#miscarriage

[shamebats]

[animentality]

[yearningbtch]

Heavy - LN4 x wife!reader

click for pt2 here

Is someone telling me don't get in the water? What have I done?

heavy warnings: miscarriage, grief, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt (non-graphic), recovery, emotional distress.

a/n: please read with care. You are loved baby, reach for help if needed, you are not a burden. Even cracked walls let the sunlight in. You’re not broken, just healing. 💙

I DID, IN FACT, CRY LIKE A BABY W THIS ONE

support me here: ko-fi

🔊 listening to: Heavy - the Marias

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You were supposed to be happy.

That’s what everyone said. Married, stable, in love, expecting a baby.

Lando and you were the dream couple on social media. Everything looked perfect from the outside.

But “perfect” ended the afternoon you collapsed in the kitchen.

One second you were standing, thinking about dinner. The next, you were on the floor, dizzy, terrified, bleeding through your clothes.

The ambulance lights, the cold bed, Lando’s voice shaking every time he said your name—everything blurred together.

And then the doctor said it.

“I'm sorry Mrs Norris, you had a spontaneous miscarriage.”

You felt yourself disconnect from your own body as Lando grabbed your hand, panicked and crying but trying so hard to stay calm for you. He didn’t blame you. Not for a second.

But you blamed yourself more than you could ever admit.

The pregnancy had been public, everyone knew, everyone had celebrated. Your families cried happy tears. Your friends jumped and hugged you both knowing the loved you both shared for kids. Strangers online called you “mama” before you had even decided how you felt about the whole thing.

Losing the baby felt like losing everything in front of millions of eyes.

Therapy helped—sometimes. That’s what you liked to tell yourself. Maybe if you kept saying it out loud, it would start to feel true. Other days, you couldn’t even drag yourself out of bed.

You followed Lando to the races because he had to work anyway (when bad things happen, time stops only for you—everyone else keeps eating, sleeping, breathing) and being alone at home felt dangerous.

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Monaco was supposed to be a distraction.

It wasn’t.

Lando had a team dinner that night. He didn’t want to go, but you told him to. He needed to be with his team; he needed a break, he had lost the baby too, your baby, the one you were supposed to raise together.

“I’ll be fine,” you said. And you meant it when you said it.

But as soon as the door closed, you felt yourself unravel.

The hotel room was too quiet. His shoes by the door. His hoodie on a chair. The ultrasound picture still tucked inside his wallet—he carried it everywhere.

Your chest tightened. Your throat burned. You couldn’t get a full breath in.

You went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, but your hands betrayed you. The glass slipped, crashing to the floor in a million tiny pieces. You just stood there, staring at the shards, heart thumping.

You ended up in the bathroom, not entirely sure how you got there.

You ran the bath.

You didn’t think about dying. You didn’t decide anything.

You were just tired, and therapy felt like a waste of time. Exhausted from carrying pain that didn’t give you one minute of peace.

You stepped into the bathtub. It was warm.

First, you dipped your feet in, then your legs. The Lando shirt you wore as pajamas was too long, soaking up the water as it clung to you. You sank into the full bathtub, the water still running, spilling over the tiles. For a moment, you just stared at your fingers, then tilted your head back, eyes on the ceiling, feeling the water trace every inch of your skin.

The thought came again, like it always did since that day. What would the baby have been like? A boy or a girl? You had wanted a boy, imagined him running alongside Lando, speeding in the garden in a makeshift go-kart like his. The thought made your chest ache, heavy and hollow.

Your eyes burned, tears came.

I just want the pain to stop. I just want to see my baby. Just for a second.

You plunged your head under without thinking, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling through the water. Your lungs burned as you held your breath, and when you finally let go, bubbles tore through the quiet of the house.

You wondered what people in Monaco might be doing right now. Some sleeping, some having dinner, some lost in their studies. And then your mind, as always, found its way back to Lando—how his soft curls framed his face, how he smiled, the way he always looked at you.

Lando.

You didn’t think about consequences. You didn’t think about Lando coming back.

You just let go.

The world went quiet. Your breathing slowed. Everything faded into a numb, heavy nothing.

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Lando came back earlier than expected.

He had dessert in his hand—your favorite. He wanted to surprise you.

“Love? I’m back!”

Nothing.

His expression tightened immediately.

“Love?”

Then, through all the silence, he heard the sound of running water. He thought you must be in the shower, so he made his way to the bedroom where the bathroom was.

He went to drop off his sweatshirt when his sneakers splashed. He looked down—only to find the floor wet. Quickly, he raised his eyes to the bathroom, where the door was slightly ajar.

“Baby… are you okay?”

He asked, getting no answer. Lando peeked through the half-open door.

“Love?”

His voice cracked.

He shoved the door open—and froze.

You were underwater.

His body reacted before his brain did.

“NO—no, no—baby, please—please—”

He reached into the tub and dragged you out, water splashing violently over both of you. Your body fell against the cold tiles—heavy, unresponsive.

