#Before and After Drug Addiction Photos

[pathologicalreid]

omg consider this a request to bury reader again lol. imagine having to go through that again…imagine SPENCER knowing you’re experiencing it again…….margot pLS IM BEGGING🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🙏🙏

black hole | s.r.

in which the BAU has to race against the clock to find you after you've been buried alive, again

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: spoilery content warning at the end of the post. lol. claustrophobia, being buried alive, death. reader does NOT die, spencer reid crashout, kids/pregnancy, blood, hospitals, spencer's addiction, being drugged, the replicator, i probably missed something!!!! word count: 5.35k a/n: guys can u believe my first fic on here was buried alive. and here we are. doing it again?

Spencer was surrounded by people who cared about him, and yet, the only person he genuinely wanted to see was nowhere to be found. He’d sent you home from the office, passing the car keys along and swiping the incomplete files from your desk.

You’d kissed his cheek the same way you’d done it thousands of times before, and he’d taken it for granted. He should’ve turned his head to kiss your lips. He should’ve left the files to finish tomorrow and gone home with you. He shouldn’t be looking over his shoulder right now, searching for something that wasn’t coming. You weren’t coming.

He’d sent you home, only to find himself standing in your kitchen hours later, surrounded by evidence of a struggle. There had been blood smeared across the floor, a nauseating pattern that, in his professional opinion, looked like someone had been dragged. Without enough time to DNA test the blood, he couldn’t be sure, but once the crime scene unit had typed the blood and it came back as your type, he felt comfortable in his assumption. You had been taken.

Abducted right from the home that the two of you had created for each other, a safe haven to retreat to when the world felt too cramped, too dark.

Remnants of fear lingered in every corner of the house, skylights built into the ceiling for optimum light and nightlights in every room. Spencer had designed the house for you, and Derek arranged the construction. To the average bystander, the open floor plan looked like a modernization of the original structure. To you, each wall was placed purposefully so that you’d never feel like they were closing in on you.

The first person he called was Alex. Part of him wondered if he’d chosen her because she was the only member of the team who hadn’t been around to witness this the first time. The first time Spencer had been standing in a room and had been told you were missing; it felt as though time had completely stopped. This time, it felt like a jackknife to the chest, stabbing him continuously until his legs went out from under him, leaving him gasping on the phone to his friend. The rational side of his brain tried to tell him it was because Blake lived closest, but the irrational portion of Spencer Reid was the only part of him that ever had second thoughts.

That irrational side of him was the side that was in love with you, and he couldn’t justify the probability of this happening again. The math couldn’t be completed, and Spencer was once again left in fragments, nothing more than a shattered mirror that bore the reflection of someone who had it all.

Now, back at the BAU, he stared at the confidential FBI folder that had been abandoned on the kitchen counter by your abductor. It had been dusted, only to find no sign of fingerprints. The evidence was laid out on the roundtable; each page, each horrifying photo served as a memory of what had happened to you two years ago. Left on top of the folder was a piece of paper torn from the journal your therapist had instructed you to keep. Scrawled in unfamiliar penmanship, the note read: He who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears.

He wasn’t concerned with the origin of the quote; he’d recognize Michel de Montaigne as surely as he would his own work. No, Spencer’s concern laid solely with the implications of the quote, and there was only one outcome he could come to. After all, suffering and your name were synonymous in his mind, even after all of this time.

You kept your eyes closed, grounding yourself just as your therapist had taught you in your hundreds of sessions. Soon enough, Spencer would wake up to your soft whimpers, and he’d coax you out of your paralysis. His hands would find their way to your shoulders, skimming his palms over the cotton of your sleep shirt, and he’d pull you up.

Any minute, Spencer would use the fader to illuminate your bedroom, providing you with the light that you needed as proof that everything was going to be fine. You’d anticipated this; the second anniversary of you being buried alive was just around the corner, and with it, the trauma bubbled to the surface. Even still, you found yourself frowning at the things your senses picked up—the smell of the dirt, the hard surface you were lying on, and the eerie silence of your surroundings. It took you a moment to realize that Spencer wasn’t cooing your name, trying to get you out of your nightmare without scaring you too much.

Clenching your fists, you found yourself missing the familiar pressure of your wedding ring on your left hand, and you told yourself that this had to be a dream. Since you’d gotten it, you only ever took it off if it was absolutely necessary. You’d missed the band so much that you’d gotten a cheaper one to replace it while you had the two pieces soldered together.

You took a deep breath, immediately overwhelmed by the rich earth that flooded your senses, the scent so pungent that you could almost taste it. Against your better judgment, you opened your eyes, letting the lids flutter open while you tried to adjust to the all too familiar darkness. A wave of nausea ran through you, churning your stomach while you tried to swallow it down—not wanting to lay in a puddle of your own sick. “No,” you breathed, having half a mind to sit up and look around, but as your eyes adjusted, you estimated there were only a few inches from the tip of your nose to the roof of your enclosure.

Tentatively, you felt around, grazing your fingertips across the interior surface of your newfound prison. Opposed to the smooth silk of the casket, you were met with a rough wooden surface that grated against your skin, tugging and pulling at the ridges of your fingerprints while you tried to bury your panic.

Denial only got a person so far, and there was nowhere else for you to go except to accept it. This was happening to you again.

This time, it seemed as though you were trapped within the confines of a wooden box, a collection of old two-by-fours haphazardly connected with various nails and screws. You could smell the age of the wood, damp and mildew only served to nauseate you further when mixed with the smell of the dirt.

He’d been put in time-out. Not that Hotch would ever use such layman’s terminology to describe the action taken but being told to sit in the roundtable room and stay there until they knew something felt like a child’s punishment. A flash out of the corner of his eyes signaled that JJ and Rossi had returned from checking the house, meaning Spencer had some explaining to do.

“What did you see?” Hotch asked as soon as they walked into the room. Spencer turned his head to gaze out the windows, watching the cacophony of the joint task force as it entered the next hour. He avoided JJ’s curious eyes, knowing that she knew.

Rossi’s leather boot tapped at the worn carpet in the doorway. “There was a cup of what looked like water on the kitchen counter,” he responded, nodding at the rest of the team as they all filed into the room. “The crime scene techs took a sample of it for testing. The field test came back positive for narcotics, but we won’t have an exact makeup until it comes back from the lab.”

A test that you didn’t have time for, but Spencer felt it was unnecessary. Hearing what they knew from the scene was enough to turn his stomach inside out, the kind of information that gets delivered and then all of a sudden, your ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton. He’d subconsciously tuned out any other news to protect himself while he looked at the data on the form that Rossi had given him. For a long time, Spencer had accepted that his brain was one that worked with figures and reason, but looking at the numbers in front of him—nothing processed. Every number seemed foreign to him, and nothing made any sense to him.

He stood up suddenly, sending his office chair flying behind him, the aged wheels clattering within themselves as he looked around. Horrified looks were sent to him from everyone in the room. It only took one glance at your picture on the screen for him to grab the paper from the polished wood table. “I have to… I need to…” He rambled aimlessly, staring at the paper while he blindly tried to find his way out of the roundtable room and down the ramp.

Practically bolting out of the bullpen, Spencer sought the fresh air that the campus would bring, but Hotch had told him to stay put, so he settled for the more or less abandoned interview room that neighbored Morgan’s office. The room sat unused most of the time, a fine layer of dust coating everything in plain sight.

Gracelessly pulling at the strap of his watch, he flung it across the room, each faint tick of the seconds a haunting reminder that you were rapidly running out of air.  He lowered himself to the ground, sitting down before his legs had a chance to give out beneath him. If he had shut down the first time, he was nothing more than a shell of himself right now, merely a pile of skin and bones that concealed organs—like a heart that was breaking. Pulsatile tinnitus made it seem like his heart was pounding in every area of his body, causing him to pull his legs to his chest, condensing himself so he didn’t take up so much space.

A soft knocking saved him from his own pit of despair, a familiar curtain of brown hair on narrow shoulders greeted his eyes, and the soft smile that Blake gave him dripped with pity. “Do you mind?” She asked rhetorically, gesturing to a chair in front of him before taking a seat. “What is it?”

Spencer’s brows furrowed, too stressed to deduce the meaning of her question. “What is what?” Dropping his hands, he thumbed the hem of his slacks, fiddling with a loose thread to occupy his busy mind. He tried to act as if there weren’t tornado sirens going off in his head, cluing him to an impending storm—one where he was bound to be swept up.

“There’s more to this thank you’re letting on,” Blake nudged the toe of her boot against Spencer’s sneaker. “Hotch wouldn’t have taken you out of the field if there weren’t exigent circumstances.”

Sometimes, he had to remind himself that even though she hadn’t been a profiler for very long, Alex had plenty of experience in the bureau. She had a knack for reading people and reaching conclusions, and, at this moment, Spencer despised her for it. He turned his head, resting his cheek on his knee, the displacement of his face causing one of his eyes to close. “She’s pregnant,” he confessed, the weight of the secret crumbling from the air around him.

He shut his other eye to avoid the look of shock that had inevitably taken place on Alex’s face. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen; you were supposed to be able to wait three more weeks until the second trimester and be able to tell everyone. It was supposed to be a joyous moment, not a secret choked out when there were no other options. “Hotch knows?”

Blinded by his eyelids, Spencer nodded. Hotch was the first person he’d told once that little plus sign popped up. Before you’d told any friends and family, Spencer knew he had to tell Hotch about the baby; he had to keep you safe. What a waste that had been.

Just last week, you’d gone to see the baby for the first time, the sonogram had been gleefully posted on your refrigerator that same day. He knew the chances that JJ and Rossi hadn’t seen it were next to none, so really, there was no more secret to keep.

You were just barely nine weeks along, the last few days had been spent debating whether or not you wanted to do a blood test to find out the sex, and now you might never know. He’d thought you’d be better off at home. He’d thought getting away from the office at a normal time would be healthy for you, but instead his well-meaning gesture had placed you under the radar of someone who wanted to hurt you. What was worse was this person undoubtedly knew who you were and what you were afraid of, they’d probably been watching you for a while.

Guilt burrowed deep inside of his gut when he lifted his eyelids, looking at the paper he’d taken from the roundtable room. Mixed in with whatever they’d given you to knock you out had been an unlisted narcotic. The field test hadn’t been precise enough to name the drug, but in the end, Spencer found he didn’t really care about the specifics. He only cared about what he knew. Narcotics were known to cause miscarriages, and when you combined that with whatever had knocked you out—GHB, Rohypnol, whatever—it only killed more hope. It brought Spencer to a place of desolation.

He was miserable as he handed the paper off to Blake, vaguely aware of the people passing by in the hallway, rubbernecking near the door to try and get a glimpse of him. “Did the UnSub just take whatever was left over in your medicine cabinet and give it to her?”

The question was innocent enough. Maybe in another lifetime, you’d have a few pills left over from various hospital trips, but that wasn’t the case in this timeline. “We don’t keep narcotics in the house,” he answered a tad too quickly.

Interrupting his thought process, JJ poked her head into the interrogation room, “Uh, Hotch wants everyone in the roundtable room.” Her sorrowful blue eyes pierced through Spencer, with him sitting on the floor, everyone felt so much bigger than him. “The Replicator sent us a message.”

You gasped a sob, trying to rein in your emotions so you wouldn’t use as much of your limited air supply, but with every passing moment, you found it that much more difficult to hold yourself together. Reaching up a hand, you pressed your palm at the ceiling above you, pushing up at the roof of your enclosure to no avail. Paranoia was beginning to creep in, telling you that the things you were hearing were the worms in the soil preparing to return you to the earth.

Swiping your hand on the wood, you repeated the motion until you were clawing at the rotting material, attempting to burrow yourself out of confinement. The split grains tugged and pulled at your fingertips, leaving splinters to interrupt the fine lines of your prints. You were on the verge of throwing a tantrum, kicking and scratching at your confines, until one of the boards broke, bringing you to a screeching halt.

You’d kicked one of the boards loose, breaking it and leaving the void to fill with dirt. Lowering your shaky hands, you took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regulate your breathing through techniques you’d learned over the years. You’d spent countless hours in therapy trying to help your claustrophobia, but you’d used that time to navigate things like elevator rides and tiny bathroom stalls. You never thought you would need to prepare for this to happen to you a second time.

You couldn’t halt the tears when they finally came. Part of you knew that crying would use up what little oxygen you had at a fast rate, but the other part of you, the despondent part, didn’t have the energy to care. You tried for a moment, covering your mouth with your bleeding palm to contain the volume of air you were taking in, to no avail. You had finally lost control, and the fuzzy feeling in your brain was only exacerbated by the scent of the dirt that coated your hands.

It just wasn’t fair. Subconsciously, you knew the concept of fairness should’ve been something you’d given up on years ago, but as the air surrounding you grew stale, it was all you could think about. The idea that you’d spent your morning with Spencer trying to prove to you that your bump was showing, giggling while using the false name you’d assigned to your unborn child as you insisted you were just bloated.

Slowly, you dragged your bleeding fingertips down your torso, leaving them resting hesitantly on your lower belly, the exact spot that Spencer had insisted was protruding just that morning. Bile rose in your throat as you feared what your day of turmoil meant for your baby. You had no idea how long you’d been in the ground, and you had no idea how much time you had left. Spencer would’ve figured it out—he had last time. One sleepless night, you’d made him explain tidal volume to you, and he’d let you comb your fingers through your hair while he told you the story of the last time he came to your rescue.

As you lay there, paranoid, wondering if you were imagining the pain in your head and stomach, it occurred to you that you never should have come back to the BAU the first time. The sleepless nights you’d spent combing through the trauma of your teammates, convincing yourself that what you’d been through was nothing in comparison to their scars, had been entirely unnecessary. You kept a tally of the flights of stairs you’d taken when one elevator ride would’ve sufficed, wearing the count as a badge of honor. You could count on one hand the number of elevator rides you’ve taken in the last two years—they were usually spent with your head in your hands and Spencer’s hand on your back.

You’d always compared yourself to Emily, who’d lost her life, and Hotch, who’d lost his love, and you decided that if they could return to the field after those events, then there was no reason for you to lag behind. You forced yourself to play a part you didn’t belong in, and you could never forgive yourself for it. It’s part of the reason you let your eyes fall shut when the air grows thin, wondering if there was any point in coming back to a life you weren’t mean to be living.

He'd run out of things to throw, eyeing the books that he’d left scattered on the ground, his watch still discarded somewhere in the interview room. His tie was loosened to the point that it was almost slipping off of his neck while he desperately tried to catch his breath. Each time he settled down, he remembered you were suffocating, and the cycle continued.

The Replicator had all but taken responsibility for your abduction, and the world around him had begun to spin. Quickly, everything began to make sense, repeating a crime that had been committed against you and using narcotics to knock you out.

His addiction had never been officially documented in any FBI files, but that didn’t stop Spencer from placing fault on himself. There were easier ways to incapacitate someone, and somehow, the Replicator had chosen the method that was likely to do the most harm. Spencer put his trembling hands over his head, knowing that if he’d never taken that vial off of Tobias Hankel’s corpse, you wouldn’t be in this situation now. His mind that had been previously praised for genius drew convoluted lines between the dots, making connections that he never should’ve considered.

In the doorway, Alex came to his rescue once more, holding a Kevlar vest in her hand while smiling at him kindly, “We found her.”

The distance between Quantico and the cemetery was no more than a blur to him. He had no idea when it had started to rain, but he found each pelt of a raindrop to be soothing, welcoming the constant drumming that occupied his minds, keeping him away from catastrophizing.

Rossi, Hotch, and Emily had arrived only moments before the second SUV, but they’d wasted no time in getting the cemetery staff to dig at the coordinates Penelope had found in the message sent by the Replicator. The rain made the soil move like sludge off of the makeshift casket that contained the love of his life, and he took his first step toward you when he saw the broken pieces of wood.

A familiar arm went out in front of him, blocking his path to you with a sense of fraternal protection, but Spencer tried to push Morgan away. He was the weaker of the two, exhausted by his own emotions as he shoved his way through to you. Distantly, he heard himself asking to be let through, but it wasn’t until the lid of the casket was popped that Blake spoke up for him, “Derek.”

Immediately, Derek’s arm dropped, releasing the hold he had on Spencer and allowing him to run to you. The sopping ground sept into his shoes as he ran, falling into the mud while Emily and Hotch precariously pulled you out of your enclosure. Morgan’s intention had been to shield Spencer from the harsh reality of your death, but even if you were gone, he still felt an otherworldly pull to you. After all, what was the point of promising ‘til death do us part if he wasn’t with you when you went?

Mud coated every spare inch of his clothes, but he couldn’t care less as he scrambled to take your hand in his, gently pressing his fingers to your wrist and waiting for something—anything. “Baby, please.” He couldn’t tell, the radial pulse could be undependable, so he moved his hand to your neck and crouched his head over your face, immediately comforted when he heard the faint whistle of air flowing through your nostrils.

Relief flooded his senses, inclining his head to rest his forehead against yours and nodding profusely when Emily asked him if you were alive. His chest shook with a sob as he pulled back, tugging his FBI jacket off and laying it over you to try and warm you up, the rest of the team following suit while JJ and Hotch tried to flag down the ambulance. He tuned out the frantic discussion of the team and the loud blare of the emergency vehicles.

Shifting so he was sitting on the ground, he gingerly placed your head in his lap, using his fingertips to deftly wipe away the dirt and blood that covered your marred skin. He noted a scratch on your head, and a quick scan of your body didn’t show him any visible injuries, though your hands displayed a nauseating portrait of your time in the ground, torn apart with dozens of splinters. “I’ve got you,” he cooed to your unconscious body. He looked up to see a team of EMTs running towards you, decked out in rain gear and medical supplies, “She’s pregnant.”

His words elicited a stare from one of the rain-soaked paramedics, telling him he had reached the same conclusion that Spencer had already resolved himself to. “We’ve gotta get her out of this rain,” he said, loading you onto a spine board and lifting you to the gurney so they could easily roll you to the ambulance, leaving Spencer scrambling to catch up with you. He practically threw himself into the ambulance, refusing to separate himself from you.

Spencer squeezed your hand, hoping you’d squeeze back, staying as far back as he could from the paramedics while keeping his fingers intertwined with yours.

Nothing hurt when you came to, but you could feel the familiar pressure of a bandage around your leg. Sensation traveled up to your hands, each of your fingertips precariously wrapped with cause, initiating the healing of your cuts from when you’d tried to scratch your way to freedom. Slowly, you took a deep breath, letting the antiseptic air of the hospital flood your senses.

Through your eyelids, you could see that the room around you was bright, and a soft smile tugged at your lips despite yourself—Spencer was here. You felt him now, the soft touch of his hand on your arm, the imprint of a hand you knew as well as your own. The warmth of his palm served as a brief distraction before your brain registered a dull ache in your stomach, and somehow, you just knew. A low keening sound slipped from your throat, more from the compressed escape of air than a complaint of any pain you felt.

“I love you,” Spencer whispered gently, his voice hoarse with emotion, “So, so much.” He took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your battered knuckles. “Oh, honey,” he sighed, gently squeezing your hand, minding your wounds.

He was so gentle with you—he always had been. His fingertips drifted over your arm with an attention to detail that rivaled a medical doctor, minding the IV in your arm when he moved past it. You tried to mumble an I love you in return, but the words came out unintelligibly.

Spencer’s ministrations came to a halting stop at this first sign of life, “Hey,” he cooed, “What was that?” You felt the side of your mattress dip as he took a seat on your bedside, he hushed you gently, dragging a knuckle up and down your cheek while silently pleading for you to speak.

He was testing you, that much you knew. He wanted to know if being deprived of air had cost you your ability to speak. You shook your head at him, denying the implication as you cleared your throat determinedly, “I love you, too.” Your voice was gravelly, likely from all of the screaming you had done in the tomb, but it was there, and it was coherent.

The hospital sheets scratched at your skin while you tried to coax yourself into opening your eyes, the promise of seeing Spencer providing an incentive. Taking a deep breath, your eyelids fluttered open, looking up at his sorrowful eyes. Even so, he smiled at you softly, just happy to see you awake, “There’s my girl.”

The tear tracks on his face were like daggers to your heart, bringing with them a terrible reminder of whatever fear he felt when you had gone missing. You blinked additional sleep out of your eyes, focusing on him and his exhaustion, “How long?” You asked, watching him reach over for a glass of water, guiding the straw to your mouth.

He waited until you’d taken a few sips before answering your questions, “You’ve been asleep for two days.” He said, setting the cup to the side—close enough that you could grab it on your own if need be.

You made a face—two days was a long time—and sighed, relaxing back into the pillows while you tried to find the right words to say. “How’s…. Am I…?” You stumbled through the question, tears welling in your waterline before you even had the chance to ask. Swallowing thickly, you could only hope Spencer understood when you were getting at before you had to force the words out.

Your husband shook his head softly, “There’s no heartbeat.” His voice was tight, but he maintained his position as a pillar for you to lean on, keeping your hand in his just in case you needed additional support.

It didn’t hurt, not right now. You were sure the grief would hit you at some point in the near future when the sun hit your face just right or a blue car passed you by. Some inexplicable harbinger of grief would enter and exit your life just as quickly as your child had. “Okay,” you breathed, gazing at Spencer, hoping your eyes would have the ability to convey how you felt.

“They haven’t pinpointed a cause; it could’ve been any number of things, but it’s not… Are you in any pain?” He cut himself off to check in on you; he studied your expression with a stoicism that rivaled your boss.

You shook your head, “No.” The achiness you felt wasn’t strong enough to fully qualify as pain, and anything that was there, your body had already gotten used to. You were sure there was something in your IV that was assisting the numbness in your limbs.

Spencer raised his eyebrows doubtfully, “Would you tell me if you were?” He asked you, giving you a look that reminded you he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Will you just… not tell anyone I woke up yet?” You shifted uncomfortably on the bed, “I’m not ready.” You needed time to prepare for the prying eyes and barrage of questions that were bound to come with the BAU.

His head bobbed, “Anything. Anything you want,” he promised, dragging his knuckle up and down your cheek. Subconsciously, you leaned into his touch, prompting him to cup the cold skin in his warm palm. “You could go back to sleep if you wanted to.”

You hummed woefully, “Not yet. I missed the light.” Besides that, you wanted to enjoy your sedated mind before it became overwhelmed with a flurry of emotions. Right now, you felt peace, and you deserved to have that kind of silence. Surely the dam would break, but as long as you could hold it off, you just wanted to lay in bed with Spencer. “’m cold,” you mumbled thoughtlessly, thinking of it as a throwaway comment before you remembered who you married.

Spencer had a pile of blankets to his left, and he deftly pulled the top one from the pile and got to work placing it over you. “Is this better?” He asked, timidly tucking the blanket under your side and making sure you were well-covered.

Wincing, you slid your hand beneath the blanket and lifted the side, creating an opening for him to slip into. Your silent invitation was accepted when Spencer kicked his shoes off and joined you in the crowded hospital bed, “Much better.” You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, “Spence?”

“What is it, honey?” He asked, skimming the pad of his thumb over your side, his large hand splayed against your back.

Clenching your left hand into a fist, you sighed, trying to ignore the tears that were pricking your eyes. “Did you find my ring?” You remembered missing it in the ground, but you’d forgotten until just now, your finger once again intolerably bare.

A gentle kiss was pressed to the crown of your head, “Yes.” He twisted back, plucking the familiar ring off of your bedside table and returning it to its rightful home on your ring finger. “It was on the back of your sink in the bathroom,” he explained, twisting the band so the gem was facing out.

Small, sad tears trickled from your ducts. You sniffled, and Spencer’s grip on you changed—not tighter, but firmer as if he had anticipated this moment. The moment when what you had been avoiding finally caught up with you.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured you. You didn’t even have to ask for him to rub small circles on your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. As it had been for years now, Spencer was the only reason you felt safe enough to let your eyes fall shut, and even the darkness of sleep didn’t seem so intimidating when you knew you had him near.

spoiler content warning: miscarriage

[loveharlow]

↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ Towards The Sun

Dad!Rafe Cameron x Mom!Fem!Reader [ more rafe content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [1.9k] Marrying a man whose known to have a temper wasn't for the weak, but with your newborn daughter in the picture, you're especially determined to make sure he knows that the cycle won't continue.

WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ part of @zyafics MRGA campaign, based on Towards The Sun by Rihanna, swearing, mild violence, yelling, mentions of substance/alcohol abuse, mentions of rehab/therapy, mentions of relapsing, their baby is named Eve

YOU KNEW WHAT you were in for when you got involved with Rafe Cameron. Or so you thought.

You were no stranger to his drug addiction, his temper, or the pressing family issues that seemed to trigger it all. And you weren't there to be his savior by any means. But you loved him, and it was clear he needed help.

You saw a light within him that no one else seemed to, and although it wasn't your job to bring it to the surface, you made it your mission anyway.

You spent the majority of your relationship teaching Rafe that everything didn't need to be a battle, that the world wasn't against him. After six months together, you'd helped him get clean and sober. After a year, you'd encouraged him to start therapy for his anger, him being hesitant until you told him you were pregnant and that it was non-negotiable.

And now, a year into your marriage, you had an eight-month-old daughter you both loved very much. Your number one priority was fostering a safe and stable environment for her.

But like all progress, it has the potential to go backward.

You were sitting on the couch in the living room of your and Rafe's home, your daughter sound asleep beside you, laid out on the hand-knitted blanket your mother had made for her. The TV was on, playing one of your favorite movies, when the slam of the front door echoed through the quiet house, rattling the framed photos on the hallway table.

You flinched, a hand instinctively going to your heart. It wasn't the usual gentle click of Rafe coming home, the one that meant he'd had a good day, that he was still fighting his demons and winning. This was different. This was the sound of a storm brewing, a beast coming out of hiding.

You pushed yourself up from the sofa, glancing at your restful child. "Rafe?" you called out, your voice tentative.

He was in the kitchen now, his back to you, shoulders hunched. He was silent, but his breathing was so heavy you could hear it across the room.

At his silence, you sighed, gently scooping up your daughter, careful not to wake her as you stood, cradling her against your chest. Walking over to him slowly, you spoke once again. "Rafe," you started, standing next to him as he took deep breaths. "What's wrong-"

"What isn't?" he snapped, pushing himself up from the counter. He shot you a glance as he turned away, one you recognized. And one you didn't like. "Apparently, my father's trying to collaborate our development with another business. I mean, does he know how stupid that is?" Rafe ranted, hands moving wildly as you stood in place, dangerously still. "Not only is it fucking stupid, it means I'm moving down in the ranks. Again. After he promised me—" He slammed his fist on the counter, a force so large the ground underneath your feet shook.

"Rafe—"

"After he promised me I was next in line!" he shouted, face turning a dangerous shade of red.

You hadn't seen this side of Rafe in so long that it was hard to digest, but you weren't going to let it spiral. He'd worked so hard to get where he was now; you weren't going to let one mishap upend it all.

As he heaved in the kitchen, you quietly exited the room. You rocked your baby, trying to keep her asleep amid the chaos brewing in your family home, as you walked down the hall and to her nursery. You gently laid her down in her crib, turning on her mobile before silently leaving and softly shutting the door.

You could still hear Rafe talking to himself, the clanking of dishes in the kitchen ringing out as you took a deep breath, making your way back into the kitchen.

"He's such a piece of shit—"

"You need to calm down," you said bluntly, rounding the corner and standing before your husband with your arms crossed, eyebrows set into a firm line.

"C-Calm down?" Rafe said incredulously, his wild gaze now on you. It was the middle of the night, the only light being the flash of colors coming from the TV.

"Yes, that's what I said," you assured him, walking closer to Rafe as he shook his head, scoffing as he opened the cabinet where you kept your glasses. "You're losing control. Don't let go of everything you worked so hard to fix, Rafe—"

"Yeah, 'cause that's all you fucking care about," he snapped, slamming the cabinet shut and letting the glass clank against the countertop. "I get screwed over by my dad, again, and you're worried about my temper—"

"Don't talk to me like that," you snarled, your face twisting in mild anger. "And don't act like you had no part in this. I told you to stop working for your dad a long time ago—"

"And go where, huh? With what money? If I don't work for him, he'll take everything," he argued, opening the liquor cabinet and pulling out an unopened bottle of whiskey you'd forgotten about.

You tried not to keep alcohol in the house, but it was an old engagement gift you'd overlooked.

Rafe wasted no time unscrewing the cap, moving to pour it into the waiting glass before you snatched it from underneath the tilted bottle.

"What're you—"

"If you drink that," you motioned to the whiskey bottle, "that's it." You informed him, jaw clenched.

Rafe squinted in your direction, bottle still in hand. "...What're you saying? That...that if I drink this, you're going to leave me? What you think one glass is gonna make me relapse or somethin'-"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," you told him. Your heart was pounding in your chest, but you needed to stand your ground. "You're letting one bad day send you back to where you were before. And I love you, Rafe. But I'm not your guardian angel. I did my part, I helped. But I won't go through that again." You said, all in one breath. "We... we have a daughter now. I won't let you turn this house into a war zone."

Your breath hitched. It had been years. So many hard-fought months and years. So many late-night talks, so many tears, so many meetings he'd dragged himself to, even when every fiber of his being screamed to just give up. And he'd done it. He'd been doing so well.

And as much as you wanted to make sure he'd stay that way, you wouldn't force it. You wouldn't prolong what might be the inevitable, because if that was who he was, then you needed to know now so you could get out before it was too late. Rafe had to make his own choices. To prove, by himself, that he could be the husband and father he vowed he would be.

And he could see it in your eyes — the looming possibility of heartbreak standing next to the motherly instinct to protect your daughter. He could see the battle in your mind in the reflection of your eyes.

And he hated that he was the reason for it.

On the drive home, all he could see was red — his father's indecisiveness and unwillingness to give Rafe the recognition within the company that he deserved, sending him down a path he'd abandoned long ago.

But as he stood, staring at you, his wife, the mother of his only child, in the eyes — he recognized just how badly he was hurting those who actually cared about him.

Your hand held out in front of him is what pulled him from his thoughts, pulled him from his rage. "...Either give me the bottle and go calm down, or me and Eve will be gone by morning, and you'll be left to clean up the pieces, by yourself this time." The words pained you to say, but they were necessary.

Rafe needed to be pulled back to reality, to be reminded that his actions had consequences, that he wasn't just an individual anymore — he was part of a whole. He was a husband, a father, a part of a family. Your family.

And if he wanted to keep it together, then he needed to act like it.

One drink wasn't worth losing either of you, he realized. And with that realization and a deep breath, he lowered his arm, handing you the open bottle.

A weight was lifted off your chest at the possibility of having to tear apart the family you wished upon stars for, that you cherished so much.

Taking the bottle from Rafe's grasp, you wasted no time in pouring it down the drain — watching the amber liquid flow, your heart just a little bit lighter.

"...I'm sorry," you heard Rafe mumble from beside you, turning to find him standing with a forlorn look on his face.

You sighed, placing the empty bottle beside the sink, leaning your back on the edge of it. "I won't lie to you and say it's fine. Because it's not, Rafe," you started, looking your husband in the eyes. "I understand you're upset. We all get upset. And I know you want to scream and break something and lash out at everyone, but you can't. Because it's not just about you anymore." You explained, throwing a hand out in the direction of your daughter's nursery. "I'm exhausted enough as is. I can't mother you, too. I won't."

Rafe nodded, dragging a hand down his face. "No, I get it. I get it..." His voice lowered as his eyes grew glossy. "I just feel like, every time I do something right, something goes wrong and sends me back so far, and I can't—" He cut himself off, a tear rolling down his face as he turned away from you.

"...Hey," you stepped closer, a hand on his shoulder. "I'm here. I'm always going to be here, Rafe. As long as you're there for yourself, too. I love you, and I married you because I love you for who I know you are. So, I'll always help you. But I just don't want you to throw yourself off a cliff and expect me to go with you. That's not what this family is." You comforted, hugging him from the back.

The sound of your daughter's soft cries broke through the light tension in the room, Rafe's neck snapping towards the sound. "Shit. I didn't wake her, did I? I'm sorry, I know it probably took forever to put her down—"

"It's okay," you squeezed your husband from behind, ducking under his arms to stand in front of him as his own hands went to your waist. "She was actually asleep for most of the day, she's probably hungry." You reassured Rafe. "Do you want to feed her? I think she missed her dad..." You spoke softly, running a hand down his chest as the other wiped his face free of tears.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I missed her, too. Both of you." He smiled faintly, kissing the top of your forehead. "I'm still learning, but I'll get it right one day, okay? I promise." Rafe told you, ducking down to peck you on the lips.

"I appreciate that," you whispered, lips just barely touching his as he pulled away. "And I appreciate you. Let me go and get her," you told Rafe, pulling away and going to get Eve from her room, returning to the kitchen with her in tow.

Rafe's eyes immediately lit up at the sight of his daughter, a genuine smile forming on his face. "Hi, Princess," he cooed, arms outstretched as he took her from you. "I missed you all day..." He spoke softly to her. "C'mon, let's get some food in you."

You smiled at the sight of your small family, something you'd always dreamed of. It wasn't perfect, quite far from it, but it was safe, stable, and most importantly, it was yours.

©loveharlow.

