#my fic: jar of hearts

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicmas23 Day 12: Jar of Hearts (All or Nothing)

Happy Christmas Eve!

Today, despite my best-laid plans, is a section from Jar of Hearts as a preview for the upcoming chapter. Yes, it should be the whole chapter, but recent developments have had me contemplating things and making some adjustments to how JoH ends; plus this chapter might need some scenes from Seth and Alice to mix things up. I'm undecided.

Honestly, it was either a JoH snippet or some deleted VS scenes tonight, and Anon made the decision for me ;)

So I hope you enjoy this - another year of Ficmas over, and I have no idea how we made it this far! Happy Holidays everyone!

eight. all or nothing

The truth is that Emmett never saw any kind of war.

He was born right before America joined World War One and was a vampire before World War Two. There had been the shadow of the Great War over his childhood, from what he remembered, but it had always been something tucked away to the side. It hadn’t touched his family specifically; they had been simple people, focused on working hard, putting food on their table, and keeping a roof over their heads.

And then he was gone before World War Two was a worry his parents would talk about in hushed voices (that memory is solid; the hum of his parents’ voices in the next room talking over the big things, the scary things that might actually come for the McCarty boys, as he drifted off to sleep next to his brothers.)

It was one of the few things that he had in common with Carlisle - and even then, Carlisle had seen battles as a medic. Edward had been dazzled by the glamour of World War One before his death, and Jasper… well, it was Jasper. His brother had been fighting one war or another his entire life - and death. 

The closest Emmett ever come to war? That had been the debacle with Victoria. And he wasn’t so arrogant that he believed that it came anywhere near what an actual war was. He remembers the news stories through World War 2, through Korea and Vietnam. He remembers seeing Carlisle’s grim expression, watching Jasper leave the room before the remote landed on the couch next to him, before the news pages settled. He’s never envied his brother his role on the front lines, never really examined how that missing piece separates him from his brothers and Carlisle. It was just one of those things that weren’t part of his human life, and that couldn’t ever really be recaptured.

But this…

This is a war. This is being right in the middle of the trenches with fucking lizard people and aliens charging at him with no sense of self-preservation.  This is not knowing if the movement behind him is friend or foe or someone dying in the mud. This is having foreign blood dry wet and ice cold against his face and sometimes it smells good and other times it smells like rot and death; in not being able to see Alice or Seth in the blur of bodies and movement.

It’s watching a woman in a leather jacket beat the ever loving shit out of an alien for crushing her flask underfoot, and a broad black guy take a bone-shattering punch to the jaw and not even flinch. It’s realising that this is not the time to pull punches or worry about hiding what he is - these people are like them. It’s a weird feeling made weirder by how isolated the last five years have been.

(It’s killing the first alien in two moves and not feeling anything except disgust and impatience because this battle is the only thing standing between him and Rose.) 

//

It feels wrong to admit it, but it’s fucking exhilarating to throw a punch and shatter these monster-alien things. To not hold anything back, to move exactly how he was designed to. More than one hero is caught unaware by his speed; he saves two Wakandan warriors simply by being faster than they are - a crude but effective solution. 

//

It’s hard enough to get across the mud-slick the battlefield has become without running into another alien, another fighter. He hardly recognises half of these people, but more than one he saves from a killing blow - a big-eyed alien girl whose face lights up as he snaps the spine of the alien looming over her. She reminds him of Alice, when she first arrived back in the 50s. But he doesn’t pause, his eyes sliding over the battlefield looking for Alice or Seth, and mentally cursing himself out for not realising that all-black outfits would not be helpful in a battle situation. He should have insisted on reflective racing stripes or something. 

Next time.

(Wait, no. There would never be a next time, a need for fighting ensembles and funny little vests for Seth with reflective panels because they would never find themselves in a fight like this again. That was a promise he was making to himself - for himself.)

And that’s when he finally spots Seth, mud-slicked but alive. 

“No, no, no,” he’s already moving when understands what he’s seeing. wolf Seth, who is no small opponent (last summer, when they’d been bored… well, the short story is that in his wolf-form, Seth weighed double of what Alice did) - is somehow tangling with three aliens, with Thanos looming behind like the shadow of death, his eyes firmly on Seth.

There was no fucking way that the giant purple asshole was laying one goddamn hand on Seth whilst Emmett still had venom in his veins and his head. 

He sees Alice lunging across the battlefield from the opposite direction, her eyes focused fully on the potentially disastrous scene before them. 

“HE’S A FUCKING KID,” Emmett hollers pointlessly, but Seth surprises both him and Alice as he takes the arm clean off an alien, the limb cracking into pieces under the force of Seth’s jaws, before darting with a swiftness that wasn’t expected heading towards Alice before Thanos could move against him. And Alice is there, giving Seth cover to run into the crowd, Thanos giving her a dark look. 

“Watch out, man!” someone yells from above, and he looks up but makes the mistake. A snake-like alien strikes, a blow that shakes him to his bones and before he can use his momentum against the monster, he’s hauled across the battle field to land flat on his back in the mud, his left arm torn off and venom pouring from the wound. The pain is sharp and alive as he reorientates himself - it’s been decades since he lost anything more significant than a finger, and it always makes his head spin (he has no idea how Jasper managed to survive entire campaigns in the south, because he can’t even sit up). 

The alien is laughing at him, mocking him, as his broken arm is discarded in a pile of rubble (still twitching, ugh. No matter how many times he does loose fingers, toes, entire limbs, the twitching never stops being messed up). Thanos smirks but has already turned away from them, to venture deeper into the battlefield. 

Leave Alice and Seth alone. Fuck, Alice, keep Seth out of trouble, please. 

Two horrified superheroes that he doesn’t recognise are staring at him in complete horror, probably expecting him to bleed out - this should be a death sentence, and there’s no way to do triage in this mess. He’s seen a lot of bodies on their side drop in the mud with wounds that could be treated in any other circumstance, but here and now, they get to die in the mud because no one has the time or the supplies or the place to save them. The entire world outweighs saving one bleeding warrior. It’s unfair, but it’s how this has to happen. 

He’s oddly pissed off about the arm, honestly - it fucking hurts. He’d been less mad about the time that Peter took his right leg, honestly. This felt like a matter of honour. 

“Pay attention Emmett!” Alice says as she tears past - her jacket is long gone, and her arms are luminous white in the dull light - and offering no help; she’s clearly got a target in mind as she ducks and weaves out of sight. He scowls at her departing back as he scrambles back to his feet, eyes locked on the alien. 

“Nice move,” he says conversationally as he approaches the alien, who is beyond irritated he’s still moving. “Unluckily for you, this isn’t my first rodeo.”

(Jasper would be proud, he likes to think. Will be proud. More than sixty years of wrestling, play-fighting, and training, and he’s ready. This might not be the Southern Wars - down in Monterrey, they don’t go down as easy as these hydrostatic skeleton bug aliens - but Emmett was trained by the goddamn best.)

It takes three moves - punch, trip, stomp - to have the alien crushed at his feet, eyes dull and dead, and he has to stop himself from shredding the corpse  to burn out of habit. It’s an efficient kill, and then he’s moving quickly towards his discarded arm - ugh, still twitching. 

“Hey, you need to sit down, we’ll get you out of here.”

The man in front of him isn’t recognisable at first. Shaggy brown hair hangs in his face, and he’s swathed in Kevlar. It’s the arm, the once-silver left arm that allows Emmett to identity the man - Bucky Barnes. Cap’s best friend. The legendary marksman. 

“It looks worse than it is, Sergeant Barnes,” Emmett manages as he reaches out for his broken arm. “Just need it to reconnect fast.”

Sergeant Barnes isn’t expecting Emmett to be lucid, or for his arm to line up roughly in the joint; he covers Emmett’s back for the precious moments it takes for his body to recognise and reattach the join sending a shower of warmth and sparks down to his fingers. 

“Fuck, I hate that feeling,” Emmett mutters, flexing his fingers. 

//

Alice is with the Scarlet Witch, and that oddly makes him tense up in worry. But the Witch has Thanos trapped good, so he shouldn’t worry. Just keep taking out aliens, just keep everyone busy whilst smarter people deal with the goddamn glove. 

Alice looks positively hateful in that moment, glaring at Thanos as the Witch restrains him and maybe... maybe they've got him...

And then the Witch and Alice go flying as the world churns up in fire and smoke and Emmett needs to know his sister is okay.

[ghostzart]

Yknow. I’ve always thought that Thorin was suspiciously chill and not as annoyed as he could’ve been with Bilbo asking them to stop at the beginning bc he forgot something of comfort at home and wanted to go back for it. Like it’s such a trivial thing to the dwarves at this point why would they stop for something like that? And Thorin, guy who continuously gets frustrated and has anger management issues, doesn’t seem all that bothered by it? He’s just “yeah alright. Let’s keep going gang.” Doesn’t even suggest Bilbo goes home for good. Just. Yeah alright let’s keep moving!

[brokenheartwithheartbreak]

We did it folks, chapter two! Aka Theo being simply unable to shut tf up in his own head. Or be normal about literally anything. Liam is a saint y’all

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64414510/chapters/165636019

~~~~~

"Why ask for my help?" It occurs to him suddenly, a thread of suspicion lurching to life in his chest, just like it did when Liam asked for his help at the zoo, because sure Scott had seen fit to include him in the plans to fake their departure from Beacon Hills, had allowed Theo to tag along like a lost little stray when they made their way back to the clinic, but he had expected that to be it, to be told to lay low and stay out of trouble, to avoid raising suspicion for the rest of them, only for Liam to pick him out of the group to assist with the attempted distraction, to awkwardly claim Theo's truck is the only vehicle big enough for their fake supply haul. It was only after everything, after Nolan and Liam's broken knuckles and the fourth time knocking him out just before throwing him back into the truck that Theo had understood the why of it. The rest of them wouldn't have done what Theo did, would have tried to talk him down or reason with him or one of the other hippy, 'good guy' methods the pack are so damn determined to stick with even when they've got armed gunmen wanting their heads on stakes, but Liam knew Theo would cut straight to the chase and stop him from going too far, even if he didn't know it himself, and he hasn't really taken the time to reason out what that says about them, about him, at any point in the weeks since.

He's still not really sure he wants to dig into that can of worms, isn't sure either of them are prepared to deal with whatever that level of knowing entails.

~~~~~

[caterpillarinacave]

Maybe I will write something

[chronicallyill-nephilim]

THIS

This is everything to me

eddie calls buck when chris is asleep in his own bed. the one he carted 800 miles all the way from texas without even knowing if chris would ever want to sleep in it again. and he's just bubbling bursting with joy. and buck can see it the moment he accepts the call. and eddie tells him everything. all the way down to how much chris hates chess. and buck goes. oh thank god i've been trying to learn but i'm terrible at it eddie i don't understand a thing and i can never remember how the pieces move. and eddie blinks for a little while. you were learning chess? buck voice. well yeah i wanted to be able to play with him if i ever came to visit but i'm deleting that stupid app from my phone as we speak and i'm sure hen and chim are going to be so happy to be relieved of their teaching duties. and eddie is just silently falling a little more in love.

[barnesonly]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖༘⋆ Bambi ⊹₊ ⋆｡˚

dad!bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff and humour, established relationship (marriage), parenthood, girl dad bucky, the new avengers (post thunderbolts*), auntie yelena, alexei shenanigans… and bob is an ipad kid.

summary: yours and bucky’s toddler daughter visits avengers tower for the first time and immediately becomes everyone’s favorite. alexei is obsessed. yelena is chaotic aunt. bob is shy. bucky comes back from a mission and goes full soft dad mode. chaos and fluff ensue!!

word count: 2275

A/N: kinda inspired by this fic written by @buckysleftbicep (absolutely loved it) so everyone go check it out right now!! Posting fluff in celebration of reaching 1k followers!

The moment you step into Avengers Tower, your daughter’s tiny hand wrapped in yours and her beloved deer plush tucked under her arm, you brace yourself.

Not for an attack. Not for a mission.

But for them.

Yelena’s the first to spot you from across the lounge, sitting cross-legged on the couch with her boots on the coffee table, casually eating pickles out of the jar like it’s an Olympic sport. Her eyes light up instantly.

“You brought the gremlin,” she says, hopping over the back of the couch like it owes her money. “Finally.”

Your daughter perks up at the voice and lets go of your hand, wobble-running straight into Yelena’s legs. “Lena!”

Yelena scoops her up with practiced ease, already spinning her like a pizza. “You’re taller than last time. What are they feeding you, huh? Dinosaur nuggets? Uncrustables?”

You smile, brushing hair from your face. “Babysitter called in sick. Bucky’s off running recon with Ava and John. It was either bring her with me or let Alpine babysit.”

Yelena shrugs. “Cat would’ve done a decent job.”

But before you can respond, a voice bellows from across the room like thunder cracking through a storm.

“OH MY GOD.”

You freeze.

“THERE IS A CHILD.”

Alexei appears like a bear-sized ghost from around the corner, eyes wide, beard fluffed, hands halfway to the sky in pure dramatics.

“She is real! You made her!” he gasps, pointing between you and your daughter like he’s just discovered human biology. “You and Barnes! You spawned!”

Your daughter clutches tighter to Yelena’s neck, blinking slowly. “…Who’s that?”

“That’s Uncle Alexei, baby,” Yelena mutters, clearly second-guessing every life choice.

“Uncle?” Alexei gasps, one hand pressed to his heart. “She called me uncle? Did you hear that? She has taste.”

“She didn’t call you anything, actually,” you say dryly.

He ignores you, kneeling down like he’s approaching a skittish woodland creature. “Little one. What is your name?”

Your daughter snuggles further into Yelena’s shoulder, unsure.

Yelena whispers it to him.

Alexei lights up. “Beautiful. Like tiny ballerina-slash-assassin.”

Then he spots the plushie.

His jaw drops. “Is that… a deer?!”

She nods.

He gasps. “A baby deer,” he glances directly at you. “You brought Bambi to the Tower. Look at this! I will call her Bambi forever now. This is perfect.”

You groan. “Her name is not Bambi.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alexei says with utter seriousness. “Her superhero name is Bambi now.” He looks at the plush deer again, as if he needs confirmation. “This is Bambi. Your child… she is Bambi.”

“Why are you like this?”

The elevator dings softly behind you. Bob steps out, hugging a datapad to his chest, eyes flicking up—and stopping cold at the sight of a tiny human standing in the middle of the room surrounded by chaos.

He freezes like he just walked into the wrong universe.

“Oh,” he says, voice soft. “Oh. Um. Hi.”

Alexei scoops your daughter’s plush out of her hands (gently, somehow) and holds it up like a prize. “The deer has arrived.”

Your daughter lets out a tiny, distressed “Nooo!” and Yelena sighs, prying it back and handing it to her. She immediately clutches it to her chest, pouting.

Alexei melts. “She loves it. Look at the loyalty. I respect it. She will be a warrior.”

“She’s three,” you say.

“And already wiser than John,” Bob mutters, sliding onto the couch and giving your daughter a gentle wave. “Hi… I’m Bob.”

Bob offers a cautious smile from his corner of the couch, clearly doing mental math on how to interact with a three-year-old while holding a fragile datapad full of intel. “Is that your deer?” he asks gently.

Your daughter nods, eyes wide but curious.

“What’s your name?”

She hesitates, glances at you, then whispers, “Bambi.”

You sigh. Yelena smirks. Alexei fist-pumps like his soul just ascended.

“Haha! See?! Bambi!”

“She only said that because you pressured her!” you argue.

Alexei ignores you completely, now crouching beside Bob like they’re co-conspirators. “This changes everything. We must get her a cape.”

Bob blinks. “Wait, for the deer or…?”

“Yes.”

Before you can intervene, your daughter climbs out of Yelena’s lap and toddles unsteadily across the rug, her tiny socks making her slide a little on the hardwood. She waddles straight up to Bob and shyly offers him the plush deer for inspection.

Bob stares, caught completely off-guard. Slowly, reverently, he reaches out and pokes it once, like he’s been offered something sacred.

“She trusts you,” Yelena says with a smirk. “You’ve been chosen.”

Alexei claps him on the back. “Welcome to the Uncle Club.”

Bob pales. “I—I didn’t sign up for that—”

“Too late,” Yelena and Alexei say in unison.

You step in before your daughter hands over her entire soul to the team. “Alright, Bambi’s gotta go with me to the debriefing room for a bit. She’s quiet during meetings, I swear.”

“Wait, she’s sitting in?” Bob asks, blinking.

“She can’t stay here,” you whisper. “He’s already planning her costume reveal.” You point at Alexei as you roll your eyes.

Alexei winks. “Tiny leather jacket. I know a guy.”

You hoist your daughter up, her head instantly finding your shoulder, deer tucked between you. She’s calm now, observing the chaos like she’s already used to it—which, to be fair, she probably is.

Yelena holds the elevator door open for you. “Want me to come with?”

You smile gratefully. “Please.”

Bob waves. “Bye, Bambi.”

Alexei bows. “We will train in the art of war when you return.”

Your daughter yawns.

“Yeah,” Yelena mutters, smirking. “She’s terrified.”

As the elevator doors slide shut, you glance down at the sleepy toddler in your arms and murmur, “She kind of is ruling the tower right now.”

Yelena chuckles beside you, hands in her pockets. “Please. Alexei is probably already imagining her leading The New New Avengers.”

———

The common room is unusually quiet.

Which, considering who lives here, means there are only three simultaneous conversations instead of seven, and no one’s actively throwing knives at the wall.

You’re curled up on the far couch with a warm mug of coffee tucked in your hands, your legs folded under you, eyes tracking the scene in front of you with the kind of resigned affection that only comes from parenting amidst chaos.

Your daughter is sitting cross-legged on the rug, her beloved deer plush nestled in her lap, while Bob sits beside her like he’s attending a high-stakes diplomatic summit. His tablet is open, and he’s very seriously showing her a game where she gets to decorate cupcakes.

“Okay,” Bob says, voice calm and precise, “this one has rainbow sprinkles. That means it’s the most powerful one.”

Your daughter giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one’s Bucky’s!”

Bob raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Excellent choice. Very dangerous cupcake.”

Across the room, Alexei is sitting backward in an armchair—knees up, arms draped over the backrest like a golden retriever in a human body—just watching the entire interaction with rapt fascination.

“Look at her. Tactical decisions. Cupcake strategy. She is genius,” he murmurs, eyes wide. “You see this? She will rule us all.”

“Alexei, she decorates cupcakes,” you say tiredly.

“Exactly!” he says, like you’ve proved his point. “That is unpredictable. That is art.”

Bob glances up, sheepish but undeniably soft. “She’s really good at this. Like… scary good. She beat my high score.”

“She’s three,” you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time today.

“Exactly,” Bob echoes, completely serious.

Your daughter turns and beams at you, holding the tablet up in victory. “I made a cat cupcake!”

“You’re a creative genius, sweetheart,” you say with a smile, setting your mug down. “Now let Bob breathe before he has a full-blown cupcake identity crisis.”

“She beat me twice,” Bob mutters, looking at the screen with quiet betrayal.

Alexei grins. “You have been defeated. Welcome to the Bambi Era.”

That makes your daughter puff up with pride, hugging her deer closer. “I’m Bambi.”

You blink at her.

“Okay, okay. You’re Bambi.” you murmur, already accepting defeat.

Alexei makes a dramatic gasp and holds his hand to his heart. “The prophecy is fulfilled.”

And that’s when the elevator dings. The doors slide open with a mechanical hum, and your husband, Bucky steps out—followed closely by Ava, already pulling off her gloves, and John, still mid-complaint about something Ava definitely tuned out five floors ago.

All three look a little winded, mission dust still clinging to them, that sharp post-field energy still buzzing in their shoulders.

Bucky’s the first to clock you.

Then—his eyes land on the small deer-plush-carrying toddler sitting in the middle of the Avengers’ common room rug like she owns the place.

He stops cold.

“What is she doing here?” he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating from exhaustion.

Your daughter hears his voice—and immediately bolts to her feet, deer plush bouncing from her arms as she runs.

“Daddy!”

And just like that—everything about Bucky shifts.

The steel in his posture melts in real time. That hard edge in his jaw softens. His arms open like it’s instinct, like they were made just for this exact moment.

He drops his bag without looking. Drops everything.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he breathes, catching her in a sweeping hug and lifting her off the ground like she weighs nothing. “Hi, my girl. Did you miss me?”

She nods furiously, burying her face in his neck. “You were so gone.”

Bucky presses a kiss to her hair, eyes fluttering shut for a second, like the entire day fades away the second she touches him. “I’m here now, baby. I’m here.”

There’s a stunned silence behind him.

John looks like someone just hit him with a frying pan. Ava raises an eyebrow and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “holy shit.”

Yelena grins, arms crossed. “Aww. The Winter Soldier has emotions. Someone write that down.”

Alexei is squinting, hand raised like he’s observing wildlife through binoculars.

“She called him Daddy and he went from Terminator to teddy bear in 0.2 seconds,” Bob whispers, genuinely fascinated.

You’re already walking over, arms crossed and smile threatening the edges of your mouth. “Glad to see she’s got you wrapped around her finger, too.”

“She owns me,” Bucky says simply, pressing one more kiss to her cheek. “You should know that by now.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, the rest of the team just found out.”

Bucky turns slightly, finally looking over at the stunned group of adult superheroes who just watched him transform into Dad of the Year.

“She get into any trouble while I was gone?”

“She beat me at tablet games and claimed her superhero name is Bambi,” Bob says numbly.

“She made Alexei cry,” Yelena adds.

“I did not cry,” Alexei huffs, wiping suspicious moisture from his eye. “I was emotionally impacted.”

Your daughter leans back in Bucky’s arms and holds up her deer plush proudly.

“Did you bring me a snack?”

“Your priorities are incredible,” Bucky mutters fondly, already walking toward the kitchen with her still on his hip. “Let’s go find you something good, huh, Bambi?”

She gasps. “You called me Bambi!”

You sigh.

———

Later that evening, the common room has finally quieted. Most of the team has dispersed, save for the ones still floating nearby with post-mission snacks or paperwork. The lights are dimmed, your coffee’s been reheated twice, and you’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, finally off your feet.

Across the room, Bucky is sitting on the couch with your daughter perched on his lap, her deer plush tucked snugly under one arm, the other animatedly waving in the air as she recounts—in painstaking detail—every single moment of her day.

“And then Lena spun me so fast, and Uncle Lexi said I was a ballerina, and Bob showed me a cupcake game but I BEAT HIM, and there were pickles but I didn’t want any ’cause they smell bad—Daddy, are you listening?”

Bucky, absolutely smitten, nods with exaggerated seriousness. “Of course I’m listening, Bambi. Pickles smell bad. Got it.”

She nods proudly. “And the couch is really squishy but not as squishy as ours. But this place has better snacks. And Lena let me jump on the beanbag on purpose. Can I come here always? Please?”

Bucky leans in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll talk to Mama about it. Maybe not always. But often? I think we can arrange that.”

