Oscar Reaction To Norris Blaming Max Lmao.

mama we are following the rule of not believing anything you feel after 9pm. goodnight

Tranquillity of Solitude | Robert Keating x Fem!reader

summary: It’s the last day before tour and Robert and you spend the day at home, away from everyone.

word count: 4.1k

warnings: the usual, swearing, a lot of fluff, a fair bit of angst, mentions of alcohol, mentions of drugs, honestly just more fluff, and once again… my bad writing, yeah that’s probably it

author’s note: I am embarrassed to admit how long this has taken for me to write… anyway, this was the first request I finished. Also, it’s my longest fic… happy reading I guess! xx

request: @fenderenderender ur rob fic was *chefs kiss* could you do one where they just spend the day at home and it’s just 🥰 and 😎 but also 🥲

Keep reading

i keep falling more and more in love with the recent stevie nicks interview

don't you want me

wc: 4.4k

cw: slight angst, discussions surrounding death and the poor aging of some scenes in the breakfast club, plus size!live!reader, still gender neutral!reader

summary: wally tells you about how he died, you watch the breakfast club, and shit is getting a little weird.

don't go breaking my heart: pt 1. - pt 2. - pt. 3 - pt. 4

masterlist

Wally meets you in the library every day during your study hall for the next few weeks. 

When it’s quiet, and there aren’t any people around, you spend the whole hour talking. You learn a lot about him, what life was like for him in the 80s, and what his afterlife is like here, as well. He asks questions about your abilities, and though you don’t have many answers to give him, you try your best. 

“Have you talked to a lot of ghosts?” 

You’re sitting at a table in the corner, notebooks and study guides splayed out to give the impression that you’re actually here to do work. Wally sits across from you, chin cupped in the palm of his hand, elbow leaning on the table top. He has a staring problem, it makes your skin crawl. 

“Not really? Not on purpose, anyways,” you shrug, “I mean, it’s not like I’ve had a lot of opportunities to do this.” 

“So I’m your first?” 

The intention to tease is clear - his tone is light and airy - honey brown eyes boring into yours, smile creeping up on his face. You could look at him for hours. You have looked at him for hours, mapping the freckles on his face like constellations. 

“Yeah, Wally. You’re my first,” you giggle, conceding to the bit, “you should feel honored, really.”

“Oh, more than honored,” his eyes twinkle under the fluorescent lights, “and you’re my first, too. What we’ve got going on here is special.” 

There’s a beat of silence, genuineness seeping into the joke. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, “super special.” 

You share a look, and you wish you could reach out and touch him. You wish you could hold his hand, hug him, draw lines from freckle to freckle with your finger. The time you’ve spent with him has been so good - sweet, easy hours spent giggling and blushing. 

And then you leave campus, go home, fight the urge to cry into your pillow. It isn’t fucking fair. It’s not fair that he died in the way that he did, it’s not fair that he isn’t fifty something with a wife, watching their kids go to college. 

You haven’t talked about it much - the divide between you, or the nature of his death - despite the amount of time you’ve spent together. It’s like you’re stuck in this semi-honeymoon phase, wanting to keep being entertained by the novelty of it, instead of letting the truth of the situation infect that happiness. 

It’s so hard, though, when you look at him and think of the life that was stolen from him. 

He sees your smile falter, reaches his hand forward to sit next to yours. You feel the displacement of air, the coldness pressing up against the tips of your fingers. It’s enough, for now. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see one of the other ghosts making their way towards Wally. It’s the kid with the jean jacket and the bleached tips - Charley, Wally had told you - and he looks slightly concerned. 

You put your head down, moving your hand away from his and feigning focus on the worksheets in front of you. Wally had suggested not letting in any of the other ghosts until you figured out how to tell them, though you had a sneaking suspicion he just wanted to keep this to himself for a little while longer. 

Charley plops down in the seat next to Wally, eyes going back and forth between the two of you. 

“You missed group again,” he whispers, like he doesn’t want to disturb you from your studying, “are you still following this poor person around? They can’t even see you, it’s getting creepy.” 

Your eyes, though directed at the pages on the table, widen slightly - has Wally been watching you the same way you’ve been watching him?

You’ve never noticed him looking at you, and you wouldn’t have, because up until recently you’d been trying your hardest not to get too close. It was futile, you can admit that now. 

It almost makes you giggle, knowing that he’d been doing the same thing. 

Wally splutters, “I don’t follow them around,” you can feel both of them looking at you, and it’s getting harder not to laugh, “I don’t know why you’d think that, that’s just…” 

Charley pats Wally on the shoulder, rubbing it slightly and sighing. 

“It’s sweet of you, I think. We’ve all had crushes on living people at some point or another, but this one seems bad. You’re like, obsessed.” 

That’s the thing that does you in. Laugh tearing from your throat, hand clasped over your mouth, trying and failing miserably to hide your amusement.

“Sorry, sorry, oh,” your shoulders are still shaking with your laughter, head bowed in apology before you look up to see a pink cheeked Wally and a shocked Charley, “I really tried, I’m so sorry.”

“Nice,” Wally chastises, though he’s smiling, “the idea of me having a crush on you is funny?” 

Charley still hasn’t said anything, head whipping back and forth between you and Wally like he’s watching a game of tennis. 

“I didn’t say that! I also think it’s sweet,” you turn to Charley, stick your hand out before thinking better of it and pulling it back to your side of the table, “Hi, I’m y/n, yes, I can see you, no I’m not dead.” 

“H- hey,” his eyes are still wide, brain working on overdrive to figure out what’s happening, “I’m Charley.” 

Wally fills him in on the time you’ve been spending together, retelling in theatrical detail the way in which you’d accidentally made it known you could see him.

Then it was your turn, explaining to Charley how you’d known since you were a kid that you could see dead people, but that you didn’t know why, or what it meant. If it had a purpose, or was just an unexplainable quirk. 

To Charley’s credit, he takes it really well. 

He doesn’t get upset with Wally for not sharing, he doesn’t get upset at you for not making yourself known to them sooner, though he mentions that when the time comes for you to tell Rhonda, she won’t be nice about it. He’s a sweetheart, just like you thought he’d be. 

“Have you guys just been hanging out this whole time? That’s why you’ve been missing group so much?”

