#and this escape attempt could all be 'forgiven'

[brookghaib-blog]

The Dying Love of a Super-Soldier

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

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

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

Word count: 19,1k

Note: Based on this request!

--

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

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

But nothing ever did.

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

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

Then… she remembered nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Y/N left.

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

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

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

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

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

"You're still human."

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

She had her second drink when she noticed him.

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

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

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

She didn’t ask for his name.

He didn’t ask for hers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a wave,” she murmured.

He blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

And then the fear crept in.

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

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

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

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

And maybe that’s what made it so dangerous.

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

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

But that night? That night was theirs.

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

It started with the mornings.

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

“Milk or sugar?” he asked once.

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

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

She smirked. “You’d deserve it.”

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

Still, they tried.

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

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

They didn’t talk much. Just looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They moved in together two months later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried. He tried so hard.

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

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

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

But with love came the cracks.

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

She understood. She’d been there too.

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

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

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

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

--

It was beautiful, that was the worst part.

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

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

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

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

This was deeper. Darker.

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

Bob wasn’t getting better.

He was losing.

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

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

But then there were other days.

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

Y/N patched it up with trembling hands.

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

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

Then he walked out.

She didn’t follow. Not that time.

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

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

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

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

“Then why are you always drunk?!”

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

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

Still, she couldn’t let go.

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

But in truth?

She was scared.

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

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

Even if it meant drowning with him.

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

Y/N tried to touch him. He flinched.

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

“Like what?”

“Like you’re disappointed.”

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

That was all it took.

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

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

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

That one hit. Hard. She froze.

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

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

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

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

She was still crying. “So was I.”

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

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

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

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

They were a mess. A beautiful, tragic mess.

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

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

But that wasn’t their life.

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

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

--

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

It was quieter than that. Softer.

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

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

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

“I want to stay.”

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

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

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

And she was ready to try.

The first few days were brutal.

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

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

But she didn’t.

She journaled instead.

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

She made a list.

Things That Make Me Feel Alive Without Drinking:

The sound of Bob breathing when he sleeps.

Warm coffee in the morning.

Pottery videos on YouTube.

The smell of fresh soap.

The idea of painting a mural in the bedroom.

Buying gifts for Bob. Even small ones.

Imagining a future where we are both okay.

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

--

She started pottery first.

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

Bob noticed.

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

She smiled. “I’m trying.”

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

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

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

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

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

And then she’d come back.

Always with something for Bob.

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

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

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

--

There were relapses.

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

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

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

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

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

She hung it above the bed.

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

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

He didn’t respond. Just squeezed her hand.

She started cooking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet… there was peace. Little moments.

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

She was doing it.

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

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

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

She deserved to be. And so did he.

--

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

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

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

She was healing.

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

But he was still stuck in the mud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just enough to get through the day.

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

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

And for a while, everything was quiet.

But the thing about a high is that it ends.

And when it crashes, it burns.

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

“You smell like smoke,” she said softly.

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

But she sat up, looking him in the eye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice cracked. “Because you are.”

Silence.

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

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

Bob stormed out of the apartment that night.

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

--

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

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

He didn’t want to feel.

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

He hated himself. He hated his addiction.

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

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

The come-down was a nightmare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

He told her everything.

The stash. The closet. The lies.

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

--

It had been a long day.

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

She unlocked the door, expecting him.

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

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

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

No answer.

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

She walked to the kitchen.

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

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

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

Her stomach tensed.

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

And then she saw it.

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

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

Y/N,

I’m sorry.

God, I’m sorry.

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

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

But I’m not good.

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

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

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

So I’m leaving.

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

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

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

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

I love you.

-Bob

She didn’t move for a long time.

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

Something kinder.

But they didn’t.

Bob was gone. He’d really gone.

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

Nothing.

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

She crumpled to the floor of the bedroom and screamed.

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

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

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

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

--

The days blurred together.

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

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

That first night, she didn’t sleep.

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

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

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

But heartbreak wasn’t something you could outfight.

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

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

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

What was the point?

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

He used to call her that.

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

She ripped it off.

Threw it across the room.

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

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

Everything reminded her of him.

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

She couldn’t breathe.

It felt like he was everywhere — except here.

She started writing him letters.

One a day.

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

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

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

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

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

She made lists.

Things To Do Instead of Drinking:

Go for a walk

Break something (cheap)

Write a letter you won’t send

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

Count the days you were successful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People passed. No one stopped.

Three weeks passed. Four.

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

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

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

--

It had been months since he left.

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

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

Until they said his name.

Bob Reynolds.

And then the camera panned. And she froze.

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

And Yelena. Her sister.

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

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

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

Y/N wanted to throw up.

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

Her. Own. Sister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t eat for three days.

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

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

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

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

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

--

Rage was the only thing keeping her alive.

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

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

This was betrayal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, she begged. “Please come back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

She never hated her sister before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked in the mirror and asked herself:

“What is it about me that makes people leave?”, “Why do I only ever get the broken version of things?”,“Why wasn’t I enough?”

She had endured the screaming. The addiction. The hunger. The withdrawals. The nights she held his face and told him he was still human. Still worth saving. She stayed when no one else did. She chose him when he didn’t even choose himself.

And for what? To be replaced. To be erased. To be the ghost haunting the edges of someone else’s happily ever after.

--

There was a knock at the door. It was soft, hesitant — like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure if they should be there. Y/N barely registered it at first, her thoughts tangled in the thick fog of the day. Her apartment was dark, the curtains drawn tight against the world, and she was still in the oversized hoodie she’d worn three days in a row, curled up on the couch like a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

The knock came again. Slower this time. Careful.

She blinked, staring at the door, her heartbeat stalling. No one came here. No one knocked. She’d made sure of that — avoided neighbors, blocked every number that mattered. No visitors. No reminders.

So who the hell—?

She stood, hesitant, dragging herself up with the weight of a hundred sleepless nights clinging to her spine. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the door. Her nails were bitten down to the quick. Her eyes were hollow. She opened it.

And the last person she ever expected to see was standing there in the hallway.

Yelena.

Y/N didn’t speak. Her throat closed up like a trap.

Yelena smiled gently. “Hey,” she said, her voice light, like this was normal. “Can I come in?”

Y/N blinked. She wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. If her mind had finally cracked under the pressure and this was some sick hallucination. Yelena? Now?

“…What are you doing here?” Her voice was sharp. Dry. She didn’t move.

Yelena’s expression faltered a little. “I… you weren’t answering. Calls, texts. Alexei’s worried. I’m worried. It’s been months, and I thought— I don’t know. I thought maybe you could use some company.”

Y/N stared.

Company. After everything. After everything.

She slowly stepped aside without a word, letting her sister pass into the apartment. Yelena glanced around as she entered — the dishes in the sink, the scattered clothes, the half-empty bottles of energy drinks and untouched food. There was a smell. Not foul, but stale. Like time had stopped moving in here.

“Jesus,” Yelena murmured under her breath, eyes scanning the space. “You’ve really— been hiding, huh?”

Y/N shut the door. And locked it. The click of the deadbolt echoed like a warning. They sat in the silence for a long moment. Yelena took the armchair, her fingers laced nervously in her lap. Y/N sat across from her on the couch, arms crossed, back rigid. The air between them was heavy — not just with time lost, but with something else. Something much darker.

“So,” Yelena said carefully. “How’ve you been?”

Y/N scoffed. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

Yelena blinked. “I just— I don’t know. Trying to start somewhere.”

“You think this is a fucking catch-up?” Her voice cracked at the edges, brittle like glass. “After all this time?”

“I thought you needed space—”

“I didn’t need space, Yelena,” she snapped, sitting forward. “I needed my life. My family. But I guess you were busy on TV, weren’t you? With him.”

Yelena frowned, confused. “With… who?”

“Oh, don’t fucking do that.” Y/N stood now, pacing. Her hands ran through her hair, erratic. “Don’t play dumb. Bob. Sentry. Whatever name he’s going by now.”

Yelena looked taken aback. “You mean— Bob? What about him?”

“You know exactly what,” Y/N hissed.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she screamed suddenly, turning on her. “Do you think I haven’t seen it? The videos? The interviews? The little side glances, the smiles, the fucking flirting? You think I don’t know how this goes?”

Yelena stood too now, defensive. “Whoa, what the hell are you talking about? I barely know him!”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You always do!” Y/N’s voice was feral now, eyes wide with rage and hurt and something so much more raw it didn’t have a name. “You always take. That’s what you do. You take. I got out. I made it out of that hellhole. I found something. Someone. I built a life, Yelena. And then— and then you. You come along, and you fucking take it. Just like everything else.”

Yelena’s expression was horrified. “Wait— you and Bob? You two— you were—?”

Y/N laughed. It was a broken sound. Hysterical. “Of course you didn’t know. Why would you? No one ever sees me. They only see you.”

“Y/N…”

“Don’t Y/N me.” Her voice dropped now, a low growl. “You know what I see every night when I close my eyes? I see the life I should have had. I see a home. A family. Him. And our son. And then right before I wake up, every time, I see you. In my place. Wearing my dress. Holding my baby. With him.”

Yelena was speechless.

“You have everything now,” Y/N whispered, her voice trembling. “Dad’s proud of you. The world loves you. Bob loves you. And I’m nothing. I’m the ghost you all stepped over to get to your perfect little lives.”

“I don’t love him. I don’t— I swear to God, I didn’t know, I didn’t—” Yelena was panicking now, trying to reach her sister through the crackling wildfire of delusion and grief.

But Y/N was too far gone.

“GET OUT,” she screamed. Yelena flinched.

“Get the fuck out of my house. Out of my life. Go back to your team. Go back to him. Just— don’t you dare pity me, Yelena. Don’t you dare.”

Y/N stood in the wreckage of her own living room, chest heaving, knuckles bleeding, rage boiling beneath her skin like lava. The silence after her outburst should have been final—should have signaled the end of this nightmare. But when she turned, Yelena was still there.

She hadn’t left.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Yelena stood in the doorway, rain-slick light washing over her, a tremble in her voice as she stepped forward, slow and cautious.

“I’m not leaving you like this,” Yelena said softly. “You’re not well. I didn’t know about you and Bob—I swear I didn’t. But if it hurts you, I’ll fix it. Just let me fix it.”

“Fix it?” Y/N’s voice cracked, her laugh manic. “You can’t fix me, Yelena. You broke me.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Fair?” Her head snapped toward her sister, expression twisted. “Fair is for people who didn’t get turned into weapons when they were kids. You think you know what the Red Room did to us? You don’t. I was made into something worse. Something even you couldn’t understand.”

Yelena’s face softened with something like fear now. “I know what they did. We survived it together—”

“No. You survived it.” Y/N took a step forward. “I’m still living in it.”

Something inside her was unraveling.

The rage she’d tried to bury, the grief that rotted her insides—it was rising now, a tsunami crashing past the last crumbling walls of her sanity. And Yelena, standing there in her self-righteous glow, trying to save her like she was some stray animal—

It only made her hate her more.

“You came here to help?” Y/N’s voice dropped low, a growl. “You want to save me? The way you saved Natasha? The way you saved yourself?”

“Y/N—please.”

“You think you’re a hero now, huh?” Her hands were shaking with the need to lash out. “You stole my life. My love. My fucking future. And now you’re here, acting like you’re innocent. You’re not innocent.”

Her eyes locked on Yelena’s, and something ancient and broken ignited behind them.

“You’re dead.” Without warning, Y/N lunged.

Y/N’s fist came like lightning—brutal, fast. It clipped Yelena in the jaw, sending her stumbling back, crashing into a bookshelf. Before Yelena could react, Y/N was on her again, slamming her through drywall like a battering ram.

Yelena rolled as a fist cratered the floor where her head had been.

She barely got her footing before Y/N was there again—she moved like a ghost, faster than Yelena remembered. Her Red Room training hadn’t prepared her for this level of strength.

Y/N had super soldier strength.

Yelena countered with a textbook leg sweep—Y/N leapt over it, caught her mid-spin, and hurled her across the living room into the kitchen counter. Dishes shattered. Yelena groaned, back arching in pain.

“You wanna fix me?” Y/N snarled. “Then bleed for me sister!”

She grabbed a serrated kitchen knife and lunged again.

Yelena blocked with a stool, snapping it in half under Y/N’s force. She ducked the next blow and kicked her sister back into the wall—but it was like trying to stop a freight train with a paper shield.

Y/N’s hand snapped forward, catching Yelena by the throat. She slammed her hard against the window.

Glass cracked.

“Every dream I had,” Y/N whispered, face inches from hers, “You infected it.”

Yelena elbowed her, kicked, used every trick she’d learned from Natasha—but nothing was working. Her sister was stronger. Angrier.

Y/N wasn’t fighting to disable.

She was fighting to kill.

Yelena’s lip bled. “This isn’t you,” she gasped. “You’re not like this.”

“I was always like this,” Y/N hissed. “You just never looked hard enough.”

She headbutted Yelena, then flung her across the apartment. Yelena landed with a crash, coughing, vision blurry. She reached for her belt—threw a flashbang.

Y/N shielded her eyes too late.

Yelena scrambled for the window, kicking it open as rain poured in. She turned back, breath ragged.

“I loved you,” she shouted.

Y/N roared, rage bursting like wildfire, lunging through the smoke and wreckage.

Yelena jumped.

She hit the fire escape, barely catching herself. Her leg twisted on impact, but she moved. Fast. Down the stairs, through the alley, into the night.

Behind her, Y/N stood at the broken window, staring down at her fleeing sister.

Her face was wild. Her knuckles bloody. Her breathing fast and erratic. And yet—tears spilled down her cheeks.

Somewhere, deep down beneath the violence, the child who once idolized Yelena screamed.

But no one heard her.

--

Yelena collapsed behind a dumpster, heart thundering in her chest.

She wiped blood from her lip. Looked down at her trembling hands.

She’d faced monsters. Gods. She’d survived the Red Room.

But nothing in the world had prepared her for the moment her own sister tried to kill her.

Tried to murder her.

She looked up at the rain, swallowed the lump in her throat, and whispered—

“What did they do to you?”

--

Y/N sat alone on the shoreline, salt drying on her cheeks. Not from the sea—she hadn’t been in the water.

She hadn’t been in anything lately.

Just skin and bone. Just barely enough of a person to keep breathing.

Her knees were pulled up to her chest. Bare feet dug into the cold sand. The wind tangled her hair as the tide clawed closer. The sky above her was bruised with clouds, gold and violet smudges painting the horizon, stars trying to pierce through the thick dusk.

Her fingers fidgeted with a small, sharp shell—pressing it into her palm again and again until the skin broke.

Tiny, invisible punishment. Something to make her feel.

Because feeling had become harder than hurting.

"I know you’re not here," she whispered.

The sea answered with a howl.

"Or maybe you are," she said to no one. Her voice was so small. "I see you in my dreams, Nat. You always look so... peaceful."

She pressed the shell deeper. Blood bloomed in her palm, slow and warm.

"I’m not okay," she said to the waves, to her dead sister, to the ghost she could only summon through pain and memory. "You knew how to live through the pain. How to stand. I don’t. I don’t know who I am without it. And now I just want it to stop."

She looked up to the darkening sky. The wind picked up.

“I tried,” she whispered. “I really tried. I stayed clean. I made a life. I fell in love.” Her voice cracked. “And he left me.”

Tears streamed down her face. Her body shook, her chest hiccupping with emotion too big to contain.

“I tried to be good. I really did.”

She hugged her knees tighter, curling into herself.

“And now I dream of a family that’s not mine. A house I’ll never have. A child I won’t get to hold.”

A beat.

Then a whisper.

“Take me with you, Nat.”

A sob escaped.

“I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to be me anymore.”

The wind howled louder, like something answering.

And then—

A voice.

“Y/N.”

It was rough. Deep. Familiar.

Her heart stopped.

She didn’t even need to look.

She already knew who it was.

She turned slowly, her face stained with salt and blood and sand.

There stood Alexei.

He looked older. Tired. His eyes softened when he saw her, broken and small on the shore. He took a step forward, boots crunching the shells.

“I’m here to help you, dochka,” he said gently.

The word snapped something in her.

She stood.

Suddenly very still.

Very silent.

Her fists clenched.

"You’re here to help me?" she said, her voice eerily calm. “Now?”

Alexei hesitated. “Yelena told me what happened. We didn’t know about Bob. About how much he meant to you. We didn’t know he left you.”

She flinched like he slapped her.

“You. Didn’t. Know.” Her laugh was cold, sharp. “You all didn’t know because you never asked. Because I was the broken one, right? I was the one you kept tucked away like a dirty little secret while you raised your other daughter to be a hero.”

Alexei’s face fell. “That’s not true.”

“It is true!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “You all wanted me gone. Out of sight. Away. You wanted peace, so you sent me away to rot while you played family with Yelena and wore your stupid suit and smiled for interviews.”

He stepped forward again. “I thought you wanted peace—”

“NO!” she roared. “I wanted a life! I wanted someone to love me. And Bob—he was it. He was everything. But now? Now he’s a goddamn Avenger and you’re all just playing pretend like I never existed.”

Her hands were trembling.

“I was there, Dad. I built something real. And you all took it away from me. And now you come here. Acting like you care.”

“I do care—”

“You should’ve cared then!” she shrieked. “You should’ve cared when I was waking up in cold sweats, screaming from the Red Room memories. You should’ve cared when I begged you not to let them inject me. You should’ve cared when I held Bob’s letter and wanted to die.”

Her eyes locked on his. Wild. Ferocious.

“But you didn’t. And you won’t. So now—” she took a breath, trembling “—I’m gonna make you feel what I feel.”

Y/N charged like a shadow breaking free from the night, faster than Alexei expected. Her fist slammed into his gut, lifting him off the ground and sending him crashing into the sand dune behind them.

He groaned. Spit blood.

She was on him again in seconds.

Fists collided. Sand erupted with every hit. Alexei blocked, countered, tried to reason—but she didn’t want to talk.

She wanted to punish.

“You left me to rot!” she screamed between punches.

“You were strong enough!” he shouted back.

“No, I wasn’t!!”

They tumbled toward the shoreline, their silhouettes locked in a dance of blood and violence. Y/N swept his legs, slammed her knee into his chest. Alexei tried to grapple her, but she elbowed him hard—once, twice—broke free.

“You made me a killer,” she seethed. “And then punished me for being one.”

He staggered back, clutching his ribs.

“You’re not a killer,” he said breathlessly. “You’re my daughter.”

Tears mixed with blood on her face. “Then why didn’t you love me like one?”

She rushed him one last time.

He didn’t fight back.

He just stood there, arms half-raised, breathing ragged.

Her fist cracked across his jaw—and he dropped to his knees.

Rain began to fall.

And she just stood there.

Above him.

Hands shaking.

Chest heaving.

Staring down at the man who helped make her, and never came to save her.

Alexei looked up at her, lip bleeding.

“I didn’t know how,” he whispered. “To love you the way you needed. But I do love you.”

Something inside her broke.

She collapsed into the sand, knees buckling.

