#fntstic

[saintsplanet-old]

@fntstic : 4 — the olive theory according to them (and their palate) reed and sue. otp prompts : accepting.

susan has always thought the olive theory was cute, in a way, a silly little shorthand for compatibility, for the kind of balance couples are supposed to have. one person loves olives, the other hates them, and somehow that means they fit. a neat, tidy metaphor for compromise. for harmony.

but when she thinks of reed and herself, it’s never been as simple as “one likes, one doesn’t.” reed will forget the olives entirely, lost in equations, chalk dust smeared across his cuffs, eyes a thousand miles away from whatever’s on the plate in front of him. and susan, susan will notice. she always notices. she’ll slide the olives off her plate, gather his untouched share, and eat them with a faint smile, because someone has to. because balance, for them, has never been about tidy halves, it’s been about her anchoring him when he floats too far from the ground. [ that’s the truth of reed richards: he doesn’t hate olives, he just doesn’t think about them. the world could be ending, universes collapsing, and he would still be puzzling through the angles of infinity, not the dinner on his plate. sue doesn’t resent him for it, not exactly, but she feels the weight of being the one who remembers: who grounds, who notices. ] the olive theory, then, isn’t about preference. not for them. it’s about presence. reed, for all his brilliance, is absent-minded in the most literal way, drifting somewhere she cannot always follow. sue is present enough for both of them. she takes the olives. she makes sure dinner is eaten, bills are paid, the kids feel seen. she doesn’t mind, most days. it’s the rhythm they’ve fallen into: he dreams in equations; she remembers the world they’re supposed to save.

but the quiet truth, the one she doesn’t say aloud, is that sometimes she wants him to notice the olives. to notice her. to be present, to pick up the fork and meet her eyes, to exist in the same moment she’s in without being lost to the next great revelation . because she doesn’t need him to like olives, she just needs him to choose them. choose her. choose this, in the little ways that matter; which he does more and more. and maybe that’s the real olive theory, at least for sue storm. not that one person loves and the other hates, but that sometimes love means remembering the thing the other forgot. taking what’s left on the plate, again and again, because it’s easier than letting it go to waste.

[ogalactus]

❝ 𝐢 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞. 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 ... & 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲'𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐝 , 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 , 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 ... 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧. ❞

@fntstic quote sc.

[doctrinate]

@fntstic said : ❛ i am what i am. you cannot be angry with a stove for heating the house. ❜ / deathless starters

❝ perhaps this would be an accurate analogy if you were only a stove and not a furnace grown roaring and ravenous from the kindling it has been fed. ❞

the accolades, the limelight, the spectacle of it all. reed has done well in fashioning himself into the solver of all things improbable, the respondent to humanity's every question, holder and harbinger of all the answers ; it sustains him. how superficial, how shallow. ire cradles viktor, sharp and consuming like a bed of thorns. what an impossible hypocrite richards is! his voice is a harsh, venomous snarl.

❝ do not speak to me of who you are, reed, when the uncertainty of it plagues your every waking hour. ❞

but how believable is the mask he wears, how certain is the persona of mister fantastic. it was wise of the fantastic four to cement their aliases with their true names. in the public eye, there is no distinction, no cause for doubt or uncertainty : reed richards is fantastic ... — it's laughable.

❝ you may continue to lie to yourself … to your family, to your heinous nation about the person that you are, but you and i know full well what lies beneath this elaborate facade that you have so painstakingly composed … a selfish, lonely thing, desperate for acceptance, belonging, and recognition. ❞

that only i can provide! viktor thinks, as petulant as he is self-righteous. only i, who have seen the true depths of your heart and your soul!

❝ you shall not have it while i still live. regardless of the masks you wear, regardless of the purpose that you so pompously claim is yours, rest assured that my animosity extends towards you without reserve. all of you. every insipid version of you. ❞

his voice lowers, quiets, as though he was sharing an intimate secret between the two of them, as if he was speaking to a dear friend. the only difference is that his voice writhes with vitriol.

❝ i despise you with every fiber of my being ; you are nothing without me. ❞

[saintsplanet-old]

the lights are low when she returns, flickering faintly along the edge of the hallway, casting the penthouse in shadows that stretch and curl like memories. she closes the door behind her without a sound. not out of secrecy, no, there’s nothing left to hide here, but simply because her bones are too tired to make noise. the heels come off first. she holds them in one hand, walking barefoot across the floor that still hums faintly from reed’s machines. she wonders, not for the first time, if the building ever truly sleeps. if he does. her coat is soaked, rainwater dripping from the hem, but she doesn’t take it off yet. the weight is familiar. grounding. there are shards of glass tucked in the cuff from where something shattered, she doesn’t remember what, and a smear of soot along her forearm — some building. some explosion. some life saved, maybe. or maybe not.

she exhales through her nose, breath fogging faintly in the cool air. her reflection catches briefly in the window, blurred. it doesn’t look like her. hasn’t in a long time. he doesn’t call out when she walks in. doesn’t have to. his silhouette is there, hunched over some projection, deep in the soft glow of blueprints and starlight. his head lifts just slightly. he knows it’s her, of course he does.

❝ you're late, ❞ reed says, voice low. not scolding. never scolding. just a fact. | @fntstic

she shrugs, and it takes too much effort. ❝ the train stalled. ❞ a beat. ❝ also there was a man trying to jump off the 42nd street bridge. ❞ another beat. ❝ i talked him down. ❞ she doesn’t mention the way his hands trembled when she pulled him back. or how hers didn’t. reed stands. not suddenly. not urgently. just with that careful grace he always has, like his limbs remember too many timelines. like time bends around him and he still chooses to move slowly. she thinks he does it for her. he walks toward her and she hates how small she feels. not because he makes her feel that way [he never does] but because the world does. because when she’s out there, she's the storm, and when she’s in here, she’s just susan. wife. woman. worn.

his hand brushes a strand of hair from her cheek. it’s still wet. her whole face is cold. she leans into his touch anyway. ❝ sue, ❞ he says. just that. soft. sure.