Wally goes to answer, but you cut him off. 

“What’s group? Do the ghosts here have, like, an afterlife support group?” You find the idea of it really sweet, and amusing, chuckling to yourself until you see that the two boys in front of you aren’t laughing, they’re nodding. “Oh shit, wait, really?” 

“Yeah,” Charley confirms, “It’s run by this guy Mr. Martin. He was a science teacher that died in the late 50s, I think,” he looks to Wally for confirmation, turning back to you when Wally agrees, “He’s pretty cool. We have a bunch of traditions, like movie nights and stuff like that.”

“That’s really cool, actually. I didn’t know that you guys did that. I’m sorry I’ve been messing it up, keeping Wally to myself.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Wally says, and he smiles, a sweet, boyish thing, “I’d rather be here with you.” 

Charley watches the both of you, and he doesn’t think either of you clock the lovesick puppy looks on your faces. He doesn’t know what it means, how it’ll end, but it’s nice to see his friend so happy for once, breaking the monotonous nature of their days at Split River High. 

He leaves eventually, making you promise you’ll hang out with him sometime. 

“So,” you ask Wally, “how long have you been watching me?” 

“You can’t judge me,” he parrots, “and I could ask you the same question.”

“I didn’t say I was judging, I’m just curious, y’know, since you have a crush on me and all.” 

“I do not have a crush on you.”

Wally isn’t the most convincing liar. You can tell, by the way he’s looking everywhere but directly at you, that Charley was telling the truth. 

“That’s too bad,” you shrug, glancing at the clock behind him and beginning to gather your things from the table, “I wouldn’t mind it if you did.” 

Your nonchalance affects Wally exactly the way you want it to, watching as his cheeks grow pink again and as he trips over words that don’t leave his mouth. He starts to say something, but the overhead chiming cuts him off before he can get any words out. 

“Look at that, saved by the bell. Later, Wally.” 

On your way out of the library, you look back to see him still at the table in the corner, slouched backwards and head tilted towards the ceiling. 

- 

When Wally talks to you about how he died, you’re sitting under your tree overlooking the football field. 

He hadn’t had the intention to talk to you about it today, but the football team is training, preparing for next year’s season, and you’d asked about it.

It was nice, talking about football in a casual way at first, explaining things to you in a way you’d understand them, because in your words, you were more of a “music and film nerd,” though you understood the appeal of sweaty men tackling each other. 

You’d skirted around asking questions about homecoming, attempting to spare Wally the reminder, but the conversation was always going to end up there eventually. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, leaning against the tree, head tilted in your direction, “I don’t mind talking about it.” 

“Are you sure? We don’t have to.” 

It’s not pity he sees on your face, but genuine concern. It emboldens him enough to tell you what happened. He goes on autopilot a bit, like he’s told the story so many times that it feels like he’s removed from it - telling a story about someone else, rehashing the grizzly details the way a true crime documentary would. 

He tells you about his knee injury, his coach benching him, his mom pushing him to strive for her specific idea of greatness. 

He tells you he was running so fast, he didn’t even feel the initial impact, just heard the crunching of his neck when he hit the ground. And then it was lights out. Just like that.

He tells you how he stood up from his own body, watched in confusion and abject horror as his coach and team members ran up to him, trying to wake him, thinking he’d simply been knocked out.

He tells you about the gasps from the crowd, whispers shared amongst the stands as the announcer tried his best to explain what was happening. 

It felt like time was standing still, and he’d gotten up so fast that he was confused why everyone was reacting the way they were. He was fine, couldn’t they tell? When his mom rushed onto the field, and the EMT’s loaded him onto the backboard, that’s when he knew. 

He watched as everyone left the field, standing solitary with his helmet in his hands. 

Mr. Martin and Rhonda found him a few hours later, wandering the halls of the school, tears running down his face. 

You don’t mean to cry, you don’t want to take the attention or make him have to comfort you, but the tears fall anyway. Heavy and slow, they build in your eyes before falling over onto your cheeks. You turn your head to the side, wiping them away, trying to hide it. You fail, but Wally just smiles at you - a sad thing, appreciative of your kindness. 

“It’s okay, it was a long time ago. I haven’t cried about it in almost… twenty years, I think.” 

“I don’t really know what to say,” you face him, collecting the last of your tears with your jacket sleeve, “I’m just really sorry that happened to you. I wish I could change it.” 

Wally does what he’s been making a habit of, hovering his hand over yours so you can feel the change in temperature. This time though, and only for a second, there’s a flicker of warmth, a millisecond of feeling a solid palm against yours. 

“Did you feel that?” 

Your head whips over to see Wally, eyes wide and brow furrowed. He nods, moves his hand away, and tries to do it again, but it falls through yours - cold air seeping into your skin and sending shivers up your spine. You think the latter is more so a credit to Wally himself, not just the cool sensation. 

“Why did that happen?” he asks, pulling away from you to fiddle with the gold chain around his neck. 

“I have no idea. I didn’t do anything, did you?” 

“Not that I know of,” a slight sigh of defeat, “it was nice though, right?” 

It makes you want to cry again, how small he sounds at that moment. Hopeful and sad at the same time. You’d give anything to throw yourself at him, hug him, run your hands through his hair. 

“Yeah, Wally. It was really nice.” 

Time passes, easy silence as the two of you lay in the grass, staring up at the sky through the tree.  

“Do you miss it? Being alive?” 

He chuckles, shakes his head. 

“Not really. I mean,” he rolls over, props his head up with his hand, “It’s been so long that I’ve kinda forgotten what it felt like. There’s lots of shit I missed out on, and for a while I was so upset about being dead that I didn’t even try to catch up. Like, when Charley heard I’ve never seen The Breakfast Club, he flipped out.” 

“You’ve never seen Breakfast Club?”

“It came out in ‘85, so…” he trails off, “We had a copy of it in the library for a while, but I mostly stayed away from all the popular 80s movies.” 

“I get that,” you sympathize, “but you have to watch it at some point. It’s a classic, I think you’d like it. I could watch it with you, if you wanted.” The question is asked carefully, like you’re still not sure if he wants to keep seeing you. It’s a silly assumption, you know that, especially because his whole demeanor lights up. 

