Sam: Sorry. Tucker, took a wrong turn and the GPS lost signal. We finally found someone who could give us directions but we're twenty minutes out.
Danny: You have to hurry. I'm surrounded by rich people who keep asking me questions then laugh when I answer!
Sam: They're being passive aggressive. Just smile and say something backhanded back
Danny: okay.
Danny: That's was terrible advice.
Sam: Why what happened?
Danny: I think I'm engaged now? Or they trying to get engaged to me??? I just insulted everyone here and now they're asking about my prospects.
Sam: Oh no. Danny, I think you may have implied that you're someone important. The rich look down on each other, and if you did it overly well, then you just made them think you were a good means of elevating their standing through you. Get out of that Gala. DO. NOT. TALK. TO. ANYONE. ELSE. RUN.
Danny: Instructions not clear: I'm now a Wayne, and apparently I got 14 dates.
Sam: What?! You cant impersonate a Wayne! They're like royalty in the Nepo baby world! Why would you lie like that?!
Danny: I didn't lie! Someone just yelled out "Another blue eye dark hair orphan Wayne picked up" and everyone went with it. I got mobbed by rich people!
Sam: What do you think Bruce Wayne will do when he finds out that your pretending to be his son!?
Danny sends Selfie of him and Bruce smiling and hugging: He set up a college fund for me and asked me what room I wanted in the Manor.
Sam: what
Tucker: Hey I know Im driving and my car was reading the text to me so I cant see that pick but I have to interrupt here and ask: Does Mr.Wayne want more children? I need a college fund and a room in a Manor.
Danny: He said he love to have you
Sam: We were supposed to go to the Queen Gala to get Oliver Queen to fund more green research not get adopted by Bruce Wayne! Why do you even want to be adopted? You're a King! You're not exactly hurting for money....well living money.
Danny: My parents tried to dissect me.
Tucker: The proper term is vivisect.
Sam: Touche.
Danny: Tucker, you're now officially adopted and are now my brother too. Sam, do you want me to ask for you? Since your parents cut all ties with you, that's basically a orphan.
Sam: Fine, sure, but only if he will fund our nonprofit.
Danny: Bruce said yes.
Meanwhile on the other side of the room Bruce is texting his kids.
Bruce: You all have 3 new siblings
Damian: Father, you have a serious problem. At this point it's not a inconvenience. Its a cry for help.
Dick: How old are they?
Jason: Whats thier sob story?
Bruce: They're all just turned seventeen. It's the Danny Fenton Case. Fenton is here now attempting to go by a different name but I can tell its him.
Tim: The kid that his parents cut open on live, claiming he wasn't human? Yeah, thats a good sob story. What about the other two?
Bruce: Danny said they come as a package. Samantha Manson and Tucker Foley. I asked Babs to check them out
Barbara: Samantha and Tucker were on the missing teens lists having run away from home with Danny after rescuing him from his parents. The official statement thier parents made was that the three were in a "sinful" poly relationship and took off togther but based on what I found, they see eachother as siblings and each lived with a different version of child abuse.
Bruce: I got a good deal. Three for one. They want to live at home with me. My nest is growing.
Dick: I think Damian was right. This is a cry for help.
This is honest to god my favorite part of the tmbd fandom.
Gen at the top by a wide margin, m/m at the bottom only above the straights (which I’m aware is because there’s very few male characters we spend time with shush). Far too many fandoms have those switched and it is such a delight to see it like this.
It is TIRING being in fandom as someone who doesn’t care for romance whatsoever.
For week 8 of the GBB weekly prompts: de-aging. I have not reread this at all, not even a little. 1.4k.
"We have a problem."
GP looks up from the sheet of data in front of him, trying his best not to ask something like another? Just because he's tired and stressed, it doesn't mean he can take it out on Rupert.
It's been a long day at the factory, made even longer by the feeling that every single step they take brings them further from a solution instead than closer. Max had been there for most of the day, but Rupert had dragged him away from the sim a couple hours earlier to get some exercise and food in him.
GP really hopes Max didn't get hurt during training.
"What is it?" he asks, trying not to sigh, trying not to sound as weary as he feels. He's pretty sure Rupert's wince tells him all he needs to know about how well he's succeeded. That, or it's even worse than GP can imagine.
"Uh...can you come with me?"
Promising.
This time GP does sigh, pushing himself off the chair and following Rupert out of his office. His feeling of doom increases when Rupert pauses in front of an unused conference room, hand hesitating on the handle.
Honestly, GP has way too much to think about to bear the theatrics.
"Just show me," he tells Rupert, itching to open the door himself, "whatever it is, we'll figure it out."