“Baby, look at me! Love!” Lando shook you hard, panic rising as he saw you didn’t respond. Your lips were purple, and you felt cold to the touch.

His hands shook uncontrollably as he started CPR on the cold bathroom floor.

He counted out loud because he couldn’t think straight. He breathed for you. He pressed your chest harder than he meant to because he was terrified of losing you.

But he didn't want to hurt you, he didn't know what he was doing so he took his phone out and called for an ambulance.

“Come on—come on—come on—please—”

Minutes later paramedics rushed to the bathroom, it was too crouded. They made Lando step away from you so they could work, he still wouldn’t let go of you.

He could only see you, with his favourite shirt, pale and wet.

Paramedics continued with the CPR alternating with some shots of what Lando guess it was adrenaline.

And then—

You gasped. Coughed violently. Your lungs burned.

Your eyes opened.

“Lando?” you whispered softly.

He broke. Completely. He pulled you into his arms, crying so hard he was almost choking on it.

“Don’t do that to me—please—please—don’t ever—”

You were shaking too hard to answer.

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The hospital felt cold. You were so ashamed, if anyone found out you were done for.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. It was the only sentence you could form.

“Don’t,” Lando said instantly, grabbing your hand like he feared you’d disappear. His wet clothes were a reminder of what had happened hours ago.

“Don’t apologise for hurting. Don’t apologise for something you didn’t choose.”

Your eyes filled with tears.

“I didn’t want to die,” you said, voice cracking. “I just… wanted the pain to stop.”

Lando nodded, breathing hard like he was fighting tears again. “I know. But I can’t lose you. I already lost one of you. I can’t—”

He stopped talking, swallowing, eyes full of love and exhaustion. “Next time it gets that bad, you tell me. You call me. You scream my name. I don’t care if I’m racing or asleep or in another country—I’ll be there.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden, I didn't want to be heavy” you whispered.

“You’re not heavy baby, you're my wife” he said instantly, fiercely. “You’re the person I love.”

[batslvrr]

I'll be with you, always ও˖ ࣪⊹

𝜗ৎ tags/tw: miscarriage, fertility issues, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, not proofread

ও˖ ࣪⊹ pairing: jason todd x f!reader

𝜗ৎ a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for well over a year, it was technically the first fic I ever wrote but I never posted it. anyways, I've been battling whether I should post it or not, and I decided to. if you're going or went through something like this, just know you're not alone<3

When you met Jason Todd, he swore up and down that he'd never ever have kids. Or get into a serious relationship for that matter, he was far too broken, too hollow to ever give someone what they needed from a partner. At the time, you weren't interested in a relationship either, after dealing with your cheating ex you were pretty done for awhile.

However, time and feelings are a funny thing. Through your mutual friends, you both inevitably kept hanging out, and a friendship formed not long after. You were quick to forget your "no feelings" era, because the way your heart did happy laps every time it saw Jason's smile was concerning. His feelings for you came very much in the same way. Unannounced, agressive and strong, like a bullet being shot.

He didn't have a usual job, much less a usual life, it was not everyday that you got killed and then revived, it also wasn't everyday that you tried to kill your father after coming back. His trauma was a long deep running river that threatened to overflow the tide next to it, but.. With you it was so worth it. You were well and truly, perfect. It made him feel crazy, what sort of spell had you made to get him wrapped around your finger so tightly? He got giddy just hearing your name for heaven's sake! He was a scary vigilante, he wasn't supposed to act like a lovesick puppy.

Despite feeling strongly for eachother, you two battled off your feelings like they were the plague, while everyone but yourselves could see you were totally head over heels. To no one's surprise, you two eventually came around and got together after a few months of pointless fighting against something that was far too deep.

It had been six years from then. Three years married, three dating, and the only reason that Jason didn't propose to you sooner was the fact that he went through a lot of therapy and did a lot of inner work to become the man you deserved, because for you, he was willing to fight the scariest demons his mind posessed.

Now, you were ready to start your little family. One of the things that always worried you was his insistence on the fact that he'd be an awful dad, therefore he would never have kids. But what you didn't know was that as soon as Jason came to terms with the fact that he loved you all those years ago, and that you some miraculous way loved him back, all he could think about was how much he wanted to marry you, and how much he wanted to make you the prettiest mother in the world.

What none of you ever accounted for was the fertility issues. You had been trying for a few months when you started to worry, and there was nothing on this planet that Jason hated more than seeing your devastated face anytime your period came once again, so he always soothed you, whispering "There is nothing wrong with you, love. You're just stressed, we'll have our family one day, yeah? I love you.", while you sobbed into his arms at night.

