didn’t want to give in to the hurt, but it was too late.

As you walked out to the car, you felt the weight of his gaze on your back, and though you wanted to turn around, to see if he would follow you, you held firm. You had to reclaim your own heart, even if it meant letting go of the warmth that had just started to blossom.

Inside the car, you tried to steady your breath, the silence heavy and charged. You were tired of the uncertainty, tired of being treated like an option.

But as Carlos drove you both back to his apartment, you felt a flicker of something deep inside— a stubborn resolve to protect your heart, even if it meant walking away from him but the need to not let whatever you had of him leave.

So you kept your mouth shut, glad that he didn’t drive to your place to drop you off. That he was still taking you back to his. You deserved more, but maybe, just maybe, tomorrow.

CHARLES LECLERC

“knee deep in the passenger seat, and you're eating me out. is it casual now?”

The warm glow of the restaurant enveloped you as you sat across from Charles, the flickering candlelight casting playful shadows on his handsome face. You were supposed to be enjoying a nice dinner, but the tension crackling between you two had already shifted the mood.

It started innocently enough—Charles's playful banter and the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed made your heart race. But as the night wore on, it took a sharp turn when the waiter, a tall guy with an easy smile, casually slipped his number on a napkin and handed it to you. You could feel the weight of Charles’s gaze burn into you, his expression a mix of surprise and annoyance.

“Seriously?” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s that about?”

You rolled your eyes, a smirk dancing on your lips. “’s just a number, Charles. Chill out.”

But he wasn’t chilling out, far from it. “Yeah, right. Like you’d really call him,” he muttered, his voice tight. You could see the jealousy simmering beneath his cool exterior, and a part of you enjoyed it—a small thrill surged through you knowing he cared.

“Relax. It’s harmless,” you replied, but he cut you off, leaning in closer as he spoke over your explanation, his tone sharp. “It’s not harmless when he’s acting like you’re available.”

You took a sip of your drink, trying to mask your amusement. His jealousy was almost cute, and you couldn’t help the flutters all over your body, knowing you could get a reaction out of him. But the moment was fleeting, as he suddenly stood up and grabbed your hand, his grip firm but urgent.

“Let’s get out of here,” he declared, pulling you towards the exit before you could protest. The restaurant faded into the background as he led you outside, his body radiating heat and tension.

Once you reached the car, he didn’t waste a moment. He pushed you into the backseat, his lips crashing against yours with a desperate intensity. The world outside disappeared as you got lost in the way he kissed you, each movement igniting the familiar fire between you.

“Ruined my mood, baby,” he murmured against your lips, his breath hot and heavy. You could feel the pulse of adrenaline coursing through your veins, the thrill of being caught up in this reckless moment. “Make it up to me now.”

Your vigorous nods made him smirk. But just as you were losing yourself in the heat of it all, Charles shifted his focus. He slid down, his mouth trailing down your body, kissing a path along your thighs, a gasp leaving your lips. 

He made quick work of your clothes before spanking your poor clit, gathering the click. “So wet already, dirty girl.” You moaned softly, arching your back against the seat, your fingers tangling in his hair as he worked his magic.

Yet, amidst the bliss, a flicker of something gnawed at you. He was grumbling under his breath, murmuring words that didn’t quite register at first. “Hope he sees me in between your legs” he muttered, and your heart skipped a beat, a chuckle about to leave your lips.

Suddenly, our foot made contact with Charles- painfully hard- crotch over the clothes and he threw his head back. Nothing could ruin this moment, or so you thought because then you heard it… he name of another girl, whispered low and almost too soft to catch. “Ella…”

Your world shattered in an instant. All the pleasure, all the excitement, evaporated like steam on glass. The warmth that had enveloped you turned cold, leaving you in a frozen moment of realization. Your heart sank as a wave of betrayal washed over you, crashing down with a force that took your breath away.

The name echoed in your mind, each syllable twisting like a knife. All those moments spent in his arms, all the laughter and shared secrets, felt meaningless in the wake of those four letters. The joy you had felt moments ago was replaced with a deep, gnawing pain.

But instead of pushing him away, you took a deep breath, fighting against the urge to crumble. Don’t let it show. Just ignore it for your sake.

“Charles,” you said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You were still here, still caught up in this mess. “Focus on me, okay?”

He looked up, his expression hazy for a moment, the desire in his eyes flickering back to life as he nodded. You didn’t want to show him how much that name hurt. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten under your skin.

So you pushed the hurt aside, letting the pleasure wash over you again. You gripped his hair tighter, pulling him back to you, trying to ignore the bitterness in your throat. “Just… just forget about it,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

His lips returned to lips, and for a moment, the world around you faded away once more. You let him kiss you deeply, your heart racing with conflicting emotions. You were here, and he was here with you, and that had to count for something, right?

The tension still lingered, the reminder of ‘Ella,’ echoing in the back of your mind, but you buried it deep, clinging to the heat and the pleasure as if it could erase everything else. You were determined to enjoy this moment, even if it was tainted with uncertainty.

As he moved against you, the line between pleasure and pain blurred, and you surrendered to the chaos of it all. You could be casual, you could be carefree—even if it meant pretending everything was fine when deep down, you knew it was anything but.

LANDO NORRIS

“it’s hard being casual when my favorite bra lives in your dresser.”

The dim light from the early morning filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You lay in Lando’s bed, your head resting on the pillow just inches from his, his arm draped lazily over your body. His breathing was slow and steady, completely at peace. He was asleep, unbothered, while your heart raced, your mind spinning in a thousand directions.

You chose to stare up at the ceiling instead, feeling the emotional high from earlier fading away into something much darker. The night had been passionate, the kind of heat between you two that made you forget, for just a moment, that this wasn’t real. But now, as his warmth settled into the sheets, you were wide awake, the weight of reality crashing down on you.

This isn’t love. The thought hit you like a brick to the chest. The warmth of his arm around you, the way his body curled protectively against yours—it all felt so right, so intimate, but deep down, you knew better. This wasn’t love. This was just another night. For him.

You rolled away from him slowly, the ache in your chest growing unbearable as you slipped out from under his arm. The cool air of the room hit your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. You sat up, your legs dangling off the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, your hands trembling as you fought the urge to scream. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

You hated yourself for feeling used, for staying, even when you knew he didn’t feel the same. Every time you come back, you let yourself believe—just for a second—that maybe this time it would be different. Maybe this time, you would wake up in his arms, and he’d look at you with something more than lust in his eyes.

But that moment never came, it never wil…

Tears stung at the back of your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to cry over this again. You needed to leave. Before he woke up, before he could see the mess inside your head, before you made a fool of yourself once more.

As you quietly gathered your clothes, something caught your eye. There, hanging out of his open closet door, was your favorite bra—the black lace one you thought you’d lost weeks ago. Your chest tightened, a strange mix of relief and unease washing over you. You stepped closer, reaching for it, but as your fingers brushed the delicate fabric, you froze.

