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supercantaloupe · 2 years ago

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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.

#let the poet bless this round #don giovanni #fanfic #leporello #donna elvira #the others are there too but i don't feel like tagging them all. once again this is mostly a leporello and elvira fic #bc what isn't these days #cw for nongraphic medical and hospital stuff. this is post-don's death via housefire.#there are no graphic descriptions of injuries or medical stuff if you're worried but there are vague/oblique ones #also i was being intentionally vague re: describing the commendatore...don't worry about it

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timetravelerpyrite · 1 year ago

Note

😢

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.

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

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

...

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

#pokemon irl #pokeblogging #pkmn irl #ask game #Iron Eruption #//This is a bit vague buuut =D #cw pokemon harm #cw pokemon death #cw pokemon abuse #cw burns #cw injury #cw glitch #//Ask to tag

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lifesver · 1 year ago

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@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.

#sorry i kind of had this one and the other one going at the same time so now i just bonk u on the head w both #i went purposely vague so u know. idk what the jock containment unit is looking like #i-think-we're-alone-now.mp3 #cw for ... well cw for a bad time #cw injuries #johnnysslaughter #( ☆ ) ⸻ DUSK / verse.#( ☆ ) ⸻ THE FILM WHICH YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE... / ic.

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theellipelli · 2 years ago

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“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.

#writing #writing prompts #hoping this isn't?? too vague?? whatever its just for da lols #wrote this when my boss didn't arrive with the keys to the restaurant and i had to sit outside in the sun for an hour #long post #writeblr #also this was written while listening to gloria by the lumineers. hence the name.#playing fast and loose with the lich concept #this is. this is at its heart dnd. because thats what liches are to me #anyways thanks for reading #cw violence #cw blood #cw injury

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shininginyourlight · 11 months ago

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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.

#what survives after all the dust has gone { zhao ; headcanons }#torture mention cw #nothing graphic #just a lot of vague mentions of injury

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reidrum · 6 months ago

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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 D.C. 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, not that far.”

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 without hesitation he turned the lights and siren on and shifted 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 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.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #bau team #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x fanfiction

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kawoala · 1 month ago

Text

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES . . . !? suna rintarou.

regular pinned

╰ ⨳ synopsis ; after surviving a year of less-than-ideal dorm life, you’ve decided to take matters into your own hands. this year, you're determined to live off-campus— freedom, privacy, and no more mystery meat in the cafeteria. the only problem? rent is way more expensive than you imagined, especially when you’re only working a part-time job at a run-down antique store. but you're not one to give up easily. you ask your friends if they know anyone in need of a roommate and, lucky for you, runa knows just the person: a girl named rin, her cousin that she, supposedly, trusts with her life.

╰ ⨳ vague forewarning ; university au ( second years, making them 19/20 ) 、 underage alcohol ( and probably drug ) consumption 、 miscommunication 、 smau 、 profanity 、 violence 、 blackmail 、 toxic past relationships.

╰ ⨳ denotes written parts ; ★

╰ ⨳ taglist ; open !

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES . . . !? masterlist.

⟶ chapter one ; spilled silverware ★ content warning ; miscommunication 、 smau 、 profanity 、 kind of short 、 just like an introduction type thing.

⟶ chapter two ; we live TOGETHER 💜 content warning ; smau 、 profanity 、 explanation of missed moments 、 introduction of ‘EJP playboys’ groupchat 、 awkwardness 、 anxiety 、 akaashi for some reason?

⟶ chapter three ; the party ; part one / part two ★ content warning ; party scene 、 drinking 、 anxious! reader 、 blacking out 、 mention of vomit 、 profanity 、 underage drinking 、 violence 、 writing in 3rd person ( kindof ) for the first time in forever 、 really rushed / bad writing 、 PUNCHING!! 、 assault 、 possibility of career going down the drain.

⟶ chapter four ; the morning after ★ content warning ; hungover 、 bruises 、 half-naked reader 、 accidental injuries 、 throwing up 、 lyyyinnngg.

⟶ chapter five ; y/n, mafia boss content warning ; smau 、 hungover 、 profanity 、 lies uncovered 、 blackmailing 、 mention of drugs and underage alcohol consumption.

⟶ chapter six ; holy shit content warning ; content warning ; smau 、 profanity 、 admission of feelings (but not to each other. SIGH) 、 komori x runa!! yayy 、 runa being suggestive LOL.

