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wolgerrswraith · 5 months

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Another one, from late 2023. I'm working on a spiritual sequel thing to this, set in the same area but not using these themes. It's a gothic horror...uh...thing, with Lovecraftian elements and a Florida setting. I also use the word "frothy" too many times, but whatever.

The House in The Swamp

Far back in the vast stretch of the Florida Everglades stood the small town of Byron's Gulch. The mossy trees kept it in almost permanent shade during the humid afternoons, the moonlight dappling off the green waters of the swamps at night, as the air grew dense and fog swirled along the banks. A quiet place, all but forgotten in the blistering heat of the merciless sun above.

With a name like Byron's Gulch, you wouldn't be judged too harshly for not expecting all that much from the place, and in truth, there wasn't much to be excited about. A scattering of simple homes traced the shoreline, the town proper only reachable by boat.

The small stores of the town sold what was needed for the people to keep their households going, the basics of living without all the flashy distractions of the more populated areas.

The people were simple, and led simple lives in their homes by the stinking waters of the swamps, each new generation growing up with the same horror stories as their parents and grandparents. The same stories, told over and over through each successive group of children, frightening them out of their wits during stormy evenings huddled around the family hearth.

Some of the more popular stories centered on the rotting mansion looming on the small island just off the Gulch's main river, only just visible from the front street of town if you craned your neck right and the light was good. Most of time it was hidden by the shadows of the twisted trees growing wild on the island, the rotted peak of the roof only just poking free of the overgrowth.

A single wooden path stretched across the water to the base of the hill, the only way in or out of the mansion's grounds. It wasn't cared for, the wood rotting away in places, making it unsafe for the local kids to play on, despite their better efforts to sneak onto it anyway.

According to legend, the mansion had once belonged to a pirate captain, who had been trying to play it straight for the first time in his violence filled life as he finally settled down.

He had built the mansion for his bride, a pretty young thing who had waited a long time to marry him, and deserved the best in life. But his dark past came calling during the construction of the mansion, making him order the builders to lay the foundation as close to the water as possible. A private dock stretched out over the water, the natural shelter of the trees making it invisible to anyone who didn't know exactly where to look for it.

Night after night, while his young bride slept in peaceful ignorance, the pirate captain had stolen goods shipped in by boat, the swamps providing an easy route for anyone wishing to remain unseen. His former companions from his old seafaring days were more than willing to rejoin his mission, charting in enough wealth to keep the captain and his bride in comfort. What supposedly happened to them varies by account, of course, but it always seemed to end in a murder-suicide that left the house haunted by the unhappy specter of the bride, and the revenge stricken ghost of the captain.

Of course, this is all just a tall tale, a ghost story to give children the shivers as the night grew cold outside, the firelight warm and comforting.

In the early 80's, a local author took it upon herself to sensationalize the legend as a paperback gothic romance, retelling the captain's story as one of mystery, forbidden love, and a secret wealth crated in by the pound at midnight in leaky rowboats.

Her version, though highly romantic and frothy, was based on a single page in an old book on the Gulch's history she had found in the stacks of the local library, hidden away behind the other books like someone wanted it to be forgotten.

The novel's author, Nancy Drogan, who went by the penname Aurora Terrault, went missing in 1987 without a trace, leaving behind her novel, and a mystery as to what exactly had happened to her. The last place she'd been seen was walking along the road through town, headed towards the dock leading to the mansion. Several people stopped to watch her make her way down the worn boards, but no one gave it all that much thought. It was only when she didn't come back, the days slowly bleeding into weeks, that people began to take notice.

***

Nancy hadn't known what exactly had pulled her back towards the house until she found herself walking through the gates at the base of the hill it rested on, a cold breeze making her shiver. She'd been here before, of course: the details of the mansion in her novel were all factual, copied from countless hours observing the mansion from the outside, taking pictures whenever possible. The floorplan of the house was easily found in the library's records, so there were no troubles there when it came to describing the rooms and corridors. Furnishings were made up on a whim and may or may not have matched the real thing, not that it mattered.

So why now? Why was she drawn back to the house, back to her original muse, months after her book had been published and sent out into the world?

Nancy didn't know: all she knew was the grit of rust on her palms as she pulled the gate open, the hinges squealing in protest. All she knew was the sound of her footsteps on the path to the house, steady and sure despite her misgivings to the whole affair. And all she knew was the warped wood of the door under her fingers, the chilled metal of the knob as she griped it tight.