There was another bra in there. One that wasn’t yours. Kept in his personal space like a fucking trophy.

The jealousy hit you like a lightning strike, scorching its way through your veins. Your stomach churned, your head spinning with the sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. It wasn’t just the bra—it was everything. The confirmation that you weren’t the only one. That you were just another girl who left pieces of herself behind in his apartment.

Your hands shook as you stared at the unfamiliar piece of clothing, your mind racing with images of Lando, here in this bed, with someone else. All the nights you weren’t with him. All the mornings he woke up with her instead.

Why did you expect anything different? You knew what this was, didn’t you? You were supposed to be casual, nothing serious, just two people having fun. But seeing that other bra, knowing it didn’t belong to you- it shattered whatever illusion you had been holding onto.

Oh God.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you were scrambling back to the bed, desperate to be close to him again. You slid under the covers, pressing your body against his, your hand resting on his chest as if that could make everything feel okay. He stirred slightly, his arm instinctively pulling you back against him, his lips brushing your forehead in a sleepy kiss.

For a moment, you let yourself melt into his touch, pretending that you could belong here, that he could be yours.

But deep down, you knew the truth. You could only have him if you played the part—if you pretended to be okay with being casual. If you could be the girl who didn’t ask for more, who didn’t get jealous, who didn’t care if there was another bra in his closet.

As his breathing evened out again, you closed your eyes, willing yourself to believe that maybe this could be enough. That as long as you stayed, as long as you kept pretending, he could be yours. Even if it was only for moments like this.

Even if it was nothing more than a lie you told yourself.

Because being his- even in this twisted, half-real way- felt better than being without him.

And if playing the part of the dumb lover was the price you had to pay, you would. For as long as you could bear it.

( writing masterlist \ main masterlist \ drop a request ) ©maxtermind // do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platforms.

[branddiariesingurgaon]

Discover the best ways to analyze digital marketing data and extract valuable insights to enhance your marketing strategies. From utilizing analytics tools and setting up meaningful KPIs to interpreting data trends and conducting A/B testing, this guide offers effective techniques to help you make data-driven decisions and optimize your digital marketing efforts for success.

[coderrakib]

Unleash Your Agency's Marketing Potential with QuickFunnel 200 Agency License: Everything You Need to Know!

Introduction and Overview QuickFunnel 200 Agency is a marketing automation software designed specifically for marketing agencies. It allows agencies to create and manage marketing funnels, landing pages, and email campaigns for their clients. The software offers a range of features including funnel builder, A/B testing, analytics, email marketing, and integration with other popular marketing…

[benctech]

Why You Need Conversion Rate Optimization (CRO) Tools

Conversion Rate Optimization Tools will enable you to better understand your website's usability while seeking insights into customer behavior and enhancing your UX (user experience) design to achieve your goals.

[bubblegumgothglados]

OK so brats

They're actually really easy to control once you understand their motivation. And generally I split them up into three groups.

1. Attachment issues. Brats in this category need constant reassurance that you love them but often can't communicate that to you. So they seek this reassurance by breaking rules to test if you care about them enough to put them in their place. It's not a game and it should be taken seriously. If you're consistent with your rules they will eventually learn that they are loved and will stop intentionally breaking rules. If you've ever parented a 2-4yo you know what I mean.

2. Masochists. These brats, some way or another, have learnt that the best way to get their dom to hurt them is by acting out. You can control these brats by: a) internalising that punishments aren't good tools for training. b) using pain as a reward. c) reassuring them that there's nothing wrong with wanting pain and rewarding them when they use their words.

3. Fucking Brats. These brats just enjoy fighting, they want you to fight back and they want to loose. You can control these brats by refusing to engage or by communicating to them that this is not the time and you don't want to fight right now. You can train the brat out of them by using disappointment but honestly if you don't also enjoy the fight then you probably shouldn't be playing with this type of brat.

Secret 4th option. Obedient submissives who just like to banter and have been labeled brats by people who have never experienced an actual brat.

And remember; if your brat is winning then change the game

[jinjeriffic]

DCxDP Prophecy Universe Part 2

Part 1

Damian glared at the envelope. He and Father were in the process of analysing the letter for any signs of toxins, explosives or other traps. Obviously he wasn’t fool enough to open a missive from a questionable source without taking precautions. So far, all their scans had come up empty. Literally. The letter was defying all their attempts at chemical or spectroscopic testing, x-ray and magnetic resonance scans were inconclusive, it defied all properties of ordinary matter. It was frustrating. It was vexing. He was blaming magic.

For all intents and purposes, the letter looked like ordinary paper, with an ordinary wax seal, bearing the initials CW. The looping handwriting addressing it to Damian was precise and neat. Swiping the surface of the letter for chemical traces yielded no results. When Damian had tried to cut off a corner of the paper for analysis it had resisted all attempts, including a laser and a diamond headed cutting tool. Damian’s only satisfaction was that when Father had grunted and taken over the task from Damian, he had no more success than his son. As if Damian didn’t know how to perform the standard array of tests!

It certainly didn’t help that his siblings wouldn’t stop their incessant chattering!

“I’m just saying, ghosts wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve encountered, Red. I’m not sure it would even make my personal Top 5.”

It seemed gossip among heroes travelled faster than the speed of light.

“Really, Nightwing? Ghosts? It’s far more likely to be a meta with something to hide. Or a few screws loose.” Damian could practically hear the eyeroll in Drake’s voice “And since when do ghosts act as glorified mailmen?”

“I don’t know Red, since when do aliens pretend to be Kansas farmboys? C’mon, we deal with magic users all the time!”

“And lets not forget people coming back from the dead” Red Hood interjected over the open comm line.

“Magic is just science we don’t understand yet. Any sufficiently analysed magic becomes indistinguishable from science!”

“B, a little help here?”

“Hn” Father straightened up from his position at the lab table “Oracle, any progress on clearing up the footage from Robin’s mask?”

Grayson threw up his hands with a frustrated huff while Drake smirked.

“The program is almost finished rendering. Whatever scrambler they used did a real number on the video quality. I’m surprised the audio is as clear as it is.” Oracle replied.

“Hn. And the isotope tracer on the money?”

“Sorry B, no hits on the local sensors. Wherever the guy went it’s either outside Gotham or shielded somehow.” she said, mildly frustrated.

“Maybe it’s ghost magiiiiic” Drake sing-songed. Grayson lightly cuffed the back of his head, to which the former Robin responded with a firm shove. Their interaction quickly devolved into a childish tussle.

Damian gave an annoyed huff. “Don’t you two imbeciles have anything better to do?”

“Aww, we’re just here to look out for our baby brother!” Nightwing teased.

“Yeah, we gotta make sure your ghost encounter didn’t leave any lasting psychological damage!” Red Robin added.