There was, however something wrong with you indeed. After all the missed attempts you went to the hospital, and the doctors told you what you dreaded to hear. Fertility issues. Low chance of pregnancy. Any pregnancy will be of high risk. That day, you cried so hard you almost blacked out, it was a wonder how all the water from your body didn't get drained. And even then, Jason held you through it all, physically and mentally, because you were sure that if not for him, you wouldn't have persisted for so long. You thanked all that was holy for your husband, because not once did that man utter anything less of loving and supportive words in you ear. Never did he plant a kiss on your skin that was not utterly filled with love and adoration. In your head, you were broken, but to him? Oh God, to him you were the most perfect being on this Earth and he would not let you crumble.

When your period took too long to arrive three months ago, you didn't dare to hope. Honestly, you didn't even want to take a pregnancy test, after all, there had been times where the same happened and you ended up curled in bed crying. But, like always Jason gently encouraged you, and after one, two, three, four positive pregnancy tests, you were overjoyed. It couldn't be wrong this time, and it also couldn't be more perfect. Jason hugged you like his life depended on it and once again, his presence, his touch, it all kept you grounded, it kept you intact under the sea of emotions you were feeling.

The next day he arranged an appointment for you. After going to the doctor's and hearing that you were one month pregnant already, and that so far you and the baby were healthy, you felt like your life couldn't get better. Jason immediately stepped down from being a vigilante, he wanted to be there for every step of his baby's life, and he also would never forgive himself if he ever ended up leaving you two, so he wouldn't risk his life. He got a normal job at Wayne Enterprises, curtsy of Bruce Wayne who had spent the last few years becoming the father Jason needed (he was also overjoyed about becoming a grandfather soon).

Finally everything felt like it was right. You and your husband had a fairly normal life, you were going to start a family, the baby was healthy, the nursery was being made, you had plushies for the baby already, you-

Everything crashed down on what seemed like a normal sunday. It was a beautiful day outside, and you had stayed home, having a very high risk pregnancy and all. You had done nothing more than sleep and talk to your baby, you two even listened to music together (someone had to pass down their superior music taste). That was until you went to the bathroom after lunch. You felt a weird faint pain but didn't think much of it, that was until you looked down and the metalic scent of blood invaded your nose.

At first you couldn't believe it. Surely you were having a nightmare, because this could not be happening. You were frozen on the toilet, barely breathing as you looked at the blood, the very real blood that signalled that your baby wasn't okay. It was too much, and you couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't cry, it was all blood blood blood blood...

Jason arrived home from work a few hours later. Hours? Minutes? You didn't know anymore. All you knew was the blood. The blood and the fact that you remained on the same spot, unmoving, completely shattered. He called for you but you didn't answer. It didn't take him long to find you, and when he did he immediately understood.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry." Was what you were able to make out, a heavy low murmur that ricocheted on the walls, embracing you and trying to keep you there. In a second he was kneeling in front of you, cradling you in his arms, kissing your head, talking about hospitals, and what could you do if not let him take care of you? Almost mechanically you got out of the bathroom and got ready to go to the hospital.

On the ride there he held you hand. He held you when the doctor told you that you had miscarried. And most importantly, he kept you grounded when the shock finally wore off and you weeped on the hospital corridor. You kept asking "Why?" over and over again and he comforted you, tried his best to give you the peace he barely had in himself, because for you, he'd carve out pieces of his soul if it meant you'd feel the slightest bit better.

When he told his family they were devastated, and in an attempt to make you feel better, the two of you were invited to dinner two weeks after. Jason assured you that if you didn't feel well enough to go, no one would hold it against you, but you wanted to be away from your apartment for awhile. The nursery was left untouched and you spent too much time in there, like somehow looking at the stuffed animals would make you wake up from this nightmare.

The dinner was going well, everyone tried their best not to mention anything, no one had so say anything when the silent hugs you received said more than what spoken words managed to say. You could see why your therapist told you to socialise, it was really helping to keep your mind off everything that happened.

At some point, Bruce turned to you and gave you a kind smile. "How are you feeling?" You gave him a tired smile and shrugged, but you could see in his eyes that he was also mourning. Everyone was. And suddenly the damn burst once again, and you were repeating 'I'm sorry' over and over again, Jason tried to soothe you and gently guided you to his childhood bedroom.

You didn't even know who you were apologising to anymore. To Jason? To his family? To everyone for ruining dinner? To yourself and to the baby you lost? No one blamed you, but no one was needed for that when your mind existed. Jason held you for what felt like hours, whispering about how none of this was your fault and that everything would be fine. It seemed hard to think it would, but... No matter how hard this was you knew that he'd be there to make everything okay once again.

You would get through this together, like you always did.

divider by @uzmacchiato

[askoverkill]

[Overkill is made by Pedro and Sam]

transcript below:

...This isn't a Bobo thing, is it?

I don't know. You had someone's entire autobiography shoved into your brain. That's an extreme case.

But the Director's roles are meant to be simple. They're meant to be modifiers to simplify someone's psyche.

But... despite that, dawn has a severe case of Post-Theater Curse.

What the stars happened to make it this bad? The Butler role was never this bad before.

