#Screw Pumps Market

[shubhamimarc]

The global cattle healthcare market size reached US$ 8.42 Billion in 2022. Looking forward, IMARC Group expects the market to reach US$ 10.85 Billion by 2028, exhibiting a growth rate (CAGR) of 4.15% during 2023-2028.

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter three )

18+ 7.3k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, assault (not perpetrated by HL), violence, smol murder, manipulation/gaslighting, hurt/comfort. nebulously takes place post s1. part 3/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander will do whatever it takes to convince you that he's the hero you need.

It’s shortly after one o’clock when Homelander knocks a whimsical melody against your office door, deciding he shouldn’t be precisely on time, lest he look as eager as he feels. He can already smell your perfume wafting through the doorway–the same scent he feverishly pumped his cock to the night before–as a teaser of what’s to come.

“Come in,” you call from the other side.

Homelander takes in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He screws his eyes shut, pinching his expression in a tight squeeze before he replaces it with a flashy grin, squaring away his anticipation in favor of his showman persona.

“Goooooood afternoon,” he drawls, strolling in with the same feigned level of confidence he’s entered every other moment of your life since stumbling across you, whether you knew it or not. He’s taken aback almost immediately, slowing in how he closes the door behind him.

You look nicer than usual. Your hair is styled with more conscious effort, and he’s been in show business long enough to recognize the makeup on your face. The shine of your blouse is a quality silk blend, and he can’t hear the scrape of cheap cotton underneath it anymore. No, you’re wearing something nice below, too. His lips slowly spread into a self-satisfied smile. 

You dressed up for him. 

Homelander takes the seat set across from you, sweeping his cape to the side with a flourish. He watches you tuck an empty container–your lunch, presumably–into a side drawer of your desk. His eyes closely track the way you lift your thumb to the corner of your mouth and swipe residue from it, sucking the mess from your digit. A distinct pang of arousal hits him just watching your cheeks hollow.

Imagine what she could do with that mouth.

“And good afternoon to you, Homelander,” you respond, straightening up in your seat. His gaze briefly dips to the swell of your breasts as you adjust yourself, casually dusting away any remnants of your lunch. Saliva gathers on his tongue at the instant memory of you scantily clad in your sleep wear, nothing but a thin sheet of worn fabric between you and his hunger. His eyes snap back up before you can take notice of how they wandered.

Lucky for him, you’re busy splaying out the folder he brought you the day before, scanning over the list of bullet points he’d slapped together for the sake of having enough talking points.

“I wanted to start with your concerns regarding the marketing for your upcoming miniseries,” you say, glancing up at him.

He clicks his tongue. “Wow, alright. Straight to business then,” he says, absently rolling his palms over the ends of the armrests on either side of him.

“I’m very bad at small talk,” you say. Probably to diffuse any notion that you were being rude on purpose.

“Ch’yeah, I’ll say,” he says, smiling thinly. “Lucky that you’re good at your job.”

“Shockingly, I was actually a personality hire. I don’t know what any of this means,” you say, matching his thinly veiled snark while gesturing to the spread of documents in front of you. He snorts softly. You have a knack for using that sharp wit to diffuse, but he doesn’t feel manipulated. You actually are funny. “I was hoping you’d explain your concerns.”

Smooth segue, he thinks, his eyes narrowing appraisingly. He’s worked enough interviews to know when he’s being led, but he takes the bait anyways, widening his smile.

“Sounds great.”

Homelander knows that you’re sharp, good at your job, but he needs to needle you into giving him what he wants. He wants to understand you, and the stack of his films he found hidden in your apartment. What he gets in the meantime is ample taste of your silver tongue, parrying his every jab with an equally sharp counter.

He can’t keep the smile from his face.

Gradually a level of familiarity slips into the air between you. He can see some of that tension in your shoulders easing. He’s steadily wearing down the walls you’ve managed to construct.

“I still think audiences will be confused,” he says, feigning a profound concern, stretching out the time of your little appointment.

“Well, audiences are a lot like celebrities,” you say, the hard candied shell of your professional exterior thinning with every back and forth, poised to crack at any second.  “They’re smarter than we think they are.”

“Oohh, ouch,” he purrs. “Nice backhand you got there.”

A twitch at the corner of your mouth. He knows you’re fighting a smile of your own, and pride blooms warmly in his chest. He likes sparring with you, but he likes pleasing you even more.

“I disagree about market confusion. Your diehard audience will already be up to speed, your broader target audience will show up for anything with your face on it, and anyone more casual than that likely won’t have seen the miniseries anyways, so there’s nothing to confuse it with,” you say, scanning down through one of the pages of the document he gave you.

Perfect opening.

“And which audience is it you fall into, exactly?” He asks, cocking his head a degree. “I mean, given your position, I have to imagine you’ve seen my range of film and television.”

“I’ve done my due diligence,” you say vaguely. You’re good at answering without answering. Normally it would irritate him, but your forced aloofness combined with your closely guarded–and inexplicably secret–veneration of him makes it into tantalizing bait begging for the sharp sink of his teeth.

“So you’ve seen all my movies, then?” He extrapolates, setting a line of his own.

You chuckle, gaze flickering to him before back down to the pages. Too brief a glance to even come close to satisfying his hunger. “I didn’t say that.”

He scoffs lightly. “But you’re a fan of mine?”

“I definitely didn’t say that.” He can sense he’s hit a vein, and like any good predator would, he’s eager to bite into it.

“C’mon. Don’t tell me you’re shy,” he continues to prod, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

You inhale a breath that you barely prevent from sounding too obviously irritated. His grin remains untarnished by the scrutiny of your unwavering stare. There it is, that’s what he wants. The weight of your gaze upon him, evaluating, taking him in fully. He doesn’t care how he gets it, he just knows he wants it.

“You are shy,” he accuses, knowing you aren’t.

“I’m not shy, I’m a professional,” you say curtly, the scratch of your pen scathing while you write notations on the document.

Good, he thinks. More likely to slip up now.

“Jeeze,” he laughs. “You’re wound up tighter than my fictional manager in Darkest Day.”

“You didn’t have a manager in Darkest Day, that was Origins,” you correct. After a beat, your hand stills.

Homelander’s gaze slowly slides to meet yours. He watches your face fall and clicks his tongue. He positively relishes how your mask of indifference slips into subtle dismay at your misstep. Such a simple bit of trivia, and yet it spoke volumes.

Got’cha.

“You do watch my movies,” he said, tone dropping to a near whisper. He revels in the quiet way you groan, leaning back in your chair. 

“Only the ones I was paid to,” you say, straightening up in your chair, but he can hear the defeat in your voice.

“Liar,” he says through his perpetual grin. “Don’t be embarrassed. How long have you been a fan?”

“Stop,” you say, burying your face in your hands. Oh, this is good. Was he your first crush? Your favorite hero? He must be still, judging by the flush of heat moving through you. All that pretense, all that haughty glowering, and beneath it all you’re a fan girl. He almost laughs at the thought of the face you’d make if he called you that. 

“Which was your favorite?” He asks, burying the knife deeper, eager to cut through flesh and muscle and bone to get to the heart of truth beneath. “Bright World? Rise of a Hero? Justice Dawning?”

“I despise you,” you say melodramatically, digging your thumbs into your temples. “Also, Justice Dawning was cheesy, I’m offended you’d even offer it.” You try not to smile, but it happens anyway, and as soon as that secret little smile sneaks onto your lips it brightens Homelander’s eyes, reflecting your amusement back to you. Not just that, but amplifying it.

“You’ll learn to love me,” he tells you with confidence. You drop your hands, looking at him with subtle surprise. He holds your gaze. The earnestness of his words seems to dispel your mortification and replaces it with something more difficult to define, but he likes the shine it brings to your eyes.

The taste of your defeat is sumptuous. He’d prefer licking it straight from your tongue, but he’ll settle for this for the time being. An easiness settles into the air between you, deeper even than before your hackles rose with the lurking reality of your hidden opinion of him. It’s like a bubble has popped, dissipating uncomfortable tension, replacing it with something warmer.

He has every intention of turning up the heat even further.

The meeting moves forward. You work your way through his folder, and during a natural lull in conversation, he finally broaches the topic that’s been plaguing him since he stepped into your office.

“So,” he begins, interlacing his gloved fingers in his lap. “Gonna tell me what you’re all dressed up for?” He asks, wearing the same smile and speaking in the same tone he had when he baited you into admitting your secret love affair with his cinema.

He wants to hear you say that it’s for him, but he’ll settle for a flustered deflection. They’re as good as the same.

“Oh,” you huff with an airy little laugh, the sound like silver bells chiming. “I have a date tonight.”

You say something else, but Homelander doesn’t hear it over the tidal-like rush in his ears. He watches your pretty lips form words that he can’t understand. Everything falls out of focus as he tightly reins in the white hot rush of furious jealousy that floods his gut and erupts up the back of his throat like bile. He swallows the burn of it, jaw tight, and manages a tense smile.

“Great,” he barks, not realizing–or perhaps not caring–that he interrupted you. “First date?”

“First date,” you confirm, your tone less conversational than it had been a beat ago. The walls are going back up, but he’s too fixated on what feels like a stabbing betrayal.

“Exciting,” he says, adjusting his tone and mannerisms until they once more resemble something genuine. Something civil, despite the hostility in his gut. “Someone you know? Going anywhere special?”

“No, and not really,” you say evasively. He loathes how withdrawn you’ve become. You should be pleased he’s put off. Gloating even. It’s proof he cares, isn’t it? “It was his suggestion.” His. The leather of Homelander’s glove creaks subtly in the fist he makes. “I forget the name of the place,” you say, avoiding his gaze.

His right cheek tics. Liar, liar, pants on fire. People always underestimate his ability to read them.

You’ll learn not to lie to him.

“But you have an out if you need it, don’t you? Someone to bail you out in case he turns out to be some kind of freak,” he says, huffing the word with a lick of venom. It takes significant effort to keep the disdain from his face to imagine you as you are now sitting across from some nobody schmuck, lit by candlelight and smiling sweetly for them instead of for him.

“I always do,” you say, smiling thinly. He curates his own tone often enough to hear it in yours, and it pierces his ears like a thistle. He taps his fingers on his thigh, scrounging for something, anything else to needle you for, but your responses don’t give him much to work with.

“Well. If you did need someone–”

“I’m a big girl,” you interrupt, surprising him. He’s rarely interrupted. “I can take care of myself.”

At that, a thought strikes him. The slack line of his lips curls into a thin smile, and his hands relax on the armrests of the chair.

“I’m sure you can.”

Shaking off the aftermath of your one-on-one with Homelander proves to be more difficult than you’d anticipated. You replay it nearly moment for moment in your mind while freshening up after work. 

Homelander has an uncanny knack for moving through demeanors as though he’s trying hats, determining which one best suits the situation. One moment he’s a slick carnivore licking his chops in anticipation of his meal to come, and the next he’s every ounce the hero they market him as. He’d been relentlessly charming during the meeting, his charismatic smile becoming one you’d wanted to earn again and again. 

Then came the news of your date, and all at once Homelander possessed the ominous calm of a sentient statue. The moment still sends an eerie chill down your spine, even in recollection. How radically his appearance can change with mood or thought alone. You’d hate to ever see him truly angry.

“Get a hold of yourself,” you say to the bathroom mirror. You have a date tonight, and the last thing you need is to bring this kind of nervous energy to it. Powers or not, the commonality of man is easy to rely on, and you’ve developed the tactical mindset of an aloof cat. Never beg for what can be given freely. Never give more than you get. Never settle. “Be the cat,” you tell yourself affirmatively. 

A directive which, unfortunately, winds up being exceedingly easy to follow through the course of your date. James, bless his heart, struggles to wring more than the occasional piteous chuckle from you. Conversation with him is akin to drinking seltzer water–he is neither offensive nor particularly exciting, being only a step above plain water.

Perhaps James’ blandness isn’t entirely his own fault, but rather the basis of comparison he is subjected to. Throughout the night, you find yourself critical of the way he looks at you–or rather, the way he fails to look at you. Your thoughts keep drifting back to your meeting with Homelander and the way he looks at you. The intense ocean-blue caress of his eyes summons a blush to your cheeks even in hindsight.

He looks at you in a way that no one else does. It's as if he's trying to memorize the smallest details in your skin, to uncover every secret trapped behind your guarded gaze. He has a stare determined to lay you entirely bare to him.

James’ wine dulled ogling could hardly hold a candle to that. Looking into his eyes, you see only the planning for whatever dullard comment he was going to make next.

Still, it’s not until the end of your date–an exceptionally long two and a half hours thanks to a mishap with your order–that James displays a behavior unsavory enough to elicit a truly unpleasant feeling in you. He’s quite clingy after a few too many glasses of wine. He walks you out of the restaurant with an arm around your waist, and more than once you have to bat his hand away from the seam where your blouse is tucked into your skirt.

“You in the parking garage or the back lot?” He asks, smiling in a way he must mean to be salacious, eyes half-lidded like he’s lost control of them.

“The back lot.” Parking was a nightmare with how late you arrived after work. “Is that where you are?” You ask, hoping it isn’t.

“No, no, I actually took an Uber in,” he says, and you know immediately by the way he starts tapping your hip with his index finger why he chose to do that.

“Want me to wait for you here until your Uber arrives, then?” You ask, turning out of his grasp to stand face to face with him outside of the restaurant. It’s late enough now that the streets have calmed some, at least by New York’s standards.

James’ expression falters, but he tries for a recovery with a hopeful smile. “Well, you know, I was sort of hoping we might continue this elsewhere,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets. Is he trying to look suave?

“Oh, no,” you say, putting forth your very best sympathetic head tilt, matched with a well placed brow furrow. “No thank you.”

This time his expression doesn’t recover. His hands lift from his pocket and he makes a helpless gesture with them, very nearly pleading. “Really? I thought we were having a nice time.”

