#I can still feel the echoes of a life I may have once lived just outside my periphery

[imitative-magpie]

Recovery has been a bit difficult. I worry that with each time that my body breaks down and develops more issues, it becomes harder for people to overlook and I become more difficult to love- which I know of course when I write it down that it's a terribly stupid, and ableist thought.

I would never think such things about someone else in my position, but when I haven't put words to that gut feeling and it only has to be directed inwards I worry about it on a near visceral level. It keeps me awake at night. Nobody could love what I've gone and become. This is too much for anybody. I'm even too much maintenance for myself

[scarletttries]

When Baldur's Gate 3 Companions Fall in Love...(Baldur's Gate 3 Request)

Pairings: Astarion x Reader, Wyll Ravengard x Reader, Gale Dekarios x Reader, Shadowheart x Reader, Karlach x Reader

Author's Note: It's been a while! I haven't posted in a while but I've got some time at the moment and I'm just finishing a first playthrough of BG3 so wanted to write some headcanons for our charming companions. Consider me open for any BG3 request too, let me know if you want to see more pieces like this :)

Astarion:

- Travelling with you makes Astarion feel grateful he's had hundreds of years to perfect his flirting technique. He knows exactly how to let you know what he's thinking without ever giving away too much of himself, how to flash his smile without ever lowering his guard. He thinks once again he knows exactly how to capture your attention, and possibly your body, without losing an ounce of control. That is until you say something that catches him completely off guard...

- "I'm really sorry to hear that." You should have laughed at his expense, his self-deprecating humour and haunted tales from his past worn like the toughest armour over silky open shirts. But you hadn't laughed, or scoffed, or replied with some equivalently sarcastic tone. Instead you'd offered empathy, a warm look and an extended hand that somehow didn't feel like pity to Astarion either.

"Well that's enough self-pity for tonight my dear." He quickly excused himself from the campfire, turning his back as he entered his tent to hide any visible blush his cheeks may muster from the way you said good night. Of course his blood didn't circulate that way any more, but he was almost sure he could feel his heart rising in his chest as it had when he was still a mortal man. No, this didn't feel right at all.

- It would be easy for Astarion to pretend he was only interested in a night of carnal pleasures with you because of all the beauty you possess, and he'll let everyone else think him a shallow man just the same. But when he lets his mind wander freely it's your kindness he finds himself dwelling on, or your firm but fair moral code that seems to carry you through these intrepid lands without doubt or tribulation. He almost wishes he had met you sooner, so sure that his life (and after-life) could have turned out quite different with you by his side at those strange early steps.

- Suddenly all his effortless flirting feels a lot more challenging and he can't decide if he should risk a small amount of sincerity to let you know how we feels, or just to double down on letting you know one night with him would ruin you for any other lover. Luckily both approaches are met with the affection he craves, and slowly but surely Astarion starts to feel like he might be able to have something real for once.

Wyll:

- Ever the hopeless romantic, Wyll was already a firm believer in love at first sight by the time he ran into you and experienced it firsthand. He fears he cannot be too bold, his staunch commitment to his duties governing his life in a way that does not leave much room for any other kind of commitment. He tries to let his feelings settle at the back of his mind, in the hopes that in time they will become nothing but a dull ache he can learn to live with.

- That could not be less of the case for poor Wyll though, your face filling his every nightly dream and your voice echoing through his mind in every moment of silence. His heart grows heavier and heavier with each passing day you travel together and soon it feels almost inevitable that he will be yours, even if he can't quite bring himself to admit it yet. Once he has accepted that thought he must wrestle with the possibility that you might not feel the same and you will be added to his list of those he cares for most that have rejected him with scorn.

- Still he lets the lighter thoughts carry him through the toughest of times; what it might be like to hear you offer your own feelings back, how it would feel to see you smile only for him, what kind of life the two of you might be able to build in a simpler times, what he could finally do if you agreed to a wedding night together. He lets himself ruminate on that more often that he'd like to admit, all gentlemanly efforts banished from his mind when he sees you walk around his camp.

- While he builds up the courage to make his feelings known, you might catch him practicing the steps of an intricate dance one night when he thinks everyone is fast asleep.

Gale:

- Gale has known love and loss before, the intensity of his past life making him consider keeping his heart closed off from others forevermore. But the gods have a funny way of keeping Gale on his toes, and introducing him to you certainly did that.

- At first you are just the warmest of friends to him: an ever-willing audience for his lifetime of tales and knowledge, a reliable companion for the throes of battle, a selfless treasure seeker who helps him fend off hunger. But over time he finds himself desperately scanning his mind for more and more facts that it would be worth waking you up to share, more tales to capture your attention, anything the two of you might do together to keep your focus on him and no one else.

- It's about when he wonders if the two of you might just camp in one tent together, that he realises he no longer views you as simply his closest friend. No, you have long passed that threshold into an entirely new realm of love. It feels so different to anything he has felt before, like your company is the warmest summer breeze after decades of stormy lightning in his heart. It feels safe and easy to be with you, like he could be content with almost nothing as long as you were by his side, looking at him with your near endless appreciation. Gale can't be sure exactly what to do about it, but he hopes the next time you draw back the opening on your tent and usher him in for another night of exchanging tales, that you might permit him to never leave.

Shadowheart:

- It's hard to know love when you barely know yourself. That's what Shadowheart tells herself when she finds her mind wandering back to you after your memorable first impression. She has so much to learn about herself, and while she's grateful for the reliable company and kind sounding-board you provide, there's simply no room in her life for anything more.

- And yet the more she uncovers about herself, the more important it seems to have you by her side. It's like she cannot exist in this new fully realised version of herself if she doesn't know you. If she doesn't get to see herself through your eyes, to hear what you think, to have your presence beside her as he continues to take more and more steps forward down this path home.

- Without ever trying you have become the other half of Shadowheart, and by the time she realises it, she knows you must have the same awareness. There could be no way that you aren't as in tune to the depth of your bond as she is, leaving her only one question. Not if to address it. But when.

Karlach:

- Though Karlach may not have a traditional heart anymore, she is more than capable of falling for the travelling companion that seems to bring out the best in her at every step. After years spent working for the devil and his underlings, having someone in her life that strives to make the world better and put her strength to good use is like the first sip of water after countless nights in the arid desert of the hells.

- Karlach knows she's as strong as they come, so she finds her eyes frantically searching you out in battle, pushing herself on and raging forwards to always keep you safe, to get you behind her, to make sure you go on to keep her company another day.

- Her time in this plane of existence may be more limited than some of the other characters, but that only means Karlach knows how important it is to truly 'live.' While the other companions may bide their time and carefully deliberate how best to inform you of their inconvenient feelings, when Karlach knows your heart is true, she's going to let you know she is all yours at the earliest, and steamiest, opportunity.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The House Guest 10

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: an old acquaintance calls in a favour, leaving you with an unexpected house guest.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You stare through the window as hammering echoes through the glass. Despite the muffling of the barrier between you, it’s loud enough to put you on edge. Or maybe that’s because of the man calmly bringing the iron down on the nails. 

As if he can sense you, he looks up, his dark hair flopping back. You quickly spin away. You have to be going stir crazy. Bucky was just concerned. A lot of people come up this way and get freaked out by the wilderness. You used to when you visited as a child. 

You go back to the kitchen and take out the ingredients for your grandma’s classic turkey stew. It’s always a comfort as the temperature starts to drop. Still, it’s never as good as she made it. One day, you might figure out the secret. 

Cooking is a good distraction. There isn’t much to do up here. Often, you enjoy that facet of your existence. You work then disconnect and just do your own thing. Now you can’t help but feel the desolation. 

Thunk, thunk, thunk. The hammering continues. You put the turkey into roast. It’s always better to season and cook it first then shred it up for the stew. You set the broth to simmer with the chunked veggies and pace the kitchen as you wait for it all to come together. 

You use a fork to pick the meat of the turkey legs and dump it all in the boiling pot. Another hour to meld together and it’ll be ready to serve. The longer you let it, the better. It’s always best the day after. 

The silence doesn’t hit you until you hear the back door. The smell of pine follows Bucky inside. You put your attention to the pot and stir it. 

He sniffs and sighs loudly as he enters. “Ah, smells delicious. Chicken?” 

“Turkey,” you correct him as he twists on the faucet and squirts soap into his hands. He lathers up and looks at you. “It’s funny. Back in my day, not to sound like a crotchety old geezer, women cooked. They had recipe cards on the counter. These days, half the girls I talk to can only use some app to order pizza that tastes like ketchup on cardboard.” 

“Oh, yeah? I kinda miss fast food,” you say dully. 

“Huh. ‘Cause I miss the home cooking. It’s just... simpler.” He shuts off the tap and shifts closer, drying his hand on the dishcloth as he looms. “If it hadn’t all gone to shit, I probably woulda found a good woman. Settled down, lived the good life.” 

“Right,” you nod awkwardly and set the spoon down.  

He clicks his tongue and turns, putting his hand on the counter as he leans on one foot. His other hand goes to his hip. “But then I wouldn’t be here.” 

“Fair,” you say, distancing yourself as you step around him to get to the fridge. “I got some cider left over? Want some? It’s mulled. Julian down by the Rocks makes it--” 

“Think I’m good,” he says. 

You put the large glass jug on the counter and open the cupboard. Bucky catches it and shoves it closed with a snap. You face him in surprise. He’s strong. You know that but feeling it is something else. 

“Sorry, I... I’m in your way?” You wonder. 

“No, you’re right where you should be,” he says. 

You try not to lean away from him. Your heart is racing. You swallow and peer over at the dimming window. 

“I could help you cover up the lumber before--” 

“Already did that,” he interjects. “You know, I think I’m where I need to be too,” he edges closer. “Think after everything, I did find that good woman.” 

You blink, speechless. You can barely think above the tempo behind your ears. 

“I hear it.” He puts his fist to his chest and knocks on it. “I know you feel it too.” He stills his hand and holds it over his heart. “I was pissed when Sam brought me up here. Dropped me off like some stray dog. The longer I’m here, the more I realise he did me a favour. He didn’t dump me on you...” you wince as he pulls his hand away from his chest and opens it to cradle your face, “he gave me you.” 

“Bucky,” you latch onto his wrist but can’t move it. “I think we need some space. Don’t you?” 

“No,” he says flatly. 

“You spend too much time in the same proximity, and it starts to get weird--” 

“No,” he repeats. “I’m right. It’s perfect. You’re strong, you cook, you’re handy, not afraid to get a little dirty,” he slides his hand down to cup your chin. You flinch but can’t pull away. “And you got a nice ass.” 

“Bucky,” you breath and gently shove his chest. “I’m saying to you that you’re wrong. I’m flattered and all but no.” You push harder as he squeezes tighter. You whimper, “ow, let me go. I’m calling Sam-” 

“Shh,” his other hand swoops up to back of your skull. He lurches you closer, bringing you to your nose as he snarls down at you. “You’re not calling anyone.” 

“Bucky--” 

“It’s the way you say my name,” he growls. 

“Please, you’re hurting me--” 

He hushes you again as his thumb rubs behind your jaw. He turns you so your penned in against the counter. You splay your fingers across his chest, dragging them down to his stomach as you push on him. He stands unmoving. 

“Let go--” 

“You. Let go,” he insists calmly. “You built this wall around you. Let it down,” he drops his hand from your head and lets it trail down your back, “let me in.” 

“No, I’m telling you.” You squirm against him. “Stop this, right now.” 

“I know you want me. I found that toy. The little flower, hm?” He tickles along your side, your jaw aching in his grip. “You wanna feel the real thing? Huh?” 

“Please,” you clasp the fabric of his shirt in your fingers. 

“Doll, I want you think about this,” he buries his thumb behind your jaw until you whine. “You’re up here all by yourself. Lonely days, lonelier nights. Anyone could catch on. They could figure out just as fast as I did.” He leans in until you’re nearly bent backwards. “You need a man because any old beast could snatch you up.” 

Your eyes glisten and you search his face. He doesn’t look human. He’s animalistic. His eyes are dark and dilated and his jaw is set with slathering hunger. Your lip trembles. 

"Wouldn't you rather have the beast on your side, doll? Instead of tearing it down?” He purrs and shifts his hand around your chin, bringing his thumb up to poke at your lower lip. “I can be good for you, all you gotta do, is the same.” 

[eveningepiphany]

reconnect | h.s oneshot

my masterlist

summary: lockdown is tough on both you and harry. you miss the feeling of physical touch so much you start chasing to fill that void in one another.

warnings: sweet and dirty smut, unprotected sex, fingering (fem rec), spitting, deep conversation, lil bit emotional, touch starved harry & y/n, lockdown and covid mentions.

a/n: something hot and sweet for y’all ily!! highkey wish I had harry during my lockdown era writing this, my god.

———

You felt entirely numb as you heard the familiar news reporter say the words you had been dreading of hearing. Tahnee was was always on at this time of the day— you didn’t even know her name however many months ago.

Restrictions had been easing just a week or so ago.

Her voice continued to echo through the lounge room as you cupped your face in your hands with a sigh.

“—we understand the effect this news may have on viewers at home. In these unprecedented times we must stick together as much as we can. Look after yourself everyone… we’ll see you next with our sporting updates after the ad break.”

She sounded glum, like she hated being the one to deliver the news to people. In the end, she too has to go home and cope with the numerous amounts of restrictions on her life.

You reached for the remote, turning off the tv and throwing it back into the duvet that now permanently lived on the couch, good for the cold nights and binge watching TV shows because you had nothing better to do.

Other than ignore your upcoming college assignments. Which you’re going to continue to do. And procrastinate finishing them and how much you hate the pressure of online schooling.

You had other shit to dwell on too.

You miss your family. You miss your friends.

You’re sick of living out birthdays and your college life on video calls.

You missed being hugged, and kissed and touched.

You were so grateful to have your best friend of all people stuck with you. But you still craved so many kinds of social interaction.

Now you just wanted to cry.

You stood up, knowing harry wouldn’t know yet. Probably in bed on his phone, and you just needed his company.

You quickly went to escape the silence of the lounge room, padding down the hallway in your sweatpants and a baggy tshirt you know for a fact you stole from your dad.

His door was only half shut, and you gently said his name.

“Harry…?” Your voice wavers.

“Yea, love?” His voice is soft, welcoming as it always is.

You push through the door to see him laying in bed, also in sweatpants and a rolled up long sleeve.

He looks at you and tears immediately start to spill over your waterline without you even realising.

He props himself up, “y/n, what’s wrong?”

You invite yourself over to his bed, and his arms pull you into his chest the moment you’re close enough.

A gesture that is just too much given the circumstances, and although the sweetest, it tips you over the edge.

You feel the tightness in your throat as his hands move to caress your back. Before you know it, your chest is rattled with a sob. You felt so dramatic but you needed to let it out.

He waited no time to wrap you straight into his tightest hug, trailing his hands up to your the back of your neck, stroking the skin there with his thumb.

“Darling.” He whispered, concerned of what had happened, but not wanting to push you to tell him. Just letting you cry.

Eventually it wracked out of you,

“We’re— we’re going back into stage four restrictions.” Your reasoning came out with a shaky voice.

You felt his intake of breath once you’d said it, and it got held in his chest for a few seconds before getting let go all at once.

“Fuck.” He cursed out defeatedly.

You sit in silence, but not once does his grasp on you loosen.

“I just want to see my family outside of a fucking FaceTime.” You whisper.

“I do too…” he closes his eyes, “I wish there was something I could do to make it better, y/n. I’m sorry.”

He grabs your hand, amending what he said before.

“I know this is shit, but we’ll get through it. We get through everything together.” He smiles, it doesn’t quite crinkle the corners of his eyes like it usually does, but it’s an attempt at the least.

“I’m so sick of feeling so alone, Harry. I’m glad i have you here, but it’s so lonely at the same time with just us.” You say quietly, hoping not to offend him.

He nods against your head, which is tucked into his shoulder, letting you vent without interruption.

“We can’t do anything. We can’t see anyone. I havent felt another persons touch outside of yours in weeks.”

He doesn’t get offended, he understands exactly where you’re coming from and you’re so grateful for that.

He just plays with your hair as you talk.

“Same here, baby.”

“I don’t mean it in a rude way, you’re very affectionate given our circumstances, but I just…”

Your sentences falls off short, and you shrug. You missed romantic touch too.

“Y’miss being touched.” He enunciates the word in a more suggestive way.

You nod, “not to sound… gross or anything. But I do miss being touched, and held, and kissed.”

He pulls you in a little closer as you speak, almost without realising he was doing it. Absentmindedly ready to do any thing to make you feel a bit better. A bit more connected.

“It’s not gross. It’s normal.” He frowns, “We have gone months without seeing our own family. I can only guess neither of us have had anything romantic going for us. Nothing wrong with missing that.”

“It seems kind of— i don’t know— weird to miss in comparison to the other things.”

“Y/n, tell me you’re not feeling guilty for missing getting kissed. Or laid.”

“I’m…” you sigh as you realise you can’t even pretend you’re not, and he rolls his eyes lightly.

“Jesus.” He let’s out a breathy laugh.

“It’s not just that, atleast, that I miss.” You shake your head, still feeling a little embarrassed.

“I miss the connection. The feeling of it.”

His facial expressions quickly get more serious as you talk. All of the words coming from your mouth can be interpreted in varying ways, but his mind can’t help but veer towards the more sexual aspect of it. Especially since you didn’t deny you missed getting laid.

“I get it. I miss having the opportunity to want someone.” He nods again, watching your reaction to what he says like a hawk.

You look away, almost shy, “To really want it.”

“Yea…” he glances at your lips without realising he’s doing it, and the feeling you’re both discussing at this very moment is welling in the pit of his stomach.

His hands reach out to wipe away the damp glaze on your cheeks from your tears.

“I’m proud of you.” He sighs.

“What— Why?”

“Because. You may think you’re not, but you’re doing so well.” He looks utterly sincere as he says it.

“Harry…” you shake your head as his name slips past your tongue, and you bury your face further into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, lips accidentally brushing the base of his neck.

This has him tingling, your soft mouth so close to his pulse point, he wonders if you can feel it racing.

“Y/n.” He squeezes your hip, “If you want me to kiss you, just know all you have to do is say the words.”

He swallows as you still, processing the offer he’s just put on the table.

“But—“

“I miss it too. The really wanting it.” He caresses the soft skin of your waist with the hand that’s now slid underneath your shirt.

You go quiet, suddenly the air so thick with tension you couldn’t breathe.

“If you want anything from me, I’ll give it to you.” He whispers, so softly. Like he wants you to hear him, but also not at the same time.

You’re not sure how to even react.

You’re horny. Emotional. And frankly a little bit too infatuated with his lips to breach into the territory of being able to touch them with your own.

“Harry.” You repeat, sounding unsure.

“Baby, if you wanted it, I would do it.”

He scratches his fingers down your spine, noting the absence of a bra strap.

You shudder at the sensation. Realising no one has made you feel like this in so long.

“Very sudden.” You blurt, trying not to push forward with you hips whatsoever, despite the ache that’s quickly conjured between your legs.

You fear that if you feel him, all sense of rationality will be gone.

“I know.” He says, lips dragging down your temple.

“M’beginning to realise, y/n, that i would do just about anything to keep you happy.”

Your heart pangs and you indulge a little, hands coming up to weave through his hair and pull on it gently.

And he groans, sounding so pretty.

“You deserve this too.” You carefully say. You’re not even sure where the line is between the two of you. But you continue talking anyway,

“Always so sweet… so giving. Who would I be to not make you feel loved on too.”

“Christ.” He whispers as you tug on his brown curls again, which slide against your fingers like silk.

“How far is this gonna go, H.” You ask, needing clarification before you go insane.

“Far as you want it.”

