Link Here for our Review Show: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCIolVI8cViZQir1qlfEDpgw?view_as=subscriber Never too old to be a fan! Feel free to chat in messeges! or mail! We love to hear your thoughts fanfiction writer and movie reviewers. Credit to https://www.gettyimages.com/detail/video/film-reel-loopable-background-stock-footage/157028504 For the amazing header!!
Now THAT's a teaser. Proper trailers are making a comeback in 2026.
Primetime is an upcoming American biographical crime drama film directed by Lance Oppenheim in his narrative feature film debut. The film follows the origins of the television news magazine program To Catch a Predator, which featured host Chris Hansen confronting adult men who would arrive at a sting house to have sex with minors and typically get arrested as a result. (Wikipedia)
Quinta Brunson and Hannah Einbinder's reaction to Keke Palmer bringing up the infamous 2 Girls, 1 Cup video during the Comedy Actress Roundtable for The Hollywood Reporter (May 2026)
Summary: Set after 5.05. What if you got there in time to save the woman you love?
Warnings: whump, hurt/comfort, angst. Read at your own risk.
Editor: @midnighthazemeow
The last thing you expected, while poking around the crater in Firecracker's head, was for her to open her eyes and stare directly at you.
"What in holy fucking hell are you doing?" she uttered through her dry lips, eloquent as always, though you couldn't blame her this time around considering your palms, pressed over the large gaping wound on her temple, were partially inside her head.
This wasn't your preferred hole when it came to Firecracker, but a beggar couldn't be a chooser.
Besides, you were still mad at her — or you were supposed to be, at least.
It would be hard to remain mad at anyone — especially her; your heart ached with pain at the thought — to be left for dead in such an undignifying way.
"Don't move," you murmured, struggling against a heaviness squeezing your chest to push the words out.
Just a few more minutes, and you would be done. The worst had already been mended; the gray matter in Firecracker's brain was back to its original, undamaged (which was debatable…and completely beside the point), wrinkled state. The boney structure of her skull was fusing together, while her pale dermis knitted closed like a painstakingly stitched quilt — agonizingly slow, but, inch by inch, you were saving her.
So close.
Soon, her head would be whole again, and perhaps only then could you remember how to breathe after hours spent drowning in an unrelenting tide of strain.
Having the ability to heal was a fucking bitch.
A lot of people would consider your power a gift.
But, honestly, you considered it more as a curse.
It wasn't like the movies, where a hero touches someone, bright, soothing light spills out, and somehow everything ends okay.
Real healing wasn't that kind.
There was no fancy lighting, no bursts of joy when you healed people. Your power took as much as it gave. The pain that you removed from others didn't just evaporate into the void, No — there was a transference in energy; whatever trauma you took away, it was bestowed upon you.
It wasn't an issue when it came to something like a paper cut. A sensation of a pinch, you could deal with. But more serious injuries, like rebuilding a human fucking brain… well, that took a lot out of you.
It could, most likely, kill you.
"Where the fuck am I?" Firecracker demanded, her voice strained in confused agitation.
She was frightened, you realized. The last thing she knew was that someone had impaled the side of her head upon the wing of a decorative eagle, and now here she was, in an unfamiliar place, with someone she hadn't seen in well over a year poking around the very same wound that had almost claimed her life.
You would be terrified as well, in her shoes.
If you weren't already on the verge of passing out.
"Misty, please, just don't move," you begged. "I'm almost done."
The mention of her name seemed to put her at ease. Her eyes, big and beautiful, haunted in their complete and utter helplessness, locked on your face. Her eyelids narrowed, trying to decipher your intentions. She studied you the way she studied her audience, searching for the exact inflammatory words that would stir them up, lift them, and sell them the lie.
And where did that get her? you thought bitterly, suppressing a low, frustrated growl. She was assaulted, her skull was impaled on a statue, her blood soaked the floor, and she was left for dead – like she was nothing.
You had warned her.
You'd told her this would happen the last time the two of you had laid eyes on each other.
"You don't understand anything," she'd said as she'd walked out of the diner after lunch. She'd thrown the words over her shoulder without looking back, then strode out of your life for good — at least, that's what you thought.
