#cw: vague injury

[gamerbot-22]

Arcana LIs with an MC who has an Undercut

DNI

So I'm comin out of my hiatus a bit more officially with this hc list from my drafts! I have a few more ideas, as well as the third and final part to my MC with Plague Flashbacks series (Part 1 here, cough (I am so sorry to @/dameschnee123 for taking so long--))

This is super self indulgent, I started writing this not long after I got an undercut of my own. To anyone reading this who's considering an undercut get one I am so goddamn serious I love it so much.

C & TWs Include: A lil spicy (mentions of neck kisses) but nothing super explicit. Mentions of botching a haircut with a knife, but no mention of any specific wounds.

You know the drill, hcs under the cut!

🔮 Asra

- Thinks you look amazing! - Asks occasionally if it’s okay for them to touch it cause he likes the texture and the sound of it. - Jokes about getting one themself, but he’d never really give up the iconic marshmallow fluff hairstyle they’ve got going on. - Keeps pitching the idea of you getting different patterns whenever you go to get it cut again. - “Really, just picture it: you lift up your hair and surprise! It’s a little snake in a wizard hat!”

👑 Nadia

- Instantly reminded of Nahara and her side shave. - Gets really jealous of how cool your neck must be in the summer months. - Has to keep reminding herself that she can't just reach over and fluff you up without asking. (Even if you're ok with it happening unprompted, she wants to be proper about it.) - (This is a lil projection cause mine wasn't done super straight) but if you get it touched up and it doesn't fit your standards she'll insist on letting the palace barber touch it up. - "It's not an inconvenience at all, my dear! It's what we pay them for."

🩸 Julian

- Oh he used to have one of those! - When he was apprenticing under Nazali he kept his hair shorter, and part of that was having an undercut to keep the back of his neck cool. - Plays it so cool if you offer to let him touch it, but on the inside he is. Loosin it. - When you're cuddling he likes to stick his face in it and give you a couple kisses. He also likes to fake complain when it's fresh about how scratchy it is. - "Ah, you have to tell me when you get it touched up. It feels like I'm kissing a hedgehog."

🐻 Muriel

- I feel like he would find out you have one by accident? - Like you trip and when he grabs you by the back of the shirt to catch you he feels how short your hair is on your neck. - Will not touch it unless you give him express permission to. - Homeboy is super awkward for the first couple minutes cause he's so used to feeling Inanna's fur and he's pretty sure he shouldn't pet a human like he pets wolves. - "It's kinda nice, actually. I like the soft part at the top..."

🐱 Portia

- You gotta tell her where you got that done right now she wants one too. - She gets all sweaty running around the palace and town all day, she could use a little air on the back of her neck!! - The second you show it to her, she's asking to touch it. - She kinda scruffs you like a cat almost? Like that's the movement her hand is making against your head and it's way more comfortable than it sounds. - "Oh my god, I dunno how to describe it but this rules. Does it itch at all? I can scratch it if it does!"

🗡 Lucio

- How in trouble would he be if he tried to give himself an undercut to match yours? - Doesn't matter, within the week he's made an attempt and has failed miserably. - That's what happens when you try to give yourself an undercut with a knife and no adult supervision. - Makes you promise to come with him to the barber once his head recovers from the murder he just committed. - "If you're scared for me, I'll let you hold my hand when we go... No I'm not scared, I specifically said it was for you if you're scared! ... Ok, maybe I'm a little scared--"

[gaytedlasso]

In the church of a lonely highway motel,

an angel falls

[sollucets]

midnight museum episode 10 and the cigarette saga

[yingren]

❛  isn't it ironic?  ❜ ( go on. give me angst. )

random questions for starters.

ren dabs disinfectant around a larger cut, a practiced precaution to avoid infection. something in the air shifts when veritas speaks and he finds that perhaps there is some unspoken irony to it all. then again, this isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before. blood, something raw and unfiltered, just a sprinkle of pain that stings and burns. ratio’s voice is the only thing that keeps him tethered to reality, the only thing that makes him believe that any of this is actually real.

ren wraps bandages around an open wound, a practiced motion he knows all too well. up, down and around. he laces it in a zig-zag pattern to keep it from coming undone. the feeling of nausea kicks in, stomach twisted in pain. it feels as if a void of anxiety has opened up in his very core, greedy hands searching for anything to hold onto and consume. again, this is not an unfamiliar sight. it should blend into all of the other times he’s been injured, exposed to obscene sights that can’t properly be described. carnage after carnage, the natural sound of a sharp blade cutting through flesh, the following stench of iron in liquid. this time is different, this time he wants to turn, run and empty the contents of his own stomach to get rid of the nauseating agony. 

ren finally acknowledges the irony of it all, a reluctant smile trying to ease the tension. if anyone is well aware of how strong the human body is, it should be him. regardless of overflowing abundance forcing itself upon him, cuts like these are usually not that difficult to handle. they require quite the easy fix and nothing more, rarely affecting one’s physical body or mental state. 

ren knows that he has seen it all before but not like this. hands reach for ratio’s, clasping it between warm palms, another heated confession brought forth by an unexpected turn of events. ren stares at the bandages around veritas’ arm, gaze shifting between their arms as if comparing something. it should have been him, or so he thinks, then at least veritas would not be the one injured right now. it should have been ren, he would have gladly suffered this injury if it was guaranteed to spare ratio of any unnecessary pain. oh, how ironic it really is. ren bleeds and bleeds & bleeds even more. all so that veritas doesn’t have to. to inadvertently care so much for someone else is still new to him, an emotion he still needs to master properly. where frigid walls once wrapped around a cold core, veritas has granted ren so much time and patience, thawing out a heart sealed in ice. 

“ mhm, the irony does not evade me. ” a thumb brushes over the bandaged arm and ren steps closer. just close enough to make sure that veritas is still there, as if his senses are not to be trusted. he can see him, hear him and feel him — yet something feels amiss. selfish, he labels himself as, for focusing more on his own feelings than whatever veritas is going through right now. part of him still thinks this is unreal, that maybe this is another nightmare his brain concocted to instill proper fear into his system. fear of what? this, whatever the fuck this is. this horrible feeling of worry and panic. this whisper that reminds ren that his lover is not safe from the jaws of death. the back of his hand searches for ratio’s cheek, begs for any type of contact that might help him feel better, seeks out comfort that veritas ( and veritas only ) knows how to offer. “ you need to be more careful. ”

ren does not hesitate when he leans in & plants a shaky kiss onto ratio’s lips. he lingers that close for another moment, maybe it won’t make the worry in his eyes so obvious if he manages to hide it like this. ratio is here, he is going to be just fine, he is alive. again, he repeats the same words over & over until they begin to sound real.

he is here. he is going to be fine. he is alive. 

“ please be more careful next time. ” oh heavens, he even pleads. “ i am not sure how pleasant living would be if i had to do it in a world without you. ”

[toads-n-moss]

woaw more no dl6 au stuff!!

i love designing clothes for characters even if they only wear it for one scene

thorns of the turnabout is the finale case of chapter 1/"game" 1, but don't worry there will be more >:3

turnabout ashes is a new case i'm adding that's kind of like turnabout beginnings. it's a flashback to phoenix and miles' first case. they both get to be gregory's weirdgirl assistants

[image ID in alt text!!]

[supercantaloupe]

okay well. i still haven't come up with a title for this but i don't feel like letting it just sit in my docs in the dark anymore. here's that modern au don g thing for you. oneshot, about 3.6k.

He wakes to the sound of steady beeping and the vague humming of electronics and machinery. Then, bright fluorescent lights, which he squints against the moment he tries to crack his eyes open. Then, the pain.

“Ghhrgh,” he groans, trying to sit up and immediately regretting it. Everything is hot and tingly and it hurts--

“Woah,” someone says, and he feels a hand on his chest lightly pushing him back against the pillow. “Easy. I wouldn’t try to move much if I were you.” He eases back against the pillow and squints to let his eyes adjust, and sees the woman in scrubs fiddling with a remote beside the bed until it raises him into a position somewhere between sitting and laying. 

“Wh--” he tries to say, and immediately regrets it, his words turning into a hacking cough as soon as they leave his mouth. His throat burns. “Where am I?” he asks, and his voice is raspy.

“Saint John’s Hospital,” the nurse answers. “How are you feeling today? Can I get you anything?”

“Bad,” he wheezes. “Water, please.”

The nurse leaves the bedside to grab a paper cup by the sink and fill it at the faucet. She brings it over and gently hands it to him, saying, “I’ll ask the doctor to adjust your pain medication.” Moving around the other side of the bed to note something on a clipboard, she adds, “You have visitors waiting to see you, would you like me to bring them in yet?”

He considers this blankly and slowly drinks his cup of water. His throat is sore and dry and it hurts to swallow, but still the cold water is soothing. “Sure,” he finally says, wondering who exactly would be waiting for him.

The nurse hangs the clipboard up and adjusts something on the IV, then heads for the door. “I’ll let them in,” she says, then disappears into the hallway. He takes the moment of quiet to look around and take in the situation. The hospital room is unremarkable, sterile and white and filled with equipment he doesn’t know the precise purposes of. There’s a clock on the wall, reading about 6:52, but he can’t tell if it’s morning or evening. There’s an IV tube attached to his hand and held in place with a bit of tape; his arms and hands are wrapped with bandages here and there, with the odd patches of undressed skin looking red and patchy. A thin blanket covers his body from the waist down, and in place of clothes he’s draped in a loose, papery hospital gown.

He snaps out of his thoughts when the door practically crashes open, and people spill in. “Leporello!” one of them cries, pushing her way through the small crowd to the front.

He immediately flinches, lifting his arms up over his head and hunching down, the sudden movement sending a flare of pain through his body. “I’m sorry! I didn’t start the fire, I swear!” he cries, his voice hoarse.

Elvira stops moving forward mid-step, wincing at his reaction. “Geez,” somewhere behind her and off to the side, she hears Zerlina comment. “He looks terrible.”

“Zerlina!” Masetto scolds in an attempt at a whisper. 

“What? He does,” Zerlina counters. 

“I do?” Leporello asks, lowering his arms slowly and looking them over. Zerlina and Masetto on the right, Anna and Ottavio on the left, Elvira in the front, all staring him down with varying levels of concern, confusion, and determination. 