“I need specifications.” Your hands come to his cheeks, “I don’t want to be making any assumptions here.”

“Angel, If you asked me for my mouth on your pussy, I would give it. Want my cock? It’s yours. Use me, touch me, anything you want you already have.”

You feel yourself melt at the words.

You cave, leaning forward and capture his perfect lips, feeling their shape slot against yours like an art piece.

His lips feel heavenly, and you nearly black out at the sensation that overtakes your body.

“Fuck, that feels so good love.” Harry says against your mouth, his tongue jutting out to swipe over your bottom lip.

You hum in the back of your throat, and he tugs your hips so you’re properly seated into his lap.

You can’t miss his erection underneath your core. His clothed length is pressing into you and a moan slips out of you before you can even stop it.

“Need it. Please.” You start to beg, no matter how desperate it comes across.

His hand comes to your waistband, “you’re sure you want me to touch you?”

“Yes, yes.”

It dips underneath the fabric, finding you without underwear and almost dripping you were that wet.

The thing is, going so long with just your hand and a vibrator, the second any kind of prospect of getting dicked down is there— you’re immediately slick with arousal.

“Jesus fuck, y/n.” He drags his middle finger through your cunt, feeling the wetness along his finger tip. “You’re soaked.”

“Harry— oh my god—“ he slid it back down, teasing your entrance with his fingertip.

“Been that long huh. Just the thought of it works you up this much?” He chuckles.

Your hands fly to the collar of his shirt, tugging at the soft material, gripping it in your fists.

You hum in agreement. “More, please.”

“Mm, so glad you’re letting me do this.”

He pushes in further, and just his one long finger is touching places that has you clenching around him.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Praise is spilling from your lips as he curls his digit in you.

You slouch into his strong frame, hand slipping down between the two of you, palming over his erection.

He peppers your neck in open mouthed kisses, moaning at the feeling of you squeezing his clothed cock.

“Can I— fuck— get you out.” You ask, reaching to dip under his sweatpants.

“Yes. Don’t even have t’ask, pretty.”

You flush, hand moving underneath his waistband, finding him also without underwear.

Relief flooded you as you got your hands on the smooth skin of his cock.

He moaned at the contact, “Shittt. That feels amazing. S’much better than my own hand…”

He slides another finger into as you begin stroking along his length.

You both begin to move in sync with one another, the sound of your pleasure beginning to echo around the room.

“Can hear how wet you are.” Harry grunts, fingers curling inside you.

Your hand squeezes around his cock as he does that, causing you both to moan.

“Harry. I need you inside me… please.” His fingers were already close enough to making you come and you weren’t sure how he’d react if you came before he even got close to being in you.

“Can I make you come first? Want you to feel good, baby. If you can handle more than one orgasm, please?”

He wants you to feel good.

Before himself.

You realise this man in genuinely a saint. Like more than you ever could have imagined.

“Seriously?” You still don’t even believe he means it. Maybe he’s just saying it to be nice, and actually wants you to say no?

“What do you mean?” He looks a little confused, slowing down the kisses he was placing along your neck.

“I— sorry. I’m just not used to being so… looked after, I guess?”

“Have other guys not made you come first…?” He looks shocked.

“No… not usually? Occasionally, if I’m really horny and it wouldn’t take long.”

“I know there’s some scumbags out there, but with a pussy like yours… they should be begging to please you.” He shakes his head, not finished talking.

“For the record, lovie, if you weren’t so adamant in getting filled with my cock, I’d be making you come atleast twice before I fuck you.”

He pulls his hand entirely away from your cunt, allowing you to feel his absence as he talks. “Then I’d edge you with my fingers to the brink of your third. Until you’re begging me to stretch you out.”

He delivers a gentle slap over the hood of your clit once he’s done talking. Sliding his middle and pointer finger back down into your entrance to gather the arousal there, and slip it up to your clit.

“Oh.” You breathed out. A whiney noise following from your throat shortly after.

You were surprised. Not because it was Harry, if anyone would be like this it would be him. But you’re used to being a second thought sometimes. Just an aid to an end goal.

You’d become accustomed to it. Now there’s a man in front of you, who wants to please you because it seems to make him happy.

He reaffirms that thought, “I don’t think you’re aware how happy I’m gonna feel when your cunt is pulsating around my fingers in a few minutes.”

With saying that, he pinches and rolls your clit between his fingers and you struggle to find words to respond to what he said.

“Fuck— I— thank you.” You’re shaking a little as he increases the speed as he works over your clit.

“Nono. Thank you. You’re so nice under my fingers. So wet and warm.” He hums as you begin to squirm against his touch.

Your hand movements around his hard cock have gone to a lax and languid stroke, and almost stop all together when he dives his fingers back into your hole.

“Mhm— Harry!” You gasp, quickly starting to lose all your sense of self as he plays with you.

“That’s it, Y/n. Let me take care of you.”

He works you expertly, and your cunt is so unprepared for the attention from someone other than yourself. Its making it hard to hold yourself together.

You’re clenching around his fingers, and the tension in your stomach is quickly building.

“I’m gonna… fuck I’m gonna come soon, H.” You moan, followed by another curse of his name as he flicks your clit with his thumb.

Your pushing your hips against his hand, grinding into every movement. Chasing that explosion of pleasure in your abdomen.

“Wanna feel it. Come on, let it all go f’me.” He coos, keeping a hard and fast pace with his hand.

You cry out his name, nails scraping down his skin as you beg for the final push, which comes quickly.

A curl of his thrusting fingers and your movement lapses immediately, jaw going slack as you come around his hand.

It’s better than he could ever imagine, the noises coming from your lips are sinful, and you lean forward, open mouth panting over his cheek.

Hot breath fanning across his face while you’re still clenching around him.

He moves to bite your bottom lip, earning a jerk of your hips and another moan from you.

After your heart rate slows, he gently removes his fingers out of you.

“Good girl. Took it so well.” He pecks your nose with his lips.

“Can take your cock better.” You let out a breathy laugh.

He smiles, dimples popping out.

“Little minx. C’mere.”

He draws you into a hug, pulling your middle flush to his chest.

“D’ya need a minute, or no?” He asks gently, voice close to you ear.

“No, I’m ok, I’m good.” You blush.

“S’it too much to ask to take your shirt off?” His hand pulls at the hem of your tshirt.

“Can yours come off too?” You chuckle, leaning back to settle your eyes on the long sleeve covering his chest.

He nods, still smiling as he lets you take his off first. Revealing his toned chest and inked skin.

You run your hands along the ridges of his abs as he reaches for to pull off your own shirt.

Lifting your arms, you hear his little intake of breath as he remembers you don’t have a bra on.

The shirt gets tossed elsewhere as he is focused solely on your chest.

He looks transfixed as he trails a hand up to ghost over the skin on the side of your breast.

“Fuckin’ hell. Look at you, Angel. Got the prettiest tits.” He says it with such endearment.

You squirm with pleasure as he cups you in his hand, bringing your nipple to his mouth. His hot, velvety tongue slicking over the sensitive skin there.

Your back arches immediately, a moan sounding from you.

“Fuckkk…” you drawl out, letting him suck it into his mouth.

The sensation is enough to have you a mess in his hands again. The way he works his mouth over you like it’s nothing.

You take his cock back into your grip— having momentarily let go during the haze of your orgasm— and run the head of him through your folds.

His mouth falls open around you, moaning, letting his breath fan over your sensitive nipple.

“Jesus Christ, Y/n.” He groans against you.

“So hard…” you whisper, rubbing his tip over your clit.

He lifts his head away from your chest, glancing down to see the connection between the two of you.

And he moves a hand down, lacing it over the top of yours.

You felt so connected with him. Just with his hand now over yours, and his length pressed into your clit.

You can’t even imagine the state you’ll be put in when he’s inside of you.

“Harry… need you.” You plead again, without care of if he’s sick of hearing it.

You need him. Need him so bad it’s consuming you. All you can think about is him. Not even in the sense that all you want his cock.

You just need to feel like you’re close as you possible can be to him.

“I know baby, I know.” He kisses your cheek, “Y’want me to use a condom?”

“Only if you want to. I’m clean and still on the pill.”

“I trust you. If that’s what you want.” He reaffirms with you.

“H, I have to feel you. Just need to be close to you.” You lean into his neck, kissing the skin there.

“And s’this position comfortable for you?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll take you anyway, any position. Whether you want me on top, under you, bent over… don’t care. Just want you.”

“God, you’re such a good girl. So amazing f’me.”

You let him guide your hand to the base of his length. And then slowly, with his hand interlocked over yours, drag his tip to your entrance.

Your already letting out whines, free arm coming to lace into the hair at the nape of his neck.

You lower your hips down on him, feeling the head of his cock slip up into you.

You both let out a moan at the sensation, whispers of each others names falling from your lips. Gently you keep sliding him in further, soaking in every second you feel him stretch you out.

This was what you missed. The feeling of connecting with someone. Not necessarily with just the sex. But feeling intertwined. Like you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his begun.

“You’re better than I could’ve dreamed, lovely.” He praised, earning a clench of your cunt. One he wasn’t expecting, that had him moaning into the shell of your ear.

He sounded perfect. Like an Angel. And you melted further into him at the sound.

“This is perfect, Harry. Needed it so bad.” You stroked his hair as you spoke.

He removed his hand from over yours, coming to rest both of them on your hips, guiding you down further.

Once you moved your own, you could let him slide you all the way. Your clit brushing over his pubic bone once you reached the base.

“Clenching ‘round me like that—“ he hisses, “gon’ make me come too fast, darling.”

“Let me feel you for a second.” He holds you in place, letting you sit still over his thick cock.

“So wet, so warm. Made to fit my cock, hm?” He squeezes the skin of your waist.

He bucks his pelvis up to you after you moan out an agreement, “Made just for you, Harry.”

And he’s starting to thrust slowly in and out, guiding your hips through the movements.

“Lay on me.” He rearranges himself so you can lay your chest onto his, and rest your head next to his cheek.

Your breasts press up against him, and clit is now being stimulated even more by his front.

“Need you close to me.” He whispers, and you start to bounce onto his cock gently. Bum slapping on the strength of his thighs.

“Me too, H. Have to feel every part of you.” You moaned, circling yourself on him. Each rotation hitting your clit, causing you to moan.

He also is in shock at the sensation of being inside of you. It almost like a surprise to his entire nervous system.

He draws his fern-adorning hips back, only to snap them back upwards. Skin slapping at the movement.

Not to mention the sound of your wetness gliding along his cock each time you got thrusted into, which was echoing through the room.

“Listen to how wet you are. All for me.” He groans, picking up the pace.

Your lips find a spot to suck below his ear as he talks, nipping at the skin.

“I’m so… you make me so wet.” You agree, pussy pulsating around his bare cock.

“Love it. Don’t you? Us using each other like this.”

He says it, knowing the dirty talk in turning you on even more. But you both know it goes beyond getting a quick fuck.

This is everything to you both. Feeling like, for the first time in so long, you are truly not alone.

“Want you to use me, Harry.” You roll your cunt, pushing your clit onto any part of him it reaches, still clenching at the contact.

“Dirty Girl. So fucking desperate.” He laughs, kissing your hair.

“Who would I be to talk, though.” He grabs at your ass, “I’d beg you for this everyday. This sweet cunt around me. For you to touch me. Anything.”

He admits it with a moan following after it, your pussy fluttering.

You feel it building it inside the pit of your stomach.

“Want you to fill me up.” You state, panting as your thighs start to shake, and you realise in a few minutes your going to come. And hard.

“With my come, huh? Want me to put it deep inside y’baby?” He asks you, hips bucking excitedly at the prospect.

“Yes! Fill me with your warm come, Harry.” You’re starting to go delusional.

Filthy fucking words flying from your mouth as your arousal overtakes every rational part of your brain.

“Shit—“ He is pressing you flush to his body, holding you as close as he possibly can. The pace of his cock slapping into you increasing by the second.

“I wanna see it drip out of you, Y/N.” He groans, fucking into you hard and fast.

You feel amazing, your heart racing in your chest, and your whole body vibrating. You’re being stimulated in so many places. Your nipples pressed up to his toned chest, clit being rubbed by his pubic bone, god— and his cock fucking you.

“Thankyouthankyou—“ your mind is quickly turning to a mess with him swallowing you up like this.

You feel your orgasm approaching with a tension in the pit of your stomach. It’s quickly becoming the only sensation you can feel outside of the harsh thrusts Harry is giving you.

“Good little slut.” He grabs your face, lust taking over the both of you like you’re teenagers.

His pace doesn’t let up, and he stares at you with half lidded eyes.

“Spit in my mouth.” You beg, not even sure where the fucking thought was from before it came out of your lips.

“God… fuck— open your mouth.” He grunts, tilting his head to angle his lips to yours.

You open it, sticking your tongue out a little past your bottom lip, ready to catch anything that would drip given the fact you’re still on top of him.

He purses his lips, gathering up his saliva and dropping it down onto your tongue.

It was fucking feral, and you loved every second of it.

It tasted of him, and you swallowed it without even being asked.

Just watching that happen had him fucking you like it was his sole purpose in life. His thrusts became despeate for you.

You shook with anticipation, “I’m— I’m gonna come!”

“Yes… fuck yes. Come on, baby, finish all over my cock.”

His words were your breaking point, your cunt clenching so hard around him that he groaned aloud.

“Fuckfuckfuck— make me come, Y/N.” before he started to pulsate in you, putting his load deep into your pussy.

Having it happen almost all at once prolonged your orgasm, making you continue to moan and writhe in his grip for what felt like forever. Squeezing him until he had nothing left to give you.

Once you slowly both regained your awarenesses, you stayed on top of him. Sweaty and sticky, but you stayed close as possible to him.

You couldn’t fathom that just happened.

“Harry…” you whispered, and he hummed to the quiet chant of his name.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Stop thanking me baby. You did just as much for me.” He smiles into your cheek.

He brought his arms up to cage you to his chest, “and it’s so nice to be holding you.”

You move to kiss his lips, gently sucking his bottom one into your mouth. Lulling your tongue over it, letting it go with a pop.

“I haven’t felt this present in… in months.” You say quietly.

“Neither have I. Y’make me feel safe. Which might sound odd, but s’true.” He glances at you, watching you smile at his words.

“Im so glad we did that.” You make sure he knows you don’t have a single regret in following through with everything.

“Once we’re showered, gonna have a serious conversation about the fact you asked me to spit in your mouth.” He chuckles.

You flushed, not sure whether to be embarrassed about it or not.

“Got a little uhm.. carried away.” You tried to justify.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he laughs, indicating he was just teasing, “thought it was so hot. Just never would have expected it.”

“I wanna know what else you’re into, yknow.” He licks his lips.

“What other dirty little secrets your hiding up in that head of yours.”

You shake your head, “shut up.”

“M’serious. We’ve got a lot of time to kill.” He’s still chuckling, hand coming to stroke through your hair.

“And I loved that. Loved feeling you so close. You’re a dream.” He pecks your cheek again.

“Make me some of your good cooking and I’ll think about it.” You joke.

“But really…” you pause, “thank you too, H. That meant everything to me.”

He didn’t reply with words, they wouldn’t be enough, so he just kissed you. Kissed you with every ounce of his being.

———

[spencerified]

Hiii, well, English is not my first language, sorry for that. I'm not a writer, but a big reader, so welcome to the community ^^

I was thinking about a reader who works in BAU, gets kidnapped, and for some reason the su-des was filming, and the reader is forced to confess that she like Spencer, (The whole team saw it).

As if the su-des were playing a game like truth or dare, and ended up reluctantly confessing that, the reader having a lot of confidence. If you read this and do it I would be very grateful, ily^^♡

(Can be fem!reader or g!reader, it doesn't matter, I repeat, if you read it and do it I will thank you for the rest of my life)

hiii!!! first of all thank you so much for trusting me with your request 🫶 this came out a little (a lot) longer than I thought it would but i hope it's still what you expected and that you enjoy it!! any other requests are very welcome ♡ lots of hugs for everyone

✿

"Stop."

You're relieved that your weak attempt, your last resort at trying to get the Unsub to show you mercy, makes him stop in his tracks. You still feel the ghost of the edge of a knife itching against your skin, when it was unclear if he really wanted to hurt you or if it was just an attempt at getting you to break. To get you to spill your most deepest, darkest secrets, the ones hidden within the depths of your heart. 

Hidden even from Spencer, who looks at you from (presumably) miles away, through a sketchy live transmission sent to Garcia. Untraceable, of course. He desperately wishes he could just snap his fingers and make it all go away. Every tear, every ache, every whisper of pain. Wants to build a world where you won’t know suffering ever again.

Hotch's voice when he first trained you for what Penelope called 'The Non-Fun Parts of The Job' resonates in your hazy mind. Be aware your surroundings, he said, and you wonder if he might be disappointed on the other side of the camera haphazardly propped up a few feet in front of you, it's red light mocking you with each blink.

"Why are you doing this?" You say, emitting now only a pitiful vestige of your voice which is usually never afraid to speak on anything. It seems amusing to him because seconds later, a cheshire grin blossoms in his face, causing the hair on the back of your neck to stand. 

"Oh, you have no idea who I am, do you?" He says. You've never thought a person could inflict so much fear with only a look and a few words. "I don't remember you either, so no hard feelings. But the BAU has... humiliated me. Took everything I love away from me. My family, my job, my friends..." His voice grows low to the point that if you weren't so on edge, you would have to strain your ears to hear him. "They may think getting away for years feels like a reward to me, but they don't live what I live. 

Watching the TV waiting for the next time the BAU finally remembers me over the rest of the cases they have to push away to the… dusty corners of their file room because of their incompetency and decides to spread my picture all over the news once again... it's no way to live." 

The man's voice is so calm you constantly wait for the other shoe to drop. Like when you're so scared on a rollercoaster and your only option is to close your eyes and wait for the inevitable drop. It doesn't come. It seems like years of inflicting pain on others, and then years of hiding away from the consequences are an upstanding process on how to numb a person.

Spencer sees it too. He sees that this Unsub just won't lose control, and that scares him. Because someone this put together – in a rather bizarre way, wouldn't even bat an eye were he to decide on hurting you. And Spencer would have to watch it all, powerless, scribbling over and over again over his wide map spread out on the conference room's table. 

"I'm sorry..." You lie through your teeth. "That you have to live that way."

Fake empathy towards him, Hotch echoes on your head again. You must be reliving his instructions in your head as a way to keep your cool. You bite your lip so hard you fear it might bleed when you realize you're doing it. He's delusional, you reason. He thinks the BAU wanting to catch him for murdering at least 7 couples in public parks is somehow a way to wrong him. 

"Well, thank you," he says, a bitter tone bleeding into his words. "But it's not enough. Luckily for you, you know just what to do that will be." 

"I don't have any secrets," you confess. Outside of the BAU, you don't have a very interesting life. Go home, say hi to the neighbors in your building, sometimes smile at someone while shopping groceries. No burning, forbidden love affair – mostly because the only candidate you want is endearingly oblivious –, no superhero side quests that would make for an interesting conversation at lunch break with your coworkers. No skeletons in your closet, no secret vices or scandalous secrets that would obliterate your pristine reputation amongst your coworkers. Not even one involving the most important one of them. Of course not. 

"I'm sure you do. Everyone does," he circles your chair. You want to sob when you lose sight of him and feel his presence looming on the back of the chair. Not knowing when your life could potentially be taken away from you is jarring. 

"I don't," you say. You don't need to use the word 'please' for him to know that you're begging for your life. "I really don't." 

Pull yourself together, you think. This is not how a BAU agent must react when faced with a threat. But then again, you've only been here for less than a year, and maybe you just don't have it in you to keep your cool the way the rest of your team would. You take a harsh deep breath. 