“Yeah, okay,” Wally nods to himself, “I’ll watch it with you.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, dude,” Wally stands from his spot on the lawn, dusting the grass off of himself, and reaching a hand out towards you to help you up. For a second, you forget that you can’t actually grab him, and you both giggle when your hand goes through his, “the film room is basically always empty, but I have other hiding places if you want to come back sometime not during the school day. The security around here sucks, they haven’t updated it since like, my time, so there’s always at least one open door.”

“That didn’t take as much convincing as I thought it would.”

“What can I say?” he shrugs, “I’m a sucker for a pretty face, and you’re very persuasive.”

- 

Sneaking into the school on a Saturday could go really, really badly. 

When you’d walked through your kitchen that morning, and your mom had asked where you were off to, you made the attempt to tell her a story as close to the truth as possible. 

You were going to hang out with a friend - your mom didn’t need to know that friend was dead, and confined to live within the four walls of your high school. 

She didn’t need to know that even though that friend wasn’t capable of touching you, that you’d put ten times the effort into your outfit and hair than you usually would. 

It’s late March in Wisconsin, and the last tendrils of a freezing Winter are grasping desperately for recognition against early Spring. In other words, it’s still fucking cold. Out of an abundance of caution, you’d parked your car about a block away from the school, paranoid about a faculty or staff member seeing it and catching you. 

It was a good idea, but you spend the five minute walk with your arms wrapped around your body, shivering and teeth chattering. 

By the time you make it to the school grounds, you can barely feel your fingertips. Wally is waiting for you by the bus stop, shoulder leaning against the glass, his hands in his jacket pockets and feet crossed over each other. 

“Did you walk all the way here?” He pushes off, coming as close as he can to the boundary without being thrown back to the middle of the field. “You look fucking freezing.”  

“Not all the way here, no,” You huff out a breath, watching as it dissipates in front of you, “but I didn’t want anyone to see my car in the parking lot.”

“Fair,” he says, “Maybe wear a bigger jacket next time?”

You roll your eyes, and start the trek into the school, Wally leading the both of you around the back and through the gym. 

“Sports faculty leave this door open all the time, so they can come in and check equipment, but they were just here last weekend, so the coast should be clear.” He turns around, walking backwards through the gym door and into the hall so he can look at you while he talks. “I don’t want you to make fun of me, but I have a whole thing set up in the film room,” he smiles, ever-present pink flush on his face, “I don’t know if you’ll be able to interact with any of it, but you did kick that football away from you, so I figured it was worth trying.”

He faces forward again, jumping and clicking his heels together. You laugh, shake your head, and follow him the rest of the way to the film room. He holds the door open for you, and when you see the inside, you stand stock still in the doorway. 

You have no idea how he did this, where he got all of this from. There are fairy lights lining the room, soft yellow glow illuminating it and shedding light on the massive pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. There are snacks everywhere. Drinks, chips, chocolate bars you can only assume he got from the vending machines in the cafeteria. The projector is on and pointed at the screen on the wall, paused at The Breakfast Club’s opening title sequence. 

Your hand goes over your mouth, overwhelmingly endeared by the amount of effort Wally put into your movie day. You walk around the room, looking back and forth between him and the spread in front of you. Thankfully, Wally doesn’t take your silence negatively, instead plopping himself down on the floor and grabbing the remote. 

“Well? What do you think? Is it too much?” 

He looks up at you from his place on the ground, patting the seat next to him. You’re shaking your head as you sit, still reeling from the feelings rumbling in your chest and stomach. 

“Not too much, no,” you settle onto the cushions, wrap a blanket around your arms, glad that you can touch the things around you, phantom though they may be, “Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me.” 

“It’s no biggie,” Wally leans back, shrugging his shoulders, “I just thought it would make today more fun.” 

“This is so fucking fun, Wally. You did good.” 

-

The Breakfast Club is a classic, but it’s also a product of its time. 

It’s profound, with complex characters who have complex home lives and interpersonal relationships, it’s thorough in its exploration of what labels and presumptions can do to a person. 

It also has its scenes that have aged incredibly poorly. 

For most of the movie, you almost regret making him watch it. In your excitement to spend the day with him - significant hours, not just fragmented moments in between classes throughout the week - you’d forgotten how triggering the movie would be for him. It feels like a neglectful oversight, but Wally seems genuinely invested. 

He laughs at some of the lighter moments, winces through a lot of the more ugly parts. Slurs being thrown, general and explicit misogyny, fatphobia. 

You don’t need to ask him if the movie is accurate, you can see it on his face. 

You can especially see how much Andrew’s character affects him. A jock, who, not so unlike Wally, cannot think for himself - who spends the majority of his time trying his best to appease his father’s wishes. Who refuses to be a loser, refuses to stand up to his parents and tell them how he really feels.

How that tumbles into his decision making - beating up a kid who didn’t do anything wrong, just to prove to his dad that he’s a man. It’s not a one to one ratio, but it’s close enough. 

He’s quiet as he watches the kids sit in a circle, eyes glued to the screen as they talk about being terrified that they’ll turn into their parents.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the kind of man he’d turn out to be, if he hadn’t died. If he would’ve been harsher, not nearly as accepting as he seems to be now, lacking the 40 years of growth he’s had. 

When the movie ends, freeze framed with John Bender mid-fist pump, you look over to see Wally wiping a few stray tears away. It makes your chest ache, your own eyes watering, throat closing up around the lump in it. 

You can’t imagine what it’s like, to watch forty years of high school students enter and leave, while you’re stuck there, just watching. The jocks, the bullies, the tightly-wound rich girls, the freaks. 

To see the evolution of youth, to watch the times change right in front of you, to realize how small high school is in the grand scheme of things, but to recognize that for Wally, it literally is his whole world. He has to watch, over and over, and see that times really haven’t changed at all. The tropes are still there, the cliches and cliques are just as bad. 

“That was a lot more serious than I remembered,” you laugh lightly, “Are you okay? I wouldn’t have suggested we watch it if I remembered how hard it is.” 

Wally lies back on the pallet he built on the floor, landing softened by blanket-covered gym mats and couch cushions he’d stolen from the teacher’s lounge. He’s staring at the ceiling, quiet to the point of concern on your end when he says, 

“If I’d seen that movie when it came out, I think it would’ve changed my life.” 

“In a good way?”