“Here,” Elvira exhales, fetching her phone from her pocket. She opens the camera and holds it up for him to use as a mirror. His face isn’t quite as splotchy as his arms and hands, but it certainly doesn’t look pretty either, and his stubble is patchy at best, hair singed and awkward. He grimaces at his reflection, and Elvira takes the phone back. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“We saw you getting loaded into the ambulance by the paramedics,” Zerlina says. “With the, mask thing on,” she continues, making a gesture with her hand over her face. 

“I don’t know,” he says, gently lifting a hand and mimicking her gesture. The fog in his brain starts to clear, and he vaguely remembers the feeling of the oxygen mask, the rattling of the gurney, while he was drifting in and out of consciousness. He glances among their ranks once more. “Where’s-- where’s Giovanni?”

They look among each other. “We were hoping you knew that,” Ottavio answers, staring him down with a strange look. 

Leporello fiddles with the empty paper cup. His mouth still feels dry, he wishes he had some more water. “I don’t know,” he admits. 

“He was in the house with you, right?” Ottavio presses.

“Yes, but I don’t know what happened to him,” Leporello says. “I didn’t see-- I passed out,” he stammers. “I vaguely remember the firefighters, and the paramedics, but I really-- I don’t remember anything. I just woke up here. They had to-- they must’ve pulled him out too. He must be in another room.”

“You--” Ottavio starts, leaning forward.

“Love, please,” Anna says gently, her hand on his arm. He glances back at her and stops. 

“He’s--” Leporello coughs, reading their expressions. “He’s not here?”

“They only pulled one body out of the house,” Masetto starts cautiously, after a beat of awkward silence. 

“Alive body,” Zerlina adds quickly. 

Leporello pales. “Then he’s--?” he starts, choking on the last syllable. 

“We don’t know,” Ottavio cuts in again, his face stony. “...They didn’t find anybody else….Living or otherwise.”

A beat. “There was no body?” Most of them shake their heads. “I…then…” Leporello tries to say, words failing him. He stares down at his lap, thinking back. “It was…I don’t…” He crinkles the paper cup again, and swallows dumbly, throat parched and scratchy again. 

Elvira watches him, then glances around the room. Spying the sink, she reaches for it; Zerlina catches on, and, standing closer, moves over to grab another cup and fill it at the sink. She hands it to Elvira, who passes it on to Leporello. He glances up at her as she offers it to him, and he takes it, drinking it down gratefully.

“Okay,” he says, when the cup is empty. “I know where he is. Well, I know where he’s not. But…you won’t believe me.”

Brows furrow. “What do you mean?” Ottavio asks, while Masetto says, “Just tell us.”

“Okay, okay, but…don’t be mad,” Leporello cautions. “He’s not, uh, here, anymore. He’s gone.” 

“Gone,” Zerlina repeats.

“Gone! Okay, gone where?” Ottavio asks firmly. 

“I don’t know, okay!? He’s just gone!” Leporello answers defensively. “He was having one of his parties and, and--” His eyes dart over to Anna, and a pang of guilt hits his heart over what he’s about to say. “--Your father was there -- I don’t know how, alright!? -- But he was there, like a ghost or something, and he showed up -- you saw him too,” he adds, looking to Elvira, who stares at him like a deer in the headlights (he can’t bear to look at Anna anymore; it’s like a knife plunged into her heart, her expression). “--And he grabbed him, and wouldn’t let go, and Giovanni wouldn’t give in, and -- I couldn't reach him -- and then, the fire--” Leporello stammers through the story, getting worked up. His face feels hot, not just from the burns, but from everyone’s searing stares. “He just…took him away. I don’t know where, or how, I didn’t see anything else -- the fire, I -- but he’s…gone. I know that. Not coming back. He’s just…gone.”  

Silence. A bit stunned, a bit disbelieving. 

“You have to believe me,” Leporello pleads softly. He makes eye contact with Elvira again, and reaches over to her. She steps back, just out of his reach. “You saw him too, didn’t you? It was real, I swear.”

A stifling silence falls over the room. Leporello feels he might cry, if he wasn’t so parched still. 

“So,” Ottavio finally breaks the quiet. His voice is low and cold. “That’s it, then?”

“You don’t believe me,” Leporello says, more a statement for himself than a question. Ottavio opens his mouth to respond, but comes up empty. Leporello chuckles once, hollow and humorless. “Well, don’t then, but that’s the truth. Giovanni is just…”

“Let’s go, Zerlina,” Masetto says as Leporello trails off, taking Zerlina by the hand. She looks up at him, then glances back at Leporello.

“No, yeah, please, you two,” he says, coughing a little, and trying not to sound sarcastic. “Go on with your lives, please. He’s gone. You can go home, it’s fine.” 

They both regard him for a moment longer before Zerlina nods and Masetto turns to follow her out of the room. As they go, Ottavio moves to follow, taking Anna by the hand.

“Anna,” Leporello says, and they stop, looking back at him. “I’m-- I’m really sorry-- I’m telling the truth, I swear, I just…I’m sorry, for everything.” 

She bites her lip and glances away. Leporello thinks she’s fighting tears, and he can’t blame her; he couldn’t bear to look at himself if he were in her position, that’s for sure. Ottavio again moves to lead her out of the room, and she starts to go with him. Elvira locks eyes with Leporello for a second before following them out of the room. Leporello groans and falls back against his pillow.

“Shit,” he sighs, closing his eyes. 

In the hallway, Elvira catches up to Ottavio and Anna. “May I have a word with you, Anna?” she asks, pausing her stride. Anna pauses too, looking at her, and Ottavio follows suit reluctantly.

“We ought to get going,” Ottavio says. 

“Just for a moment, please,” Elvira replies.

“You can chat on the way,” he says, taking another step.

“Ottavio,” Anna says gently, and he stops in his tracks. “It’s alright. I’ll meet you downstairs.” He makes a face like he wants to protest again, then sighs, nods, and proceeds down the hall without them. When he’s out of sight, Anna turns back to Elvira. “What is it?” she asks.

“I know it sounds absurd, but, he really is telling the truth,” Elvira says, in a soft voice. “About-- about your…”

“My father,” Anna finishes for her. Her voice catches on the second syllable, like a hiccup or a sob. Elvira nods. Anna takes her hands. “So you saw--?”

“Only briefly,” Elvira answers. “I didn’t believe it at first -- I mean, I don’t even know how I recognized him, he didn’t look…but -- I was there, I tried to knock some tiny bit of sense into Giovanni’s head, and he wouldn’t have any of it, and as I was leaving, he was, I mean, your father, he was at the door…I left so quickly, it was so startling, and then there was the fire, but…I saw him. It wasn’t a lie, he was there.”

Elvira feels Anna squeeze her hands gently. Her eyes and cheeks are moist, and though her voice quivers, she says, “I believe you.”

Elvira nods, and feels as if she may cry, too. “Okay. Good.”

“Thank you,” Anna adds, nodding as well. She squeezes Elvira’s hands again, and offers a small smile, before turning and heading down the hallway to go. Elvira watches, then sniffles and wipes her eye, then turns back and re-enters Leporello’s hospital room.

Hearing the door, Leporello opens his eyes again and turns his head to look. “You’re back?” he asks, expecting the nurse, not Elvira.

“Anna believes you,” Elvira says simply. “I don’t know about the others, but Anna believes you.” 

Leporello studies her for a moment. “You did see him,” he says, again a statement more than a question. Elvira nods. Leporello sighs and lets his head fall back, looking up at the ceiling. “What time is it?”

Elvira glances at the clock on the wall. “About 7:15.”

“Is it morning or night?”

“Oh, uh, morning.”

Leporello breathes, then coughs a bit, throat still ragged, like torn-up pavement. “Are you alright? You look…” he starts, then pauses, realizing he had no end to that sentence yet that didn’t sound rude. “...well, not as bad as me, but…”

“I’m fine,” Elvira says, frowning. “What do I look like?”

“Like you’ve been up all night,” Leporello answers, turning his head to look at her again. Her hair is pulled back in a loose, messy bun, her makeup looks old and smudged, her outfit the same one he remembers from just before the fire.

“Well,” Elvira starts, plopping herself down in the chair in the corner of the room with an exhale. “I have been.”

“You should have gone home and rested,” Leporello says. “Giovanni’s gone, anyhow. You didn’t need to come see me.”

“I waited for you,” Elvira corrects. “I needed to make sure you were alright.”

Leporello is quiet for a moment. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I couldn’t just watch the paramedics haul you into the ambulance and leave it at that.”

“Sure you could’ve--”

“I mean, you looked terrible, Leporello, you might’ve died.” 

He doesn’t respond to that for a moment, and looks blankly at the ceiling again. 

“And yet, here I am,” he finally says, with no inflection.

“I wasn’t just going to just stand there and watch the house burn down, my God,” Elvira says, “I had to do something--”

“Wait,” Leporello says, looking back at her. It hadn’t occurred to Leporello, in the chaos of it all, how he’d even ended up at the hospital. Pulled out of the flames by firefighters, tended to by paramedics, rushed here in the ambulance, sure, that all seemed obvious, but how did the firefighters know to come in the first place? He didn’t call, and Giovanni certainly didn’t (couldn’t), and there was no one else around, except… “You called 911,” he states, not a question. Elvira looks at him quietly and nods. “...you saved my life,” Leporello adds.

“The doctors did that, and the firemen,” she protests. “Not me.”

“You called them. The security system was off, John'd disabled it when we got there, he always…and I couldn’t call. They never would’ve -- Elvira, I would’ve died without you.”

Elvira’s lips twist into a frown. “Please, let’s not…”

The door opens, interrupting them. The nurse returns, followed by a man in a lab coat. “Ah, how are you doing this morning, mister…?” the doctor asks, looking over at Leporello in the bed.

“Perez. Ethan,” he fills in, voice hoarse. He tries to clear his throat, and winces, regretting it. “Uh, bad.” 

“Second- and third-degree burns to half the body, plus a couple of bruised ribs; I’d say so. Well, let’s increase your pain medication and see how that helps, okay?” he says, nodding to the nurse. She walks around the other side of the bed and begins to set up the IV.

“I hope it’s morphine,” he mutters. The doctor chuckles. 

“Well, it should kick in soon, and then we’ll come back in and check your dressings, alright? Ring the buzzer if you need anything,” he continues.