She beams. “Okay. Also I drew a picture of Bob. He looks like a jellybean.”

You stifle a laugh into your mug.

Yelena slides into the chair beside yours with a quiet flop, arms crossed and an amused glint in her eye as she watches your daughter still rattling off to Bucky like it’s a press conference.

“She is so her father’s daughter,” Yelena says.

You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Yup.”

“Talks like him. Bossy like him. Stubborn as hell.”

You raise your mug. “And weirdly good at knives for a toddler. We’re doomed.”

Yelena snorts. “And you love it.”

You look over at Bucky again—his eyes soft, his fingers gently braiding a bit of your daughter’s hair as she chatters on about Alexei’s beard and how “Lena said I could have a jet one day.”

Your chest swells with something warm and weightless. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I really, really do.”

tags: @iamthatonefangirl (dm or comment If you wanna be added to my tag list)

[queers-gambit]

Curiosity Killed The Cat

prompt: after rescuing you from kidnappers, you overhear your boyfriend-turned-savior complain about how clingy you've become.

pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Marvel

collection masterlist: Clingy Baby

word count: 5.1k+

note: author wants things out of her drafts! also don't take this fic too seriously, it's not much at all - just me writing for the fuck of it until i'm ready to focus on my bigger projects.

warnings: modern AU, Mafia AU, obvious cursing, small hurt and comfort, brief depiction of physical violence and self-destruction in the form of: loss of appetite, lack of sleep, other symptoms of depression. NOT edited! author is ashamed because she knows she can give you something better but oh well.

Your feet planted, jarring you to a halt the moment you heard your name in a conversation you were not apart of.

You heard the hammering of your heart, echoing beats of your blood pumping with harrowing desperation. Hands turned cold and clammy, sweat breaking out on your brow and then freezing, feeling as if your throat had swollen to a new restriction and you were anchored in you in place.

Rooted.

But for now, all you could identify was the paralyzing anxiety that anchored you to your spot and made your heartbeat thunder in your ears. You stood outside the lounge, unable to comprehend relevant thought; still listening to low, docile tones continue their conversation, but you couldn't hear real words.

You were stunned. Panicked, confused, hurt - so very hurt. That seemed to register, too; you were really, really hurt.

This was perhaps why curiosity killed the cat.

You reprimanded yourself for listening in - transporting back to childhood during all the times your parents would scold you for eavesdropping. You knew it was wrong, you knew this was a private conversation meant to be shared between trusting confidants, but you couldn't help it - you heard your name and stopped. It was natural, right? To feel curious regarding a conversation seemingly about you that you, yourself, was not apart of?

Curiosity, indeed.

Blinking rapidly, you remembered the only other time you felt such mounting, pressurized fear, and while it might be dramatic, the only other time you could remember this level of anxiety was from about two months ago...

"Yes, baby, I got the bacon."

"And the jalapeños?"

"Uh-huh, the biggest they had."

"Cream cheese?"

"Do you know who you're talking to?" You laughed into the phone. "I'm a professional housewife by now, you can relax. I got all you needed for your fancy little dinner experiment."

Bucky laughed down the phone, "Oh, please, like I didn't see you salivating when we watched the segment on Top Chef."

"Hush," you laughed, too. "I'm leaving the store now," you told him, pushing out of the heavy glass doors, "and should be home in, like, 10 minutes?"

"Lemme pick you up."

"I have legs to walk with, so, no thank you."

He sighed, "Well, I'll open the wine to let it breathe. Red's still good?"

"Let's do a white tonight, please."

"Good deal," he mused softly. "Hey, I was thinking earlier - "

"Hang on," you pleaded.

"What's wrong?"

"No, nothing. There's just a van slowing down, I don't want to get hit," you chuckled some, looking up and down the street before crossing. "Sorry, so, what were you thinking?"

"We haven't been to Paris in months."

You smirked, "I'm sure our plants in the apartment are dead by now."

Bucky laughed, "Oh, I am, too. But, look, how 'bout it, Peach? You, me, all the croissants we can consume this weekend. I'll take Monday and Tuesday off, we can leave tomorrow night."

"Oh, that sounds nice," you moaned. "Paris in the spring? Baby, that's so dreamy!"

"So, is that a yes?"

"It's a hell yes," you grinned. "Do you know the weather?"

"Supposed to be nice and sunny, not too warm or cold. Figured this would be ideal," he chuckled. "But does the weather matter if we're in bed the whole time?"

"No, we're not wasting our time!" You laughed. "We're gonna go do shit, okay? Stereotypical tourist-couple shit."

"I'll bring the camera."

"And I was hoping we could have dinner at that little place we love?"

"I wouldn't take you anywhere else," he mused.

"I think it's - FUCK!" Bucky froze when he heard the screeching of tires; a van coming up to a skidding halt, flurry of voices all yelling but he heard yours clearly. "No, no, no, hey, hey, what the hell's happening? Hey! What's this - hey, hey! Don't touch me! Ow, shit! No! Hey! Fuck's sake - oh, my God! Ow! Hey!"

"Baby!? Peach! Hey! The fuck's going on!?"

There was a thudding over the phone, and Bucky listened to more struggling - more fidgeting and fighting - and then the slamming of a car door. Still calling your name, Bucky heard a scrape over the line before a different voice answered your phone, "James Barnes. On behalf of HYDRA, you're overdue on your payment and we warned you there would be consequences. Deliver the full amount of 17 million - "

"It's 15," he growled.

"Two million more for the inconvenience of stalking your woman."

"If you even so much as touch her, I swear to God - "

"17 million at midnight, at the pier, or every minute you're late, she'll receive the brunt end of our frustration."

"Don't hurt her - "

"Midnight, Mr. Barnes, at the pier - you know where. Don't be late, she looks like she won't last long."

The line went dead after he heard your screech of pain, confusion, and fear. The moment the line cut, he dropped his phone and slowly lowered himself to sit on the kitchen floor, shock coloring his system. It wasn't that he didn't have the money, quite the opposite - but he and his men had a plan in motion to take out HYDRA, their org's competition, and this was totally against all they anticipated. After a minute to sit in his own worry, Bucky jumped to his feet, grabbed his phone, keys, wallet, and two handguns; holstering them both before shrugging his suit jacket on.

He made every phone call he could, gathering the men he trusted most to (one of) his warehouse(s).

For hours, you were strung up by your wrists in a joint-pulling position while the Brooklyn Mafia formulated a plan of attack. It was the most pain you've ever known, but then the abuse started and you were blinded by this new pain. You had bruises most places, cuts that wept blood; scars that would never heal, wounds that wouldn't ever close. You were delirious, miserable, confused, just dazed and confused; praying to a God who didn't listen.

"Oh, look at that," your captor mocked, holding a thick-bladed hunting knife in hand, "it's one minute til midnight, and I don't see your loverboy anywhere."

You sniffled, unable to respond.

He stared out the lone window, tisking and narrating, "Nope, I see not a soul - and with how protective he is over you, you'd think he'd want to ensure your safety. Not leave it to chance, huh?"

You whimpered as the clock struck midnight, your heart hammering in heavy-hung worry. You had tears in your eyes, heart nearly beating out of your chest, feeling incredibly nauseous. The desire to scream never lessened, just fearing what was to come; the men in the room making you fear for the state of your life, their knuckles cracking. You only begged, "Please. Don't."

The main captor laughed, "You can do better than that! C'mon, give me the satisfaction of tellin' ol' James you begged for mercy - but it wasn't enough to sway me. I'll lie, for sure, and say it happened but it will be so much sweeter if you actually do it."

"Please," you shook your head, avoiding eye contact. "Just don't do this, please."

"Oh, honey," he mocked, "it's not our fault he's late. Lads! Have at her, but leave her face for now - she's still real pretty."

You listened as he gave commands in Russian, understanding after the years at Bucky's side; whimpering when the first blow landed to your gut and knocked the wind out of you. The minutes drug by and you felt your resolve crumbling, heart still hammering to a never-before-felt speed that made it feel as if it were jumping out of your very body at every single pulse point. You struggled in your restraints, but it was futile by how tight you were bound; unable to protect yourself.

At 12:03 am, the doors blew open in a resounding blast; concrete crumbling and sprinkling the floor. You cried out as the smoke choked you, coughing through the haze; only barely able to make out certain figures to know Bucky had brought his best men. However, despite the sting to your eyes from the swirling dust and smoke, you saw a lone man stalk through the blasted wall, through the fray, and straight up to you.

"Bu-Bucky!" You choked in relief as he reached to untie your feet first. You dangled for only a moment as his metal prosthetic ripped off whatever held your wrists to the torture contraption. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God, Bucky, holy shit, baby, please, please, please," you rambled as he freed you and instantly caught you on his broad shoulders.

"I got you, Peach, I'm here, I've got you," he promised in your ear, hoisting your legs around his waist so they latched and then wrapping his arms around you securely. "Don't let go and don't look up, okay? Hear me, Peach?"

You nodded into his neck, only able to cry.

Bucky jolted and jerked slightly as he moved through the fight again, but not a minute later, you were stepping outside into the sobering, brisk spring air. This was the moment you understood how dangerous and fleeting life with Bucky could be, making a promise to yourself that if he says take the car, you'll take the fucking car.

And now, here you were, outside the high-rise apartment's lounge (which was just a converted bedroom), listening to your boyfriend complain about you some 2 months after the whole fiasco. HYDRA had been all but wiped out, and in the weeks since, Bucky's men had gone on smaller missions to eradicate the HYDRA members they heard rumor of being local. Yet you didn't feel safe, yet.

You didn't feel safe if you weren't around Bucky.

Everything made you jump: the beep of the done-dryer, that spritz of the automatic fragrance mister in the bathroom, the "duh-dunnn" of a loaded-up Netflix. Keys jingling, car horns, the barking of the dog in the apartment a floor below you... Everything.

Being around Bucky was just like holding a safety blanket. He would always protect you, and for about a week after your rescue, he laid in bed and around the home with you; being lazy; time off work to simply hold you and assure you were safe. Safe in his arms. Safe in his embrace, his presence.

So now... To hear this... You were devastated.

You didn't mean to eavesdrop, it just sort of happened. It was still earlier in the morning, but Bucky hadn't been in bed beside you and based on the feel of the sheets, his body hadn't been there in a while. So, you made some coffee and then ventured around the home in search of your lover; coming upon the lounge and hearing voices from within.

You knew it was common for Steve Rogers and / or Sam Wilson to stay late or visit early, so, you weren't shocked by that, but did falter in announcing yourself when you heard Sam ask how you were doing since the kidnapping. He used your name specifically, making Bucky sigh, and for your curiosity to peak.

"She's different, man."

"How so?" Sam wondered.

"She doesn't like being without me now," he chuckled without humor. "I'm serious, she won't go to the gym until I do, waits to have meals together, won't leave the house if I'm out, and," he scoffed to himself, "you can forget going to the grocery store or anything - she's even stopped going to work - "

"You told her to stop working, like, two years ago when y'all first moved-in together," Sam deadpanned.

"I know," Bucky shrugged, "but it feels tenfold now that she's so reclusive."

"It's normal," Steve sighed gently.

"Yeah? Is it normal that I can't even go take a shit without promising her I'll be right back?" Bucky snapped in exasperation. "It's that bad, she's that fucking clingy, man. I go in the kitchen to make dinner, she's in there 30 seconds later to 'help' me. I take a shower, she finds a reason to linger in the bedroom, but that was better than before, when she wouldn't even shower by herself. It's just a lot, she's everywhere I look. I'm starting to find new reasons not to come home, man, she's always fucking here - and when I walk in the door, she's on me. I need to fucking breathe, but I can't tell her to stop, she'll get her feelings hurt and then I'm the bad guy."

"Man," Steve laughed, "you can't be the bad guy if you go to her in a calm and collected manner, but it's only been two months. She's still recovering."

"Exactly why if I say anything, no matter how calm and collected, I'm the bad guy. I get she's hurting and tryna recover, but Goddamn, does she have to be in every room I'm in? Do everything with me? How do I tell my traumatized girlfriend to back off? Let me breathe?"

Sam laughed, "You don't! You just said it - she's traumatized! Cut the girl some slack, she's got a lot to fuckin' deal with!"

"I'm not negating from that fact," Bucky argued, "I'm just trying to say, the way she's clinging onto me like she can't function without me is just grating at my nerves. I just need to breathe and recharge, but I can't tell her that - fuck's sake."

"Buck," Steve smirked, "you're worried Peach isn't gonna listen, but that's her literal superpower. Just communicate, she can't read your mind, but you need to remember how traumatic all of that was for her to experience - she's scarred from that kidnapping, man. So, sure, you need to recharge, but she needs the support."

"Is it wrong to ask for a day here and there to do that? To recharge?" Bucky asked quietly.

"If you communicate, it's perfectly reasonable to ask for," Sam assured softly. "And whatever you do, don't tell her you think she's clingy. Chicks hate that, that word is, just, like, taboo or something. Real heavy, negative connotations."

"But she is," Bucky growled quietly, "'s like she's afraid to let go 'cause I'll disappear or something."

"Oh, noooo," Sam mocked, "I'm Bucky and my girlfriend loves me too much and trusts me too much and actually feels safe and dependent on me too much - ohhh noooo!"

There was a thump, Sam's cried, "Ow!", and Bucky telling him to shut up. You slowly backed away from the door, trying to settle your breathing as you made your escape down the hall. When back in the kitchen, you whimpered and let the first tears fall... The first of many you shed in the hour it took you to prepare breakfast for everyone; doing your best to eat as you cooked so you didn't have to linger around the men. You took Bucky's words to heart, and maybe you were too sensitive, maybe you should venture outside again.

So, when the lads came out, you set the table without making eye contact with any of them. "Here," you directed, setting the pancakes down, "I made breakfast, come eat, it's still hot."

"Wow," Sam smiled brightly, "thanks, Peach!"

You hummed, still avoiding their eyes as you just set the abundance of food to the table. "You... Cooked without me?" Bucky asked you with skepticism.

"Mhm," you hummed, setting the coffee pot down to a hot pad, "and I'm going out shopping with Nat, so, eat up, lads, I'll do the dishes when I get home. Love you, boys, bye," you waved them off, snatching your keys and then moving to the door to stuff your feet into your sneakers.

"Woah, woah, woah," Bucky left the table, approaching you urgently, "hey, what do you mean? You're goin' out?"

"Yep, figured I've stayed in too long, might as well get out and remember life doesn't stop just 'cause I'm sad."

"Peach - "

"I'll see you when I get home, Buck, okay?" You mumbled, slinging your purse on your shoulder.

"Well, here, here, hey, wait, hang on," he pulled his wallet out, handing you over a wad of big bills. "Spend it all, okay? Have fun, call or text if you need me, yeah?"

"Sure."

Bucky leaned in to kiss you but you just opened the door, ready to leave. He frowned, watching you, barely managing to call a quick, "Love you!"

You didn't return the sentiment, feeling hallow and all too silly to return the affection. In your purse was your laptop, headphones, chargers, and whatever else, so, instead of meeting your friend, Natasha - being just a ruse to avoid Bucky - you started small and just went to the local café. You used to frequent it back in the day, but times were changed, and yet, they were all the happier to serve you the same as before. Getting cozy in the corner, you set up camp and ordered your favorite coffee basically every other hour - letting the day waste away as you caught up on work emails.

Might've wasted time on Instagram and Facebook and Pinterest. Got shopping done on Amazon. Browsed through Target's online selection. Checked out the sale items at Kate Spade. Perused Fenty Lingerie because you could.

Before you knew it, a message was coming in over your MacBook from Bucky, asking where you were - why had you turned your location off?

You packed up and with a to-go cup, made the short trek back home. When you got back, Bucky was pacing in the living room; staring at his phone and typing, then deleting, retyping, groaning, glancing up, typing again, then doing a double take. "Where've you been, Peach? Huh!?" Bucky demanded. "You're late!"

"Out with Nat," you eased.

He huffed through his nose, nodding slowly, "You have a nice time?"

"It was okay," you answered. "I'm gonna go to bed after I shower."

His brows furrowed, "I have a meeting tonight."

"I know."

"O...kay?" He let you go, wanting to ask why you didn't ask him to join like you had so often in the past few weeks.

And it didn't stop there, in fact, it got worse. When Bucky got home from his meeting, he was actually shocked to see you nestled in the bed; teetering on the edge of the shared space while snuggling a weighted body pillow.

When he tried to give you a snuggle, you stirred to life and pushed him back, muttering, "Too hot."

The following morning, he was relatively surprised to see you up and about before him; barely getting a word in before you were slipping out the door to go on a morning jog. He was confused by how all of a sudden, where you were once everywhere he looked, now, you were disappeared and distant and gone. You worked out alone, cooked alone - but always left him a plate, but long gone were the cute little sticky notes you left for him. You once haunted the apartment by never wanting to leave, and now, ghosted in and out of it on a daily basis.

You never bothered to go far from home. You liked hanging at the coffee shop and luckily, your job let you work from home most days, and the rare time you were due back in the office, it was only about a 20 minute walk. You got better at lying, couldn't even remember the last time you and Bucky had sex, and even now, the last time you had a meal together. You didn't text him about your day; where you once might've told him about an adorable dog you saw on the street, now, you only ever texted him if he asked a direct question.

Food lost appeal, your appetite vanished.

Sleep evaded you, plaguing you with nightmares when you did rest.

Interest dulled, passions were snuffed, and only fearful, confused anger remained. It showed in the way weight seemed to shift around your body, thinning; the lack of sleep creating dark rings and bags under your bloodshot eyes.

After two weeks of this, Bucky grew irritated and short with everyone around him. It reflected in his work, the way he spoke to everyone; even Steve and Sam getting the brunt end of his anger. Without you to assure him, Bucky was off his rocker; losing his cool; his patience stretched far too thin. So much so, the two mates approached an outside associate, Natasha Romanoff, after a particularly snappy meeting to plead for her to talk to Bucky.

"James," Nat greeted as she strode into his office without knocking.

"I know you're my oldest friend, but you don't have that privilege yet," he mused, never looking up.

"What?"

"Not knocking. What is it, Nat?"

"Just came to check on you, you know, like friends do."

"Hm," he chuckled without humor, "and what did Peach say to you?"

"About...?"

"Me."

"Nothing, I haven't gotten ahold of her for weeks."

Bucky paused, slowly lifting his head in confusion; brows furrowed and mouth set in a firm, straight line. "What?" He grit.

"Huh?" Nat wondered.

"She's been telling me that she's hanging out with you for the past two weeks," he revealed.

"Nope, not since the incident with HYDRA."

Bucky's (right) flesh hand crushed the pen in his grip, taking a long breath. "All right," he sighed, "so, why come today?"

"What's really going on, Buck?" She worried softly. "Is it really whatever's going on with Peach? You're this pissed off? What'd she even do?"

"She just..." He cut himself off with a long sigh. "It's nothing."

"Bucky," Nat gave a pointed look.

"She's just avoiding me," he muttered. "It's like she's barely home, almost like a ghost."

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes, and no," Bucky snipped, rolling his neck out. "I'm just worried about her now, she's never not communicated before."

"Something's bothering her," Nat shrugged. "She probably needs you right now, Buck."

"I can't do it all," he whispered. "I can't be who she wants and run this organization at the same time."

"She doesn't need that, she just needs you to be her partner," Natasha spoke softly. "She needs to feel loved and supported, and surely, she maybe felt weird about whatever you were projecting. Instead of taking it out on your men," she smirked, "why don't you just talk to her? 'Cause I hear you're bein' a more-than-usual asshole lately. You need to ease up or get laid, 'cause you're taking it out on good, loyal men, and that's entirely unfair."

"They can take it."

"Sure, but they shouldn't have to," Nat rolled her eyes. "Look, since you won't answer me, I'm assuming the sour mood is in regard to whatever relationship issues you have right now?"

"Sure," he tossed the pen away, opened a skinny drawer to his right and select an identical one.

"Bucky," she growled.

He sighed, "She's lying to me, Nat. Saying she's with you when she's not... Is this an affair? She's gone all the time now."

"No way," Nat laughed. "Baby girl doesn't have the energy to entertain anyone - let alone two men. You're just the exception."

"Why lie, then?"

"Maybe she didn't want you questioning her..."

"No shit."

"Well, did you get into a fight?"

"No."

"Any reason she doesn't want to be home?"

He shook his head with a sigh, "Not that I know of."

"You had to do something."

"Honest, I haven't. She was being all clingy, but then one day, a switch flipped."

Nat frowned, "You think... Your girlfriend is being clingy... Because she was kidnapped and beaten up... Because of your fucking job... And is probably scared...out of...her mind...? I get that correct?"

Bucky paused for a long moment, muttering, "Oh, my God."

"Yeah, you asshole. Think of it that way! She's afraid!" Natasha snapped. "And probably picked up on your energy, so, she made herself scarce."

"I didn't mean - "

"I don't care, go home, apologize to that sweet angel - she doesn't deserve this."

Bucky paused, "What is 'this' exactly?"

"James. Focus on the present - your woman. Go make this right. We all know you're this big, bad dude - but it's okay to be a little sensitive towards the woman who loves you without condition!"

Bucky relented, figuring the redheaded Russian mobster was right.

The entire drive home, Bucky considered the ways you had changed in the few, short weeks since he vented to Sam and Steve about your clinginess. You didn't take meals with him, didn't cook, work-out, or do anything you used to do together. Sex? Forget it. Dates? Nope. Cuddling? No, you're always 'too hot'. And when he thought about it, he remembers seeing the wads of cash he'd leave for you stuffed in his sock drawer - surely trying to make him think it was just another emergency fund he had hidden. You never spent his money, feeling humiliated by his choice of words.

Clingy...

You didn't text or call him when he was gone, you hadn't even so much as kissed him in what felt like ages... Well, more like you hadn't initiated any kisses...

His heart weighed in his chest as he realized he hadn't even so much as hugged you in days. You were rarely in the apartment together, and when you were, you were just silent and busy with chores. It was as if you operated on the exact opposite schedule as he did, went to new extents to avoid him, and his heart clenched in his chest.

When he got home, you were caught cooking in the kitchen - being obvious that you weren't expecting him. The door slammed and his baritone voice snapped, "Peach!"

You gulped, holding the sauce-covered wooden spoon to your chest. When he rounded around the corner, he found you and slowed down, sighing in relief. "What's wrong?" You worried in a timid tone.

He panted lightly, relaying, "Needed to find you."

"I'm here."

"I know," he relented, charging up to you and engulfing you in a tight, heavy hug. "I needed to talk to you, Peach," he whispered.

"What's wrong?"

"You. You're what's wrong."

