#this is some sitcom level shit

[absolute-flaming-trash]

When a bunch of shit goes wrong consecutively back to back to the point you start looking for the hidden cameras.

[postnuclearwar]

In an attempt to connect with the youth, the religious organization that's historicaly and currently surrounded by child sexual abuse controversy made a anime mascot for their organization that's a fucking loli.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

family ties really has one of the best xmen 92 openings like magneto breaks into the mansion just to tell charles he's leaving for europe and while he's there he puts logan in the torture chamber and charles doesnt even gaf

[fandomfuntimem]

A follow up comic to this

Left -> right

First time I've ever done a full comic page. This is what i planned for the one shot to end with.

I'll probably do this au in different directions. But if the story were to end with this this is where I think it would go.

[mainfaggot]

just watched challengers at the cinema w my little sister. it was so intense wtf

[meowtalhead]

Not to be a spiteful bitch to an extreme degree but I hope my grandfather spends all his money in rapid and spectacular fashion so my aunt doesn't get any in the will

[illithilit]

Kophyn as Mourndax's guardian, bc that is the singular person Emp could have pretended to be and have had Daxie's trust at all.

[logoleptic-since-06]

Clouds In My Coffee

Pairing: Single Dad!Jean Kirstein x Neighbour!Reader

Content: Fem!Reader, Fluff, Modern AU, Slight Angst

Inspired by this TikTok

A/N: I had so much fun writing this. I want this to be a little sitcom-like so there's gonna be different moments of reader with Jean and his daughter before they actually get together. This chapter is kind of like the pilot episode so it's a little longer.

Episode 1: The Fourteen Floor Run

“Morning, sunshine.”

“Five more minutes, dada.”

“No more minutes, sweetheart.” 

The morning routine for Jean and his four year old daughter Ivette was simple– wake up, get dressed for the day, and have breakfast. The faint smell of cereal and coffee surrounds the cozy kitchen as Ivette talks about her upcoming art class that she’s so excited about. Jean half listens to her, his eyes flicking over some last minute spreadsheet details, sipping on a cup of coffee too bitter to his tongue. 

“Dada?”

“Yes, lovebug?”

“I can’t eat anymore.”

His attention immediately shifts to her, taking the place of spreadsheets in his mind. He puts his coffee mug down and shifts towards her. “You’ll get hungry at preschool. Here, can I feed you instead?” She nods begrudgingly, softly pushing her cereal bowl to her dad. 

Once he successfully feeds her the last spoonful of cereal, they reach for the door. Kneeling down, Jean helps her wear her velcro tape shoes– the pink ones, of course– before leading her outside towards the elevator.

As he presses the elevator button, Jean feels his arms are too empty, as though he forgot something. He stares at the numbers on the display going up, stopping at some floors. This is normal at this time of the day; everyone has work, after all, it’s a city buzzing with busyness. Just as the elevator is merely two floors away, it hits. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath– quiet enough for Ivette to not hear– as he realises he’s forgotten his file of spreadsheets at the breakfast table. Crouching down at his daughter’s level, he says, “Hey bug, dada’s forgotten something back home. Can you wait here with the elevator? You know how to hold it, right?” 

Ivette nods enthusiastically, making a pang of relief flow over Jean’s spine– if he loses the elevator now, he’d have to wait at least fifteen more minutes to get ahold of it again. He smiles, “That’s my smart girl. Just wait, okay?”

With that, he runs over to their apartment, the keys jingling as he brings them out on the way. In a quick motion, he grabs his file and leaves without missing a breath. Just as he was done locking the door, he hears a voice that makes his stomach drop.

“Dada!” it seems to yell. Frantically.

Ignoring his heart beating out of his chest, he runs towards the elevator only to find the place empty. His eyes widen as he hears his daughter’s cries from inside the elevator that is already going downstairs.

It is as though his mind races with a million thoughts in a second and yet he can’t think straight. He’s just lost his daughter– his world– due to his own faults. Before he can even register anything, he races down the elevator, stopping at each floor to see if the elevator stops or if he catches up to it.

Neither happens.

Before Jean even realises it, he is down all fourteen floors, now at the lobby. As he reaches, he hears his girl weeping, which makes him look around and search for her. The moment his eyes land on Ivette, it’s like he can finally breathe. 

She is safe. The world is spinning again.

And she’s with… who is that?

He walks closer to see a woman– no, a girl, his age– crouching down next to Ivette, wiping her tears and trying to calm her down. The moment his daughter’s eyes meet his, he sees her face light up.

“Dada!” she screams, now beaming. Finally.

Jean’s instincts deceive his mind and he starts to sprint towards her as she does the same towards him. He kneels down and catches her in his arms and buries his face in the crook of her neck, sniffing from the guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he pants, “I’m so so sorry, baby.”

Ivette giggles, her tears now completely dried up. “It’s okay, dada.”

He looks at her, his eyes red. “I promise, I’ll never leave you again, okay? I promise.” He kisses her cheeks. “Were you scared?”

“A little at first. But then the pretty lady helped me,” she says, pointing towards the girl who was next to her.

His eyes wander and finally land on her– you– properly this time. He watches you walk closer towards them, your face expressing a mix of warmth and concern. 

“She was terrified,” you say as you stand in front of him. You look down at Ivette and smile before saying, “But she’s a strong girl. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

“The strongest!” Ivette cheers.

Jean stands up, facing you. “Thank you. I– I don’t know what I was thinking, leaving her like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say reassuringly. Then there’s a pause before you ask, “Are you okay? You seem like you ran down like ten floors.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle. “Fourteen, actually.”

Your eyebrows shoot up as you nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “You must care about her a lot.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s my world.”

“Dada?” Ivette’s wide eyes look up at Jean.

He picks her up, she leans her head against his shoulders, her tiny arms wrapping around him. “Yes, bug?”

“Can I not go to preschool today?”

He smiles. “Nice try, sweetheart, but no.” He looks at her. “However, I’ll tell Uncle Connie to not pick you up today. I’ll leave early from work and we can go get ice cream from school, okay?”

She beams in response.

“Looks like she’s already learned the art of bargaining,” you say.

“Goes after her dad.” He extends the arm that’s not holding Ivette towards you. “I’m Jean.”

You accept his handshake. “Y/N.” You tilt your head towards the little girl. “And this is?”

“Ivette!” she says. “Can you come with us to drop me off?”

You’re taken aback at her remark. “Uhm…”

Before you can think of how to respond, Jean intervenes. “Sweetie, you don’t just ask someone that.”

“But Dada, I like her.”

You chuckle at her words. “I like you, too sweetie. I promise I’ll come see you again, okay?”

“Okay…”

You look at the bond between Jean and Ivette– how he ran down fourteen floors, how he looked like he’d just found back his heartbeat, and before you can stop yourself, you ask, “Are you a single dad?” You regret the words before they even finish leaving your mouth.

He looks at you, a little stunned at first, then a smug smile replaces his former expression. “Is that your way of asking if I’m single?”

Your eyes go wide and you forget what coherent sentences sound like as you stumble upon your words, “No, I was just– like you were so– I mean–”

“Relax,” he says with a genuine smile now. “I was kidding. Sorry if that made you uncomfortable, or anything.”

You let out a breath of relief as you smile back. “It’s fine– uhm– have a nice day.”

“You too, Y/N.”

You watch them leave as you hear Ivette mutter something like “Dada, what is single?” to her father. 

Just when you thought moving to the city couldn’t get more interesting, it just did.

[waynes-multiverse]

Time After Time – Chapter 16

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, back in the present, SB being his charming self and every (bad) thing that comes with it, humor, pining, a bit of angst and hurt, enemies to lovers, slow burnin' through this one, fluff

Word Count: 8.1k

Posted on Patreon June 15, 2025

A/N: I'm a sucker for bottle episodes on TV and in stories. Give me two tortured characters sitting on the floor and having deep conversations, and I'll die happy.

✨ Chapter title inspired by me-e-ee

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 16: I Don't Care What the Papers Say!

Ben knocked once.

Hard enough to be heard, but not so loud it’d wake the whole damn block. Just loud enough to be undeniable. Just enough for you to know it was him.

No answer, but not surprising either.

He could hear you, of course. Super-hearing or not, Ben always knew the difference between silence and absence. You were in there, alright. Breathing slow. Still. Ignoring him like it was a full-time job. He didn’t even need to press his ear to the door. He could hear your heartbeat if he really focused. That steady, annoyed rhythm. Still close – but not coming any closer.

So he knocked again. Slower this time.

Still nothing.

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and exhaled. “Alright, I know you in there.”

No response again. Ben could hear the music, though.

Not loud. Not enough to be obnoxious. Just enough to make the old brownstone buzz faintly through the concrete. A record. Vinyl – not fucking digital. He could tell by the soft static and occasional warble.

It was some grunge shit. Female vocals, probably late 90s. Not his thing, but it fit. A little sad. A little angry. Just like you.

“I can hear you breathing, sweetheart. Don’t play dumb.”

Fuckin’ nothing.

Ben dragged a hand down his face, then crossed his arms. “C’mon, you’re really gonna make me talk through the door like a fuckin’ sitcom neighbor? You know I hate that shit.”

Still no response. Not even a bratty fucking comment. That stung more than he wanted to admit.

His knuckles softly tapped the wood once more. “You know, if you open the door, you can punch me again or at least slam it in my face. Tell you what, sweetheart – I’ll let you kick me in the crown jewels once. How’s that, huh? Hell, might even like it if it’s you, so don’t be surprised if I moan instead of flinch.”

A beat passed, and then finally:

“You’re not coming in,” you said, voice dry as paper.

“Figured,” he muttered and dropped down on the steps just outside your door. His back leaned against the frame and brick wall, one knee up, the other stretched across the concrete like he had all goddamn night. “Place still smells like cheap paint and lavender. But hey, at least it got character… and possibly black mold. Had to pick the shittiest apartment in New York, didn’t you?”

You still didn’t say anything, but he heard the quiet creak of the floorboards inside and your breathing just behind the door, measured and intentional – you were listening.

And sure, on some level, he knew this was fucking stupid. You didn’t want to see him. You made that clear when you told him to fuck off several times by now. But he couldn’t not be here – not after today.

Not after everything.

“Y’know, I liked it better when you yelled at me and threw me ‘round through time,” he said and let his head rest against the wood, shutting his eyes for a second. “Now I knock and don’t even get a ‘go to hell.’ Kinda hurtin’ my feelings, sweetheart.”

“You don’t have feelings,” you bit.

Ben smirked. There you were.

“I’m not here to fight, alright? Just figured if you hate me, I should at least fuckin’ show up for it,” he said and rubbed a thumb over a splinter in the wood.

“You gonna sit there forever?” you snapped. “Go away and leave me alone.”

“Not yet.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t think so,” Ben replied, a smile curling on his lips. “You haven’t vanished yet, which means you don’t fuckin’ hate me as much as you think you do.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Me staying has nothing to do with you,” you argued. “This is my home. I like it here. I have friends here. If anyone should fucking leave, it’s you.”

“You can’t even remember most of this shit, including that little whine club of yours.”

You scoffed, and Ben suddenly remembered he wasn’t supposed to make you angrier. You were just making it so goddamn hard on him to hold back. And maybe that was your point all along.

“Hey, I can remember most of them again. It’s coming back. I know Annie and Frenchie and Hughie and Butcher–”

“Butcher ain’t your fuckin’ friend,” he cut in sharply.

“Why? ‘Cause he blackmailed me?” you asked. “I told you it wasn’t that fucking serious – and yeah, I remember that, too.”

“I don’t know. Sounds like a good enough reason to me,” he muttered.

“Everything’s a good fucking reason to you.”

And maybe you were right about that one. Because it surely wasn’t the only reason he wanted Butcher dead. The asshole had not only crossed a line by threatening you but also by threatening him with turning you against him.

Mostly, though, he hated to admit that it also may have been a reason he came to see you tonight. Why he couldn’t give you time and leave you fucking alone.

