#also there's no way i will have the voids listen

[unabashednightmarepizza]

𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙇𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙙

Author Note: Hey... How yall doing? (anxious sweating). Okay, I know I have been pretty much absent for the past year or so, but I literally lost the ability and want to write so, I was just silently liking and reblogging a bunch fanfics, playing my silly video games and struggling with college here and there... Then, my Marvel fangirl era came back with the movie "Thunderbolts" and here I am.... With 8060 words for the FIRST chapter of a series... If anyone read my Moon Knight fic, it will be kind of similar to it but also not, with me adding a new perspective to the Void. I am assuming this to be not too long of a serie (if I keep the 8K word band going) but we will see! Hopefully, you guys will like it and my take on the cutie Bob!

Oh and... THUNDERBOLTS REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Warnings for the series: Self-deprecating thoughts, struggles (mental and physical), Entity dramas, trauma, death, a little bit of humor, free-therapy, childhood trauma, domestic abuse, torture, blood, gore, the Void and the Sentry (I think they are enough of a warning by alone)...

Tagging: @magikdarkholme

“Did you just say we need to go to... where?”

Bucky was sure his new teammates were either stupid or feigning stupidity.

Between Ghost’s erratic phasing fits, U.S. Agent’s unwavering faith in fists over brains, and whatever the hell Red Guardian called a plan to deal with the many problems the newly formed “New Avengers” had, Bucky had seen enough chaos. The Void wasn’t just another mission—this was Bob Reynolds. This was a walking time bomb with the potential to turn the world inside out if Sentry lost control again, as he called it.

As if he didn’t care about the man’s well-being and understood his pain of  identity crisis, as if Bob wasn’t the new adopted member of their highly nonfunctional friend group that soon turned into a chaotic family.

And now, with the Thunderbolts half-functioning and Val refusing to listen, Bucky knew he needed real help. Not reckless, government-backed muscle. And absolutely no self-interested Val.

He needed her.

So, against every protocol and behind Valentina’s back, he found himself silently looking at the device you had generously given him before departing from the Earth. A golden globe with ancient runes of your people carved into it, small wings sprouting from the top of it as he found himself smiling after such a long time.

You truly were the Life itself, warming him up even if you weren’t there.

Asgard was different now, at least he believed it was—more grounded, more accessible although you kind of sticked to the traditional ways of your people—but still carried the strange, quiet hum of power underneath its cobblestone streets and tavern-laced ports. Their Queen was even stranger—regal and radiant, but unshakably human. She laughed like a thunderclap, she was messy and somehow addicted to any kind of junk food she could get her hands to and held herself like she bore galaxies in her chest.

Because she did.

She was Life itself, cloaked in mortal form, the entity who shook the entire universe and bared a trial you refused to tell to anyone so that you could revive your people and home back to life, eventually becoming the new Protector and Ruler of the Nine Realms.

And you also happened to be Bucky’s best friend. Odd pairing, sure. The former Winter Soldier and a literal cosmic embodiment. But your friendship had been forged in the strangest of fires—mutual survival, long silences, and shared understanding of what it meant to be the weapon someone else or thin had forged.

And his stupid yet naive childhood merged with your “teenage-hood”. As much as it was considered that when you didn’t get old, instead changed your form.

Everyone else saying something, as usual. Bucky hadn’t even finished explaining his plan before the room exploded into chaos.

Alexei and Ava was loudly berating each other “affectionately, Yelena was just humming to his plan with a dagger in her hand since she already knew you (despite the fact that she tried to kill you for what happened to Natasha, deeming you the guilty one, but eventually learning the truth). She hadn’t said a word to him directly since Bucky brought up going to New Asgard.

Not that he blamed her.

And then there was Walker. U.S. Agent had that expression again—like he was one word away from taking it personally as he sat on the couch widely, with an expression on the border of frustration, as if he still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that there were Gods and Goddesses in real life. “So, let me get this straight. You want us to stand down while you go cozy up to some interstellar goddess?”

“She’s not some goddess,” Bucky bit out harshly, blue eyes as cold as steel as he stared at the blonde. “She’s the only one who can keep Bob from tearing himself or another city in half.”

“You sure she’s on our side?” Alexei asked gruffly as he chewed on yet another bar, one that was your favourite Bucky noticed. He didn’t blame the older Russian for his hesitance, after all, he and Yelena were the only ones who never your nature and how to talk to you (It wasn’t that hard or complicated, despite you being a cosmic entity. All you needed to easily cave in were some chocolate, some shiny jewelry and a good Cappuccino). But of course, they didn’t know that, and they didn’t encounter a Goddess or, well, the literal personification of Life, but hey, it didn’t seem like he was completely against the idea of going to you.

The same couldn’t be said for Ava and John, with the later one being more... aggressive at the prospect of such thing.

“She’s on my side,” Bucky said, sharp and final. He leant back on the couch with a silent groan, muscles screaming for one very hot bath. Maybe he could have one of those hot springs you had in Asgard. “And that’s enough.”

The silence that followed wasn’t exactly agreement, but it wasn’t outright rebellion either.

In Thunderbolts terms, that was practically a standing ovation.

“I repeat again: I said we need to go to the Asgard and seek help from the Queen if we want to help Bob. She is the only one who might know the Void.”

Walker scoffed from the corner, arms crossed. “Great. So the plan is we go knock on the front door of literal gods and ask for mental health advice? Sounds foolproof.”

Yelena popped a piece of gum into her mouth, lounging across the couch with her boots on the table. “I mean, better than your last plan of dealing with mental problems. What was it again? Run straight into a wall of bullets and hope for the adrenalin to do the work?”

Walker rolled his eyes. “Worked, didn’t it?”

“No,” Ghost said flatly, phasing halfway through the wall like she wanted to escape the conversation. “You were in the med bay for three days.”

Red Guardian grunted, tightening his gloves. “Bah! I like this plan. Finally, some honor! Gods, glory—maybe I get to fight a thunder beast! Reminds me of my prime!”

“You haven’t had a prime since the '80s,” Yelena said dryly without looking up, arms folded as she leaned against the fluffy couch.

“Yeah, well, I want to make the part with ‘might know’ highlighted! I ain’t going there!” Walker exclaimed once again on his seat, slamming a fist on the table like it would make his argument more valid. Both Ava and Yelena roller their eyes and even Alpine just stood there and hissed lowly and Bucky could swear she too rolled her eyes.

Bucky didn’t even look up, already fed up with all the loudness, as he got up for the kitchen and get a glass of water. “Why? Because she beat your ass up easily without moving an inch back in your jackass days?”

Yelena snorted. Ava straight-up wheezed.

Walker turned a shade of red that didn’t look healthy. “That was a long time ago. I was off my game.”

“Sure, man,” Yelena said with a grin, eyes sparkling with mischief. “She was literally braiding her hair while you were trying to throw a shield at her. I think she yawned.”

“Besides...” Bucky cut in before Walker and Yelena could start another verbal brawl that could escalate into a real one. “I already talked to her about it. Like a week ago.”

That made the room fall into a momentary silence.

Yelena’s brow lifted, the dagger stilling in her hand. “Wait. You already told her?” “Yeah.”

Alexei blinked from his spot next to the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest, intrigued by such... silence from a Goddess that could wipe out the entire universe if she pleased. “Then what is she waiting for?”

“For Bob to be ready.”

No one answered immediately.

Even Walker stopped posturing.

Because that meant the Queen—Life, the one force that could oppose the Void without unraveling reality—wasn't going to interfere until Bob Reynolds, the man at the center of it all, was willing to face what was inside him.

“She said,” Bucky continued, voice clipped with a hint of guilt, “that she doesn’t overwrite people and their fates. She meets them. Even the broken ones. Especially the broken ones... That the Void isn’t just something you fight,” Bucky replied, his voice low. “It’s something Bob has to face—willingly. Or it’ll tear through him and everyone around him trying to claw its way out.”

Ghost reappeared halfway through the floor with a frown. “And we’re just supposed to sit on our hands while he falls apart?”

“No,” Bucky said, meeting her eyes. “We get him there. She’ll help. But only when he accepts it. For now, we keep him grounded. Keep him human.”

Alexei scratched at his beard. “So this is… therapy quest? With Norse gods?”

Yelena gave him a blank stare. “Everything’s a therapy quest with this team. None of us actually has great pasts anyways.”

Walker threw up his hands. “This is ridiculous. We’re not babysitters���we’re soldiers.”

“You’re right,” Bucky snapped, sharper than before as he sharply set the glass down. So hard that everyone was kind of curious how it didn’t break. “We are soldiers. So act like it. We don’t leave anyone behind, remember? Or does that only apply when it’s convenient for you?”

That shut Walker up, at least for the moment.

Ghost looked away. Yelena stopped humming.

Seemingly, everyone was retreated back to their minds to think about their next course of action or make sense of what Bucky meant by “She is on my side.”. How could a literal goddess be on the side of one mortal man? Well, not exactly mortal but still human... Aren’t the Goddesses and Gods supposed to be neutral?