And screamed.

Screamed until her throat was raw.

The sound of waves crashing was no longer calming.

Not when her heart was screaming louder.

Y/N’s chest heaved from exertion. Blood caked her hands, her knuckles bruised and raw from striking the man who once called her his little girl. She barely felt the cold rain anymore. It soaked her hair, clung to her lashes, blurred the red on her skin as if it could wash away the damage she’d done—but it couldn’t.

Nothing could.

She stared at Alexei crumpled in the sand, breathing but unmoving. Her own father. Another person she’d broken.

She’d barely noticed the shift in air behind her until it was too late.

Footsteps.

Boots, soft on the sand.

She froze.

They were here.

The new team. Valentina’s soldiers. She could sense it in the way the atmosphere tensed. Like the air itself had held its breath. She didn’t turn at first. Her fists clenched, her breath uneven, eyes still on her father. She thought: Of course Yelena brought them. Of course she did.

She imagined them standing behind her, watching like spectators. Come to see the last broken piece of the Red Room project tear herself apart. Maybe they thought it would be entertaining—put her down like a wild animal if needed.

Maybe they came because they didn’t think she could be saved.

Her jaw clenched.

Then—

A voice.

Soft. Familiar.

Shattered.

“Y/N…”

She turned.

Slowly. Hesitantly.

And when she saw him—

Her heart almost stopped.

Bob.

Her Bob.

Her whole world, standing in the rain, drenched like a ghost.

He was dressed in civilian clothes, not the shining uniform of a weapon. He looked nothing like the being of light and power she once saw hovering above the world.

He looked like a man. A broken man.

His eyes were red, tears tracing down his face like rainwater. His lips parted, like he had a hundred things to say but couldn’t force a single one of them past the lump in his throat.

Time stopped.

The beach, the wind, the world—faded.

It was just them.

Two people with shattered dreams and bleeding hearts.

Her arms twitched—part of her wanted to run to him. Bury herself in his chest. Ask him if any of it was real. Ask him why he left. Ask him if he knew how hard she fought to live through it.

But she didn’t move.

Because the rest of her wanted to kill him.

She hated him. She loved him. She hated how much she still loved him.

Her face crumpled. She blinked back tears, every emotion she had shoved down for months roaring back to the surface.

Then she saw the others.

Bucky. Yelena. Walker. Ava.

Weapons.

All ready.

All watching.

She was the target.

Yelena stood behind Bob, her arms at her sides, tense and afraid. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

The message was clear: They weren’t here to help her. They were here to stop her.

She laughed bitterly, her voice hoarse from crying, from screaming.

“So this is what it takes to get you all to care,” she said, not looking at anyone but Bob. “One broken girl on a beach, and now you all show up to ‘fix’ me.”

Bob took a step forward.

“Y/N—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, voice cold. “Don’t say my name like it still belongs to you.”

He flinched. His throat bobbed.

"I—I didn’t know how to come back," he said quietly. "I didn’t know how to look at you after what I did."

Tears welled up in her eyes again.

“You shouldn’t have come back at all,” she whispered. “Not like this. Not with them.”

She took a trembling step toward Alexei’s limp body in the sand. Her fingers curled into fists.

“I should end it here,” she murmured, barely audible over the wind. “End all of this. You, him, me.”

Bob’s eyes widened. “Y/N, please…”

She crouched and pulled the sidearm from Alexei’s holster. Her hands shook as she held it.

Every fiber of her being screamed against what she was doing—but the storm in her chest was stronger. Her tears blinded her, but the hatred lit her up from the inside like wildfire.

“Put it down,” Bucky warned gently. “You don’t want to do this.”

She didn’t even look at him.

“I didn’t want any of this.”

Her eyes stayed locked on Bob. Tears ran freely now. She looked like a woman drowning on dry land.

“I just wanted a life. You know? A stupid little house. A baby. A partner. That’s it. And you took it all away and gave it to her instead.”

Bob shook his head. “Yelena isn’t—”

“SHUT UP!” she screamed, voice cracked and raw. “You think I care what’s true? You think it makes a difference?!”

The grief in her voice silenced them all.

She turned the weapon toward Alexei—arms trembling.

Her finger brushed the trigger.

Then—

They moved.

Bucky lunged. Silent, fast, skilled.

He was on her in an instant, arms wrapping around her from behind like iron.

She screamed, thrashed wildly, her strength unnatural. But Bucky was strong too. Too strong. It was like a cage slamming shut.

“No—NO—LET ME GO!!” she wailed, her voice pure panic now.

She twisted, elbowed him hard—but he didn’t loosen. She could barely breathe. Her eyes locked on Bob’s—desperate and furious.

“HOW DARE YOU COME HERE!” she cried. “YOU DON’T GET TO WATCH ME BREAK!”

Then she felt the sharp sting in her neck.

She froze.

Her pupils dilated.

Bucky held her tighter as the tranquilizer entered her bloodstream.

“No—no—no, no please—please—not again,” she begged, sobbing, her voice cracking into childlike pleas.

Her limbs weakened.

Her legs collapsed.

And the world began to spin.

Bob stepped forward—arms instinctively outstretched—but Bucky held her protectively, shaking his head.

Y/N blinked up at Bob one last time, her vision blurring.

“You were supposed to love me,” she whispered.

Then her eyes rolled back.

Her body went limp in Bucky’s arms.

--

Warm light painted the ceiling above her in soft amber tones, the kind of light that tried too hard to feel like daylight. It flickered gently with the subtle hum of the old overhead fixture, barely audible above the quiet in the room. The air was cool, sterile but not cruel. Soft linen cradled her aching body, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, she didn’t feel the weight of sand, or blood, or rage on her skin. But she felt everything else.

Her eyes fluttered open, lids heavy, lashes damp from sleep or tears—she wasn’t sure. She didn’t move. Just… stared at the ceiling, letting herself breathe in the unfamiliar quiet.

Then it hit her.

Where was she?

Her heart stuttered. Her fingers twitched. She tried to shift, to sit up—but—

She couldn’t. Her wrists were gently restrained. Not tight. Not cruel. The soft fabric cuffs were secured to the bedframe. She wasn’t a guest here. She was a threat.

And then she remembered.

The screaming. The gun. Bob. Yelena. Alexei. Pain speared through her chest as the memory flooded her in a single crushing wave. Her own voice screaming in her ears. The look in Bob’s eyes when she crumbled. The way Yelena flinched. The way Alexei bled into the sand.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her voice cracked and barely recognizable.

Tears stung her eyes, hot and shameful. She let them fall, unable to lift a hand to wipe them away. She had snapped. No—that wasn’t strong enough. She had descended. The side of her that had been carved in the dark halls of the Red Room—the ghost of the girl she used to be—had won. She had become every nightmare she fought so hard to rise from. I’m a monster. She didn’t notice the faint movement at first, the soft rustle of fabric.

Then—

A quiet, theatrical cough. Not aggressive. Not angry. Just… a little awkward.

Yelena.

She sat quietly at the end of the bed, legs crossed at the ankle, arms loosely wrapped around herself. Her green eyes were bloodshot, her face pale and raw. There were faint bruises around her temple—bruises Y/N had left. One eye still a little swollen. But she smiled, slow and tired and heartbreakingly gentle.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up,” Yelena said, her voice hoarse but calm. “You sleep like a rock. That part hasn’t changed.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Her lips parted in shock. Her breath hitched in her throat, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them—choked, frantic, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Yelena—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to hurt you—I didn’t—God, I’m so sorry—”

Yelena stood and leaned forward, her hands coming to gently cradle her sister’s face, ignoring the restraints, ignoring the tears, ignoring the bruises Y/N had left behind. “No,” Yelena whispered, pulling her into a slow, careful hug.

Y/N froze, her body stiff with guilt, her breath shallow and frantic. She tried to pull back, tried to protest, but Yelena just held her tighter. “No more apologies.”

“I almost killed you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I wanted to,” Y/N cried. “I—I was going to—”

“But you didn’t,” Yelena said again, firm this time. “And I know that wasn’t you. Not the real you.”

Y/N finally broke. Her head dropped forward, her body trembling as she sobbed uncontrollably into her sister’s shoulder.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she choked. “I don’t know how to come back from this. I don’t know if I can.”

Yelena pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes.

“You’re my sister,” she said. “That’s who you are. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N’s eyes burned. Her lips trembled. “I’m dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

Yelena smiled, even through her own tears. “Maybe. But I’m not.”

There was a beat of silence. A moment where the weight of everything—the past, the pain, the blood between them—hung in the air like a ghost. Y/N stared at her hands. Her wrists still bound, like some poetic punishment for the sins she couldn’t undo.

“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. “Your kindness. Your love. After what I did… after what I became…”

“You became someone who was hurting,” Yelena said gently. “Someone who had everything stolen from her. Again. And again. And again.”

She wiped a tear from Y/N’s cheek.

“You don’t need to deserve my love, Y/N. You already have it.”

Y/N let out a small, broken noise. The kind that wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite a laugh. Just pain, raw and unfiltered.

The sisters stayed there like that, wrapped in a fragile embrace, one restrained but free for the first time in years, and the other covered in bruises but stronger than anyone had given her credit for.

Y/N whispered, “I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t,” Yelena said. “And now we’re going to fix this. Together.”

She reached for the restraints. Y/N flinched. But Yelena just unbuckled one cuff. Then the other. Slowly. Gently. Like she was undoing chains made of more than just fabric. Y/N’s arms fell to her sides, limp. She didn’t move. She didn’t run. She just let the silence settle again.

The door creaked open gently.

Bob stood in the frame like a ghost afraid to enter its own home, shoulders slouched, hands trembling at his sides. His eyes were bloodshot, not from lack of sleep, but from the weight of sorrow. He didn’t speak right away. He looked at her like she was a piece of glass cracked in too many places to count—terrified that even breathing wrong would shatter her completely. Y/N didn’t look at him.

She sat up in bed slowly, spine hunched, fingers tangled in the bedsheets like she was holding herself together. Her eyes stayed down, unable to meet his. Her chest was heavy with guilt, shame, heartbreak. The silence stretched between them like a bridge they were both too afraid to walk.

“…Can I come in?” Bob finally asked, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.

Yelena, who had been sitting quietly at the edge of the room, glanced at Y/N. Y/N nodded faintly. Yelena stood, gently brushing a hand over her sister’s shoulder before leaving the room without a word. She paused just long enough at Bob’s side to give him one final look — one that said: Please, don’t break her again.

And then it was just them. The door clicked shut behind him.

He stepped forward slowly, like every movement hurt. Like every step was a prayer.

“I’ve been out there,” he said, eyes flicking to the door. “Since they brought you in. I didn’t leave.”

Y/N’s voice was a ghost, barely audible. “Why?”

His breath caught. She finally lifted her eyes to him — and he saw it. The wreckage. The ruin. The pain. All of it, etched into her face, bleeding out of her eyes like ink across fragile paper.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said, voice cracking.

She blinked.

“Okay?” she repeated, a bitter laugh curling into her tone. “You think I’m okay?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he asked, “Can I… hug you?”

For a moment, she just stared at him. Silent. He could see the fight in her. The war. The part of her that wanted to scream, and the part of her that wanted to collapse.

She nodded. Just once. He moved forward slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, and then—he knelt at her side. His arms wrapped around her carefully at first, but then tighter. And tighter. Like he needed to physically hold her together. Like he was trying to keep her from vanishing. Like he had been waiting lifetimes just to feel her heartbeat again. She didn’t move. Then—her body began to tremble. And she broke. A sob ripped through her, raw and sharp and desperate. And then another. And another. She clung to him with everything she had left, burying her face into his shoulder like it was the only place she could hide from the world. He held her through it. Tighter. Always tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” Bob whispered, voice cracking like glass. “Y/N… I’m so sorry. For everything. For leaving. For not asking. For not knowing. For making you go through all of this alone.”

“Why?” she cried. “Why did you leave me?”

His hands were shaking against her back.

“Why did you give up on me?” she sobbed. “I needed you. I needed you to fight for me, Bob…”

“I know.”

“I needed you to love me.”

“I did!” he cried, his voice breaking completely. “I do! I never stopped, not for one second. But I was broken—I was so broken and I didn’t want to take you down with me.”

“You already did,” she whispered, her voice like ashes.

Silence.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands curled in the collar of his shirt, her face wet with tears. “I would’ve taken every hit. Every storm. Every goddamn explosion if it meant we got to live that life together. The one I dreamed of. You. Me. A life. That’s all I ever wanted.”

Bob cupped her face like she was the most fragile thing in the universe. “You were everything. I looked at you and saw something pure. Someone good. You had your life together. You had purpose. You had a job, a name, a home. You—” His voice caught again. “You were the kind of person who made people believe in something better.”

“And I loved you. God, I loved you.”

He rested his forehead against hers, both of them shaking now.

“But me?” he whispered. “I was a drug. I was a monster. I was this… this parasite, wrapped in skin and lies. And every day I looked at you, I wondered how long it would take before I ruined you.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “You were sick, Bob. You were in pain. I knew that. I stayed because I loved you. And you—you let me love you—and then you ran.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered. “But I was just protecting myself. From the guilt. From the shame of watching the best thing in my life waste away because of me.”

“I did waste away!” she snapped, crying harder. “I begged for you. I screamed for you. I built a future around a man who disappeared before I could even show him what he meant to me. And you never came back.”

His thumbs brushed her cheeks, catching the tears that wouldn’t stop.

“You deserved someone who could stay,” he said. “And I was still chasing my next high. My escape. You got clean—for me. You faced your demons. But I—” He swallowed. “I let mine eat me alive. I let them turn me into something violent. Something ugly. I would scream. Break things. Scare you. I remember the way you used to flinch and it kills me.”

“I never stopped waiting for you,” she whispered. “Even when I hated you. Even when I blamed you. Even when I hurt everyone because of you.”

He rested his head on her shoulder.

“I’m not the man you deserve.”

“You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted.”

Silence. Only their breathing, tangled and shaky.

“I’m sorry,” Bob whispered again. “I was a burden. A mistake. A nobody.”

She pulled his face up to look at her. “No. You were everything.”

And just like that, they sat together, two broken people clinging to the pieces, sobbing into each other’s arms. No future plans. No promises. Just pain. Just honesty. Just them. And for the first time in what felt like eternity, Y/N wasn’t crying alone. The quiet after the storm hung heavy. Bob hadn’t moved. Not really. His arms still wrapped around her like a shield. As if he thought letting go would mean losing her again. He held her like a man who knew he didn’t deserve to—grateful, reverent, afraid. Y/N’s tears had long since soaked through his shirt. Her voice was hoarse from sobbing. Her body, exhausted. But neither of them could stop holding on. She rested her head against his chest, hearing that familiar heartbeat—steady, slow, alive. Proof that he was really here. That after everything, he was here.

Bob took a breath. Shaky. Hesitant. Then another, deeper one. And then, finally:

“Y/N…” he whispered, voice trembling. “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded against his chest.

His hand gently, shakily brushed through her hair. “Can you ever forgive me?”

She stiffened just slightly—not out of anger, but out of the weight of the question.

“I thought…” he said, voice breaking again, “I thought I was doing you a favor. Letting you go. I thought if I disappeared, I’d… free you from me. From the burden. From my addiction. My anger. Everything.”

He leaned back, just enough to look into her eyes. His were red and swollen, glistening with tears that hadn’t fallen yet.

“I was never good enough for you. Not before. Not during. Not after. You gave me your heart and I… I broke it. I left it bleeding on the floor. You were the only light I had, and I left you in the dark.”

She was quiet, watching him, jaw trembling slightly.

“I never truly understood,” he said, voice raw, “how someone like you… someone strong, brilliant, good… could love someone like me. I always thought there had to be something wrong with you for wanting me.”

Her throat tightened.

“But there wasn’t. God, there wasn’t. You were just kind. And I was a coward.”

He dropped his head, shame rippling off him like heat. “I didn’t realize how much I needed you until you were gone. And even then, I told myself I was doing the right thing. That staying away was noble. That I was protecting you.”

He laughed bitterly. “What bullshit. All I was doing was hiding. And hurting you in the process.”

Y/N blinked hard, her eyes stinging again. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She reached out slowly, placing her hand on his cheek. He leaned into it like it was a lifeline.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” she whispered. “I just need you to stay.”

He nodded, eyes closing under her touch. “I won’t go. Not again. I swear it.”

Her voice cracked. “Don’t let me go.”

“I won’t.”

“Just… hold me. For as long as you can. Just—don’t let me feel alone again.”

“I’m here,” he whispered fiercely. “I’m here. I’ll stay. Always.”

She hesitated. Then: “Can I ask you something now?”

His eyes met hers again, frightened but open. “Anything.”

Her lips parted, voice softer than before. “Were you ever with her?”

He blinked. “Who?”

“…Yelena.”

A silence fell between them. He understood what she meant. Not just with in proximity. But with. As in—did you love her? Did you think of her when you should’ve been thinking of me?

He answered without hesitation.

“No,” he said. “God, no. Never.”

She nodded slightly, swallowing, but the pain was still there.

“Did you ever think about it?” she asked.

He sighed. “Y/N, I thought about you. Every. Day. Every time I woke up. Every time I hit bottom again. Every time I looked at the sky. I never stopped thinking about you.”

“Then why didn’t you come back?”

His voice broke. “Because I didn’t feel like I deserved to. Not after what I did. After what I put you through. I thought… if I came back, it’d be unfair. Like I was asking you to relive all of it. To open those wounds again.”

“But you were all I wanted,” she whispered. “Even when I hated you for leaving. Even when I cursed your name. You were still… home.”

He shook his head, tears finally falling. “I was a monster.”

“You were sick,” she said. “You were hurting.”

“I was dangerous.”

She leaned closer.

“I never wanted safe,” she said. “I wanted you. All of you. Even the broken parts.”

He looked at her, disbelief and awe mingling in his expression. “I only ever loved you, Y/N. I always will.”

Their foreheads came together, slow, breathless. They just stayed like that for a moment. Breathing the same air. Holding the same silence. Two hearts syncing again after too long apart. She looked up at him, her eyes swollen, red, and full of something unspoken.

And then—she kissed him. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was slow. Soft. Gentle.

But underneath it—ache. A deep ache. Like a wound finally closing. Like years of longing finally being answered. Like two souls that had fought wars just to find their way back to each other.

His hands cradled her face. Her fingers clutched his shirt. They kissed like survivors. Like people who’d come too close to the edge and were still afraid of falling.

And when they pulled away, they didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

Because that kiss said everything.

They lay there, still wrapped around one another, letting the storm of the past finally settle in the quiet.

His breathing had slowed, but his hands trembled faintly, like the weight of memory refused to leave his bones.

Bob hadn’t spoken for several minutes. He just watched her face. Her swollen eyes. Her tired but steady breaths. The way her lashes fluttered when she blinked, like she was still scared she might wake up and find none of this real.

But then he asked it.

His voice was soft. Almost broken. The kind of question someone asks after holding it back for too long.

“…Why didn’t you stop me?”