“In a really good way,” he turns his head towards you, looking up at you from his place on the pillows, “Maybe it would’ve made me brave enough to tell my mom I didn’t even like football. Maybe I would’ve…” He trails off, voice watery and cracking, “Maybe I would’ve stayed on the bench. Maybe I would’ve lived through that game, and the next one, or I’d have quit and done something I actually enjoyed. You know she still goes to every homecoming game they have at this school?” 

“Really?”  

“Yeah. And for all of them, I go out and join her. I sit next to her, cheer when she cheers, boo when she boos, I talk to her even though I know she can’t hear me. I know it’s stupid -” 

“It isn’t stupid,” you interject, “You love her, she’s your mom.”

“It is stupid, though. I told Charley once that I was annoyed I didn’t die in the end zone, instead of the five yard line,” he scoffs, shaking his head at himself, “I was upset I couldn’t get her one last win, y’know? What does it say about me, that I keep going back to the field I died on, to watch the game that killed me, because I think it’ll make my mom happy?” 

“That you’re loyal. That you care,” you duck your head, trying to catch his line of sight, “But also, maybe that you care too much. That you put too much stock into what your mom thought of you while you were alive, and now it’s carried over into your afterlife. You wanna know what I think?” 

Wally nods, urging you to continue. 

“I think you’re one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. I think you’re kind, and funny, and you care about your friends more than most living people care about theirs. I think it’s really fucking unfair that you’re not alive right now, and, all due respect to your mom, but,” you pause, working up the nerve to say, “she sounds like she fucking sucked. And you don’t have to do what she wants anymore. Caring about what she thinks is natural, she’ll always be your mom, but it weighs you down, I can see it.” 

“What do you mean, you can see it?”

“It’s hard to explain, but it’s like,” you wave a hand over his body, “the air around you is heavier, sometimes. Like it hurts for you to be here.” 

Wally hums, digesting your revelation, “Damn. That kinda blows. Does it fuck up my figure?” 

“No, silly,” you snort, “Your figure is just fine. Trust me.” 

You take the change in topic for what it is, trusting that he’ll work through your words on his own time. 

“Oh, my figure is just fine? You wanna elaborate on that, or…” 

He props himself up on his elbows, draws his chin down to his neck, and bats his eyes. 

“Wally, oh my god,” you go to shove at his shoulder, out of habit, mostly, used to shoving at your friends when they say something ridiculous. 

It makes contact. 

Like the force of it almost knocks him over, you can feel your hand on his shoulder, contact. 

You gasp, go to pull away because the shock of it is overwhelming, and lightning fast, Wally brings his hand up to cover yours.

He’s not necessarily warm, not fully solid either, but you’re touching. He pulls your hand down, holds it between the two of you and laces his fingers through yours. 

The hum of the projector is the only noise in the room, as you sit in silence and stare, dumbfounded, at your hand in his. 

a/n: hiiiii guys! here's pt 2, i hope you enjoy! i have a very clear idea of what i want 3 and 4 to look like, so stick with me. i watched the breakfast club, realized that wally is literally copied and pasted from andrew, and needed to write about it or i'd die

if you liked this, my masterlist is linked at the top! my asks are always open, and don't forget to like and reblog if you feel so inclined.

also, who else is terrified for the season finale tomorrow????

taglist: @preparedfruit , @lov3bug , @whoopsyeahokay

Mass graves have been uncovered in Gaza.

Do you think this is okay?

ERASE the idea that America saved lives by dropping two atomic bombs on Japan from your minds. ERASE the idea that it was anything more than a political move to scare Russia and also to satiate US curiosity as to the true ability of nuclear weapons. Nagasaki and Hiroshima were not military bases. They were heavily populated civilian cities chosen precisely bc the U.S. wanted to see how many people an atomic bomb could kill in one go. Japan was on the verge of surrendering, the U.S. literally wanted to test out their nuclear weapons on people that they deemed disposable. That is it. If those bombs were dropped by any nation other than the US veryone involved would have been tried as war criminals.

✰ 05. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 05. your closed-off heart.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: avoidant attachment damian is canon to me okay. it's canon to me... </3 also pretty long chap idk how many words but it's a bunch

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

The sky has fallen to an ashen black by the time you've all settled down and watched a fun game show together; so different from the ones back home.

After those hours of catching up—you've made sure to be careful with your words and not mention anything about any alternate universes. You can't—not with that lingering stare behind you, after all.

Whether they realised your avoidance of the topic or simply didn't think to bring it up—you were glad the rest of your friends never even hinted at it once, either.

Now you were back, sitting on the couch under a low, flickering light and cuddled up beside Johnny and Franklin.

"Franklin..." Your voice is low. Said boy is cooped up to your side, snoring softly as he drools onto you. You avert your gaze toward Sue and Reed. "How's his... mutation going? It's pretty rough being so strong so young."

Johnny glowers at the sight of Franklin so attached to your left arm—even though he's just as close, if not closer to you than his nephew is. If he were sunken any farther into you, he'd practically be in your lap.

Sue sighs, pressing her palm against her face with an exasperated look. "After that whole incident with Annihilus, his power has been developing so drastically, we aren't sure on what may occur next. He's so... he is so strong. We asked the Professor about it, and his only advice was for when we believe we cannot properly help him develop, to send him to his school."

Reed slinks his hand into his wives', gripping tightly. "But I don't think it'll come to that. Franklin... is a good kid. I don't believe he will ever lost control of himself, not like the Professor is afraid he will. Regardless—he's doing fine, and that was the reason we took him with us."

The mood is sunken, a little bit quieter as you rake your nails over Frankin' scalp—gently. Such a power so young—you remember the first time you were told this young boy was creating pocket universes under his bed at three. Two years later, and he's developed the abilities comparable to that of a god.

To be so incredible is a blessing—but for a child like Franklin, it can feel like a curse often times. You would know, you think solemnly, palm falling over his cheek.

Ben sinks into the dented couch, leaning back with a knee crossed over his leg. He breaks the silence with ease and that lovely Yancy Street accent, "That, and we didn't wanna let Tony babysit again."

"Oh yeah," Johnny grimaces. "Last time he was left alone with Frankie, he made him a suit and he flew all the way to the Carribean!"