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[meadowfics]

lockscreen

namgyu x f!reader

who wouldn't put their cute boyfriend as their lockscreen?

warnings: mentions of drug addiction. angst into fluff

this was requested <3

loving namgyu is never hard.

it was the easiest thing in the world, really.

what was hard was watching him destroy himself, knowing that no matter how much you loved him, no matter how much you wanted to save him, he had to want to save himself first.

those first months together were some of the hardest of your life.

namgyu was drowning in his addiction, and you were barely keeping your head above water trying to pull him out.

you spent too many nights waiting up for him, only for him to stumble through the door smelling like alcohol and smoke, eyes red and unfocused.

there were arguments, slamming doors, nights where he passed out before you could even say goodnight.

still, you stayed, because you loved him.

because you saw the man he could be, even when he couldn't.

love alone wasn't enough to fix him.

eventually, after one too many broken promises, one too many nights spent crying yourself to sleep,

you made the hardest decision of your life...you walked away.

not because you stopped loving him, but because you loved him too much to watch him keep destroying himself.

it was during that time apart that namgyu finally decided to change.

he checked himself into rehab, cut off the people who enabled him, and found a new job...one that didn’t have drugs and alcohol in every corner, one that didn’t drag him back into temptation every night.

you didn’t know all of this at the time.

all you knew was that, after months of silence, he showed up at your door sober, steady, and more sure of himself than you had ever seen him.

he told you he was clean. that he had been for months.

most of all, that he still loved you.

taking him back wasn’t a decision you made lightly.

when you looked into his eyes, really looked, you saw the man you had always believed he could be.

that was all you ever wanted.

now, three years into your relationship, things were different.

they were better.

namgyu still had his moments of doubt, but he had grown so much.

he smiled more now, genuine and unburdened.

he let you love him without questioning why you did.

he loved you in return in a way that left no room for doubt.

the two of you never minded using each other’s phones. there were no secrets, no reason to hide anything.

so when namgyu needed to check something online and his phone was charging in the bedroom, he didn’t think twice about picking yours up from the coffee table and unlocking it.

what he didn’t expect was to see a picture of himself staring back at him.

it wasn’t a picture he had taken or one he even remembered being taken.

as he looked at it, his breath caught in his throat.

it was from when you both visited your family in your home country over a year and a half ago.

the golden hour sun cast a warm glow over his face, softening the sharp lines of his jaw.

his black hair, always brushed, looked almost blue under the sunlight.

he looked… healthy.

he remembered that trip well.

it had been just three months into his sobriety.

he had been shaky then, still learning how to exist without numbing himself with substances, still wondering if he even deserved to be happy.

he hadn’t realized you had captured him like this...at a moment when he was still struggling, still doubting himself.

yet, somehow, in this photo, he looked at peace.

he stared at it for a long time, fingers hovering over the screen as a strange feeling swelled in his chest.

“when did you set this as your lock screen?”

his voice came out quieter than he expected, almost hesitant.

you had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around your body, damp hair dripping onto your shoulders.

at the sound of his voice, you glanced up, eyes flicking to your phone in his hands.

when you saw what he was talking about, a soft smile tugged at your lips.

“i’ve had that as my lock screen since the evening it was taken.”

namgyu blinked. he looked down at the picture again, then back at you.

“wait, really? but that was… that was over a year ago.”

you nodded, walking over to him.

“yeah. i never changed it.”

namgyu felt his throat tighten. of all the pictures you could have chosen, you had chosen this one.

a picture from one of the most vulnerable times in his life.

a time when he still wasn’t sure if he was worthy of a second chance, of happiness, of you.

yet, you had seen something in him then that he hadn’t seen in himself.

setting your phone aside, he reached for you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck.

you smelled like shampoo and warmth and everything safe in the world.

“you’re a great photographer,”

he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin.

you let out a soft laugh, running your fingers through his hair.

“and you’re a good model.”

he huffed out a small chuckle, shaking his head.

“nah. you just make me look good.”

“you make yourself look good,”

you murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

“you always have.”

namgyu tightened his hold on you, his heart full in a way it hadn’t been in a long time.

he had spent so much of his life convinced that he wasn’t enough.

that no one would ever look at him and see something worth loving.

but you did.

you always did.

masterlist

[lowrisemiller]

ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ ᴄʀᴏᴡʙᴀʀ

this one-shot is inspired by lana del rey’s unreleased song velvet crowbar

javier peña x DEA!fem!reader

javi gif from @perotovar divider by @uzmacchiato

you came to Colombia from New York with a badge, a mission, and no intention of getting attached. but months later when you’re scarred, restless, and unable to forget what you and javier peña went through—you’re not sure what’s left to hold onto. until one night, he shows up at her door, and nothing feels like duty anymore.

masterlist | 7.8k words | photos do not depict what reader looks like | mentions drugs, canon narcos talk, javi has a real bad drinkin problem, allusions of violence, reader gets kidnapped, slooowww burn, lots of javi pov!, smutty smut smut, he loves suckin on tits sue me, munch!javi duh, surprise surprise they hit it raw (DONT DO THAT), soft sex lots of I love you's, little bit of javi receiving head, & riding

I was addicted to you but I didn't know it .✦ You were afflicted by booze .✦ You didn't show it huh .✦ Life is a velvet crowbar Hitting you over the head .✦ You're bleeding but you want more .✦ "This is so like you," I said “Put yourself on back to bed.”

Bogotá smells like rain and grit, like wet stone and burnt coffee and something darker that never quite washes away. You step off the plane in the thick of the rainy season, boots hitting pavement slick with oil, and you already know the city will not be kind to you.

You’re DEA. Five years in New York. Undercover buys, dead drops, informants with trembling hands and blood under their nails. You were good at it, good enough to get noticed. Good enough to be transferred. Now you’re here, knee-deep in the worst war on drugs the agency’s ever seen, and they’ve dropped you into it like you’re a match in a powder keg.

They told you you’d be part of something bigger. That your experience was needed. What they didn’t say—what they didn’t need to say—was that you were walking into a man’s world. A dirty, blood-slicked one that doesn’t make room for women unless they’re bleeding, bruised, or biting back.

Not that you’re entirely surprised. You came from the Big Apple after all.

They talk over you at meetings. Call you mamacita under their breath. Smirk when you offer suggestions. You learn fast that respect isn’t given here. It’s taken.

So you take it.

You drag a cartel runner out of a brothel in the south side of the city, in the middle of the bustling street, cuff him with his pants around his ankles, and drive him back yourself with a cracked rib and half your blouse stained red. The next day, no one calls you sweetheart. They still don’t like you, but they know better.

The job is constant. Always moving. Surveillance, raids, interrogations, bullshit. Colombia eats agents alive. You see it in the eyes of the rookies, the twitchy ones. They come in wide-eyed and go home in body bags or not at all. You’re not sure which you’ll be yet.

You hear about Peña before you meet him. Always just out of frame, the center of every whispered rumor.

He’s the hotshot. The one who plays dirty, drinks harder than he sleeps, and somehow stays three steps ahead of Escobar’s men. Murphy says he’s bad news. Carrillo says he’s driven. Everyone else just says he’s dangerous—and not just to the people he’s chasing.

You try not to care. You’ve dealt with men like him before. Charisma surrounds him like smoke. Charm like a loaded gun. But the name lingers in your mind long after lights-out.

You see him for the first time at the embassy, late at night when the halls are empty and the fluorescent lights hum low overhead. He’s leaning against a doorframe, shirt wrinkled and stained with something too dark to be wine, tie hanging loose like a noose around his neck.

He looks at you like he already knows everything. You slow your steps, your gaze catching on the way his fingers twitch, like he’s halfway through lighting a cigarette that isn’t there.

“You’re the one from New York,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges.

You nod. “That’s me.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. Just let his gaze drag across your face, down to the holster at your hip, then back up. “Welcome to hell, agent.”

And then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the corridor like smoke curling under a door.

You stand there a moment longer, heart thrumming in your throat, before turning away.

Later, when you finally sleep, you dream of velvet and blood and a man with whiskey eyes who looks at you like he’s already seen the ending.

The first time you’re assigned to work with Peña, it’s a stakeout.

No briefing. No welcome. Just a sharp knock on your door at 6:12 a.m., and when you open it, he’s standing there coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, aviators hanging from the neckline of a sweat-damp shirt.

“Grab your shit,” he says. “We got a lead in Teusaquillo.”

You don’t ask questions. Not because you trust him—hell no—but because you’ve learned that here, time spent talking is time someone else uses to get away.

The ride’s quiet. Bogota unfolds around you in soft gray morning light, all crumbling walls and rust-stained rooftops. Peña doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at you. He just drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, a half-lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.

You steal glances. You can’t help it. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t care that you’re studying him.

You’d call it arrogance if it didn’t feel so... hollow. There’s something hollow in him. Like the violence carved out everything else and left a man made of leftover smoke and sinew.

He parks two blocks from a mechanic’s shop with boarded-up windows and an upstairs flat rumored to belong to one of Escobar’s lieutenants. You settle in. Binoculars. Radio. Notebooks. The usual. But the air’s heavy. The kind of thick that presses behind your eyes.

Four hours pass in silence. Five.

You learn the way he fidgets when nothing’s happening: thumb tapping his thigh, tongue pressing against his back molars like he’s chewing on words he won’t say. Every so often, he scribbles something in a small notebook. Names, maybe. Codes. You can’t tell.

Around hour six, you finally speak. “You always this quiet?”

Peña doesn’t look at you. “You always this nosy?”

You let the silence return, but this time, it hums with heat.

It rains at noon. Of course it does.

You shift in your seat and ask if he wants coffee, stretching your arms out, cracking your back. He doesn’t answer right away. He just exhales slowly through his nose, watching the rain hit the windshield, before he finally says, low, “Only if it’s black.”

You bring him a lukewarm cup from the vendor down the street. When you hand it to him, his fingers brush yours for half a second.

It feels like someone flicked a live wire against your skin.

He must feel it too. For the first time that day, he looks at you. Really looks. And you see it: the wreckage behind his eyes. The wear and tear. The man running on fumes and sheer defiance.

You think, fleetingly. 

 My baby’s on his eighth life, darling.

The thought disturbs you.

The bust happens fast. A kid leaves the upstairs flat with a duffel bag and nervous hands. Peña’s out of the car before you process the door slamming shut. You’re right behind him.

It unravels into gunfire in under three minutes.

You drop to one knee behind the car as bullets crack overhead. Peña’s already returned fire, teeth bared, eyes bright. He moves like he’s dancing with death, like he’s done this so many times it’s boring now.

Someone’s screaming. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s the kid with the duffel. You don’t know. You just fire and move and breathe until the world stills.

Three bodies lie crumpled in the alley. None of them are yours.

When it’s over, you’re sweating and shaking. Adrenaline still rattles in your bones.

You turn to him. “You good?”

He lights another cigarette with a trembling hand, breathes in deep. Then he mutters, almost absently, “You’ll get used to it.”

You want to scream at him.

Get used to it?

To the blood, the stink of it, the way your hands still feel the shape of the trigger even when it’s over?

But you don’t.

Because part of you, a dark, unspoken, shameful one is already used to it. 

Maybe always was.

He walks off to talk to Carrillo. You stay behind, staring at the blood pooled in the gutter. Your hand still trembles as you try to light your own cigarette, but it slips between your fingers twice before you finally get it.

Peña doesn’t come back for you. He knows you’ll follow.

And you do.

That night, you can’t sleep.

You lie awake in your tiny apartment, sheets tangled around your legs, fan clattering in the corner. Your body’s sore. You smell like sweat and smoke and steel.

But it’s not the mission that keeps you awake.

It’s him.

His voice. The shake in his hands. The moment he looked at you like he saw every flaw and fracture and welcomed them. Like he wanted to press his fingers into your broken places and call it comfort.

You roll onto your side and stare at the wall.

You don’t want to want him. You really don’t. But already, it’s there. Rooting itself deep. Curling around your ribs like vines.

Javier Peña is a slow kind of ruin. And you—God help you—you’ve always been a sucker for a long fall.

It’s been four days since Peña showed up to work.

At first, no one blinked. He was known for disappearing—trailing informants or losing track of time in cartel dives but by day three, even Murphy was checking his watch more than usual. You tried not to care, tried to convince yourself that agents burn out all the time.

But when his informant turned up dead in the Zona Rosa and Peña didn’t answer his radio, something shifted.

Murphy looked up from his desk, jaw clenched. “Something’s wrong.”

He’s got one kid and another on the way. A wife who’s already half out the door. When another lead comes in at the last minute, he gives you the keys to the Ford Bronco and says, “Just check on him. Please.”

You don’t answer. You just drive.

His apartment’s in a building that’s seen better decades. Faded tile, dim hallway lights, a sour mildew smell that clings to the peeling walls. You knock once, wait, knock again—harder.

No answer.

You press your ear to the door and hear it. The dull clink of glass. The buzz of a radio left on some Spanish station, low and mournful. A body shifting against leather.

You don’t hesitate. You pick the lock and slip inside.

The place is dark, except for the gray-blue light spilling in through the window. A record’s spinning in the corner, half done. The couch is soaked. Not in blood—thank God—but in spilled bourbon and sweat. And there he is.

Javier.

Flat on his back, half-dressed, arm thrown over his face. There’s a bottle on the floor beside him and at least two more empty on the coffee table.

You stand there for a long moment, arms crossed, jaw tight. He doesn’t even stir.

Your voice cuts the quiet like a scalpel.

“This is your big plan, Peña? Drink yourself into a coma and hope Escobar turns himself in?”

He groans, low in his throat, like he’s just now dragging himself back to consciousness. Doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t move.

“Didn’t ask for a babysitter,” he mumbles, voice gravel-thick.

“No,” you snap, “you didn’t. But you stopped answering your radio. You missed the last two intel briefings. You didn’t even show up when Vargas walked.”

He shifts, turning his head toward the ceiling, one eye cracking open just enough to look annoyed. “Why do you care?”

That catches you. Harder than it should.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth—the real one, the one pressed up against your ribcage isn’t for him to know. That you do care. That you haven’t stopped thinking about him since that goddamn stakeout. That every part of this job makes you feel more numb, more wrecked, more like him.

You move closer, but not enough to seem gentle. You kick an empty bottle out of the way, hard enough to make it clatter against the wall.

“You don’t get to disappear, Peña. Not now. Not when people are counting on you.”

He laughs dry and mean. “People don’t count on me. They tolerate me.”

You crouch down in front of him, low enough that he has to look at you.

“Murphy’s worried. Carrillo wants you benched. And me? I walked into this apartment half expecting to find your rotting corpse.”

He flinches. Just barely. But you see it.

His voice is quieter now. “Then why the fuck are you still here?”

You pause. Let the air thicken between you. Then say, soft but sharp, “Because I didn’t want you to drink your own regrets alone.”

That lands.

His face tightens. The mask he wears that’s cool, untouchable, cynical slips, just for a second. Enough for you to see the exhaustion underneath. The guilt. The part of him that knows he’s falling apart and doesn’t care enough to stop it.

You stand again, dragging your gaze over the mess he’s let himself become.

“I’ll be back in an hour. If you’re still here when I return, I’m dragging your ass into a cold shower and then straight to Carrillo. You’ll wish you’d died when I found you.”

You walk to the door.

Just before you open it, he says your name.

Quiet. Hoarse. No apology in it. No plea.

Just your name, the way someone might say it in the dark to remind themselves they’re not alone.

You don’t look back.

You just say, “Sober up,” and leave the door open behind you.

It’s been a week since you found him in his own personal graveyard of booze and guilt. A week since he said your name like it was something sacred, then disappeared into silence.

He came back to work the next morning clean-shaven, wearing a shirt that didn’t smell like whiskey, hair combed and expression unreadable. Murphy gave him shit, Carrillo gave him orders, and you gave him nothing.

Not even a nod.

It wasn’t punishment, it was survival. Whatever passed between you in that apartment, it’s a crack in the wall neither of you knows how to patch. So you kept the silence and he respected it.

But he’s different now.

Not better. Not worse.

Just... watching.

You feel his eyes sometimes. When you walk past. When you speak in meetings. When you laugh, when you don’t. He’s not hitting on you he never did. It’s not sleazy or careless. It’s quiet. Careful. Like he’s waiting for something.

Like he’s still thinking about the fact that you didn’t look back.

You’re in the records room when he finally speaks to you again.

It’s late. The embassy’s mostly empty, the halls hushed. You’re surrounded by heat-stained files and the buzz of a dying fluorescent light. You’re tired, sweating under your blouse, hair tied back with a pencil you forgot to remove.

The door creaks behind you. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him.

He doesn’t say your name this time.

“Didn’t think you were the type to stay late.”

You slide a folder back into its drawer. “Didn’t think you were the type to come back.”

He huffs something like a laugh, quiet and sharp. Then, softer, “Touché.”

You don’t face him. You just keep filing.

“You want something, Peña?”

“Just saw the light on,” he says, “and thought—”

You cut him off. “If you’re about to say something stupid like ‘thanks,’ don’t.”

Silence.

Then: “Wasn’t gonna.”

But he doesn’t leave. He steps into the room and leans against the metal cabinet nearest you, arms crossed. His shoulder brushes the edge of yours—just enough contact to feel it, not enough to call attention to.

“You ever wonder why we do this?” he asks after a beat. “Why we stay?”

You glance at him, frowning. “Because if we don’t, Escobar wins.”

“That’s the company line.” He meets your gaze now, his own unreadable. “I mean you. Why you stay.”

You should shut it down. Should tell him to get out and take his existential bullshit with him.

But instead, you say, “Because I’m good at it. Because it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not wasting space. Because when it’s quiet, I start thinking about all the people I didn’t save.”

It’s too honest. It slips out raw.

You don’t meet his eyes again. You just move to the next drawer.

But Peña doesn’t flinch. He shifts closer. Not enough to crowd you—he never does—but enough for you to feel the warmth coming off him.

“I think about that night,” he says. “You kicking my bottle across the room like you wanted to kill me with it.”

You smile despite yourself. “I still might.”

“You could’ve reported me. Could’ve let Carrillo have my badge. Would’ve been easier.”

You close the drawer. Turn to him. “Would’ve been cowardly.”

His expression softens. Just barely. The hard angles of him blur under the soft buzz of the dying light.

“You scare me a little, you know that?” he says, voice low.

You blink. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s supposed to be the truth.”

You let the silence stretch this time. Let it sit.

There’s something simmering between you now. Not fire. Not yet. But heat. Potential.

He reaches past you, grabs a file he has no reason to touch, lets his fingers brush yours as he does.

This time, you don’t pull away.

And when you finally speak, your voice is quieter. Thicker. “This changes nothing.”

He nods once. Serious and firm. “I know.”

But he doesn’t move. Neither do you.

He can’t stop thinking about her hands.

That’s the thing. Not her mouth, not her ass—though God knows his brain’s tried to go there out of habit. But no. What keeps looping through his skull at night, in the dark, is the way her fingers looked pressed against his chest that night on the couch.

The callus on her trigger finger. The precise anger in her grip when she shoved the empty bottle away from him like it insulted her personally. The way her hand shook, just once, when she thought he couldn’t see.

It’s pathetic. He knows it. But he thinks about her hands when someone else’s are on him.

The woman in his bed tonight smells like coconut oil and cheap cigarettes. She’s some informant’s cousin—or maybe she said she worked at the bar in El Cartucho. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t ask.

She moans his name like she means it, like she knows him.

She doesn’t.

He’s already halfway gone.

He rolls off her when it’s over and lights a cigarette he doesn’t want. She tries to cuddle. He gets up and shrugs his jeans back on, muttering something about early meetings. She doesn’t press. They never do.

By the time he’s back in his car, windows rolled down, sweat drying on his skin, he’s already thinking about her.

Not the woman he just fucked.

Her.

The one who hasn’t so much as smiled at him since she landed in Colombia. The one who walked into his filth-stained apartment and looked at him like he was still worth saving.

He’d rather be punched in the face.

He’s seen it happen to other men—DEA guys who get that wide-eyed thing about one of their own, fall into bed with someone who carries a badge and a temper, only to get left holding the guilt when the mission takes her out first.

Not him. He keeps his women outside the building, off the books, out of the way.

Except... Now he doesn’t want any of them. Not for more than a night.

And he doesn’t want her either.

He wants her gone. Out of his head. Out of his space. But every time she walks by—blouse clinging to her spine in the Bogotá heat, voice calm and sharp in meetings, he finds himself holding his breath.

And when she leaves the room, he has to exhale.

He watches her sometimes. He hates himself for it.

From the breakroom. From the side of a hallway. From the back row of a briefing.

She doesn’t even glance at him anymore. Not since the records room. Not since she looked him dead in the eye and said this changes nothing.

He believed her.

But it had. It changed everything.

He still flirts with the receptionist. Still lets his fingers linger when passing intel to the blonde who runs field logistics. Still makes some dumb comment when the ambassador’s wife brings lunch to the office.

But he never touches her.

Never jokes. Never asks if she’s free Friday. Never offers her a light for her cigarette when she’s outside, leaning on the brick wall like she’s holding the building up by herself.

Because she’s not like the others.

She’s the kind of woman who makes you want to quit drinking—not because she asks you to, but because you suddenly want to deserve to be seen by her again.

And that’s the most dangerous thing in the world.

He dreams about her sometimes. In the dreams, she never says a word. Just looks at him the way she did that night—tight-lipped, furious, afraid.

In the dreams, he always wakes up sweating. Alone.

Sometimes it’s the best part of his day.

He hangs on to all those little moments that occur during the day.  

Like when she passes him a manila folder one morning during briefing—fingers grazing his knuckles, just barely. He feels it like a fucking static shock. He doesn’t flinch, but it coils deep in his stomach.

Later, he’ll forget what the folder even said. But he won’t forget the brush of her hand.

Another day. It’s hot. She’s got her sleeves rolled to the elbows and a smear of dirt across her cheek from a bust in the jungle. He watches her gulp down lukewarm water from a dented thermos, her throat flexing, eyes closed.

He has to look away.

When he lights a cigarette, she asks for one. Doesn’t look at him when he hands it over. Doesn’t thank him, either.

Still, he holds that image like it means something.

He dreams of her in that records room.

Not naked. Not moaning his name.

Just standing there, arm crossed, and sweat on her brow.

He wakes up hard anyway.

She starts wearing her hair down. Probably not for him. But maybe.

He watches it stick to the back of her neck. He thinks about moving it aside. He thinks about kissing the skin underneath. He thinks about what she’d do. How she’d slap him, shove him against the wall, maybe kiss him right back.

He doesn’t do it.

A month passes like that. And then, everything breaks.

It’s supposed to be clean.

In and out. Intercept a delivery. Get the courier. Bring him in before breakfast.

They don’t even get a scream on the radio.

Just static.

Then Carrillo’s voice: “We’ve lost eyes on the second vehicle. Peña, respond.”

He’s already grabbing his vest before the words finish.

She was in that car.

The wreck is still smoking when he gets there. Blood on the ground, no bodies. Signs of a struggle. Boot prints. Drag marks. Her weapon on the gravel, clip half-ejected, as if she’d tried to reload mid-scramble.

He finds a smear of blood on the passenger door.

Too much to ignore. Not enough to prove she's gone.

He doesn’t wait for backup.

He doesn’t wait for anything.

He just starts hunting.

Three men die in an alley within the hour.

He doesn’t even ask the first one a question—just shoots him in the kneecap and watches the others panic. The second gives up a name. A warehouse. East end. Off the grid.

He doesn’t thank him.

He doesn’t feel anything.

The warehouse is rotting, windowless, stinking of rust and piss. He doesn’t go in there quietly.

The first two men barely have time to look up. The third draws a gun. Javier shoots him in the throat.

He’s breathing like an animal now. Can’t hear anything over the pulse in his skull. His blood feels radioactive.

Then he sees her.

Tied to a chair. Hands behind her back. Duct tape on her mouth. Blood crusted at her temple.

But she’s breathing.

And she’s looking right at him.

He moves like he’s underwater. Crosses the floor in seconds but it feels like years. Drops to his knees in front of her, pulling a knife from his belt.

Her eyes are wide. There’s no fear in them.

Just recognition. Relief. And something else.

Something fragile.

He cuts the tape from her mouth, and she gasps in air, voice ragged: “You came.”

He can’t speak. He just cups her face, thumbs brushing dried blood, trying to convince himself she’s whole. Her cheek presses into his palm like it’s the only thing holding her up.

“I thought—” she starts, then chokes on it.

He shakes his head. “No. Don’t.”

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

And now he’s the one breaking.

“I would’ve burned this whole city down,” he says, voice shaking. “I would’ve leveled it.”

She closes her eyes, leans forward until their foreheads touch. Her breath fans over his lips. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

The others arrive twenty minutes later.

He doesn’t let go of her until the medics make him.

Even then, his hands hover—like he might need to grab her again. Like she might disappear.

She doesn’t.

She looks at him over her shoulder as they load her into the van. And for once, she does smile. A small one.

Not wide. Not flirtatious.

But real.

And it guts him.

He goes home that night, covered in blood—some hers, some theirs, some his.

Lights a cigarette.

He doesn’t sleep.

He doesn’t dream.

Just stares at the wall and thinks of the way she whispered You came, like he wasn’t the one who needed saving.

She didn’t mean to start thinking about him.

It wasn’t part of the plan. Bogotá was supposed to be all work. Just another station. Just another hunt. Get in, track Escobar, do the job.

She’d dealt with worse than this before—misogynists, cartel hits, bad coffee. She could’ve handled it.

But not him.

Not Javier Peña.

It started small. The cigarette passed between my fingers. The quick glances over briefing reports. The way his eyes found you across rooms he had no business being in.

At first, you thought he was just another man trying to get under your skin.

Then he stopped trying.

And it got worse.

Before the mission, you’d dreamed about him. Not even a sex dream. Just a quiet one. His shoulder against yours on a bench. His hand on your knee. The kind of domestic nothing you didn’t let yourself think about anymore.

You woke up unsettled. Then got in the SUV. Then got taken.

And the whole time you were being dragged through that hell, wrists zip-tied, head pounding, all you could think was: I’ll never see him again.

Not your parents. Not Murphy. Him.

It should’ve scared you more than it did.

Now it’s three days later, and your apartment feels like a jail cell.

You’re healing. Bruised ribs. Scrapes. Nothing major, nothing deep. The medic said you were lucky.

You don’t feel lucky.

Your hands still shake when you’re pouring water. Your dreams are full of gravel and duct tape. And behind all of it is him..

Not the version from the office. The version who found you.

Bloody. Breathless. Eyes like thunder.

When he said I would’ve leveled this city, you believed him.

And you haven't been able to shake the way he said I didn’t have a choice.

It’s almost dark when the knock comes.

You don't expect it to be him.

You open the door anyway, and there he is. Standing in the hall like something scraped raw. His jacket’s slung over one shoulder. His shirt’s wrinkled. He smells like smoke, sweat, and aftershave.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then:

“I should’ve called,” he says, voice low.

You blinked. “You don’t call.”

His mouth twists at that—something between guilt and a smile.

“I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“You saw the report,” you say, stepping aside anyway.

“I didn’t believe it.”

You stand awkwardly in your living room, hands stuffed in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. You’re in a pair of shorts and an oversized tee, hair damp from the shower, still smelling faintly of antiseptic.

“Did you come here to check on me,” you ask, “or because you needed to see it for yourself?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since the warehouse. Eyes tracing your bruises like they’re war maps. Stopping at the butterfly bandage near your temple. The tenderness at your ribs.

Then he swallows hard.

“I needed to see you,” he says.

You sit on the edge of the couch. He doesn’t.

The silence stretches.

Then you say softly, “You killed six men looking for me.”

“Seven,” he says. “One of ‘em just didn’t die right away.”

Your throat tightens. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” he says. “It’s supposed to tell you I’d do it again.”

You finally meet his eyes.

And there it is.

That shift. The thing they’ve both been dancing around since day one. It’s not about sex. Not anymore. It’s about something bigger. Louder. More terrifying.

He cared.

And now they’re both stuck with that truth.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you say.

He nods. “Right back at you.”

“You shouldn’t have come alone.”

“I always come alone.”

You snorted. “Yeah, I know.”

He breathes out a laugh at that. Runs a hand through his hair.

Then: “Can I sit?”

You gesture to the space beside you.

When he sinks into the couch, the cushion shifts. Their knees touch.

It’s the first time they’ve been this close since that night in the records room. But it’s different now. Slower. Like every inch is charged with memory.

You turn toward him. “Why are you really here?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

“I’ve been trying to forget about you,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“Thought if I slept around enough, drank enough, worked enough, I’d stop.”

You stay quiet.

“I can’t,” he says finally. “I can’t stop.”

Your voice is just above a whisper. “You respect me too much to flirt. But not enough to stay away.”

He closes his eyes for a beat. “That about sums it up.”

And then he leans forward, forearms on his knees, head in his hands.

“I fucked this up,” he mutters. “I let you get taken. I—”

You grab his wrist.

Not gently. Not softly. Just firm.

He looks up.

“You saved me.”

He searches your face like he’s not sure he’s allowed to believe you.

“I didn’t come out of that warehouse afraid of you,” you say. “I came out knowing exactly who I’d trust to come for me.”

Something in him breaks open then.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He doesn’t touch you.

He just leans in until their foreheads rest together in the quiet.

They stay like that. Breathing the same air.

And maybe that’s all they need right now.

He’s been to her apartment more times in the last three weeks than he has to his own.

At first, it was to check on her. Drop off meds. Bring her dinner when she wouldn’t remember to eat. Make sure she wasn’t trying to get back in the field too soon.

Then she started teasing him about it. Called him Nurse Peña. Said he should get her a little bell to ring when she needed things.

And somehow—somehow—he didn’t run.

She laughs more now.

Not a lot. Not like it’s easy. But it happens.

The first time she laughed at one of his stupid jokes, he almost dropped the coffee mug he was handing her. The sound startled him. It was warm. Unforced. Real.

He didn’t think he’d ever hear her laugh like that.

Didn’t think he’d deserve to.

There’s a new rhythm between them now.

She gives him shit about his taste in music. He tells her she grinds her teeth when she reads case files. They eat on her couch and sometimes fall asleep watching badly dubbed telenovelas with the volume low.

It’s not domestic. Not exactly.

But it’s the closest he’s had in years.

He flirts with her now.

Just a little.

She rolls her eyes every time. Calls him a menace. But she never tells him to stop.

He brings her a sandwich one night after a long debrief. She’s got her feet up on the coffee table, bandage finally off her temple, a yellow legal pad in her lap.

When he sets the sandwich down, she glances up. “Will you always feed me when I’m injured?”

“Nah,” he says. “Only when you look like you’re gonna forget to eat.”

“Oh, so now you care about my nutrition.”

“Wouldn’t want you to pass out mid-briefing. Then Murphy would cry and I’d have to console him.”

She snorts. “I’d pay to see that.”

He grins. “I’d charge you.”

She tosses a crumpled sticky note at him, and he dodges it like a pro. “So rude,” she says.

He shrugs. “You like me rude.”

And it’s there—again. That flicker.

She looks at him a second too long. Then shakes her head and opens the sandwich.

He watches her take a bite and pretends it doesn’t do anything to him.

He doesn’t fuck around anymore.

No informants. No girls at the bars.

He doesn’t have it in him. Not now. Not since every time he closes his eyes, he sees her in that warehouse chair and remembers how empty the world felt until she looked up at him.

She’s healing.

Not just the bruises. The rest of her. He can see it. In the way she stretches without wincing. The way she walks like she owns the floor again.

But there’s still a mark on her. Something permanent.

He knows. Because he’s got it too.

She catches him watching her one night, and instead of brushing it off, she asks softly, “What?”

He almost says I thought you were gone.

He almost says I haven’t slept properly since.

He almost says Don’t get hurt like that again. I don’t think I’d survive it.

Instead he says, “Just making sure you’re alive.”

She blinks. That’s all. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t deflect.

She just says, “I am.”

And for the first time in weeks, he breathes like his lungs aren’t on fire.

She’s been cleared to return.

He knew it was coming. Could feel it in the way she moved it was less careful, more sure. The bruises had gone from purple to green to nothing. The bandages were long gone. Her eyes had that fire again.

But it hits him harder than he thought when she says the words.

“I’m cleared. Back in the field next week.”

He nods. Stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on her windowsill. Says something like, that’s good, or you ready?

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just stands in the kitchen, twisting the ring of condensation on her glass of water. She’s in one of his old shirts again—says it’s softer than hers—and it’s hanging off her like it always belonged to her.

Then she says it, quiet, like a sin:

“I never wanted to get better.”

He freezes.

She keeps staring down at the glass like it’ll forgive her for saying it.

“Not really,” she murmurs. “I mean—I knew I couldn’t stay like that forever. I didn’t want to be helpless.”

“But?” he hears himself say, voice low, unsteady.

She finally looks at him.

“But if I got better… I figured you’d stop showing up.”

He could laugh. He could make a joke.

But nothing comes out.

Because something’s burning in his chest now ugly, raw, relentless, and it’s got nowhere to go.

He crosses the room without thinking. Leans on the counter across from her. Close enough to feel her breath.

“You think I only came because you were hurt?”

“No,” she says. “I think you only let yourself come because I was.”

That wrecks him.

Because it’s true.

He should say something else. He doesn’t.

Not for a full minute. Just lets the silence sit there between them, thick and humming like power lines in the heat.

She breaks it first, whisper-soft: “It’s been nice. Having you.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

That’s when the thing he’s been swallowing for weeks claws its way up his throat and refuses to die quiet.

“I love you.”

Her eyes widen.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

He steps back, like it’ll soften the blow.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You did.”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I did.”

She still doesn’t speak. Just walked closer to him. 

Stops in front of him.

And when she reaches out, he thinks she’s going to slap him or shove him or say something final.

Instead, her hand lands flat on his chest. Right over his heart.

Her voice is wrecked. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

She closes her eyes. Like she needs it to settle. Like it hurts.

Then:

“I love you too.”

He doesn’t kiss her.

He could. He wants to—God, does he want to—but something tells him this isn’t about that. Not yet. Not tonight.

Instead, he pulls her in.

Arms around her. Her face against his neck. Her hand fisting in the back of his shirt.

He holds her like a man holding the thing he almost lost.

Like she’s air and blood and whatever’s left of his soul.

And she doesn’t pull away.

They stay like that for a long time.

No words. No next steps. Just the heat of skin against skin and the quiet promise: this is real now.

And when he finally leans back and presses his forehead to hers, he says, “You’re going back in the field. I can’t stop that.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know that too.”

And somehow, that’s everything.

And when she pulls back enough to meet his eyes, her voice is barely there. “Stay tonight?”

He nods. Doesn’t even pretend to play it cool.

“I was already going to.”

He didn’t mean to fall asleep. But her body was warm beside him, curled into the crook of his arm, wearing his shirt and nothing else. And for the first time in years, his chest didn’t feel tight. For the first time ever, he wasn’t running.

So he let go. Just for a moment.