Spencer has a rather uncanny ability to tune the world out. When he's engrossed in his job, his books, his facts, it's easy to lose himself on them. Specially when the only person who usually listens to him when he externalizes them is away. 

Not away, he thinks. That makes it seem like you're taking a vacation. A small voice in the back of his head wonders where would you go if you were given the chance to. Then, he remembers he might never find out if he doesn't figure this out soon. The case has the team's complete and utter attention, and he knows these are some of the best minds in the Bureau. But he still feels like it's his responsibility to figure it out; he can't help but think that it's what it's expected of him. He wonders if that expectation stems from being a prodigy, or because he's so close to you that it only makes sense it would be him. 

He feels a rush flowing through his veins when he feels like he's close to figuring it out. Then, he's harshly brought back to the reality where he hogs the conference room's table with his map and the team scatters over the rest of the room, working on who-knows-what, by a series of worrying hurried breaths of yours. 

"Okay, okay!" You say, when he roughly yanks you by the hair to keep you still. The knife you thought was previously discarded hovers over your ear. 

"One clean slash, and you'll be out like a light."

You don't find it in yourself to want to test the veracity of that theory out. 

So you realize your only shot at getting out of here might be giving him what he wants. You can't stall anymore, and one side of your brain tells you that it's your team, they'll get here in time, and the other asks itself if that might be a thing that just happens in unrealistic crime shows. 

"I..." You start. You wonder if Spencer is watching this. You would rather have every agent in the FBI hear this, all 35,000 of them, instead of him. You whimper when the knife inches closer to your skin. You can't die. Not here. Is keeping your perception of dignity worth losing your life? "I like my coworker." 

It doesn't satisfy the Unsub. "Which one?" 

You want to refuse to answer, to curl into a ball and cry until you recover the false sense of confidence you walk around with that has now been shattered. You'll get it back, eventually. Not if you die. So you toughen it up, and breathe deep. "Spencer." 

It sounds so stupid. A mere speck in the grand scheme of things, of problems and situations anyone would expect an FBI agent to have. But it's the hardest thing you've ever had to say.

And it's the hardest thing he's ever had to hear. If it were in any other situation, he wouldn't have put it past him to jump in glee. You, with your head always held high, never one to shy away from showing who you were to the world, with your gentle soul that lured him in even when he tried to keep his heart safe from rejection... You liked him. But that's not his focus right now. Even if every single train of thought in his brain has come to a catastrophic halt, he has to focus, because he can't take one more second of seeing you trying to keep calm with a knife to your throat. 

A picture of Hannah Davis, one of the victims from the original case, hung up on the wall behind you ends up giving the Unsub's whole act away. Still, it doesn't make a lot of sense for Hannah to have hung up a picture of herself in her own house, so the team splits to cover both the boyfriend's house and Hannah's. 

It's just a precautionary measure. Spencer knows exactly where you are.

"Oh, Dr. Reid. Idiots interrogated me about once or twice as a witness and he was a real boom with the ladies at the precinct back then. Let me tell you, if I had his charm, I wouldn't have had to resort to killing couples to get off." 

The Unsub lets go of your hair with no warning and your head hangs down as if you were a rag doll. You find it in yourself to hum uninterestedly at his sick attempt of joking. 

You don't think you've ever felt your heart beating as hard as it is right now. And when you tune out the sound of the man talking and rambling about God knows what, you realize that the thumping you hear in your ears isn't your heart. That maybe the creaking on the stairs isn't a product of your delirious mind conjuring up a sequence where you magically get saved from the bad guy.

You sigh when the man behind you yanks you back again. This time, you feel the need to put on a facade. Make it look like you’ve come to terms with it; if this is how you go, then so be it. The knife on your throat makes your heart rate pick back up, but you don't whimper. You wonder if you're trying to keep it together for yourself or because you are ashamed of the image your team will have of you after this if you don't.  

You hear Morgan kick the door down. Usually, you're on the other side of this. You help talk an Unsub down, and then make fun of Morgan after for kicking the door instead of opening it like a civilized FBI agent. Talking them down doesn't always work. Sometimes, you end up with another casualty added to the case. In the worst outcome, you end up with two more. You're not as unafraid as you thought. Please, God, you think. This cannot be the end. 

Morgan screaming at the Unsub to put the knife down falls in deaf ears. It's only white noise to you now, and maybe that stems from the fact that you have been held hostage for what felt like days with no food, no water, no sun, and you feel so close to it being over. Soon, you'll be on a hospital bed, eating food that only the thought of makes you feel nauseated but even that is better than this. Maybe Spencer will sneak you a treat. Or maybe that's wishful thinking. 

As you're dwelling on what the consequences of him potentially hearing your confession might be, you hear a gun go off. You don't even react when the pressure exerted on the right side of your neck, the weight of the arm holding you in place suddenly fades away as your head falls forward. 

You hear the thud of a body hit the ground. Maybe we can still be friends, you try to reason. Spencer drops his smoking gun to a side as Morgan tries to untie your hands behind your back. Maybe he'll reciprocate, or is that too much of a delusion to have even in your incoherent state? Spencer holds you in his arms when you have nothing pushing you back against the chair anymore. 

"I'm sorry," you sob into his shoulder, not an ounce of strength remaining in your body. You were not made for this. Not made for withstanding this kind of torment. If you mean the torment of being kidnapped, or the torment that awaits you once you're not hysterically sobbing in front of the man you're not ready to admit you love, you're not sure. "I'm so sorry." 

"Hey," he says, tenderly. You don't know how much time it's gone by since the last time you saw him. The only thing you know is that this kind of gentleness is now unfamiliar after harsh hands engraved themselves all over you. "Hey, it's okay. What are you sorry for?" 

"I'm sorry," you say, worn out, the words echoing around your head like a DVD screensaver. You then register his question. "For saying that." 

You don't specify what. It's not necessary; it never has been with Spencer. Somehow, you both know exactly what the other means, with just a glance, a brush of an arm when somehow you find yourself trapped in his orbit once again. 

"It's alright," is it? Part of him wonders if being with you might have become even more unattainable now than it was before. If you'll push him away because the memory of the circumstances of your confession is too painful to bear. His hand hovers in the air before he finds a moment where he feels like you won't get up and run away from him if he touches you. You shudder, but ultimately stay right where you are. "Don't cry. You're okay." 

Are we okay? You have to ask. But maybe right now is not the moment. Maybe right now all you want is to be held before everything goes down the drain. You've hit rock bottom, and everyone probably sees it too. Spencer just wishes you find it in your heart to let him be the one to help you out of there. You don't need to yell for help if you have him – the most minuscule mutter of your burdens will be enough to have him snapping into action. He knows what it's like to give every sign that you could ever think of and still have them ignored. He isn't about to let you go through that. 

"We're going to go home now, yeah?" You nod. When you come to it, your fingers ache from holding onto his shirt so hard you want to apologize to him in case you had hurt him. You don't find the words. The rise and fall of his chest had lulled you into the deepest, calmest sleep you have managed to get in a while, even before the kidnapping happened at all, and in this moment, you almost swear that it'll all be okay. 

When you wake up, there's a steady hold in your hand as the ambulance rocks back and forth. 

"God, they need to get that street fixed," you say. You don't recognize your voice, the rasp in your throat being the only thing to confirm that it is indeed you speaking. It takes you a moment to realize that the hand that holds yours firmly is Spencer's. 

You'd be lying if you said you weren't scared to look at him. What would his expression be like? Disgust? Perhaps Morgan made him ride with you until they got to the ambulance. Perhaps he offered to do so because he wanted to do something nice for you before he completely tore your heart to shreds by saying he doesn't like you back. Perhaps-

"We're almost there." The way his voice manages to shut every deprecating thought in your head should be studied. As a reflex, you turn your head to look at him. You wish you hadn't, because the way he looks at you like you're a masterpiece – a rather flawed one, even if he doesn't think so, isn't helping the ache in your chest. Your first thought is that it's awe, but then you think you might want to get that get that checked out when you get to the hospital. 

You barely notice his hand shifting around yours, until it holds your wrist, his thumb pressed softly but firm against your pulse point. He can probably feel the way your heart quickens when he leans in to take a look at your face. 

"Does the light hurt your eyes?" You nod, sluggishly. He turns over to look at the paramedic who sits next to you. You feel a little bit of relief at the fact that no one's hovering over you. It means you're okay. It's all minor. And mostly psychological. Spencer starts listing studies and tests they apparently need to run on you, and while you love the way he rambles, you don't think you can keep up with him without getting a stroke in the process right now.

You doze off again. God, you needed that. You hadn't closed your eyes for more than a couple of seconds during all of your stay in that house. Stay. You don't know what else to call it. 

Emily stayed with you while they checked you out and in her words, it was like you were moving on autopilot. It was unnerving, but the doctors had informed her that there was nothing wrong besides a couple of nasty bruises you would have to spend extra concealer on. 

Spencer offered to stay overnight. One can only imagine how unsettling it was for him to lift his head from his book to see you sitting up like a spring at 2:45 am. 

"Hi," he says, his voice a hushed breath as he sits on the edge of your bed, smiling awkwardly at you. There's no one else in the room, but it's like if any of you speaks louder than a whisper, the bubble you're in will burst. Your chest heaves with hurried breaths, and you rub your eyes.

"Hey." You're already dreading this conversation. Is there any way to go back to before you were kidnapped and forced to confess you're in love with your best friend/coworker? Anyhow, you don't want to stay in the dark anymore and hurry to speak directly to the point. "I don't want things to be weird between us." 

"We haven't even talked for a minute, what do you mean?" 

You let out a short, humorless laugh, which could be easily just interpreted as a hum. You scramble over the clutter that is your mind right now to find a topic that will help you evade the awkwardness. "... Why are you still awake?" 

He didn't expect you to ask that, if the way his gaze drifts to the side is anything to go by. 

"The book was very... interesting, to say the least," he blatantly lies. You don't know if he's a bad liar or if you're just an expert in the Spencer Reid sciences. 

"I'm sure it was." 

You don't speak for a minute. A minute and 33 seconds, he counts, and you're heading strong for a second one when his voice breaks the uncomfortable atmosphere. 

"Listen, I..." 

"I know you heard it." Everyone probably did. And it'll be less humiliating if you act like you don't wish you could just crawl out of your skin and hide. "I'm sorry. I just didn't want to die." 

"I'm glad you said it." 

You don't know if he's glad you said it because otherwise you would have probably bled out before they even got to the house or because the fog that used to sit atop of whatever weird tension you both seemed to develop whenever you were the last ones in the conference room, paired to interview a witness, or sharing the big couch on the jet, is finally cleared up. 

You can't lie and say you're not relieved you did, too.

"I'm glad too," you say, mostly to yourself. Where do you go from here? Spencer knows a lot of things, none of which seem useful at the moment. He's almost tempted to bring Morgan in for moral support; otherwise, he's about to perform the worst ridicule he's ever had the pleasure to star in. 

You wait for him to speak. He doesn't, and instead stares at the bedsheets that look like their sole existence is an offense by the way his brow creases. 

"You look like something's bothering you," you say, tentatively testing the waters. Can you already joke with him, or is it too soon to pretend like everything's okay? "Is it not a nice pattern?" 

He smiles for a split second. You didn't realize the air had been lacking from your lungs until this very second. "The pattern is geometrically off. If you look at it closely, you'll see that the diamonds aren't quite aligned properly. It seems minor, yet it's still evident enough to unconsciously make the pattern less appealing to the eyes. I suppose that's what you get with mass-produced and machine-made products nowadays."

You smile warmly at him. Only then it's that your chest tightens as the realization of just how much you missed just hearing him talk about things that would have never even crossed your mind in a thousand years, dawns upon you.

"Sorry. I forgot my magnifying glass at home." 

"I see you didn't left the wit back there." You smile at him. It feels foreign. Just a second ago you were avoiding looking at him like the mere action of doing so would make you burst into flames on the spot. Your smile is like fuel for the burning courage consuming his insides as he opens his mouth again. "I... I think- No, sorry. I mean, I am certain that..." Okay, Spencer. Great way to start. He tries to gather his thoughts, which proves to be a much harder challenge when they're all a jumbled mess. 

"You like your coworker too?" 

"Yeah," he says. His lips curl into a warm, genuine smile that does wonders at speaking of the deep affection that harbors in the depths of his soul. One only reserved for you. He's quick to repress it because he doesn't want to seem stupid. 

You don't let him throw you off your feet. "Dr. Reid, can you wait until I don't feel and look like a bus just ran over me to confess your unconditional and undying love for me?" 

He wouldn't have expected a different answer from you. The confidence you wear on the outside is a mask for the way he makes you melt like a bar of chocolate in warm weather on the inside. You don't need him to answer to that. He touches your hair, and you turn to look at the bag of skittles placed on the bedside table, and you know he'll gladly wait until you don't feel like you've been stripped of all your defenses. Until you feel like yourself again. 

[mumms-the-word]

Deep Past the Heart

Characters: Emmrich Volkarin x Rook (You) Summary: (Spoilers ahead!) You have accompanied Emmrich to his final test before lichdom. You stand in a cold Necropolis vault as he walks away from you toward possible eternity, knowing he will die the moment he crosses the threshold. The only thing you can do now is wait. Wait and hope that if he returns to you, when he returns, he will still be the man you have fallen so desperately in love with. Nothing is certain but death. Love...that is a different question entirely. A/N: I think this is my first official Veilguard fic? And it's angst haha classic. Anyways, I have mixed feelings about Emmrich's Lich route but the cutscene where he becomes a lich has stuck with me as one of the most beautifully choreographed moments in the whole game, so I couldn't resist writing the scene from a more focused, anxious Rook's perspective. Enjoy! Read it on AO3 here!

I am come to be judged by the dead.

They are the last living words on his lips. The last words of a man who will be dead soon, one way or another. Nine syllables formed on an eloquent tongue, breathed forth with warm air from healthy lungs. In mere moments, those lungs, that tongue, those lips will grow still, and never move again.

It isn’t his time to die. But it’s the time he has chosen, and now that the words are out of his mouth, you know there is no turning back.

His words echo faintly in the vaulted chamber you stand in, soft reverberations you will never get back. You want to reach out and catch them, just one word, maybe two, and hold them fluttering and whisper-thin against your chest until you have absorbed them. The last vestiges of his voice, perfectly preserved in your heart. Just in case you never hear that voice again.

Or if you do, it will be altered beyond recognition.

It’s strange. You’ve spent the last several weeks doing all that you can to save lives—freeing slaves, fighting ghosts, slaying dragons, eradicating darkspawn, stopping enemies before they can hurt anyone else. And yet here you stand hundreds of feet below the surface in a spacious, isolated crypt, bidding farewell to your lover as he faces the end of his life. 

You make no moves to stop him, despite your every instinct screaming that you can, you could, you should . But you don’t. Because this is what he wants.

Emmrich Volkarin, your beloved, is steps away from death, standing at the threshold of a chamber that will steal his life from him and present him with one final test. If he succeeds, he will become a lich, a powerful undead mage that will stand outside of time, a being both paradoxically within and beyond your reach and understanding. His life’s work, completed with his death. But if he fails…

It is death, either way. You both know it. The best you can hope for now is not that he will survive…but that he will transcend . If he does, then he achieves undeath. Lichdom. Forever.

A vast leap , he had once said. Flesh cast aside for bone. Returned, immortal, for all time. 

You wonder if you’ve made a mistake. Not for encouraging him to take this path, but perhaps for coming with him. 

His kiss is still on your lips, the warmth of it fast fading in the chill of this Necropolis vault. You wish, suddenly, that you had placed your fingertips at the base of his throat or against his chest when you kissed, cherishing the final beats of his too-soft heart, the fluttering of his pulse as it thrums beneath his skin. Or that you had inhaled deeply of his carefully cultivated scent, expensive cologne, soap, and pomade, scents he may soon abandon after death when his new form no longer requires them.

You glance at the Lich Lords above, their cold veilfire eyes glowing in the sockets of their bleach-white skulls. Cold, barren, still.

Dead.

That is what he will become…but only if he passes the final test.

Too late you wish you had paid more attention to the elements that made up your lover’s living, mortal self. Already you feel the finer details slipping from your grasp. The exact shades of gold and green in his hazel eyes. Where the last stubborn dark strands of his hair melt into the gray and white. The tones of his quiet laughter when something amuses him. The press of his lips on your knuckles when he kisses your hand.

There will be no more of any of that, either way. Already you miss those things. Ache for them.

Why is it so much harder for you to let go of him, than for him to let go of life?

Your time together has been cruelly short. You arrived too late, he walked toward death too early, and the world never settled long enough for the two of you to find any real time together. You want to kiss him again, but you know better than to move. Because if a single thing goes awry…

The doors swing open, spilling out a brilliant white light so bright it’s painful to stare into, but Emmrich doesn’t falter. Aside from a single flex of his hands, you see no evidence of hesitation or fear.

And yet you still wonder. 

How fast does his heart beat in his chest, as if defying him to stop it? Is every nerve alight within him, desperate to soak in each last sensation, the chill on his skin, the prickle of gooseflesh at the back of his neck, the brush of fabric, the creak of leather, the jingle of chains? Are there tremors in his fingers that you cannot see? Is he terrified, or at peace with this decision?

You hope he is at peace. Even as your hands clench at your sides and your ears start to ring with the stress of watching him step forward into eternity, knowing he will die, he will inevitably die, he will certainly die , you hope he, at least, has no more of the terror that has plagued him since childhood.

It’s the only way you’ll see him again.

You have to let him go. You curl your toes inside your boots as if to anchor your feet directly down into the stone beneath you. You hold your breath to keep from using your voice. You cannot stop him. You cannot intervene.

But dammit, it’s hard .

Every step he takes is another step away from you. Another step closer to death. You have prepared for this. Sat in his study, curled up by the fireplace, watching him review scrolls about the rituals, watching him practice his glamor. You’ve seen the way his eyes grew distant at the daunting trial before him, taking him to a place where you couldn’t reach him…and the way his eyes drifted around his study, looking for a figure you both know will never return to brighten the Lighthouse again. You prepared your goodbye …and your welcome back… and your final goodbyes if it all went wrong. You thought you had steeled yourself to the fact that he might not return at all.

But now the moment is here. 

Every step is like a death knell, the chime of a clock striking midnight. The sound of his boot heels on the worn paving stones rings in your head like the peeling of chantry bells, ten, eleven…twelve. 

Silence.

He stops and turns to face you. The light of the chamber beyond is too bright, too harsh, a wash of milky white fog and light that silhouettes him until he is a singular shape in black. You search for his eyes, desperate to read his thoughts, or perhaps to memorize that particular shade of hazel you took too much for granted, but his every feature melts into shadow.

You look anyway, mastering your expression for him just in case he is watching you too. You will not look anxious. You will not look like you have even a shred of doubt. He will come back. He will come back. You hang onto the thought like a lifeline, and you watch, unwilling to look away for a single instant.

This is your last view of him alive. One way or another, he has to die. You’re prepared to walk his undeath with him, but you want to soak in this last living sight. Just in case.

Come back to me as yourself, Emmrich. Please.

Myrna and Vorgoth join him in the illuminated chamber and the doors begin to swing closed. You stare. You stare and you study and you will your feet to stay planted to the smooth stone floor and you look for a single glimpse of his eyes—

And you see that they are closed.

Your breath catches. You feel your heart start to crack, his name bubbling up from your chest into your throat, ready to be spoken, whispered, shouted, but you cannot let it escape. You swallow your voice as the doors shut with an echoing clang, a single note of devastating finality. 

Then…the silence of the grave.

—————

You stand as still as stone, imagining yourself as steady and cold as the carved marble and granite figures that line the vault. But your traitorous heart beats wildly in your chest, reminding you with every heartbeat that you are the last living thing in that room. You are the wrong thing here in this vault of silence, stone, and stillness. The audacious lover who dared to invade this sanctum of undeath and sully it with your mere presence.