It had hurt like a bitch.
You'd told yourself you could get over it. Firecracker didn't deserve for you to ache over her. She didn't deserve a single tear you shed. You'd told yourself you were done with her.
Today's broadcast of Truthbomb (that you'd told yourself repeatedly that you shouldn't watch and yet you'd seen every single episode devotedly because it was the only way you could see her again) only solidified it.
It was one thing to lie to the masses about stupid, meaningless shit.
To slander her former pastor, the man she told you had practically raised her, the man who had fed her when her own parents hadn't and looked after her when she'd needed him the most…
It was a low you never, in your wildest of dreams, thought she would reach.
She never had to say any of those terrible things. If she had just walked off set and come to your door, you would have taken her in no matter how shattered things were between you, no matter what it cost, no matter how much it hurt.
Instead, she'd sold her soul.
"Why are you helping me?" Firecracker asked suddenly, snapping you back to reality.
Really, why were you? She was a horrible person. She'd done so many despicable things.
And yet…
And yet.
Why did you let her back in?
Why did you keep letting her back in?
"I don't deserve it," Firecracker said after a small pause, the words bitter at her tongue.
Finally, something the two of you could agree on.
"No, you don't." The words tasted like poison, sharp and pointed. It stung to let them out, to aim them at her when she was in this condition — scared, vulnerable, dependent on your mercy — but she needed to hear them. You needed her to hear them loud and clear.
This was her fuckup.
You cleaning it up didn't make it any less so.
Firecracker swallowed. "Then why?"
Why, indeed?
"I was gonna beat your ass," you confessed.
That startled her. "W-what?" she stuttered in disbelief.
"Earlier today. I went up to your apartment to beat your ass." You shook off a memory of the vile words she'd spewed on live TV. "That shit you said was foul."
She had the decency to look ashamed. Her eyes darted away, no longer daring to meet yours. "Then, why didn't you?" she whispered.
"Because…" you paused.
Piece by dragging piece, her skull came together, the shattered bone smoothed and whole again. Layers of skin and flesh bloomed atop it like flowers after a rainstorm, pink, red, and vivid. Beautiful if not for the fact that the wound that used to be there bore the same colors.
It was easy to storm into the Tower, enraged to the high heavens, ready to throw hands with the woman your heart still bore heavy feelings for. It was easy to curse her out and wish her all the worst without having laid eyes on her, in person, for a year.
To see her like that, bleeding and broken…
That wasn't the kind of reunion you had expected.
You had wanted to hurt her. You, yourself, had wanted to scream in her face and call her every name in the book.
Whoever did that to her had no right.
"I don't want you to die," you said in a low, meek breath.
Firecracker, the snarky bitch that she was, snorted at that. "You just wanted to beat my ass."
"For fuck's sake, Misty, you know I'd never put my hands on you," you snapped.
You could trash talk, insult her, use vocabulary that would make a sailor blush, but you could never, ever harm her. No matter how much she may have deserved it.
Making sure the wound was fully closed, you pulled yourself to your feet and headed for the sink. Firecracker's blood coated your skin like a thick, coagulated glove. The smell of rusted iron lingered in the air, dense and suffocating. You resisted the urge to gag.
It was over.
Firecracker was okay.
She was safe. With you. Far away from whoever had almost taken her from you forever.
You scrubbed at your skin until it was raw. The cold water soothed you, kept you grounded. You had come so close to losing her. If you had gotten there a couple minutes later, she wouldn't be here now, annoying you with her very presence. She wouldn't be here for you to rage at and ache for at the same time — pulled in opposite directions by feelings you could barely stand to carry.
It always was love/hate with her.
Your knees buckled under the strain; your legs were like jelly, weak, flaccid. You grabbed onto the sink to keep yourself upright, fighting against the exhaustion that was eating away at you like acid.
You had taken every precaution. You'd eaten. Drank so much water your bladder wanted to press charges. Had taken your time with healing Firecracker.