Well, in most cases yes. But in Bucky’s case, he was aware that she made some exceptions for him even though she shouldn’t, and she never talked about the troubles she would get into because of that (others Gods were not happy you cared for humanity that much).

You never said much about the consequences, only wore that same quiet smile whenever Bucky questioned you. A smile that hid wars fought in secret skies, negotiations whispered behind divine veils, and sacrifices no mortal—or even semi-mortal—would ever be allowed to understand. But he saw the strain sometimes. In your eyes. In the way you would allow yourself to touch his face like he was both precious and fleeting and hug him.

As if you were desperate, craving that kind of connection

“She shouldn’t choose a side,” Steve would often say, especially after learning who you were and what you were capable of doing when he got out of the ice and it was your face he saw first. His voice would often turn somber, quiet, but firm whenever you and how much you sacrificed were mentioned. You didn’t see it that way, more like “taking care of two more little brothers who were unaware to the ways of world.

“That’s not how this works.”

He remembered the last time he saw you—really saw you, not in passing glimpses, not in dreams or between the flashes of battle from his time as the Winter Soldier. The stars had bent toward you like flowers to the sun, and your voice had been threaded with something desperate whenever he would remember your words in a hazy daze of the memory erasing HYDRA did to him. You told him to stay alive. Not to win. Not to save the world. Just—stay alive. As if that alone would be enough.

He had been through so much and as much as he can remember, and as far as others told him, you were mostly there. Even when he was in ice, even when he went berserk as the Soldier, you waited... Like you said many times, you didn’t intervene, you couldn’t for reasons you didn’t explain except “I did once... and It costed me a great price.”...

As a result, he never understood how people did not see the same kind and caring woman... But he also understood their look on you because once, after he got away from HYDRA, he was like them too. Though you didn’t care, that you abandoned him, that you took satisfaction at watching him struggle... Without knowing you were also dealing with your own struggles and... voids.

Bucky’s mind went back to the conversation you two had a week ago, inside his room, as he watched the team trying to decide on what to do with the new common room’s decoration. Although some people might have thought it to be a casual phone call, or him actually visiting Asgard physically... They forget the fact that you were a transcendent being who wasn’t bound to only one physical plane of existence. Someone who could easily get into the minds of people without them ever noticing, seeing the deepest secrets they hid away in their consciousness.

“James,” you said warmly, stepping down from the dais. After everything, it was nice seeing your best friend although he looked frazzled at being in your palace. He... didn’t remember visiting you. “I knew we both got old but you look far worse than I expected. Something is troubling you.” He turned. You weren’t dressed in royal robes today—just a long, dark tunic and loose braids, light dancing at her fingertips like fireflies. She always glowed subtly. Not from ego. From existence. And by some weird instinct as he looked into your expectant eyes, he understood you used your magic on him to seep into his mind. “I hate how you became more mysterious and unexpected after becoming the Ruler of Nine Realms, with your magical hands and all.” he chuckled under his breath as you slowly moved towards him, turning your body around so that instead of looking out the waterfalls you so adored of your homeland, you looked straight at him. A warm smile, and a loud laugh filled up his mind as he felt his tenseness and stress over the few months after the New York accident.

“I do not have magic only on my hands, friend. I am the magic... Besides, my mom was raised by witches and I was raised by her. What did you expect?” You let out a soft giggle that made him let out a relaxed sigh and take a step towards you. Your eyes shifted towards a more “I missed you” look as you took a good look at your best friend. His figure is broad, but not as imposing as it once was. His black tactical coat hangs heavy off his frame like armor worn too long. His vibranium arm glints faintly, muted under dreamlight, chipped in places where the plating has seen too many fights. His flesh arm—scarred and tense—hangs by his side, fingers twitching as if clenching onto ghosts he never quite managed to bury. His face tells the rest of the story. Unshaven. Tired. The lines around his mouth are deeper, not just from age, but from guilt that settled into his bones and made a home there. His hair, longer now, curls behind his ears in a disheveled way, like he stopped caring about appearances once the missions stopped being about redemption and started being about survival.

And his eyes—blue, once sharp with mischief—are dulled with exhaustion. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from sleepless nights, but from existing too long under the weight of things he was never meant to carry. He looks like a man always halfway between moving forward and waiting for the next blow. “ However, that magic cannot help you if you don’t stop brooding and explain your troubles. Like the good old days.” “Thanks. Got a Void problem. Figured Life might know what to do.” he shrugged his shoulders, accepting the drink you offered. That got your attention. “You’re talking about Bob Reynolds.” you hummed quietly. “Yeah. Sentry’s fraying again. The Thunderbolts think they can contain it. They can’t. I’ve seen what happens when he breaks.”

“He’s not fully gone yet. He’s still… trying. But it’s getting louder in him. And I don’t trust the team they put together to handle this. Hell, I don’t even trust me.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t react. You just looked at him with a tilted head and a hard stare.  “And you want me to intervene, think I can stop him?” The Queen's gaze turned hard, divine power flickering just beneath her skin. Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t look at her. Not fully. His gaze stayed just off her shoulder, like meeting her eyes might burn him. Or worse—like he didn’t think he deserved to. “I think you’re the only one who can match him. Light to his darkness. You’re not just a queen—you’re the counterweight. He’s the Void. You’re the Life. If we don’t end it now, there won’t be a later.” You looked up at him with a softness no one else ever received. Having lived with humans for many years throughout different times, you always though you understood their understanding and reasoning. But each and every time, much like now, proved you otherwise with their first instinct at the face of crisis was to...get rid of it. They called it “solving the problem from its root” but... was that really necessary? Huh, maybe you were turning out to be more human than you let on. “James. I don’t end people.” “You did once,” he reminded, voice low. “ With Thanos-”

“That was a mercy.” Your voice turned cold, glare harder than ever as the sun of Asgard dimmed fast for a second, only to reappear once more. But it didn’t change the suddenly cold and heavy atmosphere in the throne room as he took a slow breath. As if he was being drowned slowly... He knew how the name tasted bitter and your usually soft and understanding heart that would light up the way of the lost ones, much like him, would immediately grow cold and sharp. He cannot blame you for all the things you had to do because of that “eggplant” as you called him. “That thing didn’t want to exist anymore.” He swallowed hard. “What if Bob doesn’t either?” The silence stretched, not empty, but thrumming with power and grief. The silence was not the absence of sound as Bucky could still hear the people chattering outside, the waterfalls and birds, the ships cruising on the air and the water, but the presence of everything unsaid was thick like the air before a storm. It pressed into the skin, settled heavy in the chest, made every breath feel like inhaling from deep underwater. It hummed with power restrained, until you finally spoke. “That’s not your decision to make. Nor mine.”

“But if he asks, if he begs—” Bucky stepped forward, desperation flickering across his face, his metal hand curling tightly at his side. “You’ve seen what the Void does to him, then. He tears himself apart just trying to breathe, to control himself so that he doesn’t hurt others. Hell, he doesn’t even care about what would happen to him!” You walked past him, having circled around him as he explained his situation, eyes on the horizon, far beyond the gilded windows of the throne room and perhaps even beyond the world itself. Your figure, wrapped in flowing robes of deep indigo and gold-threaded silver, seemed carved from moonlight and silence, too regal to be disturbed by mere pleading. The air shifted in your wake, perfumed with soft notes of sandalwood and snow bloom. Each step you took down the polished obsidian stairs echoed like a pronouncement. “The Void feeds on despair, fear, erasure. It doesn’t kill you. It unravels you, rewrites you, until there’s nothing left to remember. That’s what he’s afraid of—not dying, but becoming nothing. Again.” you spoke out without looking at him, or else he would notice the shake of your hands... at the mention of a being that is not so different than you. You continued without a look at him.

“I have seen it,” you whispered. “And I’ve felt it. The way the Void slithers through his soul like ice, like teeth, like silence too loud to bear. I know.”