You slap a hand over your mouth, turning to Johnny and laughing, "I heard about that! Didn't you nearly get sunk by Namor and his Atlanteans?"

Johnny hisses and looks to the side—the tips of his ears alighting with a flicker. You reach up and pat out the flame, brushing his hair back as he hides his face from your view.

Judging by the smug, knowing look Sue shoots her younger brother, you assume he was pretty annoyed by your pampering.

Despite this, the mood has become lighter. You aren't worried about what may happen in the future, or what could possibly go wrong with the young child beside you.

"Don't even mention him, or any bad guy—" Johnny slumps down, head reeking back dramatically. "I'm going stir-crazy not being able to get out and fight 'em."

Ben gives him a pointed look, "brows" furrowing, "Yer sounding less stir-crazy and more batshit mental. Ya gotta get out more."

"Tell that to him!" The blonde juts his thumb towards Reed, who simply averts his eyes. "He's the one who said we can't be seen in this unknown place."

"Yeah, it's a shame, isn't it?" You cross your arms. "While you're all resting here, I have to go out and fight crime all day. Lucky me."

Johnny raises his hands in defence, "Yeah, you are lucky. I'd kill to get out and get some action. I'm tired of being cooped up in here all day like the world doesn't need me."

"Don't go getting a big head, Johnny." Sue frowns. "This world has survived fine without you. I'm sure it'll live even without you, as well."

Johnny and Sue start to bicker in the traditional sibling fashion—shooting the other glares and mocks, all the while Reed seems to be deep in thought. (And as always, Ben is simply enjoying the scene in front of him).

"Actually..." Reed speaks up—catching the attention of everybody in the room with ease. "Perhaps... it could be a good thing to go public. It would give us an easy way to collect materials we need if we could go out and use our powers freely."

"... Reed? You can't be serious—" Sue blinks in shock.

Ben slams his two rocky fists together, "Hell yeah! It's been a minute since I said my favourite line—"

"—It's clobberin' time, we know." Johnny shakes his head. Ben simply shoots the matchstick a glare.

"That aside; it'll help us make that..." Reed hums, glancing at you for a moment, "That very intricate device we'd been needing to create. The last one was created by the combined nature of me, Tony, and Hank—so making it alone may provide more difficult, but absolutely not impossible. Not much tech to work with, either... this might take a while..."

Sue places a hand on her husbands shoulder, and he seems to break out of the strange mumble he reduced his voice to. "Thank you, Susan. But yes—given we collect the right resources and I have time to work on this, we should be able to remake it."

"That's great!" You smile, grin brightening. You could go home! You could actually go home! Not sure when—but soon couldn't come soon enough. "You guys can fight alongside me, and now this! This is great news!"

"Eh ... I already told you Reed was making some of that crazy tech stuff, didn't I?" Johnny shrugs, resting his head to the side. "Besides—It's Reed. Why wouldn't be tinkering with some weird invention?"

"... Thank you for the vote of confidence, Johnny." Reed murmurs, eyes falling to the side. "If we want to make something as intricate as... that, from scratch, we'll definitely need the most brilliant minds helping."

"Ah... yeah. Too bad Tony isn't here, huh? Hank, too. They'd be a real help." You smile sadly, looking to the side.

"Actually, [name], I'd rather like you to look over some of the teleporters with me. Give your opinion on what I should do with what I have."

"R... really?" You look up at him with sparkly eyes. "You really...?"

He nods, smiling. You bite down on the insides of your cheek to stop yourself from grinning madly—instead, you opt to rushing over and wrapping your arms around his neck, jumping up and down.

"Thank you! Yeah, I'd be—" You pull back, coughing with a flushed face. "I'd be totally honoured. Yeah. Um—I promise to not get any webs on them this time!"

"I'll take your word for it," Reed chuckles. Happiness practically bursts out of your chest at the recognition from the smartest man in the world.

Perhaps you were more than you gave yourself credit for—and way more than what that family gave you credit for.

You sit back down and Franklin crawls back into your lap, snoring softly. Johnny attaches himself to your side and keeps a warm arm snug around your shoulder, smiling down at you.

The warm fuzzy feeling pools down at the bottom of your stomach and each time you laugh, you feel your heart grow fonder.

You had never felt so at home in this strange place. These four—these five—this was your family, and you'd never feel otherwise.

Damien feels a tug in his chest. More than a tug, actually—it's like a rope has tied a noose around his ribs and is rattling them repeatedly.

He's biting down so hard on his lips and the inside of your cheek that blood seeps from between chapped lips. He chews them raw—not even noticing the pain.

He hadn't even realised when he pulled his katana out from its holster on his back. He hadn't realised when he gripped it so taut his knuckles turned a milky white. He hadn't even realised when his eyes zeroed in on the sight of you cuddling up with that dark-haired boy.

Allowing him close to you—clinging to your arm so pathetically and pressing his face against your stomach as if he'd done it a hundred times over and acting like you're his older sibling or something stupid like that—

Damian steadies his erratic breathing. Unscrunching his face, but he cannot seem to stop glaring daggers. Even when he makes eye contact with that man—Reed, he believes you referred to him as—he does not tear his sharp gaze away.

You stare so tenderly at the young boy (younger than Damian is. By a few years or so, most likely). You cradle his cheek in your hand with such love it makes your actual brother, your blood brother, feel sick to his stomach.

Raking your fingers through his hair like you'd never done with your siblings before. Holding him close like you wished to protect him from the world and all the horrors within it.

How could you possibly hope to protect this... Frankie, when you cannot even protect yourself? The scarring left from the bullet still lay on your shoulder, a ghostly reminder of how you became victim to the evil this city holds.

A reminder to Damian on how he must protect you now. As his duty.

In this cruel world, you have lost to it—and yet, you choose to coddle others? You choose to keep others safe and close to your heart, but never your family?

His heart is lit aflame with rage. His jaw is taut and clenched tightly—feeling his teeth grit beneath his tongue and his mind fizzle with boiling anger. He hadn't felt this irrational in so long. Not until...

He doesn't remember ever seeing you in a such a light. He doesn't remember seeing you.

But now he does—and now, he feels so much fuming ferocity. Watching you send the softest of smiles to him and allowing him to feel your soft, untainted touch.