“My throat--” he starts again, chokingly. “My throat hurts.”

“That’ll happen when you inhale superheated gas,” the doctor explains. “Would you like something for it?”

“Yes please,” he croaks in response. The doctor looks over at the nurse and she nods. 

“Alright, I’ll be back soon.” The doctor and the nurse leave the room. It’s quiet for a moment, and he goes back to staring at the ceiling, while Elvira looks him over from her seat in the corner.

“...Ethan Perez?” she repeats, breaking the silence. 

“You thought ‘Leporello’ was real?” he answers, sounding tired but not rude. “Giovanni came up with it. I don’t know where it came from.”

“Oh,” Elvira says. She feels like she should’ve known that, somehow. 

“Well,” Ethan continues, taking another deep breath and letting it out, and managing not to wheeze this time. “I estimate I’ve got about ten minutes max before the drugs kick in and I get all loopy, so, if you want to say something else, now’s probably a good time.” He lifts his hand lazily to show off the IV taped to the reddened skin.

“I…” Elvira starts, and trails off, drawing a blank. The door opens again, and the nurse returns. 

“Here you go,” she says, walking over and handing a plastic wrapped popsicle to Ethan.

“Oh,” he says, blinking and taking it gently. He’d expected a lozenge or something, not this. “Thanks.” The nurse nods and leaves again. Ethan fiddles to rip the plastic off, then blinks again and repeats himself, “oh,” noticing the bright red popsicle is one of the ones with two sticks at the bottom. He pinches each stick with each hand and pulls the halves apart, then turns and reaches to offer one half to Elvira. “Here.”

“Oh, no, thanks, it’s fine, you can have it,” she declines awkwardly.

He bounces his wrist slightly, still holding the popsicle out. “You saved my life. Have a popsicle.” 

Elvira sighs. “Alright,” she gives in, and gets up, taking the offered popsicle. Ethan relaxes back into the hospital bed and lifts his half of the popsicle to his mouth. It’s cold and sweet and surprisingly soothing going down his burned throat. 

“I haven’t had one of these since I was little,” Elvira says. 

“My sisters used to love them,” Ethan replies. “In summer, I’d take them down to the corner store, and buy two, and split them up for each of us.” He licks a bit of melted juice off the popsicle stick before it drips onto his finger. 

“You have sisters?”

“Shaina, Adi, and Miriam.” He turns the popsicle sideways, pressing the cold against his lips. “I haven’t seen them in years.” A beat, while he works at his popsicle. “Why did you come back to Giovanni’s house?” he asks, turning his head to look over at her.

Elvira thinks about this, idly rolling the popsicle stick between her fingers. “I dunno. I guess I hoped…” She sighs. “I dunno.” 

“That he’d change?” Ethan answers for her. She shrugs. “I get that.” 

“It seems stupid. Like, ‘I could fix him’ and all that.”

“No, I get it.” 

“I didn’t expect it to…end. Not like that.”

Ethan chuckles and slurps a bit more melted popsicle before it falls. “Neither did I, ha. I’m glad the others got out okay.”

God, she’d forgotten there were others, at Giovanni’s party. “They did? Oh, good.”

Ethan nods. “They got scared off when you showed up, I told them to leave out the back.” He lazily waves his half eaten popsicle in the air a bit before saying, “I wonder if they realize what they missed,” before popping it back in his mouth. “Good for them.”

“And, the, uh…the ghost…” Elvira says, failing to come up with a better description for it than that. It wasn’t a man and it wasn’t a ghost really, but it was something, and it was recognizable, somehow, and it was terrifying. She nibbles her popsicle and watches him.

Ethan shrugs. “Who knows?” He’s quiet for a moment, staring vaguely at the last little bit of his popsicle. “All I know is Giovanni’s gone.”

“And you survived,” Elvira points out. Ethan grunts and bites off the last bit of his popsicle, letting it melt on his tongue. His eyes are half-lidded, his expression calm and sleepy, his fingers rolling the pink-stained popsicle stick around between them. “Will you be alright?”

“Hm?” he asks, glancing back over at her, eyelids fluttering back to alertness.

“Will you be alright after…?” she repeats, not exactly knowing what after she meant.

“I guess,” he answers, blinking slowly. “I mean, I have no clue how I’m going to pay for any of this,” he gestures vaguely to himself, all wrapped up in gauze and tape and papery hospital cotton, “since John’s not paying for anything now…” God, he thinks about the bills already waiting for him, and the new ones accumulating every second he spends here, and presses his head back into his pillow. He’ll stress about it later, surely, but he’s growing far too drowsy to worry right now. Just forming sentences is an effort right now. “But I guess I’m still alive, so.” A beat. He shrugs again, and lets his hand drop to his lap. “Will you?”

“I…” she starts, looking down. She hasn’t really thought about it yet, honestly. “I guess,” she echoes, after another beat. “I guess, if he’s really…gone, that’s…some kind of closure, even if it’s kind of twisted…” She sighs and runs her free hand through her hair, combs her fingers through the loose strands escaped from the hastily-tied bun. “I don’t know. I’ll figure something out, I guess. I’m not going back home again, anyway, I don’t think I can…” she trails off, looking up from her lap again, and noticing Ethan’s gone still, his breathing still slightly ragged-sounding but regular now, eyes slipped closed. The popsicle stick is loose in his hand on his lap. Time’s up, she supposes; the drugs must’ve kicked in by now. Well, they could both use their rest. 

Finishing the last of her popsicle, she gets up and quietly comes over, collecting the wrapper and stick and crumpled paper cup from his lap and disposing of them in the garbage can, then rinses her hands in the sink before turning to go. Maybe she should stay to keep an eye on him, but, no, she needs to go home, she needs to eat and rest and figure out how to live now, After. She could message him, tomorrow maybe, to check in -- no, she doesn’t have his number, doesn’t even know if he still has a phone, or if it was lost in the fire too, all she has is a name. He’ll have to stay here for a while, probably, healing, just look at him, but, no, he seemed pretty embarrassed about being looked after. Uncomfortable with everyone staring him down, interrogating him. Maybe she ought to just get out of his hair and leave him be. Well, she hopes, at least, for the best for him, and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

[timetravelerpyrite]

😢

Directing this at one of his pokemon instead of Pyrite.

[L o a d i n g N i g h - ]

[E R- -R -O -R - N I G H T M A R E I N T E R C E P T E D . . . L O A D I N G I R O N M E M O R I E S . . .]

//Beware of tags

[Screaming- running- faster, must be faster, have to go faster, always faster, can't let them catch me, can't let them touch me.

Fire, fire burns flesh, anger, pain, screaming, hurt, regret, why is he smiling? I burnt him? His hand, out to me, why? I hurt him? Why? Why trust me?

No one touches him, no one will touch him, won't let him suffer, protect. Only protect. Protected me. Will protect back. Regret.

...

Pain, e r r o r, e r r *o -r, blood? Blo-od. Deep injur-y. H-H-e-al. No. Protect-t-t. H-Hurt, in pAiN, prO-tEc-t, Pr-oTeC-T, e -r r- !o -r.

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Functions restored... how? Decommissioned. How? Deep injury, healed? How? Error...

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Wet, eyes wet. Crying. Sadness. Strange face... worry? Why? Why? Here, here. I... I am here.

...

"Pyrite why are you crying...?"]

[lifesver]

@johnnysslaughter said: “ i promise you, you and i are gonna have some fun. ”

at first, he barely registers johnny's voice, dragging him harshly from of the mercy of unconsciousness, as sharp, mean features swim into view across from him. a predatory gleam in the haze. leland's head lifts slightly, eyes flicker sideways as he surveys blurry, unfamiliar surroundings. he feels heavy, he feels cut-open, and raw. his neck hurts from this position, but not as much as the rest of him hurts. breathing still hurts, he notes, as he feels the air strain in his chest, rasp past split lip, cracked with old blood. when leland shifts, he's made aware of his restraints, keeping him tightly in place. different, more practiced, he thinks, than the hackjob bindings they'd all escaped from, before.

how stupid was he, to think it would be over quickly? it was never going to be that easy. dying meant he wouldn't get to play with you, anymore. and you had already taken all the others from him. eyes shut tightly; gut reaction is sudden, and dizzying. his breath catches, he feels sick. this — whatever this was, would be worse. worse than everything else.

he remembers, now — he should be afraid. but he can't even bring his body to flinch back from johnny, just then — like his nerves had all shorted out. leland opens his mouth to speak, jaw feeling like rusty hinges, but he can't make a sound, at first. he has to drag his voice up through the reeds; ❝ get... the hell away from me. ❞ he whispers, jagged and painful — because it's all he can do, throat abused from shouting, sobbing, snarling. and like he's already forgotten his position, he throws his weight against his restraints, like a toothless threat — stay the fuck back. of course, he doesn't get anywhere. just gets jackknifing pain up every inch of his body.

he feels something tugging at the thin skin of his ribs — twinging along his back, and arms, with every shaky inhale. new stitches, he suddenly realizes. someone had taken the care to sew together numerous knife slices. he can feel them in his cheek when he winces. shit. he can barely remember what had happened, after the generator. after the sunflower field. he can't even begin to guess how long he'd been out. had it been hours, or days?

he misses the safety of it — the dreamless, empty sleep, where the voices around him were distant, and couldn't hurt him. before someone had caught him right on the precipice of darkness, and forced him back to the blinding surface. as he stares bitterly silent back at johnny, he has a hard time imagining the patch-job had been his doing.

after everything, he was back in this god-forsaken basement. no. wait. not the basement, anymore. at once, dread climbs spindly-legged up his chest. he can hear the wind through the walls. there are personal belongings scattered in his peripherals. leland blinks hard, flashbulb memory bringing back the feeling of being dragged through the grass. eyes rolling back to see a star-speckled night sky. austere shapes looming in the dark, a house, a shack. somewhere else. alone with a goddamn serial killer.

he swallows, and still tastes copper. ❝ i've... had enough fun, thanks, ❞ leland answers, after a long moment, and rough with gravel. he adjusts to straighten as best he can, testing the rope around his wrists. he can hardly summon the grit, but his eyes leer at johnny from under his lashes. ❝ why... why did you keep me alive? ❞ what do you want from me? he had seen the bodies strewn all over the basement. the ones that were hung up, veiled in plastic in the freezer room. maybe, he should have envied them.