⟶ chapter seven ; ice skating! ★ content warning ; profanity 、 ice skating almost DATE!! 、 komori x runa!! yayy 、 rin helping you skate.

⟶ chapter eight ; jealousy, jealousy ★ content warning ; smau 、profanity 、jealousy 、not too many cw’s for this one 、mentions of ex girlfriends 、runa getting upset 、runa telling komori everything bc they’re actually like a thing now idk.

⟶ chapter nine ; insane maybe content warning ; smau 、profanity 、lowkey reader ghosting suna 、suna FINALLY realizes that he has feelings 、mentions of ex girlfriends 、runa being mean kindof.

⟶ chapter ten ; the end content warning ; THE END 、profanity 、admission of feelings FINALLY 、apologies.

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES . . . !? character intros.

⊂ ⊃ y/n l/n ; freshly-baked cinnamon rolls, fruit roll-ups, loud laughter, messy study notes, falling in love, writing in a diary, lip gloss collection.

⊂ ⊃ suna rintarou ; the smell of pine, messy hair, worn-out hoodies, tired eyes, vast music taste, dark bed sheets, tangled headset wire, bad horror movies.

#kawoala #and they were roommates…!?#suna rintarou #suna rintarou x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader

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zorosangell · 6 days ago

Note

“ I want to see Zoro’s reaction when he sees the reader with an injury that almost kills them. ”

⛥ﾟ・。 brand

synopsis: you return to the ship with a horrible injury... and zoro goes fucking berserk.

cw: angst, tiny bit of comfort i guess, ZORO DOES NOT PLAY ABOUT YOU, protective zoro, kinda sad for a christmas post ik but i was inspired

a/n: merry chrysler <3

"Stop blubbering and answer me, Usopp!" Zoro barked, roughly grabbing the sniper by his suspenders and yoking him up, attempting to shake him out of it. "Tell me what the hell happened!"

Usopp could barely breathe through his sobs, large rivulets of tears and thick globs of snot running down his face as his chest heaved, attempting to spit out an answer.

"USOPP!"

"S-S-San-Sanji!"

In an instant, Zoro's head snapped over to to the cook, eyes blazing with murderous intent.

The blonde had been sitting on the stairs of the upper deck the entire time, hands clutching his arms—like a hug—as he anxiously puffed his cigarette, his eyes becoming more hollow by the minute.

'Bastard!'

"She was with you!" the swordsman roared, storming over and harshly yanking Sanji to his feet. "What the fuck happened?!"

"Chill out, bro! It's not Sanji's fault!" Franky rushed over, shoving the two apart. "No one could've known!"

Zoro's brows furrowed at the vagueness, jaw pulling taut with frustration.

He was getting real sick of everyone beating around the bush.

"Known what?! I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

"(y/n)..." Nami sniffled, legs pulled into her chest as she sat off to the side.

When you were first brought back, she and Robin had been asked to assist Chopper in treating you.

But the moment she caught sight of your wound, she was utterly inconsolable, nothing but tears.

This, of course, left Robin alone to help the good doctor.

"How did it happen?! How bad is she hurt?!" Zoro asked, before turning his attention back to Sanji. "You were supposed to be protecting her!"

The cook's lip rolled, hoping to fight back against its wobble as the lump in his throat began to rise.

"She... told me to tell you... she's sorry..."

"I DON'T WANNA HEAR THAT SHIT FROM YOU!"

In an instant, Zoro launched himself toward him, the others rushing in to separate the two.

"Now is not the time for this!" Jimbei exclaimed, stepping between them.

"Zoro!" Usopp quickly rushed over, holding the man back, Brook and Franky jumping in to help.

"BASTARD!"

To think, the crew had been all smiles just hours ago...

Though, in all actuality... most of Zoro's anger was directed at himself.

He had a bad feeling about the day from the moment he woke up in your shared bed, an ominous presence already lingering in the air.

And the moment you said you were going ashore, he knew he should've gone with you.

But he didn't

And that was on him.

Even after that, he had a chance to pull you away from the others, to drag you off by your arm and force you to stay back with him.

But he didn't

And that was on him.

But, of course, you had to pay the price, fighting for your life against... well, he didn't even know.

What he did know, however, was that if you died, he would never be the same.

Within your hand, you held a chunk of his heart; a chunk of his mind; a chunk of his soul.