(A touch not tainted by years of relentless crime fighting—a silky grasp that could only be given by that kind of regularity Damian had never known).

Much earlier, he had realised you were that vigilante he met so long ago. That spider-like fiend who seemed to have those never-endingly sticky webs.

This is why you'd been skipping classes so often, and why he never saw you around. That's why he hadn't seen those pitiful eyes be directed toward his two, barely there elder brothers, after each and every violent patrol.

That is why you have become so distant. So far away—Drake had described it. Damian didn't bother to listen because he didn't care enough to.

That doesn't matter. In the end, none of it matters. Not to him. It didn't change his image of you.

He hadn't known you long enough for it to shift in any way—nor had he ever tried to. Despite this, he is content. If this new version of you is all he will ever know, then so be it. This will be his you—the sincerity in your touch and the love in your eyes.

(Yet, never seen toward him).

He has little time to ponder and brood. Before he knows it—the glass door is sliding open and, on that balcony, he is no longer alone.

You hesitate for a moment before speaking. "Damian?"

He blinks. He is not used to hearing his name from your mouth in anything but a furious tone. Yet, despite this—it is anything bur the saccharine way you told that Franklin he's your favourite—

"Damian. Why did you follow me?" You demand, voice more firm than your question-like tone before.

You stand before him, arms crossed under your chest and a hard expression on your face. Stern. Like a real older sibling. He had never seen you make that kind of face before.

(For whatever odd reason, he feels small again. Like lowering his head and apologising for something he had not even done—you've never had that sort of effect before).

... And yet, despite all he's acted like in the past; in this present moment, he doesn't know what to say to you. Very uncharacteristical.

(For that Franklin, it came so easy. Like running up to you with those stupid googly eyes was the most regular thing to him. Damian doesn't believe he will ever be able to feel as normal as that).

Fortunately, he manages to scrounge up some words to say like it was a board game. "I... happened to catch you swinging here. In that ridiculous costume and to your even more ridiculous friends."

Your brow twitches in annoyance at his words. He notices it so wholly that it strikes deep into his chest. Why are you so dissatisfied with him? Why does it make him so unfathomably upset?

"One, my costume is cool. Two, my friends aren't ridiculous. Don't talk about them like that." Your tone is upset.

All these strong emotions hit him like a freight train and suddenly he doesn't know how to speak properly. Don't look at him like that. Why are you so kind to that other child, but you are so cruel toward him? It's unfair. Absolutely unfair.

He must've been quiet longer than he realised. Clutching the bottom of his cape tight into his blood-bathed grip, practically shaking. He must look so utterly pathetic for you to offer him menial pity.

(Just like you used to—except now it feels like a wave crashing against the shore, covering the burning lava stones in a cool tide).

"So, you know, then?" You glance downward at Damian after pinching your temple. He breaks his eye contact with the concrete and looks back to you. "That I'm that spider hero."

...

"Yes. After seeing your school bag webbed up, it was far too obvious."

You glance downwards once more. To the strap wrapped around his shoulder, connected to your bag. He tries to shuffle it discreetly behind him, but he knows you've spotted it when a smile crawls onto your lips.

Gritting his teeth—yet this time he does not feel that same blaring anger as before—he decides that hiding it was useless and opts to shove it into your arms roughly, before he can even think.

"The leather is crumpled. You need a new bag," He says, matter-of-factly. You grasp onto the leather with wide eyes; gaze shifting from it to him.

"... I know. It's been like this..." You aren't exactly sure on how long, exactly—but you're sure it's been... "For a while. I'm used to it."

Damian pauses, eyes narrowed and lips turned down into a sneer. He's practically offering, and yet you still deny? You pretend everything is fine and you are strong.

...

You lean down the slightest. "... Still. Thanks for considering me."

You almost can't believe you're thanking this younger brother for the bare minimum—but from what you've seen, that bare minimum isn't seen much in your household. (Especially towards you).

Despite this... you have always had a soft spot for kids. You ruffle his dark hair and he practically squawks, slapping your hands away like it burnt.

He recoils back, hissing, "Who do you think you are?! Don't patronise me!"

You chuckle and move back, brushing off your hands. He watches that action like a hawk. "... Are you going to tell them?"

"TT. About your little side hobby playing dress up?"

You want to point out how he does the exact same thing. But you don't, because you know it will lead to nothing good.

Damian sneers, turning his head to the side, "I don't care for what you do in your spare time. As long as I do not have to be there to save you every time."

"Fair enough. This can be our little secret, then." You nod. "... You can go now. I'm just going to suit up and sneak back in."

"Is that what you have been doing for the past several weeks?"

"Guilty as charged," you shrug, pressing on the necklace pendant sitting comfortably between your collarbones. "If nobody notices, then I don't think it's that big of a deal. I mean—"

He watches in fascination as the minuscule robots crawl over your body and form into the familiar Spidey suit.

You tuck your hair in as the mask forms. "—Most of them are barely home to begin with, and it's not like Bruce has spare time to be worrying about this."

... "Don't you mean father?"

You stare at him weird. "What?"

"You called father Bruce." His eyes narrow furthur.

"Oh. Right." You must've become accustomed to not saying father. Uncle Ben was the only father you'd ever had, and it wasn't like you were going around calling him that, since you know—he was your uncle. "Yeah. That's what I meant."

Damien doesn't reply this time. He throws on the hood of his costume, turning his back toward your costumed form.

You walk back inside into the dimly-lit room, engulfing those people in warm hugs you'd never spared any of them before.

He leaps off the roof and swings away into the night, face unreadable; mind consumed with little crime and more thoughts of you.

Perhaps he was... wrong about you. Less helpless, but still just as weak. And a lot more confusing. Unfair. So much confliction.

Though, he feels his chest beat strangely warm when he tousles his hair back to its regular style.

Swinging in through the window in your room and with one click on your necklace, you land flat on your heels.

Peering around, you hum at your empty, dark room and change into a pair of pyjamas.

It's been a day or two since you'd eaten here. Usually you'd go around as Spidey and picking up some takeout as you swing back home, or go to Harry's house for some dinner (since Norman had taken a strong, un-evil liking to you in this world).

But today, you'd been too wrapped up to even think about dinner. You'd missed the familiarity of Sue's warm cooking but you hadn't even thought to ask while you were there. Damn.