For the hour it took to get her from the Tower to your car and back home, you gave her only the smallest amount of your power — just enough to keep her alive. Every second was a brutal calculation: too little, and you would lose her; too much, and you'd collapse before you could get her to safety.
Once you'd gotten home, it still took hours (over three, but who was counting?) to restore her brain and skull to their beautifully unmarred state.
It wouldn't have taken nearly as long if she were a regular human. But supes were nasty little things. The same V that had granted you the ability to heal had made their skin near-impenetrable, even by your own power. Irony at its finest.
It required patience and dedication, neither of which you usually had.
If this were any other person, you would have let them bleed out. It wouldn't be worth the hassle.
But this was Firecracker. This was your Misty. You couldn't leave her when you knew you could keep her alive.
Saving her was worth every single side effect of your curse of a gift.
You poured yourself a glass of water and gulped the liquid down like your life depended on it. Your hands were trembling, both fighting hard to keep the glass to your mouth, but to no avail; it slipped through your rattling fingers and shattered on the cold, hard concrete. Hundreds of crystals littered the floor, glinting in the fluorescent light overhead.
Fuck.
This was gonna be a bitch to clean.
"Easy there, babydoll," Firecracker said. Her arms, strong as ever, enveloped your middle just as the rest of you were about to follow the path of the glass. "Why don't you sit down? You've drained yourself something awful."
You allowed her — not that you had it in you to fight it. Not that you wanted to fight it — to lead you to the couch she was just lying on with a gaping hole in her skull mere moments ago. Kicking the shards off with her platform boot, she filled another glass and held it up to your mouth.
It had been so long since she'd taken care of you. You almost forgot how loved it made you feel, how safe and comfortable.
You missed it.
You missed her.
"So, what is this place?" Firecracker asked, placing the drained glass on the coffee table and taking a seat next to you.
"It's my bunker," you said.
She raised a curious eyebrow. "You got a bunker?"
"Your psycho manchild boytoy is kidnapping people off the streets and killing them in cold blood for looking at him wrong. Yeah, I got a bunker."
The words nipped at Firecracker like knives. She looked away, hurt and ashamed.
A pang of guilt shot through you; you swallowed it down. You may have still harbored feelings for her, but she was far from innocent in this. She had chosen Homelander over you. She had turned her back on you. She had screwed over not just the ones closest to her, but the entire country.
She was a big girl. She'd made her own choices.
She should feel bad.
"He ain't my boytoy," Firecracker said so quietly you could barely hear her.
"Oh, right," you said; you couldn't help yourself. "You're his girltoy." Your eyes fell to her chest, then trailed up to her damaged heart, face twitching with distaste. "His… dairy cow."
She was about to say something, but bit down on it. The truth was hard to argue. Her eyes turned glassy, rimmed with red, the same intensity as her costume.
It felt like a punch in the gut. Goddamn it!
Tentatively, you laid your hand over Firecracker's. "That wasn't cool. I'm sorry."
It wasn't okay, all the things she had done. It would never be okay. That didn't mean you had free rein to belittle her.
She was already down; it wouldn't be fair to keep kicking her.
"You ain't got no idea what it was like over there," she said. A tear spilled from her eye, staining her red cheek.
"You always had an out," you told her. "You know that, right?"
"After a certain point, no, I didn't."
"Misty, I was right here. All you had to do was call."
In fact, you were expecting her to. For days on end, you were hoping to see her number flash on your screen. Desperately hoping to hear her voice begging you to come get her. Ready to jump in your car and take her away from the hell she'd trapped herself in.
Firecracker snorted bitterly, "And you would've welcomed me with open arms." Her lips curled scornfully.
"Yes, actually," you said without a hint of sarcasm.
Her face fell as the truth settled in. She wasn't alone. She'd had choices, options. She'd had an out.
All she'd had to do was ask for something she'd never, in a million years, ever dare for.
"No one does a runner on Homelander."
"You could've tried," you said.
"This may surprise you, Y/N, but I like being among the living."
"And where did that get you?" you admonished her, crossing your arms across your chest, hoping to contain the fury burning inside just thinking about how you found her.
Left for dead in her apartment. Completely and utterly alone. Every bridge she'd ever built burned to the ground.