He had to talk to you before they fucking got to you and spewed all their poison about him.

Ben exhaled slowly. “Look, I know you’re mad at me. I get it. If I were you, I woulda done the same fuckin’ thing.”

You snorted a dark chuckle. “If you were me, New York would be leveled and burning right now.”

“Probably.” Ben pursed his lips, head bobbing. “Listen, I know this is about what happened last week–”

“Don’t.” Your voice cut him like a knife – cold, sharp, and warning.

Ben swallowed heavily. “I don’t wanna rehash it, alright? I just figured you need to–… I had to, okay? I had no choice. I had to push harder. You weren’t breaking, and I was runnin’ outta tricks. Outta time.”

“That it?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he assured, even though your question sounded like a trap. He just didn’t know what would activate it yet. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Bullshit,” you snapped. “You did mean to. You meant everything. You don’t get to have a say in my life for over a year, treat me like a shit, corner me in my own fucking apartment, and then beg for forgiveness on my doorstep like it’s some goddamn romantic gesture.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Ben muttered, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

Well, shit. There went his plan.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, alright? You think that was fuckin’ fun for me?”

“Kinda, yeah,” you huffed bitterly.

Ben swallowed, nodding. “You really think I wanted this? Any of it? You know that I–…” He didn’t finish, just bit his lips, but you said it for him anyway.

“You were just like him.”

Ben licked his lips, then smacked them. “I know.”

“You’re supposed to protect me,” you added quietly.

“I know that, too,” he admitted and tilted his head back against the brick wall, staring up at stars through the city haze. “Still remember your face that night. It’s been livin’ rent-free in my goddamn skull ever since. You were scared… of me. I did that. On purpose, sure, but doesn’t mean I don’t hate myself for it.” He rubbed his jaw. The heat of shame burned at the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have–… I wouldn’t have hurt you. You know that.”

“No, I don’t know that, because I don’t know you,” you argued. “I don’t even know if you’re telling the truth or lying through your fucking teeth right now because you’re still playing some sick game.”

Ben closed his eyes for another moment, exhaling a breath through his nose. “I’m not playin’ a game.”

“I. Don’t. Believe. You,” you said and slowly pressed each word out with purpose.

He swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “What d’you want me to say, huh? Just tell me what it fuckin’ takes. Fine, alright? Maybe it was more than a little pretense that night. Maybe I was a jealous asshole and a little rougher than I intended. There, I said it. Fuckin’ happy now?”

“None of this makes me fucking happy!”

“Makes fuckin’ two of us,” Ben scoffed under his breath and rolled his eyes slightly. He waited till the sting in his chest subsided before continuing, “But you still gotta believe me – I wouldn’t’ve hurt you.”

Silence. Fucking crickets. He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

He banged his forehead softly against the door. “Please open it.”

“No.”

Sure, he could’ve kicked it in a while ago, but he figured he’d probably be making the wrong point. Aside from that, you sure as hell would either freeze him, toss him into some historical catastrophe, or disappear from the face of the Earth.

“You think I’ve been stuck on what you did this past year, but it’s not just that,” you continued. “I’ve been trying to figure out how much of what you became over the last eighty years is real… and how much is just for show.”

Ben huffed a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, not sure ‘bout that one, either,” he muttered quietly. “If you find out, lemme know.”

You didn’t say anything, but the record kept playing. The needle scratched faintly as the song faded to its last few bars. Then, he heard you lifting and flipping it.

Side B – fitting.

Your weight inside moved again, heartbeat getting closer. There was a creak of old wood and the rustling of fabric as you seemed to be sitting down on the floor just on the other side of him. If the door disappeared, he could imagine your knees touching. There were no attempts at footsteps or even the door chain shifting, but at least you hadn’t vanished yet.

You were still here – listening.

Ben’s eyes then drifted to the box next to him, resting a hand on the taped-up lid. “I brought your stuff, by the way. Kept it all. Your shoes, that busted old notebook full of chicken scratch equations, the movie projector you made me, even that shirt that didn’t make sense to me till ’69,” he listed, chuckling softly. “I saw you there. At that concert, y’know?”

“You did?”

“Yep. You were gettin’ high with some college kids. Even followed you,” he added.

“Oh, yeah, those kids were so nice. I think they were a throuple. Not sure, but definitely polyamorous,” you mused behind the door. “I left when the topic of an orgy came up. But they gave me LSD. Was my first time doing it.”

Ben’s mouth opened and closed. “Explains a few things,” he murmured lowly, his eyes swerving back to the box. “You know, I thought about burnin’ all this shit several times over the years.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Because you left. Because he didn’t know if he’d see you again. Because it still smelled like you.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Don’t know. Just couldn’t do it.”

There was silence again on your side, even the song ended. But another started – same tone with a different flavor of ache.

“You can leave it outside,” you said.

“I’d rather hand it to you, if that’s alright.”

“It’s not.”

“Right.” Ben let out a deep sigh. “Got you something else, too. But it’s a surprise. Gotta open the door first, though. Only got about one more hour left, too.”

“Great, so it comes with a countdown,” you huffed, and Ben imagined you even rolled your eyes with it. “Please tell me it’s not you exploding.”

He snorted, amused. “Nah, not the kinda explosion I’ve planned for you, sweetheart.”

“Ew! Why?”

“C’mon, it was right there. Can’t serve me like that,” he replied, chuckling.

“You’re not making a good case for yourself,” you murmured.

“You used to love it when I made those fuckin’ jokes,” Ben noted, laughing a little as a memory popped into his head. “Once made you laugh so hard you snorted your soda through your fuckin’ nose.”

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“It just was.”

You had always been a fucking challenge. Didn’t matter what he’d tried – making you his lover or his enemy.

“I liked who you were then,” you added after a beat.

Ben was quiet, and for a while, the city filled the space between you – the hum of traffic two streets over, someone slamming a cab door, a dog barking faintly from a second-story window.

“Look, uhm, I don’t know how much of that guy’s still in here, but I think some of him is,” Ben said finally. “Specially ‘round you.”

“Coulda fooled me,” you scoffed sharply. “You don’t get to act like you care now.”

That one hit harder than he expected, but he didn’t defend himself either. What was the fucking point? No matter what he said, you didn’t believe him. You never would again, would you?

“I’ll go, okay?” Ben said then and heard your weight shift behind the door. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. I just need to ask you somethin’ first.”

A beat passed before you responded.

“What?”

Ben took a breath and swallowed. “Back at the office, you said you trained, so how long–, uhm, how long have your powers been back? I mean, did you leave on purpose… that night?”

There was nothing but silence – heavy, cruel, and suffocating – till the lock clicked. The door cracked open a moment later.

And there you fucking were again.

His heart stopped when he saw you. Still on the floor, back leaning against the wall next to the door, drowning in a Blondie tee, damp hair from a shower, bare legs stretched out over the old wooden boards. You looked better than you did in the afternoon. Tired as fuck, but better.

“Hey,” he said softly, like you were a deer in a sunny clearing he didn’t want to scare back into the dark woods.

“Hey,” you parroted with the same softness in your voice.

Ben could see it then – you didn’t hate him anymore. Not like you had. You were pissed and mad and five different flavors of disappointed, but you didn’t want to drown him in a volcano any longer.

You swallowed and averted your gaze to your fumbling fingers in your lap. “I was stuck. Nothing was working, no matter what I tried. But, uhm, I got the freezing thing working again after a few weeks,” you explained slowly. “I didn’t leave on purpose, though. I told you.”

“You told me a lotta things.” He smiled weakly. “Most of ‘em lies.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” you said quietly and kept your eyes focused on the floor in front of you. “Kinda the reason I got scared and panicked. I didn’t know how to tell you. Didn’t know what the future would look like. Not until I figured out it was a loop.”

He leaned his head back against the door. “You always had secrets. I knew that much. You’d look at me sometimes like you knew how everything ended.”

“I guess I did,” you admitted. “On some level.”

Ben swallowed thickly, nodding. “So what was the plan? You were never gonna say anything?”

“No, I would have. I think… I wanted to,” you replied. “Just didn’t know when… or how. I was scared you were gonna–…”

You didn’t finish.

“What? Kill you?”

You shook your head and met his eyes. “No, leave.”

“I wouldn’t have.” A sad smile twitched on his lips. “So you really didn’t wanna leave?”

“No.”

The word was barely audible over the music, but he still would’ve heard it even if someone was standing next to his ear with a jackhammer.

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “You know, I always figured I drove you off that night. Wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“No, you weren’t. You never were,” you said, but it wasn’t mean. There was a faint smile on your face.

“Never did get an answer, though,” he noted, swallowing. “Still waiting, y’know. Still wonderin’.”

You looked at him then for a long moment. “Not sure you deserve an answer now.”

“Me neither.” He smiled a little. “Give it to me anyway?”

But you shook your head and averted your gaze again. “I didn’t mean to fall for you, you know? Didn’t mean to hurt you, either.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Funny how that works, huh?”

“I would’ve said yes. I wanted to,” you said then, taking him by surprise. He hadn’t expected an answer. Not when he asked it now and not when he’d asked it back then.

For a while, he didn’t know what else to say. Didn’t know what to ask that would magically make this all better and fix it. What words were significant enough to bandage a wound this big?

Ben exhaled slowly. “Why haven’t you gone back yet?”

You blinked at him, brow close to reaching your hairline.

“You could, right? You have your powers again. You could go back right to that moment before it all went to shit,” he clarified.

You were quiet for a beat. “I could. Thought about it.”

Ben’s head bobbed thoughtfully. “But you haven’t, right? Otherwise we still wouldn’t be sittin’ here.”

“No, guess not…”

“Why?”

You found his eyes, and he could see the tears gleaming in yours. Then you gave a weak shrug of your shoulders. “‘Cause it wasn’t real.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. It was. It was real.”

“It was a lie. A fantasy,” you argued softly. It wasn’t cruel – just honest. “I’m not saying my feelings weren’t real. They were. But everything else? It would’ve collapsed. It was inevitable… like entropy. We were drifting from order to chaos. From warmth to cold.”

“You don’t know that,” Ben countered.

“Maybe not,” you admitted and looked at him again. “But it’s not just up to me. Not anymore.”

His brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s your life. You should make the decision,” you told him.

Ben sat with that for a while, let the words sink in, even though he barely understood them.

“You should go.”

“What?” Your brow raised like you hadn’t anticipated that answer.

“You love m–… him, right? So you should be with him,” Ben said, although the answer almost broke him.

You didn’t love him. Probably never would. At least not this version of him, so what was the point of holding on? He could get a redo. Maybe even the life he always wanted.

“It’s not that simple,” you said. “The whole world would change. You would change.”

He snorted bitterly. “Might be for the best,” he muttered. “You’d make sure I wouldn’t cross a line or lose myself along the way like I did without you there.”

“I don’t think you understand the implications of it,” you noted. “You don’t know what happens to you – this you.”

He gave a shrug. “I stop existing, right? Just fade away like Marty’s hand.”

You smiled, but it was a sad one. “Maybe. If I go back and stay, the future might rewrite itself, including you. So, yeah, this you would stop existing and get replaced by a new version of you. But there’s another option,” you explained. “If I go back, it could just start a new timeline. An alternate one. Which means this one would still exist. I’d just be gone from it.”

Ben’s lips twitched, head bobbing. “So either I stop existing, or I’d be here alone forever. That what you’re saying?”

You nodded slowly.

He didn’t love that answer. You happy with some other version of him, while he was stuck in eternal misery, forever missing you. He wasn’t sure if he could do that – give up on you like that. And maybe that was fucking selfish of him. He knew it was.

“You’d save a lot of people. Probably,” you added like you were making a pro and con list. “I ran different scenarios, you know? Like simulations in my head of what could happen. Tried to find the right path that would yield the most benefit.”

Ben cocked an eyebrow. “That what you were doing in the shed?”

“Mostly.” You gave a half-sure nod. “I tried to find out how it works. What theory was true.”