Before Damian could retaliate for their needling, Oracle chimed in. “Uh, guys? You’re going to want to see this. Most of the footage was corrupted beyond repair, but I was able to pull some partial stills and, well…” she threw a handful of pictures up on the screen. There was artifacting marring them, but parts of the stranger were visible in each of them. Oracle magnified one that had a pretty good view of his face.

“Holy shit” Drake whispered.

Damian frowned. “What?”

“Dami, he looks like you. Just… older.” Grayson said softly.

“What are you talking about?” Damian snapped.

“Disregard the pale colouring for a second. The nose, the chin… he looks like you if you had a growth spurt,” Drake wrinkled his nose “and went through puberty.”

The commlines erupted into chaos. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Spoiler exclaimed “are you telling me there’s an older version of Robin running around Gotham?!”

“Copy?” Batgirl inquired.

“Don’t tell me Talia cooked up Demon Brat 2.0!”

“Given that he looks older it’s more likely version 0.1 if anything,” Drake snarked, “though there’s the possibility of artificially accelerated growth rates…”

Damian had had enough. “Tt. You are ignoring the obvious - if this is some kind of supernatural entity it likely copied aspects of my appearance in an attempt to engender feelings of familiarity.” he said haughtily, pushing down the uncomfortable churning in his stomach. There was no way Mother would replace him with a cheap copy. She couldn’t! “Besides, the creature has obvious powers and neither of my bloodlines has any trace of the meta gene.”

“That’s ignoring the ghostly elephant in the room.” Grayson chimed in, “Maybe it’s a dead ancestor?”

Drake gave their older brother an annoyed look “Even a time travelling descendant from the future is more likely than that. And delivering a ‘prophecy’ to boot?”

Oracle pulled up an aged up picture of Damian next to the stranger’s, highlighting several reference points. “On closer inspection, there’s a couple of discrepancies. The cheekbones for one - Robin definitely takes after his mother, while our mystery meta looks more like… well… Robin’s grandmother on the paternal side.” she finished hesitantly. “B?”

They turned to look at Batman, who had remained silent during the whole exchange. If they hadn’t known him so well they would have thought him unaffected, but the tightening around his mouth betrayed his agitation.

“There’s no use in pointless speculation until we have more data to work from,” he growled, “Oracle, look for any reports of a meta matching the target. Since our regular methods have failed to yield results, I will contact the JLD about running tests on the letter.” He turned to Drake, “Red Robin, see what you can find on recent League activities. If this is another scheme by Ra’s or Talia we need to know about it.”

“The last thing we need is more demon spawn running around!” Red Hood groaned over the comms.

Damian was furious. This was absurd! To even indulge the possibility that that creature was in any way related to him was making him feel like he had swallowed battery acid. He was the Demon’s Heir! He was not replaceable! There was only one thing to do.

“Robin? Stop!”

He ignored his Father’s shout. He stomped over to the lab table, snatched up the envelope and broke the seal.

Nothing happened.

He unfolded the paper and saw the same handwriting that had been on the outside.

Brother of blood, brother of soul

Never buried but already mourned

In lightning and ice the scorned child returned

To strike down the Demon’s Head

With all that Death earned

Damian’s hand shook. He reread the lines over and over again, refusing to comprehend. He could feel his Father standing behind him, scrutinising the letter as well.

“Son…”

Suddenly, the paper burst into green flames, going up into smoke that dissipated unnaturally quickly.

Silence reigned for a few moments. Then…

“Well that was needlessly melodramatic” Nightwing remarked.

Part 3

[in-app-messages]

How to Turn App Visitors into Subscribers

Using an app as a marketing tool is one of the best ways to gain traction in today’s digital economy. Through an app, your brand can take advantage of always-on push messaging, and you can also use your app to turn visitors into subscribers.

The way to do this varies from brand to brand, but by and large, you want to use your app to create an ecosystem through which consumers interact with your business. Your app is the hook that draws consumers into this ecosystem, and through your app and its features, you create a reason for consumers to subscribe to notifications and updates, email newsletters, and other forms of communication. In turn, these conversions present opportunities to gain more business.

Supporting Your App Through Messaging

You can also bolster your efforts by using messaging for media. Using MMS messaging in conjunction with your app, you have greater opportunities to provide interactive content. Messaging for media utilizes the power of pictures and video to convey concepts, and media messaging is also great for supporting the branding ecosystem your company is trying to create.

If you use MMS messaging to support your app, keep file sizes at the front of your mind. You don’t want to try to send large picture and video files since these can take longer to go through. Depending on a user’s wireless carrier, some large files may not go through at all.

Present Engagement Opportunities

Your app also needs to present engagement opportunities. App users should not feel like using your brand’s app is a one-way street. Consider setting up some type of live chat function to allow for instant communication if a user has questions or comments about a product or service your company provides. You can also consider using a programmed AI chatbot to answer questions 24 hours a day.

The goal is to keep users engaged with your app instead of treating it like an afterthought. You also want to give users a reason to share your app or their experiences with it, so you get more downloads. As your app spreads, so do the opportunities for converting users into subscribers.

Read a similar article about bulk MMS here at this page.

[plutoswritingplanet]

Vicarious (Homelander x Female!Reader) pt.1

a/n: guys... you can't tell me y'all weren't expecting this. Title from the song "Vicarious" by Tool. Really wanted this to be a one shot, but as usual, I have shit to say. Will be Cross-Posted on AO3 as soon as they open the site back up.

Warnings: Nothing Explicit YET, some sexist remarks and creepy behavior from the man of the hour, Questionable Corporate Ethics, Set Before The Events Of The Show, Reader is written to be Plus Size.

Summary: Sidekick projects have been scraped completely after numerous accidents, but as a viral video of your hero work makes rounds through the public, you're forced to take part in a six moths program, that will forever change your life, as well as Homelander's

PT.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

It all started with a video. An insignificant, minute-long nothing posted to TikTok by an account, that up until then, made short edits specifically of A-Train and some B-list no-name hero. Quickly, it gained traction, making rounds throughout the app, bleeding over to other services, all the way to national television. First, an independent local station, soon picked up by a Vaught-affiliated one. Normally, that's where it would've stayed. Stillwell would extend an offer of a chance at an interview, alongside one of the Seven. But for some unknown reason, that small piece of nothing climbed all the way up to the floor eighty-two of Vaught Tower.

Well, to be quite honest, Stillwell knew exactly why she was in this situation. After a very messy graduation speech at a small college, Homelander lost almost twenty points with a young adult demographic. It would've been an easy fix, if not for the delicate nature of the breached subject, and Madelyn knew, this sudden interest in a nobody from nowhere, who, coincidentally, fit the demographic perfectly, was anything but a happy accident. It was a test, both for Homelander, and for her.

Which is why, Madelyn Stillwell and Homelander, the Homelander, the most American supe to ever exist, are cooped up in your living room, glancing about the modest decor, as you pour iced tea into three glasses with tacky fruit print all over them.