(Post-Theater Curse?)

(You...) (You were Theater Cursed.) (That's why you thought OVERKILL was real.)

(No, not OVERKILL.) (Paige. Paige wasn't real.)

(You're not a person.)

(Oh, that's right.) ("Dawn" isn't a person either.) (A copy of the original.)

(Just a set of someone else's memories) (Nothing truly of your own.)

Ngh... hurts... head...

Shh, it's okay, take it slow. It's going to be okay.

I'll... be back later. Good luck with him.

Loop... just... who am I?

Who... do you want to be, right now?

Nobody.

[twitsid]

the silence between heartbeats

david corenswet!Clark Kent x pregnancy loss!reader

word count: 5.1k

summary: Not every love story gets the shiny, happy ending we dream of. Sometimes it shatters right in the middle, and all you can do is hold onto each other in the dark. Clark comes back from a work trip, thinking life is the same as when he left. But when you hug him and break down, he realizes the sound he loved most—the heartbeat of your baby—is gone. What follows is heartbreak, raw grief, and the kind of love that tries to piece back together what can’t be replaced.

warnings: Miscarriage (pregnancy loss), Heavy angst, but also comfort, Clark Kent being the softest, most tender man alive (literally), You will cry, but you’ll also feel like you’re being hugged through the screen, Not recommended for public transport reading… unless you don’t mind ugly crying in front of strangers.

a/n: Based on this request. Remember, my inbox and requests are open for now, so if you want to tell me something or make a request, you can do so. Just be nice. second part here. Enjoy your reading 💕

──xoxo, madds ᡣ𐭩

The hospital always smells the same: disinfectant, forced silence, hushed voices echoing down long, too-cold hallways. When your eyes finally open, the white ceiling lights make you squint, and the first thing you feel is the sharp ache in your belly—followed by a hollow emptiness you don’t have words for.

You know what happened before anyone even tells you. The fainting, the fall, hitting the ground—your brain replays it like a bad film reel. And then… nothing. That absence. That hollow space screaming inside of you no matter how much you try to push it down.

Clark is out of town, covering a story. You found out when you woke up that the doctors had tried to reach him, but you begged them not to: “No. Don’t tell him yet.”

You can’t. You don’t want to hear the sound of his heart breaking over the phone. You don’t want him to blame himself, to hurt. Not yet.

So you smile weakly when the nurse checks on you, pretend to be stronger than you are, and let the days crawl by. When you’re finally discharged, you go home alone, baggy clothes hanging off your body, eyes swollen from crying, and a silence in the house that feels louder than any scream.

A few days later, Clark finally comes back. The door opens with the familiar jingle of his keys, followed by the tired sigh of a long trip.

“Sweetheart, I’m home,” he calls out, voice warm, hopeful, filled with the kind of energy he always brings when he walks back into your life.

You smile—mechanically, like your face just remembers what it’s supposed to do. You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his torso. His chest is solid against your forehead, his big hands rubbing soothing circles down your back. He smells like fresh air, like earth, like home.

And right there, that’s where your façade crumbles.

The tears come hot, violent, unstoppable. Your body shakes against his, and you cling tighter, like you could disappear inside of him.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, broken—your voice shredded. “I’m so sorry, Clark… I… I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t want to… I never meant—”

He stiffens instantly. Reflex has him leaning down, searching your face, trying to understand. And then he does. His trained hearing zeroes in, reaching for the tiny heartbeat he’s been quietly obsessed with these last few months. That sound that had been his favorite secret.

It’s not there.

The silence inside you is more vicious than any scream.

“No…” his voice cracks, barely there. He pulls back just enough to look at you, blue eyes brimming instantly with tears. “No. No, no, it can’t—”

You sob harder, words tumbling out in messy fragments:

“I fainted… I fell… I tried—I swear I tried, Clark, I really did—but I couldn’t… I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry—”

He shakes his head desperately, like he can undo reality just by refusing it. Tears stream down his face, and he crushes you against him, so tight it almost hurts to breathe.

“No… no, it wasn’t your fault,” he repeats, over and over, like a prayer, like a curse. “It wasn’t your fault, baby, do you hear me? It wasn’t your fault.”

The strongest man in the world is crying in your arms. Superman—the man the whole world sees as invincible—breaks down with you on the living room floor, wrapping his body around yours like he can still shield you from pain, even though it’s already too late.

That night, there’s no dinner, no small talk, no laughter. Just two broken people tangled up in the dark, tears soaking the sheets.

Clark runs his fingers through your hair again and again, like maybe that simple motion can calm the tremors running through you. His voice is a steady murmur against your ear:

“I love you… I’m here… I’ll always be here… nothing else matters…”

At some point, exhaustion finally pulls you under, asleep against his chest, tear tracks still wet on your face. But he doesn’t sleep. His eyes stay red and open in the dark, heart torn to shreds, listening to the silence where the most beautiful sound he’d ever known used to be.