“And?”

You twitched your shoulders. “Inconclusive. Never could figure it out.”

He huffed quietly, shaking his head. “All these theories and you never thought it was a loop?”

A small smile flashed on your lips. “No, I did. It crossed my mind,” you admitted and swallowed. “Was just the one I liked the least. Because it not only meant that I couldn’t change anything but that I was also the cause for everything.”

“And me,” Ben added and met your confused stare. “I sent you back. So I caused it too, right?”

You exhaled musingly. “I guess so. Maybe.”

Ben’s brows drew together. “So who started it? You or me?”

You shrugged again. “I don’t know. My guess is as good as yours.”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be like… a starting point, right? A first one?” he asked and saw you hold back an amused laugh. “What?”

“It’s a circle,” you said like it would explain everything.

It fucking didn’t.

“Does a circle have a beginning or an end?” you asked in that certain tone of yours he knew all too well – the teacher voice. “The answer you’re looking for is no, by the way.”

“Smartass,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “They didn’t teach all that futuristic shit yet in my school.”

“What, geometry?” You snorted in amused disbelief. “I’m pretty sure they did. You just weren’t paying attention.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He rolled his eyes back. “But there’s gotta be an original version that looked different than all the others, right? Or a version of me that never knew you at all.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Jesus, how much have you been thinking about this?”

“A lot. Yeah,” he admitted and cleared his throat. Smiled even. “So? What’s the working theory, Doc?”

“I don’t know. Probably?”

Ben’s brow wrinkled. “You ever gonna give me an answer tonight that doesn’t sound like it’s comin’ straight outta a Magic 8 Ball?”

You snorted, that little mischievous smirk curling on your lips. “Ask again later.”

“Funny.” He snorted a laugh, but he tried not to be too loud or move too much.

He’d noticed it a while ago – how the tension faded from your muscles, how the smiles kept creeping in. It was like you weren’t even aware you were still supposed to be angry and hurt. You were just doing it subconsciously – talking to him, laughing with him, falling into a pattern with him you’d grown accustomed to over the last few months.

Ben knew better than to point that out and burst it, however. He just enjoyed the bubble. Didn’t want it to end. Didn’t want you to wake up from your trance. Scared you’d realize then that he wasn’t the same guy anymore.

So he said nothing and kept the conversation flowing, hoping you wouldn’t catch on for the rest of both your lives. A man could fucking hope, right?

“Hmm,” he hummed and feigned contemplation. Then he smirked. “So, technically, that means the original timeline could be me being on your little history backstage pass, and you payin’ me a visit, right?”

You snorted. “Unlikely. You were never on that list.”

“Oh, but fuckin’ JFK is on it?”

You laughed loudly at that. “Are you still seriously hung up on that guy? He’s been dead for decades. Most likely because of you.”

“Hey, I had nothin’ to do with that.”

“Legend said you did,” you countered.

“That old prick with that coked-up brain doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talkin’ about,” Ben muttered. “That shit about Normandy wasn’t true either, was it? I mean, you saw, right?”

“Oh, I remember when you made me prove Hughie and I were wrong. Watched you throw a whole-ass tank at like forty Nazis,” you replied wryly.

“Yeah, you’re fuckin’ welcome,” he huffed and only snapped out of his internal rant when he heard your soft giggles.

“How do you even know about my list? I know I never told you about that,” you said then, your brow scrunching into little creases.

“Oh, you sure as hell didn’t, sweetheart.” Ben smirked wide and lazy. “But your so-called friends were real fuckin’ chatty today.”

“Great,” you sighed, then found his eyes. “So what now? Do you want me to go back?”

Ben pursed his lips for a moment. “Can I think about it?” he asked quietly, foot tapping against the concrete below it.

You gave a shrug of your shoulders. “Sure. Time’s not really relevant. Not for us, anyway. Could tell me tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Literally doesn’t matter.”

Ben didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you. “Do you wanna go back?”

He for sure thought you wanted to. He thought there could only ever be one answer, almost rendering the question redundant in the first place. You loved the past version of him. That guy could still give you a future and a life you were worthy of. Why wouldn’t you want that?

But your answer took him by surprise.

“No,” you said and didn’t break his gaze. “I don’t.”

Ben’s brow knitted. “Why?”

“I don’t think there’s a version of us that gets to live the perfect dream life. Where we get everything we ever wanted,” you said. “It’s not how life works. Was just a glitch in the matrix. It was nice while it lasted, though.”

Ben licked his lips, not knowing what he could say to convince you otherwise. “I don’t think that’s true. I think we would’ve been happy,” he said. “I woulda made sure you were.”

You turned your head to look at him. “I was, and you did.”

Ben nodded and bit the insides of his cheeks. “So if you don’t wanna go back, why you offerin’?”

“I ruined your life. Only fair you at least get a say in how I do it this time,” you replied, shrugging.

Ben then met your eyes. “You didn’t ruin shit.”

You lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. “Really? Not even a little?”

He huffed a snort. “Maybe a little,” he teased, smirking. “But kinda ruined me in the best way, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything to that, just leaned your head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling fan for a while.

“You know,” you said then, “if I do go back, Russia never happens. You wouldn’t have to go through that.”

Ben’s lips twitched, almost in amusement. Oh, he thought about it, alright. Surely was fuckin’ tempting.

“Yeah? You sure you wouldn’t sell me out to the fuckin’ Commies next time you get pissed at me again?” he blurted out before stopping himself.

You inhaled sharply. “No,” you assured. “And I’m sorry, okay? That was–…”

“A dick move?” Ben supplied with a cocked brow.

You smiled. “Yeah, big time.”

“‘S fine. Deserved it,” he muttered under his breath.

“No, you didn’t,” you insisted with that same fucking softness in your eyes he’d always seen in you. “Which is why I’m sorry.”

There was silence between you again, but it wasn’t heavy and loaded anymore. It was comfortable. Calm. Familiar.

“So what now?” Ben asked then. “What happens if you stay here?”

“What do you mean?” Your brows scrunched again, and he didn’t like that tone in your voice – that finality in it.

“You still love me, or is this the courtesy break-up talk you’re granting me?”

You looked at him but didn’t respond. Just dropped your head back against the wall after a moment and closed your eyes.

“My parents aren’t dead,” your voice broke the silence and made his brows raise.

“I know time doesn’t fuckin’ matter to you, and you can see dead people or whatever, but death still fuckin’ exists.”

“No, I know that,” you said. “They’re not dead. They’re in Alaska.”

His brow shot up. “Alaska? But–”

“I did bring them to 1349, and I did leave them there,” you stated and bit your lip. “For about three years. Then I went back. For them, only five minutes had passed. Still scared the shit out of them.”

“So what? They fled to fuckin’ Alaska?”

“No, I dropped them there and told them not to come back, or I’d leave ‘em in the Middle Ages for good next time,” you shared, pulling your legs up and leaning forward on your knees.

“Recognizin’ a pattern here…”

You huffed a chuckle. “I guess so. But that’s not why I’m telling you this.”

“Why are you telling me?”

You swallowed. “They weren’t all bad, you know? I kept thinking about that. I mean, sure, they were addicts, and they didn’t really want me, but they had these phases… Every once in a while, they tried to get clean, and everything was just suddenly fine.“

Ben could see the tears collecting in your eyes and the lump forming in your throat.

“We’d go on these family trips,” you continued, laughing softly. “Once saw Salem Sue. You know that huge cow in North Dakota? And they’d also pick me up from school and take me for ice cream or pizza or to the mall. Stuff like that. They tried, you know? For a while, they did at least.”

Ben’s heart flared up at the sad smile twitching on your lips, however. His gut churned, like it already knew where the story was headed and what morals would be drawn from it.

“That was the thing, though. It never lasted,” you said. “Sometimes it was a week. Sometimes even a few months. At first, I got really exited. Happy ‘cause I finally had parents who gave a shit, you know? And I figured maybe we could be normal now. But it was always a phase. It wasn’t forever. Eventually, they’d go right back to being the shit parents they were, and I stopped expecting them to change. Stopped being hopeful and excited whenever they had good days because I knew it wouldn’t stay.”

“This isn’t a phase,” he said softly. Kept his eyes on you like it might convince you. “It’s not going anywhere. It’ll stick. I’ll stick.”

“Sure.” You nodded slowly and pressed your lips into a tight line, then gave a weak smile. “Think I haven’t heard it all before? I know all the words in the Book of Addict.”

That cut deep. Trust never came easy to you, and he’d already managed to break it several times.

“I’m not–” Ben didn’t finish. Just looked at you and swallowed around the thick lump in his throat while every cell in his body vibrated. He clenched his fists to stop the tremble in his hands – the constant buzz.

“You’re not, what?”

Ben ground his jaw. “I’ve been clean. I haven’t touched this shit in months.”

“You just made me buy pills and coke two weeks ago,” you said. “Called me at 3AM. Remember?”

“I didn’t take it,” he insisted. “I fuckin’ flushed it, alright? Gave it out as party favors. Just called you to keep you busy. Nothin’ more to it.”

And it was fucking true. Sometime shortly after Vought tower and Homelander, he’d stopped. He hadn’t used for forty years anyway, and he didn’t need the hallucinations of you anymore either because the real you had been right fucking there.

You leaned back against the wall with a sigh – unbothered and unaffected. “If you’re waiting for applause, you’re wasting your time. I’ve learned not to clap till the show’s over.”

He scoffed quietly, nodding. It was no fucking use, was it? Were you ever gonna believe him again?

“Don’t trust me? That’s fine,” he said, jaw aching from how hard he’d been grinding it. “I know you’re fuckin’ disappointed in me. Hell, I am too. But I’ll fuckin’ show you.”

“Guess we’ll see,” you replied, barely audible.

“Didn’t have collateral this entire year, either,” he added like that piece of information would finally convince you. “Not a single asshole died that didn’t deserve it.”

You snorted a laugh. “You’re not serious right now, are you? You woke up in this century with a fucking kill list and unchecked PTSD. You killed like fifty people in the first week.”

“After,” he countered. “After the tower. After you woke up from your fuckin’ coma, I stopped, alright?”

“Yeah, ‘cause everyone on your list was already dead,” you argued.

“Trust me. There’s more,” he rasped.

Stan Edgar. Butcher. Your parents. They were on his fucking hit list now, too. But he knew better than to say it out loud.

“Right.” You clicked your tongue.

“I didn’t explode today if you haven’t fuckin’ noticed. I’ve got it under control,” he argued further. “Even goddamn apologized to MM a year ago. Did he tell you?”

“He did.” You gave a small nod. “Did you actually fucking mean it, though?”

“I did,” he gritted through his teeth. “What d’you wanna hear, hm? I did horrible shit, alright. None of it I can fuckin’ take back. And I fuckin’ paid for all of it. Deserved it, too. But I swear to God I won’t let you fuckin’ down again. I won’t.”

You stayed quiet for a heartbeat, licking your lips, head bobbing. Then you met his eyes. “I think you should go,” you said so fucking soft and gentle like those words didn’t rip his heart straight out of his chest.

“Sweetheart, please.” He hated begging, but for you, he’d be devoutly on his knees for the rest of his goddamn life.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the door, ready to close it, but he stopped it, pushing his hand against the wood to keep it open. His mind, his gut, and his heart screamed at him that it’d never open again once it shut. He couldn’t let that fucking happen.

“Ben…”

You didn’t say his name in anger or annoyance. Your voice was just heavy with a tiredness that seemed to have seeped into your bones.

“Just a little longer? Please?” He stared at you till he saw the tiniest nod and you dropped your hand from the door with a sigh.

“Guess I’m Jeannie today. Just granting wishes left and right,” you muttered.

Ben lifted a brow. “Like I Dream of Jeannie Barbara Eden?” He grinned then. “Man, I loved that show.”

He didn’t mention he fucked Barbara Eden once at the Chateau. Thought it was best to keep that to himself.

“Well, don’t expect me to call you ‘master,’ Captain,” you huffed wryly.