You've refused every single invitation, every single Vaught representative that knocked on your door. Your inbox was flooded with emails, your phone number was blowing up two, three times a day. And yet, your answer remained the same. You were not interested in a collaboration, thank you for the opportunity, please leave me alone.

That wouldn't fly, not with Madelyn, who, pushed by the constant nagging from the upper levels of the Tower, decided a more direct approach was the right one. So, she dragged herself into this… Well, to be quite honest, bum-fuck-nowhere, and brought her star pupil with her. No one would refuse working with Homelander himself, after all. At least that's what they both thought.

-I appreciate the effort - there's a practiced, borderline bored intonation in your voice, and Homelander's hands flex on his thighs - But I've already talked with, um, Jerry? From HR? The answer is still no.

Your house is small, but cozy, with sunshine pouring through the windows, reflecting onto the beaded curtain hanging in the doorway to your kitchen. An artist's home, through and through. Homelander hates it, hates the ordinariness of it all. He was so much above all this, sitting on your worn down couch physically hurt him. And the smell. The smell was the worst part. Reheated lasagna, mixing with a lingering aftertaste of cigarette smoke, and an undercurrent of weed, that almost made him retch. If it weren't for that damned video, you would be nothing more, than another brainless ant under his boot.

-Well, we - Madelyn offers her best, brilliant smile, gesturing to herself and Homelander - are very passionate about discovering new talent.

Your mouth twitches into a knowing smile, and for just a second Homelander feels flames of intrigue rising in his chest. Not for long, though, because you recline back into an armchair, taking a sip of the iced tea, and his eyes flash to the way your throat moves as you swallow. You could be hot, he concludes. Young, and with a truly spectacular rack. But there was something off about you, like you were constantly on the verge of dying from boredom, some invisible weight always on your shoulders. No amount of fake smiles and high-end makeup could cover that up.

He'd fuck you. If you'd beg him.

-We want to offer you a new, revised contract - Stillwell extends her hand with a rather thick binder of papers, and you hesitate for a moment, before reaching over. - Hopefully, it will make you reconsider.

You don't even show them the decency of looking through it, placing it on the table instead, and Homelander feels an itch form itself in the corners of his eyes. Stillwell looks taken aback as well, her brilliant smile faltering for just a second. You on the other hand, take another sip of your drink, before placing it right in the middle of the contract, the moisture from the ice creating a wet circle in the paper.

Your heartbeat is even, it doesn't pick up even a smidgen, when you look between Stillwell and America's Greatest Hero, who is slowly but surely growing annoyed by your persistent indifference.

-Thank you, but I already said no - you repeat, and this time, Homelander shifts on the couch.

-And why not? - he asks, tension entering his voice in a way, that makes Madelyn squirm - Countless supes, with much more impressing powers than you, I might add, would kill to be in your place.

"To work with me" goes unsaid, but he can see in your eyes, you read it from thin air of superiority engulfing him. Annoyingly perceptive. You nod your head slowly, before turning away from them, looking out of the window of your living room. There's a small patch of grass, and a second house, so similar to yours, but at the same time, completely different. Your chin sticks out in its direction, and Homelander follows with his eyes.

There are paper butterflies stuck to the windows, cut out clumsily, most likely by children's hands.

-My neighbour, Missus Johnson - you explain - She lives there, with her three kids. Her husband died in a fire caused by your friend, Lamp Lighter.

Madelyn stills, Homelander raises an eyebrow.

-I can afford this house, only because my mother signed an NDA, after The Deep sank my father's fishing boat. - again, your heart stays completely unaffected - Accidentally, of course.

-I was not aware… - Madelyn starts, and it's hard to decipher whether she's talking to you, or Homelander.

Someone at the research department is going to have a very unpleasant evening.

-That's alright - you interrupt her with a raised hand and a small smile - This whole neighborhood is filled with similar cases. And I'm very, very attached to this place.

Why, Homelander couldn't tell. For all he knew, this was some shit hole, right in the suburbs outside New York. Not even the half decent ones. A forgotten by everyone, dying piece of land, that housed insignificant humans, who would never amount to anything, you included. He lived in a lavish apartment, inside a miracle of modern architecture. Who wouldn't want the same?

-And - there's something new entering your tone of voice - If I'm going to betray everything I stand for, I need to give something back to those people. Does your contract reflect that?

Madelyn bites the inside of her cheek, her scrutinizing gaze making your skin itch. Still, she sighs after a moment, excusing herself with that same, practiced expression she uses on every shareholder. Homelander follows her out, nodding his goodbye to you, but before he can leave this dump, Madelyn stops him with a hand pressed against his chest. She gives him one look, makes him aware that his job isn't over, and he can feel the muscles of his face twitch.

So, obediently, he lingers in your doorway, taking a few calming breaths, before facing you once more.

You've changed positions, your armchair abandoned in favor of sitting by the window, one leg bent in a way, that shows quite a nice view of your calf, your long skirt pooling around you. Homelander's eyes trail up with mild interest, and he indulges in his X-ray vision. He's just being curious, nothing more.

Your underwear is, well, for the lack of a better word, plain. The bra seems to be slightly ill fitted, digging into the sides of your breasts, making them almost spill from under your pits, and Homelander swallows thickly at the sight. There are little, pink hearts on your panties. The colors are dull and washed out from frequent use, and the once frilly lace is starting to fray at the edges.

Apparently Vaught's compensation was not sufficient for you to buy some decent undergarments.

-Do you want something to eat? Drink? - you ask from your place by the window, and Homelander is snatched back to reality - Do you even need food?

The bluntness of the question startles him, makes him feel defensive, but Madelyn wanted results, so he puts on a mask of his trained smile, and crosses the room. Back straight like an arrow, he looks wildly out of place between all the linens and cushions. He doesn't look at you, trapping your smaller form in the confinement of the window, as he watches over the neighboring house.

-I'm not hungry - he shoots down your offer with a wave of his hand - I've already eaten.

A lie, but he'd never stoop low enough to take any leftovers, especially from you. Still, the offer seems nice. He does like being pampered, even if it's with lackluster things. Your eyes linger on his boyish smile, another practiced thing, and Homelander shifts focus to your heartbeat once again.

-Alright then - your voice sounds indifferent as ever - Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to make some dinner for myself.

He offers a small nod, and watches you from his position by the window, as you slip past him. It does require quite a lot of manoeuvering, but you manage to stand without touching him. He has to admit, watching you balance, as you try to avoid him, was amusing. Still, your heart beats calmly, and, not wanting to be left on his own, Homelander follows you to your kitchen. The beads of the courtain drum delicately over the bronze eagles on his shoulders.

The fridge is buzzing something awful. He can see just how run down the inside mechanism is, the hinges squeaking unbearably, as you reach for a box of reheatable spaghetti. There's cheep beer inside, a moldy lemon, a carton of milk pretty close to expiring, and a half-used bottle of spicy ketchup. Homelander doesn't even recognize these brands, they're not sponsored by Vaught, that's for sure.

Cheap, tasteless, basically offering no nutritional value.