Almost every.
You were still there. Pissed, but still very much in love with her. As if she hadn't chosen fame, payback, glory over you. As if she hadn't crawled back to Homelander after you'd offered her an out when her heart had started failing and she was on the brink of death a year ago.
"You're killing yourself for someone who doesn't give a shit about you!" you'd shouted at her. Left unsaid was, I love you just the way you are. You wouldn't have asked her — demanded her — to change a single thing.
She hadn't cared.
She had chosen him.
Who was to say she wouldn't make the same choice and abandon you?
Would you let her back in once again?
Would you give her another chance, from the countless ones you'd already given her?
Yes.
Like the pathetic creature you were.
You would want to beat the shit out of her, as you had wanted to earlier today, but one look into those wounded doe eyes, and you would be disarmed.
Man, you were a fool. The woman could chew you up and spit you out as many times as she wanted, and you would still come crawling back. You would still let her back in to do it all over again.
Firecracker sucked in a pained breath. "I got fired today," she said, barely audible. "After the show."
"What?"
"Homelander told me to leave." The words were accompanied with a whimper, a weak little whine that ripped your heart into millions of pieces.
"Why didn't you?" you asked.
A fog of silence fell between you, so thick it could be cut with a knife. You could hear her swallow the lump in her throat, "After those things I said about my pastor… I didn't think I had anywhere to go. I sold my soul." She shook her head slowly, "There ain't no coming back from that."
She squeezed her eyelids tightly shut, as tears slipped and fell down her face. She choked back a sob, as her body began to tremble. Then more tears followed, wet and salty streaks painting her cheeks. The shame and guilt poured out of her. The pure and unadulterated self-loathing glistened on her face. Another sob she tried to hold back ripped from her throat, pained, desperately raw. Terrified because she'd never felt this alone, and she had no one but herself to blame for it.
Firecracker lowered her gaze, shoulders caving in as if she could no longer hold herself up. "I don't know what I'm gonna do now."
Gone was that confident bitch spouting nonsense for views and money. All that remained was a shattered, broken version of herself, the wreckage left behind by the persona she had turned herself into.
"I don't have anywhere to go. I've lost everything," she said desperately, covering her face with her hands.
That was the furthest thing from the truth.
You sat for a moment and watched her. You felt her pain radiating off her. Your heart ached seeing her so defeated.
"That's not true Misty," you said, your voice barely holding it together. "You still have me." The words hurt even as you spoke them; it stung that she didn't even consider you as an option, as someplace safe.
Firecracker wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked at you as if you'd suddenly sprouted a second head. "Why do you still want me?" she asked in disbelief.
"I told you, I don't want you to die," you said. "Look, I was pissed. I wanted to strangle you, I really did. But… Fuck, you know me. You know I'd never…" Your words died in your throat by the mere thought.
Hurt her.
Abandon her.
Leave her to fend for herself.
She may have burned every bridge, but the one between the two of you was still standing strong. Yes, on a shaky, structurally questionable foundation, but it had not yet crumbled. It was still whole. Not to say it was indestructible, but just about.
"Honey, I don't even know myself anymore," Firecracker quipped, a measly attempt to lighten the mood.
"You're my Misty," you said softly, the words fragile in your throat. "That's enough for me."
Her sad, beautiful eyes glistened with unshed tears. She gave a small, tentative smile that touched her face — that cute one you hadn't seen in far too long. You had missed that smile more than you wanted to admit. "You ain't pulling a fast one on me, are you?"
You shook your head. "I just got one condition."
"What is it?" Firecracker asked, lifting an eyebrow in quiet interest.
You straightened, your jaw tightening as you fixed her with a hard, unwavering look. "You can't go back. No more Homelander. No more The Seven bullshit. No more Vought."
You'd worried about her enough. It was time for her to pull her weight. Put her money where her mouth was.
Firecracker went still, her eyes dropping as she turned your words over in her head. After a long moment, she drew in a shallow breath, gave a faint nod, and whispered, "Okay."
Was she absolutely sure?
"I'm serious, Misty. I don't want you to run back to Homelander the moment things get hard. And they are going to get hard. There are consequences for the shit you did."