You dare not invade any further. Emmrich is beyond your reach now. All you can do is wait.

You can feel the eyes of the Lich Lords upon you, veilfire glowing green and blue in their hollow eye sockets. Challenger of the gods , they called you. Volkarin’s beloved . You wonder if you are the first lover to stand at a lich candidate’s side to see them off for the final sifting of the soul. 

You wonder if you are the only lover who plans to stick around after lichdom has been achieved. Until death takes you, that is. You, but not him.

You know they are not there to judge you, and yet their faces remain fixed forward toward you, not the chamber beyond. You begin to feel as though you are as much a part of this final test as whatever it happening in the chamber beyond. Do the Lich Lords see you, truly, as they gaze out over the vault? Or do they see Emmrich’s soul, his thoughts, his memories instead?

Do they find you there among them? Is it better or worse if they do?

You know you’ll get no answers from the Lich Lords so you don’t ask. Which leaves you once again waiting. Listening. Hoping. 

Time crawls forward, impossible to track. Down here, deep beneath the earth, every light is artificial and cold, every chamber eternally lit by magical flame. It’s only the flickering of the torches and braziers that tell you that time hasn’t stopped altogether. 

And still you wait. It’s all you can do.

You breathe out, gently clouding the air. When did it get so cold? Or had it always been this cold in the Necropolis, and you never noticed it before? You rub your arms subconsciously, seeking warmth, but your hands do little to help.

What kept the chill at bay before? Was it Emmrich’s presence at your side, his hand eventually slipping into yours, that kept you warm among these patina green and slate gray halls? Or had he cast subtle spells over you, a bubble of warmth to carry you through the Necropolis, his mind on your comfort over his duty as a Mourn Watcher? Perhaps the chill had always been there, but you were too busy basking in the kindness of his hazel eyes and the soothing cadence of his voice to notice.

What happens now that those eyes, that voice, may be gone forever? 

You turn away from the Lich Lords and pace a slow circuit around the stone table. Over your head, the colossal sculpture of three crowned skulls looms like an omen, a second set of judges over the living and the dead. No matter where you turn, the hollow eyes of skulls peer down over you, reminding you of the inevitable. Now that Emmrich is in the chamber beyond, the only thing coming out of that room is a dead man.

How much of Emmrich will be left?

You strain your ears to catch any sound from the chamber beyond. The windows behind the Lich Lords appear open, letting in some of the white light, and yet you hear nothing. Even the crackle of the veilfire around you is muted and low. 

How much time has passed? Mere moments, or has it been an hour already? More than an hour?

You close your eyes briefly, your thoughts a silent prayer, the same as you prayed before. Come back to me as yourself, Emmrich. Please.

It’s the same thing you told him just before he walked away. One last plea, pulled from the depths of your heart, uttered before you could think twice about the words. And in return, he had smiled, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners the way they always do—always did.  

I will, my darling. I promise.

A promise. One you hope—you know he intends to keep. Yet you know that even if he does come back, he will come back different. Everything will be different. His appearance, his senses, his feelings. He warned you of that just days ago.

Lichdom is a transformation of body and soul. A change in how I sense and feel. And I will still feel, but—

But he will feel differently. You know that. He does too. At this point, change is unavoidable, but how he will change…that is less certain. What will he lose, even as he gains eternity and power?

You recall his soft musing words the day you picked flowers together in the memorial gardens, when you asked if he would still be able to enjoy the flowers if he became a lich. He had answered simply, an academic’s thoughtful reply, but you caught the hesitant sadness in his voice at the end all the same.

I can’t say if the flowers would still hold their bloom for me. 

But what about you? For him to lose his sense of smell is one thing, but to lose a measure of his heart…

You can still picture the flower he once picked for you, the thin stem in your hand, the white petals luminescent in the light of the gardens. The scent has long faded from memory, but the magic of it is burned forever in your mind from when he transformed the soft petals into glittering motes of light. You, in the bloom of your life, basked in the glow of his magic, melting beneath him as he pressed you gently into the stone of the memorial and kissed you for the first time. That was the moment you realized you loved him, alive or undead.

So is it selfish to long for, even mourn what you have already lost of him? For you have lost something . The moment he stepped into that chamber, you lost something. You can feel it, hollow in your gut, even though you can’t name it. If he survives this last test, you will gain something back, but even so…is it selfish that you already miss him as he was in life?

Is it too early to mourn, knowing he was a dead man the moment he uttered those words at the chamber doors?

I am come to be judged by the dead.

You know he is more than his appearance, more than the skin and muscle and sinew that makes up his living body, more than that common, fleshy muscle in his chest that pumps blood through his veins but to which everyone attributes the deepest of mortal feeling and desire. Even when that heart grows still, he will surely still love you, you remind yourself. He had all but promised before he left your side. 

Hadn’t he?

If anything should perchance go wrong… My dearest heart. You are the most magnificent thing to ever happen to me.

You stop. You realize now.

This is why he didn’t look back.

You are a temptation. His last tether to this mortal world. If he had looked back, he might have wavered. Decades of his life’s work, lost at a single glance.

If he had looked back, you would have almost certainly lost him for good. 

You pause at the start of your circuit again, turning to face the chamber doors, your heart racing. Does he think of you now? In his mind’s eye, do you exist as the path back home, a marker for his soul to return to his new lich body, or has he cast you aside, unwilling to let you become his final weakness? Have you ruined it all simply by being there?

You were the one to reach out when he first stepped away. The one who held him by the arm, desperate for another few seconds with him, a final kiss, a last embrace. I love you , you whispered as his lips left yours, a confession you should have said days ago. 

I love you too, my darling.

What if that final kiss, that simple confession, has doomed him? You think of Johanna Hezenkoss, the failed lich, her body slowly shriveling on her skeletal frame, eyes burning with veilfire inside a withered face. Wrong. Half-undead. Stagnant, yet decaying.

Is that the fate you sealed for Emmrich with your kiss?

Suddenly you would give anything, a measure of your strength, your power, your own lifeblood, to ensure that he passes through the Lich Lords’ final sifting of the soul to successfully enter lichdom. You want nothing more than to see him again, no matter what vessel his soul is housed in. Was it not ultimately his soul that you fell in love with? Time is a thief that would rob you both of vitality, strength, and beauty no matter how you attempt to slow it down, but the soul is eternal. Or so everyone says.

All you want now is his soul with you again, rather than passing on to the Fade, or wherever it is souls go when they die. 

Please, Emmrich , you beg silently. Come back.

Perhaps the Lich Lords or the spirits of the Fade will hear your silent prayers, drawn in by your deepest desire, since the silent gods are no longer listening and may not even exist. If the spirits sense your hope, perhaps they can intervene on your behalf, driven by the strength of your wish to lead Emmrich’s soul back again if he needs the help. 

But no, you must have faith in him. That is what he needs from you now. You clench your fists at your sides, determined to mold your anxiety and desperation into faith instead. You can do this, Emmrich. Death won’t keep us apart. You won’t let it. 

A light clamor draws your attention back to the chamber—the sound of the latch unbolting. The doors are about to open. The wait is over. 

The judges’ verdict is set. The scales have been weighed, the soul measured, and judgment passed.

Emmrich is dead. 

—————

Your blood pounds in your ears, a steady roar that drowns out everything else as the heavy doors groan open. You force yourself to watch, willing your eyes to adjust faster to the white light that spills forth. You have to see. You have to know. Death or undeath? A lifeless corpse or an eternal lich?

Come back to me, my love. Come back.

Vorgoth emerges first, a ceremonial knife in his gloved and bangled hands. Wet, red blood drips, fresh and lurid, from the black and gold blade. Emmrich’s blood, dripping down onto the Necropolis floor, each drop glittering ruby red in the light before it splashes dark and black on the stone. Vorgoth sheathes the blade, tucking it inside the depths of his cloak, his task complete.

Then Myrna appears, promenading forth with an urn cradled in her hands, a canopic jar with a lid carved in the shape of a skull. A thin trickle of blood trails down from the seam between jar and lid. You dare not wonder what lays inside, what part of your beloved Emmrich they carved away to preserve inside that funerary urn. The mere sight of it makes your stomach twist.

Did it hurt? What they had done to him? Were his final living moments spent in pain as cold metal carved through his flesh? The thought leaves you ill, your knees weak. But no, the Mourn Watch are not inhumane. Myrna and Vorgoth respect Emmrich. He calls them friends. Surely his death had been as painless as they could make it. You have to believe it, or else the world around you will tilt out of focus and leave you crumpled on the floor, and you cannot let Emmrich see you like that. 

At last Myrna steps aside, leaving your view into the chamber unhindered. To your relief, there is no lifeless corpse crumpled on the ground. Instead, a figure stands where Emmrich stood. With a shift, it begins to walk forward.

At first it’s no more than a silhouette to match the Lich Lords above. A dark, shadowed figure with a crown of spikes and eyes glowing with veilfire. A lich at long last. But is it–is he your Emmrich?

As he draws nearer, out of the white light, more details emerge. Glimmers of gold, the rustling whisper of grave linen, the thick drape of black crape fabric. The doors close behind him and the silhouette melts away to reveal him in all his undead glory, standing regal in black and gold.

For one terrifying moment, you don’t recognize him. His skull could be anyone’s skull. There is nothing left of the hazel gold or green in his gaze. The heart you yearned to capture, the one he once said beats for you and no other, now no longer beats in his chest at all. It is missing, along with every other organ, his gold-reinforced ribcage left open and hollow. He is a walking skeleton now, draped in rich armor and finery, brimming with new power. 

You can’t look away. He has to be in there somewhere. You take an unsteady step forward as he draws slowly nearer to you, searching the polished bone surface of his skull beneath his golden helm for something you can recognize as Emmrich Volkarin. Your beloved.

“Emmrich?” you whisper. Your heart is a drumbeat in your chest, tempo allegro , relentlessly pounding in your ears until you’re almost dizzy from the rush. Please be in there. Please.

He stops and you can sense his gaze, harder to track now that it’s all veilfire, moving away from you to the room around you. His jaw unhinges and though he no longer has a tongue, his voice emerges from somewhere within him, like a spirit speaking from the beyond.

“I see so much more clearly now,” he says. Your breath hitches as you recognize the tones and timbre of his voice. It has an otherworldly echo now, but it’s his . “The deeper eddies of the Fade. The pulse of the Necropolis.”

You can sense the new power he has gained. Magic shifts around him as though he is draped in more than metal and fabric. As if he stands with one foot in the physical world and the other in the Fade. Even his voice sounds like it begins in another plane and is carried forth over a vast distance.

You can’t help but feel awed. You stand before an immortal being now. Yet, unlike when you stood before Solas, Elgar’nan, or Ghilan’nain, there is no fear or wariness in your heart. This is not some cold, unfeeling god. This is Emmrich Volkarin.

You feel his gaze settle on you as he continues, his voice full of wonder. “I have been through blood and darkness, and I have emerged into light.”

You breathe for the first time in several seconds, your lungs shuddering at the sudden cold air. Relief floods into you, even as a smaller part of you aches to think how painful this last test was for him—what trials of blood, what depths of darkness had he endured to earn this gift of immortality? But those trials are in the past now. What matters is not that he experienced them, but that he endured and emerged victorious.

He has returned to you.

You wet your dry lips, the question on your tongue tasting metallic from fear, but you have to ask. You have to know. “Emmrich, now that you’re…do you still feel…” 

You can’t put the whole question into words. He is here, but he is changed. How much? How deeply?

“Oh,” he says, and his voice is like a lovestruck sigh from the depths of his soul, breath simulated by tone alone. “My love.”

This time, his words wrap around you, sinking into your skin and settling deep within you. It’s the feeling of returning home, of a world made right again. It’s the thrilling sensation of a loving whisper on your bare skin, a promise of devotion and a song of praise, the tenor of his soft voice perfected by the subtle, echoing embellishments of his new magic. You nearly weep for the love you can sense conveyed in so simple a phrase.

It’s really him. And he is really yours. 

It’s all he has to say to convince you.

“Come,” he says. “Walk the gardens with me.”

He offers you his hand, now wrapped tightly with grave linen down to the tips of his fingers. You recognize the rings he wears as his usual jewelry, and the sight of something familiar calms your still-settling heart even further. Without hesitation, you take his hand and let him lead you out of the vault.

You can feel the shape and rigidity of bone beneath the linen, but his touch is gentle as he folds his hand around yours, matching your pace as you venture out into the Necropolis proper. Each step you take with your hand in his quiets your lingering doubts. His measured strides are the same as they were in life, the pressure of his touch no different from when he had muscles and tendons to control them. Even his presence at your side beats back the chill of the Necropolis just the way it had when you journeyed with him earlier. 

Everything is as it was in life, simply made more by the aura of magic that follows him. The moment the two of you reach the gardens, your steps crunching the gravel of the cemetery paths, you feel him relax at your side. You wonder what he sees now, now that his eyes have been opened, his spirit awakened to the subtle movements and patterns of the Fade. Where you see veilfire torches and the carefully tended blooms of the cemetery flowers, the cool air broken here and there by the playful twirl of a glowing wisp, what does he see?

You think of that moment in the Lighthouse weeks ago, when he took your hand and placed it on a skull, instructing you to breathe, to focus while he spoke a solemn incantation, the weight of his hand covering yours. When you opened your eyes, you could see the currents of the Fade in motion—glimmers of light fluttering through the air, ribbons of color weaving in and out of sight, and blue and green wisps dancing playfully high overhead, or lingering serenely around the two of you. Is that what he sees now? Brighter, richer ribbons of light, glittering notes of magic, twirling wisps, even spirits walking the grounds? Does he see beyond the Veil, two worlds overlapping, mixing together in a sympathy of color and light, or simply what bits and scraps are strong enough to push through, eager to brush against the physical world? You wish you could see. You wish you could share in the vision with him.

“It’s…beautiful,” he murmurs. You look up, studying his new profile. It will take some getting used to, but it doesn’t frighten or disturb you. When he turns his face toward you, you can feel the warmth of his gaze again, even though there is nothing left of the hazel eyes you once fell in love with. “To think, I can share this first glimpse of wonder with you, my darling. It makes this moment all the sweeter.”

If he were still capable of tears, you know he’d be weepy right now. He always did get philosophical around flowers. And it’s you knowing that, sensing it in his voice, that dispels the last of your doubts. You squeeze the bones of his hand and whisper, “I knew you’d come back to me.”

His next words are confirmation and promise, reassurance and affirmation, his affection as clear and warm as it was in life, even despite the new echo. It is confident, certain, and tender, and as before, it settles somewhere deep past the heart, where nothing can ever take it away from you again.

“Always, my love.”

[himasgod]

ANGST! Scaramouche x Reader

(0.8k words :p)

Where you met, after having been running away from each other for so long.

The gentle breeze of Sumeru caresses your face, but the air, despite its warmth, fails to dispel the emptiness you feel in your chest. You have been traveling for weeks, trying to forget. Trying to escape. Although, deep down, you know that you cannot escape something that lives inside you.

In front of you, a familiar figure stands against the horizon. His wide, extravagant hat, his carefree, haughty walk, everything about him speaks of arrogance, of an ironclad confidence that nothing could break. But you know better.

It is he, the Wanderer. Or Scaramouche, as you used to call him in those days full of betrayals and shadows. Now, nameless, homeless, it seems that he has always been on the run, just like you.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, louder than you feel. Your voice trembles, betraying you.

He doesn’t bother to look at you at first, just keeps walking, his footsteps echoing in the dust of the road. Finally, his gaze falls on you, as cold as the blizzards of Snezhnaya. “Did you expect me to run into your arms or something? Ridiculous.”

You try to contain the trembling in your hands. You know him well enough to know that beneath that mask of indifference, there are overflowing emotions. Pain. Anger. Despair. Just like you.

“You’ve always run away,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. But something in your voice makes him pause, his eyes narrowing as he examines you.

“And you? What have you done but run after me, chasing the shadows of what you think I am?” His words cut like sharp blades, each one aimed to wound with surgical precision. But, instead of flinching, you take a step forward.

“You’ve been haunted by your own ghosts, too, Scaramouche. You can pretend you don’t care, that you don’t feel anymore, but…” Your voice breaks, and you can’t go on. He watches you, a sardonic smile curling his lips.

“Feeling is a weakness, don’t you understand? I’m a puppet. A being without a heart, without a soul. None of this matters.” But even as he says it, you notice how his fists clench, the small signs of an anger he hasn’t learned to master. An anger directed as much at you as at himself.

“If none of this matters, why are you still here? Why didn’t you just go into oblivion, like you so wanted to?” The silence that follows your words is overwhelming. You see the internal struggle in his eyes, the memories that torment him, the decisions that led him to this point.

Finally, Scaramouche takes a step towards you, his face closer to yours than it has been in a long time. “Because, in the end, even a puppet can hate those who made it feel, those who betrayed it… even those who tried to understand it.”

His words are cruel, but behind that cruelty you recognize the cry of someone who has suffered more than he would ever admit. The Wanderer, the being who gave up everything so he wouldn’t have to deal with the weight of pain, is still unable to break free from the chains of the past.

“I never wanted you to be hurt like that,” you whisper. You’re not sure if he hears you, but you say it anyway. He remains silent for a few eternal seconds, his gaze fixed on you.

“It doesn’t matter what you wanted. In the end, everyone betrays. It’s the nature of humans.”

You move even closer, searching his gaze for any trace of the person you once knew, the puppet who had learned to feel, to trust, before everything fell apart. “But you’re not like the others. You are not just a puppet, Scaramouche. You have lived, you have loved… and you have suffered.”

His laugh is bitter, almost heartbreaking. “Loved… Do you think that makes me anything more than a broken toy? Love has no place in a life like mine. It never did.”

But then you see it, the small chink in his armor, the vulnerability he has tried to bury for so long. And you realize something: he may be broken, but so are you. And, perhaps, in that shared brokenness, there is a spark of understanding, of connection.

“That may be so,” you say, your voice shaking. “But that doesn’t mean we have to keep running away.”

He looks at you, surprised by your words. For a moment, something in his expression changes, a shadow of doubt passes over his face. But, as always, he quickly composes himself, taking a step back, his countenance cold again.

“There is nothing to run away from anymore,” he replies coldly. “Because for me, the whole world has ceased to matter.”

And with those words, he turns his back once more, slowly walking away, while you stay there, in the same place, watching as the distance between you grows ever greater.

Perhaps he will never be able to free himself from his chains. Perhaps, in his endless journey, he is doomed to get lost again and again. But, even so, you can't help but call out to him one last time, with a small hope lit in your chest.

“Scaramouche.”

He doesn't stop, but in the whisper of the wind, you swear you heard a single word:

“Goodbye.”

Here is my masterlist, in case you are interested in any more of my work or want to send me a request <3

[totallynotcoffeeturtle]

Hiiii, I love your writing sm I could eat it <3

Can you do a fic with scara where reader has a really bad fever and is in and out of consciousness, and getting really bad fever induced nightmares (fever dreams)? Like totally delirious and out of it

Tysmmmm and keep well! <33

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Genshin masterlist || Scaramouche masterlist

Tags: angst (?), mostly hurt/little to no comfort ngl, gn! reader, open end

A/N: sorry for not posting, life kinda german suplex-ed me and still is rn, i have scheduled more posts for later bc i probably will still not have time for another. and so so so so so sorry that i replied so late! i am bad at angst so yeah,,, either way, thank you for the compliments, i love you and drink your water!

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For the first time ever, the Fatui members are witnessing the Balladeer, of all people, panic from hearing a report from another agent “deployed for more pressing matters”. Everyone has to do a double-take as he rushes away from his position, wondering what in the world can make him so flustered as his footsteps echo in the quiet hallway.