Y/N stirred. “What do you mean?”

He sat up slightly, supporting himself on one elbow, and looked at her with a vulnerability that split him wide open.

“All those times,” he said, almost afraid to speak the words. “Back then. When I was sick. When I… when I shouted. When I punched the wall an inch from your head. When I—” He choked. “When I was someone else.”

She didn’t look away. Her eyes softened.

“You just… took it,” he whispered. “You stood there and took it. You never fought back. Not once. You could’ve. You should’ve.”

He swallowed hard. “And today… I saw what you can do. I saw you fight Alexei. You nearly killed him. You could’ve crushed me like I was nothing. You were stronger than me all along.”

He looked down at their intertwined hands, her fingers relaxed against his palm.

“So why didn’t you?”

There was no judgment in his tone. Just pain. Just shame. Just disbelief.

Y/N sat up slowly, pulling her knees to her chest as her gaze drifted upward—past the ceiling, past the walls. Like she was remembering a thousand moments all at once.

“I could’ve,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he whispered.

“But I didn’t.”

“Why?” he asked again, desperate this time.

She took a breath, long and slow.

“Because if I used it… if I let myself use that strength, I knew I wouldn’t stop,” she said. “I knew I could hurt you. Maybe kill you.”

Her voice trembled. “And no matter how much you hurt me… I never wanted to hurt you.”

Bob broke.

The words hit like bullets, each one sharper than the last. His shoulders curled inward. His hands covered his face. And for the first time since the injections, since the lab, since the Void, since everything—he sobbed.

Ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that came from the very center of who he was. He collapsed forward, arms wrapping around her waist, face buried into her lap like a child seeking comfort.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She just cradled his head, fingers gently stroking his hair as he cried like a man grieving a version of himself that could’ve loved her better.

“You should’ve run,” he said into her skin. “You should’ve left me. I was… I was horrible to you.”

She didn’t speak.

“I pushed you away. I threw things. I screamed at you. And you—God, Y/N, you stayed. You stayed and loved me when I was poison.”

She closed her eyes, holding back tears of her own.

“I was so weak,” he whispered.

“No,” she said softly, firm. “You were sick.”

“I was a monster.”

“You were lost,” she corrected. “And I loved you. I never stopped.”

He looked up at her, broken, tear-streaked, eyes desperate. “You loved me when I didn’t deserve it.”

“I still do.”

He let out a cry at that—soft, ragged.

And then, as if the truth was finally bursting from inside him, he grabbed both her hands and clutched them to his chest.

“I have so much to tell you,” he said, his voice urgent. “So much I need you to understand. I know it doesn’t erase what happened. I know it doesn’t make me innocent. But I need you to hear it. Everything. Why I disappeared. What I thought I was doing. What I really did. How scared I was. How much I missed you. How I imagined your voice when I was breaking down. How I saw you in every dream and every nightmare.”

She was silent, watching him come undone.

He breathed out, shaky. “I want to start over. With you. With all of it. I want to be the man who’s strong because of you, not in spite of you. I want sobriety, real sobriety, with you by my side. I want the Watchtower to be ours. I want to see you wake up in the morning and smile and know you’re safe. I want a new life. A real life. With you.”

Her throat closed around the lump rising there.

“I need you,” he said. “Not just want. Need. Like breath. Like light.”

He leaned in, his forehead pressed to her chest now.

“I need you to believe I can be better.”

She gently tilted his chin up, her eyes meeting his. Her own expression trembling from holding in her emotion.

“I already do,” she whispered.

He stared at her like she was the sun, like she was the reason he hadn’t disappeared completely.

Then she leaned in, pressing her lips to his temple. A kiss of forgiveness. Of memory. Of salvation.

“I’ll stay,” she murmured. “But you have to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t give up. Not on me. Not on yourself. Not ever again.”

He nodded fervently, tears still falling. “I won’t. I swear, I won’t.”

“And if you slip—”

“I’ll tell you.”

“If you hurt—”

“I’ll let you hold me.”

She smiled sadly. “Then I’ll stay.”

He kissed her then. Gentle, slow. A thank you. A lifeline.

And when they pulled back, he held her tighter than ever, whispering into the quiet.

“I’ll never let you go again.”

--

The Watchtower Common Room – Three Weeks Later

The sun dipped lazily through the tall windows of the communal living room, casting a golden haze over the couch, the mismatched furniture, and the scattered takeout containers from what had turned into a very chaotic brunch-slash-strategy meeting-slash-Alexei-having-an-identity-crisis.

Y/N sat curled into the corner of the oversized couch, practically glued to Bob’s side. Her legs were draped over his lap, arms wrapped around his chest like a koala bear, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

And, judging by the peaceful look on her face, neither was her need to be close to him at every moment of every day.

Bob, for his part, looked a little... wilted. In a good way. The kind of wilted that comes with someone who’s been deeply loved on all day by a clingy, affectionate, newly-healed girlfriend who had absolutely zero shame about PDA in front of their makeshift team.

He was red in the face. Again.

“I don’t get it,” Alexei grumbled from the floor, half-buried under sketchbooks, empty energy drink cans, and three poorly-sewn prototypes of what might’ve been uniforms. “We’re technically Avengers now, yes? We saved a facility. We stopped a Void. We got a Bob. We have matching trauma. That is qualification.”

Yelena, seated on the arm of the couch, rolled her eyes. “No one said we’re not. But it’s not ‘Avengerz.’ With a Z.”

“But the Z is modern. Youthful,” Alexei insisted, holding up a tattered piece of paper with what looked like a lightning bolt... stabbing a bear. “You have to think branding.”

Y/N snorted into Bob’s chest. He felt it before he heard it—her nose pressed to his shoulder as she tried to muffle the laughter.

Bob glanced around the room, looking mildly panicked. “Can I take back my resurrection and go die again real quick?”

“No,” Y/N said without hesitation, arms tightening around his middle. “I just got you back. You’re not going anywhere.”

He glanced down at her, lips twitching. “Can I at least breathe?”

“Nope.”

Yelena laughed under her breath. “Honestly? You’re lucky. This is the happiest she’s been in years.”

“I can tell,” Bob muttered, turning even redder as Y/N unabashedly kissed his jaw in front of everyone. “She hasn’t let go of me in like, six hours.”

Y/N looked up, mock-offended. “Wow. I cuddle you once for six hours and suddenly I’m clingy?”

He gave her a flat look. “You’ve followed me into the bathroom.”

“I missed you.”

“I was in there for three minutes.”

“Three long, heartbreaking minutes.”

The room burst into laughter—except Alexei, who was too busy measuring Bucky’s shoulders with a tape measure and mumbling about “proportions for aesthetic justice.”

Bucky swatted at him half-heartedly. “Get that thing away from me.”

“You want to be symmetrical or not, soldier boy?”

Y/N giggled and turned her face back into Bob’s neck, inhaling deeply. “You still smell like coffee.”

“Because I made coffee an hour ago.”

“I love coffee.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

Bob sighed, defeated, though there was nothing in his expression but soft, dazed affection. He leaned back, letting her cling to him like a warm, stubborn barnacle.

“You’re like a weighted blanket,” he muttered. “But emotionally terrifying.”

“Thank you,” she replied proudly.

Across the room, Ghost (Ava) snorted into her drink. “It’s like watching a golden retriever try to date a feral cat.”

“Except the cat’s ex-Red Room and could snap my spine if she wanted,” Walker said, not looking up from polishing his gun.

Y/N’s gaze lifted then, her eyes drifting to Alexei—who was, inexplicably, wearing one of his own design sketches pinned to his chest like a Girl Scout badge.

She hesitated. Then smiled. After everything… after almost killing him, after breaking down in the sand, after being held down by Bucky with a syringe while screaming her regrets—Alexei had forgiven her.

No. He’d understood her. She didn’t have to say anything to him. Not really. Because when he met her gaze, he gave her a single proud nod. Not smug. Not goofy. Just real. Like he knew how hard it had been to unlearn the Red Room. Like he saw her—his daughter—not as what she’d done but what she’d survived. And honestly he was kinda proud of her for beating him so easily. He could brag about it.

She blinked away tears and turned back into Bob’s chest, hiding her face.

“Y’know,” Alexei said suddenly, sitting up straighter, “Y/N would look amazing in one of these suits. Maybe dark red. Gold. With like... a phoenix on the back.”

“No,” Y/N groaned into Bob’s shirt. “I want a normal life. I want grocery shopping and bad TV and laundry and staying in bed.”

“You live in a flying tower with six weapons of mass destruction.”

“And I can where an expensive robe walking around it, with a sexy husband, that's as normal as I can get.”

“Please,” Alexei begged, flopping toward her on his knees. “I will make you leather gloves. Like the ones from Blade!”

“No.”

“A grappling hook arm!”

“Alexei—”

“A grappling bear!”

Yelena chucked a pillow at his face.

“Can we not push her into vigilante work while she’s literally snuggling the man she almost died for?” she said dryly.

“I’m fine,” Bob mumbled, caught between arousal, humiliation, and existential peace. “I’m... warm.”

“You look like she’s draining your soul through osmosis,” Walker muttered.

“She is,” Bob agreed. “Lovingly.”

Y/N pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m happy.” And she meant it.

[wheneverfeasible]

A Birthday Miracle

wc: 2.3k || rating: T || cw: child neglect, period typical misogyny and homophobia || tags: Steve Harrington has bad parents, platonic Stobin, implied future Steddie || brief summary: Steve’s birthday is December 25th and is always ignored, until Robin gets him a birthday present. || ao3

Steve, much to the disappointment of everyone, was born on Christmas Day.

Over the years, Steve learned to ignore his birthday. Despite what others may believe, he never received double the presents any year, and in fact by the time he was thirteen was just given a lump of cash and told to buy his own present. The Harringtons were far too busy planning their annual Christmas party, something that Steve’s birth had put a delay in that first year and which had never been forgiven.

It wasn’t that his birthday was ignored completely of course. At least not always. It just never was acknowledged on his actual birthday. As he got older, he might have done something with Tommy and Carol during the winter break, but they always had plans with their families on Christmas Day for obvious reasons. Even when he started dating Nancy, family took precedence over a boyfriend’s birthday.

Steve’s Christmas was always very simple. Wake up and get dressed in an outfit that his mother approved of, take posed photos in front of the wrapped but empty boxes before the tree, be handed his envelope of cash, and then make himself scarce as the caterers began arriving.

It was the winter of ‘85 when something different happened.

Steve was in his room, outfit for the Christmas party (different from the outfit he wore for the morning pictures) hanging from his bedroom door, something he would have to change into soon actually. Instead, he was laid starfished on his bed, staring up at his ceiling with that familiar sense of apathy regarding the day.

A few days previously the group had had their own little Christmas party, something where they wore casual clothes or even just their pajamas, crowding into the Sinclair basement to exchange gifts and share (kid friendly) eggnog and cider.

Steve had even managed to get Jonathan to take a special picture of the Scoops Troop, feeling more at ease with his arms around the people he rode an elevator to hell with than he knew he would in a few days in his own home. Erica had protested, but her grin was a little too genuine to make it anything more than a token attempt to remain aloof. Steve knew that feeling well.

So really, Steve had been expecting much the same as every previous year. He would attend his parents’ party just long enough to be the proper, well-behaved son, then he would escape with whatever leftovers he could pilfer from the caterers (they usually made him a plate) and sneak back into his bedroom to wait things out. Tomorrow, he might try to see if anyone wants to hang.

At least, that was the expectation.

Plink!

A small furrow etched into Steve’s brow at the soft noise, turning his head towards the shuttered blinds of his window. It had been a sound he was familiar with, just never on this end of things. When a soft thud came next, Steve let out a small snort and rolled off his bed, moving towards the window to pull open the blinds and look outside.

Robin Buckley had her arm arched back, a look of concentration on her face as she stood on the back patio, and even from this distance Steve could tell she had her tongue poking out slightly as she squinted one eye to make her shot. It explained why the previous one missed the mark and hit the siding by the sound of it.

Robin’s face lit up when she saw Steve, causing a flare of warmth to spread through Steve’s chest. He’d known the strange girl for half of a year and he’d be lying if he didn’t say it was the best six months of his life. Sure, the start of their genuine friendship had come about because of some crazy Russian scientists, an alternate dimension full of monsters, and a bit of physical and psychological torture, but all of that was worth it to be best friends with one Robin Buckley.

Still, he huffed faux annoyance at her, pointing at her through the window pane until she shrugged unrepentantly but dropped the small rock she’d been about to throw all the same. He hesitated only a brief moment before he mimed at her to head towards the basement garage, causing her to grin again and flash him two thumbs up.

A small bit of hushed bickering, sneaking around the caterers and decorators getting the place ready, and avoiding his parents ended with the two of them stumbling through the doorway of his bedroom with muffled giggles. Steve quickly shut and locked his door, turning to give Robin a fondly exasperated look as she began perusing his bedroom.

She’d been there before, of course, but less than a handful of times. He could see the way her gaze paused as it took it in the swimsuit model poster, grinning at her when she suddenly hurriedly looked away with a blush. She scowled at him, but he was glad that she no longer looked hesitant when he was reminded of the fact that she liked boobies.

Of course, it wasn’t really something he ever forgot, but he was glad that she felt safe with him. Felt like she could be herself without fear of retaliation. Sure, he could acknowledge that he still had a bit of a crush on her, but that was his problem, not hers. And he loved her more like a platonic best friend than he did as a silly crush.

“What are you even doing here? Don’t you have family visiting from out of town?” he asked with a shake of his head. They had already exchanged Christmas presents at the Sinclairs’, and they were more than likely going to meet up tomorrow after whatever family shit Robin had.

Robin rolled her eyes. “I told them I had somewhere important to be but that I’d be back in time for dinner.” She slid off her backpack she was wearing to rifle around until she pulled out…a lumpy package wrapped in white wrapping paper designed with balloons in rainbow colors. A big yellow bow was taped to the top.

“Happy birthday!” Robin exclaimed with a grin, dropping the backpack to thrust the package—the gift out towards Steve.

Steve physically startled at the exclamation, his mouth dropping into an ‘o’ of surprise as he took in the present that looked nothing like a Christmas present. No, he could see in between the balloons small script that repeated happy birthday! amidst tiny confetti bursts.

“Wh-what?” he gaped, certain he had misheard in some way.

Rolling her eyes again, Robin closed the distance and pushed the gift into Steve’s hands. “I said, ‘Happy birthday,’ dingus,” she laughed.

“But…you already got me a present,” Steve pointed out, because she’d just bought him Freddie Mercury’s new solo album Mr. Bad Guy for Christmas, which was perhaps one of the best if not the best presents he had ever received.

“I got you a Christmas present. This is your birthday present,” Robin stated like that should have been obvious.

Oh.

Steve’s fingers tightened on the present, the wrapping paper crinkling under his grip. There was a suspicious burning behind his eyes, but his father had told him only girls and queers cried, so he blinked rapidly for a moment to rein it all back in. It was just…

He couldn’t really remember ever receiving just a regular birthday present. Even by his friends. Tommy and Carol had always said their gift was a little bigger because it was for both, and even Nancy hadn’t really done separate gifts the one Christmas they were together. It was just never something he ever expected.

Yet here was Robin, his best friend, leaving her family on Christmas just to wish him a happy birthday and give him an honest to god birthday present. He swallowed thickly, more than just incredibly touched.

Before, he might not have said anything. Before, he might have just laughed it off and opened the present and been secretly grateful that someone had thought of him. But this was Robin.

Robin.

His best friend. God, he loved her. It didn’t matter if it was only platonic (with a capital P at that); it didn’t make it any less profound or true. He loved her. He didn’t think he had ever loved anyone as much as he loved her. Even back when they had bickered all the time at Scoops, there had been something there. He had just confused it for something else at first.

But they had clicked immediately, even back then. Even back when Robin had still thought him the same asshole he’d been back in high school, and potentially homophobic. Even she couldn’t deny that. Like they were meant to find each other. He just wished they had found each other a lot sooner.

But then, he hadn’t been that great of a person back then too. Maybe they found each other exactly when they meant to, like the universe just knew.

“No one…no one’s ever gotten me a birthday present before,” he softly admitted. “Not just a birthday present, I mean. Not one that wasn’t also a Christmas present.”

Robin’s gaze softened, and almost like they were reading each other’s mind, they reached out at the same time to grasp each other by the elbow in a gentle cradle. She didn’t look at him with pity, however. She knew that wasn’t what he needed.

“Well, of course I would be the one to do it first, dingus,” she lightly teased, squeezing his elbow briefly before letting him grasp his present with both hands again. “You’re my dingus. I love you,” she softly added, and the words helped heal that crack inside him that wondered if maybe he was still unworthy of love, just like it did every time she uttered those words.

“I love you too,” he replied, just like he always did. They didn’t say the words often, but they never let them go unanswered.

Robin grinned at him then, and it was that same grin as in the bathroom, when they suddenly knew that they had found their other half after all. “Open your birthday gift, Stevie,” she chided, spinning around to find the edge of the bed before plopping down with a clap of her hands.

“Dork,” he scoffed, but it was full of affection. He knew he was just as much of a dork. They both knew it, truly. He grinned down at the birthday gift in his hands, taking a deep breath before ripping the paper away.

“Bucky, you didn’t,” he gasped, his grin growing as he looked up at his best friend who was grinning back.

“It took ages to find the right one,” she confessed. “I made my mom take me all over for it.”

Steve hurriedly pulled the red puffer vest from the rest of the wrapping paper, careful not to drop the small toy figure resting on top. This? This right here? Christ, he had thought the album Robin had gotten him for Christmas had been the best present ever, but this certainly took the cake.

“Oh!” Robin exclaimed, and then like she could read Steve’s mind again, she was once more diving for her backpack. She pulled out a small cardboard box from the bakery downtown, followed by a blue candle.

“I don’t have a lighter,” she said apologetically as she opened the lid of the box to reveal a cupcake that was a little worse for wear from being in her bag, but still noticeably a cupcake. That she stuck the candle in. “But I know that you do, so hand it over and let’s light it up.”

Steve felt that burn behind his eyes again. A birthday present, one that symbolized something so important to them, and a birthday cake. On his actual birthday. He had never loved Robin as much as he did in that moment.

Huffing a small laugh that was only slightly wet, Steve carefully moved to set the little packed figure on his desk, propped up against his bowling pin he’d stolen with Tommy one year, and found his lighter to hand off to Robin.

“Happy birthday to you,” Robin started singing as soon as she had the candle lit, holding the box up with both hands. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear dingus. Happy birthday to you. And many mooooore…” Robin’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Make a wish, Stevie.”

What more could he possibly wish for when he had the best friend he could ever hope for giving him the one thing he’d never had before?

I wish for Robin to get all the happiness and love that she deserves, he decided, wishing for that with all his heart, and then he leaned forward and blew out the candle.

Next year, after the earthquakes, his parents canceled their Christmas party for the first time in two decades. They were done with Hawkins, they decided. And Hawkins, or at least the people in it important to Steve, were done with them too.