“‘S fine. Eden didn’t do that either,” he muttered under his breath.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he said quickly, clearing his throat.

You motioned with your chin to the box next to him. “That my stuff?”

Ben followed your gaze, gave half a shrug. “Uh, well, not just your shit. Just stuff from our time together in general. You ain’t gettin’ that projector back.”

You snorted in amusement, then crossed your arms and smirked challengingly. “What kinda stuff did you keep in there?”

He pursed his lips. “Uh, you know, just memorabilia.”

“Like what?”

He scowled, seeing you barely hide the grin at this point.

“If you tell me you kept old movie tickets from our date nights in there, I’m gonna call you a sentimental sap,” you teased.

The frown deepened. “Maybe I just hand ‘em to you separately.”

You stretched your neck slightly to look behind his torso. “What’s in the little box on top?”

“Ah.” A slow smirk curled on his lips. “That’s your little surprise.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You really think bribery’s gonna work?”

Ben took the small, pink box and held it out to you. “Just open it.”

You kept your little glare on him as you took the box before carefully opening the lid and peeking inside it as if he’d hidden poisonous snakes in there. Then your brow furrowed, head tilting in question.

“Cake?”

“Still your birthday for–,” he checked his watch, “–another twelve minutes.”

A frown.

“What d’you think you’re doing? This isn’t Sixteen Candles.”

“Didn’t say it was. Just wanted you to have cake on your birthday,” he said and twitched his shoulders almost innocently.

You inhaled sharply. Bit the inside of your cheeks.

Ha. That one got you.

“If you let me in, I can you show you what’s in that box while you eat cake,” Ben added.

“Let me in, children. Your mother has something for each and every one of you,” you said, your voice high and sweet and filled with bubbles of laughter.

Ben’s brow knitted. “Is that from a Grimm fairy tale?”

“Yup.”

“Huh,” he hummed. “My mother read those to me.”

“I know.”

“Right.” He clicked his tongue. “Forgot I told you that.”

��Yup,” you said again and popped the p. Your gaze, however, wasn’t on him but focused on the tips of your toes. “Moral of the story, though, I let you in, and you’ll eat me.”

Ben bit his lips hard, holding the fucking smirk back. Oh, he’d eat you, alright.

“Don’t,” you warned – cute little glare and all. “The way this has been going so far, I know once you’re inside, you’re never gonna leave, and then I have to leave, and I don’t wanna leave my apartment, so you’re staying out.”

Ben nodded, then smacked his lips. “Convincing.”

You exhaled a long sigh, he blinked, and then suddenly, you were skimming through pages of your notebook in concentration, still in the same spot you used to be like nothing had changed, the box next to him gone and now next to you.

Well, shit. He’d overplayed his fucking hand.

“What’s in there anyway?” he asked. “Never could fuckin’ read it.”

“That’s the point,” you replied without glancing up.

“Looks like fuckin’ hieroglyphs,” he muttered with a scoff.

“It’s a secret language I invented when I was six,” you shared. “I started keeping travel journals after the first few jumps, so I could keep track of everything. The different writing system functions as a fail-safe in case someone steals it or I accidentally leave it somewhere.”

“Huh. And what’s this one say?”

“Uh, it’s some equations, journal entries, memories from the future I wrote down before forgetting, which is why I need this now,” you said, turning pages like you were searching for something specific.

“Anything ‘bout me in there?”

“Everything’s about you in there.”

You still didn’t look up when you said it. Didn’t sound sentimental or even gentle. Just presented it as a fact.

He gestured toward the currently opened page in your lap. “What does this one say?”

“Oh, uhm…” You hesitated, brow knitting like you weren’t sure you cared to share it. “It’s from that day at the lake in May. The one where I pushed you off the dock.”

Ben laughed softly. “Remember that one. Wanna read it to me?”

You looked at him, then let out a breath. Slammed the notebook shut. “No, look, I’m tired. I’ve been awake for over thirty hours and this birthday has lasted close to six months. I’m basically jet-lagged. Can you just get to the point? Why are you here?”

Ben licked his lips and leaned back against the wall. His eyes found yours. “You already know why I’m here. Can’t tell me that you don’t. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

“I already told you what I want, and you’re not listening again,” you said, voice sharp as a whip. “Leave me alone. You hovering doesn’t help. I swear to God you’re the worst ex-boyfriend ever. I want time. That’s what I fucking want.”

Ben’s mouth opened and closed, green eyes flickering. The fucking thought alone was making his chest hum alive.

“I don’t want you to disappear again,” he admitted and swallowed around the lump in his throat.

You exhaled a deeply frustrated breath. “I’m not, alright? But only if you go now.”

He looked up the stairs leading to the street and away from you. “For how long? When can I come back?”

“Ben,” you sighed his name and rolled your eyes.

He nodded. Relented.

“Alright, fine.”

He rose from the uncomfortable concrete three minutes past midnight and glanced down at you one final time. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

You got back onto your feet as well, gave a nod, and the door closed.

Sleep was impossible.

No doubt, you were fucking exhausted. Tired in your bones, your blood, your heart, your goddamn soul.

But still – no fucking sleep.

As soon as you closed your eyes, your mind was racing. It wouldn’t shut off. And your heart? That was racing, too. Either from fear, yearning, or fucking both, you weren’t sure.

Ben was gone. Yet, he was still fucking everywhere.

You tossed. You turned. You sighed your frustrations at the ceiling and groaned into pillows. Counted sheep and listed the first one hundred decimals of pi. Still nothing.

It was too quiet or too loud. Too dark or too light. It wasn’t fucking home.

You hadn’t slept in this bed in months. Not really. And now, wrapped in its sterile warmth, blanket pulled up to your shoulder like armor, curled into a ball on the mattress like an Armadillo, you felt even farther from yourself.

Home felt like somewhere else now – in the bed you used to sleep and the guy you used to share it with.

Because not only were you struggling with your feelings, temporal jet-lag, and timelines – you also fucking missed him.

This wasn’t your bed. The spot next to you was empty. And nothing fucking smelled like him anymore.

No arms around you. No steady breathing next to you. Just emptiness – like entropy knocked on your fucking door tonight and invited itself in to stay.

Your muscles remembered another rhythm. Another routine. Another weight.

For five months, there’d been someone next to you. Someone you loved so much it fucking hurt. Now they were gone.

The worst, though? You thought you’d never get him back. Thought there was nothing left to rebuild. But after tonight, you weren’t quite so sure anymore. Tonight felt easy. Comfortable. Familiar.

It felt as if he was still there. Still him. Scraps of him buried under inches of shit, sure, but still.

You saw the flickers of light through the thicket. Saw not the supe, but Ben.

Twenty-three. Dumb as hell. Soft in the rarest places. Calloused hands that knew how to touch without hurting. A man who tucked you into his side like you were something worth keeping warm. A man who laughed in his sleep and sometimes pulled you closer without waking.

That was the rhythm you knew now. And without it, your own heartbeat felt wrong.

You shifted onto your back. Then your other side. Kicked the blanket off. Pulled it back on. Flipped the pillow. Nothing fucking helped.

He said he loved you. Then he said you were a liar.

He kept your things for eight decades. Then he pushed you away for a whole year.

And despite all the nightmares and the differences and all the cruel things he’d ever done or said, you still fucking loved him. God, that was the worst part.

You loved him. And Ben? He broke you open anyway.

Then it fucking hit – the first sob that clawed through your body like it had built since January of ’42.

The kind that crawled up your throat without warning. Ugly. Choking. Whole body shaking.

You curled into yourself, and it kept coming. Louder now. Guttural. The kind of crying that wracked your chest and made your teeth ache.

Everything fucking spilled out – the grief, the time, the loneliness, the betrayal.

You weren’t just mourning what he did.

You were mourning everything you thought you’d found in 1942 – all the people, the places, the versions of you that felt brighter and stronger and freer. You were mourning a life you couldn’t go back to. A home you’d built with hope and love, only to have it dissolve in a single blink of an eye.

You sobbed until you hiccupped.

Until the pillow was soaked beneath your cheek.

Until the silence swallowed you up again.

Until the knock came.

It wasn’t loud. Not like before. Three slow taps, almost reluctant – like he was giving you time to pretend you didn’t hear them.

Your breath hitched again. Your eyes, already raw, squeezed shut tighter. Like that might somehow undo the sound and make him disappear again.

Then came his voice – low and unsure in the night. “Can I come in?”

You stayed silent.

“Didn’t go far,” he admitted. “I heard you. Just wanted to check on you. Didn’t think you wanted me here. Still don’t, probably. But I’m askin’ anyway.”

You wanted to say something – to yell, to scream, to beg him to go or stay or hold you tighter – but your mouth wouldn’t work, and your chest was a collapsed building like a nuclear bomb had torn through it.

The words formed on your tongue, but your lips didn’t move.

“I’m gonna open the door now,” he gave you a warning shot. “If you don’t want me to, say somethin’. Don’t fuckin’ disappear on me, alright?”

You didn’t, and the door creaked open.

He stepped in slowly, boot steps soft for once. The smell of city air followed him in – summer heat and burning asphalt and different flavors of cuisine.

The couch beneath you dipped. The mattress creaked beneath his weight with carefulness. He didn’t reach for you right away. He sat still for a moment – like he was giving you one final out.

He always did.

And when there was no resistance, the warmth of his arm ghosted around your waist. Slow. Hesitant. Tentative. Like he expected you to pull away. Like he was afraid touching you might set the whole world off again.

You still didn’t stop him. You never did.

His chest then pressed lightly to your back. His hand settled just beneath your ribs – warm, solid, steady.

Fucking perfect.

“Hey, it’s me,” he whispered close to your ear, breath hot against your skin. “I’m still fuckin’ here.”

That was it – the fucking dam broke again.

You curled inward, sobbing so hard it felt like your lungs were trying to escape your body. Everything you’d buried – the grief, the fear, the ache of missing him – unraveled like a thread pulled too tight for too long, the seams of your heart giving way all at once.

Fury. Loneliness. Need – and somewhere in it, a kind of gut-deep relief that made your ribs hurt.

And Ben? He held you through it. He always did.

Didn’t say anything more. Didn’t try to fix it. Just anchored you with his body, impossibly strong and steady and safe behind you, grounding you to something fucking real in a world that was absurd.

He was gravity, and you were in free fall.

You pressed your forehead into your pillow and cried until there was nothing left but the sound of your own ragged breath. Ben’s nose buried in your hair, lips kissed your crown, arms wrapped around you tighter.

Eventually, your breath began to slow. Evened out into lazy waves.

You turned then in the arms around you – slow, cautious, unsure of what you were doing until your face found his chest, your palms flattened gently against him. Your body still slightly trembled like the aftershocks of an earthquake, but his warmth seeped through your skin and soothed it like a balm.

You looked up, and his eyes found yours instantly – quiet, wrecked, waiting. You searched his face like you were ensuring each freckle was still in place. He looked as tired as you felt, and he wasn’t armored now.

No sneer. No shield. Nothing cruel or smug or sure. Just him – the same guy who whispered dumb jokes in the dark to make you laugh and who let you fall asleep against his chest like he’d never let go.

Just Ben.

His hand lifted and brushed a tear from your soaked cheek. Then another. And another. His thumb lingered at your jawline, rough and gentle all at once.

His forehead touched yours, and you exhaled a soft, shaking breath. He tilted his head just slightly. Not pushing. Not rushing. Just waiting.

And you kissed him.

Soft.

Slow.

Salt still on your lips.

▶️ Chapter 17: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of – JULY 20

A lot of you asked me "Omg, how are they ever gonna get back together after all of this and that brutal fight? Something big needs to happen." But I always felt like what they needed the most was a quiet night and no armor (or only little lol). Did you expect to end it there?

And for you angsty souls out there – don't worry. Something big's still coming that will either solidify their bond more or break it altogether 😉

Coming Up:

“You want me to leave?”

