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plutoswritingplanet · 1 year ago

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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.

#my writing #homelander x reader #homelander x you #plus size reader #the boys amazon #the boys x reader #homelander #the boys fanfiction #homelander fanfiction #do we have to have a talk about how liking a character doesn't equal endorsing their actions or are we good?#it'll get much darker later down the line but for now have this blurb of barely conscious writing

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sunarryn · 3 months ago

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DP X Marvel #7

Tony Stark had seen a lot of wild things in his life—aliens, Norse gods, sentient killer bots made by his own two hands—but nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared him for the day a literal ghost boy phased through the ceiling of Stark Tower and declared, “You’re my godfather now.”

Tony blinked. “…Did I drink last night?”

“No,” Pepper called from another room. “You’ve been sober for two years.”

“Right. Just checking. Then who the hell is this glowing child and why does he think I’m his godfather?”

Danny Fenton, age seventeen, half-ghost disaster and walking teenage trauma case, stood in the middle of the floor with glowing green eyes and the confidence of a raccoon that’s already tipped over the trash can. “Because I’m emotionally damaged and in need of a stable father figure who isn’t a power-obsessed megalomaniac with Oedipal issues.”

Tony stared.

Danny stared back.

Tony raised a brow. “Are you talking about your actual dad or—”

“Vlad Masters,” Danny spat like the name was poison. “He’s rich, insane, and wants to kill my dad and marry my mom. And I’m pretty sure he’s legally stalking me. So… yeah. You’re the anti-Vlad. Congratulations. You’re my godfather now.”

Tony looked like he was buffering. Then a slow, terrible grin crawled across his face. “…Hell yeah I am.”

And that was that. Danny Fenton moved into Stark Tower and the next day Tony updated the JARVIS files with: “New priority directive: Protect Ghost Goblin 1 (Danny Fenton).”

Then Peter Parker, long-suffering, perpetually confused, and not emotionally prepared for whatever was happening lately, stared as Danny literally walked through his bedroom wall and flopped onto his bed like they’d known each other for years.

“You ever heard of doors?” Peter asked, voice cracking slightly because holy hell the new godchild Tony was parading around was cute. Even if he looked like he hadn’t slept since the Cold War.

Danny ignored him. “Tony said I should ‘hang out with the spider boy’ because we’d be ‘trauma-compatible.’” He rolled over and stared at Peter upside-down. “Are you trauma-compatible, Peter?”

Peter looked to the heavens like they would help him. “I’m not emotionally ready for this conversation.”

“Cool. Me neither.” Danny pulled a full-size Fenton Thermos out of somewhere and sipped from it like it was a soda. “Wanna make out or emotionally repress things together?”

Peter sputtered. “Wh—WHAT?!”

Danny grinned with all his teeth. “That’s what Tony said you’d do. Panic adorably. You’re kinda proving his point.”

Meanwhile, Tony Stark was committing several war crimes from his living room.

“I’ve traced the GIW’s funding to three offshore accounts, two shell corporations, and one extremely sus Girl Scout cookie fundraiser. I’m calling in a missile strike in 3… 2…”

“Tony, no,” Pepper said without looking up from her tablet.

“Tony, YES.”

Tony had decided, rather quickly, that the GIW (Guys In White, a government ghost hunting agency that was somehow even more evil and incompetent than HYDRA on bath salts) needed to be permanently deleted from existence. Preferably with fire.

And when he found out that Danny’s biological parents had been working with them?

Tony sent Jazz a college fund with so many zeroes it crashed her banking app.

Jazz, who was nineteen, brilliant, and terrifying in the most Pepper Potts-coded way, politely declined Tony’s offer to adopt her.

Though she did let Pepper start mentoring her.

Within a month, she was managing several Stark subsidiary companies, speaking at conferences, and had already physically thrown three men out of boardrooms.

Tony watched her threaten a corrupt investor once and whispered, “That’s my girl—wait no, Pepper’s girl. Same difference.”

And then there was Dani.

Technically, Danielle. Biologically fifteen. Chronologically five. Personality-wise? A feral gremlin hopped up on ghost energy and sibling issues.

She and America Chavez met at a Stark Industries youth outreach event and instantly bonded over being “multiverse anomalies with authority issues.”

Now they were best friends, terrorizing New York and the surrounding dimensions like it was a competitive sport.

“DANI GET OFF THAT DINOSAUR.”

“YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, YOU’RE NOT MY MOM.”

“AMERICA PUT THE SORCERER SUPREME DOWN.”

“HE STARTED IT.”

Stephen Strange started keeping antacids in his cape.

Meanwhile, Dani kept calling Tony “Iron Dad” and trying to hotwire the Quinjet for “ghost girl reasons.” Nobody could stop her. Nobody even tried anymore.

And then—as if the chaos weren’t enough—Dan showed up.

Danny’s alternate universe self, aged up to 21 because time travel is rude, and fused with Vlad in a Frankenstein disaster combo of trauma, rage, and nuclear hotness.

Dan was chaos incarnate.