Before Nancy really had time to process much of anything, she was standing in the front hall of the house, peering into the gloom at the dusty furnishings around her.

The door shut behind her silently, only a cloud of dust slowly settling back into the faded carpet showing it had ever been open in the first place. Silence was oppressively thick inside the manor, only the occasional groan from a floorboard as she moved through the darkness breaking the silence.

The furniture was shockingly close to what she'd described in her novel; the small fainting couch in the hall by the stairs, the fringed lamp with the twin bulbs, the stoic faced paintings of family members long ago passed on lined up along the faded wallpaper in tidy rows.

"The war general... the Southern belle... the maiden aunt..."

Nancy named the paintings as she passed them, quoting a passage from her book where one of the characters did the same. The fact her novel correctly described the paintings and their subjects down to most last detail when it was impossible for her to have ever seen them before that moment didn't cross her mind just then.

"It's so beautiful in here," she murmured, trailing her fingers through the thick dust coating an antique sideboard, the wood rasping against her fingertips. Her voice echoed slightly in the stillness, possibly the first sound to fill those shuttered rooms in a hundred years or more.

She didn't notice the front hall behind her subtly changing, the door becoming hazy and insignificant. Soon, there was only a vague smudge on the wallpaper to even show where the door had been in the first place. Her only escape from the house, gone without her even noticing it had been taken.

From the moment Nancy had entered the house, something had been working at her mind, picking apart its innermost depths like an overripe melon, sifting through her memories and emotions, using what it found there against her.

The house was shifting, details changing subtly to match what she had written in her novel exactly. A faded picture of kittens in a bowl slowly changed to a Paris landscape she'd described; the tassels on a lamp frayed and changed hue to match the ones she'd mentioned in passing.

"It's amazing," Nancy murmured, not seeming to notice the walls behind her shift and exchange places, a formal lounge with an arched doorway thrusting outward from what was once solid wood paneling.

To comfort her, to keep her happy and exploring, slowly wandering deeper into the forgotten halls of the mansion she had described so lovingly in her novel.

Nancy didn't know any of these things, of course: all she could think of was how wonderful it was that her novel had so closely captured the house, that her prose had gotten across the faded grandeur of the place so perfectly.

She headed up the stairs, footsteps muffled on the faded floral carpet. Each step vanished away into nothingness behind her, the landing becoming a steep drop to the first floor below. As Nancy trailed along the upper hallway, murmuring to herself as this detail or that stood out to her, the boards of the landing shook themselves lazily, like a cat waking from a long nap. The wood creaked softly as it flowed across the opening, sealing off the second floor. The railings melded into the wallpaper, leaving no indication there had ever been a way down to the first floor at all.

The spider had trapped the fly securely within the web.

***

Nancy's novel had done well in the stores, seeing a successful life even outside the borders of Byron's Gulch. The publishing house had been surprised a frothy Victorian romance had done so well in a world of thousands of identical books, but the people clamored for more. The Mansion in The Swamp quickly fled through two printings in the late 80's, seeing a collector's edition in the early 90's in hardcover.

But the esteemed author herself, Aurora Terrault, never published again. Despite constant letters to the publishing house for details, there were none to be had. Aurora Terrault was seemingly gone.

The original novel became held in high regard as a classic, spawning a sequel in 2004. Written by a greenhorn pen for hire, The Nightmare in The Swamp was highly reviled by fans of the original, quickly going out of print. The new author had tried their very best, but the lyrical sense of phrasing and deliberate, detailed passages about the house were gone, replaced by a try-hard, matter of fact way of storytelling that felt more appropriate to a young adult romance than a sequel to a cult classic gothic.

The online forums for booklovers were filled with stories about the first time they'd read the novel, with a few of the more rabid fans even having overly grand hopes for a TV or movie adaption. Everyone agreed that The Mansion in The Swamp was far better than it had any right to be considering the publisher's usual crop of bodice rippers, and that it was a terrible pity the author had vanished into the ether from whence she came, leaving behind a masterpiece.

***

Nancy wandered through the mansion's library, never once questioning how exactly a room that massive could be perched on the second floor of an average sized at best manor. The soaring vaulted ceiling and rows upon rows of towering bookshelves were impossible given the true size of the mansion itself, but Nancy didn't think about any of this. The idea never even crossed her mind.