[theellipelli]

“Gloria.”

He had imagined something different. When his generals informed him of a terrible lich lord routing his armies from their routes and burning his outposts, he had assumed the lich to be powerful and cunning, heart dipped the darkest black. A malicious force, a cruel being. The inevitable night to his final day. 

What he had not imagined was Gloria, radiant and shining like the sun, with the same bright eyes she had in life and the same golden hair he remembered from his youth.

At most, he might have suspected. The modus operandi of the lich lord had been familiar, though only now did he realize that the lich’s doings were near beat-for-beat how she’d helped him uproot his father’s old rule, way back when. 

With a voice like a clear bell, she exploded into brilliant joy when she saw him walking out from behind the thick of trees. “Pwyll! Oh, you haven’t aged a day, my friend.”

She, of course, was lying. His hair was spotted with stark, white streaks and his skin no longer clung to his bones. Even the most eternal elves would one day lose their youth—especially the ones wracked with grief and sorrow. 

“And you have seen better days,” he said instead of anything indignant, hoping to regain a brief glimpse of what could have been. 

Pwyll was right to joke. Gloria reared her head back and laughed, hair bouncing by her shoulders in an almost unnatural way. It probably was; if he focused hard enough he could spot the barest shimmer of glamour coating her. 

He had never known Gloria to be good with mage craft.

“Oh, oh! Oh, you charm me, as always. How long has it been? Twenty, fifty years?” 

“It has been a thousand years since we last saw each other.”

Since you died, he thought. Maybe there was a solace to be found somewhere deep within now when he knew she had never truly gone. 

“A thousand!” Gloria swung around a tree, an arm slung around the trunk and a single foot at its base. “A thousand!” She said again, aghast. “Oh, Pwyll! Is that why your hair is all white now? I had honestly assumed you’d dyed it.”

Gloria was the smartest woman Pwyll had ever known—in no universe would she ever forget the passage of time, or grow blind to the age of the body. Even alone with only her thoughts for a thousand years, her excellence would not fade. 

But, Pwyll was also the smartest man Gloria has ever met. Something was wrong.

Her face was not spotless. There were new scars on her cheeks, exhaustion hollowed out in her cheeks, bags under her eyes and red around her nose—as though she truly had aged, if only somewhat. Her lips were imperfect, freckles had broken out across her cheeks as though she had spent years under the sun. 

The only perfect thing about her was her eyes, brilliant and bright blue as they always were. Unchanging, even in the worst times. 

“How is immortality treating you?” Pwyll asked because that's how you got her to talk. 

“Oh, just fine, really,” she said quickly. To him, it sounded almost rehearsed, practised a thousand times over. She swung out a leg and paced in a circle, hands on her hips. “You’re lucky you and your posse don’t trade corporeal forms for eternity; finding new bodies is a pain in the arse.”

Pwyll frowned. Back in the day, she had often spouted profanities. He’d found it charming, then, and had revelled in it—the freedom of it. Since her death, he had become unused to anyone speaking so easily with him.

“Me and mine are not eternal. We have traded nothing for it.”

Gloria knew this. She shot him a brilliant smile, teeth white as clouds, and said, “Oh, but you really should! Immortality does wonders for stress.”

“Lichdom,” Pwyll corrected, tired already, “does wonders for stress.”

“My point.” She snapped her fingers at him and halted her pace.

She has stopped by a thick, tall tree, fine spruce as old as the both of them. She crossed her arms and leaned her back against it, crossing her legs. 

Her smile was jovial and posture easy, but her eyes were sharp like they had been during the siege. “You must not be quite busy if you’ve chosen to come to see me,” she said, tilting her head upward in defiance. 

Pwyll suspected this might be bait. She knew just how busy he was right now—she was one of the biggest reasons why. 

“The… curse,” he started slowly, furrowing his brow and hitting the bottom of his lip between words, “persists. I am hoping that if I ignore it, the rebellion might lose its fire.”

It was not a curse, not really. It was neither a hex from a witch nor a wizard, nor a prophecy from an oracle. It was simply bad luck, a mistake repeated throughout generations.

Again, Gloria laughed, voice light like a bell. “The complete opposite of your father! Attempting to avoid his fate by doing the opposite of what he did?” Her smile was almost mocking now. 

“Were you always this cruel?” Pwyll blurted out. Initially, he thought he had managed to contain the thought within his mind, but the expression Gloria gave him was anything but ignorance. 

Pwyll hoped for a moment that she might ignore it, if he remained silent and pretended as if he had said nothing, but sighed in defeat when she kept staring at him with the same, pitying expression. 

“When it was you and I leading the insurrection, were you this cruel? Did you laugh at me then, too, or is this new? Is this what a thousand years has done to you?”

A strange ripple of pity crossed Gloria’s illusory features, such minute detail that Pwyll gave himself space to appreciate such wonderful handiwork until it iced over into something both cruel and gentle. 

“What has a thousand years done to you, Pwyll?” She asked, her lips pressed thin. She pulled herself from the tree and walked toward him, stopping a sword’s distance between them. “It is your people dissenting, and yet you come here to fight with me instead?”

“I come here to fight with you because you are helping them.”

“I’m doing your job, Pwyll! Is it not a king’s plight to help his people? They want a new rule, so give it to them!”

Pwyll bristled, hands clenching and unclenching. Even during the rebellion, he had never been a violent man; back then, he was all paragon from head to toe, a shining example of a heroic leader. Now, he had lived for a thousand years in the wake of his best friend’s death, and he was tired.

“But it is our rule! It is our rule, Gloria. I do not care if they are unhappy with what I do with it, as long as it is ours, all is well,” he said, bowing his head down. 

What was his crown if not the final memory he had of Gloria? The only tangible thing, that was not a battlefield legend, or broken swords, or burnt maps. That was not wakes of corpses, fields of bloodshed, or anything that made him remember that final night with his father.

“For a thousand years,” he said, his hand creeping up to his chest and clutching the fabric over his heart, “I have mourned you. For every day and night, I have thought of you. I have neglected my people, my duties, and my life, to honour you. If I could do it all over again, I would have never challenged my father in the first place.”

Gloria stood deathly still for a few moments as she pondered. Then, she sighed, and said in her usual tone, “Is that why you never took a wife?”

Pwyll shot her a look.

“I’m just saying! The new leader isn’t your son, and that hasn’t happened since… well, in a while! Even you got the chance to—" here, she dragged a finger across her throat, “—off your old man. Edison is just some farmer from the north.”

Pwyll frowned. “Edison?” 

He didn’t know much about this rebellion. He wondered if his father had, either. Maybe, when Gloria and he had gone to confront him in the throne room, his father’s surprise had been genuine. Towards the end though, it was hard to tell what was real with his father and what wasn’t. 

“That’s his name, you know. The guy leading the rebels?”

“Oh,” said Pwyll. He hadn’t known. He’d assumed it was some nobility from within his walls trying for a desperate grab for power, or some neglected leather worker from the outer reaches of the city. “He is of the north? Why leave it behind to come here?”

There was no change in Gloria’s posture nor expression, but Pwyll could tell when her eyes sharpened into something seething. “You shut down their trade routes throughout the entire winter, Pwyll! Come on, you must know! You would have had to sign whatever agreement made that happen!”

Pwyll did remember that. Only a handful of winters ago the city’s stock of wheat had run dry and they could only supply to a handful of villages. He had assumed that a farming town in the far north would manage the winter without assistance, as they were only taxed for half of their wheat.

“Because our supply ran dry. I had to make a difficult choice.”

“You starved a thousand people to death! Edison was the only one who managed to get out, and that was only because he’d left at the beginning of winter to come and beg you for help! Oh, Pwyll, come on, you must have met him! Large and burly, with a little girl at his side that looked nothing like him.”

Pwyll thought. A lot of people came through the castle, asking for favours and favours and favours. Men, women, and others. Merchants, nobles, foreigners. Young, old. 

A girl with bright blue eyes, he remembered. She had been the most interesting part of that day. A young girl, body lithe and thin, wilting like a flower, with eyes so blue they almost shone. They had been meters apart when they met, and even so, Pwyll had felt her stare like knives on his body.

He had assumed the man next to her had been her father. A large, burly man with tanned skin—the complete antithesis of the pale and lithe girl. He looked like any other farmer, so Pwyll had not paid him much attention.

“The girl with blue eyes?”

“So you do remember them!” Exclaimed Gloria, her entire body snapping backwards in disbelief. “And you are still confused why they are here, now? With armies and with pitchforks?”

“But—“ said Pwyll, taking a step forward, “—there was nothing I could have done! It was either them or us, and they had enough wheat already—!”

“A good king,” interrupted Gloria, back turned but head leaning towards him, “would have prepared years in advance to make sure this never happened. That winter wasn’t even especially cruel! You just neglected your duties for one year and killed a thousand!”

Pwyll startled. “I didn’t— It was an honest mistake!”

“Kings do not make mistakes, Pwyll!” She cried, whirling around with her arms stretched wide. “Oh, oh, please understand. You are just like your father, and his father, and the king before him, and the king before him—so bright at the start, and then so miserable at the end. You are just another part of the chain, and I hate that I had thought you’d be better.”

There was silence, for only a few moments. Pwyll hated how imperfect the illusion of Gloria was, yet how inhuman it acted. There was no crack in her expression, no heaving with rage. She looked real, but she acted like a puppet on strings.

She seemed to lose some fight and curled her arms inwards to hug herself. “They asked you for help, and you did not answer. They asked the gods for help, and neither did they. What was I to do? This is our rule, Pwyll. These are our people, and you are killing them!”

“And you aren’t?” Said Pwyll. “Those armies you're killing are our people, too!”

If only she had been tangible and there, he could grab her and shake whatever insanity had come over her. His Gloria had unwavering faith in him. Is this what a thousand years of loneliness did to someone?

Gloria straightened mechanically and stared at him, expression once again defiant. “This is my difficult choice,” she said. “And it will be the last of my difficult choices. Edison is a good man and he will be a good king.”

“And I wasn't?”

She seemed to wilt, all of a sudden. “Oh, Pwyll. I had such high hopes for you. You were so, so good. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what did you wrong after I left you, but I swear, it won't happen again.”

Pwyll felt like laughing. Or crying, or screaming hysterically. 

