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zvtara-was-never-canon · 1 year

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Katara comforts Aang when he found gyasto dead and lost appa =momtara /emotional labor aang is obviously an abuser

Mai not comforting Zuko in awakening in a way that makes him happy =abusive girlfriend she should have comforted zuko better, because she can totally get rid of his guilt over iroh and katara could do it better.. despite us its toxic how she has she to comfort aang

Zutaras: having logic and not having double standards , not possible

And don't forget:

Katara always speaking her mind even when people think she's wrong/obnoxious/stupid for it, going against Pakku for saying what she can or cannot be, and not letting Zuko get away with being a dick to her or others: Girlboss! Feminist icon! Deserved so much better than the (perfectly happy) ending she got in canon!

Mai always speaking her mind even people think she's wrong/obnoxious/stupid for it, resenting her parents and Azula for saying what she can or cannot be, and not letting Zuko get away with being a dick to her or others: What a selfish, petty, self-centered, ignorant, cold-hearted, sociopathic bitch! Can't believe the show let her get away with this shit!

Katara showing compassion and empathy for Zuko and offering to heal his scar even after he spent months chasing her and her friends around the world, with the explicit intention of capturing one of said friends and keep him hostage forever/kill him, and to help his nation continue to oppress the rest of the world: Such a kind, wise character! Such a lovely, meaningful moment!

Mai saving Zuko's life even after he broke up with her through a letter because he was one of the few people that liked her for who she was/would not abuse his power over her like Azula does: God, what a pathetic loser that throws her whole life away for a guy.

Kataang and Maiko PDA: Obnoxious, forced and stupid.

Zuko tying Katara to a tree/Katara touching Zuko's scar with the explicit intention of healing it, nothing more than that: such a hot/tender, intimate moments that show how much chemistry these two characters have!

Zuko getting violent and snapping at Mai because some guy she did not even pay attention to seemed to be into her, then trying to make a move on her after she literally shouted "LEAVE ME ALONE!": How dare MAI be such a bad girlfriend! Zuko deserves better!

Aang kissing Katara after she said she isn't sure how she feels, immediately regreting it: What an entitled, abusive creep!

Zuko nearly dying to save Katara's life: The most romantic thing in the world!

Aang giving up absolute power because he had a vision of Katara being captured: Why is he so OBSESSED? This is not romantic!

Zuko choosing to support his imperialist, racist nation that he just heard deeply traumatized Katara by killing her mother: He is madly in love with Katara and fiercely protective of her. Sourse "trust me, bro."

Aang temporarely letting go of Katara because if he doesn't they're all gonna die: See? He doesn't actually care about her! It's all there in the canon!

Katara healing Zuko, saving his life, and him being very grateful to her for it: How beautiful! Best scene of the entire show!

Katara healing Aang, bringing him back from the dead, and him being very greateful to her for it: She's not your personal doctor, you asshole! What an abusive, unequal dynamic!

Zuko not seeming to remember Katara's existence outside of "girl that travels with the Avatar" for 5/6 of the show: Totally doesn't mean he is not in love with her! Why do people call this ship fanon?

Zuko breaking up with Mai because he'll be going on a dangerous mission he felt would not be fair to drag her into, and smiling like a dork just because he got a chance to talk about her: He CLEARLY doesn't love her! Why does anyone like them as a couple?

Zuko needing emotional support very frequently because he is a victim of verbal, psychological and physical abuse: Poor thing! He deserves someone who loves and understands him!

Aang needing emotional support very frequently because nearly everyone he knew and loved died suddenly, he is struggling with survivor's guilt, and now shoulders the burden of needing to save the whole world despite being just a kid: God, what a baby, grow up!

Zuko being an imperialist prince for most of his life and betraying Katara in Ba Sing Se, leading to the death of one of her friends: He is a completely innocent child that indoctrinated into thinking these things were fine! The adults are to blame! Katara really can't hold any of this against him!

Sozin choosing to kill every air-nomad and start a war, and Azulon then choosing to order the raids on the Southern Water Tribes: Does this mean Kya's death was Aang's fault? It think it does. If only this 12-year-old that was not even a fully powered Avatar yet had not freaked out after nearly everyone around him disregarded his wants and needs completely! Such a selfish, awful character that never faces any consequences for anything! How could Katara ever be friends with him, let alone date him?

#anti zutara #pro kataang #pro maiko #pro aang #pro mai

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dee-voss · 1 year

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And when you ask 'em, "How much should we give?" They only answer, "More, more, more, more!"

Song/Skeleton: Fortunate Son Name: Dieter (Dee) Voss FC: Sam Claflin Age: 33 Birthday: January 18, 1940 Gender & Pronouns: Cis male, he Sexual & Romantic Orientation: Heteromantic and heterosexual (let's put a ? on all that, though - while I'm sure he thinks of himself that way, and that he is very genuinely and thoroughly in love with El, I'd say there's some biromantic/bisexual stuff he's keeping very contained. Like most things. The emotional intensity of firefighting and then combat could've created opportunities for him to develop connections and question feelings he otherwise would have left very neatly shelved.)

Occupation: Presently unemployed, former firefighter and laborer Neighbourhood: Willowdale. Dee grew up there, in his parents' house, which he's about to inherit since his mother's passed; a few years before he was drafted he and Elly were living together in an apartment in this neck of the woods. Which she's still living in. And where his things still are. Awkward.

+ : hardworking, determined, devoted, loving, generous - : stubborn, prideful, insecure, disconnecting, bitter

Wanted Connections:

FAMILIAL - Dee has younger siblings (I’m thinking two, 27-30, any gender!) who he kinda mostly raised.

PLATONIC (?) - Old friends from around town, other draftees from Stillwater, musical types to split some healing and hurt with, possibly someone to share a bad habit (or a few).

BIOGRAPHY

tw: parental suicide, alcoholism, wildfires, military, war, injury, drug use

Before the silver nitrate shakes, before the jungle, before Elly and Dee, even, there was that Voss boy. Dee didn’t just have a chip on his shoulder; he had a corpse. His father’s. It was one thing to see all the fire and modern-day brimstone of a thing like Pearl Harbour and come home a little cracked. Maybe that could’ve been forgiven, with sideways looks and the odd whisper. But Dee’s dad didn’t just crack. One hairline fracture at a time, the man crumbled away - from his wife, his children, his friends. And then he shattered. It was Dee who found him, in pieces, and it was Dee, ever after, who went around sweeping up what was left of his mother - a white-knuckled shell of herself from that day on - and his little siblings, hardly old enough to understand the hole that’d just been torn in their lives or the cruel, quick judgements that seeped in to fill it, from their neighbours, their schoolmates, and all the nosy strangers of Stillwater. All the while, the mortgage needed paying. The fridge needed milk, the shelf needed bread. Somebody had to do the practical thing.

So he dropped out, years early, and got down to work. Whatever work he could find, really; the too-short time he’d spent in school hadn’t served him well. Reading was a hunt for sense in words and letters that slithered around in the grass of every page, and writing was just as embarrassingly effortful. Looking at his folks, most quietly - or loudly - assumed the whole family had taken a wrong turn around some bend or other. Maybe the kid had sung along at the veterans’ bar well enough, strummed his way into a few hearts on that guitar his dad had taught him to play, when the old man’s hands weren’t shaking. That wasn’t any kind of practical, though. So Dee sold that damn guitar, and his grandma’s spoons, and his grandfather’s clock. Then… then he tore things down, and built them back up, and patched whatever came apart, learning how he did best: with his hands. And he paid the mortgage. He put milk in the fridge, and bread on the shelf. He did the practical thing.

Until Elly. Eloise Meadows crossed those tracks she’d grown up on the right side of, with her sweet smile and her high hopes, and… Dee hadn’t been known for either of those, himself, but he found them with her. How the hell could he hope to string together the right words for a girl with all those books, though? Maybe he could say something beautiful enough with a little music to help. It wasn’t practical, to save up and buy a used, battered Gibson. Just like it wasn’t practical, at all, to shyly start believing that El might, someday, be bad enough - in the eyes of her ever-watching parents - to chase her own damn dreams… and that he might be good enough for her to take his hand and walk towards some kind of future together, happily.

Was that so crazy, when Eloise kept smiling like that? Kept telling him about all the more she could imagine for herself, medical school and making a difference? Kept reading to him after a too-long day of roofing, curled up in sandy blankets at the beach for a never-long-enough night of them? Kept letting him learn her, with his heart and those callused hands and all the wonder that’d sneak out of his soul, when he let it? Kept singing along to songs she knew and didn’t, frowning and puzzling and laughing as he had her guess which of her favorite poems had turned into that tune, or this one, transformed in the electric space between her pages and his fingers? No - for once, hoping, the most damn impractical thing of all, felt like the only thing to do.

But some ratfink let Dr. Meadows know Dieter Voss had been seen taking a bright-eyed look around at rings. Finally, Dee had thought; finally, he had enough saved up to help Elly along to school, enough of a life to offer, enough of that hope she’d taught him. It wasn’t, though. Enough. Not for her parents, who made that very clear. What the hell would be? Somebody who wasn’t him, seemed like. Wasn’t some day-laborer with a dead coward for a father and a nervous wreck for a mother and no high school diploma. What else could he be, though?

Then the wildfires blew in. And for some goddamn reason - the slap-sharp sting of what Elly’s family had said, maybe, or those textbook photographs of what’d happened in Hawai’i, burning oil on bright water, the horrors that haunted his father to the end - Dee couldn’t look away. It wasn’t the practical thing, to join up with those crews. It was a crazy, stupid, reckless thing, and… sooty and scorched, he wasn’t the boy of some poor bastard who’d drunk to drown his fear of fires. He fought them. Survived them. He’d proven that much to himself, at least. But not, again, to the Meadowses. Before, he’d been settling, unambitious. Now, he was foolhardy, unpredictable. Fine. So fucking be it, as long as Elly and him had a chance at making a story of their own someday. When she was ready. When he had more to give. Enough.

But the Army wanted everything, first. He reread that damn draft letter on his own, painstakingly. Slinking over the Canadian border wasn't any kind of option. Stillwater was Elly’s home, and who could say what that might do to her chances to get into school someday, if she had to drag her transcripts to a whole other country? For what - for him? No. And anyhow… goddamn, but he couldn't stand to sink back into the long, dark shadow of his dad's so-called cowardice. There was nothing for it but, again, the fucking practical thing. Report. Serve it out. When he came home, though, that'd be it; they'd waited so long, already. On her parents. On their savings. On life, to line up just right. They'd be enough, for one another. When he got back from Vietnam.

Meanwhile, Elly would write him. And he'd just find a way to read it all and write her back as quick and well as he could. It'd have to, yeah - be enough. His squadmates helped, soft smiles shining through those hard, tired faces. There were some things, the sweetest, that just had to stay between him and El, close as the salt on their skin after one of those evenings back home by the water. It took days to scrawl those down, between bursts of gunfire, booby traps, and torrential storms. Then there'd be a new envelope, sealed with a kiss. Elly was still waiting.

And her letters stayed beautiful. His, they quieted. The war, when he actually got there - it was every bit as unspeakable as his father’d made it seem, with his fragile, false smiles. Unwriteable, too. He'd never lied to Eloise, before. Never wanted to. But what good could the truth do? Seemed kinder to say less, when honesty would be so goddamn ugly. What else, then? It was easy, at first, to talk about anything else. Eventually, though… he knew all her answers to those questions that went into a wedding, the home they'd make together, the schools she'd been eyeing for ages. And they'd revisited and re-revisited so many memories. El, she'd always had the words for everything; day by nerveshot, shellshocked day, Dee was only more lost for language. He sent his love. Felt like all he had, now.

And maybe it wasn't enough. They were counting his time in double digits when Eloise stopped writing back. Just stopped. Like he'd done something, or hadn't. Or - his siblings would've told him if El wasn't alright. He asked, anyway; they said she seemed well, same as ever. Puzzled, when they broached the subject. It hadn't been so long since she sent her last letter, had it? Maybe not. To her. A couple weeks passed different, in Vietnam. He'd be back to those beaches soon, playing for her. Not soon enough, but soon. Just a little longer. El had waited. So would he, with those kissed-closed envelopes held tight.

Until they burned up, with the rainforest and so many of the friends he'd made and Dee. He was told, by some officer he'd thought was as dead as the rest, that he'd gone back into the napalm; that there were men who owed him their life, their limbs. There'd be a medal in it. Dee just wanted to know if there was any mail. Nothing? Could somebody write for him? No, not in any run-ragged combat hospital. Course not. As if he could've strung together much to say through the ebb and flow of drugs and doctors.

Time, strange as it'd been at war, unraveled entirely between that riverbank and the burn ward. Dee tried not to ask those sad-eyed nurses for much, once he’d lurched back to something like lucidity; if they could just scrawl down a couple lines, when they had the time. Those pitying looks always stung. Like the violent shivers that chased after every soak in silver nitrate, or every slow, demoralizing day of physical rehabilitation. And yet - it was the goddamn mail run that hurt most. Still, still Elly hadn’t answered; those weeks of nothing had turned into months. Into half a year, before he was handed that discharge. Now he’s headed back to what was home, with no idea what’s waiting for him. That house he helped pay down, a little emptier since his mother passed during that long, long hospital stay? His siblings, whose now-parentless pieces might be too goddamn heavy for him to carry? That guitar he used to play? For the girl who’d been the love of a life he used to have? Whole lot of nothing, seems like…

EXTRAS

For scene-setting reference, Dee was burned by napalm in a pattern that reflects what he was doing at the time - fireman carrying another soldier. There are noticeable scars from near his left eye across his cheek, his left forearm and hand, and down his left side, front and back, and leg. His left hand - his writing, fretting, and leading hand - was injured badly enough to limit the mobility of his ring and little finger; the scarring along his cheek, side and leg has also affected his movement. There's some lingering airway and respiratory damage that has affected his voice (and pre-existing smoker's cough) in a way that anyone who knew him before would pick up on. He suffered some "blast eye" and is somewhat sensitive to light and less a little peripheral vision on the left. It's coming up on six months since he was first hurt; he's very much still recovering.

The other soldier? Far as Dee knows, he's dead... but call that another wanted connection!

#stillwater: intro #stillwater: dee #please mind the trigger warnings inside!!! all clear until the biography part!

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fatliberation · 3 years

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I’m Abandoning Body Positivity and Here’s Why

In short: it’s fatphobic.

“A rallying cry for a shift in societal norms has now become the skinny girl’s reassurance that she isn’t really fat. Fatness, through this lens of ‘body positivity’, remains the worst thing a person can be.” (Kayleigh Donaldson)

• • •

I have always had a lot of conflicting opinions about the body positivity movement, but it’s much more widely known (and accepted, go figure) than the fat liberation movement, so I often used the two terms interchangeably in conversation about anti-fatness. But the longer I’ve been following the body positivity movement, the more I’ve realized how much it has strayed from its fat lib origins. It has been hijacked; deluded to center thin, able, white, socially acceptable bodies.

Bopo’s origins are undoubtedly grounded in fat liberation. The fat activists of the 1960s paved the way for the shred of size acceptance we see in media today, initially protesting the discrimination and lack of access to equal opportunities for fat people specifically. This early movement highlighted the abuse, mental health struggles, malpractice in the medical field, and called for equal pay, equal access, equal respect, an end to fatphobic structures and ideas. It saddens me that it hasn’t made much progress in those regards.

Today, the #bopo movement encapsulates more the idea of loving your own body versus ensuring that individuals regardless of their weight and appearance are given equal opportunities in the workplace, schools, fashion and media. Somehow those demands never made it outside of the ‘taboo’ category, and privileged people would much more readily accept the warm and fuzzy, sugar-coated message of “love yourself!” But as @yrfatfriend once said, this idea reduces fat people’s struggles to a problem of mindset, rather than a product of external oppressors that need to be abolished in order for fat people to live freely.

That generalized statement, “love yourself,” is how a movement started by fat people for the rights of fat people was diluted so much, it now serves a thin model on Instagram posting about how she has a tummy roll and cellulite on her thighs - then getting praised for loving her body despite *gasp!* its minor resemblance to a fat body.

Look. Pretty much everyone has insecurities about their bodies, especially those of us who belong to marginalized groups. If you don’t have body issues, you’re a privileged miracle, but our beauty-obsessed society has conditioned us to want to look a certain way, and if we have any features that the western beauty standard considers as “flaws,” yeah! We feel bad about it! So it’s not surprising that people who feel bad about themselves would want to hop on a movement that says ‘hey, you’re beautiful as you are!’ That’s a message everyone would like to hear. Any person who has once thought of themselves as less than beautiful now feels that this movement is theirs. And everyone has insecurities, so everyone feels entitled to the safe space. And when a space made for a minority includes the majority, the cycle happens again and the majority oppresses the minority. What I’m trying to explain here is that thin people now feel a sense of ownership over body positive spaces.