And when he wakes—it’s to her fingers tracing his chest, lazy and slow.

“Javi,” she whispers.

He blinks, meets her gaze in the low light. Her voice is hushed, but her eyes are wide awake. Wanting.

“I don’t want to wait anymore.”

She’s over him before he can speak, thighs slipping around his waist, mouth already on his.

And it’s soft at first. Like every kiss they almost shared. Like every moment that made him ache.

He wraps his arms around her waist, palms splaying across her bare back. She’s not wearing panties. Just his shirt, hitched up around her thighs.

And she smells like sleep, vanilla, and him.

“Baby,” he breathes against her lips. “You sure?”

“I’ve been sure,” she says. “Since the first time you bled on my floor and tried to leave without saying thank you.”

He huffs a laugh. And then he kisses her like he’s starving.

She peels the shirt off slowly. Her nipples are already hard, pebbled from the air and his gaze. He sits up, chest to chest, and buries his mouth between them.

“I dreamed about this,” he murmurs against her skin. “Fucking dreamed about your tits in my mouth.”

Her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently as he suckles at her breast, teasing the other with his thumb. She gasps when he scrapes his teeth lightly across her nipple, then soothes it with his tongue.

“I’m gonna take my time,” he says, looking up at her. “You deserve that.”

She lies back when he pushes gently at her waist, guiding her onto the sheets.

And he gets between her legs like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged.

Her thighs fall open for him without hesitation. And she’s soaked—slick and glistening, flushed with heat and arousal. He doesn’t touch her right away. Just presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, then higher—

“Javi—”

“I’ve waited too long for this,” he whispers, breathing hot over her folds. “I’m gonna taste you, baby.”

And he does.

Tongue dragging slow through her heat, lips wrapping around her clit like a kiss. She cries out—his name on her lips like a plea. He groans into her, drunk on her, grinding his hips into the mattress as he eats her like a man half his age.

She fists the sheets. Her back arches. He flattens his tongue and devours, letting her ride his mouth, letting her fuck herself on his face.

“You taste so sweet,” he groans. “Fuck, I could live here. Come for me, cariño. Give it to me.”

She does—with a sob, legs trembling, body shaking against his tongue.

And he doesn’t stop until she begs.

He’s on her before she can catch her breath. Mouth bruising hers, hand stroking his cock between them.

“Condom’s in my wallet,” he says roughly.

“No,” she gasps, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I want you. All of you.”

He nearly comes right then.

He pushes into her slow. So slow. They both groan—hers high and broken, his deep and reverent.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he pants. “So fucking perfect. You’re gonna ruin me.”

Their foreheads press together. Hands clutch. Bodies lock.

He moves like he’s worshipping her—like she’s holy and he’s been faithless his whole life.

And she moans every time he bottoms out. Whimpers when he pulls out nearly to the tip and slides back in, thick and hard and home.

“I love you,” she whispers. “I love you so much.”

He chokes on his own breath.

“I’ve never—never loved anyone like this,” he gasps. “Fuck, baby. You own me.”

They come together, trembling and breathless, clinging like the world might end if they let go.

She’s grinning.

“What?” he asks, brushing her hair back.

“I’m not broken anymore.”

And then she flips them.

Her mouth is on his neck before he can blink. Her nails drag down his chest. She slides down, wraps her lips around his cock, and moans.

“Holy fuck—” he gasps, gripping the sheets.

She sucks him deep, slow at first—then faster, wetter, until he’s bucking up into her mouth.

But before he can come, she stops.

Straddles him.

Guides him back inside.

And rides him hard.

Her hands on his chest, hips slamming down, tits bouncing, his name falling from her lips like a threat and a promise.

He grabs her ass, helps her grind deeper.

“You wanted rough, baby?” he groans. “Wanted me to fuck you like I’ve been dreaming about every goddamn night?”

“Yes—yes, Javi—fuck me—”

He flips her, fucks into her hard and fast, hair fisted in his hand, her face buried in the pillow.

“You’re mine now,” he growls. “You hear me? Mine.”

She screams when she comes. Screams.

He spills into her moments later, biting her shoulder, whispering I love you again and again and again.

They fall asleep like that.

Skin to skin. Heart to heart. No lies. No walls.

Just them.

Finally.

divider by 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlejoels @millersdoll @gothcsz @inbred-eater @grayandthyme @mysticalgalaxysalad @amyispxnk @aj0elap0l0gist @bluekat707 @yellowbrickyeti @romancherry @wayward-dreamer @xfanficluvrx @mystickittytaco @axshadows

[brookghaib-blog]

The Dying Love of a Super-Soldier

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: After moving to Florida to live a normal life, Y/N had managed to achieve everything she wanted. Even after Bob and her being a complete failure that made her rot from the inside, leaving her heartbroken and unable to fully recover. Only a new, unexpected event would make her snap.

Warning: Very angst, depressive thoughts, heartbreak, betrayal, alcoholism, drug addiction, attempt murder, toxic behaviour, past-trauma, toxic relationship, bipolar disorder

Word count: 19,1k

Note: Based on this request!

--

Florida smelled like salt, oranges, and artificial calm — and that’s exactly why she chose it. A place where nobody knew her name. A place where the ghosts might stop clawing at the inside of her skull long enough to let her breathe.

She had a house now. Small. Quiet. White walls, cold tile floors, and a porch that faced the water. She never turned the TV on. Her phone stayed in a drawer. And every morning, like clockwork, she sat with her coffee in trembling hands, watching the sunrise like it might one day burn her clean.

But nothing ever did.

Y/N Ivanov— or whatever name the world gave her now — had once been the Red Room’s most perfected weapon. A ghost in combat boots. Better than Natasha. Sharper than Yelena. Not because she wanted to be — because she had no choice.

They stole her childhood before she could understand what having one meant. And then, when she was still just fourteen, they gave her something else: the serum. A gift, they called it. A reward for her "obedience." She remembered the needles — thick, cold, and shoved deep into her spine. She remembered screaming.

Then… she remembered nothing.

They had taken her memories. Cleaned her mind like a chalkboard. All traces of laughter with Natasha. The warmth of Yelena’s arms after a nightmare. Gone.

In their place, they inserted lies. They told her that Natasha was a traitor. That Yelena had abandoned her. That they had left her to rot. They gave her a mission: kill the defectors. The ones who had run from the cause. And Y/N did what she was told. Not out of hatred — but because she didn’t know any better. Her hands moved like machines. Her eyes didn’t blink. She was their prize soldier. Their wolf in the skin of a girl. But wolves remember.

She wasn’t sure when it started — flashes at first. A laugh she couldn’t place. The scent of blackberries in a dream. Then faces. Yelena’s face when she was seven, scolding her for scraping her knees on the training mat. Natasha holding her after her first kill, whispering “You’re still human.”

She broke the programming the same way she’d always survived: with rage. The Red Room called her a miracle. But miracles don’t scream until their throats bleed or wake up choking from dreams of blood-soaked hands and crying children.

When she escaped — truly escaped — it was with Natasha and Yelena beside her. Not as enemies, but sisters again. Family again. She wept in their arms like the world had ended. Maybe, in some ways, it had.

Natasha died not long after. Y/N still hadn’t forgiven the world for that.

Yelena tried to help her heal. They’d cook together. Laugh sometimes. But it wasn’t long before Y/N realized she was unraveling inside. Every mission was a trigger. Every news broadcast a reminder of how many people she’d hurt. How many she couldn’t remember. So she told Yelena she was done.

“I can’t fight anymore,” she said. “I don’t know who I am when I’m not fighting… but I need to try.”

So Yelena hugged her. Told her she understood. That she loved her.

And Y/N left.

Now she lived by the ocean, where the water could swallow her guilt a little at a time.

But the silence wasn’t kind. It was cruel. Every quiet night was filled with the hum of old nightmares. Her hands still shook when she washed the blood that wasn’t there. She kept a box under her bed: photos of Natasha, a letter from Yelena she couldn’t bring herself to read, and a bullet she had pulled from her own thigh in a mission she couldn’t forget.

She never went to therapy. She didn’t think anyone could fix a brokenness this deep.

Sometimes, on cold nights, she whispered apologies into the wind. To the children she’d left behind. The mothers she’d scared. The sisters she betrayed when she was nothing more than a weapon in someone else’s hands.

And sometimes — when the sun dipped just right over the horizon and everything glowed red — she thought she saw Natasha. Leaning in the doorway. Arms crossed. Smirking.

"You're still human."

Y/N would close her eyes and let the wind sting her cheeks.

Maybe, in another life, she could have believed that.

--

Florida nights could feel like nothingness — humid, slow, like the air itself refused to move forward. Y/N had started drinking again after three months sober. It wasn’t a dramatic fall. Just one glass of cheap whiskey after too many nights spent listening to the waves and her own thoughts crawling like insects under her skin. Then two. Then four. Then not bothering to count anymore.

That night, she didn’t plan to go to the bar. She never did. It just happened, like most things in her life now — accidental, numbing, slow suicide disguised as routine. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror had barely blinked before she slid on jeans, a worn tank top, and pulled her hair back. No makeup. No purpose. Just the quiet ache of needing to be somewhere that wasn’t her own head.

The bar was local. Ugly. Dim. Neon lights humming above tired faces. It smelled like sweat and spilled beer, with just enough silence between the country songs to remind you of how alone you really were. That’s what she liked about it.

She’d taken a booth in the corner. Sat sideways, one leg bent beneath her, the other stretched out like she owned the place. Nobody bothered her. Nobody ever did. Maybe it was the look in her eye — that flat, glassy nothingness she had perfected in the Red Room. The kind that told people not to try.

She had her second drink when she noticed him.

At first, he didn’t look like much. Just a man nursing a beer at the bar, hunched over like the world had cracked his back. Hair a mess, knuckles raw, jeans dirty like he hadn’t cared in a while. But there was something in the way he sat — still, deliberate, as if staying upright took every ounce of energy.

She didn’t remember who looked first. Or who crossed the space between them. It didn’t matter. They were pulled together by something beyond logic — two stars already collapsed, orbiting the same black hole.

He smelled like rain and ash. His voice was quiet. Gentle in a way that didn’t make sense for a man with hands like those — scarred, twitchy, like they wanted to tear something apart.

She didn’t ask for his name.

He didn’t ask for hers.

He said something stupid. She laughed too hard. Slurred her words, then covered her mouth, embarrassed. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t judge. Just looked at her with eyes so sad she felt like someone had cracked open her ribs.

And for the first time in forever, she didn’t feel watched. She didn’t feel analyzed. She just felt seen.

They didn’t talk about their pasts. People like them didn’t need to. It was all there — in the way they held their drinks too tightly. In the haunted pauses between words. In the way their eyes never stayed in one place for long.

She leaned her head on his shoulder eventually. He let her. His shoulder was strong, but it trembled slightly. She didn’t ask why. She could smell the meth on him — sour, chemical, ugly. But she didn’t flinch. She knew addiction. Knew what it meant to crave something that hurt you more than it helped.

She wasn’t sober either. Her blood was warm and slow, her head swimming. The room tilted. But his arm came around her waist and anchored her. Gently. Like she was something precious. That scared her more than anything.

They ended up back at her place. Not for sex. Not for anything people like to call “normal.” Just... because they didn’t want the night to end. They sat on the porch. Shared a bottle of something she didn’t remember buying. Talked in slurred pieces — about the stars. About what music sounded like when you were high. About what it felt like to lose yourself.

At some point, she turned to him. Really looked at him.

He was beautiful. Not in a clean-cut way. Not like the men she used to seduce and kill on missions. But in a ruined way. Like a statue cracked down the middle but still standing. His smile was sad. His eyes were oceans she didn’t know how to swim.

“You’re a wave,” she murmured.

He blinked. “What?”

“A wave. You came in and just... washed over me. And I didn’t know how much I needed that.”

His smile faltered. “Waves don’t stay.”

She didn’t say anything. She knew that better than anyone.

They fell asleep on the floor. Her curled into his side, like a child. His arm draped over her protectively. She didn’t dream. For the first time in years.

In the morning, he was still there. Hair messier. Shirt crumpled. She found a half-eaten granola bar in his pocket when he dozed off again on the couch. She ate it. It made her laugh.

And then the fear crept in.

She wasn’t supposed to feel this. Not comfort. Not connection. Especially not with someone like him. Someone whose hands shook more than hers. Someone with veins that pulsed with poison and guilt. Someone who looked at her like she was soft — when she knew there was nothing left inside her but steel and scar tissue.

But Bob — that was his name, she learned later — didn’t ask her to be soft. He didn’t ask her to be anything. He just was. A presence. A silence she could rest in. A broken thing that didn’t try to fix her.

And in a world that demanded she keep proving she was worth saving, that was the kindest thing anyone had ever done.

They weren’t lovers. Not then. They were strangers clinging to the same wreckage. Addicted to the quiet between them. Two ruined people who didn’t know what life was supposed to be — only that they didn’t want to spend it alone anymore.

And maybe that’s what made it so dangerous.

She’d built walls her whole life. Bob didn’t knock them down. He just leaned against them with his soft smile and tired eyes, and made her want to open the door.

She didn’t know then what he really was. That he wasn’t just broken — he was shattered beyond human comprehension. That his mind carried monsters. That one day, he’d vanish just like every other good thing.

But that night? That night was theirs.

They never meant for it to happen. Love wasn’t in the cards for people like them — not when your hands remembered blood more than touch, not when your mind was more familiar with silence than comfort. But it happened anyway. Quietly. Slowly. Like water soaking into cracked soil.

It started with the mornings.

Bob stayed over more often. At first, it was an unspoken agreement — neither of them wanted to be alone. Then it became routine. He’d make coffee while she watched him from the couch, her head heavy on the pillow, eyes tracing the curve of his shoulders in the morning light.

“Milk or sugar?” he asked once.

She blinked at him. “Do I look like a sugar-in-coffee kind of girl?”

He chuckled. “You look like someone who’d throw the mug at me if I asked again.”

She smirked. “You’d deserve it.”

There was always something playful in their mornings. Something soft. But beneath it was this ache — a knowing that the warmth they were building had to be temporary. Nothing good ever stayed for people like them. They were waiting for the storm, even when the sky was clear.

Still, they tried.

They went on walks — strange, meandering ones through Florida’s weather-worn streets. Bob would hold her hand, but only when she let him. Y/N wasn’t used to touch that didn’t hurt. But with him, she began to crave it — the grounding warmth of his fingers, the way his thumb would brush against hers without meaning to. Or maybe he meant to. She never asked.

There was a night in late October — humid, still, full of stars. They were lying on a blanket in the back of Bob’s truck. She had snuck a bottle of wine from the gas station. He’d brought a melted bag of marshmallows he found in the pantry.

They didn’t talk much. Just looked up.

“You ever wonder what it would’ve been like… if we were normal?” she asked.

Bob turned his head toward her, slow and careful, like even moving too fast might scare her away. “Yeah. Every day.”

She swallowed. “Do you think… we’d still find each other?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were so blue, even in the dark. Then: “I don’t think anyone else could understand me like you do.”

Her chest ached. He said things like that without knowing what they did to her — how they broke her open in places still healing.

They kissed that night. Not urgent. Not desperate. Just… full. Heavy with everything they couldn’t say. Her hands in his hair. His hands on her waist, holding her like he thought she might disappear. She almost did.

He whispered her name like a prayer. She let herself fall.

They moved in together two months later.

It wasn’t planned. Bob just… stopped leaving. His toothbrush ended up in her bathroom. His T-shirt in her laundry. He never said he was staying. He just stayed. And she never told him to leave.

They made a home out of chaos. Patching each other up in ways neither of them understood. When Bob had bad nights — when the trembling got worse and the shadows in his mind whispered things he wouldn’t repeat — Y/N would sit on the bathroom floor with him, her legs wrapped around his, whispering back until the voices got tired.

“You’re here,” she’d say. “You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.”

When she woke up from a nightmare — soaked in sweat, heart racing like she was still dodging bullets in the Red Room — Bob would pull her into his chest, rock her gently, and hum. He wasn’t a good singer. But she never told him to stop.

They were addicted to each other. Not in the toxic, burning way — but in that slow suffocation kind of way. Like if one of them left, the other would forget how to breathe.

Bob started calling her “angel.” Soft, reverent, like she was something divine. Y/N never corrected him, though she knew she was far from it. Every time he said it, she almost believed him.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense,” he told her once, his voice cracking, his pupils blown wide from the edge of another high.

She held his face in her hands. “Then stay with me. Stay clean. Stay here.”

He tried. He tried so hard.

She started cooking. Badly. Burnt eggs. Undercooked pasta. But Bob would eat everything with a grin and a wink. They danced once in the kitchen, barefoot on the cold tile, her hair in a messy bun, his T-shirt hanging off her shoulder.

“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he whispered against her temple.

She laughed. She didn’t believe in marriage. But she believed in him. And that was terrifying enough.

But with love came the cracks.

Bob had dark days — days he’d vanish, or stare at the wall for hours, mumbling about voices, about the Void, about not feeling real. Y/N would shake him sometimes. Cry. Scream. But he’d just look at her, hollowed out, and say, “I don’t know how to stop it.”

She understood. She’d been there too.

There were nights they fought. Nights where the house felt too small and the world too loud. Y/N would slam doors. Bob would disappear down the block with clenched fists and red-rimmed eyes. But they always came back to each other. Always.

One time, after the worst of their fights, Bob returned at 3 a.m., barefoot, shivering, clothes soaked in rain. He collapsed at her doorstep.

“I don’t want to be without you,” he said, voice cracking like porcelain.

She dropped to her knees and kissed his forehead, tasting salt and desperation. “Then don’t be.”

--

It was beautiful, that was the worst part.

Because from the outside, it looked like love. The kind of love you saw in movies where two broken people found comfort in each other, where hands shook but still reached, where silence didn’t mean distance. The kind of love that people romanticized because they didn’t know any better.

But it wasn’t a movie. It wasn’t a poem or a love song or a neatly tied ending.

It was real. And real love — love soaked in addiction — was ugly.

Y/N had been drinking again. Not just the occasional buzz. Not just the glass of wine after dinner.

This was deeper. Darker.

It started with a bottle left on the counter. Then one hidden in the bathroom. Then one in the car, tucked under the seat, clinking when she made a sharp turn. She didn’t mean to spiral. But the mornings came heavier. The days got colder. And Bob…

Bob wasn’t getting better.

He was losing.

Some days, he’d try. He’d sit in front of her and cry, eyes wide and helpless, begging her to hide his stash. “Flush it,” he’d whisper. “Please… please… I don’t want to be this anymore.”

And she would. God, she would. She’d sit with him for hours, cold compress against his burning forehead, whispering stories from her past to distract him from the voices. She’d sing, she’d read, she’d cry with him — do anything just to keep him grounded.

But then there were other days.

Days when he’d vanish for hours. Days when he’d come back shaking, eyes dilated and teeth grinding, too fast, too angry, too loud. He would slam doors. Break plates. Scream into pillows. One night, he punched the wall so hard the plaster caved in and blood ran down his wrist like war paint.

Y/N patched it up with trembling hands.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she whispered, voice hoarse with exhaustion. “You’re killing yourself, Bob.”

He looked at her like a stranger. “You think I don’t know that?”

Then he walked out.

She didn’t follow. Not that time.

Their fights weren’t the kind you could write off. They were wars.

Things were said. Terrible things. Things that clung to the walls like smoke, long after the shouting stopped.

“Maybe you want me to die. That way you don’t have to carry me anymore.”

“Don’t you dare make this about me. You think I like watching you disappear?! I am doing everything I can to keep you here!”

“Then why are you always drunk?!”

Silence. Cold. Crushing. Because he was right, she was slipping, too. And she hated him for noticing.

She had always been the strong one. The weapon. The one who didn’t cry, didn’t break. But Bob unraveled her. Not by hurting her — but by needing her. All the time. Too much. And she was running out of things to give.

Still, she couldn’t let go.

She told herself it was love. That’s what love meant — enduring. Fighting. Staying.

But in truth?

She was scared.

Scared that if she left him, he’d die. And if he died, then she’d have to live knowing she didn’t save him.

She had failed before — failed to stop the Red Room, failed to save the girls who screamed in their cells, failed to run soon enough when her own memories were stolen. She couldn’t fail this, too.

Even if it meant drowning with him.

There was a night — one of the worst — when Bob came home high out of his mind, twitching, muttering nonsense about the Void, eyes unfocused. He looked haunted. Like something inside him had died.

Y/N tried to touch him. He flinched.

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re disappointed.”

She didn’t answer. Her hand fell back to her side.

That was all it took.

He stormed past her, knocking a chair to the floor. “You don’t get it,” he snapped. “You never got it. You look at me like I’m this project. Like I’m someone you can fix. But I’m not.”

She followed. “I know you’re not. You think I’m not broken, too? You think I wanted this?”

“You chose this,” he spat. “You stayed.”

That one hit. Hard. She froze.

Bob’s chest was heaving, face red with rage. But even in that moment, she saw it — the way his hands trembled, the shame underneath the fury, the way his mouth quivered like he was about to break down. He hated himself. And she couldn’t save someone who hated themselves more than they loved her.

So, she walked away. This time, she was the one who slammed the door. But they always came back.

No matter how bad the fight. No matter how ugly the words. The mornings still came, and with them came the apologies.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered into her hair one morning, voice raw. “I was scared.”

She was still crying. “So was I.”

He kissed her. They held each other. And for a few minutes, they could pretend it would be different this time.

That they wouldn’t fight again, that love would be enough. But it wasn’t. Because the addiction was always louder.

So, she isolated. Drank more. Cried in the shower. Hid bruises — not from violence, but from where Bob had grabbed her too tightly during one of his spirals. He never meant to hurt her. He never knew what she was, he didn't know how she could crush his skull with one kick because no matter how bad she was, Bob was her everything, she would kill herself if it meant he would live safe and happy, and never let her state overtake her to the point of ever hurting him physically. His apologies always came with tears. And she believed him.

Because she had done things she didn’t mean, too. Said things. Chosen the bottle over him.

They were a mess. A beautiful, tragic mess.

They loved each other so much. But that love lived in a house full of ghosts — and they couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t haunted. Sometimes she looked at him — really looked — and wondered what would’ve happened if they’d met in another life. If Bob had never touched meth. If she had never been turned into a weapon. If they’d both been whole.

Would they have had a house with white curtains and sunflowers in the windowsill? Would she have come home from work to find him reading on the couch, glasses slipping down his nose, telling her about some science article he’d found fascinating? Would she have worn a ring? Would he have remembered her birthday without her having to remind him? Would they have been safe?

But that wasn’t their life.

Their life was stained bedsheets and empty bottles. Screaming matches and shattered plates. Apologies written on sticky notes. Hugs that felt like lifelines. Eyes that couldn’t hide the truth.

Their love was real. But it wasn’t enough.

--

The decision didn’t come like a lightning strike. It wasn’t some grand moment of clarity or a dramatic vow shouted into the night.

It was quieter than that. Softer.

It came one morning, when the apartment was still and heavy, when the sun crept in through the slats in the blinds and painted Bob’s sleeping face in gold. His chest rose and fell slowly. Peacefully.

He looked young when he slept. Gentle. Not the man he’d become — all tremors and tension and muttered voices in the dark — but the man she knew was still in there. The man who used to read to her in bed. Who would trace patterns on her back until she fell asleep. Who told her she made the world feel a little less heavy.

She watched him sleep that morning, her head aching from the night before, and her body screaming for another drink, and she whispered something barely audible to herself.

“I want to stay.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d said it. But it was the first time she meant it like this. She wanted to stay. To be here. To build something. To be better — not just for herself, but for him. For them.

And for the first time in years, she realized she didn’t want to just survive. She wanted a future. A real one.

She wanted to be his wife. She wanted to be the mother of his children. She wanted to build a home that didn’t feel like walking on glass. She wanted morning coffee on the porch and pottery in the backyard. She wanted to live.

And she was ready to try.

The first few days were brutal.

Her body rebelled in every possible way. The migraines were endless. The shakes were unbearable. The craving whispered to her every second, like a ghost wrapped around her spine.

“Just one drink,” it would hiss. “Just to take the edge off.”

But she didn’t.

She journaled instead.

Pages and pages of pain and guilt and hope and anger. She wrote until her fingers cramped, until the ink bled through the pages, until the crying stopped and the silence settled.

She made a list.

Things That Make Me Feel Alive Without Drinking:

The sound of Bob breathing when he sleeps.

Warm coffee in the morning.

Pottery videos on YouTube.

The smell of fresh soap.

The idea of painting a mural in the bedroom.

Buying gifts for Bob. Even small ones.

Imagining a future where we are both okay.

She stuck the list on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a tomato.

--

She started pottery first.

It was messy and frustrating and humbling. The first bowl she made collapsed like wet tissue. But the second one held. And the third one had a little curve, a personality. She started keeping them on the windowsill.

Bob noticed.

“You’re making things,” he said one day, tracing the edge of a misshapen cup with his finger. “Like… actually making things.”

She smiled. “I’m trying.”

He kissed her then. Long. Slow. Like he was proud of her, even if he didn’t know how to say it.

That made her cry in the bathroom later. Not from sadness, but from how good it felt to be seen again.

Whenever she felt herself spiraling, she’d leave the house.

It didn’t matter where she went — a bookstore, the pier, the dusty art supply store run by an old woman named Marta who talked too much but always smiled.

She would walk. Breathe. Touch walls. Smell flowers.

And then she’d come back.

Always with something for Bob.

A pair of socks with Saturns on them. A tiny notebook with gold edges. A cracked keychain in the shape of a star. A ceramic frog that looked so ugly it made her laugh.

Bob collected the gifts without question. He put them all on the bookshelf beside his science journals. He never said “You shouldn’t have.” He never asked why.

He just kissed her on the forehead and told her, “Thank you for coming home.”

--

There were relapses.

One night, after three weeks clean, she had a panic attack so severe she couldn’t breathe. Her hands shook as she unscrewed the bottle of vodka she’d hidden in a sock drawer weeks ago, “just in case.”

She poured it into a cup and stared at it, dumping it down the sink. Then she curled up on the bathroom floor and cried until Bob found her. He didn’t say anything. Just held her. Rubbed her back. Pressed kisses to her neck like prayers. They didn’t talk about it the next day.

But she knew he knew what she’d almost done. And that he was proud she didn’t.

She painted, too, nothing professional, nothing good, but it helped. The colors. The control. The freedom.

She painted skies. Hands. Faces. Things she didn’t remember seeing, but had probably dreamed about. Once, she painted them — her and Bob — in a field full of red poppies. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt right.

She hung it above the bed.

Bob stared at it for a long time. “Do you think that’s where we go when we’re okay?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she whispered. “Maybe we’re already there in another life.”

He didn’t respond. Just squeezed her hand.

She started cooking.

Burned rice. Under-seasoned chicken. Exploding eggs. But there were a lot of improvements.

But she laughed through it all. And Bob, to his credit, always ate whatever she made.

They started having “dinner dates” in the living room with a blanket on the floor and candles in mugs. Sometimes they would pretend they were strangers meeting for the first time.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” she’d say, extending her hand like they hadn’t kissed that morning.

Bob would take her hand. “Hi, I’m Bob. God, do angels just walk around on earth now?”

They’d laugh. But it always ended with tears.

Because underneath it all, they both knew how fragile it was.

And yet… there was peace. Little moments.

Bob planting lavender in a pot on the balcony. Y/N making playlists called “Songs for When We’re Better.” Them dancing slowly to music no one else could hear. Falling asleep with limbs tangled, dreams soft and quiet.

She was doing it.

Not perfectly, but honestly she was staying sober, becoming someone new.

Not for the world. Not for redemption. Not even for her sisters. But for him. Because she wanted to be the woman he could count on. The woman who wouldn’t disappear. The woman who could love him without losing herself. She was becoming better.

And for the first time in her life — really, truly — she believed that maybe, just maybe…

She deserved to be. And so did he.

--

He didn’t know when the cracks started to show again. Maybe they’d never fully healed.

Maybe he was never meant to be whole in the first place.

There were good days. God, there were good days. Days when Y/N came home with paint on her fingers and bright eyes, holding some little treasure in her hand — a rock shaped like a heart, a used book with notes in the margins, a stupid mug that said “World’s Okayest Boyfriend.” Days when she laughed freely, without the weight of yesterday clinging to her voice.

She was healing.

He could see it in the way she carried herself. She was lighter. Braver. Trying.

But he was still stuck in the mud.

Still shackled to the same rot in his brain. Still battling the shadows in the corners of the room. Still waking up sweating and shaking, teeth grinding in his sleep, dreams full of static and whispers and himself — distorted and screaming and hollow.

Bob hadn’t been clean. Not really. He lied. Told her he was “tapering.” Told himself he just needed one more hit to stay steady, one more to keep the void quiet, one more to function.

But the truth was cruel: he was using. Still.

Every few days. Some nights when she was at pottery. Or reading. Or watching the rain through the window like it could forgive her.

He'd stash it in the back of the toilet. Under a floorboard in the closet. In an old book jacket he knew she’d never touch. He wanted to stop. But he didn’t know how to be okay without it. He didn’t know who he was without the numb. The day it all fell apart started like any other.

He woke up before her. Watched her sleep. Touched the edge of her shoulder like a prayer. She looked peaceful — almost girlish in the early morning light. She mumbled something in her sleep and rolled toward him. He smiled. Almost.

But there was a tremor in his jaw. His teeth ached. His skin felt like it didn’t fit. He needed it.

He told himself he’d just take a little. Just enough to stop the noise in his head.

Just enough to get through the day.

So while she made breakfast — humming to herself in the kitchen, the scent of burnt toast curling through the air — he excused himself and went to the closet.

Floorboard. Right corner. Fingernail crack. The pipe was still there. Still calling. And he smoked.

And for a while, everything was quiet.

But the thing about a high is that it ends.

And when it crashes, it burns.

That night, they were watching a movie on the couch. She leaned her head on his shoulder, a blanket tucked around them, her fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

“You smell like smoke,” she said softly.

He froze, tried to play it off. “Must’ve been from outside.”

But she sat up, looking him in the eye.

“Bob,” she whispered. “Are you using again? You told me that you hadn't use it in weeks.”

And something in him — something small and mean and scared — lashed out.

“I said it was from outside,” he snapped. “Can you back off for one fucking second?”

She blinked. Hurt flaring in her eyes like a matchstick.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” she said, quieter now. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending!” he barked. He was on his feet now, pacing, hands running through his hair. “Why do you always think I’m lying? Why do you—why do you always look at me like I’m broken?!”

Her voice cracked. “Because you are.”

Silence.

The words hung in the room like a knife between them.

She hadn’t meant it like that. He knew she hadn’t. But it didn’t matter. It had been said. And it landed exactly where it hurt the most.

Bob stormed out of the apartment that night.

He didn’t take his wallet. Just his keys and the leftover rage boiling under his skin.

--

The street was cold. Empty. The kind of lonely that echoes in your bones.

He ended up in a bathroom stall of a gas station off the highway, shivering, crying, using again — harder this time. Deeper. Hoping it would shut everything off.

He didn’t want to feel.

Didn’t want to remember the look on her face. The way her mouth trembled. The tears that welled but never fell.

He hated himself. He hated his addiction.

He hated how he could never be enough for her — not really. Not clean. Not good. Not stable.

She was trying so damn hard. And he was ruining it. Again.

The come-down was a nightmare.

He stumbled home past 3 a.m. — pale, sweating, his hands shaking like leaves in the wind. Y/N was asleep on the couch, phone in her lap, her eyes swollen and red. She’d waited up. Of course she had.

He sat on the floor beside her, and didn’t say a word. He just cried. Ugly, broken sobs that racked his chest, his fingers clutching the hem of her pajama pants like a child begging for forgiveness.

She woke up. Reached for him, pulling him into her lap. “Bob,” she whispered, over and over, like saying his name might save him.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know who I am without it. I—I’m ruining this. I’m ruining you.”

She kissed his hair, “I’m not ruined. I’m choosing to stay,” she said.

“But why?” he asked, eyes swollen. “Why the hell would you stay with someone like me?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then she said, “Because I know what it’s like to be poison and still want to be loved. And you loved me through it. Now I’ll love you through this.”

The next morning, she made coffee. They didn’t speak much.

But they sat side by side on the couch, his head on her shoulder, her hand on his knee.

He told her everything.

The stash. The closet. The lies.

She didn’t cry. She just listened. And when he was done, she said, “Let’s start again.”

--

It had been a long day.

The kind of day that crawled under her skin and stayed there, heavy and slow. Y/N had come home in a haze — work had been exhausting, her shoulders stiff, her hair tangled from the wind, the sleeves of her jacket damp from an afternoon rain. All she wanted was to curl into Bob’s chest and fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat — warm and steady, that sacred rhythm she could always trust to be there, even when nothing else was.

She unlocked the door, expecting him.

Expecting to see the flicker of the living room lamp he always forgot to turn off. Expecting his shoes by the couch, that old hoodie of his thrown over the backrest. Maybe he’d be cooking — not well, but trying — or maybe he’d be sprawled out watching some stupid late-night special.

But the house was quiet. Too quiet. No lights. No soft hum of music. No smell of his cologne. Just the tick of the wall clock and the creak of the floor under her shoes.

“Bob?” she called gently, half-smiling, slipping off her coat. “You home?”

No answer.

She wasn’t worried at first. Maybe he went out. Maybe he was grabbing groceries or air or that soda he couldn’t live without. It wasn’t like him to not text, but... he was impulsive. Messy. Chaotic in a way that sometimes made her laugh, sometimes made her sigh. Still, she wasn’t alarmed. Not yet.

She walked to the kitchen.

His mug was gone, the one with the cracked rim that he swore made coffee taste better.

She opened the fridge. His leftovers were missing. So were the beers he said he’d quit.

The couch looked... untouched. Neat. Wrong.

Her stomach tensed.

She moved faster now — checking the bathroom. The closet. The bedroom. It hit her when she opened the dresser. His clothes were gone. All of them. The top drawer that used to overflow with wrinkled t-shirts and rolled-up socks was empty. The hangers that held his jackets were bare. Even the drawer where he kept old receipts and crumpled paper sketches of her face — all gone. Every trace of him, erased.