“And I’m so glad for that,” you say, and even you can hear the corporate edge sliding into your tone, which doesn’t seem to soothe him any. “But it’s for the best that we part ways here, James. Thanks for your time.”

“But–” Your inarguable dismissal staggers him. He gropes for recourse. “I paid,” he blurts out, which proves to be his final mistake.

Your polite facade drops. “For what?“ His booze addled panic shifts into confusion. “F…For dinner, but I didn’t mean–”

“And that entitles you to fuck me?” No sense in mincing words now.

His expression morphs again, this time into mortification. “No! No, but–”

“You thought this would be a transaction? God, and here I was thinking your gravest flaw would be how mind-numbingly boring you are. But to be boring and stupid?” You scoff, waving a dismissive hand. “Goodnight, James,” you say, the kindest dismissal you can muster. You turn on your heel before he can sour the evening any further, and luckily for him, he doesn’t pursue you further.

Unbelievable. As if you hadn’t offered to split the check. As if he expected it to be a transaction that he cashed in your bed. As if the cost of dinner was worth anything more than a polite smile from you. As if.

New York doesn’t sleep, but it does grow very, very dark. You’re on a narrow street, not an alley exactly, but not a main road, either. Still riled up, you bring up the parking app on your phone as you walk, swiping through to get ready to pay for your crummy back lot space. A clatter brings your attention up, and that’s when you see them—two men. One wearing a black leather jacket, the other with a kerchief slung around his throat. 

You stop walking, caught between turning around, which would mean putting your back to the men up ahead, or continuing forward, which would mean passing within arm’s reach. They haven’t noticed you yet, or at least they’re pretending not to, but now they look right at you and smile.

The men don’t look dangerous, not like they do in the movies, but you know that means nothing—plenty of the worst people in the world looked safe. Yet the longer you stay put, the more you sense the ill intent wafting off of them like cheap cologne. “Hey, baby,” says one of them, moving toward you. “You lost?”

“No,” you say curtly, taking a step back. “Not lost. Excuse me.”

“You sure? We’re real good with directions,” says the second man, leering. Your eyes snap between them, phone clutched tight in your hand. “Y’look like you could use some.”

“No,” you say again, louder. How loud would you need to be for anyone to hear you over the sounds of the streets? Panic swells in your throat.

You don’t know how they got so close so quickly, but as you turn to run, a hand catches your collar. The guy in the leather jacket wrenches you back against him, one arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your phone clatters to the ground. 

“Hey now, what’s the rush?” He asks, yanking you backwards. “Get off me,” you snarl, but he’s squeezing you tightly across the chest, making it hard to think, let alone breathe. You struggle until you feel something hard dig into your hip. A knife? No. You realize coldly that it’s a gun, the handle of it jutting out from his waistband and digging into you. In a desperate bid, you twist in his grip, trying to grab it.

“Careful,” says the other one, moving in front of you, closing in. “She’s got spirit.”

You kick out at the other guy but he jumps back, laughing at you. They’re both laughing, relishing in your fear. Your fingers skim the gun, but you can’t quite get it.

The first man’s breath is hot and sour on your cheek. “Come on, now, let’s have some fun.” You slam your head back into his nose—or try to, but you only manage to clip his chin. Still, you hit bone, hear the crack of a tooth, and just like that you’re free, stumbling to your hands and knees as the man reels. You hit the ground hard, the shock of landing lancing pain through your arms and legs. The gun tumbles from his waistband. Without thinking twice you lunge for it, fingers successfully closing around the grip right before one of the men grabs your ankle and pulls.

The street bites into your elbows and scrapes your knee bloody as you twist around and raise the gun, barrel leveled at the man’s heart. “LET GO!” You scream, heart hammering against your chest. “Oh shit,” says the man in the kerchief, eyes wide at seeing you armed, but the other one sneers at you, blood spilling from his mouth. There’s fury in his eyes, and the unmistakable intent to hurt you. “You ever held a gun that big, baby?”

“Let go,” you say again, voice firmer than the tremble of your hands. Your finger flexes on the trigger.

“You even know how to use it?” He asks, using his grip on your ankle to pull himself over you, his other hand falling to your thigh. He gives a pointed squeeze as he lifts himself up to tower above you. He reaches to take hold of you again, but you won’t let him. Can’t let him.

“Yes.” You squeeze the trigger as you say it, bracing for the recoil, the bang. It’s always so loud in the movies.

Nothing happens. You panic, looking at the weapon in your hands in dull shock. The safety isn’t on. You pull the trigger again, but the chamber rings hollow. It isn’t loaded. You look up at the man as his shadow falls over you. He bares his teeth at you, painted an ugly dark red with the blood spilling from his mouth. The man laughs, a short barking sound, and knocks the gun from your hands with a harsh slap. It goes skidding away.

“Stupid bitch,” he says, raising his boot as if you were an oversized bug, something to crush. You close your eyes and scream as he brings it down hard.

Or at least, he started to, but his leg locks up halfway, and then he topples, a single horrifying sound leaking from his clenched teeth. Your eyes open just in time to see his body hit the ground, a smoldering wound smoking from his chest. An instant later, the second man falls. This time you see the flash of crimson light that drops him.

Homelander’s cape billows in the wind with all the majesty of the flag it’s designed after as he descends from the sky. He lands in front of you, backlit by the distant street lights that give him an artificial glow. He’s beautiful, a perfectly manufactured angel delivered straight from some market tested Heaven.

“Hey, you hurt?” He asks, reaching for you.

Awestruck, all you can do is stare at his outstretched hand. Tears well in your eyes. Shock is setting in the aftermath of all that adrenaline in your veins crashing your system. Through the blur of your tears, Homelander’s expression shifts from concern to that of determination.

“It’s alright, I’m here now. They can’t hurt you,” he says, bringing your arm around his neck while he slips his own around your waist, effortlessly lifting you from the ground. Before your gaze can drift to the corpses–whose burning flesh you can smell mingling with the acrid city air–Homelander rotates, taking them from your line of sight. 

With a flourish, he unhitches his cape from his shoulders and swings the fabric over yours. It settles on you heavier than you expected it to be, and impossibly warm. Moving back in, Homelader readily takes you back into his arms. He cradles you in his embrace, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other drawing lines up and down your back.

You try to choke out a sound, to ask him, how? How did he find you? How did he know you needed him? But none of the noises you make form any actual words. Your throat is too tight, and your tongue feels too big for your mouth, gnarled silent by panic. Everything is just too much. Your breaths only grow sharper as tears burn hot streaks down your face.

“Sssshhhhhhh,” he shushes by your ear, lifting you just enough to keep you on your feet, but take the weight of your body from you. His hold is compressive, but not oppressive. It takes everything you have left to lift your other arm around his neck while the sobs overtake you. He continues to hush you, whispering a menagerie of honeyed assurances in your ear, the core sentiment always the same.

I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you.

You cry harder, coiling your arms tighter around his neck. He lets you cling to him, lets you sob away your makeup and soak the collar of his suit with the mess of it.

You don’t know how much time passes in your addled state of panic, but eventually your breaths begin to even out, though your heart continues to thunder. Your body isn’t convinced that the danger has vanished yet, eager to turn to flight now that your fight has gone.

“That’s it, just like that,” Homelander praises. “Breathe. Breathe. Good… Light as a feather now, okay? Like you can fly,” he tells you. The weightlessness you feel in his arms helps the idea, helps you to feel like you aren’t being crushed by the terrible weight of such a moment of horror. That’s all it had been, a moment–two at most–and yet the torment of it had felt hours long. Exhaustion falls over you in the wake of adrenaline, and you’re glad for Homelander’s arms around you. You doubt you’d be standing without them.

“Home,” you manage to croak. “Please.” You can still smell the man’s sour breath, the memory even more powerful than the stench of reality.

“I can take you home,” he coos, maintaining that same soothing tone of comfort. “Is that what you want?”

You nod, focusing instead on the vetiver fresh smell of him. You’ve never been near enough to him before to notice it, but now you fixate on it. Anything to drown out the stink of the alley. He smells so much cleaner, like fresh linen drying over green grass in the summer sun.

His arms flex around you before he adjusts them, lifting you smoothly into his arms. Your stomach flips the way it does when you go down a hill in the backseat of a car, gravity loosening its hold on you. You can feel the motion all around you, the wind ghosting over you, but Homelander himself feels motionless against you.

Flying. He’s flying. And so are you.

His cape shields you from the night air bite, pulled snug around you and secured where your bodies are pressed together. You haven’t felt like this since you were a child, cradled with such care and strength that feels beyond your comprehension. Homelander serves as both place and person–somewhere safe, someone kind–and you tuck yourself closer into the sanctuary of his arms, hands fisted in the protective fabric of his cape.

“I’ve got’cha,” he assures you, voice warm in your ear. 

Without a shadow of a doubt, you believe him.

Homelander doesn’t need to ask where you live. It’s an easy detail to brush off if you question him. He doubts you will with the way you’re clinging to him, though. You feel good in his arms, settling so naturally against the contours of them he might convince himself you belong here. He doesn’t mind your weeping when it comes with your arms around him, fingertips brushing the nape of his neck.

A small shiver rolls down his spine.

Of all the ways Homelander expected the evening to unfold, he hadn’t properly anticipated you. While he cradles you, he replays again and again the moment you were snatched. You fought without hesitation. You wrenched the gun free. The fierceness in your eyes as you aimed it had been exquisite. The resolve in your gaze as you fired it even more so.

He’d known you were confident, but that kind of clawing survival can only be learned of a person in action. He’s known many supposedly strong people–supe and human alike–who walk as stone giants, but shatter like glass when faced with any real danger.

You couldn’t have known that you weren’t in any real danger. You couldn’t have known that he’d told those thugs to scare you, but not hurt you. You couldn’t have known he’d ensured the gun wasn’t loaded. You fought as though it was for your life, and it enthralled him.

He hadn’t planned on killing them in front of you. They would have been loose ends to tie up after his heroic rescue, but somewhere along the line that stupid bastard lost the thread. He hurt you, bloodied those pretty knees of yours, and he moved to strike you. To grind you beneath his heel as if you were the vermin instead of him. For that–and for so flagrantly going against Homelander’s own direct order–you witnessed his downfall.

As far as he’s concerned now, everything happened precisely as it needed to. You’re in his arms now, and he’s still half hard from witnessing you choose fight when your instincts kicked in. You’re too fragile to choose it so readily. Your bones feel bird-like compared to the scope of his strength. Hollow and brittle. You would make for a hell of a supe, though.

Still, he won’t break you. He’s spent his entire life learning what it takes to snap bones like party favors, and more crucially, what it takes not to. Yours are safe from him. In fact, you’re the safest person in the whole world now.

Homelander glides down to a soft landing on your driveway. Your car will be an issue for another time. For now, he walks you to your front door before gently placing you on your feet.

“Believe this is you, young lady,” he says, leaving space for plausible deniability. If it occurs to you to interrogate him about it, it doesn’t show on your face. With hands still softly trembling, you fish your keys out of your purse. He watches you fumble with them for only a moment before he steps in behind you, one hand gripping your upper arm to steady and pause you while the other covers your shaking hand, helping you to slide the key into the lock and turn it.

Your hand fits nicely in his.

“Thanks,” you whisper. It’s the first thing you’ve said since asking him to take you home. He takes the liberty of opening the door for you while he’s at it, swinging it wide to allow you in. You grab his forearm, and he thinks you’re only balancing yourself, but when you don’t let go he steps with you, letting you lean on him as you guide him into your home. He closes the door behind the two of you, smiling to himself.

He may not need an invitation to enter, but it’s charming to have one.

Your movements are stiff, a slight limp to your gait. You fell hard, and the delicate flesh of your knee had ripped apart against the concrete when you were dragged. You hesitate at the stairs, but Homelander doesn’t. You inhale sharply  when he scoops you back up into his arms with ease and starts up the stairs. He keeps his gaze ahead, but he can feel yours on him.

“Thanks,” you say again, the word barely more than a hiccup, adjusting his cape over yourself like a blanket.

“It’s what heroes are for.” He smiles. It’s a party line, one he’s said a hundred thousand times before, but you make him mean it. This is what heroes are for. To be worshiped and loved, understood deeper than pop stars and false idols like them. There’s a reverence in your stare that transcends the vapid starstruck way most people look at him. You understand now. You know how much more he is.

He brings you to your bedroom and sets you on the edge of the bed, adjusting his cape back up over your shoulders. You’ve scarcely let go of it since he wrapped you in it. Will you sleep with it tonight? He bets you will. The thought sends a pleasant tingle through him. 

“Alright, let’s get a look at those knees,” he says, crouching in front of you. There’s blood running down your left shin. He lifts the edge of your skirt hem just enough to catch a glimpse of shredded skin. It looks rough, dirty and embedded with bits of debris. He blows out a breath. “Got a first aid kit?”

You nod numbly. “Under the bathroom sink.”

It’s odd to see you so subdued. He forgets sometimes that you humans can be as emotionally fragile as you are physically. Surely the death of two measly thugs isn’t enough to break you.

Rising, he moves to your bathroom. He feels slightly unbalanced without the sway of his cape behind him, the garment as integral to his physicality as any limb. He rummages through until his hand lands on a bright red fabric pack with a zipper. He gives it a little toss and catches it, bringing it back to you, alongside a wetted towel. He gives the pack a victorious little shake.

“H’okay, down to business.” Homelander kneels before you, splaying open the kit and placing it on your lap. He’s never used one of these before, but he’s pretended to do it on set. How different can it be? He cups your leg, thumb absently smoothing back and forth on your skin while he uses the towel to gently wipe up the blood, dirt and debris from your shin and knee.