“Oh, no, Pwyll, don’t look like that.” 

A hand came into his field of view and gently gripped his wrist. He raised his head and met eyes with Gloria’s brilliant ones. Warmth radiated from her hand, and Pwyll was stunned silent.

“You weren’t meant to just be another of the bad kings. I really thought I’d done it with you, that time. You were so good and so kind. I made myself the bad soldier so that you could be the good king.”

Another hand came up to grab his hand this time, and she pulled it slightly forward, clasping it between hers. “But don’t worry. This time, it will be alright. Edison will be a good king, I just know it. I’ll keep a closer eye, this time. If something goes wrong, I’ll know what it is— for next time.”

Pwyll was silent. His other hand, loosely hovering over the side where his sword would usually hang, came to gently hold Gloria’s. “This is not the real you,” he said. “What do you look like, now?”

She smiled at him. “Oh, Pwyll. You wouldn’t want to know. It’d break your heart.”

He ignored her gaze, eyes fastened on her hand—ivory white, and thin with skin. He lightly pinched the knuckle of her fingers between his and poked each of her knuckles. 

After some moments of wonder, he whispered to her, “I know what went wrong.”

He could not see her face, but he felt her body jitter with surprise. “You do?”

Pwyll nodded. “I do.” He waited for another breath, before he said, “You did. You died. I am still broken over it.”

Gloria remained frozen for another breath before her body sagged. “Oh, Pwyll. That’s not right. I was no one to you. Humans die all the time—what are ten years in the face of a thousand?”

Not enough, he thought. Never enough, never. 

“My death was not what went wrong. The death of a single human is inconsequential in the eyes of your kind. It was not me, I was insignificant in the big scheme of it all.”

“Not to me,” said Pwyll. “Never to me.”

He released her hands, then clasped them together between his and met her eyes again. They were wide, surprised—maybe genuine. He hoped that maybe, these were her true eyes, today. 

“Come back home with me,” he said, fueling more command in his voice than he ever had as the leader of the rebellion or as the king of his land. “Come home, and we can fix this. All of it. I’ll never make another mistake ever again if you are there. I will never let another village starve and never neglect my duties. Come home, and we can fix everything.”

A few wonderful seconds passed where Pwyll could read Gloria like a book. Emotions flashed across her face—confusion, surprise, awe, grief, joy, anger—quick as lightning and just as spectacular. Then, as though a veil had pulled over her face, the expressions dimmed underneath a small smile. Acceptance.

“Oh, Pwyll,” she said, taking a single step forward and shaking his hands off of hers, placing them on his shoulders instead. “I already am.”

Then, she embraced him. Pwyll fell into it, closing his eyes and hugging her back with such intensity that he could have sworn she disappeared from between his arms.

When he opened his eyes again, he realized that she had. There was no Gloria in his arms, only air and the faint smell of lightning that followed her wherever she went.

“Gloria?” He called, standing straight and whirling around. He called for her again, and a third time, before cutting himself off when he saw her figure walk out from behind a tree, further away. 

A single step forward was enough distance for Pwyll to see that, no, it was not Gloria who had stepped from beside the tree.

This one was shorter, thinner and much younger. Her hair was long and sharp, ratty with lack of care—nothing like the curly, well-loved hair Gloria had. She dressed in warm clothes, layered dresses in greens and blacks, and not Gloria’s airy tunics and thin pants. 

Her eyes were brilliant and blue, bright like the sky and intense as fire. Even from so many feet away, he could feel her stare at him like knives.

“Gloria,” he breathed because it was undoubtedly her. 

Warmth spread through his chest, and his steps faltered and came to a halt. The warmth spread pleasantly through his lungs and into his arms and legs, sending his mind swimming in a haze. Then, the heat grew hotter and hotter, until his lungs burned and strained, and his heart melted in his chest. Waves of both cold and hot crashed through Pwyll’s body over, and over, and over, until his legs were too weak to carry him.

He toppled sideways onto the ground, crashing onto the lush green with a wet noise.

It was then, and only then, that his arms grazed against a sword stuck through his chest. A cheap make, the blade and hilt both spotted with rust and the dark wrapping around the hilt torn and frayed. It wasn’t even a standard issue—it looked homemade, by an inexperienced blacksmith from the outer villages.

The heat spread to his fingers, causing them to tingle until numb. 

Before him, stood Gloria.

Her steps were light, and the rushing in his ears drowned any noise he might have otherwise heard.

She stared at him with an open expression of pity—no illusion, no tricks. Just Gloria and Pwyll, just like a thousand years ago. 

Then a figure came to stand between them. Their back was turned to him, though he could see the smallest hint of his face from where he lay on the ground.

A large, burly man, with tanned skin—the cookie-cutter appearance of a farmer. 

Edison.

Bumps on his hands and scars across his arms showed a recent past of sword-wielding. He looked a lot like Pwyll himself had, during his final confrontation with his father, all those years ago.

The heat subsided and was replaced with a new, different fire.

No longer did it burn him numb. Now, it burned him, coiling waves of fury throughout every part of his body. 

Suddenly there was strength enough to pull himself onto his elbows, then onto his knees, and then enough to begin pushing the blade out from his chest. Each inch was its little strike of lightning, sending pain crashing through parts of him he’d never been able to feel before.

The entire time, Gloria stared over the farmer’s shoulder, curious. Her expression was slightly open, her mouth and eyes lose, eyebrows raised above her cut fringe. Her eyes were brilliant as though staring at the sun.

With a single, resolute shove, the sword hit the ground behind Pwyll. There was no air left to breathe, there was no pause to be had. He blindly grabbed at the sword behind him and used what little fire burned within him still to stand on his feet, willing the pain to ebb away for just a moment.

Edison was still faced away from him, clasping Gloria’s little hands between his and smoothly talking to her as if consoling a child. 

Pwyll thanked whatever design had made it so Edison did not hear him approach, raise his blade, or strike.

He did not manage to strike Edison.

Without ever seeing her move, Gloria intercepted the blade, taking the large swing to her chest. The blade cut sideways through her collarbone, halfway to her heart, and she toppled, body limp in an instant.

“Gloria,” Pwyll breathed, again.

She was smiling, even now. The same, airy smile she had worn when she had died at the hands of his father.

“Ah,” she said. “It’ll be different this time. I swear it.” 

A perfect echo of what she had told his father as he had taken a knife to her throat a thousand years ago.

Then, the light of her eyes darkened in a single inhale, and life escaped the body with an exhale. Pwyll could hear nothing but the rushing of blood. He could not breathe, could only cough up blood crawling up his throat. 

Everything hurt—his body, his mind, his soul and his heart.

With an impressive show of strength, Pwyll was harshly shoved to the side. His body buckled around the punch and his body was sent flying into a nearby tree. He did not recieve the luxury of feeling himself collide with it before he was gone.

Long ago, a young elf met a young human in the forest of Eternia and they became best friends. Now, a millennium later, that same elf faces his old friend, the now terrible lich lord, in the same forest.

[shininginyourlight]

zhao isn't an insecure man.

not usually.

not innately.

he hates to admit that this has changed since a bit before he relinquished control of the liu/mang to seo/nh/ee.

after seeing the extent of what mab/uchi and his cohorts did to him, he wasn't that eager to let anyone else get a peek. it was one of the biggest things that made him nervous about sharing a space with everyone in survive.

he didn't need the pitying stares. the commiserating words. it was his hurt to bear, and no one but that friend of ichiban's that saved him to see it.

he was relieved when no one really asked about the swimming shirt when he joined in on the group vacation to hawaii. he could feel their prying gaze, however, when he refused to take it off even to wash off the salt water, though. not even adjusting it to let the outside shower's water drip down it. he assured he'd take a real shower once they got back to the hotel.

by that point in 2023, he's finally considering telling someone.

he trusts seo/nh/ee, jo/on-/gi, and especially ich/ib/an.

he's still just not sure if he could handle their stares on him if they ever saw it.

[reidrum]

close to home | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x reader

a/n: this has been rotting in my brain for days now i hope you enjoy the angsty comfort this brought me <3 my requests are open (guidelines in pinned!) or if you wanna just chat hop in my ask box :) gonna hopefully work on a smut fic in the next week so keep an eye out hehe

cw: angst, hurt/comfort, protective!spencer, afab!reader who uses she/her pronouns, non bau!reader, cm type violence, reader sustains injuries from unsub, vague description of injuries, maeve mentions, derek being a good friend, spencer being so in love with reader, this takes place probably a year after maeve, inconsistencies with tls and characters but who cares

wc: 2.4k

summary: the bau is working a local case when their unsub strikes again mid investigation, hotch tells reid and morgan to go check it out but spencer finds the address of the crime to be a little too familar

_______________________________________________

whenever the bau has a case based in the dc area, it’s always a little easier on the team. familiar stomping grounds, ease of resources, no major time difference, and everyone can sleep in their own beds. the hard part about home cases is knowing there’s a serial killer in the place they know deeply, with people they cared about deeply.

spencer and callahan are in the middle of the bullpen staring at the giant white board with all the evidence they have so far. the unsub has been killing women in their mid 20s in the local dc area, with the mo currently unknown. there had already been two victims, both killed in their homes. spencer was currently trying to analyze all the information the case had alongside with what garcia was able to provide, and he was still hitting a dead end. morgan had joined them at some point too, trying to offer what he could remember from the crime scenes but to no avail. he felt his eyes straining and dropping so he decided to get more coffee, but was stopped by hotch and garcia entering the bullpen.

“police just got a 911 call about a break in, but there’s a witness this time. she was home when it happened and it looks like he didn’t expect that and tried to knock her out before escaping. i think it sounds like our unsub. morgan and reid i need you to go check out the scene and interview the witness, see what she remembers.” hotch explained.

morgan and reid nodded as garcia spoke up, “i just sent the address to your phones, it’s a house on hillcrest so it's not that far from here.”

spencer froze. he had to have heard wrong, she did not say hillcrest, “did you say hillcrest?”

“yeah hillcrest drive. it’s like, a 15 minute drive it’s not that bad.”

he felt his heart drop to his feet, a sinking feeling building in his gut. that was the street you lived on. he tried to ground himself with logic, the probability of it being your house is only 10%, but he was dreading asking the fated question.

“garcia, what’s the house number?”