Her few remaining thoughts were fleeting, trickling like a lazy stream over rocks, becoming fragmented concepts and hazy base emotions. Rational thinking was completely gone, only a dull, pleasant ache from happiness at her surroundings remaining in its place.

Downstairs, the house was... changing.

The faded wallpaper slowly regained its original luster, the carpets shaking themselves gently to get rid of the thick layers of dust, revealing their patterns for the first time in many long years.

As Nancy wandered the library in the cloudy haze of her own fantasies, the house was slowly coming back to life below.

***

When it came to the house and the true purpose behind its creation, things went a long way past the frothy backstory of pirates and forsaken brides Nancy had concocted for her book.

The truth concerned something beneath the house, something it had been built to protect from prying eyes and nosy townsfolk all those years ago.

There were no pirates in the traditional sense in all reality: the man who had commissioned the mansion to be built was named Charles Byerson, the owner of a small fleet of fishing boats that brought home goods and livestock across the swamps to Byron's Gulch, then named Byron's Crossing.

It was 1909, and life was simple for the people of the Gulch, which back then was only a single road of shops and a scattering of cabins built out on stilts over the water. The townspeople were more than a little confused as to why a fairly well off boat fleet owner would want to build on a squalid patch of land surrounded by swamp, but they welcomed the many jobs it brought to struggling families, as the wooden skeleton of what would become a splendid mansion towered on the horizon, casting its shadow across the water.

Besides, Charles was deeply beloved by the people of the Gulch, who depended on his crews' shipments for their survival.

If said crew occasionally dabbled in the odd murder and subsequent house burning as well was truly open to debate, but the fact remained he was not a man to be crossed by any means. Anyone who ended up on Charles' bad side often found themselves dead, their wealth funneled into the ever growing mansion's ever growing building costs.

Charles had been very specific about the placement of the mansion, requesting this soggy island the moment the plans were drawn up.

To the unwary, nothing about the place stood out, nothing remotely interesting about it catching the eye. It was stable, for the most part, high enough off the water that flooding wouldn't be much of a problem. The water completely surrounded it, making travel by anything but boat impossible unless you liked swimming in gator infested waters. Charles did rectify this by having a dock built, leaving the house with a single route in and out. The builders weren't particularly happy about this, but Charles was paying them well, more than enough for the men to overlook a few eccentricities from their temporary boss.

The biggest eccentricity the builders dealt with concerned a crevasse near the houses foundation, a split in the ground that lead downwards into a rough hewn tunnel.

"Just build over it," Charles had ordered, watching the builders work on the foundation of the house with a frown on his face, his eyes hardened. "Cover it up, but don't send anyone inside."

Most people would prefer the tunnel filled in, as something burrowed under the house like that could damage the stability of the foundation. Over time, the crack could worsen, splitting the island in half like it was nothing but a dirt clod.

But Charles was adamant, only allowing the workers to cover the tunnel with temporary wooden doors to protect it until the basement and foundation was completed.

"I dunno why you'd want to keep somethin' like that under yer house ser, but we did as ya asked," the foreman told Charles one afternoon, the foundation completed and ready for the wooden superstructure to be built atop it.

"You're not paid to spout ridiculous nonsense all the hours of the day," Charles replied sharply, watching the workmen as they began smoothing down the wooden planks for the first floor's skeletal main frame, the scent of pine thick in the air. "Just do your job, and no one has to get hurt."

***

The music flowed through her like a song half remembered from childhood, making her feel light and perfect. The man holding her close was solidly built, his breath warm on her neck, his grip tight as he touched her waist. They swayed together in the ballroom, the other couples around them only golden blurs at the edges of her vision.

"We have all evening," he murmured, his chuckle echoing deep in his chest. "There's no need to rush."

"No, none at all," Nancy murmured, swaying gently in his arms. "No need to rush a thing tonight..."

She hadn't even noticed her skin was slowly becoming paler by the moment, her voice only a soft murmur in the air. Nancy was fading away like a late summer memory, the man she was holding onto, the music they danced to, and even the ballroom around them nothing but a fantasy brought on by the house. In the real world, Nancy swayed alone through the darkened halls, growing paler and weaker with every passing moment.