He crashed through a multiversal rift during breakfast and immediately tried to flirt with Loki.

Loki, sipping tea in the kitchen, barely looked up. “You smell like war crimes and daddy issues.”

Dan purred, “You smell like abandonment trauma and repressed bisexuality.”

“Stop flirting with the Asgardian war criminal!” Jazz yelled from across the room.

“IT’S CALLED DIPLOMACY,” Dan yelled back.

Vlad, for his part, tried to retaliate by showing up at Stark Tower in a suit and monologuing about betrayal, destiny, and how Danny was meant to be his son/heir/lovechild/successor/whatever.

Tony tased him.

No hesitation. No words. Just taser.

Vlad hit the ground like a sack of sad midlife crisis potatoes.

“JARVIS,” Tony said cheerfully, “Put him in a cage. Have it labeled: Delusional Walmart Dracula.”

“Yes, sir.”

Later, Tony sold DALV.CO for one dollar to Pepper, who then dismantled the company in less than 72 hours and donated the parts to ghost safety research in underfunded schools.

Danny cried. “You guys are like… functional, emotionally regulated versions of the Addams family.”

Pepper patted his head. “We try.”

One day, Nick Fury called.

“I want an explanation,” Fury growled, “for why there’s a ghost child joyriding a helicarrier, a teenager that can rip holes in space-time, a clone spray painting ‘eat my ecto-butt’ on Avengers Tower, and why the hell Loki is apparently married to a fusion of two ghosts!”

Tony just sipped his drink and said, “It’s called found family, Baldy.”

Fury blinked. “What?”

“You wouldn’t get it.”

Peter, off-camera, shouted, “DANNY STOP TRYING TO PHASE THROUGH MY WALL I SAW THAT.”

“You can’t stop me, Peter!”

“YES I CAN, THIS IS A RENT-CONTROLLED BUILDING.”

“I love you too!”

And somewhere, across the infinite multiverse, Clockwork watched all of this with a sigh and a sip of tea.

He was going to need so much aspirin.

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troythecatfish · 1 year ago

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#threads #threads app #current events #social justice #human rights #leftist #leftism #leftisim #socialism #socialist #communism #communist #left wing #left wing politics #leftist politics #anti capitalism #anti corporations

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hgfictionwriter · 4 months ago

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Revelations: Part Eight

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: It's time for you to take serious steps to move on. But a drunken call from Jessie one night threatens to dismantle everything you've built.

Warnings: Angst. Language. Intoxication. Mentions of sex.

A/N: The rest of the series is here.

A new email arrived in your inbox at work and you shifted your attention to see what it was about.

Your stomach fell as you read it.

The company's annual family appreciation event. Free passes to the amusement park, catered lunch, kid stations, the whole deal.

An image of you, Jessie and Zoie going flashed in your mind, but you quickly and urgently dismissed it.

You silently huffed at your subconsciousness's inclinations. You were frustrated with yourself about it.

Never mind the dinosaur t-shirt you recently bought.

You groaned at your desk and rubbed your face as you reflected on it. You'd been out and about and came across a little dinosaur shirt at the store. Zoie had gone on and on about dinosaurs at the park that day.

You'd stopped, examined it, your hand lingering on it before you forced yourself to drop it and move on. However, you found yourself winding back to it.

You even took a picture of it and sent it to Jessie.

"I know this is weird. But would Zoie like this? And what is her size?"

Jessie didn't seem fazed at all, telling you Zoie's size and that she'd love it.

You'd bought the shirt without thinking through the rest. What were going to do? Meet Jessie to drop it off?? Mail it? You were backsliding again.

You'd eventually settled on coordinating with Jessie - telling her you'd leave it for her in the lobby of your building and buzz her in.

You got the sense she was disappointed, but she didn't protest. Instead, she subsequently sent you a picture of Zoie beaming and wearing the new shirt.

"I think it's safe to say she loves it. Thank you again. And Zo says 'thank you' too."

You never replied.

Now, here you were sitting at work thinking about corporate-initiated family festivities.

Get a fucking grip.

You pulled out your phone and opened up one of your dating apps to see if there was anyone interesting and new.

Truthfully, the whole experience was tedious and unpleasant. Jessie and you had often joked in the past after how neither of you had the strength to survive this kind of dating, yet, here you were doing what you could to make it work.

The struggle to find the right photos, the right quips, to sum up your whole identity and your preferences in a few short lines - it was rough. Then flipping through prospective matches and having to make snap judgements just made you weary and jaded.

There were a few people you'd chatted with, a few you even met up with, but for the most part, conversation was dry and uninspiring. Was it possible that you were part of the problem? Maybe, but that was reflection for another day.

That said, there was one person who'd piqued your interest. They were witty, interesting and, hey, they were cute. Her name was Brook.

She was quick to ask you out, but you'd put up barriers telling her you needed to take things slow.

While, yes, you were here to force yourself to move on, you didn't want to do it at someone else's expense.

So, you were honest - as honest as you could be without dumping everything on her. You still had feelings for your ex, but there was no going back. You wanted to explore new connections, but it would be a while until you could commit. You couldn't make any promises.