"What the fuck does that - "

"No, no," he pulled back to stare down at you fondly, "I don't mean it like that, just that... You're struggling. I can see that. But you're not alone, I'm here with you, and I got a little caught up in my head when I realized someone was so very dependent on me - it fucking scared me. But then... Then you just shut yourself off and hid away from me, and oh, my God, it's so much worse, baby. Don't do that," he breathed, "okay? Don't ever shut me out - don't stop loving me, don't stop talking to me, don't give up on us. I can't read your mind, you can't read mine, it's not an excuse - but we understand better when we trust each other enough to communicate what's required. I'm so sorry I got caught up in myself, I didn't know what you needed - but I'm here now, I'm here - I'm not leaving you."

You collapsed into his chest, taking a shuddering breath.

"Don't ever stop talking to me, Peach," Bucky whispered, kissing the top of your head; keeping you close. "I'm so sorry, baby, if I - "

"If?" You snapped, pulling back to glare at him through your tears. "I heard you, Bucky. I heard you talking to Sam and Steve, and about how clingy I am."

"I was wrong," he insisted. "I was overwhelmed and tired and just stretched thin, the easiest thing to do is attack those closest to me, and that's you. It's not right, it's the worst I could do to you after all you've been through, and I'm so sorry. I was wrong, you're not the person to take this out on - and I'm so sorry, Peach."

You sighed, "I don't mean to be... I don't mean to cling - "

"Nah," he chuckled, caressing your cheek, "you cling as much as you want. Cling as tight as you want, baby, don't let me go. I'm sorry for what I said and the way it made you feel, it was wrong - so fucking wrong of me, and I see that. When you pulled away from me, I just... I couldn't think. It felt so wrong, and I knew it was my fault." He took your face in both palms, promising, "I'm so sorry, Peach."

You shrugged meekly, "It's okay."

"It's not."

"No, but apologizing is a step in the right direction."

He nodded, "What else can I do?"

"Nothing - "

"Peach."

You paused to think, smiling shyly, "Movie night?"

"Whatever my pretty girl wants," he nodded.

"Hmm... Get a bath with me?"

"All right... Sure, okay..."

"And face masks."

He sighed, "Okay."

"And mani-pedis."

"Baby."

"You said you were making it up to me, right?"

He smirked, "That's right... All right, yeah, sure, fine, we can..." He sighed again, "We can do all that, Peach, whatever you want."

"I just want you," you told him softly. "I didn't mean to be so clingy. I was just afraid... I felt afraid everyday, just so very unsure in this life. You're the only thing that makes sense to me, Buck, and when I heard you, I just... I guess I realized how dependent I'd been and wanted to give you space. Last thing I want is to smother you, to drive you away from me."

"Not ever gonna happen," he promised softly. "I just didn't handle it like I should've. I'm sorry, Peach, but I'm here now - for whatever you need. Want me to take a few days off, just be together? I'll arrange it. Want to get away for a bit? We can go."

"I just need you," you whispered. "Only you and I should be okay - I can be okay if I have you, but feeling like I lost you? Even a fraction? Buck... James, it was such a harrowing feeling, I wasn't sure what to do to move forward. So, I think I just panicked, shut down; thought if I could just get back to normal, you'd love me again..."

"I never stopped loving you," he swore, "I just had a bad lapse in my own judgement. Nothing against you, baby. Nothing."

You nodded again, letting him tuck you into his chest; perfectly snug under his chin as he coiled his arms around you. He let out a long sigh, his guilt swelling to new heights, but for that present moment, everything seemed okay.

Felt okay.

Appeared okay.

And you'd both do whatever it took to remain as okay as you possibly could.

requesting rules and masterlist

Marvel masterlist

Clingy Baby collection masterlist

[sheep-from-rad]

Idea! Neglected bar singer darling.

The joint they sing in is on the very outskirts of Gotham. The bars in the basement of a restaurant.

Its pretty clear darling is saving up money to slowly inch away from Gotham and from there neglectful and sometimes (often) cold family.

So they dress as a Him/femme/them fatale and saunter up to the stage and sing there lil heart out and get both the thrill of all the attention in a room being on them and the money in there tip jar to boot.

Imagine what happens when a clip of darling singing goes fucking viral. (I'd like to think it's would be "be your baby tonight" give it a listen if you want. I like norah jones' cover)

What I'm saying is there is no way any of the batfam would approve of darlings career choice.

I love this kind of asks!~ Requests are now open again but we warned, I'm a snail paced writer T__T This took a while because I have this habit where I write it down first on paper before typing it. Like I make a draft first and reread before typing it to see if I should add more or remove some. First fic about singer reader: here and part 2 here. 😅

**DC characters belong to DC and I don't give permission to feed my writings to AI. Thank you**

Masterlist(Batfam)

Masterlist (All of my other fics)

divider by: @k1ssyoursister

Okay okay, here me out. I know you said secret bar under a restaurant but my brain read the word ‘bar’ and ran away with it 😭. 

You know what this smells like? Scandal and maybe even a disaster waiting to happen too. You know what's a famous bar in Gotham? The Iceberg lounge that is run by Mr. Cobblepot (Penguin) and  is frequented by rogues  such as Riddler. 

Life in the Iceberg Lounge isn't that bad, maybe intimidating at first but it became a small comfort. Mr. Cobblepot lets you keep the tips, the lounge beauties (Raven, Lark, and Jay) are great companies, and workplace harassment? You don't really have to worry about that. If you ever get flirted on or harassed by small fries and drunkards and then rest assured a bigger, scarier person at the back of the crowd will beat the harasser and throw them out. They might be villains but they have standards and harassing the lounge’s songbird is a big no no! 

The clip of the singer reader went viral for a ton of different reasons: (1) The singing and the amount of simps you raked 24 hours after the clip has been posted. I have a headcanon that Mr. Cobblepot will nickname you as either Nightingale or Songbird to fit the crew because the lounge beauties are nicknamed after birds.(2) People can see villains just chilling at the background of the video. Riddler's nursing a whiskey at the counter, Two face is playing chess with Penguin who is multitasking in helping mix some drinks. Hell, even Harley and Ivy are in the background having a moment with the strippers.

(3) Why is Bruce Wayne’s kid at the Iceberg lounge? I have a teeny tiny headcanon that even though the reader was neglected they are still forced to attend galas once or twice because Bruce won't and then it will be like a big media scandal. Also reader's public appearances with Bruce or with the other Wayne children might be low but they still have hundreds of followers. The Wayne name alone is basically a celebrity name because of Bruce being heavily revered by the public. Think of it like nepobaby shit. (4) That stage presence and sheer seductiveness. Being a Wayne, I'm sure the reader was taught etiquette by Alfred and was taught how to dress properly. They are also taught how to behave. However on that vid, you look like you were dressed by the Gotham sirens (Ivy, Harley, and Selena) themselves. All those good boy, good girl, good child stuff are out of the window. If the reader was just blending in the background before and the video is the opposite. It's almost commanding every viewer to look at them, pay attention to them, worship the very ground they walk on, and love them! At this point just expect simps. 

The family loves the video but at the same time they also hate it. They had their copies downloaded and saved and then they'll immediately task Barbara into scrubbing the video off of the internet but it's too late. The video has been re-uploaded to hundreds of different accounts and some  news outlets had already published articles about it. The articles ranged from sweet ones like praising the reader for their awesome stage performance and singing to downright insane clickbaits like ‘Bruce Wayne secretly allied with Gotham rogues?’ 

The whole thing is very stressful and I pray to the DC gods that Bruce Wayne is very healthy because this guy's blood pressure might as well go high up. Imagine trying so hard to keep up with the ditzy playboy public persona to hide your vigilante secret identity only for your kid to be filmed singing and being cozy at the Iceberg lounge. Not only that! You also placed yourself in danger too! It's not a secret that a lot of rouges knew Batman's real identity (Joker knows it, he just doesn't care. He's so cool for that). Sure they don't attack Batman when he's Bruce and sure they are a sweet pseudo-family to you right now but who's to say that they won't use you when push comes to shove? 

While Bruce deals with the media, Barbara and Tim work on the damage control and tracking every video, expect heavy guilt tripping and interference from Damian, Dick, and even Alfred (in his defense, he wants you safe and will only ask for you to get a better job or at least work in a place not frequented by villains). Dick will be actively poisoning the well. He'll make you sit down and read the crime archives with him (starting from the heaviest crime down to the pettiest crime) and will tell you stories about their encounters with each of them. Damian will try to keep you from getting to work and will try to keep you in your room if you haven't moved out of the estate. He'll ask you to go around with him, feed his pets with him and even asked you to watch him train (he doesn't know how bonding works, please be understanding). If you had left the estate and then expect him to show up and walk in your place like he owns it. He's one of those cats that you feed once and then suddenly shows up and won't leave you alone anymore. 

Oh, you still won't come home? You still wanna continue that dangerous job of yours? Pick your poison then. Do you want them to call Jason to get to the bar and take you home, knowing him some heads will sure go flying. Or do you want the family to stage a stakeout, infiltrate the bar, and capture and lock up all the villains forever. Go on, go choose. 

[onlyquinns]

can i pls have a fic with jack hughes where he hurts his already injured shoulder while doing something around the house and is in pain; reader just taking such gentle care of him and jack realising she’s his future wife. that every failed relationship has led to her.

it happens so suddenly. one moment, he’s totally fine—moving grocery bags in from your car—then the brown bag is slipping from his fingers and he’s hunched over.

jack grabs at his arm, his fingers white-knuckled on his shirt sleeve. pain burns down from the scar in his skin, shooting sparks of fire and electricity into his bicep. he tries not to cry out in fear of worrying you, but you’re already racing through the apartment, alerted by the sound of groceries falling to the floor.

“i’m okay,” jack says immediately even though he’s still hunched over, teeth grit.

you’re by his side, helping him to the couch. “i told you i could’ve done it, j,” you mumble, eyes filled with worry.

“yeah, well, what kind of boyfriend would i be if i made my girl carry groceries?” jack jokes, attempting to lighten your mood. he flops onto the couch, falling onto his good side. he gives you a goofy smile but your frown doesn’t drop.

your brows are pinched and your hands lay heavily on your hips, mind running a million miles per hour as you wonder what you’re going to do with him.

jack’s smile falters slightly, “baby, i didn’t mean to worry you—“ but you don’t listen, turning away and grabbing various supplies from the kitchen.

jack watches as you prep a hot water bottle, turning on the electric kettle to get water boiling. as it boils, you set out his favorite mug—one that he insisted the two of you buy because they came in a matching set of two—and put in your tea infuser. within five minutes, you return to his side with his hot water bottle—your favorite one that you never let him use—and a warm mug of tea. once they’re in jack’s hands, you turn away again and grab a cold cup of water and a tiny bottle of advil.

jack watches in awe as you take the time to open the bottle for him and dump out two pills. after surgery, you’d taken it upon yourself to open every bottle and can—whether it were a drink of a jar of jam—so he wouldn’t have to.

his memory nags at him as he watches you, as he remembers the year before when he’d initially hurt his shoulder—how his girlfriend at the time hadn’t done any of that for him. he swallows thickly, pushing away the memory of pain and fatigue of having to care for himself while his ex had spent her time lounging around.

“here you go,” you say, pulling his mind back to you. you stand in front of him, palm outstretched. he easily takes the advil from you, popping them into his mouth. you stand nearby, making sure he takes them because you know he’s weird about having to take meds.

once you’re certain he swallows, you nod happily. jack smiles softly at the sight of you so proud of yourself, thinking of the little ring box he’s tucked away in luke’s room in fear that you’d find it in his.

“alright, scooch over, pretty boy,” you say, words light and teasing. jack chuckles and makes room for you on the couch, tucking you close to his uninjured side. you reach for the remote.

“what’re we watching?” jack asks as the tv comes to life.

you shrug, “whatever you want,” you tell him.

jack’s heart stutters and he’s sure that when summer rolls around and he’s able to move his arm again, he’s definitely proposing to you.

[greenglowinspooks]

Honestly I think the fics where Danny’s a Kryptonian have a lot of potential, so here’s me throwing my hat into the ring

Danny was born a human. He was born to two loving (though slightly neglectful) human parents in the painfully mundane state of Illinois.

Then, he died, but he didn’t do it right. He became a Halfa; too alive to be a ghost, but too dead to be human.

Then, through strange, uncontrollable circumstances, that changed as well.

He had been heavily injured, missing a large percentage of body mass, and was at the cusp of either dying fully or just fading from existence.

(Perhaps it was an ordinary fight. Perhaps it was the GiW, or his parents. Perhaps it was a simple accident. That didn’t matter now.)

He fled, phasing through the ground, trying to bury himself as deep as possible.

(Perhaps he didn’t want to be unmasked in death. Perhaps that was already too late, and he just wanted his body be able to rest in peace.)

Unfortunately for him, he was in Metropolis, and ended up in a secret genetics lab below the earth.

Danny detransformed, completely exhausted, falling onto a table covered in different labeled specimen containers. He closed his eyes, and prepared himself for what would happen next.

And… nothing.

Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes.

Danny sat up, brushing off the foul-smelling liquid from the specimen jars, petri dishes, and assorted vials.

He felt…fine.

No, better than fine. He felt normal. Healthy.

He felt like he wasn’t missing most of his internal organs anymore.

Danny looked down at his stomach, and saw that the wounds that were killing him had completely disappeared.

(The blood blossoms, if there had been any, were still there, but they no longer hurt. At most, they itched a little, or maybe just tickled a bit.)

He wanted to question what in the hell had just happened, but he didn’t want to jinx it. He just quietly changed back to Phantom, going invisible and phasing out of wherever he had found himself in, ignoring the loud alarm system that had begun to blare when he broke the samples on that table.

Life mostly went back to normal after that.

If, like Danny, you ignored all the physical changes in a valiant effort to remain in denial that something was horribly wrong.

His skin was tougher, now; he didn’t get scrapes or cuts, even when he accidentally fumbled a knife while trying to cook. His ghost form was stronger, too; he was barely knocked down by his old rogues anymore.

He could fly, even in his human form. Though, admittedly, the flight was much different. It was like using a muscle he hadn’t known existed beforehand. He didn’t just ignore gravity or wind resistance, though he felt more graceful in the air now than he ever did as Phantom.

There were more powers popping up, lasers and cold breath, x-ray vision and super strength. His lungs and heart were larger, and he could handle temperatures much easier. He didn’t have to transform to handle the pressure and cold of space anymore.

His reaction time had improved, becoming much faster than ever before. His senses were much stronger, and he had even seemed to gain a sense of electric fields, like a shark.

The only thing that separated him from a Kryptonian was that he had developed electrokenesis, which he had never seen any of them use on TV.

So, surely, he was fine.

Everything was normal, he hadn’t been transformed by alien DNA in a sketchy lab, he had just had a really weird and specific metagene activation.

—

Clark Kent, Kal-El, was panicking.

It had been around a month and a half since a particularly brutal fight between Intergang and an unknown assailant, and it seemed that Intergang was determined to draw out whoever had scorned them.

Their method of doing this, of course, was trying to level the city.

He and Jon were doing their best to stop them, but with both Kon and Zor-El away on their own business, it was difficult.

And by difficult, he meant almost impossible.

Slowly but surely he was driving them back, but not without massive amounts of damage to the city, especially with only Jon on dedicated rescuing duty.

He was distracted, trying to draw a group away from a heavily occupied building, when a projectile hit him in the back of the head.

The world spun for a moment, and then it went black.

(It was, probably, then, some sort of Kryptonite-metal alloy. Intergang at its finest.)

He woke slowly, forcing his eyes open. He felt like he had been hit by an eighteen wheeler.

Clark jolted up, preparing for the worst.

To his shock, though, the city hadn’t been reduced to rubble while he was out.

Jon seemed to still be working on evacuation, either unaware that he had went down or forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

Then, a lightning-quick figure flew into view, and Clark’s mind went blank.

He thought, for a moment, that Kara was back. But, no, that wasn’t right, she was supposed to be off-planet for another week or so.

Besides, this new figure didn’t move like her. They were lankier and more slender, and they flew quicker than any member of his family.

Their powerset was different, too; they focused mainly on using blasts of ice and electricity to drive enemies back, only occasionally using their strength or lasers—ones which came from their hands instead of their eyes.

He had woken up at the tail end of the fight, it seemed. The remaining Intergang members were fleeing from the mysterious metahuman.

They stayed in the sky, motionless, watching them leave.

As if they could sense him staring, they turned.

They were small, still clearly young. Probably around Kon’s age, or maybe even younger.

Instead of the colorful clothing he had inherited from his family, the stranger wore black and white clothes which looked similar to a hazmat suit, their face covered by some sort of gas mask.

Interestingly enough, instead of the S-shape crest that he was so used to seeing, the stranger wore the letter D on his chest.

Kal’s heart sped up.

From up in the sky, he heard the stranger’s heart, on the left instead of the right, speed up in return.

But before he could say a word to them, they sped off, disappearing into the deep blue sky.

[goldeneyedgirl]

Jar of Hearts Snippet <3

Because this chapter has blown out again because I don't want to split the fight scene in two <3 We manifest it's done sometime this week.

Even as it weighs on him that he’s killing without discrimination, that he’s not thinking about the creatures as living, there’s a sense of exhilaration about getting to throw a punch with all of his strength behind the motion. Without having to slow down, without having to hold anything back, to move exactly how he was designed to. And it’s better than hunting newborns with Alice, only because even though the aliens go down easier there are so many of them that there’s always another one to take down.

More than one fighter on their side is caught unaware by his speed; he saves two Wakandan warriors simply by being faster than both of them and their opponent - crude but effective when they stare at him. Almost like they might recognise what he is. But that’s something to worry about later.

Emmett finds himself moving down the frontline, trying to thin out the enemies before they make it across to the Wakandans, to the more breakable fighters. It’s not easy, but it’s something. It’s better than it could be.

He’s dismembering a particularly solid alien when there is a… a streak of gold light, moving faster than anything that Emmett’s ever seen in his life - including Edward.

People who are like them. They just didn’t have to be disemboweled by a bear or gang-raped or thrown off a cliff to become that way.

(He’s always wondered that - it was a common family debate back in the day that, in a world with vampires and werewolves and shape-shifters, they couldn’t be the only things out there. Carlisle always kindly humoured his arguments, and had congratulated him when superheroes started appearing, but this is different. This is… this is tricking Edward into racing this gold-streak and getting his ass kicked and just that singular stupid thought, the possibility that this is all going to end in a way where he can go back home and make stupid bets with his oldest-and-youngest brother…)

An alien flings a sheet of bent metal in his direction, but Emmett plucks it out of the air like a paper plane, his gaze solid and unwavering as he approaches his opponent. The alien doesn’t back off, and he’s one of the ones that are tougher skinned, like leather, with a fluid-filled outer layer to protect the skeleton.

And it breaks apart just like a human, wet and reeking, with a screech that sounds bird-like and enraged. Hive-minded, tiny-brained creatures sent to destroy and maim and feed mindlessly, he reminds himself when that voice that sounds a lot like Esme when he’s done something careless whispers in his ear that he’s a killer. It has to happen, there are no second chances out here. That was the lesson they learn over the last five years, and the Cullen legacy of propriety and humanity and empathy have never faced down this hellscape.

(But also they live in a world where something vaguely female shaped can run faster than his eyes can track; where there’s a talking raccoon, fucking flying horses overhead and an 100-foot superhero scooping up aliens like popcorn, where he’s pretty ordinary really, and this is a version of life he cannot wait to show Rose.)

[dxxdhood]

drains me slowly

pairing: wade wilson x gn!reader

summary: deadpool finally invites you, the coworker he has a massive crush on, over, which means the two of you end up doing more than just watching a movie.

tags: smut (18+), sub!wade wilson, dom!reader, pain kink, use of superpowers to fuel a pain kink, light masochism, teasing, gentle dom, hand job, scratching, body worship

wc: 3.3k

a/n: fic inspired by the new deadpool movie coming out!!! also, title is from love me dead by ludo.

No surprise that Wade wasn’t exactly anyone’s favorite– that goes for among the heroes he’s worked with and throughout his life in general. He’s – to put it in the kindest way anyone’s ever told him – fucking annoying. Oh, he’s more than aware that he’s a little too out-of-pocket, abrasive, impulsive– a nightmare to interact with, really. And those were just the recent comments made by the closest thing he has to coworkers! The shit he heard from people growing up was leagues worse. 

Look, having a rough start in life isn’t uncommon and he’s sure as hell not gonna get the tiny violin out for himself and throw his own little pity party, but he’s grown enough since his healing factor got beat out of him to acknowledge that he’s had it tough over the years.

He’s still going, though! Yeah, he may not always be the best at doing his laundry quick enough to get any clean clothes to wear, or at stopping his room from becoming cluttered with too many half-empty water bottles, but he’s still making it by, day by day.

But, well, it’s still really hard to constantly put himself out there, get assigned – or infinitely more likely, just shove himself into – whatever jobs or missions he feels like taking on when everyone treats him like Jar Jar Binks.

That was until you came along. So, obviously you’re crazy hot – he’s gotta get that out of the way first – but more than that, you were confident. Competent, too, and those rarely coincide in Wade’s experience. You mostly worked on call, joining the occasional mission, battle, or investigation because your mutant powers came in handy often, but you also still kept up with your day job. Honestly, Wade thinks the reason why you weren’t always present in fights was to stop the other mutants from being out of a job. Your ability to slowly deteriorate surrounding biological tissue, while horrifying and a pain in the ass to control – your words – was basically winning on easy mode.

But no, you were adamant about keeping your involvement with the X-Men infrequent– only joining when your presence was absolutely necessary. Apparently nonstop high stress situations aren't good for your mental health– who knew?

And he wants to pretend he became obsessed with you because of all those things, and of course they helped, but really, you had him at hello. Or well, you bothering to say hello and actually talk to him in the first place, to ask him questions about his life in moments of downtime where usually he’d be left with an unenthusiastic audience instead of a warm-hearted listener who actually laughed at his jokes.

So, of course, he has to go and fuck it up.

…

“So, glad that’s over, huh?” Wade says through a smile, the whites of his mask squeezing as his cheeks rise. “Speaking of over, you wanna come?”

“Over?” you shake your head a little, flashing your teeth as you try and comprehend him. “Right after we took on a whole crime ring?”

“Well, what a better time to unwind, am I right?”

“Oh?” you raise your eyebrows. “We’re unwinding?”

It’s small, but you swear Wade ups his talking speed, “Well, yeah, you know. Watch a movie, order in, show you my Pokemon cards, the works.”

You hum, pretending to consider it, “Depends, you got a holo Charizard?”

And now, for sure, he exhales his relief. “You insult me.”

The two of you enter his apartment not long after you’re dismissed from the mission, and Wade briefly excuses himself to change out of his suit. Making yourself at home, you take a seat on the couch and glance across his living room. His apartment is surprisingly nice. The kitchen and living room are one large, open space with a sleek, modern design. Also, you’d assume someone as chaotic as Wade would keep their house in a messier state, or hell, at least a little dusty, but the living room is spotless. Maybe he cleaned recently? What, was he planning on inviting someone over?

Snorting as you shake your head, a small click from across the hall catches your attention.