You came to a slow stop, robes pooling around your feet like rippling shadows. Only then did you glance back over your shoulder. Your gaze was level, piercing—not cruel, but ancient. Tired. Tired not in body, but in soul. The kind of fatigue that comes from watching too many people run headlong into the same fire, convinced their determination would keep them from burning. James’ breath caught as your gaze bored into his—fierce, mournful, determined. “But Bob Reynolds is still there. And until that fragment of him says he’s ready to go, I will not be the blade that ends him. I will not be the Queen who grants death when it is healing that is needed.” He blinked, as if trying to process your words through a fog. “But what if there’s no healing left for him?” he weakly says because he saw everything, every cry and scream after a particular nightmare. He’d seen the man curled in a corner of the darkened chambers, trembling with hands that could tear planets apart but now only clutched his own skull as if trying to hold himself together. Heard the hoarse cries, the guttural sobs that cracked like glass underfoot. The way he’d begged—not for salvation, but for silence. For stillness. For an end. Bucky had sat beside him once, blood on Bob’s fingertips—not from battle, but from scratching at the skin of his own arms, as though he could dig the Void out with his nails. And he had said nothing. Because what could he say to a broken man who feared the thing living inside him? Something that was him but also not? He understood that feeling, when he was too scared of the “Winter Soldier” appearing again and hurting random people... But in his despair, you and Wakanda had supported him through everything and he... he survived. When he thought he wouldn’t, that he would have to live with this time-bomb in him, you and Wakanda had healed him. So now, as he stood before you—his Queen, his best friend, mentor and savior, the only one he trusted to make the call—he wasn’t questioning your strength. He was afraid Bob Reynolds had none left to borrow. “Are you waiting for him to fall apart?” “No,” you said, turning back to him, heart softening as you took his hand between yours and squeezed... Before you hit the back of his head harshly.. “I’m waiting for him to face it. I won’t force that. Life doesn't conquer the Void, James. It reaches it. Offers a hand, not a sword.” He stared with a pained look on his face, hand idly rubbing his head because it hurted. He forgot how heavy your hand was, both naturally and because of fighting for such a long time with many weapons that he could name it...but it would take days to finish the list. “That might not be enough.” You sighed tiredly, quietly descending the final step, and now your voice took on the texture of velvet lined with iron . Oh, how you forgot James was a stubborn asshole.

“How are you so sure,” you began, voice edged with something sharper now, something tired and sharp as a blade honed too often, “that he would go berserk?” you approached the topic in a different way, hoping to make him see your reasoning. “Excuse me?”he replied, confusion and caution winding tightly in his voice. “You talk like he’s already gone. Like he’s a loaded gun just waiting to fire. But you never say why.” You stepped closer, the air around you suddenly colder, heavier—not with menace, but with the truth you were about to lay bare. “Why are you truly scared, James? And don’t give me the crap of being a hero thing, I am not buying it.” “So tell me, James. Is it because he’s dangerous? Or is it because you saw something in him… something you saw in yourself?” His lips parted slightly, but the words caught in his throat, as if the very truth he’d been dodging was suddenly too close to confront. He clenched his fists, the metal hand faintly shimmering in the dim light of the throne room. You studied him—his every muscle tensed, his gaze downcast, his entire being caught in the web of past battles and old scars. “You think you had a choice in the matter? That you chose to be turned into that weapon?” His jaw tightened, and he turned his head slightly, as if unwilling to meet your gaze. But the quiet challenge in your question lingered, pushing against the walls of his heart. “You were broken, James. Just like Bob.” Your words were soft but carried the weight of the years you had seen the agony of humans. “You were the monster once. But you didn’t give up. You didn’t let the darkness take you. Why are you so ready to assume that Bob’s beyond saving?” The silence that followed was thick, suffocating in its complexity. He could feel it—the raw truth in your words, pulling him into a realization he wasn’t ready to face. He wasn’t ready to see how closely he and Bob were bound by their pain, by the choices they never got to make, and the things they thought could never be fixed. And how it all changed with the subtle help of a certain Goddess he knew. “He deserves that chance, even if the world has long since given up on him. Even if he wants to-” “You think I don’t know that? I know. I just… I’m scared. I’m scared that if we let him keep going, he’ll turn into the thing he hates most. And if the Void—” “I have faced the Void,” your voice cut him in the middle as he widened his eyes, knitting his brows in confusion at the sudden noncholant look on your face, serene yet amused at the same time. Then, slowly, deliberately, you stepped closer. The ambient light flickered across your features, illuminating the regal fire behind your gaze. “You forget what I was before this throne, before the crown and the titles that make the universe and every inhabitant bow. I have held back stars from collapse, James. I’ve screamed into the abyss until it screamed back.” Asilent beat... Bucky held his breath with anxiety until... “ Less loudly, of course.” You giggled and soon his on-guard behavior evaporated, just like that. You were back to the friend he knew, all smiley, soft and understanding. He surely knew how worthy you were of your other title now that he witnessed your anger. “I will not let Bob Reynolds be swallowed without a fight. Not by the Void, and not by himself... But for that, I also need his help.” James looked down, pain etched across his features, guilt sharpening every line. “I just don’t want to lose anyone else,” he muttered. “Not to war, not to darkness… not to mercy.” Your hand cupped his cheek—warm, gentle again, your thumb brushed the faint stubble there, grounding him in the now. . “Then help me save him.” He leaned into your touch slightly. “Even if he doesn’t believe he’s worth saving?” You gave a bittersweet smile. “ When did humans ever believe in themselves?” You muttered to yourself amused as you gave a determined nod. “Believe for him… until he can.”

..

The door hissed open before him with a polite chime, one that somehow made the silence on the other side feel even heavier. Bob stepped into the Watchtower’s living room—barefoot, book still in hand, thumb tucked between worn pages like he’d meant to come back to it. The title was some obscure thing from the archives, philosophy soaked in poetry, too heavy for what little sleep he’d had. His shirt clung to him from where he’d curled into the armchair earlier, sweat-damp from another dream that didn’t belong to him.

His footsteps were soft against the polished composite flooring—quiet enough that neither of them noticed at first.

The room was dimly lit, walls aglow with that sterile white-blue of orbital tech, like a hospital made of stars. The glass panels looked out over Earth: whole, spinning, oblivious. For a second, he pretended he was too.

Bob hadn’t meant to listen. Not really. But they weren’t exactly subtle. And no one ever noticed when he was still on the doorway, after cleaning around the kitchen and drying the dishes, retreating back to his room with blinding light and a huge bookcase enough to cover the whole room.

Not even Bucky, who was observational most of the times.

So he stood quietly in the corner, slouched over himself anxiously as he played with the deep blue sweater he wore, a comfort item from that time, watching them argue for his sake like he wasn’t the reason half the room had stopped sleeping with both eyes closed. His hoodie was pulled low over his face, sleeves frayed from being twisted in his nervous grip. He looked like a man trying to vanish.

But inside?

Inside, he was screaming.

She’s waiting for Bob to be ready.

The words kept ringing in his head like a church bell cracked in half.

Ready?

He didn’t even know what that meant anymore. Was it being ready to fight? Ready to die? Or worse—ready to live again, knowing what he was?

Bob Reynolds hated himself.

Not in the way people say when they mess up or fall short—not in frustration. No. Bob’s hatred was quiet. Constant. Structural. Like his very existence was a mistake that kept happening. Every breath he took felt like a borrowed one. Every kind word someone gave him felt like it was meant for someone else entirely.

Because he knew what he was.

He was the guy who destroyed entire cities when he thought he was saving them. The one who couldn't remember if he killed people, only that he probably did. The man with god-tier power and the emotional stability of a wet paper bag.

And the worst part?

There was no evil mastermind to blame. No alien parasite. No secret chip in his neck. It was just... him.

The power. The sickness. The Void. It was all tangled together so tightly that he didn’t know where Bob ended and the monster began.

“You’re not a monster,” Bucky had told him once, eyes heavy with meaning, as they sat together in the common room after yet another nightmare Bob had. And for a split second, Bob believed it.

Until he blinked and saw a flash of black tendrils at the edge of his vision, heard that voice whispering in the back of his head again—

“₮ⱧɆɎ ĐØ₦’₮ ₥Ɇ₳₦ ł₮. ₮ⱧɆɎ ₣Ɇ₳Ɽ ɎØɄ. ₮ⱧɆɎ ₴ⱧØɄⱠĐ. ₮ⱧɆɎ ₴ⱧØɄⱠĐ.”

Bob flinched even when no one else heard it. That’s how deep it ran.

There were days Bob looked in the mirror and couldn’t tell who was blinking back—himself, or the Void. There were seconds he lost, hours he couldn’t remember, and when he tried to look at them, they laughed—he laughed—because the darkness didn’t just come from him. It was him. A tidal wave he had to pretend he could hold back with duct tape and breathing exercises.

And now she knew. Life herself.

She knew what he was.

And she still hadn’t come.

A part of him wanted to scream at her. What are you waiting for? Kill me, stop me—do something! He wanted her to end it already, erase the Void even if it may cost him his life, before he made another mistake, another killing spree.

But deeper—quieter—something else ached.

She wasn’t coming... But it wasn’t a fixed decision either. Not until he looked the Void in the eye and told it: You don’t own me.

He didn’t know if he could do that. He barely knew who he was when he wasn’t being erased from the inside out by the Void. Because Bob’s insecurity wasn’t about strength. He knew he could move a mountain or end a war. But could he sit in a room and just exist without fearing that someone would die because he lost control? Could he ever believe someone wasn’t flinching inside when they looked at him?

He didn't believe he deserved kindness. Didn’t believe he could be fixed. He was scared to be saved—because what if they saved him, and he broke again? He wanted to be angry. Embarrassed, at least. But instead, all he felt was—

Small.

He doesn’t know who this Queen, you, is. He doesn’t know if he should be afraid or not, or if you were an arrogant asshole but... But it seemed like you didn’t speak of him like a god or a weapon or a mistake...

You spoke like someone who still saw a man.