Regardless of how badly thin people feel about their bodies, they still experience thin privilege. They can sit down in a theater or an airplane without even thinking about it, they can eat in front of others without judgement, they can go the doctor with a problem and actually have it fixed right away, they can find cute clothes in their size with ease, they do not suffer from assumptions of laziness/failure based on stereotype, they see their body type represented everywhere in media, the list goes on and on. They do not face discrimination based off of the size of their body.

Yet diet culture and fatphobia affects everyone, and of course thin people do still feel bad about the little fat they have on their bodies. But the failure to examine WHY they feel bad about it, is what perpetuates fatphobia within the bopo movement. They’re labeled “brave” for showing a pinch of chub, yet fail to address what makes it so acceptably daring, and how damaging it is to people who are shamed for living in fat bodies. Much like the rest of society, thin body positivity is still driven by the fear of fat, and does nothing to dismantle fatphobia within structures or within themselves.

Evette Dionne sums it up perfectly in her article, “The Fragility of Body Positivity: How a Radical Movement Lost Its Way.”

“The body-positive media economy centers these affirming, empowering, let-me-pinch-a-fat-roll-to-show-how-much-I-love-myself stories while failing to actually challenge institutions to stop discriminating against fat people. More importantly, most of those stories center thin, white, cisgender, heterosexual women who have co-opted the movement to build their brands. Rutter has labeled this erasure ‘Socially Acceptable Body Positivity.’

“On social media, it actually gets worse for fat bodies: We’re not just being erased from body positivity, fat women are being actively vilified. Health has become the stick with which to beat fat people with [sic], and the benchmark for whether body positivity should include someone” (Dionne).

Ah, yes. The medicalization of fat bodies, and the moralization of health. I’ve ranted about this before. Countless comments on posts of big women that say stuff like “I’m all for body positivity, but this is just unhealthy and it shouldn’t be celebrated.” I’ve heard writer/activist Aubrey Gordon once say that body positivity has become something like a shield for anti-fatness. It’s anti-fatness that has been repackaged as empowerment. It’s a striking double-standard. Fat people are told to be comfortable in their bodies (as if that’s what’s going to fix things) but in turn are punished when they’re okay with being fat. Make it make sense.

Since thin people feel a sense of ownership over body positive spaces, and they get to hide behind “health” when they are picking and choosing who can and cannot be body positive, they base it off of who looks the most socially acceptable. And I’m sure they aren’t consciously picking and choosing, it comes from implicit bias. But the socially acceptable bodies they center are small to medium fat, with an hourglass shape. They have shaped a new beauty standard specifically FOR FAT PEOPLE. (Have you ever seen a plus sized model with neck fat?? I’m genuinely asking because I have yet to find one!) The bopo movement works to exclude and silence people who are on the largest end of the weight spectrum.

Speaking of exclusion, let’s talk about fashion for a minute.

For some reason, (COUGH COUGH CAPITALISM) body positivity is largely centered around fashion. And surprise surprise, it’s still not inclusive to fat people. Fashion companies get a pat on the back for expanding their sizing two sizes up from what they previously offered, when they are still leaving out larger fat people completely. In general, clothing companies charge more for clothes with more fabric, so people who need the largest sizes are left high and dry. It’s next to impossible to find affordable clothes that also look nice. Fashion piggybacks on the bopo movement as a marketing tactic, and exploits the very bodies it claims to be serving. (Need I mention the time Urban Outfitters used a "curvy” model to sell a size it doesn’t even carry?)

The movement also works to exclude and silence fat Black activists.

In her article, “The Body Positivity Movement Both Takes From and Erases Fat Black Women” Donyae Coles explains how both white people and thin celebrities such as Jameela Jamil profit from the movement that Black women built.

“Since long before blogging was a thing, fat Black women have been vocal about body acceptance, with women like Sharon Quinn and Marie Denee, or the work of Sonya Renee Taylor with The Body Is Not An Apology. We’ve been out here, and we’re still here, but the overwhelming face of the movement is white and thin because the mainstream still craves it, and white and thin people have no problem with profiting off the work of fat, non-white bodies.”

“There is a persistent belief that when thin and/or white people enter the body positive realm and begin to repeat the messages that Black women have been saying for years in some cases, when they imitate the labor that Black women have already put in that we should be thankful that they are “boosting” our message. This completely ignores the fact that in doing so they are profiting off of that labor. They are gaining the notoriety, the mark of an expert in something they learned from an ignored Black woman” (Coles).

My next essay will go into detail about this and illuminate key figures who paved the way for body acceptance in communities of color.

The true purpose of this movement has gotten completely lost. So where the fuck do we go from here?

We break up with it, and run back to the faithful ex our parents disapproved of. We go back to the roots of the fat liberation movement, carved out for us by the fat feminists, the queer fat activists, the fat Black community, and the allies it began with. Everything they have preached since the 1960s and 70s is one hundred percent applicable today. We get educated. We examine diet culture through a capitalist lens. We tackle thin, white-supremacist systems and weight based discrimination, as well as internalized bias. We challenge our healthcare workers to unlearn their bias, treat, and support fat patients accordingly. We make our homes and spaces accessible and welcoming to people of any size, or any (dis)ability. “We must first protect and uplift people in marginalized bodies, only then can we mandate self-love” (Gordon).

Think about it. In the face of discrimination, mistreatment, and emotional abuse, we as a society are telling fat people to love their bodies, when we should be putting our energy toward removing those fatphobic ideas and structures so that fat people can live in a world that doesn’t require them to feel bad about their bodies. It’s like hitting someone with a rock and telling them not to bruise!

While learning to love and care for the body that you’re in is important, I think that body positivity also fails in teaching that because it puts even more emphasis on beauty. Instead of saying, “you don’t have to be ‘beautiful’ to be loved and appreciated,” its main lesson is that “all bodies are beautiful.” We live in a society obsessed with appearance, and it is irresponsible to ignore the hierarchy of beauty standards that exist in every space. Although it should be relative, “beautiful” has been given a meaning. And that meaning is thin, abled, symmetric, and eurocentric.

Beauty and ugliness are irrelevant, made-up constructs. People will always be drawn to you no matter what, so you deserve to exist in your body without struggling to conform to an impossible and bigoted standard. Love and accept your body for YOURSELF AND NO ONE ELSE, because you do not exist to please the eyes of other people. That’s what I wish we were teaching instead. Radical self acceptance!

As of today, the ultimate message of the body positivity movement is: Love your body “despite its imperfections.” Or people with “perfect and imperfect bodies both deserve love.” As long as we are upholding the notion that there IS a perfect body that looks a certain way, and every body that falls outside of that category is imperfect, we are upholding white supremacy, eugenics, anti-fatness, and ableism.

#body positivity #bopo #body posi #body positive #body acceptance #fat acceptance #fat activism #fat liberation #anti fatness #anti blackness #anti fat bias #lookism #beauty standards #self acceptance

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mollrat101 · 3 years

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Hacks Appreciation Week

Day 4: Favorite Main Character

Gonna have to go with my girl, Ava.

A happy birthday to me because I get to talk about my favorite show and this loser right here today 😜

We know, Ava.

Why do I love Ava? Let me quote Ruby for a second.

“You know, [she’s] charming. It’s annoying, actually.”

Not sure I trust you if you’re not at least a little charmed by Ava Daniels.

I’m not going to lie and tell people who don’t like her she’s not annoying because she is. Congratulations, that’s the point. But I think people equate being annoying and sometimes being self-centered and entitled as automatically being a bad person and I’m here to tell you that’s not true at all of Ava.

She is a person like everyone else. In order to survive, she’s had to develop certain kinds of habits and behaviors. While they worked for her at a point in time, they are no longer serving her. Wow, it’s almost like she’s human or something.

(I apologize for sounding bitter, I just hate when people hate on her.)

Anyway, I could probably go on forever about what I love about Ava.

I love that she is somehow Deborah’s worst and best employee ever. She’s not at all what mostly anybody around her wants but they need her. Ava is a forest fire burning down the old growth in Deborah’s life and allowing new growth to begin. She illuminates what Deborah wants to change in her life. She injects passion and creativity back into her life. She becomes Deborah’s muse.

(I mean “Fire” by Etta James, really??? My gay heart exploded into glitter.)

But what makes her such a real character is that her strengths can easily become weaknesses if not used in the right way.

She can burn too hot, be too quick to burn bridges. She runs her life like she’s constantly slamming the self-destruct button. She can be a wildfire out of control which can cause great destruction. She needs to be more like a kindling, patiently tended to and providing warmth for the people in her life which she is extremely capable of. She becomes the hearth in Deborah’s life in the last half of the season and my hope is that she really becomes that permanently.

People vastly undervalue the amount of emotional labor that Ava does throughout season 1. It’s any wonder with a mother like Nina that Ava is used to it.

What can be so easy to miss is how kind Ava can be.

Similar to how we find out Deborah is very generous to people she loves, Ava shows kindness by listening and trying to support them emotionally. It’s easy to have that go unnoticed because that kind of labor is undervalued in our society, but I digress.

(Definitely not saying she does it all the time. We see her being unkind to people, but I just think in general she wants to be kind to others. Also, I’m definitely not saying that Deborah’s way of showing love is somehow less, it’s just different.)

When she manages to get over her own ego and her own assumptions, she shows kindness to Deborah even if Deborah still acts cold towards her. Where everyone believes that Deborah is eternally strong, Ava believes (without Deb showing much) that Deborah is human and deserves to have her feelings taken into consideration.

She doesn’t necessarily act kind because other people deserve it, but just because she thinks it’s right. Think of all the ways she acts with DJ. There’s no real benefit to being kind to her but she does it anyway. She offers to be a confidante to Ruby despite how much I’m sure Ruby breaking up with her hurt her. She tries to look after her mom’s emotional health even after her mom hurt her feelings. That absolutely beautiful gift she gave to Deborah. Ava doesn’t have a lot to give in terms of money (and even that, she gives to her parents because they likely won’t make it without it), but what she does give is the ability to pay attention, to listen, to not judge, to support and to intuitively know what someone needs to be told in order to show how sincerely she cares. Those things are invaluable.

I’ve said before that I think, in another life, Ava could make a great therapist and I stand by that. Of course, again with the whole strengths become weaknesses, I wish this girl would seriously consider taking care of her own mental health. But that’s also incredibly relatable as someone who is a confidante to a lot of people but struggled to ask for help myself. We can feel compassion for others, but struggle with having compassion for ourselves.

She is a sweet, sensitive, and sincere little muffin and she needs to be protected.

Is it any wonder that I theorize so hard that Ava is going to be the one that heals the Vance family? She is the emotional salve that this family has been needing for so long.

But in a broader sense, Ava also shows a desire to show kindness even to those she doesn’t know. Ava has a strong moral compass (not always great at following it, but that’s human) and says something if she feels vulnerable people are being attacked. Ava and Deborah actually have similar values, but Ava helps remind Deborah to stand up for what she believes in. And she does this even when sometimes it costs her. Ava seems to believe that staying silent is akin to condoning something and while her morals could use more nuance, it’s hard not to admire someone who cares so much about doing the right thing. The world needs more people like Ava who are willing to speak out and not just accept the status quo.

Ava has a writer’s temperament towards curiosity, empathy, sensitivity, openness to new experiences, introspection and a deep desire for the truth.

No wonder I relate to her so much, as a writer myself.

And no post about Ava Daniels would be complete without talking about how she is a bisexual icon.

Bisexuality is still a pretty stigmatized sexuality both in the straight and gay world. The fact that Ava is so unapologetic about her sexual experiences and refuses to let others shame her is incredibly admirable. But while her sexuality is important, neither is she over sexualized or is it made out to be the most important part about her. And the fact that the writers directly confront the nuanced ways of bisexuality is just *chef’s kiss*. Ava is a bisexual woman who romantically prefers women and this is accepted with no arguments. Absolutely amazing.

Also, she’s a queer loser and honestly I think we, as a society, just need more loser queer characters.

And you guys know me, I think the fact that Deborah is confronted with a bisexual young woman isn’t an accident. While I definitely think there’s something to be said for Ava taking better care of herself and indulging too much and using it to avoid emotional pain, there’s also something cool about the fact that Ava never feels shame for the pleasure she takes in her body. Whether it’s sex, food or drugs, Ava opens up Deborah to the possibility that part of a healthy life also involves allowing room in our lives for pleasure and relaxation.

Ava has fucked up big time coming into season 2, but like Marcus, I honestly have nothing but faith in her that she’ll grow and learn from this and that she and Deborah will eventually be okay. Another thing that intrigues me about her honestly is that we still don’t know that much about Ava. Why is she the way she is? We could take guesses, but I really want to know more about her. Fingers crossed, more Ava background in season 2.

Finally, just want to give a shoutout to Hannah’s performance because I think it’s true that she is such a natural actress. I was shocked to find out that this was her first real acting role because she doesn’t give off that impression. She somehow manages to go toe-to-toe with Jean Smart of all people and still manages to be engaging in her own right. Her and Jean prove that good chemistry is about complementary energies and that’s what make pairings compelling cause I never would’ve thought I would ship a pairing like this. I think Hannah has a really bright future ahead of her and I’m excited to see what she does next.

Ava Daniels, my love, my chaos child, my bisexual mess, my sensitive little bean, I love you.

#hacksaw22 #hacks hbo #hbo hacks #hacks #ava daniels #hacks thoughts

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aperrywilliams · 4 years

Text

All for My Girls (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

(Not my gif!)

Masterlist

———————

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.

Summary: Spencer missed calls and texts from his wife. Something important happened and he needs to rush to the hospital.

Word Count: 1494.

Warnings: None. Just a short self-indulgent fluff fic.

A/N: Spencer Reid as a father. It’s all we need.

——————–

Spencer was dozing off in that uncomfortable plastic chair in the middle of a hospital's waiting room. It was 3 in the morning. His eyelids are heavy from exhaustion. When he arrived home that night, her wife wasn't there. Weird. She hadn't told him about going out.

He thought a little in case he forgot something. But he never forgets anything, even less if it was something related to her. Spencer never forgot a birthday, an anniversary, a particular date, an appointment in all the years they were married. Nothing. What did he miss now?

When he pulled his phone from his jacket, he noticed that it was off. He didn't see it before. That made sense to him. Maybe his wife called him, and he didn't answer because his phone was dead. Oh, God! What if something terrible happened?

Spencer rushed to the nightstand where the charger was and plugged his phone on it. It took longer than five minutes for his phone to return to life.

He unlocked the screen and saw a lot of messages and missed calls from his wife.

"Spencer Reid, grab your ass and come to the hospital right now! It's time!" it read in the last message. Spencer put on his coat again and rushed to the hospital. How he could be so negligent! He knew the baby would come any time, and he wasn't prepared? 'It's a shame, Spencer!' He scolded himself.

Spencer arrived at the hospital past 10 pm. When he made it to the waiting room, he saw Morgan and Savannah waiting.

"Hey, guys!" Spencer greeted, gasping for the long run he made from the entrance.

"Pretty Boy! Where have you been?" Morgan asked. "(Y/N) texted us, and I tried to call you. You never answered! What happened man? We were worried," Derek questioned. Spencer shook his head, catching his breath. Clearly, his physical condition was not optimal for that run.

"I - I'm sorry. My phone gone dead. Where - where is she?" the genius doctor inquired.

"She is in the delivery room right now. She is in labor," Savannah replied.

"What? Damn it! I came too late! I couldn't even see her!" Spencer complained.

"We almost didn't. When we got here, (Y/N) was just entering the room with the doctors and nurses. But she was okay, man. We have to wait now, you can’t get in," Morgan stated.

Spencer started pacing the waiting room... waiting. Reid felt sad that he hadn't seen the calls and messages on his phone before. Perhaps he could have arrived in time to see the birth of their little girl. He was anxiously now, waiting next to Morgan and Savannah.

The clock marked 11 pm, midnight, 1 am... and there was still no news. Spencer knew it could be a long time to wait, but he secretly hoped that their little girl wouldn't put up much resistance to get out. Although he didn't blame her, what could be more secure and calm than her mother's womb?

Spencer recalled all the times he dreamed of having a baby. He remembered the times when with (Y/N) talked that he wanted a girl. A little girl to teach her, spoil her, and love her. He dreamed with a little girl as a (Y/N)'s carbon copy. With her eyes, her smile, her personality. He wanted a girl so so much.

When they both were at the doctor's office to know the baby's gender, he was so nervous. Looking at the screen and seeing a tiny bundle moving on made them both cry. And when the doctor said that they were expecting a girl, Spencer almost passed out of pure and utterly emotion.