She didn't seem to mind. In fact, she appreciated your candor and told you some very flattering things that actually fanned the tiny embers that apparently still existed deep in your chest.

So, you'd kept talking.

You glanced up to your monitor, seeing the family appreciation email still up. You sighed gruffly and deleted it with a resounding click before opening your conversation with Brook.

You scrolled up through your messages with her and felt a faint smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as you reread your exchange. Maybe there was hope for you still.

"Hey, are you free this weekend?"

-------

Your first date - real date with her - went well. You didn't go to a fancy restaurant or anything, instead you went to a local brewery, shared a meal from a food pod and all in all it was a casual, good evening. Even fun.

She walked you to your bus stop and you let her give you a kiss. It was firm, but sweet, and strange. You hadn't kissed anyone but Jessie in years.

You weren't supposed to.

You angrily pushed the self-pitying sentiment aside and smiled at Brook, wishing her a good night. She promised to text.

And sure enough, she did. You were getting ready for bed when she texted you saying she had a great time and hoped you could do it again soon - but no pressure.

You climbed into bed with a sigh.

You looked up at the ceiling and couldn't help but compare memories. You told yourself not to, but you'd spent all evening fighting off thoughts of Jessie to stay in the moment with Brook and inevitably your resolve faded.

Your first talks and dates with Jessie were electric. You were giddy. It felt magnetic. You couldn't get your mind off of her.

You'd sighed climbing into bed after your first date with Jessie. A dreamy sigh, not one conflicted and tired like the one you released minutes before.

Your date with Brook was nice. She was nice. But it wasn't the same.

'And it's not meant to be the same' - you sternly reminded yourself. Not everything was going to start off with vibrant energy.

So you texted her back.

Another series of texts turned into a second date. Which turned into a third. Which turned into a fourth, and into you spending the night.

Never mind your first kiss with someone after Jessie. Your first time after her? Well. It was fine.

There was nothing explicitly bad or wrong about it. Brook had done all the right things, but it just felt...okay.

Try as you might, your mind was flooded with thoughts of Jessie as Brook rocked on top of you, filling you, caressing you, kissing you in ways that were so familiar and entirely not.

Even as you later rode her and she moaned your name, your mind drifted back to Jessie. The way she felt under you, the way held you, the way she looked up at you, the things she said. How connected you two felt.

Brook wrapped an arm around your waist later that night as you two laid there spent and naked. You tried to relax, but she felt too warm and suffocating around you. You'd smiled politely as you extracted yourself from her bed and cleaned yourself up.

You barely slept that night and were quick to leave in the morning. From the look on her face, she knew this might've turned into a one night stand.

Honestly, you weren't sure if it would be. But again, you made no promises that you couldn't keep.

---------

You were resetting your life, which meant it couldn't be just about work or dating or even friends. You needed 'me' time as well. You'd dropped your hobbies since the break-up and it was time for you to lean back in.

You stepped into the craft store and began to make your way through when movement out of the corner of your eye drew your attention.

You turned with a frown and immediately caught sight of someone on the far side of the store's half-height aisle walls looking very determinedly at the goods before them.

Jessie. Fucking Jessie.

Are you kidding?

You stopped dead in your tracks. Part of you almost got you to turn on your heel and leave in a panic, but another part of you grounded you. You were an adult - you were both adults - surely you could run into each other in a store and not have a full on meltdown.

You could do this. It was Jessie. Just Jessie. And you weren't going to be chased out of a store because of her presence.

In the time it'd taken you to come to this resolution, she'd braved another look your way and upon meeting your gaze, subtly ducked momentarily and urgently dropped her gaze back to the skeins of yarn in front of her and busied herself examining them.

A frown crossed your face in disbelief. She was blatantly ignoring you? Now you were irritated with her - and yourself for caring.

For fuck's sake. After all you shared you'd think you could co-exist in a public space. And what had you done wrong in your last interaction that caused her to do this?

Your feet, perhaps fueled by self-righteous indignance, pulled you towards her. You rounded the shelves before your mind could put a halt to this.

As you approached, she was still feigning looking through things, albeit, in a frazzled and jittery way, even fumbling the yarn she was holding onto the floor. She let out a small noise at her clumsiness and picked it up with such speed that it sent wispy hairs astray.

She laughed nervously, blushing already as she smiled at you and clutched the yarn to her body.

"Hi," she greeted awkwardly. You maintained your scrutinizing frown and returned an admittedly curt 'hi', feeling like you were on some kind of autopilot.

She smiled timidly and repeated her greeting softly, "Hi." This time giving you a half wave before slowly dropping her hand and blushing deeper.

Whatever animosity you'd felt a moment before faded as she gave you this soft, goofy smile.

"You know, it's not a crime to say 'hi' to me," you said, calling it out as you casually crossed your arms and relaxed your stance.

She shook her head and closed her eyes. "I know," she admitted before looking at you and seeming more centered already. "I just - I got nervous. And I didn't know if you wanted to - you know."