Rupert winces again, but then nods, and finally pushes the door open.
For a second, GP struggles to understand what he's seeing. Sitting on one of the chairs, feet barely touching the ground, there's a child, round pink cheeks and blue eyes, small fingers fiddling with the bottom of a worn sweater.
Then it dawns on him.
"Max?"
The boy scrambles off the chair, hands falling at his sides as he stands up straight, face blank, even if GP knows him too well, even like this, to not see the undercurrent of nervousness underneath it.
"Yes, sir."
Well, fuck.
--
GP sends Rupert to tell Laurent, refusing to deal with that too himself, and instead sits down with Max, forcing himself to smooth out his expression and look as warm and welcoming as possible.
"Do you know where you are, Max?" he asks gently, hoping nothing in his voice betrays the way his brain has been screaming what the fuck for the past couple of minutes.
Max nods, looking away for a moment and then back at him, little ears red. GP doesn't know if it's from nerves or just general shyness, but it makes it easier to soften even further.
"Yes, Rupert told me. He said I am in the future, but not to worry."
Max's accent is heavy, much heavier than GP has ever heard from him, his high voice stumbling over some words.
"He's right, you don't have to, we'll figure it out. How old are you?"
"I'm 10, and..." Max stops, looking away again.
"Yes?"
Max takes a deep breath, looking down at his intertwined fingers in his lap. "Can I maybe...is my papa here?"
There's something weird in his voice, something that stops GP from understanding what kind of answer he would like to hear. If it was any other 10 years old, GP would assume he's asking for his dad to feel safe, but with Max...well, one never knows.
He decides to be truthful, because he's not going to start lying to Max now, and because he has no way of manifesting Jos from thin air anyway.
"No, he's not, he's probably at home. We can call if you want?"
The same complicated feeling obscures Max's expression, something like relief and longing mixed together. His little shoulders slump, in relief or sadness GP can't tell.
"No, thank you. Will...Do you think I am still in my year, too? I need to...I have a race tomorrow."
GP smiles, finding the comforting familiarity of the worry reassuring.
"I think when you'll go back it will be no time at all," he tells Max, who seems to relax even further. "In the meantime, do you want to go explore?"
He was expecting the boy to jump at the chance, but Max hesitates, even as his eyes light up.
"Am I allowed? I won't touch!"
GP stands up, deciding to ignore the way his heart squeezes at how shy and polite Max is, comparing it to his niece, who's 12 and was a sticky-handed menace until what feels like yesterday.
"I say you're allowed, and I am kind of important in here."
Max smiles up at him, jumping off the chair and puhing it back into place.
"What do you do?" he asks, following GP out of the door. "Do you work at the track? Can we go see a car? If we're allowed. Please."
"We're allowed," GP reassures him. Technically, Max is still their driver, even if almost twenty years younger, so he's not breaking any NDA by taking him for a tour. And he's sure the boys will love to see him.
—
GP stops mid sentence as he talks to Laurent in hushed tones, realizing Max is not marvelling at the trophy wall anymore half a second before he feels a gentle touch on his arm, barely a tap.
He looks down to find the boy standing next to him, fiddling with his sweater again.
"What's up, kiddo?" he asks, the word slipping out before he can stop himself.
Max tilts his head at him, little frown appearing between his eyebrows, even if he doesn't argue against the name. "Excuse me, can I maybe have some water?"
GP's eyes fly to his watch, wincing internally as he takes in the time. They've been walking around for more than an hour, and nobody has thought about asking Max if he's thirsty, or hungry, or needs the toilet. They're all very bad babysitters, apparently.
"Yeah, we'll go to the cafeteria in one second, okay?"
Max nods, not even complaining about the wait, then goes towards the trophies again, as GP turns towards Laurent.
"So, it's just temporary?" he asks again, just to confirm.
Laurent nods, pulling his phone out of his pocket before putting it away again. "Should be fixed by tomorrow, if everything is normal. Are you sure he can sleep at yours?"
GP hums, eyes tracking Max's movement around the room. It seems like the smartest choice, to be quite honest. There's no reason to worry his parents, if it's something this short lived, and Kelly had already been warned. She'd told them that she could come get him if needed, but she had made clear that she would have preferred not to bring a de-aged Max back to their daughters. And it wouldn't be the first time Max crashes at his place, even if usually he's quite a bit bigger.
"It's just one night, it's not a problem," he repeats with certainty. Inside, he's not feeling as sure, but they'll figure it out. Probably. Max is a good kid, quiet and polite, at worst he'll stick a race on and entertain him like that. He actually wonders what little Max's reaction would be at a 2023 race….