The next few days are painfully slow. Clark won’t let you lift a finger. He cooks, he does laundry, he pulls open the curtains in the morning to force a little light into the house. Sometimes you catch him crying quietly in the kitchen, palms pressed to the counter, trying to compose himself before you see him.

And sometimes it’s you breaking down on the couch, clutching a blanket to your empty stomach. He always comes right away, kneeling in front of you, taking your hands.

“I didn’t fail you, did I?” you whisper one afternoon, voice cracking.

He looks at you with so much tenderness it almost hurts.

“Never,” he says, firm, certain. “You never failed.”

His thumb brushes away your tears.

“The world can think whatever it wants of me, but you? You’re my strength. You’re my home. That’s all I need.”

The wound doesn’t vanish. Not in days, not in weeks. You both know that. There are nights you wake up screaming, and he’s there, clutching you tight, crying with you. There are mornings when he stares too long at your belly, then quickly looks away before he falls apart again.

But you’re together. And in the middle of the grief, that becomes the one truth you can still hold onto.

One evening, sitting out on the porch as the sun sets, he takes your hand and threads his fingers through yours. His gaze is fixed on the horizon, but his voice is steady.

“I may never understand why this happened. Maybe I never will. But the one thing I do know, the one thing I’m absolutely sure of, is that I love you more than my own life. And as long as we’re together, we’ll find a way through this.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, letting his words wrap around you like a warm blanket. The pain is still there, but you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.

And in that shared silence, in the middle of the loss, you realize love can also mean this: crying together, catching each other mid-fall, and choosing to keep breathing—even when the world feels like it’s stopped.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Over Again

bob floyd x fem!reader

Bob’s alarm goes off at 7:18 AM.

He doesn’t remember setting it to that time, but it buzzes all the same—like a fly trapped in a jar.

He blinks. Rubs his face. The sun slices across the room in familiar stripes. You’re still asleep, curled toward him, wearing the old Fleetwood Mac shirt he loves on you.

You look peaceful. Too peaceful.

He stares a little longer than usual.

You stir. Smile, eyes still closed. “Staring’s creepy, baby.”

“I know,” he whispers. His voice doesn’t sound right. “Just wanted to remember you like this.”

You open one eye. “Like what? Pissed off that I didn’t get to finish my dream?”

“…Yeah.”

You’re laughing about something. Bob can’t focus on your words—he’s still caught in that sick twist in his stomach, like something awful is lurking just beyond the next breath.

You tug on your sneakers at the door. “C’mon, we’ll miss the good coffee if we wait any longer.”

Bob follows behind you, his heart in his throat. You grab his hand as you step off the sidewalk.

And that’s when it happens.

A red sedan. No brakes. A scream.

His hand is ripped from yours—snatched by the force of physics.

And then you’re—

Your body hits the windshield like a sack of flour.

The sound will haunt him until the end of time.

So will the way your neck bends.

So will the way your blood spills.

So will the way he drops to his knees, hands shaking, holding your lifeless face, screaming so hard he chokes.

———

Bob sits up in bed with a gasp.

The clock reads: 7:18 AM.

You’re beside him again.

Sleeping. Breathing. Alive.

He throws up in the bathroom.

You knock on the door after a while. “Everything okay?”

He stares at his reflection.

What the fuck is happening?

———

“Let’s go,” you hum, dragging him toward the sidewalk.

But he freezes. That dread returns like a shadow.

And he grabs you hard.

“Wait—stop.”

“What?”

He pulls you back just as the red sedan blows past—missing you by inches.

You blink. “What the—Bob!”

He doesn’t answer. He’s panting. Sweating. “You were gonna die,” he says.

You laugh nervously. “Okay, final destination, chill out. I’m fine—”

But you’re not.

That night, you have a headache. A migraine, maybe.

You pass out mid-sentence.

Bob calls 911.

By the time help arrives, your pulse is gone.

———

7:18 AM.

You’re alive.

Again.

Smiling.

Again.

But Bob doesn’t move.

He lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above. It makes the same soft creak every seven seconds. He counts it like a prayer. One… two… three…

You roll toward him. “Hey. Weird question. Do you ever have déjà vu so strong you feel sick?”

His heart stops. You don’t remember.

But something inside you feels it.

He pulls you against his chest and doesn’t let go. “We’re not going anywhere today.”

You blink. “Not even for bagels?”

“No. I’m keeping you in bed. All day.”

You laugh, teasing. “Wow, romance is dead.”

Bob doesn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

———

You’re curled up beside him watching a movie. He keeps looking at you instead of the screen.

You nudge him. “You’re acting weird.”

“You’re not gonna die today.”

“Okay…”

The electricity cuts off mid-scene.

Bob frowns. “We didn’t pay late, did we?”

“No, I—wait, do you smell that?”

Burning.

Bob bolts up and throws open the bedroom door—

—black smoke billows in, thick and blinding.

A fire. Somewhere in the apartment.