"It's just me, Jess," you said quietly. She gave you a soft smile and a nod.

"I know. It was stupid." She took a breath and refreshed her posture. "So, how are you?"

What was meant to just be a brief acknowledgement of each other's existence turned into a full on conversation. You two chatted, catching up, and things grew surprisingly easy once more. Though, you very purposefully side-stepped particular updates from your life, but gave her the highlights otherwise.

You weren't sure how much time had passed until she closed her eyes and made a face.

"I didn't even ask you what you were shopping for. So rude of me," she apologized and it drew a laugh out of you.

"It's totally fine. I was actually going to try out some clay sculpting." The sentence was barely out of your mouth when her face lit up.

"I was going to try that! I was actually going to check out some supplies before I left," she said eagerly before catching herself and withdrawing. A blush began to form on her cheeks and she scratched distractedly behind her ear as she looked away.

"Well, do you wanna...," you trailed off as you vaguely pointed to that section of the store. She nearly did a second take, but quickly nodded her head in acceptance and you found yourselves wandering over together and talking through your projects.

Eventually, there wasn't more to say about them and you both had armloads of supplies in hand.

"So, um, what are you up to after this? I mean, I guess sculpting," she asked with a self-deprecating smirk before her eyes snapped open in latent alarm. "Not that I'm trying to pry or invite myself or anything," she readily defended.

You gave her a patient smile and quashed the feelings of guilt that started to seep up inside of you.

"Actually, I'm going to grab dinner with a friend," you said simply and hoped that she bought it. She had no reason not to. How would she know it would be anything other than a friend - certainly not a new date. For some reason you felt compelled to fill the non-existent silence. "I've been wanting to go to that new restaurant on Division - you know, the chef's brother owns that farm just outside of town so gets most of his produce and stuff there."

"Oh my gosh, I know exactly which place you're talking about," she said enthusiastically, leaning forward on the balls of her feet and lighting up once again. "Janine and I went there last week. It was great," she told you brightly and you couldn't help but smile in response.

"They have this chickpea dish - I think you'd really like it." Her sentence ended in a clipped fashion as she settled back onto her heels and a subdued expression replaced the one of excitement. "Um, yeah, anyway. I hope you enjoy it," she said with a tight smile.

Despite barely talking for months, it seemed your interests still aligned and chemistry was easily restored if you both allowed it.

But it wasn't that simple anymore.

You nodded. "I'm sure I will."

--------

“Are you a big soccer fan?”

Your eyes snapped over from the TV in the corner of the bar to your date that sat across from you.

This was Melissa. The dinner date a couple of weeks ago went well, but things were still new. Brook was still around, but had yet to turn into anything exclusive.

You exhaled into a laugh as you glanced back to the screen briefly before refocusing on Melissa.

“Not as much anymore,” you replied with a quiet smile.

“Yeah, I never really got into it,” Melissa said as she peered over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of the game. “This place doesn’t normally air these matches, so between that and the stray jerseys I’m seeing around, I’m guessing it’s a pretty big match.”

She was right. This wasn’t a Thorns bar by any means, but it’s hard to escape the hype when the local team is playing for the Championship title and on home turf no less.

You hadn’t been planning on watching the game. But with it playing in the corner, you couldn’t help but be drawn to it. Or at least a particular player whose form and run you could spot anywhere.

A player who you may have sent a ‘good luck’ text to earlier today.

You shrugged a shoulder. “Whoever wins tonight wins the trophy.”

She gave you an expression of understanding and you carried on with your evening together.

You were calling it a night as the game was ending. You were chatting outside of the bar about to go your separate ways when morose fans slowly filed out the bar and elsewhere down the street.

“Guess they didn’t make a comeback,” Melissa commented.

Your heart sunk for Jessie and the team. You tried not to think about being there.

“Guess not.”

You were sitting at home a while later drinking a late night tea and reading when your phone buzzed. You ignored it, not feeling compelled enough to check it.

A number of seconds later it buzzed again. This time you set your book down in your lap with a frown and looked at your phone.

You shoulders immediately set back as you read Jessie’s name on your phone attached to not one, but two messages.

Your hand shot out to the device, but slowed when you realized she was probably just commenting on the game. She’d already thanked you earlier.

You exhaled silently as you opened the messages.

“I miss you.”

“I know I shouldn’t say anything.”

Your mouth fell open as you read her message. You read it again. Double checked it was her and read it once more.

A lump formed in your throat and you swallowed it. Maybe she didn’t mean to send it to you.

You were seeing other people. Maybe she was too.

You hated how much that thought bothered you.

Studying the message again, you knew in the pit of your stomach that it wasn’t for someone else.

What were you supposed to say? It’d been months since you’d talked that way to each other. Not since the summer.

You vaguely recognized how you were debating specifically what to say - not whether you missed her too or not.

Despite your efforts, turns out it was still second nature to miss her right back.

You closed your phone, subtly impressed with your self control and you subconsciously began busying yourself around the apartment.