But now it's not the time.
"I'll get him some water and head out, then."
Laurent claps him on the shoulder, clearly relieved at not having to deal with this one himself. "Let me know if it's not changed by morning, and I'll call the expert again."
GP nods, then calls Max over, automatically reaching a hand towards him. Max hesitates, a bit puzzled, but then fits his much smaller one into his, politely saying goodbye to Laurent while letting himself be guided out.
"GP?" he asks a couple minutes later, voice small, cradling his bottle of water.
"Yes?"
"Do you think…" he stops, mouth twisting and nose scrunching up, in an expression of frustration so familiar GP can't help himself but smile. "I will forget this, yes?"
GP nods, squeezing his little shoulder. "Probably."
"But I will not be a truck driver, even if I go back? And I will win and be here? This will not change?"
GP hearts thumps against his chest, sadness and fondness mixing in his throat, trying to choke him.
"You'll be here, Max. No matter what, it's where you're meant to be."
He's glad Max doesn't understand what he really means when he says that. He's glad he himself doesn't have the time to really think about that either.
Instead, he stands back up, reaching for Max's hand again.
"Come on, we're going to have food, and maybe watch a race."
Max lights up again, squeezing his fingers.
"One I win? I don't like fish."
GP smiles, tugging him closer to his side. "Yes, kiddo, you win. And I know, I have tomato soup in the freezer. I got you."
She should be so much weirder than she is. She grew up isolated within an already isolated area. She doesn’t know how to interact with people her own age or younger. She spent her entire life training for fighting. Her only friends were her past life’s wife and her pet.
More understanding with her and the boys of having nothing vs having no one.
She’s an only child, gifted child, isolated child, and was thrust into adulthood in a brand new world because if she hadn’t made that leap she would have essentially been locked up still.
It may have met all her physical needs but emotionally, socially, mentally, she has to be stunted, no wonder she struggles so much with spirituality and leadership.
I'm a big lover of genfic so if prompts are still open I would love to see Ilya's besties all hanging out (Svetlana, Troy, Marleau, or anyone else you would put in that category)
i love genfic! cute idea :)
my ask box is still open for gcu/hr prompts <3
-
"Hey hey heeeey party people!"
Marleau entered the with the presence of a small tornado, turning every head in this Boston restaurant.
"Oh god," Svetlana muttered under her breath, giving Troy an apologetic smile. Working with the Bears, she was used to his boisterous personality by now. And he wasn't a bad guy, quite the opposite, actually. And Svetlana liked a man who responded well to clear instructions.
"Barrett, my man!" Marleau reached out to shake Troy's hand, but stopped. "Ah, ladies first of course!" With a stupid little bow, he kissed the back of Svetlana's hand, making her smile even though she tried very hard not to.
Then, he grabbed Troy's hand after all, doing the same. It made Troy blush; Marleau gave him finger guns. "That's equality!"
He threw his enormous body into the seat between them, sprawling out, reaching for a menu, obnoxiously smacking his gum.
"Spit that out," Svetlana told him, and he lifted his hands, grabbing a napkin and doing what she'd said. Troy watched the whole spectacle in silence for a second before snapping out of it.
"Uh, thanks for making it."
Svetlana gave him a smile; Marleau gave him an enormous grin, clapping his shoulder. "Dude, of course. I'm down for everything when it comes to my best boy Roz. So what's the plan?"
"I was thinking we could do something for Ilya's birthday this year," Troy explained. "Last year, he had, y'know, a shit year with getting outed and such-"
"Amen, brother," Marleau muttered seriously under his breath-
"-and you know how he is, he loves a good party."
Svetlana turned to Marleau, whose face hat lit up like a dog's hearing the treat bag rustle when he'd heard the word 'party'. "We've already talked about it, and since it's in the middle of the season, we need to find a weekend where it makes sense, and we were thinking-"
"We should rent, like, a fucking yacht or something for him!" He mimed the rough shape of a ship. "We went on this party boat one year with the Bears, and they had like, tons of booze and tiny food and a bunch of strippers-"
"Maybe no strippers," Troy intercepted.
"Ah dude, I forgot you're like super feminist!" Marleau said, but not unkindly. "No strippers then. But the tiny food, we should do that."
Troy opened his mouth, but clearly decided halfway through it wasn't worth it, and closed it again.
Svetlana blinked, but looked across the table at Troy, who was frowning. "That's... kind of a good idea, actually."
"Do you still remember who organized that?" Troy asked Marleau, who immediately pulled out his phone.
"Lemme ask my buddy Connors, he's got a good memory-"
People were already staring, so when Marleau started scrolling through his phone, Svetlana nudged him under the table. "Go outside if you're calling him, you're always so fucking loud on the phone."