The soft music crackled from a rotted phonograph that was resting on a pile of trash against the wall, playing on and on from the broken record slowly circling the rusted needle. To Nancy, the music came from the beautiful carved organ against the far wall of the ballroom, a man in a dark suit and hat playing like his life depended on it. The dancers needed music to dance to, after all: to stop playing now would be a terrible thing to do.

"Nancy," a voice whispered, so very close to her ear, luring her deeper into the house's cold embrace, the halls folding closed behind her like an origami papercraft. Doors opened before her, closing and locking behind as she passed until only one final door remained to be entered.

It opened onto damp, hot darkness, the distant echoes of screams and intense whispers reaching out from within to surround Nancy, drowning out the warbling music of the phonograph. A dull red glow pulsed somewhere deep within that overwhelming darkness, steady and persistent. The whispers grew louder, the screams piercing and horrible; Nancy only heard cocktail laughter and the soft chatter of party guests.

Her dream partner stepped into the bright hall beyond the open door, looking back with a smile to make sure she was following. Nancy returned the smile, following her partner into the bright hall beyond.

The door slowly closed behind her, the screams and whispers reaching a fever pitch.

All through the house wallpaper was brightening, cracks in the floor repaired, holes in the wall shored up. Beyond a few cobwebs in the corners and dust along the mantlepieces, the house was the very definition of perfection itself, warmly lit and inviting.

Deep inside the darkened chamber, the whispers slowed, as the many souls lost in the haze at the heart of the house welcomed their new sister.

***

Nancy was not the first to go missing inside the manor, of course: she was just the most famous case. For weeks after her disappearance, the local news was filled with reports on what should be done to locate her, why wasn't anyone doing something to do so already, and the possibility of whether Nancy was even still in Byron's Gulch at all.

The town council decided it was best to close down the dock leading up to the house, putting up an admittedly flimsy barricade in attempt to keep people away from the house.

But people more often than not merely redouble their efforts to get into a place once they've been told not to enter it, and the council soon grew tired enough of the yearly repair costs to keep the barricade intact for them to not bother keeping the mansion in the swamp separate from the rest of the Gulch any longer.

Despite the manor growing more rotted and unstable with each passing year, the dock remained in good condition, the boards weathered but still in good shape, still strong and hearty for anyone wishing to explore the decrepit mansion.

An obvious trap, of course: the mansion's way of trying to attract new blood into its halls, new life to feed itself on. Nancy's lifeforce had run dry years before, leaving the mansion powerless once again. All it had was time to waste. Endless amounts of it. Someone would come before too long. They always did in the end.

A shutter banged loosely in the wind, the dead trees lining the island's border rasping against each other with a sound like whispers. The perfect picture of an innocent house left to rot all alone on an island in the Everglades, just waiting for someone to step inside and look around for a little excitement...

***

When the house was finished, Charles and his young bride, Rebecca, arrived together in a fishing boat he'd fixed up to be as comfortable as possible for her.

"Do you like it, my own?" Charles asked, as Rebecca stared up at the house in what he hoped was awe, her expression otherwise unreadable.

"It's... big," Rebecca said softly, a smile lifting the corners of her lips. "If you like big it's alright enough. The location is somewhat odd, my love."

Charles' hand tightened its grip on the tiller, his jaw setting at Rebecca's words. She noticed none of it, watching the house as the small boat approached the dock, still trying to wrap her head around the fact she was to be mistress of this mansion, this strange home all alone in the swamps.

"I think you'll like it once you see it," Charles replied through gritted teeth, tying the boat off with rough, hard movements, the knot secure and tight. "I even had a basement dug for you, in case you wanted to try your hand at canning fruit or some such thing. I thought you would enjoy that."

"We'll see," Rebecca replied lightly, but her smile said everything her words did not. Secretly, she was pleased that Charles had thought of her like that, when he needn't have given her a second thought when constructing their home.

Charles was quiet as they left the boat, offering Rebecca a hand as she stepped onto solid ground after the long trip in the rocking waves. His eyes were locked on the manor, as if seeing it for the first time rather than the hundredth.

"Welcome home," he said softly, a thin smile crossing his lips.

"And what a home it is," Rebecca said, smiling back at Charles. She didn't realize Charles hadn't been speaking to her at all, but rather to the house itself, to what lay underneath it.