It's way too late to go out and get something now. Crap. You really got ahead of yourself, didn't you?

You put on your pair of fuzzy slippers, and swing open your door. It's late, so most of them should be out on patrol.

You'll probably only run into Alfred, at best. You can live with those kinds of odds.

You walk down the stairway and towards the kitchen (it took you a bit—learning the ropes of this place was harder than it looked). Your steps sluggishly drawl across the floor as you yawn.

Being Spidey sure was tiring. Post-patrol naps were always the highlight of your week, but you could never do it on an empty stomach.

As quietly as possible, you begin to rummage around in the larger-than-life fridge. Fruit, condiments, almost all ingredients than actual food.

You groan. You hate rich people. Aunt May always used to just buy a bunch of pre-cooked meals whenever she was away—you'd become so accustomed to it.

Maybe there were leftovers? ... Do rich people even keep leftovers? You slouch down at the thought.

You open a few drawers just to find a pile of spinach of all things. Then fruity flavoured drinks. Some more vegetables. Lots of vegetables. A child's waking nightmare.

"There's a pack of pizza pockets in the third drawer in the second row."

You barely even react, hand already inching for the drawer. You open it, and find it. You hum.

Your sense acts up when you hear footsteps approaching—you glance over your shoulder to see a man you have not previously met before, but have seen.

That blob of red—that figure you saw before everything went black and when a bullet was lodged in your shoulder. It was him.

A white tuft of hair in the middle of his forehead and a jaded expression. A red helmet under his arm and a pizza pocket in the other hand.

It was undoubtedly him.

"Jason..." You try your hardest to not make it sound like a question.

His expression remains unchanged. "[name]. You... your shoulder is all healed up already."

You glance at your exposed shoulder. There is barely any visibly sign of a wound ever being there. Perks to a healing factor—well, you heal. Downsides to a healing factor—people start asking questions.

"It didn't hit me too deep... and Bruce got me the best hospital stuff, too." You put the pizza pockets on a plate then stuff it into the microwave. The beep resounds in the quiet as you lean back on the counter. "Guess I got lucky."

"Didn't feel so lucky when you were bleeding out in my arms, did you?" His eyes narrow and you think you may have said the wrong thing. "What the hell were you even doing out at that hour? What the fuck were you thinking?"

Oh, I was just dropped in from another universe and switched places with Wayne-ie here. No biggie.

Yeah, no way in any of the layers in hell. Facing Galactus head on feels like a safer task than telling him that. You shake your head, trying to formulate a proper excuse.

"I was hanging out with my friends. Lost track of time."

His eyes widen at your sheer audacity to say that—then, his brows furrow and he steps forward, "Don't give me that shit. You never go out past ten. Bruce won't let you. We drilled it into your head you'd die out there. And look—you nearly did. Don't you dare sit here and lie to me, [name], because I swear to God—"

Your jaw clenches and you have to hold your hands behind your body—pressed against hard granite—to stop yourself from pushing him back.

You hiss, low and tense, "What do you know? You'd never stay long enough to find out."

You remember flipping through that diary. The words getting scratchier and the paper getting more crumpled as you went on.

"You'd never stayed longer than a few days. You'd never even looked at me even then."

As you became older, you became hateful.

"You could see Dick. You could hate Tim. And despite everything, you could bring yourself to like him. You even tolerated Damian."

But you also became sad. Increasingly so. So miserable, trapped in that newborn skin you'd never truly seemed to break out of.

"I didn't care that you killed people. I didn't care that you never stayed for long. I didn't care that you hated Bruce."

So lost, so desperate for that touch you'd received so long ago; you never really grown up, had you?

"I didn't care that you'd never stay for him. For Dick. For any of the others."

So bitter. It's no wonder you'd never talked to them. It's no wonder—

"But damn it, Jason—"

"I really thought that you could've stayed for me."

—that he's staring at you in such horror.

None of this came from your heart. This entire speech was scripted on a piece of paper—by a version of you who felt so much pain and hate for those who abandoned you so easily.

But... looking at his expression now—you think it's something he needed to hear. Something that couldn't be left unsaid any longer. All the feelings pent up in them (in you, one could say) and the words they were to afraid to speak aloud. The words you were not afraid to say.

His lips parted, eyes wide as he doesn't reply. How can he? What could he ever, possibly say?

That he was doing this for your own good? That he never wanted you to see the man he had become? To never want to sully that image of that older brother who played tag with you when you were younger?

How does he tell you about the bullet he put through the skull of the Penguin goons with smoking guns he'd found minutes after he saw you bleeding out in a dirty alleyway? He couldn't possibly tell you about that.

How could he ever tell you that this was all for you—when you were hurting so badly?

(Hurting without him? Had you missed him all these years, so terribly? The thought brings some sort of twisted satisfaction. Sick reassurance. That, despite everything, you still loved him).

How could Jason Todd ever show you that he cares without destroying everything he was before? The answer was simple to him—he can't. He thought you knew. He thought—

...

Now, everything doesn't feel so simple. His sunken eyes search all over your face in frantic motions. Your eyes are so blank, and you don't even look to be feeling anything.

Are you tired? Of this? Of him? Just what did that bullet do to you?

The beeping of the microwave catches both of your attention before he has a chance to say something he will likely regret.

You turn your head to the side, and slip away from where he had cornered you against the granite. "Pizza pocket's done."

You glance his way, and he feels pathetic. Absolutley, spectacularly pathetic. "... Want some?"

You sit in incredibly uncomfortable silence, chewing on the food. At least it was good. Familiar.

Clearly there was a lot to discuss between the both of you. ... Jason and this other you, at least.

(Or was it you, the one who was shot? You could never truly tell).

There's so much to say, so little time. Jason could never stay, and definitely not around you. All these years—this world's you thought he hated them. Despised them.

Now, his expression feels like the complete opposite. Longing.

You shove the rest of the pizza pocket into your mouth, wiping off the stray greasy cheese off the corners of your lips.

"I meant what I said earlier." You clarify, as if he needed it. "And I don't appreciate you only getting on my ass after all this time, only when something bad happens. You don't get to do that. That's not how this works."

You gesture between the two of you and his heart feels like its been stabbed with the sharpest of knives.

Then, it twists.