God, he didn't even get to see you smile one last time.

What kind of boyfriend was he?

What kind of man was he?

How could he—?

"Zoro..." Robin stated, somberly, her voice cutting through his spiral as she and Chopper exited the medbay.

The poor boy was clinging to her leg, sadly, tears rolling down his cheeks as he hid his face in the flesh of her calf.

In an instant, Zoro stopped all his struggling, turning to them with a slight glimmer of fear in his eye.

"You should go see her... she needs you."

The moment the words hit his ears, he was moving, completely forgetting about Sanji and the others as he rushed into the room.

Inside, it was dim, the only light being a candle on the nightstand.

On the bed, you sat upright, feet dangling over the edge and arms crossed your bare chest as you looked down at yourself, shamefully.

"(y/n)..." Zoro exhaled, swiftly shutting the door behind himself to protect your modesty. "Are you alright?"

He crossed the room in wide strides, taking only a few steps to get to you.

From what he could see, you were unharmed; nothing like what he'd imagined based on the crew's reactions.

Impaled.

Dismembered.

Maimed.

Now, it seemed as if they were over-reacting...

When you didn't answer, his brows furrowed, hand coming up to carefully cup your cheek, concern spiking in his veins when you refused to look at him.

"(y/n)?" he tried again, thumb slightly gliding over your cheek. "What happened?"

Faintly, an idea popped into his head, reigniting the embers of anger that had been burning in chest only moments ago.

"Did someone touch you?"

At that question, a few stray tears escaped the corners of your eyes, forcing you to cower further into yourself.

It all was finally starting to click.

Your shame.

Usopp's hysterics.

Why Nami and Robin were the ones asked to assist.

'No...'

"(y/n)..." Zoro started, tone dangerously low. "Turn around."

Lip quivering, you followed his orders, letting out a few sniffles as you slowly turned.

Sitting back on your knees, you swiped your hair over your shoulder, revealing something Zoro never thought he'd see again.

The Claw of a Celestial Dragon.

Being so far away from Sabaody, the swordsman had ruled it as a near impossibility.

But seeing it so clearly, so painfully etched into your skin... it was impossible to deny.

You had been kidnapped by the Celestial Dragons, and branded... just before Sanji, Usopp, and Franky could save you.

Every pass of his eyes over your seared flesh tore out another shred of his heart, breaking him down to the white meat with your every tremble.

When you two got together, Zoro had swore to himself that he'd protect you, that any weapon made against you would fall at the hand of his blade.

That was his promise.

That was his word.

And it had just been broken.

"Zoro..." you choked up, turning back around and dropping your head in his chest, hands gripping onto his robe for dear life. "It hurts..."

Your voice felt like a punch to the gut, the swordsman's calloused hands rising to rest on your shoulders, thumbs drawing soothing circles into your skin.

Though, it wasn't long after that he became eerily quiet, expression morphing into one of something... terrifying.

Carefully, he scooped you up, wary of your burn as he laid you down on your side, leaning over to whisper something important into your ear.

". . ."

At that, your eyes widened, and he placed a firm kiss on your cheek before turning to exit the room.

On his way out, he tugged his bandana off his arm, pointedly tying it over his head before shrugging off the sleeves of his robe.

As he emerged, the blood of everyone on deck ran cold, the aura floating around the swordsman nothing short of bloodthirsty.

They had seen him before a battle countless times.

Incredibly focused.

Incredibly quiet.

Incredibly calm.

But it was nothing like that.

The sheer weight of his glare made it perfectly clear that nobody in that auction house—or possibly, on the island—was going to survive.

"Luffy..." Zoro's voice rumbled, as if he was holding back a roar of fury, the man not even having to turn around to know that his captain was on the balcony behind him.

"I know," Luffy nodded, voice low and hat shading his eyes as he stood there. "Do what you have to do."

That was all the confirmation he needed.

In an instant, his swords were drawn, and before the others could even comprehend it, he was already in the air and on shore, sprinting at a near inhuman speed toward the center of he island.

The moment Zoro learned you had been hurt, he knew he would've had to kill the bastard that did it before the day was over.

But the moment he saw that damned mark, he knew that not only would he kill the bastard that did it, but anyone even remotely affiliated.

And, in the end, Luffy had to hunt him down and bring him back to senses, practically dragging him back to the Sunny as Kizaru chased behind.