-Would you step back for a second? - he asks, already wrenching himself between you and that pathetic excuse of a meal.

Again, your body sways to avoid touching him, and for some unknown reason, he finds it very amusing.

Then, you watch with a raised eyebrow, as he turns towards your spaghetti, a red sheen overtaking his eyes. An unbearably hot beam shoots out, making the insides of the plastic packaging sizzle. Finally, that gets him a reaction, as you gasp and reel back, colliding with the barely functional fridge. Your heart does a flip inside your chest, and Homelander soaks up your shock like a man starved.

Only when the red fizzles out of his gaze do you dare to move, approaching him slowly, your eyes bearing into him in a way that is frankly uncomfortable.

He turns to you with another one of his charming smiles, trying to handle this sudden scrutiny in as flippant a way as possible.

-I had no idea you can control the intensity of your lazer - you admit, voice slightly breathless.

-Pretty neat, huh? - perhaps he's fishing for more attention, but he doesn't care, because your eyes light up for just a moment in sheer wonder.

-Super cool, actually.

Yeah. Yeah, that's fucking right, he is super cool. And your heart is beating so much faster, and finally you're looking at him as if he's more than just some guy, some living advertisement you're determined to ignore.

And then your eyes shift, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, as you zero in on his shoulder. Something akin to a wave of amusement flickers across your expression, and to his general surprise, Homelander wants to know what's the cause of this shift. Your lips pull back into a smile, teeth peaking at him in all their glory. He can almost imagine them running down his skin, before he pushes the thought back all together, as the lower portion of his suit becomes slightly too tight for comfort.

-Well, thank you for saving the spaghetti - your eyes hold a spark of amusement - My hero.

Okay, alright, he's hard. There's no point denying it. However annoying and insignificant you were moments before, your quip goes straight to his loins, burning enough, for him to consider just how mad Stillwell would be, if he'd have a taste of this newly discovered talent.

If he stands any closer to you, he might find out, because this special little moment you two have shared, is crudely interrupted by Madelyn clearing her throat. Homelander nearly jumps back, you however barely turn your head, reaching for your spaghetti and arming yourself with a fork.

-I've spoken to my supervisor - Stillwell announces, clearly peeved by the way you start chewing on the noodles - A new version of the contract will be emailed to you as soon as possible. Hopefully it will be satisfactory.

-Thank you, Miss Stillwell - you answer with an inclination of your head.

With that, Madelyn nods her goodbye at you, refusing to shake your hand, which does amuse you, you're not going to lie. Homelander however, goes all out, capturing your fork-weilding arm, his fingers sneaking around your wrist like a bracelet. Or a shackle. Then, you watch with a confused arch to your eyebrows, as he brings you closer, until his lips press onto the protruding knuckles. Now that, admittedly, gets your heart going. You were not an easily embarrassed person, not by a long shot, but you could feel blood rushing towards your face all the same.

He has to hold his breath, as he kisses your hand in that charming, gentleman way he's seen in old movies. The smell of pasteurized tomato sauce blows in his direction, like a direct assault on his senses. Still, he needed something that would make you swoon. If everything failed, he knew how to be intimidating, but for now, perhaps he wanted to try something different. Something that would yield much more pleasant results, for the both of you. Mostly for him, let's be honest.

Madelyn asks him to stay back, spy on you throughout the night, and he begrudgingly agrees, if only to mask the fact, that he would do so of his own volition, had she not brought it up. And as such, he floats into the rapidly cooling air, disappearing into the darkening sky, where you wouldn't be able to see him even if you tried. He could see you however, and hear you, and he was about to make the most of the situation.

He spends the whole evening just watching you exist within your space. Normally, it would piss him off beyond belief. You weren't doing anything scandalous, anything that could warrant his attention. And yet, as he floats on, in time lowering himself just slightly, to get a better view, he just can't seem to look away. The spaghetti is gone in approximately fifteen minutes, as you inhale the supermarket food, walking around the living room, the kitchen, getting a few bites on the porch even. You seem so utterly unfazed by the events of the past hour, like you haven't just had America's Greatest Superhero try to convince you to work with him. It's honestly insulting, this lack of reaction.

Then, finally, he can hear a distinct ping of a new email come from your laptop, and you sit down on the couch with a small huff. Your eyes move, your lips twitch, and then he hears your heart stop in your chest. As if working on autopilot, your hand travels up, covers your mouth in shock, and you lean back against the worn-down sofa, eyes glued to the screen illuminating your face in a blue-ish light.

-...fuck… - you whisper, and despite himself Homelander floats even closer to your window.

Finally, he has the chance to peak over the curtain. To sneak into the backstage of the award winning production of your defenses, and see what goes on in those bored eyes of yours, when they're not guarded. And what he sees makes his suit feel much too tight, his body too warm. Quite an unusual thing to get so worked up about, but he's the goddamned Homelander, he can get hard whenever he fucking wants. And so, as saliva gathers on his tongue, he presses himself against the tiles on your roof, all the warmth of the day soaking into his skin through the thick material of his suit.

With a shaky hand you reach over towards your phone, putting in a number and pressing the call button, before standing straight from the couch, almost knocking the laptop over.

-Hey, what's up? - someone says on the other end of the line, and Homelander tries to focus more on the words flowing from the receiver.

-Oh, you gotta sit down for that one - you warn with an anxious chuckle, taking the familiar place by the window.

With your free hand you reach up to open the window all the way. Then, Homelander sees your fingers slip between the pillows and pull out a rather beaten up pack of cigarettes.

Naughty, naughty, he thinks, watching you produce a lighter from that same hiding place.

-Alright, I'm sat like never before.

The voice sounds vaguely female, although the shitty quality of your phone makes it hard to decipher. Your lips pull back into a toothy grin, and you blow out the smoke through the window. It curls upwards and dissipates into the air, right above the roof, where Homelander swallows thickly around a coughing fit.

-You will not believe who visited me today…

-The ICE - the voice deadpans, and you snort around another huff of smoke.

-Pretty fucking close, let me tell you - he doesn't appreciate the joke, not at all - Fucking Homelander.

The line goes completely quiet for a moment, and with every second your grin seems to be growing.

-Deadass?

-Yup - your lips purse, and Homelander zeroes in on the expression - Flew in all Star's Spangled Glory with some Vaught big fish. They tried to convince me to join the Seven.

-And obviously you said yes, because what the fuck else do you do in that situation?

Your grin slowly fades away, and you lean your forehead on the window frame.

-You didn't?

-I didn't.

Again, it's quiet.

Homelander shifts a bit in his position, adjusting against the warmed up tiles of the roof, his X-ray vision bearing into you. Out of curiosity, he looks deeper, eyes floating over your insides. You're relatively healthy. Some vitamin deficiencies, but nothing too serious. And despite that nasty habit lodged between your fingers, your lungs are clear, at least for now. There's a softness to your body, your muscles barely visible, as if you're just another gray human. Oh, and there's a bit of an eyesight problem forming, not enough to warrant glasses, but that shouldn't take long, considering your lifestyle.