“reid, i already sent it to your pho-“

“garcia, what is the house number,” he spoke again. 

please don’t say 1159 please don’t say 1159 please don’t say-

“1159.”

fuck. the color drained from his face, and the nausea was building to a head quickly. spencer hurriedly tried to think through the last time he spoke to you, last night? this morning? he doesn’t check on you as much as he does when he’s not on a case, but oh my god why can’t he remember the last time he saw you.

“reid,” hotch bellows, finally breaking spencer out of his trance, “what is it? what do you know?”

he shook his head,  “nothing. morgan, let’s go.” he grabbed his jacket and booked it out the door.

morgan, garcia, and hotch all looked at each other in concern, before morgan spoke up, “i’ll see what’s up.” the latter two nodded softly, though the worry didn’t let up in their eyes.

morgan walked up to the car to find spencer repeatedly trying to call someone on the phone, clearly unable to get through and getting really frustrated.

spencer was alerted by morgan’s presence hearing the car unlock but he didn’t even look at him, just immediately got in the car and strapped his seat belt. morgan joined him in the drivers seat giving him a wary look before turning the car on and pulling out of the bureau.

“okay reid, spill it. it’s obvious you know who lives here.” morgan speaks up.

“just drive, please.”

“because if you know something, something that could help the case, it would be helpful if we knew.”

“morgan, just drive.” he borderline yells.

he raises his eyebrows at his raised voice, “listen kid, i’m just trying to help you. i can see you’re upset but we’re on the same side, you know that.”

spencer takes a shaky breath, feeling another shade of guilt at yelling at one of his friends, for something he didn’t even know about. he’d kept you a secret for many reasons— your relationship with him was still new, and he just wanted to keep you to himself for a bit. after what happened with maeve, he felt especially more responsible at keeping you safe and making sure you didn’t get tangled up in his line of work.

some job he did of that.

the one thing he regrets about how he handled the maeve situation, was not asking for help until it was almost too late. for not doing anything about her stalker when he was part of one of the most famous fbi teams built to find people like that. he’d always live with that guilt, but he vowed not to do that with you.

he loved you so much. you were so kind, and smart, and beautiful. a breath of fresh air after feeling lost in a dark tunnel for so long. you were so understanding when he explained what he did for a living, and what had happened to him and people he cared about as a result. he still remembers what you said to him when he told you that you could have an out, if you wanted.

“any risk is worth taking if getting to be with you is the consolation prize.”

tears welled up in eyes thinking about the memory. if you were willing to take any risk, then he should be able to as well.

he cleared his throat, and morgan’s ears perked up, “my uh, my girlfriend lives there. where the unsub, at- attacked.” he voiced softly.

morgan looked at him for a beat while driving, spencer missing the way his face dropped. he tightened his hands on the wheels, and didn’t hesitate to turn the lights and siren on and shift gears to speed up.

__

the car pulled onto your street and the first thing spencer sees is the flashing light of the ambulances. morgan doesn’t even put the car in park before spencer’s bolting out hoping he can find you quickly.

he’s asking all the paramedics he’s passing if they’ve seen you or know if you’re being treated, were you transferred to a hospital and he didn’t know, the tunnel vision slowly overtaking him until he hears a voice breaking through like sunlight call out his name.

he whips his head in the direction he heard it come from, and he’s never been more grateful to be met with the beautiful sight of you. you watch his eyes widen and let out a sigh before running over to where you were sitting in the back of the ambulance. he’s definitely not thinking when he goes in to hug you, not even knowing the extent of your injuries. he’s overtaken by the desperate need to hold you in his arms so he knows you’re safe and okay.

“hi,” you choke out muffled, “funny seeing you here.”

he pulls back to inspect your face, taking note of a small cut above your left eyebrow and the beginning splotches of a bruise forming on your lower jaw. his heart aches so much looking at you, knowing what happened to you and who did this to you.

“hi, honey,” he lets out tearfully, “are you okay? i mean, of course you’re not. but what did the paramedics say? did they give you anything? are you sure they checked all your injuries? you know what, let me go call the guy over. i’ll be literally two seconds.” his panicked ramble fading off as he rounds the truck you’re sat in to find the emt.

upon his extensive questioning of the man who treated you, he found out that you had sustained a minor concussion from when the unsub swung at you with an umbrella, superficial cuts caused by a broken vase you threw to defend yourself, and a dislocated shoulder from getting shoved into the wall.

you were okay, but at what cost.

the emt leaves you two and spencer sits himself next to you on the rig. he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you as tight as he can and the other hand cradles your head into the crook of his neck, holding you so tight he’s hoping he can squeeze the bad memories out of you. it’s at this moment of feeling safe and sound in his arms when the adrenaline of your attack wears off.

spencer hears a small whimper and feels a few hot tears trickle down his neck, your breathing gets faster as you’re attempting to beat your body’s fear response. the slow build up of sobs starting to rack your chest, and he immediately holds you tighter.

“it’s over, baby, they won’t hurt you anymore. i promise.”

you sniffle, “i know, i just can’t believe this happened. to me, to us. it’s not fair to you.” trailing off the last two words.

“to me? wh- what do you mean?”

you take a deep breath, “i don’t mean to bring it up again, i just know how eerily similar this is to a past experience you’ve had. and i hoped that i wouldn’t be in a position to make you feel that way again. i don’t know why this happened, i'm sorry.”

he looked down at you incredulously. genuinely unable to believe that you were sitting next to him on an ambulance, beaten up with bruises and scars after a home invasion attack, worried about how he would feel when he got to you. it was enough to finally let the swell of tears saved up in his eyes fall.

“oh sweetheart,” he chokes out, realizing you’ve been trying to be brave for him this whole time, “what happened is not your fault, do you understand me? my job is to always worry about you and your safety. when garcia said the address i…i couldn’t even process it, i don’t even know how i got to the car,” he shook his head, “but i am the last person you need to push your emotions down for. i will always take them in stride and love you even more for that, okay?”

“okay,” you take a shaky breath, “i love you.”

“i love you.” he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

both of your heads look up at an approaching figure, who you quickly recognize to be ssa derek morgan. you knew spencer hadn’t told the team about you yet, so you tried to sit up independently as fast as you could before he came over and suspected something.

spencer’s grip didn’t let up when he bent down and whispered, “it’s okay, he knows.” you look up at him with wide eyes when derek finally reaches you.

“reid, i already talked to the detectives and we’re good to go when you’re ready,” he turns his body to you and gives you a comforting smile, “hi sweetheart, i’m derek morgan, it’s nice to meet you.”

spencer rolls his eyes at the nickname while you giggle softly, “hi derek, i’ve heard so much about you. it's nice to finally meet you too.”

“i wish it were under better circumstances,” he sighs, “listen, i know it’s all still really fresh for you, but it might help the case if you’re able to come in for a cognitive interview, or even talk to a sketch artist.”

spencer doesn’t miss a beat before protesting, “absolutely not. we can do it later, it’s fine.”

“reid-“

you look up at him placing your hand on his chest, “spence, it’s okay. i want to help, please.”

he rests his hand on top yours and gives it a light squeeze, “okay, but i’m not leaving you alone for a second.”

“i didn’t think you would.” you smile.

“alright lovebirds, you can have your private time later, we should go now.” derek teases.

spencer groans, “see this is why i didn’t say anything.”

“you think i’m bad? wait till penelope meets her.”

__

the three of you pile into the car before starting the drive to spencer’s apartment so he could get you a change of clothes and other things you might need. you end up falling asleep in the back seat, the final stage of your shock sinking in like a rock. spencer checks on you from the rear view mirror and sees you passed out, and smiles.

“she’s cute,” derek starts, “can i ask how long?”

“nine months.” he replies, fishing for something out of his pocket.

“pretty boy hid a girl from all of us for nine months? maybe we’re not as good profilers as we thought.”

“imagine that,” he laughs, and gestures to the item in his hand, “look.”

spencer’s holding out a well loved photo booth strip with three pictures, of you and spencer from the time you went to a local county fair. you’re sitting in his lap, mostly due to the cramped space and the expansive limbs. the first picture is the two of you holding up finger guns attempting to be as back to back as you can. the second picture, you intended it to be a normal one where you both smile at the camera, but spencer couldn’t take his eyes off you and the picture captured the love struck gaze he had on you. the last one you were about to tell him the idea for it, when he grabbed your face and pulled you closer to kiss you, neither of you knowing when the final picture snapped.

the edges were worn out and frayed, clearly broken down by the oils on his fingers from pulling it out frequently. it was his most treasured item, a constant reminder of what was always waiting for him when he got back from grueling cases, and how lucky he was to have you in his life.

“you look really happy, kid.” derek says, thinking about the many times he’s seen his friend at rock bottom, the things that have been so brutally taken from him, and the suffering he’s had at the hands of his job. his heart warms for his friend, who seemed to finally catch a break.

“i am.”

[surelyyourejesting]

I gently asphyxiate

gasping for air

smoky clouds waft over me

I am naked

a pale heap on the charcoal ground

left bleeding on the floor

nails dug into my heart

sawdust fills my lungs and stings my eyes

fishing lines wrapped 'round my wrists

it's all in my mind

its

all

in

my

mind

I am fine I am fine I am fine

I am fine

[writtenbymoonflower]

Heyoo! How are you dove? Can I request more roommate!poly!marauders x shy!reader pleasee! Your fics have a special place in my heart

roommate!marauders is my drug <3 thanks for requesting hunny! fem!reader x roommate!marauders

cw: thunderstorms, poor boundaries with roommates

659 words

You didn’t realize the sheer volume of the downpour outside until the chatter of your roommates in the sitting room couldn’t be discerned over the pounding of raindrops reverberating off your window panes. You weren’t complaining, though. You were cozied under a multitude of soft blankets and fluffy pillows, your reading lamp emanating a soft glow onto the pages of your book, the smell of rain wafting into your room. 

That was until your lights slowly flickered a few times, before shutting off completely, leaving you in pitch black darkness. This was shortly followed by a shrill scream, then a crash, making your drop your novel. You untangled yourself from your covers, setting your book back on the bed, before venturing out. You held your hands in front of you as you stumbled around in the dark. You felt around for your doorknob, swinging the door open. You didn’t make it far before you tumbled into a tall torso and lanky limbs. 

“Shit, dove! Sorry! I didn’t see you there.” Remus blindly reached a hand out in an attempt to steady both of you. 