You were always his favourite. The sweetest. The little kid he'd once held so dearly and near his heart. Until that heart stopped and turned into the deepest black, poisoned and compromised.

How could he ever risk poisoning you, too?

He wanted to keep you safe, and somewhere, somehow—he came to the conclusion that the only way you'd br safe is if you were away from him. Kept at a distance. Staying at arm's length.

Now, he isn't sure he was ever thinking of how safe you'd be. Not when he'd seen you, light-headed and bleeding. Not when you were practically dying in his arms and he couldn't do shit except kill those stupid fucking goons; because what is he good for if not revenge?

"I miss the old days," you say. But there's a distinct lack of emotion in your voice. As if it wasn't even you who was saying this. "But to hang onto them forever—when will we ever move on?"

...

He doesn't know. He doesn't think he can. Those are the only memories he has of you. Of himself.

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly feeling his heart pound and stomach feeling sick. This sort of uncanny, soul-consuming feeling—it only ever happened whenever he would look at you.

Eyes blurry and vision failing him, he wants to go. To run. But at the same time, he wants to keep you close. Make sure nothing will ever happen again. Make sure you never feel that pain again.

His head is going to split. He doesn't know what to do.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His hands sink into his hair, and his jaw is clenched impossibly tight.

"I just..." His voice is quieter than he wanted it to be. Shakier. Almost timid. He feels like a boy again. That same child you'd stare at so reverently. He doesn't know when he was beginning to forget that. "I just wanted to keep you safe. That's all I ever wanted."

You're almost tired of this. Pissed off. Is that all they say? Is that really all they say to tell you why they'd kept you so far away? The distance was all-consuming. You'd noticed it in the first week you lived here. You couldn't even begin to imagine that kind of "love" all your life.

"Then, you were doing it all wrong." You say, simply. It sounds like you know. Like you have experience. Like a wise old wizard who'd "seen it all before". "I'm not incapable (truly, you are not) and my life is my own. Keeping me safe isn't trying to keep everything the same, like it is as it was."

He lifts his head from his hands when your chair pushes behind you, screeching across wooden boards.

"I'm sorry you had to find me like that. But... you don't get it. You don't know..." You swallow. "You don't know enough about me now to judge whether I need protecting or not. You never did."

... You're right. He never did. He still doesn't. Jason never watched you grow up. He never got the chance to see you go through your awkward teen years. Get your first boyfriend. Scare the shit out of him. He didn't get to hang out with you and get ice-cream after school.

He never got the chance to do anything of these things. Not with you. Never with the one most dear to him, and his small, dark heart.

But that could change. Starting now, he could change. He would. He could. He will. For you.

He stares, eyes blankening. Then, they fill with something dark. A nervous shiver runs down your spine and your sense starts tingling in the back of your mind.

He speaks, low and steady. The shakiness is gone and you're not sure what went on in his head—but he sounds so sure now. So certain.

"Then, I will."

It's not a threat or a claim—but a withheld promise. The heaviness of it weighs down on you, and you aren't sure whether you should feel safe or scared.

He gets out of his chair and walks over to you. Unconsciously, you hold your breath, blood running cold as he stalks closer. That huge imposing frame that (probably) used to hold some semblance of comfort toward you; now terrified you to the bone.

His big hand rests atop your head, and ruffles your hair. "Starting now, I'll get to know you again. Then, everything can go back to normal."

... Did he even listen to a word you said?

He sends you a smile as he leaves the top of your head a tangled mess, slipping on his helmet and walking away.

You're left alone, heart pumping wildly in your chest and your brain throbbing with that buzz. Every sense and nerve on full alert—you sink down into that chair and pull your knees to your chest.

You think you may have bitten off a bit more than you can chew.

taglist: @hello-bina @cosmosluckycharms @1abi @yhin-gg @insideoutjulie @bluepanda08 @omnivirgo @vanessa-boo @dind1n @welpthisisboring @lunaetiicsaystuff @marsmabe @atanukileaf @findingjaxx @4mrplumi @bunniotomia @lostsomewhereinthegarden @bat1212 @gaychaosgremlin @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @randomlyappearingartist @cxcilla @spidermanluvr444 @cruzerforce4256 @mybones537 @xjesterxjacksx @nirvanaxx1942 @djpuppy-kittens @br33zy-blizzardz @moon0goddess @0sunnyside01 @mei-simp @redsakura101 @the-dumber-scaramouche @wizzerreblogs @lovemiss-vale @deathbynarcisstick @allycat4458 @wonmyheart @luckyangelballoon @one-piecelover @hartwyrm @horror-lover-69 @maria-trisha @4rachn3 @galaxypurplerose @duskeras @coffeeaddictxd @lithiumval @kaz-playz

taglist is closed! sorry!

The void state is SOOOOOOOOOOO easy once you actually realize what it is. One major reason why you aren't "succeeding" in the void state is because you *drumroll, please* put it on a pedestal. Duh, just like everything else.

One thing I've noticed is how Loablr overcomplicated the void state so much. You guys acted like you were becoming a demi-god or an ethereal being going to Jupiter from your bedroom. You think before bed when you are going to lay down and affirm for the void "Okay...whew well it's time to go to the void" Baby you ARE the void. The void state is literally just forgetting about your body until you fall asleep. 😭😭 That's why you cant hear, or see, or feel anything because you assumed a new part of you. That's why the distraction technique works so well. It is because you were easily swayed and distracted from your body, from your physical, and now only in your head.

"So how do I enter it?" It's really up to you. Do you want to peacefully go to sleep and wake up in it? Do you want to affirm it? Do you want to do sats? Whatever YOU feel comfortable doing.

Personally, the way I entered the void was through sats. I love sats so much, and I use it for almost every single one of my manifestations. Lie down in any position you want. (I personally chose my back.) Close your eyes and feel your whole body relax. Breathe in and out until your mind goes completely blank. Then affirm. Say "I" and breathe in "Am" and Breathe out. Repeat this process until you feel symptoms (floating, falling, etc) You may see it get pitch black behind your eyes, that's when you know You're in the void. (credits to reddit I got the affirming technique from there) One major tip is to make a rule that you always wake up in the void. You could affirm throughout the day how you wake up in the void on command/every night with ease. Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to ask questions, Anons are always open <3