-The contract they gave me was really good, you know - you muse to the phone, your leg dangling from the windowsill - Six months of working under Homelander, a Sidekick kinda situation.

-I thought they scraped the Sidekick program - the person on the other side wonders - Too many casualties or something.

-Yeah, well I guess they want to bring it back.

-Why did you say no then? I'm sure they pay is gigantic.

Again, you smile. This one much more reserved, bordering on sad. There's that strange kind of exhaustion settling into your bones again, same one Homelander noticed when he first saw you. Your shoulders slump forward, and you curl into yourself between the cushions.

-It was, it was… - you mutter - But I needed something more, for the neighborhood, ya know?

Your caller hums softly in understanding, and Homelander feels like something is passing him by. Some unspoken fact, that you and your friend find obvious.

-And - you hesitate, eyes flickering towards the laptop, your heart beat picking up ever so slightly - They sent me a revised contract. And it's fucking good. Really fucking good. It could help this entire place get back on its feet.

-But you still don't want to - the voice says for you, without judgement.

-No - you sigh - I really, really don't.

-Say no then - your friend supplies, and once again Homelander feels a flame of annoyance start to burn within him - No one else knows about the contract, there will be no expectations.

Slowly, you nod your head, clearly relieved by the way your friend reacted to the news. Homelander however, caught you right where he needed you. That's your lever. Not seduction, not intimidation, just plain, stupidly human guilt.

-Thank you - you whisper into your phone, finally smiling again - Oh, wanna know one more thing?

-Obviously.

-Homelander's wearing a padded suit.

Something's stuck in his throat, as he reels back from his position. Before he can stop himself, his eyes begin to glow red, because how the fuck did you know?

-Okay, that's bullshit.

-Unless his shoulder dislocated in the middle of talking, then no, it's definitely not bullshit.

Your friend gives out a choked laugh, one which you mirror with your own. If Homelander wasn't so utterly flabbergasted by your (correct) observation, he would've stopped to appreciate the sound. As it stands, however, he pushes himself off your roof, a couple of broken pieces falling off of the tiles. And then he's up in the air, cutting through the winds, headed straight for the Tower, leaving you in the comfort of your insignificant, smelly home.

The contract is leaked before the sun is up.

You're awoken to thousands of news articles flooding your timeline, all listing the truly wonderful and selfless points in the fated email. With a white face, you read them all, the speculations, the theories, the angry comments about you being chosen without an actual casting, while all those up and coming supes are busting their asses in auditions.

Soon enough, you're visited by every neighbour possible, congratulating, thanking you. A barbecue is set in the street, as a way of celebration, and you want to throw your phone, and subsequently yourself into the nearest river.

Madelyn Stillwell sends you an email, scheduling a meeting at the Vaught Tower. No need for pleasantries at this point, you stare at the bare bones invitation. "We eagerly await the start of our partnership" looks back at you, mocking your resolve. And thus, the end of your life as you know it begins.

"Project Delinquent"

The words are printed in an ugly, corporate font, and they stare back at you, outlining the mold you're supposed to fit in, in such a perfect way, it actually, almost makes you retch. True, during high school you were quite the little rebel, but people grown and learn, and seeing your character be watered down to that simple word, does send a wave of nausea through your insides. Even if this is hell of your own making, even if you're ready to swallow it all down with a smile, there's a pang of humiliation stinging your heart.

The armchair in Stillwell's office is uncomfortably narrow. It barely has enough room to accommodate your hips, and you wonder if this design is intentional. There is a growing ache in your calves, as you sit so close to the edge, you can't fully relax into your position, balancing on your feet instead. The armrests dig into your sides, and the way the sun is shining through the gigantic windows of the office, is shaping this charade of a meeting into an overstimulating nightmare. Still, you endure. For all the wonderful benefits enclosed in your contract, the charity work Vaught is going to supply.

Or at least, that's what you keep telling yourself, stuck between the marketing department representatives and a literal Devil of a woman.

Madelyn Stillwell doesn't know what to make out of you. Your files were filled with all sorts of questionable activity, especially around the college area. It's honestly a miracle you've managed to get your degree, and attend all those silly little demonstrations at the same time. Your criminal record has been wiped clean, weeks before you even agreed to sign the contract, just in case any leaks would find their way into the media. Leaks that were not orchestrated by Madelyn, of course.

High school rebellion was almost too easily marketable, Madelyn decided to focus on that part of your life as much as possible, her vision slowly coming to fruition. All she needed, really, was cooperation. And while you seemed to be mostly receptive to her ideas, she needed to make sure Homelander was on his best behavior. Which, well… Could go sideways in the worst way imaginable, but Stillwell tried to have some faith in her best superhero.

The idea of releasing details of your contract to the public, was a stroke of genius, she did not expect from Homelander, and she made sure he was thoroughly rewarded. With him, it was always better to choose the hands-on approach, unfortunately. With you, however, ideals were the key. Whatever feeling of solidarity you harbored towards your neighborhood, provided a leverage relatively easy to control. Still, as Stillwell looked you over, crammed into her office in your, frankly, lousy attire, she couldn't help but be just a tad worried about your compliance.

-…And then - the marketer continues with a dramatic gasp - Homelander comes in. America's Greatest Hero, offers you a mentorship. And you…

You look up at the representative with a rather sour expression. They have to work on that too. Media training was crucial. You won't be able to sell anything, if you keep grimacing like that all the damned day.

-… Are starstruck - your mouth twitches - You strike up a deal, selfless. A rebel with a heart of gold. Finally, you can make some real change happen, so you push aside your anti-corporate values, to discover, that Vaught is so much more, than you could possibly imagine.

It's hard not to laugh, and you swallow thickly, biting your lip, as a middle-aged woman you don't recognize gets up from the couch, and makes her way to the wall opposite of your torture chair. There, tucked in a corner and hidden under a black cloth, stands a mannequin, roughly your size. With a flourish you find utterly out of place, the woman tugs at the cape, and as it falls to the floor, so does your stomach. You can't hold it in any longer. A rough snort of laughter rips out of your nose, and you cover your mouth instantly.

-That better be a laugh of delight - Ashley, a ginger menace, mutters under her breath, and Stillwell turns to you with a tight expression on her face.

-Something the matter?

-I mean - you take a deep, grounding breath, tying your amusement in the back of your throat - I knew it's going to be skimpy, but this is…

You look around the room, seeing various stages of corporate outrage, and then you lock eyes with Homelander. Stillwell insisted on his participation in the meeting, as the both of you are supposed to work closely together, and throughout the whole ordeal, he looked borderline ready to die of boredom. Now, however, his eyebrows lift in a curious manner, as he takes in the, to be completely honest, horrendous costume, and your full figure. Something dangerously close to disgust twists your features, as he shamelessly drags his eyes all over your body.