You’ve only seen Wade on the job, so naturally he’s always been wearing his red suit, but for some reason, you never stopped to picture him wearing civilian clothes. Actually, now that you’re seeing him in a sweatshirt and sweatpants – awfully warm for this weather – you’re struggling to reconcile the image of him you had in your head with the person right in front of you.

Well, at least until Wade brings up a fist to cover his mouth, illustrating his nervousness, and the tension fizzles out. Only Wade has body language that cartoonishly exaggerated.

“Nice sweats, green looks good on you.”

Wade pauses for a moment, registering your words before he giggles softly, arm falling to his side, “I’ve been thinking about changing the color of my suit. You know, hiding all the blood is great and all, but sometimes I gotta wonder – could this thing be more flattering?”

He walks over with a spring in his step before sitting by your side. Cutely, he wraps you up in the larger blanket first before settling the smaller, throw blanket over himself. You try your hardest not to show your confusion outwardly, but seeing Wade up close now has you questioning his outfit all the more.

He’s a bit tall, so the sweatpants don’t go all the way down to his ankles, but Wade’s wearing calf socks, as if he specifically were trying to avoid them being uncovered. Also, his hoodie’s easily a size or two larger, which makes it the perfect thing to wear to lounge around and watch a movie in, but also, the sleeves cover his entire hand sans his fingers. From the little you can see of them, they look puckered in scars.

But obviously Wade’s hands are scarred– he’s a mercenary. He’s handled all sorts of weapons and been in hundreds of fights over the years. You weren’t expecting his skin to be baby-smooth. 

What’s interesting to you is why he’d go through all the trouble to hide it.

Also, yeah, the most obvious pointers were that the hood of his sweatshirt is up even though you two are indoors in his own home and – how could you forget this one – his Deadpool mask is still on.

Was he just uncomfortable with sharing his identity in general or was he specifically trying to shove distance between the two of you? Whatever, if he doesn’t want to take his mask off with you, he doesn’t have to. You feel a distinct pang in your chest, but you try not to let it color how you respond to him. He’s more than in the right to only share what he feels most comfortable with.

Wade’s been fiddling with the remote while you’ve been – hopefully – subtly looking him over, and the screen finally changes from a streaming service page to the opening of the movie.

“We’re watching The Princess Bride? I didn’t take you for a romantic.”

He bats his eyes – at least, you think he does, given the mask– and speaks in a sweet voice “Why, me? Oh please, I know romance. I’m not going to invite a lovely, gorgeous, incredible person over and force them to watch Die Hard on the first–”

His back straightens out like he’s been electrocuted before he forcibly relaxes his posture to finish his thought.

“Hang-out.”

Okay, you want to go easy on him, especially because he seems so tense, but you can’t just let that one slide. You close the small distance remaining between the two of you, causing your entire side to press against his. Even through his sweatshirt, you can feel how warm he is.

“Mmm, just a hang out?” you mumble, sliding your head onto his shoulder. You’ve done this before, either for comedic effect or just in an attempt to push his buttons the same way he always tries to push yours – which, despite his best efforts, always ends up endearing him to you instead of bothering you – but never in a context like this.

He inhales sharply, and you count the seconds until he finally lets himself release it. Sometimes, you think he takes his healing factor for granted.

Turning his head to peer down at you, Wade considers you for a moment, keeping his face and body language deceptively neutral. You try your hardest to keep your eyes focused on the movie and your body loose and comfortable.

“You want this to be a date?” he says, flat.

“Why, thank you for asking, dear sir,” you copy his sweet voice from earlier before returning to your normal. “Yes, Wade, I like you.”

“I–” he starts, but the words get caught on their way out. His fingers bury themselves in the material of his sweatpants, and the movement draws your attention to them again. Shades of blotchy red and pink curve all across his skin.

Wade doesn’t say anything, which is concerning enough on its own, but following your confession, you feel like he’s more than out of his element. 

“That’s why you invited me over, right?” you try and help him out. “You feel the same, too.”

And then, feeling bold, you turn your head to face his still mask-covered head and kiss him lightly on the cheek. Instantly, you see fireworks go off inside him, because Wade hurriedly shuts the TV off and runs off to close the blinds. There’s barely enough light in the room now to make out shapes, but apparently Wade doesn’t take any issue because he peels his mask back and kisses you on the lips.

His lips are textured, and your intuition flashes quietly in the back of your mind, but for right now, you focus on how energetic he is. If his body is warm, his mouth feels like it’s on fire. He’s constantly moving, trying to experience all of you as fast as possible. 

It’s making your face heat up, how quickly he demands your complete attention and how relentless he is in grabbing it. Wade bites your bottom lip, causing you to gasp into him, and he uses the opportunity to explore across your own teeth and tongue. After a few more seconds, you break away, needing the space to breathe.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, voice rough.

“You’re telling me,” Wade coughs out. “We could’ve been doing that this whole time?”

“Well, all you had to do was ask.”

And although you can’t see him, which you know is the point, you understand something in him has shifted. He gets up from the couch, takes you by the hand, and leads you towards his room. His pace is so quick, you barely comprehend his actions until you’re both standing right in front of his bed.

“Is this okay?” he asks, quiet. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him stifle the amount of words he let loose before.

“Yes, of course it is. But Wade, we have to turn on at least a lamp or something in here.”

“We do?”

“Yeah,” you pause to give him a second to think. “I can’t see you at all like this.”

“What if – and you're just going to have to trust me on this one – you’d prefer it this way,” Wade’s voice is light, but it feels like it’s cracking at the edges.

“And why’s that?”

Not like you’d be able to see, but the anxiety radiating off of him makes him sound wide-eyed, “Huh? Oh, I– uh…”

“Look, if you’re worried about how I’m going to react to you having a bunch of scars– don’t. I don’t mind,” the sound of fabric rustling in front of you makes you think he just flinched. “I figured it out. You’re not sneaky.”

“You say that, but…”

“Wade, I don’t care. And I mean that kindly! Really, it doesn’t bother me.”

Wade starts pacing in front of you, nearly tripping on the leg of the bedpost, “Look, I appreciate the whole hero act you got going on here – really fits you good, you should totally quit your day job – but you don’t have to force yourself, I–”

“Wade, you either confront your insecurities head on or I’m not doing this with you. I told you what I think, the only person who’s going to worry about how you look here is you. We either have sex with a light on or not at all, okay?”

No one speaks for a few seconds once you finish saying your piece, and you cringe, realizing how forceful you must have come off. You’re about to speak up again to apologize when you hear a shudder-filled exhale from a few feet away.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he groans. “You’re so hot when you're putting people in their place.”

Your lips curl into a shaky smile, “Yeah, what else do you think is hot?”

And you can practically hear the gears turning in his head from here.

…

It’s actually happening. No fucking way he didn’t dream this up. But you were pretty adamant about him getting his head in the game in order for you guys to actually get down and dirty, so for you, he tries to keep his train of thought as focused as possible–  a big ask.

“Bossing anyone – everyone, especially me – around. You using your abilities–” you reach over and find Wade’s hand before running your fingers up his arm. “Shit, umm, using your abilities in general, but, umm, I really like when I’m there.”

“Oh?” you giggle. “When you get to watch, or?”

“When I get to feel.”

Your hand moves over to the nape of his neck, reaching under his hood and mask, to rub at his rough skin. Wade’s nerves light on fire as he waits for you to respond– for some reason, it never feels like your words come out fast enough.

“You got a thing for pain, Wilson?”

He chuckles, “You’d be surprised.”

“Okay, but are you sure? I can try, but it might not be all that good for you.”

“Don’t worry,” he thinks back to all those times he had a hard on while the two of you were fighting together. “It’ll be great for me.”

You hum, “Alright, then, but you tell me to stop the second you don’t like something, okay?”

“Aye, aye, captain,” he salutes, though you probably can’t see it. “And, same goes for you.”

“What a gentleman, letting me destroy him and giving me an out.”

He’s blushing something furious and he’s never been more grateful for the dark, “Anything for you.”

Those are the last words he whispers before he begins undressing. He knows you probably meant for him to strip with the light on, but he’s really not so sure he could stomach being looked at like a bug under a microscope. The attention, while electrifying, was already starting to get to him, so he lets himself stay in his comfort zone a little longer. As a treat. 

Once his sweats are off, he hesitantly peels off his mask before slipping into bed, keeping most of his body under the covers. After shutting his eyes, he clicks the lamplight on.

You’re not saying anything. That’s– a sign? A good one, a bad one, Wade doesn’t know. He’s trying so hard to keep his breathing steady, but he can feel his body start shaking all on its own.

You join him on the bed, kneeling next to him, before your warm breath falls across his cheeks as you kiss his forehead. Only then does he open his eyes, and you reward him by cupping his cheek in your hand.

“There,” you say. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Wade gets the strong urge to snort, and so he does, but your eyes narrow. There’s a soft scratching at the back of his skull as you snake your hand over, and quickly you dig your nails in slightly. Wade has to bite his tongue to keep the noise in.

“I’m sorry, is that funny to you?”

“No!” he whispers sharply as you bring your hand down to scratch along the line of his neck.

“Good, seems like you’re learning.”

You kiss him, teeth clacking together at first before Wade melts into it. Your hand is still slowly exploring his body, running along the line of his shoulder and towards his upper arm. When you reach his bicep, you very obviously squeeze the muscle there, and you let out a pleased sigh as you begin groping in earnest.

He wants to turn to hide his face in the pillow, not sure how to react to all the positive attention and appreciation, but you catch him trying to turn away, and you kiss him deeper.

While one hand begins to explore his pecs and abs, your other hand scratches down his v-line, softly caressing the skin of his inner thighs before moving around to squeeze his ass.

Wade rewards you with a small whine, and you carefully trail a finger down his dick. You move in to whisper in his ear, “You’re so hot, I’m not forgiving you for hiding for so long.”

Trying to stifle the embarrassing moan that he knows will come out, he bites down on his lip hard, but you take the hand not teasing his cock to gently pry his lip away.

“From now on, I get to hear you, okay?” you say and Wade nods rapidly.

You take the moment you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, and after giving him a second to ready himself, you ask, “I’m going to use it now. Tell me if you want to stop.”

“Okay–” he responds before he feels the sweet sensation of you jerking him off coupled with your power. It’s a humming, dull feeling of pain resting in the background– almost like the sensation of being choked except it’s affecting his entire body. Wade feels like there’s a weight pinning down each of his limbs and it’s so freeing– so relaxing.

He sighs and turns his head to the side, letting out a deep moan when you up the pace of your hand and bring the other to fondle his balls.

“How is it?” you ask, sweat dripping down your brow at trying to control your ability. Sure, it’s  powerful and at times pretty horrifying, but Wade always loved how he was essentially immune. At the same rate you could destroy the flesh around you, he could heal his own right back. Just knowing that made him feel good, somehow, like he was made perfectly for you.

“It’s good– so good, I–” he nearly shouts, forgetting about the neighbors.

“Yeah, baby? What do you need?”

At hearing the pet name, he straight up whines as he tries to bury his hands in the sheets instead of his own thighs. 

“Not sure, umm, a little more–”

And he doesn’t know which god he has to thank for putting you on this planet, but he’s willing to pay them all a visit. You read him like he’s not some mess, some walking disaster nobody bothers paying attention to, and you give him what you know he needs.

From the base of his chin, you drag your hand in a deep scratch across his neck, chest, and stomach, your eyes watching the pink lines blend in with his scarred skin. It’s a flashing pain, sharp like being scalded and it feels so good mixed with the blunt feel of being under your power.

“I’m gonna–” he says, and of course, you seem to already know. He cums with a deep grunt, rutting his hips into your fist before he thrusts his head forward to kiss you again.

As soon as he comes down, he pulls away only slightly, just so he can say what he’s been wanting to say since he met you.

“Thank–”

You cut him off with another kiss, because sometimes, he really does need to shut up. 

[popeabbot]

Wondering Why

Summary: When someone you love gets in an accident your parents are forced to come see you. Jack sees why you don’t talk to them, you wonder what you did to deserve him as he continues to pick up your broken pieces

Jack AbbotXfem!reader - established relationship (married)

wc:7.7k

tags: Prosthetic!Jack Abbot, age gap(like late 20s/mid 40s probs)Death, gore, angst, medical innacuracies, descriptions of suicidal tendencies, cursing, fighting, smut, literally SO MUCH PLOT w/happy ending porn, hurt/comfort, Jack going soldier mode and being defensive against your asshole dad

This fic had been living in my head all week so you KNOW I had to post it before tonight!!! Hope y'all enjoy!

December in Pittsburg meant snow and ice, and black ice. On top of your nightly regulars you now had to worry about car wrecks. Junkies, slip and falls, college kids coming home from break and doing stupid shit never phased you. Emergency medicine was your life. But you’d never admit that you lived for the thrill, so quiet nights were absolutely grueling. 

Hour 10

“Mmmm, it’s too qui-” Shen began as he set your coffee down.

“Shen I am not in the fucking mood,” you counter with a deadly tone. Jack giggled from his station, reaching somewhere for Shen’s banned words jar. One dollar for saying any of the banned words but he had to pay 5 bucks if a banned word flipped the whole shift. Thankfully before he could finish the sentence you were whisked away. Shen shrank under your glare as he dumped a couple bills in the Jar.

“Doc…do you have to tell my mom about this?” The 19 year old boy asked sheepishly as you stitched up his leg.

“As long as you can hide the stitch and come up with an excuse for the scar then no,” you placed a gentle hand on his leg as he flinched, “but you probably shouldn’t be stealing vapes and running off. The black ice will kill you before the vapor does.” He rubbed his hands against the back of his head and nodded solemnly as you gave him his care instructions and sent him on his way. You rolled your eyes and let out a small scoff, at least he seemed to understand your tone. Kids these days. Jeez. A knock broke you from your thoughts. 

“Doctor Abbot?” Macie Spencer leaned in the doorway, her usual sunny demeanor had a cloud over it. 

“Hey Macie, what’s up?” you stood from your chair coming to meet her. Kiara was the day shift social worker and a wonderful woman, but Robby’s daughter Macie was the human embodiment of sunshine and kindness no matter what. Seeing her shaken bothered you.

“Dr. Jack is looking for you, I’m gonna keep the family occupied as long as I can but it’s, it’s bad.” You trashed your gloves and ripped a new pair from the box on the wall before rushing to the commotion. Two nurses and security had a man and a woman separated, though the separation just made them shout louder. Jack was on the ground doing compressions on a teenager…whose mouth was covered in blood. You fell next to him, taking over compressions so he could run to grab what he needed. Jack kept asking what she took with no answer from either parent, they were in hysterics. You couldn’t help but stare at the girl’s father, he seemed disoriented, almost like his body was there but he wasn’t. 

“Gurney?!”

“Need to try to get her back first.” 

The mother screamed and cried in Bridget's arms, yelling about how ‘it’ was all her husband's fault, her husband took her daughter away. You tried to hold back your own familial feelings as you continued to do your job, stopping and continuing as Jack instructed. After getting a line in, you moved the girl to a gurney, tubes were everywhere and monitors beeped and blared off and on. You weren’t losing her but you weren’t getting her back either. Her BP and heart rate were high but her blood ox was dangerously low, her lips beginning to turn an odd shade of purple.  

“Macie, find out what the hell she took!” You yelled out into the hall, praying Macie would hear you over the yelling. After a few minutes of needed silence, she slid into the room. 

“Dad said it could be ketamine….or antifreeze.” What. The. Fuck.

“We gotta-,” You looked to Jack, eyes wide with horror. He’d already read your mind and was setting the pump up, after prepping the girl he turned the machine on. Her stomach contents were a sickly green, chunks of her stomach lining coming out with it. You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to hold back your gag, Jack's hand lingering over the small of your back. After pumping her stomach you pushed charcoal into her IV. Your team worked for another thirty minutes before you would have to deliver the news that she likely wouldn’t be coming off of a ventilator. You ripped your gloves off, in what scenario would she be drinking fucking antifreeze?! Tears began to prick in your eyes but you forced them away, you were prepared to go to that father with a face of stone. 

“I’ll talk to dad, you talk to mom. Keep them separated.” You stated, Jack shot up a brow in your direction, until he caught onto what you were thinking. He squeezed your hand tightly, his wedding band pushed into the flesh of your palm, grounding you. Dad seemed disoriented as you delivered the news, it wasn’t shock but pure denial. You tried to press him for more details but the death of his daughter seemed to be the final crack in the wall, you gripped his elbow, catching him as his knees buckled. “Sir, I am so sorry. This is unimaginable. If she took something that she bought and you knew..I need you to tell me. Help me save someone's son or daughter?” He looked to you with wide, bloodshot eyes, and solemnly shook his head no. 

“It’s too late.” Was all he said. You took a deep breath and let him know that Macie would lead him through the next steps with the police. 

You sat at your station, dragging your hands up and down your face before going back to charting the experiences of the night. A car flew into the ambulance bay, you sighed deeply. What disaster was making its appearance now? The car sped off as you reached the trauma bay doors, yet another homeboy ambulance dumping someone off in the cold. The woman was gaunt, her thin clothes not doing much to shield her from the weather. 

“Need some help!” You hollered, carrying the woman into the ED. Jack ran up to you, taking the woman from your tight grasp. The two of you ran to the closest trauma bay and after stripping and gowning her you began to assess. Her skin was pale and taut, lips turning an odd shade of purplish blue. Her veins were bright against her skin, you pulled her lid up, shining a small flashlight in her eyes. “Mmm, pupils aren’t reactive to light..”

“Blood ox is low, her BP is 86/60, systolic is 10mgs, lets see if we can wake her up.” Jack moved quickly to the front of the patient, rubbing her chest roughly with no response. Jack poked at the taut skin, a thin line pressed into his lips. He was worried about something but keeping it to himself. “Push warm fluids, and get her some warming blankets, I’m worried it could be hypotension caused by hypothermia. Keep a close eye on her, page Dr. Abbot as soon as she wakes up.” 

Jesse nodded as Taylor ran off to get warming blankets, you collected the woman's things that Chase had left and walked back to your station. Your frown deepened as you found nothing to identify her. “Gotta Jane Doe,” you announced as you started a chart on your laptop. The hospital began to buzz as day shift started to come in, the sun hid away as the day started without her. Jack came up behind you placing a kiss to the top of your head.

7am-Hour 12

“I’m so mad you get to go home while I have to work a double,” you grumbled, Jack laughed into  your hair as he leaned down to clock out. How could you stay mad at him when he was just so perfect. He placed a hand on your bicep gingerly and pulled you from your station, before you could protest you were out of the ED and inside the main hospital. Jack slipped your jacket on before following suit, his hand interlacing with your own. His calluses were rough, but a physical attribute of his you loved as he rubbed small circles over your thumb. The two of you were on the roof before you even realized it, sitting against the cold concrete you leaned into your husband. 

“Wanna talk about it?” He played with your hair with one hand and rubbed the other one up and down your waist, using enough pressure to keep you awake. You hummed into his neck, just wanting to share a moment alone before you were thrown back to the wolves. The light scruff on his jaw tickled your lips as you pressed in a kiss, bringing a smile to his face, “I wish I could take you home with me…mmm maybe I could convince Robby to cover,” he mused, pressing kisses into your neck. But you knew that wouldn’t happen, Gloria would chew all of your heads off considering you’d already gotten Jack out of working Christmas Eve AND Christmas. Jack had invited guests so PTMC would have to wait. Your silent bliss was interrupted by the snow that began to fall, Jack kissed you deeply, cupping both sides of your jaw before leaving, he’d be back later to pick you up.

Text me if anything comes up, you know i’ll wake up for you.

Your heart swelled as you walked back into the ER with a fresh cup of coffee, that man would truly give the world for you. And you would let him. Dana pulled you into a tight hug as you gave her an update on the teenage girl in South 10 and the Jane Doe in 15.

“Macie is a natural,” you commented to Robby as he sat next to you, your breakfast in hand. “It’s not an easy case but she’s being wonderful, amazing Macie!” Robby smiled and nodded as he slid your breakfast wrap onto a plate.

“Couldn’t be prouder. Make sure you eat. I already watched too many close call collisions on my walk here, could get busy.”

“I can’t believe you still walk in the snow,” you mumbled through chewing, “I swear you’re like part bear!” Robby decided to ignore the bear comment as he got up to do rounds, you scarfed the rest of your burrito down before checking the board. Triage the waiting room, simple enough and a nice buffer from how your night shift ended. Working a double was never fun when you’d already been working 12 hours but you prayed your shift would go smoothly. But there was one of Shen’s banned phrases popping into your head: smooth shift. 

Between food poisoning, kids with colds and broken limbs from ice, you checked in on your two night patients. Jane Doe’s condition had improved slightly, and Macie was in a heated discussion with the teenage girl's father. You started to walk towards her, feeling the need to protect her when you were pulled away once again.

“The Cracken is back.” You huffed, hands on your hips as you watched the man thrash in his restraints. Robby rolled his eyes at the nickname, he really didn’t like that ‘the cracken’ had become the patient’s name around the ER.

“Should we sedate him?” Dr. Whitaker asked, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. 

“If you wanna jump in there be my guest but they ace’d him on the ride over,” you flipped your wrist to check your watch. “Give 'em 10 minutes, if he’s still causing problems, come find me.” You clapped his shoulder and went to check in on more patients, confiring with Robby when cases got tough. When the ER seemed to fall into its usual chaos, you took a moment to check on the teenage patient and her parents. When you walked into- Maddy Nichols- room, her mother sat with her holding her hand.

“Hi Mrs. Nichols I haven’t been able to speak with you but I'm Dr. Abbot, my husband and I triaged your daughter last night.” Maddy’s mother looked up to you briefly, her eyes bloodshot and brimmed with tears. You sat beside her, placing your hand over hers. “Maddy’s tox screen came back…do you know why there was antifreeze in her system? I heard you yell that all of this was your husband's fault.” You watched as the young mothers face fell, tears beginning to fall freely.

“He was trying to...to do it himself. He’d blended it in a smoothie so I wouldn’t know but left it out. Maddy saw his and made a fresh one- wa-wanting to sit with her dad and share smoothies. He didn’t clean the blender out…Maddy was just trying to love, love him!” The woman turned and crumpled into your arms. You rubbed her back gently, holding your gaze on Maddy’s gentle face. This poor girl had been taken away from the poor choices of her hurting father. Kiara came in and sat across from the two of you, but you weren’t going to leave until this mother had let out her grief. Robby was on call, the ER could live with one attending for a few minutes.

“I- I’m sorry Dr. Abbot,” Maddy’s mother sniffled, pulling away from you.

“Never, never, apologize for needing to take a minute to grieve. I am so sorry we couldn’t save Maddy, but keep honoring her, talk about her everywhere you go. Listen to her music, watch her favorite movies, and eat her favorite foods when you go out. If you honor her that way she will never leave you.” You squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back. 