The distractions were effective for only so long. You eventually found yourself pulled back towards your phone, strangely - and obnoxiously - disappointed to not see another message from her.

Against your better judgement, you gave in.

“Sorry the result didn’t turn out better tonight. You guys played great though.”

That was acceptable, right? Neutral. Civil. Polite. You acknowledged her without reciprocating or encouraging her sentiment, but without denying it either.

The conversation ceased.

You ignored the weight of disappointment in your stomach and instead focused on your progress.

You texted Melissa for good measure.

You’d just gotten into your sleep shirt and shorts when your phone began to buzz repeatedly against your nightstand.

A perplexed frown crossed your face. It was late. Really late.

You walked over to it and your blood ran cold as you saw Jessie’s name and picture on your screen.

Your hand instinctually reached out, but hovered over the device, fingers outstretched and uncertain.

The buzzing continued before the screen went black and the room went quiet.

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and your hand fell listlessly to your side.

You stood motionless, mind still processing when suddenly your senses flared once more as your phone lit up again with another call from her.

Thoughts ricocheted through your mind. What could she want? Was she okay? Was something wrong?

Hell. Maybe she didn’t even know she was calling you.

The low buzzing of the phone persisted, but was sure to stop soon. You hand shot out and picked up the call. Your chest constricted tightly.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?” You tried again as your pulse picked up. Jesus Christ. She hadn’t meant to call you and you’d picked up like a fool. You-

“Hey.”

Your spiraling stalled as her voice filtered through. It was hoarse.

“Jess?” You inquired as you held the phone tighter to your ear. “Um, is everything okay?”

She gave a delayed laugh.

“Not particularly,” she said in a dull voice. You began to mouth a response but she carried on with a mirthless laugh. “Sure. Things are fine. Let’s pretend they’re fine.”

You frowned.

“You’re worrying me. Are you okay? Where are you?”

"You worry about me?" She asked, tone sounding almost hopeful.

You stammered, caught off guard by her question and how she ignored yours. You closed your eyes and refocused. "Where are you?" you asked again.

“Look out your window.”

‘What the fuck,’ you mouthed as you walked over and peeked through the blinds.

“Heyyy,” she drew out the exclamation and you were met with the sight of her standing in front of your building looking up towards you, hand in the air in a prolonged wave. She was several floors below but you could vaguely make out a lazy smile.

“What the hell, Jess,” you scrutinized as you full on opened the blinds and stared down at her. She wasn’t in her kit anymore but still in her Thorns athletic wear. “What are you doing here?”

“The girls are I were celebrating. We didn’t win tonight. Well, I guess you saw,” she trailed off, gaze falling briefly. Her enunciation and pace was slow and clumsy. She looked back up with a renewed smile. “But we played a good season. And that’s worth celebrating. And yeah. Most of us went home. And I…” You saw her give a tired shrug. “Came here,” she finished lightly and matter of fact.

You frowned and shook your head. You could feel your face beginning to grow hot as old defenses and emotional walls began to fortify.

“Okay. Clearly you’re drunk,” you said curtly. She sighed in complaint.

“Not as much as you think,” she replied, tone shifting.

“Sure,” you dismissed. “Well. What do you want?”

She continued to look up at you.

“I-I just wanted to see you,” she said sadly.

Your irritation at her drunken display almost had you quip ‘Well you’ve seen me.’ But you bit your tongue.

“Can I come up?” She asked meekly.

You huffed in frustration and looked around as if you’d find an answer. What the hell was going on?

“Please.”

Her broken voice cut through your thoughts and you looked back out the window at her to see her still staring up at you in fragile hope.

Before you knew it, you’d exhaled in frustration but told her to buzz your number and you’d let her in.

“Just for a bit,” you’d warned.

When you opened your apartment door for her you could see how heavy her eyes were, perhaps a mix of booze and exhaustion.

She didn’t reek of alcohol the way you’d expected. You only caught a whiff now and then. Maybe she wasn’t entirely lying about her level of sobriety.

“Sit down,” you told her as you pointed to the couch. She wordlessly complied, sitting down uncharacteristically heavy and gracelessly on the cushions. You returned to her a few moments later with a glass of cold water. “Here.”

She took it gratefully with both hands and took several large gulps before setting it down carefully on your coffee table. You took a seat in the chair next to the couch.

The room was silent as you stared at her and she stared vacantly at the nearly empty glass. She was positioned at the edge of the cushion, shoulders hunched over and her hands tucked tightly between her knees.

"So," you said simply, indirectly inviting her to speak. Her reaction was delayed, but her head eventually turned towards you, newfound alertness on her face, and her eyebrows raised high in question.

When it was clear she wasn't going to fill the silence on her own, you settled internally and took a quiet breath.

"What are you doing here, Jess," you said with gentle discernment.

She dropped your gaze, looking wounded and sad. Even when she looked away, you could see the dark circles under her eyes. She took another large swig of water, draining the glass.

You wordlessly rose from your seat and held out your hand for the glass. She looked up to you in mild confusion at the gesture, you gave a subtle shake of your hand in emphasis and she quickly pushed the glass into your grip.