“It’s okay! I think that only raccoons can see in these conditions.” You attempted to joke. He rewarded you with a small chuckle. 

“Are you okay, though? You didn’t fall or anything?” You could hear the worry laced in his tone. It made your heart weirdly warm to know that he was concerned for you. 

“No, I’m all good.” You reassured. “Are you okay? I heard a crash.” You stepped further into the living area, carefully watching your footing. Remus chuckled again. 

“You wanna tell her what happened, lads?” His tone filled with unusual mirth. You could vaguely make out the forms of the other two boys in the dark. You heard Sirius grumble, though it was James who spoke up, much more timidly than typical.

“Well uh- we didn’t expect for the lights to go out, you know? Pads got a little spooked and screamed.” You could feel Remus shaking beside you with nearly-silent laughter. “And uh- Sirius spooked me, I guess. And then I dropped a plate.” He trailed off. Remus was now laughing loudly at his friends’ expense, but you could tell that there was no malice given or received between the boys, with them also joining in. You weren’t laughing, though. You resisted the urge to flounder over to James and check him for injuries. 

“Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?” 

“No we’re okay, babydoll. It’s in the kitchen, we’ll worry about it later. Come over here, though. You’re gonna trip.” Sirius’ hand circled your arm gently, pulling you towards him and James. You weren’t sure what you were in risk of tripping over, but you let him maneuver you as he liked. You were startled by the sound of sparking, making you jump back into Sirius’ chest. 

“Sorry, lovely. Candles.” James set the soft, flickering light onto the coffee table. Remus appeared right beside you again. 

“You’re all jumpy, dove. Are you sure you’re okay?” Remus cooed as James lit another candle. You jumped again as another hand grazed your back. 

“Y-yeah.” The dark was very unsettling. Purple light flashed through the house, quickly followed by a loud boom! 

“EEK!” You weren’t the one who made the sound, but you were pulled onto the settee, tumbling on top of Sirius’ frame, face landing in his inky curls. 

“Christ, Pads.” James flopped down next to your tangled forms. He pulled you off to settle you between him and the high-strung boy. “You’re gonna kill her before the lease is up.” Another wave of thunder clapped through the house, this time Sirius only flinched. James pulled you closer to him in response. 

“Oi! I can’t help it. You know storms make me flighty.” He argued, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to pull you back against him. “It’s okay though, I’ve got this dolly to keep me safe.”

[niki-phoria]

⋆｡°✩ I COULDN'T BE MORE IN LOVE

small gestures of affection with itadori yuuji, fushiguro megumi, gojo satoru, and kamo choso

notes: gn reader (no pronouns used), some of these don't really fit the prompt but whatever lol, cw for mentions of blood/injuries in megumi and choso's, inspired by this prompt list by @euthymiaaa not proofread !! pls forgive any mistakes, title from the 1975 - i couldn't be more in love

“yuuji,” your voice cuts through the chaos swirling throughout ITADORI YUUJI’S mind effortlessly. he freezes, swiftly turning on his heel to face you. you softly smile as you take a step closer to him, gesturing to the mess of fabric messily woven into itself. “do you need some help?”

“yeah,” yuuji nods, tugging at his tie until it falls flat against his chest once again. “some help would be nice.”

taking the fabric into your hands, you weave the ends together to form a small knot near the center of yuuji’s chest. carefully, you slide it upwards until it sits snugly at the center of yuuji’s neck. “you’ve never had to wear a suit before, have you?”

“i’m sorry,” he nervously chuckles. he unconsciously raises a hand, absentmindedly brushing a hand through the little hairs near the nape of his neck. “i’ve never had a reason to dress up before.”

you simply chuckle in response, reaching up and attempting to smooth away the wrinkles in the fabric. your fingertips trace the edges, hiding away any loose threads or imperfections from the tailoring. “it’s alright. i don’t mind.”

you reach upwards, caressing his cheek with your thumb. your fingertips brush against the edges of the small curse marks beneath his eyes, making yuuji smile brightly. “you look really nice, yuuji.”

a light flush spreads across his face, tinting his face a deep pink. he smiles softly, replying, “but not as good as you.”

“you’re awake.” 

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI softly groans, squinting up at the ceiling above as the blurriness slowly begins to clear from his vision. he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before the ringing in his ears dissipates, leaving only the quiet hum from a nearby fan to fill the silence. 

the first thing megumi notices is your eyes. if he didn’t know any better, he would have missed the eyebags that he could’ve sworn weren’t there this morning and the slight nervous shake in your hands when you reach over to pass him a bottle of water. guilt settles into the pit of his stomach before he can will it away. “what happened?”

“a curse hit you into a wall. ieiri said it was a severe concussion.” megumi nods. reaching up, he carefully brushes a hand against the bandages wrapped tightly around his forehead. he can still vaguely taste the blood that filled his mouth after the injury. “don’t worry. i took care of the curse.” 

“thank you.” he sighs, carefully pushing his body to sit upwards. “i’m sorry i worried you.”

megumi’s breath catches in his throat when you reach over, taking his hands into your own. blood rushes to his cheeks, spreading an embarrassingly obvious flush across his features. butterflies swarm throughout his stomach in waves as your fingertips trace along the fresh bruises staining his pale skin before you settle for intertwining your hands together. “i’m just glad you’re safe,” you smile, sealing your promise with a soft squeeze.

GOJO SATORU awakens to the sight of sunlight threatening to break through the closed blinds. rays of light illuminate your bedroom, casting a golden glow across your features. he groans as he rolls onto his side, stretching out his tired limbs beneath the covers. 

your quiet chuckle from beside him breaks him out of his trance. satoru blinks the sleepiness away from his eyes as he shifts, moving to face in your direction. stray strands of white hair frame his sharp features. your gaze the jagged edges of the few scars that litter his bare chest, admiring the aspects that make him human.

without the usual blindfold covering his face, your gaze rises to meet satoru’s. his eyes are the colour of the ocean. the shine like gemstones - brilliant and blue. you reach upwards, carefully carding your hand through his bangs. the strands are soft against your skin as you weave them in between your fingertips; he sighs as your nails gently massage against his scalp. “good morning, satoru.”

under the safety of your comforter, satoru allows the weight of the world to slip off of his shoulders. he smiles softly, shuffling across the sheets to entangle your bodies together. his hands skim the hem of his stolen t-shirt; his fingertips threaten to slip beneath the fabric to ghost against your bare skin. he leans in, pressing a feather-light kiss against your cheek as he wraps his arms around you. “morning.”

“i’m sorry.”

KAMO CHOSO can feel the gentle burn of ice against his fingertips as he carefully holds the ice pack against your face. hues of purple and green bloom against your cheek, staining your skin with the temporary consequences of being too headstrong in a fight. dark, worried eyes meet your own when he looks up. “for what?”

you catch your bottom lip between your teeth, anxiously chewing on the flesh until choso takes your hand into his own. he unconsciously rubs his thumb against your knuckles, tracing the scars decorating your skin - a gentle reminder to relax before your teeth cause a new wound. “being stubborn. dragging you into the fight. not waiting for backup.”

choso’s lips quirk into a slight frown. “i’m not upset at you,” he begins. you flinch slightly when he adjusts the angle of the ice pack until it presses against a fresh area of the bruise. the shake in his hands is unmistakable when he brushes his fingertips against the edge of your jaw. “it… worries me,” he mumbles. his gaze has fallen, now staring at the bandages woven tightly around your bicep. his anxiety had provided enough positive energy to prevent any serious injuries, but you still needed stitches after he dragged you into the safety of shoko’s office. “when you’re reckless. your body isn’t as easy to heal as mine is.”

“i’m sorry i worried you.” you reach up, pulling choso’s hand away from your face. “i’ll be more careful next time.” you toss the ice pack to the side; choso’s cheeks flush when you press a feather-light kiss against his knuckles. “thank you.”

taglist (open! send an ask/dm to be added): @sunoooism @vaxmpi @sad-darksoul @kamote-kuneho @dog55teeth

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[ellecdc]

Thoughts on bodyguard!james x reader in a hostage situation? I'm thinking like full Olivia pope bag over the head high stakes hostage situation. Would also love it as an established but secret relationship at this point. (obviously reader can stay unharmed but maybe they advertise as if they've hurt her?) and James and the team come in and get her out....

I looooooove some high sakes hurt/comfort. now, please note I've never seen scandal? but I felt like I knew enough about hostage situations to give it a try? idk, hopefully it turned out okay, and thanks for the prompt!!

bodyguard!James Potter x fem!reader who James [et al.] find [1.5k words]

CW: hostage situation, swearing, NCA = UK's version of the FBI, minor injuries, panic

James could vaguely register the sound of NCA members shouting from up ahead as the team cleared the first floor of the abandoned factory they’d tracked you to, but he could only focus on the raised hand of Remus - crouched beside James at a stairwell - who was waiting for their signal to move up to the second floor.

James knew three things: he was probably going to throw up whatever was left in his stomach from the last time he could manage to ingest more than a banana or an energy drink, the NCA team was definitely beginning to regret giving James one of their vests, and you were in this building.

Ultimately, that last fact was the most important. 

James also knew this was what Remus had warned him about; the conflict of interest when he finally admitted to himself (and thus to Remus and Sirius) that he definitely fancied you as more than just his principle. 

“You’re not going to be able to remain objective, James.” Remus had said to him. Not unkindly, of course, but James didn’t like the insinuation that he was incapable of a) doing his job or b) keeping you safe.

Of course, both of those seem to have been proven true, seeing as you were here; regardless of the fact that Remus insisted this wasn’t his fault, regardless of the fact that his hand off of your care to Peter that night had been fucking seamless - it was James who lost you. 

His ire wasn’t due to the fact that he’d lost a principle, nor even that he might lose his job because of it. 

No, what made him fucking sick with worry and rage was that you were here, you were scared, you were being harmed.

And that is what kept him from barging past Remus - NCA instructions be damned - and burning the entire fucking building down to look for you.

“Clear!” An agent called as James heard what he knew to be Sirius’ gait rushing towards them.

“Not on the first floor.” Sirius whispered; out of breath from racing through the building in search of you. 

“Fuck.” James breathed out as he stood, but Sirius - god fucking love him - pushed up against his back and kept him moving.