He grabs your hand. You’re coughing. Disoriented.

He throws a wet towel under the door. Covers your mouth. “We’re staying low. Follow me.”

You try. But the smoke is everywhere. And when he pulls you to the floor, you don’t get up.

You’re limp.

He screams your name and shakes you—

—but your lips are blue.

Eyes glassy.

Dead before the firemen even kick down the door.

———

7:18am

Bob doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t blink. He tapes every outlet. Unplugs everything. Blocks the door with furniture. Checks every appliance three times. His hands shake the entire time.

You wake up to find him in the hallway with a fire extinguisher strapped to his back.

“Are we preparing for war?”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even answer.

He doesn’t tell you he watched you suffocate yesterday. That your chest rattled with the final breath.

He just watches you brush your teeth like it might be the last time.

1:34 PM

You’re both safe. Still inside. Still breathing.

He relaxes for a second.

Too long.

He hears a knock.

You go to check the peephole—

And the explosion is so fast, so violent, it blows the entire door inward.

You’re thrown ten feet back. Your head cracks against the kitchen counter. The wall is splattered with blood.

Bob’s ears ring. He crawls to you.

You’re not breathing.

———

He tackles you awake.

Literally.

You scream, “What the fuck, Bob?!”

He’s sobbing before you finish the sentence.

He can’t do this again.

⸻

2:00 PM

He drives you two hours away. Middle of nowhere. No phone. No city. No strangers. No accidents.

You’re in a forest cabin he found during a mission once. It’s old, but safe. Empty. Remote.

He keeps watch all night. Barely blinks. His gun is by the window. Just in case.

You go to shower around 6:45 PM.

He hears the water running. Good.

Until he hears you scream.

⸻

He breaks the door down.

You’re inside the tub. The water is red. Not from blood—from your mouth.

You’re choking. Convulsing. Drowning in your own blood.

He grabs you, cradles your body, screams for help no one will hear.

You die in his arms on the floor of the cabin.

———

Bob loses it.

He destroys the kitchen. Shatters plates. Punches the wall until his knuckles bleed. You walk in on him mid-breakdown and he flinches like you’re a ghost.

He grabs your shoulders. “We have to leave. Now. Just trust me.”

⸻

3:23 PM

You’re on a boat this time. A rented fishing vessel. Bob thinks maybe water is safer.

You’re laughing as you dangle your hand over the side, eyes closed to the sun.

He stares at you. You look so… alive.

It guts him.

You say something cute. He doesn’t even hear it. He’s too focused on keeping you alive.

Until he notices the anchor cable got tangled.

He reaches over to adjust it—

And when he looks back up, you’re gone.

⸻

You’ve fallen in.

He dives without thinking.

Under the surface, the water is black. Cold. Endless.

He searches, searches, searches.

He finds you after a minute. Your hair’s fanned around you like seaweed. Eyes wide. Lips blue.

You’re already floating.

He drags your body back onboard, wheezing, sobbing, giving you CPR until his chest collapses from the effort.

You don’t come back.

———

7:18 AM.

He doesn’t move.

You stretch beside him, warm and soft, but there’s something off in the way you glance at him. Something… tentative.

Your voice is quiet. “Did you sleep?”

He shakes his head.

You try to smile. “Wanna go get coffee?”

He doesn’t answer.

⸻

9:00 AM

You sip from the paper cup, but his goes untouched. He just stares out the window of the café like it’s haunted.

You finally ask, “Bob… did something happen?”

He breathes like the air hurts. “You’ve died.”

You blink. “What?”

“Seven times. In one day. Over and over.”

You laugh a little—confused. “Like in a dream?”

His eyes lift. They’re dead.

“No. Not a dream. The same day resets every time you die. But you always die. No matter what I do. Car crash. House fire. A seizure. A gas leak. You fall into the fucking ocean. It doesn’t matter. I stop one thing, and something else gets you.”

Your lips part. You go pale.

He keeps going.

“And I—I remember all of it. Every sound you make. Every scream. The way your body goes cold. Your head cracking on the floor. Your mouth full of blood. All of it. I remember every version of the same goddamn day.”

Silence.

His breath shakes. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know why. But I think—” his voice breaks “—I think I’m losing my mind.”

You set your coffee down gently.

He doesn’t notice the slight tremble in your fingers.

You look him dead in the eyes and say:

“I know.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“I know about this one. About all of them.”

Time stops. The café disappears. The world flattens.

“I remember the gas. The drowning. The seizure. I remember being cold, and the way you screamed when I stopped breathing. I remember the fire. The pain. The sound of my skull hitting the counter.”

He stares at you in pure disbelief. “You remember?”

You nod. Slowly. “I didn’t at first. But after the fourth time… I started feeling it. And then I started knowing. Like waking up mid-nightmare.”

He grabs your wrist like he’s holding onto the edge of a cliff. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look down. Your voice is low. “Because you weren’t ready.”

“Ready for what?”