Steve’s friends convinced their parents to celebrate Christmas the day before, allowing them to throw Steve his first ever actual birthday party whose sole focus was just him.

But if Steve used the opportunity of a stray piece of mistletoe still hanging from the Munsons’ new house to kiss the boy he had a crush on, well, he just considered that his birthday present to himself.

After that, Steve never had to spend a birthday alone again, or have it ignored, even when they celebrated Christmas that day too. With one arm wrapped around his Platonic soulmate and one arm wrapped around the man of his dreams, Steve knew that he had somehow found the happiness and love he deserved too.

And it was the best birthday present he could have ever wished for.

~

Hostage Hotties (open):

@derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump @honeii-puff @scoops-aboy86 @dotdot-wierdlife @everywherenothere @bumblebeecuttlefishes @lawrencebshoggoth

[inkedinshadows]

In the Arms of Dawn

Pairing: Cassian x f!reader

A/N: aaa I'm finally sharing these eheh! Thank you @anarchiii for this request, I loved writing it (and hopefully it's enough to be forgiven for my last fic?🥺) As usual, I yapped lol

Prompts: "Get up. This is not place to die." + "I don't know how to do this without you." + "Don't tempt me." + angst + smut

Warnings: blood, injuries, nightmares, oral (f receiving), p in v

Word count: 2.3k

Cassian lay on the ground, bleeding profusely from a gash in his stomach.

His hands pressed down on the wound, but blood seeped through his fingers and pooled beneath him, staining the dusty ground.

Your own hands were covered in red from trying to help him, but to no avail. You didn't have healing magic and you couldn't even winnow. The battle still raged not too far from where you had managed to drag him, and you had no idea where Rhys, Azriel, or even Mor were. No one was coming to help you save your mate.

“You can't die,” you pleaded, cradling his face between your hands, not caring that you were smearing his cheeks with blood.

His eyes fluttered open, but all that escaped his lips was a groan.

“You can't die,” you repeated. “Cass, please…”

The tears you had been trying to hold back finally spilled over and rolled down your cheeks, but you refused to let that stop you. You would find a way to save him. You had no idea how, but begging and pleading wouldn't get you anywhere.

“You have to leave,” Cassian rasped, his pained gaze meeting your desperate one. His breaths came in sharp pants, but he still forced the words out. “Get somewhere… somewhere safe.”

A flicker of anger sparked in your chest. “Don't start,” you snapped. “I'm not abandoning you.”

“Y/N…” he tried again, but you shook your head before he could say another word.

“No.”

A new determination took hold of you. Cassian wasn't going to die—not on your watch. But you had to be strong for both of you before the situation became even worse.

“Get up,” you ordered, your voice now steady and firm. You wiped away your tears, probably smearing some of his blood on your face, but you didn't care. “This is no place to die. Now get up.”

Cassian blinked once in confusion at your sudden change of approach before attempting to move, pushing himself up on one elbow. It was all he could manage with one hand still pressed tightly to his stomach.

“I… I can't,” he groaned. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if that small movement had drained what little strength he had left. “I'm sorry…”

Fine, then. If he couldn't get up on his own, you would carry him back to camp. He was too tall and heavy for you to make it on your own, and it would have been a struggle even without the broken wing dragging behind him, but you'd be damned if you gave up on him.

“Alright,” you breathed. “We'll find another way.”

You studied him—the larger wounds, the smaller ones, the right place to put your hands so you could lift him. In the end, you settled on placing one of his arms around your shoulders and wrapping one of yours around his waist.

“I need you to help me with this, okay?” you urged him. You waited for him to nod before continuing. “On three, we stand up. Can you do that?”

Cassian nodded again, though weakly. “I'll try.”

You counted slowly, giving him time to gather a little more strength, and then you both pushed up with your legs. Cassian let out an agonized scream and you stumbled under his weight, but you held on. Your arm tightened around his waist while your other hand gripped the arm he'd draped around your shoulders.

But you were shorter than him and carrying the full weight of a grown Illyrian warrior all the way back to camp seemed impossible.

“One step at a time,” you decided. “But we have to move fast. You just keep your hand on that wound, alright?”

You had no idea how you kept your voice so steady as you took charge of the situation. Maybe it was desperation pushing you to act—to use your brain instead of simply crying like you wanted to do.

To his credit, Cassian tried. He was struggling, you knew that. Each step drew a pained groan from his throat and his wings dragged through the dirt. Blood still spilled from his stomach like water from a leaking faucet. But you both pushed on.

You didn't make it far.

Cassian's steps faltered after only a few feet. “My love…” he croaked, and then he was slumping forward—so suddenly that you didn't have time to steady him.

He collapsed to the ground with a thud and a whimper. You dropped to your knees beside him, turning him onto his back so you could help him up again.

But his eyes were closed and he was panting. You placed your hands over his, pressing down on the gash. His warm, sticky blood coated your fingers once more.

“Cassian,” you called, somehow managing to not lose control—yet. “Cassian, c'mon, open your eyes.”

His lids fluttered, but they didn't open. He didn't say a word. And as the gravity of the situation sank in, so did the despair.

You couldn't get him back on his feet without his help. And even if you did, the camp was half a mile away. You wouldn't get there in time to make a difference. You probably wouldn't get there at all.

“Open your eyes, Cassian,” you tried again, your voice now carrying a hint of the desperation twisting your gut. “Just open your eyes…”

Nothing. No movement, no response. And then you realized—he had passed out from blood loss.

At least he was still breathing. At least you had that.

But what could you do now?

“Please don't die,” you whispered, tears spilling over once more. You rested your head on his chest to listen to the faint, unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Please, I… I don't know how to do this without you…”

Cassian's voice rang in your head like an echo. “Open your eyes.”

You shook your head, eyes still shut as you held him close. His voice sounded so far away, like he was already slipping away from your grasp. And why was he asking you to open your eyes when he was the one who wouldn't?

Then you heard it again, but this time it was all around you, as if he were whispering in your ear but also shouting from afar.

He was repeating your name. Over and over, like a plea.

And then, two more words.

“Y/N, wake up!”

With a jolt, your eyes snapped open. Cassian hovered over you in the faint morning light, his hands on your shoulders as he tried to shake you awake. A wave of relief washed over his concerned expression when he realized he had finally pulled you from your sleep.

“You're alright, sweetheart,” he reassured you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks and you realized only then that you were crying. “It was just a nightmare.”

You threw your arms around him, pulling him back down next to you. You curled up against his chest and buried your face in the crook of his neck while he wrapped you in his arms. His warmth and familiar scent seeped into your senses, soothing you just a little.

For the past ten days, you hadn't been able to shake the feeling that this was the dream: being here with him, both of you alive and well. It had taken him a whole week to heal and you'd spent the entire time next to his bed. But he had been barely conscious, and the nightmares had come to haunt your sleep. It was always the same memory, over and over again.

As soon as he was back on his feet, Cassian had taken you to the secluded cabin in the woods you'd bought together years ago. But even spending the last few nights snuggled up with him had done little to help—to the point that you didn't need to say a single word for him to know what the nightmare was about.

“I'm right here,” he murmured into your hair. “Az found us in time, remember? I didn't die.”

You could feel his pulse from where your head rested against his neck. You let the steady rhythm of his heartbeat envelop you like a reassuring reminder of the life still thrumming inside him, grounding you in the warmth of his embrace.

Cassian stroked your hair and your back, leaving gentle kisses on the crown of your head and whispering tender words in your ear. He gave you time to sort your thoughts out on your own, but he was still there for you, whatever you needed. Just like he always was.

“I guess I’m still scared sometimes,” you whispered after a few minutes. “That the nightmare is real and that this…” You gestured to your entangled bodies. “This is the dream.”

His hands cupped your cheek, lifting your head from the crook of his neck. His eyes were soft when they met yours.

“This isn’t a dream, sweetheart. It’s real.” He peppered your face with kisses, from your temple to your lips. “And I can prove it to you.”

Despite the small smile his onslaught of kisses brought to your face, you frowned. “How?”

Cassian just smirked, and you had to hold back a laugh as you shook your head. “Don’t tempt me, Cass.”

He looked surprised at your response. Pulling back slightly, he raised his brows. “Wait,” he said, “you would be up for it?”

He had been clearly joking then, if your reply had caught him off guard. But as you thought it over, you wouldn’t say no to some intimate time with him. Cuddling was nice, but maybe this was what you needed to stop the memories from haunting you. Cauldron knew how long it had been since the last time you had slept together.

“As you said,” you replied with a smile, “it’s a good way to prove that this is real. And I also miss it.”

Cassian’s eyes lit up and he pulled you closer. “Then let me prove just how real and alive I am,” he murmured against your lips before claiming them in a deep kiss.

He pushed off the sheets and rolled onto you, caging you between his body and the mattress. His mouth moved to your collarbone and you let it ground you in the present, in this very moment. Your mate was here, kissing you, touching you, slowly pushing your nightgown up.

You lifted your arms to help him take it off and his hands caressed your body as he leaned back to kneel between your legs. You watched him pull off his shirt, but your eyes immediately settled on the new scar on his stomach. You had seen it before, but something twisted in your gut anyway.

Cassian noticed the direction of your gaze and covered it with a broad hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, waiting for you to look up at him before he went on. “Don’t think about it, sweetheart. I promise I’m fine.”

He dipped his head between your parted legs, leaving a trail of kisses on your inner thigh, each one sending a shiver through you. “Just focus on me, okay?”

You nodded, trying to relax more. You knew he was right. He was fine now. Yet clearing your mind was easier said than done.

Until Cassian’s tongue flicked out.

He took his time, pleasuring you with slow, deliberate strokes. His hands caressed up and down your thighs before they settled on your hips, his touch firm yet reverent. The lingering tension in your body melted away with every lick, every brush of his fingers, until quiet moans filled the room and the only thing you could think of was his skilled mouth working you toward release.

But Cassian pulled away too soon.

He crawled back up your body, bracing himself on his elbows at the sides of your head, a satisfied grin plastered on his face. “Have I proven it yet?”

You hummed, brows knitted together as you pretended to think about it. “No, not really,” you answered with a teasing smile. “I think I need more evidence before I make my decision.”

“Do you now?” he countered, his smirk only growing. He shifted slightly, and then you felt him—his cock, hard and ready, pressing against your core. With a shallow thrust, he pushed inside, drawing a little whimper from you. “Is this what you were thinking?”

“Exactly this,” you murmured. You pulled him down for a kiss and when your lips touched, Cassian began to move.

It was slow, as if you were both trying to reconnect with each other. His hands caressed your face, your hair, while yours roamed his back, pulling him close like you never wanted to let go. His wings cast deep shadows across the room, blocking out most of the shy rays of the rising sun, and an ethereal golden light danced across his beautiful features.

If it weren't for the pleasure rising inside you as you moved together, you would have sworn this was just another dream. But now you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was real.

“I love you,” you breathed in between kisses.

Cassian pulled back enough to look into your eyes. “I love you too, sweetheart,” he murmured, punctuating his words with a deep thrust.

You moaned, but the sound was swallowed by another kiss. And as Cassian made love to you, you knew the memories would finally remain where they belonged.

Not in the present, waking you in the middle of the night.

But in the past.

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon

1k taglist: @onebadassunicorn @thegoddessofnothingness

[wishchip106]

how to always be forgiven by your ex with four easy steps by Erik lehnsherr

Step 1. know how to play chess

this is very important otherwise all your attempts at getting back with your ex will be futile

Step 2. walk up to your ex with a chessboard when they’re least expecting it

catching them by surprise makes it much harder for your ex to escape the situation

Step 3. apologize (if necessary)

in most cases, your ex will want to hear that they were right (even when they are clearly not)

Step 4. look at your ex with big gay eyes

this is the most important step, how else could you show your ex that you still care about them?

by this point your ex should be looking at you like this:

if not repeat steps 3 and 4

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

needing

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

Warnings: English isn't my first language so I apologize for any and all mistakes. All GIF credits to the owner. Heavy implications of smut but no actual smut. Kind of Toxic!Rafe but idk??This is lowkey rushed but I needed it to get out there lol.

ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚

Being JJ’s sister already meant people had a bad perception of you, but your attitude did not help the rumors anyway. You weren’t known for being nice to everyone, and that was fine because it scared the weirdos away most of the time.

You’ve always seemed strong and independent. Insults usually rolled right off you, and situations didn’t seem to bother you. Being hard-headed and having an attitude all the time was a good cover. But it was all a front. At home, your dad would constantly abuse alcohol, and you and JJ often bore the brunt of his rage. When JJ started sleeping at John B’s house and only saw you once a week, you ended up taking most of the hits.

You were friends with the Pogues, but not as close as JJ was, so you didn’t feel comfortable staying at John B’s house.

You met Rafe almost a year ago at a party. It was meant to be an emotionless hook-up and nothing more. But over time, what started as frequent, meaningless sex evolved into a friends-with-benefits situation. You two began spending a lot of time together, both with and without there being sex involved. He started taking you out to places and even to parties with his friends and others around.

But he wasn’t your boyfriend. And every time you attempted to bring it up he'd claimed he “couldn’t be the man you needed.” Despite that, as you grew closer, he eventually learned about your home life. Rafe wasn’t stupid—he knew Pogues had it hard—but he hadn’t realized how much your situation affected you. How you were really a sweet and caring person who had just been hurt by your situation. Once he did learn, he started spending more time with you at his house, claiming, “Look, I know this is just sex, but come on, I can’t have you around that bullshit, ‘kay?”

You didn’t complain—free days at Tannyhill with him were a welcome escape!

Everything was fine until Rafe started treating you like an actual girlfriend. You wanted to be his, but was he really capable? Anyway, it wasn’t what he wanted—he’d made that very clear—so it didn’t matter.

Then, you two got into a bad argument last week. You’d started feeling very dependent on Rafe, and you hated it. So you began to pull back, which only made him care more. One comment led to another, and…

“Rafe, stop. If you’re not my boyfriend, stop acting like you care about me like one.”

“My god! You don’t want me to care about you just ‘cause I don’t wanna be your boyfriend? S’pathetic.”

“Fuck you!” you yelled before storming out.

You hadn’t seen or talked to him since. He was pissed but still wanted to fix things; he just didn’t know how.

That’s when you called.

Your dad had come home drunk, yelling and throwing things. You could no longer bear it. So you called Rafe.

“Hey, I’ll be at yours in like half an hour,” you told him, not waiting for a response.

When you arrived, Wheezie let you in. (She already knew the procedure and wouldn’t snitch,) but she stopped you.

“Hey, you okay? You don’t look okay,” she asked.

You put on your best smile. “Yeah! M’fine! Rafe’s here, right?” She nodded and let you pass.

When you reached Rafe’s room, he was sitting on his bed. His eyes instantly met yours. You climbed onto the bed, inching towards him, and eventually straddled him without saying a word while he stared at you.

“Hi,” you whispered before kissing him.

Rafe, being a man with needs, initially kissed you back. But after sensing something was wrong, he pulled back.

“Nah, nah, you were just over here yelling at me. I’m not mad, okay, but you’re not okay,” he said, concern in his voice.

You frowned as tears welled up in your eyes. “Rafe, m’fine. I’m sorry. You’re forgiven. Please just kiss me. Come on, I just need to forget.”

He kissed you again but stopped when he felt you begin to cry lightly, your breath hitching out of sadness.

“Nah, baby, come on,” he said, pulling you into a hug and holding you tight.

You couldn’t cry in front of him. You couldn’t be so attached to him. It freaked you out, and you tried to push him off.

“Rafe, stop!” you cried, but his grip only tightened.

“What is it? Is it me?” he asked softly, stroking your hair to calm you down. “Your parents?” he whispered.

Finally, you broke down, crying into his chest and wetting his shirt with your tears. Although you had previously confided in him, it had never been like this. He whispered a series of “M’sorrys” as he stroked your hair.

When you finally calmed down, you pulled back and got off him, heading to his mirror to clean yourself up. He stared at you with concern.

“Shit, sorry. Okay, well, m’gonna go now,” you said quickly.

He immediately got up and walked over, towering over you. “The fuck you are. You haven’t told me what’s wrong or why you tried to forget by fucking me.”

“I just needed to forget, okay? No point crying over something I can’t change.”

“Something you can’t change?”

“What?”

“What is the something you can’t change?”

“The situation with my dad and your feelings toward me,” you calmly explained.

“Now, why’d you think fucking was gonna make everything better, huh?” he scolded, switching the topic.

You looked away. “Thought that’s what you wanted.”

“What?”

“I thought you’d no longer be mad at me or wouldn’t care if I was crying if you got to fuck,” you said lightly.

He scoffed in disbelief. “You think that’s the kind of person I am? Baby, I care so much more for you than I’ll ever let on, okay? And this isn’t just sex. You are so much more to me as a person. It’s important to me that you know that, ‘kay?”

You nodded, still waiting for him to respond to your earlier comment.

His face softened. “Look, I wanna be your boyfriend, ‘kay? More than anything, fuck, believe me. But I can’t be the man you deserve. You deserve so much better.”

You scoffed lightly. “But I want you.”

He sighed. “Let me better myself. Then I promise.” He leaned in and kissed your forehead softly. “Stay here tonight, yeah?”

You nodded.

Later that night, as you drifted off to sleep, he kissed your arms, shoulders, and face with gentle affection. “I love you,” he whispered before the both of you fell asleep.

[v6quewrlds]

Ooooooh maybe some accidental angst where Andrei gets "stood up" but it was bc reader went to the different location of the restaurant and they couldn't get a hold of Andrei bc their phone died and they texted him after they got home so Andrei shows up with take-out

-hoodharlow

You sighed with a sense of defeat as your phone went dark, dying in the midst of your attempt to figure out where Andrei had gone. The host, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache, had given you a puzzled look when you gave him Andrei's name. He had checked his reservations, and there was no booking under that name.

Your stomach churned as you realized you might have gotten the time or place wrong. Or perhaps he had changed the plans and you had missed his message. You had been so excited to see him, to feel his arms around you, to taste the warmth of his lips on yours. But now, you were alone, with nothing but the cold wind whispering through the empty streets for company.

Your heart raced as you entered your apartment. With trembling hands, you plugged in your phone and waited for it to come back to life. Knowing Andrei would be upset, you hoped it wouldn't take long. As the screen lit up, you saw a flurry of missed calls and messages from him. The realization that you might have hurt his feelings made your chest tighten. You quickly dialed his number, your heart in your throat.

Andrei's voice was a mix of relief and annoyance when he picked up. “Dude, where are you?” His voice was strained, the sound of frantic worry hidden beneath a layer of irritation.

“I’m so sorry, Drei. My phone died and I went to the wrong place,” you blurted out, your voice a mix of apology and desperation. You could almost feel the tension in his silence before he spoke again.

“The wrong place? What do you mean?” Andrei's voice grew louder, his confusion palpable through the phone.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I went to El Jardín. But you weren’t there.”

Andrei’s voice softened, his concern growing. “El Jardín? Babe, I’ve been waiting for you at La Casita for the past hour. Did you get my texts?”