And then she saw it.

A piece of folded paper, sitting on the center of the bed like a coffin lid.

Y/N’s fingers trembled as she reached for it. Her name was written on the front in his handwriting.

Y/N,

I’m sorry.

God, I’m sorry.

I don’t even know how to write this right. I’ve been trying for days. I rewrite it and burn it and start again and it still doesn’t feel like it says enough. Or maybe it says too much.

I love you. That’s not the lie here. Please don’t ever think it was. I’ve never loved anything the way I love you. Not a person. Not a place. Nothing. You’re the only thing in my whole life that’s ever made me feel like maybe I could be better. Like maybe I could be good.

But I’m not good.

I keep waking up waiting for the moment you realize it. The moment you look at me and see what I see — this thing I keep trying to hide under the smiles and the kisses and the breakfasts in bed. This hole inside me that you can’t fill, no matter how hard you try.

I can’t keep letting you bleed yourself dry trying to fix me.

You deserve a life. A real one. Not one where you have to keep looking over your shoulder to make sure I’m still breathing. Not one where you keep sacrificing your sobriety to catch me when I fall. Not one where love feels like walking on glass.

So I’m leaving.

I don’t want to do this to you anymore.

I don’t have a good reason that’ll make it hurt less. I’m not leaving for someone else. I’m not leaving because I stopped loving you. I’m leaving because you were starting to believe in me more than I ever could. And I was going to drag you down with me.

Please don’t look for me. Don’t waste your time hating me or chasing ghosts. Just live. Please. For both of us.

You were the only light I ever knew. But I wasn’t meant to stay in the light.

I love you.

-Bob

She didn’t move for a long time.

The letter lay in her lap, her fingers frozen around the edges, smudging the ink. Her eyes didn’t even water — not yet. They just stared, blank and aching, like they were trying to make sense of the words over and over again, hoping they might rearrange themselves into something else.

Something kinder.

But they didn’t.

Bob was gone. He’d really gone.

She checked the apartment again — tore it apart, heart thudding, breath ragged. Opened drawers, looked under the bed, clawed through the trash.

Nothing.

Every trace of him — gone. Even the damn mug. Even the sketches.Even the tiny doodle he’d once made on the inside of the pantry door. A stick-figure of the two of them with “Home” written under it.

She crumpled to the floor of the bedroom and screamed.

A sound so broken, so primal, it echoed off the walls and bounced back into her chest like shrapnel.

This was abandonment. Not the kind that slammed doors and yelled cruel things in parting. The quiet kind. The cruelest kind. The kind that left without letting you say please stay.

She lay on the bed that night, curled into herself, clutching his pillow to her chest like it could still hold his warmth. Her eyes stayed open. Her heart beat slower. Numbness began to settle in her limbs.

All those nights she’d held him while he cried. All those mornings she packed his cigarettes with tiny notes to remind him she loved him. All the books she read to understand addiction. All the therapy. The hobbies. The art. The sobriety. All the hope. And he left. No fight. No goodbye. No explanation she could hold onto. Just a letter and a void.

--

The days blurred together.

She didn’t remember what day he left. Thursday? Saturday? It didn’t matter anymore. The clock ticked just the same — relentlessly, mercilessly — dragging her through morning after morning without him.

The letter stayed on the bedside table, folded and unfolding like a wound she couldn’t close. She tried to put it in a drawer once. It felt like betrayal. She brought it back out after twenty minutes and held it again until her hands went numb.

That first night, she didn’t sleep.

She just sat on the bedroom floor, leaning against the nightstand, surrounded by a silence so thick it pressed into her chest like water. It felt like drowning in the dark. She played one of his old voicemails over and over — one where he was teasing her about some movie she hated. He was laughing.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed the sound of his laugh until it was gone.

She told herself she’d be fine. She’d get through it. She had before — through blood, through pain, through war. She was trained for survival. She could take this. She had to.

But heartbreak wasn’t something you could outfight.

It crawled in through the cracks and rotted everything from the inside out.

The second day, she couldn’t get out of bed.

Not because she was tired, but because it felt like she didn’t deserve to move.

What was the point?

She lay there staring at the ceiling, still in her work clothes from the day before, still wearing the necklace he’d given her — the one with the tiny gold charm shaped like a moon.

He used to call her that.

“Moonlight,” he’d whisper, high and trembling and soft in the aftermath of another breakdown. “You’re the only thing that makes the night less scary.”

She ripped it off.

Threw it across the room.

It hit the wall with a dull clink and fell behind the dresser.

By day four, her stomach had shrunk. Nothing stayed down. The coffee turned cold in her hand, untouched. The groceries in the fridge started to rot. She avoided the kitchen entirely. That’s where he used to wrap his arms around her waist and mumble about breakfast even when he didn’t know how to cook.

Everything reminded her of him.

The arm of the couch still had the dent where he’d sit. The bathroom mirror was still streaked from when he shaved in a rush. One of his long hairs was still caught in the corner of her pillow.

She couldn’t breathe.

It felt like he was everywhere — except here.

She started writing him letters.

One a day.

Long, angry, sobbing letters that never got mailed. She’d rip them up afterward, throw the pieces in the trash, only to dig them out again because she couldn’t bear to let go of his name in her handwriting.

"You lied to me." "You promised you’d never leave." "I was getting better for you. I was trying." "Was I not enough?" "Was loving you not enough?"

The worst part was not knowing. Not knowing why. Not knowing if he was safe. If he was even alive. If he still thought of her or if he was high somewhere with someone new, forgetting her name with every hit.

Sobriety became a razor’s edge. She clung to it with bleeding hands. Not because she wanted to — not at first — but because she had to. If she didn’t, she’d fall, and if she fell, there’d be no one left to catch her. Not anymore.

The first real temptation came on a Tuesday. She’d been up for 48 hours, her hands shaking, her head pounding, her eyes so swollen from crying she could barely see. She found an old bottle of wine at the back of the pantry — a gift from a neighbor she never drank. She held it for thirty minutes. Sat on the floor in front of it like it was a bomb she didn’t know how to defuse, her fingers trembled on the cap. Then she screamed. A scream so loud the windows rattled. She hurled it against the wall. Glass exploded. Red liquid ran down the white paint like blood. She collapsed. Sobbing. Screaming. Hating herself. Hating him. Hating this. But she didn’t drink.

She made lists.

Things To Do Instead of Drinking:

Go for a walk

Break something (cheap)

Write a letter you won’t send

Watch the sun set and pretend he’s under the same sky

Count the days you were successful

She found herself doing everything and nothing. She tried pottery again but broke the first three bowls. She picked up painting — made a portrait of him in charcoal, then tore it apart.

She went to a meeting. Once. Sat in the back with her hood up and didn’t speak. She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want advice. She wanted him. And he was gone.

Nights were the worst. Nights stretched like endless black highways — full of memories, full of shadows.

She lay in bed clutching the side where he used to sleep, remembering the way he curled around her like armor. The way he’d breathe out her name like a prayer. The way their broken pieces had once fit like something sacred.

They weren’t perfect. But they were theirs. Now she was just herself.

Just one half of something that would never be whole again.

She passed a man on the street once who had his build — tall, messy hair, broad shoulders — and her heart stopped. She chased him for two blocks before realizing it wasn’t him. She sat on the curb and cried.

People passed. No one stopped.

Three weeks passed. Four.

She started eating again. Lightly. She cleaned the apartment. She threw out the broken glass. She even took down the photos of them on the fridge — not because she wanted to forget him, but because she couldn’t look at them without shattering all over again.

She told herself: This is survival. Not healing. Not moving on. Just surviving. Breathing. Drinking water. Fighting the urge to slip. Some days she still screamed into pillows. Some days she stared at the door hoping he'd walk in and say, “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I’m home.”

But he didn’t. And she didn’t drink. Not once.

--

It had been months since he left.

Time moved like molasses — slow, bitter, sticky. Some mornings were quiet victories: brushing her hair, taking a walk, even smiling at a dog on the street. Others were brutal. Violent. Not in action, but in feeling — the kind of ache that settled behind the ribs and refused to loosen, no matter how much she screamed into her pillow or held herself under scalding water just to feel something different.

She was still sober. Barely. But she was not okay. Every day was a fight. Every night, she’d imagine him walking through the door again. Sometimes she hated him in those fantasies. Other times she fell into his arms, crying, as if nothing had ever gone wrong. That’s what love does when it turns into grief. It confuses you. It colors even your delusions in half-truths and memory. She’d built a life around surviving. Small steps. Walks through downtown. Coffee shops. New routines. She spoke to no one. She was a ghost in a city that never asked questions — which suited her just fine.

Then it happened.

She was standing in front of a bakery window — watching a cake being frosted with delicate roses — when the TV in the corner caught her attention.

The headline read: "America's Newest Avengers — Thunderbolts or Traitors?"

At first, she didn’t care. Heroes. Politics. Marketing. It was always noise in the background.

Until they said his name.

Bob Reynolds.

And then the camera panned. And she froze.

There he was. On TV. Smiling — a smile she hadn’t seen in so long she forgot it had dimples. His hair was shorter. Cleaner. His posture straighter. His arms folded in a suit that looked expensive. He was standing beside a group: U.S. Agent, Ghost, Red Guardian—

And Yelena. Her sister.

Y/N stumbled backward like she’d been shot.

The display behind her toppled, glass shattering across the sidewalk. The bakery staff shouted. A stranger tried to help her stand. She couldn’t even answer. Her ears rang. Her stomach twisted. Her hands trembled so violently she dropped her phone twice before calling a car. She didn’t stop shaking until she was back in her home. And then, she started digging. The internet gave her more than she asked for. Too much, really, there were interviews. Clips. Montage videos with dramatic music posted by fans. Fan edits. Titles like “Yelena x Bob | teammates to lovers” with slow-motion stares and soft lighting. Tweets speculating about their chemistry. Rumors. Jokes. Whole Reddit threads. TikToks.

“I ship them so hard.” “They’re perfect together.” “That smirk Bob gives her in the press tour? Yeah, they’re screwing.”

Y/N wanted to throw up.

Bob — her Bob — the same Bob who once cried in her lap, who carved her name into a tree, who promised he’d marry her someday even if it was in a junkyard — was now being shipped with her sister.

Her. Own. Sister.

The words blurred on the screen as tears burned down her face. She clicked faster. Her heart beat louder. Her breathing grew shallow. She couldn’t stop. She needed to understand. She needed a reason. A why.

Yelena never knew about Bob. That was the most soul-shattering part. Y/N had shut herself off the moment she moved to Florida. She wanted peace. Distance. Space to fall apart in private. She didn’t tell Alexei or Yelena about Bob — not because she didn’t trust them, but because it felt like hers. Like her only thing. Her only secret not born from blood or war. She thought she had time. Time to explain. Time to introduce him one day. Time to tell Yelena about the man who saw her not as an assassin or a weapon, but a woman with bruised knuckles and soft eyes who brought him strawberries when he couldn’t get out of bed.

But now? Now Bob was hers too. Now he smiled beside Yelena at press events. Now fans talked about them like they were the next power couple. Now they shared jokes and missions and inside glances. And Y/N was nothing. Not even a footnote.

She stared at a photo on her screen: Bob and Yelena laughing during an interview. He had his arm around her chair.

That was the moment something in Y/N cracked. Something deep. Something she’d been holding together with tape and whispered promises — the idea that maybe he loved her, that maybe he left because he was sick, or scared, or broken, but not because he didn’t care.

That lie was all she had. And it had just been ripped away.

She didn’t eat for three days.

She sat on the floor of her living room, surrounded by old polaroids, ripped letters, a broken pottery bowl she’d made for him. She stared into space. Sometimes she’d laugh. Sometimes she’d sob until her lungs gave out.

She picked up a bottle of vodka in the back of her cabinet and held it to her lips. It smelled like everything she had fought so hard to kill inside herself. She didn't drink it. But it stayed next to her on the floor. Like a threat.

She wrote Yelena a message. Deleted it. Wrote another. Deleted it. She didn’t know what to say. How do you tell your sister — the one you fought to find again, the one you used to braid hair with on missions, the one you loved with a kind of loyalty deeper than blood — that she was sleeping beside the man who once whispered I’ll never leave you and left you shattered on the floor? How do you tell her, without falling apart?

Y/N crawled back into bed wearing one of Bob’s old shirts. It didn’t smell like him anymore.

She curled into a ball, eyes red, throat sore from silence. Outside her window, the world kept moving. People cheered for Bob Reynolds. They speculated about his romance with the blonde Widow. They painted him as a hero. As a survivor. No one remembered the girl he left behind. No one saw the battlefield she lived on every morning. No one knew what he meant. Not even her sister.

--

Rage was the only thing keeping her alive.

It came in flashes. In silence. In screams so guttural her throat bled. In the shattered plates she forgot she threw. In the heavy breathing she couldn’t calm. In the red-hot visions of Bob — of Yelena — of the life they now shared while she drowned under the weight of their silence.

Y/N had been abandoned before. But this? This wasn’t just abandonment.

This was betrayal.

She paced her apartment like a caged wolf. Fists clenched. Skin slick with sweat. Her heart always pounding — too fast, too loud — like it was trying to break out of her chest.

“I’ll never leave you,” Bob had once whispered.

“You’re my calm,” he said, forehead to hers, one hand over her heart.

Now she couldn’t even touch that part of her chest without feeling a hollow ache.

Every time she thought it couldn’t hurt more, it did. Every day, it hurt differently.

Some days, it was missing the way he used to wake her up with lazy morning kisses and coffee brewed too strong. Other days, it was seeing his name trend on social media beside Yelena’s. Sometimes, it was hearing a stranger laugh the way he used to.

But the worst pain? The worst was not knowing why.

She kept rereading the letter. It was still under her pillow — tear-stained, creased, weak from the number of times her fingers had grasped it in the middle of the night. There was no closure. No reason. Just half-hearted apologies and the kind of love that pretends to be noble.

He left because he loved her? Then why didn’t he say goodbye? Why didn’t he give her the truth?

She screamed into towels until her throat went raw. She hit the walls until her knuckles split open. She sobbed into her bathtub fully clothed, over and over again, the cold porcelain hugging her like a coffin. The world outside kept moving. She didn't. The anger was venomous. It infected everything.

Y/N saw red when she looked at photos of Yelena on missions beside Bob. Red when she heard Alexei talking about how proud he was of the Thunderbolts. Red when she saw their names trending, their faces smiling, their victories applauded.

She ignored their calls. Their messages. Their attempts to reconnect. She blocked Yelena’s number. Left Alexei on read. She couldn’t speak to them. Not without trying to tear their throats out. She wanted to hurt them. She wanted to go back to the assassin she used to be — the version of herself that didn’t care, that could slip into a room and kill without blinking. That girl would’ve handled this.

But that girl died the day she fell in love with Bob. Now she was just... broken. She talked to no one. But in the dark, when the sun dipped below the horizon and the silence crawled in, she whispered to him. To the ghost of him. To the memory.

“Why’d you leave me?” “Was I not enough?” “Did you love me at all?”

Sometimes, she begged. “Please come back.”

Other times, she threatened. “I’ll kill you if I ever see you again.”

And sometimes — most nights — she lay still in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how many pills it would take. How fast it would be. If it would feel like floating or falling.

The alcohol bottle still sat in the cabinet. Unopened. But it whispered to her like an old friend. Every time she passed it. Every time she survived another day. She didn’t touch it. But she wanted to. There was a moment — one afternoon — when she caught her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Hollow cheeks. Red eyes. A face carved in fury. Her fists were clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. It terrified her.

She whispered, “I want to kill him.” Then she said it louder. “I want to kill him.” Then, “I want to kill all of them.” She wasn’t even crying. She felt numb. There was no shame in her chest. Only fire.

A small part of her wondered what would happen if she let that version of herself loose again — the one trained to kill, bred to obey, sculpted by the Red Room to be vengeance incarnate. She could do it. She knew she could. No hesitation. But another part of her — the part Bob once touched, the part that still remembered what love was supposed to feel like — that part sobbed in the silence.

Because she didn’t want to be this person again. But no one else gave her a choice. She wanted to scream at Yelena. How could you? You’re my sister. You knew I was alone. You saw me go quiet. Did you ever ask why? Did you care?

And Bob? Bob who once held her when her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Bob who used to whisper dreams of marriage and kids and building a life away from the darkness.

He walked away. He joined a team. He built a new life. And he chose Yelena.

--

She never hated her sister before.

Not even during the Red Room years, not when they were pitted against each other like bloodstained chess pieces moved by men who didn’t know their names. Not even when Yelena went to the Avengers and Y/N ran to Florida, trying to disappear into some version of normal.

But now? Now she hated her with every cell in her body. With every scar she’d ever hidden. With every soft part of her heart that used to beat for Bob.

It was irrational. She knew that. Yelena didn’t know. She didn’t do this on purpose. But logic didn’t matter when you were staring down the barrel of your stolen future.

The dreams started as mercy. She would close her eyes and there it was — her life. A house with a wraparound porch, white with green shutters. Flowers spilling from window boxes. Wind chimes dancing in the breeze. The smell of summer and clean laundry. She stood barefoot in the grass, wearing a soft, cream-colored dress. One hand shielding her eyes from the sun, the other holding a baby — their baby. A little boy with his nose. Her eyes. His curls.

And there he was. Bob. Not broken Bob. Not high Bob. Not trembling-in-a-dark-room Bob. But healthy Bob. Sober Bob. Bob in a button-up shirt, sleeves rolled, a tie around his neck, briefcase in hand, laughing as he walked up the driveway.

He kissed her. Kissed their son. Whispered something about traffic, groceries, how he missed her all day. The kind of life they used to whisper about at 2 a.m. when the drugs wore off and the lies were too tired to keep going. She could feel it in the dream. The warmth. The love. The way it was supposed to be.

But right before she woke up — right before the memory could settle in her heart — the image twisted. His face blurred. The baby vanished. And in the mirror hanging by the front door…

Yelena’s reflection stared back at her. Wearing her dress. Holding her son. With Bob kissing her like Y/N had never even existed.

She would wake up drenched in sweat, sheets twisted around her legs like restraints. Her chest would heave. Her nails would dig into the mattress, into her palms, into herself, trying to scrape the image out of her brain. But it never left. It was seared into her.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her dream being lived by someone else. And it broke her.

Because that was the hardest part. Not that he left. Not that he didn’t explain. Not even that he was on TV now, celebrated, loved, powerful.

No. The hardest part was that the Bob she had suffered for — the one she stayed sober for, built a life around, waited up for while he disappeared for nights on end — that Bob was finally better. Just not with her. He was someone else’s now. He became everything she prayed he would be… just too late for her to have him. And it made her sick.

Y/N started to believe something was wrong with her. Truly wrong. Like her soul had rotted somewhere along the way and no one had noticed.

She looked in the mirror and asked herself:

“What is it about me that makes people leave?”, “Why do I only ever get the broken version of things?”,“Why wasn’t I enough?”

She had endured the screaming. The addiction. The hunger. The withdrawals. The nights she held his face and told him he was still human. Still worth saving. She stayed when no one else did. She chose him when he didn’t even choose himself.

And for what? To be replaced. To be erased. To be the ghost haunting the edges of someone else’s happily ever after.

--

There was a knock at the door. It was soft, hesitant — like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure if they should be there. Y/N barely registered it at first, her thoughts tangled in the thick fog of the day. Her apartment was dark, the curtains drawn tight against the world, and she was still in the oversized hoodie she’d worn three days in a row, curled up on the couch like a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

The knock came again. Slower this time. Careful.

She blinked, staring at the door, her heartbeat stalling. No one came here. No one knocked. She’d made sure of that — avoided neighbors, blocked every number that mattered. No visitors. No reminders.

So who the hell—?

She stood, hesitant, dragging herself up with the weight of a hundred sleepless nights clinging to her spine. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the door. Her nails were bitten down to the quick. Her eyes were hollow. She opened it.

And the last person she ever expected to see was standing there in the hallway.

Yelena.

Y/N didn’t speak. Her throat closed up like a trap.

Yelena smiled gently. “Hey,” she said, her voice light, like this was normal. “Can I come in?”

Y/N blinked. She wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. If her mind had finally cracked under the pressure and this was some sick hallucination. Yelena? Now?

“…What are you doing here?” Her voice was sharp. Dry. She didn’t move.

Yelena’s expression faltered a little. “I… you weren’t answering. Calls, texts. Alexei’s worried. I’m worried. It’s been months, and I thought— I don’t know. I thought maybe you could use some company.”

Y/N stared.

Company. After everything. After everything.

She slowly stepped aside without a word, letting her sister pass into the apartment. Yelena glanced around as she entered — the dishes in the sink, the scattered clothes, the half-empty bottles of energy drinks and untouched food. There was a smell. Not foul, but stale. Like time had stopped moving in here.

“Jesus,” Yelena murmured under her breath, eyes scanning the space. “You’ve really— been hiding, huh?”

Y/N shut the door. And locked it. The click of the deadbolt echoed like a warning. They sat in the silence for a long moment. Yelena took the armchair, her fingers laced nervously in her lap. Y/N sat across from her on the couch, arms crossed, back rigid. The air between them was heavy — not just with time lost, but with something else. Something much darker.

“So,” Yelena said carefully. “How’ve you been?”

Y/N scoffed. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

Yelena blinked. “I just— I don’t know. Trying to start somewhere.”

“You think this is a fucking catch-up?” Her voice cracked at the edges, brittle like glass. “After all this time?”

“I thought you needed space—”

“I didn’t need space, Yelena,” she snapped, sitting forward. “I needed my life. My family. But I guess you were busy on TV, weren’t you? With him.”

Yelena frowned, confused. “With… who?”

“Oh, don’t fucking do that.” Y/N stood now, pacing. Her hands ran through her hair, erratic. “Don’t play dumb. Bob. Sentry. Whatever name he’s going by now.”

Yelena looked taken aback. “You mean— Bob? What about him?”

“You know exactly what,” Y/N hissed.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she screamed suddenly, turning on her. “Do you think I haven’t seen it? The videos? The interviews? The little side glances, the smiles, the fucking flirting? You think I don’t know how this goes?”

Yelena stood too now, defensive. “Whoa, what the hell are you talking about? I barely know him!”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You always do!” Y/N’s voice was feral now, eyes wide with rage and hurt and something so much more raw it didn’t have a name. “You always take. That’s what you do. You take. I got out. I made it out of that hellhole. I found something. Someone. I built a life, Yelena. And then— and then you. You come along, and you fucking take it. Just like everything else.”

Yelena’s expression was horrified. “Wait— you and Bob? You two— you were—?”

Y/N laughed. It was a broken sound. Hysterical. “Of course you didn’t know. Why would you? No one ever sees me. They only see you.”

“Y/N…”

“Don’t Y/N me.” Her voice dropped now, a low growl. “You know what I see every night when I close my eyes? I see the life I should have had. I see a home. A family. Him. And our son. And then right before I wake up, every time, I see you. In my place. Wearing my dress. Holding my baby. With him.”

Yelena was speechless.

“You have everything now,” Y/N whispered, her voice trembling. “Dad’s proud of you. The world loves you. Bob loves you. And I’m nothing. I’m the ghost you all stepped over to get to your perfect little lives.”

“I don’t love him. I don’t— I swear to God, I didn’t know, I didn’t—” Yelena was panicking now, trying to reach her sister through the crackling wildfire of delusion and grief.

But Y/N was too far gone.

“GET OUT,” she screamed. Yelena flinched.

“Get the fuck out of my house. Out of my life. Go back to your team. Go back to him. Just— don’t you dare pity me, Yelena. Don’t you dare.”

Y/N stood in the wreckage of her own living room, chest heaving, knuckles bleeding, rage boiling beneath her skin like lava. The silence after her outburst should have been final—should have signaled the end of this nightmare. But when she turned, Yelena was still there.

She hadn’t left.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Yelena stood in the doorway, rain-slick light washing over her, a tremble in her voice as she stepped forward, slow and cautious.

“I’m not leaving you like this,” Yelena said softly. “You’re not well. I didn’t know about you and Bob—I swear I didn’t. But if it hurts you, I’ll fix it. Just let me fix it.”

“Fix it?” Y/N’s voice cracked, her laugh manic. “You can’t fix me, Yelena. You broke me.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Fair?” Her head snapped toward her sister, expression twisted. “Fair is for people who didn’t get turned into weapons when they were kids. You think you know what the Red Room did to us? You don’t. I was made into something worse. Something even you couldn’t understand.”

Yelena’s face softened with something like fear now. “I know what they did. We survived it together—”

“No. You survived it.” Y/N took a step forward. “I’m still living in it.”

Something inside her was unraveling.

The rage she’d tried to bury, the grief that rotted her insides—it was rising now, a tsunami crashing past the last crumbling walls of her sanity. And Yelena, standing there in her self-righteous glow, trying to save her like she was some stray animal—

It only made her hate her more.

“You came here to help?” Y/N’s voice dropped low, a growl. “You want to save me? The way you saved Natasha? The way you saved yourself?”

“Y/N—please.”

“You think you’re a hero now, huh?” Her hands were shaking with the need to lash out. “You stole my life. My love. My fucking future. And now you’re here, acting like you’re innocent. You’re not innocent.”

Her eyes locked on Yelena’s, and something ancient and broken ignited behind them.

“You’re dead.” Without warning, Y/N lunged.

Y/N’s fist came like lightning—brutal, fast. It clipped Yelena in the jaw, sending her stumbling back, crashing into a bookshelf. Before Yelena could react, Y/N was on her again, slamming her through drywall like a battering ram.

Yelena rolled as a fist cratered the floor where her head had been.

She barely got her footing before Y/N was there again—she moved like a ghost, faster than Yelena remembered. Her Red Room training hadn’t prepared her for this level of strength.

Y/N had super soldier strength.

Yelena countered with a textbook leg sweep—Y/N leapt over it, caught her mid-spin, and hurled her across the living room into the kitchen counter. Dishes shattered. Yelena groaned, back arching in pain.

“You wanna fix me?” Y/N snarled. “Then bleed for me sister!”

She grabbed a serrated kitchen knife and lunged again.

Yelena blocked with a stool, snapping it in half under Y/N’s force. She ducked the next blow and kicked her sister back into the wall—but it was like trying to stop a freight train with a paper shield.

Y/N’s hand snapped forward, catching Yelena by the throat. She slammed her hard against the window.

Glass cracked.

“Every dream I had,” Y/N whispered, face inches from hers, “You infected it.”

Yelena elbowed her, kicked, used every trick she’d learned from Natasha—but nothing was working. Her sister was stronger. Angrier.

Y/N wasn’t fighting to disable.

She was fighting to kill.

Yelena’s lip bled. “This isn’t you,” she gasped. “You’re not like this.”

“I was always like this,” Y/N hissed. “You just never looked hard enough.”

She headbutted Yelena, then flung her across the apartment. Yelena landed with a crash, coughing, vision blurry. She reached for her belt—threw a flashbang.

Y/N shielded her eyes too late.

Yelena scrambled for the window, kicking it open as rain poured in. She turned back, breath ragged.

“I loved you,” she shouted.

Y/N roared, rage bursting like wildfire, lunging through the smoke and wreckage.

Yelena jumped.

She hit the fire escape, barely catching herself. Her leg twisted on impact, but she moved. Fast. Down the stairs, through the alley, into the night.

Behind her, Y/N stood at the broken window, staring down at her fleeing sister.

Her face was wild. Her knuckles bloody. Her breathing fast and erratic. And yet—tears spilled down her cheeks.

Somewhere, deep down beneath the violence, the child who once idolized Yelena screamed.

But no one heard her.

--

Yelena collapsed behind a dumpster, heart thundering in her chest.

She wiped blood from her lip. Looked down at her trembling hands.

She’d faced monsters. Gods. She’d survived the Red Room.

But nothing in the world had prepared her for the moment her own sister tried to kill her.

Tried to murder her.

She looked up at the rain, swallowed the lump in her throat, and whispered—

“What did they do to you?”

--

Y/N sat alone on the shoreline, salt drying on her cheeks. Not from the sea—she hadn’t been in the water.

She hadn’t been in anything lately.

Just skin and bone. Just barely enough of a person to keep breathing.

Her knees were pulled up to her chest. Bare feet dug into the cold sand. The wind tangled her hair as the tide clawed closer. The sky above her was bruised with clouds, gold and violet smudges painting the horizon, stars trying to pierce through the thick dusk.

Her fingers fidgeted with a small, sharp shell—pressing it into her palm again and again until the skin broke.

Tiny, invisible punishment. Something to make her feel.

Because feeling had become harder than hurting.

"I know you’re not here," she whispered.

The sea answered with a howl.

"Or maybe you are," she said to no one. Her voice was so small. "I see you in my dreams, Nat. You always look so... peaceful."

She pressed the shell deeper. Blood bloomed in her palm, slow and warm.

"I’m not okay," she said to the waves, to her dead sister, to the ghost she could only summon through pain and memory. "You knew how to live through the pain. How to stand. I don’t. I don’t know who I am without it. And now I just want it to stop."

She looked up to the darkening sky. The wind picked up.

“I tried,” she whispered. “I really tried. I stayed clean. I made a life. I fell in love.” Her voice cracked. “And he left me.”

Tears streamed down her face. Her body shook, her chest hiccupping with emotion too big to contain.

“I tried to be good. I really did.”

She hugged her knees tighter, curling into herself.

“And now I dream of a family that’s not mine. A house I’ll never have. A child I won’t get to hold.”

A beat.

Then a whisper.

“Take me with you, Nat.”

A sob escaped.

“I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to be me anymore.”

The wind howled louder, like something answering.

And then—

A voice.

“Y/N.”

It was rough. Deep. Familiar.

Her heart stopped.

She didn’t even need to look.

She already knew who it was.

She turned slowly, her face stained with salt and blood and sand.

There stood Alexei.

He looked older. Tired. His eyes softened when he saw her, broken and small on the shore. He took a step forward, boots crunching the shells.

“I’m here to help you, dochka,” he said gently.

The word snapped something in her.

She stood.

Suddenly very still.

Very silent.

Her fists clenched.

"You’re here to help me?" she said, her voice eerily calm. “Now?”

Alexei hesitated. “Yelena told me what happened. We didn’t know about Bob. About how much he meant to you. We didn’t know he left you.”

She flinched like he slapped her.

“You. Didn’t. Know.” Her laugh was cold, sharp. “You all didn’t know because you never asked. Because I was the broken one, right? I was the one you kept tucked away like a dirty little secret while you raised your other daughter to be a hero.”

Alexei’s face fell. “That’s not true.”

“It is true!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “You all wanted me gone. Out of sight. Away. You wanted peace, so you sent me away to rot while you played family with Yelena and wore your stupid suit and smiled for interviews.”

He stepped forward again. “I thought you wanted peace—”

“NO!” she roared. “I wanted a life! I wanted someone to love me. And Bob—he was it. He was everything. But now? Now he’s a goddamn Avenger and you’re all just playing pretend like I never existed.”

Her hands were trembling.

“I was there, Dad. I built something real. And you all took it away from me. And now you come here. Acting like you care.”

“I do care—”

“You should’ve cared then!” she shrieked. “You should’ve cared when I was waking up in cold sweats, screaming from the Red Room memories. You should’ve cared when I begged you not to let them inject me. You should’ve cared when I held Bob’s letter and wanted to die.”

Her eyes locked on his. Wild. Ferocious.

“But you didn’t. And you won’t. So now—” she took a breath, trembling “—I’m gonna make you feel what I feel.”

Y/N charged like a shadow breaking free from the night, faster than Alexei expected. Her fist slammed into his gut, lifting him off the ground and sending him crashing into the sand dune behind them.

He groaned. Spit blood.

She was on him again in seconds.

Fists collided. Sand erupted with every hit. Alexei blocked, countered, tried to reason—but she didn’t want to talk.

She wanted to punish.

“You left me to rot!” she screamed between punches.

“You were strong enough!” he shouted back.

“No, I wasn’t!!”

They tumbled toward the shoreline, their silhouettes locked in a dance of blood and violence. Y/N swept his legs, slammed her knee into his chest. Alexei tried to grapple her, but she elbowed him hard—once, twice—broke free.

“You made me a killer,” she seethed. “And then punished me for being one.”

He staggered back, clutching his ribs.

“You’re not a killer,” he said breathlessly. “You’re my daughter.”

Tears mixed with blood on her face. “Then why didn’t you love me like one?”

She rushed him one last time.

He didn’t fight back.

He just stood there, arms half-raised, breathing ragged.

Her fist cracked across his jaw—and he dropped to his knees.

Rain began to fall.

And she just stood there.

Above him.

Hands shaking.

Chest heaving.

Staring down at the man who helped make her, and never came to save her.

Alexei looked up at her, lip bleeding.

“I didn’t know how,” he whispered. “To love you the way you needed. But I do love you.”

Something inside her broke.

She collapsed into the sand, knees buckling.

And screamed.

Screamed until her throat was raw.

The sound of waves crashing was no longer calming.

Not when her heart was screaming louder.

Y/N’s chest heaved from exertion. Blood caked her hands, her knuckles bruised and raw from striking the man who once called her his little girl. She barely felt the cold rain anymore. It soaked her hair, clung to her lashes, blurred the red on her skin as if it could wash away the damage she’d done—but it couldn’t.

Nothing could.

She stared at Alexei crumpled in the sand, breathing but unmoving. Her own father. Another person she’d broken.

She’d barely noticed the shift in air behind her until it was too late.

Footsteps.

Boots, soft on the sand.

She froze.

They were here.

The new team. Valentina’s soldiers. She could sense it in the way the atmosphere tensed. Like the air itself had held its breath. She didn’t turn at first. Her fists clenched, her breath uneven, eyes still on her father. She thought: Of course Yelena brought them. Of course she did.

She imagined them standing behind her, watching like spectators. Come to see the last broken piece of the Red Room project tear herself apart. Maybe they thought it would be entertaining—put her down like a wild animal if needed.

Maybe they came because they didn’t think she could be saved.

Her jaw clenched.

Then—

A voice.

Soft. Familiar.