Not only had Zoro killed the Celestial Dragon that branded you, but also everyone that worked at the auction... nearly destroying the entire island in the process.

#zorosangell #one piece #one piece x reader #roronoa #roronoa zoro #roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro #zoro x reader #op

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writtenbymoonflower · 8 months ago

Note

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.”

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choas232 · 1 month ago

Text

You get injured. G/N! Reader x Steb

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Summary: What was supposed to be a simple club raid goes horribly, horribly wrong. No use of Y/N, neutral terms and they/them is used to refer the reader. I try to be as vague as possible surrounding their anatomy. Set in episode three, season 2, just before and around the Jinx and Vi fight scene. Hurt & some comfort. ANGRY reader as suggested by @f0xtr0x.

CWs: Panic attack. Profanity. Violence. Use of alcohol. Suggestive themes. Vi and Caitlyn are briefly implied to be sleeping together. Nudity. Once again, canon typical Enforcer bigotry. Mild emetophobia (one, two lines. both breif). Anatomically incorrect injuries. Reader is a bitter individual who needs to go to therapy!!!

Word count: 5.1k

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You’re alone.

The floor is hard against your spine, your attacker’s bloody lip bubbling down onto your face as they snarl above you. Your own lips are stained with it; as rose red as their lipstick, your bruised cheek as electric blue as the eyeshadow smeared across their face.

They tear your goggles from your face first. Harsh, fingers clashing against the soft skin surrounding them. Your eyes scream, reddened and raw against the hulking shape of the grey— the thick and almost palatable fog surrounding you two. A thin film over your eyes settles, milky and blurry and does not leave you as you thrash.

Their movements are clumsy and feral, blinded by the grey as they go for your mask.

There is a beat to the madness, one you clutch after and hold deep into you. It reverberates, even as panic flairs through you— you grab their skull in yours, and your fingers slide through hair slick with blood and sweat before you find a grip and slam them down onto the beer, plastic, glitter and vomit-stained floorboards.

Their skull makes a sickening crunch, one you hear above the awful club hit, the reverbing beat and your screaming mind.

One thing you can kindly say about Zaunites— they are as persistent as cockroaches.

They heave, pushing themselves back up inelegantly, their fingers gripping your shoulders hard enough the bruise. Cradled against them like a lover, you slam them back down. Once. Twice. The third time they choke. You wedge your knee into their stomach, and they wheeze, a rattling sound from low in their stomach as they inhale Grey.

Underneath you, they heave. For a brief second, panting, you pause, watching the blood on your face dribble over theirs, smear their makeup further.

A knife slots into your back.

The moment is slow, at first. You feel it clink against bone, your feel your flesh pushing against it. You breathe once, and the pain flares bright and bold, a hot flash of white and then you are screaming—

Their hands find your mask and tiredly, eyes red, blurred and unseeing, they pull. They pull and you heave, the choking air spilling into your lungs, slathering itself over your airways.

The lights flash above you. Your blood drips through your uniform, staining their oily fluoro mesh shirt.

The woman behind you, knife still lodged into your stomach, kicks you off them harshly. You hit the floor with a crack. She weakly lunges for them, pulling them away, and then she is on you. You both inhale Grey. You both inhale sickness. Her movement, rough against you, presses the knife further into you.

Her hands are on your throat.

You are going to die on this floor.

Did Caitlyn send you here as you continued your hunt of flashes of blue, pink and a memory of a revolution knowing you would die here? You were always going to be a piece of a game larger than the whole of you— but the sting reverberates through you like the beat of the godawful club music.

When you were fifteen, thinking you owned the world, thinking nobody could hurt you because you could hurt them harder, did the world think, you are digging your own grave?

You can’t breathe.

When you were thirteen, did the Enforcer in her neat uniform hand you a pamphlet thinking, this is my rose on your grave, this is my lit candle?

You can’t breathe.

When you were ten years old, brawling on the golden streets of Piltover, did your opponent know you would die like this? Bloody and dirtied, dressed in your finest as you knocked out his teeth, did he slump down, thinking, good fucking riddance?

Good fucking riddance. Good fucking riddance— your anger is blinding. You will not die like this. You scream. You scream but nothing comes out against the weight of her hands, the Grey, the air sucked out of your lungs.