You gave her the truth without softening any of it. If she truly wanted a different path, she had to face what she'd done and accept that making it right would be painful, humbling, and far from easy.
"Even if I wanted to go back, it ain't like I'd be welcomed. I got fired, remember?" She swallowed a heavy lump in her throat. A new batch of tears welled up in her eyes. "I'm supposed to be dead."
Your hand found hers again and squeezed it. A silent reassurance that she was safe. That, as long as you were there, no one was ever going to hurt her again. That you would never leave her, never send her away.
"Did he do that to you?" you asked gently.
Her throat bobbed as her vocal cords quivered a mournful, "Mm-hmm."
New tears drenched her face.
Your heart ached with sympathy, with pain for what she'd gone through. No matter what she'd said and done, she didn't deserve that.
"Why?" you inquired.
"I tried to talk him into letting me stay."
Fuck.
You held her gaze, your face tightening with fierce resolve as if sheer will could shield her from him. "You're never going anywhere near him again. You hear me? You're done with him."
If he were to ever lay his eyes on her again, he would finish the job. You were certain of that. Not even your power could repair what he could do to her.
Firecracker gave a nod. Two nods. Three.
Good.
"I ruined myself for nothing," she whimpered.
"Nothing's ruined forever," you told her. "You can still make things right."
"How?" she asked, the word collapsing out of her. She sounded gutted, like she had fallen so far inside herself there was nothing left to catch her.
"We'll take care of your church," you said. "Save your pastor. That's gotta earn you some brownie points, right?"
She looked at you as if you'd just told her to swallow a fistful of broken glass. "How am I supposed to look that man in the face after everything?"
"I didn't say it's gonna be easy. Consequences, remember? You left a huge fucking mess. It's gonna be a bitch to clean."
Firecracker bit her lip. Her eyes darted sideways, away from your intense ones. Away from the hard resolution in your stare.
She was scared. Not just of Homelander, but of the people she'd hurt. The people she'd betrayed. The people she'd turned her back on the moment her own feet were held to the fire.
She'd chosen herself over them.
Just like she'd chosen Homelander over you.
Not everyone would be as forgiving as you. There was a lot of work to be done. Grueling, demanding work. But if she wanted to make things right, if she wanted to atone, she had to sit in her own discomfort. Because, in order to be accountable, you must own your mistakes.
There was no easy way around it. No shortcut.
She had to earn her redemption.
"You don't have to do shit if you don't want to," you said. It wasn't as if you were going to hold her at gunpoint. "I'm just saying… it'd be a nice thing to do. The right thing to do."
The choice was hers.
It had always been hers.
What she was going to do with it was up to her.
There was a short pause. Then Firecracker cleared her throat and said, "I… want to."
For — probably — the first time in her life she made the right call.
A broad, genuine smile spread across your face. "I'm proud of you."
A faint blush rose in Firecracker's cheeks, "You're dang near making an honest woman out of me," she joked, her accent thickening with each word.
A boisterous laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
You missed this. You missed these moments of simplicity, of normalcy. You missed your Misty.
God, were you happy to have her back.
Firecracker's face grew serious. "My chip!" she said in a panic, as if she'd suddenly caught on fire. Her hand instinctively pressed to the back of her neck. "You need to remove it. Homelander can locate—"
"Already done," you cut in assuredly. "I dug it out of you before I brought you down here. I didn't want unwanted visitors showing up."
She let out a long breath, and the panic in her finally began to die down like the last flames of a fire burning itself out.
It had been yet another wound you needed to heal, but it had to be done. The last thing you'd wanted was for one of the remaining Seven to show up to finish the job.
"Oh, and one more thing…"
Firecracker flinched as you pressed a hand to her chest, over her left breast. Her damaged heart thrummed in its zigzag pattern under your palm, an uneven hum that felt comforting. It felt like her.
It was that same hum that had alerted you that she was still alive. Faint, but there, ticking like a clock inside of her. Fighting to keep her alive despite its ragged shape.