Spencer was so excited and happy that he did everything he could to make (Y/N) comfortable and supported during her pregnancy. He helped her in everything. Spencer went to all the doctor's appointments. He stayed late at night, helping his wife sleep in a comfortable position. He woke up early to make breakfast. Of course, he read all the books about the pregnancy he could.

In the nights before sleep, Spencer was accustomed to reading a story to his little girl. She started to recognize his voice: every time Spencer talked, the baby moved or kicked. (Y/N) assured him that she would be a daddy's girl. And she was. And she still is. Twenty-six years later, she's his little girl yet.

A commotion brought Spencer out of his thoughts. Hank Morgan appeared in the waiting room with a huge grin that could illuminate all DC.

"It's a healthy little girl!" he yelled. Morgan was the first to hug his son, who now became a father. Spencer looked at him with watering eyes and speechless. The same happened to him when his daughter was born.

After he hugged his mother, Hank moved toward Spencer.

"She is okay. A little tired, but she is okay. And your granddaughter is beautiful and healthy. They are waiting for you," Hank assured Spencer, pointed to the room where his - now two - little girls were.

When Spencer walked into the room, it was like going back 26 years, only this time, a third little person was included in the scene. When his daughter saw him arrive, her eyes lit up. She was holding a small wrapped bundle in her arms. His wife was standing next to the bed, looking at him with a smile on her lips.

"Hi dad!, come over here, I want to introduce you to someone," she said, whispering. Spencer couldn't help but see those beautiful eyes lit up despite the exhaustion after hours of labor. Those eyes his daughter inherited from his wife. He approached slowly and plastered a kiss on his daughter's forehead.

"Hello Pumpkin. I'm so sorry I was late..." Spencer apologized.

"Let's see if you worry about having your phone with enough charge next time," (Y/N) scolded him.

"Mom, don't be rude to Dad. He's already here." Spencer could barely pay attention. Now his eyes were on the little person sleeping in her mother's arms. "Dad, let me introduce you to Amelia Morgan Reid, your granddaughter," she said solemnly.

Because, of course, as Spencer had to learn over the years, children grow and make their lives. Her little girl grew up, fell in love, and made her own family. And with Derek Morgan, his friend for years, they were now joined by their own children. The result of that love now slept peacefully in his daughter's arms.

"Can - Can I hold her?" Spencer asked shyly.

"Sure you can, Dad," she said, handing him the little girl wrapped in a cozy blanket.

When Spencer held his granddaughter in his arms, time stopped for him.

Where did his mind go? To the moment when he held her daughter for the first time. It was a rainy day, and (Y/N)'s water broke at the same BAU. It was Morgan who drove the car to take them to the hospital. Spencer was with (Y/N) the entire time. Encouraging her between each contraction, kissing her temple, and letting her squeeze his hand throughout the process. When the cries of the newborn flooded the room, Spencer swore that at that moment, his life had changed forever. So it was. Holding her daughter for the first time, he promised her always to be for her. Spencer promised to give her all the love in the world and always support her. And Spencer Reid has kept his word.

Now holding his granddaughter, Spencer couldn't help but repeat his vows.

"My little girl. You don't know how happy I am to have you in my arms. You don't know how happy you will make this family. I know that I'll have to share your love and that maybe I won't be your favorite grandfather. I cannot compete with Grandpa Morgan in many things, but I can assure you that I will be there for you when you need me. And the day I leave this world, I will continue to take care of you. Just like I'll continue to take care of your mom and your grandmother," Spencer whispered as Amelia stir and opened her little eyes. A big smile crept on Spencer's face.

"I see you both are already having your first serious conversation," her daughter mused. Spencer turned and walked over to the bed to lay her granddaughter in her mother's arms.

"The same conversation I had with you the day you were born," Spencer replied. "I'm proud of you, Pumpkin," Spencer praised. His daughter smiled.

"Thanks, dad. For everything," she said, snuggling Amelia into her arms again.

"Always. All for my girls," Spencer declared, holding his wife's hand and placing a soft kiss on his daughter's forehead.

And what Spencer Reid said was entirely right. He has given everything. And he will continue doing everything in his power for his wife, daughter, and now for his granddaughter—everything for his family.

———————

I’m tagging some friends around here!: @andiebeaword @blameitonthenight21 @dreatine @sierraraeck @paulaern @calm-and-doctor @spencers-dria @safertokiss @hopefulfangirl24 @reverdevivre @matthewstiles1912 @goldentournesol @psychedellic-phase @psychicdonuts

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #all for my girls

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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 4 years

Photo

Words: 3,185 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria Warnings: Language, violence, mentions of suicide, gore, sexuality, fear and anxiety, disturbing imagery, typical TWD stuff A/N: This is part of a series! Find the previous parts on the Masterlist! Summary: Someone dies and Daryl finally learns about Y/N's past.

Your name: submit What is this?

“Where ya goin’?” Daryl’s voice behind you as you headed to the gate, your recurve bow slung over your shoulder.

“Hunting,” you said. You’d been reserved since Hilltop and Daryl was worried.

He shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to the other. “Huntin’ what?”

You caught his meaning and sighed. “Food. I promise.”

He nodded and paced closer to you. “Good. Look, if ya want to go out and hunt them, I’ll go with ya. Ya shouldn’t do it alone.”

You nodded. “Been doing it alone a long time now,” you countered. “But I won’t today.”

Daryl nodded. That was about as good a response as he could hope for. “Alright.”

“Where are you off to?” you asked, noting the bag slung over his shoulder.

“Denise found a place she thinks might have meds. She asked Rosita and I to go with.”

Your stomach twisted suddenly and you felt unbalanced. You didn’t know why… it sounded like a routine supply trip. But eventually you shoved the feeling down and nodded. “Alright. Be careful…”

“Ya. We will. You too, alright?” Daryl wished he was brave enough in that moment to—to do or say something more. He could sense that whatever had happened to you, whatever you knew about the Saviors, it was eating you. It had been since Hilltop, and likely even before, probably since the run-in with those men when he was laid up with his ankle. That time when you hadn’t been able to sleep and he had stayed at your house… And he wished he knew how to lift that burden, how to make it stop or at least lighter, but until you were ready to talk about it there wasn’t much he could do.

You came back that evening with a deer. The gates rolled open to admit you and you headed toward home. That’s when you saw the crowd gathered on the porch of Rick’s house, but something was wrong. No one was talking and their expressions were grave.

You felt your stomach lurch. You slung the deer down onto your porch and started walking over. Daryl broke off and met you halfway. You gulped at the tightness in your throat. He looked pale. “What’s going on?”

He wouldn’t meet your eyes and he was chewing his bottom lip anxiously, drumming his fingers against his leg. “Denise,” he croaked, the gravel in his voice even thicker than usual.

You looked up, and the fact that everyone was gathered at Rick’s house and not outside the infirmary made what had happened clear. You felt like you’d been punched in the stomach. Your chest heaved with terrified breaths. “No… H—How?” you whispered.

“That guy with the girls I helped in that burnt-out forest, the ones who ended up fuckin’ me over, takin’ my bike and my bow… He’s one of them now.”

Your eyes narrowed. “The Saviors?” you asked in an undertone, your heart starting to race.

He nodded, finally lifting his blue eyes to yours. “Shot her with my crossbow right in front of us. Right—right in front of me.”

Your eyes glistened with emotion you were trying to hold back. “Oh God. No. No, no, no…” You were reeling. Your wide eyes had an unseeing quality.

Daryl gulped, speaking what was consuming him, a rasp in his throat as he fought emotion. “It’s my fault. I should have killed him. I should’ve made Denise stay back. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” you said forcefully, gently resting your hand on his arm. You stepped forward to look up into his face, which was now contorted with some emotion. “It’s not. Don’t do that.”

“It is. She wasn’t ready and I—I should have known they were there. We shoulda been more careful, not out in the open. I—It’s my fault,” he rasped.

You shook you head, holding his blue eyes. “No. It’s not. Even if you had killed him, we don’t know that anything would turn out differently. We don’t get to know. So, you have to stop.”

“I’m goin’ back tomorrow. I’m gonna track ‘em.” His grief and regret were turning into rage quickly.

“Daryl—”

“I’m goin’. He’s a dead man,” he growled.

Your eyes were wide and fearful. “Please, listen to me. Just wait. We can do this, but we have to be smart about it.”

“What’s smart is trackin’ ‘em before their trail disappears,” he growled. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch—"

You shut your eyes, a flash of emotion on your face and Daryl softened a little at the sight. “Just—come over later. We need to talk,” you whispered. You shot him one last look, the worry line you always got by your left eyebrow quite pronounced. You turned and went back to your house to deal with the deer you had shot. Daryl watched you drag it around to the back of your house and he thought that for even the weight of the deer, your steps looked heavy.

It was already late when you heard the front door open from your seat on the couch. “Y/N?” Daryl’s deep voice.

“In here,” you called back. His boots on the wood floor came closer and he appeared in the doorway.

“Ya alright?” he asked. You shook your head.

“No. You?”

He shook his head. “Nah.” Daryl sat down on the other end of the sofa, placing his own crossbow, recovered after the scramble with the Saviors that day, on the coffee table. He could tell you had been crying earlier. Your eyes were a little red. “What is it?”

Your heart was racing and you felt like you couldn’t draw full breaths. It felt like there was a weight sitting on your chest that was keeping your lungs from filling. You couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m—I’m gonna tell you what happened to me. How I know about the Saviors.” You stared down at your hands and he heard you pull in a raspy breath. “I’ve never told anyone this…”

A shadow darkened Daryl’s face. “Alright.”

You sighed and licked your lips nervously. “I had a brother. He was two years younger than me. We were with a small group of people, holed up in some house, scraping in town for supplies. Just a group of survivors who fell together, like yours did. The Saviors showed up. They said they were going to ‘save us.’ Said we had to come with them and if we did they’d keep us safe and fed in exchange for labor. Of course, none of us trusted them. Who can you trust these days? We all knew they just wanted what we had, and maybe even just us, like commodities. We tried to fight. Almost all of us were killed and they got control of those of us who were left.” You passed a somewhat shaky hand over your eyes briefly. “Negan showed up. He executed one of our people in front of us. Bashed his head in with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire and made us watch. Terrorized the rest of us. Spouted off a bunch of bullshit about how he hadn’t wanted to do it, but we had forced his hand. My brother and I survived, along with a couple of the others. They took us back to their headquarters.” You finally glanced over at Daryl and your striking eyes, looking wide and anxious, met his blue ones. “They call it The Sanctuary.”

Daryl thought of Denise, dying right in front of him. “I’m sorry,” Daryl said.

You shook your head. “I’m not even close to done.”

Daryl’s stomach hardened into a tight pit and he waited for you to go on.

“I knew right away that something was different… with me, I mean. They separated me from the group, from my brother. Shoved me in a tiny, completely dark, barren cell.” Daryl watched your brow furrow. “Just me. Alone. Sometimes I was chained up, handcuffed, sometimes I wasn’t. Every second of every day I just sat in the dark and wondered what horrible thing was going to happen to me the next minute. I didn’t understand why I’d been singled out at first, except maybe that I’d fought the longest. I didn’t know if my brother was alive or dead…” Your eyes grew faraway, detached, and Daryl felt like someone had twisted a knife in his stomach. You went on. “The isolation and hunger was bad enough but they had more in their playbook. They purposely kept me awake for days at a time—lights, loud music. Some real Guantanamo Bay shit. I lost track of time. I thought I was going crazy after a while. It was obvious they were trying to break me. And then one day, he came.”

“Negan?” Daryl asked. You nodded.

“He told me I’d paid enough for trying to fight. That he understood why I had and that I had a few choices in front of me. I could eventually die in that cell, I could work, or…” you trailed off and shut your eyes for a moment. “He told me he thought I was…different. That I was tough, brave because of how I was during the fight and after. He said he’d—he’d taken a special liking to me and said I could marry him, be one of his wives, and live the way we did before the world fell apart. All I had to do was take care of him and his wants and needs and he’d take care of me.”

Daryl was staring at you with a scowl on his face, his stomach twisting at your words. His eyes were narrowed and he was so still he looked frozen. Anger was boiling in his chest. You gulped, hoping to clear your throat but weren’t successful.

“I asked him if my brother was alive and he said yes. I told him I’d work. I just wanted to be with my brother. So, I became one of the workers in The Sanctuary. You work there to earn points, which you use to ‘pay’ for food and whatever else you need, but it’s never enough. It’s slave labor where every once and a while they throw you a peanut. Conditions are terrible. And after a while, my brother and I were both almost wishing we were dead. But at least we were still together.” You settled back more deeply into the couch and sighed. “Negan rules with an iron fist. If someone tries to escape, someone steals, screws up at all…” Your face contorted as you thought about what you’d watched him do. “I’ve watched him do the most—inhuman, horrendous things... unfathomable. I watched him burn people with a hot iron, brand people, beat people to death for not following his orders perfectly… And his men? They’ll do the same things in his name, some of them worse. The whole place is guarded, patrolled, locked down like a fortress. But more than anything it’s the fear that keeps people there… And I was trapped in it because all I wanted to do was keep my brother alive and for us to stay together.”

You stopped for a moment and Daryl watched as you tried to steel yourself to go on.

“It was like that for a while. We were practically starving, always just waiting for the next thing, the next trauma. And then I got sick… Very sick.” Your eyes flitted up to meet his. “A blood infection. I was dying. And they’ve got a doctor, medicine, but if you use them you owe more than you could ever pay—and that means they own you even more than they already did. It’s just leverage to them. My brother—” your voice broke. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment and Daryl could hear you pull in a few slow but ragged breaths. “He tried to steal some antibiotics. To save me. And he got caught.”

You were silent for a long moment, trying to stop yourself from crying. Daryl just waited, feeling sick to his stomach, feeling enraged, wanting to tell you it was going to be okay, but knowing he couldn’t... Nothing he could say was going to fix whatever you were about to tell him. He knew that.

“I ended up in the infirmary anyway. I don’t even know how. I had been so delirious with fever and I can’t remember a lot from around then… But when I was better, eventually, Negan came to see me again. He told me they were going to make an example of my brother. He broke the rules and Negan couldn’t have people thinking you could get away with that. I knew what that meant. Negan would kill him horrifically. In front of me and everyone else.” Despite what you were saying, your voice was somewhat detached. It was like you were on autopilot as you explained, like you had told the story in your head a million times and were just replaying through it. Daryl thought you probably were.

“But he gave me another—another choice,” you said. Your tone conveyed that it was presented as a choice, but there was no refusing. “His offer still stood. If I ‘married’ him and became one of his wives, he’d spare my brother’s life and erase all of our debts.” Just saying the words made you feel sick and Daryl watched as you reached a hand out to clutch onto the arm of the couch as if you were spinning and needed grounding. “What could I do?” you asked, turning to look at Daryl again, your eyes frantic, devastated, shining with tears that you were barely containing. “I just thought—‘I need to keep him alive.’ That’s—that’s all I could think and I would deal with the rest of it later.” You opened your mouth to continue speaking but the words wouldn’t come out and your gaze at Daryl was desperate until you couldn’t look at him any longer.

“Hey,” he said. “Ya had to. S’alright. Ya didn’t have a choice.” He moved closer to you and was brave enough to gently lift your chin so you would look at him again, and the glistening in your eyes hit him like a punch. “Ya had to,” he said gently.

You nodded, shrugging vaguely. “I agreed. And Negan didn’t kill my brother but he cut off his hand in front of me and everyone else.” Your jaw clenched and you shut your eyes against the flashbacks.

Daryl stared at you in horror as you took a breath, trying to hold yourself together enough to continue. His face was growing darker and darker as you told the story.

“But we went on. He worked for points and I—” You couldn’t even speak of it. “For a while, that’s how it was.” You were suddenly silent and Daryl felt yet another twist in his stomach, apprehension about what was coming. You continued, your voice disconnected again. “And then one day Negan came in and told me that my brother—” you gritted your teeth against another wave of emotion. “My brother killed himself.”

You hurried on, afraid you wouldn’t be able to get anything else out if you didn’t rush through it.

“And the thing is—” your voice broke, “even that he didn’t do for himself. He didn’t do it because he was miserable there or because he couldn’t go on.” Your bottom lip quivered. “He did it because he knew that while he was there, alive, I wouldn’t leave. If he was alive, I wouldn’t try to escape. He killed himself to save me, to give me the option to get out.”

Daryl felt a sinking emptiness in the middle of his chest. For a moment he just sat still and watched as you struggled not to go entirely to pieces, but he couldn’t allow you to reel the way you were any longer. “C’mere,” he said gently. He enfolded you in his arms and you sank in against him, resting your head in the crook of his neck. He could feel your shuddering breaths and he held you tighter to him, his heart racing, feeling sick waves of horror and anger. He rested his chin on the top of your head. “Ya got out. You’re out. S’alright.” He smoothed a hand over your hair and down your back until you stilled somewhat. You pulled back only slightly to look up at him, your faces mere inches apart.