Your gaze drifted to the door, then back to him. You shook your head. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a drive.”

Ben lifted a brow in surprise. “Like a joyride?”

You scoffed a chuckle. “Trust me. There won’t be any joy.”

“Even better.” He smirked and watched you roll your eyes back.

“It’s a memory thing,” you shared and grabbed your nonsensical notebook from the nightstand. “Just have to check some things I wrote in here. See if it jogs anything.”

Ben bobbed his head, gave you a smirk – just a flicker of it. “You want company?”

You didn’t smile, but your voice came softer this time. “If you can behave.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “No promises, sweetheart.”

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

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@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[diz-eaze]

For the vampire idea it was vampire reader x yandere scaramouche.

It had been weeks since they last fed. They hadn't eaten since right before scara moved in. Ever since then, they've had constant paranoid feeling of being watched. Every time they tried to go out and feed, scara would always have to tag along, and they'd have to cancel their plan. Certain foods can push the hunger back, but it's pushing back the inevitable. Constantly being hungry with a literal snack called scara in arms reach.

One day, they snap.

Scara is pinned by them against a wall by a reader that is way stronger than they look and is getting his neck bitten. They're not happy about this, feeding off of scara like this. His blood tastes awful like he's done nothing but drink mountain dew, red bull, and monster. Worst of all, they broke his trust in their own home. He's going to be so traumatized if his fear boner anything to show. He'll live, but unaware to them, scara's freak levels were reaching critical.

OHHHH,,,,,, (Y/N) DOESN'T KNOW WHAT THEY'RE GETTING INTO 😭😭😭 !! like his horrendous gamer fuel blood is NOT worth the crazy, they need to run away !!

vampire (y/n) is so funny to consider because scara probably thought they just had some sort of weird fixation for red with the way their eyes constantly linger on wounds found in other people. and since he's a jealous asshole he probably purposely got himself injured on ocassions just to feel the intense stare of (y/n)'s.

but then here goes (y/n) trying to sneak out of their shared apartment at ungodly hours with the lights turned off for safety measures. they try to gently twist the doorknob to avoid any creaking, but it really doesn't matter because seconds later, scara is turning on the lights and leaning against the wall with this bug-eyed stare of his.

"going somewhere?" he asks point-blank.

(y/n) winces, unnerved by how weird he's acting. "uhm, the club!"

and clearly, he never believed them </3. every time he catches (y/n) on the edge of sneaking out, he'll offer an ultimatum; he goes with them to the 'club' or they get snitched on to their legal guardian. and it's a low blow for him, but like,,, they have to be with him or else life isn't worth living.

of course, scara's constant gatekeeping leads to (y/n) experiencing severe hunger for several months, and they start to lose their senses the longer they go on without food. it's during another one of scara's lectures about them sneaking out and whatnot, where they're more prone to giving in to their baser instincts, that their fangs sink into their roommate's skin without much thought for the consequences of revealing their own identity.

scara's blood is,,,, erm, lackluster :) but food is food ^^;,,,,, still, it's akin to fast food fries when (y/n) could've been feasting on a five star steak meal (AKA, other victims).... as such, the feeding session is over the moment they're able to get enough to keep them sane once more. and while scara is literally creaming his pants from that life-altering experience, (y/n) goes back inside to their room, there's no point in sneaking out tonight when meal has been served.

predictably, the nature of their friendship changes after the events that transpired. while scara is out here trying to goad them into feeding off of him on an almost daily basis, vampy (y/n) is avoiding any and ALL eye contact because how does one even announce to their roommate that their blood tastes like shit 😭😭😭 i love them,,,, comedic duo,,,,, they deserve a sitcom,,,,

although it won't be so comedic once they bring home a delectable meal, and scara is intensely watching them feed from the shadows.

[utilitycaster]

okay watched Cloak and Dagger and here are my thoughts in brief

I don't think showing Ripley's backstory is bad. Part of why Ripley is an interesting character to me in a way that, to use my favorite punching bag, Otohan, is not, is because we had hints of what made her this way - fleeing the Empire; a list of names on Animus that included Bertrand Dwendal. Part of why I mock Otohan relentlessly is because she is a one-dimension villain, and Ripley never was that, which is why she's an interesting villain. Tragic backstory, in my opinion, enhances one's villainy, rather than reduces it: what sort of monster suffers and decides to do the same to others, rather than is driven to work to improve the lot of others? That's essentially why Caleb is in the end a heroic character and Ludinus is the culminating BBEG more so than Predathos.

Glintshore is one of my favorite battles of Campaign 1 and it also would not, in my opinion, translate well to animation. There was a great line in the Midst Messages from Xen in reference to Moonward about how in most rules-heavy TTRPGs, when you enter a big battle, time stretches out significantly, but in a systemless game like Moonward, it goes very quickly, which gives it a very different vibe and makes players make very different decisions. The emotional weight derives largely from how the party enters combat already heavily drained and never regains their footing, and how the cast is well aware and the sense of dread (and belief that Percy might be permanently dead and Taliesin will have to roll up a new character) sets in long before the battle ends. [long tangent about good parasocial vs bad parasocial in actual play put off until I have time to actually read Watch Us Roll, but this is Good Parasocial]. It's actually an interesting test of the challenge we face for the finale of the series: you are not going to get as efficient an emotional punch as Sam saying "Nine" in a show that doesn't have a concept of spell levels. I had struggled with how one might recreate the Glintshore battle and the answer is "you don't".

Ripley's speech was great no notes, love her being fucking awful and consumed with vengeance to the end. I think just as the theme of "your resentment will destroy you" is an enduring one throughout Critical Role, so is "every mortal is in theory someone who could change and become better, but if you shoot the hand that's trying to help you, well, get rekt lol"

The music over Percy's death is corny as hell. However, I am already on the record as someone who mutes It's Thursday Night for being corny as hell and who pokes fun at Matt's more purple prose and I seem to have stuck around regardless. I have made my peace with the fact that a good chunk of the cast spent their formative years just absolutely immersed in anime, and given the Extreme Anime Vibes of Percy in TLOVM I can't say I love it, but I also can't say it's not sort of fitting. Please do cut that scene with different music though, because it would be funny as shit.

I need to watch episodes 8 and 9 (going to now!) but much as I love the glintshore fight, you know what I love more? Episode 1x69 (nice). Real Tragedy Enjoyers know the proof is in the aftermath. If 8 and 9 also suck then I'll be back here in like an hour but if they're good then it's whatever.

Grog is always on some level experiencing a Sitcom B Plot and if you ever find yourself disliking a TLOVM episode, remember you're watching a sitcom where Grog is dealing with a Bird that is Very Here (metaphorical).

[kalinara]

So as someone who immensely enjoys disliking Charles Xavier, I have to admit, I was utterly delighted when the X-Men Unlimited Infinity Comic (in Krakoa age, one of the rare times it did not involve Nature Girl murdering people) decided to do what is, essentially, an "It's a Wonderful Life" plot for the guy.

So if even if you've never seen the original movie that the plot comes from, you've undoubtedly seen a parody or homage, (at least if you're American). Sitcoms particularly like to use the idea, but occasionally even serious shows will do it too. A character goes through some shit, is dreadfully unhappy, and is shown what life would be like without him.

Now the thing about X-Men, is that we did see what the world would be like without Charles Xavier in the Age of Apocalypse storyline. And admittedly, it's pretty bad. Scott has long hair. Enough said.

And of course, the gist of this story is that Xavier ends up in the Age of Apocalypse world (or maybe just dreaming about it), and introduces them to the Krakoa concept and gets a big ego boost.

It is what it is. The part that amuses me is what drives Xavier to the point of needing this ego boost. And it is an AMAZING level of petty.

Since there are a lot of scans, I'm going to put them behind a cut. Enjoy! (These are all from X-Men Unlimited Infinity Comic #62, by the way.)

So we start off with Xavier's daily schedule:

It's a pretty busy itinerary, admittedly. So now, let's see how Xavier's day actually goes.

We actually start off with Xavier waking up, disgruntled, at 6:00 AM. I'm not actually going to show this, because I am not a morning person either and can't make fun of him for it.

Also, he's shirtless, and not being named Max or Erik, I am not into that. Sorry.

But, let's look at the rest.

6:30's resurrection of Rusty Collins

Xavier was apparently a bit slow, and Hope decided to resurrect the dude without him. That happens. You can hardly blame a teenager for leaping at the chance at grown-up responsibility.

Also, she's a Summers. So it's pretty much inevitable.

--

So then we get the 7:45 meet and greet.

A small child adores Kitty. Kitty is a little meta here, but not wrong. After all, part of what the Marauders do, at this point, is rescue people.

Now, Xavier looks kind of neutral here, but given that this is part of the litany of disappointment, contextually, one must interpret this to mean he is disappointed.

But here's the thing, Chuck. You're not an "X-Man". You're the dude who sends them out from the shadows. You didn't even publicly admit to being a mutant for decades. And while, yes, you did have some physical issues that made being a field operative impossible, it's not like you're going out on rescue missions NOW.

Sorry, I shouldn't rant. There's more to mock.

--

So how does the 9:15 teaching session go? We don't actually know. Presumably it's not notable. Despite the fact that teaching is the one thing Xavier can claim he actually does.

Instead, we skip ahead to the 11:05 parole hearing:

I mean, you can't actually be surprised by this. I'm not even sure that Sabretooth is still IN there. But he's busy torturing people, if he is. So no, he's not getting out.

You could let the kids out though. Poor Idie.

--

This bit makes me laugh:

Got stood up by the guy whose mind you forcibly wiped. You can't be shocked by this, Chuck. That was a fucking dick move and you know it.

(Especially since you decide that Franklin isn't a mutant after all.)

--

How about the X-Corp Review?

Huh, who'd have thought that multi-millionaire business people would have the business shit handled?

I mean, to be fair to Charles, he does seem to never lack money, so he likely has business sense himself. But meh. I can't blame Warren and Monet for wanting to go off and canoodle or whatever.

--

I admit to some sympathy here, just a bit:

I've mentioned that I'm not a really a fan of the Arakko focus on Omega mutants, and how that kind of spoils my enjoyment of Storm basically being amazing up there. (I feel like it'd be more satisfying to have a non-Omega show them that sheer power isn't the only measure of awesome. I did like watching her use teamwork to kick Vulcan's ass though.)

That said, why did you not realize this would be a thing, Xavier? Arakkans make no secret of how their society works.

--

Now, sadly, we skip the legal conference about the X-Babies. Presumably it goes well and no one mocks Xavier, but I'm kind of fascinated by the idea.

But then we get the official Treehouse lighting ceremony:

...are you really feeling left out because your two former child soldiers are getting honored as "mutantkind's greatest heroes".

Fucking REALLY?

Are you living among humans and saving them from various threats? Heck, are you sticking around to help hand out meals, as the mayor mentions? Because you're not down there, and your itinerary says you'll be having a meeting about Orchis with Beast in like an hour.

It presumably goes well, because we skip ahead to sparring with Logan.

This goes pretty straightforward. They have a heart to heart, which I appreciate, because I'm still utterly boggled by that bit in X Lives of Wolverine where he claims that, despite their respective ages, Logan sees Chuck as a father figure.

By the way, Logan doesn't act like a "son" in this scene at all. He does give some legitimately good advice though and asks the question that's the point of all this:

And for FUCK'S SAKE, Xavier. The fact that this is apparently an armor piercing question, after a day where the WORST thing that happened to you was having a few appointments go on without you, getting stood up by a dude who's got every reason to dislike you, and seeing Kitty, Scott and Jean get SOME MEASURE of weak recognition.

THAT's what leads to the "It's a Wonderful Life" moment?

I mean, presumably, the interview with Trish Trilby which happens before the sparring match goes well. Meaning you're going to be on the fucking news as the face of Krakoa again. But that hardly matters because the Mayor of New York considers your SURROGATE CHILDREN to be the greatest heroes.

You couldn't even be HAPPY for them?!