His fingers tightened around the book. The pages crinkled slightly beneath his palm. He didn’t deserve any of this. Not her conviction. Not Bucky’s loyalty. Certainly not the faith they so freely gave him, again and again, like he hadn’t ripped half the sky open just last month trying to keep himself together.

The silence in the room returned, and still, they hadn’t noticed him.

Part of him wanted to step forward. To say something. To apologize.

Another part wanted to disappear. Back into the dark, into solitude, where no one would see the trembling that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with guilt.

People needed him, but no one wanted to know or help him. Not really.

Except maybe Bucky... And the team. After what they had willingly gone through to pull him away from the clutches of the Void... And now, her—the Queen. Life incarnate. The one who should be most afraid of what he carried inside for the potential of destruction he carried towards all the things she created, she cared about.

But she wasn’t.

She waited.

And that terrified him even more.

Because if she still believed in him…

Then maybe he didn’t have the excuse to give up anymore.

And that was almost worse than the Void.

He squeezed his hands tighter, knuckles bone-white. The noise of the Thunderbolts’ arguing faded into the background static of his mind. He couldn’t help but wince, holding onto his head a bit to silence the hateful words the Void still whispered.

₮ⱧɆɎ’ⱠⱠ ₮ɄⱤ₦ Ø₦ ɎØɄ. ɎØɄ’ⱤɆ ₦Ø₮ ₩ØⱤ₮Ⱨ ₮ⱧɆ ฿ⱤɆ₳₮Ⱨ ł₮ ₮₳₭Ɇ₴ ₮Ø ₱ł₮Ɏ ɎØɄ. ⱠɆ₮ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₮₳Ⱡ₭. ⱠɆ₮ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₴₵Ɽ₳₥฿ⱠɆ ₮Ø ₴₳VɆ ɎØɄ. ɎØɄ ₭₦Ø₩ ⱧØ₩ ₮Ⱨł₴ Ɇ₦Đ₴. ɎØɄ ₳Ⱡ₩₳Ɏ₴ Ⱨ₳VɆ-

“You are not a mistake.”

The voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a command or a demand. It was warm. Steady. Somehow familiar.

Her.

Not here physically, but it echoed through him all the same—like a thread of sunlight winding through a storm cloud. And suddenly, he could breathe. Just barely. Bob exhaled, trembling. His fists loosened. The vice around his chest didn’t disappear, but it shifted. Lightened, like the weight was now being shared. All he could hear was his heartbeat and her voice, from days ago, echoing through him like a prayer he didn’t deserve:

Life doesn’t conquer the Void. It reaches it. Offers a hand, not a sword.

And he wanted—god, he wanted—to reach back.

But what if his hand wasn’t his anymore?

He winced, flinching as if struck. One hand reached up to grip his temple, fingertips pressing hard into his skin. A sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes—not from the voice, but from his own resistance to it. The Void didn’t scream anymore. It didn’t need to.

Now, it cooed. It whispered in familiar tones, seductive and patient. It came wearing his own voice, softened with mock pity, with poisoned comfort.

₳ⱧⱧ… Ⱡł₣Ɇ, ₴₮łⱠⱠ ₳ ₱Ɇ₴₭Ɏ ₩Ø₥₳₦, ₮Ⱨł₦₭ł₦₲ ₴ⱧɆ ₵₳₦ ₱ⱤØ₮Ɇ₵₮ ɎØɄ ₣ⱤØ₥ ₥Ɇ. ₳ĐØⱤ₳฿ⱠɆ…

Bob shut his eyes, swaying slightly in place. The pressure in his skull thrummed like an earthquake waiting to breach surface. He was so tired of this. Of holding back. Of pretending his breathing didn’t feel like trying to hold the tides with trembling hands.

His heart pounded against his ribs like it wanted to be out.

The whispers didn’t vanish. The Void never did. But for once, he didn’t want to listen to it.

He didn’t want to believe in what it whispered, how it corrupted him from the inside... He only wanted to listen to You.

Your words cut deeper than any blade. Not because they hurt—but because he wanted so desperately to believe them. To deserve them. Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It lived in the marrow of him now, threaded through the cracks, gentle as a lullaby and stubborn as a vow.

You... Not here in the room. Not yet. But present in a way the Void could never understand. You lingered in him like warmth in winter, refusing to be extinguished, no matter how cold the world got. Maybe that was what you stood for, what your existence meant for the universe.

Life doesn’t conquer the Void. It reaches it. Offers a hand, not a sword.

He remembered the way she’d said it. Not as a plea. Not as some dramatic declaration. But like a truth older than the stars. One you’d lived.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bob wasn’t alone inside his own mind.

He blinked. Slowly sat upright from the crouching position he found himself just before reaching the door to the living room. His eyes—sunken, tired—lifted toward the team, still arguing, still fighting over what to do with him.

And for a heartbeat, he let himself wonder: What if I tried to believe her? Anyone?... Myself? Just once?

“…I—um…” It slipped out. Barely louder than the hum of the ceiling vent. Not a declaration. Not even a statement. More like a sound that escaped before he could smother it.

Silence fell like a guillotine. The arguing stopped.

Ava froze mid-gesture. Yelena, leaning back in her chair, tilted her head slightly, eyes worried at the obvious wincing expression of his face was still apparent. Even Bucky stilled, his expression sharpening—not with judgment, but attention.

Bob shrank in on himself slightly, shoulders tensing as if expecting a blow. He didn’t look at anyone. Just stared down at the floor, fingers twitching around the hem of his sleeve.

“…I heard what she said,” he murmured, almost to himself. “About… being ready.”

Silence stretched. It made the air feel thick. “I don’t know what that means. Not really,” he went on, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I—I don’t feel ready. I don’t even feel real half the time. Like I’m just… holding space until the bad part wakes up again.”

His chest hitched with the start of a breath he didn’t want to finish. He dug his nails into his palms. No one moved. The air was heavy, like the room itself was holding its breath.

“I’m scared of what’s in me. Scared of me.” His voice shook now, just a little, like it was something fragile being held too tightly. He couldn’t help but shake a bit, or maybe it was the tower itself, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was overwhelmed and that there was a small quake on where he stood

“Bob, you don’t have to-” Bucky started, feeling a bit guilty that he didn’t first explain it to him when they were alone. He knew how the team could be so reckless and loud when it came to secrets or a secret plan. Hell, even Val might have heard at this point and he wouldn’t know. However, considering the head space Bob was in most of the days, he cared about his...friend, as reluctant as he was to call him, and his well-being, more than a bitch who uses anything and anyone for her benefit.

“N-No... I need to let it out, I need to speak.” It was a plea, it almost sounded like a plea by how breathless and pained it left Bob. So much so that even John had lowered his guards and listened to him with a complex look on his face. Understanding. Apprehension. Confusion. Care.

After Bucky’s nod of approval, Bob took a deep breath, put his book down on the table awkwardly and looked at his friends, the friends he was going to explain the dark side of him for the first time.

“Every time I think maybe I can try again, I hear it. Him. The Void. It tells me all the ways I’ll fail. All the ways I’ll hurt people again. And part of me… starts to believe it.”

His hands dropped from his sleeves and curled into fists on his knees. White-knuckled.

“But I heard her. Just now. In my head. And it felt… lighter. Not fixed. Just… not so loud.” he gave a small smile to himself, lips curling lopsidedly as he lifted his head and gave a determined no to his friends who were listening to him.

“She said I wasn’t a mistake. And for a second—just a second—it felt like I could breathe.”

His voice faltered for a moment, but he didn’t stop this time. He took a step forward the team, his team, his friends... The ones who willingly went into the Void despite knowing they would see their darkest fears, just to save him.

He owed this much to them.

“I didn’t even know I wanted to breathe,” he chuckled humorlessly, eyes still downcast, lashes heavy with something unspoken as he threw his arms carelessly, as if what he is saying didn’t matter too much. “I’ve been holding everything in for so long—like if I let even a little of it out, it’d swallow me. Swallow all of you.”

Ironıc, isn’t it? For a being who could show the biggest fears a person might have to that same person, he was afraid to reveal his own, to the only people that mattered to him know. Maybe he didn’t want to be seen weak, or bother them when they all had their troubles to deal with, besides the fact that he might have traumatized them quite badly. His breath hitched, and he rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye—not crying, not really, but too close for comfort.  He laughed, but it was broken, breathless. More of a release than a sound of humor. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. One sentence from a goddess and suddenly I think maybe I’m not cursed? Or maybe it wasn’t even her, maybe my fucked up m-mind is making u-up things...” he waved his hand dismissively as if he was speaking nonsense but still risked a glance up. Not at all of them. Just Bucky. The one who had gone to her. The one who hadn’t given up.

Bucky smiled at him brotherly, nodding at him. “It’s not stupid... She does that sometimes.”

“I think…” He faltered again after a smile, swallowing hard. “I think I want to try. If… if someone shows me how.”

He looked up again. Not just at Bucky this time. At all of them.

The room didn’t erupt. No one clapped or consoled him. But no one looked away, either. Ava, whose guarded stance had softened into something like protective stillness.Yelena, who now leaned forward, fingers laced together, eyes watching him like he wasn’t a threat, but a person. Even John—arms slack, frown etched deeper—not cold or dismissive, but present. Listening.