You introduced her to Kiara and explained why she was there and what her purpose was. “If you want me here when you let her go, I will be.” She nodded silently, turning back to her daughter and softly grazing her face. You took a mental picture of the girl with the note of ‘Maddy Nichols, accidental death, beautiful soul. 

You would honor her.

Hour 17

The Pitt made it to noon when shit really hit the fan. Dana stood on the nurses station, pulling the intercom phone up with her. 

“Code triage, 50 car pileup on the I-, multiple patients are about to be headed this way, move whoever you can upstairs!” Like a well oiled machine everyone worked to move as  many healthy people as possible. You were now jumping from patient to patient, trauma’s varied from case to case but your mortality rate was low: for now. You’d just finished relocating a man’s shoulder when Dr. Vienna Summers walked in.

“I’ll finish this, you need to go,” She stepped in, slowly bringing the man's arm down and placing it into a sling.

“Vi, what are you talking about? Are you leaching my patients?” You joked half heartedly, she turned to you and by the look on her face alone you knew it was bad.

“North 8, Mason and some kid...the kid’s fine but Mason is asking for you.” 

You were out of room and bolting across the ER without waiting for Vi to finish talking. No, no, no, no. Why Mason? What was your little brother doing in Pittsburg and why did he have to be on the interstate with ice out? When you all but slid into the room there were lines everywhere, his left leg was sliced in multiple spots, bone poking out. No,his leg was shattered. He had a bruise covering the entirety of his chest and deep lacerations to his face. 

“Mason??” You ran to his head, he was disoriented but knew you were there, attempting to reach for you, you laid his arm down helping to keep him still. “Talk to me Langdon,” You looked back at Frank who was looking at his leg.

“Lacerations and possible facial fractures, a couple cracked ribs, his hands and arms are okay for the most part but yo-yo is going to have to take him up. I can already tell he’s going to need plates in his leg. The only reason he’s not freaking out is from the morphine.”

“You didn’t give him Ket right?” 

Langdon quirked a brow, you had made sure your brother's medical records were in the system and updated from the day you started at PTMC years ago. “Right,” you sighed, “you have his chart of course you didn’t give him ketamine.” 

Yolanda slid in and started to assess your brother. She wanted a full CT before surgery to get a good look at his face but assured you that she would take the best care of him that she could. You kissed your brother's temple and said a quick prayer over him before he was in Dr. Garcia’s hands. You walked out of the room to find the kid Vi had mentioned. 

“His boyfriend Jasper is in the family room, he’s not hurt but pretty shaken up,” Dana spoke up.

“God I love that you read my mind,” you blew a kiss to Dana before heading into the family room. He was probably in his late teens, only a couple years older than Mason. His clothes were covered in blood and you recognized the shell shocked look on his face. You knocked lightly before walking in and taking a seat next to him.

“Hi Jasper,” Your voice was soft and kind, you placed your hand over his, “Mason is in surgery, but he’s got the best surgeon we have on staff, he's going to be just fine.”

Jasper started to cry, tears free falling from his face, you thought of the mother you’d spoken to only a couple hours ago. You pulled him into a hug, petting his hair softly. “I’m so, so, sorry!”

“Why?” you asked, pulling him up to look you in the eye.

“If he wasn’t with me then this never would’ve happened…his parents found out so he drove into Pittsburg this morning, we were on our way to come see you.” You took a deep breath and brought the boy back into your shoulder. You could imagine the kind of ballistic fight that Mason had gotten into with your father. The funny thing was that they didn’t care if Mason was gay, it was just the fact that he wasn’t with the boy they had picked out. Your parents had planned your lives out since you were born. 

If you followed the plan you would reap the benefits of your family business. If you didn’t, you would be ignored, forgotten. This had happened to you when you decided to come to Pittsburg instead of becoming some royal doctor like your parents had planned.

You thought about your husband. Jack would never be part of their plan, which is why they didn’t know. You and Jack had been together for 6 years and married for 4, but your parents didn’t know. Jack had asked, wanting to meet your father, marry you the proper way: the proper way didn’t matter when he heard how controlling your parents were. Even without COVID regulations your wedding had been small, some of your friends, some of Jack's friends, and the few coworkers the both of you could stand. Mason came after being sworn to secrecy, he walked you down the aisle.

 You hugged Jasper tightly, letting him go to call his parents to come get him but you couldn’t imagine having to have your parents come all the way from Washington to come see Mason. To come see you and Jack. You busied yourself as you waited for Mason to get out of surgery, dreading the thought of calling your parents, Mason's phone was broken in the wreck so you would have to call them yourself. You took a moment to sit with Amelia Nichols as she unplugged her daughter, her husband had been arrested, Amelia was alone. You gave her your number, a support group number, and a tight hug. 

“You should call them honey, before they file a police report,” Dana brought a cup of your favorite tea by your station while you did some charting, you groaned at the fact that she was right. You had no idea how long he had been gone and with his phone not working they would be going ballistic. You walked into the family room and pulled your phone out from your coat pocket. You slowly typed in the numbers, the dread growing in the pit of your stomach. Don’t pick up. Don’t. Pick. Up. Please.

“Hello?”

“Mommy?” Your voice was shaky, your mother sounded worried; tired.

“Oh my god, bunny? Where is Mason? We haven't heard from him. We got in an argument and he flew out of Seattle last night. We don't know where he is!”

“He’s here…in Pittsburg, in surgery. There was a pileup on the interstate...I know you’re probably in Seattle for work but it’s bad Mommy, you both need to come-” and fix this, died on your tongue. Your mother stayed silent, you hung up, you threw your phone against the opposite wall, curling up on the floor in silent, angry tears. You weren’t sure how long you sat there but Melissa King was the one to find you, she gingerly picked up your cracked phone and sat next to you. 

“I know we don’t know each other very well, since we work opposite shifts,” she started, looking at you with honest kindness in her eyes, “but I know you are one of the strongest people here. That means Mason is strong too. We will figure this out, together.” Mel placed her hand on your shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. You wiped the tears from your face and nodded, Vi stood in the door when you got up, Mason was out of surgery.

Hour 20

Mason had definitely seen better days, part of his face and forehead was wrapped from the facial fractures, bruises were blossoming, black and ugly across his ribcage. His left leg had been amputated from his knee down to his foot. You listened intently as Yolanda explained the situation, there was a significant loss of blood and too much soft tissue damage, she’d tried to save his leg but it was too far gone. With a dedicated prosthesis team and a good physical therapist he would be able to get around. You knew he would be fine, with the right prosthetic he could still play sports. If Jack could do everything he did on a prostetic than so could Mason.

“Mason?” you sat at his bed, pushing his curls from his forehead, but he continued to sleep. Garcia said you could take him home once your shift was over…home.

“I clocked you out, and texted Jack since you also broke your phone when you threw it,” Vi rubbed your back, your shoulders slumped. How could this be happening, to your baby brother of all people. “Your mom and dad coming?” You shrugged your shoulders, maybe your mom convinced your dad to come check on his son, maybe he said you could both fuck off. You’d find out soon enough. Vi ended up leaving and Mason woke up soon after. He was still disoriented but you were able to keep him grounded, he tried to ask about your parents but you wouldn’t give him an in. Jack came in around 5:30 to pick up you and Mason, he was still in a considerable amount of pain but Robby was already walking you through home care when Jack came into the room.

“Baby,” Jack pulled you into a tight hug and it took everything in you to not fall apart, Mason was still scared and unsure of his life going forward so you had to stay strong.

“Take us home,” you pleaded, gripping him like a lifeline.

“Yes ma’am.”

-The Abbot Residence 

Your home wasn’t very big, but it was yours. Stonewash grey with white trim, a stone path leading to the front door from the sidewalk and a white picket fence. Jack parked his truck inside the two car garage and helped Mason in. Inside it honestly looked like a slightly modernized 90’s home. You and Jack bought it when you got married and flipped it, the two of you had touched every square inch of the house and made it yours. It was tidy but still a home, medical book, notepads and files were stacked up on the coffee table. A perfectly sized kitchen with an island bar stayed spotless unless you cooked.

The walls were a pale but sunny yellow, dark hardwood floors covered every inch of the house aside from the concrete in the garage and the tile in the bathroom. You threw Mason's duffle bag over your shoulder, grabbed his medicine and walked in yourself. Jack had him propped up in bed in the guest bedroom, which Mason had fully decorated to be his room. You sat on the side explaining what everything was as you sectioned his medication in a pill box, he tried to listen intently buy he was tired.

“Do you need anything baby?”

“Water,” his throat was scratchy from being intubated. You made your trip from the kitchen back to his room fast, opening the water and helping him to drink. After making sure he was comfy you set up a mobile call button so he didn’t have to yell for you.

“You comfy bud?” Jack came in, checking his set up one more time, Mason nodded. You couldn’t help but feel your heart sore watching Jack softly ruffle his hair before placing a kiss to the top of his head. Jack never wanted to be an “old dad” but he had such a way with children, even teenagers. His grumpy war vet facade just seemed to melt around them. Mason fell asleep after getting his night medicine, you tucked him in, kissed his cheek and headed to the kitchen to make a whiteboard chart. Mason had medication at 6- administer more at 2 if needed. Keep close observation-

“I hope this doesn’t mess with our guests that are coming,” You sighed deeply as Jack wrapped his arms around your waist, you rested your head on his shoulder. 

“It won’t,” He peppered your neck in kisses, softly squeezing your sides to relax you, “promise.”

You basked in the silence and the warmth, your sanctuary. You could feel Jack's heartbeat against you, strong and steady like his arms that wrapped protectively around your waist.  You turned into him, your head instinctively finding comfort between his collar bones, he smiled, petting your hair softly.

“Can’t you just stay?” You mumbled into the cotton of his t-shirt, engulfing your senses with his cologne. Jack had never really been a cologne guy, you bought him a bottle your first Christmas dating and he’d been wearing it ever since. 

“Don’t make me regret leaving,” he groaned, capturing your lips in a kiss, you pushed up on your toes trying to capture every inch of him. After the shift you’d just had, and everything with mason, you needed all of him. Your hands slid up his shirt, exploring the canvas of his bare torso. Jack was quite muscular, you found a scar on his ribcage and traced it lightly, you didn’t realize he had led you to the bedroom until you knocked back into a crate. 

“Jer, have you been sleeping this whole time?” You gazed down at the sleeping dog. Her tail wagged excitedly at the sound of your voice. Mom was home!!

“Yeah we went for a run right before Vi called so she’s pretty beat,” Jack grinned, a boyish light coming to his eye. You wanted to scold him for running in the snow and the dangers of it, but he knew the dangers. You pulled Jack in for a few more kisses before he convinced you to take a shower. “I love you no matter what but you smell like the hospital my love.” He cackled like a hyena as a shoe was thrown in his direction, with another kiss goodbye he headed to work.

You let the hot water roll over your body, washing away the day from your skin. Jack had left a lavender shower bomb by the drain, the smell engulfing your nostrils and breaking the tension that had anchored in your chest. After some much needed time alone, you stepped out from the warm confines of the shower. One of Jack's NAVY shirts (your favorite one because it was long enough to cover your butt) and a pair of shorts were already waiting by your towel. God you loved that man. Jerico scratched at Mason’s door, annoyed that her favorite person was being kept away. You knelt down and gently held her face, whispering that Mason needed soft love. Jerico was a retired search and rescue dog so you knew she understood exactly what you were saying. You slowly cracked the door open, Mason was awake but quiet. 

“Hey,” you kept your tone soft as you crawled into bed next to him, “need anything?”

“Mmm, just you. Mom and dad are coming. I'm scared.” You could feel your heart break for Mason, he wasn’t scared of your parents as people but scared of not having their approval. To them; approval was love. You wrapped Mason in your unconditional love, humming lullabies until he fell asleep.

An angry fist rapping against your front door and Jerico’s defensive bark ripped you from sleep, your arm was sore from being wrapped around Mason, you pulled away slowly so as to not wake him before rotating the soreness out. Who would be knocking on your door at 6am?

You groaned, pulling yourself from the comfy bed and the warmth you had in your brother, before trudging across the cold house.

“Can I help you?” You asked, fervently rubbing the sleep from your eyes. The outside cold slipped past your bare legs, causing shivers to ripple through you. Jerico stood between your legs, sniffing at the people standing before you. A low growl slipped past her. Man bad. 

“We’re here for Mason,” that cold shiver took on a different feeling, you pulled your hands away to see your mother and father standing in the doorway. Your father wore his usual scowl, unhappy as always, your mother stood beside him. No, she was hiding behind him, a bitter taste grew in your mouth seeing her be cowardese to your father.

 “Um. Yeah, he’s asleep but come in.” You stepped to the side, Jerico backing up with you but never leaving her place. You watched as your parents seemed to examine your house with scrutiny. Sure it wasn’t the three story house with lavish decor you’d grown up in but it was yours. Yours and Jacks. You mumbled to your father that you needed to change, watching his eyes drag up and down your frame in disapproval. You knew when the roles reversed you would stand tall for Mason but you cursed to yourself for shrinking to him. You’d broken your work phone but picked up your house phone from beside your bed.

Mom and dad are here, I’m handling it. Might be in a bad mood when you get in :(

You hated sending that text as you changed into warmer clothes but it was better for Jack to be prepared. When you walked out of your room, your parents were still standing awkwardly in the entrance hall, your mother holding a picture from your wedding. You ignored them and walked to the kitchen, the open floor plan allowing you to keep an eye on them. 

“Are you hungry? I can make some coffee,” you turned your head in their direction as you pulled fruit and ingredients for breakfast from the fridge.

You are strong, you are loved, you are safe in this home -J 

Seeing the note on the fridge almost made you cry, you smiled softly as you got back to preparing breakfast.

“Who is this?” Your mother's tone made you jump slightly.

“My husband.” You answered as plainly as you could, carefully chopping fruit, your shaky hands didn’t help. Your parents eyes grew wide, they were standing at the kitchen island in a moment, your house wasn’t big but it felt like they’d charged at you. 

Seeing the reminder of one of the best days of your life made the horror melt at the edges. Your dress wasn’t fancy, a plain white flowy dress. Jack wore a navy suit, your eyes both gleaming as you were showing off your rings to the photographer. You frowned at the way your father white knuckled the picture and plucked it from his grasp.

“His name is Jack. He loves me very much, I would suggest watching your usual comments around him, he’s not a big fan of….bullies.” Looking at the pure devotion on your husband's face the day you got married gave you confidence. 

“He’s old enough to be your father, bunny.” your mother quietly remarked.

“You could do better than this cariño, we raised you to do better,” your fathers voice was cold as he gestured to your home. A fire started to burn in your chest and it was angry. How dare your father walk into your life and assume he could have control after 6 years. Six years of regaining your life, six years of being yourself, making your own way. Making your way with Jack Abbot being there every step.

Your parents hadn’t given him an easy task, but he was slow and methodical as he’d broken down your walls, finding a beautiful woman who had been freed. And sure Jack had seen you set back plenty of times, when your mother would come out in you, or when your fathers words would burn your tongue as they escaped your lips. But he never left, he’d been determined to make you his, the only life you’d have was the one where he showered you in the praise and love you deserved. Your eyes were locked on your fathers when Jerico bolted to the guest bedroom, a groan coming from the space. 

“I’m going to check on Mason. He needs his medicine.” You left your father at your kitchen island with his mouth agape, your mother following close behind you. When you entered the bedroom she fell at Mason's side crying in his arms.

“Mason I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry. Your father didn’t mean it,” she petted his hair as she spoke, trying to ground herself. “we will figure it out, just come home please baby.” 

Tears welled in Mason's eyes but he stayed quiet, looking to you for direction. Your ears pricked at the sound of arguing in the kitchen but you decided this was more important.

Moving to the bed you pulled your mother up from the floor.

“Love is all we want. To be loved for being ourselves, choosing our own path.” You held your mothers hands tightly, you’d tried to have this conversation with her before coming to Pittsburg but she had been so absorbed in her plan she wouldn’t listen. Now, with her son injured as a result she had no choice. 

“I want to be a part of the family on my own terms. My plan.” Mason finally spoke, your mother nodded her head furiously as she held him tightly. You left some pills and a water bottle by Mason’s bed before interrogating the arguing in the kitchen.

The tension was palpable. Jack stood at the kitchen island, white knuckling the counter top. Your father sat across from him, arms crossed with a smug look on his face. Oh god, Jack was gonna kill him.

“Jack, you’re home,” You walked swiftly to his side, wrapping an arm around his waist. He looked drained, mentally and emotionally. Your phone had been quietly buzzing on the counter, warning of Jack's incoming state. And instead of his lovely wife he was greeted by her father. Who hated Jack simply for loving her. 

“How’s Mason?” He sighed, practically melting into your touch. It was at this moment you’d realized your father didn’t even ask how his son was.

“He’s a tough kid just like I raised him to be,” you answered lightly, carefully watching the anger come back in your fathers eyes. “Yo-yo already sent me a number for a few prosthetics teams, and I emailed the place you got yours. The VA typically doesn't do civillians but he said he owed you a favor, so as long as he’s done growing we can start that process soon.” Jack nodded, keeping his eyes trained on your father.

“Why does he need prosthetics? What are you talking about?”

“Oh. I’d almost forgotten you hadn’t bothered to ask about him,” your words cut deep, the anger finally coming out in you. “Mason had to have part of his leg amputated. The damage from the wreck was too severe.” 

You watched as a sea of emotions played on your fathers face, anger, sadness, maybe even a little spite? He took a deep breath before hitting you with the final blow of his trip.

“Then I guess you and your….husband can keep him. I have no use for another child who will amount to nothing.”

Jack's hands were on his throat before either of you could react, sending the bar stool he was sitting on flying. Your brain went fuzzy at the words, that was all the confirmation you needed that your parents would be leaving but Mason would not. Your whole body tingled with the sensation, not realizing Jack was beating your father till Mason was yelling.

“Yeah get his ass J!!”

“Mason!” Your mother shrieked pulling him back into the guest room. He was wobbily considering the half missing limb. You looked to Jack who had certainly laid a few blows to your fathers face. All it took for him to stop was your fingertips grazing his shoulder.

“You will get out of our home, without your son and your wife,” Jack spoke lowly, a growl rumbling in his throat. “And if I ever hear you talk to or about my wife the way you have today, I will make you wish you were mute.” Jack and your father were on their feet, your father screaming incessantly about how Jack would be hearing from his lawyer. “Call your fuckin lawyers I don’t give a damn. But know you just lost everything good thing you have and you don’t even realize it!” Jack slammed the front door and locked it. You wrapped your arms around him, keeping your body flush to his back.

“Thank you.”

“Baby,” Jack turned around so you were looking at him, the anger that had sat in his eyes replaced with soft love. “I will always defend you from assholes who don’t deserve you.”

You hated to admit that seeing him be defensive, going into soldier mode, it lit a different fire in you. You swiftly walked to the guest room and announced that your father was gone and you’d start to print the divorce papers for your mother. She seemed frightened about what your father would do but you weren’t afraid of anything when you knew your husband had your back all the way. 

Your breakfast ingredients had been abandoned on the kitchen counter, your mother decided to go pick up breakfast and Mason turned on the TV in his room, needing something to escape the chaos that had just happened.

“We have 30 minutes.” You announced as you followed Jack into your room, locking the door behind you. Jack sat at the foot of the bed, removing his prosthetic, being on it consistenly bothered him. For a second you thought about Mason before pushing it aside.

“Are you caging me in Mrs. Abbot?” Jack asked, amusement plastered on his face. 

“All I’m saying is you had a shitty night and had to have a shitty morning, consisting of throwing my father out of our house…I want to make it up to you,” 

The running water of the hot shower masked the abhorrent sounds escaping your lips. Lips and teeth and tongue were in a battle for control. Jack had you flush against the shower wall, using both you and the wall to balance himself.

“M’ sorry about my dad,” you managed through kisses. Jack pulled away, holding your face as his hazel eyes bore into you. God, why did he have to be so captivating? 

“We’re not doing that. I have to admit your parents were the guests that were coming,” he sighed, the creases in his forehead deepening, “I wanted to understand. See it for myself, I should’ve never brought them into our home.”

He waited for you to yell, to leave the shower and berate him, so your deep kisses came as a surprise. Part of you wanted to scream and yell, but the other part of you just couldn’t be mad that he wanted to love you that much more. 

“I love you.”

Jack picked you up and you wrapped your legs around him tightly. Your His muscles rippled beneath your legs as you held each other like a lifeline. He faltered slightly, gripping you with one hand and pushing the other against the wall. He peppered kisses from your collar bone down to the dip in your breasts, singing praises to you as he did. Jack was going to take his time. He was tired, so fucking tired, but you gave him life. He could sleep the day away with you in his arms, but right now, you both needed this. Your hands roamed his back, leaving nail marks in their wake, he was all yours and you were never afraid to claim him. You needed more.

“Jack..” you whined. His eyes shot up from your breasts, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. He placed you on a small shelf that stuck out about waist level. ‘Work smarter not harder’ he’d said as you’d watched him install it years ago. ‘Getting old, don’t wanna have to hold you up the whole time.’ You knew he also used it as a support for his leg, but the thought of him wanting to fuck you that much in the shower made it increasingly better.

You watched as he lowered himself to your sweet spot, small bated breaths escaped your lips. Your hands flew into his silver curls. He started agonizingly slow, feeling every inch of you he could take in his mouth, you yelped as you bucked into his face, his nose hitting your sweet spot. The laugh that drummed against you helped absolutely nothing, only taking you higher.

Your thoughts were hazy but you knew one thing, you would never be good enough for him. You often wondered why he caved, why he let you of all people in. But you would make sure to get on your knees and thank god for him every single day.  “So sweet, so loving, so perfect,” he came back up, capturing you in another kiss. “And all mine. No one else gets you but me,” that boyish grin made an appearance again, sending you reeling as you all but jumped back onto him. You took a moment to really look at him, freckled skin that was often tense now relaxed as he stood before you. He was covered in scars, some white and almost faded, some newer- still red with anger. You traced a scar on his chest, it sat perfectly between his pecs. You remembered that day, he’d been attacked by a vet that came in. He didn’t mean to hurt Jack, he’d been triggered into an episode and attacked on instinct. You almost cried patching him up, the first realization you could lose him, but he reminded you that he was tough. And he would always come home to you.

You slipped off of your perch and switched places with Jack so he could lean on it as you began placing soft, gentle kisses on all his scars. “You're so brave, and strong,” you spoke lowly, sinking to your knees as you kissed the insides of his legs. Jack only hummed, his eyes had fluttered closed as he had taken part of your hair in his hands. “You deserve everything.” You said as you took his length in your hands, stroking it slowly. Jack leaned back, white knuckling the tile to ground himself. 

“Fuck me.” He grunted through gritt teeth.

“I’m trying,” that response got a laugh, his eyes opened as he smiled down at you. You rose moved him again so you could perch yourself on the seat, taking his length with you. Sex with Jack was always like the very first time, it never got old. You lined him up to take you, your eyes were locked in each other, his breath as shallow as he watched you. His gaze was calculated, the gears turning slowly as he panted. You scooched to the edge, trying to stay as close to him as possible.