Who would've thought America's Sweetheart was a fucking creep?

Rolling your eyes, you get up from the cursed armchair, your knees cracking loudly. Crossing the room, you take a closer look at the clothing, or rather, lack there of. Torn fishnets, plaid tennis skirt, and a corset top, made out of some leather-like material. Truly, a fetishists wet dream. Your fingers sample the fabric of the skirt. Surprisingly stiff, it seems to beg for a wardrobe malfunction. With a frown pulling down your lips, you lift the material up, and as expected, find no safety shorts underneath.

Homelander watches you intently, as you inspect the costume. Just the thought of your soft body in this skimpy, corporate bastardization of a rock star, makes heat rise in the lower part of his stomach. With every disapproving pull of your, and don't quote him on that, perfect lips, he's more and more convinced this whole charade is just an early birthday present. He'll have to thank Stillwell. Or better not, because as soon as he throws her a sidelong glance, he discovers, she's already looking at him. With a rather tense expression at that.

He feigns innocence, almost raises his hands in mock defeat, but decides against it at the last second. You're still watching him, torn between inspecting the costume, and shooting disgruntled looks in his direction.

Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, your hand sneaks to the front of the corset, fingers closing over the full cup, where your breast will soon reside. You give the mock leather two squeezes, and a high-pitched laugh wheezes out of your lips. Homelander's head nearly snaps with how fast he turns to look at Stillwell, confusion clear on his face.

She's looking at you cautiously. He knows that expression all too well, he's seen it multiple times during their partnership. She's calculating, with bated breath, just how much of a problem you'll inevitably become. How to turn it around in the company's favor, how to steer you in the right direction, should the need arise.

But then, you clap your hands, still giggling quietly, and turn to the designer, who's been watching your reaction with a growing distaste.

-That's one hell of a push-up bra - you comment with a raised eyebrow - My tits will fly straight out of this, if I even think about moving my arms.

Now, that's something Homelander would love to see, and you note his leering face with an uncomfortable shift in your posture.

-Your physique has to be god-like. There's no shame in a little padding - the designer answers simply, and your eyes glimmer with amusement.

-Oh, I bet - your eyes float for just a second in Homelander's direction, and he wonders if lasering you down right now would be too harsh of a reaction.

The image had to be kept up, however, and he deflects your blatant provocation with a bright smile. Or rather, it would've been a bright smile, if his cheek didn't twitch in a way, that portrayed exactly how forced his pleasantries are.

-There will be a press conference, seven PM sharp, where you'll be introduced to the public - Ashley informs you, her eyes glued to her tablet - Homelander will give a welcoming speech, explain that you're a temporary member of The Seven. Then, you'll need to say a couple of words. We'll send you the talking points ASAP.

-Right… - you mutter, not particularly thrilled by the idea of public speaking.

Stillwell looks over her shoulder towards Homelander, giving him an expectant, raised eyebrow. Slowly, he moves from his spot by the window, hand extended in a greeting, teeth flashing in a smile. Your eyes involuntarily shift towards his rather sharp canines, and for the first time, since you've signed the contract, you truly feel uneasy. His eyes are almost unnaturally blue, a perfect, American shade, that glimmers just a tad too dangerously. There's no need for super senses, he can feel your nerves in the very air you breathe.

-Welcome to The Seven - his voice is smoother than you've ever heard before - Fireball.

Wait a god-damned minute.

Confusion covers all previous feelings, and to Homelander's growing annoyance, you leave him with his hand extended, in favor of turning towards Stillwell.

-That's not my name - you point out, and Madelyn nods her head in a practiced expression of understanding.

-Due to some copyright intricacies, we can't let you use Smirnoff - she explains.

You suck in a deep breath through your teeth, looking back towards the costume. A moment's hesitation, you close your eyes as you breathe out, and once again Homelander feels as if he's able to peak under a carnival mask you carefully placed upon yourself. He lifts it just enough, sees the way muscles on your neck twitch. Your jaw sets in a way, that is slowly becoming intoxicating, and then you turn back to him.

-I'm honored - your voice is hollow, locked far away in the column of your throat, and you don't have enough strength to even attempt a smile.

That's alright, he has enough charm for the both of you, his imposing stature pushing towards you, as his arm sneaks around your shoulders.

Fuck, you're warm. He can feel the heat of your skin seeping into his costume. There's a vaguely familiar smell clinging to your form, mixing with the scent of cigarette smoke. Jasmine flowers, he concludes, and absent-mindedly remembers a rather large bush growing in your backyard. He wonders, if you'd let him fuck you, if he showed up with a bouquet at your door. Women seemed to like those, and although you didn't strike him as the most romantic person, he's positive he could charm his way into your pants.

-I'll show you to your room, sweetheart - perhaps he's laying it on a bit heavy with the nickname.

He can hear Stillwell's heart jump, and he immediately knows, he's going to have to sit through a stern talk later today. You, on the other hand, wrench your head to the side, disgruntled with this new form of familiarity. Your entire body goes tense, and you try to wriggle yourself further away from him. On instinct, his fingers dig into your shoulder, a mockery of a friendly expression, and with just a small fragment of his true strength, he pushes you forward, out of Stillwell's office.

He can do whatever he wants, and Madelyn is getting awfully pushy with guarding you from him. You're just a temporary toy to satisfy the higher-ups. A six months worth of an experiment, that he's forced to be a part of. After your contract is up, Vaught won't care whether you live or die, and you bet your rather ample ass, he's going to exploit that to the fullest. Not only is it borderline insulting, to deny him life's simple pleasures, it's pathetic.

-Nervous about the press? - he asks in a light tone, his jaw clicking softly, when your slide out of his grasp as soon as the doors close.

The casualness of this question throws you in a bit of a loop, but with a couple of rapid blinks, you're back to normal, letting him lead you towards the elevator.

-Public speaking isn't my best asset - you mumble.

Homelander presses the call button of the elevator, then leans against the wall, watching you with a strange twinkle in his eye.

-Sounds like someone's not a people person - he notes, wiggling his finger at you in a manner that is confusingly playful.

-I am a people person - you defend yourself, albeit a bit awkwardly - Just… Not when there's a lot of people.

He laughs at that, a practiced, almost theatrical bark that's as fake as his hairdo. All you have the strength to do, is flash him half of a smile. Thankfully the elevator pings before any more small-talk is required, and you slip into the confined space, standing in the corner. His eyes roam freely all over your body, a shameless act that makes your guts twist, makes the already small space of the elevator even more stuffy. And then, he enters after you, pressing a button to the right floor, and taking a spot much too close to you, than what's necessary.

You suppose it's one of the things you'll have to get used to. This constant invasion of your personal space. Perhaps, if it were someone else, someone that wasn't as empty as you, those actions would've been more intimidating than annoying. Alas, as you watch his chest rise and fall in steady rythm, out of the corner of your eye, his actions remind you of a petulant, spoiled child, rather than America's Greatest Hero. "I can't play with this toy? And what if I do this?" For just a second you entertain the idea of gentle parenting Homelander, and the thought makes the corner of your mouth twitch.