He slams the door open, snow already piled up on his hair. Scaramouche kicks off his boots, shrugs off the thick coat and snow on his body, and immediately goes into your shared bedroom to check on you. It is during these moments that he is so grateful to live near a populated area. Your friend had found you collapsed on the floor when they came over earlier and even took care of you until he came back. (The loudness is annoying, yes, but you are the most important to him.) He nods at the friend as they leave the room to your privacy.

He basically rushes to your side once they leave, pressing his cold palm against your heated cheeks. A soft, but concerned, smile blooms on his lips when he feels you nuzzling against his hand. Scaramouche uses his free hand to change your already warmed towel and wipe up your sweat. His frown only deepens when you groan quietly, stirring in your rest. You seem to be in so much pain yet he is so powerless in the face of your suffering. The harbinger wipes you down where he can with a towel again, trying whatever he can to relieve your discomfort.

Never before has he felt so mad at himself for his powerlessness. The harbinger holds onto your hand tightly, wishing it was him who is in pain. Or maybe *he* is the cause. Scaramouche's selfishness made you leave your temperate homeland for the everlasting cold of Snezhnaya. He is always like this. Bringing misfortune to the people he loves. Cold sweat runs down his back at the mere possibility of you losing your life and it is all. Because. Of. Him. The puppet's breathing slows to a halt. He is terrified of the prospect of you no longer being by his side with your sweet, sweet smiles and sparking eyes.

Your soft voice breaks him out of his reverie, “My love?”. Your raspy call is the only thing he needs to rush to your side again, his knees hitting the ground with a much louder thud than he had anticipated. His breath stills, scared that he may have just disturbed your hard-earned peaceful rest. The puppet whispers as he takes your hands in his, “Yes, my heart?”. Only silence and your steady breathing answer him. Scaramouche quickly realizes it is only you sleep talking and sighs, rubbing his cheek against your warmed palm in the vain hope that this can soothe you somehow. Oh how he wishes to be able to just take the suffering in your place…

･˚‧･+‧₊‧.°.⋆.🫧 .•˚₊‧⋆:｡+.･ﾟ･˚‧･+‧₊‧.°.⋆.🫧 .•˚₊‧⋆:｡+.･ﾟ･˚‧･+‧₊‧.°.⋆.🫧 .•˚₊‧⋆:｡+.･ﾟ･˚‧･

taglist: @amyminhminh @xrmywaifxx @samyayaya

[kaeyas-beloved]

before i could tell you

Character: Wriothesley

— he died never knowing your greatest secret

CW: afab!gn!reader (they/them), ANGST, hurt/no comfort, pregnancy, death (Wriothesley), Fontaine Act 4 spoilers

val’s no sympathy november masterlist

happy birthday Wriothesley... <3

The clock in the Chief Justice's office never ticked as loudly as it did now. What once served as pleasant background noise was presently a gut-wrenching reminder that you're currently in the realm of reality and not some dream world. However, you still futilely fight against it... simply because it’s all you can and want to do.

"Quit... quit joking around, it's not funny." Neuvillette takes a deep breath through his nose, subtlety glancing at the other faces in the room. The traveler from afar can’t bring themselves to raise their head, Clorinde stands deep in thought and Paimon floats beside her companion, sniffling softly. All of them can’t bring themselves to face you, each harboring their own regret.

As the embodiment of justice, Neuvillette rarely jokes, especially with concerns to another’s life. You knew this well, and yet you still repeat that same plea to him, hoping you’ll get a different answer than just silence. “Don’t joke like that Neuvillette… he’s fine… Wriothesley’s okay… he’s at home isn’t he? Like he said he’d be?”

You’re holding yourself like it’s the last defence you have at not splitting at the seams, and Fontaine’s Iudex wants desperately to deliver a different verdict than what the world has decided. Words the Warden spoke to him one evening over a hot pot of tea echo in his mind as he looks at your fragile form.

“You’ll keep them safe for me, won’t you Neuvillette? Life as Warden has its twists and turns, you never know what might happen down here. Ah, but of course you know this, don’t you?” He followed with a carefree laugh, and he could easily lie about being unaware of the ticking time bomb he sat above if he wanted to.

He feels as if he’s failed the man in keeping that promise. You physically may be safe, but your heart is going through hell and back in that moment and there wasn’t anything he could do. He could only watch on as the world around you buzzed, everything suddenly a trigger made to launch your senses into a state of overload. The light pouring through the window is too bright, everyone’s presence is too suffocating, your chest tightens and your stomach feels like it’s tearing itself apart and you just might be sick right then and there if you didn’t take a breath.

The embrace you had on yourself tightens, and as a form of comfort you imagine the familiar heat of your husband hugging you from behind, his large frame encompassing and the only thing you ever needed to feel better at times like these. For just a moment you’re able to feel him hold you, tuck his head into your shoulder and telling you that everything will be alright as he keeps you afloat.

He can’t though, not anymore, and instead it’s Paimon who tries to console you through words and the champion duelist who steadies you when your legs threaten to give out. “It’s okay, Wriothesley would want you to stay happy right? He’d want you to keep living even though he’s not here with you…”

Your gaze slowly lifts to the pink fairy, a shaky breath forcing itself past your lips, “it’s not okay Paimon… he didn’t know… I didn’t get to tell him…”

Your quiet admission not only confused her but the others as well, “Paimon doesn’t understand, you didn’t get to tell him what exactly?”

Neuvillette suddenly speaks, his eyes scanning over you. Anyone who knew him could see the underlying shock in his irises, unprepared to face this new revelation, “you’re with child, aren’t you?” The pieces click in his mind and anyone that was paying attention would notice the beginning of a heavy downpour starting right outside.

Softly nodding, fat tears began to slide down your cheeks, voice breaking as you continue, “I was going to tell him today, after he got off work. He promised he’d make it home tonight. Oh that Wriothesley… stupid, stupid Wriothesley…”

“Tell me how what happened, please. In full detail,” your request is met by hesitant silence, Clorinde finally being the one to speak up. You didn’t think it possible, but somehow everything just got worse and worse.

He was splashed with Primordial Sea Water closing the gates in the Fortress of Meropide. There is no body to bury. There’s no way to say a final goodbye. The Iudex watches a fresh wave of tears line your eyes, your blank stare as you process everything his cue to proceed with what hehe had in mind.

Standing from his seat, he walks up to you and lifts your trembling hands, placing something cool in your palm. Looking down, you’re surprised to see the necklace you’d gifted Wriothesley a few years ago, the one he refused to take off because it, according to him, “feels nice against my heart. Like a piece of you is always with me.”

“This was… in the pile of clothes left behind. I believe it to be something returned back to you,” he said, patting your hand once before brushing past you. Out of your view the male waved the others out of the room, just to give you a few moments to yourself.

When the door closed was the same second the dam broke, sobs of a heartbreaking calibre echoing in the quiet room. There was only one thought that circled in your mind: he’s gone, and he’s not coming back. No more waking up to his gruff voice in the morning, hair tossed in all different directions. You’ll never feel his calloused hands caress your cheeks, his voice low and only meant for you as he tells you he’s the luckiest man in the world to have you as his spouse and how he can’t wait for what the future would bring you both.

No more gushing to one another about how you’ll spoil your children as much as you can, daydreaming about what the little ones could look like, only to cuddle close and ready to fall asleep with the promise that no matter what you’d love them regardless.

“We’re getting our biggest dream to come true Wriothesley… I’m telling you now, so come back and love them liked you promised dammit. I can’t do this without you.”

Tag list: (both regular and event exclusive): @spoopy-fish-writes // @that-enby-alien // @xenuuu // @kaeyaloml // @mariposa666haruka // @quackquackmfs // @kunikuzushiii // @genshin-impact-writings // @ventisweetheart // @lordbugs // @leena-shi // @ari-the-wr1ter // @xiaos-wife // @milkwithspiceyicecubes // @stygianoir // @francisnyx

+

@kaiserkisser // @multipleshadesofblue // @moloteco-real // @kithewanderingme // @scaramood // @ii-lily2 // @esuz // @kochothehoe // @cindywasneverhere

[stellar-skyy]

Hiii congrats on 200!!

May I have hot honey & vanilla tea with lyney? Extra fluffy if you can 😌

“lyney! i have an order for lyney, a honey and vanilla tea!”

☆ — if you're craving a drink, make sure to stop by the teashop!

i. SUMMARY: Lyney finds his partner crying, and reminds them they are loved. ii. CWS & NOTES: crying. reader has a bad day and lyney comforts them. lyney x gn!reader. hurt/comfort & fluff. established relationship. 1k words. iii. A/N: aly!! thank you for your order!! i think i bent the prompt a little bit, so this came out a bit more hurt/comfort than strictly fluff, but i hope you enjoy regardless!

Lyney slid his key into the lock, turning it with a click. The noise was loud in the quiet of the night, abruptly tearing through the silence. He paused, letting the night settle once more, before pushing the door open.

“[Name]! I’m back,” Lyney called, hooking his finger under the brim of his hat to tug it off his head. It was tossed unceremoniously onto the table, along with his gloves. His boots were next, stacked beside the door in a row with the rest of the shoes.

“Hello…?” He tried again, gently pushing open a door to peer into a deserted living room.

There wasn’t any sign of life in the room, but there were traces. The pillows were askew, scattered above a small dent in the couch where someone had left too quickly to smooth it back down. A mug rested on the side table—his mug, Lyney noted, not theirs—with the residue of a drink long gone still lingering at the bottom. There was a strange silence in the air, which unnerved him more than he would like to admit. At this time there was always something; distant beats of music coming from somewhere in the house, or the unintelligible sound of chatter from the television two rooms over, or even just quiet thumps and echoes that reminded him of another presence within the house.

“My dear, are you home?” Lyney called out again. The sound of his voice reverberated across the walls, with no answering call to meet him. His brow furrowed further, an uneasy feeling seizing him tightly. It wrapped itself around his lungs, squeezing tighter with every step out of the living room and through the hall.

A light glowed dimly from under the final door of the hallway, their shared bedroom. Straining his ears, he could hear a low, muffled sound from behind it. A smile graced his lips, coated in relief, and the tension slowly eased itself away from his chest, if only by a fraction. They were in the bedroom, it seemed; they had simply turned in early. There wasn’t a need to worry at all.

Still, Lyney was ill at ease. It was late in the night, far later than any reasonable person would be awake for, but they always waited for him on nights like these. Their face filled his thoughts in every step of the walk home, idle wonderings of whether they had made dinner yet, or how they were spending their evening.

Lyney gripped the doorhandle, swinging the door open with a touch too much force. The bedroom was dark, save for the light of a bedside lamp dimly illuminating a curled-up figure on the bed.

“Ah, there you are! I was beginning to think you pulled a disappearing act on me! But of course, I’m the only magician here—” He cut himself off abruptly, as his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness of the room. Squinting, he could see the outline of their form grow sharper, smoothing out to show the details he had missed on his first glance.

A sheen glossed over their red and swollen eyes. The edge of the blanket was clutched in a hand so tight it was shaking. Their breaths were fractured, drawn sharply from their place under the sheets.

“Are you alright?” Lyney asked, keeping his tone light, in spite of the panic clouding his thoughts. His mind was buzzing, spinning in circles with constant questions of why. “Come on, you didn’t miss me that much, did you?” He tried to joke as he walked up to the side of the bed, grasping at any chance of easing the tension in the room.

A weak sob broke apart any feeble attempt at lightening the mood.

“Shh… I’m sorry, it’s okay, I’m here…” he whispered, settling a hand on their cheek. “You’re okay. I’m here. I love you.”

I love you. The words fell almost too easily, surprising himself. Love was always a distant emotion to him; felt, but rarely spoken aloud, for fear it would vanish the moment his lips formed the words. But he knew he loved them—so much, so much more than they would ever be able to see.

“I love you,” he said again, firmer—to convince himself as well as them. His hands shifted from their cheek and brushed along their arm with a feather-light touch, grasping their hands in his own. He brought them to his lips, kissing the knuckles. “Now what’s wrong? Did you have a bad day?”

A murmur; not quite affirmative, not quite refusing.

“You don’t have to talk about it now if you don’t want to.” He reassured them, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles on the side of his hand. “I’ll be ready when you do.”

Lyney let go of their hands for a moment to shrug off the outer layers of clothing, letting them fall into a pile on the carpet. He didn’t bother to properly change into his nightclothes; instead, he fell onto the bed, costume and all. The corseted portion of his outfit dug into his skin uncomfortably, but he barely noticed; he was too busy tugging them against his chest.

“I love you,” he said as he kissed their forehead, leaving his lips resting on their skin for a beat.

“I love you, so much.” He murmured as his fingers began to card through their hair, working out all of the tangles that had found themselves there.

“I love you, and whatever you’re going through, I am here for you.” He promised as he pulled them as close as they could, resting with their face in the crook of his neck and his arms draped loosely on their hips.

Their sobs soon evened out to low, shuddering breaths that left them shaking in his arms. Lyney was still, only daring to move his hand to trace circles across their back. Even with all his reassurance, they were yet to speak a single word. He continued to speak anyway, pressing his nose to their head and whispering into their hair, between gentle kisses to their face.

Each one was a promise, a lingering reminder that he was there. One to the bridge of their nose, one more to their forehead, two to each of their cheeks. They were peppered across their face, scattered like invisible stars in the smallest of skies.

He would wait there as long as he needed to, murmuring gentle words under his breath until they knew just how loved they truly were.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[tomionefinds]

Abandoned but Worth It

What does this mean? We have an Abandoned tag. We've decided to compile a list of fairly popular, now some obscure, fics that are abandoned, but worth reading. Our criteria for this title is thus:

It has not been updated within the last 2 years, has been orphaned, or has been given a fast summary at the end by the author

Presents a unique take on the relationship or a new dynamic to the ship

Advances world-building, or posits its own magical theory, in the HP world

Length (we avoided those with only a few chapters)

Here are some of the fics that met the criteria for abandoned but worth it. We will continue to add to this list as the year goes on. And never say never. Fics left alone for years can suddenly come back and finish.

Authors; If you see your fic on this list and its not abandoned, please DM us.

-TF Team

This Tangle of Thorns by theriskybusinessofwriting

M | 39k Her mother had gotten herself a new lover. His name was Tom. Modern AU. No magic. Slightly inspired by Lolita.

The Orphanage by Xylosaurus

M | 66k

She was only 8 and had already lost her parents and memories all in one tragic night. Forced to live in Wool's Orphanage, Hermione finds friendship with a 9-year-old Tom Riddle but is soon ripped from him by a prophecy. Six years have passed and he still looks for her. AU Tomione

Bodyswitch by Winterblume

T | 50k

Hermione's in hell and all her nightmares have come true. She's turned into a brainless bimbo and is failing all her classes quite spectacularly. Her teachers have, in fact, already given up on her and just sit back and watch her flunk all her NEWTs. Yes, it's nothing but hell for Hermione. On the upside, things can hardly get any worse. Right?

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang by LovelyVillain

E | 300k

Hermione hasn’t seen Tom since he disappeared from Wool’s Orphanage eight years ago, taking her heart with him. But now, he’s returned, a string of bodies at his feet and a league of assassins at his back. British Intelligence Officer Harry Potter leads the investigation to catch a highly skilled killer wreaking havoc across Europe, while Hermione struggles between what is right and the man she loves. Killing Eve inspired AU

More beneath the cut!

Orphea by SallyJAvery

M | 48k

"You could not believe I was more than your echo." A spell to sing the dead to life, when the living are lost. Tomione, post-war, dystopian AU.

The Pendulum of the Mind by AvaJune

M | 118k

Tom's fingers slid across her skin as he pulled up her sleeve, feeling irregular bumps and scarring as he watched in fascination as instead of a dark mark, he steadily revealed rune carvings. His eyes flicked back to hers, watching her reaction to his touch. "I will give you this, witch. You are unbearably intriguing," he murmured. Madness flies in the face of logic, and if there is one thing Hermione Granger cannot abide, it's things that defy logic. There is always something against her, this time the very laws of time and space. There is, however, a truth she now knows about herself; she isn't quite the rule girl she once thought she was. *Hermione - Tom Riddle. AU, Post Battle of Hogwarts*

Ad Infinitum by Speechwriter

T | 77k

As he forges inexorably toward the end of time, he may come to wonder if this is a world worth ruling. Science fantasy. [summary in final chapter]

Nothing Like the Sun by Orphan_account

E | 118k

There’s something unnerving about Tom Riddle. Hermione’s never quite been able to articulate just what it is about him that unsettles her so: after all, Riddle’s popular and charming and adored by Hogwarts staff and students alike. Still, she’d swear that there’s something lurking beneath that warmly polite veneer of his, something that lies in wait like a serpent in the dark. But it’s not until her sixth year at Hogwarts, when she rashly confronts him over an unprecedented act of violence, that the full force of Riddle’s chilling regard is abruptly and wholly turned on her.

Blood is Thicker by AbsintheDreams

M | 75k

A/U: Still Hogwarts Universe, but I play with the timeline alot. Hermione is just twelve when she meets Riddle. Just a child when she witnesses a sadistic murder in the halls of her sacred school. Popular, humble, well mannered, Riddle always gets what he wants. Victims, admirers, enemies, followers…they all fall in line. Except the defiant girl with his mark on her skin. She only wants his downfall, and he will only settle for her total submission.

The Anti-Heroine by cheshire_carroll

M | 641k

Hermione Granger knows she's not a good person. Disillusioned with life at only twelve years old; she is cynical, manipulative, ruthless and, above all else, a survivor. For six years she has lived on the streets of London with only her sharp mind and her sharper knives to keep her alive, but a letter from an owl changes everything for Hermione, and the bond she forms on the Hogwarts Express with a timid boy with broken glasses, skinny wrists and a lightning-shaped scar will change the whole of Wizarding Britain.   Main Pairing: Harry Potter/Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle

Handling a Dark Lord Wannabe by cleighc

E | 89k

Hermione was not amused. Not. At. All. They had defeated Lord Voldemort after years of struggle. Witnessed the end. She had thought, with relief and without an ounce of charity, that she never had to deal with that pretentious, presumptuous, melodramatic, homicidal son of a bitch ever again. Apparently the castle had other ideas.

Bitter Almonds by orphan_account

E | 63k

What would happen if the Mauraders, the Golden Trio, and the Knights of Walpurgis all went to school together? Also, what if Tom Riddle developed a strange obsession with Hermione Granger?

Et in Arcadia ego by muggleriddle

T | 55k

When Hermione found that little spell hidden in between the complicated illustrations of a book, she imagined she would get a destroyed horcrux with it, not a brand new Tom Riddle.

Journey of the Soul by Queen_Medieva E | 197k

A decade spent as the Undesirable Number One under the Dark Lord's tyrannical regime would challenge anyone's perception of "right" and "wrong". What lengths would YOU go to for a chance at a new life? In the early morning hours of May 2nd 2008, exactly ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger ceased to exist.

Addendum: He is also a liar by ergott

Not Rated | 158k

Despite his impoverished circumstances, Tom Riddle always knew he was destined for great things. The ability to travel back and forth through time was a bit of a surprise, though. Also a surprise: the bushy-haired little girl he meets in the future who possesses powers to match his own. Eventual Tomione; starts pre-Hogwarts

[natsaffection]

Trust | N.R

Natasha Romanoff x Female!Reader

‼️I ask those who may be triggered by drugs, addiction or Mental health issues not to read this story.‼️

Summary: You dealing with drug addiction post the loss of your girlfriend, Kate. Natasha aids you through withdrawal, relapses, and recovery.

