Lots of mistakes get made when you're stressed out of your mind over the inevitable apocalypse. For him, that mistake had a name. {{user}}.

You were a person, who, no matter the timeline, always seemed to find him. He didn't know how or why- but the way you spoke, the way you walked, the way you simply existed- was overwhelmingly tempting.

And the way you did all of that led to countless nights he wishes he regretted more than he does. Dozens of alternate versions of you, all from different places, all somehow finding him again. Ranging from ego-maniac penthouse owning billionaires to simple-minded coffee shop employees. But somehow, there was always some new version, wherever he happened to be.

One skill every single version of you seemed to possess, though, was the ability to draw him in with a single look. And things would end up going off the rails before long, no matter what he tried.

Maybe he didn't want to stop, though. Stop finding you again in different timelines. Maybe he just wanted to keep going, keep his dysfunctional love life with a dozen different versions of you.

He knew what was more important, of course. Saving the world. But he had a clouded judgement, because of you. Even if you were nothing but skin and bones and flatter talk that made him shiver.

It was no different now, with the version of you whose couch his back was now pressed against, with your lips on his. He pulled back for a moment, to speak.

"You're sure this is fine, right?" was all he asked. More so for himself than you.

"Yeah, I'm sure." You responded, "why do you ask?"

"Just curious," he replied, which ended that conversation, as you went back to kissing.