Without a word, Charles strode down the dock, his boots slamming against the boards like a panther on the prowl. Rebecca was slightly annoyed by this, left to fend for herself in the chilly swamp air with her bags, but she quickly forgave Charles for his actions. After all, this was the first time they'd been alone together since the wedding, and it was only natural Charles had some jitters over the whole affair. Even with their wedding night over and done with, for better or worse, they hadn't been in one place without a single soul around before. This would be new ground for both of them.

With a heavy sigh, Rebecca gripped the handles of her admittedly overpacked bags, and began the long trip up the dock to the mansion she now held sway over as mistress of the house.

Charles had left the door open for her, the first glimpse of the mansion she had a rather cold one. Although the furniture was in place and some paintings were hung, that stale, unlived in air filled the room, making the hall feel almost oppressive. She didn't like it, and briefly wondered if she should turn right back around and take the boat back to shore.

Rebecca then chastised herself for thinking so selfishly, gently setting her bags down on an overstuffed fainting couch against the wall. A hand came up to brush a few stray strands of hair back from her face, a draft of chilly air making goosepimples dot her skin.

Something felt... uneasy about the house, the home her loving husband had built for her, a place to raise her future children in peace. There was no reason for her to feel this way.

And yet...

Rebecca frowned, unable to shake the phantom fingers tracing cold lines down her back as she went deeper into the main hall. She needed to find the kitchen, see what she was working with for evening meals. A wife must see her family eats well, she thought, remembering what her mother always said when slaving over the hot stove for hours on end.

The kitchen was empty, something that probably shouldn't have surprised her at all: Charles didn't need to cook after everything he'd done for her so far. That was something Rebecca could tend to herself; a nice ham, possibly a roast.

A sigh left her as she opened the lavish icebox to reveal only a few small cuts of meat and an empty jug of milk. There was food, at least, but it could've been nicer.

Beggars can't be choosers, she could almost hear her mother say. That might have been true, but she still felt a right to have some disappointment at Charles not preparing the kitchen well enough for her standards.

As she busied herself setting a pan on the woodstove to begin warming up the meat, an icy draft tickled the back of her neck, making her shiver: a door she hadn't noticed before was open, only darkness visible inside. The basement Charles had mentioned, obviously, although she was surprised how cold it seemed to be down there: usually basements dug in such warm places as these swamps were unbearably hot, making a perfect place to can fruits you wanted to ferment.

Standing in the doorway, Rebecca could hear whispers from somewhere below, and the darkness slowly lifted as a dull red glow began to pulse steadily.

"Charles?" Rebecca called, "Is that you, dear? I'm trying to make us a nice dinner, but there's so little in the icebox..."

The only reply was the whispering, which now seemed to be repeating her name over and over, growing in intensity. The red glow began to throb quicker, a steady noise echoing from the basement, steadfast and strong.

Feeling uneasy, Rebecca debated on what to do: Charles could be down there hurt, these strange noises merely echoes against the stone walls. If that was the case, she needed to stop acting like a little girl and go down to see what the fuss was.

"I'm coming down, Charles," she announced, hating the slight panic in her tone. "I'll just be a moment, my own."

Gathering her wits, Rebecca put one hand on the rail of the stairs, lifting her skirts over her ankles with the other so she did not trip and fall. The glow seemed to get brighter as she went, the whispers following her like a chorus.

The basement was rather large, stretching in either direction to pools of shadow that made seeing anything nearly impossible. The red glow seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, the whispers almost acting like they wanted to lead her deeper into the darkness.

"Charles?" She called, her voice slightly strained. "Charles, if this is a game, I'm afraid it's not a good time for it."

Silence, even the whispers fading away. Ahead, the glow seemed to be getting brighter, allowing her enough light to see someone standing there, someone she would have known anywhere, in any light.

"Charles, thank goodness," she sighed, a hand to her heart. "I was so worried about you... why are you in the dark, my love?"

"Come here," Charles replied, his voice low and deep. "I want you to see something... something important."

"Of course, Charles, anything you need me to see is important," she smiled. Rebecca was just happy Charles felt like she could handle important things like this, unlike her father who had constantly called her simple minded. "Is it the canning supplies you mentioned? Something else?"

"Something better," Charles replied. Behind him, the red glow pulsed even brighter, a dull throb filling the air. It made her wince, the sound pounding in her ears.

Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but as the light flared up once again, she saw the vines twisted around Charles's feet, slithering like snakes across the earthen floor. They were a vivid red, shot through with purples and blues like veins in an artery.