-Something the matter? - he asks, tension sneaking into his friendly tone.

-Just happy to be here, sir - you answer, and he knows it's a blatant lie, another one of your snarky provocations.

Doesn't matter for now, there will be a time to teach you some manners.

The elevator arrives at the right floor, and you bolt out of your place as soon as the doors slip open. Homelander follows closely behind, before closing the distance in a couple of long steps. Then, he's in front of you, and you nearly collide with his form, as he suddenly comes to a stop, in front of a pair of large doors. "Fireball" is etched into a small plack, and you throw the offending piece of metal a withering glance.

-That's your stop, sweetheart - he comments, and once again, you grimace at the nickname - Take a look inside, I'm sure it will blow your socks right off.

Why is he talking to you like you're a fucking child all of a sudden, you'll never understand. The door clicks softly, as you open it, revealing your living space for the next six months. The sight chokes a laugh out of you, because truly, the ammount of "punk" memorabilia is staggering.

-Does cocaine addiction come with the package, or…?

He doesn't even react to your joke, and you don't blame him. For all his creepiness and fake interest, he doesn't strike you as the funniest person on earth. There are guitars hanging over a rather large bed, there's a pristine stop sign next to them, which you suppose is meant to look rebellious. The usage of leopard print is tacky at best, and you truly start to wonder if they even consulted someone out of the corporation to design the space. Most likely no, wouldn't want to waste resources on such a small project.

-Fireball - Homelander's voice is barely above a whisper, but it makes your heart jump all the same.

He's standing so closely behind you, you can feel the warmth of his breath at the back of your neck, but for some unnknown reason, you can't force yourself to move. Instead, you feel him take a deep breath trough his nose, his chest brushing against your back. Your eyes stay glued to a drum set, pushed against a gigantic window. Light reflects off of the cymbals, in your mind you're already playing it, far away from this nightmare of a superhero.

-I'll see you at the press conference - Homelander's hand clasps itself over your shoulder, squeezing a couple of times, as if testing the softness of your body - Don't even think about being late, young lady.

You don't know when he dissapears, as you stand there, frozen. One foot over the threshold of your room, breathing shallow and borderline panicked. It could've been seconds, could've been hours, until your head finally snaps to the side. He's not there anymore, you're alone in the corridor, and as you slam the door closed behind you, something you've only suspected before becomes abundantly clear.

There is something deeply wrong with Homelander.

[leikeliscomet]

(Reposting from twitter)

My POV as a Black fan that thinks Dot and Bubble's racism commentary is trash

Rewatched Dot and Bubble and I'm gonna break down from my POV as a Black fan why this episode didn't work for me & why it's an awful racism commentary. Long arse post incoming:

The whole "You should've noticed the cast was all white except for fifteen ha your bias is showing" doesn't work for a show that's been predominantly white for 60+ years. D&B casting has been the default for most of the show so its not abnormal enough to be a racial litmus test. An example is the Matt Smith era The only reoccurring character of colour in s5 (2+ appearances) is Liz 10. Artie n Angie in s7. 0 in s6. RTD's own era isn't fully safe either. For many eps Martha or Mickey are the *only* Black characters. Most POC are side characters or extras.

White fans should be aware of the predominantly white casting of the show but this late in the game feels cheap. Most of the show has gone through 100% white episodes including fan faves and it was never an issue back then bc it was beneficial. This is so hollow. Representing racists as cartoon caricatures SEVERLY underestimates the danger of white supremacy irl. White supremacy is system designed and constructed and rebranded over centuries. It is not accidental. People aren't racist bc they don't know they're racist because they *do* They know the system that oppresses POC, Black people especially, benefits them socially and financially and that is why they participate. Its not stupidity it's intention. That should've been the Finetime core not Lindy goofing around bc the arrows are gone or some shit.

Human Nature showed us racist young people that exercised this power bc they knew this. They may be children but they are still dangerous bc of their views. Martha knew this. The silly tech obsessed gen z angle erases this danger and that of actual gen z white supremacy

Instead of the camp goofy tone we could've gotten a serious focused episode. The slugs and millenial/gen z social media silly distracts from what could've been the main theme of colonisation instead of saving it for 10 mins of exposition at the end & scattering microaggressions. Saving Fifteen's racism scene for a goofy episode was a horrid idea. Spending 30 mins on representing racism as silliness then giving a dramatic dangerous score is the definition of tonal whiplash. Representing his oppressor as a blonde bimbo again does not take this seriously. Fifteen went to 1960s BRITAIN & got through it unscathed. Finetime is a fictional futuristic land but the racism of 1960s Britain was real. If anytime was right it could've been Devil's Chord. Distancing yourself from a panto villain is easy but addressing your history is hard.

The scene itself is incredibly performed so I'll give Ncuti his flowers but what he used this skill for could've been so much more. Having his FIRST SCENE begging to save a racist is disgusting. It isn't Black people's responsibility to show compassion to people that want us dead. Yes the Doctor helps the baddies bc they care. But they're aren't ignorant to prejudice. The liberal anti racism of who is so jarring and why I still think Thin Ice is performative. When white people are angry at injustice it's radical. When it's Black people we're aggressive.

Respectability politics is a tool of white supremacy. That if one pleads and is nice enough they can earn liberation. What would white fans think of Fifteen if he DIDN'T beg Lindy? If your allyship with Black people depends on showing kindness to racists you are NOT an ally.

Next up is Ricky. It was established ALL Finetime citizens have white supremacist views yet Ricky September stans refuse to see him in any negative light. Just like Joan Redfern white dw fans refuse to see racism if a character is likeable. If nice guy Ricky's a racist, then anyone no matter the niceness can be racist too and that's a pill white fans aren't ready to swallow. If racism is systemic and not about individual character, then what's keeping them safe? What happens when YOU are under the microscope.

THIS is why we NEED Black writers in Doctor Who. The nuances, depth and complexity of the Black experience can only be told at it's best by Black creatives and not guessed, assumed or spoken over by white fans and white writers. It's okay to put ego aside and say you don't get it.

"Im white but I loved the Doctor's reaction" "I'm white and i thought the racism commentary was great" "I'm white but i-" Yet again, we have to sit through another round of white and non Black fans of colour dictating Black representation for us. I'm so fucking tired man. AGAIN IM YELLING FROM MY HILLTOP TO WATCH SHOWS BY BLACK WRITERS. Almost EVERY single theme in Dot and Bubble and frankly most of the show has been done WAY better in other media. RTD is not the authority on Black stories. We are. Always have been and always will.

Tl;dr Dot and Bubble is an unserious and tacky racism commentary. It's core message is drowned by more RTD Who camp. Don't tell me this episode was good at representating my own experience. It wasn't. S15 having Black writers isn't a need it's a must. Goodbye.

Reblog this version pls