You flinch, tense a moment before you relax. “Homelander, you really don’t have to–”

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks, glancing up at you through his lashes. There’s a playful lilt to his voice.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, the smallest hint of exasperation in your voice. He’s pleased to hear it. Perhaps you’re less wilted from the encounter than he thought. “I just mean that I can–”

“I know you can,” he says, and this time he definitely sees a flare of annoyance. You don’t like being interrupted any more than he does, but you don’t protest further. He smiles, triumphant, and focuses back on the task at hand, petting you the same way one might soothe a wild animal.

There’s a novelty in doing this for real that he hadn’t anticipated. It’s entirely unlike wiping away congealed red corn syrup from an actor. Your skin is sweeter, softer. He suddenly resents his gloves for the barrier they provide, despite his usual reliance for that very thing. He’s meticulous in flicking out the little stones embedded in your skin, spotting each one with ease.

Next, he tears open the alcohol wipes with his teeth and uses them to disinfect, rubbing at the sores. You flinch, sucking in a loud breath through your teeth. “Oopsy-daisy,” he says, switching to gently patting. He has no real concept of what you’re feeling right now. He’s never had a scraped knee before. The scientists at Vought had to get much more creative in order to gauge his capacity for healing.

He imagines they were disappointed to realize that, once damaged, he healed as slowly as a human.

“How’d you find me?” You ask, snapping him out of his unpleasant reminiscence. Your shock seems to have worn off entirely. You look more present, alert to his every move.

“Heard you scream,” he answers simply, unraveling a roll of gauze. That much is true.

“But how? How did you know where I was?” You push, watching him wind the white material around your knee.

“I didn’t,” he lies smoothly. He’s followed enough scripts in his life to do so very well. “If I’d known exactly where you were, I would have been there sooner. I was minding my business on 5th Avenue when I heard you. Familiar voices can…” He makes a vague gesture. “Cut through the din. Voices I want to hear.” 

He thinks he catches you flush at that. Just a touch. He bites back a smirk, pleased with himself. Does it matter if it’s true when it makes you look at him like that?

“I didn’t know your hearing worked like that,” you say, fidgeting with the hem of his cape.

His gaze flickers up every so often to watch your finger pick at the seam, inexplicably charmed by it. “Well, there’s some things not even a super fan can glean,” he teases, securing the gauze with tape. He expects to see a familiar indignation in your expression, but when he looks up, he’s caught off guard by the unmistakable fondness in your eyes.

“I was over the moon when I got my job at Vought,” you say quietly, like you’re whispering in a confessional. “I always wanted to work with heroes.”

“With me?” He pushes, lifting his brows.

Very slightly, you smile. “Yeah. With you.”

“Busted,” he says, his own voice equally soft.

You give him a little nudge with your foot. “Gauze won’t stay by itself. Need to use a roll of self-adhesive wrap,” you say, plucking the beige roll from the kit. He likes the shy warmth in your voice. He would have done much worse to see this side of you. Have the intimacy of your pain, fear and relief all to himself. This glowing affection you’re so full of. He feels drunk on the cocktail of it all.

“Right, obviously,” he says, taking the wrapping from you. “I knew that.”

“Probably should have put a gauze pad under it, too,” you continue, eyes heavily lidded, expression soft.

“Everyone’s a critic,” he laments, affixing the textured bandage around the gauze. You laugh, and the sound of it feels like a space he could belong in.

He checks your other knee, your elbows and your palms, but nowhere else on you calls for anything more than some antiseptic and a few bandaids. With the wrappings secure, he shuffles the mess of supplies haphazardly back into the kit, zipping it up much more bulging and misshapen a state than he found it in. He pushes it under the bed with the towel atop it, standing.

“Good as new. Or close to it,” he says, making a small show of dusting off his hands for a job well done. 

You stand, letting his cape slide off of your shoulders for the first time since he put it on you, the fabric pooling on the bed. You step forward, and of all the things he expects in this moment, you blow them out of the water by suddenly wrapping your arms around him, the soft curves of your body slotting against his in a way that trips something primal and needy in him. He puts his arms around you the second the shock wears off, holding you with the barest fraction of his strength.

Tension drains from your body. Were you nervous he wouldn’t reciprocate? It’s an endearing thought. He gives a deeper, brief squeeze. He can’t remember the last time someone held him.

“Thank you,” you say after a long beat, drawing back. He reluctantly loosens his grip, but not by much. He’s loath to relinquish you so soon after he’s gotten hold of you. “It’s not enough, but I don’t know what could ever be.”

I could make a few suggestions, he thinks, but he doesn’t give voice to the lewd thoughts that follow.

“I’ll never forget what you did for me tonight,” you say. Your face is so near to his, it makes it difficult to focus on anything other than the curve of your lips as you speak.

Instead of responding, Homelander leans in, eyes falling shut.

“Oh,” you say sharply, your soft body suddenly going tense in his arms, stopping him in his tracks. Both of your hands are braced against his chest now, creating a distance that feels craterous. 

He blinks, brows furrowed in confusion. “What?” 

“I’m really tired,” you say, tone shifting to mild diffusion. It reminds him of the way you spoke to James, and his ego stings with both the rejection and the comparison. He’d laughed listening to you reject that pathetic, simpering man. It seems less funny now. 

He scoffs an incredulous little huff. But I saved you, he thinks, indignant panic flaring in his chest. To his dismay, however, the thought doesn’t sound like his own voice. It sounds like James’.

But I paid!

Repulsed, Homelander swallows the thought like bile. If the comparison comes so readily to his own mind, there’s no way you won’t make the connection yourself. He feels his skin prickle like there are fire ants crawling beneath his suit. The memory of James’ pathetic begging is the only thing that keeps his composure together.

“Of course you are,” he says tightly. His smile is forced, slightly too wide. “You should sleep. Rest up. Take the day off tomorrow,” he says stiffly, rattling off lines like they’re pre-recorded. Only then does he surrender his hold on you, hands moving to his hips instead. You take a step back, and he stands straighter to disguise the sting of rejection.

“Thank you,” you say, tone indecipherable. It’s full to the brim with something, but nothing Homelander can parse in his current state. “I–”

“No need,” he dismisses, jumping on the opportunity to end the conversation on his terms. “Really. Just doing my job,” he says, tossing you a little two-finger salute off of his brow, already moving towards your balcony door. You don’t move, watching him from the foot of your bed, arms wrapped around yourself.

“Catch you at the office,” he says. He knows he’s speaking too quickly, but it’s all he can do to keep himself in check. Anger and misery broil in him like vinegar and baking soda, the caustic brew threatening to erupt.

“Okay,” you say, which isn’t particularly what he wants to hear. He turns his back to you, and his smile drops, his ego violently stung. With a force that billows wind through your bedroom, he takes off into the night sky.

You just weren’t ready, he tells himself, gritting his teeth. It’s easier to be angry than embarrassed. He wants to make as much distance between himself and your rejection, flying higher and higher until frost begins collecting on his lashes. He flies until there’s no sound, no oxygen, no life but his own. He flies until gravity releases him and he can finally relax, suspended by cold, vast space.

The earth glows beneath him, reflecting the light of the sun where it illuminates a distant portion of the globe.

Closing his eyes, he tips his head back.

He’ll fix this.

( chapter four )

[dhampling]

lifeblood 18+ (astarion x fem!reader)

As you step closer and drop the basket on the ground he throws a palm up at you. Short, ragged groans. “That… tea. It’s done something to me. The old wretch.” - astarion discovers an aphrodisiac during a trip to the night market, and only one thing is on his mind. cw: breeding, afab reader, mommy kink (brief), sex pollen, comfort, sexual frustration, zero plot, p in v wc: 2.5k, if there are errors no there aren't; enjoy!

The Night Market is particularly vibrant this evening, people and creatures of all description wandering the streets browsing various wares - and so when Astarion feverishly takes your hand and pulls you away from your browsing in a staggered gait; your immediate thoughts are all telling you to watch for danger.

Wicker basket in arm, flailing as he weaves you both through the tepid mulling crowds - a harsh whisper when you scramble close enough to ask ‘what is it?’ - he’s unrelenting in his pursuit, eyes searching off to each alley and aside between stalls. It’s not until he finds a gated passage a little along that his momentum stops and he drops to his knees to pick the lock; then jumps up and pulls you through with a harsh grasp on your upper arm.

You await the slam. The frantic recollection of whatever it is that has him so wary, the whispers and heads over the gate as you duck your way back home from wherever you’ve now ended up.

Had he been caught thieving? Surely not.

Instead though, he surprises you.

He begins to fiddle with the laces of his trousers. Panting. Brow furrowed into a crease and typically-deft fingers losing hold of the lacing with a pained yowl.

“What is this?”

As you step closer and drop the basket on the ground he throws a palm up at you. Short, ragged groans.

“That… tea. It’s done something to me. The old wretch.”

You bypass his hand and bring the back of your own to his forehead, feeling a clammy sweat atop his brow and a slight heat broiling. The tea you’d turned down around half an hour ago, before you’d split for your own respective market gains.

“Gods - Astarion, the aphrodisiac? Of course it has - you okay?”

As you speak he brings your wrist to his nose and huffs it. A haggard wail. Snorts the salt of your skin and gives a strangled curse. He finishes the laces of his trousers and works to free his cock, looking from it to you in a desperate plea.

“Here? Now? What in the hells is going on?!”

“I can smell it. You. You’re so…’

Another huff. His other hand bounces his cock in his palm, spidery strings of prespill linking pale skin.

‘Fertile. Like a cat in heat. Gods, I- I don’t know what this is.”

His hips rut with insatiable want into the air. 

“How do you feel?”

You take him in one hand while wrapping the other around his shoulder in a soothing sail. A few gentle pumps to bring the skin around the head down; a thumb down his slit, literally leaking now. He sobs. 

“I’m burning.’

He writhes against the wooden gate, still standing. Tender cries from his wet, wanting mouth.

‘It’s painful. I- I need you. Please.”

“What do you want from me?’

A deliberate, slow jerk; your wrist turning effortlessly.

‘How can I help you, angel?”

For the first time in this whole sorry sequence his eyes meet yours, red turned a dangerous carmine.

“Don’t make me say it.” 

You squeeze him in your palm and he wails.

“Maybe I want you to say it.’

He thrusts deeply into your hand and screws his eyes closed, panting in habitual breaths. You lean close to his flushed ear and kitten-lick the inner skin with an intentionally wet tongue.

‘Say it for me. Say it for mummy, darling.’

When the word leaves your lips, his head whips to you furiously. Eyes round and brimming with tears. Bottom lip trembling. Your foreheads meet and you soften. Your poor boy.

‘Do you want this? Or would you like to go home, Astarion? I’ll draw you a bath, we can-”

“I want this. I need- I need to-’

You shuffle away, lifting your skirts and fiddling at your own underclothes to loosen them down your thighs. When he sees your own spool of arousal connecting cunt to cloth he jerks furiously and advances behind you, this time in your ear.

‘Let me fuck you. I’ll make you a mummy. I need to-’

Your fingers disappear deep between your legs, arching your ass into him; and emerge drenched in clear jelly slick - a film connecting them as they splay. 

He’s shaking now. He can smell it more vividly than he’s ever been able to smell anything. His hands press over your lower belly; the womb ripe for fertilisation, the way he can envision himself sunk to the hilt and ebbing at the entrance to your cervix, his seed leaking directly into you with each prespill pulse and throb. 

‘I need to put a baby in you. I need to breed you.’

He regains control for a brief moment as deft fingers work their way down your front and to the top of your pubic bone. If you were to stop and consider then you know there’s categorically no way he could impregnate you, and even if so; it’s not something you’ve considered to any realistic extent. 

‘This won’t go away until I do, sweetheart. I can feel it.”

There’s a solemnity to his whisper, you note. A consideration. 

A sadness, maybe? 

You wonder how literal he is. If this has triggered some latent need to knock you up. If your fertile days will be spent with him filling you to the brim with his undead spend, over and over; until he somehow manages the impossible. 

A stack of crates nearby. They’ll do for this. 

You lead him now, a shepherd; to the boxes and hitch your skirts over your ass while you bend over the dry wood. 

“If you let me do this, I won’t be able to stop.” Astarion’s voice cracks in the whisper while looking at your glistening cunt with admirable restraint. You feel yourself leaking down the soft skin of your thigh - your own arousal catching on the cool night air. 

“I don’t want you to stop.’ 

He descends on you after a dazed moment to steep in your words, testing the waters with nimble fingers edging between your swollen lips. 

‘Fuck me full. Breed me.”

“You’re so ready, aren’t you? Little minx.’

A wretched groan. 

‘You want me to get you pregnant? I can feel how ruinously soaked you are - tell me, is this what you want? Have you wanted this for a while?”

When he speaks it’s simply silken. Syrup. His fingers feel excruciatingly good as they round your lust-engorged clit, babbling nonsense in a lusty haze.

“Gods. Yes. Yes. Please, please fuck me. Spill into me.”

The fingers are merely customary. He knows what he wants, and you want it too. Each wanton wiggle of your hips, each brush against your ass cheeks. The blunt head of his cock settles just broaches your entrance as you hear him suckle on his fingertips coyly behind you. 

A low hum of approval.

“Good. My darling girl.”

On darling, he begins his relentless campaign. 

Once settled at the hilt he stops for a moment in a weighty groan, eyes rolling back into his skull as you turn over your shoulder. His hands settle in a firm grasp on your hips. At this moment he’s determined. Needy. Your cunt is the relief he so desperately seeks and he takes a second to adjust so he can hump you properly. To ensure the seed settles once he’s gathered the momentum to have it spurt deep into your womb.

He feels ridiculously good like this. 

Like a meal to the starving, water in the desert. The wet glubs accompanying his shallow thrusts are evidentiary to just how much you need this. Him buried inside you - rattling on like a madman. Talks like his mind will never be the same again. 

The only thing in his brain being the unfettered desire to make you round. 