“Do you understand?” you whispered. “You can’t just go barreling after them, Daryl. You can’t. I—I can’t lose you.”

Daryl gulped, his eyes flickering between yours… But inside he was thinking that everything you just told him was exactly why he had to go...

“I hear ya,” he said finally. He pressed you tightly against him again, shutting his eyes and relishing the feeling of you beneath his hands, even while his mind raced. He held you for a long time, until you seemed to have calmed again. Finally, he pulled back and looked into your face. “It’s—it’s gonna be alright.”

You soaked in the reassurance of him, calmed by his deep voice, his hands gentle on your arms.

“It’s—It’s late… Ya gonna be alright if I go? M’sorry. I don’t wanna leave ya but I wanna check on everybody…” he murmured.

You nodded. “You should. It’s okay. They—they probably need you. I’ll be fine,” you said, knowing it was probably a lie. You were sure you’d have nightmares that night if you managed to sleep at all. You slipped from him the rest of the way and as you separated, he felt like you took some part of him with you.

“G’night,” he murmured, climbing to his feet and collecting his crossbow from your coffee table. As he picked it up, he couldn’t help but think about how the bolt that had killed Denise had left his bow. He should have killed that asshole when he had the chance. “Y/N. Ya should tell Rick,” he said, nodding. “Ya should. If ya can. It’d help him understand, ya know?”

You considered him for a moment. “Okay. I will,” you replied. You watched him across the kitchen as he made his way to the front door, the wings on the back of his vest catching the light differently than the leather, almost looking like they were glowing. With his hand on the handle of the front door, he glanced back at you and gave you a thoughtful look. You managed a somewhat sad smile at him, anxiety still pulling one of your brows inward, and then he disappeared outside.

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl dixon x reader #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles #sacrifice #daryl dixon series

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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 years

Text

The Cult Girl (Hannibal x Female!Reader) pt. 8

Sorry if this one is a bit shorter. I didn't want to make part 7 insanely long so I just split the story in a way that made sense to me. Y/n lets Hannibal take care of the mess and narrowly avoids a mental breakdown in a CVS.

Trigger warning: blood, violence, gaslighting, ⚠️emetophobia⚠️

You stood up from your seat, your brain refusing to process what just happened.

"Oh look." You said, pointing down. "Her face landed in the glass and there's blood everywhere."

Hannibal casually glanced over the table. The ends of his mouth turned up slightly. "So there is."

The reality of the situation was just starting to set in. You took a deep breath in, expecting to scream, but nothing came out. Instead, you finished your glass of wine.

Noticing your distress, Hannibal crossed the floor and took a knee beside her. He pressed his fingers against her neck.

“She’s alive.” He assured you. “For now.”

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, and the indecision made you panic even more. “So what do we do now? What do I do now?”

“Well,” Hannibal stood up. “She’s pretty severely concussed and losing a lot of blood. We could call an ambulance. With proper medical care and immediate action, she’ll probably live.”

You froze in your spot and stared blankly off into the distance. You didn’t feel overly compelled to call for help. You were too overwhelmed with emotion to move much, anyway. You felt your soul leaving your body.

“...But I take it by your inaction,” Hannibal piped up. “That you’re open to an alternate plan?”

“Huh?” You snapped out of your trance.

Hannibal closed the space between you. He cupped your face in his hand, his thumb running comfortingly along your cheek. “Do you trust me?”

You didn’t fully know what you were agreeing to, but you didn’t care. “Of course I do.”

“Then listen to me very carefully, [Y/N].” Hannibal’s voice hardened with severity. “Go upstairs and change back into your day clothes. Then, I want you to drive to the pharmacy and withdraw some cash from the ATM. Then stay in the store until I call you, understood?”

You nodded.

“Go now.” He ordered, pulling away from you.

You sprinted up the stairs, tore off your gown and pulled the nearest pair of pants over your legs in one fluid motion. You grabbed a shirt and a hoodie hanging over a chair and snatched up your car keys. In a moment, you were out the door and behind the wheel, speeding away from the crime scene.

The pharmacy was the only place open so late at night. You pulled into the parking lot and selected one of the many vacant spots. You took your key out of the ignition and prepared yourself for an onslaught of emotion. But it didn’t come.

You sat in the driver’s seat, replaying the scene in your head over and over again. One second, the bottle was in your hand, the next, it was breaking every bone in Theresa’s face. You could have very well taken a life that day. But it wasn’t an innocent person on the road, it was Theresa. The same Theresa that put Nair in her sister’s shampoo and lobbied against child labor laws. And she died the way she lived; running her stupid mouth, waiting for someone to shut her up.

You were more terrified of Hannibal's response than anything else. He seemed too enthusiastic to cover your tracks for you. Like he was returning to some favorite game he hadn't picked up in a while.

You shuffled across the parking lot to the ATM. Why did Hannibal need cash? Was he going to pay someone off? He didn't specify how much he needed. Was $100 enough to bribe the police? You settled on $100.

The bright fluorescent lights scalded your eyes. You needed to look like you were there for a reason. Grabbing a basket, you tried to distract yourself by going through the shopping list for your apartment.

Toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and body wash. Pilar is allergic to coconut oil so we need to check the ingredients. You found yourself narrating the shopping list in your head, even though it was one you ran down hundreds of times. You knew which brand of body wash to get Pilar, but you were grabbing random soaps and thumbing through the ingredients anyway.

On your way to the cough syrups, you felt a terrible pain in your stomach. You caved around the pain, regretting devouring that pot-au-feu so quickly. When you opened your eyes again, you saw them: the pregnancy tests.

No. You said to yourself. I am not going to keep Theresa alive by letting her get into my head.

As if on cue, another pang of pain reverberated from your core. It was bad enough Theresa had you doubting your memories, now she had you doubting your own body. She couldn’t possibly know your own body better than you, and she was out of line to suggest so.

But, whether you wanted to accept it or not, Theresa had planted the seed in your brain. You wanted so badly to claw it out with your bare hands. The most painless route, though, was to purchase one of those tests and prove her wrong.

In the meantime, you assured yourself she was wrong. You hadn't missed a day of birth control since the tenth grade. Regardless, the pregnancy test in your basket weighed a ton.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, sending you flying out of your skin. The lone cashier took notice.

"You okay, miss?"

You nodded, though you were so clearly not okay. With a trembling hand, you brought the phone up to your ear. "Hello?"

"It's safe now, darling." Hannibal said. "You can come home."

He said it so candidly, it was obvious that he'd done it before.

"Okay, baby, I'll see you at home." You answered, a little too loudly. As the words left your mouth you felt stupid. You'd never once called Hannibal 'baby' and you sure as hell weren't gonna start today.

You brought your items to the cashier, the pain in your stomach worsening. You made a point to waddle back to the medicine aisle and grab some painkillers before the cashier could finish ringing everything up.

By the time you were back behind the wheel, you were fighting the urge to drive off a cliff. The pain in your stomach was unbearable and you had no idea where it was coming from. It had to be psychosomatic. Your body was compensating for the shortcomings of your brain. You knew you were supposed to feel guilty but you just didn't, and your body was punishing you for it.

At home you were clutching the toilet, vomiting your guts out. Hannibal was at your side, gently stroking your hair. Again, acting as candidly as if he were nursing a hangover.

"I'm so sorry." You croaked, lifting your head from the toilet. "I don't know what this is. I didn't even drink that much."

"Don't apologize." He said, calmly. He stood up, filled a glass with water and offered it to you. "You're overwhelmed. It's natural."

"You say this like you've done this before." You joked, though you knew you were right. You clutched the glass with both hands, the coolness feeling good against your hot skin.

Hannibal took a knee beside you. His finger found a blade of your hair and tucked it behind your ear. "Now, we're not going to tell anyone about this, are we?"

He was fully aware of how intimidating he really was.

"I would never." You traced an x over your heart. "Swear on my grandfather's grave."

"Good girl." He traced your jawline with his finger. "Your intuition is as sharp as ever, I see."

You took a long sip of water. "Huh?"

"Don't insult your own intelligence, you know what I mean."

"You've hidden bodies before." You inferred, sitting up.

"I've done more than hide bodies, love, and I think you know that." Hannibal corrected.

Your first instinct was to stand up and get more wine, but moving too fast made you dizzy. "...so did it hurt?"

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"When Theresa died." You said, quietly. "Did she hurt at all?"

This pleased and surprised him to hear. "No. She was so heavily concussed, I doubt she felt anything."

You frowned. "Damn."

"Did you have something else in mind?"

Theresa's last words rung over in your head. 'I didn't think you had it in you'. The thoughts flooding your mind, about how Theresa would go were it up to you, assured you that you did in fact have it in you.

"I would have liked to see her suffer a little." You muttered under your breath.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time." He smiled and offered you his hand. "Come on, love. Let's get you cleaned up."

#hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #hannibal x you #mads mikkelsen #cult girl

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txemrn · 3 years

Text

Book: Open Heart (after book 3)

Word Count: 1456 (+/-)

Warnings: Language, angst, maternal death

A/N: You guessed it; we did another Drunken Drabbles last night (which if you ever want to play, please join us! My buddies @chemist-ana, @jstawriterbee, & @kat-tia801 joined me last night--check out their DD! They actually have smut!), and this one is brought to you be Deep Eddie's Vodka. As far as the challenge? I broke every. single. rule. First of all, I passed out before I could schedule to post this, so here I am, 2.5 hours late. Second, I didn't use the prompt. There is literally no prompt to this. Third, I'm well over 1000 word. And finally, there is no smut. Nada. Zilch. What the hell happened last night? *rubs head* Some characters and plot belong to Pixelberry. Also, no editing or pre-reading with this bad boy, so please forgive me! Enjoy! 😎

***

Depositing a dollop of hand sanitizer in her palm, newly appointed Chief of Obstetrics Dr. Tatum Erikson escorts a nurse out of a labor patient's room. “Let’s go ahead and start that amnio,” she orders as she rubs her hands together. "300 bolus followed by 80 an hour. Call me if--" the chime of her pager interrupts her. "Shit."

"Ma'am?"

Tatum rubs her temples. "Sorry--um--" she looks back at her pager. "--call me if those decels don't resolve in thirty minutes--" she begins to jog down the birthing center's corridor, heading towards the stairs to exit the unit.

She bolts down the six flights, reaching the ground level at a rapid speed. She rounds the corner, pushing past the double doors next to a large red-and-white illuminated sign: Emergency. She sees the commotion ahead and a patient being transferred from a stretcher, not responsive.

"I'm Dr. Erikson," she frantically calls out over the chaos of the room. "I was paged 911. What've we got?" As a seasoned EMT rattles off vital signs and history, Tatum instantly recognizes Karla Hogan, a patient she saw this morning at her 38-week check-up appointment.

Oh, God, no... Please no...

"...she was found unresponsive at the scene of the MVA. Asystole. CPR in process for 17 minutes--"

"Epi? We've given epi?"

"Yes--"

"Atropine?"

"Maxed."

No, no, no. This can't be happening…

"Doctor, how would you like to proceed--?"

"Put a goddamn fetal monitor on my patient," she barks, turning to a nurse nearby. "You," she points, "page OB STAT Emergency overhead. I need an OR now--"

"It won't make a difference," bellows a cold, baritone voice from the doorway of the room.

Tatum freezes, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She knows that hauntingly deep voice: a voice that once made her giggle incessantly during the day while he purred her name late into the night; a voice that encouraged her, comforted her, believed in her all through medical school; a voice that once laid claim to her hand and her heart--that is until that voice found her in bed with his best friend. She knows that frigid tone anywhere.

"Ramsey," she mutters.

"A postmortem c-section?" He condescendingly questions, strolling confidently into the room. "She's been down for how long--?"

"But, if these chest compressions have been adequate, there's a chance--"

"She was gone before they even started--" he nonchalantly interjects as he begins testing the patient's reflexes.

"Doctor Ramsey," she chides before being abruptly interrupted by a trauma nurse.

"Dr. Erikson, I think I hear a heartbeat, but it's low and slow." Tatum nervously nods, taking a few deep breaths.

"That's good enough for me," she kindly thanks the nurse. "Alright, team," she boldly orders, "Let's get her ready for a cesarean." She turns to a nearby technician. "Where the hell is my OB team?"

"They've been paged--"

"Page them again," orders Tatum.

"But, doctor--"

"Page them again," Tatum's tone becomes more stern as she starts grabbing surgical materials. Slipping on a scrub hat, she turns to look into a pair of familiar, crystal blue eyes. "When's the last time you did surgery, Ramsey?"

The tall provider sardonically chuckles. "It's been a while," he crosses his arms, "but, it's not happening right now--"

Tatum scoffs. "Let's get her prepped people. Move!"

"Dr. Erikson," Ethan hollers, a warning in his tone. "You will not be performing this--"

"Watch me." Tatum fervently assists the nurses and technicians in positioning the gravid body. "If you've got a problem, take it up with the chief. This is my call--"

"Already have," Ethan snidely rebuttals, "and it's my call." Tatum stops applying her surgical mask, slowly turning her attention to his towering frame. Her wide eyes slowly trace down from his face to the embroidery of his white coat: Dr. Ethan J. Ramsey, Chief of Medicine.

Tatum blinks her lashes in confusion. "Where's Dr. Banerji?"

"Not here," Ethan smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Now will you be reasonable?"

"Reasonable?" She feels the anger burning inside her as she fights back the stinging pain of tears. Her eyes glisten with earnest pleading. "Ethan," she beckons under her breath, "We could save a life."

Ethan runs his hand over his face, allowing his fingers to rest against his chin. "Tatum, I--"

"Please. Do this," she swallows deeply, her voice reducing to a whisper, "for me?" Ethan's gaze fixes on his former love, a flash of memories flood before his eyes leaving the pair in a palpable stillness.

"Nurse," he calls out from over his shoulder, "I need a size eight glove."

***

"You want me to--"

"I can do it."

Ethan and Tatum walk in silence to the waiting room to retrieve Karla Hogan's husband. Recognizing him instantly, Tatum invites him to follow him to a more private room to talk.

"Just--just say it, Dr. Erikson." Tatum stuns in her steps, slowly turning to face the tearful husband and father-to-be. "Please don't make me take one more step, one more second not knowing that the love of my life--that she, my Karla--" his voice falls into sobs.

"We--we did everything--" Tatum's voice runs hoarse as tears drip from her cheeks. She clears her throat. "Mr. Hogan, I--I--" A sudden tunnel of darkness clouds around her head, the room falling silent. She feels her heart begin to panic, thundering in her chest as her breathing becomes more shallow. She's had this difficult discussion before with family members; but death in the maternity ward is never something one should get used to.

Suddenly, Ethan gently puts a hand on Tatum's shoulder, a comforting touch that always brought her back to reality. She takes a few deep breaths, looking up at him. He gives a curt nod as he squeezes her shoulder, stepping forward to talk.

"Mr. Hogan, we did everything we could…"

Tatum slips off her scrub cap, letting platinum blonde wisps cascade down her face. All she can picture in her head is Karla, how she was full of hope this morning‐‐they both were. And in the blink of an eye

"... but thanks to this skillful doctor right here," Tatum is pulled from her thoughts by Ethan's words as he points to her. "--your newborn baby girl is waiting for you, recovering in our Neonatal Intensive Care Unit."

***

After leading the emotional father up to meet his daughter, Tatum turns on her heel, making her way back to her laboring patients in the birthing center. But, before she exits the NICU, she discovers Ethan finishing a conversation with one of the neonatologists. Their eyes meet.

“Proud of you today, Tate,” Ethan offers a crooked smile.

Tatum dramatically steps closer to Ethan, crossing her arms as she raises an eyebrow. “Pardon me,” she lifts a hand up to cup her ears, “but did you just say, ‘You were right, Tatum; I was wrong’?”

Ethan pinches between his eyes while his other hand rests on his hip. “I’m never wrong--”

“Today you were--” she jovial pokes at him.

“You got lucky--”

“And you’re still bitter--”

“‘Bitter’?” Ethan scoffs, “of you--?”

“That someone’s medical intuition rivals your own--”

“Dare to dream, Dr. Erikson, but we both know exactly what your intuition is capable of--” The moment the words left his lips, a painful apologetic look plagues Ethan’s eyes as he watches the stunned hurt flash across hers. A thick silence floods between them, both of them unsure how to recover from such a low-blow of a remark. Tatum stares at the floor, unsure if she should just walk away.

“Tatum, I--” she shakes her head, waving her arm to dismiss the inevitable apology. She just wasn’t sure when she would stop paying for the sins of her past.