“Take me.” 

“Y-yes ma’am,” Jack grabbed the fat of your hips to hold you in place before letting himself in. You didn’t think you would ever adjust to how big he was, the heat in your stomach was building, ready to tip over. Jack's head fell into your shoulder as he found his pace, going faster than he had with his tongue but not fast enough to hurt you. Your bodies had become one as the hot water started to run cold, but you didn’t care. Jack panted in your ear, you pressed deep hungry kisses into his freckled shoulder.

“Gonna,”

“Uh huh me too,” 

Jack reached a hand from the small of your back and used his fingers to tease you even more, you bit into his shoulder trying to suppress the moan that escaped your throat. Your hands were tangled in his hair, at the top and at the nape of his neck. You pulled his hair just enough to get a reaction, he nipped at your neck. With a few bucks of your hips, you were spent, Jack held your hips incredibly still. He wanted to make sure you could feel all of him as your walls tightened one last time. Jack cleaned you off before turning the shower off, wrapping the two of you in a towel and staggering to bed.

“I’m home,” your mother called as she opened the door. The smell of French toast making your stomach growl.

“Nice timing Doctor Abbot, truly impeccable,” Jack teased, pressing a kiss into your neck. You giggled and kissed him back. 

“Coming mom!” You hollered back as you threw on whatever warm clothes you could find. “Sleep my love, I’ll be back later,” you laid Jack down in the bed, having to fight him off of you as his fingers fiddled with the band of your sweatpants, your laughter echoed through the room and straight to his heart.

“Love you,”

“Love you too,”

Sure your life hadn’t been perfect, your family was in for a ride, but you were together. And more importantly you had Jack Abbot, who would do anything to protect and keep you. After all, he took till death do us part to the very depths of his soul. He never broke his promises. 

Edit: I FUCKING KNEW HE WAS GONNA HAVE A PROSTHETIC- felt deeply inclined to adjust after seeing that.

taglist: @ebodebo @sceletaflores @yuenity @kchronicallyonline

[draconicks]

THE CALLING

pairings: remmick x indigenous!reader. this is very self-indulgent because i am indigenous! warnings: 18+, slow burn, blood, gore, owls as symbolism, dirty talk, stalking, possessiveness, non-consensual turning. a/n: in this fic, remmick has the ability to shape shift - i couldn't get the idea out of my head and i really wanted to incorporate southeastern tribal culture into the story, especially cause that's where i am from.

tags: @beboppbaby @madkingcrowley

The deep Mississippi marsh had called to you, your name breathing from the weeping trees and in the symphony of cicadas. The wind carried through the house you had once called a home, the doors hinges squeaking ever so slightly.

It had felt surreal, time no longer felt real as you stared down at the pictures that decorated the shelves.

Family photographs from when you were a small child, a toothless grin adorning your face in the pictures. You didn't even recognize the people, feeling little familiarity with the woman and man in the photo.

There was a certain disconnection you had felt once you returned to the home, the warmth was still there, but it had become foreign to you.

Moving from the Delta to the city where people were cold towards one another wasn't an easy adjustment, but it didn't take long before you became accustomed to the city life.

It became all you knew, all that there was - an extreme contrast from where you grew up, where everyone knew each other and where everyone was family; a community.

But, coming back home from the city life had made you jarred.

You didn't really think of coming back home - you never would have thought you would, not after the deaths of your grandparents.

What did make you come home was the calling of your name from the marsh.

Life is funny like that; always keeping you on your toes and leading you places where you never expected.

It didn't help that you had always felt drawn, felt compelled to this specific location, like some entities were calling you home; the place where your flesh and blood meshed with the water and soil, where your family and ancestors had bore their children and died on the same grounds.

It was beautiful.

At the same time, it was chilling - the history that was here.

You could always feel it, even away from home, like a thrumming in your body and eyes on you.

It never failed to make your heart race, you knew someone or something was always watching over you, shadowing your every step.

Always.

"You listen here, child," Your grandfather had said, "This here land is yours. No one can take it, even if you tried to give it to ''em," He leaned forward and gently cupped your face, "Your family is here," He waved around the air with his hand, "And when you need them, they will always be here."

A shiver ran down your spine at the memory.

Your grandparents were the apples of your eyes, always there whenever you needed them, which was a lot growing up. The relationship between your father and mother had always been distant, cold, but when it came to Ome and Papa...it was different.

They were there, not just doing the bare minimum. They loved you something fierce, their love was a warm hug on a chill, Autumn evening, waiting for you to arrive. You never expected that treatment out of your parents.

However, they were no longer here - your parents or your grandparents.

The hearth that raised you was just as you left it, but it was empty. Fragile. Just as you were.

That had been the reason you'd left to begin with - nothing changed around here. And you weren't going to stay in a community where you saw no future for yourself, so you saved up enough money and bought yourself a train ticket.

Then, you were out of there.

But, the deep thrumming and the calling within you never stopped.

And neither did the eyes shadowing your every move, like razors on your back.

You sighed and turned your back on the shelves, sitting down on one of the dusty chairs that still sat in your old living room. It didn't surprise you that your parents didn't take anything with them when they moved out.

They somehow knew you would be coming back.

You furrowed your brows, it was just too uncanny how it seemed like fate was dragging you back here - like you were born to leave only to return to your roots.

Some people that did such a thing never came back, while others did.

Others made home where they journeyed.

Papa used to always tell you that home wasn't a place, it was in your heart.

But, you knew that was only half true.

---

The moon was full, the scent of petrichor and honeysuckle flooding your senses. The wind gently blew through the trees, waving the limbs.

You took in a deep breath, breathing the marsh in - just as it breathed you in.

It was peaceful. Bliss. Just as you had remembered, a place where you could lean into and know you would be caught if you were to fall, where you knew that you would be watched over.

You began to slowly rock in the chair, your heels digging into the wood below.

Just then, the wind shifted, not harshly, but just enough to make the cicadas hush for half a second.

The thrum in your chest stilled, replaced by a hollow pause - like something was waiting.

You stopped rocking the chair and squinted at the far end of the driveway.

The shadows at the edge of the marsh, near the drive, shifted with more purpose than they should have. A figure then stepped into the moonlight, quiet as mist, dressed like a man.

You slowly stood up, walking toward the edge of the porch. Not many people came out this far out of town.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The figure asked. You blinked, you didn't recognize the man.

Almost as if he sensed your caution, he playfully threw his hands up, "Sorry, if I spooked you, I was just on my nightly walk and couldn't help myself to stop by." His accent sounded slightly off, almost forced, but that didn't bother you too much.

Cautious, but still curious, you walked toward him, feet still never leaving the porch "May I help you?" You asked the stranger.

He came forward a little bit, the moonlight illuminating his features, making your breath hitch ever so slightly.

He was gorgeous.

He had a sturdy build - his white button up shirt and dark pants clung to him, highlighting every crevice of his body. He had dark hair that covered his forehead, and complimented his features.

He was clearly not from around here, though - your instincts told you that. "My name is Remmick," He paused, eyes raking your body up and down, "I'm just passing through." He flashed you a grin, too sharp at the sides and too plastered.

A chill ran through your body, but your core squeezed.

"Well, nice to meet you, Remmick." You weren't good at faking friendly. "Where you from?" You asked him, tilting your head. Something about him rang old - old like the roots of the cypress trees.

But not the kind of old that belonged to this land.

He didn’t answer your question right away. Just stood there, that too-sharp grin lingering like a bad taste in your mouth.

"Nowhere special," He said finally. "Everywhere and nowhere, depending on the year."

That wasn’t an answer, and you both knew it. But something in his tone made it sound final.

You shifted your weight, "You some kind of traveler?" You asked him. A feeling of dread began trickling down at you as soon as you asked the question.

The wind picked up again, curling around your ankles like it was trying to warn you. Your Ome used to say that when the trees whispered too loud, it meant someone didn’t belong.

Remmick let out a soft chuckle, his eyes then locking onto yours, "Somethin' of that nature, I been here a long time." His brown eyes danced - you weren't sure with what, but he looked at you like how a cat looked at a toy.

"Odd time to be out walking," You said, folding your arms loosely. "Especially this deep out. Roads are easy to get lost on, if you’re not from here."

"Oh, I don’t get lost," Remmick said smoothly. "I tend to find what I’m looking for.

His eyes darkened, the weight of them made your skin tighten, like your body recognized something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

You’d felt watched before—but this was different.

This was personal.

"You live here alone?" He asked, voice gentle, but wrong in some invisible way. Like a bell rung just off-pitch.

You turned your head, eyes never leaving him, "Depends on who’s asking."

That made him smile wider. The cicadas hadn’t started up again. "Fair enough," He murmured. "I just noticed the place - the porch light, the quiet." A beat of silence, "It called to me."

That stopped you.

It called to me.

Not many folks talked like that. But your family did. Your people did. Remmick wasn’t one of them.

You two stood there for a minute, eyes never leaving each other, one of you rigid, the other one...hungry. The weight of the tension became unbearable for you, you had to say something.

"Well," You cleared your throat, "I best be heading back in now, it's getting awful late."

His teeth glimmered in the moonlight, canines looking too sharp, "Yes, I agree with you," His voice deepened, "You stay safe now."

It felt like a taunt more than courtesy.

You never left the porch before Remmick left your sight, and when he finally left, you exhaled a breath of relief.

Then, you heard an owl hooting.

The owl’s hoot echoed low and long - close enough to feel in your chest. Owls didn’t usually call this near the house, not unless something had stirred them.

Papa used to say owls were messengers. Ome would whisper when she thought you weren’t listening, "Don’t look ‘em in the eye," She'd said once. "They see more than we do."

You cast one last glance toward where Remmick had vanished into the woods, but the trees had already swallowed him whole - like he’d never been there at all. No crunch of underbrush, no footfalls, just quiet.

---

The next day came slow and sticky, the Mississippi sun pouring down in thick sheets that clung to your skin and made the house creak like it, too, was sweating.

You moved through the house, but your mind had wandered, drifting back to the porch, to him.

Remmick.

All night as you tossed and turned, the sound of an owl hooting outside your window had kept you wide awake. Owls didn't come to this side of the Delta either - which made you nervous. It hadn't been the first owl you'd seen, but it was enough to make you wary.

No matter how many times you told yourself he was just a traveler- some odd man with a silver tongue and a stranger’s charm - you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had brought something with him.

Something that didn’t belong to the land but recognized it all the same.

You still felt that gaze again suddenly,like knives digging in your back and the thrumming slowly made its way up from your toes up to your neck. The memory of the moonlight lingered too. The way it had spilled over his skin, made his smile too bright, too sharp.

You began to bury it as you prepared your regalia.

The movements were grounding, familiar, brushing out the fringe, checking the beadwork your Ome once did by hand.

You breathed in the cedar oil you’d dabbed on your wrists, hoping it would quiet the buzz beneath your ribs.

By the time the sun dipped low behind the trees, you were on your way to the pow wow grounds, your shawl folded over your arm and your heart feeling heavier than it should.

The sky was on fire - rose gold and rust - and the scent of frybread and smoked meat danced on the breeze.

The gathering was small but full of life.

Children darted through the grass in a blur of color, ribbons trailing behind them like comets. Aunties sat in circles, gossiping and teasing. The men stood off to the side, nodding to the beat of the drum, arms crossed, eyes soft.

You found a spot at the edge of the circle, close enough to feel the rhythm of the drums in your bones but far enough to keep your eyes on the treeline. You told yourself it was nothing.

But your instincts knew better.

Miss Marla was already in the middle of a story, she sat just outside the main drum circle, her voice as rough and warm as a gravel road after rain.

Everyone quieted when she spoke—elders and toddlers alike.

"Back in the old days," she said, "before the river changed Her course and the fences went up, there was a creature that walked like a man but fed like a beast. It didn’t cast a shadow. Didn’t breathe. It could slip into your dreams, wear the face of someone you loved, take the guise of a night bird, but it had one weakness—it couldn’t lie to the land."

The little boy next to you gasped softly.

"The land always knew."

A few children squirmed in their seats, but the adults didn’t laugh. They knew better.

Suddenly, your heart began to beat a little harder, like your body was sensing something that you weren't just yet. Confused, you brushed it off and tried to refocus on Miss Marla.

The cicadas were still singing in the trees, but you could hear something else beneath the forest, it hummed in your chest like a warning.

You scanned the edge of the circle without thinking. Just beyond the last firepit, where the light faded into shadows, you saw nothing. And yet…

That feeling.

The weight of being watched.

You hugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders, suddenly cold despite the heat. The story went on, but the words began to blur, Miss Marla's voice growing distant and fuzzy.

All you could focus on was the way the moonlight had lit up Remmick’s face the night before—and how the trees had gone quiet, and most importantly, the feeling of being watched.

The way the Earth held Her breath.

Miss Marla's words seemed to go completely mute, your mind somewhere else.

Your body was thrumming, your eyes couldn't seem to stop flickering to the forest.

The calling.

And then, from the tree line...

A scream - high, sharp, and raw.

It ripped through the field like rough hands on fabric.

Everything stopped. The crowd froze, heads snapping toward the woods. The children went silent, the elders’ faces turned grim.

You stood slowly, heart hammering. The scream had sounded human… but not right. Something about it curled your stomach, like it had come from a mouth that didn’t quite know how to scream anymore.

Miss Marla didn’t flinch. She just stared into the trees and muttered low under her breath, a prayer you barely caught. "Eyes wide, children. That ain’t no animal."

Fear tore through you, your nerves hijacked and your hair standing straight up.

Your stomach was getting twisted in knots, and you began to lightly tremble. 'What the hell is happening?' You thought to yourself.

Miss Marla's scanned the circle carefully, observing every single person. But her eyes, once soft turned sharp once they landed on you, her gaze resembling that of a mountain lion - predatory and fierce, "Y/N," her voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes shot towards her, "Is there something you need to say?" She asked, her voice knowing. You couldn't even think of a response.

You were just as stunned as everyone else was.

But, deep down, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you were to blame.

Blame for what? You weren't so sure just yet.

With a shake of your head, you casted your gaze onto the fire pit, and you watched as the flames danced and licked upwards into the sky.

---

After the dances had ended and the elders began to gather their young to leave, you stood off to the side, watching your family as they packed up their belongings.

Some were still spooked by the scream, while others had pushed it to the back of their minds.

You kissed and hugged your cousins goodbye, wishing them farewell on their short journeys back home, the little ones ran up to you, sticky with sweat and grins.

You leaned down to hug them, pressing your face into their hair, inhaling cedar and sweet grass. You kissed the tops of their heads and gave soft goodbyes, your voice caught somewhere between love and unease.

"Y’all be safe now," you said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Auntie Marie pulled you into a hug next, her arms sturdy and grounding. "You coming back to the house?" she asked. "We’ve got leftovers."

You shook your head. "Not tonight. I need some quiet."

She didn’t press you. Just gave your hand a soft squeeze. "Be careful driving home." You nodded.

One by one, the cars began pulling out. Headlights flared, laughter faded, and smoke from the fire pits rose into the darkening sky. You stayed put, the crowd thinning until you stood alone at the edge of the clearing, the lingering hum of something that refused to die with the drumbeat.

When the last car disappeared down the gravel road, the silence settled in.

Heavy.

Your ears rang from the sudden absence of voices. The trees loomed taller now, the shadows deeper. You didn’t want to move, but didn’t want to stay. The thrumming got stronger.

Somewhere behind you, in the woods, a twig snapped.

You turned sharply, expecting - what? You weren’t sure. But all you saw was shadow. Shadow and trees, and the glow of the dying firelight at your back.

Then, you saw it. Perched on a low-hanging branch at the tree line, still as stone, was an owl.

A barred owl, feathers soft and streaked with dusk, its wide eyes catching what little moonlight peeked through the canopy.

It didn’t hoot, it just stared - not at you.

But through you.

Something in you twisted—both in fear and in recognition. The kind that comes from blood memory, from stories told so often they’d become part of your bones. Ome’s voice whispered through your mind, low and steady.

"When the owl comes quiet, watching, it means the veil’s been brushed. It’s a spirit, child - sometimes a messenger. Sometimes a warning."

You swallowed hard, the warmth draining from your limbs. It wasn’t just the owl itself. It was the stillness around it.

No cicadas.

No frogs.

No wind.

Just that gaze.

And suddenly, you were back on the porch, bathed in moonlight, with Remmick’s too-sharp smile and the trees holding their breath.

The way the cicadas had gone silent then, too.

The way he had looked at you - like he knew something you didn’t. Like he could see straight through the years and the land and the skin you wore.

Your mouth went dry.

The owl blinked once, slowly, but it didn’t break eye contact. It didn’t move, and you felt seen. Marked.

Just for a second, in the way the moon curved against its feathers, the silhouette looked wrong. Not like an owl at all.

Like the shadow of a man.

You stepped back instinctively, hand brushing the beaded fringe of your regalia like it might anchor you. The owl finally turned its head, unnaturally slow, and took off, wings spread wide and ghostly, disappearing into the trees without a sound.

You were left standing alone, but you didn’t feel alone.

Not anymore.

---

Hot sweat covered you from head to toe, your bedsheets tangled around your body as you jerked from side to side, your chest heaving with terror.

It was off, it was all off.

You were in your apartment back in the city - everything looked the same, felt the same, but the outside was different, there were no street lights, not sound of cars passing by, nothing.

Dead silence.

The closet just across from your bed was slightly opened, the shadows covering the dresser that sat neatly next to it - covering the chair infront of the mirror. You never left your closet door open, but you were unable to get up and close it.

Panic surged through you.

You couldn't move.

You tried to bend your fingers and your toes, but nothing moved, not even slightly.

Then, you heard a deafening creak from across where you slept. The closet door opened achingly slow, long claws gripping the wood as the creature made its presence known.

Blood red eyes glared down at you, hungry and possessive. Your breath caught in your chest, your body going cold with horror as the creature stepped out of the closet, the silhouette only showcasing a shadowy outline.

"I've waited for you, sugar,"

The voice was deep - too deep for a human and raspy, like it had something caught in its throat.

It then closed its eyes and took a deep sniff, turning its head up towards the ceiling, "You smell just as divine as the day you left," it looked back down at you, taking steps towards the foot of the bed, "I can only imagine just how good you taste," the voice growled towards the end.

Your heart hammered so fast in your chest you thought you were going to pass out.

"I've been calling for you to come back home, my love," it tilted its head, admiring you, "Everybody missed you while you were gone."

'Everybody?' You thought to yourself, you didn't know what the creature was talking about, but it began to slowly loom over you, the mattress dipping as its weight pressed against your body.

Cold.

You whimpered, wishing you could move away, but you were completely paralyzed.

"I missed you the most, though," the creatures eyes trailed downwards, over your chest, your belly, and downwards, between your thighs. The creature then smiled - sharp, bloody fangs filling its mouth, grotesque and beautiful.

The creature tsked, its claws resting on your waist, sharp and freezing, "You always had belonged to me though, from the moment I laid eyes on you," it said, turning its head up slowly and locking its eyes onto yours.

Covetous.

Your eyes flickered toward the window, and there you saw a floating black feather.

"And now," the creature leaned forward, its face buried in the crook of your neck, "I'm going to take what's mine." Your eyes widened, wanting desperately to fight back, punch it, kick it, something, but nothing happened - not even as it's tongue licked your neck, fangs piercing down and-

You screamed, your throat raw and desperate, your body shooting straight up from the small bed you slept on.

For just a second, you were unsure on where you were, but then you looked outside through the window and you saw the familiar marsh trees - lined up in a row in-front of the house.

Relief filled you, your heart slowing down and the room seemed to breathe you back in again, calming your nerves.

It was just a dream.

It wasn't real.

You looked down at yourself, sweat was soaked through the sheets and the comforter felt sticky, like the humidity had seeped through the worn fabric. Disgusted, you stood up and began to strip the bed, including the pillow cases.

Hopefully, you'd be able to get better sleep the next night.

As you gathered up the sheets, you slowly felt the familiar crawling feeling of something watching you - this time, it was different.

It felt impatient, ready to pounce.

Your stomach twisted in knots, but you pushed the feeling down. It was too late at night to be dealing with this.

You moved through the rooms, gathering your clean sheets. You were too tired to worry about a comforter - it was too hot anyways, so once the bed was made, you laid back down and attempted to doze back off to sleep.

The last thing you saw before closing your eyes, were two faint, red dots, peeking down at you from the treeline.

---

The kettle whistles just as you finish telling Aunt Marie everything - the owl perched outside your window the night you came home, the strange energy that swirled around you at the pow wow, and that dream you had your first night back.

The scent of chamomile tea fills the kitchen as Aunt Marie turns off the stove.

She doesn’t look at you right away.

Instead, she sets the kettle aside, her movements slow, deliberate. You hear the creak of the old floorboards under her house shoes as she walks back to the table and sits across from you, her face shadowed by the low light.

Her eyes are fixed on her hands, which are clasped tightly together—knuckles pale, a silver ring glinting faintly on one finger.

"You said his name was Remmick?"

You nod. The name still tastes strange in your mouth, like it doesn’t quite belong to this place.

Aunt Marie looks up then, and the softness in her face is gone. Something older and harder has replaced it - something that reminds you of your Ome when the weather was about to turn bad and she just knew.

"You need to be careful with that man," she says, voice quiet but firm. "There's something...off about him," she murmured as she stirred her tea.

You frown, leaning forward.

There was definitely something off about him, but what were the chances of him being connected with the owl? A white man turning into an owl made you almost smile, if it weren't something you were considering right now.

Aunt Marie sighed, fanning the heat, "Did you give him your name?"

You shake your head, you never even gave him your name, but you knew his.

Her expression softens, relief coating her weathered features. "Well, atleast you're smart enough to not give him that."

A chill runs down your spine.

He didn't need to ask, because he could have possibly known already.

You brushed the thought away, it was impossible.

"The owl was your warning, though," she says softly. "Our people have always known that. It watches, it waits. It carries messages from the other side, from the ones who walked before us. And what you felt at the pow wow—that wasn’t just energy, girl. That was your blood remembering something your head forgot. That was the land calling you back—and calling you to protect it."

You feel your throat tighten. "Protect it from what?"

Her gaze darkened, her hand falling to her lap, "I don't know. But, you might - sooner or later."

You blinked rapidly, not sure what to make sense of what she was saying, whether it was a threat or a promise or both. She then looks up at the ceiling and closed her eyes, her chest moving slowly up and down, "You've always had the gift." she whispered.

You frowned, "That's what Miss Marla and some of the elders used to say."

Aunt Marie dryly chuckled, her gaze landing back onto you, "Well, they're right. You've always been able to look through the veil, baby, you just ain't never paid close attention." Her words made tingles go up your spine and radiate across your arms.

She then leans across the table and gently grabbed your hand, a soft smile etching onto her face, "People who are able to listen to the ancestors and hear their words have the gift."