“No, I didn’t. I’m so sorry. My phone died when I got to El Jardín, and I had no way to reach you. I didn’t know what to do.”

Andrei let out a sigh of relief. “It’s okay, baby. I just thought something bad happened, you know? You had me worried sick.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. I should have checked the place first before coming back. I just assumed—”

Andrei interrupted with an exhale. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just happy you’re okay. I’ll grab some takeout from Five Guys and come over. We can eat at your place. Watch a movie or something?”

The thought of Andrei bringing greasy food to your apartment brought a smile to your face, despite the mess you had made of the evening. “That sounds perfect,” you replied, feeling a knot loosen in your stomach.

It took Andrei less than twenty minutes to arrive, and when he did, he was holding a bag that smelled heavenly. The crinkling of the greasy paper filled the room as he pulled out two cheeseburgers, fries, and a shake, all smothered in a sheen of oil. Your stomach rumbled at the sight, and Andrei couldn't help the amused laughter that escaped him.

“You want me to get us plates?” you asked, your eyes still on the food.

Andrei shook his head, setting the bag down on the counter. “Not yet. I wanna make sure you still love me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his earnest expression. You stepped closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck as his strong hands ventured down to hold your waist. “I could never not love you, Andrei. Please forgive me?”

Andrei leaned down to kiss you, the warmth of his lips dispelling the last of your nerves. “Forgiven, as long as you don’t do that shit to me again.” He laughed lowly, his arms tightening around you as he leaned in for another kiss, this one longer, more lingering.

[felixbobeelix]

In Defense of The Emperor (or, Ansur Is Not A Victim)

GIF credit: @mittthrawnuruodo

The Emperor is, in my opinion, one of the most underappreciated and misunderstood characters in Baldur's Gate 3, and I have spent a lot of time thinking about reasons why that may be. I honestly think it's tragic because The Emperor is such a compellingly-written character, and I think a lot of that gets lost under the landslide of abject hatred people feel for it.

I have a lot of thoughts about this, so buckle up buttercups! Lots (and lots, and LOTS) more under the cut!

I was playing BG3 again the other day, working my way through Emp's reveal, its initial withholding of the details about its escape and the nature of its relationship with Stelmane, and all the Ansur stuff, and I got fired up about this again.

There are a few really common reasons I see for why people hate The Emperor. One is its manipulative behavior, lies by omission, and the fact that if you pressure it enough, its attitude toward Tav will change. Another is the fact that if you choose to free Orpheus it will willingly return to the Netherbrain. Then there's its enthrallment of Stelmane and the implication that it led to her illness and death. And, of course, there's the idea that The Emperor betrayed its longtime friend and implied former lover, Ansur.

I also think there's a secret fifth option that maybe happens unconsciously. The vast majority of people spent a lot of time crafting their Dream Guardians into gorgeous feasts for the eyes, which is something the devs intentionally encouraged players to do. So when the game hit them with the twist and their beautiful Dream Guardian was replaced by an (ostensibly) unappealing Illithid, their sense of betrayal was amplified; they were predisposed to greater anger and hatred for The Emperor than they may have felt if it had retained the pleasant visage of their Dream Guardian.

Emp's Manipulation:

I find the argument about Emp's lying and manipulative behavior a little strange, when, for example, so many people are willing to overlook Astarion's abject manipulation of their Tavs. Personally, I think the reasons here are twofold. One, Astarion enjoys the privilege of being conventionally attractive and Emp does not, plain and simple. Two, sticking it out through Astarion's lying and manipulation will eventually lead to satisfying gain: an endgame relationship with him. There's no such satisfying outcome with Emp, so players are less inclined to put up with behaviors they endure for Astarion's sake. It's actually arguably easier to get Emp to admit to its manipulation of Tav than it is to get Astarion to do the same thing, and yet Astarion is more readily forgiven.

There may also be some degree of people being skeeved out by Emp's mind reading and its apparent ability to enthrall. But even this is a little odd, since Tav and their companions are all telepathically joined and that doesn't scare the player. The Emperor also never actually makes an attempt to enthrall Tav even when they're being combative and resistant. My only conclusion is that player distaste in this context is a product of the negative narratives about Illithids throughout the game. Which, for the record, are narratives I think we're meant to challenge as players.

(As an interesting side note, those narratives seem to be easily overriden when an Illithid is seen as helpful, as in the case of Omeluum. Despite clear evidence that it has not entirely denounced Illithid culture, and despite its membership in a morally questionable organization, players have a largely positive opinion of Omeluum simply because it tries to help them. They seem to forget that it was experimenting on Tav, and its miscalculation could have seriously compromised them.)

I think it's also worth pointing out that an Illthid in hiding is going to find particular challenge in simply surviving and remaining undetected, and even moreso in avoiding being attacked and killed, especially if it does not have the benefit of allies. Even Omeluum (who has the benefit of allies in the Society of Brilliance) has to disguise itself when it moves about the city. If you visit Omeluum and Blurg in Baldur's Gate you can listen in to their conversation, and Omeluum admits it sometimes takes the form of Blurg when it goes around.

I staunchly maintain, for one thing, that Emp is a true neutral character. It will resort to nearly any means necessary to assure its survival and freedom - though, again, it does stop short of robbing Tav of their autonomy, which I think is significant. And really, all things considered, Emp's methods are some of the least insidious when compared with the behaviors of other notable characters in the game. Even its insistence that Orpheus must be kept imprisoned is driven more by fear and a lack of real alternatives than any kind of malice. And alignments aside, when you consider the attitudes people have about Illithids, it's suddenly not surprising that Emp resorts to things like lying to protect itself and convince others to ally with it.

This concept was something I had to explore in depth when I worked with a DM friend who helped me construct a playable Illithid character, and I was challenged to run with a party of adventurers without them discovering my true race. It is NOT EASY. Almost immediately, despite my best intentions, I realized I would likely need to resort to some questionable methods to maintain my character's secrecy. The Emperor is the same. I'll touch on this more when I get into Emp's dynamic with Stelmane.

Player Influence:

Maybe the most frustrating observation I've made is that The Emperor is one of the only characters players will typecast based on the worst potential dialogue outcomes. Tav's relationship with pretty much all of the characters can be either improved or totally soured by the dialogue options they select. In most cases players are able to make the distinction that their choices are what influence the attitudes of the characters they're interacting with. But in the case of The Emperor, players will refuse to believe that any positive interactions with it are genuine because there are dialogue paths that lead to negative outcomes. I have to wonder why this standard does not apply to companion characters who break up with Tav, treat Tav questionably, or leave the party altogether when the player selects negative dialogue options.

Because of the potential for the Emperor's attitude to sour and for it to turn away from the player, it is written off as an entirely disingenuous character. However, Emp repeatedly demonstrates a capacity for veracity and emotionality, and I believe that when you foster a positive relationship with it the feelings it shares are genuine, just like with any other character. I'm guessing it doesn't help that Emp can be very matter-of-fact and pragmatic even during positive interactions, where the companion characters are often downright poetic in their regard for Tav and willing to make sacrifices for Tav when their approval is high.

I can see how this would give the sense that Emp's feelings are lesser, because it brackets those feelings with discussions about things like whether Tav is embracing tadpole abilities. But 1) Emp stands to lose its freedom again if the conflict with the Elder Brain goes awry and is, I think very understandably, preoccupied with what it believes are the necessary steps to ensure victory, and it seems anxious to affirm that Tav is as dedicated to the best outcome as it is. And 2) if this kind of pragmatism is the barometer by which people are measuring their trust of a character's feelings about them, I'm honestly a little afraid to know how they feel about their interactions with very pragmatic people IRL. 👀

Some people just are less prone to emotional expressiveness, or will ease their discomfort around emotional expression by diverting conversation to more practical matters. That doesn't mean the feelings they express are not genuine. We see over and over that Tav has a way of awakening strong, unexpected feelings in the people they meet throughout the course of the game. There's every possibility that this is what happens with Emp, and that it is taken aback by its feelings and is steering the conversation back to the matter of the conflict with the Brain as a way of avoiding being caught up and losing the plot.

I think that because the game does such a good job of playing up the idea that Illithids are soulless and inherently manipulative and evil, players are overly willing to accept it as fact. However, the game does also give us opportunities to question that narrative, and I think we'd do well to seize those opportunities. Even in raw DnD Illithid lore has shifted toward the idea that Illithids are more than the vicious monsters they started as. I think it's far more compelling and creative to consider that Emp is being genuine when you pursue positive interactions with it.

Relationship with Stelmane:

This begs the question, then, of whether the Emperor is truly upset about Stelmane's death. It certainly seems to be, but when you begin to suspect that it was enthralling her and forcing her to do its bidding you begin to doubt that it really cared about her.

Honestly? I'm not sure whether it did or not. Perhaps what it's truly upset about is the realization that it no longer has the option to return to its previous life as a major player in the Knights of the Shield. Maybe aside from the enthrallment, it actually did respect and even like Stelmane. Perhaps they had a rapport at some point prior to her enthrallment, and it is nostalgic about that. I think its feelings in that moment are real, it's simply unclear as to what those feelings are about.

In any case, I am openly and unabashedly here to disabuse anyone of the notion that Stelmane was a good person. A lot of what we hear about her we hear from Wyll, who (like pretty much every other character) is an unreliable narrator. The truth is unfortunately not as nice as Wyll would like to believe. With as little information about her as we have, this seems a bold claim for me to make, but I make it confidently, and here is why: her membership in the Knights of the Shield precludes her from being a good person.

The Knights of the Shield is an organization dealing in political manipulation, information brokering, and financial gain for its members. At the very least, Belynne Stelmane was concerned with underhanded political maneuvering and the accumulation of wealth, and at worst she was a willing servant of Gargauth, the god of betrayal and political corruption. It's unclear what level of seniority she held in the organization, though Emp's decision to have her as its avatar implies that she held significant influence. Either way, at no point was it possible for her to be involved with the Knights of the Shield and still be a good person.

And, yes, the same can be said of The Emperor. To be clear, I am not claiming that Emp is a "good" aligned character. However, its motivations are inherently different to Stelmane's and the other members of the Knights of the Shield. Rather than being strictly financially or politically motivated, Emp's involvement with the Knights was most likely born as much out of necessity as any desire for power. The Knights were a viable cover, a way for it to remain hidden and still secure a life of relative freedom for itself. To be sure, it could have attempted to ally itself with another organization, such as the Society of Brilliance. However, the Society is comparatively smaller, less powerful, and less profitable. Emp also does not appear to have any interest in the sorts of experimentation and data collection as members of the Society of Brilliance.

Based on Emp's characterization, it is not suited to a life of exploration and travel. It does not have the same innate arcane ability as Omeluum, who is able to exist and still maintain its autonomy in regions (such as the Underdark) where the influence of an Elder Brain is relatively strong. It's more likely that The Emperor's ability to maintain its autonomy is linked to its proximity, or lack thereof, to an Elder Brain. Likely, it chose to secure a life for itself in a single location far enough away from the reach of an Elder Brain that it could escape enthrallment, and allied itself with the Knights of the Shield because they were the most proximally convenient and had the best capacity for security.

At any rate, I think it's entirely reasonable to assume that if Stelmane had not been enthralled, she would have ripped the rug out from under The Emperor the moment she stood to gain from doing so. Emp stood its best chance of success by enthralling her, and while that is certainly a morally questionable thing for it to do, be assured that it was not taking advantage of some wholesome paragon of goodness. Likely as not, if the roles had been reversed, Stelmane would have subjected Emp to a similarly morally questionable form of subjugation until the moment came for her to discard it entirely.

As an aside, the game works pretty hard to give the impression that Stelmane’s enthrallment led to her illness and eventual passing, but it's also entirely possible that she truly did simply have a stroke. Or, perhaps more compellingly, her condition had nothing at all to do with The Emperor and was potentially infernal in origin, given the way that she allegedly stared unwaveringly at Wyll the last time he saw her, which was shortly before he was targeted by Mizora. She was already well into her illness at that point, and didn't seem cognizant of anyone else at the time, but Wyll was of particular interest to her. Maybe it's nothing, or maybe the game intentionally misled players into believing The Emperor was responsible for Stelmane's decline, when it was never Emp's fault in the first place.

The Emperor's "Betrayal" of Ansur:

Here is where my opinion diverges most significantly from the opinions of other players. Put plainly, The Emperor did not betray Ansur. That is an idea that is given by Ansur, and by the following passage, which can be found during the challenges in the Wyrmway:

The note preceding the author's writing gives the distinct impression that the author is - yes - an unreliable narrator. They are not only giving a secondhand account of the events, but they are dramatizing that account.

Then, after defeating Ansur, the player finds the following letter on Ansur's body:

We also have additional story from The Emperor itself about the events that led to Ansur's death.

The reality is that Ansur, motivated by his love for Balduran, saved The Emperor from its enthrallment by the Elder Brain in the hopes of restoring the Balduran he knew and loved. Despite being asked over and over to stop, despite The Emperor's insistence that it was content with its new form, Ansur doggedly searched for a way to return The Emperor to its previous form as Balduran. Rather than accept that Balduran's new form was permanent, rather than accepting him as The Emperor, rather than being happy enough that his loved one was no longer a slave and that the memories of their time together were still intact, Ansur was not satisfied. He could not look past Emp's Illithidness, he could not let go of the narrative that Illithids are monsters. His refusal to adjust his paradigm, his unwillingness to accept The Emperor as a valid friend or ally or lover, was a failing on Ansur's part, and it was incredibly selfish.

Emp's letter to Ansur is incredibly heartfelt, and focuses entirely on Ansur and his happiness. Emp clearly still values Ansur and wants him to be contented. Even as Emp draws its boundaries, it keeps the focus on Ansur's well-being. It is a really good letter, and nothing about it implies that Emp held any ill will toward Ansur. It simply wanted Ansur to give up the pursuit of reclaiming Balduran as he was. But Ansur was unwilling to do that. So unwilling, in fact, that he felt it would be better to kill The Emperor rather than accept its new form.

Therein is the true betrayal: attempting to kill your friend while they're sleeping because you can't make them fit your ideal of them is, put simply, super fucked up.

The idea that it's a betrayal for The Emperor to have killed Ansur in self-defense, but Ansur attempting to murder Emp in its sleep is somehow not a monumental betrayal, is absolutely wild to me. Ansur was the one who betrayed The Emperor, and his rage is as misguided as the hate players have for Emp. I think players are blinded by the heroic narrative around Ansur, and the narrative that Illithids - and, by proxy, The Emperor - can't be trusted undermines the explanation that The Emperor gives. Players want to believe Ansur despite the evidence that his feelings of betrayal are unfounded, because they're naturally more inclined to trust a heroic figure than an Illithid. Again, I think this was a place in the game where players were challenged to question accepted narratives.

Of course, it's entirely possible that Ansur's attempt to kill The Emperor was driven by something entirely separate from the story we're offered in the game. Maybe Ansur took issue with The Emperor's movements with the Knights of the Shield; though that would beg the question of why he would be so determined to eliminate Emp and not any of the other members. Or, maybe Emp killed Ansur unprompted in a bout of pure Illithid malice, which would be a betrayal indeed - though that seems highly unlikely after reading its letter to Ansur. Ultimately, however, without any indication otherwise, we have to take the story we're given at face value. As far as we know, Ansur was motivated to kill The Emperor as part of his cognitive dissonance around its change from Balduran to The Emperor, and that selfish, misguided act constitutes a betrayal of Emp by Ansur, not the other way around.

The Emperor's Return to the Netherbrain:

I saved this for last, because it's actually very simple. When you choose to free Orpheus, The Emperor declares its intention to return to the Brain, and true to its word it does exactly that, and fights against you during the final battle. Why, after fighting so hard to avoid the Brain, would Emp so willingly return to it?

Put simply, because it has no choice. Or, it has no choice in the context of the game as-is. What reason does Emp have to believe that Orpheus, an avid enemy of Illithids, having been subjugated by this Illithid, would be willing to extend his protection to it?

Emp knows that the moment Orpheus is free to give or take his psionic protection, he will refuse to protect it. The jig is up. The game is over. In its pragmatic way, The Emperor concedes defeat. Its anger is palpable, you have forfeit its hard-won freedom. But the cards are on the table, and it knows that without Orpheus' protection it is going to be enthralled whether it wants to be or not. So it goes willingly. At least it can make one more choice before it loses its autonomy.

Final Thoughts:

There is so much more to say about The Emperor and its feelings and motivations. Again, in no way is it a good-aligned character, and even with the best outcomes it's still clear that Emp is at least somewhat driven by a desire for greatness, whatever form that greatness takes. That was true even when it was Balduran. But I do think it's worth remembering that when you foster a positive connection with it and side with it for the endgame, it regards your parting with some sentimentality, and then just...leaves. It's all fairly benign. The player's choices go a long way in influencing how malicious The Emperor is, and I think that's important to remember.

I could go on for hours about this, it is absolutely one of my hills to die on, but I think this is enough for now lol. I just wish The Emperor were respected more as a complex, compelling character. I wish it were at least afforded the same defiant love some of the villains are given. I genuinely hate to see Emp flattened and written off when it's such an amazing character!

[solspina]

Omission in Angelism

Luis Dante ⋆˙⟡

a short blurb inspired heavily by a thread by @lemon-russ and @squishyowl that i came across earlier! this isn’t proofread, so i apologize for any mistakes :)

trapped within an endless and grotesque night terror, dante is forced to watch the worst of his fears spring to life. fear reveals his deepest secrets to him, and he may only come to terms with them within the waking world.

warnings: very gorey in the beginning, lots of blood, graphic descriptions of a very bloody environment, reverse hurt/comfort

the pulpy floor seemed to yield with every step dante took forward. blood splashed onto the golden calves of his armor with every sickening squelch the ground made, occasionally accompanied by the snapping and cracking of fragile and decayed bones. trapped pockets of air were released from the endless heap of flesh beneath his feet, emitting muffled gurgling in their wake. the air was thick with the stench of rot and putrescence, and it pooled in his throat with every shallow breath.

this was no battlefield; he had walked through those before and come out relatively unfazed. he had seen the bodies of his brothers, and been able to identify each one by their faces and mourn them as individuals. that wasn’t the case this time. instead, each face engraved into this unholy amalgamation of human meat was indistinguishable. if he looked hard enough, he could make out the shapes of different body parts. hands, feet, arms, faces here and there, all cauterized together into an unholy organic mixture.

and yet he pressed on.

he seemed to walk for what felt like days, each step a thousand pounds heavier than the last. the crimson decay had began to absorb into his armor, soaking his feet with flesh and blood that clung to the elegant gold like it were simply white fabric. with each stain upon him, it spread its will to engage in coalescence with him, to unite him with its rot. voices had begun to speak to him, but they spoke only of his failures, the ones that drove daggers into his soul like knives. “you need to apologize” they hissed at him. “you will never be forgiven” they echoed. “the angel is gone” they declared. “you have nothing left” they told… no, reminded him.

in the beginning, they were merely haunting whispers, barely audible over the squelching under his footsteps, growing louder and more insistent as he limped into the endless unknown every step he took amplified their presence until, their volume had begun to drive him insane, for they whispered even as they screamed curses at him. they spoke of unworthiness, of guilt, of life.