“I’m not asking for you to fix me. I don’t think anyone can.” Bob’s voice dropped lower. “But I think… if I have to carry this… I don’t want to do it alone anymore.”

His shoulders trembled, and his small, self-effacing smile flickered back. The kind someone makes when they’re afraid of what comes next.

“I think that’s what she meant. When she said I had to be ready.”

Then, softer, almost like he was testing the words in his mouth for the first time in years-

“I think I am.”

And for once, Bob didn’t feel like a monster being studied... as his friends smiled at him, all of them carrying their own way of genuine care for him as he found himself doing the same, releasing the breath he was holding. That was their way of silently encouraging him, a silent gesture of  “You are not alone.”...

He felt like a man, asking for help... That was when he heard it.

Beep.

Soft. Sharp. Out of place.

Bucky’s brow furrowed.

Beep-beep.

The sound was coming from his pocket. Mechanical, almost crystalline. Faintly melodic. Everyone turned toward him as he reached in, fingers closing around the cool, unfamiliar weight of the device—the one the Queen had given him when they last spoke. The one she said to use only when the time was right.

When he was ready.

He drew it out slowly.

A small disc, no larger than his palm, etched with ancient runes that shimmered faintly beneath the surface. It had been inert for days—dull, cold, unresponsive. But now it pulsed with light, soft and golden, like the first break of dawn and the little wings sprouting from it now fluttering, creating a glowing halo. Her insignia—a sigil shaped like a blooming star cradled by twin arcs—glowed at its center.

It was responding.

Bob’s breath caught in his throat. The glowing light from the device reflected off the metal around the room, casting soft golden halos that danced across his face and the floor—but his eyes stayed locked on it. Unblinking. Disbelieving. Like it wasn’t real.

“It’s her,” Bucky said, his voice quiet with awe, laced with certainty. “She knows.”

The glow intensified for a moment, then dimmed to a steady rhythm—heartbeat-like. Not urgent. Not demanding.

Just… ready.

The device warmed in Bucky’s hand, and a voice—not a full message, but a feeling—brushed against his thoughts. Gentle. Reassuring. Her voice, even if it didn’t speak words, rang inside his mind.

He is ready. And I am waiting.

The rest of the Thunderbolts didn’t speak, but the shift in the room was palpable. Yelena crossed her arms with a soft exhale—half scoff, half smile. It was the kind of smile that didn't quite reach her eyes—a guarded, skeptical expression she wore whenever things felt too strange for her liking.

“Of course she’s watching. Creepy glowing Queen of the cosmos…” But the words were hollow, and Yelena could feel it. She didn’t want to admit it, but there was something undeniably… comforting about the idea of the Queen watching and the device starting to activate when Bob finally explained his thoughts to them. Something that made her feel less alone in this chaos, even if she couldn’t bring herself to fully accept it...because of the past.

The past of her, Natasha...and the so-called Life that didn’t do anything to save her sister, despite being close friends.

Ava stepped back slightly, eyes narrowing at the device like it might explode. “Are we seriously going to Asgard right now?”

John just rubbed a hand across his jaw, glancing from Bucky to Bob, then back to the still-glowing disc. “Guess the gods are calling.”

“Well,” she said with a small shrug, trying to reclaim some of her usual nonchalance, as he glanced at Bob. “if she’s waiting for you, then I guess it’s your call. But don’t expect me to be all warm and fuzzy about it.” She shot a wry smile at him, as if to soften the edges of her words. “I’m not exactly a fan of gods popping in to solve my problems.”

Bob continued to stare at it, wide-eyed. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Bucky stood and turned toward him, still holding the device as it pulsed between his fingers like a living thing.

“You said you wanted someone to show you how,” he said gently. “She’s the only one who can. And I think she’s been waiting for this moment longer than either of us knew.”

The device glowed once more—brighter now. Not as a warning.

As a doorway.

[strawb3rryg2l]

How to lose 'Bob' in 10 Days, Part 2

Characters: Bob x Y/N, Robert Reynolds x Y/N, Sentry x Y/N, The Void x Y/N

Summary: You thought you'd lost, your husband, Robert Reynolds forever. Consumed by the Void and the chaos it left behind. But then you woke up in a world not your own. One where he's alive. Where he goes by Bob. Where he doesn't know you. To him, you’re a stranger. You have 10 days to lose him, before everything falls apart. But the cracks are already forming. Time stutters. Reality bends. And something followed you here, something made of grief, memory, and everything you refused to let die. As you try to lose Bob in 10 days, the world unravels with every lie you tell yourself. You’ll have to make an impossible choice: hold on to the man you love, or face the truth and finally let him go. Because if you don’t... this world won’t just end. You might go with it.

Word Count: 3,724

Warnings: A dark twisted version of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, spooky, creepy, Spoilers maybe? (Please let me know if I should add anymore.)

Note from the author: This is my work, and I will be posting on here and @ strawb3rrygal on Archivesofourown. Keep in mind these are my ONLY TWO accounts. Please feel free to reblog if you like it! I've been working on this one as I write my other fic 'The Temp' which you can also check out if you'd like.

New here? Go back in time -> Part 1 Done with Part 1 and 2 -> Part 3

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Y/N didn’t want to go out.

But Tara had been persistent. “You need to stop living in your head,” she said, eyeliner sharp. “Even if it’s just for one night.”

Marlene seconded it with her usual warmth. “Come on, love. You haven’t had a drink in weeks. We’ll take care of you.”

So Y/N let herself be pulled out into the city’s blur of neon and cigarette smoke, thumping bass and soft laughter. The bar was warm, cozy, cluttered with mismatched furniture and bathed in amber light. A small band played near the back, their sound quieting conversations and clinking glasses. She let Tara drag her toward the booth in the corner, Marlene ordering a drink. Y/N sat, half-listening. Her mind wandered like it always did now. Things still didn’t feel right. She still had the lingering sensation that she was a piece of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit. The voices of her friends came and went in waves, drifting past her like white noise. 

It wasn’t until she turned her head half-heartedly scanning the room that she saw him. She blinked.

At the far end of the bar, under the low hanging pendant light, sat a man alone. Elbows on the counter. Quiet. Thoughtful. A glass of something in front of him. He wasn’t talking to anyone. He wasn’t smiling. She couldn’t see his face clearly, not yet. Just the shape of his shoulders. The curl of his hair. His posture. The way his fingers toyed with the rim of his glass.

Her stomach twisted.

It couldn’t be.

“Hey,” Tara snapped her fingers in front of her. “Earth to Y/N?”

“Hm? Sorry.” She turned back, but her gaze flicked over again. The man shifted. He leaned back a little. Light hit his cheek. It was almost Robert. Almost.

Her chest tightened not in recognition, but dissonance. The nose was slightly different. The jawline softer, less rigid. He wore black, but not a suit, just a t-shirt, plain and worn. His hair was tousled in a way Robert would have hated. He looked alive. Present. But...not right.

“Who’s that?” she asked, interrupting Tara mid-story.

“Who?” Marlene leaned over.

“That guy. At the bar. Alone.”

Marlene followed her gaze. “No idea. Cute, though. You want me to—?”

“No,” Y/N said, too quickly. She stood up before she could think better of it. “I’m gonna get some air.”

But she didn’t go outside.

She wandered toward the bar.

Not directly. She kept her distance. Walked slowly. Pretended to look at the drink list posted behind the counter. Her fingers drummed against the side of her thigh. Every step made her heart beat louder. Louder than the music. Louder than the chatter.

He didn’t notice her.

Not yet.

Up close, he was even more strange. Familiar. Unfamiliar. There was a scar on his knuckle that Robert never had. His eyes, when they glanced sideways, catching hers just briefly weren’t the exact same shade. Greyer, maybe. Or just colder.

But when he nodded at her in that polite, wordless way it made her breath catch. Something in her wanted to run.

Something else, something deeper, wanted to ask him his name. It’s what she needed to do anyway, right? She wanted desperately to convince herself this is why she wanted to talk with him. The only reason being that her job required she lose an Avenger romantically in ten days, nothing more, and well… she supposed nothing less.

Maybe she also wanted to figure out what the hell was going on. Why this Bob looked like her beloved husband? And maybe she also wanted to see him close up, the freckles that lined his face, did he smell like her Robert? This was too much. She huffed, exasperated. She needed some liquid courage. She turned in her seat and called over the bartender. Two tequila lemonades.

The drink tasted more like tequila than lemonade. She swallowed both drinks before she had time to process if this was a good idea. With an audible ekh and a scrunch of her face, she breathed in and out, grabbed her purse, and moved toward where Bob was sitting.

She tried to exuberate confidence, hide the nerves from her features. Her gray dress swayed like smoke as she crossed the floor. The low amber lights flickered above her like ghosts, shadows slipping past her heels. The band in the back began packing up, soft acoustic giving way to a thudding pulse. A new song clicking into the speakers with industrial synths and a Berlin-style bassline that rolled like thunder underwater.