Warnings: explicit descriptions of Drug use, withdrawal, Mental Health, Angst, Angst, Angst

Word count: 8,9k

A/n: Okayyy, something different today. PLEASE if you want/need help, you always can come to me. I know that I'm not qualified to be a contact person on this topic, but I'm open to everything and am here for support.🫂

You feel a lingering fear of sharing your newfound feelings for Kate, despite Natasha's reassuring presence. The uncertainty gnawed at you, making you hesitate before bringing up a topic you'd never spoken openly about before.

“Nat,” you began hesitantly, your eyes reflecting a mix of nervousness and curiosity. “Um, can I ask you something personal?”

Natasha, sharp as ever, nodded with an encouraging smile. “Of course, Y/N. You can ask me anything."

You take a deep breath, your words stumbling slightly. “Well, you know, about…feelings. How did you feel when you realized you liked women?”

A subtle change in Natasha's expression showed you understanding. She leaned back and turned her thoughtful gaze to you. “It’s like a journey..Recognizing that you are attracted to women, or anyone, can be both liberating and confusing. Society may have its expectations, but the heart knows what it wants.”

Carefully, you listened intently as Natasha continued, “It's about being attracted to someone, wanting to be close to them, and caring deeply for their well-being. It's not always loud or dramatic; sometimes it's a quiet understanding that grows over time."

You took in Natasha's words, a subtle smile playing on your lips. Encouraged by Natasha's wisdom, you hesitated for a moment before revealing your own feelings. "Well, there's someone on the team...Kate...and I don't know, I just feel different around her. It’s like my heart skips a beat when she’s around and I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Natasha, with a knowing gleam in your eyes, teased you gently, “Ah, young love. It sounds like you’ve already figured it out, Y/N.”

Blushing, you confessed, “I never thought I would feel this way. It’s confusing, but… it feels good.”

Natasha laughed heartily and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Love is often like that, Y/N. Take your time, enjoy the journey, and don't be afraid to explore those feelings. Life is full of surprises."

With Natasha's guidance and a newfound understanding, you embarked on the gentle path of love discovery, with Kate's presence in your heart casting a gentle glow on the canvas of possibilities before you.

And it was good that you confided in Natasha. Not just with tips, but now also with actions. It didn't take long for Kate to notice your feelings. You still remember hiding from her when you found out she found out. But it turns out that Kate also felt the same about you and had spoken to Clint about tips.

And that was almost 2 years ago now. The team was happy when you made your relationship public and supported you every step of the way. Since then, the tower has also become a little brighter.

Kate and you once decided to cook a meal together and you turned the kitchen into a lively space full of laughter and shared glances. Steve, curious about the excitement, joined you and offered to add his touch to the recipe. Amid the chaos, Natasha couldn't help but smile at the domestic bliss that was unfolding.

Or when The Team met for a movie night and you both immediately secured the prime spot on the couch. As the movie began, Tony joked, "I hope you two left some room for the rest of us.." Laughter echoed through the room as you and Kate playfully made room for the others.

Everyone was happy for you both. When Kate planned a surprise date night, she whisked herself away to a rooftop deck decorated with fairy lights and a picnic offering. The team in on the plan secretly helped create the romantic atmosphere. Natasha, watching from a distance, couldn't help but appreciate the love that had blossomed among their ranks.

These sweet and heartwarming moments highlighted the joy and camaraderie you and Kate brought to the team, creating a fabric of shared experiences and laughter within the walls of the Tower.

・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・

In the shadow of a moonlit night, the Avengers set out on a mission with an atmosphere of tension hanging heavy in the air. You and Kate, now a formidable duo, moved with precision, your every step choreographed by years of shared experiences and unspoken understanding. However, the mission took an unexpected turn when a swarm of enemies descended on them.

Amid the chaos of the mission, you two were temporarily separated and each placed with other team members. The air crackled with tension as the enemies closed in, testing the Avengers' courage. You, who was fighting alongside another teammate, felt a shiver run down her spine as a call echoed through her communication device.

“Y/n, we need you here. Now!” Steve’s urgent voice cut through the commotion, sending a chilling sense of foreboding through your veins. Panic gripped your heart as you sprinted across the battlefield, dodging incoming threats with the determination to reach them.

When you arrived at the scene, your worst fears came true before your eyes. The team, a gathering, stood around Kate's fallen form in a heartbreaking tableau. Natasha's typically stoic expression betrayed deep sadness and Steve's eyes, which were usually a beacon of hope, were clouded with sadness.

Your legs felt like lead as you got closer, a disbelieving whisper escaping your lips. "No no no..."

Kate, lying amidst the team's muted grief, managed a weak smile as you knelt next to her. “H-Hey,” she croaked, blood staining her lips. Your hands shook as you reached out, a desperate attempt to hold on to the slipping threads of life.

“Kate... We can fix this. Someone, help her!” your voice rose to a desperate plea as your eyes scanned the team for a glimmer of hope. But the weight of realization eased as the team exchanged dark looks.

Natasha, her voice barely above a whisper, spoke words that cut through the sorrow. “Y/n, it’s-.”

"NO!" The team that witnessed the heartbreaking exchange was in collective fear. Clint, his otherwise sharp mind silenced, stared at the scene with tear-streaked eyes. Natasha, a pillar of strength now crumbling, approached with a heavy heart, knowing the cruel truth that was unfolding before them.

Kate gathered her last reserves of strength and raised a hand to gently caress your cheek. "I think it's my time... Promise me...promise me you'll keep fighting, p-please.."

“I can’t lose you, Kate. I can’t,” you choked on your words, your hands shaking as you held on to the fleeting fragments of a love that was slipping away from you.

“Help her! Please, someone help her!” your pleas fell on deaf ears as the team stood in collective grief, each struggling with the weight of an irreparable tragedy.

The air became filled with sadness as Kate's breathing grew weaker. With one last, tender look, she whispered, "I will always be with you," before she closed her eyes and the battlefield fell into sombre silence.

The team was heartbroken and defeated and grieved together. You, a shattered echo of your former self, clung to a memory of Kate's love, a bittersweet reminder of a sacrifice made in the name of heroism. In that moment, grief became a silent companion, and the Avengers retreated from the battlefield, forever scarred by the eerie specter of loss.

After Kate's death, you sought solace in the chaos of missions, using the relentless pursuit of danger as a temporary escape from the haunting grip of grief. Days blur into nights, and the weight of grief casts a shadow over your once vibrant spirit. The Avengers who witnessed the change watched with growing concern as you, once a beacon of hope, became a ruthless force on the battlefield.

One fateful day, as you prepared for a mission, the weight of the past weighed heavily on you. The team, unaware of the impending descent, prepared for the mission, unaware that their teammate had fallen into the shadow of violence and self-destruction.

As the mission unfolded, you acted with calculated ruthlessness, a dangerous sharpness to your actions that sent waves of unease throughout the team. Natasha, always perceptive, approached you in a moment of calm, her voice a solemn echo amid the chaos.

"We worry about you. That's not the way to cope," Natasha pleaded, a mix of concern and sadness in her eyes. But you, caught in the storm of grief, rejected the words, as your actions were evidence of a mind clouded by the shadows that loomed within it.

The mission reached its climax and in a frightening twist, you found yourself facing an enemy who felt the pain that fueled the ruthlessness. “I see the suffering in you,” the opponent remarked with a sinister grin on his lips. The rest of the team, unaware of the exchange, continued the mission.

When the dust settled, you once stood alone with a mysterious figure, struggling with the lingering echoes of violence. The adversary revealed knowledge of your past and led you down a darker path. “I know what you once were, what you have lost. I have something that can numb the pain,” they whispered treacherously, revealing a vial of medicine with the cruel promise of respite.

You hesitated in the shadows, your inner struggle reaching its peak. The lure of numbness, a fleeting escape from unrelenting torment, collided with the lasting memories of a time when happiness and laughter were not hidden in the shadows. The vial, a twisted offering of comfort, floated in the air, casting a long, ominous shadow over the broken soul of an Avenger trapped in the labyrinth of despair.

You were faced with a decision that you had already weighed many times. The pressure, the weight of loss and grief had piled up into a crushing weight on your soul. In a world surrounded by shadows, the seductive promises of drugs offered a tempting escape.

The decision came in a moment of silence, when the suffering that plagued you seemed unbearable. The room was flooded with a dim light as you held the small bag containing the seductive substance in your hands. The content, inconspicuous in appearance, held the promise of an escape from the painful realities of life.

The hesitation was brief, a fleeting moment before you made the decision that would change your fate. The drug you had heard would bring you comfort and oblivion became a companion in a lonely act of desperation.

As the substance found its way into your body, a wave of release coursed through your veins. A fleeting euphoria enveloped you, lulling your senses into a false peace. The weight of loss seemed to slip from your shoulders for a moment and the world took on an unreal glow.

But in the midst of this apparent consolation lurked the bitter irony of escape. The drug that appeared to be a savior unleashed a chain of illusory moments of happiness that snaked like shadows through your mind. The oblivion you sought turned out to be a nefarious game with reality.

As you gave in to the high, you had no idea that the supposed salvation was actually a pact with the demons who were just waiting to sink their claws deeper into your soul. The moment you first reached for the drugs became a dark turning point that steered your fate into an uncertain darkness. You told yourself it was just this once. but once became twice and that became dependency. You've found the best routine for yourself and the best way to hide it from your tea. everything went perfectly. You felt perfect

・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・

In the dimly lit corners of the city, Natasha navigated the shadows. While on a covert mission, she unexpectedly crossed paths with the mysterious figure who had played a sinister role in your descent into addiction a few weeks ago.

The shadowy figure leaned against a graffiti-covered alley and grinned as Natasha approached. “Well, if it’s not the Black Widow herself. The Avenger's pride and joy,” he sneered, his words dripping with a poisonous mix of mockery and malice.

Unimpressed, Natasha replied with an iron stare, “Save it. You’re dealing with forces you can’t handle.” The figure giggled, an eerie sound that echoed in the deserted alley. “Oh, I completely can. Your precious Avengers, addicted to what they are fighting. It’s really poetic.”

Natasha frowned in confusion and shot back, "You’re talking nonsense.” The figure leaned forward, a malicious grin playing on his lips. “Think about it. Your star Avenger, who you all put on a pedestal, danced with the devil. Drugs, darkness. your team is in ruins.”

A sinking feeling gripped Natasha's chest as she processed the revelation. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place and she understood the insidious truth behind his words. The figure, gloating over the chaos he had indirectly sowed among the Avengers, whispered one final taunt: “Your precious hero, addicted and broken. It’s almost beautiful, isn’t it?”

As Natasha left the encounter, the weight of the revelation rested on her shoulders. The Avengers, her family, were caught in a dangerous web, and the realization strengthened their resolve to unravel the darkness that threatened to consume them. The shadowy figure, a puppeteer reveling in the chaos, left Natasha with the grim awareness that the battle ahead was more than just physical - it was a battle against the intangible, the shadows that lurked in the hearts of those closest to her hearts lay.

Natasha, burdened with new suspicions, retreated to the Avengers compound with a storm of thoughts running through her head. As she walked through the familiar halls, an unsettling sense of foreboding cast a shadow over her normally calm demeanor.

She remembered the countless nights she had spent navigating the labyrinth of grief, the ghosts of her own past that had driven her into dark corners. The possibility that you too would succumb to a similar descent set alarm bells ringing in Natasha's experienced intuition.

The Avengers compound, once a haven of camaraderie, now seemed to echo with the haunting footsteps of uncertainty. As she navigated the team's daily hustle and bustle, Natasha couldn't shake the feeling that something profound had changed within its walls.

As she reviewed mission reports and team activities in the command center, Natasha's gaze found herself lingering on the patterns that emerged. You, once a living force, had become a phantom within the compound - missions, isolation, the echoes of isolation. A shiver of realization ran through Natasha as the puzzle pieces aligned with the shadowy figure's taunts.

Doubts gnawed at Natasha's resolve. She understood more than anyone the labyrinth of grief and the treacherous paths it could lead someone down. The idea that you had fallen into the grips of addiction was a haunting revelation that threatened to shatter the team's fragile balance.

A heavy sigh escaped Natasha's lips as she thought about the path that lay ahead of her. Her footsteps echoed with purpose as she made her way to your quarters, her inner conflict reflected in the furrow of her brow.

Natasha approached your room with a mix of determination and concern, ready to face the shadows that loomed within. But as she reached for the doorknob, a lingering feeling of emptiness came over her - the room was empty. The echo of silence in your quarters only added to Natasha's unease.

Looking for signs of your presence, her eyes fell on a flyer lying casually on the bedside table. The bright colors and bold typography hinted at a world beyond the Avengers compound – a world of pulsating music, flashing lights and escapism. A world that Natasha, all too familiar with her dual nature, recognized as a potential harbinger of trouble.

The flyer revealed the name of a club whose location was a landmark for those seeking refuge in the anonymity of the night. Natasha's jaw clenched as she connected the dots, the realization weighing like a lead weight on her chest. Tangled in the web of self-destruction, you had sought solace in the beating heart of the city's nightlife.

The decision was made quickly, driven by Natasha's unwavering determination to avert the impending crisis. She left your room, the flyer in her hand, and moved purposefully towards the exit of the premises. The walk to the club became a silent pilgrimage through the shadows, each step bearing the weight of an impending confrontation.

As Natasha approached the club's entrance, the rhythmic pounding of the bass and the neon lights pulsing through the night signaled the chaos that awaited her. With a deep breath, Natasha entered the realm where you had sought refuge - a world shrouded in darkness and fueled by the very substances that threatened to consume her.

The search for you in the club's dimly lit rooms became a thrilling exploration, guided by the menacing rhythm of the music and the scent of fleeting escape. Natasha, the relentless guardian, pushed forward through the sea of ​​faces, driven by the urgency to intercept you before the shadows could claim another piece of her soul.

The club, a cacophony of pounding beats and swirling lights, drowned out the tumult in Natasha's heart as she set out on a quest to free you from the clutches of the night's embrace. The shadows grew darker, but Natasha, driven by unrelenting determination, walked through the darkness in search of the Avenger caught in the dangerous dance with self-destruction.

In the dimly lit alley, the distant bass tones of the nightclub echoed off the walls. She guided by an intuition honed through years of espionage, arrived just in time to witness a disturbing scene. You, caught in the web of distraction and vulnerability, were picked up by an older woman with questionable intentions.

Without hesitation, Natasha intervened. Quick as a flash, she positioned herself between you and the older woman, her eyes narrowing with steely determination. "Back off. She’s not interested.”

The older woman, momentarily surprised, attempted a defiant grin. “She seemed pretty interested inside. Mind your own business. But if you feel like it too, I don't mind sharing her.

Natasha, looked at the woman seriously. The look ran with a mix of graceful precision and controlled aggression. It didn't take long for the older woman to realize she was inferior.

As the woman retreated into the shadows, Natasha turned her attention to you, who stood swaying, caught between the haze of intoxication and the reality of what was unfolding. “What the hell are you doing? Do you even realize what just happened?”

Your gaze was unfocused and your pupils dilated, scoffing dismissively. “Mind your own business, Natasha. I can manage on my own.”

Natasha, whose voice held a mix of anger and concern, closed the distance between the two of you. “It’s my business if one of my team members gets out of control. What’s wrong with you, y/n?”

As Natasha's gaze pierced through the haze of your consciousness, the gravity of the situation became painfully clear. Caught in a cycle of self-destruction, you had sought refuge in substances that dulled the pain but fueled the chaos.

Natasha’s expression changed from anger to dark realization, “You’re not coping, Y/n. You're drowning. We have to do something.” You, fueled by a cocktail of emotions, lashed out with a sudden outburst of anger. “Why do you care, Natasha? You are not my mother. Leave me alone!"

Natasha refused to back down and spoke with a raw honesty that cut through the chaos. "Enough! I know what you're doing! So stop it!”

Y/n, caught off guard and exposed, reacted defensively. “You know absolutely nothing! What do you think you know about me, huh?”

Natasha, determined to break through the wall she had put up, reached out and tried to offer support. “I understand enough to know that you're feeling bad, and whatever you're trying to cover up with it isn't the solution. We are a team. Let us help you.”

But you, consumed by a whirlwind of emotions, didn't hear Natasha's request. Instead, you screamed in frustration, a primal release from your inner turmoil. "I don’t need your help! I don’t need anyone!"

As your anger escalated, Natasha tried to hold it back with a mix of sadness and determination. You, lost in a haze of substance-induced rage, lashed out at Natasha, her movements fueled by a dangerous game of alcohol and drugs.

Natasha, strong yet gentle, tried to hold you back, but the fight continued. The alley, now a battlefield of broken emotions, echoed with your agonized screams. “Y/n, calm down. You’re not thinking clearly!” Your mind, clouded by the effects of the substances, continued to fight against Natasha's grip. "Let me go! I dont need your help!"

Natasha tried to break through the haze around you in a firm voice. “You’re not feeling well. We have to help you.” Caught in the whirlwind of emotions, lat du struck again. “I said let go!”

But Natasha, leaning on her own resilience, persevered and was determined to see you through the storm. The longer the moments lasted, the more your resistance weakened. Natasha's unwavering presence, a lifeline in the chaos, slowly seeped into the haze that enveloped your consciousness. “It's okay. I will help you with this.”

In the midst of the battle, a profound change occurred. You, overwhelmed by a sudden realization, stopped in Natasha's arms. The torrents of anger turned into quiet sobs, the weight of her own struggles easing.

Your voice was now a fragile whisper, choked with tears. "Something's wrong, Natasha.." Natasha, feeling the tremor of vulnerability, held you with a newfound tenderness.

・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・

The air in your room was heavy with the pungent smell of despair. With a heavy heart, Natasha entered the dimly lit room, caution evident on her face. You lay motionless on the bed, a stark contrast to the lively mind Natasha knew.

The creaking of the door went unnoticed as Natasha moved closer, her gaze lingering on the shell of the person in front of her.

Natasha carefully sat down on the bed next to you, the mattress sagging slightly under the weight of their shared loads. “Y/n,” she began, her voice weaving like a delicate thread through the oppressive silence. "We need to talk."

Your eyes, dull and lacking their usual spark, turned to meet Natasha's gaze. A heaviness spread across the room as the unspoken words loomed between them.

"I spoke to Bruce," Natasha admitted, choosing her words with careful precision. Your expression changed, a mix of curiosity and cautious skepticism.

"He thinks therapy might help," Natasha continued, bracing herself for the expected resistance. Your eyes, once full of defiance, now showed a weariness that broke Natasha's resolve.

"Therapy?" Your barely audible voice had a hint of contempt. The mere mention seemed to awaken a calm storm within them.

Natasha continued undeterred. “I know you don't like the idea, but we can't go on like this. You’re drowning and I can’t stand by and watch.”

Your gaze hardened, a silent protest forming in your eyes. “I'm not weak, Natasha. I don’t need a psychiatrist analyzing my every move.”

Although Natasha was hurt by the words, she stuck to her beliefs. “This is not about weakness. It's about finding a way to free yourself from the chains that bind you. Bruce thinks it might help.”

The room seemed to narrow as the tension of their conversation faded. Natasha, struggling with the intensity of the moment, reached out and grabbed your hand. The touch, once a source of comfort, now felt like a lifeline stretched thin.

Your eyes flickered, caught between defiance and a hint of vulnerability. Natasha's words, while harsh, were borne of a deep concern that went beyond their role as friends. "I know you're tired of feeling like this," Natasha continued, her voice cutting through the darkness with steady strength. “You deserve a chance to live without the weight of this situation weighing you down.”

The room, once a battlefield of silent fighting, became one where Natasha's conviction collided with your reluctance. “Bruce thinks this can help, and so do I. We can't keep dancing around the truth and hoping things will magically get better," Natasha assured, her gaze unwavering.

You, now faced with Natasha's unyielding determination, hesitated. The room echoed with the weight of their shared pain, the air filled with the anticipation of a decision that could change their journey.