“I’ll take you back here again, in a few months. When you’re- when you’re round and aching. Keep your arm in mine at all times so- so they all know just who did this to you.’

A few shallow ruts before he ploughs back in deep.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I- I feel your heart racing, darling. You want my babies? You want to make me a daddy?’

He cants his hips at the breech of your cervix, not pulling back, simply moving to adjust himself inside you. Ensuring his prespill leaks into your waiting womb with each rock of his pelvis.

‘Because I’m feral thinking about making you a mother. All glowy and swollen, my baby inside you.”

His clammy hand slaps your ass, heavy balls smacking on your clit with his terse thrusts.

“I- I want it. I need it. Please.”

Your moans are directly into the dry wood, face now pressed to the side against the crates. Lips swollen from your own attempts to bite back your lewd proclamations. Spit forming a glob of drool in the resting corner. 

You’re smiling. Beaming. Gods. 

Had you wanted this? Had it been some subconscious desire of yours to mother his children? Has some sketchy tea from a Night Market vendor done this to you through his prespill seeping in? Made you realise just how you wanted your life with him to look? 

You’ve not planned for this, but no fear overwhelms you at the thought of the possible outcome of your breeding session. The thought of him sat beaming over your child. The most beautiful man you’ve ever seen; yours, your family, everyone knowing your devotion to each other in the most lifelong sense. Infallible and real and capable of producing something beyond yourselves.

As he continues his pursuit you wonder if they’ll have his eyes. Fangs. Dhampir aren’t a common breed. They’re far too difficult to rear.

But there’s something potent in the way he piles into you where you can begin to see an entire brood of them. Dhampir. 

The sheer determination behind his smacks, the way you ass burns each time his palm meets it in a sharp slap. His chuntering warbles - moans, grunting, the light pleading;-

The light pleading.

He’s reaching around your front and holding your lower belly as he fucks you, a slight falter to his pacing.

Poor thing. 

“Feed.” You whimper, brushing all hindrances from your neck and arching into him once more so he stops his thrusting.

“I- I can’t. I can’t risk it not taking. This isn’t going away, love.”

His voice cracks, a desperation once more.

“I said feed. Feed on me, my angel. Then fuck me full of you.”

He keeps inside you as he leans over your back, hands moving to feel for your nipples under your blouse and lightly jerking the peaking skin. He stills for a moment in an attempt to regain some of himself.

“Yes, mother.” 

You both fall about laughing until he corrects your stance with an urgent tug and waits no time to sink his teeth into the long-standing wounds on your neck. 

From his position he can’t thrust, stretched over your back like some heavy battlecloak of old. 

You warm him with genuine delight at no risk of him growing soft and feel the way his pretty cock pushes against your ridges in the most minute way. His suckling from you in order to eke out your lifeblood, becoming his own once swallowed. The saccharine pool of metal red gathering under his tongue with each lap. 

Once finished, he lifts with renewed vigour. Wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and cackles something wicked.

He gives you no time to adjust before he resumes his conquest on your body, a brutal thrust giving you cause to wince into the crates below you. You whip your head around to sneer at him which earns you a sheepish smile.

Each snap brings you closer. The white heat boiling, spluttering in your gut threatens to spill with each mutter from his blood-smeared mouth.

“I’m close.” You whimper. 

He leans over you once more.

“Milk it from me, love. Cum for me.”

The whisper tips you over. Each rolling tidal wave of ecstasy as his thumb strokes the side of your distended clit is molten in extremity, each clench of your cunt vice-like around him. His roaring laughter ecstatic as he rides you through your peak like some seasoned rancher.

Whoever has set up stall by the alley is definitely aware of your brutal fucking. The thought of them discovering you has you in near shambles as you reach the end of climax. Being discovered. Something else that’s relatively new to you, but not unpleasant.

Then, he gasps. Trembles. Shatters. Through the haze of your orgasm you feel him stutter on weak legs and the vulnerability you’ve come to know so well has blinked back into the frame. 

“Tell me I can. Now. Quick.”

“Knock me up. You can do it, baby.”

Eyes still round, Astarion humps your ass in anticipation one more time and spills with such force it sends him reeling into audible ecstacy. Each twitch of his cock inside you milky smooth in your combined secretion, blood-pinkened slit spurting, the sheer control as he presses impossibly deep into your waiting cunt. You find yourself rolling back in your own delirium. 

His orgasmic rutting doesn’t stop for a long while. A series of beleaguered moans, the way his humming pitches with each slap of his hips; each of his taps against your cervix causing you to clench further and therefore feeding the cycle.

When he does eventually stop, his face buries in between your shoulderblades; arms wrapping around your waist. Silence. 

“Astarion, love - are you okay?”

A feeble whisper. Back still arched, his weight on you.

“I’m- I’m so sorry.”

There’s a teary singe to his quiet words, reverent kisses planted on your own now-sweat laden skin. He sniffs. 

“It’s okay! We all make mistakes. She did say it was an aphrodisiac, to be fair to her. Is it still affecting you?”

“No, not that.”

“Then what?”

He sniffs once more and wipes his face with the back of his hand, using your hips as leverage to stand. 

“I- This. All this. I didn’t want it to come out like this, ideally.”

You shuffle a little and he slips from between your legs, taking your underwear from the floor and turning to face him whilst you roll the garment over your thighs.

“What? That you have a raging breeding fetish?” 

He taps your arm lightly and laughs a little, lacing up his breeches.

“Well. Kind of?’

He pulls a face and brings you close, moon overhead gleaming in the cool night. A slight breeze.

‘I don’t know what I want, per se; but I think I like the idea of… Well. This.’ 

His hands roll over one another as he plants a soft kiss atop your head. You lick your thumb and wipe any remaining blood traces from his lips.

‘It feels ridiculously sordid and entirely dangerous, but the moment that… stuff hit my blood I knew what I needed. I could smell you miles off. Still can.”

“You want to put a dhampir in me?” You laugh, waggling your fingers near his face. He groans.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.’

You kiss the back of his hand as you reach for the discarded basket.

‘Not until you’ve done it, anyway.”

[marypsue]

There’ve been a few responses to/reblogs with tags on my post about DIY clothing embellishments that basically boil down to ‘I’d love to do this but I’m scared it’ll turn out bad/I’m not a good enough artist’. And I get it, I really do! I also want my art things to turn out nicely. But also...making it badly is sort of the point of punk DIY. 

Listen. We live in a world that would dearly love to charge you a subscription fee for breathing. The bastards are doing everything they possibly can to figure out how to turn art - stories, visual art, music, textile/fibre art, sculpture, crafts and creations of every kind - into a neat, discrete, packageable commodity, a product they can chop up into little pieces and stick behind a paywall so they can charge you for every drop of it you want to have in your life. 

The whole sneering idea that ‘everybody wants to be some kind of creator now’ and anything less than absolute mastery right out the gate is somehow shameful and embarrassing is a tool those bastards are using. It’s a way to reinforce the idea that only a set group of people can create and control art, and everybody else has to buy it. 

But art isn’t a product. Art is a fundamental human impulse. Nobody is entitled to a specific piece of art (which is where this message gets skewed into pitting people who love art against the artists who make it, while the bastards screw us all and run away with the money). But making art belongs to everybody. We make up songs and dances and stories, and paint things, and make clothes, and embellish them, and carve flowers into our furniture and our lintels and our doorframes, and make windows out of tiny pieces of coloured glass, and decorate our homes and our bodies and our lives with things we make and make up, simply for the love of beauty and of the act of creation. Grave goods from tens of thousands of years ago show that ancient hominids gave their dead wreaths of ceramic flowers, tattooed their bodies, beaded their shoes. Making things for the sake of beauty and enjoyment is one of the most ancient and human things we can do. 

The idea that we can’t, that we have to buy shit instead, because art is a product and you have to have the bestest prettiest most perfect product, is the enemy of joy. It’s the death of culture. And it means that, instead of whatever it is that you cherish and enjoy and value, you get whatever inoffensive (and to whom is it inoffensive?) bland meaningless samey-samey crap that the bastards want you to be allowed to have. What are you missing and what are you missing out on, if you don’t make or modify or decorate anything for yourself, if you don’t think you can because the product at the end won’t be polished or perfect or marketable enough? What do you lose? What do we lose? 

It is a desperately vital and necessary thing for you to make shit. For you to know that you can make shit, that you don’t have to just lie back and take whatever pablum the bastards want to force-feed you (and charge you through the nose for). That the bastards need you more than you need them. 

Become ungovernable. Be your own weirdly-endearing punk little freak. Paint on a t-shirt. Sing off-key in the shower or at karaoke night or at open mic night. Make up a story where you get to meet your favourite fictional character and you guys hug or fuck or punch each other in the face. Make art. Do it badly. Do it frequently. Do it enthusiastically. Do it for love and joy and creativity and fun and the spiteful joy of thumbing your nose at some smug motherfucker with a Swiss bank account who wants to track your heartbeat and location for the rest of your life in order to automatically pump AI-generated beats matched to your mood into your earbuds for a small monthly subscription fee of $24.99/month. It is literally the only way we are ever going to have even a chance to save art and our own lives from the bastards. 

So. Paint that t-shirt. 

(Also support artists where you can, and buy your music from Bandcamp.)

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

FORD MUSTANG BOSS 302

BOSS-A-NOVA!

They called it The Boss and for two short years it ruled the muscle car scene in the US, establishing itself as one of the greatest road and race cars of the era. Now, it’s one of the most collectible.

In 1960s US street lingo, if something was ‘boss’ it was cool, tough, the best. And the 1969 Boss 302 Mustang wore its badge with pride. It launched just four and a half years after the first Mustang was revealed to critical acclaim and record sales. Yearly updates to keep Mustang fresh in the face of tough new challengers from General Motors and Chrysler (particularly the Camaro) resulted in the once lean and pretty ’Stang muscling up, both in body shape and under-bonnet brawn, and the 1969-70 Boss models were the zenith of Mustang styling.

Thereafter, Mustangs became increasingly bloated and anaemic as the 1970s fuel crisis and stricter pollution laws cut horsepower and stylists lost their way; the rippling flanks and thrusting nose of the late 60s/early 70s cars gave way to boxy, bland designs. That early look would not be recaptured until 2005, when new Mustangs were given retro styling.

The Boss 302 was launched at the same time as its big-block brother, the Boss 429. Both were positioned as competition specials; Ford wanted to homologate its 302-cuber for Trans-Am and the 429ci monster for NASCAR. In fact, Ford went wild with engines between 1969-70, offering nine V8s – the ‘economy’ 302, 351 Windsor, 351 Cleveland, 390, 428 Cobra Jet, 428 Super Cobra Jet, 429 ‘wedge’, Boss 302 and Boss 429.

For the Boss 302, Ford’s high-compression 302ci small-block V8 was beefed up with four-bolt main bearing caps and redesigned ‘Cleveland’ cylinder heads with bigger inlet and exhaust valves, and ports that allowed the engine to breathe more efficiently.

These ‘semi-hemi’ heads were based on the Ford 427ci racing engine’s combustion chambers, and a balanced forged steel crankshaft and forged steel conrods allowed the engine to handle high rpms for sustained periods. A single 780cfm four-barrel Holley carburettor sat atop a high-rise aluminium inlet manifold, while a dual-point distributor, high-pressure oil pump, windage tray and screw-in welch plugs were further indications of its competition intent.

A rev limiter was fitted, progressively cutting spark from 5800rpm to 6150, but it was easily bypassed and the Boss 302 could reportedly keep making power up to 8000rpm with minor mods. In the muscle car marketing war, Ford claimed a peak horsepower figure of 290bhp at 5800rpm (the same as the Camaro Z/28), but that was extremely conservative.

Two four-speed manual Top Loader transmissions were available: a wide-ratio ’box with Hurst shifter more suited to street and strip use, and a close-ratio unit for racing. Adding to the race or road options list were four diffs: the stock 3.5:1 nine-inch, Traction-Lok 3.5:1 and 3.91:1 and the No-Spin 4.30:1 built by Detroit Automotive. Axles and diff centres were also strengthened to take the loads.

Suspension was also race-inspired with heavy-duty springs, shocks and sway bar up front, and Hotchkiss-style rear suspension with heavy-duty leaf springs, sway bar and staggered shock absorbers. The left-hand shock absorber was bolted behind the axle and the right in front, to reduce axle tramp under acceleration. Amazingly for such a high-performance car, braking was still only discs and drums with power assistance.

Ironically, the Boss 302’s sexy shape was styled by former General Motors designer Larry Shinoda, who is often credited with coming up with the Boss moniker. When asked what he was working on, he replied, "The boss’s car", a reference to new Ford president ‘Bunkie’ Knudson, who was also ex-GM and had recruited Shinoda to Ford.

While the wheelbase remained unchanged at 2740mm, the ’69 Mustang was 96.5mm longer overall to accommodate all the V8s offered, although the big-blocks still had to be shoe-horned under the bonnet. Shinoda’s ’69 Boss 302 was also one of the first production cars to offer an optional front air dam and adjustable rear wing, and his use of high-contrast black panels, rear window SportsSlats, and go-faster stripes made the Boss a real attention-grabber. The ’69 was also the only quad-headlight Mustang, a feature that was dropped for 1970 models.

In 1970, American Hot Rod magazine dubbed the 1970 Boss 302 as "definitely the best handling car Ford has ever built", while the conservative Consumer Guide called it "uncomfortable at any speed over anything but the smoothest surface". Unique Cars resident Mustang maniac, ‘Uncle’ Phil Walker, never read the Consumer Guide review, but even if he had it wouldn’t have stopped him buying the immaculate 1970 Grabber Orange Boss 302 you see here.

Phil already has his beloved 1966 Shelby GT350H, but the Boss 302 really got his Mustang juices percolating. And he wasn’t alone, because the first Boss he saw, some 43 years ago, is still one of Australia’s most iconic race cars: Allan Moffat’s Trans-Am racer. Phil remembers it clearly.