The energy shifted. The room darkened. It felt like stepping through a threshold. Like stepping into a dream she didn’t remember having. She didn’t hesitate. She couldn’t afford to. If she did, she’d turn and run.

She slid onto the stool beside him before she could second-guess herself, her movement fluid, practiced. Like muscle memory. The sleeve of her dress slipped slightly off her shoulder, intentional or not, exposing the soft line of her collarbone to the light.

He glanced at her. Slowly. Not surprised, not wary, just aware. Present. The way someone might glance at a stormcloud on the horizon. Not yet threatening. But worth noting.

“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” he said, voice low, voice wrong. Not Robert’s. Not quite. A little rougher. Less precise.

“No?” she replied, mirroring his calm, trying to keep her breathing even. “What do I look like, then?”

He looked at her fully this time. His eyes weren’t the same. Not exactly. They had depth, but none of the warmth she remembered. They were colder. But not cruel. Analytical.

“Like someone who’s somewhere they don’t quite believe exists.”

Her mouth went dry.

“Is that your way of saying I’m out of place?”

“Maybe.” He turned back to his glass, letting the rim kiss his lip before taking a sip. “Maybe you’re… just lost.”

She laughed softly, the sound catching in her throat. “Aren’t we all?”

He gave a half-smile at that.  There was a silence then. Not awkward, but weighty. She watched his fingers. They were similar to Robert’s same shape, same veins beneath skin but the way he tapped the glass, the rhythm of his breath, even the angle of his jaw… all just slightly off. Like a song she used to know being played in a different key.

She cleared her throat. “I’m Y/N.”

He nodded, almost slow enough to miss. “Bob.”

“Is that short for something?” she asked, casually, because it was a lifeline she needed.

“Could be,” he said, smiling into his drink. “But most people don’t ask.”

She tilted her head. “I’m not most people.”

“I figured that much out already.”

The beat dropped the music behind them warping slightly, echoing through the floor and into the soles of her shoes. It made her feel unsteady, or maybe that was just him. Just this.

“You come here often?” she asked, voice a little sharper, shielding her own nerves with a blade. Trying to engage in some flirty banter.

“Not really,” he said, setting his glass down. “I tend to avoid places like this.”

She raised a brow. “Then why now?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned in, just slightly, enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne sandalwood and something darker beneath. Not Robert’s. Not hers. Something new.

“I guess I was waiting for someone interesting to talk to.”

Her heart thudded in her ribs.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Something knowing. Or maybe she imagined it. Maybe her brain was just reaching, grasping for anything to tether her to the past she couldn’t make sense of anymore. She smiled.

“So here I am.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, swirling the last of his drink in the lowball glass. The ice clinked like wind chimes in a dark room. Something flickered in Y/N’s peripheral not light exactly, but a shift, a disturbance, like when a person stands just close enough to your shadow to alter its shape.

Before she could turn her head to see what it was, Bob stood.

“You’re leaving already?” she asked, trying and failing to hide the disappointment that slipped into her voice.

He nodded once. His eyes flickered over her shoulder, toward something or someone. “It was nice seeing you… Y/N.”

The way he said her name made her still.

It sounded like Robert. Not just in voice, that wasn’t it. It was in the rhythm, the weight he gave it. The reverence. Like her name meant something. Like it still did. Her throat closed. Her fingers gripped the edge of the bar. She watched him turn, his silhouette sliding back into the haze of bodies and colored light.

She didn’t know what to do with herself. For a second, she just sat there. Her heart pounded in her ribs, uncertain. Her brain tripped over itself, trying to be logical. It’s fine. It’s over. You did enough. He’s gone. But that aching part of her, the one that still dreamed in grayscale, screamed louder. Go after him.

She blinked. Took a shaky breath. And maybe it was because of the column she was going to write that she did it, but she stood.

It took everything, every ounce of courage, pride, adrenaline, to push off the stool and into the crowd. The bar had filled while she was with him. Shapes jostled and blurred. Laughter spiked and broke like glass. That pulsing, guttural bass rolled through her, louder now. The music had warped into something dark and surreal a synth-drenched, Berlin-style rave track that shook the walls and made the world feel distorted, hyperreal.

Her heels clicked against the old wooden floor. She moved fast, scanning for him, tall, broad, dark shirt, her eyes darting past couples, past dancing limbs and swinging lights. She caught him near the door. He was paused, one hand on the frame, like he was deciding whether to stay or vanish.

“Wait,” she called.

He turned slow again, like gravity fought him.

“Can I—” she faltered as she got close, breathless. “Can I get your number?”

His gaze was unreadable. The light caught just enough of his face to remind her how close he looked. How far he really was.

“You want my number?” he repeated.

She nodded, suddenly aware of how hot her skin felt under her dress, of how exposed she was in every sense of the word. “In case I… in case I want to talk again.”

For a long beat, he said nothing. Then, that half-smile again. Quiet. Careful.

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pen, not a phone, and gently took her hand. Her heart jumped at the contact, soft and sudden. He scribbled a number across her palm. Not a name. Just a number.

“You sure you’ll call?” he asked, his voice lower now, like the question was meant for her and some shadow version of her heart.

“I might,” she answered, the corner of her mouth curling.

Another beat passed between them electric, reverent, unreal. And then he stepped out into the night. The door swung shut behind him, muting the sound for half a second. When it clicked closed, it felt like a chapter being sealed.

Y/N stood there, staring at the number inked onto her skin. Her breath came in shallow pulls.

Who the hell are you, Bob?

She walked back to the booth on unsteady legs, as if the floor had shifted under her while she’d been gone like gravity had slightly changed its rules. Her dress swayed at her knees with each step, and her fingers curled instinctively into her palm, clutching the number he’d written. The ink had smudged slightly with sweat, a soft blur of dark lines against her skin.

Tara spotted her first. She lit up like a firecracker. “Who was that?!” she shouted over the thudding bass, her voice riding the wave of electronic pulses now thundering through the speakers.

“The new Avenger Elise wanted me to date, if you’d believe it.” Y/N slid back into the booth beside them, shrugging like it was no big deal. She hoped her smile looked cool and detached, even though her heart still hadn’t quite slowed. Her skin buzzed with adrenaline and something else, something far less manageable.

Nothing about her felt nonchalant. Not the way her body still leaned in the direction he’d gone. Not the way her pulse beat in her throat. Not the way she kept rubbing the inside of her thumb over the numbers on her palm like she needed to remind herself they were real.

Tara’s eyes went wide. “That guy?” She whistled, dramatic and impressed. “Elise has taste.”

“Good for you!” Marlene said, nudging her playfully. “I don’t know how you’ll ever lose him in ten days — that man is gorgeous.”

Y/N forced a laugh. “I’ll find a way.”

That was the mission, wasn’t it? Ten days. Break his heart. Report back. Easy enough. She’d done harder things. She’d faked deeper smiles. And yet, when she leaned forward to grab her half-finished drink, she realized her hand was trembling. She took a long sip, trying to still it.

These versions of Tara and Marlene, these strange, nearly-right reflections of her best friends didn’t know. They didn’t know anything about her husband. About Robert. About the night she watched the man she loved become someone else entirely. To them, she’d never been married. Never watched a god break down in her arms. Never grieved a man. She was just Y/N here. Just the girl assigned to seduce and leave a hero.

And yet he said her name like Robert used to.

The memory stung like a paper cut. Small, sharp, and unexpectedly painful.

“I’m proud of you,” Tara said suddenly, her voice cutting through the noise. She leaned in, sincerity softening her features. “Seriously. You’ve been floating lately, like you’re not all the way here. I was starting to get worried.”

Marlene nodded, looping her arm around Y/N’s shoulder. “He looked at you like he saw you.”

Y/N looked down, her breath catching. That’s what scared her most. He had. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. She just gave a half-smile, tipping the rest of her drink back.

The music shifted again, the beat deepening, crowd pressing in tighter. The strobe lights danced over faces and glasses, over lipstick smears and glistening eyes.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” Y/N mumbled, standing again. She needed to breathe. Needed to think. She slid through the crowd, shoulder brushing strangers, the warmth of bodies a dull throb around her. In the hallway past the bar, she leaned against the cool tile of the wall and finally opened her hand. The number had faded slightly, but it was still legible. A quiet thread tethering her to something or someone who shouldn’t exist.

The bathroom was empty. Dim lighting flickered overhead, casting sharp shadows on the tiled walls. Y/N stood at the sink, staring at her reflection like it might offer answers like it might morph into something she recognized. But all she saw was herself: hair slightly messy, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed from alcohol and adrenaline.

She ran cold water over her hands. It helped a little. But when she looked up again, she wasn’t alone. There was a woman behind her in the mirror. Not in the room. Just in the reflection.

Y/N froze, breath caught in her throat. The woman stood perfectly still in one of the bathroom stalls, the door wide open behind her. She was pale, barefoot, wearing what looked like a dark trenchcoat. Her eyes were impossibly dark, like bruises like ink bleeding through paper.