Shattered.

“Y/N…”

She turned.

Slowly. Hesitantly.

And when she saw him—

Her heart almost stopped.

Bob.

Her Bob.

Her whole world, standing in the rain, drenched like a ghost.

He was dressed in civilian clothes, not the shining uniform of a weapon. He looked nothing like the being of light and power she once saw hovering above the world.

He looked like a man. A broken man.

His eyes were red, tears tracing down his face like rainwater. His lips parted, like he had a hundred things to say but couldn’t force a single one of them past the lump in his throat.

Time stopped.

The beach, the wind, the world—faded.

It was just them.

Two people with shattered dreams and bleeding hearts.

Her arms twitched—part of her wanted to run to him. Bury herself in his chest. Ask him if any of it was real. Ask him why he left. Ask him if he knew how hard she fought to live through it.

But she didn’t move.

Because the rest of her wanted to kill him.

She hated him. She loved him. She hated how much she still loved him.

Her face crumpled. She blinked back tears, every emotion she had shoved down for months roaring back to the surface.

Then she saw the others.

Bucky. Yelena. Walker. Ava.

Weapons.

All ready.

All watching.

She was the target.

Yelena stood behind Bob, her arms at her sides, tense and afraid. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

The message was clear: They weren’t here to help her. They were here to stop her.

She laughed bitterly, her voice hoarse from crying, from screaming.

“So this is what it takes to get you all to care,” she said, not looking at anyone but Bob. “One broken girl on a beach, and now you all show up to ‘fix’ me.”

Bob took a step forward.

“Y/N—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, voice cold. “Don’t say my name like it still belongs to you.”

He flinched. His throat bobbed.

"I—I didn’t know how to come back," he said quietly. "I didn’t know how to look at you after what I did."

Tears welled up in her eyes again.

“You shouldn’t have come back at all,” she whispered. “Not like this. Not with them.”

She took a trembling step toward Alexei’s limp body in the sand. Her fingers curled into fists.

“I should end it here,” she murmured, barely audible over the wind. “End all of this. You, him, me.”

Bob’s eyes widened. “Y/N, please…”

She crouched and pulled the sidearm from Alexei’s holster. Her hands shook as she held it.

Every fiber of her being screamed against what she was doing—but the storm in her chest was stronger. Her tears blinded her, but the hatred lit her up from the inside like wildfire.

“Put it down,” Bucky warned gently. “You don’t want to do this.”

She didn’t even look at him.

“I didn’t want any of this.”

Her eyes stayed locked on Bob. Tears ran freely now. She looked like a woman drowning on dry land.

“I just wanted a life. You know? A stupid little house. A baby. A partner. That’s it. And you took it all away and gave it to her instead.”

Bob shook his head. “Yelena isn’t—”

“SHUT UP!” she screamed, voice cracked and raw. “You think I care what’s true? You think it makes a difference?!”

The grief in her voice silenced them all.

She turned the weapon toward Alexei—arms trembling.

Her finger brushed the trigger.

Then—

They moved.

Bucky lunged. Silent, fast, skilled.

He was on her in an instant, arms wrapping around her from behind like iron.

She screamed, thrashed wildly, her strength unnatural. But Bucky was strong too. Too strong. It was like a cage slamming shut.

“No—NO—LET ME GO!!” she wailed, her voice pure panic now.

She twisted, elbowed him hard—but he didn’t loosen. She could barely breathe. Her eyes locked on Bob’s—desperate and furious.

“HOW DARE YOU COME HERE!” she cried. “YOU DON’T GET TO WATCH ME BREAK!”

Then she felt the sharp sting in her neck.

She froze.

Her pupils dilated.

Bucky held her tighter as the tranquilizer entered her bloodstream.

“No—no—no, no please—please—not again,” she begged, sobbing, her voice cracking into childlike pleas.

Her limbs weakened.

Her legs collapsed.

And the world began to spin.

Bob stepped forward—arms instinctively outstretched—but Bucky held her protectively, shaking his head.

Y/N blinked up at Bob one last time, her vision blurring.

“You were supposed to love me,” she whispered.

Then her eyes rolled back.

Her body went limp in Bucky’s arms.

--

Warm light painted the ceiling above her in soft amber tones, the kind of light that tried too hard to feel like daylight. It flickered gently with the subtle hum of the old overhead fixture, barely audible above the quiet in the room. The air was cool, sterile but not cruel. Soft linen cradled her aching body, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, she didn’t feel the weight of sand, or blood, or rage on her skin. But she felt everything else.

Her eyes fluttered open, lids heavy, lashes damp from sleep or tears—she wasn’t sure. She didn’t move. Just… stared at the ceiling, letting herself breathe in the unfamiliar quiet.

Then it hit her.

Where was she?

Her heart stuttered. Her fingers twitched. She tried to shift, to sit up—but—

She couldn’t. Her wrists were gently restrained. Not tight. Not cruel. The soft fabric cuffs were secured to the bedframe. She wasn’t a guest here. She was a threat.

And then she remembered.

The screaming. The gun. Bob. Yelena. Alexei. Pain speared through her chest as the memory flooded her in a single crushing wave. Her own voice screaming in her ears. The look in Bob’s eyes when she crumbled. The way Yelena flinched. The way Alexei bled into the sand.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her voice cracked and barely recognizable.

Tears stung her eyes, hot and shameful. She let them fall, unable to lift a hand to wipe them away. She had snapped. No—that wasn’t strong enough. She had descended. The side of her that had been carved in the dark halls of the Red Room—the ghost of the girl she used to be—had won. She had become every nightmare she fought so hard to rise from. I’m a monster. She didn’t notice the faint movement at first, the soft rustle of fabric.

Then—

A quiet, theatrical cough. Not aggressive. Not angry. Just… a little awkward.

Yelena.

She sat quietly at the end of the bed, legs crossed at the ankle, arms loosely wrapped around herself. Her green eyes were bloodshot, her face pale and raw. There were faint bruises around her temple—bruises Y/N had left. One eye still a little swollen. But she smiled, slow and tired and heartbreakingly gentle.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up,” Yelena said, her voice hoarse but calm. “You sleep like a rock. That part hasn’t changed.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Her lips parted in shock. Her breath hitched in her throat, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them—choked, frantic, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Yelena—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to hurt you—I didn’t—God, I’m so sorry—”

Yelena stood and leaned forward, her hands coming to gently cradle her sister’s face, ignoring the restraints, ignoring the tears, ignoring the bruises Y/N had left behind. “No,” Yelena whispered, pulling her into a slow, careful hug.

Y/N froze, her body stiff with guilt, her breath shallow and frantic. She tried to pull back, tried to protest, but Yelena just held her tighter. “No more apologies.”

“I almost killed you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I wanted to,” Y/N cried. “I—I was going to—”

“But you didn’t,” Yelena said again, firm this time. “And I know that wasn’t you. Not the real you.”

Y/N finally broke. Her head dropped forward, her body trembling as she sobbed uncontrollably into her sister’s shoulder.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she choked. “I don’t know how to come back from this. I don’t know if I can.”

Yelena pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes.

“You’re my sister,” she said. “That’s who you are. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N’s eyes burned. Her lips trembled. “I’m dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

Yelena smiled, even through her own tears. “Maybe. But I’m not.”

There was a beat of silence. A moment where the weight of everything—the past, the pain, the blood between them—hung in the air like a ghost. Y/N stared at her hands. Her wrists still bound, like some poetic punishment for the sins she couldn’t undo.

“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. “Your kindness. Your love. After what I did… after what I became…”

“You became someone who was hurting,” Yelena said gently. “Someone who had everything stolen from her. Again. And again. And again.”

She wiped a tear from Y/N’s cheek.

“You don’t need to deserve my love, Y/N. You already have it.”

Y/N let out a small, broken noise. The kind that wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite a laugh. Just pain, raw and unfiltered.

The sisters stayed there like that, wrapped in a fragile embrace, one restrained but free for the first time in years, and the other covered in bruises but stronger than anyone had given her credit for.

Y/N whispered, “I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t,” Yelena said. “And now we’re going to fix this. Together.”

She reached for the restraints. Y/N flinched. But Yelena just unbuckled one cuff. Then the other. Slowly. Gently. Like she was undoing chains made of more than just fabric. Y/N’s arms fell to her sides, limp. She didn’t move. She didn’t run. She just let the silence settle again.

The door creaked open gently.

Bob stood in the frame like a ghost afraid to enter its own home, shoulders slouched, hands trembling at his sides. His eyes were bloodshot, not from lack of sleep, but from the weight of sorrow. He didn’t speak right away. He looked at her like she was a piece of glass cracked in too many places to count—terrified that even breathing wrong would shatter her completely. Y/N didn’t look at him.

She sat up in bed slowly, spine hunched, fingers tangled in the bedsheets like she was holding herself together. Her eyes stayed down, unable to meet his. Her chest was heavy with guilt, shame, heartbreak. The silence stretched between them like a bridge they were both too afraid to walk.

“…Can I come in?” Bob finally asked, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.

Yelena, who had been sitting quietly at the edge of the room, glanced at Y/N. Y/N nodded faintly. Yelena stood, gently brushing a hand over her sister’s shoulder before leaving the room without a word. She paused just long enough at Bob’s side to give him one final look — one that said: Please, don’t break her again.

And then it was just them. The door clicked shut behind him.

He stepped forward slowly, like every movement hurt. Like every step was a prayer.

“I’ve been out there,” he said, eyes flicking to the door. “Since they brought you in. I didn’t leave.”

Y/N’s voice was a ghost, barely audible. “Why?”

His breath caught. She finally lifted her eyes to him — and he saw it. The wreckage. The ruin. The pain. All of it, etched into her face, bleeding out of her eyes like ink across fragile paper.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said, voice cracking.

She blinked.

“Okay?” she repeated, a bitter laugh curling into her tone. “You think I’m okay?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he asked, “Can I… hug you?”

For a moment, she just stared at him. Silent. He could see the fight in her. The war. The part of her that wanted to scream, and the part of her that wanted to collapse.

She nodded. Just once. He moved forward slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, and then—he knelt at her side. His arms wrapped around her carefully at first, but then tighter. And tighter. Like he needed to physically hold her together. Like he was trying to keep her from vanishing. Like he had been waiting lifetimes just to feel her heartbeat again. She didn’t move. Then—her body began to tremble. And she broke. A sob ripped through her, raw and sharp and desperate. And then another. And another. She clung to him with everything she had left, burying her face into his shoulder like it was the only place she could hide from the world. He held her through it. Tighter. Always tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” Bob whispered, voice cracking like glass. “Y/N… I’m so sorry. For everything. For leaving. For not asking. For not knowing. For making you go through all of this alone.”

“Why?” she cried. “Why did you leave me?”

His hands were shaking against her back.

“Why did you give up on me?” she sobbed. “I needed you. I needed you to fight for me, Bob…”

“I know.”

“I needed you to love me.”

“I did!” he cried, his voice breaking completely. “I do! I never stopped, not for one second. But I was broken—I was so broken and I didn’t want to take you down with me.”

“You already did,” she whispered, her voice like ashes.

Silence.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands curled in the collar of his shirt, her face wet with tears. “I would’ve taken every hit. Every storm. Every goddamn explosion if it meant we got to live that life together. The one I dreamed of. You. Me. A life. That’s all I ever wanted.”

Bob cupped her face like she was the most fragile thing in the universe. “You were everything. I looked at you and saw something pure. Someone good. You had your life together. You had purpose. You had a job, a name, a home. You—” His voice caught again. “You were the kind of person who made people believe in something better.”

“And I loved you. God, I loved you.”

He rested his forehead against hers, both of them shaking now.

“But me?” he whispered. “I was a drug. I was a monster. I was this… this parasite, wrapped in skin and lies. And every day I looked at you, I wondered how long it would take before I ruined you.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “You were sick, Bob. You were in pain. I knew that. I stayed because I loved you. And you—you let me love you—and then you ran.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered. “But I was just protecting myself. From the guilt. From the shame of watching the best thing in my life waste away because of me.”

“I did waste away!” she snapped, crying harder. “I begged for you. I screamed for you. I built a future around a man who disappeared before I could even show him what he meant to me. And you never came back.”

His thumbs brushed her cheeks, catching the tears that wouldn’t stop.

“You deserved someone who could stay,” he said. “And I was still chasing my next high. My escape. You got clean—for me. You faced your demons. But I—” He swallowed. “I let mine eat me alive. I let them turn me into something violent. Something ugly. I would scream. Break things. Scare you. I remember the way you used to flinch and it kills me.”

“I never stopped waiting for you,” she whispered. “Even when I hated you. Even when I blamed you. Even when I hurt everyone because of you.”

He rested his head on her shoulder.

“I’m not the man you deserve.”

“You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted.”

Silence. Only their breathing, tangled and shaky.

“I’m sorry,” Bob whispered again. “I was a burden. A mistake. A nobody.”

She pulled his face up to look at her. “No. You were everything.”

And just like that, they sat together, two broken people clinging to the pieces, sobbing into each other’s arms. No future plans. No promises. Just pain. Just honesty. Just them. And for the first time in what felt like eternity, Y/N wasn’t crying alone. The quiet after the storm hung heavy. Bob hadn’t moved. Not really. His arms still wrapped around her like a shield. As if he thought letting go would mean losing her again. He held her like a man who knew he didn’t deserve to—grateful, reverent, afraid. Y/N’s tears had long since soaked through his shirt. Her voice was hoarse from sobbing. Her body, exhausted. But neither of them could stop holding on. She rested her head against his chest, hearing that familiar heartbeat—steady, slow, alive. Proof that he was really here. That after everything, he was here.

Bob took a breath. Shaky. Hesitant. Then another, deeper one. And then, finally:

“Y/N…” he whispered, voice trembling. “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded against his chest.

His hand gently, shakily brushed through her hair. “Can you ever forgive me?”

She stiffened just slightly—not out of anger, but out of the weight of the question.

“I thought…” he said, voice breaking again, “I thought I was doing you a favor. Letting you go. I thought if I disappeared, I’d… free you from me. From the burden. From my addiction. My anger. Everything.”

He leaned back, just enough to look into her eyes. His were red and swollen, glistening with tears that hadn’t fallen yet.

“I was never good enough for you. Not before. Not during. Not after. You gave me your heart and I… I broke it. I left it bleeding on the floor. You were the only light I had, and I left you in the dark.”

She was quiet, watching him, jaw trembling slightly.

“I never truly understood,” he said, voice raw, “how someone like you… someone strong, brilliant, good… could love someone like me. I always thought there had to be something wrong with you for wanting me.”

Her throat tightened.

“But there wasn’t. God, there wasn’t. You were just kind. And I was a coward.”

He dropped his head, shame rippling off him like heat. “I didn’t realize how much I needed you until you were gone. And even then, I told myself I was doing the right thing. That staying away was noble. That I was protecting you.”

He laughed bitterly. “What bullshit. All I was doing was hiding. And hurting you in the process.”

Y/N blinked hard, her eyes stinging again. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She reached out slowly, placing her hand on his cheek. He leaned into it like it was a lifeline.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” she whispered. “I just need you to stay.”

He nodded, eyes closing under her touch. “I won’t go. Not again. I swear it.”

Her voice cracked. “Don’t let me go.”

“I won’t.”

“Just… hold me. For as long as you can. Just—don’t let me feel alone again.”

“I’m here,” he whispered fiercely. “I’m here. I’ll stay. Always.”

She hesitated. Then: “Can I ask you something now?”

His eyes met hers again, frightened but open. “Anything.”

Her lips parted, voice softer than before. “Were you ever with her?”

He blinked. “Who?”

“…Yelena.”

A silence fell between them. He understood what she meant. Not just with in proximity. But with. As in—did you love her? Did you think of her when you should’ve been thinking of me?

He answered without hesitation.

“No,” he said. “God, no. Never.”

She nodded slightly, swallowing, but the pain was still there.

“Did you ever think about it?” she asked.

He sighed. “Y/N, I thought about you. Every. Day. Every time I woke up. Every time I hit bottom again. Every time I looked at the sky. I never stopped thinking about you.”

“Then why didn’t you come back?”

His voice broke. “Because I didn’t feel like I deserved to. Not after what I did. After what I put you through. I thought… if I came back, it’d be unfair. Like I was asking you to relive all of it. To open those wounds again.”

“But you were all I wanted,” she whispered. “Even when I hated you for leaving. Even when I cursed your name. You were still… home.”

He shook his head, tears finally falling. “I was a monster.”

“You were sick,” she said. “You were hurting.”

“I was dangerous.”

She leaned closer.

“I never wanted safe,” she said. “I wanted you. All of you. Even the broken parts.”

He looked at her, disbelief and awe mingling in his expression. “I only ever loved you, Y/N. I always will.”

Their foreheads came together, slow, breathless. They just stayed like that for a moment. Breathing the same air. Holding the same silence. Two hearts syncing again after too long apart. She looked up at him, her eyes swollen, red, and full of something unspoken.

And then—she kissed him. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was slow. Soft. Gentle.

But underneath it—ache. A deep ache. Like a wound finally closing. Like years of longing finally being answered. Like two souls that had fought wars just to find their way back to each other.

His hands cradled her face. Her fingers clutched his shirt. They kissed like survivors. Like people who’d come too close to the edge and were still afraid of falling.

And when they pulled away, they didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

Because that kiss said everything.

They lay there, still wrapped around one another, letting the storm of the past finally settle in the quiet.

His breathing had slowed, but his hands trembled faintly, like the weight of memory refused to leave his bones.

Bob hadn’t spoken for several minutes. He just watched her face. Her swollen eyes. Her tired but steady breaths. The way her lashes fluttered when she blinked, like she was still scared she might wake up and find none of this real.

But then he asked it.

His voice was soft. Almost broken. The kind of question someone asks after holding it back for too long.

“…Why didn’t you stop me?”

Y/N stirred. “What do you mean?”

He sat up slightly, supporting himself on one elbow, and looked at her with a vulnerability that split him wide open.

“All those times,” he said, almost afraid to speak the words. “Back then. When I was sick. When I… when I shouted. When I punched the wall an inch from your head. When I—” He choked. “When I was someone else.”

She didn’t look away. Her eyes softened.

“You just… took it,” he whispered. “You stood there and took it. You never fought back. Not once. You could’ve. You should’ve.”

He swallowed hard. “And today… I saw what you can do. I saw you fight Alexei. You nearly killed him. You could’ve crushed me like I was nothing. You were stronger than me all along.”

He looked down at their intertwined hands, her fingers relaxed against his palm.

“So why didn’t you?”

There was no judgment in his tone. Just pain. Just shame. Just disbelief.

Y/N sat up slowly, pulling her knees to her chest as her gaze drifted upward—past the ceiling, past the walls. Like she was remembering a thousand moments all at once.

“I could’ve,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he whispered.

“But I didn’t.”

“Why?” he asked again, desperate this time.

She took a breath, long and slow.

“Because if I used it… if I let myself use that strength, I knew I wouldn’t stop,” she said. “I knew I could hurt you. Maybe kill you.”

Her voice trembled. “And no matter how much you hurt me… I never wanted to hurt you.”

Bob broke.

The words hit like bullets, each one sharper than the last. His shoulders curled inward. His hands covered his face. And for the first time since the injections, since the lab, since the Void, since everything—he sobbed.

Ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that came from the very center of who he was. He collapsed forward, arms wrapping around her waist, face buried into her lap like a child seeking comfort.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She just cradled his head, fingers gently stroking his hair as he cried like a man grieving a version of himself that could’ve loved her better.

“You should’ve run,” he said into her skin. “You should’ve left me. I was… I was horrible to you.”

She didn’t speak.

“I pushed you away. I threw things. I screamed at you. And you—God, Y/N, you stayed. You stayed and loved me when I was poison.”

She closed her eyes, holding back tears of her own.

“I was so weak,” he whispered.

“No,” she said softly, firm. “You were sick.”

“I was a monster.”

“You were lost,” she corrected. “And I loved you. I never stopped.”

He looked up at her, broken, tear-streaked, eyes desperate. “You loved me when I didn’t deserve it.”

“I still do.”

He let out a cry at that—soft, ragged.

And then, as if the truth was finally bursting from inside him, he grabbed both her hands and clutched them to his chest.

“I have so much to tell you,” he said, his voice urgent. “So much I need you to understand. I know it doesn’t erase what happened. I know it doesn’t make me innocent. But I need you to hear it. Everything. Why I disappeared. What I thought I was doing. What I really did. How scared I was. How much I missed you. How I imagined your voice when I was breaking down. How I saw you in every dream and every nightmare.”

She was silent, watching him come undone.

He breathed out, shaky. “I want to start over. With you. With all of it. I want to be the man who’s strong because of you, not in spite of you. I want sobriety, real sobriety, with you by my side. I want the Watchtower to be ours. I want to see you wake up in the morning and smile and know you’re safe. I want a new life. A real life. With you.”

Her throat closed around the lump rising there.

“I need you,” he said. “Not just want. Need. Like breath. Like light.”

He leaned in, his forehead pressed to her chest now.

“I need you to believe I can be better.”

She gently tilted his chin up, her eyes meeting his. Her own expression trembling from holding in her emotion.

“I already do,” she whispered.

He stared at her like she was the sun, like she was the reason he hadn’t disappeared completely.

Then she leaned in, pressing her lips to his temple. A kiss of forgiveness. Of memory. Of salvation.

“I’ll stay,” she murmured. “But you have to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t give up. Not on me. Not on yourself. Not ever again.”

He nodded fervently, tears still falling. “I won’t. I swear, I won’t.”

“And if you slip—”

“I’ll tell you.”

“If you hurt—”

“I’ll let you hold me.”

She smiled sadly. “Then I’ll stay.”

He kissed her then. Gentle, slow. A thank you. A lifeline.

And when they pulled back, he held her tighter than ever, whispering into the quiet.

“I’ll never let you go again.”

--

The Watchtower Common Room – Three Weeks Later

The sun dipped lazily through the tall windows of the communal living room, casting a golden haze over the couch, the mismatched furniture, and the scattered takeout containers from what had turned into a very chaotic brunch-slash-strategy meeting-slash-Alexei-having-an-identity-crisis.

Y/N sat curled into the corner of the oversized couch, practically glued to Bob’s side. Her legs were draped over his lap, arms wrapped around his chest like a koala bear, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

And, judging by the peaceful look on her face, neither was her need to be close to him at every moment of every day.

Bob, for his part, looked a little... wilted. In a good way. The kind of wilted that comes with someone who’s been deeply loved on all day by a clingy, affectionate, newly-healed girlfriend who had absolutely zero shame about PDA in front of their makeshift team.

He was red in the face. Again.

“I don’t get it,” Alexei grumbled from the floor, half-buried under sketchbooks, empty energy drink cans, and three poorly-sewn prototypes of what might’ve been uniforms. “We’re technically Avengers now, yes? We saved a facility. We stopped a Void. We got a Bob. We have matching trauma. That is qualification.”

Yelena, seated on the arm of the couch, rolled her eyes. “No one said we’re not. But it’s not ‘Avengerz.’ With a Z.”

“But the Z is modern. Youthful,” Alexei insisted, holding up a tattered piece of paper with what looked like a lightning bolt... stabbing a bear. “You have to think branding.”

Y/N snorted into Bob’s chest. He felt it before he heard it—her nose pressed to his shoulder as she tried to muffle the laughter.

Bob glanced around the room, looking mildly panicked. “Can I take back my resurrection and go die again real quick?”

“No,” Y/N said without hesitation, arms tightening around his middle. “I just got you back. You’re not going anywhere.”

He glanced down at her, lips twitching. “Can I at least breathe?”

“Nope.”

Yelena laughed under her breath. “Honestly? You’re lucky. This is the happiest she’s been in years.”

“I can tell,” Bob muttered, turning even redder as Y/N unabashedly kissed his jaw in front of everyone. “She hasn’t let go of me in like, six hours.”

Y/N looked up, mock-offended. “Wow. I cuddle you once for six hours and suddenly I’m clingy?”

He gave her a flat look. “You’ve followed me into the bathroom.”

“I missed you.”

“I was in there for three minutes.”

“Three long, heartbreaking minutes.”

The room burst into laughter—except Alexei, who was too busy measuring Bucky’s shoulders with a tape measure and mumbling about “proportions for aesthetic justice.”

Bucky swatted at him half-heartedly. “Get that thing away from me.”

“You want to be symmetrical or not, soldier boy?”

Y/N giggled and turned her face back into Bob’s neck, inhaling deeply. “You still smell like coffee.”

“Because I made coffee an hour ago.”

“I love coffee.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

Bob sighed, defeated, though there was nothing in his expression but soft, dazed affection. He leaned back, letting her cling to him like a warm, stubborn barnacle.

“You’re like a weighted blanket,” he muttered. “But emotionally terrifying.”

“Thank you,” she replied proudly.

Across the room, Ghost (Ava) snorted into her drink. “It’s like watching a golden retriever try to date a feral cat.”

“Except the cat’s ex-Red Room and could snap my spine if she wanted,” Walker said, not looking up from polishing his gun.

Y/N’s gaze lifted then, her eyes drifting to Alexei—who was, inexplicably, wearing one of his own design sketches pinned to his chest like a Girl Scout badge.

She hesitated. Then smiled. After everything… after almost killing him, after breaking down in the sand, after being held down by Bucky with a syringe while screaming her regrets—Alexei had forgiven her.

No. He’d understood her. She didn’t have to say anything to him. Not really. Because when he met her gaze, he gave her a single proud nod. Not smug. Not goofy. Just real. Like he knew how hard it had been to unlearn the Red Room. Like he saw her—his daughter—not as what she’d done but what she’d survived. And honestly he was kinda proud of her for beating him so easily. He could brag about it.

She blinked away tears and turned back into Bob’s chest, hiding her face.

“Y’know,” Alexei said suddenly, sitting up straighter, “Y/N would look amazing in one of these suits. Maybe dark red. Gold. With like... a phoenix on the back.”

“No,” Y/N groaned into Bob’s shirt. “I want a normal life. I want grocery shopping and bad TV and laundry and staying in bed.”

“You live in a flying tower with six weapons of mass destruction.”

“And I can where an expensive robe walking around it, with a sexy husband, that's as normal as I can get.”

“Please,” Alexei begged, flopping toward her on his knees. “I will make you leather gloves. Like the ones from Blade!”

“No.”

“A grappling hook arm!”

“Alexei—”

“A grappling bear!”

Yelena chucked a pillow at his face.

“Can we not push her into vigilante work while she’s literally snuggling the man she almost died for?” she said dryly.

“I’m fine,” Bob mumbled, caught between arousal, humiliation, and existential peace. “I’m... warm.”

“You look like she’s draining your soul through osmosis,” Walker muttered.

“She is,” Bob agreed. “Lovingly.”

Y/N pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m happy.” And she meant it.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Hi friend !! I love your writing so much, it’s so good.

I have a request if you’d be down ?? Bob / Sentry / Void x y/n. Bob was married before the events of Thunderbolts. Like maybe they got married out of high school or something. Valentina finds out about his wife & uses her as leverage to get him to agree to the Sentry project. It doesn’t go quite as well as she’d hoped because she doesn’t realize Sentry & Void love y/n as well because they can see Bob’s memories with her & understand how he feels. Val & her helpers haven’t been very nice to y/n, like hitting her & stuff, so that sets Sentry off & y/n is the only one who can talk him or Void down without it being a fight.

Just a random thought I had for a story I thought you might enjoy 🫶🏻

I absolutely love this idea!!! Thank you so much for sharing this and letting me being the one to write this for you I hope I did it justice <3

>>>><<<<

The worst part was how she was using you. 

Bob hadn’t seen you in years. Not because he didn’t want to. But because the world made him believe that he was too dangerous to love anything. Especially you. You, with your soft laugh and stormy temper, the girl he knew he had to spend the rest of his life with even at just fifteen when the two of you started dating, the girl who he married straight out of high school. You were all fire and loyalty, too loud for small dreams and too real for a man who believed he’d be nothing but an addict. So, he decided to get clean. He knew he wasn’t getting many good things in this life, that you were by far the best thing to ever walk into his life and he refused to let you slip away. 

He took notice during his small moments of clarity that his addictions were taking a toll on you, you weren’t sleeping, you were skinnier than before, the way your eyes would light up when he would just stumble into your shared apartment broke his heart every time. He had a hard time believing he was the man you wanted, he knew he sure as hell wasn’t the man you deserved, but he was determined to become that man for you.

He promised he’d be back in just a few months, “It’s-it’s like a spiritual awakening type thing babe…I-I don’t know I think it’ll help…I mean how can I not get clean if the shit isn’t around me anymore, right?”

So he disappeared. 

And then they took you.

When Val found Bob once again, she realized she needed him. However, he just wouldn’t corroborate. 

Then she had a brilliant idea of finding you, it was easy to track you honestly, you hadn’t moved out of the apartment the two of you shared from high school, Pathetic really, she scoffed, after all this time you still hadn't left? She waved her hand and sent the information to one of her assistants to take you to make sure Bob would start behaving.

He didn’t remember much about agreeing to the Sentry Project. Not really. Valentina smiled too sharply. The others stood so stiffly in black suits and said words like containment, protocol, oversight. And then she dropped the photo on the table like it meant nothing.

Seventeen-year-old you, in the random white dress you found at a thrift store outside of the courthouse holding the marriage certificate, your smile shined brightly even through the creases and worn edges from being folded too many times. Seeing the picture made his heart stop, his breath got caught in his throat and his head spined with questions. How the hell did she find you?

“Sign the papers, Bob. Or she disappears.”

He tried to hold it together. For you. He let them drug him all over again. Chain him. Train him. Mold him into something that they deemed “manageable.” But Valentina made a mistake. She thought she could control him. She forgot who was watching.

Sentry knew your name. The Void knew your name.

They could feel it – something soft and bright in the back of Bob’s mind. Neither of them had a good understanding of what love was supposed to be. But they knew you. You were warm hands over trembling shoulders. You were the taste of sunlight. You were the one memory that made Bob feel human again, that Bob clinged to. And so Sentry loved you too, in his own confused, possessive way. 

Void didn’t love easily. He destroyed.

But even he curled protectively around your name in Bob’s head. He hated everything. But not you. Never you.

Val didn’t expect it to matter. Her entire team thought you were just leverage. By the time Bob found you–through layers of classified files, locked doors, and “not your concern” responses–you were bloodied and bruised. Dried cuts across your cheekbone. A limp in your step. You didn’t scream. You did cry, you did smile when you saw him.

That broke him. The scream that tore from his throat shook the entire facility. They tried to sedate him. Too late.

They always talked about the Sentry’s power like a scale. But they couldn’t truly understand all that he was capable of. It wasn’t Bob that scared them. It wasn’t even the Sentry.

It was the Void.

And now the Void was wide awake and alert.

Everything was red.

Walls crumbled like paper. Screams ringed loudly through the background– every member of security was scrambling. Someone begged for a tranquilizer. The glass melted from the hallway cameras as the lights stuttered and died.

He didn’t even look human anymore. Gold eyes. Black smoke curling from his skin like tar. He wasn’t walking–he was gliding forward, radiating fury. A voice like thunder cracked the silence:

“Who touched her?”

You coughed from where you were curled on the cot. Blood on your lip. You tried to stand, but stumbled. The moment your knees hit the floor, Bob shattered. Or maybe that’s when Sentry took over fully–no longer able to be held back by human guilt, no longer softened by protocol. He didn’t stop at the door. It exploded open with a blinding flash, heat searing the air. A trembling agent fired.

Bad choice.

Sentry caught the bullet mid-air and snapped his fingers. The gun evaporated. The man screamed as his arm bent the wrong way, suspended by nothing.

The Void was rising–blotting out all reason.

“Bob,” you rasped. “Stop. I’m okay--”

But he wasn’t Bob anymore. Not fully. He turned toward you–crackling energy rolling off him. Void and Sentry both trying to surface, pulling at the same body, eyes blazing gold then blinking and glowing black.

“They hurt you,” he growled, low and guttural. “They will die for that.”

You stumbled toward him, dragging your broken leg. “Hey,” you whispered, touching his chest. His heat nearly burned–but you didn’t pull away. “I’m here. I’m okay.” 

He flinched.

The Void’s rage twisted, but Sentry’s light pulsed under the surface. Torn in two.

“Don’t make me watch you become something you’ll hate knowing I witnessed,” you breathed, leaning into him. “You found me. That’s--that’s what matters.”

He dropped to his knees like a falling star. The energy hissed and died around him. His shoulders shook as tears fell down his face. You touched his jaw, guiding his face to yours. “Come back to me, Bobby.” He was crying. Quiet and broken, breath ragged. “I thought you were gone,” he whispered. You wrapped your arms around him. His frame trembled like a dying sun. “I thought you were gone. You’re mine, my husband, my love,” you murmured into his neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”

>>>><<<<

Valentina survived.

Barely.

She limps now. She constantly looks over her shoulder, when the lights flicker her breathing stops until they go back to normal.

Because while the world still calls him “Sentry” and prays he’s contained–She knows better. She knows you are the only thing that keeps him human. The only thing that can control him.  And if they ever try to take you again? There won’t be anyone left to stop the Void.

>>>><<<<

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed :) If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open<3

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[moesthoughts]

my aching bones | the pilot ( photo 01 )

chapter summary : you finally sign up for the stupid photography gig to take pictures for the yellow jackets girls’ soccer team, if taking action shots at their first practice was already awkward enough, being forced to introduce yourself to the team was worse.

warnings : bullying, topics of loneliness, drug use, homophobia, mental health issues, addiction

next

You curse at yourself as you practically sign away your life in Mr. Martinez’s office.

You can’t believe your parents convinced you to do something with your hobby you aren’t even that good at, Photography. You enjoy your free will with your shots, but now that you have to take action shots and team photos for the Yellow Jackets girl’s soccer team, you can kiss that creative freedom goodbye. You place the pen you were given down onto the desk, not caring to read the contract you just signed. Probably not the smartest decision you’ve made. The man in front of you smiles at you, before taking the clipboard and pen away from you.

“We appreciate your help, miss. We’ve been in need of a photographer.”