“I can’t watch you slip away, Y/N,” Natasha admitted, her voice soft but determined. “You are not alone in this, but you need more than what I can give. Let’s give therapy a chance together.”

In this charged moment, your defense faltered. A silent agreement emerged between them, a shared recognition that the path to healing requires courage and collaboration. Despite the darkness that surrounded her, Natasha found a glimmer of hope in the small victory of breaking through the resistance of you.

The therapy sessions began with a hint of concern between you and the therapist, Dr. Reynolds. You, sitting in the dimly decorated room, shifted uncomfortably, looking around as if searching for an escape route from the vulnerability you were about to reveal.

Dr. Reynolds, a calm and empathetic presence, began gentle probing, trying to uncover the layers of your struggles. However, you found it difficult to articulate the chaos within. Although the room was intended for healing, it felt like an interrogation chamber.

Bruce, who was present as a support person, observed the dynamic and recognized the difficulty you faced opening up. Sensing the struggle, he interjected in a soothing tone. “It’s okay to take your time. Therapy is a process and we are here to help you get through it.”

Your eyes met Bruce's, a fleeting recognition of gratitude in the midst of the inner storm. Slowly, they began to share fragments of their journey, stumbling over the words as they tried to express the pain that lurked in the shadows of their past.

Dr. Reynolds guided you through the turbulent memories with compassionate understanding and helped you confront the root causes of your addiction. The room became a vessel for shared revelation, each session peeling back layers of pain and revealing the raw vulnerability you had hidden for far too long.

Bruce acted as a bridge between you and the therapeutic process, providing insights and perspectives that resonated with your experiences. His presence became a comforting constant, a reminder that healing was possible, even in the darkest recesses of the mind.

In the first few therapy sessions, Natasha, recognizing the sensitivity of the process, positioned herself at the door. Her presence, a silent but reassuring guardian, provided you with a bond of familiarity amidst the vulnerability of therapeutic exploration.

Finding it difficult to articulate the jumble of emotions, you occasionally glanced toward the door, finding comfort in the knowledge that Natasha was standing guard, offering her silent support. Although the room was an arena of introspection, it had a connection to the outside world - the world in which Natasha waited, a steadfast ally.

You thought this was the hard part, but you were so wrong. In the suffocating grip of withdrawal, you fell into a whirlpool of torment. Each passing moment was a relentless tide of physical and emotional torment, a relentless attack on her core.

Nausea, an unrelenting companion, cramped your stomach and left you doubled over in a desperate attempt to quell the churning abyss within you. Your sweat-soaked and trembling skin became a battlefield where the feverish heat fought against an inner cold that seemed to penetrate into your bones.

Natasha, who witnessed your suffering, felt a helpless pain in her chest. The room, once a sanctuary, now echoed with the agonized moans and gasps of someone caught in the merciless grip of retreat. Your eyes, once full of defiance, now had a haunted look - a reflection of the torment within.

Every muscle screamed in protest, a symphony of pain that seemed to reverberate through the fabric of your being. Although it was silent, the walls of the room seemed to close in, increasing the dissonance of your suffering.

Although Natasha was torn by the sight before her, she remained unwaveringly present. She tenderly wiped the cold sweat from your forehead, her touch a fleeting comfort in the midst of the storm. As your body writhed under the relentless symptoms, Natasha's words became a tale of resilience - an anthem to drown out the haunting whispers of doubt. “Look at me, Y/N,” Natasha urged, their eyes meeting. “This pain is temporary, but your strength is permanent. You are fighting for a better future and I am here with you." But the helplessness in Natasha's eyes betrayed the turmoil within her, a silent plea to ease the torment that seemed to consume you.

Your gasping gasps became a symphony of desperation, of fighting an invisible force that threatened to drown you in a sea of ​​despair. In this cruel dance of withdrawal, Natasha, who stood by your side, was confronted with the harsh reality that the road to recovery was often paved with moments of agonizing suffering.

The second day dawned with a faint glimmer of relief as the hard grip of retreat began to loosen its grip. Although you still struggled with residual symptoms, you found comfort in the lessening intensity of the physical torment. Natasha, who was constantly present, continued to offer me encouragement.

As the morning sun bathed the room in a soft glow, Natasha helped you master the delicate balance between rehydration and nutrition. Every sip of water, every bite of food meant a small victory

Throughout the day, Natasha guided you through gentle exercises to ease the stiffness that remained from the long ordeal. Although the conversations were muffled by the echoes of disengagement, they began to turn to topics that went beyond the immediate struggle - a subtle sign of emerging resilience.

The third day heralded further relief from the physical strain, allowing you to breathe a sigh of relief. Attuned to the intricacies of recovery, Natasha felt the gradual return of vitality. Together you ventured out of the room and moved through the common areas of the tower with cautious optimism.

Therapy sessions resumed, providing you with a structured opportunity to process the emotional impact of withdrawal. Although Natasha was aware of the delicate nature of the journey ahead, she offered words of encouragement and reinforced the idea that each day of recovery was a triumph over the shadows.

Outside, the tower was bustling with activity, a vibrant backdrop to the ongoing healing process. Even though you were aware of the fragility of your newfound stability, you somehow appreciated the support of the team and the encouraging nods and smiles from Natasha - a testament to the shared commitment to overcome the challenges that remained after the withdrawal were.

As therapy progressed, your evolving focus and growing comfort in the therapeutic space became apparent. Natasha, watching from her post, noticed a spark of determination in your eyes, a spark that seemed to grow brighter with each session.

The therapy room, once an intimidating space, transformed into a sanctuary where vulnerabilities were exposed and healing began to take root. And outside that door remained Natasha, a pillar of strength, ready to welcome you back into the world with open arms, knowing that the road to recovery was a shared endeavor.

In the quiet evening hours, Natasha found herself in the living room, deep in conversation with some other team members. Laughter and camaraderie filled the room, momentarily easing the weight of their shared burdens.

As the animated chatter continued, Natasha's eyes wandered to the hallway and she caught a glimpse of movement. Once trapped in the shadows of your room, you cautiously stepped out and made your way to the kitchen.

A subtle change in Natasha's expression conveyed a mix of emotions - surprise, hope and a hint of concern. The living room became a silent theater in which the unfolding scene promised progress. The others in the room were unaware of the meaning and continued their discussions.

Although you moved hesitantly, you radiated a new sense of determination. Walking from your room to the kitchen became a symbolic step toward independence, a silent proclamation that resonated louder than words.

Natasha, watching discreetly, felt a wave of pride and relief. The living room that now served as the backdrop for this subtle victory became a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. In that unspoken moment, Natasha glimpsed a future where you, once imprisoned by the chains of addiction, could navigate the common spaces of the tower with renewed strength and purpose.

In the quiet aftermath of a transformative month, you faced the outside world with new resilience..However, life tests one's resolve.

Weeks passed and you were alone in your room, you sift through the remnants of your past. Among forgotten belongings, you came across a hidden stash of old drugs - a relic from a time you wanted to leave behind. The sight triggered a flood of memories, each a whisper, leading her to accept what you were for you fought so hard.

A tumultuous internal struggle ensued as you seized the contraband. The room seemed to close in, the weight of the past weighing on you. Despite the progress you've made, a voice inside you whispered seductively, urging you to once again surrender to the familiar comfort of escape.

Knowing what needed to be done, you glanced at the door and considered the journey down the hallway to Natasha's room. But an invisible force held you back, a stubborn resistance to revealing the remnants of a darker chapter.

Natasha's words echoed in your head, "You're not alone in this." Despite the internal conflict, you couldn't shake the awareness that you needed to reach out. The inner tug of war intensified, the battle between progress and regression becoming evident in the quiet confines of your room.

What's the harm in giving in just one more time? Only once?

Your shaking hands betrayed your inner turmoil as you succumbed to the lure of the old drugs. The room seemed to close in, the weight of your choice settling on you. A wave of guilt and regret washed over you, but the temporary escape offered a strange comfort.

In the silence of your room, you struggled with the decision, the lure of familiar numbness clouding the progress you had fought so hard for. The realization that they had chosen a temporary reprieve over a long-term cure sunk deep within them.

As the effects took hold, you caught a glimpse of a reflection in the mirror. A look that was filled with both disappointment and resignation. The space that had once been a sanctuary now felt like a prison of your own making.

In the dimly lit kitchen, you moved with an unsettling calm, your eyes glazing over as the effects of the drugs took hold. Finding food became a mechanical task, a distraction from the reality you wanted to escape.

Natasha entered the kitchen, her face lighting up at the sight of you. “Hey, I was just coming to get something to eat with you. How are you feeling?” she asked with genuine warmth in her voice, unaware of the storm brewing beneath the surface.

You managed a weak smile, a feeble attempt to hide the chaos inside. Little did Natasha know that the steps she had taken moments ago were leading you down a dark path. Again.

As Natasha's gaze lingered on you, a subtle change in the air betrayed her intuition. Recognition dawned in her eyes, a moment of quiet understanding that penetrated the façade. The pride she had felt moments ago turned into the poignant realization that her battle with addiction was far from over.

Natasha's expression hardened, a mix of disappointment and concern crossing her face. “Y/n, what did you…” she began, her words trailing off as the truth became obvious. The kitchen, once a sanctuary for shared meals and camaraderie, was transformed into a battlefield where the consequences of a moment's oversight were laid bare.

You managed a casual shrug, trying to downplay the severity. “Just a little relapse, Nat. No big deal,” you reply with a casual tone, as if revealing your own struggle was inconsequential.

Natasha's eyes narrowed, her concern turning to seething anger. "No big deal?" she replied, her voice full of disappointment. “We fought so hard and you treat it like it’s nothing? Do you realize what this is about?”

You try to brush it off, but fail under Natasha's intense scrutiny. Natasha's anger swirled with a deep sense of betrayal as she faced the reality of your choices.

"I thought you were committed to this, to your own well-being," Natasha continued, her anger tempered with a hint of heartbreak. The air crackled with tension, a clear departure from the camaraderie that once filled the room. “Nat, it was just a temporary thing. I can handle it,” you insisted, a feeble attempt to salvage her own sense of control.

"I thought you understood!" Natasha continued, her frustration rising to a desperate plea for understanding. "You risked everything!" Natasha's voice reached a crescendo, echoes of her anger reverberating off the walls. “Where did you get it from? Do you have more?”

She asked you now and you actually thought about what you wanted to say, “I told you it wasn't that bad! It was just a bag that I found, my God, don’t get so worked up now!”

As Natasha’s rage reached its peak, she stormed into Your room with a determination that left no room for escape. The door slammed shut behind her, sealing the room in an atmosphere of tense confrontation. You were surprised and felt a wave of fear rise within you as Natasha's anger grew stronger.

In a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control, your fear turned to anger. The muffled sounds of Natasha rummaging through your belongings triggered a wave of frustration and you began banging on the door with increasing intensity.

“Natasha, what the hell are you doing?!” You screamed, your voice a mix of anger and desperation. The room, once a private sanctuary, now reverberated with the cacophony of emotions bouncing against the walls.

Inside, driven by the determination to uncover the truth, Natasha continued her tireless search. In the search for answers, drawers were opened and belongings were scattered. The atmosphere in the room reflected the storm outside the closed door, a storm of conflicting emotions that blurred the line between frustration and anger.

Your screams grew louder, a blunt expression of the turmoil raging within. “Stop going through my things! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO DO THIS!!” You scream and pound your fists against the unyielding door. The room became a battlefield where emotions clashed, and each blow on the door reflected the discord between the two souls locked in a battle against the shadows.

Amid the chaos, Natasha's hand closed around a small stash of pills. A discovery that only heightened the gravity of the situation. The air crackled with tension as the locked door witnessed a confrontation that transcended the physical realm and dissolved the threads of trust and resilience that had once held them together.

The moment Natasha left your room, holding the damning evidence in her hand, the air between you crackled with unbridled tension. You, still seething with anger, wanted to unleash a flood of emotions, but when your eyes fell on the pills, fear suddenly gripped your heart.

Desperation gripped you as you tried to intercept Natasha on her way to the kitchen. “Natasha, w-wait! You can’t do that!” You beg, your voice sounding urgent. But Natasha, determined to her mission, proved too strong and brushed aside your attempts to intervene.

In the kitchen, Natasha approached the sink, determination written all over her face. You, desperate and excited, continued to beg her to reconsider. “Natasha, please, just listen! Y-You don’t understand what it’s like,” you cried, her words a desperate plea for understanding.

The first pill landed on the bottom of the sink, setting off a cascade of emotions that echoed through the room. Your protests grew louder and more frantic, but Natasha, undeterred, continued to dismiss the remnants of your hidden struggle.

As Natasha took the last pill, a wave of pent up and festering emotions erupted within you. In a moment of pure frustration and desperation, you stopped. “STOP IT, NATASHA! YOU DONT GET IT!"

The commotion caught the attention of others in the tower. They watched wide-eyed and curious as the conflict between Natasha and you escalated into a full-on confrontation. The once harmonious space now reverberated with the dissonance of broken trust and unbridled emotions.

Driven to the edge, you lunge at Natasha, a storm of rage driving you forward. Natasha, reflexes sharpened by years of training, dodged the attack, redirecting the force and pinning you against the wall. The impact reverberated with a thud, and the room was momentarily silent from the collision of bodies.

“Enough, Y/N! We had that before!" Natasha's voice cut through the air, her eyes shining with a mix of frustration and concern. She held you in place, a physical manifestation of the turmoil that gripped their journey together. "Why? Why are you throwing away all the progress we've made?" Natasha demanded, her own feelings bubbling to the surface.

You were trapped against the wall, struggling against Natasha's grip, your voices rising to a crescendo as the echoes of their confrontation reached the team's ears, witnessing a painful rupture in the unity that had once defined their shared battle with addiction .

Natasha, her nerves frayed and her patience exhausted, let out a guttural scream that echoed through the walls of the kitchen. The sound, raw and primal, rang in the air like a storm of pent-up frustration and exhaustion. In that moment, every ounce of restraint crumbled, and Natasha's roar became a visceral release - an expression of the unrelenting pressure that had been building within her. "WHY CAN’T YOU SEE WHAT YOUR’E DOING?!" She roared, the intensity of hers Voice sounded with a ferocity born of frustration and desperation.

You, pressed against the wall, feel the force of Natasha's anger like a physical weight pressing down on you. Natasha's screams, now filled with raw and unfiltered rage, broke through the façade of composure and revealed the extent of her emotions.

The kitchen, once a place of communal eating and laughter, now echoed with the unbridled fury of Natasha's screams. It was a cry that tried to penetrate the walls of denial, to break through the layers of self-deception that obscured your struggles. Every word, every syllable bore the weight of countless battles fought in the shadows.

“Why do you keep destroying yourself? Do you even care about the people who are trying to help you?" Natasha's voice reached a feverish pitch, her scream interrupted by the harsh truth she dared to speak. “I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself like this! What more do you want from me?” Natasha’s cry of bitter resignation hung in the air like an unanswered request.

As Natasha's screams subsided, the raw aftereffects of her anger lingered in the air. Tears welled up in her eyes, reflecting a mix of frustration, disappointment, and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness.

"I-Ican't do this anymore.." Natasha's words, now a torrent of tears and heartache, flooded the room. The once adamant agent was vulnerable, her anger tempered by the heartbreaking realization that her efforts might be in vain.

You, still reeling from the force of Natasha's anger, met her tear-filled gaze with a mixture of guilt and sadness. The atmosphere in the kitchen went from a storm of anger to a haunting silence, broken only by Natasha's tearful plea. It was a request that hung heavy in the air - a desperate cry for you to realize the gravity of the situation and the toll it was taking on your connection.

You, battered by Natasha's verbal attacks, could only respond with a weak "I-I'm s-sorry.." But Natasha was not appeased. “A sorry won’t fix this, Y/N! This is about trust, the foundation of OUR recovery!” Her anger was like a storm that swept through the room, leaving devastation in its wake.

As Natasha's tirade continued, you, caught in the vortex, finally broke down as well. Tears streamed down their faces, the weight of guilt and the pain of Natasha's anger becoming an unbearable burden. “I want to get clean, Nat, I really d-do..!” They screamed in desperate voices amidst the chaos.

Natasha's anger wavered for a moment and was replaced by a piercing sadness. “Then why did you do that? Why did you throw everything away?" she demanded, her voice a mix of betrayal and heartbreak. "I don't know..."

Your voice shook as you avoided Natasha's gaze as you said, "I... I want to get clean, Natasha. For myself, but also for you..please..” The words hung in the air, laden with the weight of guilt and the deep desire for redemption.

Natasha, sensing the genuine turmoil in your admission, hugged you comfortingly, a silent gesture that spoke volumes. You, unable to meet Natasha's gaze, felt a flood of emotions welling up inside you and tears streaming down your cheeks.

As the tears mingled, Natasha whispered soothing words, a promise that echoed in the silent room. The journey ahead remained uncertain, but in that tender moment, you and Natasha found a shared commitment - a fragile but sincere agreement to face the daunting road to recovery together.

・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the cityscape as Natasha parked the car outside the rehabilitation clinic. The air was thick with a mix of anticipation and anxiety as you stepped out, the weight of the past few months hanging heavily in the air.

The entrance of the clinic loomed ahead, its sterile facade a stark contrast to the chaos that had unfolded in your life. As you walked through the automatic doors, a sense of trepidation and determination battled within.

The clinical white walls and hushed tones of the facility marked a departure from the familiar surroundings of the Avengers compound. This was a space where healing took precedence, a space where the journey to recovery would unfold.

Natasha accompanied you to the reception area, her presence a source of silent strength. The receptionist handed you a small plastic card – a symbol of the commitment to sobriety that lay ahead.

“Here’s your room key and schedule, Y/N. Your counselor will meet with you shortly. Welcome to the clinic.”

As you made your way to the assigned room, the sterile hallways seemed to echo with the weight of countless stories of struggle and redemption. The door opened to a modest room, devoid of the familiar belongings that once defined your space.

The first night in the clinic passed in a blur of emotions – a mixture of anxiety, hope, and the raw reality of withdrawal. The absence of substances that had become a crutch left you vulnerable, the intensity of the cravings clawing at your resolve.

Natasha, though not physically present in the room, had become a constant presence in your thoughts. The echoes of her support and determination acted as a lifeline, grounding you in moments of weakness.

The counselor, a compassionate figure experienced in guiding individuals through recovery, became a confidant. The sessions were intense, delving into the root causes of your addiction, and the painful memories that fueled the spiral into darkness.

Days turned into nights, marked by a routine of therapy sessions, group discussions, and the gradual easing of withdrawal symptoms. The camaraderie with fellow residents, each battling their own demons, offered a sense of shared strength and understanding.

In the midst of this, Natasha continued to play a pivotal role. Her letters and occasional visits acted as a bridge connecting the clinic’s sterile environment with the warmth of the outside world. The words she penned were a lifeline, a reminder of the love and support waiting beyond the clinic walls.

Weeks passed, and the initial turbulence of withdrawal began to subside. The fog of cravings lifted, revealing moments of clarity and self-discovery. The connection between mind and body, once distorted by substance abuse, gradually began to mend.

Natasha’s visits became a source of motivation. Her proud smiles and encouraging words fueled your determination to overcome the shadows that had threatened to consume you. The bond between you and Natasha, tested by the storms of addiction, emerged stronger in the crucible of recovery.

As the three-month milestone approached, a mix of emotions surged within. The plastic card that had once symbolized vulnerability now stood as a testament to resilience. The journey through the clinic had been a battle against the shadows, a battle waged with the unwavering support of Natasha and the newfound strength within.

The final counseling session arrived, marking the end of the structured environment that had become a cocoon for your transformation. The counselor’s words carried a sense of pride, acknowledging the progress made and emphasizing the importance of continued vigilance in the outside world.