“dante…”

every noise around him ceased as he heard her voice, choked and raspy behind him. she was no illusion.

sanguinius wasn’t either.

crimson red poured down from her lips like a waterfall as she choked. the angel sat behind her, one hand wrapped tightly around her throat, and the other steadying himself on the ground as he buried his teeth deep into her neck, taking pleasure in her pained whimpering and desperate gasps for air, each sound of suffering a symphony to his ears. her body convulsed from every attempt to breathe, but only blood could escape from her mouth when she exhaled. sanguinius’ fingers dug into her soft skin, undoubtedly breaking the flesh open as red poured from where his nails penetrated it.

he smiled upon noticing dante, upon witnessing his son fall to his knees in desperation as he reached a hand out to touch her, his eyes reflected nothing short of misery upon seeing his personal serf’s skin turn pale and limbs lay limp in the grasp of the angel.

“no…” dante pleaded, his voice trembling with fear and desperation. he knew his pleas would fall on deaf ears, but he could not stop himself. “father please,” he choked out as tears began to flow from his eyes. they streamed down his face, mingling with the blood and grime that covered him in a thick film of the disgusting thing that he walked upon. “she’s all i have left, father” he cried. his voice broke under the weight of grief and fear as he searched for any ounce of mercy within sanguinius’ eyes.

“dante…” she called out again in a whisper mixed with a whimper.

“please!” he begged once again, the tears now flowed unrelentlessly from his eyes. “i can’t lose her, my lord. please!” his voice cracked with each anguished plea.

this was her end. her eyes had finally began to close, and dante got to watch the life within them fade. the angel had only tightened his grip further, digging his nails further into her throat as he absorbed every drop of blood she had left within her. dante began to sink into the flesh amalgam beneath him without noticing. it grabbed him, even as he screamed while being pulled under and consumed. he did not focus on his own sinking. his focus instead on his serf and her final moments of life. “she means…” he pleaded one last time, his voice barely a whisper, too choked by both emotion and the hands around his throat for his words to be coherent. for the first time in his life he wished that he could live a little longer, if only to save her. “everything to me.”

silence had finally befallen him.

“dante?”

“dante!”

she screamed out his name as he jolted awake. he gasped for air, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. the sensation that he was being strangled remained fresh on his neck, his breathing was fast and erratic, each attempt a desperate attempt to fill his lungs as he trembled. his mind still situated on a reality in which she was gone.

no. she was here. she sat in front of him on his bed, holding a cold towel to his head with one hand and wiping his tears with the other. he had cried in his sleep, his fears expressing themselves even outside of his nightmare.

“dante, are you okay? i heard you crying from my room and i-“ he lunged forward without second thought, trapping her in his arms, enveloping the solidity and warmth of her body against his. his tears had begun to soak her shoulder almost immediately, and his fingertips dug into her back so harshly she knew for a fact they would leave bruises.

once her shock had faded, she too held him tightly, her heart breaking at the sight of her master’s anguish. “it’s okay, dante” she whispered, her voice gentle and soothing against the whirring of the flagship’s engines. “i’m not going anywhere.”

she continued to hold him as his heartbeats began to calm, her fingers gently stroking his back in a soothing rhythm. “you’re safe,” she murmured, her words a soft lullaby even up against the hardened exterior of commander luis dante. “we’re both safe.”

“please stay.” he asked, his voice muffled against her shoulder. she hummed in response, in the tone of a question. “stay with me… please.” his request highlighted the true volume of the situation. she and dante were close, and he had been vulnerable before, but never once had he openly asked for comfort, let alone asked to share his bed after one of many night terrors. who was she to deny her chapter master?

she invited herself under his blankets, the mattress already warm from dante’s few hours of sleep. the familiar scent of him enveloped her as she slipped under the covers. before she could even say goodnight, he’d moved closer. his chest found itself against her back, and his arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly as if he were afraid she would disappear. he buried his face into her hair, inhaling the smell of her perfume as a reminder of her presence. she was not gone. she was here.

he mulled over words that guilliman had said to him a few days prior before he closed his eyes once more. the primarch was right. perhaps a serf was no longer a fitting title for the woman who lay next to him. he remembered his nightmare, the vivid image of himself falling to his knees, sobbing, panicking over the thought of losing her. she means everything to me, he’d told himself… told sanguinius… within his sleep.

if the only way of ensuring he got to hold the only person who could so easily ease his terror this close every night was by making her his wife, so be it.

[b0ng05]

Dark!Religious! Wanda Maximoff x reader

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

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

Prompt: This is a lil something I wrote a while ago. Considering I haven't posted in a hot min, I figured I should feed ya somethin'. Lmk how we feel abt it in the comments and if I should continue it.

Word Count: 922

As always, Not proofread💅

Masterlist

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

Wanda’s Pov

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

I don’t truly know when it began. When I began to look at her and salivate for another reason. I know I’m allowed to look at my wife with certain lust and greed. But this… This was different. Sadistic urges tugging at the back of my mind, to bite her. Pierce her skin with my teeth, taste her blood on my tongue, hear her cries of pain. I had never wanted something so terribly, nor have I ever craved something so corrupted. Praying has done nothing for the way I feel, the rosary feels almost mocking in my palms. God unhearing of my prayers as my urges grew much stronger. It felt as though he was testing my patience and my morality. As if he was chuckling at my own mental torment.

The comforter on our bed felt almost like lava on my sweaty skin. Tossing and turning, unable to find sleep, my mind running a little too rampant for my liking. Y/n laid beside me in bed, chest softly rising and falling as she slept. Her hair still in its braid from last night, leaving a section of her neck open to view. I could almost picture the marks I could leave, the blood mixed with my saliva. The way her eyes would pop open as she released a startled cry of pain. The tears that run down her gorgeous face, mixing with the drops of blood that escape past my hungry mouth.

‘She would sound so pretty screaming and crying’

I furrow my eyebrows as I try to shake away the thoughts, instead choosing to curl my arm around her waist and snuggle closer to her. Taking a deep breath, inhaling her scent and feeling a sense of calm wash over me. She was my peace and my heart, I would never hurt her, she’s the love of my life. It’s just an intrusive thought that has absolutely no truth or meaning or depth. I press a kiss to her neck, telling myself its a sign of love and not just a small taste of my greed. Forcing my eyes shut as I try to fall asleep, knowing I have work in the morning. The small church wouldn’t run without its priest.

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

Nobody’s Pov

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

Wanda was a female priest. She had always turned to religion in times of crisis, preaching his word and love to all members of her congregation. She was completely and utterly loyal to her church, willing to do anything to protect it. One day when she was listening to confessions, a stranger told her about a book that held dark powers. They told her they had stole it and had done terrible things with it. When they were forgiven, they left the booth but dropped something on the bench seat. Wanda decided to check the other side, there sat a black charred book. She took the book and hid it in the secret catacombs beneath the church.

From the day she touched the book, she didn’t know it, but something had clasped onto her. It took its form, trying its attempts that would usually turn others into true sinners. Wanda had the willpower of a thousand, she never fell to it’s tricks. But, as the dark entity watched and clung onto her, it learned. It adapted to understand how Wanda runs. What makes her tick, and how she could be set off, a bomb within her that not even she knew how to defuse.

Wanda lifts her head from the pillow, softly stroking Y/n’s hair out of her face. Admiring her wife with a lover’s gaze. Chewing her bottom lip as she felt a weird cold feeling take over. As she looked down at the sleeping woman, the intrusive thoughts swung back. Her eyes trailed over her wife’s soft skin, taking in and oogling her canvas.

‘To drink from her blood, to consume her, would purify my unholy mind.’

Her eyebrows furrowed, a brief moment of contemplation before her sense of mind came back to her. She carefully slipped out of bed, heading to the bathroom to splash her face with cold water. Utterly disturbed with her own mind, but already growing tired of these strange and new invasive thoughts that took over her mind with a bizarre fog that canceled out everything else around her. As she gazed back at her own reflection, it didn’t feel as if she was alone in the room. She shook it off, thinking her mind was playing another stupid game on her. As she wiped her face dry, she took a few deep breaths, trying to forget each strange thought that had occurred. But when she opened her eyes to peer at her reflection, there was someone behind her. A gnarled version of herself was behind her, doused in thick crimson liquid that sloshed down her skin, dripping onto the tiles with an audible pad. Her jaw unhinged, sharp teeth barred, her eyes mutated shut, skin rippling up and along the crown of her head to form into a headpiece that lined her hairline and stuck up in two crooked mangled horns. It unleashed a gurgled high pitched roar, the sound echoing around Wanda like a sonic boom. As the air left its lungs, chunks of thick clotted blood fling at Wanda, landing in her hair and down her back. Unable to scream at the horror behind her. Her hands tremble, clutching the counter, eyes wide in terror, her mouth gaping at the unholy sight.

[thegrinningghost]

Waiting

Prompt: Starscream and Skyfire reuniting, but to the storyline, lyrics and vibes of WYFILWMA (EPIC)

Characters: Starscream and Sky/Jetfire

TW / CW: alluded to attempts of su!c ; please be safe and don’t get any ideas or don’t read if you’re feeling too emotionally or mentally vulnerable to handle it, even if it’s minor, thank you!

Credits: Concept belongs to awesome-normal-heroes | Characters belong to Hasbro, Universal and all the other creators of Transformers | Moodboard and story belongs to me

Tag(s): @awesome-normal-heroes

— •

It had been years. Long, slow years full of rotten memories and broken promises. Perhaps it was fated that he’d lose himself to his pride. After all, he’d already lost his love to the snow, and then to his rage. Even still, years of war had not killed is gentle heart, no matter how hard he fought to disagree. Hardened, but not gone. 

It wasn’t often that he left for a place to rest, but certain habits had to be broken in order to continue traditions. Although, he wasn’t entirely sure why he kept up this tradition. It had been far too long; far too long for him to have been able to survive, far too long for attempted communication, and far too long for him to have been considered being forgiven. There was a point to his visits, though. He knew that. And it wasn’t just attempting to freeze himself on every trip.

The air was warmer this time around. He supposed that his jets didn’t help. Time and time again would he come back to the Antarctic. It was the first place he lost him, sure, but it was also the place they would go to escape. There was a surprising comfort in the white that contrasted the grey from which they came. What used to be annoying minor inconveniences had come to be aspects he adored about this place. The still chills and the embraces they’d share when the winds got too strong. The tiny inhabitants, and the playful interactions that came from their curious inquiries. The water he feared, and its mysterious creatures that his lover often reassured posed no threat. 

All that used to seem like a blessing from this place turned rotten for Starscream. And for what reason? None other than the brutal wound he held from when he lost the other part of his spark. A world left behind, one that he could never return to.

— •

He had been wandering aimlessly, kicking up powdery dust as he went. The creatures would perk up, staring as though they recognized him, but he was far too different for such a belief. It wasn’t until one sound echoed from another. Birds. Tarn or Shag, he could never tell the difference. They were flying and diving eagerly, flocking towards one direction. Perhaps it was the nostalgia he received from being in such a place, but his curiosity was piqued, so he followed, shooting up towards the sky and following a ways above them. 

It had become a routine to sit by the sea for the shuttle. Ever since he was found, systems eaten away by the ice and time, he was stationed safely in his eternal home. Upon request by the Autobots, he was not supposed to leave. Too dangerous, one would say; he still needed time to recover and understand, would come another excuse. He wouldn’t argue with them, though. Most days he didn’t even have the energy to move, much less come up with a good enough reason to leave. Besides, he had nearly everything he could ever want: peace, a scientific station, and many natural occurrences to study. 

The Elephant seals had taken up playing next to his station more recently, and so he often sat out, watching and recording data about their habits. Sometimes other creatures would join, though they often got scared off by the larger animals around him. Today, however, it didn’t seem like that was going to happen. The Shags had settled upon the ground, some even on his shoulders and helm. They were peaceful, that way. His presence was one that offered them a place to rest without being in the reach of danger. And, of course, he appreciated their company.

But of course, there always was a bigger creature.

There was a faint whooshing sound before snow poofed up as something collided with the ground. The sudden movement spooked the birds and seals, even causing Skyfire to be startled. Most of the Autobots couldn’t fly, much less dive like that. And as for animals, none of them could make an impact as large as that. Fortunately, the mystery wasn’t long hidden. Unfortunately, the air was quick to tense as Skyfire stood, facing his deathly loyal ex-companion.

“Is it you,” the question echoed, causing the short seeker to turn, preparing a leave that would’ve been followed through had the frostbitten shuttle not continued. “Have my prayers been answered? Is it really you standing here, or am I dreaming once more?”

Starscream flinched when there was a sudden touch on his shoulder, a pale shadow covering his sight of escape. He couldn’t keep himself still, but he couldn’t bear moving. Not from him, not again. Skyfire searched his appearance, aching at the sight of every change that was made and everything that stayed slightly the same. “You look different. Your eyes look tired. Your frame is lighter, your smile torn.” Gently, he released his hand from the seeker’s shoulder, moving both of his servos to cup both sides of his star’s helm. “Is it really you my love?”

For a flicker of a moment, Starscream looked up at him. It was as though he was being stared at by the past, and in truth, he was. And due to that, he had to break away. “I am not the bot you fell in love with,” he began. “I am not the bot you once adored. I am not you kind and gentle conjunx, and I am not the love you knew before.”

That’s how he should’ve left it. Denied every question asked and escaped back into the cold winds of the sky. Far, far away from this world. The frost would embrace him and soon he would forget. But what was there to deny without asking something in return. A masterful deciever and expert at scheming traitorous acts, sure, but never one to miss up on an opportunity. And so, despite himself, he found himself looking back towards his embracing sky, questions slipping from his bitter spark one after one. “Would you fall in love with me again, if you knew all I’ve done? –the things I cannot change. Would you love me all the same? I know that you’ve been waiting, waiting for love.”

Skyfire smiled solemnly, stepping forward to reach for his star, a guiding light towards something that could be resparked. “What kinds of things did you do?”

Starscream turned, backing many paces far from his lover, turning with a glance towards the sky, dreading the trembling that occurred every night he fought not to remember. With a shaky breath, he began to quietly explain. “Left a trail of death on every planet as I traded allies like objects I could use. Hurt more lives than I can count on my hands … but all of that was to bring me back to you!” His cry echoed across the sea as, what could be closest to tears, began to gather near his optics as he faced and called back to his lover once more. “So tell me: would you fall in love with me again? If you knew all I’ve done? The things I can’t undo. I am not the star you knew! I know that you’ve been waiting, waiting–”

“If that’s true,” Skyfire interjected, bitting the rest of his words for a moment as he thought. He never was quite as good at scheming as his star was, but that isn’t to say he ever lacked ideas. With a strong idea and an absent smile, he continued, “could you do me a favor? Just a moment of labour that would bring me some peace.”

Seeing his star nod, he led him towards the station the Autobots lent him, starting up one of the computers that held all his research. Turning back to face his lover, a faint smile crossed his face at the shock and curiosity they wore before he coughed, gesturing towards the screen. “See this shut down file? Could you uncode its password, select everything inside, and transfer it far away from here.”

At first, Starscream was all too willing, but he recognized that file. The title was all too familiar. He snapped his head, perhaps a little too fast, towards Skyfire who stood as though the works inside were completely unimportant. He straightened himself out, words bitter as he spoke: “How could you say that? We had worked for that data through our tears and sweat. Collected it for cycles since the day we met. A symbol of our love everlasting,” he explained, voice rising as he took steps quicker and quicker towards who used to be a dear comrade. “Do you realize what you have asked me? The only way you’ll move it is if you tear my spark out, too!”

“Only my conjunx knew that, so I guess that makes him you!”

The two had been nearly touching when Starscream processed Skyfire’s words. He faltered, stumbling several steps back. “Sky …”

Skyfire smiled, bending down and reaching for his lover’s servos, gently entrapping them in his own. “I will fall in love with you over and over again. I don’t care how, where or when; no matter how long it’s been, you’re mine!” Suddenly, he stood, pulling Starscream up with him. “Don’t tell me you’re not the same person! You’re always my conjunx and I’ve been waiting, waiting–”

“–Skyfire …”

The shuttle broke down, as though everything they had dealt with together was being relived in a single sitting. Quickly, Starscream tugged him back into a sitting position, wrapping around Skyfire in a hug, holding him as the bot kept repeating empty words. “Waiting, waiting. Waiting, waiting, oh!”

He vented, voice unsteady as he looked down at his star, curled around him, to which he returned the gesture, finishing quietly what he had meant to say. “For you.”

— •

Against the stars sat two, gentle bots. One of a shorter stature with a fire in his spark, another with a mind like a gentle sea, returning chilling embraces. With a smile, Skyfire pulled Starscream close to him, wrapping an arm around him as he held their servos together. Quietly, he asked: “How long has it been?”

Starscream looked up at him, a silent laugh reverberating in his chassis as he leaned against Skyfire. “Twenty vorns.”

“I-I love you.”

[dee-writes-angst]

CLEMATISES (Chapter Seven)

FEATURING Eris Vanserra x pregnant!reader

SUMMARY Eris processes new revelations while in a secluded cabin, when he finally makes his choice he ends up running into his father and learning the truth about what happened after he left.

CONTENT WARNINGS murder, death, angst, betrayal, Beron being a douche as per usual, Lucien being fucking oblivious, sad Eris, mentions of labor, just some more depressing shit as always.

AUTHORS NOTE sorry for the shorter chapter, this is just bringing everything together and setting up for the main event! That's right, I'm making you wait to know if they're going to be okay, sue me. :)

SERIES MASTERLIST

The cold wind of the Autumn Court’s forests bit at Eris’s skin, his cloak barely providing warmth against the relentless chill. He had left the palace in a whirlwind of anger and hurt, unable to face the reality of your betrayal. Each step he took away from the life he had begun to build with you was like a knife twisting deeper into his heart.

He found refuge in a secluded cabin, a place he had discovered years ago during one of his countless escapes from his father's tyranny. The cabin was nestled deep within the forest, surrounded by ancient trees whose branches intertwined above, creating a canopy that seemed to shield him from the rest of the world. It was here that he sought solace, attempting to mend the fractures in his heart.

Eris spent his days hunting and foraging, his skills as a warrior and a survivor keeping him alive. The physical exertion was a welcome distraction, a way to channel his rage and despair into something tangible. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape the memories of you. The way your eyes sparkled with life, the warmth of your touch, the sound of your laughter—it all haunted him relentlessly.

Nights were the worst. In the stillness, his mind would wander back to the moments you had shared. He remembered the first time you had laughed at one of his jokes, the soft sound of your breathing as you slept beside him, the way you looked at him with such trust and affection. Those memories were a torment, a reminder of what he had lost and the betrayal that had shattered his heart.