And she was staring right at her. 

Y/N turned around fast.

The stall was empty.

Silence settled over her like dust.

She turned back to the mirror.

No one.

She blinked, her fingers curling tight around the porcelain sink. Maybe it was the tequila. Or the music, the lights, the emotional whiplash of the last hour. Maybe she was seeing things. This reality wasn’t her own, after all. Strange echoes came with the territory.

Still, her heart wouldn’t calm. Just as she reached for a paper towel, the bathroom door creaked open behind her. She flinched, shoulders going stiff. But it was only a woman in a red dress, humming softly as she walked past her into a stall. No ink-eyed ghost. No figment from the other side.

“Get it together,” Y/N muttered under her breath, drying her hands.

She stepped back into the bar’s main hallway, head still spinning. The crowd had thickened, music deeper now, vibrating in her bones. She started back toward Tara and Marlene when she felt it, that same tug. That flicker. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted.

Y/N turned.

In the narrow corridor near the fire exit, just past a “STAFF ONLY” door, something moved.

A figure, tall. Male. He stepped halfway into the light, enough for her to see the side of his face. He was watching her. Bob. But he was supposed to be gone. He had left, hadn’t he? Her breath hitched.

She hesitated for just a second, then took a step toward him.

“Bob?” she asked, louder than she meant to.

He didn’t speak. Just tilted his head, like he was studying her. And then he turned and slipped through the “STAFF ONLY” door. Y/N didn’t think. She followed. The door creaked open to reveal a narrow staircase, lit faintly by flickering yellow bulbs overhead. It smelled of old wood, beer, and something metallic underneath. She gripped the railing and started down, each step groaning beneath her.

“Bob?” she tried again, her voice lower now.

No answer.

The stairwell emptied into what looked like an unused lounge, long-abandoned couches, broken jukebox, crates of dusty glassware. It was cold down here. Quiet, compared to the storm of music upstairs. The silence had a hum to it. Her eyes scanned the room, heartbeat climbing. He was nowhere. But something lay on one of the tables. She stepped forward. It was a photo. Old. Worn. Curled at the corners. She picked it up slowly. It was a picture of Robert.

Her Robert, not Bob. Not the one upstairs in the bar.

He was standing in front of a government building, arms crossed, wearing his full suit. The Sentry. The man she loved. His eyes were softer than she remembered, almost at peace. A rare moment of calm captured. Her fingers trembled. There was writing on the back. She turned it.

“Do you remember the first version of him?” —D

Her breath left her in a slow, shocked exhale. The air in the room shifted, like something unseen had just moved behind her. She stood frozen, the photograph trembling slightly in her hand.

Do you remember the first version of him?

The words burned into her mind, inked in an unfamiliar script, precise, slanted, too clean. The “D” was signed like a whisper, and yet it roared in her ears. It made her feel like she was being watched. Her breath quickened. There was something wrong with the air. It was heavier now. Denser. She turned slowly, eyes scanning the room, the cracked furniture, the shadows stretching far too long for the size of the space.

She didn’t want to say it out loud. But something down here felt wrong. “Who’s there?” she asked, voice quieter than she meant.

No reply. Just the low buzz of a dying lightbulb above her, the faint drip of water in some unseen pipe. And then  footsteps. Not hers. Not above her. Below.

From another room just past the shadowed hallway.

Y/N took a step back. Every instinct told her to run. That the hallway, the basement, the photograph, none of it made sense. This wasn��t just a weird dream of a night. Something had cracked beneath the surface. And now the wrong things were seeping through.

But something else inside her, the same thing that made her follow Bob down here in the first place, told her not to leave yet. To keep going. She pocketed the photo and moved toward the hallway. It was narrow, pitch-black at the end. She reached for her phone to use its flashlight, and just as she lifted it—

click.

The hallway light snapped on by itself. Y/N flinched. The room beyond was small. Storage-like. But on the far wall, written in red across the crumbling plaster, was a phrase:

“HE DOESN’T REMEMBER YOU. BUT HE WILL.”

Her heartbeat thundered. Then came the sound of the “STAFF ONLY” door upstairs slamming shut. She turned fast, bolting out of the room and up the stairs, her heels pounding on wood that suddenly felt brittle beneath her. She burst through the door and found herself back in the crowded bar, lights too bright, music far too loud.

Everything looked the same. But she didn’t feel the same. She staggered back toward the main room, disoriented, her friends nowhere in sight. She didn’t realize she was shaking until someone caught her arm.

“Y/N?” a familiar voice.

She looked up.

Bob.

He wasn’t smiling. But his brows were furrowed, eyes focused on her like he was seeing through her.

“You alright?” he asked.

Her mouth opened. Closed. The words felt caught in her throat.

“I… I think someone’s messing with me.”

Bob’s expression didn’t shift. Not much. But she swore something flickered behind his gaze.

“Where did you go?”

“The basement,” she whispered. “There’s a hallway… a room. Someone left a photo of—” she stopped herself. She didn’t know if she should say his name.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t ask what she meant. He just glanced toward the back of the bar.

“There’s no basement here,” he said. Her stomach dropped.

“What?”

“I’ve been coming here for years. This place doesn’t have a basement.”

Y/N took a step back, her world tilting. But before she could speak again, Bob stepped forward, slowly, and leaned in, his voice brushing just above her ear.

“You should be careful,” he said, low. “There are things here that wear familiar faces.”

And then he pulled back, turned, and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

Y/N stood motionless, her pulse roaring. The photo burned like a weight in her pocket.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's post note: I wanted to have a layer of mystery and spookiness so I hope I succeeded hehe

[tategaminu]

I need to get this off my chest about the TDP fandom. I have seen a lot lately of vagueblogging complaining about (wait for it) vagueblogging. Listen here‚ everyone has their own of way of vent with things. "Screaming into the void" doesn't work for me‚ venting on my blog does because I like feeling like someone is hearing me. If I want to vagueblog shitting on people not tagging things correctly I will. If I want to say TDP Reddit has incel energy or that animation reviwers' opinions suck ass I will. May I sound condescending? Yeah sure. Do I think my opinions are sometimes a lot better than the average redditor? Of course‚ why wouldn't I? Do you like it? No? Then don't follow me‚ simple as that. This is my blog. Mine. This is how I cope with things that bother me.

At the end of the day‚ trying to shut down people who express their opinions like this is is another form of censorship. Just as you don't want to shut negative opinions from mediocre youtubers (even if you don't agree) you shouldn't censor negative opinions against negative opinions as long and there's no harrassment involved. I'm pretty sure the average redditor won't care we bash their opinions here‚ I'm sure a youtuber with 500k subs gives a gigantic shit about a random Tumblr user saying they are poopoo. Let people have their opinions‚ even if they are toward other people. You can always block and you are definitely not free of being disliked.

Also‚ if some people from the fandom got beef with each other and they start leaking private conversations I beg you‚ for the love of god‚ not asume stuff or take sides until you know the full thing. Not only sharing private chats publicy is super shady and a violation of privacy (I believe that if the other person isn't threatening or harassing you‚ you shouldn't leak private conversations even if censored. It's another thing to vent in private with a friend for example) you don't know how much of the conversation is cut‚ you don't know how petty the people involved may be‚ their state of mind or their actual relationship or dynamic. As someone who has suffered from difamation irl it just sucks when people take the other person's side without hearing yours. It's normal to support a friend and you are bound to believe them yes but to blindly believe everything and shun that person when you only know one part? They may be Aaravos people who don't say the whole truth. I learnt a while ago‚ that no matter what people tell me‚ I won't go against the other person because it's not my fight. A lot of people stopped talking to me and my parents because stuff my sister in law kept saying to everyone. Some stuff wasn't true and some were things that happened but were cut in half for her own convenience. We are of course all humans and a lot of times taking sides isn't out of malice‚ you just want to support your friend even if that means banning the opposite side.

I'm also so tired of the whole "let's beat purity culture! But oh! If someone doesn't hold my ideals then they are a huge anti on disguise or SJW!!" Things don't work like this. Some people make me uncomfortable over the things they ship and I don't want them close. Do you think that makes me an anti even tho I don't harrass anyone and I actually let them do whatever they want? Or I'm just an human with her own icks? Can I say in my own damn blog "I fcking hate [ship I find weird] and I would rather not interact with their shippers" with proper tags? These are my damn opinions!

You don't actually need to respect everyone's opinions‚ you don't need to accept everyone's opinions but you can surely avoid people that annoy you and continue with your day. The blockity block exists. Let people manage their own experience online‚ we are here to have fun after all :]

This is all sounds very messy but I don't care. My vent is done. I hope it sells the message. I love yall guys‚ I love the fandom and I will be here for many years but understand everyone needs to vent once in a while :3.

[review-anon]

Then they get roasted by Foghorn Leghorn!

Huh? Why's the monitor turning on?

Maybe Review Anon wants to show us something!

I doubt it, last I heard was that she's locked in her office and just doing well....reviews.