She releases your hand and stands, walking to the her purse, where a tight bundle of sweetgrass hangs. She pulls a strand loose, lights it, and lets the smoke curl through the room, circling you both.

"This is for whatever it is that ails you, my dear. Everything will be okay soon."

---

The night air was still, very little wind compared to previous nights. You sat there on the porch, arms wrapped around your knees, blanket draped across your shoulders. The cup of untouched tea sat besides you, no longer warm like how you preferred.

Your thoughts churned - from the owl, to Aunt Marie, to Miss Marla's words at the pow wow... to Renmick.

You scoffed, there was no reason why a stranger should be taking over your brain this much, but it no longer surprised you. Nothing really surprised you.

You closed your eyes and listened to your surroundings - the beat of the cicadas, the creaking of the wood beneath you, the frogs in the nearby water, the inhale and exhale of the marsh and it's deep humming, almost lulling.

The sound of a twig snapped.

You looked up, and there he was; same as before - at the end of the drive near the tree lines that were lined up on the side of the house.

The hairs began to stand up one by one, goosebumps blanketing your skin. He looked the same as the other night he had showed up - same white shirt, same dark pants.

Same too sharp grin.

He didn't speak at first, just watched you, a familiar glint in his eyes.

You take a deep breath, "Hello, Remmick," You adjust yourself in your chair, "You on another walk?" You asked him.

"I only came cause you left the light on," He said, his voice soft yet filled the space between y'all. You turned your gaze up at the light bulb above you, its light flickering slightly.

"Yes, I tend to leave my outdoor lights on, no matter what time of day it is," You responded to him.

He then began to take steps towards you, like he was being careful, but was still at ease with himself. He walked with a purpose, nonetheless, shoes shuffling against the earth.

Remmick spoke up, voice just slightly louder, "I'll make mental note of that next time I come around," He stopped in his tracks, "May I sit up there with ya?"

You hesitated, but nodded once and gestured to the empty chair across the porch, just a few feet away from you.

He shot you a grateful look before passing by and sitting down in the chair - you had noticed he scooted it closer to you, but you paid little mind to it.

You two sat there for just a little while, absorbing the moonlight and the fresh air. Knives stabbed into you all over your figure, and the thrumming in your chest hadn't paused, it shifted - no longer in your sternum, but instead in your core and stomach.

Remmick was watching you, analyzing you.

The awkwardness and tension began to settle in, and you felt the urge to break it, his eyes boring straight through you.

"So, how long you been here?" You asked him, turning to him. Sitting directly under the porch light, his hair appeared slightly darker, a reddish tint peeping through.

Remmick smirked at your question, "I'm not sure. I've been here for...a while,"

You quirked a brow, "How long is a while?" You had never seen or heard of him before, so you thought that maybe he had moved to the Delta sometime after you had left.

Suddenly, and maybe it was your imagination, but right after you had asked him that question, it had looked like a flash of red went across his eyes.

It was for barely a second, but your heart had stuttered once you saw it.

His tongue peeked out over his lips, leaving a glisten of spit in its wake, "You sure do ask a lot of questions," He tapped his foot, "I moved here a long time ago."

A beat of silence was exchanged between the two of you. He wasn't going to elaborate and something told you not to press.

He then spoke, "What about you?" He asked. You uncurled your arms from around your legs, "I was raised here,"

You continued, "My whole family was. We were raised here - died here. I think I might have been the only one to leave," You said.

"I was raised primarily by my grandparents, although I lived with my mother and father. Ome and Papa were the ones who taught me everything there was to know about everything; life, medicine, my culture," Your eyes flickered to Remmick, "Spirits."

You swallowed before continuing, "Ever since I left this place, I've felt a calling to come back, like I had unfinished business. I guess, I've felt this way since I was a child - that no matter where I would go, I would always been drawn to come back here."

Remmick nodded his head in understanding, but there was something in his eyes. The curiosity and charm was gone and seemed to be replaced with a longing, a longing you had never seen before. The shadows from the porch covering his head.

"Aye," He said softly, "I sure wish I felt that way about a place, I don't think I'll ever feel that way again,"

Again.

Before you could open your mouth to speak, he looked at you and beat you to it.

"You sure are beautiful," He leaned closer to you, "I didn't get the chance to tell you before."

You blinked.

Then, you felt heat running up to your ears, "Thank you, Remmick. That's awful sweet of you."

He chuckled at your reaction, "I can't lie, not allowed to, so just know that I'm telling the truth." You couldn't help the smile on your face, although now you had even more questions.

Despite the friendliness that Remmick was displaying, you couldn't shake the deep feeling of something feeling off. Something felt too foreign, too intense about him.

You couldn't put your finger on it, but your instincts were raising flags within you.

At the same time; you felt drawn.

You just couldn't help but wonder more about him - it was eating you alive.

"Do you plan on staying here?" He asked you, his gaze venturing off.

You furrowed your brows, you really weren't sure if you were going to stay, but you knew that you were back here for a reason.

What reason? You were still figuring it out. You were trying to figure everything out.

"I'm not sure," You sniffled, "I might, but I really don't know." Remmick nodded his head stiffly, almost like he was containing something.

A whip of coldness then settled in the air.

"If you do leave, where would you go?"

The trees paused and the air went still for a second - as if they too heard the tone of his voice. The question sounded innocent enough, but his voice was suddenly too deep, almost gurgled.

Like the creature from your dream.

Fear penetrated you, your hair standing from head to toe. The shadows began to eclipse the rest of his features, now you were unsure as to what you were exactly looking at, like a man but not quite.

You couldn't find the words to say something back, but he then chuckled and stood up, the shadows covering his entire body, "I think it's time I head back home," His voice had returned to its natural state, but the effect it had on you were still just as apparent.

"I'll see you later, darlin'." His eyes flashed for a second.

Red.

It wasn't your imagination.

After you stepped off the porch, you immediately flew up and into the house, slamming the door shut behind you.

You needed to contact Miss Marla - and soon.

---

Your eyes darted under your lids, frantically searching for something out of nothing.

The sheets were tangled up around your body, cocooning you in their own little sanctuary as you twitched in your sleep, your legs and arms flinching.

The moon over the Delta had turned to blood, cascading a red glare over the land.

You stood barefoot in the marsh, skin damp with sweat and river fog, your breath quiet as the trees breathed with you. Spanish moss hung like funeral veils from the cypress branches, the air thick with something older than rot. You knew this wasn’t the real world—no chirps, no wind moved the reeds.

You’d been here before.

A chill ran through your body, you felt him before you saw him.

A dark figure, cloaked and red eyes then stepped from between two trees like it had always belonged to this place, like it was the creature's home and you were a visitor.

You took a step back, ready to run before the figure then changed. You couldn't believe it.

Remmick.

He was shirtless, his pants unbuttoned and what appeared to be dried blood coated the hem of his jeans. A gold chain was hanging loosely on his neck, moving slightly with each step.

"Hello, sugar," He whispered, voice like silk dipped in ash.

You didn’t speak.

Words were useless here. He moved closer, and the wilderness pulsed around him, every creature gone silent, every shadow leaning toward his form.

"I can smell your blood - your soul - through your dreams," He said, leaning in so close his lips nearly grazed your ear.

"It sings of fire, of bone, of old deities you still whisper to when you think I’m not listening." He took a deep inhale, his nose pressing firmly against your jawline.

"Perfect." He purred.

Your breath hitched.

He reached out - cold fingers grazing your neck, your collarbone, dragging over the ridge of your shoulder like a memorized ritual.

"Do you remember what it felt like, last time?" he asked. "When we were here in the marsh together, when you cracked open and something older slipped between us?"

His mouth brushed your skin, not biting yet - just pressing, lingering, teasing. A ghost of a smile, a genuine smile, threatened to break out on his face.

Two arms snaked around your waist and yanked you closer to him, your body completely flush against his, not letting you go and having no plans on doing so.

Then, without warning, the marsh changed.

The trees bled sap the color of ink, running into the water beneath. Howls and hoots began to echo all around you, meshing into what sounded like human screams. Clouds churned and hissed with unseen wings, the sound of Jericho's trumpet to be expected, but never coming.

Remmick’s eyes turned black, no iris, no white, just endless dark.

"You brought me here," he hissed, voice now layered, inhuman.

"You called me with your grief. Your land is dying, your bloodline hunted, and still... you dream of me."

His hand snaked between y'all and pressed against your chest, palm flattened against your flesh, but not to comfort.

To hold your heart still.

"I helped call you here." That made you break, a vicious sob ripped from your throat. You tried to twist out of his grip, but that only made him hold you tighter.

"I need you to let me in," he whispered. You squirmed and wiggled against him, but it didn't bother him any. If anything, it made him fall deeper in awe.

"I need you to let me in completely - not just in your dream. Let me bury myself within you, in your soul. I will make you just like me - so you can remember everything that’s been taken from you. Forever."

"No, no, no," You cried. This couldn't be happening, this wasn't real, this wasn't going to be your fate. You were back in the city, far, far away from here, far away him.

He then leaned opened his mouth, revealing a line of fangs - saliva dripping down on the sap beneath your feet.

The hand on your chest moved up to your throat, not squeezing but not gentle and he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

A sharp pinch.

You woke.

The room was almost completely dark, the only thing you could see was from the moon peeking through.

And a single whisper in the air, soft and trembling:

"Next time, you won’t wake up."

---

You sat curled on the edge of your couch, hands clutched around a lukewarm mug you hadn’t sipped from in an hour.

The nightmare still clung to you like smoke. No amount of distraction, tea, or whispered prayers could fully shake it loose.

You had half a mind to call Miss Marla, you even picked up the phone before hanging up, guilt wracking you still from the day before - you still thought you were tied to it.

Besides, what were you even going to say? "Something is watching me", "I think a nightmare creature wants to devour my soul?" "The man that I've been seeing might want to kill me?"

No.

But Miss Marla would’ve understood. She always did. She saw the signs before anyone else did—like she had been born watching shadows dance behind the veil.

She always told you since you were a small child, that you were someone who could bring people - spirits - from the beyond the veil.

You never took it into full consideration until now.

Sharply, you jumped up and grabbed your coat hanging next to the front door. You had to see her face. You had to hear her voice, just to make sure - just to feel assured.

As you drove through the Mississippi marsh, the sun had began to dip behind the trees, leaving behind a canvas of purple and orange and red in its wake, leaving behind the day creatures and welcoming the night.

Although you knew you weren't in a time rush, you couldn't shake the feeling of running out of time. You had a gut feeling - no, not gut - a deep, intuitive feeling - that this was going to be it.

You knew it, and the marsh knew it.

The loud calls had turned to whispers, no longer echoing through your ears.

Instead, it became hushed, tedious, with something dark and predatory rearing its head - rushing hastily to call your name, claim you.

What was it? You knew, but you didn't want to accept it.

The air had become too heavy, too still. No cicadas. No frogs. Just the dull rumble of your tires against dirt and gravel.

When you pulled up to her farm, her porch light was off and the horse pen was wide open.

Odd.

Miss Marla never let her house go dark. Not once. And she sure as hell never let her horse gate wide open.

Immediately, dread twisted in your guts.

You stepped out cautiously, gravel crunching underfoot, your breath puffing white despite the spring warmth. A sense of wrongness pressed in around you like fog.

"Miss Marla?" You yelled out, voice trembling. No answer.

The door was open. Not wide, but just enough. You hesitated at the threshold, but something deep in you told you needed to find out what had happened.

You looked down and your body went cold.

An owl feather.

Taking a sharp breath in, you pushed the door open.

The smell had hit you like a train - pungent.

The entire house reeked of copper and soil. Like something rotten had sunk into the floorboards, and made its way underneath the house.

Gagging, your hand flew to your mouth, eyes watering immediately.

Then, there she was. You stumbled back a step, stomach clenching—but it was too late.

You saw her.

Miss Marla was there, slumped in her chair beside the coffee table. Her head bowed like she’d fallen asleep - but the stillness was all wrong. Her eyes were open, glassy, staring at nothing. Her throat torn, mouth slack.

Blood, old and dark was painting across her lap, running from the large gash that protruded from her throat. Her hair, from the midway down, was soaked.

Your knees nearly gave out beneath you.

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks as you backed away, hand clutched to your chest, bile threatening to rise in your throat.

This was a message.

You didn’t remember getting back in the car, didn't remember starting the engine and reversing down the narrow road.

All you knew was the pounding in your ears, the shaking in your hands, and the single, terrible truth sitting in your gut like a stone:

You weren’t safe. Not here. Not anymore.

---

The screen door slammed behind you, you wasted no time in running to the bedroom to grab your bags.

Your body moved on instinct, grabbing your suitcase, stuffing it with whatever you could, your hands shaking, breath coming fast. You’d just left the station, hours of being watched, questioned.

Nobody could believe it, that someone would target her.

But, what made it even more grotesque, was that it had appeared someone had ripped her throat out with her mouth. When you explained this to the officers, they had tried to downplay it until they were dispatched and had seen it for themselves.

The blood had been everywhere.

But, after they were done questioning you, they ordered that you stay put, so they would know where to find you when they needed any answers to their questions.

Yeah, right.

It had been night by the time you left the police station. You knew that time was limited and you needed to get somewhere, not then, but now.

Trembling, you grabbed the phone and dialed, every second an eternity until the line clicked. Relief ran through you, grateful it went through.

"Aunt Marie?" Your voice was barely coherent.

"Baby, what's going on?" Her voice was hushed, but full of concern, she'd been worried over you since the last time she had visited you, which felt like forever ago, but you knew it had only been roughly a few days ago.

"It’s Miss Marla. She’s—" Your voice cracked. "She’s dead."

A beat of silence and then a sharp breath. "How?"

Tears stung your eyes, a painful lump forming in your throat, "Her throat was ripped open, it looked like something-"

"You’ve got to get out of there. Now. Come here. Bring salt and bring your thread. But you don’t look back, you understand me? You don’t look back." You heard her hands tremble over the phone.

Before you could respond, deep, painful thrumming erupted in your chest. You winced, grabbing your chest and clenching the fabric.

And then you heard it.

That low, wrong owl call outside the house.

Slow. Purposeful. Close.

You turned toward the front window, heart already sinking. He was standing just beyond the porch.

Remmick.

Not a shadow this time, a voice on the wind, or a creature from your dreams. He was a man.

Impossibly still. Eyes black as drowned night, the last sliver of sunlight caught the edge of his jaw, the faint curve of a cruel smile.

He stepped toward the screen door.

You dropped the phone. Aunt Marie’s voice was still calling your name, but you barely heard her, all focus on the man that was approaching you - hunting you.

"I always knew you’d come back," Remmick said gently. “You tried to run, but this land… this land calls you home. Just like I do."

"Stay away," You whispered.

He stopped before the entrance of the home, patient and hungry, his teeth no longer dull, but instead a row of knife-sharp fangs.

"I knew what you were before you did," he said. "You walk the boundary. Between flesh and spirit. Between root and bone. You think you hid it, but it’s in every step you take on this dirt."

He tilted his head, eyes glinting and mouth wide.

"You speak to the dead when you dream. You feel the breath of your ancestors in the wind and think it’s just instinct. But it’s more than that. You’re a beacon. You shine through the veil like a lantern in fog - and I saw you. I felt you."

"That’s not your gift to take," You said, voice shaking. "It belongs to the land. To my people. To me."

His gaze sharpened. "It belongs to whoever’s strong enough to claim it."

Bile rose in your throat, "You mean destroy it."

"No," He said, stepping close, eyes devouring you. "I mean preserve it. Through me. Through us."

He pointed up at the entrance of the door, his patience beginning to wear thin, "You need to let me in, darlin'" He purred, "Or else, I'm gonna pay your little auntie and cousins a final visit."

Ice spread through you. You knew he was being serious.

For a split second, you thought of the sweet grass in the kitchen. Maybe if you lit it and prayed he would go away? No. Maybe some garlic from the cupboard.

You shifted, he took a step back, letting you know he would do it.

Tears fell down your face.

You could barely breathe. “Why me?”

His voice dropped, velvet and grave-deep. "Because, sugar, I love you. I’ve loved you before you were born. Before your name was ever whispered by firelight. You’re not just connected to the dead - you belong with them. With me."

Lips pressed firmly in a thin line, you took a step forward. You weren't going to risk the life of your cousins - barely old enough to be in school and the life of your aunt who only wanted to help you.

Besides, you knew that Remmick was partially right, you did belong with the dead; your ancestors. You always had.

"If I'm going to step out, I need you to back away." Your tone was flat, completely devoid of emotion. This was it.

A flash of victory passed over his face, and he began to step back, leaving you plenty of space to walk outside to him.

Your steps were heavy, like you were stepping in quicksand rather than wooded floor. The closer you approached him, the happier he got, his hand extending out to you. His claws protruded, curved and black. "I'm here for you, baby."

Once you reached the entrance, you took a deep breath. One more step and you were his.

Your eyes darted. He was standing about 5 ft- maybe 6ft from the door, and there was an opening on the porch, next to one of the chairs, where it led straight to the marsh. Could you make it?

He beckoned you, fingers curled in a 'come hither' motion, "Come on, I gotcha'." He whispered.

It's now or never.

You darted.

You slapped his hand out of the way and took off, feet as quick as you could possibly bear it. Your throat and lungs burned, the marsh opened to you and ushered you in, the scent of it -

Two rough hands snatched your waist.

Cold and territorial.

"Now, now, pretty thing," He whispered against your ear. "We both know that you can't run or hide from me, so don't bother tryin'," He pressed his face against yours, lips on your cheek as he inhaled deeply.

"You make the dead sing, and I am so, so tired of silence."

You struggled and began to scream before his hand slapped over your mouth. "Now, don't make me upset now - screamin' won't get you nowhere,"

He bared his fangs.

"Screamin' was what ole' Marla had done," His voice hushed, "But, that didn't last for very long - not before she invited me in,"

Your heart ached, the thought of Miss Marla-

A guttural wail bubbled up, unleashing into his palm as he tried to shush you, his nose buried in your hair, "It's okay, baby, I won't make it hurt too bad now,"

His head trailed from your hair to the crook of your neck, before nuzzling against you. Hot, wetness hit your throat, his tongue lapping at the fragile skin. You stilled, too scared to move. This was it, this was how you were going to die.

Remmick opened his mouth.

Then pain - blinding, searing - as his teeth sank into your neck.

Your knees buckled, his arms tightened you against him, never letting you go. Loud groans of ecstasy came from him, as if it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. It reminded you of vulgarity.

Darkness blotted your vision, replacing the lightness as you began to feel yourself drift away.

Time unraveled.

You saw the faces of your ancestors, you heard their screams, you watched them vanish.

The world dimmed.

Your heartbeat faded—

And stopped.

When your eyes opened again, everything was different.

You could feel the earth like a drum beneath your feet. You could hear the ghosts calling. But they did not answer you anymore, instead they watched you.

Remmick looked down from above you, smiling - triumphant and adoring, blood coating his chin and shirt.

"You were the one who heard them," He said, brushing your hair from your face. "Now you are one of them."

You were no longer just of the land. You were cursed to haunt it.

Forever—

with him.

[atlabeth]

in over my head

masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem gideon!reader

summary: between all the arguments, you and spencer begin to understand each other a little bit more.

a/n: wauw.... out of nowhere i wrote 4k words and finished this chapter in one night... god bless spencer reid. i hope you all enjoy. r's cold heart is finally starting to defrost. title from the fray song

wc: 5k

warning(s): arguing, case discussions (stalking, murder, etc), talk of parental neglect, hurt w/o comfort then hurt/comfort. r lowkey freaking out this whole fic. the usual good time

You lean against the wall, trying to keep your breathing as quiet as possible. 

You don’t really want Spencer to know you were eavesdropping on him the whole time. You don’t really want him to see the look on your face because he defended you to your dad. 

He— he should expect it, shouldn’t he? He’s sitting out in the living room on the phone, and you’re you. It’s only natural you’d listen in on him. 

Spencer defended you to your dad— mouthed off to him in very un-Spencer-like fashion. 

Why? 

From what you’d gathered, he practically worshipped the guy. Even if he didn’t, your dad was still his superior. It didn’t really seem like any kind of good idea to talk back to him. 

But he did. 

For you. 

You thought Spencer merely tolerated you because he had to. You wouldn’t blame him, the way you treated him. So why would he do something like that for you?

You’re jarred out of your thoughts when you hear Spencer say your name. You blink back into yourself to see him standing in front of you, and you feel your face burn. 

So much for not being obvious. 

“I’m assuming you heard everything?” he asks.

You nod. You have the decency to not insult his intelligence, at least. 

“That means we can go over everything,” Spencer says, already starting to walk away. “Come on.”

You frown. You expected him to be mad at you for eavesdropping, or use what he did for you as leverage for something, or— or do anything but act normal. 

You shake yourself out of your thoughts once again as you follow him back to the living room. Spencer sits back down on the couch and you tentatively sit across from him. 

“I don’t want what I said to scare you,” he says. “Hernandez may be our lead right now, but I doubt it’ll stay that way. Elle and Morgan are going to check him out, and I’ll get another call once they do.”

You blink. Of course he’d expect you to be focused on that part—your stalker, the threat against your life, the whole reason you’re in here. Not Spencer sticking up for you. 

“Right,” you say. “Do you think it’s him?”

“Honestly? No.” Spencer sighs and shakes his head. “You heard what I said. He doesn’t fit the profile—he’s a man who made the worst choices of his life when he lost everything. If he’s been released, he might have actually changed. We’re only on him because he’s all we’ve got.”

“…Good,” you say. “Strangling wouldn’t be my top way to go.”

“You need to stop talking like that,” he says. 

“I need to stop doing a lot of things,” you respond. “Any idea how much longer we’ll be in here?”

Spencer shakes his head. “We’re here until this case is solved or our cover is blown.”

You huff. “Like if this guy finds us again?”

He nods. “But that shouldn’t happen. Elle, Gideon, Hotch, and Strauss are the only ones who know about this place, and they’re obviously sworn to silence.”

“Strauss?”

“Erin Strauss,” he says. “The BAU’s section chief.” 

“Ah.” You realize you’re still holding your mug, now empty, and you lean forward to set it on the table. “What happens if we’re made?” 

“You’ve got to stop thinking about the worst case scenarios,” Spencer says. “Pessimism doesn’t just make anxiety, depression, and paranoia worse—it can raise your blood pressure, increase your chance of cardiovascular problems, and mess with your immune system. It’s literally bad for your health.” 

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” you ask. “I’ve got a stalker and we didn’t realize until he’d been watching me for a month. Your team has only got one lead and you don’t even think it’s the right one. That sounds pretty negative to me.” 

“We’re still at the beginning of this case,” Spencer says. “It usually takes a few bodies for us to figure out what’s really going on and find the unsub in our regular cases.” 

You stare at him, and he seems to realize what he’s actually said. 

“Of course, there won’t be any bodies in this case!” he rushes. “You— you’re going to be perfectly fine!” 