(I also can't help but note that upon meeting AoA Cyclops, who assumes Xavier is an escaped clone and tries to kill him, we see no sign of the ACTUAL character's complexity or depth. He's just a random villain here. Because in the end, it's all about Xavier's ego.

He does refer to Scott as "the most pragmatic man I've ever known", which is a really interesting description that I'm not sure I agree with. But that's an analysis for another day.)

Anyway, as mentioned, the rest of the story is basically just fueling Xavier's ego. I mean, Age of Apocalypse IS a hellhole. (Though a friend of mine suggested once that possibly the only thing Age of Apocalypse proved that Xavier was necessary for is preventing Mr. Sinister from regaining control of Cyclops. I think I'd have to reread the story to see if I agree, but since I hate Xavier, I DO like that thought.) And he does bring them Krakoa and joy.

But I'm just going to bask in the fact that Xavier's deepest pain on Krakoa is that someone occasionally recognizes other people instead of him. I bet he hated Scott's Rolling Stone cover too. :-D

[chilewithcarnage]

this new wave of polyamory hatred is so funny cause it seems like we're just doomed to have 'kink at pride' adjacent discourse forever and ever. this reminds me of that time blizzy mcguire on Twitter made a post saying that she's 'never seen an attractive poly amorous person' that had hundreds of people retweeting in agreement and even one person psychoanalyzing claiming that poly people are always ugly because they couldn't pull anybody when they were young so theyre making up for it and that poly people are never 9s and 10s just groups of 4s and 5s. that and the seattle polycule jokes and the kinky polycules are secretly cults jokes, poly people are all socially awkward geeks etc. Like yall are just doing varying degrees of ableist, fatphobic, homophobic and trans phobic cringe culture bullshit again. its no surprise that a lot of people that think this way also turn out to be biphobic as well. it's clear that your only interpretation of a poly amorous person is like a sitcom level stereotype. the cishet mormon man with sister wives or the stereotypical emotionally manipulative boyfriend who wants a pass to cheat. and like you know these are the results of patriarchy and misogyny right. that mormon man doesn't truly love his multiple wives he has multiple wives because he subscribes to a religion where a tennent of the belief is treating women like subservient breeding stock. and in the case of the manipulative boyfriend he's just a cheating asshole. y'all having 'bad experiences' with poly relationships is because you were partenered with bad selfish uncaring people it had nothing to do with being poly. polyamory is literally a morally neutral behavior. and I don't understand how y'all can be the same people that be on tinder and grindr 24/7 having casual sex with different people back to back like your bedroom has a revolving door but talk shit on people who are multi-partenered. like it makes no sense. does having sex with different people suddenly become cringe when you put a name to it or involve some other form of commitment? also acting like this isn't something that people, especially queer/trans people of different genders, sexualities, racial and social backgrounds havent been doing for literal decades, centuries even.

[podcastenthusiast]

Severance Fic Recs

Some Mark and Devon sibling stuff, a little Mark/Helly and a lot of Mark/Petey. Mind the tags on some of these. Will update as needed. Here we gooo

ephemeral green by fractions

just another wretched pawn by fauchevalent

Mark never learned how to take care of the plants. It wasn’t really something he’d thought much of. He’d glanced at Gemma spritzing the leaves, and sometimes, he’d been in the room while she trimmed or repotted them when they were ready. To him, she possessed some sort of connection to them that he didn’t understand. She had some mystical knowledge about what they needed and when they needed it. She was a caretaker. He is not. -- Mark tries to take care of Gemma's plants after her death. Pre-main series timline, informed by the events of 2x07.

An Item of Comfort by Honeybee_Bub

In the aftermath of ORTBO, each time Mark leaves work, he has been noticing tremors running through him. It's always brief and stops before the elevator even rises to the main level, so he pushes it off as a side effect of reintegration. Until one day, he finds himself quickly wiping his eyes from tears he never cried before Judd can see when the elevator doors open.

Suddenly, without prompting, Cobel speaks up. “To get in,” she says matter-of-factly, “you’ll have to pretend to be pregnant again. There’s a sweater under your seat, you’ll tuck it under your shirt.” “Are you fucking with me?” Devon asks, breaking out into sharp, surprised laughter. “Our plan is a fucking sitcom plot line? That’s how you’re getting us into the Lumon-branded fucking birthing cabins?”

apropos of the wet snow by wreckageofstars

[By the way: facing the wall, such gentlemen—that is, the “direct” persons and men of action—are genuinely nonplussed. For them a wall is not an evasion, as for us people who think and consequently do nothing; it is not an excuse for turning aside, an excuse for which we are always very glad, though we scarcely believe in it ourselves, as a rule. No, they are nonplussed in all sincerity. The wall has for them something tranquillising, morally soothing, final—maybe even something mysterious ... but of the wall later.]

The Hellebore Tonic by aelizel

Soon after Helly R. regains awareness, she nearly loses her body to a new threat.

Star Child by brilliantly

When Helly fucks around, Helena finds out.

Each Time I Think I’m Close To Knowing by five_rat_lore

“I don’t want to play those stupid, fucking games. I don’t want to list all the shit my outie knows, I don’t even want to think about it.” Dylan can’t remember his kids… but he also can’t forget how to be a father.

what remains is perfectly scattered by Princex_N

Mark is lucky, he knows it. He holds the thought in the center of his mind and tries not to forget it. He is here because he got lucky, because his sister loves him, and things could have been so much worse. Knowing that things could be worse, though, doesn't really change the fact that they're still really fucking hard.

replace/repair by kuragin

“I’m not your new Petey,” Helly says, turning to leave. Mark catches her by the wrist; feels her tense under his grasp. “Hey. Wait.” (or: before the goats, Mark and Helly actually have a real conversation)

Goodbye Party by ReneDherbley

Mark doesn’t really know what it’s supposed to be like, but he guesses his outie’s been to a funeral before, and for some reason he can’t shake off the feeling of wanting to run away. Why did they even have to make such a big deal out of Irving’s dismissal? It’s not like he’s actually dead. Or: Mark realizes what happened to Petey through reintegration sickness

between where we are and we've been by Princex_N

"Hey, kid," Irving says, voice pitched down soft in the dark. "How are you holding up?" A moment between Irving and Mark, after Mark gets out of the break room in Half Loop

april, come she will by passingafternoon

Life finds a way, even on the severed floor. Seasons change and plants grow. Even Lumon can't stop flowers from blooming. (In which Dylan solves a mystery, Mark finds a leaf, Irving falls in love, Helly makes a list, and Petey dreams of spring.)

Don't Swallow The Cap by WhovianB

After Helly attempts to get a message to her Outie, Mark recalls an unpleasant experience. “Hey, Mark? Could you answer a question?” “Sure.” “What the fuck did they do to you?”

Why Are You Saying That Like You Hate It? by EightMinutesToSunrise

Helly asks who she's replacing. No one really wants to answer her.

compress/repress by kuragin

He wished his innie was there so he could choke him to death. Wished he could thank his outie for doing what he could and break his nose for doing it wrong. But it didn’t matter anymore, he realized, because they were both just him. Mark gets reintegrated. There's a lot to catch up on.

Carried Over by Kaeyes

Mark's friendship with Petey gets off to a rocky start.

Waves by ProfessorTumblesworth

"We're friends. I'm the friend with the least to lose."

inside out, outside in by hiljainen

He can talk to Petey in a way he can’t talk to the others. He can tell Petey just about anything and trust that he’ll get it. Or at least won’t be weird about it. Maybe that does make him Mark’s favourite. That’s okay, though, isn’t it? It’s okay to have a best friend. It’s normal. He’s lucky to have a best friend. ——— A what-if/fix-it-ish canon divergence, where Petey doesn't die.

he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother by cassiandor

”If anything happened to you,” Devon mumbles into his neck, “you know I would just have to invent time travel to bring you back, right?” Mark lets out a watery laugh, his arms tightening around her. “I know you would,” he says. “I know.” Devon and Mark, through the years.

when the sun hits by Anonymous

Devon looks at Mark and, for a moment, she sees a six-year-old sniffling miserably as she carefully cleans his scraped knee; she sees a seven-year-old weeping over the makeshift grave for their dead dog; she sees a ten-year-old proudly showing her the handful of worms he dug up from the front yard. And then she blinks and the world refocuses to the present: adult Mark, wan and motionless on the couch.

incandescent by beamkatanachronicles

"How many Lumon employees does it take to change a lightbulb?"

undying flower by brutalizer

Gemma Scout is alive.

when you met the new you (did someone die inside?) by Princex_N

The bad thing isn't coming for him from somewhere outside of the office, it's already found its way inside of him. The rest of Mark S.'s workday, after the nosebleed stops.

the spins by jam (discojams)

Mark S. opens his eyes and steps out of the elevator onto the severed floor. He cocks his head. The room is slowly, slowly tilting. His stomach is a bit sour, but he feels happy, giddy, warm. He’s excited to see his coworkers, and he suddenly has an overwhelming urge to apologize for being such a dick these past few weeks. He really does like them. Mark Scout knows better than to drive to work drunk. He does it anyways.

remember when you and i would make things up? by Princex_N

His outie, his other self, whatever — he's not a good liar, he wears everything on his sleeve, flaunts it even, and forgets to pay attention to who is over him, watching it all, and what they could do to him. He's not a good liar, but Mark is; it's an important skill, and by now Mark can do it on instinct. Even like this. Especially like this. Mark is fine. He's barely even dizzy, this time. 

open invite by jam (discojams)

Around 11:00AM, Mark clears his throat, stands up, shoves his hands in his pockets, and locks himself in the supply closet. Mark S. gets an erection at work. Petey helps him out.

aftermath by eclipsj

“Mark,” Helly breathes. A wave of revulsion knocks over her, the thought of her body doing things that she wasn't there to witness. “Did you... did she…” She swallows, forcing herself to finish the sentence. “Did you kiss me? When I was her?” Mark finally looks up at her, something straining at his face. His eyes are tinged red, wet. The muscle in his jaw pulls, twitches. He opens his mouth. Closes it. “Worse,” he chokes out. A part of her already knows it's true. "Oh god," Helly says. //after episode 5, Helly and Mark deal with the fallout of him having sex with Helena. Helly tries to reclaim her body in a possibly less-than-healthy way

To Feel Many Other Ways by five_rat_lore

Mark S. experiences the effects of reintegration, haunted by Mark Scout’s memories, suffocated by his outie’s grief and anger. Luckily Helly is there to keep him grounded.

[silverzoomies]

Cunning Linguist

pietro maximoff x reader smut

warnings: cunnilingus, porn with (slight) plot, blow jobs, dissociative identity disorder, dissociation, existential crisis, smut, shameless smut, halloween, canon divergence

word count: 3,990

a/n: i meant to finish this ages ago. but i always overthink shit. i rewrote this several times, and it still doesn't feel worth posting. oh well !! just meaningless filth - same old story, different clothing. i wanted to play with the concept of pietro as an alter in ralph's head. again. lol

he's a little ooc here. but i'm blaming the brain fog. i'm running on three hours of sleep every night. fuck it, we ball. also, not including a tag list because tumblr's system kinda sucks for it. sorry !!

Pietro recalled the moment his consciousness came to light.

Agnes waved her spooky hands in his face, as though she were taunting him. She muttered incantations under her breath. The words of which Pietro didn’t recognize as English. After implanting sentimental memories in his mind - based on stories of Wanda’s childhood - she sent him off on his own. Like letting a dog loose, free to roam. 

Pietro’s mission? Find Wanda, have a gabfest or two, extract information. Or something along those lines. Pietro hadn’t paid much attention while Agnes yapped about it. Why focus on that, when the mystery of his own sentience piqued his interest instead?

He was given an easy enough job to do. No problem-o. Pietro had a talent for pestering people til’ they cracked. That’s what Agnes told him, anyway. He wasn’t too sure why she wanted him to play undercover rat. It had something to do with magic. Pietro knew that much. There was some kinda witch-on-witch rivalry in the works. But unfortunately for Agnes - and maybe fortunately for Wanda - she might have to take a raincheck on her duel of the sorceresses.  