When you turned around after filling the glass, you caught a glimpse of her hurriedly looking away; clearly watching you.

"So?" You repeated as you handed her the glass. She accepted it with a tight smile and a nod, taking a smaller sip this time, her eyes following you as you sat down once more.

She cleared her throat and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she set the water down.

"I don't know," she nearly mumbled while giving a half-hearted shrug. Irritation started to brim inside of you, but receded as she looked to you and explained further. "I just - we were all celebrating. Everyone having a great time, being in the moment," she relayed, eyes trained on the glass again and her pitch shifting up. She threw her hands out haphazardly, "and you're the one that...," she trailed off with a heavy sigh and she finally met your gaze, looking utterly hopeless and defeated. "You're the one I wanted to share it with."

Your chest twinged and you dropped her stare. You only looked back up when you heard her sniffle. She wiped irritably at her nose, blinking several times as she tucked her hands back between her knees.

"I'm sorry. I know it's not like that anymore," she said as her voice grew thin. Her features began to screw up slightly, you could see her fighting it, and her voice was tight as she went on in a rush. "I know you just want me to go away, but-"

"Stop," you interjected softly, causing her words to cease and she looked at you, sitting up further. She sniffled once more before allowing her eyes to dart away again. "I don't," you said simply.

You didn't know what to say.

"I care if you're okay or not." You saw her swallow. "It's not like you to get super drunk. Even during nights like these."

"I'm not that drunk," she protested tiredly, her posture growing slack again. "Yes. I've had a few drinks," she said tersely with a pointed, cursory glance before she closed her eyes for a second as if to find reprieve. When she spoke again, her exhaustion was evident. "But it's so much more."

She paused. Her face falling though you saw her trying to retain control.

"I'm just so fucking tired," she relayed in a strained voice as she ran a hand roughly through her hair. She drew her gaze to you and the light in the room reflected off of the sheen over her eyes. Her lip trembled. "I don't sleep well anymore."

She blew out a steadying breath and looked away, wiping at her eye in frustration.

"I just miss you so fucking much," her tone clipped with emotion. "It's been months and I can't stop. And it's pathetic. And no one understands how much it hurts. And I know you don't care-"

"That's not fair," you interjected while you narrowed your eyes at her.

She turned to face you better and sat further forward on the cushion.

"How is it not fair? You're the one who called everything off. You're the one who wanted no contact," she said tersely, but her words still slightly drawn out with her intoxication.

"Don't turn that on me," you argued as you now sat forward too. "You think I wanted to do any of that? Christ, Jessie. We were supposed to get married! I built my life around you. I wanted to say 'I do', I wanted to make a family with you, to wake up next to you each day, to be the one in the stands at your games."

You could feel tears starting to spring to your eyes as latent hurt began to simmer and churn.

"You think I want to be here in this crappy apartment all by myself? On shitty dating apps trying to rebuild my life and my future? No. I don't." You laughed coldly. "You actually think I would sacrifice what we had if it wasn't fucking killing me," you finished strongly and holding her gaze, unflinching. She stared hard at you for a second, hurt.

"Nice," she finally said with a rueful smile.

You clicked your tongue and sighed irritably. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

Tense silence filled the room again. She wiped a tear from her cheek as she leaned back on the couch with a thud. She groaned in frustration, the sound congested.

"I know," she said quietly, glancing back at you. She buried her face in her hands, rubbing her features slow but harsh. Eventually, she sat up and gave you a steady stare. Her eyes were red.

"I'm here because I'm sick of pretending that I'm not in love with you and that I don't think about you all the time. I'm here because I'm selfish. Because being near you - even if we're arguing - is better than being without you." She exhaled wearily and collapsed into the cushions. "And yes. A few drinks helped me be brave enough to just fucking do it."

You wanted to validate her. To console her. To reciprocate.

Instead, you rose with an inaudible sigh and wandered off into your bedroom. You returned with a spare pillow, blanket, and a change of clothes and handed them to her. She looked up at you silently, eyes still shimmering with spent tears.

"You're not going home tonight. Not in this condition. You can sleep it off here," you announced decidedly.

She idly examined the items, clearly processing what was being offered.

"We can talk in the morning. Okay?" You said. Her eyes snapped up to you, wide and alert now. She stared at you a moment before giving you a series of quick nods.

"Do you need anything else?" You asked.

She looked around in lingering surprise before looking back and shaking her head adamantly. "No. No, I'm good."

"Okay. Stay hydrated. There's Advil in the cupboard next to the fridge if you need it. Towels are in the hall closet if you want to shower," you relayed in an even tone. She nodded, eyes fixed on you and refusing to stray. "Get a good sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

A/N: I’m putting out some good vibes for the Thorns because I think they’re going to desperately need it this season….!

Tag requests: @ryuushou @marvelwomen-simp @valuyhh

#jessie fleming #jessie fleming x reader #woso x reader #woso imagine #canwnt x reader #jflem #wlw angst #woso angst

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

Text

Kickstarting the audiobook of The Lost Cause, my novel of environmental hope

Tonight (October 2), I'm in Boise to host an event with VE Schwab. On October 7–8, I'm in Milan to keynote Wired Nextfest.