You look up. And your eyes are different this time. Wiser. Heavier. Haunted.

“It’ll stop when you come clean.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

He stiffens. “Come clean about what?”

You stare at him—painfully calm. “You know what.”

He shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything.”

You flinch like that hurts more than the deaths. “Bob—”

“I didn’t. I’ve done nothing but try to save you.”

You hold his gaze. “This isn’t about trying. It’s about truth.”

“I don’t know what you want me to admit—”

“Then you’ll keep reliving it.”

He grabs the edge of the table, knuckles white. His voice drops, hoarse. “I can’t keep watching you die. I can’t. It’s not just watching—it’s feeling it. You die and it takes a piece of me with you. Every single time. I can’t keep doing this. I’m breaking.”

You lean forward. Whisper:

“Then remember what really happened.”

A beat.

Then you say something that nearly stops his heart.

“The sandwich. Bob. Think about the sandwich.”

⸻

He goes quiet. Still.

His breath catches in his throat.

He’s back in the memory instantly.

⸻

FLASHBACK

Two months ago.

Bright day. Pregnant laughter. You’re in the passenger seat, hand on your belly. It’s tiny. Barely there. You’d just found out. You made him promise not to tell a soul yet.

You were craving something specific.

A veggie sub. No mayo. No honey mustard. No sprouts.

He went inside. Ordered two sandwiches.

But he got distracted. Called Phoenix back. Took a quick call from the team. Laughed at something Rooster texted. Paid for the food without double-checking.

Handed you yours. Smiled.

You bit in.

You smiled back. “You remembered the mustard.”

He nodded. Didn’t think anything of it.

⸻

But now—sitting across from you in this looping nightmare, Bob realizes:

You shouldn’t have smiled.

⸻

The mustard.

Honey mustard.

It had raw egg.

Unpasteurized.

One of the very few things you swore you’d avoid while pregnant.

The cramps started that night. You didn’t tell him how bad they were at first. You were always trying to stay strong for him.

By morning, the bleeding started.

By afternoon, the baby was gone.

You forgave him. He never forgave himself.

⸻

Back to present.

Bob’s skin goes white. His throat closes.

You’re still watching him.

He chokes, “No—no, no, that wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”

You gently reach across the table.

“I know you didn’t. But you never told me. Not even once. You acted like it was the universe. Like it was fate. Like it just… happened. But you knew, Bob. You knew what you gave me. And you buried it. And now… the universe is digging it back up.”

Tears stream down his face. “I didn’t mean to kill our baby.”

Your hand closes over his. Soft. Sad.

“I know. But you did.”

He tries to speak but the first sound that comes out is a scream.

He slams both hands against the table, head bowed, shaking like a man being exorcised.

“I killed our baby!”

The whole café shakes.

“I FUCKING KILLED OUR BABY—”

He’s sobbing now—open, loud, unrestrained. Ugly grief. His body folds forward like he’s trying to collapse in on himself.

“I gave you the wrong food—I wasn’t paying attention—I was talking to Phoenix, I—I was laughing—fucking laughing, and I just handed it to you. I didn’t think. I didn’t check.”

You say nothing.

He breaks further.

“You trusted me to take care of you. And I killed her. I killed her because I didn’t read the label.”

He’s gasping. Hiccuping through sobs. His voice is cracking like glass under a boot.

“You said you didn’t want honey mustard—you said—and I still gave it to you. And I watched you smile at me. And I let you eat it anyway. And I knew.”

He pounds his fists against the table again. Once. Twice. Over and over.

“I knew that’s what caused it and I didn’t say anything. I told myself it was random. That your body rejected it. That I wasn’t to blame. But I knew.”

His head jerks up. Tearstained. Red-eyed. Hollowed.

“And I’ve been punished for it. Over and over. Watching you die in ways no human should ever fucking see. I’ve begged. I’ve fought. I’ve bled. And I would do it again—because I deserve it.”

Silence.

You look at him with eyes full of something unspeakable. Not anger. Not quite forgiveness.

Just understanding.

And that’s what breaks him most.

He lets out one last whisper. Just for you.

“I’m sorry I killed our daughter.”

⸻

Then the café explodes in light.

White-hot. Blinding.

Like the sun cracked open inside the world.

Like a detonation of purity.

Sound is gone. Time is gone. He tries to reach for you but you’re light now—just light—and so is he.

And then—

———

7:18 AM.

Bob wakes up.

Soaked in sweat.

His hands are clenched in the bedsheets. His heart is racing. His throat is raw, like he’s been screaming all night. The bedroom is quiet. Normal. Golden sun through the curtains.

You’re beside him.

Blinking. Alive. Real.

You turn toward him, bleary-eyed. “Babe…? You’re sweating. Are you okay?”

He stares at you.

You’re breathing.

You’re breathing.

He lets out a breath that sounds like a sob. His hand reaches to your face, trembling.

“You’re here.”