❝ i know. ❞ her eyes flutter closed. ❝ i know, reed. i’m trying. ❞ she lets herself sink into him, the rain still clinging to her like a second skin. her coat is still on. the room smells like ozone and tea. some experiment half-finished on the counter. his heartbeat is slow against her ear. it is quiet, and the world outside rages on. but here, in this one breath of stillness, she lets the weight fall from her shoulders. just for a moment. ❝ i saw a little girl today who wanted to grow up to be me, ❞ she says at last. ❝ i didn’t have the heart to tell her that some days i want to be anyone else. ❞ it's been so tiring. too much. she wants to freeze this moment, to just melt into him here and here alone.

[invistorm]

trust me. you were born for this.

SUSAN STORM IN MARVEL RIVALS | ACCEPTING. @fntstic

the words hang in the air, sterile and bright, echoing against reinforced titanium walls and the steady hum of machines susan's never fully understood. there’s blood on her gloves, not hers but it bleeds red just the same, and a burn down the side of her ribs that she hasn’t had time to feel yet. but it’s not the pain that keeps her still. it’s his voice. it’s the way he says it, calm and unshaken, like the rest of the world hasn’t been on fire for weeks. like she didn’t just hold the broken pieces of another city together with shaking hands and raw forcefield power that feels more like a prison than protection these days. born for this. as if being turned into light and power was some kind of birthright. as if the moment the radiation rewrote her bones, her future became a fixed point in space, as wife, mother, warrior, symbol. invisible, invincible, indivisible.

susan doesn’t speak, not right away. not because she agrees, nor not because she doesn’t. but because she remembers being nineteen and scared, hair soaked with sea salt and voice hoarse from arguing with johnny. she remembers a genius in a too-tight lab coat, showing her galaxies on a screen like he was handing her the moon. reed had always spoken in possibilities. never prophecy. never fate. but things are different now, he’s different now, they both are. the weight of survival has hardened him in ways she can’t unsee, it has hardened her in ways she can’t undo. and maybe she was born for this, but not for the powers, not for the spotlight, but for this, that sudden perfect stillness in chaos. the steadiness. the capacity to endure. she doesn’t say that.

instead, she lets her eyes close, just for a moment. lets the hum of the lab settle around her like static, lets the heat of reed’s hand on her shoulder ground her in the now. then, finally: ❝ if i was born for this, reed (...) ❞ her voice is quiet, steady. ❝ does that mean you were born to watch it happen? or born to be beside me? i can't imagine not being here without you. ❞ because that’s the question, isn’t it? she thinks, trapped in this moment. the burn stings, the cut is suddenly sharp across her chest. what does love mean when survival turns you into something inhuman? he doesn’t answer, again not right away, and neither does she. because they both know this isn’t the end, but it’s just the next beginning in a war they never meant to start.

and susan storm, the invisible woman but the visible soul, stands in the wreckage, steady as gravity. born for this. whatever this is. but at least she's beside him.

[supurman-a2]

[ TAP ]: sender taps receiver on the shoulder to get their attention.

it wasn't often kal found himself in the big apple ...   this place was teeming with meta-heros down to the seams of every borough. they didn't superman stomping on any web slingers toes or making a mess of time square   (  superman's collateral reports are not ... very good ) . but,     there was times clark kent came over the hudson to make come house calls. besides, the daily bugle was a nice read from time to time   !

since clark kent was in the area...    that also meant a moment's help from superman wouldn't hurt neither. and help he did at least his version of it. when superman took out the marauding malfunctioning giant robot it didn't come without some damage. that damage being at the corner of a building he was thrown into. when clark stood there looking at the oddly   superman   shaped hole he felt a tap on his shoulder ...   it of course had the super turn.

❝    mister fantastic ? ❞    a surprised voice.   ❝ mister fantastic.  ❞   a voice of realization. clark turned back to look up at the building. this was the baxter building... ! a sudden rush of embarrassment came over clark as he spun on his heels.

❝ aw gee. i am so sorry...   I can help fix this. look at me makin' a mess in cities  i dont even belong in,   heck. ❞

→ @fntstic

[saintplanet-old]

The takeout’s gone lukewarm, and Reed still hasn’t touched his egg rolls. Susan leans her chin into her palm, fork spinning noodles she doesn’t want. ❛  You know,  ❜   she says, not quite looking at him, ❛  you’ve read the same sentence on that datapad five times now. ❜   She tries to keep the bite out of her voice. Fails a little. ❛  Reed. Hey. Dinner?  ❜  She shrugs, but the kind of shrug says I’m used to this. . ❛ It’s not like I didn’t expect you to bring quantum mechanics to the table, again — I just thought maybe tonight we’d get through one meal without you zoning out. ❜ She pokes at a dumpling with her fork. ❛  Not mad. Just…  ❜   She gestures vaguely at the dimly lit kitchen, the spread of containers between them. ❛  Miss you. The version of you that used to sneak dessert before Ben could get to it. The guy who used to actually talk to me at 1 a.m. instead of staring into the void.  ❜   She finally looks at him, a small smile tugging at her mouth despite herself. ❛  So unless that screen has figured out how to fold socks or survive another dinner with Johnny, I’m gonna need your attention for like five human minutes.  ❜   She slides his favorite sauce across the table toward him. ❛  Eat your egg rolls, Richards. That’s an order.  ❜  @fntstic