The scream came before she could stop it, tearing from her throat like it was the last sound she would ever make.

Perhaps, she thought, as the vines shot through the air to pin her arms to her sides, yanking her to Charles like she was nothing but a puppet on strings, it would be.

The red glow was now revealed to be a massive heart, throbbing and shuddering from its place in what looked like a stone alter, like something from a nightmare or one of the ghastly stories her brother enjoyed so much, about men who faced beings from other dimensions and lost their minds. Rebecca, in that moment, could sympathize with those men: she surely would never be the same after this.

"I am sorry," Charles said, his eyes glowing a dull red in time to the heart's beat. "It needs someone important to me for this to work."

"I don't understand! Why? Why are you doing this?" Rebecca cried, feeling the hot tears running down her cheeks as the vines tightened around her, slowly but surely bringing her into the alter, into the heart's embrace.

"To please He Who Sleeps," Charles replied. This meant nothing to her, and had no reason to: no one had spoken that name aloud in centuries, the alter and heart lost under the earth since before the swamps had even formed.

"He will accept you into the house," Charles went on, as the vines pulled Rebecca closer, the heart's beating filling her head. "The first of many to keep the house alive."

Rebecca screamed, the vines growing taunt as they pulled her into the heart. Her last thought was, nonsensically, that the meat on the stove would burn if she didn't go to check on it soon.

She then felt nothing, as her mind and being faded into the darkness at the center of the heart, her soul added to the wood and stone of the house in the swamp.

Only the first of many, as Charles had promised He Who Sleeps. More would come in time, no matter how long it took.

#My writing #trigger warning murder and culty shit #It's like a weird cross between The Haunted Mansion and Dunwich Horror kindaish.#I don't know.#this one took a week and a weekend and isn't the best thing ever but it has an actual review on Fictionpress #*posts this and flees*

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reidmania · 2 months

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hi!! i saw you taking request so here is an idea :)

fem!reader and spencer in an established relationship and they really love each other but they get into a fight. they both say things they dont mean so reader rushes out and while driving away she feels sorry and calls spencer but it goes to voicemail. she starts to send him one saying how sorry she is and that she loves him but is cut off with a loud crash. spencer gets the voicemail and hears about her car accident and rushes to hospital, you can end it however you want hahah. im sorry if this is too much but i feel like you are the only one who can do justice to this <33

guilt ridden | spencer reid

summary ; reader and spencer get into a silly argument that ends in hospital trips and a lot of apologises.

warnings; fem reader, established relationships, arguments, cm things, car accidents and hospitals, arguments, spencer being an ass and reader also being an ass which is all forgotten when things get serious, kinda rushed. angst, happish ending, hurt x comfort kindaish.

an; im sorry this took me so long and im sorry if its horrible. i really just wanted to get this one out of the way bc i rlly enjoyed the idea!!

“I’m sorry, I’ll be back in the morning at some point so I don’t want you to worry and I know you will probably be pissed right now and that okay— You should be. I am too, but I am sorry. I didn’t mean it — I shouldn’t have said it but it was just, in the moment I wasn’t thinking.. Im sorry Spence. I love—”

There was the sound of a gasp, then a bang and then it was silent for a minute until the voice message ended itself. The sound sent goosebumps along Spencer’s arms and sweat to build up over the back of his neck as anxiety made its bed in his stomach.

His entire body went cold as he stood in the kitchen — The same place he had been standing when the stupid argument took place before you grabbed your keys and walked out, muttering how if he was that sick of you, you’d get out of his way before the door slammed behind you.

He had thought about following you and telling you to stay but in the moment he was just angry. So angry. Not even entirely at you, just everything.

He had just gotten home from a case after being away for a week — a case where they couldn’t save the victims. It was one that affected Spencer more than he wanted to admit, all he wanted was to come home and shower.

Then he got home and you immediately hugged him and rambled on about how you missed him and normally — any other time he would adore the feeling of your arms around him, he would breathe in your scent and breath it back out before going on about the case.

This time was different, everything was too much. The grasp of your arms made his body tense rather than relax, your scent was suffocating mixed with the smell of the food on the stove and the candle lit in the living room. It was all just too much.

Not because it was you, there was nothing wrong with you. It was just the day built up, and it was too much for him.

So he pushed you away and began his way to the bedroom wordlessly, where he showered, and eventually came back a little more relaxed — only now you were the one in the bad mood.