You frown gently. “Of course I’m here… Bob, you’re scaring me—”

He swallows. His voice is hoarse.

“I need to tell you something.”

You sit up a little, alarmed. “Okay…?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. Because this time… this time, it’s real.

“I killed our baby.”

The silence slams into the room like a car crash.

You blink slowly. “What did you just say?”

His voice trembles.

“The sandwich. I gave you the wrong one. I didn’t check. I was distracted. I knew what was in it and I still handed it to you. You trusted me to take care of you and I failed. I watched you smile, and I let you eat it anyway. And when you lost her, I told you it was random. But I knew it was me. I’ve always known.”

You don’t speak.

Your face is frozen. Staring at him like you’re looking through a mirror cracking.

He wipes his eyes, but the tears keep coming. “I’ve been reliving the day you died, over and over, for what feels like a year. Watching it happen again and again. Trying to save you. But it didn’t stop until I said it out loud. Until I told you the truth.”

You don’t move.

He kneels on the bed in front of you. Grabs your hands. Presses his forehead to your knuckles.

“I am so sorry. I will carry this until I die. But you needed to know. And I needed to say it. Because I love you. And I loved her.”

A long beat.

Then your hands twitch in his.

And finally, you whisper:

“Say it again.”

He lifts his head, eyes shining.

“I killed our baby.”

You nod, voice quiet.

“Okay.”

———

There’s a silence between you, so thick it could drown you both. Bob’s still on his knees, trembling. Your hands are limp in his. Your skin is cold.

Then something in you cracks.

Your voice, low at first. Quiet. Dangerous.

“You knew?”

He swallows hard. “I… yes. I realized after. I should’ve—”

“YOU KNEW?”

You yank your hands away so fast it’s like you were burned. Bob flinches as if the force alone hurts him.

You sit up straighter, your body trembling. “You knew. You knew what you gave me. You let me eat it. You let me fucking smile at you. You let me lie awake that night thinking something was wrong with me.”

He’s shaking his head, tears still pouring. “It wasn’t—baby, it wasn’t like that, I—”

“NO. Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me.”

You’re crying now, but it’s not grief yet.

It’s fury.

“You let me grieve our daughter thinking it was fate. You let me cry myself to sleep for weeks. I hated my body. I thought it had failed her. Failed you.And the whole time, it was your fucking mistake?”

Bob tries to speak. You’re already standing.

“You let me believe that I wasn’t strong enough to carry her. And I LOVED her. I loved her so fucking much—and you let me think I did something wrong.”

You’re sobbing now. Loud. Wracked.

You scream as loud as your lungs will let you:

“YOU KILLED HER!”

Bob doubles over like the words themselves hit his ribs. He nods. “I know—I know—I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—”

You’re already moving.

⸻

Bathroom.

You slam the door shut behind you. Lock it.

Bob stumbles after you, voice hoarse. “Y/n—please—let me in—”

You slide down to the floor, shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your sobs echo off the tile.

“You fucking lied to me—”

“I know,” he begs. “I know I did. I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to hate me—”

“I do hate you!”

Silence.

Then a whisper:

“I know.”

You don’t know how long you stay like that. Minutes? Hours? A lifetime? Time doesn’t make sense anymore. It never has, not since the baby.

You feel like you’re reliving your own loop now.

⸻

Eventually, you unlock the door.

Bob’s right there.

Eyes red. Knees bruised. Hands clasped together like prayer.

You stare at him.

Then—

You slap him.

Hard. Across the face.

He gasps, but he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t flinch. Just takes it.

You raise your hand again—

And then you collapse into his chest.

⸻

Clinging.

You’re both on the floor. Your fist clutches the fabric of his shirt, tight enough to rip it. You sob into his neck. He holds you like you’re made of glass and fire at the same time—tender, terrified.

“I loved her,” you whimper.

“I know,” he whispers.

“She would’ve looked like you.”

He breaks again. “I think about it every day.”

“I felt her, Bob. I felt her move. I talked to her. I told her we’d protect her. That we loved her. And now she’s just… gone.”

His voice shakes. “I’d trade my life for hers.”

“I know.”

And you do. That’s the hardest part.

You know. You know he would.

You know he didn’t mean to.

You know the man in your arms is shattered and barely surviving.

You cry harder.

And he cries with you.

⸻

Hours pass. Maybe longer. There’s no clock in grief.

Eventually, you whisper:

“I can’t forgive you. Not yet.”

His voice is a ghost.

“I don’t expect you to.”

You lift your face, still soaked with tears.

“But I can’t lose you too.”

He presses his forehead to yours, like a vow. “You won’t.”

[woman-eternal]

I have to say this because no one else is, but getting ectopic pregnancy / miscarriage care is not illegal. Anywhere. It’s just not. So if you are suffering from an ectopic pregnancy or a miscarriage just go to the doctor. If your doctor says “uh I’m not sure if that’s allowed” they are lying and that’s medical malpractice.