He chuckles, tapping the pen onto the wood. You can only muster up a small smile, awkwardly shuffling between your feet. Little did he know you were doing this completely against your will. Your eyes wander towards the family photos littered across his office, Travis and Javi Martinez. Pretty weird kids, if you could even judge. Travis was a complete asshole, but Javi was a sweet little kid. You mentally prepare yourself, knowing you’ll have to deal with them both somewhere down the line.

“No need to thank me, sir. I just wanted to expand on my hobby.”

You realize you didn’t reply to him earlier, you try to sound professional. You kick the carpet on the floor as he laughs again. He always seems so serious on the field, why is he so carefree now? Probably because he wants to love bomb you into staying for the rest of senior year, you still can’t believe you’re wasting your supposedly chill year on a soccer team. You haven’t done an extracurricular for your entire high school career, why does that have to change this year? You enjoy your alone time, at least you think you do.

“It’s Coach to you now. The girls have practice tomorrow, why don’t you stay after and test the waters?”

Coach Martinez smiles, and you press your lips together. Tomorrow is when you officially start taking pictures for the school paper, that everyone looked at.. You pick up your bag from the chair beside you and bottle up your worries. You mutter a ‘see you tomorrow’ and leave the room. You shuffle awkwardly across the locker room which was thankfully empty for today, you’re already dreading tomorrow.

It’s the last class of the day, and you’ve about had it with the constant comments from Randy. You bury your face into your hands after the third remark about how you dress, you’d yell at him if you weren’t already worrying about the event after this class. All you want is a moment to think before you have to take pictures of girls like a creep, it’s enough that people throw insults at you for being ‘gay’. You never want to confirm or deny.

“I mean, you dress like a butch—“

“Randy, just fuck off already.”

Your head turns in the direction of the new voice, it’s Taissa Turner. You’re shocked, to say the least. She’s never once stood up for you when Randy picked on you, you’re not sure what sparked this change suddenly. To be honest, you believed she was even meaner than Randy. The boy scoffs and leaves you alone, you stare at her dumbfounded. She looks back at you, equally confused.

“You’re welcome?”

Taissa speaks up, a smile pulling on her lips. You snap out of your confused daze and give her one back, going back to the worksheet on your desk. Today is going to be so weird. You grip your camera that’s been in your lap the whole class. Instead of paying attention to calculus, you were busy making sure you had enough film, that your lens wasn’t smudged, and that it still functioned correctly. All the boxes have been checked, it was time to prepare yourself for after school. To brave the overwhelming social anxiety that plagues your body every day. You squeeze your eyes shut once the bell rings, and the thing you’ve been trying to forget about for the whole day is finally here.

The tips of your shoes dig into the ground as you stand next to Coach Martinez, who is watching Coach Scott make some kind of welcome speech. You notice some girls aren’t taking it very seriously, you assume it’s because it’s not their first year. Among the girls whispering to each other, one catches your eye the most. The prettiest bleach blonde hair, eyeliner so dark around her eyes, red-tinted lips with the cutest smile. You tear your eyes away from her once you dive too deep into your thoughts. You put your camera up to your eye and wink, taking a picture of the group sitting around the Coach. It was an aesthetic shot, you know you did well when Coach Martinez praises you for your good eye.

Some of the girls look over to the sound of your camera shutter, exchanging confused looks. You slowly start to understand that this idea wasn’t disclosed to the team, at least not yet. Your nerves get the best of you, your fight-or-flight response screaming at you to just bolt away. You don’t, instead braving the odd stares you’re getting, you notice Taissa Turner is among them. You curse yourself under your breath. The bleach blonde’s eyes linger on you the longest, her tongue pressing on her cheek while she looks you up and down. You quickly avert your eyes back to the man making the speech, a pink color kissing your cheeks.

You’re not sure if she meant to stare at you that long, but it’s on your mind for the whole practice, while you’re taking pictures, your camera pans to her. Your eyes linger on her longer than the other girls, who knew one look could completely make you crumble? You take a deep breath and finally focus on getting shots of the other girls on the team, not just that blonde beauty. You kiss your new roll of film goodbye with all the pictures you've taken; you finally put your camera down. You feel satisfied with your first photoshoot; you absolutely were not counting, but you had enough photos so the team could pick which ones they liked and disliked. Coach Scott snaps you out of your daze. He taps your shoulder and motions you to come with him. You bite the inside of your cheek, trailing behind him nervously. You finally notice you're heading towards the circle of girls, and your stomach sinks down into the pits of your body.

You stand in front of the team who surrounds you in a semi-circle, you gulp as your head turns around to see all of their eyes trained on you. Your ripped Converse dug into the turf under you anxiously, and your fingers wrap around the cloth of your sweater. Your head turns to Coach Scott expectantly, and he stares at you for a moment before sighing.

"So, as you might not know. This year, a photographer will be at our practices taking pictures for the school paper."

Introductions have never been your strong suit. In fact, it might be the thing you're worst at. You take a deep breath, thinking about what you could possibly say. You don't want to overcomplicate it either, you finally speak, your name being the first thing to come out of your mouth.

"—and I am a.. senior this year. yep. Um, and I'll be taking pictures of you guys, I guess."

You internally face-palm once you finish. Hearing the girls giggle around you softly is the thing that pushes you to your breaking point. You shift onto both your feet before flashing everyone a smile and then running away. As you're grabbing your bag, you hear one of the coaches calling out for you. You're too embarrassed to turn back now.

You lie on your back, the cold of the hood on your car stinging your exposed skin. You can only think about how badly you fucked up back at the soccer field as you take a drag of your cigarette. The awkwardness surrounding your introduction, you couldn't even prepare yourself for. You picture their eyes practically staring into your soul. What else were you supposed to say? That your life sucks, and that you don't even want to do this stupid photography thing? Of course not!

"Hey."

You gasp and hide your cigarette, stupidly coughing out smoke and waving it away frantically. Your eyes rest on the source of the voice, that gorgeous fake blonde. She laughs as you look around the area, wondering if she was actually speaking to you or not. You feel like you’re in some cheesy romantic 80s’ movie, something you haven’t felt in a while. You scoot over so she can sit next to you.

“You don’t seem like the smoking type.”

She smirks, her eyes not leaving yours. You let out a nervous giggle and lift up the cigarette from behind your legs, there’s no point in hiding it anyway. You hope that your problem won’t drive her away, you only do it when you’re stressed.. which is almost everyday. You take another puff, offering it to her. You aren’t surprised when she takes up your offer, taking a long drag.

“A lot of people say that.”

An over exaggeration, only about two people have said that to your face, including the girl beside you. She hands your cigarette back to you, blowing out the smoke that previously filled her mouth. She seems like she’s thinking carefully, that only makes you even more antsy. It’s obvious, from the way you’re bouncing your leg, looking at everything but her, like it’s the first time you’ve seen the shitty school parking lot. She nudges you with a smile, making you put your attention back on her.

“My name is Nat.“

She starts, a faint accent coating her voice. You’re practically drinking in every word that falls out of her pretty mouth, addicted to the sound. You hum in response, putting the cigarette back up to your lips. Another thing you’re horrible at, continuing conversation. You’re shocked that she hasn’t gotten frustrated and left you alone at your car yet, like everyone else you’ve tried getting to know. She stays, the short amount of silence not being awkward, but nice.

“Uh— Ignore the assholes that laughed at you, most of them are nice when they want to be.”

You’re reminded of the events that took place recently, smoke blowing out of your lips. You don’t blame them for laughing, your bones were practically rattling from how much you were shaking. You shrug, you don’t want to think about it too much. You always overthink anyway, you don’t want to waste anymore of your time.

“It’s fine, I’m only going to be taking photos of you guys anyways, I don’t know why he had me introduce myself.”

You reply, looking at Nat. It’s a cute name, you assume it’s short for Natalie. She smiles again once you make eye contact with her brown eyes, you can drown in the sight. You shrink under her gaze, so understanding. You wonder if she’s in the same boat as you. She didn’t dress like other girls in the school, her eyeliner harsher than others. You still think she’s so much cooler than you.

“Maybe it’s so we don’t think you’re a fucking creep.”

That sentence causes you both to break into laughter, you wave the smoke away from your face as you cough it out. Her laugh is heavy, it’s such a nice sound. You realize you’re already down bad for this girl, how willing she was to cuss, the dimples that show up on her face every time she smiles, and the tone she uses when speaking with you. It’s enchanting. Your artistic eye takes in all of her features, desperate to learn more about her.

You both snap out of your trance as you hear a girl call out Nat’s name, your eyes landing on a tall woman with curly brunette hair that falls past her shoulders, you recognize her as Lottie Matthews. The known rich girl of the school, she’s not as stuck up as her reputation makes her. Your attention goes to Nat as she groans, disappointment evident on her face. She picks up her bag and faces you with a smile.

“That’s my ride, I’ll see you at our next practice?”

You agree a bit too quickly, causing her to snort. She leaves your car and head over to Lottie, who looks like a deer in headlights. You take a drag out of your cigarette again, wanting to finish it before you start driving home. As the quiet settles in, you feel sad again. You didn’t even get Nat’s number, not that you’d be confident enough to ask her for it. You sigh, feeling that same emptiness takes place in your body. You want more of her, her laugh, her words. You’re desperate to learn more about her other than her name. Your bones ache with need, and your mind is heavy with curiosity.

It all started with one look.

synopsis ʚɞ your parents want you out of the house more, do something other than rot in your room while doing homework. You decide to use your photography talent for the school paper, taking pictures of the yellow jackets girl’s soccer team. Throughout your photoshoots of their various games, one girl piques your interest the most. Natalie Scatorccio.

a/n : AHH OKAY HII FINALLY FINISHED WITH THE FIRST PART.. I hope you guys like it so far, i’ve had this idea ever since i finished season one UGHHHHH

a/n : taglist is still open! lmk if you want to be added onto it 🤍

taglist — @mlovesunicorns @t-wylia @bisexual-stalin @theoreticalfreak @flurpe @girlie955 @firefl1ghts @lilliesandrosiess @princessleprechaunnn @joaniscruzing @wtfisthisnoclueman @sleepyjackets @stupendousbananasharkcop

[pitlanepeach]

White Mercedes | Chapter Thirteen

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — Thanks for being patient with me; I rewrote this approx 20 times before I was finally happy with it hehehe.

Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Oscar was in her bedroom.

The door was still ajar behind him, but he didn’t seem in any rush to leave—or close it. He stood near the edge of the room, soaked to the bone, quiet, letting his eyes adjust to the low light. The storm had softened, trading its fury for something quieter. The rain was no longer a scream but a murmur against the windows.

Ana stood by the dresser, arms wrapped around herself, clutching her elbows like she might come undone if she let go.

It was disarming—seeing him here. Not just in her house, but here.

In this room.

The one place she never let anyone into casually. Where her recovery journals were shoved beneath her bed. Where half-used bottles of nail polish cluttered her nightstand. Where the seams of her life weren’t airbrushed, weren’t smoothed out for public display. This room was hers. The real her. And Oscar was standing in the middle of it, quiet and watching.

He didn’t touch anything.

Didn’t step further in.

His gaze flicked around the space—the romance paperbacks stacked on the desk, the old race passes pinned haphazardly to the corkboard, the cracked iPod she’d gotten for her fifteenth birthday still sitting crookedly in its dock.

“It looks bigger in person,” he said eventually, voice soft. “Matches the rest of the house.”

Ana let out a dry laugh. “Yeah. It’s… too big.”

It wasn’t. She liked the space. Liked being able to spread out and leave parts of herself in little piles. But she didn’t want to sound spoiled.

She liked to think her room had warmth. Not messy, exactly—but lived in. Soft throws, threadbare and worn, draped across the foot of the bed. A lavender candle flickering low on the windowsill. A photo of her and Jack taped beside a smudged charcoal sketch. 

She walked past him toward the en suite, hesitated in the doorway. “I’m gonna change,” she said. Then, quietly: “You can sit down. If you want.”

Oscar nodded. He didn’t say of course. But he didn’t leave.

She shut the bathroom door behind her and braced both hands against the counter. Her shirt clung to her like guilt—damp and cold and tight around the ribs. Her hands shook as she peeled it off. She didn’t look in the mirror. Couldn’t. She didn’t want to see her own face right now. Not after tonight. Not after the storm.

When she returned, barefoot and in dry clothes, Oscar was sitting on the floor, his back against her bed. His shoes were off, socks balled beside them, curls still dripping slightly. He looked… young, like this. Softened.

Ana lingered in the doorway, unsure.

Oscar looked up. “Do you want me to go?”

She didn’t answer right away.

She could.

She should.

She could thank him. Say goodnight. Walk him to the door like none of this had happened—like she hadn’t cracked herself wide open in front of him.

But instead, she walked over and sat down beside him. Cross-legged. Close, but not touching.

“No. Please don’t go.” Her voice cracked, small and needy. She hated how she sounded. Weak. “Sorry. I just—”

“I can do that,” he said gently, cutting her off. “I can stay.”

They sat like that for a while. Silent. 

Ana tilted her head against the bed-frame, eyes on the window. The rain had returned in soft, silver threads. Her fingers curled tightly around the hem of her sleeve. Her foot brushed his—just slightly—and she didn’t pull away.

“I’m not a year sober,” she said suddenly. Quiet, a confession. “Everyone thinks I am. The doctors, my therapist, my family. But I relapsed. It’s only been eight months. Not twelve.”

Oscar didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil.

He just looked at her. Steady. Listening. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asked, voice low.

Ana swallowed. The guilt was a tide, thick and rising. “Because I didn’t want them to give up on me. They’d already… I’d already used up all my chances. And I was scared they’d take Jack away. Or stop trusting me. Or worse, just—stop hoping for me.”

Oscar was silent for a beat. Then, quietly, “Eight months is a long time. I’m proud of you.”

Ana blinked. Hard.

She didn’t say thank you. Couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.

After a few seconds, she leaned toward him. Slowly. Tentatively. Rested her head against his shoulder. He went still, just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold her.

Then he let her stay. Then his arms wrapped around her. Careful, grounding.

He shifted her gently into his lap, lifting her like she weighed nothing, and she gasped—just a soft breath as she found herself pressed to his chest, folded into him like something fragile.

She tilted her head back to look at him. Her vision was misted. “Thank you for not hating me,” she whispered.

Oscar stared down at her. “How could I ever hate you?”

It was rhetorical. But Ana wanted to answer anyway. Wanted to tell him about the years she’d lost to desperation and fear. About the version of her she still tried to outrun.

“I think you’re perfect,” he said.

Ana froze.

The terrible memories stuttered.

The voice in her head—the one that screamed you’re broken, you’re wrong, you ruined everything—paused. His words cut through the noise like light through fog.

“What?” she breathed. “You can’t—You don’t mean that.”

Oscar’s gaze didn’t waver. “Doing bad things doesn’t make you a bad person. That’s not how it works.”

Her lip trembled. She bit down on it, hard, to stop herself from falling apart.

Oscar reached up and gently pulled her lip free. She gasped on contact, breath tangled in her throat.

He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

His nose brushed against hers.

“Tell me the worst of it,” he whispered.

Ana’s throat tightened. Her mouth opened, then closed. But the closeness, the heat of him—his presence—it cracked something open in her.

“I slept on a park bench in London for a week,” she said hoarsely. “I was strung out. And I’d run out of money. I owed my dealer thousands, and I had no access to my trust, no friends left to call. I…”

She broke off. Shame clawed at her.

Oscar didn’t move. He waited.

“I went to a club in Mayfair. The doorman only let me in because I—because I still looked like I belonged. Still looked rich. Pretty. I stole from people. Pick-pocketed them. A Rolex. A few wallets. Someone’s handbag. Enough to pawn and pay off my debt. Enough to make him stop hunting me.”

Oscar breathed in, slow and sharp. “Baby…”

His voice was thick, heavy with something that made her want to sob.

“I was a really bad person,” she choked. “I did terrible things to good people. I burned every bridge. My brother hates me. My own mother can’t even stand to be in the same room as me. I lost almost everyone. Because I turned into this—this monster—”

He kissed her.

She froze.

He kissed her like she wasn’t broken. Like she wasn’t a cautionary tale.

His lips were soft and warm and impossibly gentle.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and he pulled back just far enough to brush his mouth over it—kissing it away. 

—

They didn’t move for a long time.

Oscar’s arms stayed wrapped around her. His cheek rested lightly against the top of her head, and she let herself breathe in the feeling of being held. 

She thought she might cry again. But no more tears came. Just a soft ache beneath her ribs, and the kind of quiet that felt delicate and perfect.

The storm outside had long faded into a drizzle, the windows fogged faintly with condensation. Somewhere across the garden, a bird chirped. The first soft sign of morning.

She didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the moment. But she felt the light before she saw it—threading in through the crack in her curtains, soft gold brushing over the floorboards.

Morning was coming.

Oscar shifted a little beneath her. Not to pull away—just to settle them more comfortably, his thumb brushing absentmindedly across her back.

Ana tilted her head, lifting her cheek from his shoulder.

“You should probably go,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, frayed from everything. “Before you get sick. You’re still in wet clothes.”

Oscar gave her a look that was equal parts amused and fond. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

She managed a ghost of a smile. “I don’t want you getting pneumonia because you were too polite to say no to floor cuddles.”

He exhaled a soft laugh through his nose. “Okay.”

They sat in silence for a few more seconds before Ana unfolded her legs, reluctantly pulling herself upright. She stood, offering him her hands. He took them, but have her none of his weight as he pushed himself up from the floor. 

Neither of them said anything as she walked him downstairs. Their footsteps were quiet on the wood floors. The whole house still felt hushed, as if holding its breath. She didn’t know if her father was awake. She didn’t want to think about that yet.

When they reached the front door, Oscar turned to face her.

“I’m going to tell him,” Ana said, quietly. “Everything. I—I should have already. But I’m going to.”

Oscar looked at her for a long moment, his expression gentle but steady. “Okay,” he said. “If that’s what you need to do.”

“It is.”

“Good.” His voice was soft. “Need me to tell you again that I’m proud of you?”

Ana blinked against the sting in her eyes. “Maybe.”

“Proud of you, sweet girl,” he said. 

She reached for the doorknob. Hesitated. She didn’t want to open it. Didn’t want this perfect version of him—the soft, sleep-mussed, forgiving version—to leave.

Oscar reached forward, brushing her wrist with his fingers, guiding her hand gently away from the door.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Before I go, I want you to promise me a few things.”

Ana raised an eyebrow, though the corners of her mouth curved despite herself. “What kind of things?”

“Small things.” He stepped a little closer. Not crowding—just enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness he carried like second nature. “Sleep,” he said. “At least a few hours.”

She opened her mouth, a protest already forming.

He shook his head. “No arguing. That’s rule one.”

She pressed her lips together, exhaled slowly, and nodded. Her stomach twisted—but not with dread. Not like before. This was different. This was… something warm.

“Then—when you wake up. Eat something,” he continued. “I don’t care what. Toast. Crackers. A handful of cereal. Just something.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

His eyes softened, warm and open and impossibly kind. He reached up and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers barely brushing her cheek. “And text me,” he said. “Or call me. Whenever you want. I’ll answer.”

Ana’s breath caught. Her chest ached with how badly she wanted to believe him. With how much she did.

“I mean it,” he said, gentler this time.

Her throat burned with the urge to cry again, but she didn’t. She just nodded.

He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to her forehead. He lingered there, lips resting against her skin like he was anchoring her in place. When he pulled back, he gave her a tired, crooked smile that made her heart twist.

“I already miss you.”

Ana laughed. It came out cracked. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, his voice low, amused.

She pursed her lips, trying not to cry, and nodded.

He gave her hand one last squeeze, then stepped out into the pale, misty morning.

The air was fresh and cool. The kind of cool that came after hours of heavy rain. The trees dripped slowly, leaves trembling in the breeze. The sun filtered through the haze in muted gold slants. Everything smelled like earth and moss and something clean.

Ana stood in the doorway, barefoot, watching him descend the front steps. He glanced back at her once before he reached his car, and she raised a hand in a small wave. He mirrored it with a soft smile before sliding into the driver’s seat.

She stood there a second longer, letting herself breathe him out. Letting her heart slow.

And then—quietly—she shut the door.

When she turned around, her blood turned to ice.

Her father was on the stairs.

He stood halfway down the staircase, arms folded across his chest, bathrobe belted tight around his frame. He wasn’t saying anything. Just watching her, expression unreadable, brows slightly pulled.

Ana froze. The words caught in her throat. Her hand still rested on the door.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The silence was thunderous.

He tilted his head slightly, the way he did when he was trying to make sense of something. Or hold back what he really wanted to say. She knew that look. Knew it better than most.

“Do I need to ask who that was?” he said finally, his voice low and even—Austrian-accented and perfectly controlled.

Ana swallowed. “No.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, like he was still trying to puzzle something out.

“That was Oscar Piastri,” he said, not quite a question. “McLaren.”

Ana said nothing.

“I did not realise that I had given permission for a McLaren rookie to be at my house.”

“Papa—”

“I also do not understand why he was kissing my daughter on my front step.”

Ana winced, took a breath, stepped toward the stairs.

Toto stayed where he was.

“I—I don’t—” she said quietly. “It’s—He just…” She trailed off, because there was no simple version of it.

Toto raised one eyebrow. “He spent the night here?”

“No! No—he didn’t. He came over late. After the rain started. I was upset, about Nate and just—everything. He just—he stayed to make sure I was okay.” She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “That’s all.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She could see the calculation in his eyes—see him running through every possible scenario, every protective instinct firing all at once. The look of a father who had seen too much, too fast, and didn’t know whether to be furious or concerned.

“He is so kind, Papa,” she said, her voice cracking around the edges. “He—I kept it from him. That I was your daughter and—and all of the things I’ve done. But I was honest with him today. I told him everything and he just… listened. And he didn’t run away.”

Toto blinked slowly. His face softened a fraction.

Ana moved two steps toward him. 

Her Papa descended the rest of the way. He didn’t speak until he reached the bottom, until they were standing only a few feet apart. He looked at her for a long moment. His mouth was pressed in a line, jaw working slightly. And then he sighed. “You know how I feel about you dating drivers.”

“I know.”

“Especially my drivers.”

Ana swallowed. “He’s not one of yours.”

Toto gave a wry, humourless huff. “I do not know if that is better or worse.”

She didn’t answer. 

After a long silence, he reached out and placed a large, warm hand on her shoulder. His grip was gentle, but grounding. “I do not like it,” he said quietly. “But… I trust you to make your own decisions, maus.”

Ana gave him a tiny smile. “You do?”

“Sometimes, against my better judgement.” He tutted and touched her cheek with his hand. “You look like you have not slept in days.”

“I’m going to sleep now.”

“Good,” he said, and then after a beat—he tugged her into his arms.

It was quick. A squeeze. The kind of hug that came with unspoken worry and deeply buried softness. “Get some rest,” he muttered gruffly, pulling away. “We’ll talk more later.”

—

The streets of Monaco were almost empty.

A few joggers. A street cleaner. A man in a delivery van sipping from a paper cup. Morning hadn’t fully claimed the city yet—it hovered in the in-between. That soft, golden lull where everything felt suspended. Like the world was holding its breath.

Oscar drove slowly.

Not because he had to. There was no traffic. No press of cars, no honking horns. But because his head felt full. And quiet. And weirdly… steady. Like something in him had settled.

He rolled down the window. Let the morning breeze wash over him, cool and damp, carrying the fading scent of last night’s rain and the faint salt tang of the sea.

His hoodie was still damp where Ana had leaned into him. He could feel it against his back. Could smell her shampoo, the ghost of her skin still clinging to his clothes.

His hands were loose on the steering wheel.

It was a strange kind of clarity. Not loud or dramatic—just… clear. Like someone had wiped the fog from the inside of a window, and suddenly everything made sense.

He was falling for her.

Not in the shallow, infatuated way that came with fast texts and faster kisses. But really falling. In the terrifying, irreversible way.

And she—

God. She had more history than most people would ever carry. She’d cracked herself open for him last night, and he was still reeling from it. Still trying to breathe around the weight of it all.

Oscar blinked, watching the water glint gold and silver along the harbour as he turned down a quiet street.

She’d been a heroin addict. 

She’d slept on park benches.

She’d been a thief. 

She’d broken her family’s heart and her own in the process. And still, somehow, she’d let him in. Let him see the sharp, ugly corners of her life and hadn’t flinched when they’d cut him.

He didn’t know how someone who’d gone through so much could still look so gentle in the half-light..

Still say “please don’t go” in a voice so soft, it made something inside him splinter.

Oscar turned onto a winding uphill road. The sunlight shifted, streaming directly across the dashboard. His fingers tapped the wheel, absently.

He’d never known anyone like Anneliese Wolff.

And it terrified him, honestly—how easy it was want her. How natural it felt to care this much, this quickly. 

Because for all the pain she carried, for all the jagged pieces she tried to hide—he wouldn’t change any of it.

God, that was selfish.

But if all of it, everything she’d endured—every relapse, every burned bridge, every lonely night in a city that didn’t take care of her—if all of it had led her to him?

Then no. He couldn’t wish it away.

And then there was the fact that she was Toto Wolff’s daughter.

And maybe that should’ve been the most intimidating part.

But it wasn’t.

It was the way she’d looked at him when she said, “Thank you for not hating me.”

It was the way she’d cried against his chest like it was the first time someone had held her without requesting that she fix herself first.

It was how she’d promised him she'd sleep. How she’d looked so small standing barefoot in her doorway, watching him go.

Oscar exhaled, long and low.

His car crested the final hill, and his apartment building came into view.

He pulled into the garage but didn’t turn the engine off.

Hands still on the wheel, he sat there, the sun creeping higher behind him. The early light spilled across the dashboard, soft and golden, too calm for the way his chest still felt—tight and full and unsure.

He’d call her later.

No—text first. Let her sleep. Let her breathe.

Oscar exhaled slowly, then picked up his phone.

iMessage — Oscar P. > Lando N.

Oscar P.

She told me everything.

Lando N.

Shit

You alright mate

Oscar P.

Bit shocked.

Mostly frustrated she didn’t tell me sooner. But I get it, you know?

Lando N.

Yh

There’s a full-blown witch hunt online rn

Everyone hates what Nate did

It’s kinda insane

Oscar P.

Have you watched the podcast episode?

Lando N.

Nah

Feels wrong

Come round after you’ve slept

We’ll watch it together

Throw popcorn at the telly every time he’s a dickhead 

Might need a lot of popcorn 

Oscar P.

That bad?

Lando N.

Worse probably

—

Ana woke slowly.

At first, she thought she was still dreaming.

The weight of the blankets. The cool, grey hush of her room. The faint scent of lavender still lingering in the air. Her limbs were heavy, but not in a bad way—just in that way sleep leaves you when it’s the first real kind you’ve had in days.

She was warm.

Alone.

And for a few brief, suspended seconds, everything felt quiet. Balanced. Like the storm—inside and out—had passed.

Then: a knock.

Sharp, fast. Followed by the sound of the door cracking open and Jack’s voice—high and breathless, like he’d sprinted up the stairs.

“Ana!” he said. “Ana, Nate’s here!”

Her eyes snapped open.

The room tilted.

She bolted upright in bed, heart thudding against her ribs.

Nate.

Not a name. A detonator.

Oscar’s gentleness vanished from her skin like it had been scrubbed off.

“What?” she croaked, her voice scratchy from sleep.

Jack stood in her doorway, in a pair of dinosaur pyjamas, bouncing on his toes. “Nate’s downstairs! He brought me chocolate, I think! I saw it in the bag. Papa said I can’t open it yet though. But he’s here!”

Ana couldn’t breathe.

The room felt colder now. The blankets too heavy. Her palms itched with something close to dread.

Before she could say anything—before she could even begin to gather her thoughts—Jack turned as another shadow filled the doorframe.

Susie.

Graceful as ever. Her arms folded gently, one hip leaning against the frame. Her face was unreadable, but not striking. Calm. Composed.

“Jack,” she said quietly, brushing a hand over his head. “Go finish your juice, sweetheart. I’ll be right there.”

Jack darted off without question, his footsteps thudding down the hallway.

Susie stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

Ana sat frozen. Her throat was dry. Her knees were curled up beneath the duvet, fingers fisted in the sheets.

Susie’s expression didn’t change. But after a moment, she walked over and perched herself on the edge of the bed. “I thought you might need a minute to catch your breath,” she said gently.

Ana stared at her. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Six hours.” A pause. “Your brother is here because your father has called a family meeting.”

There it was. Calm and clear. A thread of tension buried under every syllable.

Susie reached out and smoothed a strand of Ana’s hair behind her ear—so soft it made her chest ache. “Get dressed, darling,” she said, almost whispering. “You’ll want to be downstairs in ten minutes.”

Ana’s voice was barely there. “Is he—?” She didn’t even know what to ask. 

Susie paused at the door. “I’ll have a pastry and a coffee ready for you.”

And then she was gone, leaving the door cracked just slightly, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to close it all the way.

Ana sat perfectly still in bed, her heart pounding so loudly it felt like it echoed in the walls.

Nate was here.

And the space Oscar had left behind—warm and safe and still tingling on her skin—felt like it was disappearing under her feet.

She had ten minutes.

Ten minutes to decide who she was going to be when she stepped out of this room.

Strong, unmarred, perfect—or just… Anneliese. 

—

Ana walked into the family room, still tugging the drawstring of her hoodie, hair half-brushed, sleep clinging stubbornly to the edges of her mind. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from a family meeting—but it definitely wasn’t this.

She froze in the doorway.

“Oh my god.”

Nate sat rigid on the edge of the sofa, one side of his face a brutal bloom of violet and blue. His left eye was nearly swollen shut, the skin around it split and raw. He looked like he’d gone twelve rounds with someone who didn’t care if he got back up.

“What the hell happened?” Ana asked, her voice hoarse and cracking as she stepped into the room.

Nate shot to his feet so fast the coffee table rattled. “What happened?” he snapped, eyes wide, disbelief warping his voice. “What happened is that one of your junkie freak friends decided to go full goddamn Rambo on me at Jimmy’z last night!”

Ana blinked, the floor shifting under her. “What?”

“He threatened to kill me,” Nate barked, pointing a shaking finger at her. “Said I ruined your life. That I didn’t deserve to be your brother. Then he smashed my face in.”

Her stomach dropped like a stone.

“Whoever he was,” Nate snarled, “looked like he’d just stepped out of solitary. Tattoos, neck the size of a tire. Called himself Lucas or Leo or some other roid-raged mess of a name.”

Ana’s heart clenched. “Lucian?”

Nate’s eyes narrowed. “So you do know him.”

“Yes—but I—I didn’t ask him to do anything—”

“Oh, that’s perfect,” he spat, pacing now, rage making his gestures sharp and erratic. “So now I’m getting the shit kicked out of me by your little AA Avengers? Is this what we do now, Ana? You screw up, and the rest of us take the punches?”

Toto stood quietly in the corner, arms folded tight across his chest, his jaw rigid. Watching. Waiting.

“Nate—” Ana tried, but her voice cracked. “I didn’t know. I didn’t want this.”

Nate let out a bitter laugh. “You never know, do you? And yet somehow we all keep bleeding for your blind spots.”

“That’s enough,” Susie said sharply from behind Ana, her voice cold and cutting as glass.

“No, Susie,” Nate barked, turning on her. “It’s not enough. I’m tired of pretending it is. I’m tired of everyone orbiting around her like she’s some broken doll that we all have to protect. Like we’re supposed to forget everything she’s done just because she’s ‘so sorry’ now.”

Ana flinched, like he’d slapped her.

Nate wasn’t finished. “You want to talk about pain? About family?” His voice cracked—furious and raw. “Try being the brother of the girl who dragged our family name through every tabloid and court record for three years. Who chose to overdose twice despite having every single privilege a person could ask for.” 

She stared at him, stunned, breathless.

“I have busted my ass trying to be the good son,” Nate spat. “The reliable one. The one who doesn’t give anyone a reason to flinch when they hear the name Wolff. And all I ever hear about is Ana. Poor Anneliese. Brave Anneliese. Tragic fucking Anneliese.”

Toto stepped forward, finally. His voice was low and deliberate. “She has been trying, Nathaniel.”

“And I’m not?” Nate snapped. “Or do I have to almost die of a heroin overdose, too? Is that how we’re doing things now? Maybe we should all just go crawling to Ana’s old gutter, shoot ourselves up to our eyeballs! How fucking fun!” He sneered. 

Toto’s expression turned to stone. “I will not entertain this. What you did—the podcast—was a cruel and cowardly act. You betrayed your sister, and by extension, you have betrayed this entire family—for attention. For outrage. That is not the son I raised.”

Nate faltered, lips curling back in something that wasn’t quite a sneer.

“I have revoked access to your trust fund,” Toto continued. “Effective immediately.”

Nate’s mouth parted. He blinked, stunned. “You what?”

“You heard me,” Toto said. “You are free to be angry. You are not free to endanger your sister. Until you show me that you can be part of this family—without a desire to tear it apart—you will not be given access. And if you should ever speak of your sister like that again—publicly or privately—you will lose far more than that.”

Silence fell—dense and jagged.

Nate let out a long, empty breath. “Unbelievable.” His laugh was cold, dead behind the eyes. “You’re all deluded. You think she’s changed? She’ll relapse again. She always does. And when she does, she’ll drag all of you down with her.”

He turned and stormed out, the front door slamming behind him with a violence that made the walls tremble.

Ana stood frozen in the middle of the room, her fists clenched at her sides, crescent moons carved into her palms. Her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t ask Lucian to do that. I didn’t—I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Her Papa didn’t speak right away. Then, softly, but firmly, he said, “Sit down, maus. We need to talk.”

NEXT CHAPTER

[makeitworse]

MAGAZINE sweet n’ sour ʚ𖦹ɞ

a full relationship timeline of the highly publicised and rocky romance with pop princess y/n and rapper thanos.

the release of her debut album ‘sweet tooth’ hallmarked y/n as a music phenomenon, sweeping the charts with lead single ‘sugar rush’ breaking pop records.

all eyes have been on y/n since she’s been crowned a pop princess— which caught the fancy of fellow artist thanos, known for his rap music and signature purple hair.