The Lost Cause is my next novel. It's about the climate emergency. It's hopeful. Library Journal called it "a message hope in a near-future that looks increasingly bleak." As with every other one of my books Amazon refuses to sell the audiobook, so I made my own, and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/the-lost-cause-a-novel-of-climate-and-hope

That's a lot to unpack, I know. So many questions! Including this one: "How is it that I have another book out in 2023?" Because this is my third book this year. Short answer: I write when I'm anxious, so I came out of lockdown with nine books. Nine!

Hope and writing are closely related activities. Hope (the belief that you can make things better) is nothing so cheap and fatalistic as optimism (the belief that things will improve no matter what you do). The Lost Cause is full of people who are full of hope.

The action begins a full generation after the Hail Mary passage of the Green New Deal, and the people who grew up fighting the climate emergency (rather than sitting hopelessly by while the powers that be insisted that nothing could or should be done) have a name for themselves: they call themselves "the first generation in a century that doesn't fear the future."

I fear the future. Unchecked corporate power has us barreling over a cliff's edge and all the one-percent has to say is, "Well, it's too late to swerve now, what if the bus rolls and someone breaks a leg? Don't worry, we'll just keep speeding up and leap the gorge":

https://locusmag.com/2022/07/cory-doctorow-the-swerve/

That unchecked corporate power has no better avatar than Amazon, one of the tech monopolies that has converted the old, good internet into "five giant websites, each filled with screenshots of the other four":

https://twitter.com/tveastman/status/1069674780826071040

Amazon maintains a near-total grip over print and ebooks, but when it comes to audiobooks, that control is total. The company's Audible division has captured more than 90% of the market, and it abuses that dominance to cram Digital Rights Management onto every book it sells, even if the author doesn't want it:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/25/can-you-hear-me-now/#acx-ripoff

I wrote a whole-ass book about this and it came out less than a month ago; it's called The Internet Con and it lays out an audacious plan to halt the internet's enshittification and throw it into reverse:

http://www.seizethemeansofcomputation.org/

The tldr is this: when an audiobook is wrapped in Amazon's DRM, only Amazon can legally remove it. That means that every book I sell you on Audible is a book you have to throw away if you ever break up with Amazon, and Amazon can use the fact that it's hold you hostage to screw me – and every other author – over.

As I said last time this came up:

Fuck that sideways.

With a brick.

My books are sold without DRM, so you can play them in any app and do anything copyright permits, and that means Amazon won't carry them, and that means my publishers don't want to pay to produce them, and that means I produce them myself, and then I make the (significant) costs back by selling them on Kickstarter.

And you know what? It works. Readers don't want DRM. I mean, duh. No one woke up this morning and said, "Dammit, why won't someone sell me a product that lets me do less with my books?" I sell boatloads" of books through these crowdfunding campaigns. I sold so many copies of my last book, *The Internet Con, that they sold out the initial print run in two weeks (don't worry, they held back stock for my upcoming events).

But beyond that, I think there's another reason my readers keep coming back, even though I wrote a genuinely stupid number of books while working through lockdown anxiety while the wildfires raged and ashes sifted down out of the sky and settled on my laptop as I lay in my backyard hammock, pounding my keyboard.

(I went through two keyboards during lockdown. Thankfully, I bought a user-serviceable laptop from Framework and fixed it myself both times, in a matter of minutes. No, no one pays me to mention this, but hot damn is it cool.)

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/13/graceful-failure/#frame

The reason readers come back to my books is that they're full of hope. In the same way that writing lets me feel like I'm not a passenger in life, but rather, someone with a say in my destination, the books that I write are full of practical ways and dramatic scenes in which other people seize the means of computation, the reins of power or their own destinies.

The protagonist of The Lost Cause is Brooks Palazzo, a high-school senior in Burbank whose parents were part of the original cohort of volunteers who kicked off the global transformation, and left him an orphan when they succumbed to one of the zoonotic plagues that arise every time another habitat is destroyed.

Brooks grew up knowing what his life would be: the work of repair and care, which millions of young people are doing. Relocating entire cities off endangered coastlines and floodplains, or out of fire-zones. Fighting floods and fires. Caring for tens of millions of refugees for whom the change came too late.

But with every revolution comes a counter-revolution. The losers of a just war don't dig holes, climb inside and pull the dirt down on top of themselves. Two groups of reactionaries – seagoing anarcho-capitalist billionaire wreckers and seething white nationalist militias – have formed an alliance.

They've already gotten their champion into the White House. Next up: dismantling every cause for hope Brooks and his friends have, and bringing back the fear.

That's the setup for a novel about solidarity, care, library socialism, and snatching victory from defeat's jaws. Writing it help keep me sane during the lockdown, and when it came time to record the audiobook, I spent a lot of time thinking about who could read it. I've had some great narrators: Wil Wheaton, @neil-gaiman, Amber Benson, Bronson Pinchot, and more.