She definitely wouldn't have time to do a video for us.

Maybe its not Review Anon but rather Mikado?

Erm....would he just come and show up and tell us instead?

Yeah I don't think this is anyone we know-

*Suddenly the monitor turns on to show a image*

*All the Voids look confused at the image*

Erm....okay who is putting a image of a giant-

NOW YA SEE HERE, KIDS! YOU VOID KIDS ARE ALL DARN STUPID!

Waaaggghhh! The chicken is talking to us!

Calm down Iroha I'm sure everything will be fine-

IT AIN'T FINE BOY! YOU KIDS THINK IF YOU BREAK DOWN THE MIND OF THAT YUKI MAEDA KID, AND REPLACE HIM WITH THE MIND OF YOUR OLD MASTER -Bless his soul- , THE VOODOO MAGIC HE HAD WILL COME BACK? WELL LET ME TELL YA, IT AIN'T. WHY WOULD THIS "DIVINE LUCK" COME BACK TO THE LAD BECAUSE HE HAD IT PREVIOUSLY! ITS GONE! ALL YA KIDS ARE DOING IS TRAUMATISING A POOR LAD FOR NO DAMN REASON!

*The monitor turns off*

.....

....

.....

...Did we just get roasted by a cartoon bird?

How? It doesn't feel warm in here?

More importantly about what that bird said...

Just ignore it. Its just a cartoon, it doesn't understand what we went through.

[simcardiac-arrested]

never volunteer for anything university related man. also go listen to this

[distance-does-not-matter]

sincerity is perhaps the most important thing in the world

[maeral33n]

This is a follow up post to my mums commentary on Arcane now that the last episodes are out. So spoilers ahead, obviously.

(Previous post)

Season 2 act 3:

Episode 7-

Mum:…wait…is that Mylo??

Me: Yup!

Mum: Oh god he looks awful in this timeline. I’m kinda glad he died.

Me: 😨

(I think my mother has just experienced major character development)

—

Mum: I didn’t think Ekko and Jinx liked each other like that?

Me: In this timeline they do I fear. And in this timeline she still goes by Powder.

Mum: Right…it’s so weird seeing everyone alive and happy. It feels uncanny.

Me: Yeah.

(No hate on TimeBomb or anything I just don’t personally ship them lmao)

Episode 8-

*THAT scene starts*

Mum: Oh so they’re actually doing it aren’t they?

Me, trying to keep a straight face: Yeah, looks like.

Mum:…

Mum: Why are they doing it in a jail cell? 🤨

Me: I DON’T KNOW MA!

(Iykyk)

Episode 9-

Mum: I do not understand what’s going on but it’s really pretty.

—

*Watches Jayce and Viktor in their final moments together.*

Mum: Are they gay too?

Me, shrugs: Yeah probably.

Mum, shakes her head: I guess I should have seen that coming.

(WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN!? 😭)

—

Mum, actually on the verge of tears: Wait…so you mean to tell me, that I spent the entire time watching season one hating on Jinx. Started liking her in season 2. Only to have her killed in the end?

Me, actually crying: Yep 🥺

And that concludes my mothers commentary of the series. And her final verdict on the show overall:

“Amazing show, probably the best I’ve seen so far. Didn’t think I’d enjoy this much, I saw the flashy animation and characters and thought that’s all it would be. But it actually had a story to tell. I will say the ending kind of confused me a bit, somethings I just didn’t understand. But overall it’s really good. Oh and Jinx, I now see why she’s your favourite character.”

So sad to see this series is over, there’s still so much I have to process about the ending. I’m gonna have so much fun analysing and scrubbing through every frame for every little bit of detail.

[enjoyvoidblack]

our big post was getting long and it won't let me message so I thought I'd just come bother you here asldkfjsad I am like. so 1000% certain there is mention in the text that the initial purpose and efforts of Jonah and the Institute were to research the fears and prevent their many catastrophes, and that somewhere along the line he came to the conclusion that this wasn't viable, that the world and the fears simply didn't function in a way that was conducive to meaningfully stopping them from doing anything. which was how he settled into the position of 'well then I am going to use the instruments of power to save ME and build a ladder to free myself personally from their clutches forever' I def don't know when he started to turn from that, but i'll have to go back through the transcripts and find it again.

I do get that the narrative is written with Jon as the focal point, and that doesn't leave a lot of room for Elias to be sympathetic--he certainly doesn't make himself sympathetic TO Jon, or any of the Archives crew (beyond what I find to be an interesting amount of patience, understanding, and restraint he shows for them), but I still think like. Part of the beauty of Jonny's storytelling is that there is a kernel of completely understandable humanity to most everyone that's presented with any depth in the series, even the people we DON'T like. The "people here don't have excuses, they have causes" is again really excellent wording. There isn't really a lot of the usual karmic style reasoning or justice in this series; it isn't about Good People doing Good Things or Bad People doing Bad Things, it's just. People Doing Things, while under the influence of powers that are at once cosmic and beyond us, and inherently OF us.

adsfkjas this is getting long too I'm so sorry you activated a trap card here but idk. He absolutely is both manipulator and victim. He did all that shit, and all the while it's being done TO him, and he's walking this incredibly razor thin line between feeding his god/being empowered by it, and bc of it's nature knowing in intimate detail every nasty thing that awaits him should he fail (and I think being deathly afraid of it). That gif from Knives Out lmfao, compels me.

(apologies this probably isn't hugely coherent but there we are)

Thank you I am chewing on this ask violently. You Get It.

Unfortunate that tumblr killed your paragraph breaks, because I now can't find the section easily, but that thing about Jonny's character work in this series entirely consisting of aspects of "completely understandable humanity" is SO deeply how I feel about it. This is part of why I love horror of this kind so much. The horror being the fact that no one can really do anything to stop it opens up a space where the characters don't need to be presented along clear lines of good and evil, or even helping a cause or hurting it. It's a lot closer to how real people react in a natural disaster, if anything. There is love and selfishness and incredible acts of violence and cruelty and understandable failings and greed and fear, and pretty much all of it has a root that you can see, if you know enough about the people doing it and the circumstances to really feel where their mindset must be. I'd say Elias is functionally the closest thing TMA has to a narrative scapegoat, but that doesn't mean he is one. I almost feel like he's there as a pressure valve for the story, to be a villain if people need one to make sense of what's going on without having to constantly confront head-on the horror of the way the setting traps everyone in it. He can be made that kind of scapegoat, but only really by ignoring the parallels to Jon and the letters sent to him in older statements, and the way both show how the Fears drive the people who learn about them into more and more desperate straits.

It's kind of like that with all the older avatars. Simon Fairchild throws people off of stuff for a joke, because he's had more than 400 years of being steeped in the knowledge that humanity is both insignificant in the span of the universe, as well as utterly incapable of stopping the course of the Fears as they exert whatever influence they will by the force of sheer bulk. Peter Lukas never had a chance - he was born into this, isolation was his family and religion and paradoxically from childhood his only possible road to belonging. Adelard Dekker thought he was helping, as did Gertrude, even as they both fed the things that claimed them alongside those efforts. Nikola Orsinov was so far away from having an identity anymore that she couldn't go back if she wanted to, if she had even had enough left to want. Her world would have just been a home that was more like herself, and who hasn't wanted that? They're easier to vilify because their outlooks are harder to understand until the very end of the series, but looking back it's so clear that they were also just people once, and the writing never really lets you forget that.

If I said I'd tried to make all of these replies short, you probably wouldn't believe me. And Yet. I am not NORMAL about this show and the way Jonny writes people.

[harrowson--ford]

Life has been hectic lately, so fics have kind of fallen to the wayside for the moment. Buuuut, hoping to be back soon! For being so patient with me, here's a little sneaky of the first chapter of Isn't it Lovely.

[scatteredshowersposts]

i got really mad when my wife said "i hate shion" and then "he reminds me of you" when i showed her no. 6 but recently i realized she hates the characters she has crushes on

[thegayestofartists]

OTL struggle is real, chat

[katzenklavierr]

It's literally only been eight hours since The Incident (spilling water on my PC and frying my motherboard) and I'm losing my mind sfdgsdfgsdfg

Needless to say I am hopelessly dependent on the machine (annoyed bc there's things I want to do but they're on my desktop and my 10 y/o laptop is struggling just running youtube in the background while I do other stuff)

[actual-changeling]

my therapist be like "you communicate just fine" ok then why does no one ever understand what i mean

[meatriarchived]

( white blank page. )

[silverduckie]

Anyway, privated my 3 am screech to the void because like... eh, venting about strangers not owning up to their shit isn't productive for anyone actually.

[malusrecord]

((I'm really fuckin sad that I feel that I'm not able to engage with a fando/m that I truly love and adore with all my heart---or that my engagement isn't wanted within said space, to be a bit more precise, close friends know more concrete details and I won't go into it in full here---and how it's such a strongly cemented impression (and some bad experiences have not helped, nor has the size of the fa/ndom which makes things even more limited, complicated, etc) and my main blog has been suffering as a result. I hate it.))