Pietro could be a bit of a dipshit. Was he stupid? Not so much. He had brains where it counted. He could be crafty. Even sneaky. But his expert level slyness didn’t make him any less of an idiot. Pietro couldn’t refute that factoid about himself. Around Wanda, he forgot how to function like a normal person. Which he blamed on the fact that he wasn’t a normal person. Being brutally honest with himself; Pietro technically wasn’t even a person at all.

More like a conceptual incarnation of human sentience, really. Simple enough.

No ifs, ands, or buts about it, though - Pietro carried the irksome flaws of a human. Often, he acted thoughtless when he didn’t mean to. Without filtering himself first, Pietro unapologetically spoke his mind. He’d drop fourth-wall breaking quips here or there. Sometimes, his careless habits made for entertaining slip ups. Perfect for sitcom shenanigans. Other times, his blunders resulted in pain. Lotsa pain.

Halloween night, Pietro found himself whisked away by a forceful wave. Conjured by Wanda’s potent magic. The same power Agnes wanted her wiggly witch fingers on. After going aerial in a wild whoosh, Pietro got up close and friendly with some Halloween decorations. But, hey, what’re a few broken bones between pseudo siblings, eh?

Wanda sure had a helluva temper. She quickly banished Pietro from ever setting foot in her house again. Talk about a major bummer. Pietro suffered a huge loss on that front. One part because he’d have no choice but to crash with Agnes again. Ninety nine parts because he’d miss his troublemaking nephews. Those fun, lil scamps.

Tough luck, Quickie. Try and do better next time.

Honestly, he’d prefer if there wasn’t a next time.  If Agnes wanted to make small talk so bad, she could do it on her own. Calling it quits for the night, Pietro wandered off to a Westview bar. To his surprise, he found the place still in operation. And despite Pietro’s memories - vague imagery of Busch beer cans crushed under his fist - he hadn’t had a beer since his consciousness manifested. Shit. Did he even like beer? Whether he cared for it or not, a subconscious instinct drew him to it.

He assumed that instinct was none other than Ralph himself. The poor dude wanted to drown his terror in alcohol. And after all the twisted shit Agnes put Ralph through; who was Pietro to deny him one of life's simplest pleasures?

The mellow atmosphere of the bar oozed Halloween spirit. Kinda unnecessary, in retrospect. Considering Wanda never stopped by for a drink. Why bother sprucing the place up with her wispy magic, if it never saw any use?

The bartender’s clever quips reminded Pietro of Cheers. Another totally bonkers concept. Pietro had memories of watching Cheers, sure. But he couldn’t decipher if they were Ralph’s or not. For all Pietro knew, they might be a part of the ‘dead brother’ package deal. False memories, meant to give Wanda someone to relate to. Making him liable to tear down her defenses when she least expected it. 

But why did Pietro get the sense he was more of a Frasier guy anyway?

Sitting at the bar on a rickety stool, Pietro spun around to satiate his boredom. He cradled a beer, inhaling all of it in a single beat. Superspeed really did have its ups and downs. Consider quick consumption a positive. As far as negatives go…well…inebriation was completely unattainable. Sucks for Ralph. As Pietro flagged down the bartender for another beer, he tuned his ears to a radio broadcast. On a shelf amidst dollar store Halloween decor; a radio droned old fashioned tales of wicked witches. Subtle.

Outside interference interrupted the broadcast. Voices intermingled between buzzes of static. Whispering soft, but panicked mantras of 'Wanda? Wanda, are you there?' Pietro narrowed his beady eyes. His ignorance of the world outside Westview should’ve stayed intact. But whatever the reason, he knew exactly where those voices came from. Why he carried such knowledge was anyone’s guess. Maybe Agnes let too much her own insight slip into his psyche. Whoopsies. Oh well. Shrugging, Pietro flagged down the bartender for another beer. Deja vu.

Bored outta his mind, his thoughts explored elsewhere.

Pietro dreamt of something a little more down to earth. He remembered a cutie-pie neighbor new to Westview. A ‘next door’ kinda type, with a quirky sorta charm. They had no idea why they were in the city to begin with. Pietro knew these details, only because he gathered the what’s what on just about every person in town. It took him all of two seconds to do so. Zip around. Observe. Make mental notes. Report back to Agnes. Spill the deets.

Anyway, about you…

Call it a crush, loneliness, or even instinctive lust; whatever the case, Pietro thought you were cute as could be. You didn’t remember how you got to Westview, or where you even came from. One day, you woke up in town, and found yourself wearing unfamiliar clothes. Threads evocative of decades long past. But hey, it happens to the best of us. Pietro was well-acquainted with feelings of confusion and alienation. That mingled sense of being both lost, and born anew.

For crying out loud, he was the very materialization of sapient awareness itself. Agnes forbade him from that knowledge as well. But again, Pietro credited his oopsies and ding-dongs to her shoddy miracle work.

Whenever you questioned the reality around you, the world only stifled you into silence. The everyday citizens of Westview seemed so content with life as it was. Acting as if you had nothing to worry about. Wanda’s sitcom setup was nothing beyond sunshine, rainbows, and television tropes. But Pietro could see the unspoken terror hidden deep in their eyes. The truth Wanda kept hush hush.

Just thinking about it was enough to give Pietro the heebie jeebies. And if his intuition was anything to go by - it never proved him wrong yet - you had a bad feeling about Westview too. Way to go! You caught on even quicker than he did. Which was kinda nuts, if he thought about it. Wasn’t he supposed to be the fastest at everything? ‘Cuz speed was his middle name or something. Or…well, it wasn’t. But it could be. Who’s to stop him from seizing his own destiny at this point?

Pietro Speed Maximoff.

Eh, maybe not.

In Westview, you had no friends or family. And much like Pietro, on Halloween night; you found yourself at the bar. He caught your curious gaze from down the counter. You were dolled up in a scanty, witch's dress, leaving Pietro to wonder why witches were such a recurring theme in his life. Looking too much like a manchild goober, he spun around a few more times in his seat. His sneakers kicked against the stool’s railing. No matter what, he couldn’t sit still. He thought he might be embarrassing himself. But his antics appeared to make you smile even brighter.

Tilting your head, you shot him a look of familiarity.

You weren’t familiar with him, though. But there was a chance you saw him appearing and disappearing around town. During his impromptu stake outs, more than likely.

Bringing your drink to the seam of your lips, you stifled a playful giggle. It was obvious you were gawking at his costume. Arching a brow, Pietro grinned into the rim of his beer bottle. To be fair, he looked supremely ridiculous. The blue tights under his cut-off jean shorts rode up in the crotch a little too much. He dipped his head, staring at the frayed edges of his shorts. Yeah. It was clear he did the job cutting them himself. A hasty one too. Since he was too eager to pull pranks with his nephews.

Damn. Pietro missed those kids like hell already.

The dirty blond hair/ear-things atop his head bounced every time he knocked his neck back. As Pietro downed yet another beer, he lost track of how many he drank. A dribble of it plummeted into silver. Creating a sheen against the lightning bolt duct taped diagonally down his shirt. Pietro sighed and pursed his lips. 

His outfit was an all blue ensemble. Garnished with a spritz of silver here or there. Quicksilver. His hero name, apparently. Pietro knew he’d never live up to it.

A bit of friendly conversation later, and the air between the two of you shifted. Your playful look morphed into something a little wanton, the more Pietro acted in silly ways. Holy shit. Seriously? He hoped he wasn't misreading your signals. Because really, your attraction was too good to be true. If you honestly wanted him, where should he proceed from here? How much freedom had Agnes even allowed him? And furthermore - if Wanda’s happy, dream town ran on a curated schedule; what if credits rolled just as the two of you finally got handsy?

Maybe sitcom rules didn’t apply to conscious manifestations of witch hocus pocus? Wishful thinking on his part.

Outside the bar - in an alleyway too uncannily clean, like a set straight out of Hollywood - Pietro beckoned you in with kisses. Technically, he played the role of Agnes’s deadbeat husband. And if that were the case, did kissing you count as cheating? Shit…was Pietro committing adultery right now?? In the midst of macking on your sweet lips, he pressed a palm to the wall next to your head. Pietro pretended to do so for balance, as he devoured you with his mouth and tongue. 

But unbeknownst to you, he cracked an eye open. Just to double check for a wedding band.

Nothing there to prove he ever got hitched. Go figure.

You giggled coyly into his lips, letting a soft moan ease through your teeth. Bringing your hands up to the hair/ear-things on his head, you toyed with them. Your pretty voice teased him, as you played with his hair in gentle strokes of your thumbs.

“Ooooh…such a good boy, huh? Fast too.” You cooed, the same way one might praise a puppy.

Oh. Fuck yeah. To hell with sitcom tropes and bogus wives. Agnes scared the ever-loving shit out of Pietro anyway. He had no semblance of a domestic connection to her. Not that she gave much of a damn herself. With how often she threw insults his way. Agnes always used Ralph as her little punching bag, before hijacking his body for her own gain.

No wonder your simple praises got his proverbial tail wagging.

A chuckle hummed in the back of his throat, as Pietro purred into your lips, “Speed’s kinda my middle name, y’know?”

You snorted one of the dorkiest laughs he’d heard since cognisant birth. And with a sudden spark of primal urgency; Pietro felt something else spring into transcendence down below. 

Sifting through Ralph’s sidelined psyche, Pietro came to realize how much of a recluse he was. The guy never seemed to get out much. In fact, Agnes might’ve even been his first partner. If one could classify her as such. So, really, Pietro was doing him a major favor. If Ralph knew he planned on using their body for some frisky fun - on an otherwise lonely Hallow’s eve - surely, he’d give his brain roomie some thanks.

Pietro’s hands were vascular like a wired-up machine, clad in arm-warmer paws. Grabbing hard onto your curvy hips with them, he pulled you in closer. He sought the friction of your crotch against his. And after some seriously sloppy making out, Pietro dropped you an invite to his place.

Or…Agnes’s place.

Uh…or…was it technically Ralph’s? Shit, this sitcom roleplay sure gave way to some mental gymnastics.

You didn’t expect Pietro to zip you off at superspeed. Moving abruptly fast, he brought you straight to his disaster of a man cave. Laying you back on the futon, he gave you little time to adjust over the blankets. The wrinkled fabrics reeked of pot, in desperate need of a wash. You got as comfy as you could on the skunky sheets. Blinking your needy gaze up at him, you tugged his white belt, pulling the band undone. Pietro grinned lazily, colliding his swollen lips into yours. His primal instincts left him wreckless with want. 

Burying his tongue in the cavern of your mouth, he brought with him the flavor of cheap booze. As you tasted him, you moaned, shucking his dumb jorts down his hips. A sizable swelling twitched in his tights, squirming under muted blue. Your eyes bulged in their sockets, cartoonishly wide. The way you whirled your tongue across your lip gave off a vibe of animalistic hunger. As though you were eager for an all dick dinner. With Pietro as the appetizer.

And the main course. And the dessert. He hoped you'd rate him five stars.

Restaurant metaphors aside; this was the very first test of his capabilities as a lover, after all. If he couldn’t live up to his superhero name, maybe he could make a name for himself in other ways.

Pietro Speed Maximoff. Quicksilver. Cunning Linguist.

But first…he really should satiate your hunger.

One, generous tug downward, and Pietro’s - or Ralph’s - slightly above average length sprang out. Bouncing in your face in mesmerizing oscillation, his cock appeared pulsating and roused. Thick veins weaved like threads through his shaft, akin to his vascular hands. His balls bulged in his tights, his jorts hanging halfway down his thighs. Pietro took his blistering cock in hand. Aching for the kind of stimulation Ralph never got, his desire painted him so flush and ruby red. 