“So,” she tries to change subjects as a mischievous grin grows across her face. "I missed the memo. You're my boss."

"I'm your boss," he chuckles, crossing his arms.

"Hrmmm," Tatum raises her eyebrows, turning towards the door as a silence falls between them, again. She motions for the automatic door to open.

"Hrmmm what?" Ethan questions, turning towards her as the doors slowly open.

"Oh, I was just thinking," she lowers her voice, placing her hand on his arm. Ethan bites his lower lip as his cheeks begin to flush. His eyes flutter down to her lips before drifting back to her gaze. He swallows thickly.

"A-About what?" His tone matches hers.

She giggles letting go of his arm. She makes her way through the automatic doors and back en route to her department. But, not before she calls out over shoulder in a dark, sensually husky voice: "It wouldn't be the first time--" she twirls on her heel to look at him one more time, giving him a wink and a knowing smile, "--sir."

***

@chemist-ana @charlotteg234 @choiceskatie @forallthatitsworth @irisofpurple @kat-tia801 @khoicesbyk @lovelyladyk88 @lucy-268 @neotericthemis @phoenixrising308 @sfb123 @shannonwrote @shewillreadyou @taniasethi @thefrenchiemama

#open heart #ethan ramsey #open heart fanfiction #ethan ramsey fanfiction #pixelberry #choices OH #choices OPH #drunken drabbles

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straightlikewetspaghetti · 3 years

Text

The Voice Inside My Head

Pairings: Poppy x MC (Bea Hughes)

Warnings: angst, mature language, mental illness, self-harm, domestic violence, rejection

Word count: 1901

"Kiss me."

Bea nearly choked on hearing those words from Poppy, who had not once turned or spoken in her direction since the beginning of the film. Now illuminated by the glow of the giant projector and with a dreamy expression on her face, she could easily command her to jump into the abyss and she would do so with pleasure.

"Yes, Princess," she replied, taking her face in her hands and greedily began to kiss her lips.

Princess? How long has it been since he called you that?

Ignoring the voice in the back of her head, Poppy gave herself fully to the magic of the kiss. Her face quickly began to burn as the other girl's curious hands began a slow roaming of her body, never crossing boundaries she didn't want to. Bea had always respected her, even if calling each other names was on their daily agenda.

The windows of Bea's car began to slowly steam up as the heat between them began to turn into a pure flame of desire, and Poppy's quiet whimpers echoed through the small space of the vehicle, turning Bea on even more. The blonde made herself as comfortable as she could in her seat and slid her hands into the girl's thick hair, which was begging for it.

Bea purred approvingly as she felt Poppy gently massage her scalp as she gave herself over to the skin of her neck. With her mouth, she felt the blonde's pulse quicken, just like her own, and if it weren't for her ribcage, her heart could have easily jumped for a walk.

Harder...

Poppy's body began to grow impatient as Bea made no further move, but continued to caress every easily accessible parts of her body with care. Otherwise she would have let her do it, but the thoughts swirling in the back of her head were starting to overwhelm her.

Make her punish you. Let her do what you deserve.

The blonde tightened the hands she held in Bea's hair, only for the girl to hiss and look at her questioningly. The blood-red blushing Poppy didn't even look at her, just to the side panting heavily, though the brunette didn't really do anything to that effect.

She could feel her adoring gaze on her.

Look at her Poppy. She's so vulnerable, so susceptible to your charm and grace, she doesn't even expect what a broken person you are inside.

T-that's not true.

No? And how many times did you hurt her before you agreed to go on that date with her? How many people have you hurt to realize that somewhere in your rotten depths you can feel something warm?

"Stop it," Poppy whispered unknowingly, but Bea, absorbed in trying to show how much she adored her, didn't even hear it.

You will hurt her. You WILL destroy her.

No, no, stop...

Just like you destroyed your family.

"Stop it! Just stop!" Poppy's body shuddered, tears hiding behind her eyelids that shouldn't have been there. Bea jumped away from her like she was on fire, pure terror mixed with shock on her face. She had no idea what had happened, but Poppy herself looked like someone who didn't know what was going on either.

"Jesus Christ Pops, I'm sorry!" Bea nervously began to adjust Poppy's clothing handling her like an egg so that the blonde wouldn't take it as any attempt to continue their little game. The brunette fingers trembled as she tried to fasten the buttons of her blouse.

Can't you see it? She hasn't even done anything wrong, yet she's the one apologizing to you because YOU are emotionally unstable. She is perfect, too perfect for someone as damaged as you. It's not her who doesn't deserve you Queen Bee, it's you who doesn't deserve her.

"Would you just shut up!"

Poppy was already almost panting from the strange fury bubbling up inside her that she could no longer contain within herself. Her scream was so loud that several people in the cars next to her turned toward them and began watching with interest. The blonde didn't even pay attention, her gaze still fixed on the brunette, whose face was full of so many mixed feelings that it was hard to determine what was really in her head.

The blonde sighed, letting half of the unnecessary rage float away and began to see more soberly with her eyes. What she began to notice was not at all to her liking, the pain she saw on the other's face was far more unbearable than the voice sitting in her head.

"Bea I..."

"It doesn't matter," escaped the brunette briefly. Turning around in her seat, she turned the key in the ignition as if nothing ever happened. "I'll take you home."

Poppy dug her long nails into her hand.

She always did this when she was mad at herself. However, now she was quickly losing control. Her brow furrowed as she stared blankly at the road in front of them, and her grip tightened, her nails slowly beginning to cut through her skin. Her breathing became labored, she knew another panic attack was coming. She clenched her jaw, feeling her body begin to tremble.

When she opened her eyes again, she no longer saw the road, but that cursed corridor from which it all began. Whenever she walked along it, it somehow magically got longer, only painfully delaying what was at the end. Instinctively, she looked to the side, towards the wall on which the pictures were hanging, and again she felt as if she were that little helpless girl from many years ago.

"Mommy?" her frightened voice echoed down the hallway as she again heard the thunder coming from outside, where a powerful storm was raging. Clutching her beloved teddy bear more tightly in her hands, she hurried toward the ajar door, from which raised voices began to ring out.

Before she could get there, her dad came out of the room looking shaken. He walked slowly to his daughter and squatted down, ruffling her hair. Poppy, however, did not return the smile when she saw tears in her dad's eyes.

"Remember I will always love you my little princess," were the last words she heard from him that day, the next and many more to come, because as he rose from his knees and grabbed the handle of the front door, his silhouette dissolved into a heavy wall of rain disappearing from her life once and for all.

Shortly after he disappeared, her drunken mother darted out of the room and ran towards the front door on wobbly legs. Instead of opening it, she simply banged on it violently and began sobbing, even louder than the raging thunder. "Art you coward!" her mother screamed towards the door, hitting it with an open fist every now and then. Poppy didn't even have to get close to her to smell the stench of strong alcohol. "You fucking coward..."

"M-mommy?" she said horrified at the state her mother was in. She immediately regretted it when her mother's glowing fury gaze fell on her and she started walking towards her. Poppy hugged her teddy bear tightly, trying to draw any comfort from it, and closed her eyes.

It didn't take Ana long to reach her daughter. She grabbed her firmly by the arm and began shrugging, out of control of her emotions. "This is all your fault," her screams were more terrible than the storm outside, her breath nearly parching Poppy's nostrils, who instinctively turned away from her mother. "You destroyed this family."

You were still so young, you couldn't understand that it was never your fault.

She drew in air heavily as she felt Bea's hand slip into her own, loosening it. It felt like ages had passed, but in fact her mind had locked her into the past for only a few minutes. With a scowl, she looked towards the brunette, who thankfully had her eyes on the road the whole time, her thumb gently caressing the skin of her palm.

The rest of the journey passed in pleasant silence, if that' s the way to put it. Poppy leaned against the window, mindlessly watching the trees fly by, and Bea kept a hand on her palm whenever she could, non-invasively trying to reassure her. In no time, Poppy was sitting on the couch at Bea's house, who had left her alone with herself for a while.

The blonde looked around the room, a little uneasy as she'd been here a few times before but had never paid attention to the scenery. She usually didn't have time for that when all she was thinking about was how much she wanted the brunette's touch on her.

"-- Sinclair is out, there is no option for her to stay here tonight."

A familiar voice reached her ears. She wasn't surprised that Zoey wasn't happy about her presence. The very fact that she had let her on her property was quite a surprise to her. She rose from the couch and wandered into the room where the two girls were discussing.

"Excuse me Bea, but Chlo called, there's some sort of accident at the sorority house and I need to get back. Thanks for today."

Lying is your second nature, but doing it in good faith? Impressive...

"I never expected to live the day when I'd hear a thank you from Sinclair," Zoey muttered, and despite her hostility, a spark of respect flashed in her eyes. "However, that doesn't change the fact that you're not welcome here, and I won't hide that," the girl crossed her arms over her chest looking down on Poppy.

"Sure, fine, I understand," she didn't have the strength to argue, besides deep down she knew the girl was right about that. "I'll go now."

"I can give you a ride!" Bea jumped in front of her briskly like a Golden Retriever pup, earning only a snort from Zoey, but Poppy just shook her head with a weak smile.

Before she left she rose on her tiptoes and placed one of the softest kisses of her life on Bea's cheek. Her lips stayed there for a moment longer than they should have, but Zoey's exaggerated grunt brought her back to gray reality. She left the building without looking back.

The night was chilly, so with every gust of wind Poppy covered herself tighter with the jacket Bea had wrapped her in when she wasn't even paying attention. Walking alone along the trees, she had the feeling that something was watching her and was about to jump out of the bushes at her in any moment. She quickened her step when she heard a rustle coming from around the corner.

She almost screamed when, to her terror, an actually tall figure emerged from the darkness. she cursed herself and Chlo in her mind for every horror she had made her watch. To her surprise, however, horror turned to confusion.

"Hello my little princess."

That voice...

"D-dad?"

#I felt a little angsty #don't mind me #poppy min sinclair #poppy fic #poppy x mc #bea hughes #queen b #queen b choices #choicesfic #choices #playchoices

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mostly-mundane-atla · 3 years

Text

@gayfertilitygoddess i've thought about it pretty extensively. Before I got popular-ish for being a real life eskimo in the fandom, i made a passing coment about the headcanon and it was my most requested topic until people started asking more cultural questions (names and language-related questions seem to be more popular now).

Funnily enough, and I do try to keep this blog otherwise drama free, this was springboarding off of discussions about headcanons with Jin in sex work, which got an absolute brat calling me a "pathetic, sexist loser" in a reblog of the post. I kept it off the main tag and tagged it "sex work mention" (as I do with all of these posts) so I have no idea how she found it to make gross accusations at me. I reblogged to say that her insisting that objective discussions of sex work were inherently slut-shaming was really hurtful as someone who had to consider it from a young age (home isn't always safe and favors/cash are useful at -30°F, we'll just leave it at that). She sent me asks to say that she "didn't mean to be hurtful" but also wouldn't apologize for what she said. She didn't have a damn thing to say about headcanon'ing Jet resorting to sex work, despite it having much more to do with his personality and the way he presents himself than with Jin, where it was entirely about her circumstances as someone in the poor side of a big city. She's since been blocked.

But yeah, Jet's most marketable asset to civilians who just want to escape violence is his charisma. His own comments and Smellerbee's suggest he promised that he'd stop fighting and stealing for the time being. He tells Zuko-as-Lee that "We [outcasts] have to watch each other's backs. Because no one else will." Zuko had his uncle to be his rock and managed to rely on the kindness of strangers when he went on his own. Jet had two friends whom he felt responsible for as their leader. We don't even get canon confirmation that he's fully literate. All of these things combined make finding any kind of employment very difficult, and that doesn't even take into consideration that he can't set down roots. He's trying to get to safety. He can't be obligated to stay in any one place that isn't his destination. There aren't a lot of options.

I feel like this would add to him needing to get out of territory that could be occupied by thee Fire Nation, given the comics explained that Firelord Sozin was a homophobe and worked that into the law. "You know what they've done to boys like me this past century," Jet would probably say. "And those were the ones on their own side." I can't imagine it wouldn't add to the amatanormative mess I write between him and Smellerbee. He shouldn't have to do this at all let alone by himself, and she tries to offer to help, to pitch in, but he scolds her for it so harshly that she cries. He apologizes later and and tells her she needs to just let him worry about it. Girls are supposed to like it when boys are fiercely protective and self-sacrificing, right?

Another thing about this headcanon is sex workers do and historically have done a lot more than most people tend to think. It's one of the reasons phrases like "selling their body" are grossly inaccurate. There is a lot of emotional labor involved. Some people who hire sex workers do so mostly for the company. Not in an "ahem [*eyebrow wiggle*] company, if you catch my meaning [*wink*]" way, like just actually having another human being in the room. Talking, smiling, laughing at their jokes. People get lonely, so it's only natural to pay someone for intimacy. Sometimes, more often than you might assume, they end up using that time more for emotional intimacy than physical intimacy. Sometimes that's the intention.

I wrote a scene with a situation like that. Jet is hired by an old widow because she claims he looks just like her husband did when they were that young. She holds his hand and kisses his cheek, laughing about how that was the farthest the old man had let her get before they were married, and asks him to help her make dinner. She sings and talks about how they used to walk by the river and how handsome he was, how very shy. At some point she stops saying "he" and starts saying "you," addressing Jet as if he was the man she married all those years ago.

"Am I still pretty?" she asks absentmindedly. "Am I as pretty as you'd say I'd be with lines on my face, a hunched back, and hair like clouds?"

"Of course," Jet says. "You're beautiful."

And she looks at him, but that seems to shatter the illusion. She mentions something about making too much food. That she hadn't had to cook that much since.... Silence. The sad kind that seems to suggest another tragedy. She tells him he should take some for his friends and thanks him for all he's done.

(There was also an OC concept I had who was a gay sex worker sharing his home with queer artist friends at the tail end of Firelord Sozin's reign, but this post is already long enough)

#sex work mention #keeping this off the main tag so i don't corrupt anyone #congrats on unlocking my oldest special interest #i could talk about this for hours #and will given half the chance

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moon-light-jukebox · 4 years

Text

see? - [Reid x Reader] - Chapter 4

masterlist

previous chapter // series index

Summary: Spencer’s entire world has shifted, but before he can dwell on any of it, he and the rest of the team must race against the clock to find the unsubs newest victim.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Category: Angst (for now)

Word Count: 3.7k for Chapter 4

Content Warning: Normal Criminal Minds stuff. Mentions of drug addiction. Angst

A/n: This chapter is the last planned one from Spencer’s POV. This is sort of another cliffhanger...but I’ll try to have chapter 5 out as soon as I can. Thank you for reading!

-- The Price We Pay --

(Spencer’s POV)

The most terrible moments in my life never happened slowly. I couldn’t be sure if that’s because of how my brain processed them or that’s just how they happened.

My hours with Tobias seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. My father all but ran out of my life. The light left Maeve’s eyes in a fraction of a second.

This was different.

I heard Hotch's question; I saw the pain ripple across his face when Garcia gave a muffled reply.

“Penelope,” he said, his voice sounding hollow. “I know you know where she is. I think she’s…she’s in danger, Penelope. Please.”

Hotch doesn't say please. Hotch doesn't beg. I knew that, of course, I knew that. I had known the man for over 10 years now.

That is why his behavior didn't make sense.

Looking back, I think this moment happened so slowly because my brain refused to process the gravity of this moment. It was trying to protect me.

Why would Hotch ask about Y/n right now? I knew Garcia must have helped her go into hiding…but why were we talking about it now?

Despite my brain lagging, my body knew something was wrong. My lungs seized. I heard Rossi say something. His voice was coming from the right…but I couldn't hear him. It's like I was underwater; everything was muffled.

My body was going into shock, but I couldn’t understand why.

“Reid. Reid.” I felt a hand on my shoulder, gripping tightly, trying to anchor me to the moment. “Spencer, come on, kid. Focus.”

He never calls me Spencer, I thought, turning my head to the left to meet the wide brown eyes of my friend. “Derek? What…You’re still driving back.”

“We were a block away.” He turned me more towards him, his left hand coming up to grip the back of my neck, applying just enough pressure to make me focus. “I know this is hard, Kid. But we need you.”

Realistically it had only been minutes since Hotch picked up his phone, but it had felt like hours. And everyone in this room had already pieced together a puzzle I was still struggling to see.

I blinked. Then I blinked again. “Y/n doesn’t have a family." When I turned my gaze to Hotch, I saw my unit chief, my boss, my friend tense for a second before he lifted his head, meeting my gaze head-on. "You…You created the Nightingale system after Haley died. It's emergency family relocation. She's…she wasn't close enough with any of her family to use it."

All of the pieces of the puzzle were there, right there in front of me, but I couldn't snap them together.