As you summoned your own power and directed it toward Firecracker's heart, pain slammed into you like a blow to the gut. Your own heart lurched out of rhythm, your lungs tightened, and your breath caught in your throat as though an invisible hand was closing around it.
It's okay, you told yourself; your personal mantra you recited to yourself for situations like this. It's okay. I'm okay. I can do this.
Whatever force had decided to make this a side effect of your using your power could go fuck itself.
You felt every bit of Firecracker's heart molding itself back into its healthy shape. You felt every uneven beat it produced righting itself. You felt it blooming like a flower, healthy and new, a phoenix emerging from the ashes of its fallen self.
You felt it, and it hurt.
And you fucking loved it because it meant your girl was going to be okay. She could leave that nasty chapter of her life in the past where it belonged, her future unburdened.
Her life was about to start anew.
As soon as Firecracker's heart was fully mended, you slumped forward. Your head fell on her right shoulder. Her arm instantly shot around you, a tight, secure embrace keeping you against her. You almost forgot how warm she was. How soft. How safe it felt to be so close to her. Like nothing in the world could bring you a smidgeon of harm as long as she was holding you.
It was ironic; the two of you were equal in strength and durability. Aside from different main powers, you were an even match. Yet somehow, in moments like this, she felt like the strongest woman in the world. Your very own Queen Maeve.
"My heart," Firecracker said, pressing her other hand to her chest. Feeling the lush and healthy beat of her heart. Relishing in the sensation. "It's been so long since it ticked like this." She blinked away new tears, these ones of joy, of immense gratitude. "You don't know how much this means, babydoll. I can't possibly repay you."
"Don't fuck it up again," you rasped out into her neck, "…and we're even."
"I think I can manage that," she said with a smile. "It could've waited, y'know? You're already spent."
"I want you to be healthy," you told her. That was all you ever wanted; her safe and healthy, as far from harm as possible.
She pressed her nose into your hair and inhaled slowly, "You shouldn't go killing yourself for me."
"I just used up my battery, is all. I'll be fine."
Her concern filled your heart with warmth. This was the Misty you remembered; loving, caring, sweet. The far-right grifter persona was just that — an act. A character she'd put on to squeeze money out of crazed masses.
It never fooled you.
Bigots may have bought into it, but you knew better. You knew her.
Sure, she was ignorant when it came to certain things. She said the wrong things, used words she had no business using. But she wasn't actively hateful. She could do better. She could be taught better.
You had no problem teaching her, as long as she was willing to learn.
As long as she left the grift in the past.
Firecracker leaned over you and pressed the softest of kisses to the top of your head. A wordless thank you. An assurance that she appreciated what you were doing for her. An apology for not having seen sooner that what she wanted — what she needed — had been here all along; love, devotion, affection.
You.
Chasing Homelander had brought her nothing but ruin. For all his claims of godhood, he was nothing of the sort — and he was never worth Firecracker's dignity, her loyalty, or the life he had so selfishly tried to take from her.
He wasn't worth the dirt on the bottom of her platforms.
"I should've stayed," she said. At your confusion, she clarified, "Last year, at the diner. I shouldn't have walked out."
I should've chosen you was the silent implication.
She should have.
And you should have fought harder for her to stay.
You should have tried to reason with her instead of blowing up at her.
You shouldn't have let your concern over her sickly appearance and your envy of that overpowered manchild get the better of you.
"Are you staying now?" you asked, barely catching your breath. Afraid of what the answer would be for it was still hard for you to believe that you had her back in your life.
It still felt like a dream, one so fragile you feared it would vanish the moment you reached for it, leaving you to grieve it all over again with empty hands.
"Yes, ma'am," Firecracker drawled.
Your heart jumped with elation. Breathing in to steady yourself, you pressed your forehead to hers and closed your eyes. Basking in the feeling of a new beginning. Exhilarated at the prospect of a better future.
No more Homelander. No more Vought. No more far-right podcasts and talk shows, and empty, vile words uttered for profit.
I'm in love with Ian Cardoni's voice acting in this clip, especially the way Rick says "Ohhh, sweet bliss!" and "That overconfident little bitch! PREDICTABLE BITCH!"