“We’ll find her, Jamie.” He promised. 

There were two teams of the NCA unit on the second floor by the time James, Remus, and Sirius made it up the stairs, and that’s when they heard it. 

“What the FUCK DID YOU DO?!” Someone bellowed, followed by a desperate sound. It was coming from you.

“I didn’t…I didn’t-”

“You fuckin’ call that boy of yours? Huh? He come runnin’?”

“For your sake, he better have our fuckin’ money.” Another voice threatened, and the three of them moved towards the door where the voices were coming from.

James, Remus, and Sirius flattened themselves against the wall next to the door, faces pointed at the NCA agents who were doing the same on the other side. One agent wearing head-to-toe riot gear nodded at their teammate with the battering ram, poised and standing at the ready. At their mark, the team moved. 

The NCA announced themselves and paired off with the suspects rather quickly whilst Sirius took off after one who tried to flee, Remus right on his heels. 

The abandoned building had high, exposed ceilings which your captors had suspended thick construction grade cord from.

You were tied to the rope by your wrists, both of which were bound together and suspended over your head as you tried to balance on your tiptoes to the best of your abilities. You were clearly exhausted though, and the moments of relief you managed to garner for your shoulders were brief when your body ultimately went slack one way or the other. 

James rushed towards you as he surveyed you for any other visible injuries; you were wearing the same clothes he’d dropped you off at your flat in - a pair of jeans and a long sleeved shirt, though your jumper was missing - with the addition of a fucking sack over your head. He was only marginally relieved when couldn’t see any blood on your person.

His hands made contact with your waist first when you flinched violently; body swaying furiously as you swung your legs out at him, shrieking in fear.

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. You’re okay, angel. It’s me, it’s me, it’s me.” He chanted, his heart working itself further and further up his throat with every panicked puff of air you let out of your lungs. “It’s James. It’s me; you’re okay, love.”

“Jamie?” You keened, and James felt the first tear of relief fall from his eyes.

“Hi angel, hi.” He let out in a whisper; one arm circling around your hips and lifting your weight to relieve your shoulders slightly. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“I want to go home, James. I want to go home.” You cried.

“I know love, I know. We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?” He promised as a NCA member came to assist in getting you down. He stood on a chair and sawed away at the rope with a blade, barely managing to catch your wrists as the rope gave way and the rest of your weight fell into James’ awaiting arms.

“Don’t, don’t!” You shouted, struggling in James’ grasp. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

“Y/N-”

But by the time the NCA agent let go of your wrists, you all but went slack in James’ embrace, and James understood your panic. 

“Okay, okay.” James placated softly as he placed you gently in the chair in front of him, untying the drawstring at the bottom of your sack and pulling it off of your head.

Your face was stained with tears both old and new; tracks etched into your skin that James wondered if they didn’t scar from the past three days of being alone and utterly terrified. Your eyes were wild and glassy as you assessed the space; watching NCA agents and members from James’ own company milling about the room. James wasn’t sure you’d ever seen the room you were being kept in, depending on when the bag was placed over your head. Your bottom lip was busted and swollen along with some bruising at your jaw, and the eye on the opposite side of your face was also bruised with a small cut to your eyebrow, but all of those injuries appear to be from the first day you’d been kidnapped as you struggled against your captors. 

James took a moment to saw away the rope still binding your wrists together - red, raw, and bloody - and though you remained perfectly placid, you were shaking something fierce. 

“I want to go home.” You repeated, as you stared unseeingly over James’ shoulder. You sounded so determined that James half expected you to stand and start marching out of the building on your own accord, but you simply sat in the simple wooden chair, eyes darting frantically around the room as you held onto James’ arms quite literally for dear life. 

“I’m going to take you home, angel, I promise. But we need to make sure you’re okay first.”

“I’m okay.” You argued quickly, still not looking at James. “I’m okay, I’m okay. I swear it, Jamie. I want to go home.” 

“Angel-”

“I don’t want to be here anymore.” You all but sobbed; the force of the breath that escaped you saw you deflating significantly in your chair. “I want to go home.” 

“Okay.” James settled on, because he couldn’t help but agree; he didn’t really want to be here anymore, either. He wanted nothing more than to get you home and perhaps never let you leave again. But he couldn’t leave without having you looked at first.

“Oi! Where the fuck are the paramedics?” James called towards Sirius who was just returning from his chase. James made to stand, but you screeched and dug your nails into his arm.

“Don’t James! Please. Please, please, please.” You begged nonsensically; eyes imploring and desperate, though James wondered how well you could actually see out of them with the way they pooled with unshed tears as you looked up at him. 

“What? What is it, lovie?” James - perhaps embarrassingly - cooed at you; both of his hands reaching to cup your face, and his heart splintered when you leaned into his touch and closed your eyes, forcing the tears to fall. 

“Please don’t leave. Please. Take me with you - take me home.” 

“I’m going to take you home, Y/N. I will, okay?” James promised as Sirius made his way over; his heartbreak written all over his face as he spoke into his microphone to check in with the EMS on James’ behalf. “I’ve just found you, angel. I’m not letting you out of my sight again.” 

You seemed appeased, though you never did let go of his hand as the paramedics made it to you and completed their assessment.

James’ never let go of yours either, mind you.

He thinks he might never let go of it again.

[ashtavula]

Hello could I maybe request the overbloters having accidentally hurt their S/o during their overblot? If not that’s fine I just wanted to ask.

cw: descriptions of injuries and blood, spoilers for the overblots

The overblotters accidentally hurt their s/o

Riddle:

-You try to avoid the massive rose tree that Riddle hurls your way, but you're just a bit too slow. The tree hits you, and you cry out as the thorns slice you open. Ace and Deuce try to help you out, and they manage to yank you out from underneath the sharp limbs. Blood drips from the cuts on your limbs, and you collapse as Riddle's overblot comes to an end.

-As soon as Riddle sees you, his tears intensify, and he begs for people to help you. In the days after that, Riddle insists on tending to your injuries. He looks guilty as he helps change your bandages, and he's insistent that you take your painkillers on time. It'll take him a long time to forgive himself for hurting you, even if it was an accident.

Leona:

-The sand being whipped around by the wind makes it difficult to see, and you get a little too close to Leona. He grabs your arm, and you yelp as his claws dig into your skin. Jack is able to distract Leona, and you break away, cradling your bleeding arm.

-Once it's all over, Leona's sharp nose picks up on the smell of blood. He storms over to you, and he tears a strip of fabric from his shirt. He presses it to your skin, trying to stop the bleeding as he barks for the others to find a medic. While you recover, Leona looks irritated by the sight of the bandages, but you know that he's just angry at himself for hurting you. And when you settle down next to him for your daily cuddles, he'll treat you like you're made of glass.

Azul:

-You knew Azul was stronger than he looked, but you never thought that you'd be on the receiving end of his tentacles. He effortlessly swats you aside, and you slam against a wall. Your head spins, and you can already tell that you've broken your arm. You curl up into a ball, choking back sobs as Leona and the others get Azul to stop his rampage.

-Azul is horrified when he realizes what happened. You see the color drain out of his face, and he lifts you up to carry you to the infirmary himself. For the next few weeks, Azul is your personal servant. Simply tell him what you want, and he's scrambling to get it for you. He feels awful about hurting you, and he's always fretting over your cast.

Jamil:

Vil:

-You gasp as you see Jamil approaching you and Kalim with a murderous look in his eyes. You quickly shove Kalim away, hoping to get him out of range of Jamil. The snakes that have replaced his hair dart towards you, and their fangs sink into your arm. Almost instantly, a blinding surge of agony shoots up your arm. You collapse to your knees, and pass out from the pain.

-You awaken a few hours later, dizzy and nauseated. You vaguely realize that you're laying down in Jamil's bed, and that he's laying down beside you. You squirm, and Jamil lifts his head. He immediately scolds you for getting too close to him during his overblot. Yet, as he lectures you, his hands check you for a fever, and he gives you medicine to help with the effects of the snake venom that's wreaking havoc on your body. As you close your eyes, still exhausted, you feel his lips press against your forehead, and he mumbles out an apology against your skin.

-Your eyes water as you accidentally breathe in some of Vil's poison. Your nose and throat start to burn, and you start tasting something metallic. Within a few moments, you're coughing up blood and struggling to get enough oxygen. You have to lean against Epel as you gasp for air, blood starting to drip from your nose.

-You faint as Vil stops overblotting, but you awaken a few minutes later to see Malleus staring down at you with his brows furrowed. You barely get the chance to open your mouth before Vil is yanking you into a tight embrace. You can feel his hands shake as he mumbles out apologies and promises to never hurt you again. Malleus may have helped you overcome the effects of the poison, but that doesn't stop Vil from fussing over you. As he insists on checking your throat for the fourth time that day, just remind yourself that he's doing it because he loves you.

Idia:

-The ground shakes, and you fail to see the piece of debris that falls from the ceiling. It hits your shoulder, and you scream as the joint is dislocated. Rook is able to quickly knot the Pomefiore uniform's long sleeves around you to form a makeshift sling, but it's a struggle to hold back the tears of pain.

-It takes a moment for Idia to realize what's wrong, but he nearly has a meltdown when he does. He's immediately rushing you off to Styx's medical professionals, leaving everyone else in the dust. He's trying to apologize to you the entire time as the doctors put your arm in a splint, but he's stuttering over his words so badly that you can barely understand them. Once you're back at NRC, Idia keeps you practically locked up in his room as you recover. Despite keeping you with him, Idia is even more hesitant to touch you, out of fear of hurting you further.

Malleus:

-Malleus' magic washes over you, and your eyes slide closed as you're forced into a dream. Unfortunately, you hit your head on the edge of a table as you fall over, and Malleus doesn't notice. While traversing the dream worlds, you keep feeling this faint ache in your head, but you brush it off.

-However, you immediately groan in pain, and cradle your head in your hands when you wake up. The distant ache in the dreams blossoms into a stabbing migraine, and the world spins around you. Malleus quickly takes notice, and he cradles you in his embrace as he worriedly asks you what's wrong. You feel the brief pull of his magic, and the agony subsides. His lips press against the side of your head, and he croons out apologies for not keeping a better eye on you. For the next few days, you have a draconic shadow that refuses to leave you alone, and thinks that copious amounts of ice cream will make you feel better after your "terrible injury."