One night, as he sat by the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows on the wooden walls, Eris allowed himself to think about his father. The slap, the humiliation in front of the council—it was all too familiar. His father had always known how to break him, to strip him of his dignity and humanity. It was a cruelty Eris had endured for years, but it had never hurt as much as the pain you had caused.

The revelation that Lucien was the father of your child had hit him harder than any blow his father had ever dealt. Eris tried to process it, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. He had always been closest to Lucien, had raised him and protected him as best he could. The memory of being forced to hold Lucien down while their father slaughtered Jesminda still haunted him. It was a betrayal that had cut deep, one that Eris had never forgiven himself for.

Now, to learn that Lucien was the father of your child—it was almost too much to bear. Eris felt a bitter, acrid taste in his mouth every time he thought of it. How could you not have told him? The betrayal was a poison, seeping into his veins and clouding his thoughts.

Yet, in his isolation, Eris began to see things differently. He started to realize that pushing you away had been a mistake. You had been his refuge, his hope for a better future, and he had let his pride and fear drive him away from you. The thought of you struggling alone, possibly in danger, gnawed at him day and night.

The image of Lucien, his brother, raising his child was a painful one. But Eris knew that Lucien would never intentionally hurt him. Their bond, though strained, was still one of family. And you—he had seen the way you looked at him, the way you cared for him. The love he felt for you was too powerful to deny, too vital to ignore.

On the twelfth night of his solitude, as he stared into the fire, something shifted within him. The anger and betrayal that had consumed him began to wane, replaced by a deep, aching regret. He knew he had to find you, to apologize and make things right. The realization hit him like a tidal wave—he couldn’t live without you. The love he felt for you and your child was too strong to let go.

With newfound determination, Eris packed his belongings and set out from the cabin. The journey back to the palace was arduous, the terrain unforgiving, but he pressed on with relentless resolve. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, that you needed him now more than ever.

As he approached the outskirts of the palace grounds, the familiar sense of dread crept over him. He had no idea what he would find, or if you would even take him back. But he knew he had to try. For you, for your child, and for the future he desperately wanted to build with you.

His heart pounded with a mixture of fear and hope as he crossed the threshold of the palace, his mind racing with possibilities. He would find you, he would make amends, and he would fight for the life he wanted with you, no matter the cost.

Eris's steps echoed through the halls of the palace, the familiar corridors now seeming alien and hostile. His heart pounded with each stride, a mix of fear and determination driving him forward. He had to find you, to make things right.

As he turned a corner, he found himself face-to-face with Beron. The High Lord of the Autumn Court stood there, his eyes cold and calculating, a sneer curling his lips. The sight of his father, the man who had inflicted so much pain and suffering upon him, only fueled the fire of Eris's anger and urgency.

"Well, well, well," Beron drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. "Look who decided to return. The prodigal son. Have you come back to grovel, Eris?"

Eris clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain calm. "I'm not here for you, Father. I'm here for her."

Beron's eyes narrowed. "Her? Ah, you mean the pregnant woman Lucien tried to hide away in the palace. Pathetic, really. He always was soft-hearted, trying to protect those who don't deserve it."

Eris felt a chill run down his spine. "What do you mean, hide away?"

Beron chuckled, a dark, menacing sound. "Didn't Lucien tell you? He brought some woman here, claiming she needed protection. A waste of our resources, if you ask me. So, I threw her out. We don't need any more useless mouths to feed."

Rage boiled within Eris. "You did what?" he hissed, stepping closer to his father.

"I threw her out," Beron repeated, his tone mocking. "If she's foolish enough to get herself in trouble, she doesn't deserve our help. And as for you, meddling in affairs that don't concern you, it's high time you learned your place."

Eris's vision blurred with fury. The thought of you, vulnerable and in need, being cast out into the streets because of his father's cruelty was too much to bear. He felt a surge of power, raw and untamed, rise within him.

"You've gone too far, Father," Eris growled, his voice trembling with anger. "This ends now."

Beron laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "And what do you plan to do about it, boy? You think you can challenge me? You are nothing but a disappointment."

Years of abuse, torment, and humiliation flashed before Eris's eyes. The countless times he had been belittled, the pain inflicted upon him and his brothers, the loss of Jesminda, and now the suffering you had endured—all because of this man.

Eris's anger reached its breaking point. With a roar of fury, he summoned his fire, the flames dancing around his hands. Beron's eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly masked it with a sneer.

"You think your fire can harm me?" Beron taunted. "You're weak, Eris. Always have been."

Eris lunged at his father, his flames blazing with an intensity he had never felt before. Beron tried to counter with his own power, but Eris was driven by a force beyond mere magic—a deep, primal need to protect, to avenge, to end the cycle of cruelty once and for all.

The fight was brutal, a clash of wills and powers that shook the very foundations of the palace. Beron fought back fiercely, but Eris was relentless, his determination unyielding. For every blow Beron landed, Eris struck back harder, his flames scorching through his father's defenses.

In the end, it was not just Eris's power that won the battle, but his resolve. With a final, devastating blast of fire, Eris overwhelmed Beron, the flames consuming him completely. Beron's screams echoed through the halls, but Eris did not relent until his father was nothing but ashes.

Breathing heavily, Eris stood over the remnants of his father, the reality of what he had done sinking in. He had killed Beron, ended the reign of terror that had plagued his family for so long. But there was no time to dwell on it. He had to find you.

Ignoring the stares of the palace staff and the whispers that followed him, Eris continued his search, his heart heavy with the weight of his actions. He had to find you, to make sure you were safe. Nothing else mattered.

As he raced through the palace, his mind was filled with thoughts of you—your smile, your touch, the love he had realized too late. He prayed he wasn't too late to make things right, to save you and your child from the fate his father had so callously decreed.

And then, as he turned a corner, he saw a familiar figure running towards him. Lucien, his face pale with worry, his eyes wide with fear. Eris's heart clenched at the sight of his brother, but there was no time for reconciliation now.

"Eris!" Lucien shouted, skidding to a halt in front of him. "You have to come quickly! She's in danger!"

Eris's blood ran cold. "Where is she?" he demanded, his voice hoarse with urgency.

"She's in the alley, near the east gate," Lucien panted. "She needs help, Eris. She needs you."

Without another word, Eris took off, his heart pounding with fear and determination. He would find you. He would save you. And nothing, not even the memory of his father's cruelty, would stand in his way.

Eris and Lucien raced through the palace halls, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The urgency in Lucien's voice had ignited a fire within Eris, and his only thought was to reach you as quickly as possible.

As they sprinted, Lucien glanced sideways at Eris, his brow furrowed with confusion and worry. "Eris, why didn’t you respond when I called out to you earlier? I saw you in the streets, but you just kept walking. I thought something was wrong."

Eris's mind raced, trying to recall the moment Lucien was referring to, but it was a blur. The past weeks had been a haze of anger, regret, and self-imposed isolation. "I didn’t hear you, Lucien," he said, breathless, his tone tinged with frustration. "I’ve been… dealing with things."

Lucien's eyes flashed with a mix of concern and exasperation. "You didn’t hear me? Eris, I shouted your name. You looked right at me, and then just walked away."

Eris shook his head, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "I was lost in my thoughts. I had to get away, to think. Everything with her, with you… it was too much."

Lucien’s expression softened slightly, but the urgency in his voice remained. "I understand, brother, but right now she needs us. She’s in labor, Eris, and we need to get to her before it’s too late."

The words hit Eris like a physical blow. Labor. The baby was coming, and he wasn’t there for you. His heart pounded harder, and his pace quickened. "I won't let her down," he vowed, more to himself than to Lucien.

TAGLIST

@purple-writer8 @defnotlucienvanserra @cherry-cin @julesofvolterra @mirandasidefics @mandziaaa @lilah-asteria @littlestw01f @skylarkalchemist @babypeapoddd @daardyrnitta @talesofadragon @thecraziestcrayon @asaucecoveredsomething @starryhiraeth @darling006 @rosewood-cafe @saltedcoffeescotch @dumblani @paleidiot @rcarbo1 @yourmomsushi

[lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom]

Hello love, I had a thought after the new episode about Crosshair x reader where she’s been with Hunter and wrecker trying to find Omega (and him) and when crosshair steps out of the ship she just runs to him <3 maybe it also includes them talking on the marauder after about what’s happened. I hope this sparks interest for you!! I love your writing :)

Forgiven

Crosshair x Reader

Summary- You reminisce on the first time Crosshair fought against you and his brothers. He thought you'd never forgive him, but he is surprised when you reunite.

A/N- So sorry this one took so long! I'm still sick but was determined to get this out! Thank you for requesting!! I hope you like it, please let me know if there is anything I can do to improve.

Word Count- 2,276

You remember the first time you realized you lost Crosshair to the Empire. The memory plagued your sleepless nights...

"I know what you're going to do, but please- don't." Omega begged Crosshair. You turned to listen to them, but couldn't figure out what she was talking about. What was he going to do? And how did Omega know about it?

"What do you know?" He remarked.

"I know you can't help it..." She rested a hand to his shoulder. The act warmed your heart, but anxiety rested in the deep pit of your stomach.

You couldn't place exactly why. I mean, you were all imprisoned. But, really, it was nothing the squad hadn't been in before. This was the kind of anxiety that rushed your veins. The kind that appears out of no where and strikes you.

At this feeling, you stood up to move and sit on Crosshairs right. He wasn't very affectionate in public, but you knew the proximity would ease your nerves.

Your hand gently ran down his arm as you sat, he straightened up at your touch. He was on edge as well.

The small gesture of him spreading his right leg slightly wider, to touch you, made you smile. Even in a cell, he could make you feel at home.

He didn't turn to look at you, but took your hand in his, holding it in his lap.

Just seconds later, a masked group of clones arrived.

"CT-9904, you're coming with us."

"Excuse me?" You stood, Hunter was quicker than you though.

"Oh no no, no. We stay together." The clone immediately rammed the butt of his gun into Hunter's stomach. He doubled over in pain.

"Stand down!" The clone yelled. You still advanced, determined to stick together.

A hand grabbed at your wrist. It was Crosshair, still looking down.

"Stop, you'll just get into more trouble." He then looked up at you. He stood, still holding onto you. Your breath hitched, scared for him. What would the Empire do to him?

"Wait!" You called out, he turned around just before stepping out of the cell.

You leaned up and gave him a quick kiss on the lips, somewhat of a 'goodbye.' You could see his face get visibly softer. You pulled him closer for a hug, your face in his neck. "Whatever happens, try to meet us at the Hangar..." You whispered. Only he heard.

He nodded his head at you, then turned to follow the clone. The jail wall went back up.

You watched him walk away, the clones right behind him. "He'll be okay. We'll find a way out." Hunter reassured, a hand on your shoulder.

He was right. You all did find a way out. In an attempt to retrieve everyone's armor, you all rushed to the Hangar. Just before putting your last arm piece on, you stopped. "Where's Crosshair! He should be back by now!" You had hoped he found a way to escape the clones that took him. Looking around again didn't help.

"Tech, power up the ship. The rest of us will go look for Crosshair." Hunter commanded.

No one had a chance to respond, the large doors of the cabin opened to reveal him. He was leading a large squad of troopers.

"Uhh, I don't think we'll have to go far..." Omega spoke.

Your breath hitched, but you weren't scared. Crosshair would never do anything to hurt you. Nor his brothers, right?

"Cross!" You went to meet him, you didn't care about the other clone troopers next to him.

However, Hunter blocked you with his body. You stopped, wary but trusting his extreme senses.

"Best stand down sergeant." Crosshair said, rifle at the ready. "Make it easy on yourself... And your team." He looked you in the eyes, then back to Hunter.

"Have you lost your mind!" Hunter interrogated.

The two of them argued back and forth, though neither side made an official attack.

You were so confused, why would Crosshair turn on everyone. Why would he turn on you? Tears prickled, you placed your helmet on so no one could see.

"Now surrender." Crosshair tried, deep down you didn't think he wanted to injure anyone.

Blast fired everywhere.

Omega covered her head- barred down. You rushed to her, giving her cover. Hunter joined your side, now he was guiding Omega back to the ship.

You, Wrecker, and Echo fought hard, which gave Hunter enough time to usher Omega safely to the ship.

Hunter barely had time to run back out, guns firing, when all the overhead lights went off. The storm outside did nothing to help the lighting.

You crouched down to collect your thoughts, looking through your visor you saw many heat signatures. It was hard to tell who was who, but identified Wrecker by his size and Echo by his arm.

You blasted at the on-coming troopers, distracted by a new wave of them coming in. Someone had called for backup.

A loud scream let you know Wrecker had been shot, you weren't close enough to help him. A glance back showed you Echo and Hunter pulling him to safety.

The second you turned back around the barrel of a gun was pointed at your head. A figure sat inches in front of you, also crouched down.

"Don't say a word." It was Crosshair...

You pushed your helmet off, suddenly desperate for some air. You stared at him with glossy eyes. He wouldn't really shoot you, would he?

"Follow them back to The Marauder. Do not tell a soul I let you." He commanded you, lowering his gun. Was he telling you to escape now?

"Cross, I don't-"

"It's not safe here. You have to run."

"Bu-"

"It is too late for me, but you need to go. Now." When you didn't get up, he raised his rifle at you.

"Go!"

You nodded, shoving your helmet over your head. You wasted no more time as you ran to the ship. Tech closed the ramp and door behind you.

The ship roared off, jumping into hyperspace immediately.

You were left dazed, confused, and heartbroken. How could you lose him so fast?

It had been a long time since you all had to run. Not a day, or night, went by that you didn't think about Crosshair. No matter what he thought about you- he was always going to be your true love.

You could only hope he still felt the same deep down.

While you secretly prayed that you'd run into him again, all your prayers were soon taken up. They shifted to be about Omegas safety, ever since she was physically taken from your arms on Ord Mantell.

They didn't stop until you, Hunter, and Wrecker received a coded message. It contained an abandoned planet's coordinates, sent by 'Lula.' You knew it was Omega, no one else knew about Wreckers (turned Omegas) stuffed doll.

Hunter couldn't fly the ship fast enough, you three soon arrived at the location.

At the sound of another ship landing, Wrecker went to see who it was. Just in case it was some kind of ambush.

Seconds later, you both heard giggles from Omega and laughter from Wrecker.

Hunter looked down at the floor, ashamed.

"Hunter, so see her." You said, resting a friendly hand on his knee.

He was silent for a moment, gaze still down. "What, what if she is ma-"

"Omega loves you, she's not mad at you for anything. Please go see your daughter." You smiled at your own words, and the fact that his face turned red.

He rose and walked out to see her. You followed behind, hugging Omega after she and Hunter had their moment.

"How... how did you escape?" Hunter asked, addressing the elephant in the room.

"I had help." Your smile dimmed, watching the empire ship door closely. A figure walked down, the second you copped a good look- you were running.

A gasp barely had time to leave your mouth, your feet hit the ground in quick strides. You didn't stop until you were met with his body.

He stumbled back, but caught you. Your arms immediately wrapped tightly around him. Like he was going to fade away.

You let out a single sob when his hand lifted to caress your hair, then back. "Cross..."

He didn't say a word, he just squeezed you tight. It told you all you needed to know.

In that moment you forgot all that he did. Heck, you didn't care about any of it. He was here, alive, safe, and not trying to attack anyone.

"I'm sorry.... I'm so, so sorry." He repeated himself, mumbling apologies over and over.

You pulled away, forcing his forehead down to touch yours. "Shut up." You silenced him with a kiss, your eyes closed.

It was an awkward few hours on The Marauder. Wrecker and Hunter were still wary on Crosshair. Truth be told, they had a right to be. Omega defended him when she could, but everyone needed to accept the change on their own time.

That Crosshair's days with the Empire was now in the past.

Omega soon fell asleep on Hunter, you could tell she needed a good nights sleep. One where she wasn't constantly looking over her shoulder, or scared someone would come in her sleeping quarters.

As Hunter put her to bed, Wrecker found himself on the verge of sleep too. He headed to one of the two cots hidden in the back.

"Hunter, go to bed." You gently suggested.

"You sure you'll be okay?" He eyed Crosshair, still not trusting.

"I'm a big girl Hunter. Plus, I don't think Cross would be dumb enough to go against all of us with no weapons." You tried to joke, but the tension was so thick you could cut it. Both men raised an eyebrow at you.

You sighed, "Go to bed. I'm fine, really." He nodded and headed off. That left you and Crosshair alone in the cockpit.

It was quiet for a minute, both of you were scared to speak first. It was all so... real, so serious all of a sudden.

"How bad was it?" You asked, turned away from him on purpose.

"Worse than you can imagine." He didn't mean to, but he broke your heart at his words.

You turned to face him, quickly taking note of how his hand shook. You looked from his hand to his face, he tried to hide it.

"Uhm, I guess i'll take the first watch if you want to get some rest." You were so uncomfortable. There was an unspoken thought dancing around the room. While you wanted to kiss and hold him, there was a weird air that surrounded you both. It made you question every move, like it was your first date all over again.

"Right..." Was all he could muster. He was terrified of saying the wrong thing.

He bit this fear back with his next words. "I wish, I wish I could go back. Do things... differently."

"I know. Me too." You tried to meet his gaze, but he stared at the wall.

You were tired of this. What happened to the two of you?

"Crosshair."

"Hmm?"

"What's wrong."

He stared.

"Cross, if you don't love me anymore just tell me. Don't beat around the bush."

This made him snap his head at you. "What? You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Really? Because after I kissed you, you haven't touched me! We used to tell each other everything, now we can't hold simple conversation! I Know a lot happened, I am so sorry you went through what you did. It shatters me just thinking about you getting hurt... but please, talk to me." You pleaded.

He grunted and sat up straight. "You deserve someone better! That's why. Because you shouldn't want to be with someone who turned on his brothers. Who abandoned his team. Who tried to kill the person he loved most. Maybe I should stop beating around the bush, you'll realize what I really am. Disposable."

You blinked up at him, heart beating fast. You didn't know what to say.

Crosshair 'humphed' and slouched back in his chair.

You rose to your feet, standing in front of him. You took his shaking hand in yours. "The man I love came back. He saved Omega. I know deep down you are the same Crosshair I fell in love with. The man that, even when controlled by an inhibitor chip, managed to let me run free. You could have killed me, that's what the chip told you to do... but, you didn't. Crosshair, I won't- I can't blame you for doing anything under the control of your chip."

"I did awful things after that chip was taken out..." He still thought he was unworthy, trying to make you agree.

"You can't push me away. You can't push away the people who love you." You still held his shaking hand in yours, raising your other to rest on his cheek.

"I forgive you... I truly do. I know it will be a long time until you forgive yourself, but I will be right here when you do. The guys will come around, just wait. I promise everything will be okay."

He closed his eyes, leaning into your palm. You moved down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. At his, he rested his hands on your hips and pulled you to his lap.

You curled yourself up, finally feeling that warm comfort you always felt in him.

You kiss him again, slowly this time.

"I'll do better..." He croaked.

"I know you will."

A/N- Thank you so much for reading! I have fr been sick for a whole week, like give me a break, body! When I am feeling 100% I will come back and fix any grammatical errors. Thank you for your patience and understanding!