"I saw Moff race it Calder and I was inspired to own one," Phil recalls. "It was the most aggressive-looking car; its stance was something you had to see to believe. It looked like it was doing a million miles per hour when it was parked.

"My Boss was originally a one-owner car and I bought it from a friend of mine in California, Dave, who I also bought my Shelby GT350H from 19 years ago. Dave found it in a barn with a blown engine, but in otherwise pretty good condition.

"The lady who owned it from new didn’t realise it had a high-compression engine and had run it on standard fuel. When it blew up she just parked it.

"Dave did a nut-and-bolt restoration over two years, then put it up on his hoist. He didn’t want to sell it, but I got my way in the end – unfortunately he had the last say on the price (laughs). I didn’t even bother to test drive it; I knew it was a good car. It had 21 (new) miles on the odo when I picked it up and only 54,000 miles in total."

Since then, Phil has only put a couple of hundred miles on the car, but that’s enough for him to have bonded with it.

"I’ve only had the Boss since January and it’s growing on me. It’s different to the Shelby. It’s bigger and very low.

"The engine is incredible. Dave is one of the best engine builders in California and when he rebuilt the 302 he changed the cam spec. US camshaft technology was okay in the 60s and 70s, but if you had a big-cam muscle car they wouldn’t idle and they were terrible for driving in cities.

"A proper Boss engine can rev to 8500rpm all day and for a V8 that’s pretty serious. But they’re not renowned for low-down torque; it starts coming on from 3500rpm. My car still has a solid-lifter cam, but it pulls like a train from 1200rpm in top gear and I can drive it around at 1500rpm in top all day.

"It’s got the four-speed close-ratio Top Loader with the long first gear and with a 3.7:1 rear end it does about 55-60mph (89-97km/h) in first gear. It bloody goes!"

Phil is a fussy bugger and his cars have to look just right, so Russell Stuckey from Stuckey Tyres has ordered him a set of genuine 15 x 8 Minilites from England to replace the standard Magnum 500s.

"I want it to look like the Parnelli Jones race car, and to get the stance I want it’s going to have 275/60s on the rear and 255/60s on the front. At the moment it’s a pretty car that is tough, but I want a tough car that looks tough. And that’s all I’m going to do to it."

After his first real fang in the Boss, Phil felt that his Shelby would be half a lap in front at the end of a 10-lap sprint at Sandown, but now thinks the Boss would be quicker. We might have to put both to the acid test one day. What do you mean "no way", Phil?

It was a nervous Phil who turned up at a Melbourne storage facility in January to pick up his new Boss 302. So nervous, in fact, that he took along Unique Cars art director Ange and a sturdy tow rope – just in case.

The storage people were even more apprehensive – they had been warned about just how anal he is with his cars, as he explains: "The lady there said, ‘You must be pretty fanatical because we’ve been given strict instructions that no one is to touch the car except you’." Fortunately, the car arrived in pristine condition.

"I was pretty excited, I’d been waiting for seven weeks," Phil laughs. "I took the car cover off it, fired it up, and it drove home like a brand new car. It was as good as I thought it would be. I spent the next three hours washing it."

Sounds like our Phil.

PARNELLI AND ME

Three years ago, my mate Dave and I were invited to a Trans-Am dinner at Portland International Raceway where Dave was racing his 1970 Trans-Am Boss 302 and I was crewing for him.

When we were driving there we noticed this black Mercedes following us. When we stopped it did too and this bloke got out and said, "I noticed you guys back at the hotel. You’re going to the Trans-Am dinner aren’t you? I’m lost." It was Parnelli Jones!

I jumped in with him and when we got there I ‘invited’ myself onto Parnelli’s table, which also included Pete Brock – the guy who designed the Shelby Daytona Coupe. There was I, Mr Nobody, with all these US racing heavies, but Parnelli was a real gentleman, not up himself in any way.

The next day they had free lap time at Portland and, when I saw Parnelli there with Ford’s new ‘Parnelli Jones’ Boss 302 tribute Mustang, I asked if there was any chance of a ride and he said jump in. We did 10 laps and the guy hadn’t lost any of his ability; my eyes were getting bigger and bigger coming into the corners.

It was a great experience that I’ll never forget. – PW

IT's MINE...

Moff’s Mustang is probably the most iconic Australian racecar and after seeing it I was inspired to own a Boss Mustang. Then, about 25 years ago, I went to Pebble Beach in Monterey for the first time and saw a 1970 Grabber Orange Boss 302, which was the colour Parnelli Jones raced in Trans-Am. That day I knew I had to own a Boss. It was the car I’d always wanted after my Shelby, which was my lifelong dream car.

My Boss 302 is fully optioned, including the Shaker, extra side mirror, tacho and rear louvres, and it’s got a lot of wow factor. When you drive down the freeway, you get the thumbs-up from all sorts of different people. I think it’s the colour.

It’s closer to show standard than my Shelby. It’s got the paint marks on the tailshaft and all the little concours details, but I’m never going to show it; I’m not into that.

The 1969/70 body shape is still the best. Ford got it right then, but lost the plot after that and it’s reflected in their collectibility today. – PW

[balkanradfem]

So, I got a gifted bike recently, after my old one broke in half, and I thought, well finally, a functional bike that I won't have to fix every two weeks! And I was wrong about that. If anyone knows why are bikes Like That, please let me know. Nothing breaks down as much as bikes do, I am convinced.

Few weeks in, I went to pump the tyre, and the valve that lets the air into the tube, broke immediately, and let all the air out. I was unsure whether this can be fixed or not, and asked any person I could find if they knew a solution, or if I needed to replace the whole tube. I actually had a tube stashed away that I repaired a while ago, so I tried to replace it, but discovered I couldn't even dismantle the bike, I was missing some pliers! While devastated about that, I checked to see if I could take the valve from my repaired tube, and just replace that part, and maybe it would work – and it did. I had to walk to a gas station in order to get the tube filled again, but then it was working, and I was blessed with a few more weeks of excellent bike usage.

Yesterday, I went to fill the tyres again! And in the afternoon, I discovered one of the tyres was flat. I must have ran over a thorn while cycling back home, which is ironic. Every single time I pump the tyres some other shit goes down. But! I had the pliers this time. I found them on the second-hand market. So I was confident I could dismantle the back wheel, replace the tube, and the bike would be functional in like, an hour (it takes half hour to walk to the gas station).

After taking the pieces apart, I noticed there was a metal wire holding the wheel to the bike, and I couldn't pull it out. Bamboozled, I started dismantling the part that was holding the wire, not knowing what that was. The wire led to the front handles, so I assumed it was something stupid, like a brake, and I didn't use brake handles anyway, so I didn't care if that stopped working. The metal pieces the wire was connected to, fell apart, fell to the floor, and I had no idea how to put them back together. But I didn't care about it anyway, so I focused on replacing the tube, putting the wheel back together, and after a bit of struggle, I managed to do it.

Then I looked at the mess of the metal and plastic pieces on the floor, and got nervous. I had to put it back the way it was, or possibly the wheel wouldn't work correctly. I tried to fit the pieces to each other in numerous ways, and they would not fit neatly in any possible way, making me frustrated. It seemed impossible. But then I remembered, my long experience of playing nancy drew games and putting various senseless gears back together. I could do this. I was trained for this. These are just some parts that can and will somehow make sense if I mess around with them long enough. The stakes are higher because this is real life, but this is a puzzle for me! And I am a detective putting it together.

And with this brave thought, I managed to find a way to put the pieces into place. They wouldn't fit together outside the bike, but on the bike, I realized there were metal pieces that could technically accept the fallen-off black pieces, and after a few tries I found a way to make it all fit back together. I screwed it tightly, and then assembled the back wheel once again. There was just, this wire, with a little nut at the end? I didn't know where that went. I couldn't have known. I didn't see where it was before it all fell apart. So I ignored it, I just randomly put it somewhere and hoped the wheel would work. So what if I have no breaks on my handles, it was no issue.

So I walk to the gas station, nervous about my replacement tube, but the tube, does the job! It fills up easily, it's not letting air out, it's stiff and ready to carry me around. I am happy, I am pleased, I am proud, I sit on the bike, and immediately realize what the wire was. It was GEARS. My bike had no gears. I had to pedal it endlessly only for it to barely move. Absolutely mortifying, embarrassing, slow, frustrating and painful experience.

I got home feeling dreadful, and immediately started looking up how to put this thing back together properly, how to attach the damned wire, and found no bike that even resembled the setup that mine had. Bikes had lots of sprockets where the chain could go to change gears! Mine had only one sprocket. At this point I'm wondering how the damned thing even has gears if there's no sprockets, I start to doubt whether it actually had gears or I was just hallucinating this entire time. The internet gaslit me into doubting my own bike experience.  I asked a friend who helped me fix bikes in the past, and they said the little wire and nub were common and were supposed to fit neatly somewhere! Encouraged by this, I typed all possible terms I could find about bike gear types into DuckDuckGO (fuck u google) and after what felt like an hour, finally typed in 'internal gear hub', which is what my bike had! It looks like this: link

So I finally found some videos with instructions on how to put this thing back together, I only watched the part where they attach the wire, and I get back to the bike, to see if I put the pieces back correctly, and if I could insert the wire.

It turned out, I couldn't insert the wire, because for some damned reason, the wire is not long enough to be inserted now. Upset, I figured I probably put the pieces back wrong, and I needed to dismantle them again (no girl don't do that please) and I dissembled the entire wheel once again, in order to fix this. However when I unscrewed all of the parts, I found I couldn’t pull the wheel off the bike, because when the tube is filled, the brakes clutch it so tight it couldn't be pulled out! I was not about to dismantle the brakes, just to fix the gears, that was BULLSHIT, so I tried to pull the wheel just slightly off, just so I could work on the gear pieces. But then I had very poor access, and the gear pieces kept falling apart, not standing still, making me frustrated and upset. In my frustration, I pulled the tyre as strong as I could to yank it off the bike, and the smallest, plastic piece of gear got stuck in that motion and snapped. I BROKE A PIECE OF IT. Now absolutely devastated, I put the bike away, and decided I couldn't keep fixing it with a broken piece, that was a recipe for disaster.

I would superglue that shit back together.

I went back to my room, grabbed a little tube of superglue, immediately got glue on both my hands and legs somehow, and fiddled with the little part until it was somewhat in one piece (and I say this generously, it did NOT look like what it should look like). I checked the clock and it was 11PM which meant I as fixing the bike for 6 hours and it was way past my bedtime. Before I fell asleep, I watched the video on how to fix the wire once more, and this time I caught the line 'put the gears on middle' which, I haven't done, and that's why the damned wire was too short, it didn't need dismantling, I just needed to put the gears on 4 and then I'd be able to attach them. With this thought in mind, I fell asleep.

I woke up 5am sharp and immediately I'm like "can't sleep while bike doesn't work" and I grab the superglued piece and immediately storm off to the bicycle room to work on the bike. I once again, struggle to put the pieces back together, and in all fairness, the superglued piece holds down like it should, and I'm feeling, okay, maybe this can be done. I put the gears in the middle and the wire immediately falls into place easily, FINALLY. Then I find out that while doing all this, I somehow managed to pull the chain over the metal part holding the wheel and it couldn't be pulled back onto the wheel. It's just one thing after the other. I'm going to die fixing this bike, I think to myself, as I undo the wheel ONCE AGAIN, manage to get the chain in correct position, put it on the bike, and finally attach the whole thing back like it should have been attached.

If I had the information about how to undo that wire before trying to fix it, this entire fix would have been extremely easy, I wouldn't have to dismantle the pieces even one time (they should NOT be dismantled in the first place, just wire detached from it), it would be a breeze, but there was literally no way for me to know this. The only way for me to learn about this was for me to dismantle this multiple times and painstakingly put it back together. I could do it in my sleep now, I have this shit down, I can fix any damned wire gear problem, I can superglue it if it breaks.

I drag the bike outside. And it works. The bike freaking works. Gears and all. Superglue held out. Extremely relieved and grateful, I finally get to go to my garden and pick up food for the day. I got green beans! And kale, so much kale. I'm going to have a green bean salad, the easiest thing a person can make with green beans. And maybe later some kale chips.

In conclusion, whoever made the internal gear hub setup on bikes is NOT an ally and I want them to get cancelled for my suffering. Whoever made the superglue has helped me today, even though I don't like glue in general, this one time, it was a friend, it helped me in my time of need, and also that other time when I learned to fix my shoes and glue them back together. Thank you superglue, thank you friend who encouraged me to fix this, thank you bike for working, thank you repaired tube for being a gem, thank you garden for growing green beans for me, and fuck you internal gear hub I never want to see you again (though I know your shit now and you can't defy me anymore).

[littlemisspascal]

Anytime, Anyplace, Anywhere

pairing: modern-ish Pero x Female Reader

summary: In which Reader is a newspaper columnist with few self-preservation instincts, Statesman is an insurance company with a catchy jingle, and Pero is the insurance agent assigned to look after you. Except only two outta three of these statements are true.

word count: 3k+

rating: T

warnings: Reader is nameless with no description except for being shorter than Pero, language, blood, violence, guns, non-major character death, Author’s poor attempt at humor, Author knows nothing about insurance and/or a career in journalism, mistaken identity, supernatural elements, worldbuilding

author note: this is what happens when I watch Puss in Boots The Last Wish and then a Statefarm commercial and then random inspiration sparks. It’s borderline a crack fic, but hey, sometimes that’s what the muse wants. I even have more scenes outlined beyond this so...Hopefully someone out there enjoys this 😊 

The story of how you wound up in Wader’s Rest is a rather boring chain of events that can be summed up as follows: you graduate with a journalism degree, spend the next five years trying and failing to convince a major news outlet to hire you all the while typing up fluff pieces for your hometown’s website so you can afford food and other necessities, receive a job offer out of the fucking blue offering you a columnist job in a town hundreds of miles away, decide screw it let’s go and…yeah, that’s about it. For these last six months, Wader's Rest has been your new home.