He made a face like this was a new revelation to him, but got up, quickly maneuvering his huge body out in front of the restaurant. They could hear him talk through the window.
"Why is he so hot?" Troy asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. "He's so stupid, but he's so hot."
"I don't know," she replied truthfully. "I think it's because he's stupid but nice, y'know?"
Marleau returned a minute later, chatting up the waitress on his way.
"Connors is sending me the contact info," he announced, clearly happy with himself.
"Great job," Svetlana told him almost automatically. It made him perk up. He really was like a dog.
"Hey, anything for my boy Roz. I know how hard it was for him to be outed as queer- wait, fuck, can I say that?" Marleau gave Troy a guilty look. Troy and Svetlana both nodded.
"Long as you're not using it like a slur," Troy said.
"No, dude, never," Marleau said very seriously. Then, a moment later, he was back to being all smiles. "So, about that tiny food-"
Svetlana gave Troy a long-suffering look from across the table.
Promt: how about the 2019 rookies trying to cook together for some reason?
I know I said I would write something in June... but I wrote this entire thing like 5 minutes after you sent the prompt.
Set right after Canada GP, because I'm still trying to digest it.
(this is for the shenanigans fic prompts)
---------
"Unless you guys somehow Freaky Friday'd today's race," Alex says upon opening his hotel room door, "you are the wrong McLaren."
Lando shoulders his way into the room, jostling Alex aside with the huge bag he's carrying. A huge bag that produces a worrying cacophony of clanking and banging, as though it's filled to the brim with pots and pans.
"Change of plans!" Lando announces as he clangs and crashes his way into the kitchenette Alex's hotel room happens to be equipped with. "Oscar had to leave early to prevent Mark Webber from setting fire to the MTC, so I'm filling in for the sorry-for-yeeting-you-outta-the-race dinner."
Alex hesitantly closes the door and follows behind Lando, who's busy unpacking ingredients for what appears to be the pinnacle of fine dining: spaghetti with tomato sauce.
"And why the fuck would you do that? I mean, I know you guys have the whole 'teammates first' shtick, but that seems absurd, even for you."
"Ummm," Lando hums, upending the rest of the bag onto the counter, which creates a clatter so loud it startles even the unresponsive ghoul that's been haunting Alex's room for the past half hour. "I kinda owe him. For gently letting down a date or two after a night out. And maybe some alibis, too."
"Well, I'm not his slighted girlfriend, am I?" Alex huffs, bending down to pick up the kitchen utensils the hotel staff could just as well have lent them. He pauses with a knife in his hand. "Wait," he says. "Does he think I'm his slighted girlfriend?"
"He just said you'd probably prefer not having to look at his face tonight anyway," Lando shrugs. "Besides. It'll be fun! When was the last time we had some fun, huh? Just you and me and that sentient storm cloud over there."
Alex shoots a sidelong glance at George, who's lying face-down on the couch across the room, muttering dark imprecations into the suede upholstery.
"I'd rather spend a night with Oscar licking my boots than having to eat whatever comes out of your cooking!" he decides, putting the knife on the counter.
"Ew!" Lando says. He's still shaking the bag. "If you let him do that, no wonder he thinks you're his girlfriend."
Finally, he manages to shake loose two six-packs of canned gin and tonics. They slide across the counter, bowling down all the utensils Alex has just picked up again.
"You know," Alex sighs, "you're a millionaire, right? And you can't even treat me to some room service?"
"Too late to bother the staff," Lando insists. He's pulled out his phone and Alex can see over his shoulder that he's typing how cook spaghetti into Google, then pauses to look up at George over by the couch. "Will he be eating with us?"
Alex shrugs. "We'll see, I guess. He's put on such a brave face for the press, we should let him wallow for a bit."
"Sounds like he's putting some kind of dark spell on your hotel couch, mate," Lando says, disregarding all the kitchen utensils and ingredients to go straight for the canned cocktails.
Alex shrugs again. "What's one more curse, really?" he says and grabs one of the cocktails as well, because if Lando's starting his cooking session with that, he'll need it.
Lando goes back to his Google search for how cook spaghetti 3 people, Alex goes to wash the tomatoes he brought, and George continues to curse parmesan, the Pope, and everything else the country of Italy has ever produced.
"This says I need two kilos of tomato!" Lando pipes up, sounding genuinely aggrieved. "Two kilos, for a bit of sauce? I'm not lugging around two kilos of tomatoes, that'd be mental!"
"Could've cut back on the booze or half the McLaren motorhome kitchen interior you brought," Alex points out.