Tags- (lmk if you want to be tagged as well!) @thethreeeyed-raven @knight-of-flowerss

[upat4amwiththemoon]

Lay me down gently

Summary: When I’m ready to fall, will you let go of my hand?

Pairing: past Natasha Romanoff x female!reader, platonic Wanda Maximoff x female!reader

Warnings: death, heavy angst, depression, wandavision didn’t happen

Word count: 1391

a/n: too dark? Too sad?

Tags: @thought-of-you-and-me @rafecameronswhore @sayah13 @strangegardentaco @natashamaximoff69

masterlists | guidelines

It’s been a year since the day Y/N lost everything. Most of the people have already done the work to start moving on, but she hasn’t been able to do that. How could she? The love of her life, the woman who she was supposed to marry and live the rest of her life with, died.

Natasha sacrificed herself to save the world.

And Y/N loves her for that, she also hates her for it. She wishes Natasha would’ve been selfish. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hopes Natasha would’ve let Clint died, but she’ll never say that out loud. She knows Clint has the same wish. He has been trying to earn her forgiveness since that day. Even though, she has told him multiple times he doesn’t have to, that she has already forgiven him.

It’s not entirely untrue. Y/N would just prefer not to be around him. However, it’s difficult when his whole family is trying to get her to join them for family events. She doesn’t want to do that. Her family is gone, she doesn’t want another one.

During the year, Y/N has been locked up in her bedroom at the Avenger’s compound, she can’t go back to their home. It’s not her home anymore, the house never was, Natasha is the one that made it her home. She has continued working as an Avenger, doing her best to help the blipped people to get back into their lives. Besides, the crime never stops.

Her teammates have tried their best to get her out of the room, but all of them except Wanda have given up.

Wanda is a saint. She lost her home too, yet she is trying to help Y/N instead of herself. Y/N thinks she’s trying to escape the feeling of sorrow, just like she is by sleeping and rotting in her bed. She appreciates her friend, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

Y/N sits in the Quinjet as the team flies towards their destination. Only a small part of the team was chosen for the mission, Steve, Tony, Wanda, and Y/N. It’s supposed to be a quick, in and out mission. They never are.

Tapping on her shoulder brings Y/N back to the present. She turns to the side to see Wanda gently smiling at her. She looks tired of trying, but Y/N knows Wanda would never stop.

“How are you?” Her voice is soft, as if Y/N would shatter if it was any louder. She might.

“Good.” A blatant lie, but Wanda accepts it with a nod. Y/N’s voice is hoarse and it breaks at every other word, it has lost the gentleness of it. She hasn’t spoken a lot during the year. She hasn’t had any reason to talk.

“Good.” Wanda nods again. Her eyes shift through the Quinjet, she’s desperately looking for something. “They’re holding these things,” she starts carefully, “like support groups, for people who lost family during the blip.” She pauses, waiting for Y/N to say something, anything. “Would you like to go with me? I could really use someone familiar there with me.”

Y/N turns to look at Wanda. She has such a hopeful smile on her face, and Y/N hates disappointing her, but they both know what her answer is going to be. “No.”

“Okay.” Wanda whispers, still holding a smile on her face. She doesn’t want her to know how affected she is by the numerous failed attempts of trying to help her friend. “Just let me know if I can help you in any way.”

Nodding, Y/N falls back into her own world, where she stays for the rest of the flight.

They land the Quinjet on top of an abandoned building. It’s supposed to be a HYDRA base that is no longer in use.

Steve checks the perimeter, returning to the other three when nothing catches his eyes. “Tony and I will go inside, you two stay up here in case someone tries to surprise us.” Y/N and Wanda nod.

Tony opens one of the vents on the roof and drops down, Steve following right behind him. The Quinjet turns invisible to hide from prying eyes.

The wind blows softly as Y/N and Wanda stand in silence. Although Wanda keeps a vigilant eye out on the perimeter, she can’t help but keep glancing at Y/N. She seems like she isn’t even there anymore, not emotionally at least.

A feeling of something wrong grows in her body. “Y/N.” She swallows. “I’m worried.”

“About?” Y/N’s eyes don’t even glance at Wanda.

“That if I don’t do something, you’ll get hurt.”

“Sometimes it’s better to do nothing.”

Wanda doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t have time to voice this, as a contained explosion rattles the concrete beneath their feet.

“The building is not empty!” Steve’s voice comes through the comms right as all the vents to the roof open and a group of HYDRA soldiers rush out.

Y/N takes out her weapons and Wanda’s eyes turn red as they start fighting the soldiers. They can hear Steve and Tony struggling as they fight inside the building. The soldiers are ruthless, and they don’t seem to be lessening no matter how much they fight them.

A groan leaves Y/N’s mouth as she gets hit by something hard to the back of her head. She shoots whoever did it, but her legs stumble closer to the edge. She shakes her head to make the fuzziness go away.

Lifting her head up, her eyes widen. The only thing she sees is a bright blast coming right towards her.

It hits her in the chest, causing her to fly over the edge.

“Y/N!” Wanda runs to the edge, pushing the soldiers out of her way.

The wind is rushing past Y/N’s ears as she falls. She can only see the sky and Wanda, who gets smaller and smaller every second, from her view the red hair looks almost like Natasha’s. There’s a smile on her face.

Natasha.

She knows her girlfriend would want her to give up, but she couldn’t be mad at her for wanting to be with her again. Y/N knows she’d be more than happy to see her face again.

As the time to act gets shorter and shorter, Wanda’s eyes turn red, readying her magic to soften Y/N’s landing. Because unexpectancy of her magic, she peeks into her mind, not on purpose, but it’s still just as clear. That fraction of a second in her mind and the blatant smile on Y/N’s face makes her pause. The pause is long enough for her eyes to turn back to normal. Everything rushes around in her mind as she tries to make sense of the situation, as she tries to get her head back to the present and just lift her up. But a feeling deep inside her makes Wanda unable to act.

A feeling she knows neither of them can escape. Unless…

She watches as Y/N falls and she wants to rips her eyes away, but she can’t do that to her friend. She has to be there for her one last time.

Wanda finally looks away after the impact. Her ears are ringing and the team is shouting over the comms but she can’t hear them. She heaves as she drops to her knees, a burst of magic leaving her body as she screams, pushing any enemy left down the building. Her eyes are turning blurry from all the tears rushing out, she isn’t sure if she’s tasting blood or bile in her mouth. Her whole body shakes from the sobs.

She did the right thing.

Her nails dig into her palms as the scene of Y/N falling down replays in her mind over and over again. She’s pretty sure someone is trying to talk to her through the comms, trying to find out what just happened.

Surely, she did the right thing.

“Y/N is dead.” Wanda gasps out, her voice weak as the words tumble out. They seem so wrong, so unfair. She screws her eyes shut, dropping her forehead against the cold roof under her.

The guilt will eat her alive.

[acourtofthought]

@works-of-heart left a comment on another post, about how hard anti's are on Lucien as a mate while Rhys and Cassian's behaviors are always forgiven.

It's so true. I loved Feysands love story but Rhys forced Feyre into their bargain (and so much more). He then used her as a pawn on multiple occasions. Cassian regularly harassed Nesta. No mate is perfect however there are two characteristics of mates that exist across Sarah's writing.

1) If a mate is aware of a female's depressed state, it physically affects him and he goes out of his way to reach out to her, to worry whether she's eating, to worry about her mental health.

2) If a mate is unable to help in her rescue, he believes in her ability to handle things herself.

Rhys could not truly help Feyre during the trials, he had to stand there and watch her risk her life with Amarantha yet he witnessed her cunning with the Wyrm. He then believed in her ability to escape the Weaver, to get herself safely out of Spring after doing what she needed to do there as a spy. Yes, he was worried for her but he also knew what she was capable of therefore he did not feel the need to rush to her rescue.

With Cassian, he was worried for Nesta and his gut instinct was to enter the Rite. However once he knew that wasn't an option, he wasn't losing his mind in the following days. He believed she was trained well enough to protect herself.

Some claim Lucien didn't react like a mate when Elain was taken by the Cauldron but we actually have no idea how Lucien reacted. What he felt, what he thought, whether he was momentarily terrorized. Since Feyre's POV was the only one we had in ACOWAR (outside of her slipping into Lucien's mind), it's unfair to claim that Lucien didn't respond appropriately in that moment since she wasn't around to witness his reaction. Chances are high that he was on a boat sailing across the sea and was prevented from getting to Elain even if it was his desire to do so. However it is canon that he was haggard, bloody (from those he fought) and panting when he finally appeared, as if he had run from the shore and the first thing he did was search for Elain. Within moments of seeing her and seeing she was safe he went on to give her credit for the killing blow of the King.

If you look at Sarah's past mates, Lucien not only matches their behaviors but he bests them all.

He never forced Elain to talk to him (the way Rhys did Feyre), he never harassed her when it was clear she wanted nothing to do with him (as Cassian did Nesta) yet he still cared for her health and well being in the same way Rhys and Cassian did for Feyre and Nesta. All three cared more for the females' happiness than their own, even when the females happiness caused them pain and suffering.

Lucien is the GOAT of mates and people can argue against that fact all they want but it's not going to be long before they have to accept that their attempts to tear him down amounted to a whole lot of nothing.

[bones4thecats]

Them With A Reformed Sinner! S/O

Type of Writing: Random Idea Name: Them With A Reformed Sinner! S/O Characters: Adam, Lute, and Emily Idea-Giver: Random Thoughts

A/N: This is mainly about how they meet and my take on how Season two may go, y'know with God being introduced and holding a meeting on what happened during Extermination Day. Anyways, have a great rest of your days/nights!

⚠️ Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Death and Non-Canon Events ⚠️ Spoilers for: S1 ⚠️

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

Reformed Sinner! Reader ; 'Died' with Sir Pentious ~ Fox-Demon

🎸 Adam, despite what many in Heaven think, doesn't bother memorizing all of his descendants and what they do. He only sees them after they die during the Extermination

🎸 You were one of Sir Pentious' helpers when it came to making his creations, such as the Egg Boiz for example. And, when he had begun his charge up his ship to take on Adam head-first, you were one of the people inside of the ship, holding his hand as he said his so-called final words; Fire.

🎸 When you both awoke after falling onto a ground, you couldn't lie, you were horrified. After all, who just dies from being blasted by an angel and suddenly appears in a new land?

🎸 It took you a little more processing than your college, but, when you did finally come to terms that you were in Heaven, due to your actions in Hell against Adam, you were quite pleased

🎸 This action just allowed Heaven to realize their faults in judgement; Reformation was possible!

🎸 You and Pentious were taken to the main judgement room where Charlie and Vaggie were months prior and that was where you met your unknowing future spouse

🎸 Adam had just barely dodged the attack from Niffty and escaped back to Heaven with Lute on his tail as he swore revenge on the residents of the Hotel

🎸 He had then healed up and was required to go to the meeting where their Father, God, had set up to discuss the day's events and whatnot. And anyone could tell that he was both pissed and pleased

" And Adam. What in the name of Earth were you thinking?! I only allowed Extermination on the one condition that is happened when I decided it to be necessary, not for you to do it six months prior! Without my knowledge nonetheless! And, who are these two?! " " They're the first reformed sinners! My Father, meet Sir Pentious and Y/N L/N. "

🎸 Adam glared at you two, remembering how you stood beside Charlie as they declared war upon one another. And he remembered how determined you stared him in the eyes as he blasted you two nothing alongside your friend

🎸 Once God had calmed down and motioned for you, Pentious, and Adam to step forward and announced for everyone else to exit the room, the first man and grown more nervous than before

🎸 When the creator of life had placed you three at a table and told you guys to speak to one another without any malice or hatred, and, in turn, basically apologize, Adam straight-up asked why

" Because Adam. They are new members to our home, and that means we must treat them with the same amount of respect that we treat the natural Winners. Now, apologize. " " But- I- Ugh... fine... I'm sorry... " " Apology- " " Forgiven. And we apologize for attempting to kill you in return. We just- felt the need to protect our friends more than we had any value for each other's lives. "

🎸 He was shocked, you were apologizing for trying to kill him?! He had tried killing you! You must have been trying to deceive him, that is what foxes were known for; deceit.

🎸 Forcing a smile despite his confusion and wish to throw out colorfully decorated questions at you, Adam just pushed through the meeting second by second. But, he'd have to ask you questions later on. He just had too.

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

Reformed Sinner! Reader ; 'Died' fighting along Alastor ~ Chickadee-Demon

🗡️ She did not want to be here in the slightest.

🗡️ Why was she needing to tell her side of the story?! You and your little friend, Alastor, had attacked Adam, nearly killing him in the process, much to everyone's shock

🗡️ Lute was not amused with how you kept a small smile when mentioning your fight against Adam and how you had stood your ground during, smiling with full teeth- ones matching the Radio Demon's, though yours were more white

🗡️ The Father of Humanity just looked at you and your snake friend before smiling gently and motioning you and him to come closer so he could look into your eyes

🗡️ He could tell when someone was lying by looking deep into their eyes, it was something about their soul being based off of a piece of him that made it work

🗡️ Lute watched with narrowed eyes and your wings come flying backwards with force as your eyes turned white with black spots littering, oh how she hoped you and Pentious were banished back to Hell

" They pass. Their seems to be no amount of sin left within them, well, there is a hint, but a hint I can forgive. " " WHAT?! "

🗡️ Smacking her hands to her mouth, Lute slammed her head into the stand's top, making a loud thump echo throughout the room signalling her shock if the word was not enough

🗡️ The exorcist looked at you and Pentious and gritted her teeth as he began to tear up with joy as God summoned his little Egg Boiz back into existence, though they took on a more heavenly-egg form than an demonic-egg one

🗡️ Looking at you especially as a small bird landed on your large piece of feather-like hairs that stood up from your head, her heart began to pound heavily as her mind screamed at herself for the interior action

🗡️ Why in the name of Heaven was her heart pounding at your smile and gentle nature with the Egg Boiz and your little bird friend?!

🗡️ Whatever the reason was, she didn't want to think about it anymore. After all, such an action could be perceived as unholy, resulting in her demise to Hell

🗡️ Holding her spear closer, Lute nodded as God dismissed everyone and Emily hugged you and pet your bird as she spoke to Sir Pentious, asking you guys some stuff about the Hotel and who you guys believed could be redeemed next

🗡️ Lute almost bumped into you, but she stopped herself, allowing one question to burn in her mind as she began to walk away to where a certain female demon was;

🗡️ Why did you seem so cute?

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

Reformed Sinner! Reader ; 'Died' protecting Charlie from Adam ~ Hyena-Demon

💞 You were known to be very aggressive around those you deemed not worthy of your presence, and as one of the most dangerous demons in Hell when angry, even those in Heaven saw this come out

💞 This happened when Adam had tried to lay his hands on Charlie during the meeting, though you were far faster and more dangerous than Vaggie when it came to this time

💞 You had jumped the gun and kicked the first man away, shocking everyone. And when you barked for the two females to be sent back with you to your home, Sera just nodded and made a portal for you guys to leave, much to Adam's annoyance

💞 Emily had barely even met you, and it saddened her. But, seeing you defend Charlie from such a powerful heavenly figure made her heart skip a couple beats

💞 Wait- why was she thinking you looked amazing protecting the Princess of Hell?! Was this unholy?!

💞 She hadn't heard about or from you until Extermination Day, which was when Adam and his exorcists had descended to attack and kill as many sinners as they could

💞 And in Adam-ly fashion, they had went to attack the Hazbin Hotel first, much to everyone else's annoyance

💞 You had noticed that Adam was about to kill Charlie, so, you threw yourself in front of her, making his large attack hit you and in-turn kill you, and that action prompted the angry outburst of your closest friends, Alastor and Charlie

💞 Surprisingly though, you and Sir Pentious, who had also died protecting the Hotel and your friends, had appeared in Heaven before Sera and Emily

💞 Emily had looked at you both in awe, adoring your new look; your fur and tail was more well-kept and your ears were fluffier with the skin inside being shaped like tiny pink-tinted hearts to match your hand's markings

" Y/N! Oh my goodness, you got reformed! How awesome is this?! "

💞 The angel squealed and hugged you as you chuckled nervously, still adjusting to the bright surroundings. To be honest, you expected to close your eyes and never open them again

💞 Sir Pentious held onto you from behind as you led him throughout the building and during the meeting with your Creator and the rest of his heavenly council, and you had to admit, watching Emily gleefully talk about you and your friend was nice

💞 Maybe you could get used to your new afterlife here?

💞 Maybe Emily could hang out with you even more!

💞 Maybe this could be the start of a whole new relationship? Oh no she's going full on romantic, isn't she?

[coraniaid]

🔥 for helpless or hush

I think Helpless would be a much more interesting episode if it existed in a season where it was allowed to have proper consequences. Giles drugged Buffy! He did it multiple times! And when those drugs started to drain her of her powers, and she went to him for help, scared and afraid -- when she told him how she'd almost died because of what he was doing to her -- he told her she probably just had the flu and she should think about taking it easy for a bit. He didn't tell her the next day either, when she came to him and told him that her dad wasn't going to be visiting her for her birthday, but maybe he'd like to replace him ... no, instead, he just drugged her again.

He wanted to tell her, he says later, but that doesn't change the fact he didn't. He had a choice, and he didn't choose Buffy. He chose "tradition and protocol" over the girl he was supposed to protect; the girl who trusted him and who wanted him to be a father figure. If things had gone as the Council planned, and the vampire she'd been sent to fight without her powers had killed her, then Giles would be at least as complicit as any human being in her death.

Yes, eventually -- after carrying on the charade to almost the bitter end -- Giles repents and tells Buffy the truth. And yes, that's enough to get him fired (but note that Giles is surprised to be fired -- "on what grounds?" he asks immediately when told of the news -- when he told her, he thought it was okay because the vampire he'd been supposed to send her to fight had escaped and the test was no longer valid), but he still did all of this. He still betrayed Buffy's trust in an unbelievable way. And yet, if not quite by the end of the episode then certainly before the next one, all is forgiven. Buffy almost never brings up the Cruciamentum again, and when she does she never mentions GIles's active role in it (it's just something "the Council" did to her, which is infinitely less interesting).

As it is, you could imagine a version of the show where Giles was fired for some completely benign reason -- that he was fired for refusing to go through with the test at all, or because the Council administration got upset at him not filling in a form in triplicate in block capitals, or that he was fired because he was just too nice -- and the rest of the show would make as much or more sense as it does in canon.

What Giles does in this episode is so much worse than anything any of the other Scoobies do to Buffy: certainly worse than Joyce telling Buffy not to leave the house if she wanted to come back in a moment of desperate panic, or Xander impulsively lying to her about Willow's plan to try to curse Angel with a soul again, or Willow's attempt to use magic to make her forget she was (maybe) in heaven. It is calculated, knowing and deliberate and there is no way to justify it as an attempt to do right by Buffy.

And yet, as far as both the rest of the season and the wider fandom are concerned, it may as well not have happened.