Wader's Rest is a medium-sized-ish community settled along the southern coastline, perpetually smelling of freshly caught fish and sea salt. It’d be a decent tourist destination, in your opinion, if it wasn’t also a hive of criminal activity, crawling with smugglers and drug dealers and fugitives. The city can be split into two types of people: crime-doers and crime-avoiders. 

Oh, yeah, and then there’s you in a solo category of your own making: crime-seeker. Insert trumpet fanfare here.

There’s a grand total of one newspaper responsible for updating residents on all things Wader's Rest-related. Wader’s Reader has a staff of twelve working all hours of the day in an ugly brick building on the corner of Main Street, right across from a coffee shop you’re 65% sure is a front for black market antiques but it’s also the only place that doesn’t judge the ungodly amount of sugar you pour in your drink so. Until that percentage rises up to 100%, you reckon it’s alright giving them a pass in the meantime.

In a time where a quick search on your phone or computer can answer any conceivable question you have in seconds, the residents of Wader's Rest are strangely protective of their newspaper. Like, Gollum my precious! kind of protective. The most likely reason is probably because the internet access out here is so painfully slow it’s practically nonexistent, but you like to think they actually look forward to reading your column. No more writing about baking contests and music festivals, not when you’ve discovered the addictive adrenaline rush of investigating the many, many, many crimes of Wader's Rest. Nothing else gets your blood pumping as much as witnessing an illegal exchange of weapons in the back parking lot of a Wendy’s. 

So it isn’t uncommon then, to spend your nights crouched behind dumpsters (or sometimes even inside them) or picking locks or doing other shady-as-hell-if-you-had-any-other-job activities in order to gather all the facts and details you need to write the perfect piece for your loyal readers. Insert inspiring quote here like fortune favors the bold or whatever.

It also isn’t uncommon for your nights to end either in the hospital or covered in so many bandages it looks like you spent the night in the hospital. You’re on a first name basis with most of the staff, including Dr. William Garin who’s got such vibrant crystal blue eyes he could’ve been a glasses modeler in another life. Shame he’s got such overwhelming heart-eyes for your boss or you’d be severely tempted to shoot your shot.

Anyways.

See, the problem is, you’re not exactly a master of subtlety yet, and also some of your column subjects don’t always appreciate being watched like they’re zoo animals—they appreciate it even less when you point out that conducting their illegal business in creepy alleyways and abandoned warehouses doesn’t magically make them invisible. Really, any Average Joe could stroll right in and watch the proceedings.

You grunt, head banging against a cement wall so hard you see stars. A meaty fist tightens its grip on your shirt, holding you high enough the toes of your sneakers barely scuff the ground, while the owner of that fist—so massively muscular he’s more of a grizzly bear than a man—glares down at you through narrowed eyes.

Yeah, all those Average Joes really don’t know the fun they're missing out on. Concussions plus bruised, possibly cracked ribs equal exciting times

“Hey Big Mac,” you wheeze, blinking until your vision’s more or less clear and his unimpressed face swims into focus. “Did you get more muscles? You look like you got more muscles.”

If possible, his unimpressed look increases. 

Big Mac’s been a recurring foe since your first week in Wader's Rest when you went out for a midnight McDonald’s run—you have a weak spot for their McFlurries, alright?—and discovered him throwing bricks at the neighboring weed shop’s front window. Where he got the sack of bricks remains a mystery, but upon shattering the glass he was in and out in a matter of thirty seconds with an armful of edibles before disappearing into the darkness of night. You’d been so stunned by the whole ordeal not only had you forgotten to call the police, but your McFlurry had melted before you’d even tasted it.

You’ve lost count at this point how many times he’s been featured in one of your columns. Big Mac’s like a really nasty stain on a white shirt, impossible to ignore, but he’s also smooth as fucking butter, sliding out of cuffs before any charges can stick. You don’t even know the giant’s real name (don’t care to learn it either, the nicknames you hand out like free candy add some extra pizazz to the writing)—just that he likes edibles and that when he’s not breaking store windows he can usually be found working as a henchman for any one of the twenty something crime lords in the city. Apparently they don’t mind sharing lackeys so long as there’s no loose lips. Snitches wind up in ditches after all. 

Tonight you’ve interrupted a clandestine meeting in the factory district between Big Mac and a new fellow you’d decided to call Stringbean due to his lithe frame—you never claimed to be creative with your nicknaming ability. All it took was accidentally knocking over a trash can with a deafening bang and here you are, helpless as an overturned turtle, hoping you can talk your way out of this predicament with as little bloodshed as possible.

The telltale cocking of a gun immediately dampens those hopes.

Both you and Big Mac look to the sound, finding Stringbean aiming a pistol your direction. He’s a nervous-looking thing, sweat shining on his brow, and there’s few things in life as scarily unpredictable as a twitchy man with a loaded gun. 

“What are you doing,” Big Mac rumbles without any inflection in his tone.

“We agreed no witnesses,” is the breathy, slightly nasally response. Nothing about Stringbean–aside from the weapon in his hands–screams bad guy. He’s thin, bespectacled, suit too neatly pressed like it’s his Sunday best clothes. You estimate him lasting about a week before the bigger sharks gobble him up and spit out his—you squint, oh good lord—his bumblebee patterned bow tie as the only evidence of his existence. 

“Witness?” you pipe up. “Witness to what exactly? Care to shed some light–ugh!”

The rest of your sentence ends in another choked wheeze as Big Mac shoves you against the wall again. Yep, something’s definitely broken in your body now. He’s not even looking at you, the bastard, like you’re not even a worthy enough threat to keep an eye on for any devious tricks.

Instead, Big Mac says something to Stringbean, probably some kind of grumbling threat about tearing Stringbean’s head from his shoulders if he doesn’t put the gun away, but the thunderous whooshing of blood in your ears prevents you from hearing if that’s right or not. It’s a good line though, the kind of line that tempts you to sneak it into your draft and hope your boss doesn’t cross it out with that damn red pen of hers, possessing a special sixth sense for sniffing out bullshit.

Stringbean retorts something that’s also lost on you–God, you really need to invest in a tape recorder, or some sort of phone app–but whatever he says has Big Mac dropping you without warning, lunging at the smaller man like a lion after a mouse. You fall on your hands and knees with a faint yelp, gritting your teeth at the instant blooms of pain shooting along your nerve endings. It takes you a second to collect yourself, but it’s a second too long to have wasted, remembering too late how dangerous your situation is—

Bang.

A scream escapes you, cowering against the wall in a scrunched up ball. Big Mac’s lying on the ground, unmoving, a chunk of his shoulder missing and gallons of blood gushing out like a damn river. Oh shit. Oh holy fucking shit. Stringbean’s on the cusp of hyperventilating, seeming unable to process his own actions, and then those anxious, too-wide eyes lock onto you. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I’m sorry,” Stringbean says, and he actually sounds sincere. But the effect is immediately dulled when he lines up the gun directly with your face.

One would think, being mere seconds from a bullet entering your brain, that you’d have some kind of epiphany about the meaning of life. See flashes from your childhood, hear an angelic chorus, that kinda thing. The odds aren’t in your favor. There’s no healing from a headshot at this close range. You are going to die and the only stupid fucking thing you can think about is that damn catchy jingle.

Squeezing your eyes shut, words tumble out of your mouth at a frantic speed, “Anytime, anyplace, anywhere Statesman is there!”

Stringbean pulls the trigger.

—

Statesman designing a new kind of workers compensation insurance specifically catered for your risky lifestyle had been your boss’ idea. She knew the head guy of the company, some old bearded fellow straight out of a Wild West Eastwood movie called Champagne (no last name, just like Cher), pulled a couple of strings (which is probably code for glared him into submission), handed you a pen, got your signature, and boom—as of three days ago, Lin proudly informed you “You’re completely covered. Cuts, broken bones, rabid squirrel attacks, the whole shebang. Now get out of my office.”

You’d liked your old insurance and had been quite happy with their care, thank you very much. But there’s no arguing with Lin when she gets that glint in her eye like some kind of bird of prey. And besides, forcing insurance on you is a sign she cares, right? That’s what you’ll keep telling yourself anyways.

The commercials are enjoyable, you can admit that at least. Especially the ones where there’s some kind of dangerous situation involving rampaging bison or avalanches or whatnot and the agent, whose uniform includes a leather jacket and cowboy hat, swoops in to the rescue after the poor would-be victims shout out the jingle Anytime, anyplace, anywhere Statesman is there!, then teleports everyone to safety.

Entertaining? Yes. 

Realistic? Hell no.

—

There’s a high-pitched ringing in your ears, rattling around inside your skull. 

“—ime for this. Get up.”

Huh? Who’s that? 

“I don’t like repeating myself. Get. Up.”

Oh no. Eyes still shut, your hands search for a wound, for blood, patting all over your head, then your chest and torso. Nothing. Fuck, you’ve died and crossed over into the afterlife. That’s why there’s no injury or pain. Your life is over. The end. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. You can’t—

Something hard hits your leg. “You’re still alive.”

Your eyes snap open, surroundings blurring into focus. You’re in the warehouse still. Stringbean’s on the floor near Big Mac, sightless blue eyes staring back at you, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead revealing blood and bone and brain matter. Immediately you avert your gaze, tasting bile in the back of your throat, and it’s only then you see the pair of boots by your legs.

A man stands over you, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans with soft-looking, unstyled brown hair and a stubbled jawline sharp enough to give papercuts. The words ruggedly handsome come to mind and stay there, banishing all other thoughts. Brown eyes so dark they’re verging on black stare down at you beneath furrowed brows, the perfect image of silent judgment. What the hell. He might just be the most attractive person you’ve ever seen, beating Dr. Pretty Eyes Garin by fucking leagues.

“Did you just kick me?” you ask before you can stop yourself, rising to your feet. Your head barely reaches his chest—a very broad chest, you can’t help noticing, leather straining at the shoulders to contain him—and you have to crane your head up to continue meeting his dull, half-lidded gaze.

“You weren’t listening,” says the stranger with a voice like the scrape of a butter knife on toast. Your heartbeat stutters, discovering a new favorite sound, and it takes you an embarrassingly long moment to realize you’re staring at his mouth with way more intensity than a person should look at another person’s mouth.

“Uh, yeah, well I-I thought I was dead. He was going to shoot me.” Your eyes drift towards Stringbean again, frowning at the gun in his hand. It doesn’t look like a pistol anymore, metal mangled and warped. “What the hell?”

“Backfired on him. Rare, but it happens.” He shrugs a shoulder, unconcerned, like he’s seen a thousand bloody incidents and he’s numb to the gore. And that’s…a scary thought to consider.

“Right...” You eye him a bit more critically now, taking in the scar dissecting his eyebrow. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t throw it.”

Irritation flares, momentarily overtaking the budding apprehension. It brushes against your journalist instincts, insisting you’re missing something here. “Alright, Mr. Nameless, do you want to at least explain what exactly you’re doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Same as you. Work,” he answers curtly, glancing at his wrist where an expensive-looking watch is wrapped around the tan skin. Your fingers twitch with the urge to touch. “When I’m called, I show up. No matter the time or place.” His eyes flicker around the room with thinly veiled disgust. “Even if it means coming to shitholes like this.”

He goes where he’s called? That’s an interesting and ominous choice of phrasing. What is he, some kind of hitman or secret agent or—

Wait a minute.

Dangerous situation. Popping up out of nowhere. Wearing a leather jacket. Your life is saved despite all the odds stacked against you.

Understanding hits like one of Big Mac’s bricks, finally connecting the dots together and good lord it’s so fucking obvious you fully deserve the forehead slap you give yourself. “Holy shit the jingle actually worked.”

His scarred eyebrow lifts. “What?”

“How did I not know this was a real thing?” you half-ask, half-demand, hands settling on your hips. “You’re proof teleportation is fucking real! I feel like this is something more people should be talking about. Unless…Unless not everyone has this kind of coverage. Oh my God, is this some kind of extra health protection bundle attached to my new contract written in the fine print?” 

That stupidly attractive eyebrow lifts even higher.

“Don’t give me that look. Nobody under seventy-five reads all those tiny words, especially when the whole stack is five hundred pages front and back. All those poor trees…Also,” you point an accusing finger, “you’re missing a cowboy hat so I really can’t be blamed for not recognizing you.”

“A cowboy hat?” His face screws up at that, and somehow he makes the expression of someone who stepped in dog shit look attractive. Seriously, how is this guy even real? “I’d rather die than wear one of those.”

You stare at him, slack-jawed at his bluntness. “First of all, too soon, man, too soon. There are dead bodies literally right there. And secondly, wow,” a smidge of awe slips into your tone, “you must have some balls, rebelling against the big boss man like that.”

Oh to have been a fly on the wall seeing Champagne’s reaction to the refusal to comply with the uniform policy. You’d only met the old man for a hot second, but considering his love of westerns it wouldn’t surprise you if he challenged his opponents to quick-fire duels at high noon. Water guns or foam pellets instead of actual bullets, of course. He might gargle with bourbon and use a spittoon, but that doesn’t mean he’s a total heathen.

You snort a quiet laugh, then wince at the ache in your rib cage. Oh, yeah. There’s that fun pain again. The nameless agent turns away with what you think is an eye roll, but it’s too fast to tell, and looks down at Big Mac and Stringbean.

“I-I guess I need to call the police,” you say quietly, stomach churning when a sideways glance reveals a growing pool of blood beneath the bodies. Scary to think how close you’d been to being one of them.

“If it makes you stop talking to me, go right ahead,” your companion quips, uncaring of the scoff he gets for it. 