“You’re really not great at reassurance,” you say wryly as you pick up your cup and stand up, “are you?” 

“Homicides only occur in two percent of stalking cases!” Spencer continues, his voice rising as you go into the kitchen. “A- and you might not even be the primary target! If anything, he might be going after your dad!” 

By now you’ve finished filling your mug again. You stop at the edge of the hallway when he finishes, leveling a tired look at him. 

“Thanks, Spence. That really helps.” 

You walk back to your room, and once again, you only close the door halfway to humor his concerns. 

If you’d lingered a little longer, you would have been able to see his frown. 

“Spence?” he murmurs in confusion.

-

The rest of the day goes by smoother than you thought it would, largely because Spencer keeps his distance and you don’t fight it. 

You busy yourself with more cleaning—you never finished it after your last outburst—and when you finish that, you read. You find Pride and Prejudice in the box of books the BAU provided, and it’s a good distraction. You’d much rather worry about the problems of the Bennets rather than your own. 

You end up cooking first, and you offer Spencer some of your pasta when you finish. He initially looks shocked at the olive branch, but you figure you owe him something for all he’s put up with. 

You don’t tell him that, of course. You just tell him he has five seconds to make a decision before you finish the rest, and he snaps out of it pretty quickly. 

(“I promise I’m capable of cooking,” he says as he spoons a helping into his bowl. “I— I just don’t have much time for it. We’re always out on cases so we go to a lot of restaurants, and I get take-out at home because I get home at ungodly hours.” 

“Just shut up and eat your food,” you say. “I don’t need to hear your opening statement.” 

“Actually, I wouldn’t call this an opening statement. It’s more of—” 

“Oh my god.” You pick up your bowl and walk off. “Goodbye.”

“I think it’s more of a witness testimony!” he calls out.)

A similar thing happens with dinner, where you pull out the old reliable of chicken and rice. Dressed up a bit with some of the vegetables that are somehow already on the verge of going bad, but still the same thing you’ve eaten a million times throughout your life. You don’t really feel like cooking, but you also don’t feel like having to hear Spencer set the smoke alarm again, so you settle for this. 

(“You know,” Spencer says as he cuts into a chicken thigh, “I should really be trying everything first. Just in case there’s poison or something.” 

You stifle your incredulous laugh. “How would there be poison in anything? You all bought and brought this stuff in.” 

He shrugs. “I don’t know. But you can never be too careful.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” you say. “I— I think that is the most ridiculous thing you’ve said since I’ve met you.”

“I hope you’re not challenging me,” Spencer says. “Because I can beat it very easily.”) 

Between that, he calls out on occasion to make sure you’re still alive. You think it’s stupid, but it seems to ease his mind, so you play along.

He gets a call from your dad late at night, which he then goes on to relay to you—Agents Greenaway and Morgan paid a visit to Adam Hernandez, and they weren’t able to find anything suspicious. Penelope Garcia is going to comb through everything she can find on what he’s done since his release before they officially abandon the lead, but Hernandez is on parole and hasn’t violated it once—he seems to be clean. 

You don’t know whether you’re thankful for that or not. On one hand, you want this to be over. Getting lucky on the first suspect would be great. On the other hand, having a face to all of this scares you more than not knowing. You still have the chance to deny that all of this is real, really real—when they find their guy, you can’t do that anymore. There’s actually someone out there that wants to hurt you. 

The thought crossed your mind more often than not. 

Other than that, he doesn’t really bother you. Another thing where you don’t really know if you’re thankful or not. 

It’s close to midnight, and though you haven’t been able to sleep, you’re ready to accept this as another, thankfully non eventful day. 

But then there’s a huge flash of lightning, visible even through your closed blinds, followed closely by a deafening crack of thunder, and your whole body freezes up. Your hands stop on the page you were on, and a chill runs all the way through you despite the layers of covers you’re under. 

Rain has been pittering against the house for half the night, and you can deal with rain. You can’t deal with thunderstorms. 

You let out a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. The absolute last thing you need to do is work yourself into a panic attack and get Spencer involved. You don’t think you could take the embarrassment. 

You attempt to go back to your book. You’d just arrived at Mr. Collins’ unsuccessful marriage proposal, but you can hardly focus. It doesn’t help when lightning illuminates your room once again, a clap of thunder sounding even quicker after, and your lamp flickers for a moment. This is actually the last thing you need—for the power to go out. 

A knock on your door suddenly sounds, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You’re already on edge and the storm’s just barely started. You hear Spencer call your name and ask if you’re awake, and you clear your throat before you respond. 

“What do you want?” You try to keep your voice as level as possible, but it wavers ever so slightly. 

“Can I come in?” 

You don’t want him to see you like this. “Is there something wrong?” 

“It’s the storm,” he says, and he doesn’t wait for you to respond. “I’m coming in.”

You have all of two seconds to make sure you don’t look as pathetic as you feel before Spencer walks in.

He looks like he just got out of bed. He’s wearing a Caltech crewneck and sweatpants, and his glasses are about to fall off his face. His disheveled appearance is in stark contrast to his usual image, with dress pants and button-ups and sweater vests galore. One of his hands clenches around the doorframe, and he uses the other to haphazardly push his glasses up as he sets his eyes on you.

“You need to come back into the living room,” Spencer says. 

“And good evening to you too.” You try not to look at him. You’ve learned that’s the best policy when it comes to him and those stupid glasses. “Why?”

“Because there’s a storm going on, and the power’s already flickered,” he says. “I don’t want to lose track of you if it does go out.”

“If the power goes out, we’re in the open out there,” you say. “If you’re so worried about it, you should stay in here.”

You expect a fight, but he just sighs and sits down in the chair across from your bed. “Fine.”

You frown. “That was easy.”

“I don’t feel like fighting with you over every little thing,” he says simply. “You might enjoy it, but I don’t. So I’m trying to take the path of least resistance.”

“That’s no fun,” you say.

“Well, you’re not very fun to be around,” Spencer says. He glances at you for a split second before his gaze goes back to the wall. “So.”

“Well, neither are you!” You don’t mean for your retort to come out so defensively, and you cringe as he looks back at you. It’s impossible to be around profilers without them knowing your every intent. You’d hate to know all the thoughts he’s had about you. “I might turn everything into a fight, but you turn everything into a drag.” 

“You’re doing it again,” he says. You expect him to go on, but he leaves it that. You find your brows furrowing deeper. 

“And?” 

“Maybe if you recognize your patterns, you’ll stop,” he says. “Sometimes people don’t realize they're doing something until it’s pointed out to them.” 

You huff. “How many times do I have to tell you not to psychoanalyze me?” 

“I don’t choose to do it,” Spencer says. You don’t miss the slight bite behind his words, and it almost makes you smile. As much as he doesn’t want to give you a fight, he can’t really help himself. You tend to bring out the worst in people. “It just happens in my brain automatically.” 

“Try to hold back,” you say. “It—”

Your words die in your throat with another crash of thunder, almost simultaneous with the lightning. It shakes the whole house, and you can’t help the full body flinch that wracks you, almost freezing completely. The power flickers again, and then it goes out altogether. You don’t even hold back your groan of annoyance. 

“Of course,” you grit out. “Of fucking course.” 

“Are you okay?” You look at him despite yourself, and even in the dark you can see the concern in his eyes. It makes your hands clench into fists beneath the sheets.

“Fine,” you mutter. “It doesn’t matter.”

Spencer frowns. “Of course it does.”

You scoff. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Why would it not matter?” he asks incredulously. “You— you’re clearly distressed, and holding it back isn’t helping anyone.” 

“Maybe I just like silence.” 

“Well, you clearly don’t like storms.” 

“How’d you figure that one, genius?” you mutter. You wrap your arms around yourself and pull your knees up to your chest, trying to lessen the sudden chill you feel. 

“...Normally, I would give you a real answer,” Spencer says. “But based on the lecture you just gave me—” 

“You figured right,” you snap. It only takes a second—and those stupid, soft eyes of his to dart away again—for you to feel… bad. 

He sighs and shakes his head as he stands up. “I’m going to get a candle. Stay put.” 

You tense as he walks out. Your whole body does, actually. You don’t know what it is about him or those stupid eyes that always manage to skirt out sympathy from you. 

You should feel gratified. At the start of this, you wanted to push Spencer to his limits—he’s too nice for his own good, and you wanted him to not only give you a more concrete reason to hate him, but get a reason to hate you back. Then you wouldn’t have to deal with this one-sided rivalry with the apparent saint of the BAU. 

But you don’t. You feel bad, and you hate it. You hate it more than any reasonable person should, but then again—you’ve never been reasonable. 

Spencer comes back in sooner rather than later, two lit candles in his hands. You can see the on-sale sticker plastered on the side of both, and you suppress a laugh. It’s something so small but so typical. 

“One’s vanilla, and one is,” he squints as he shifts it in his hand to read, “beach escape. What does a beach escape even smell like?” He shakes his head, then looks at you. “Which one do you—” 

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt. You blurt it out before you can even stop yourself. 

This time, it’s Spencer’s turn to frown. His face is illuminated from beneath by the candlelight and it gives him an almost haunting beauty, highlighted with yellow and white along his jawline and cheekbones. The flames are mirrored in the lenses of his glasses. “For what?” 

“For snapping.” You almost snap at him again out of instinct, and you let out a long, loose sigh in an effort to try and chill out for once. “Sorry. Again.” 

“Oh.” He stands there for a moment holding the two candles, and it could be a laughable sight were you not near consumed with guilt. “Uh— it’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“Fine,” he says, “it’s not. Which candle do you want?” 

“Which one do you want?” 

“This isn’t where you have to start the ‘being nice to me’ thing,” Spencer says. “They’re kind of starting to burn my hands.” 

“Beach escape,” you say. He nods and sets it on your bedside table, then sits back down in his chair after placing the vanilla one in the window sill. 

“You… seem a little pent up,” Spencer says after letting the silence dwell for a beat. His shoulders have relaxed some, not hunched up almost to his ears. Small victories, at least.

“I don’t talk about my emotions much,” you respond in equal fashion. “It’s not really my thing.” 

He shrugs. “Why not start now?” 

You laugh. “Why would I ever start now?” 

“You said it yourself,” he says. “I have a psychology degree. I’m a good listener.”

“You interrupt me all the time to say stuff.”

“You interrupt me all the time too, so I guess we’re even.” Spencer shifts in his chair. “Besides, I can listen when it’s important. And this is.”

You stare at him. He stares back. 

He has beautiful eyes even in the dark, and you hate that you can’t deny it. Deep brown like the oaks surrounding this place, that shine like pools of honey in the firelight, that always seem to soften just so when he looks at you.

You break first. You have to look away. You always have to look away. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you manage. “I was a latchkey kid. Storms happened a lot when I was home alone and they scared me. I guess they still do. Happy?” 

“Believe it or not, your pain doesn’t make me happy,” Spencer says. 

“I didn’t think it did,” you say, trying your best to snap. 

He nods. “So we’re in agreement?” 

“I—” you pause, a slight frown creasing your brows. “I guess.” 

Spencer nods again, and he leans forward a bit. “Wasn’t that a lot better than fighting with me, getting upset, and isolating yourself?” 

You scowl. “Don’t you dare therapize me.” 

“It’s hard not to,” Spencer says. “Especially when you seem determined to make our conversations one-sided.” 

You scoff. “I do not.” 

“You act like talking to me is a physical pain.” He crosses his arms. “You locked yourself in the bathroom last night to avoid talking to me.” 

“I locked myself in the bathroom so I wouldn’t lose my mind in front of you,” you say. “Just because I know everything about you doesn’t mean I want you to know everything about me.” 

Spencer scoffs. “You don’t know everything about me.”

“My dad talks about you more than you think,” you say. “About your whole team—but especially you.”

“Where am I from?” he asks. 

“Vegas,” you say. “He mentions it every time you beat him at cards.”

“That— that doesn’t really matter,” he says. “I know you’re from Fairfax.” 

“The worst place in the world,” you say emphatically. You can’t believe you’ve been stuck in NoVa your whole life. “Doesn’t count, though. You’re an FBI agent—you’re supposed to know things like this.” 

“So it counts when you know it, but it doesn’t count when I do?” Spencer asks. 

You nod. “I’ve heard about Penelope Garcia. I’m more surprised you don’t know everything about me by now.” 

“Me too,” he says. “Garcia can find anything. Gideon really did a good j—” 

He stops in the middle of his sentence, his eyes widening slightly as he clamps his mouth shut. 

“What?” You lean forward, looking him in the eye. “He did a good job doing what?” 

“I don’t want to start another argument,” he says. 

“Oh, poor you.” You don’t think you could sound more sarcastic if you tried. “You don’t want to hear me talk about my absent father that didn’t have time for me because he was too busy with you.” You glance away. “You don’t know what it feels like.” 

“There’s something you don’t know about me then,” Spencer says. “Because I do.” 

“Unless your dad’s ignored you all his life in favor of his job and the stray genius he found there, you really don’t.” 

“My dad left when I was a kid because he couldn’t deal with my mom’s schizophrenia,” Spencer retorts. His words get you to look right back at him—they’re not overly sharp or exceedingly soft, just matter-of-fact. “I haven’t seen him since. So you’re right—I don’t know exactly what it’s like, but I know a hell of a lot more than you think.” 

Regret hits you immediately, sour and spiny as it settles in your chest. You’ve been an asshole to him this whole time, and all along he’s held this inside of him? All along, you’ve been accusing him of stealing your life from you when he’s lost more than you have. 

For a moment, you can only stare at him, at a loss for words. He meets your eyes in equal measure. You might know a lot about Spencer Reid, but you’re quickly realizing you don’t know Spencer Reid. 

“Guess we’re a lot more similar than you thought,” he says in your silence. 

“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” you murmur, finally managing to muster up words. “That’s awful. You didn’t deserve that.” 

“No one does,” he shrugs. This time, he’s the one to look away. “But it is what it is.” 

“How can you just say that?” you ask. You lean forward, a frown creasing your brows. “How are you not just— just angry all the time? That your dad doesn’t give a fuck about you or your mom?” 

“For a while, I was.” He chuckles, but there’s no heart in it. “I was angry at everyone. My dad, my mom, the adults around me— I hated myself most of all. It’s part of the reason I was so good in school. I didn’t want to think about it, I didn’t want to deal with it, so I studied as hard as I could, read as much as humanly possible.” He smiles thinly at nothing in particular. “Turns out I’m very good at avoiding things when I want to.” 

You shake your head with a scoff. “You’re a better person than I am. I would have hunted him down by now and given him a piece of my mind.” 

“It’s not worth it.” Spencer looks back at you. “He decided he didn’t want to be a part of my life. I’m not going to reward him by letting him ruin it when he’s not even here.” 

Is that what you’re doing? Letting your dad ruin your life by letting him occupy every part of it even when he’s not there? He’s influenced every part of your life, every part of you, and he hasn’t been here for half of it. Sometimes you’re surprised he didn’t miss your birth.

Another flash of lightning, another crack of thunder. You tense every muscle in your body to stop yourself from flinching as hard in front of Spencer. You think he notices anyway.  

“I’ve been angry at my dad since I was a kid,” you say once you’ve recovered. “He missed my dance recitals and my gymnastics meets and my soccer games, but he signed the checks for all of the payments. He told me to take honors and AP classes and missed the ceremonies for the awards. He was never there for anything that mattered, but—” you laugh again, and you blink back the tears— “but he waited until I was eighteen to get a divorce so I wouldn’t have to deal with a custody battle.” 

You bite down hard on your lip to force them back even harder as you look at Spencer. “Isn’t that fucked up? Neither of them have been there for us, but they’ve still shaped every part of us with their absence. We can’t escape it even when they’re not here, because them not being here is what caused it.” 

“I refuse to give him that much power,” Spencer says. “My dad left. He chose to leave. He doesn’t want anything to do with me, so I don’t want anything to do with him. I mean, I’m an FBI agent. I work with some of the best profilers in the world. I could find him if I wanted to, but I’m not going to waste my time chasing some pipe dream of a father that doesn’t exist.” 

“Your situation is different, though.” Both his eyes and tone soften, and something inside you stirs. “The only break I know Gideon’s taken was that six month medical leave that was practically forced on him. I think it would take an actual, life-threatening injury to get him to take another one. It’s a lot different having someone around and just… being neglected.”

“I’ve just always felt like such an asshole for it,” you mutter. “You all save lives every day. You’ve taken down a thousand sick criminals.” You shake your head with another mirthless laugh. “My dad saves women like me every day, gives them the chance to see their fathers again, and I’m mad at him because— because he won’t meet me for brunch? Because he missed my school band concerts?” 

“It’s not that simple,” Spencer says. “It’s never that simple. You don’t need to feel bad for hating him, but you also don’t need to feel bad for loving him, too.” 

You scoff. “There you go again with the psychology degree.” 

“It’s the truth,” he says. “Just because you feel rightfully angry doesn’t mean you don’t still love him. It’s part of the reason why you’re so conflicted about him.” He gave you a wry smile. “It makes everything a lot more complicated, doesn’t it?”

You shift in your bed. “Far cry from everything you told me before all this started.” 

“We see completely different sides of Gideon,” Spencer says. “I’m just… ashamed that it took me so long to believe you about all of it.” 

You huff a laugh. “I’m the one that should be ashamed. I thought you had this— this perfect life, with my dad loving you on top of it. That’s why I hated you so much.” 

He perks up. “Hated? As in, past tense? As in, you don’t hate me anymore?” 

You try to bite back your smile. You barely succeed. “Call it a truce.” 

Spencer grins and nudges his glasses back into place once again. “This might be my favorite truce since 1914.” 

“Christmas Truce,” you nod. “Good one.” 

“You know it?”

“Of course I do,” you say. “I’m a teacher.” 

Spencer blinks. “You— you are?” 

“Why is that such a surprise?” you ask. 

“You’re so…”

“Mean to you?” You chuckle. “Trust me, I’m not like this with my kids. My job is one of the parts of my life that I’m actually happy with.” 

“...Huh.” Spencer smiles at you, and you find yourself smiling back, subconsciously. “You should tell me about it sometime.”

“Sure,” you nod. “Maybe you can tell me about everything you do sometime.” 

“You’re sure you won’t get bored?” he asks. “You might not realize, but I have a tendency to rant.” 

You laugh. “Part of our truce.” 

This time, he nods. “Cool. That— that’s cool.” 

You roll your eyes as you look away, but your smile betrays you once again. Your gaze snaps over to the lamp as it flickers back on, and you realize you haven’t heard any thunder in a while. 

“Looks like the storm’s passed.” Spencer separates two of the window blinds with his fingers and peers through. You’ve never really focused on his hands like you do now—with the way you feel your face burn, it’s probably a good thing. You look away as soon as possible. “Just rain, now.” 

“Good,” you say, and you let out a yawn. “All our talking tired me out.” 

“Good,” he echoes as he picks his candle up from the window pane. “You should get eight hours of sleep a night, and I know for a fact you don’t.” 

You roll your eyes. “Whatever, professor.” 

“You’re the teacher here,” he says. “I should be saying that to you.” 

“And yet you’re so much more annoying than I could ever be,” you muse. 

“Does our truce include this?” 

“Naturally.”

Spencer chuckles and shakes his head. He starts walking to the doorway, but you speak up before he can leave. 

“Night, Spencer.” You pause as you bite the inside of your lip, then continue before you can stop yourself. “I really enjoyed talking with you.” 

He hesitates for a moment, his hand lingering on the doorframe. Then he bids you goodnight in the same fashion, actually saying your name. “I did too.”

It makes your heart skip a beat. 

Spencer closes the door behind him, and you find yourself staring at the wood long after he’s gone. You jolt when you finally come back into yourself, and you shake your head to get out of the haze. 

You glance at the clock on your bedside table, and blink when you realize it’s almost 1:30. You really do need to get to bed. 

The smoke makes you cough as you blow your candle out, and you wave a hand around to dispel it before you turn the lamp off. You lay down and pull the sheets up around you. You end up having to switch positions at least five times before you start to get comfortable. 

But the strangest thing is plaguing you despite your restlessness. You were freezing before the storm started, even when the electricity was working, but now there’s a strange warmth attempting to permeate within you. It almost helps you relax. 

The room feels a lot smaller without him in it. 

You exhale, long, slow, and deep as you close your eyes. The scent of vanilla lingers in the air.

You hope you don’t dream tonight. 

[gotaksboyfie]

hi i <3 ur fics so much! i saw ur gotak x short reader and it’s so cute, can u do a baku ver of it? thank u so much

-🧛🏻‍♀️🖤🫀

baku with a short partner

general

gif creds: @billornot

» will always make jokes of your height. the jabs are just light hearted fun, but if he notices that they actually bother you he'll apologize and stop. sometimes he gets a little.. spicy with them. (y/n! i know a way for you to get taller!" baku beams at you, waiting for your response.

"..and what is it?"

"well, i know a way we can put some inches in you")

» he thinks its funny how you have to tiptoe and jump to match his height. he'll pick you up and hold you to the sky simba style, talking about how you're finally his height.

» baku's height means he's your personal step ladder. if you can't reach anything, a shadow will suddenly loom behind you and grab it for you. he'll always show up, somehow. he even lets you climb him like a jungle gym, clambering onto his back.

» very fond of having you sit on his shoulders. he likes hearing you exclaim at what you see. definitely not because he likes feeling your thighs around his neck haha.. and definitely not because he likes grabbing at your legs.. (he's a huge pervert 😔)

» baku's hands are already abnormally big because he has fists the sizes of boulders, but compared to yours they completely dwarf yours.

» being so much smaller, you get cold very easily. lucky for you, baku's a walking heater. just being next to him can warm you up. holding his hands even in cold weather will always make yours sweat with the heat

» you have to tiptoe up to fix his collar, or dust off lint on his shirt. baku is well aware of this, and sometimes refuses to lean down just to see you get frustrated and pull him down yourself (he likes it a little too much..)

» has to semi-squat down when you guys take photos, or else you look like a child compared to him. more than once, people have mistaken you for his younger relative. it embarrasses you because do you really look that young next to him???

» in crowded areas, he has to keep a hand on your head for two reasons. to make sure you don't wander off and to not lose you. in a sea of people, your head disappears almost instantly. and baku's not smart enough to pinpoint which head is yours

» literally always picking you up. it's more efficient, he says. with your short legs you can't really match his pace, so he'll just toss you over his shoulder like a sack or piggy back you. your most used method of transportation is now baku, wink wink

» when cuddling, once he has his arms around your waist, you're stuck. nothing is going to unlatch him from you. even if you want to turn to your side, he'll just flip the both of you

» opens anything and everything for you. the first time he sees you struggling to open a jar, he vows to never let you do it again. since then, he's constantly rushing to open your things for you, even if it's something you can easily do

» with your short stature, baku can manhandle you anyway he wants without even breaking a sweat

fin

a/n tysm for enjoying my fics! i hope this is good enough ><