(You are alone, with her. The grief is heavy in you, almost as heavy as the fluttering of the oxygen deprived heart in your chest. Are you supposed to be alone? Was there ever somebody else…)

You try to spit on the woman, but all your saliva does is dribble down your face.

A memory, on the edges of your mind. Brown eyes— a streak of orange hair— frills, scales… you grasp for the revelation, but it never comes, or maybe the darkness swallows it before it can. There is something you are forgetting about. There is something— someone forgetting about you… what were you sad about?

The darkness swallows your rambling, and for a brief moment, you cannot feel her hands around your neck.

You cannot feel anything at all.

A shield.

—gleaming against the fog as it pushes your attacker’s neck down into the floorboards with a crack. Screaming— the second person’s, you think, as they stumble backwards.

Loris. It’s Loris. Loris, staring at her splayed-out body. Maddie— Maddie above you, the spinning spotlights hitting her like an angel as she hauls you up. The hand that feeds and the hand that strikes resemble one another. You flinch as she speaks, her words blurring in your ears. You can barely hear. Your mind is so heavy— the weight of it hauling you down.

Somebody else. You are somewhere else. Blue— blue eyes. Thin lips, twisted downwards, ears pressed to the sides of his head. That upsets you, though you do not remember why. He props you on your side, your lungs heaving, the hole in your back— the gaping wound weeping.

“You left me.” You slur, and then you throw up over his clean, polished Enforcer boots.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You remember now.

A simple club raid. A lousy place situated somewhere close enough to the surface that it had some credit, or at least enough credit that your little target felt the need to stop by. Or maybe Jinx didn’t. Maybe this was just another dead end, and you were barking and snapping at shadows like you had been the past couple of weeks, no closer to capturing her.

That dullard poster— her blown open eyes, blue braids flowing behind her. You saw it when you closed your eyes. How much longer, you wondered, storming in the club, gun clutched in your hands. How much longer until this blows the fuck up in our faces?

It was simple. It was supposed to be simple.

You had a plan— Vi take the front along with Loris, Commander Kiramman trail behind with her rifle, and you Maddie and Steb fill in the gaps left. Stick together. In and out.

Until they left you.

Steb was beside you. Maddie was gone, that was fine, it was fine, you trusted her intellect and pure dog-like devotion to the cause to not impale herself open the nearest bar tap. You watched as your teal-haired friend slammed his baton down, the following crack.

How could such a cruel action be so undeniably gentle in nature? His face was serious, stern. The swing was even, calm, aiming to incapacitate rather than kill. He was no vicious butcher, nothing like the likes of you. How was it that he made every action he took look so… heroic, like the posters they shoved into your hands, like the propaganda you hastily swallowed.

He allows himself to see them as humans and treat them as such, even in his mercilessness. You thought to yourself, very quietly. You could not do that. You could not acknowledge what they are— you cannot. Even thinking of it…

The moment your enemy is more than your enemy is the moment your guilt wraps its arms around you, peels back your skin to reveal your flesh.

Maybe this was your tragic mistake. Seeking to rationalize for a moment and not villainize.

That is why you allowed yourself, foolishly, to be separated, to not shoot first when the Zaunite hurled themself at you. You called out to Steb, but he was already gone, and you shoved them off you and then you were alone, stumbling around in the grey— the gun clutched in your hand suddenly feeling like a children’s toy. Screaming, flashing lights, music— your downfall was that through it all you could selfishly think about was that swing, that gentle movement as he swung down…

You don’t remember how it happened.

Just that it hurt.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You wake with a pounding head and a franticly beating heart.

Take stock of your surroundings. You are in a room. A single, double bed, occupies most of the space, on which you are situated on. There are two bedside tables. There is a counter. The walls are furnished with what looks like cheaply printed artworks, paint slathered over cracks and crumpling bricks, implying this is a cheap motel of sorts. An open window next to the window lets a faint breeze fan your face, cooling the sweat sticking to your limbs and the fever burning low in your chest.

Most worrying of all, your enforcer uniform has been discarded of, leaving you in your slacks and a thin undershirt.

Somebody is writing, a pen scratching against paper in the background. You try to move your head to glance at them, but your temple feels like a brick is being taken to it.

Access damage. Experimentally, you stretch out a finger. Most of your body is simply cramped, some bruised. The movement ends when you crane your neck, and the bruises flare, causing you to shift and in turn hit your back. You try to shriek, but all that comes out is a moan. A pathetic, mewling sound.