LOVE AT FIRST GLANCE

the couple first encountered via instagram, where the popstar had shared an array of sultry mirror photos. thanos left numerous comments under the post, brashly stating his attraction to the singer.

ttthanos ✓ DAMNNN MAMACITA 😍😍🔥🔥 ttthanos ✓ check your dms mamaaaaaaas ttthanos ✓ you gotta bf ??? can he fight user does he know we’re also seeing these??

thanos even took to his instagram story, reposting it and publicly shooting his shot.

the crossover had fans of the artists in an uproar. the pair’s contrasting style and music made for an interesting match, which fans of the singer quickly started shipping.

however, after days of no public acknowledgment from y/n, thanos vaguely confirmed in a comment that the popstar had declined his advances.

user someone tag me when she responds ttthanos ✓ nah she playin

despite this, fans didn’t stop shipping the two, and their hopes would later be fulfilled, as a month later y/n shocked the world with a post of thanos.

via her instagram story, y/n alluded to a budding romance with the rapper in a casual photo paired with a cheeky caption.

user OMGGGGG user he actually pulled her wtfff?? user i’m going to be so annoying abt this

a source close to the pair shared, “they have friends of friends, who got the two in contact.”

the insider confirmed that y/n originally ignored his public advances, but she grew ‘tired of hearing about him’ and passed on her number— where they ended up hitting it off.

they stated that she’s very adamant on thanos behaving himself publicly now. (the silence on thanos’s end had made y/n’s story post all the more surprising, but now we know he was warned not to embarrass her!)

CALM BEFORE THE STORM

various sources report how the couple get on very well. “his flashy lifestyle aligns with her own fast-paced schedule. but she’s able to ground him when they need to wind down from their busy lives,” a close insider states.

thanos himself posts looks into his relationship with y/n, albeit his social media presence is more toned down now. he often shares candids of her, one captioned with what fans believe are lyrics to a possible future single:

ttthanos ✓ found her amongst the weeds, she’s my beauty flower

user idk if i wanna be her or him user y/n i could treat you better 🙏 ttthanos ✓ shut the fuck up

other than the odd post from thanos, the two kept it relatively private.

trouble in paradise began early: only a few months into their relationship, blind items detailing thanos’s alleged drug addiction began to spread like wildfire:

the team of the newest pop princess is adamant she must break up with her rapper boyfriend if she wants to maintain a good image. his infatuation with pills will sabotage how the public perceives her.

yourname / thanos

fans also took to reddit, where an alleged sighting of the couple went viral.

r/celebgossip

i was out at club pentagon saturday night and saw y/n and thanos with a big group. thanos was being super loud and was all over her, y/n looked so sick of him. they had an argument and she ended up leaving with her friends lol

user why didn’t you take a vid?? user girl i’m not turning my phone flash on in the club

y/n had kept up her usual posting, announcing collaborations and events. radio silence from both ends concerning the rumours had fans worried for the worst.

one user states their opinion on the matter: “she’s a busy woman, she’d need a little quiet from her sudden surge in fame. thanos loves partying and getting high. i’d imagine some nights she wants to just stay at home and they’d fight over that.”

however, fans were relieved when y/n subtly put all of the gossip to bed by including a picture of the rapper amongst others in an instagram post.

yourname ✓ last few days sure were sweet

user crisis averted guys user i can’t have two divorced parents

while the two masterfully avoid any paparazzi encounters in their time away from work, thanos is often spotted as her plus one at events or watching her live performances.

popnews rapper thanos photographed with fan at lollapalooza, where pop sensation girlfriend y/n was performing.

user i was there!! they were fighting before y/n went on but my friend said she saw them making out later 😭 user what were they fighting abt?? user idk but he looked like he was tweaking on smth

y/n has been booked and busy since ‘sweet tooth’ dominated the charts— now constantly on the move, thanos can be found often tagging along, some insiders to her team have confirmed.

“they’re very in love,” one reports. “he’ll follow her anywhere she goes.”

there were also whispers that thanos has been drafting new singles while travelling alongside his popstar girlfriend, sparking discussion of a future collab.

BREAK UP AND MAKE UP

fans were left stunned when y/n wiped her posts clean of boyfriend, thanos, alongside recent blind items reporting that the couple had called it quits. neither of their teams make public statements which leaves fans panicking.

amidst the gossip, y/n takes to instagram to announce her new extended play ‘ecstasy’ — following a year after the release of her debut album ‘sweet tooth’ that catapulted her into the spotlight.

in the following days, thanos completely clears his instagram account, with fans sadly concluding that the pair are really over.

speculation ignites that y/n’s EP will spill the details of her relationship through to her break-up with the rapper.

yourname ✓ ecstacy out tmrw who tuning in

user oh he fucked UP user is it called that bc of the rumours he was a junkie omg??! user have you listened to his music? it’s obvious

an interview with the singer for the EP’s release was published, where y/n prefaced the interview bluntly: “it’s exactly what you think it’s about.”

when asked about the details and specifics of the tracks, she said plainly: “you’ll just have to listen and find out.”

the EP’s release the following day was met with immense love and support, praising the artist for her vulnerability in the songs.

user “saying you can’t stand me, so let me sit on your face baby” HELLO?? user the little death has been on repeat all day user PLS GET BACK TOGETHER 😭🙏 user nahh he fumbled so bad aint no way user in grievance it sounded like she’d forgive him tho

the EP quickly climbed the charts, with fan favourite ‘the little death’ reaching #1. however, all the noise for y/n was halted when thanos surprised fans with new single ‘comedown’.

serving as a response to the EP, which is loaded with details on thanos’s shortcomings as a partner, ‘comedown’ is an earnest account of thanos’s struggles post break-up— as well as his desire to make it up to y/n.

thanos gets vulnerable in admitting to his addiction and how it impacted their relationship. his regret is evident, and fans couldn’t help but sympathise, rooting for the couple to find their way to each other again.

POWER COUPLE

after months of silence following the release of y/n’s EP ‘ecstasy’ and thanos’s follow-up single ‘comedown’, the pair make headlines once again as they’re spotted rekindling their romance.

tmz ✓ pop singer y/n spotted in a club cozying up with ex-boyfriend, rapper thanos 👀

user I JUST WOKE UP WHAT???? user WAR IS OVER user she listened to comedown and unblocked him fs

while neither of the stars put out official statements, an insider close to y/n’s team stated: “they’ve been figuring things out for a while, but now they’re officially back together. he had to make it up to y/n for messing up the first time round. she’s not the type to let him off easy.”

fans rejoiced at the news, and thanos’s former regular posting of y/n continued, signalling that they were really back.

later that month, thanos announced his third studio album ‘pretty things’— which coincided with the release of a music video for new track ‘muse’, starring his singer girlfriend.

ttthanos ✓ PRETTY THINGS. OCT 2025.

user MOTHER AND FATHER ARE BACK yourname ✓ is the girl in the vid single? ttthanos ✓ never again

yourname ✓ muse mv ♡

user i’m so glad they’re back together ttthanos ✓ ong

the couple’s had far from a quiet relationship, yet through their very public ups and downs, it seems these two lovers are too stubborn to be swayed by media coverage of their relationship (and it’s made for some great music!)

with reports from insiders that the two are “happier than ever”, and y/n being plastered all over the teasers for thanos’s newest album ‘pretty things’, fans wait eagerly for their new era as a power couple.

ttthanos ✓ my heart beats only for you 🫀

a/n: thank you for reading this far! ♡ a little different from my usual content. i felt very inspired after seeing this post — thank you to op!! all pics used were t.o.p himself (loser mv, tazza hidden card) & norafawn

[hardbeingcasual]

❛ if we ignore it, we can be fine❜

how i missed you bob reynolds fem reader

♪ hurting kind, del water gap

marvel masterlist / masterlist / part one

summary. part two of hurting kind

warnings. sort of angsty but this one ends with fluff. addiction/drugs. mentions of abuse (bob’s dad) timeline probably isnt accurate but it is fanfiction!

Finding you was hard, to say the least. The only information they had about you was… well, your face. But even then they didn’t have a photo of your face, they only saw it from Bob’s memory in the Void. They didn’t have any information about you—where you were resident. Bob didn’t tell them anything. He avoided the topic about the Void whenever it was brought up. When the group tried to get answers about you out of him, he didn’t seem to want to tell them, almost like he was embarrassed. Embarrassed that his team only saw him as someone who had a drug addiction, because he was more than that.

So the Thunderbolts? New Avengers? Avengerz? They weren’t sure how to find you. All they knew is that you and Bob had some sort of connection, they saw that all too well in the Void. They saw you cared for him deeply in Bob’s memory, they saw how you took care of him. How you silently begged for him to be okay.

Bob was distant with the group, he thought he was no use with them. So they decided he needed company, that he needed you back into his life.

So they started their search.

They named it ‘PLAN BOB: GET BACK MYSTERY WOMAN.’

They were going to try to look through Valentina’s documents in her office, maybe to see if she magically happened to have any information about you, or a lead to find you. But, before they could get the chance to do that, Bob leaves his room, eyeing the rest of the Team. “What’re you guys doing?” He questions, eyeing them suspiciously as he plays with the hems of his sleeves.

The team blabber out different lies.

“We were getting food.” Said Bucky, nonchalantly.

“Robbing a bank.” John Walker muttered, sarcastically.

“Washing the dishes?” Yelena stammered.

And out of all the voices, Alexei was the one everyone heard the most. “We were going to find your girlfriend!” He shouted enthusiastically, making the rest of the team let out groans and face palm.

“Way to go, Alexei.” Ava muttered.

Bob’s eyes widen at Alexei’s words, he stammers, “Uh, what girlfriend?” He scratches his neck awkwardly as he gets stared down by the whole team. Feeling intimidated by all of their intense gazes.

Most of the team scoff at his cluelessness, “Come on, Man, the girl from the Void.” John Walker says matter-of-factly.

“Oh, right. Well you could’ve asked.” Bob shrugs casually before walking back down the hall and into his room.

Yelena shares a look with Alexei before she chirps in, “Bob, I have so many questions! Come back here!” The rest of the team stare at her retreating figure before they quickly follow after her, questions on the tip of their tongues.

After a whole debrief with the Thunderbolts (Avengers? They still weren’t sure what to call themselves…) They moved on with the plan, but this time with Bob included. Which made it easier, he knew where you lived, and he obviously knew your face. Bob wasn’t so sure of the plan, he did leave you without telling you, him only leaving a note. He wasn’t sure if you’d take his return so easy, if you’d ever want to see his face again.

Yelena places a hand on his shoulder to assure his worries, as if she knew what was going on inside his head, “Don’t worry, Bob, I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

Bob looks down to his hands as he is still unsure. He plays with his hands as he mutters. “I hope you’re right.”

He still couldn’t help but worry in his head over it though. What if he showed up to your door and you wanted nothing to do with him, what if you slammed the door in his face. Is there still a tucked away under your doormat for him specifically? Or did you add the key to your keychain and move on? After all, it has been months. Months have gone by since he left that note on your fridge and left without a trace of where he was going. But he knows you — You are the one who helped him in high school. When he was struggling with classes, when he struggled with his family life, you took him in. Your parents didn’t seem to care about him overstepping too.

When he started getting addicted to drugs. Addicted to the high, so he couldn’t feel things anymore. So he didn’t feel the sharp pain on his cheeks after he said something his father didn’t like. But he did feel things. He felt a lot of things for you.

Things he could never understand because his mind is always racing all the time, things he can’t tell you because he doesn’t even understand them himself.

He first started to know of these feelings when you both had no prom date, so you decided to go together. That day, a song you loved started playing and he swore he never saw your face brighten like that before. When you asked him to dance and he gave in and said yes because he wanted nothing more to make you happy, even when he was struggling with his own things, you were the light in his dark dark world.

He became more conscious of his feelings when you moved out of your parents’ home and got your own apartment, which led to it being your shared apartment. Whenever he saw the photos of you both dotted together all over the apartment he swore his stomach did flips. His face was all over your apartment like you were a couple.

He was going to tell you, he wanted to but the fear of rejection and losing you was what stopped him from doing so, and so did the drugs, they started to take over his mind and soul. He didn’t recognise who he was anymore, he felt like he was just floating behind his body like a ghost. He wanted to get better, so he did, and he left. He left you.

You, the one who helped him through everything.

He wishes he could thank you for that, and he will. He will show his thankfulness to you sooner or later. and he will open up his heart to you again, and let you into his heart, like he has been yearning to do for so many years.

He just hopes you will let him into your heart and back into your life again.

✱

You pace your living room, Bob’s note from months ago on your coffee table, the paper more rustled now due to you reading it so many times. The news was currently paused in the background as you continued to pace your floors, Bob, your Bob, the one that left you to ‘get better’ months ago was on the news with a new group of people, ones who called themselves ‘The New Avengers’ You stopped pacing to stare at it again, at him. You couldn’t believe it, was he better? Did he leave you to join this ‘new avengers’?

You bring your hand to your temple, rubbing at it as if it could clear the headache that was now forming. Your overthinking and restless thoughts was the reason why the pain was creeping in your head.

Seriously though, did you do something wrong? Bob, the one whose hand you held while he was battling withdrawals— the one you cared for, gave him a home… did he not care? He seemingly looked better on the news than he did just those months ago.

Your attention goes from the tv to your door, a knock echoing through the walls of your apartment. You raise an eyebrow at that, who could possibly be here right now? You cautiously walk up to your door, your hand hesitating over the doorknob before opening it slowly.

You are met with the mNew Avengers’ that we’re currently on your paused tv, you look at them dumbfounded before looking at your tv again then back at them with your eyebrows raised.

Yelena peeps her head in your door to get a look at your tv, she chuckles softly, “Yep, that’s us up there.” You still don’t say anything as you are still so dumbfounded so you move aside and let them in your apartment awkwardly.

You quickly go over to turn the tv off, as if almost embarrassed. Like you’ve been caught red handed.

The team all look around your place, noticing the photos planted on the wall, some of your family (they guessed) and some of Bob… well a lot of Bob. They could obviously tell you both were extremely close.

Yelena clears her throat to catch your attention, “Nice place,” She compliments.

You smile a little at that, “Thank you,” You manage to muster up as you eye the group. You noticed a certain someone who has been on your mind for months is not there with them, you frown a little at that, to which they notice, but don’t mention it.

“Okay, we’re gonna cut to the chase,” John Walker starts, gaining everyone's attention. “You know Bob, like very well… clearly,” He looks around you and Bob’s shared apartment, noticing the photos of you both around it. His gaze dropped on one of you both at prom specifically. “We are here for Bob, to try and convince you to come and see him.”

Your eyebrow raises at that, you finally decide to use your voice for once, “Couldn’t he do that himself?” You question, your tone filled with confusion. Surely Bob could come over to Florida and talk to you himself? He promised he would come back.

The group shares a grimace to which you notice, “Yeah about that… Bob isn’t exactly allowed to leave the watchtower…” Bucky Barnes informs you, you stared at him with that confused look you've had on your face since everyone showed up.

“What?”

“Long story!” Alexei shouts happily, “let’s get you to him!”

Yelena face palms at her Father’s loud outburst. “Please ignore him, he’s always like that. Look, I know you’re confused and we will explain that to you, but a very inpatient Bob is waiting back in New York anxiously.”

“Wait, New York? That’s a lot of travelling.” You panic slightly, the Team almost laughs at your stress, now they know why you and Bob are so close.

“We have a quick way to get there, don’t worry.” Yelena assures you which makes you look at her questionably before you look out your living room window. You notice some jet thing blocking the room which makes your eyebrows raisen once again for what felt like the 100th time today, “The neighbours aren’t going to be happy about that,” You sigh at the sight.

Bucky gains your attention, “Then we better get going then.” The New Avengers(?) don’t leave room for an argument before they exit your apartment, except Yelena, she stays behind for a moment.

“Take your time,” She pats your shoulder softly, before heading out your door. You stare at her retreating figure.

You walk over to your fridge, noticing a photograph, a favourite one of yours, you pocket the photo before walking out the door like everyone else did moments prior. You see them waiting in the hall almost like they were happy you chose to go after them. You nod at them, and they show you the way to their badly parked jet.

✱

Bob paces the floors in the watchtower, his nerves skyrocketing ever since he received a message from the team telling him they were coming back with you with them. He was worried about what you would say, would you get angry at him, would you be angry to see him?

His thoughts were racing as he thought of all the outcomes, maybe you hated him for leaving, hated him for what he put you through.

His deep thoughts are interrupted as he hears a ding from the elevator, his heart starts racing and he swore it skipped a beat when he saw your lost expression take in the exterior in the watchtower before your eyes finally land on him.

Your eyes are widening as you take in his appearance. He looked so much different, he looked better. He didn’t look pale like usual and there was a glow to him that you couldn’t name. The rest of the ThunderboltsAvengersWhatevertheycalledthemselves left to their rooms to give you both a moment alone.

If you were being honest their company wasn’t that bad, on the jet there they spoke away to you to ease your worries, and it did help. You now realise that Alexei can't stop talking once he starts.

You and Bob met halfway, unsure of what to say first, “I missed you.” There was a pause, then a sigh of relief from Bob, those three words eased his mind yet he still didn’t know what to say.

You started to panic at his silence, “I get why you left I mean you were struggling and you needed time to yourself and time from me and I get that—” You didn’t notice he got closer to you until his lips were suddenly on yours — the urgency took your breath away but you quickly gained your composure as you kissed him back, gently placing your hands on neck. Your knees almost gave out as you both leaned back to gain your breath. You leaned your forehead against his as his voice came out raspy, “I’ve been wanting to do that since prom all those years ago.”

You looked at him with so much light in your eyes, before grabbing something out of your pocket — the photo you took from your fridge back from your apartment a few hours ago. You show him it — the photo portraying you and Bob at the photobooth at your prom where you were both struggling with school, but still showed up nonetheless just to have fun. And you were happy, because you were together.

“Me too,” You confess with a shy smile, Bob gets taken aback by that, this whole time he thought it was one sided, but it was the complete opposite because you wanted him as much as he has wanted you. He leaves no more room for words before taking you in his embrace, his arms wrapping around your form as tears glisten in his eyes.

You weren’t mad at him for leaving, not at all, you saw all his battles. When you look at him you see someone who he used to be, someone who has been through so much in his life. You see someone who has been hurt by others, you see the person you have grown to love for years now.

“I’m glad you’re doing better.” You say truthfully, the words coming out muffled against his clothes.

You meant every word, you were proud of how well he has done since you last saw him.

published. 15/6/25 1:25am GMT

notes. i apologise if this was underwhelming, i really tried to write this but i was struggling on what to do with it

tags. @treachdoc @em1989ts @merryd0e

[chaptersleftunwritten]

Down on all fours

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Blurb: After you unwillingly come clean about your undying love for Eddie Munson, your life is swept into a whirlwind of deceit, lust, confusion and regret… and glitter that Eddie can’t seem to shake from his pockets.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader x Steve Harrington x Chrissy Cunningham

Warnings: 18+, slight angst (?), alcohol consumption, reader referred to as girl, cheating/unfaithfulness, drugs mentioned (weed), mentions of blood, depictions of violence, cursing, bodily insecurity, implied sexual themes. Character are 20+ and in a college setting!

-

divider by @cafekitsune

The movie theatre would never be the same anymore— not to you. Not since that day. A place once associated with joy and child like wonder, where you watched your beloved characters come to life on the big screen and where you could laugh openly, unattractively and purely with your friends.

Tainted. Forever changed.

But not forgotten. Never forgotten.

The memories have been eating you alive, feasting on your insecurity and your shame. Despite the look of fearful regret on Eddie’s face, you still thought about him.

Day and night— morning and noon. Before you slept and before you awoke each morning. He even infiltrated your dreams. Dreams are meant to be sacred, private affairs and yet, Eddie Munson still ruled them like the King of all of your desires. His ring clad fingers were still clutching onto your heart— squeezing and loosening his grip around the vital organ as he saw fit. He had the upper hand; the control.

He always did. He always has.

You couldn’t bring yourself to face them— any of them. Not Steve, not Robin, not Chrissy and especially not Eddie. It was peculiar, the addictive need to see Eddie no matter the cost— no matter the humiliation. It out weighed every sane thought you had.

You would steal glances at him from across a room, hiding in plain sight. Desperate for the shadows to claim you as their own; for the walls to hug you back. You felt other worldly, as if your soul was floating outside of your body and you had no rational feeling. No say. No voice.

Confessions should be freeing; but you have never felt so trapped. Chained. Soul tied.

Love conquers all, but love also might just conquer you.

-

It’s mid-week, and although college parties always attract unwanted attention you could never have prepared to see this many people crashing your family home. Precious photos were knocked over, the smashed glass from the frames line the top of shelves and cabinets- glittering them in a forbidden pixie dust.

Your bedroom has been occupied by a couple you didn’t recognise and if it weren’t for the pleasant buzz of alcohol coursing through your blood you most certainly would have screamed at them to leave. The sicker parts of you were envious of their engagement. Their human closeness and connection.

Why couldn’t you have that? Didn’t you deserve that?

So instead of blowing your top, you roll your eyes and scoff before slamming the familiar door obnoxiously loud and coke to nest at the bottom of the staircase; the wood is hard and cold against your bare thighs which causes you to pay some uncomfortable attention to your outfit. Sparkly, twinkly and stupid.

Your heart sinks to the abysmal pit at the bottom of your stomach at the realisation that nobody here really knows what this party is for. Who it is for.

Your birthday streamers that once decorated the walls proudly have become unpinned from the concrete, cascading down the wall in a massive spiral and hiding the message written on the plastic.

Happy birthday!

Not a single person had uttered those words to you the whole night. Even on a day where you were meant- born to be celebrated, you have been forgotten. A bystander in your own life. An observer in a theatrical play written for you. About you.

And the humour of it all?

You were used to it now.

Nothing could break your heart; because it was already in pieces.

Shreds. Splinters. Fragments. Puzzle pieces never to be solved or mended again. A heart shaped hole stamped into your chest where someone once lived.

Cobwebs inhabit the vacant crevasse, dust gathering on the sensitive walls. The sensitive walls that have hardened into a volcanic crust.

The only thing left behind in your impenetrable fortress? A single crumpled envelope with Eddie’s name written on it in cursive. The ‘i’ in his name punctuated with a loveheart.

He was the only tenant you wanted living there. And in reality, he should have been evicted a long time ago.

But nobody said love was easy. Nobody warned you that it would be this hard, though, either.

Was love supposed to make you this low? Was it supposed to make you find your bearings at the bottom of a red fizzing cup? The carbonated bubbles in your drink seemed to be your only friend tonight.

Would it really be your birthday if you didn’t cry at least once? Or twice… or thrice.

“Hey! Does anyone have any weed?” Your quiet attempt at a yell comes out of your mouth in the form of a drunken hiccup and you are debating the possibility that you may have stood up too fast, “Anyone? No?” Frustrated you pinch the bridge of your nose as you sigh loudly into your hand, your ears met by silence from your peers.

“I might.” You can hear a comedic tweak in his voice and you swear you can feel part of you die on the inside.

“Steve,” You say through clenched teeth, forcing a smile, “I didn’t know you smoked?” You also weren’t aware that he would be here— but you can’t deny the attention that this party is demanding from the neighbourhood. You are partly surprised that the police haven’t been called yet, but your neighbours aren’t known to be snitches.

“I don’t usually,” he shrugs dismissively, “I didn’t know you were throwing a party? Thankfully word travels fast in this town, huh?” His elbow gently nudges into your arm playfully, “There’s no better time for me to give you this.” He hands you a small box that has been wrapped all too perfectly in a sage green wrapping paper; brought together with a pretty black tulle bow. For a moment you are totally stunned, eyes inflated as you gawk down at the gift in your slightly shaky hands.

“You…” you search for the words, lost in his kindness and when you finally gather enough courage to meet his sweet brown eyes you nearly drown in their depths, “You got me a gift?”

He flashes you one of his signature Steve smiles and your drunk brain can’t seem to comprehend if this is a joke of not.

“Of course I did? You’re one of my best friends!” His voice is a happy chime as he ruffles his fingers through his chestnut gelled hair, offering the stiff strands some movement. You notice his pupils flicking between your face and the present in your hands, one of his eyebrows raise with subtle confusion, “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Yeah- yes! Yes, of course!” You set your empty cup down on a nearby table before your nimble fingers come to wrestle with the sticky tape, painted fingernails clawing like an animal to get to the goods inside. There is a nervousness that comes with the unwrapping of the gift and you don’t quite understand why. The moment feels significant… special. You finally feel somewhat special tonight.

Eagerly, Steve keeps his warm amber eyes trained on you. A soft, dreamy smile itching at his lips as he awaits your approval. You and Steve had been friends for such a long time, you even opened your college acceptance letters together in his family dining room with his parents. He had always been there for you, through everything. One of your best friends— possibly your only friend.

“I haven’t seen you around in a while— how have you been?” His voice is laced with genuine concern but all you can do is ogle at what is displayed in front of you. A shiny silver necklace that had been personalised to have your name dangling from the chain with small colourful charms decorating the metal plating sit inside of the small box that Steve had handed to you. It was beautiful. It was you. And not to mention… it perfectly matched your outfit.

“Shut up!” You gasp, picking up the chain from the safety of its box and dangling it in front of Steve’s face, the neon stream of lights from the party reflect off of its pristine surface, “Steve!! What the Hell? This is stunning!” You become a fit of excited girlish giggles and Steve shakes his head at your outburst, finding it adorable.

“You like it?” He is booming to be heard over the increasingly loud music and you squeal, fumbling with the latch on the chain.

“Like it? I love it! Thank you so much!” You reach around your neck, fighting to clip the necklace and Steve offers you a helping hand accompanied by an amused chucklez, “It’s perfect, Steve, truly! I love it, I love it!” You brush your hair over your shoulder, allowing Steve to access the chain and clasp it securely.

“There! Pretty as a picture.” He winks at you and you toy with your name displayed across your chest; an honest smile gracing your lips.

“Happy birthday.” His large palm rubs the flesh of your shoulder and you nod at him in acknowledgement. There is an after glow that lingers after Steve’s touch disappears and you are not even aware of where he wanders off to but when you realise that you are stood alone… you feel that all too familiar feeling start to creep it’s way back into your chest. An icy chill. A storm brewing.

“Steve?” You call out to him, however your voice is wasted with how small it was and goes totally unnoticed. Your eyes drink in the sea of dancing, sweating bodies around you. The number of people in your home is multiplying— like a deathly virus.

The perky smile falls from your cheeks and only then do you remember why you were even talking to Steve in the first place— you wanted some weed. You needed some.

Or did you?

You wanted to escape life. To feel free from the bounds of Eddie Munson, free from the shackles of your mind. This is the only way you knew how… sleep wasn’t an option— he could reach you there.

Even the darkest corners of your mind, where even the ghosts refused to venture, were haunted by Eddie— there was no fleeing from him. You were his.

But he was Chrissy’s.

-

You find yourself outside, sitting in the cool night air by the side of your house. Your face is flushed from the alcohol and your skin feels as though it is prickling with heat; fiery.

Your mini skirt hugs your hips and thighs and you fist the fabric, suddenly uncomfortable with the way your body looks in the garment. The way the flesh of your thighs squish the ground beneath you has you stifling a scream and you wrap your arms tightly around your torso to shield the rest of your body from the world.

Your eyes flicker and blaze with the mirrored light from the street lamps, the orange hues meeting the chunky glitter that dominates your eyelids. The heavy makeup was starting to irritate your eyes, but you would do anything to seem half presentable. Anything to feel and look your best.

A choked laugh emits past your lips; it was ludicrous. How you had been exiled from your own birthday party. Left to the wolves of the wild. You didn’t mind too much— it meant you could finally take off this weighty mask you had been hiding behind all night. No more untruthful smiles, no more biting back teary eyes.

You could finally feel. And breathe.

However, your reign of peace and solitude doesn’t last long as your ears perk involuntarily at an all too recognisable thundering chuckle. This whole time, you had been preparing for him to show face and yet you have never felt so startled. A deer in headlights.

The chains around your wrists tighten as you stiffen, unable to move. Unable to respond or breathe or think.

Eddie had arrived.

“Woooah! Lookie’ here! If it isn’t the birthday girl,” Even in the dim light of the garden you can see his Cheshire smile examining you, “What you doing out here all alone, Sweetheart?”

Your breath remains lodged tightly in your throat, wound up like a coiled spring and you are unable to speak. It’s almost as if you are paralysed— has he hit you with a tranquillising dart? Or was that just his cologne that had you so wrapped up in everything that he is.

He called you sweetheart…

He called you sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

His sweetheart?

“Hello? Are you okay?” His hand waves in front of your face, causing you to blink and flinch momentarily at the sudden action, “Aren’t you cold out here?”

“No…” a whisper is all you could manage. It’s all you could afford to give him.

There wasn’t much of you left to give. Soon you would be this vacant polished shell of a human being— beautiful on the outside and hopeless on the inside.

“Okay, well… Happy birthday.” He nods at you enthusiastically, his voice like a siren song lulling you to your demise. He shoves his hands into his ripped jeans pockets, letting out an exaggerated shiver before he says, “Hey, have you seen Chrissy? She came here an hour ago and I haven’t really heard from her.” He tries to disguise the worry in his voice, but you can read him like a book. The way his hands are twitching from his pockets to rub anxiously at his neck, or how he bounces on the balls of his feet— the adrenaline causing him to be restless.

You wish Eddie could do the same with you. You wish he could see past this makeup and this charade. You wish he could recognise just how much that simple sentence had ruined your evening.

Of course he was here looking for Chrissy, why else would he have showed up? For you? Please. The thought alone was laughable.

“I didn’t even know she was here.” Your chin tilts to your shoulder where you can eye the large window looking on into your kitchen. The lights are out but there are neon fairy lights twinkling and illuminating the darkness. It’s almost as if you are looking through a kaleidoscope.

It had taken you hours to hang all of those lights, only to watch other people enjoy their warmth instead.

“You should come back inside, you don’t seem like you’re having a lot of fun out here in the dark.” Eddie takes a leisurely seat next to you and out of instinct you shuffle a few inches away from him, trying to create as much distance as possible, “Are you wasted? You’re being eerily quiet.”

“It’s a party, Eddie.” You sigh, answering him without leaving a single beat, an abrupt newfound confidence helps you to untangle your voice, “People get drunk at parties— I just wish I had some weed.”

It was ironic, wishing for weed as you talk to a weed dealer.

“Is that really your birthday wish? To have weed?” His shoulders bounce lightly as he laughs, his hands coming to find his coat pocket. You shrug in response to his question, tipping your head back and swallowing the last of what was left swirling around in the bottom of your cup.

The truth was, you hadn’t even lit your birthday candles yet. There hadn’t been a right time and you didn’t want to be that person. But if you had sparked those candles… you would have wished for him.

Not for weed. Not for money. Not for beauty or brains.

You would have wished for Eddie Munson.

“Here.” He is careful to take your hand into his, gently prying your fingers open and dropping a bud of weed into your palm before he is securing your fingers back over it, “It isn’t much, I know that but… if I could make your birthday wish a reality then I suppose that’s pretty alright, huh?” He holds your wrist loosely in his grip and your fuzzy brain can’t compute if you are dreaming or not.

You had expected fireworks from his touch— a massive explosion of technicolour and bright blinding lights.

But what you got was far more sensual than that. An electric shockwave travelled along your skin from your arm to your back, zapping down every vertebrae in your spine and coating your body in a blanket of goosebumps. Every single one of your hairs stood on end and this might have been the most alert you have felt all day. You felt awake. Resurrected. Alive.

“Are you sure?” You gulp, mouth suddenly dry, “I can pay you…” You start to frantically search your person for any sign of loose cash— your bra, did your skirt have pockets this morning? No. Where the Hell is your purse?

“No- no! This is a gift, from me to you! It’s your birthday for crying out loud!” Eddie is holding both of your wrists now, his attempt to still your nervous jittery movements, “Just enjoy it, okay? Just… just smile.” His deep pleading voice is painful as it enters your ears.

Just smile.

Smile? Weren’t you smiling?

“Thank you…” up until this point you hadn’t fully perceived just how close of a proximity you and Eddie were nestled at. His slight body leaning in closer to yours, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. He was within kissing distance and all you could do now was stare at his dimpled smile. The sight alone was enough to cause your own lips to tweak up at the corners.

“Do you know how to roll a joint?” Eddie could evidently sense the growing tension and he pulls away from you, not in a moment of disgust and terror— but out of respect. Attraction was clear but Eddie was like a loyal dog to Chrissy. There’s no way he would betray her.

“Oh- uhm… no, no I don’t.” You laugh slightly as you look down at the drugs held captive in your hand. Your skin being tinged with the ponging smell.

“Luckily for you, I’m a bit of a master at it.”

“Eddie?” A whimper. A whisper. Weak. Sorrow filled.

“Yeah?” His heavenly eyes had you questioning why thieves ever bothered to steal art— when you were looking at a masterpiece.

A pause. Nothingness. Expectation. Shadows.

“Why do you hate me?” The question is shuddered out through constricted teeth and you find an ungodly comfort in that familiar ache inside of your sternum, “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me, Eddie.”

“I don’t hate you-“

“But you don’t love me. You don’t… like me.” You push your feet into the soft earth, coming to stand shakily in front of Eddie’s seated frame, “Every time I look at you, I can't help but hope you feel the same butterflies in your stomach when you look back at me.” Your eyes settle on the empty street, the only noise circulating the neighbourhood was coming from inside your house. Thumping bass beating in harmony with your heart, “But deep down, I know all you feel is pity."

“That isn’t true and you’re being cruel.” Eddie launches to his feet, darting to stand in front of you, “Where is this coming from? If I have hurt you, I assure you that it was never my intention— I could never hurt you purposely.”

“You didn’t have to purposely hurt me, Ed’s. All I had to do was sit back and watch you love someone else. Someone better than me… that was enough to break my spirit.”

A disruption shakes the interior of your house, a commotion surfacing and you can hear the cheers and whistles from your peers. Eddie clocks it as well, and you can see a panic distort his puppy like features.