Hotch didn't say anything for a moment; he just looked at me. Then he lowered the phone from his ear, clicking a button before the sound of clicking keys filled the room. "You're on speaker, Garcia."

"Sir?" she questioned, her voice nasally and thick with congestion. But even though that, just that one word was dripping with sadness and unease.

"You need to hurry, Penelope. We think the unsub may already have her."

She gave a choked sob before the clicking of her computer keys got faster.

But this doesn’t make sense. “The unsub only takes pregnant women,” I rasped. “He’s…he’s after…but he’s not after any pregnant women…he’s after…”

My mind seemed to wake up with that thought, adrenaline finally running through my system and becoming useful.

Pregnancy, on average, lasts for 280 days. Our unsub wanted heavily pregnant women…he wanted women that were about to go into labor.

Images of the night I was outside her apartment flashed in my mind. The only night I had ever had with her…279 days ago.

The thought of her being with someone else pained me, but I grasped onto the idea with both hands, holding on tightly.

“She’s not…she doesn’t fit the victimology. She….she wouldn't be far enough along. Not unless…" My words hung in the air, my tongue-tied in my mouth, refusing to finish them.

Because if the unsub had her…she would have been pregnant when she left.

My world was slowly shifting into focus at the same moment I felt JJ’s hand on my upper arm.

“Spence,” JJ whispered.

“Did you know?” I choked out. “Did all of you know?”

Morgan clicked his tongue against his teeth before he shook his head. “Nah, kid. I didn’t know.”

But my eyes weren't on either of the people at my sides; my eyes were across the room. My eyes were locked on the man I had always trusted with my life. The man who was the best father I had ever known.

“No one knew besides Garcia and myself,” he said firmly. “I ordered her not to tell anyone else. If you have any issues, you can take them up with me.”

“If I have any issues?” I hissed, my teeth snapping together. It wasn’t until I felt wetness on my cheeks that I realized I was crying. “You…She’s pregnant.”

All of the tension seemed to leave his face, leaving him looking as battered as I felt. “We’ll do this later, Spencer.”

He never called me Spencer. “Is…is the baby…mine?” I had to ask, but everyone in the room already knew.

The man I thought was my friend nodded. “Yes.”

“Hotch!” JJ shrieked. “What were you thinking?! What was Y/n thinking?!”

Any emotion in his eyes hardened at her tone, his shoulders squared. The familiar coldness I saw when he faced down monsters and madmen took over his face. He didn’t look like my friend, like the man I had always admired. He wasn’t Hotch, he wasn’t Aaron; he was Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. And he was giving that look…to me.

“I did this because she asked me to. She showed up at my house in the middle of the fucking night because of a fight she had with you. She was…She is like family to me, and she was terrified. Because she went to tell the man she loved that she was pregnant, and he was cruel to her. He said he wished she was dead."

I didn’t flinch under his words; I knew what I had done.

“How could she trust you after that? She didn’t even know you had a problem, Reid.”

My addiction was always the elephant in the room. It didn't matter that I had struggled with it for the better part of 10 years; the team still refused to speak about it out loud.

Until now.

“You should have told me,” was all I could say.

Hotch didn’t budge. “You should have been a man worth telling.”

I flinched then; it was like he shot me. I think it would have hurt less if he had shot me.

Rossi stepped forward, placing a hand on our unit chief’s shoulder. “We don’t have time for this. If he does have our girl, we have to find her. We have to find…them.”

“Garcia,” Hotch barked out.

"I've got it! Her address is 20 Royal Oak Road. But I don't know if she'll be there. I hacked into her computer, and she had…she had a doctor's appointment scheduled for tonight."

I wanted to ask why she would have a doctors’ appointment scheduled for tonight…but I knew why. “Who is her doctor?”

“Reid,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry-“

“Who is her doctor, Garcia?”

“His name is Dr. Johnson. He’s affiliated with St. Mercy’s hospital.”

Hotch grabbed his jacket, already heading for the door. “Rossi, you and Kate go to the abduction site. See if they have any sort of surveillance, witnesses. Anything. JJ, you’re with me at her home. Morgan, I need you to get to the hospital. Spencer-“

I didn’t hear what he told me. I was already out the door.

I had climbed into Morgan’s SUV without thought, settling in my seat a moment before he jumped behind the wheel.

My friend didn’t say anything while we made the 5-minute drive to St. Mercy’s hospital. He said nothing while we both ran inside the hospital’s entrance. The first time he spoke was to the nursing staff, flashing his badge and asking them to pull Dr. Johnson away from whatever patient he was with.

I’m not sure what Derek said, I’m not sure how he was able to convey to them how urgent the matter was, but the doctor was in front of us moments later. He was an older man with thinning white hair and tanned weathered skin.

“Sir, I’m SSA Derek Morgan, this is Dr. Spencer Reid. We’re with the FBI, and we’d like to ask you a few questions about one of your patients.”

“I’m afraid I can’t talk about any of my patients without-“

“I understand that sir, but these are extenuating circumstances. We believe she may be in danger. You heard about the murder in Eugene yesterday?”

All color drained from the man’s face. “You think the person who did that has one of my patients?”

“Yes, we do,” Derek said firmly. He was always so good at this part. He could talk his way into everything. I couldn’t help but wonder what that must be like. “She’s very heavily pregnant, possibly…possibly with a boy.”

“I have several patients that are in their last trimester but…” he trailed off, shifting uncomfortably.

“We have reason to believe that Y/n Y/l/n might be in danger. Her records indicate she had an appointment here with you tonight.”

Dr. Johnson frowned. “I don’t have a patient by that name. I…” he trailed off, his gaze shifting over to me. “I have a Y/n Reid.”

Ever since my confrontation with Hotch, I had been existing in a detached state. Maybe it was my mind’s way of keeping me safe. But hearing her name… “She goes by Reid?” The corners of my lips twitched involuntarily despite the pain radiating from my chest. Of course, she did. It would be the last name I would ever look for.

“I’m afraid I really can’t give out any more information –“

“How far along is she?” I interrupted.

“I’m sorry, I can’t-“

Every single bit of calm and control I had inside of me seem to snap all at once. I took a step forward, my hands balled into fists at my sides. “Listen,” I seethed, my voice like iron. “Not only am I a federal agent, but I am also the fucking father. I want to know when she’s due!”

Dr. Johnson was quite a bit shorter than I was; and while I had never felt like a particularly intimidating person, he seemed to shrink back under my focus. "She's…she's set to be induced tomorrow morning. I have my patients come in the night before. I wanted…I wanted her to be induced earlier but…" He adjusted the glasses on his nose. "She's just so stubborn. She thought she'd go into labor on her own. But I can’t let her go over 42 weeks. She’ll be 41 weeks and 6 days tomorrow. But she never checked in for the appointment.”

“Son of a bitch,” Morgan breathed, pulling his phone out of his pocket and typing rapidly.

“Do…do you know the sex of the baby?” I asked, still trying to hold on to a hope that we were wrong; somehow, despite all of the evidence, we had all been so wrong about this.

“I do. She…Ms. Reid doesn’t know. She wanted it to be a surprise.” He looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Do you…do you want to know?”

“NO, he doesn’t.” I turned to look at Morgan, my eyes struggling to focus. “You’ll find out in the delivery room, kid. We’re going to find her. We’re going to find them.”

It seemed like a ridiculous thing to stress, but it brought me some small sort of comfort while my friend led me out of the hospital to the SUV.

Morgan had called Hotch to confirm what we all already knew. Y/n had disappeared to Bend, Oregon, and she was in the final days of her pregnancy. Rossi and Kate found a car registered to Y/n Reid abandoned in a grocery store parking lot. There was an infant car seat and two bags in the back seat. One bag contained baby items…the other were the sorts of things a mother might need in the hospital.

We were all to meet Hotch and JJ at Y/n's apartment, and Hotch had asked that I come along in the hopes that I would see something everyone else had missed.

Because I had known her better than anyone.

“Kid,” Morgan said softly, breaking the silence inside the car. “We’ll find her…we’ll find them.”

I found myself nodding in agreement automatically. It felt like the right sort of reaction to have. My friend was worried about me, and sometimes you just do things because it’s better for the other person.

I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how Y/n felt that night. The night she left.

"Her phone is still on," I found myself saying. Morgan didn't respond, but I saw him glance over at me out of the corner of his eye. "The same phone she had before she left. I don't know why she never disconnected it. Sometimes…" I broke off, emotion suddenly clogging my throat, threatening to strangle me. "Sometimes, I call it just to hear her voice. I know she won't pick up. But the…the message is still her voice. I always leave a message. I don't know if she ever checks them. But I always leave one…just…just in case." My hand came up to wipe angrily at my cheeks, embarrassed both by my confession and the emotions I couldn't seem to hold in.

“She’ll hear the messages, Reid.”

I gave him another automatic nod.

It turns out Y/n didn’t live too far from the police station. Her home was in an apartment complex on the south end of town, on the third floor. I couldn’t the number of steps from the elevator to her blue front door. Twenty-three.

The instant I stepped inside, it felt wrong; everything felt wrong. The living room was basic and utilitarian. Impersonal. Nothing like Y/n. She was the sort of person who always felt like home.

This didn’t feel like anybody’s home.

I followed Morgan through the house, taking note of how clean and orderly everything was. Y/n had never been messy, but her apartment at home was filled to the brim with objects and things that made her smile.

"There are no pictures on the walls, nothing personal,” Morgan noted, giving voice to my own thoughts. “Hotch?” he called.

“We’re in here,” his voice replied, leading us down a small hallway.

On the right side of the hallway, there was another door that had been thrown open, and we found the other member of my team standing inside.

The room was painted a pale grey with white curtains hanging across the only window. There was a small, darker grey crib against the biggest wall and a rocking chair in the corner.

Something about the sight of that rocking chair was a punch to the stomach because I could see her in it so clearly. Her eyes soft while she moved the chair back and forth, holding a tiny bundle in her arms.

How long had I wanted to be a father? How many times had I dreamed of starting a family with Y/n…only to lose it all now?

“Spence,” JJ said, stepping towards me.

I couldn't look at her; I ignored her because I couldn’t do anything else. “The doctor said she didn’t know the gender of the baby. But I don’t think she would have painted the room pink or blue. She was never that sort of person.”

My eyes ran over the rest of the room. There was a small chest of drawers against another wall with some sort of platform on top of it. A changing table, I thought absentmindedly. There were pictures of stars hung on the walls, small boxes of diapers stacked neatly in the closet.

By the time I made my way over to the rocking chair, I could barely see anything. My torture by Tobias had cost me so much already; my addiction had robbed so much from me. But now I was standing in my child's nursery, and I was having trouble remembering any pain that had ever felt worse than this.

There was a small table beside the chair with a small lamp placed in the middle, but my eyes were fixed on the book pearched on the edge of the table. My fingers wrapped around the spine of the book, lifting it with shaking hands. The cover was white with a tiny bunny rabbit on the corner.

“Kid,” I heard Morgan say softly from behind me.

I couldn’t stop myself from flipping open the book, even though I knew it would bring me nothing but pain.

'The Story of You' was written on the first page in swirling script, right above a sonogram picture. My eyes moved over the outline of a face that I knew I would love for the rest of my life,;my fingers moved over the glossy paper, tracing the outline of my child's features.

A strangled sound left my throat when I read the words underneath the photo, my eyes squeezing tight.

“Spencer?” Rossi asked, coming up to my side. “What is it?”

I couldn’t open my eyes, but I tried to clear my throat, willing myself to speak. “The doctor said she didn’t know the baby’s sex…but…but I think she did anyway.”

Because underneath the photo, I saw her familiar handwriting.

Knowing the name of a child that wasn't even born yet wouldn't help me find her; it wasn't relevant to the case, but I couldn't move past it.

“Isaac Benjamin Reid.”

I couldn’t be sure how long the silence lasted before Rossi asked if that name had any significance to y/n.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said softly. “It’s…it has significance to me. Isaac Asimov is my father’s favorite author. I hadn’t read any of his works since my dad left…but one day on the jet, Y/n got me talking about it. The next day I found a copy of I, Robot on my desk at work. She didn’t say anything, but I knew it was her.”

It was always her.

“And Benjamin?” Hotch prodded.

I let out a heavy exhale. “Ben Walker is my NA sponsor. He has been for over 8 years.” It wasn’t lost on me that none of my team knew about Ben. I never talked about that part of my life; I hadn’t even told Y/n he was my sponsor. I had no idea how she knew about him, but there was no doubt in my mind that’s why she’s selected this name.

“This doesn’t make sense,” JJ muttered, causing me to finally look up at her. “I’m sorry, but none of this makes sense. You said that she didn’t know the baby’s sex.”

"That's what the doctor said," I clarified before closing the book softly. "I guess she just had a feeling."

My friend nodded. “Of course. But how did the unsub know? Garcia has been digging for over an hour. Y/n was…she was hiding, Reid. She worked from home. She doesn’t have a social media presence. Garcia can’t even find any indication that she has friends.”

“So, how did the unsub find her?” Hotch finished. “How did the unsub know she existed? Let alone that she was pregnant with a boy.”

Kate stepped into the room, her eyes moving over everything. "Alright. We need to revisit each victim. Then we need to determine if he came here for y/n or if he just found her. If she's over 40 weeks, I'm sure it's obvious that she's pregnant."

JJ moved to the window and pulled back the curtains, her eyes moving over the street. “But how did he know it was a boy? How did he know any of the victims were pregnant with boys?”

The ringing of Hotch’s phone cut through the air. “Go ahead, Garcia.”

“Sir, I’ve been trying to hack not the security systems of the buildings around the supermarket. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I’m trying to find any vehicle that seems evil.”

“Did you find anything?”

"Kevin and I have been running license plates against the state of Oregon's DMV. There's a bank two blocks away from the grocery store. Their security footage captured a black sedan driving by about 15 minutes after Y/n's debit card was used at the grocery store."

Rossi spoke next. “Is there any reason to suspect that car?”

“The plates belong to a different car, a red Volvo. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got.”

Hotch nodded. “It’s our best lead. Can you track the car through traffic cameras?”

“Doing it now, sir.”

We all started moving towards the door before Hotch gave another order. "Send us the most recent locations, then every single location afterward as soon as you get it. We'll split up and try to canvas the area. Y/n could go into labor at any moment. He couldn't have gone far."

Hotch didn't bother telling me to stay behind this time, but I felt his eyes on me when I got into one of the SUVs. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was his knowledge that I wouldn't listen to him anyway.

It didn’t matter.

Morgan set off at a breakneck speed, his door barely closing before we started moving. His posture was tense, and his eyes were moving over the landscape rapidly.

“She’s gonna be okay, Spencer.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t know that Derek.”

“Yes, I do,” he said firmly. “She’s not just a pregnant woman. She’s a profiler. She’s one of the best profilers I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how this son of a bitch found her, but Garcia created her background. There is no fucking way he knew who she is. He doesn’t know he took an FBI agent.”

The thought should have brought me comfort, but it didn't. It just tore an even bigger hole in my chest. Y/n had left because of me. She had gone into hiding because she was afraid of me. She had a new identity that had potentially made her vulnerable…made my son vulnerable because of me.

Morgan was right; we had to find her.

Because I didn’t think I would be able to survive her paying for my mistakes.

------

Permeant Taglist : @rachelxwayne @pinkdiamond1016 @sickeninglyshoujo @justagirllookingforherplace @nanocoool @andiebeaword @imjusthereformggcontent @rainsong01 @violentvulgarvolatile @mys2425 @al3xmnd @imfalling-inlove @cielo1984 @shadyladyperfection @kissingvalentino @goofygubler14 @levylovegood @diesinspanishbcimhispanic @criminalmindzjunkie @addie5264 @hopefulfangirl24 @vellichor01 @ellegreenawayapologist @mcntsee @eevee0722 @peacedolantwins2 @ashwarren32 @goldencherrymooon @pumpkin-reads @mood---board @gublersbooblers @lesbian-emilyprentiss @badkittybang @quxxnxfhxll @jessayln-jpeg

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caramelcal · 4 years

Text

Songwriting and Fake Dating {3}

Word Count: 2.2k

a/n: hey guys! hope you all enjoy this one as you enjoyed the last one...

this is dedicated to charlie’s mustache. rip :(

also thanks to the person who originally requested this, legend behavior hahah :) hope you guys are having a wonderful night lovelies x

disclaimer: I do not condone the use of my work/writing without my permission. The only place this has been posted is on my (rosemoonmist) tumblr account. This has not been posted on any other platform either. If you see any plagiarism of my work please let me know! <3 People work hard on their fics, so don’t steal them ty.

taglist:@gia-kerks @phantompogues @thesweetestsinner @honeyheartzz @ifilwtmfc @hoechx @merceret @katrin-okay @diosa75

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Another line is drawn right through the words he tried to write. Luke wants to throw his notebook at the wall. He can’t think, or write, the words just aren’t coming to him anymore. He claws at his hair as if pulling on the strands will allow his brain to breathe and come up with the lyrics he had been trying to write for the past two hours. It used to be so easy but he knows why it isn’t working. It wasn’t rocket science.