The writing stops.

Footsteps, light and even against what sounds like wooden floorboards.

You hate that you recognise them as his.

Steb peers down at you, his frills flaring out for a brief moment before squishing flat against his cheekbones. He’s not in uniform, rather a form fitting long sleeved white shirt, and long dark pants. It's alarming, and although you've witnessed him take a similar form this entire week, you don't think you'll ever get used to the lack of uniform.

Form and take a course of action. “Where the fuck am I?” You scrap the words off the sore surface of your throat. Lord, it feels like somebody has taken a cheese grater to your gullet.

He reaches out a questioning hand towards you, and after a brief pause in which you say nothing, he moves to gently prop you against the bedframe. Out the window, the reaches of upper Zaun stretch out to meet your gaze.

Still in Zaun. Still hunting.

You try to peer closer, take further stock, but dizzily, your head lolls forward with a rush of pain.

Lightly, he puts a hand on your shoulder, and you snap back to attention. There’s a sheet of paper clutched in his other hand, one which he carefully pushes into your hands. Struggling to read with your bleary, red-stained eyes, you squint.

INCIDENT REPORT. The finely printed title reads. The space underneath is dotted with questions, all of which are neatly filled in, even space between each carefully stencilled letter. Reporting officer: Steb’s full name. Rank: Junior officer, for him. Then, your rank. Issued—

Two days. You were out of commission for two days. You can’t remember the last time you even slept a full eight hours— and here you were, sleeping for two whole days.

Hurriedly, you skim read the rest of the form.

Mild bruising to ribs, bruising to back, severe stab wound in back (no spinal injuries), injury to throat, damage to eyes and throat caused by the grey.

Compensation requested—

“Why are you showing me this?” It sounds harsher then intended, bitterness settling low in your gut. Perhaps it’s the intimacy, how gross and sweaty you are in your underclothes, or perhaps it’s how his hand is still on your shoulder that makes you snap.

You should brush it away, push him off of you. Pretend this never happened. You don’t.

He looks away, very briefly, and then turning the paper on its front, he places it upon the bedside table. Digging his fingers into his pocket, his pen slots in his hands once more. You listen as he quietly scribbles.

He places the paper before you, tapping the pen on the words he wants you to read.

I’M SORRY.

Sorry for what? You almost say, but it feels like a confession. How little you are accustomed to being apologised to, of all things. The meat does not apologize to the butcher.

You shake your head, ignoring how the movement makes you dizzy and how he flinches, pre-emptively moving to steady you. “Just…" You splay out a hand, waving him away. "...help me understand.”

He swallows, a small movement as he sits down on the bed beside you. His hands neatly fold themselves in his lap. You notice, somewhat dizzily, how his usually neatly slicked back hair is loose today, falling over his scalp in such a way as you can still see the comb lines. Something has been worrying him.

“Where is Kiramman? Or Maddie? Or anybody?” There’s a lapse in his polite posture. His head lolls down, his eyes sweeping the floor, his lips pursing and then he’s back, looking at you. It’s enough to know there’s some tension behind the question.

With a careful hand, he points towards the city.

“They just left?”

He shakes his head, running a hand up to prod his hair into submission as he does.

“Well. Clearly, they did.”

He sighs, probably realizing the need to verbally communicate is growing, and then fixes you with a look that would make any lesser Enforcer squirm.

Don't be difficult.

But you are no lesser Enforcer. You are hand-picked, trained, and a member of Kiramman's strike team.

(Loris's entry was questionable but you ignore that in favour of hyping yourself up.)

Perhaps that was the wrong train of thought to go down, because you stumble. Instead of coolly meeting his gaze, you land on a childish glare, and you've lost before the wrinkles that line his mouth make an appearance.

(Those goddamned wrinkles...)

You lean back, trying to cross your arms. Instead, you hit your back against the wooden headrest of the bed, sucking air between your teeth.

Knowing your position and purposely being difficult, you ask, words stained with pain, “Who took off my clothes?”

He reaches over, barely breaking eye contact with you for a second, to grasp the paper, scribbling down the words hastily. YOU HAD A FEVER AND ACCESS WAS NEEDED TO YOUR BACK.

A dull sense of joy grapples with you at the faint stress of his words, the smudged full stop. "That doesn't answer my question. Stop dodging it. Who?" you ask, knowing very well who did.