“Please can we talk about this tomorrow, when you’re sober and… and we can both just figure this out? Please?” His hands find your shoulders, holding you steady as his chocolate orbs bear into yours. His attention is on you, but you can tell that his feet are ready to sprint indoors.

Quietly, you nod. Anything to please him. Anything to make him happy. Plus— you were also intrigued as to what was happening behind in you. Whatever it was, it had stirred up a whirlwind.

Eddie is quick to leave your side, like a whippet released onto a race track, taking the porch steps two at a time and you are hot on his heels. You are clumsy in your kitten heeled shoes, but you are right behind him.

‘I’ll follow thee and make a Heaven of a Hell.

To die upon the hand I love so well.’

William Shakespeare, Helena

-

“What’s going on?” You stagger into the shoulder of a Frat member, whispering an inaudible apology as he turns to glare down at you. Though, after he takes in your appearance his solid and annoyed expression softens into amusement and what you can only assume as blind lust.

“Harrington and Cunningham got caught banging in the bathroom— can’t believe you missed it! It was fucking priceless.” He drapes his heavy muscular arm over your shoulders and your knees nearly buckle beneath you at his weight pressing down on you.

“What?” You peek up at him through your eyelashes, clearly dazed. You have to make sure— you have to hear him say it again.

“Cunningham? Chrissy?” He is laughing rudely into your face and your nose scrunches distastefully at the stench of beer on his breath, “And Steve Harrington! They were fucking! He had her bent over the bathroom sink, man! His hands full of her hair— pretty sure the mirror is gonna be covered in lipstick!” Finally he unhooks his arm from around your neck and you feel like you may just float up to the ceiling.

You push away from him, using his massive hulking body to propel you further into the mob, your eyes desperate to find Eddie in the crowd. And when you do… it’s ugly.

Anguish, rage, indecision and fear blaze in Eddie’s tear glossed eyes. The gears inside of his head were working like clockwork and you knew where this was about to go as he stares murderously at Steve. Jaw wired tightly shut, nostrils flaring into bullet sized holes and fists so punishingly rigid that you can see the bones of his knuckles straining against his skin; turning his skin to a snow like shade of white.

Steve descends from the top of the staircase alone. His hair is tossed into a messy heap upon his sweat soaked head and you can read from his slumped and lazy stance alone that Steve is totally gone. His hands grasp the bannister, clinging onto the wood for dear life in hopes that he won’t fall down the steep steps.

“Eddie- no, don’t do it!” You try to move toward him as quickly as your boozy brain would allow, but it’s too late. Eddie is flying toward Steve like a bat out of Purgatory.

Time appears to speed up as you watch the violence unfold in front of you alongside the rest of chanting crowd. Eddie has smashed Steve against the wall by the collar of his shirt and you swear you hear some sort of cracking noise come from concrete from the connection of Steve’s back hurling into the plasterboard.

“Fuck! Guys, stop it!” Not only are you terrified of Steve getting beat to a pulp— but your parents would kick you out of the house if things got tarnished beyond repair. And that includes the paint work.

A brutish punch thrown by Eddie bursts Steve’s cheek open and you squeal in horror at the stream of pure gore that spurts from the gnarly wound, “Jesus Christ, Eddie!!” Marching up the staircase you wedge yourself between the two men and Eddie’s movements still. He allowed himself one punch. One good punch, as a warning and also as a courtesy. He didn’t want to frighten you and he also didn’t want to take advantage of Steve’s inebriated state.

One punch is all he needed to satisfy the sickening anger bubbling within him.

And then he fled— like a killer at a crime scene.

“Eddie! Wait- fuck!!” You curse, your hands finding your hair as you tug on the roots of the delicate strands. You are beyond stressed. All you can do is watch as Eddie weaves his way through the mosh pit of bodies who had all quickly gone back to dancing— like nothing had happened.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Steve blubbers next to you and you turn to him, your eyes widened with shock and distress but it doesn’t take long for your glare to become vexing.

“What did you do, Harrington?! If you weren’t already bleeding right now I would slap you in your goddamn face!” Your grip on him is scolding and hurried as you manage to help him down to rest on one of the wooden steps, your eyes unable to waver from the crimson leaking gash on his face.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” His face rests in his hands as he breathes deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth. And just as you prepare to give him a bollocking of a life time, Chrissy emerges from sanctuary of the top floor, desperately trying to rescuer her bra straps back onto your shoulders. Her clothes are twisted sloppily around her body and she, too, is undoubtedly, totally, 110% fucking hammered.

Both your and the blondes eyes meet and your lips pinch downwards into a frown. Your head shakes disapprovingly and your mind is clouded with nervy thoughts for Eddie’s wellbeing and all you can conjure up to say to the dishevelled woman is;

“How the fuck did this happened?”

-

taglist: @colorful-white-ideas @littlered0000 @ali-r3n @daisy-munson @serenadingtigers @rainybloo28 @munson-enthusiast @godcreatoreli @littlefreckles4 @what-the-jams @tlclick73 @ameliapond1995 @thepurplelovewitch @somethingvicked @costellation-hunter @munsonzgf @emxxblog @ingridvasquez @sadbitchfangirl @im-julessssss @munsonburn3r @unclecrunkle @cierra222 @ziggeddie @yarafae

[cup1dluvhss]

‎𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚 LOML, written by cup1dluvhs

‎𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚 a week after your breakup with hamzah which had left you shattered, you suddenly get a call on your phone late at night. when you answer it, your met with your recent ex-boyfriend who isn’t exactly in the right mind.

| warnings: fluff (kind of) and a little angsty if you squint, mentions of drug usage

| taking requests!

it was any ordinary day since you and hamzah had broken up.

you woke up, fed your cat, made breakfast, finished any school work you hadn’t done, and ate dinner. you had tried your hardest not to think about him, to forget and just shut any thoughts of him out of your mind, but it was impossible considering all of your days had been boring and spent alone, and he was like a drug, and you were addicted.

even though it had been a week since you had argued with him for the last time, you still found yourself opening up your messages and clicking on his profile, eager to tell him something about your day but then remembering he couldn’t be that person for you anymore.

his name was still labeled ‘hamzah🫶🫶’ on your phone, because you simply didn’t have the heart to change it, along with some other reminders of him around your house. to keep yourself busy a couple days ago, you decided to clean your whole apartment and found yourself crying on the floor of your bedroom surrounded by a pile of stuff belonging to him.

about 4 hoodies found in the back of your wardrobe, a dead vape in between the cushions of the couch, a scrapbook of photos of you both he had given you on your anniversary two years before, and a framed photo of red and blue. everything was just too much.

you were lying in your bed, doom scrolling on tiktok with your cat in your lap. you had gotten her with hamzah a year ago after you realised that red and blue were more hamzah’s cats then yours, and you wanted a pet of your own.

and of course, so conveniently hamzah named her purple. a mix of red and blue. now, your cat was even a reminder of him.

your relationship with hamzah had been mostly positive, the two of you always meeting each other halfway and showing just as much interest in the relationship as the other. it wasn’t until hamzah began training for the fight with martin, as well as editing videos, along with you having to do school work a lot of the time, it became less and less likely you would see each other around the house and it was difficult to properly spend time together.

it was a mutual decision, and when you ended up in tears after arguing with him about it he hugged you and kissed your forehead. he told you he didn’t want to do any of that ‘blocking each other bullshit’, and just wanted to end things peacefully with no hard feelings. even when you came by his apartment to pick up some stuff, he didn’t conveniently plan things so that you wouldn’t run into each other, but instead helped you pack things up and find anything of yours that was missing.

it felt nice to have that final moment with him be one where you were both civil and comfortable being around the other, instead of dirty looks or angered words like some of the stories you had heard of from your friends. in fact, when you told them, they didn’t believe you.

you sighed, turning over in bed and finding yourself trying your best to block out any thought of him. it was always late at night when you’d start to tear up, with no one to comfort you but your stupid cat. you were suddenly brought out of thought when your phone began to emit a ringing sound, which had you jumping slightly. it wasn’t until you saw the caller id of the person calling you that had you sitting bolt upright in bed.

it was him. just out of nowhere, hamzah was calling you.

you stared at your phone, unsure of what to do or what to say if you decided to pick up the phone. this could just be about something belonging to you he found in the house, or it could be about something else. you clung onto the second idea slightly, your stomach beginning to knot together as you swallowed, finger hovering over the answer button.

without another thought, you clicked accept and brought the phone to your ear.

‘hello?’ you said into the phone, hearing complete radio silence on the other end for a solid two seconds before that all familiar voice you were trying to forget began speaking.

‘y/n? hey, when are you coming home?’ he asked, his words instantly making your brows knit together. what was he talking about?

‘hamzah, what’re you talking about?’ you asked him, clearing your throat slightly when you heard a giggle on the other side of the phone, confusing you even more than you thought was humanly possible.

‘baby, i miss you. you’ve been gone all day, where are you?’ he slurred slightly, his words making your heart drop.

he was high, and he forgot you guys were broken up. you knew that he smoked weed at least once every month, but he’d always remember things and be able to talk without struggle, but he didn’t sound okay. he sounded strange, and to have forgotten something that had happened less than a week prior, he must’ve smoked a lot.

‘i’m not coming home.’ you said bluntly, feeling a little mean for being so quick with him because you knew he clearly was not in the right mind, but you were angry. hearing him call you baby was something you were trying to forget, and hearing him say it again made you feel happy again, a kind of happy you knew you’d be chasing for the next two weeks. tears pricked at your eyes slightly, and a lump formed in your throat.

‘why not? y/n, i filmed the fucking funniest video with martin today, i can’t wait to tell you about it.’ he said, and every time he said a word you felt your heart breaking more and more each time. a tear slipped from your eye which you quickly wiped away, choosing not to say anything in response.

‘anyway, how much cat food am i supposed to give red and blue again? they were meowing at me after i fed them and i didn’t know if it was ‘cause they were still hungry or just wanted more.’ he said, your eyes still glossy as you contemplated just playing along and enjoying the moment.

maybe it was wrong for you to pretend like you were still dating, but you wanted to talk to him the way you always used to. you missed hearing his voice, and hear him tell you random stuff about his day.

‘a can and a bit, depends if you gave them treats or not.’ you said quietly, sniffing slightly as you heard him get up and begin walking, taking his phone with him.

‘i’m a terrible father. this wouldn’t of happened if your mommy was here though, right?’ he said clearing talking to one of the cats, completely oblivious to how his words sent a knife right through your heart.

this was complete and utter torture. you should’ve just hung up when you’d had the chance, or not answered the phone at all, but you knew you were past the point of no return. you missed him so much, and this was exactly what you needed. to hear him call you the sweet nicknames he always would, to hear him ask you when you’re coming home, to hear him tell you he misses you.

it felt like it always had, but it hurt more than anything else because you knew you’d wake up in the morning and it would be over, and things would go back to the way they were.

‘y/n, are you still there?’ he asked into phone, his voice knocking you clean out of your thoughts as you cleared your throat, wiping another tear that had strayed from your eye.

‘mhm.’ you responded quietly, trying not to interact with him too much and get too carried away with it.

‘i love you, y/n. you know that, don’t you? i know i tell you all the time, but i think it’s more than love at this point, if thats even a thing.’ he said so calmly, clearly having no idea the toll his words would take on you.

all of a sudden, you burst into tears and couldn’t contain the sobs you were previously holding back. you sniffed as tear after tear fell, and your hands went to cup your face as you continued crying, all while he was still on the phone. you didn’t care anymore. serves him right.

it was dead silent on the other end of the phone for a few seconds, as if he was registering what exactly was going on. at this point, you didn’t care what he thought anymore, because he wouldn’t remember anything anyway.

‘baby, are you crying? what did i say?’ he said innocently, his words triggering even more sobs to come from your mouth as you imagined his confused and puzzled face on the other side of the phone.

‘you didn’t do anything. i miss hearing you say that, is all.’ you said back, this time a little louder than your previous words exchanged with him.

it didn’t take you much longer to realise and properly register what he had said. did he still love you, or was he just forgetting that he lost feelings for you and that everything ended last week? was this actually what he was feeling now, and did he call you based on impulse and nothing else in the moment? you weren’t sure, but by now you were in a puddle of your own tears.

‘but i always say it, don’t i?’ he said suddenly, having waited a moment or two to speak again. you felt slightly bad for him, because you knew how confusing this must be for him.

‘hamzah, i should go.’ you said abruptly, not wanting to spend another hour going back and forth with him. plus, at some point the affects of the weed would begin to wear off and he’d be wondering why he’s currently on the phone with his ex girlfriend.

as much as you didn’t want to say goodbye, you knew it was for the best. what hurt you the most was the fact that this was probably going to be the last time you’d hear him say any of the things he did to you, for good this time. that was, unless he decides to call you while high and forget about what happened again.

‘oh—okay. please come home soon though, won’t you?’ he pleaded, his voice going up an octave you had never heard before. you bit back a sad smile as you nodded, stroking your cat as a way to prevent yourself from loosing it again.

‘bye, hamzah.’ you said, your voice breaking slightly as you heard him hum softly.

‘you aren’t gonna tell me you love me?’ he asked, his words tempting you and dragging you in the more you thought about them over and over again in your head.

‘i love you, hamzah.’ you said, your voice clear and loud as you spoke. it shocked you a little, how quickly you gave in, but it felt nice to tell the truth after all the lies to your friends about how you truly felt.

‘love you too, sweetheart. talk to you tomorrow?’ he said, making you almost choke on the heavy lump in your throat, your eyes beginning to water again.

‘mhm.’ you said quietly, and the minute you hung up the phone after hearing him tell you goodbye for the last time, you curled up on your bed and let yourself go. you cried until you couldn’t anymore, and until you fell asleep.

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

DRABBLE: BF!Nerdjo x GF!Reader 💙🤓

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS DNI); Nerdy BF!Gojo x GF!Reader; College/No Curse AU; Inexperienced!Gojo x Experienced!Gojo; First Time Blowjob; First Time Sex; subby!Gojo x FDom!Reader; Obsession; Pussy-Whipped!Gojo; Friends to Lovers; College Romance; Gojo is a FREAK

Writer’s Note: I've wanted to write about Nerdjo for soooo long now so I decided to do a little Drabble since I ain't done one in a minute. I may do a Nerdjo fic one day but we'll see. Enjoy! -Jazz

*************

I'm thinking about Nerd!Gojo or Nerdjo if you will and how adorable yet irresistibly sexy he is.

Nerdjo who is at the top of ALL of his classes, the smart fucker, and will tell anyone who asks. Who is proud of all of his academic achievements and accomplishments, from spelling bee competitions in HS to aced exams in college.

Nerdjo who got spots in and scholarships from the top schools in Japan and overseas, including Harvard, when he graduated from HS.

Nerdjo who you will find chilling in his campus' library, hidden between two book shelves, reading up on the history of mathematics and bio-chemistry, two of his favorite subjects.

Nerdjo who doesn't realize how fine he actually is with his snow-white hair, piercing blue eyes behind his spectacles, and delicious body hidden beneath corduroy blazers and cashmere vests (all very sexy to you, mind you).

Nerdjo who has embarrassingly never had a girlfriend before and little sexual experience due to his nerdiness turning most girls off and his shyness getting in the way.

Nerdjo who will stutter and blush at the slightest compliment he receives by a pretty girl...like you. Who has been secretly eyeing you since he realized you share the same class.

Nerdjo who damn near got a nosebleed when you gave him your number for tutoring sessions since you bombed your last test. "Math is not my strong suit," you so cutely giggled, making Gojo go pink in the face. "Hey, you tutor students, right? I'll pay you if you help me out!"

Nerdjo who fell for you the moment you met him in the library for your first session in your pretty, flowery sundress and sandals so he could see your painted toes that he definitely didn't think about stroking his cock later.

Nerdjo who is a borderline creep the way he checks out your ass when you sit down in front of him and may be a stalker when you give him your IG, not liking any of your photos in fear of giving himself away.

Nerdjo who can't believe it when you ask him out after weeks of tutoring you and you ace your next test. "It's just coffee," you bashfully giggle, "but I wanna show you how much I appreciate your help."

Nerdjo who got teased by his longtime friends Geto and Shoko for his date and nearly stumbled into the café for your coffee date. Who could barely drink his latte because he was too busy watching your glossy lips move as you spoke, thinking about them moving in another place.

Nerdjo who can't believe he managed to get a girl as pretty and fun as you. Who has no problem when he blabs and yaps about his interests. Who brings him out of his shell and attempts to play his favorite video games.

Nerdjo is a fucking freak behind closed doors. Who is borderline addicted to you like you're a drug he can't get out of his veins.

Nerdjo who is nervous the first time you become intimate with him, not wanting to disappoint you. Who cums twice at the nudes you send him and leaks in his pants after hot make-out sessions behind the bleachers between class breaks.

Nerdjo who whimpers, moans, and whines at the way your mouth feels when you blow him, the first time and every time after that. Who whimpers out "B-Baby" and "Fuck, sweetie, you're so good" as you gag and slobber on his thick cock in his empty dorm room, his glasses foggy.

Nerdjo who came a little too quick when he got inside you for the first time and blushed so red that he felt dizzy, but calmed down once he felt your hands on his face and heard you giggle, "It's okay, Tarou. I flattered you think my pussy is that good. Let's just try again~"

Nerdjo who pounces on you every change he gets, damn near speeding to your dorm when your roomie is gone and making sure to satisfy you in every possible way he can.

Nerdjo who fucks you with his glasses on, laughing with you when the things fall down his nose as he's putting you in the mattress, drilling his dick in and out of your perfect, velvety pussy that squelches and throbs just for him.

Nerdjo who will stammer, stutter, and look at you all soft-eyed at a compliment you give him, but will suck on your clit and fuck you dumb like it's no one business, the change in demeanor giving you whiplash.

Nerdjo who wipes your cum off of his frames when he eats you out with his glasses on, moaning about how sweet you taste. Who will kiss and lick every part of you. Who will steal your panties and keep him for himself to cum in when you're unavailable.

Nerdjo who is just too fucking CUTE!

[rafesfavgirl]

two graves, one gun — r. cameron

sad rafe fic bc i just got my period and i'm feeling extra emotional :')

series: every few lifetimes

❝ so long, london stitches undone two graves, one gun you'll find someone ❞

pairing: bf!rafe x fem!reader

context: after another night of getting coked out and passing out on barry's couch, rafe realizes you deserve better than him and decides to let you go.

words: 1.3k+

warnings: drug addiction, break-up, might make you cry, ANGSTY asl

the sole of your heel taps anxiously against your living room's hardwood floor, as you stared at the time on your phone's lock screen, which lit up with a photo that wheezie took of you and rafe sitting at one of the tables at midsummers last year, looking at each other as if you were the only people there.

8:30 p.m.

your heart aches at the realization that he had forgotten your date again, but the nerves that settle in your stomach win over, as you think about where he probably is.

pushing your weight off the sofa, you grab your car keys from the hooks on the wall, and dial rafe on your way out the door.

straight to voicemail. fuck.

you skip down the steps in front of your house and unlock your car in the driveway to get in, immediately starting the engine to get on your way.

you dial rafe again as you pull into the road—to no avail.

"damn it, rafe," you mutter, eyes switching between the road and your phone as you type him a message.

you: where are you???

when the message doesn't even go through, you let out a frustrated groan. either his phone's dead or it's switched off. you step on the gas to speed up, zigzagging between cars to get there faster.

you pull to an abrupt stop in front of a beat-down house on the south side, and switch the car off before hopping out.

"mrs. country club, what brings you to this side of the island?" barry stands from the porch when he sees you walking towards him, fuming.

"oh spare me the fake hospitality, barry," you tell him. "where is he?"

"where's who?" he shrugs—but you knew he knew what you were talking about.

"don't play dumb with me," you spat, attempting to walk past him. "i know he's here."

he steps to the side to block you from going any further. "maybe so, but it ain't a pretty sight."

"ugh," you manage to walk past him and proceed into the house, with him on your tail. "rafe!"

barry catches up to you and blocks your way again. "hey, i told you-"

"barry, you're really testing my patience here, alright?" you say, refusing to back down. you weren't scared of him—okay, maybe a little, but you weren't about to let him see that. "rafe!"

you push past barry again, and make your way further inside, immediately rushing to rafe, who was passed out face-down on barry's couch.

"oh my god, rafe!" you crouch down beside him, not missing the un-sniffed lines of coke on the wooden table in front of him, and pick up his head in your hands. "baby, baby," you gently pat his face with your hand. "can you hear me?"

"told you it wasn't a pretty sight," barry leans against a wooden post and watches you, making you roll your eyes.

"rafe," you try to wake him up again. "babe."

thankfully, his eyes flutter open, relief washing over you as you let out a sigh. "oh thank god."

"y/n?" his voice is barely above a whisper when his eyes lock with yours. "shit!"

you move aside when he suddenly sits up, searching the couch cushions for his phone. "what time is it?"

"rafe-"

"no, fuck!" he shouts when he realizes his phone is dead, and looks up at barry. "i told you to wake me up if i knocked out!"

"i'm not your keeper, cameron," barry shrugs. "just take your shit and go, a'ight?"

"baby…" rafe turns to you kneeling on the ground beside him, his voice much softer now. "i swear i set an alarm— i was just— i didn't think my phone would die and-"

"hey," you place your hand on top of his, squeezing it lightly to make him look at you. "don't worry about it. let's just get out of here, okay?"

he nods, and you stand up, dusting yourself off as you do.

"i'll meet you in the car, doll," he tells you. "i just gotta take care of something."

—

the car ride back to your house is almost completely silent, until rafe breaks it.

"you look beautiful, by the way," he says, eyes shifting to you.

you glance at him, a small smile on your lips. "thank you."

"god, i'm such an idiot!" he groans, clearly frustrated with himself over the situation. "how many missed dates is that this month?"

"rafe, i told you not to worry about it," you tell him. "it's okay, i get-"

"y/n," his voice is stern now, his eyes burning holes into your skin. "how many?"

you sigh, turning the wheel towards the curb to park the car in front of your house. "four," you answer, switching the ignition off. "that was the fourth one this month."

rafe scoffs and shakes his head, eyes averting away from you. he just couldn't look at you anymore, because he knew that even if you didn't show it, you were disappointed. not only at him, but maybe even yourself for putting up with him.

"hey," you place a hand on his knee, and he glances down at the gesture, before finally looking at you. "it's okay."

"how is it okay?" he asks, eyebrows furrowing. "all i do is disappoint you."

"baby, that's not true," you try to reassure him, but he doesn't buy it.

"it is true," he tells you. "and you don't deserve it."

not knowing what to say, you just glance down at your hand on his knee. "rafe…"

"no," he cuts you off, and places his hand above yours to slowly push it off of him. "i can't keep doing this to you."

letting out a sigh, you adjust yourself in your seat so you're looking at him. "okay, rafe, before you saying anything else— i love you, alright? there's nothing you can do that-"

"and that's exactly the problem, a'ight?" he snaps. "you're never gonna walk away from me yourself! even when i bought this shit from barry after i told you to wait in the car." he reaches into his pocket and tosses the small bag of blow in between the two of you. your eyes shift from it to him, the uneasiness in your stomach only getting worse.

"i have a problem y/n," he tells you. "and it's not the kind you can just 'fix' with love."

"then we'll get you help. we'll do any-" you try to reach out to him, but he resists.

"no," he says, motioning a hand between you two. "this has to end."

the words you dreaded hearing comes out of his mouth in one fell swoop, your heart shattering into a million pieces.

"what?"

"i'm never gonna be the guy you need me to be," he shakes his head at you, and if it weren't so dark outside, you swear you'd see his eyes watering. "and since you can't let go, i have to do it for you."

tears brim along your lower lashes as you speak, "no. that is not your choice to make."

"god, y/n, can you stop making this harder than it already is?" he pleads.

"can you stop acting like it's so easy?" you retort.

"you think this is easy?" he asks, taken aback by your accusation. "it kills me to do this."

"then don't," you say, voice cracking as you reach out for his hands. "we can work through your addiction together, rafe. we'll-"

"that's not your responsibility," he shakes his head at you. "if i'm gonna get better, i need to do it on my own."

you sob, "i— i don't want this to be the end.”

rafe glances down at your hands, before bringing his hand up to cup your cheek.

you lean into his touch, and a single tear rolls down your cheek—one that he wipes away with his thumb.

"i love you so much," he says, eyes closing as his head tilted down against yours. "i'm sorry."

his lips place a soft kiss on your forehead, and just like that, he's gone.

part 2.

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[twopoppies]

The article is in Spanish, but it's a very trustworthy source from Argentina. That Roger was a fucking leech, hope he rots in jail

https://www. infobae. com/sociedad/policiales/2024/11/08/pesos-argentinos-para-comprar-droga-negocios-en-comun-y-dias-libres-el-oscuro-control-de-rogelio-nores-sobre-liam-payne/

This is so fucking disturbing. I know fans have had a bad feeling about Roger for a while. It sounds like they weren’t wrong.

Today, Nores is charged with abandoning Liam Payne and killing him , as well as supplying and facilitating him with drugs, in a relationship that sources in the case describe as “almost Maradona-esque, a friend of the champion , like those who surrounded Diego at his worst .” To charge him, Madrea and his team analyzed 800 hours of footage from the CasaSur hotel and opened Liam’s phone. In addition, they took a large number of testimonies, including that of Liam’s father, Geoff Payne.

Liam's father said the same thing that the courts were able to confirm through the analysis of communications and the comparison of other testimonies: that Nores, after meeting Payne in Miami at the beginning of this year, became the force that dominated his life. If the Payne family wanted to know how the singer was, then they should contact Rogelio. He was not just another friend of Liam's, under any circumstances. Geoff Payne himself said it: "Roger" was always the intermediary. "He is better than ever," he would have told the family when asked.

And this explains the charge of abandonment of a person. It is not about the fact that the businessman did not come to the singer's aid, but about the long road that led to the CasaSur hotel.

The businessman would have become a sort of de facto manager . Although they did not have a specific contract in this regard, sources in the case say that Nores operated as an "investment advisor" and that they had business in common in view of Payne's possible return to the world stage. For this, the singer's recovery from his addiction to drugs and alcohol was key. He just had to be detoxified.

Nores accompanied Payne in a deep detoxification treatment in the United States. There, a psychiatrist prescribed sertraline, the antidepressant that was found in the toxicology test on the singer's body. The specialist said it clearly: if you mix alcohol and cocaine with sertraline, the result can be lethal.

Then, another treatment in Spain was carried out, which also failed. So they ended up in Argentina. Payne was put up in a prestigious five-star hotel that was used to hosting big rock stars. They kicked him out of there. They even visited a local psychiatrist, who testified in the file. After the five-star hotel, they both went to the Patagones polo club with the singer's last girlfriend, Kate Cassidy, where the singer was photographed wearing a helmet and heels on a horse. They spent a few days there. However, Payne quickly became nervous and left the place.

Thus, they arrived at the CasaSur hotel in Palermo on the Sunday before the death. Liam did not even have a bag. There, according to the testimonies and analysis that are part of the case of the prosecutor Madrea, Nores' control would have been much more evident, with alleged orders to the hotel staff to report each expense. Nores, this time, managed Payne's expenses , while receiving calls for each whiskey, champagne or tequila that the former One Direction member ordered, with physical money delivered at the reception. The evidence also speaks of "free days" when Liam could consume cocaine.

The day he died, precisely, was a “day off.”

Thus, Nores frequently returned to the hotel to top up the bill. Payne, meanwhile, insisted on the phone, asking for Argentine pesos to pay the dealers who offered him cocaine, with photos of the bags they offered him and the corresponding prices. The prosecution suspects that Nores had obtained cocaine for him himself, which led to the second charge against him.

Meanwhile, hotel cameras filmed Liam as he wandered the halls , drunk and with a distant look.

For the time being, Nores is free, with his passport handed over to the courts and a ban on leaving the country, while he awaits being summoned for questioning by Judge Laura Bruniard. Article 106 of the Criminal Code, which defines the crime of abandonment followed by death, speaks of “anyone who endangers the life or health of another, either by placing him or her in a situation of helplessness, or by abandoning to their fate a person who is incapable of taking care of himself or who must be maintained or cared for, or who the author himself has incapacitated .” Here, the alleged supply of narcotics plays a key role.

If convicted, he could face up to 15 years in prison. Given the amount of the sentence, the crime is not bailable.

[4zahar]

00 | The Star Child

Masterlist. Next→

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: English is not my first language. Happy New Year! 🎊

—Ad astra per aspera—

Gotham's streets hadn't been designed to withstand rainfall over 30 milliliters per hour. A fact highlighted when some areas became prone to flooding due to the poorly thought out infrastructure of the sewer system. Built far too intricate and unnecessarily so, without consideration for situations such as heavy storms and raining season. The kind of problem Politicians would forever liked to preach about solving despite not a single soul believing half the funds for said project wouldn't be later on pocketed. Not a single uncorrupted branch was left on Politic matters.

Unfortunately and adding to the pile of reasons for a solitary boy to be wondering the streets drenched from head to toe at the whim of the storm—Clothes clinged uncomfortably to his skin; said kid was seemingly trying to shield a backpack with his body.

Car horns blaring in the distance in the alleys, speeding over the runoff from the storm pooling along the curbs. Streams formed, raising past ankles as the lone boy sprinted across the street, splashing in the filth to round the wrong corner. By the time he stepped in The Narrows his already worn off shoes became muddy puddles.

There was the chilling wind biting at his bones too. No matter how much he pulled at the hoodie, clearly a size too big, it did little socked and stained to provide any warmth.

A dog barking behind a fence became the only sound Jason could hear above his own teeth chattering.

He became the man of the house at a far too young age, the same day his father got arrested. Jason Todd’s survival on the streets of the country's most dangerous city hinged on a self-sufficiency no child should possess. Devastating was the burden thrusted upon him, forcing him to scavenge for food, scrape together money—stealing if necessary—and keep a eye on his mother.

He had learned through pain how things worked. Everything always getting worse over and over before ever showing signs of getting better—if they ever did. Lessons taught by the streets. Yet for all his toughness and bravado, the idea of losing his mother devastated him enough to seek help from anyone, anywhere. He'll do anything.

His mother, Catherine Todd, had never been so shameless before. Never like this, in her infinite wisdom, had she locked Jason out of the house with a storm in toe. Perhaps in her altered perception of reality, she did her son a favor. However, most children were far from far from stupid. The closest they'll have would be naivety, which her son wasn't. Jason wasn't blind and deaf like many seemed to view him as. What those days and afternoons locked out really were for Jason were failures for not having been able to stop them. Stop her.

The cure for her mother's illness was the same substance slowly but surely killing her, apparently, and according to the drug dealer that'll come to their home. As if Jason were stupid. As if he didn't know drugs were no magical spell and about his mother's addiction.

Overwhelmed, his resolve faltered. Losing on a betting game with all odds against him, Jason saw no choice but to force himself to go out under the lash of a storm in search of a new player.

Someone who had no name or face that he could remember, but whose existence was suspended in a forgotten photo half-embraced by fire; His sister.

Willis had not liked to talk about his oldest child, so you must've been a force to be reckoned with.

═════════════ • ✧ • ══════════════

One of the last threads of hope he had had, summarized in this ominous building. After this, Jason will ran out of ideas. For a while he has been standing in front of the door of an apartment in one of the many complexes nearby. After hitting one too many dead ends, Jason knew better than to let himself be haunted with What ifs.

Armed with an old picture of you, the sister he never had, in which he was an infant in your arms and your smile had missing baby teeth. Now he was ten and had to squint to find any resemblance to his old baby-self. You could've changed so much all could be for nothing if you had done as much as dyed your hair.

Just the walk from Crime Alley had costed him his backpack. Far more he should've allowed himself to for this to be worth nothing, so there better be a fairy behind this door. At the very least a decent human being.

He wasn't backing down. Jason just needed a moment, okay?

Lots of thoughts and thugs had been faced tonight—the longest walk his short legs had ever made in his short life was enough for him to get mugged by a group of drug addicts.

Facing disappointment, his great fear of being left alone, tightened his chest far more than the kick to the ribs he got a couple blocks ago. (Him being a child meant his backpack had proudly carried four pieces of gum, a pair of socks and an used toothbrush which hadn't been good enough for a bunch of crazy. God forbid a boy had his own problems.) However, he was lucky they didn't kidnap him or worse. Even if only because of knowing nothing would be gained from it after seeing the inside of his backpack.

You could be anywhere if not here, really. Even dead in a ditch. Children didn't get very far alone. They were all attracted by dim light of deception in a deep dark ocean and devoured by an anglefish or other predator lurking by.

After a deep sigh, his lungs filled with false courage and the pollution gothamies were so familiar with. Although His hand froze halfway to knocking on the door, three times did the sound echoed down the hall and Jason's arm flashed hidden behind himself just as fast.

An eerie silence settled back in before Jason tried again. Three knocks, louder this time, were intended. Jason got to one before the dull thud of something falling to the ground was heard from inside. The response had almost been immediate, followed by footsteps. Jason barely had time to take a step back before the door creaked open as far as the chain on the bolt allowed.

A somewhat gloomy looking girl peeked out. She seemed to have just woken up in any case, with her short hair a mess of spiky locks pointed in all directions. Adding to the frame of her face were blue drooping eyes lingered above Jason's head for a second too long as if she expected someone taller.

Great offense was taken at that by the way. He had gone through a lot, walked way too much, not for this—and you—to call him out like that. You weren't even that much taller than him. You weren't even standing straight hiding most of yourself behind the door. Then her eyes descended to meet him, and Jason's mind went blank.

He couldn't fully see her face. Didn't need to see to know this was you his sister. The picture he had of you felt heavy on his pocket as you looked just like your mother. His mother.

The lump in his throat made itself all the more present when he tried to speak, so he waited for a greeting of your own instead. Anything to not be the one who had to speak first would have been a good start in Jason's books.

The silence stretched despite the two. His tongue felt like it had been tied up, stammered the first thing that came to mind when nothing came of you.

“I am your brother,” he blurted out, with anxious energy so clumsy he instantly regretted it.

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