I record my audiobooks with Skyboat Media, a brilliant studio near my place in LA. Back in August, I spent a week in their recording booth – "The Tardis" – doing something I'd never tried before: I recorded a whole audiobook, with directorial supervision: The Internet Con:

https://transactions.sendowl.com/products/78992826/DEA0CE12/purchase

When it was done, the director – audiobook legend Gabrielle de Cuir – sat me down and said, "Look, I've never said this to an author before, but I think you should read The Lost Cause. I don't direct anyone anymore except for Wil Wheaton and LeVar Burton, but I would direct you on this one."

I was immensely flattered – and very nervous. Reading The Internet Con was one thing – the book is built around the speeches I've been giving for 20 years and I knew I could sell those lines – but The Lost Cause is a novel, with a whole cast of characters. Could I do it?

Reader, I did it. I just listened to the proofs last week and:

It.

Came.

Out.

Great.

The Lost Cause goes on sale on November 14th, and I'll be selling this audiobook I made everywhere audiobooks are sold – except for the stores that require DRM, nonconsensually shackling readers and writers to their platforms. So you'll be able to get it on Libro.fm, downpour.com, even Google Play – but not Audible, Apple Books, or Audiobooks.com.

But in addition to those worthy retailers, I will be sending out thousands – and thousands! – of audiobook to my Kickstarter backers on the on-sale date, either as a folder of DRM-free MP3s, or as a download code for Libro.fm, to make things easy for people who don't want to have to figure out how to sideload an audiobook into a standalone app.

And, of course, the mobile duopoly have made this kind of sideloading exponentially harder over the past decade, though far be it from me to connect this with their policy of charging 30% commissions on everything sold through an app, a commission they don't receive if you get your files on the web and load 'em yourself:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-another-audiobook-that-amazon-wont-sell/posts/3788112

As with my previous Kickstarters, I'm also selling ebooks and hardcovers – signed or unsigned, and this time I've found a great partner to fulfill EU orders from within the EU, so backers won't have to pay VAT and customs charges. The wonderful Otherland – who have hosted me on my last two trips to Berlin – are going to manage that shipping for me:

https://www.otherland-berlin.de/en/home.html

Kim Stanley Robinson read the book and said, "Along with the rush of adrenaline I felt a solid surge of hope. May it go like this." That's just about the perfect quote, because the book is a ride. It's not just a kumbaya tale of a better world that is possible: it's a post-cyberpunk novel of high-tech guerrilla and meme warfare, climate tech and bad climate tech, wildcat prefab urban infill, and far-right militamen who adapt to a ban on assault-rifles by switching to super-soakers full of hydrochloric acid.

It's a book about struggle, hope in the darkness, and a way through this rotten moment. It's a book that dares to imagine that things might get worse but also better. This is a curious emotional melange, but it's one that I'm increasingly feeling these days.

Like, Amazon, that giant bully, whose blockade on DRM-free audiobooks cost me enough money to pay off my mortgage and put my kid through university (according to my agent)? The incredible Lina Khan brought a long-overdue antitrust case against Amazon while her rockstar DoJ counterpart, Jonathan Kanter, is dragging Google through the courts.

The EU is taking on Apple, and French cops are kicking down Nvidia's doors and grabbing their files, looking to build another antitrust case for monopolizing GPUs. The writers won their strike and Joe Biden walked the picket-line with the UAW, the first president in history to join striking workers:

https://doctorow.medium.com/joe-biden-is-headed-to-a-uaw-picket-line-in-detroit-f80bd0b372ab?sk=f3abdfd3f26d2f615ad9d2f1839bcc07

Solar is now our cheapest energy source, which is wild, because if we could only capture 0.4% of the solar energy that makes it through the atmosphere, we could give everyone alive the same energy budget as Canadians (who have American lifestyles but higher heating bills). As Deb Chachra writes in her forthcoming How Infrastructure Works (my review pending): we get a fresh supply of energy every time the sun rises and we only get new materials when a comet survives atmospheric entry, but we treat energy as scarce and throw away our materials after a single use:

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/612711/how-infrastructure-works-by-deb-chachra/

Anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop. We have shot past many of our planetary boundaries and there are waves of climate crises in our future, but they don't have to be climate disasters. That's up to us – it'll depend on whether we come together to save ourselves and each other, or tear ourselves apart.

The Lost Cause dares to imagine what it might be like if we do the former. We don't live in a post-enshittification world yet, but we could. With these indie audiobooks, I've found a way to treat the terminal enshittification of the Amazon monopoly as damage and route around it. I hope you'll back the Kickstarter, fight enshittification, inject some hope into your reading, and enjoy a kickass adventure novel in the process:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/the-lost-cause-a-novel-of-climate-and-hope

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/02/the-lost-cause/#the-first-generation-that-doesnt-fear-the-future

#pluralistic #audiobooks #the lost cause #crowdfunding #kickstarter #spoken word #climate #climate emergency #monopoly #drm #amazon #audible #skyboat #science fiction #hope not optimism

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