"Shouldn't two kilos of tomatoes make two litres of sauce?" Lando muses, not listening. "That's too much for us, no?"
Alex doesn't even want to begin reasoning with him about that one, so instead he just gives a defeated, "Why didn't you look up the recipe before you came?" and silently mourns the loss of Oscarian boot-licking for tonight.
"Didn't think it would be that complicated," Lando admits, then decides cheerfully, "So none for George then."
"I think we're covered for a simple aglio e olio," Alex says, pointing at the three entire heads of garlic Lando thought were necessary alongside the handful of tomatoes.
From behind them comes a sudden hiss at the carelessly uttered Italian words, which makes them both jump, but George doesn't rouse from the couch, so they both turn back to the food.
"Tell me what do!" Lando says, as though Alex is his substitute Google.
"Can you peel and slice garlic?" Alex asks, doubtfully.
"I can crack open a gin and tonic with my teeth," Lando offers.
"Please don't. You're gonna hurt your – alright. Cheers I guess."
Alex accepts the opened can that's handed to him and doesn't try to stop Lando from using his teeth on the second one, too. He's rich enough to buy himself a new set of teeth every day for the rest of his life, probably. If that's what he wants to spend his money on – still better than a yacht.
At least Lando is surprisingly deft with a knife, two cans into the six-pack. He needs precise instructions, but once he's got the hang of it, he's not a total disaster. Alex busies himself bringing the pasta water to a boil, and just when it's ready, he hears a strange snapping sound from behind.
Lando hears it, too. He whips around and almost slices Alex's arm open as he yelps and flails.
George must have floated off the couch sometime in the last few minutes – now he's standing by the table Lando unpacked the ingredients on, snapping every single piece of spaghetti in two while looking like a haunted porcelain doll.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Lando screeches, as Alex side-steps the knife flailing. Understanding dawns on him a second later, and he gasps, "Oh my god! Are you doing this to spite Kimi? Does the spaghetti act like an Italian voodoo doll?"
"How dead would both our teams kill me if I posted this in my stories?" Alex muses, fishing for the phone in his back pocket.
Lando manages to grab his wrist just in time. He looks genuinely concerned. "Mate, come on! You'll be fired!"
Which – wow! A startlingly sensible thought from him. Last year's media training must have been extensive. Either that, or…
Alex squints at him, then whispers, "…Oscar?"
"Mate, you really can't handle any alcohol at all, can you?" Lando-maybe-Oscar grouses.
"Of course!" Alex crows, slapping the counter. "That's why they put you both on inters and somehow killed your car when you were driving into the points! Because the race results wouldn't be fair if you were bodyswapped, so Papaya Rules demanded you both finish outside the points!"
"Still a better explanation than 'We thought there’d be a sudden flood'," George interjects weakly – the first words he's spoken all night. It makes both Alex and Lando forget their argument as they fall into loud cheering instead and join him at the table to finish destroying the rest of the offending pasta.
It's only when the fire alarm goes off that they realise Lando had already turned the stove on and was cooking a pan of olive oil into a plume of smoke.
"Well fuck," Lando says, entirely too easily. "That's happened to me before. Won't be cheap, mate. They send out like a bazillion fire trucks if you trigger the alarm at a hotel."
"You know I'll be sending you the bill, right?"
"Mate, send it right to Osc – this is all his fault. Plus, what is he doing with his fuckton of money anyway? Buying shirts from Uniqlo is what!"
"You have a point," Alex admits, watching out of the corner of his eye as George, even in his zombified state, drifts over to switch off the stove and shuffles to the hotel phone to let reception know they should cancel the alarm if they still can.
Maybe Alex should've thought of that himself. Maybe he really is drunk.
"Okay then, which one of you's in the nicer hotel?" he shouts over the shrieking alarm, ambling into the bedroom to grab the suitcase he's never really unpacked. "I'll be crashing at one of yours tonight."
"Mine's close to a McDonald's," Lando says. "Plus Oscar's room is free now, I guess."
"Perfect," Alex nods, grabbing George's elbow as he passes and pulling him out the door with him. "Nothing Italian about a McDonald's."
****
Alex
I'm in your room
Oscar
?
Alex
*hotel
If you're texting back you must be able to read the news
Just so you know
You have even more to make up for now
Oscar
Yep.
Sorry 😔🥺
****
Alex hides a tired smile in the sheets that still smell like Oscar's fucking chocolate deodorant.
At least there's no doubt that this is the real Oscar, this time.
As recently promised -- a whole lot of Gen stats are now available! :) Please read on AO3 for clarifications, caveats, corrections, and a bunch more graphs and data.