The last night in the clinic was a bittersweet moment – a farewell to the routines and safety nets that had defined this chapter. As you stood outside the clinic’s entrance, Natasha’s presence by your side reflected the shared victory over the shadows that had threatened to consume you.

The journey from the clinic back to the Avengers compound was a silent reflection of the miles traveled – both in physical distance and the depths of self-discovery. The walls of the familiar compound welcomed you back, the echoes of camaraderie and shared battles resounding in the air.

As you stepped into the Avengers compound, the weight of the plastic card in your hand felt both symbolic and grounding. The sense of accomplishment mingled with the awareness that the journey continued beyond the clinic walls.

Natasha, beside you, offered a reassuring presence. The shared glances spoke volumes – a silent understanding that the road to recovery was an ongoing process, a commitment to face the challenges that awaited.

As the door to your room in the Avengers compound swung open, a wave of warmth and welcome enveloped you. The room, once stark and sterile, had transformed into a haven of celebration. A large banner hung across the wall, bearing the words "Welcome Home, Y/N – We're Proud of You!"

The room was adorned with colorful decorations, each carefully chosen to radiate positivity and encouragement. Balloons danced in the air, carrying messages of support, and a bouquet of vibrant flowers sat on the bedside table, a burst of nature's beauty against the neutral backdrop.

The scent of freshly baked cookies wafted through the air, an irresistible aroma that beckoned you further into the room. A plate of cookies, lovingly arranged, awaited your arrival – a sweet gesture to mark the beginning of a new chapter. "Thought you might need a little treat. You've earned it."

A care package rested on the bed, filled with thoughtful items to make the transition back to the compound smoother. A cozy blanket, a journal for reflections, and a collection of inspiring books formed a personalized ensemble – each item chosen to nurture the mind, body, and soul.

Natasha handed you a small envelope. As you opened it, a collection of heartfelt letters from fellow Avengers spilled out – words of encouragement, shared memories, and expressions of pride in your journey. The bonds of camaraderie had never felt stronger.

Steve's letter read: "Y/N, welcome back. We missed you. Your strength is an inspiration to us all."

Bruce's note carried a touch of humor: "Who knew we'd be celebrating with cookies? Just remember, I've got green tea ready whenever you need it."

The room had been transformed into a celebration of your triumph over the shadows of addiction. The collective efforts of the Avengers, led by Natasha, had created an environment that echoed with gratitude, love, and an unwavering commitment to your well-being.

As you took in the sight of the welcoming room, Natasha offered a reassuring smile.

Natasha: "This is your sanctuary. We're here for you, every step of the way."

The room, now a tapestry of support and celebration, became a haven where the echoes of resilience and triumph mingled with the promise of a brighter future. The Avengers had welcomed you home with open arms, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead – a testament to the strength of bonds forged in the crucible of recovery.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Cardigan

Hii guyss, here's the third one-shot about Taylor Swift's folklore love triangle, starring Max as James x reader (Betty). If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist or August's and Max's point of view :)

The coolness of the late evening breeze wraps around me, and the silence stretches unbearably between us. I stare at Max, taking in the familiar lines of his face, the same face that once lit up at the sight of me. And now, after all this time, after a summer that turned everything I knew inside out, he’s here, asking for a chance to put back together what he broke.

“I thought I knew you,” I whisper, my voice thick with the betrayal that still lingers. Memories crash through me like waves—the playful afternoons, our laughter ringing out as we danced in jeans and sneakers, drunk under streetlights with nothing but each other’s heartbeat to anchor us. You made me believe that was enough, that I was enough. I knew you, or at least, I thought I did. But how foolish I feel now.

I turn away for a moment, staring into the darkened horizon, searching for strength in the quiet expanse. You made me feel as if kissing in your car, tucked away from the world, or whispering secrets under hotel sheets were all that mattered. Like I was your favorite, someone you couldn’t live without. And then, you left. You chased something that wasn’t me, and I was left bleeding, like a forgotten cardigan left under someone’s bed.

“Now that summer is over, I’m your favorite again?” I laugh, but it’s bitter, sharp. The wound he left behind still stings. “Just because I’m young, don’t assume I know nothing, Max. Don’t think I didn’t see through the easy smile, the way you ran from what we were.”

He shifts, eyes dropping to the ground, the regret on his face unmistakable. But regret isn’t enough; it can’t rewind the sleepless nights or the feeling of emptiness that grew inside me when I knew he was with someone else. The cruel realization that our whispered promises were only as real as the moment allowed.

“You don’t get to choose when you come back into my life,” I say, the words fierce, my chest tightening with each one. “You don’t get to pick up where you left off like nothing happened.”

I remember how he drew stars around my scars, how he made me believe that together we could shine through anything. But now, those stars are just reminders of the places he hurt me, a map of mistakes that can’t be retraced.

Tears prick at my eyes, but I force them back. He was everything, and he made me feel as if I was too. And yet, here I am, a shadow of that girl, left with nothing but the echoes of what could have been.

“You left me like I was nothing, and now you’re standing here, thinking a few words can fix that?” My voice drops to a whisper, breaking on the last syllable. “I may be young, but I know what it feels like to be broken. And you broke me, Max.”

He lifts his gaze, the weight of my words sinking into the silence that follows. And though he doesn’t say anything, the look in his eyes tells me he knows just how deep the cut went.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Bitter Sweet Symphony 1

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Thor

Summary: you meet a god in real life but he's not the saviour you think.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You catch Joanie by her knapsack before she can disappear into the crowd. Your heart lurches as you just picture her tiny stature getting lost in the New York crush. You pull her back to you. 

“Joan, take me hand,” you demand shakily. 

“Sorry, I thought I saw...” she begins then shakes her head. The cat ears on her hat wiggle. She grabs your hand with her small one and you squeeze. “Nothing. I’m just excited.” 

“You know mom would kill me if I lost you,” you draw her out of the way of another pedestrian. The man in his suit doesn’t spare you a single thought as he charges by. 

“Ha, I’m not going to get lost,” she insists. 

You grumble but don’t voice your anxiety. She’s young and it’s all so big and loud to her. She’s still to young to be scared. You admire your half-sister for that but it also fills you with dread. 

“I did!” She squeals and jumps in her pink high tops. “I saw him, I saw him.” 

She points and her hand bounces off the hip of a woman strutting by. You apologise and once more redirect your sister. You squint and search in the direction she pointed. Yellow taxis honk as they roll by and jay walkers dodge between them. 

“Thor!” Your sister hollers and hops up again, waving her hand. 

That’s when you see him. You don’t know how you missed him. There’s so much going on that all the buildings and bodies blend together. For as long as you’ve been in the city, you’re still not used to the chaos of it all. 

“Thor?” You echo her. 

“Duh! God of Thunder! He hangs out with Iron Man.” 

“Right,” you shepherd her back before she can get underfoot. “You know what mom says about talking to strangers.” 

“He’s not a stranger, he’s a hero.” She argues. 

“Maybe but I’m sure he’s just trying to live his life. He doesn’t look like he’s hero-ing right now, kiddo,” you chide. 

“But...” her face falls. “But we don’t have heroes at home! What if I never see another one again? I just wanna say hi.” 

“I know, Joan, but I...” you pause and glance back. There are others clustering around the tall man. He smiles and welcomes them as he greets them all graciously. You just hate to be in others way. You should have considered that before you moved to one of the most overcrowded places on earth. “Alright, but we’re going to go down and cross at the walk, right?” 

She harrumphs and agrees begrudgingly, “right.” 

You take her down the sidewalk, clamped onto her as you steer her around the New Yorkers trapped in the tunnel vision of their own existence. You get to the corner and wait and cross with a cluster. You glance down the pavement as Joanie squirms. 

“Oh no, I think he’s gone,” she whines. 

You look desperately ahead and grimace. You hope you didn’t ruin it for her. You drag her along, hoping that long blonde hair will pop up again. It doesn’t. You get to the exact place you spotted him. He’s not there. 

“I’m so sorry, Joanie. I just wanted to be safe.” You turn to her, your chest dropping. “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s fine...” she drones and hangs her head. 

You stumble as a man knocks into your hip. You try to make yourself smaller but it’s hard to dodge anyone on the sidewalk even without a little extra cushion. You peer around and your eyes catch on the hanging sign of a bakery. 

“How about a treat instead? You love cupcakes, right?” You coax her. 

“Mm, I guess,” she shrugs. 

Her disappointment stings. You feel horrid. You know she’s going to hold onto this. 

“Come on, let’s get out of this,” you pull her to the bakery door.  

As you enter, you sigh. You’re happy to be free of the city crawl. You look up at the menu above the counter. You’ve never been in here before. It’s a nice place and the desserts look immaculate. They’re also expensive. 

“Look they have a unicorn--” You begin and Joanie rips her hand away as she wiggles. 

“He’s here!” She cries out. “It’s Thor.” 

Her voice carries across the space and you cringe and you look over to find the man, or god, in question. His blue eyes round as he bites into a cupcake piled with icing. The sugary topping marks his nose as he pulls it away and gulps. He gives a goofy smile. 

“Joanie,” you whisper, “he’s just trying to enjoy his food.” 

“Little one!” He waves before you can deter her. “You know me.” 

Joanie giggles and squeals and skips over before you can stop her. You trail after her reluctantly as she hops up to his table, “your Thor, king of Asgard, God of Thunder!” She jitters. “I know you!” 

He booms with laughter and wipes the icing from his beard and nose. His cupcake is forgotten on a small saucer. “An honour to meet you...” 

“Joanie!” She nearly hollers. “My name is Joanie.” 

“Ah, a beautiful name,” he praises and his eyes wander over you as you hover behind her. “And this lady, your mother?” 

“Sister!” Joanie replies before you can and gives your name. 

You try to smile as he grins at you and his eyes seem to sparkle. You wonder if that’s a god thing. Your cheeks are hot as his gaze bores into you. 

“Are you here for the cupcakes? They are delicious. I recommend the confetti.” He puts his attention back to Joanie. “Would you like to join me?” 

“Oh, sir, thanks, that’s so kind but we’ll just be getting ours to go--” 

“But--” Joanie begins to whine and you lay your hand on her shoulder. 

“If you don’t mind. She’s a big fan.” 

“Not at all,” he assures you. “Allow me to treat you. What are we having?” 

He stands and you shrink as he towers over you. There aren’t many who can make you feel small. You can’t help but take a step back and herd Joanie with you. 

“Um...” you look over, “it’s really—I don’t mind. I can’t get ours. We’ve already bothered--” 

“I must insist. As a king, I prize courtesy above all. Please sit and allow me to bring you some sweets.” 

“I want the unicorn!” Joanie demands before you can stop her. You give Thor and apologetic look. He only seems amused by her awe. 

“That’s very generous of you, what do we say, Joanie?” You say. 

“Please and thank you,” she chirps. 

“Yes, thank you, Thor. I’m fine with something simple. Vanilla is good for me.” You move Joanie away from him, “come on, let’s sit down. We’ve done a lot of walking.” 

[dancingundermoonlight101]

The times I've thought about you have been plenty. It's a never-ending cycle, for you see, I am falure of a Prime.

Megatron, as you stand before me, blade stabbing through my spark, through the pain and sorrow, I can't help but feel relief. Relief that between the two of us, you are the one to remain alive. With the war over, you having won, I would like to make one final request of you old friend.

Don't kill my comrades.

No matter how much you hate them, what threat they may pose, I beg of you. Leave them alive. It pains me to say, but without me, they won't interfere much with your plans anymore. I can only hope you remember your roots. The kindness and hope for something better your spark held when I was but your archivist, and you, my warrior. It might be selfish to think this in my final moments. But I've always loved you, Megatron.

Perhaps in death, will these feelings finally meet their end.

I love you. I loved you. I never stopped loving you, even in my final moments. I hope to Primus we meet in our next lives and I hope again that it's a much kinder life. One without war or inequality or corruption. One where I can hold your servo in mine without shame. One where you are not Lord Megatron and I Optimus Prime. Leaders of the Decepticons and Autobots respectfully.

Until we meet again in the well of all sparks...

------

Megatron glared at the body of the deceased Prime. A dark pit in his spark. A black hole threatening to swallow all its light. He had thought it a good idea to have Shockwave and Soundwave make a machine that would make the last moments and thoughts of anybot visible and audible. He thought maybe he'd see the Prime's thoughts pleading him to not kill his comrades, as well as fear. Something to explain why Optimus in his final moments commed him ".: Spare them:."

Megatron didn't spare them, of course. He was frankly going to enjoy killing them one by one. But they had all escaped.

How bothersome.

He'd find them someday. He's sure of it. And just to spit in Optimus's last wish, he will torture them, too.

The Prime's face in his last moments echoed in his mind. He growled at the useless longing in his spark, squeezing a random object and breaking it.

He still couldn't believe it. Optimus Prime in love with his arch nemesis. How foolish. How stupid. Ridiculous!

Megatron clawed at the chesplates just over his spark. He could not cry, for his tears had run dry long ago. Foolish indeed. This is not what he thought he wanted. Ruling over Cybertron, having cyberformed earth into a second world for his species.. He had thought he wanted it. Now that he had it, Megatron found it empty. His ambitions were gone, no longer did he have a true equal in this whole galaxy.

None would ever be Optimus Prime.

No, he had to set things right. A world without Optimus is not a world Megatron can live with. Where's the fun in getting everything he wants without a little bit of a constant challenge?

.

. .

. . . .

Megatron, a true Decepticon, able to deceive even himself. Primus mused at this. Silly child, went on to kill his other half. This just won't do.

Their short story won't end like this. Primus will not allow it. He Who is Forever Tainted by Unicron, you will live life anew. You shall only know when the time is right, and your debt to Primus has been paid off of what they have done. Do not make the same choices that lead you to make your biggest regret. Make no mistake, this wish is not for you, but for he who is favored by me.

Make the child of Primus, he who was once Orion Pax and later one of Primus's true Primes enjoy a life worth living.

This is your one and only chance. Make it count.

. . . .

. .

.

M—

—atr–n

Meg-tron

"MEGATRON!"

Megatron woke up with a jolt. He tried to online his battle protocols, and they hummed loudly, ready to come out. But something stopped him. A servo, two, actually. Each cupped his cheeks and wiped away his tears. He turned to look at the bot whose servos they belonged to and found none other than Optimus Prime. "You're alive?"

Optimus looked bewildered for a moment, he could feel it through their bond. Bond? He felt affection, worry, and love from the Prime.

"I am very much alive, Megatron." Optimus leaned in to press their forehelms together. Megatron's servos easily reached to hold the Prime's waist as if they'd done so thousands of times. Maybe even more than that. "You must have had a nightmate."

"A nightmare.." It seemed so vivid. A world without Optimus, one where he had..

Megatron doesn't even want to think about it. His spark was still beating wildly in its chamber, and he recognized he still felt fear. A few well placed kisses from his bondmate further eased his worries and sorrow that still felt fresh in his processor and spark. Right. He and Optimus were Conjuxed now. Megatron greedily leaned into the kiss, but one small playful bap from his beloved made him huff and smile. Softening the kiss that would have become more desperate had it continued.

Megatron held Optimus for a long moment. His helm burrowed on the Prime's neck, the action mirrored by his other half. Small comforting kisses are being pressed on Megatron's neck along with quiet words of love. Primus, Optimus was a soft fool. But he was Megatron's soft fool.

They had layed back down at one point, still as close to one another as they could be. And they remained like that. Optimus having fallen asleep again at one point.

Megatron knew Optimus was a blessing, he just hadn't realized how much of one he was until he had that dream. No. The fragmented memories of his past life. Megatron had never seen them before, and even now they were hazy. But the feelings had persisted and carried over. He realized this now. It was thanks to them he reacted rather irrationally at many points in this life, but his longing for Optimus to be by his side remained the same. It had just taken a much, much more romantic turn than his other self would have thought.

Megatron had no regrets though. None at all. As he pressed a soft kiss on Optimus's audial, he smiled soft. "I love you." He wispered. He had said it so many times already, yet somehow this felt like the first.

[letters-of-libertas]

Energy to carry as a single childfree woman

Summary here.

Be more self reliant

You dont have to do everything on your own but you need to be able to count on yourself because for the most part that's all you'll have even as you're around others.

Have more intent with actions

Time & energy is valuable. Where you pour these things into steer the course of your life. Give your time & energy to things that help you (and other likeminded women if you want). You dont have to analyse every action you take but occasionally check in with how/if the actions you're taking are helping to build a foundation for your life as a single childfree woman. Things like donating to female centric causes, improving yourself so you can give yourself (& other women) more, organising/engaging in female centric women only spaces - even if they're just online, goes a long way to set the scene. Even indulging in your hobbies. Dont waste your time on things that wont help you or your motives.

Be more resourceful

Contrary to popular belief this lifestyle isn't a walk in the park, there's a lot more you have to account for especially with a level of reduced support. Being able to adapt/improvise + think ahead to mitigate problems will serve you long term. Also generally building up your resources will make getting through hard times easier.

Living my truth > proving my truth

You dont need others stamp of approval to live this way - just get started ! Convincing others is a waste of time your actions (& results) will speak for you anyways.

Reduce giving benefit of doubt

I once saw a quote "giving others benefit of doubt has never benefitted me" and it rings so true. Giving people benefit of doubt rarely ever works in your favour, the red flags that are downplayed often come back to bite you when you least expect it so trust your instincts on matters. If something is off about something or someone; start backing up. Also pure naïvety is rare, people often know more than they let on so trust + act on your instincts on matters if something feels off.

Be proactive

Instead of just constantly reacting to everything around you; take action no matter how small, it'll pay off more than just outrage. Spend less time on social media reacting to the never ending evil of xys and spend more time building for yourself. Social media can be informative but it can also be an echo chamber that breeds reactionary politics which doesn't move things forward. Ik this is ironic because you're reading this on social media but I'm not saying get rid of it all, just reduce your time on it - particularly around reading & reacting to maIe evil. Focus on tangible things in your life you can control & build instead for yourself and womankind.

Invest in indifference

Taking everything to heart will hurt you. Constant anger/hatred to maIes & their bs is still centering them especially if all you do is react. I'm not saying completely ignore it as they target us & a level of awareness is important, but dont let these feelings consume you. Being indifferent will let you look at things at a face value & make more levelled judgement. It helped my mental health a lot in regards to the climate to grow indifferent, this includes towards maIe identified women and even other types of discrimination like racists, ableists, etc. All theory around maIe violence essentially boils down to them being dangerous parasitic terrorists to not be trusted. I move with this & go. I see through them, I dont argue or waste unnecessary emotional energy on them, I dont care for them to understand me, I dont care to prove them wrong (bc in the end it wont matter all you do is give them more cards to play with; this system isnt erected through logic but violence), I have other stuff in my life to focus on. I cant help the way the world is I can only focus on myself & my actions. Typically the best comebacks arise when you dont give a shit. It wont happen in a day but learn to manage your feelings. Be indifferent to what you cant control, flower what you can control. These comments from the female separatist subreddit explain this well.

Learn to prioritise

Contrary to popular belief we can't have it all. Some are able to do so because they've got wives or staff covering sectors of their lives so they can pour more time into other aspects of their lives like business or leisure. But you wont have that privilege rn so some things will have to take a hit. This is also why you need to be selfish with your time. Things like being resourceful to automate/delegate tasks will buy you time but it's still important to be selfish with your time because as you put time in one area, another area loses time. You need to pick what matters. You cannot give your time away to everyone; make time for yourself & your objectives.

Less theory more action

Having a basis of theory/belief is a good place to start but dont get stuck there.

It's okay to be wrong

Mistakes will be made. Experience is how we learn and grow. Go about your business unabashedly.

Obviously not an exhaustive list but these are some main points that come to mind.