You find your bag by the trash can you’d hidden behind before Big Mac seized you. Bag is a generous term for the accessory that’s more duct tape than fabric after being dropped, kicked, and run over amongst other unfortunate fates. Still, it does a good job of carrying your stuff so you’ll keep on stubbornly holding onto it until the bitter end.

Pulling out your phone, you open the keypad only for the whistling notes of a song to have you freezing in place. Literally, your body feels like it’s become a block of ice, goosebumps rising along your exposed skin. As surreptitiously as you can manage, you sneak a glance at the agent, and it shouldn’t be fair how someone can look so seductive with puckered lips while whistling such an eerily haunting tune. The sheer contrast is enough to make your brain hurt.

Or maybe that’s a side effect of your skull smacking against the wall.

“Did you forget it’s three numbers?” he says abruptly, startling you, and the way he’s now looking at you gives the distinct impression he thinks you’re an idiot. “Two, technically, since one repeats itself–”

“I know what to do,” you snap defensively, turning back to your phone with a huff. Deliberately you slam your thumb against the three buttons, but find yourself hesitating to press call.

Looking up, you find the nameless agent already staring back at you. His head tilts, displaying the same confusion of a dog not understanding their owner’s behavior. It’s…almost ridiculously cute.

“Thanks for, um, being here and stuff,” you tell him, barely restraining yourself from doing something awkward like giving a thumbs up.

He blinks, a flash of something you think resembles surprise crossing his face, and then he’s back to blankness. “I had to come,” he replies.

“Well, yeah, ‘cause of the magic jingle,” you wave a flippant hand, words tumbling out faster than you can keep up with them, “but still, it’s nice, you know, having someone to watch your back, even if I don’t know who you are–”

The sound of your name has your jaw shutting with an audible click. For a second time you think about the unfairness of the situation. He has access to your file, knows your name and personal details, and what do you get to know about him? Bupkis.

“...Yes?”

“Make the phone call,” he says, an edge of amusement in his voice that produces a funny warm feeling in your stomach. Nausea, you decide, that must be it.

Grumbling under your breath, you look back to your phone and finally hit the button, listening to it ring. 

“See,” you say, purposefully smug, turning around, “I’m not an idiot–”

The man is gone. 

Didn’t even say goodbye, the ill-mannered jerk.

And as the operator picks up, asking what’s your emergency, you can’t help but think your insurance agent is a bit of an enigmatic asshole. All intimidating and sour-faced to ward off unwanted attention. Probably thrives off confusing his clients like he’s some kind of damn Rubik’s cube personified. 

Which is good for you since you thrive off of solving mysteries and inserting your nose where it doesn’t belong. You’ll know his name, his birthdate, hell, his entire history by the end of the week.

You eat Rubik’s cubes for breakfast.

[chocoblep]

#6: Market Day

Prompt: Halcyon

“Hinaaaaaan!” The voice that came from within the branches of the tree was almost sing-song in quality, inviting him to answer the call. And answer he did, his little six-year-old limbs scrambling against the tree bark as he climbed up to join his brother.

The two boys grinned at each other as Hinan grappled the base of the branch that Aeluan was perched on.

“You gotta hurry!” Aeluan encouraged, freeing up one hand to wave Hinan over. “Stop huggin’ it and get on your feet, we gotta be ready to jump when I say!”

“O-kay!” Hinan chirped in response, carefully shimmying along the branch until he reached his brother, and then grabbing for the branch above them that Aeluan was holding onto to keep his balance. Hinan almost tumbled from the tree, but he managed to snatch the branch and hauled himself upward, settling on the balls of his feet in a crouch. It was a good thing the two young Au Ra boys didn’t weigh too much–even with the sturdiness of this particular tree, the branch creaked ominously beneath their combined weight. Neither of them paid it any mind. “Oh! Oh! There it is!” Hinan said, thrusting an arm out to point at the covered cart in the distance. 

It was ambling along at a slow pace, the driver a Raen man who probably would have been considered tall if he wasn’t always hunching over the reins. It was pulled by a team of two horses, whose hoof clops sounded loud in the relative peace of the sunny afternoon. When it got close to the tree, the cart seemed to slow down a bit more, and Aeluan quietly counted to three before he cried, “jump!” and they both launched themselves at the cart, landing on its thick wooden roof and shimmying down onto their bellies to look over the edge at the man.

“Hi, boys,” the driver called, twisting to look up at them. “You riding all the way to market today?”

“Yeah!” said Aeluan. “What are you taking there this time?”

“Is it rice?” Hinan asked, resting his chin on his hands with a smile. “I’m hungry. Maybe I’ll get rice balls when we get there if Mama says it’s okay.”

“You’re always hungry, Hinan!” Aeluan jabbed, and then looked down at the driver. “Anyway, I bet it’s cloths!”

“It is neither of those things,” the man said with a chuckle. “It is baskets of wool today.”

“Wool! Is it soft! Does it feel like a cloud?” Hinan asked, and Aeluan giggled.

“Cloud wool sounds like a good place to sleep.”

“Yeah, but the baskets aren’t big enough for that, probably.”

“I bet I could stuff you in one.”

“No way!”

The driver was still smiling as he listened. “The baskets are too small to fit either of you. I will tell you what, though; if either of you can guess how many baskets of wool I have in the cart without looking, I will buy you each a rice ball when we get there.”

The pair of boys gasped, and then started shouting numbers at random.

“Eleven!”

“Twenty-five!”

“Six!”

With each wrong answer, Hinan’s face screwed up more and more with indignance. “Well, do we get a hint?”

“Hmm,” said the man, “It’s more than eleven plus six.”

“Eleven plus six is uhh…” Aeluan trailed off for a moment. “Seventeen! So uhh… eighteen?”

“More than eighteen,” the man said.

“Six thousand million?” Hinan asked, his orange eyes wide.

“Less than six thousand million,” the man said.

“Twenty-three,” crowed Aeluan, who was much more sensible about these things, being eight summers old.

“Twenty-three is exactly correct!” the man replied, and the boys cheered.

“Uncle Nori is gonna buy us rice balls!” Hinan rolled onto his back and pumped his fists into the air. Scooting just a bit with his heels along the roof, he hung his head upside down over the edge, watching the horizon bounce as they clopped along. It was going to be a good day, and as soon as Uncle Nori bought them their treat and dropped them off with Mama at the market, they would run along the stalls and charm the other merchants, and then go home and divvy up whatever treats and trinkets they had managed to get from them. Market day was always a good day for the Akaruta boys. @sword-and-surfboard / @valdiis for mention!

[shubhamimarc]

The global screw pumps market size reached US$ 2.71 Billion in 2022. Looking forward, IMARC Group expects the market to reach US$ 3.72 Billion by 2028, exhibiting a growth rate (CAGR) of 5.30% during 2023-2028.

[capitalism-and-analytics]

Hey, I had a question regarding labor. The service industry including Starbucks (who I work for) has been struggling with labor. Why do corporations prioritize short term gains over long term stability? Again, labor in that peaks are usually understaffed increasing wait times and worker stress and decreasing customer satisfaction. I mention Starbucks because the company heavily emphasizes customer connections (with low drive thru times lol) when we’re not given the staffing to do either customer connections or low drive thru times.

Why do companies prioritize short term gains over long term stability when growth isn’t infinite? Why make decisions that negatively impact the experience of the customers/workers which likely reduces their profit?

Pressure from Investors: Investors often expect consistent growth and returns. This can create pressure for the company to deliver short-term gains to meet or exceed market expectations, even if it means sacrificing long-term investments.

Short-Term Incentives: Similar to above, but corporations generally tie a lot of executive compensation bonuses to short-term metrics.

Adapting to Rapid Market Changes: Consumer preferences and trends can change rapidly, requiring companies like Starbucks to adapt quickly to remain relevant and competitive. This can lead to short-term initiatives aimed at capturing market share or responding to current consumer demands.

Now you may be wondering how they actually decide if a long-term investment is worth sacrificing for a short-term benefit. Well there are several important variables to consider:

Although you can't guarantee it, there is nothing stopping a corporation from having consistent short-term gains, so it's often chosen to push leadership teams to find growth on a long-term basis over multiple short-term periods.

It's all relative to the market, so as you pointed out having labor issues can result in increased worker stress, but it's relative to the workers at their competitors, i.e. McDonalds, Dunkin, Krispy Kreme, etc. For example, if Dunkin is facing labor issues, then you have little consequence of also having labor issues.

All the major corporations invest heavily into market research for a reason and a lot of that research is for identifying at varying levels how much certain things impact certain outcomes. In other words, they may want short drive thrus, but they may not care for very short drive thrus, since the cost isn't worth it. Well they do studies like customer wait times increasing by X minutes may be worth cutting labor costs by Y%.

You are correct that growth may not necessarily be infinite, but neither are the expectations and most importantly neither are the investors. Investors will often push to pump a stock up in value until they think the company can't get bigger before crashing and then sell it before it goes down. In some cases, they are right and some cases they are wrong.

The world is unpredictable and the longer you are forced to wait for a certain gain, the more that can go wrong. For example, let's say it is 2019, if you opt for a long-term investment, then you just screwed yourself because COVID will kick in the following year. If you opt for a short-term investment, then you could've easily pivoted or had less of an impact.

In general though, it's all a balance, there is no major company that is 100% short-term investments or 100% long-term investments, they all are picking and choosing where to focus short-term and where to focus long-term. Some pay off well, some pay off poorly. This is why it's important to have quality leaders/management.

[diabolus1exmachina]

Jaguar XKR “Badcat” 

Launched in 1996 and always more of a grand tourer than an out-and-out sports car, the Jaguar XK8 shared its chassis with the Aston Martin DB7, making it the thinking man’s choice for anyone in the market for a powerful, rear-wheel-drive luxury sports car.

Whilst those figures might be impressive for the XKR; it wasn't quite enough for our petrolhead vendor Graham, who in 2007 embarked on a 13-year journey to improve and modify the once standard 1998 XKR into this stunning 632hp unique Jaguar, more commonly known as the ‘Badcat’

The Badcat started life as a 1998 Jaguar XKR, which Graham saw for sale in 2007 and having a soft spot for the X100, plus having been looking for a car for a while, this was snapped up straight away. Driving the car for a few weeks was enjoyable, but as with any petrolhead, it wasn’t long before Graham started looking into tuning options for the XKR.

This started with a smaller top pulley and larger bottom pulley fitted to the supercharger, and this was complemented with a Racing Green ECU piggy back upgrade to keep on top of the fueling due to the faster spinning supercharger. The result was 456hp, an impressive 64bhp gain from the standard bhp.

With the 4.0 litre pushed to its limits, Graham was on the lookout to further improve the performance of the XKR, and this was the start of taking the car to an entirely new level. Graham found a new Range Rover 4.4 litre V8 which became the next base for the project. The engine was rebuilt using stronger high spec’ bespoke forged pistons from German automotive parts manufacturer Capricorn, which kicked off the need to have parts purpose made rather than buying off the shelf items.

The upgrade to the 4.4 litre brought the power up to an impressive 480bhp; it was never quite enough, and the need for more power continued. This need was realised when in 2012 when Graham, assisted by Jaguar expert Tom Lenthall, found an uprated Eaton supercharger which was originally destined for an XKR GT3 racing car. This was fitted along with some other improvements to bring the XKR to 510hp.

In 2016 whilst on a track day at Goodwood, flying at over 140 mph, the 4.4 litre detonated, melting five out of the eight pistons. The cause was put down to poor fuel pick-up from the standard Jaguar tank, which would later be resolved with a bespoke designed, foam-filled ally fuel tank with swirlpot fabricated by CKL Racing, containing two Walbro 450 high-pressure fuel pumps. Only one of the pumps is needed and more than capable of providing enough fuel for spirited driving; the other pump was simply fitted as a backup. Luckily the cylinder block suffered only minor scoring and was sent off to be rebuilt at performance engine experts Classic and new forged pistons from JE in America. This gave Graham the opportunity to develop even more power, and with a freshly built engine, a new twin-screw supercharger, a Whipple W175AX, was sourced from the USA. Although being told it would not fit by the company director, Graham had other ideas. With some well calculated CAD drawing and CNC machining, the charger was made to fit, pushing the XKR to the enormous power it now produces.

[moonlight-sonata99]

Life day prep with tech

Tech x reader

A/n: went on a otp prompt generator and got  Person A and Person B as the scene from The Owl House where Amity kisses Luz on the cheek and freaks out after it.  and i thought of tech for some reason,enjoy!!

"Tech,you're smart, what do you know about life?" Your voice interrupts tech as he works on repairing a part of the ship that had been slightly broken,

“Life day? Well it is a day rooted in Wookie tradition in which the wookies celebrate family and peace. As well, decorate their houses and use a young Wroshyr tree as adult sized trees are tall in size.” Tech explains as he drills in a screw and glances over and you nodded in thought.

“And what do they decorate with?the tree i mean” you ask as hand tech a tool, seeing that he was about to reach for it.

“The wookies used orbs in various colors,but before that they used crystalline orbs which were also the same orb that jedi used for their lightsabers.”

“Really??so…where to get this tree?” excited you placed your hands on gonky who entered the room making itself known with its signature sound.

“You want to go get a wroshyr tree?” He’s caught off guard as he turns towards you. 

“Why not?We can set up a little tree here. We don't need a big one” you chuckle looking back at tech.

“I suppose..” Tech turns back as he continues

“There is also a hologram edition.if its space you're worried about.” 

“Hologram tree?hmm” you trailed off in thought “Can we decorate it?” you ask as Tech pushes up his glasses

“That I am unsure of.” he states finishing up he wipes his gloves and puts away the tools.

“Well..i feel like we should go for the real version just in case.” you state “So omega put up some of the orbs!I think she’ll like that.”

“I suppose she will” tech says crouching and closing the tool box.