The words came easy when he was with you, maybe it was the excitement of having someone to write with, or maybe it was the emotions that you both pulled from. It just wasn’t the same anymore. It’s almost like you were the inspiration, the lyrics, and now that you were no longer there, the lyrics weren’t either. Even if you guys didn’t know each other that long and you weren’t the closest, you guys seemed to click and you wrote so much better with each other.

Maybe he just needs a breather. That’s what Luke banks on, that once he goes outside and caught wind of the fresh air, the words will come back. He places down his guitar and his pen and sets out for outside.

Before long, he finds himself sitting on the back porch, one knee up next to his chest and the other splayed in front of him. His eyes are trained upon the dark sky, watching the stars. He barely hears the quiet footsteps that approach him but he sees them sit down beside him, knees up to their chest, hugging them.

“Carrie,” Luke acknowledges, not even looking towards his step-sister when he breaks the silence between the two.

“Luke.”

They fall back into another silence for a few moments, simply watching the stars together. However, Luke’s attention isn’t really on the stars anymore as he thinks about the girl beside him. He remembered when his mom first told him that she was getting remarried and that he was going to get a step-sister. He remembers when they met, and Carrie was just a little too entitled for his taste, and Luke was a little too “street” for hers. They didn’t exactly get off on the best foot, and there were times that there was still some friction in their relationship which certainly wasn’t helped when Luke joined Julie and the Phantoms, but there were times that they were okay; when they shared a sibling bond.

It was hard for both of them to get used to each other, and their parents getting married. For Luke, it had been just him and his mom for a while, so he couldn’t help but feel apprehensive for this new life, not only for him to have a new step-dad and step-sister, but in case this man hurt his mom too. Yet, for Carrie it was different, it had always just been her and Trevor after her mom died during labor. She didn’t know what it was like having a mom, and she didn’t know if she wanted it. Arguably, she was scared; scared that her dad would no longer have time for her and would be spending it all with Emily but that definitely wasn’t the case.

Actually, everything worked out quite well, and soon enough Luke and Emily were moving into the Wilson’s household. It was a strange experience for Luke like he was invited into a whole other world. They came from very different backgrounds, Luke and Emily had never been well off, but Carrie never had to worry about not being able to pay the bills or anything to do with that, so their personalities were quite different. Yet, over the past few weeks, they had become significantly closer and spent more time talking to each other. Luke would show Carrie the songs you guys wrote, and Carrie would show Luke the choreography that you guys had been working on.

They knew exactly why they had become closer, they weren’t stupid. It was all because of you, you were their common ground. You brought the two siblings together.

“You miss her,” Luke comments, breaking the everlasting silence as he glances over at his sister. She isn’t facing the sky anymore and is instead looking down at her legs. It’s been two weeks since you and Carrie fought, where Carrie kicked you out of Dirty Candy, and she hadn’t spoken to you since.

Carrie is quiet for a few moments, almost as if she is battling herself on whether or not she should answer Luke, but she does, quietly, “Of course I do, she’s my best friend.”

A silence fills the air yet again, and Luke doesn’t know whether or not to answer Carrie. The girl has never actually opened up to him before, so for her to tell him that she was missing you was something that was new territory for the both of them. He knew that she missed you, you would have to be insane not to and he was pretty sure this was the longest that Carrie had ever gone without talking to you, so it was like life had been shifted entirely.

“You miss her too,” It’s a simple statement that Carrie makes, but it makes Luke sigh. He does, of course he does. He can’t even write without you.

“She won’t pick up my calls,” Luke says, ducking his head down as he traces the patterns on the ground of the porch. At this rate, he’s probably called you like twenty times in the last week but he always gets sent to voicemail. He knows it’s intentional, but every time he picks up his phone and presses the dial button, there’s a part that hopes you’ll pick up; that you’ll come over and wrote songs with him.

“I won’t pick up hers either,” Carrie admits, biting her lip as she continues to watch the sky, “The dirty candy girls have been bashing her, for putting the band in second place. I just want to scream at them to stop.”

“You should, it isn’t y/n’s fault. She was on her way to the studio that day but I dragged her up to my room. She lost her best friend for just helping me out with a dumb song.”

Carrie knows that Luke feels guilt for all of this. All three of them are miserable without each other and they all know it. Yet, they’re all filled with too much pride to apologize, or even to pick up one another’s calls. They know that they can’t go on like this, because as it goes on they all just feel worse and worse, but no one seems willing to make the first move.

“She always goes out her way to help others, huh?” Carrie says, reminiscing on the number of people that you have helped in the time that you guys have been friends. She remembers the way you give the Dirty Candy girls your water and snacks when they forgot theirs, meaning that you would often to without, helping old people cross the street and just being generally helpful.

You were always so eager to help anyone and everyone, no matter who it was, and that was something that Carrie always admired about you, “Most helpful person I know.”

After Luke’s statement, they are enveloped in another silence, both watching the sky peacefully before a shooting star flies overhead. They don’t speak of it, simply enjoying one another’s company which isn’t something they often find themselves doing. Deep down, they both like each other’s company, and each other, but they never say anything, both too stubborn to do so.

After a few more minutes, Luke gets up, lightly patting his sister on the shoulder, “You should answer her calls, Car.”

. . .

Being a waitress was actually surprisingly fun for you. Normally, you enjoyed serving customers, interacting with people and it was a way to get some extra money. However, right now you wanted nothing less than to be out of here, despite having hours left of your shift; in fact, you had just started.

Normally, customers were respectful and nice, but this one...this one was testing your limits. What made it worse, was that it was none other than Kayla, Carrie’s replace best friend for you and she was shouting, trying to embarrass you in front of not only the customers but in front of your colleagues as well. She’s with a few other friends, but Carrie isn’t there.

Passing you a smirk, she wipes her hand across the table, purposefully making the cutlery drop, “Pick it up, waitress.”

The rest of her group snicker as you try to hold the embarrassed blush that rises to your face. Closing your eyes momentarily, you sigh, “Kayla, I know I haven’t been the best band member but-”

“I don’t think you get it, y/n,” Kayla cuts you off, standing up and walking right in front of you, “Carrie has already told you that you’re done. I hope you would at least have a bit of dignity and to accept that instead of coming begging to me after Carrie didn’t pick up your calls.”

After she says that, Carrie obnoxiously chews on her gum, the other girls snickering. Looking around at them, their eyes on you as they laughed let you clearly know that you were no longer friends with any of the Dirty Candy girls. They were only friends with you to get in with Carrie and it makes you feel dumb that you didn’t realize that beforehand.

“Pathetic,” Kayla spits, looking up and down at the sight of your ducked head.

“Hey, watch it would you Kayla? I think you forget that even though Carrie is annoyed at y/n right now, as soon as she gets over that y/n will be right where she belongs in Dirty Candy again and as Carrie’s best friend,” Julie speaks up from the booth beside them, eyes squinting at the girl, “I think you’re letting this all go to your head too much.”

“You have no idea what Carrie is like, Julie. Plus, even if you told her that I was being a bitch to y/n she won’t listen to you,” Kayla snorts, rolling her eyes at the other girl.

“She’ll listen to her brother though, and we all know that he’ll believe me over you,” Julie responds sassily, Alex and Reggie who were beside her sharing glances. Often, they didn’t like to get involved in drama, and Julie didn’t either but just hearing how these girls were treating you made them feel horrible.

“Whatever,” Kayla says, rolling her eyes again before standing up, “Let's go girls, there seems to be a loser convention going on in here right now.”

Kayla doesn’t seem to be embarrassed, but you know well enough that she is getting out of there before she shows it. The girls are quick to follow behind her, all brushing you off and acting better than you as they pass.

Yet, you don’t pay attention to them for long as you turn towards the girl, giving her a small smile, “Thanks, Julie.”

“No problem, y/n,” Julie smiles, turning her head towards you sweetly. Noticing Alex and Reggie looking at you, you give them a shy wave and a smile before your attention is turned back towards Julie, “Can you do me a favor?”

“Of course, what’s up?” You’re prepared to take Julie’s order, considering that is what you expected her to want you to do but what she says next surprises you.

“Don’t be too hard on Luke, he really didn’t mean to get in between you and Carrie. And we just wanted to say that even if you don’t get back in with Dirty Candy, our band will always be open for you.”

. . .

It’s much later in the night, the café empty apart from you, humming softly a tune from a song you can’t remember the name of. You’re dancing a little as you give the tables one last wipe down before making your way behind the counter again. It was your turn to lock up for the night, the other waitresses already away home but you actually liked it when it was like this.

You didn’t even have the lights on as you took of your small apron-like thing and hung it up. Reaching for the keys, you stop when you hear the bell ringing, signaling that someone had entered the shop. Could they not read the closed sign?

“Sorry, we’re closed right now-” You say, whirling around and meeting hazel eyes, voice cutting off when you saw who was standing there. Clearing your throat, you shift awkwardly between two feet, “Luke.”

“Hey y/n,” Luke says softly, his hair is messy under his navy colored beanie, but you know you can’t talk, yours probably looks a lot worse. He takes a step towards you before speaking again, his voice still soft, “We need to talk.”

#luke patterson x reader #luke julie and the phantoms #julie and the phantoms luke #luke patterson x y/n #luke patterson #charlie gillespie x y/n #charlie gillespie #julie and the phantoms #julie and the phantoms x reader #luke jatp #jatp #charlie gillespie x reader

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michiieewrites · 4 years

Text

Shigaraki - Grind On Me (fic)

WARNING: SMUT, 18+ ONLY!!

A/N: So last week had this dream about Shiggy and things got heavy and heated very fast, so this fic is based on that. I hope you will all like this fic. If you want more, don’t be shy to slide into my inbox, I don’t bite :D Anyway, enjoy!)

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Hurried footsteps slip inside. You follow the white haired man into the living roo. Once inside, you both feel the tension leave your bodies. Even if your chances of getting caught are rising with the minute, all you are is curious. You were both supposed to be in class at your college, but today is ditch-day.

You’ve never been in the Shigaraki-home before. Tomura never invited you over and you weren’t one to pry. He was your friend and you knew that he had a hard time letting himself be vulnerable around others. Give him the time he needs and he’ll slowly unravel the mess of strings inside his heart.

Looking around the living room, you could kind of guess why he never invited you. Everything was… big. Not in size, but in stature. From the outside, the house looked decent enough. Clean and obviously for a wealthy family. But nothing too crazy, nothing that stood out. The inside however, showed that the family that resides here is just straight up filthy rich. Dark wood decorated the interior, the walls filled with classic European art, even the chandelier was covered in crystals.

Turning around, you are met with carmine eyes. His eyes are studying you, trying to read your reaction. When his gaze falls away from your face, he walks over to the wine colored couch behind you. He sits down, leaning back and spreading his legs. The expression he wears tells you that he’s waiting for you to say something.

“It’s uh… I bet it fits your father’s taste,” you tentatively say.

A couple of seconds are filled with silence. Tomura nods. “Yeah, he says it’s shows the importance of our family. I think he just likes to ‘look’ at his money.”

You only met the man once, when he was waiting in the car while you and Tomura browse through the game store. He seemed like the type of man who wasn’t easily impressed. The look he shot you was that of someone who thought others should be beneath them. Someone with a goal ahead and the ability to make it happen, no matter the cost. Sometimes your friend would tell you a little about the path his father had laid out for him. At times, he listened to his father and his plans. At times, he would curse him to Hell and beyond. And at times, he just didn’t know what else there was to life, so he just went along with what others expected of him.

You sit down beside him. Your hand lies on his wrist and his eyes are pulled to the action. Because of his quirk, he was very cautious with touching others. But with you, the risk was worth it. It was worth it to feel the tips of your fingers touch his skin.

“Well, I’m very grateful that you invited me to your home, Tomura.”

“I thought you wouldn’t be swayed by the money my father has.”

In time, you had learned to sometimes read between the lines of his words. This time it meant that he trusted you not to suck up his father’s ass. That you would actually want to be around him for the person he really is. It made your heart squeeze in happiness for being allowed to closer each day.

Just as you pull your hand away from his wrist, you notice the tag of his shirt is out. You tuck it back in his shirt, your fingers grazing his neck. A startled gasp leaves his throat. He whips his head to look straight at you. You quickly pull your hand back.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammer out.

His chest is falling and rising quickly, signaling his panting. “Do it again.”

You aren’t sure you heard that right. “W-what?”

“You heard me,” he said. Leaning over to your side, his arm going behind your back and pulling you closer at the same time. “I told you to do that again, Y/N. Touch my neck.”

Gingerly, your hand reaches out. The pads on your fingers press against his scratched up neck and the action makes him leans his head back, letting a soft groan. A little more daring, you decide to let your fingers travel along his neck. Your fingers press down, a feeling too light to massage any muscle. Only to make their presence known to his body.

You feel movement on the couch and instinctively look down to see Tomura bucking up his hips ever so slightly. His neck exposed, his whole body reacting to your touch. You can feel the fire slowly spreading from your fingertips up your arms, all the way up to your chest. Looking back up, you see lidded eyes watching you closely. Daring you to continue your adventure.

So you do. Crawling into his lap, your legs on both of his sides. With his own legs already spread wide, he has to hold on to you. Pulled as close to his chest as possible, one of his hands travels down your side. His touch is lighter than silk, rougher than an unpolished diamond. With his pinky lifted up, his hand rests just above your ass.

Now both your hands are touching his neck. Making a path down to his collarbones, exploring more unmapped territory. Maintaining the eye contact, you have to ask: “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Pressing his pelvis up against you, he lets out a longer groan this time. “Fuck, yes. Don’t tell me you never thought about it?”

In truth, you have. The pull you felt when you two sit closely next to each other. The comfort each other’s presence gave to the other. The intimacy of just enjoying each other’s company together. Grazes of simple touches lingering a little too long. The body heat that is shared from standing too close to each other. The trust between you two makes it easier to break down every wall. The protectiveness when you’re too far apart.

All these thoughts run wild through your head and it shows on your face. How your eyes fall down from his immodest stare to his lips. Emotions like an open book and all Tomura can focus on right now is how good it feels to touch. To touch you, to be more precise.

His free hand goes holds onto the back of your head and pushes your lips to his own. Cracked lips press against soft ones, not too fast or too slow. He swipes his tongue across your bottom lip and he tastes the mint chocolate ice cream you had earlier that day. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers your hands going back over his shoulder and down his back.

Wanton noises are heard throughout the living room. The temperature of your body is rising and you just know you need to feel something, anything that can restrain this heat. Your body has a mind of it’s own and grinds back down on Tomura. The man beneath pulling back from your kissing to let out a filthy and loud moan.

“Fuck Y/N! Fuck fuck fuck, yes, just keeping doing that.”

His breathing becoming more labored. The hand against your head entangles itself in your hair while the other one presses your body down. Following his movements, you grind yourself against the growing bulge in his pants. You place a kiss on the little mole next to his mouth and slowly make their way down his chin to his neck. You pay a little extra attention to the spots he keeps scratching himself.

Tomura moves his hand to hold on just beneath your ass, his fingers tracing along the swell. Mumbles of ‘good girl’, ‘right there’, while occasionally tugging on your hair. The vibrations of your moans against his skin. He grows more and more impatient with the way your body moves on top of him, but he doesn’t dare stop the heavenly treatment you’re giving him right now.

His pants are getting too tight. Even through the layers of clothing he can feel the heat of your pussy. Practically feeling how wet you’re getting. His own precum now staining his boxers. The plum weight of your ass in his hand, your mouth sucking on his skin. The occasional whimper being voiced. The need for feeling more of him coursing through your body.

As the minutes tick by, your movements becoming more desperate, trying to feel up the other as much as possible. Your hips have set up a pace of their own, your nails clawing at Tomura’s back to hold on. Your mind occupied by thoughts of how good you could really make him feel if this went on any longer. You don’t wanna stop. Only being spurred on by the feeling of your pussy grinding on his stiffening cock.

His lips constantly kissing your hair and whispering filthy things to you. “I finally have you riding yourself in my lap,” he whispers.

Your response muffled by the bite you hold on his neck. Sucking and licking over the new bruise. “I’m not the only one humping like a horny mess, Tomu.”

Pressing down just a little harder to hear that delicious groan of him. “Ah, you’re right, Y/N. But who knew you’d be such a nasty little bitch? Dry humping her best friend on his father’s couch?”

“And who knew his father would come home early today?”