Since you looked so delighted at the sight before you; Pietro gave his cock a few strokes. He played with himself for your viewing pleasure. And as his firm grip tugged his shaft, the world pulled suddenly back. It was as though Pietro viewed life through a third person perspective. Metaphorical cameras fixed their lenses on the two of you, in an all too human position of closeness. 

The weight of a cock in Pietro’s hand felt both familiar, yet weirdly foreign. Combine that with the sight of another living, breathing body below him; and his nerves buzzed uncomfortably. Frenzied in such a way that matched the quick pulsing of his heart. Focusing instead on your fluttering eyes, Pietro weaned himself out of dissociation. Your hands braced his hips, thumbs circling the fabric of his tights. The gentle gesture brought chills throughout his body. Inching forward, you teased his bobbing cock with a flick of your tongue.

Wet heat grounded him in reality. Upon racing to the forefront of his own mind; Pietro’s breath hitched with a husky groan. He held your head, massaging his fingers in your soft hair. Cute mewls spilled from your lips as you flitted your eyes shut. Swirling your tongue over his cock’s puffy head, you lapped any tearful pearls of precum. His thickness sank between your plush lips, and Pietro’s own lips parted for breath.

Of all things to happen on Halloween night, getting his dick sucked wasn’t on the docket.

Not that Pietro had any reason to complain. This? Wicked awesome. Ralph was really missing out.

You drew lazily back just to lap his balls over his tights, staining fabric with slick saliva. Rolling the tip of your tongue up the underside of his dick, you giggled in that dorkish way again. Pietro’s teeth pulled his lip as he tilted his head back. His dick twitched, throbbing while the heat of your mouth embraced him fully. He moaned, smiling wide enough to show off his dimples. You pumped his cock at the base, teasing his veins with your tongue.

Pietro’s brows turned inward. You suckled his head like you longed to guzzle anything he could give. He sank his fingers deeper through your hair, holding on tightly as he rutted his hips. With each slam of his weeping tip into your throat; he hoarsely grunted. You really did try your best, just for him. Even as tears spilled down your cheeks and your lips began to swell. Plush and puffy, circling his slick length. Pietro kicked up the speed at which he rutted.

Fighting his instincts, he was cautious enough not to choke you. Or, he wanted to be cautious. He braced his hands on both sides of your tear stained face, his arm warmer paws soft against your cheeks. Sinking his dick even deeper between your lips, he accidentally went balls deep. The wet fabric of his tights smothered your chin. You sputtered on his cock, which made your throat wring him so tight. As your tongue curled, sliding under the thrum of his veins; Pietro cursed. Playful chuckles and shameful apologies fell from his lips.

Bitter heat coated your tongue in sweltering jets, thick and explosive down your throat. Pietro’s groin twisted in a blossoming surge of pleasure. And as he ruptured your esophagus with his sticky load, he found himself that much more grounded. As if such a bombastic nut somehow tethered him to reality - securing Pietro from any further derealization. 

Righteous. His first big O since Agnes blessed him with the gift of consciousness. Significantly more electrifying than any sad, jerk sesh Ralph had in the past. And since you so humbly took him like a champ - giving Pietro a most euphoric experience; he saw it fit to return the favor ASAP.

Neither Pietro - nor Ralph, it seemed - had any experience toying around with partners. But he did have a vague knowledge of how to do so. Thanks to the backlog of not-so-safe-for-work memories deep in his subconscious. Raunchy porn, mostly. Magazines. Tapes. Jesus, Ralph…why’s there so much dirty stuff in there, huh? Lots and lots of it. Pietro would have to do his own research later.

He gave you no time to prep for his oncoming nose dive. Perched on your knees, coughing and clearing your throat - you found yourself abruptly resting on your elbows. Your upper back pressed into the futon. Pietro lifted your hips, using his strength to hike your thighs over his broad shoulders. As you parted your swollen lips to protest, blinking your reddened eyes; Pietro pulled your panties to the side. He kept the soaked lace pinned under a thick thumb. Burying his lips in your cunt, he lapped up your honeyed heat.

A sudden addiction, triggered by something carnal, overtook him instantly. Pietro became hooked on your fragrant flavor, swirling your cute bud in high-speed circles. He worked your stiff clit like a microscopic joystick, flicking wet heat in a spastic whirlwind. Alternating between drawing patterns, and sucking your precious pearl hard. Pietro so easily made you squeal - even without any prior experience - until you scratched your fingernails deep into Ralph’s sheets. Kissing your cunt, he let his thirst take over, and dove deeper.

The tune of his name melting through your moans made him wish the night would last forever. A small fraction of him hoped Ralph would never take over again. If consciousness offered rewards this scrumptious, Pietro wanted to stay sentient into eternity. Not to be selfish or whatever, but he almost considered playing minion for Agnes again - if only to secure the lifespan of his psyche.

Your supple, pussy lips parted as he wormed his tongue through your slick walls. Smooth, bumpy heat squeezed the fuzzy ridges of his tongue. In milliseconds, your fluttery love gushed over his taste buds and leaked down his chin. Tears teased the edges of your eyes. You cried whines of sugary bliss. Pietro’s thumb kept your panties pinned, his other hand locked around your thigh.

He smirked into your pussy, deep chuckles burning hot on your mound. And since the position wasn’t exactly the most comfortable; he allowed you some reprieve. Pushing you past your breaking point at light speed, Pietro bashed the sopping slickness of his tongue into your clit. You trembled, shuddering through powerful waves of orgasmic intensity. White-hot flashes of light flooded your vision. Under Pietro’s zippy tongue, your sweet pussy quivered.

Totes mcgoats. If he learned anything tonight - aside from the obvious lessons in subtlety; Pietro now understood why the everyday man lost his doggone marbles over puss.

After your first release, he eased your tired body into the futon. Your back met cozy blankets, engulfed in that skunk weed scent. Before you relaxed, he edged you even longer, drawing out your pleasurable suffering. Pietro sank his fingers deep into your heat, pumping the length of them inside you. His digits curled perfectly, finding every spongy spot that made your core burst with a desire to cum again. His tongue teased your swollen nub until you grabbed at his hair. You mussed the funny looking ear things atop his head, pressing your palm into his forehead to try and push him back.

You begged him to stop. Pleading in disoriented whimpers, your noises went straight to his limp dick. A few more hot, wrathful waves of pleasure later - he finally stopped. Only after your cunt erupted in one more, wet burst. You leaked like a fountain into his lips, soaking his chin, even making a mess of his makeshift costume. More than worth it. Pietro sat up on the futon, admiring his handiwork. He wiped his mouth with one of his arm warmer paws. Your mouth fell agape as your lungs begged for air. More tears sparkled on your flushed cheeks, mirroring the twinkle of your pussy. Pretty as a rose in a rainshower.

With your sluggish arms, you gestured for Pietro to climb over you. And once he did, you pulled him into a lazy kiss without a single care. You paid no mind to the taste of your sweetness on his lips, or the scent of your musk on his chin. Sleepily blinking, you bravely asked if you could stay the night. Too tuckered out to even consider a long walk back home.

Pietro could just as easily speed you over to your place. But even at the risk of his not-wife catching him in bed with someone else - he felt too adverse to loneliness. Besides...your company brought him more delight than he ever expected of anyone. Settling into the futon, he popped on Ralph’s old TV set.

Cheers was on. Pietro snickered to himself, rolling his dark eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, snuggled up against Pietro’s strong form. He’d changed clothes at some point in the night, finally foregoing the tights. Oh, and he lended you one of Ralph’s shirts too. A Grateful Dead t-shirt, of which you were very grateful. Hah, “You don’t like Cheers?”

Pietro shrugged, sipping a beer. A Busch beer. He scowled at the taste, curling his lip.

“Eh. More of a Frasier kinda guy.”

[birdsbatsandcatsohmy]

An extension to the flashback in chapter 19, I really just wanted to right more Jason and Dick interactions.

Jason had been quiet since they returned from patrol, it was worrying. Currently he was picking disinterested at his takeout container, half paying attention to the random sitcom Dick had turned on for the noise.

It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to just zone out after a tough patrol, but it had been a pretty quiet night. Dick wanted to ask what was bothering his little brother so much, but he’s learned that it’s best to let Jason start this kind of conversation.

“Am I a good Robin?” Dick almost startles at the question.

“Of course you are!” Dick exclaims.

“Are you telling the truth?” Jason asks, setting his food down and pulling his knees to his chest. “Or are you just being nice? Because I want the truth.”

“I am being one hundred percent honest.” Holding his hand up in a Boy Scouts salute. “I know that when you first became Robin I was a bit of an ass to you.”

“A bit of a Dick.” Jason smirks at him, clearly proud of the word play.

“Shut up,” Dick bumps his shoulder, “I’m trying to be sincere here.”

Jason snickers but doesn’t say anything else.

“Like I said,” Dick starts again, “I know I was a bit of an ass to you. But that had nothing to do with you, I was angry at Bruce and I unfairly took it out on you. I’m sorry for doing that, I was the adult and I should have been better. Robin was never meant to be a legacy.”

Dick places a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “But I couldn’t have picked a better person to pick up the mantle. Your an amazing Robin Jay, that magic you said Robin had? That was all you Little Wing, you gave Robin its magic.”

Jason looks at him with watery eyes, then turns away, curling into himself more. “I guess.”

“What’s wrong Jay?” Dick asks, “Where is this coming from?”

“Have you ever thought about killing someone?” Jason asks.

Dick is taken aback by the question, but Jason barreled on before he can react.

“B and I were busting a child trafficking ring, and I recognized one of the traffickers.” Jason admits. “It was from a kidnapping case from when I first became Robin. He did awful shit, and he was right  back out on the streets doing awful shit to more kids.”

Jason picks at the sleeve of the hoodie he’d borrowed from Dick. “And I just, it would have been easy, there were lots of guns, B was somewhere else. He’d be gone and couldn’t hurt anymore kids.”

“I never told you about Tony Zucco did I?” Dick asks, Jason looks at him and shakes his head. “He’s the guy who killed my parents. After my parents died I got put in juvie-“

“I thought Bruce took you in right after they died?” Jason interrupts.

“He did take me in,” Dick says. “Just not right away, there is legal stuff that even Bruce Wayne has to adhere to. And there were no foster placements, group homes, or orphanages with space available. So they sent me, an eight year old who’d just lost his parents, to juvie.”

“Holy shit,” Jason exclaims. “I knew the system was bad, but that’s a whole other level.”

“Yeah, I was pretty angry.” Dick agrees, “Not just about juvie, but about my parents. I knew who killed them, and I wanted to get revenge. So at eight-years-old, I got some shives, broke out of juvie, and went to kill Tony Zucco.”

Jason stares at him in shock at the admission.

“I didn’t succeed.” Dick says. “Bruce found me, and talked me down. Talked about the difference between justice and revenge. I’m glad he did, I definitely wasn’t ready to deal with the emotional fallout of killing someone.”

“And now?” Jason asks, catching Dick’s meaning.

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve thought about it. You can’t see the justice systems failing as often as we do, and not think about it.”

“I think that's why Bruce is so insistent on the no kill rule.” Dick leaning his elbows on his knees and staring unseeing at the tv. “It’s easy to say we should kill someone like the Joker, he’d certainly deserve it. Or some one like that man you apprehended. But where does it stop? Can you stop your personal feelings from clouding your judgment. It takes a lot for someone to get the death penalty, and there’s a reason for that.”

“We are not judge, nor jury Jay.” Dick turns back to Jason. “We help capture criminals, turn them in so the justice system can work.”

“The justice system fails all the time Dick.” Jason argues.

“You’re right it does.” Dick agrees. “But we’re infalible to, we make wrong calls. We don’t choose who’s deserving of death. Death is not equal to justice, and terrible people can be rehabilitated.”

Jason looks contemplative.

“What I’m trying to say.” Dick tries to get back on track. “Is that it doesn’t make you a bad Robin, or a bad person for considering it. Just makes you human.”

Jason shoots forwards hugging Dick. “Thanks Dickwing.”

“Anytime Little Wing.”