“So….let's go!’ you exclaim nudging techs shoulder as he stood back up 

“Both of us?” tech mumbles out looking directly at you

“Why not? the gangs hanging out at cids. Plus i want it to be a surprise” You say smiling sheepishly “W-well you don't have to..i just thought you cause…you're smart.” chuckling you brush the back of your neck 

Feeling his cheeks turn warm tech coughs and picks up the tool box

“Alright then, when you are ready.” tech brushes pass you as you pump your fist besides him 

“yes!!let me go tell hunter before he hangs us for taking the marauder..” walking to the exit of the ship you wave at tech who has his back towards you.

“So..where exactly do we find this wroshyr tree?” you trail off looking out the glass to watch the planet filled with trees larger than life,admiring them.“Considering it is a popular celebration,we should be able to find it in the markets in the nearby villages.” Tech replied, steering the ship.”Get ready,we are landing”

“Woah…it's so pretty here” you breathe out while admiring the large trees that seemed to go on for miles.

“Yes,just as you saw the planet of kashyyk is full of these large trees.” Looking at his device tech looks up and looks at the view (Reader wut anyways) 

“Do you think the wookies will be okay with us getting a tree from them…?” you trail off a bit worried.

“I'm quite sure,”

“If i may,when i said small for space i didn't not mean this small” tech stared at the small tree he cut and you stared at it thinking.

“M-maybe…but it gets the job done no?” crossing your arms you look at tech, “its fine,plus most of the trees here will be to big for us to carry on our own.” you chuckle

“We just need the life orbs…” looking at your list as you check off the tree,”So we head into civilization!” 

After running into wookies and tech using his amazing language skills you and tech managed to buy a few life orbs. “There so…pretty” you breathe out clearly mesmerized. Tech coughed and rubbed his throat.

“O-oh right..i heard shyriiwook was hard on the throat..” looking around you stand up “Hold on, i’ll get something for your throat” coming off a bit worried you hurry out of the cockpit

“There's no need,I'll be fine.” tech says as he starts up the marauder.

“You sure..?” you ask trailing off at the end

“Yes,what matters now is that we go back to the others.” Tech states as you nod

“Oh yea..” you mumble,a bit disappointed

“Was there anything else you wished to do?” tech asked, looking at you as you shook your head and looked down at your hands as you sat down the seat next to him.

“No no! It's just…”

I liked it here,with you.”

“Oh.” eyes widened tech looks back at the wheel as you look away silently cursing at yourself.

“If i am to be honest,this trip was beneficial.”tech states staring directly outside the glass lifting up the ship. 

You turned to look at him surprised, as your heart started racing and you smiled.

As the ship landed you stood up and began to prepare placing the life orbs down next to the tree gently as you stood and tech walked to the entrance looking at his device (Mans rlly skedaddled out there smh) 

“Wait tech!!” you call while running after him.

“Yes?” he turns around and looks at you

“just-Thank you. I never really got to celebrate life day with my family,I'm glad I got to spend it with you guys.” you smile 

“Your welcome,” tech says looking away

“Now then,i'll head back to cid’s and notify the rest to come here.”

“Oh!right thanks again” you let out an airy chuckle and you fiddle with your hair.and tech turns back around ready to walk away.

“Wait one more thing!!” you exclaim 

“What is it?” tech asks as you stand there seeming nervous

“Uhm,here” putting a hand on his shoulder and tech flinches a bit and you placed your hand on his cheek which was warm and soft and techs breathe hitched as you closed your eyes and placed your lips on his cheek,

 To techs disappointment you pulled away fast as you looked at him, “y-yeah,uhm anyways i'm gonna go finish doing-that,see ya” you nervously fast and scurry away and tech is left there as his device is left midway from how he usually has it.His heart beating fast and his mind still on the kiss.

“Tech,are you two back with the ship already?”the voice form the communication device disrupts the aura and tech shakes his head lightly and he coughs 

“Yes,im uh headed back to cids...”

A/n: No ya’ll dont understand....im ObsESSED with these borders there so cute omfl i think ill make some for the rest of the gang TTplus idk how to write kiss scenes dont atk me plsss

[nikibogwater]

Niki Blethers: The Bad Batch Season 2 Pilot

Spoilers under the cut!

Is it wrong that this is my most anticipated piece of Star Wars media since the second season of The Mandalorian? Whatever, I don’t care. This is my most anticipated piece of Star Wars media since The Mandalorian. My hype was at an unusually high level going into this, and I was not disappointed.

The boissssssss! Love their updated armor! I want to know the story behind Hunter’s scarf. Like, he wears it on the outside of his breastplate, so clearly it’s not for keeping warm. Did he just....see it in a market somewhere and go “Hm. Red. My favorite color. Yes, I’ll wear that.”? *GASP!* DID OMEGA GET IT FOR HIM?????? FILONI, I NEED ANSWERS RIGHT NOW!

OMEGAAAAAAA!!! SHE’S SO BIIIIIG!!! LOOK AT HER LOOK HOW MUCH SHE’S GROWN!!! LOOK HOW CONFIDANT AND SKILLED SHE IS!!!! LOOK HOW THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE SQUAD TRUST HER WITH ROLES IN THE MISSIONS! LOOK AT TECH HOMESCHOOLING HER AND WRECKER LIFTING HER UP STEEP CLIMBS AND HUNTER BEING HER DAD AND ECHO BEING HER EMO BUT STILL SOFT-HEARTED BIG BROTHERRRRRRR!!!!!!!

Listen, I am a simple woman. You establish that a once-isolated and lonely child has flourished and grown strong thanks to her found family, and you have my whole heart. 

Kevin Kiner continues to flex with the score.

I hope Phee comes back and tries to flirt with Tech again. I would gladly watch him being Totally Oblivious for hours.

Hunter’s goals from season 1 haven’t changed, and in fact have only been reinforced by what happened on Kamino. It’s really touching that, despite literally being bred for war, he’s determined to back out of the fight in order to give Omega a more stable environment. 

Echo protesting Hunter’s plans to go into hiding long-term also makes a lot of sense, and brings some welcome tension to the group dynamic. Out of everyone in the Bad Batch, Echo is the one who has suffered the most due to the war, and it’s only thanks to Clone Force 99 rescuing him and taking him on as one of their own that he’s even here to begin with. It’s no wonder that he prioritizes fighting the Empire and saving others.

That being said, he never comes across as a complete jerk, even when he points out that Omega is the reason their lives are so chaotic and dangerous in the first place. He screws up just enough to create a small rift between him and Omega, but not enough that the audience ends up hating him. 

Also Echo telling Omega that even if he could go back and do it all over again, he still would have gone back to Kamino for her--HNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG YEP, TEARS INBOUND, I’M CRYING NOW. 

“Tech! Are you okay?”  “My left femur has been fractured by approximately 150 kilograms of pressure. So....no.” 

If I had to pick my favorite character, it would be Tech.

Also the fact that he just....keeps going, despite having experienced one of the most painful injuries a human being can endure, all the while maintaining his cool and matter-of-fact demeanor--what a king.

Something that The Bad Batch does really well, in my opinion, is making the most out of relatively simple stories with simple characters. The missions the crew goes on are always fast-paced and exciting without ever feeling samey. I care a lot about these characters, despite their simplicity, or perhaps even because of it. Star Wars as a franchise tends to tell very big stories with lots of twists and turns. The Bad Batch is refreshing to me because it’s almost never about anything other than a band of genetically mutated brothers trying to earn enough gas money to avoid the cops and take care of their little sister. There’s tons of references to the Bigger Goings On of the Galaxy, but the core of the series is just about a family surviving from one day to the next. 

Anyways, an excellent start to this season, imo, and I am SO PUMPED for future episodes. 

[incarnateirony]

Really pulled up the station movements the last few years and Gray truly has been busy. Nexstar has chipped at things here or there but is mostly acting its average.

Atlanta buying back clusters of stations via Gray from Meredith is a bit of a ... choice. There's generally a freeze on buying stations right now, and many are happy to sell, because the future of classic broadcast is so rocky.

Gray doesn't directly influence SPN or Nexstar, but one has to understand how these type of territories work. While Nexstar's individual products often cater to conservative markets--whether that be its fantasy football leagues or its mormon coverage areas--but even to the tepid centrism that say, walker appeals to, yeah. That red painted up as purple in US skewed politics.

I tried to explain that Austin and Houston may both be texas but they're not remotely the same film scene. Austin airs towards western quirky white liberalism. Houston is part of the black progressive and rebel scene and hoops into the Atlanta circuit.

Like, these aren't the same syndicates in production. Even transplants, like the All American directors, still carry that Atlanta spark in their style and story, but it's different when that entire spirit can shape productions.

Nexstar services Austin. Grays services Houston. And this is the real divide here.

The thing is, some markets they share--one may own ABC and another NBC, or whatever. They can't just scorched earth each other's products. Nexstar is still catching content now FROM Atlanta and Grays pumps it to culturally minority-strong cities like detroit via Grays.

And, yknow, Nbc just invested like a gagillion dollars to build a 4000 employee studio considered of industry wide seminal importance to be done by June 2023. so. there's that. good luck nexstar. cuz. that's grays. its all grays. nbc's hugeass atlanta plans. all grays. the cities. all grays. several of the local studios and production houses. you get the gist.

What this really makes for is a shift in the public TV horizon. The original UPN-WB merger ripped TBS into cable and stripped Peachtree for parts that were already being cannibalized by competitors, or otherwise smaller sisters that were just buried in the scale of the war games.

After the boycott kneecapped CW at years end and screwed their entire tax evasion game only to persist another year, WB gave in and folded its share, as did CBS. The label as a primetime slot stays alive for both while Nexstar does whatever with the daytime noise we don't care about. Nexstar just sets the performance demands.

WB pulled back its executives from the burned stove, fired its board and now let executive creatives pull the shots assuming they pull profit.

Atlanta is centralized as a bit of a silent superstation again with WB claws pulled out of the local, but instead, WB on a leash asking them for help to not lose its tv markets, basically. Atlanta bout to dogwalk WB.

Especially with Winchesters and Gotham going that way. CBS and Walker brand are playing more into the nexstar and west coast syndicates that come by way of austin and everything past.

Jensen and Danneel have chosen a different playground. So I'm just. laying here thinking on all these interesting choices. Sure, Nexstar claimed space to feed grammas stupid daytime TV but. whatever.

Its a power dynamic shift I don't think anyone's really ... cared enough to understand. But they should.

Give it 2 years. watch the ghost of broadcast non-cable TBS past return to primetime TV slowly, or at least until streaming conversion options are decided.'

[ilhoonftw]

to think that what caused pitigi to lose a member directly caused ()'s rise ... bc blue box decided to pump money into them as their debut song did super well.. meanwhile pitigi lost investors, bitubi were gonna enlist soon and management always hated to do anything smart to help sielsi

if that whole thing didn't blew up, pitigi would continue the shine mementum and wouldn't suffer from effects of pulled out resources and cancelled tour

what happened was higher ups decided to market () as their next big thing at cost of screwing everyone else over

don't forget that when piece of bitubi was happening, bitubi members, who saved blue box from financial ruin after bęast left, had to pay for the mv etc out of their own pockets. that's why half of those songs don't have a mv. 0 official promos

[pastpens]

Vintage antique Parker Lucky Curve #98 Plain Gold Filled Overlay Fountain Pen

Parker Lucky Curve

– Parker #98 pen

– Plain Gold overlay – ding-free

– Jack Knife

– with a ring top on a rope-crown

– Excellent black hard rubber without discoloration

– Antique grade, aged 100+ years

Parker Lucky Curve #98 Jack Knife fountain pen – Up here is a vintage Parker Lucky Curve #98 fountain pen, which was manufactured in USA circa 1910s.

The pen is in nice condition, ding-free only minor wears due to age. The pen is in plain gold filled overlay with no pattern, ding-free, in very nice condition. The plain gold filled overlay covered the whole pen, from cap top to barrel end screw cap. The black hard rubber is in nice condition, with minimal discoloration, pretty rare to find.

It bears a ring-top, with rope-crown.

There is a “M” on the cap. On the barrel is a nice imprint with patent dates, reads ‘PARKER FOUNTAIN PEN PAT. 6-30-91 1-3-05.’

The pen bears a stunning RARE 14ct Lucky curve gold nib in LUCKY CURVE BANNER Pattern. The iridium tip on the nib is intact, flexible, writing smooth fine to broad line. The pen, thought its age of over a century, is still Perfect in nice working condition.

The button filling system is in nice working condition.

The pen has been serviced and tested for full functionality. Only there is slight discoloration on the hard rubber. Yet considering its age of over 100 years it is still in nice condition. It is rare and very much sought after, of such a vintage  pen in nice condition. Ownership of pen with the history and prestige of the Parker, will provide the owner with a feeling of satisfaction and a sense of ceremony each time that they write.

The Parker Pen Company was founded in 1888 by George S. Parker, whose mission was to manufacture a better pen. The Parker Pen Company’s tradition epitomizes the highest standards of craftsmanship, technology, and aesthetics. From the 1920s to the 1960s, Parker was No.1 in worldwide writing instrument sales. The Parker Duofold is one of the most recognizable and enduring fountain pen designs. Launched in 1921, the pen was a phenomenal success and put the Parker Pen Company squarely into the front rank of fountain pen manufacturers. Duofold remain popular in Europe being produced well into the 60s in varying sizes and colors when it was revived in the 80’s once again as Parker’s Flagship model.

In 1932, Parker began test marketing the next generation in fountain pens, the Golden Arrow. This radical new pen featured a compact plunger-operated pump filler that nestled at the back end of the barrel, eliminating the space-hungry pressure bar and sac. The Golden Arrow was later renamed as Vacumatic. The Vacumatic went on the market in 1933; and discontinued in 1939, due to the introduction of new Aero-metric filler.

Parker pens were frequently selected to sign important documents such as the World War II armistices, and commemorative editions were sometimes offered.