The new voice startles the both of you. Both your heads look to see who it is. You don’t know what’s worse; being interrupted while making out or being interrupted by Mr. Shigaraki. Filled with shame, you try to get up from Tomura’s lap, but are being held back by his arms around your waist.

Sure, he respected his father, but right now Tomura wished he would perish on the spot. How dare he interrupt this moment between Y/N and him? Your face is burying itself against his shoulder, your body curling up in itself in his lap.

How dare his adoptive father make you feel like hiding yourself?

Smirking, a plan is forming in his mind. Still keeping you locked in his arm, he shifts you around a little till the older man has a good view of what’s between his legs. Looking AFO dead in the eyes, he starts palming himself.

“Unless you wanna see my dick out and proudly fucking Y/N here, I suggest you leave the same way you came. You got 5 seconds,” Tomura says.

For a moment nobody moves. Not until Tomura starts unbuttoning his pants, does AFO turn around and walk out the front door. Reveling in his victory, he turns his attention back to you. His eyes filled with primal longing and care. His tongue swiping over his lips, a promise of how the muscle can pleasure you.

“Now where were we, my little vixen?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

***Please let me know if you liked this ending, thank you!

Tagged: @mrsreina / @reinawritesbnha @thots4daze / @kzombi3 @league-of-villians-headcanons / @probablydysfunctionalvindication @aizawascumslut @hipster-merchant-of-death @ravenfeet222 @strawbirb

#michiiee writes #bnha #bnha fic #bnha smut #bnha shigaraki #shigaraki tomura #all for one #bnha all for one #bnha afo #shigaraki fanfic #shigaraki smut #shigaraki x reader #bnha shigaraki x reader

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imaginationintowords · 3 years

Text

Folklore [song series]

epiphany

Modern Day AU! Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff; Steve Rogers x OC!Reader

Plot: Inspired by Taylor Swift’s new album Folklore. The story follows the timeline of Bucky and Elizabeth’s life throughout the years

[warnings: death]

word count: 3168

Age: 21 Year: Sep. 2015 Location: Brooklyn, NY

"So I was thinking, godparents," Bucky spoke up. He and Natasha were currently finishing setting up the baby's nursery in their new apartment.

They had found a nice two bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, much to Natasha's dismay. Bucky thought it was the perfect place to start their new little family. It was also about a 20 to 30 minutes drive to Bucky's work and University campus. His mom and stepdad had even offered to help them out financially for a bit, just as long as Bucky continued on his path to graduate with his Masters in Music Technology in the Spring.

Bucky had managed to finish his bachelor's and masters program in just the span of 4 years, a whole year earlier than originally planned. He was proud of himself, if there's one thing he hadn't screwed up yet, it was his education. He had fully devoted himself to his education the last four years and it clearly paid off. He had also managed to get a good paying job at a studio as an engineer. He had his whole future all planned out, the pregnancy might've been a curve ball at the beginning but with the help of his family and therapist, he was handling it all so well.

"Oh you don't need to worry about the godparents, I have it all figured out already," Natasha tells him as she folds baby clothes, "I picked Abigail and Dylan."

Natasha on the other hand had decided to put her education on hold. Deciding she wanted to be a stay at home mom, Bucky constantly made sure that that's what she wanted. And she insisted every time that she was "made to be a stay at home mom". So Bucky had to reluctantly allow her to make that decision.

Which was one of the reasons why his parents had offered to help out for at least the first year or two, they had known their son was already stressing about finances, and trying to respect Natasha's decision. They figured two years would be a good enough time for the couple to build up their savings.

Bucky didn't like the fact that his parents were helping out with money, but he knew him and Nat wouldn't have been able to make it just on is current income alone. At least not until after he graduated, his boss had already promised a raise once he graduated, but that wasn't until May and the baby was due in the next two weeks. He promised to pay his parents back every cent they gave him, but they told him to just focus on being a good father.

"Abigail and Dylan?" He questioned.

"Yeah," she shrugged her shoulders.

"The same Abigail and Dylan that showed up to the baby shower high, and proceed to get drunk, because and I quote 'babies are so boring'. That Abigail and Dylan?"

"Come on James, they were just joking, plus baby showers aren't necessarily the most fun thing in the world," she rolled her eyes.

"Can we at least each choose one godparent?" He suggested, "You can have Abigail as the Godmother and I can choose The Godfather."

"Like Sam?"

"No, not Sam. Steve," Bucky tells her.

"Oh, then no," she simply said, turning her back to him to continue putting clothes away.

"What's your problem?" Bucky asks annoyed, finally having enough of her attitude, "This entire pregnancy you've been against everything I've suggested."

"Hey, you got to choose Brooklyn," she turned around pointing her finger at him.

"Yeah because I couldn't fucking afford Manhattan Natasha," he stressed, trying not to raise his voice at her, "You didn't want to know the gender of the baby? Fine. You get to name the baby? Fine. You choose the color scheme of the nursery, fine. You choose the hospital. You choose the apartment. God damn Nat, I haven't done a single thing but pay for everything."

"And I thank-you for that," she rolled her eyes.

"But you don't," he shakes his head in disbelief over her reactions, "You haven't thanked me once. I get that you're carrying our child, and I'm appreciative of that. But god damn Natasha, show me some respect. Show my family some respect!

"You didn't thank my mom, Rebecca, or Keith for everything they've done for you. For us. And I can't keep making up excuses to defend you," he raises his voice a little bit.

"If this relationship is ever going to work, you need to be respectful. You need to stop being so selfish. I get this isn't easy for you, but trust me, this isn't easy for me either. But I agreed to do this. I am stepping up. I want to be a part of my child's life. And I want us to be together and be family," he calms down, "But if you continue to act this way. I won't stay in this relationship."

"You're just going to abandon us?" Natasha asks grabbing her belly, suddenly realizing the reality of the situation.

"No, I won't abandon you both. But we won't be together," he explains, "I will always be in my child's life. I will always be there for them. I'm not going to put my child through the same thing I went through growing up. I promised myself I would never do that."

"So if that means that you and I break up, then so be it Natasha, I'll do it," he tells her, "My child will not grow up in a toxic household."

"Okay," she agrees, tears in her eyes, "I promise I will be better."

"Don't promise me Nat, just show me."

Two and a half weeks later Bucky found himself rushing an in-labor Natasha to the hospital, it was a quick k10 minute drive from their apartment. He quickly called his mom as the nurses wheeled Natasha away, with Bucky following.

Bucky's mom arrives within the next 10 minutes, as the nurses begin to prep Natasha in her hospital room.

Bucky sent a quick text to Steve and Sam, letting them know it was showtime and that he'll call them once the baby is here.

"How's Mama doing?" The doctor asked while entering the room, quickly taking her spot at the foot of the bed to examine Natasha.

"It hurts," Nat cried, as Bucky tried to soothe her.

"I know, but unfortunately you were too far dilated when you arrived, that it's too late for the epidural," the doctor softly explains, "But the good news is I feel Baby's head, so it's time to go."

Natasha looked over at Bucky, completely scared.

"It's okay," he assured her, "I'm right here. Everything's going to be okay."

He leaned down an placed a soft kiss to her lips, helping her relax a bit.

"Ready?" The doctor looks up at Natasha.

"Yes," Natasha nodded, grabbing a hold of Bucky and his mom's hands on either side of her.

10 minutes later, a soft cry was heard in the room. Bucky quickly glanced over to where the doctor was had finished pulling the baby out.

"Congrats Mommy and Daddy, it's a girl," she announced.

"A girl?" Bucky whispered in awe, tears filling his eyes. He looked over at Natasha, who looked a lot paler in color.

"Nat?" He called out for her.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her limbs went limp, and all the monitors started to go crazy.

The doctor quickly cut the umbilical chord and handed the baby off to an awaiting nurse.

"What's going on?" Bucky panicky asked.

"Get them out," the doctor told a nurse, ignoring Bucky's question.

A nurse quickly escorted Bucky and his mom out of the room.

"She's going to be okay right?" He asked his mom, tears streaming down his face.

"I don't know honey," she honestly said, wrapping her arms around her son. She never thought the first hug they shared after him becoming a father would be like this.

She continued to hold him, soothing him as she made silent prayers pleading for Natasha's safety.

10 minutes later. The same 10 minutes it took for them to arrive to the hospital. The same 10 minutes it took Natasha to bring their daughter into the world, the door opened.

Bucky quickly pulled apart from his mom to see the doctor walking out of the room.

The doctor's face was filled with sorrow. Bucky's mom immediately put her head down, already knowing the outcome.

"How is she?" Bucky asked.

"Mr. Barnes, Natasha had a postpartum hemorrhage, due to issues with her placenta," the doctor carefully explains, "Unfortunately, there was too much blood loss. We weren't able to save her. She died."

Bucky immediately broke down, his mom quickly caught him. The doctor placed a reassuring hand on his back.

He quickly pulled away after a couple of minutes, "The baby. How's the baby?"

"She's good. They took her to get checked just as a safety procedure," the doctor tells him, "She's on the pediatric floor. Would you like to meet her?"

"Yeah," he says, then pauses, "What about Natasha?"

"We can come get you to say goodbye once we get her cleaned," the doctor tells him.

"Okay, thank you," he says.

The doctor takes him and his mom to the pediatric floor. The walk was silent. No one knowing what to say. Bucky was no longer crying, but he felt numb the entire short walk. The doctor knocked quietly on a door, before opening.

"Doctor Monroe, this is Mr. Barnes, the baby's father," the doctor said, before stepping aside to let Bucky in, "Mr. Barnes, I'll have someone come get you when it's time."

"Okay, thank-you," he nodded his head.

"Are you ready to meet your daughter?" Doctor Monroe asked, Bucky nodded his head.

"Meet your Daddy baby girl," the doctor said, gently handing the baby over to Bucky.

Bucky looked down at the small baby in his arms. He was instantly overcome with so many different emotions. The doctor walked out of the room, while Bucky's mom watched from outside threw the window.

"Hi baby girl," he whispered, sniffling back his tears, "You're so beautiful. I'm your dad. And boy am I lucky that you chose me to be your Dad. I always imagined this day would've turned out a lot differently. But life sure knows how to throw some real curveballs."

"Your mom would've loved you," he paused, letting it all sink in. His daughter will have to grow up without a mother. No little girl should have to be without a mom.

"I'm so sorry," he cried, as the baby was lulled to sleep, "I am so sorry your mom won't be able to physically be here. I am so sorry you'll have to grow up without her. No one should have to grow up without a parent. And trust me, I know what that's like. But lucky for us, I had the greatest pleasure of being raised by the most strongest and kindest mother. She taught me everything I know. Your grandma is the best lady you will ever meet. Lucky for us because god knows we're going to be needing her a lot.

"But you and I are incredibly fortunate that we won't ever be alone. We have so many people who care about us. You'll have all the female leadership you can ever need. We can do this," he strongly said to the sleeping baby, "You and I. We can do this. And I promise you this, that no matter what happens, you will always have me. You're stuck with me for the rest of your life. My love for you is greater than anything, anyone I've ever loved. My love for you will always be easy and unconditional. You'll never have to prove your worth to me. You're worth more to me than you can ever possibly imagine. I love you."

Bucky placed a soft kiss to his daughter's forehead. The first kiss he will ever give her, but definitely not the last.

There was a soft knock at the door, he gently called for the person to come in.

His mom quietly opened and closed the door behind her, stepping to her son's side.

"She's beautiful," she smiled down at the little baby.

"She really is," Bucky beamed. He looked over at his mom and noticed she was holding a clipboard, "What's that?"

"Birth certificate," she tells him, "One of the nurses gave it to me. They said there's no rush to fill it out. You have time."

"Here, I can do that," he said gently holding the baby out for her to take.

"Are you sure?" She asked, switching with him.

"Yeah, I have a name anyways."

"What is it?" She looked over at the name written down:

Poppy James Barnes.

[flashback]

After that talk Bucky had with Natasha, he noticed a serious change in her attitude. She was beginning to be more relaxed and more selfless. Bucky felt a tiny weight lifted off his shoulder. Hoping that these changes in her personality would stay.

"So what do you think about James for a boy?" Natasha asked one night, as she and Bucky made dinner together in their small kitchen.

"For a middle name?" He asked confused.

"No, his first name."

"Oh," he paused, "I actually have never liked the idea of giving a child their parents' name. I feel like it doesn't really give them a chance to be their own person. If their parent is successful then they feel the stress of always having to live up to that. And if their parent is crap then they're forever stuck with that reminder of that person."

"That makes sense," she agreed, understanding where he was coming from,

"Then how about James for the middle name. Whether it's a boy or girl."

"I would actually really like that," he smiled at her, "I would like that a lot."

They gathered up their own plates, and sat at their small round table.

"So what other names have you come up with?" Bucky asked her as he took a bite of his chicken.

"Truthfully, I haven't found any good names. All the girls keep making suggestions and they're way too out there," she tells him, "I don't want them to have a name that's too hard to pronounce or spell."

Natasha's phone started to ring, Bucky got up to grab it for her from the living room. By the time he handed it over to her it stopped ringing.

"What kind of flower is that?" He asked her, noticing her phone's Lock Screen background.

"The California Poppy," she tells him.

"Why do you have that as your background?"

"Well my mom was actually from California," she says, "She met my Dad when they both went to Harvard. They fell in love, so she decided to stay out here on the East Coast.

"The only clear memory I have from her was all the stories she used to tell me about poppy season. How the color just made everything so lively. Her parents would take her every season. I remember seeing all the photos of her as a child surrounded by all the flowers. We looked a like as children," she fondly smiled,

"She always talked about taking me to go see them, but she and Dad were always so busy. Then she got sick and there just wasn't a way for us to go. My grandparents tried to get some out here but it was too late. I never did get to see the poppies."

Natasha was silent for a moment, letting what she said sink in. She's never told anyone that story before, the memory would always make her sad. But now sitting here with Bucky, pregnant with their child, for the first time in her life her mother's death didn't bring her such sadness. She could smile at the memory and know she had the utmost best time with her mother, even if it was short lived, she knew her mother loved her. And she can't wait to shower that love onto the baby inside of her, once they were out.

"We should go," Bucky says, "Once the baby is here we should go when it's poppy season. Plus it'd be nice seeing Steve and Liz's life out west."

"Yeah, that sounds nice," her eyes teared up, seeing how generous this man was in front of her, "I'd really love that."

"Poppy, that's cute," Winifred smiled.

"Yeah, Nat would've loved it."

"They said if you were ready, you can say your goodbyes," she carefully said.

"Okay, you're good with her?"

"Yeah. Do you want me to go with you? The nurses can watch Poppy."

"No. I'd feel much better if she was with family," he tells her, "I'll be fine mom. I can do this."

He gave her a kiss on the cheek before leaving the room.

"Take all the time you need," the nurse told Bucky, as she led him to the room Natasha's body was in.

"Thank you," he quietly said.

She opened the door for him, and he carefully stepped inside.

He walked closer to the body on the bed. He immediately started crying at the sight of her lifeless body.

"God Nat," he cried, "I am so sorry. We never even discussed the possibility of this ever happening. I never even thought of this happening. God I don't know how I am going to ever do this alone. I never imagined myself ever raising a child alone."

He takes a moment to catch his breath.

"She's beautiful Nat, so incredibly beautiful," he tells her, "I wish you would've been able to see her. Hold her. I'm going to make sure she knows everything about you. There's not going to be a day where she doesn't know about her mother."

"When poppy season arrives I'm going to make sure to take her. Every year," he wipes away a tear, "Oh, I also named her Poppy. For you. For your mom. I promise I won't let you down. She's going to have the best life ever. I'll make sure of that. Thank-you for everything you've given me. I truly did love you. Goodbye Natasha." _________________ Age: 22

Location: CA

Year: May 2016

The car comes to a stop, parking in a spot next to a bunch of other cars. Bucky, Liz, and Steve get out of the car. Steve and Liz grab a few things from the trunk, while Bucky gets the smiley baby out of the car seat. Bucky places the baby into the stroller, Steve had gotten out. The three of them began to walk towards the field of poppies.

"Wow, there's a lot this year," Liz says, "Do you want to take her out?"

"Yeah, I'll grab her," Bucky says grabbing Poppy.

He walked ahead of Liz and Steve, taking in the moment with his daughter.

"Look at all the poppies," he whispers to the almost eight month old. She had a huge smile on her face taking in the sight around her.

She was making some babbling sounds, as if to agree with her dad.

The weather was perfect. The sun shining down on them, it wasn't too hot or too cold. Bucky just stared at the flowers, with a peaceful feeling washing over him. The last few months haven't been the easiest, but he was making it. They both were making it. Being here, gave him the reassurance that he was doing good. He could feel Natasha's presence with him there. As if she was silently saying how proud she was of him.

"We're going to be fine," he said to Poppy, placing a kiss on her head.

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