Which ended in an argument between the two of you, you called him childish and immature, he called you suffocating and needy.

Neither of you meant it.

But that didn’t stop the hurt that seeped in and the tension that grew between the two of you. Until you were shaking your head telling him to go fuck himself, grabbing your keys and walking towards the front door.

Spencer regretted his words almost immediately when the door slammed shut and didn’t open again. He didn’t mean it but he couldn’t bring himself to follow you yet — he needed to calm down and he was sure you did as well.

He didn’t ignore your call, not on purpose. He was unpacking his stuff when his phone rang from where he had left it in the kitchen. Finding it ten minutes later to hear the voice mail you left, well he had never felt a more intense ache in his chest.

Something was wrong, seriously wrong. He tried calling again and again to no avail as the call went straight to voicemail every-time. He texted you as well.

He was in his car moments later, driving to the nearest hospital because if you were anywhere — it would be there. He heard the ambulance sirens on the way and they did nothing but build the tension in between his muscle and bones.

It wasn’t until an hour later of waiting and pacing around in the hospital waiting room that someone came to tell him that you were here — stable, but in a lot of pain.

He had never felt something like this. Every bit of his mind went blank as walked fast towards the room the nurse had directed him to. His knees felt like jelly and he felt sick to his stomach.

That sick didn’t compare to the one he felt when he saw you lying in the hospital bed, fading in and out of consciousness, a doctor by your side. You were bruised and bloodied and Spencer didn’t think he could stand for another minute as his legs carried him towards the chair next to your bed.

“Honey.” His voice came out a gasp.

But all the same concerned and guilty. Your head turned slightly towards the sound of his voice and he was almost sure his heart broke at the sound of pain that left your lips when moving.

“Spence” You were hardly audible, voice small and so quiet, full of hurt. Genuine pain, you were in genuine pain that you wouldn’t have been in if Spencer had just pulled his head in and didn’t act like an absolute idiot.

It was hard to think about the argument now, how it felt like everything at the time and nothing now. His hand reached out for yours as he tried to ignore the tears that burned in the back of his eyes.

“Im so sorry” He mumbled out. It didn’t even begin to describe the amount of guilt he felt burnt into his stomach, and every inch of his body. He felt sick to his stomach and was almost sure he was going to throw up. “Im so sorry- God Im sorry” He couldn’t help the series of apologies that streamed from his lips, still they didn’t even slightly cover the blame he took in his mind.

“Spence” You said again, almost as if you were unable to say or think about anything else. Despite the pain medication that you had been given — everything hurt.

“Im right here— Im right here.” He repeated, moving the chair in closer, he saw a soft sigh leave your lips despite it being so quiet he couldn’t hear it. He saw your eyes closed and for a moment he genuinely felt his heart break and drop, until they opened again.

You squeeze his hand slightly, it was soft and gentle, all the energy you could muster up put into doing so. “I know. Im sorry” You apologised and it hurt Spencer.

It genuinely made him feel pain in his stomach that you were lying in a hospital bed in an abundance of pain and yet — apologising to him for an argument that seemed so insignificant now.

“Don’t.” Spencer shook his head.

“Don’t apologise, I was an ass— I deserved it. you- You didn’t deserve this. God please don’t apologise.” He almost begged.

The words died on your tongue. Whatever you were going to say now a second thought as you realised Spencer was going to drive himself insane with the guilt and blame of this.

“Its not your fault.” You huffed out.

It was enough to sooth a small part of Spencer’s mind, your voice outweighing the one in his head that held him responsible. Your comfort the one he needed. His hand squeezed yours back.

“I love you — So much. You aren’t suffocating or needy in the slightest.” He felt the need to let you know. God if something happened to you and the last thing you’d heard him say was that he thought you were something— anything other than the most important person in his life and the one who he turned to for everything, the one person he truly loved and adored

Well he would never forgive himself

“I love you” You muttered back weekly, shuffling over on the hospital bed despite the pain that coursed through your body in doing so you made room for him. “Lay with me?” You asked.

He huffed something out before shaking his head, standing up and lowering himself onto the hospital bed. He was careful of your injuries and any pain you may be in as he wrapped his arms around you.

“I love you” He repeated as he placed a soft kiss on the corner of your shoulder. It made a sigh leave your lips, before turning your head to face him.

“I love you.”

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