He gestures at himself.

Victory doesn't cradle you in its arm faster than visions of him unclothing you. Those linger. Those sink low in your gut and do not leave you.

“...When will they be back?” You choke out. He mimes a sun setting.

Shit. God, being alone with him is killing you.

Defeated, finally, you slump down.

"God fucking dammit." You mutter. Usually, you would receive a somewhat lecturing look from this, but he ignores you in favour of skim reading the paper and walking back to his prior place, where medical equipment is splayed out on the counter.

You've just dozed off when he returns, sitting back down, a cup of water and a small white pill in hand. "I'm not a child." You say frowning, but you take the glass from him anyways (do your fingers brush? no. see? dealing with this maturely) and you swallow the pill with a quick gulp.

Why are you still mad? A small part of you whispers. He apologized. Perhaps you're mad just for the sake of it. He understands that, you think. (you hope)

You just need to stop thinking about it. (Alone. Their hands settle over your goggles. You deserve this, you think, very distantly.)

You just need to wait for the medicine to settle in your stomach. Sinking, lower and lower in an ocean of it's own. Ocean? Blue. His eyes are blue. Baby blue—

You just need to stop thinking about him. Him? God, what are you to him? You will always be the butcher. You will always be the blood dribbling down their lower lip. You will always be a pawn. Hero, propaganda posters... he holds the baton and brings it down like the sword of a knight.

You just need to breathe.

Steb is over you before you can think. He's thinking about your bruised ribs, isn't he? When you gape and heave. The damage it might have caused. Is this your ribs, heaving? Puncturing a lung, rupturing a nerve? Are you dying? “I— I can’t—"

You can't breathe. You can feel their hands tightening around your throat. You can feel their blood dribbling down your cheek. You want to reach up to wipe it up, but do not, too scared of hurting yourself in the process.

Steb reaches over, and gently dabs at it with a tissue. You flinch as his fingers near your cheek, anticipating a blow, but none comes. He wipes the substance away gently. His skin, soft, embroidered with little sequined scales, brushes your cheek.

He pulls away. It's just snot. Saliva. Tears.

Are you crying?

Shame boils in your stomach. You. You are crying?

“I— I need a shower—” you need to snap out of it. You try to push yourself off the bed, but stumble. He’s already there, one arm wrapping around your back to support you. You do not look at him. You cannot bare to. You already know his pity will not cleanse you.

He leads you to the bathroom, the tiles cool against your bare feet. He settles you against the grimy counter, before taking a step back. Hovering. Waiting. For what? An explanation?

You feel like a voyeur watching him, finally, even as he meets your gaze. You will always be watching him across your post, the frills on his eyes flaring, his big, doleful blue eyes. You will always be watching the ark of his arms as he swings down, the gleam of the baton.

"Do you need to wash me too, now? Just fuck off." You rasp.

He leaves, and you let him.

You lock the door behind him.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Later, you hear voices— Maddie, Loris, Caitlyn, Vi.

You do not shower. Instead, you sit on the shower tiles and try to steady your rasping breathing. Each inhale hurts, bruised flesh and achy ribs snapping and scraping, and all you can feel is that blood, dripping down your face.

Loris visits you. He brings the gift of a flask, sitting beside you. He does not ask why you haven't showered, or why you find yourself on the tiled floor. You hate the kindness in his eyes. You hate the fact you know he will not leave.

The alcohol burns your ruined throat, at first. Then, you feel nothing at all.

Your shame cannot purify you. You already know that. But marinating in it allows, at least, you to bend it into something malleable. Something useable.

You ask him why they left you, passed out in a motel. “There was some… contention on it.” His mouth moves oddly around the words, almost like it tries to swallow them. You get the feeling he is repeating something somebody else said. You frown, and he pats your shoulder, gently. “Your guy wanted to stay with you, and we needed a break anyways. Caitlyn had a new lead. Disagreements.”

You try not to think about, 'your guy,'

Eventually, you push him out, listening as his voice joins those in the adjoining room. You hear him, Vi, and Caitlyn's footsteps as they leave, not some time later.

Take stock of your surroundings. You are in a shower. The tap is not on. The tiles are cool against your flesh. You are wearing a loose undershirt and undergarments. There is nobody in the room with you, but you can hear somebody outside speaking loosely. Maddie.

Access damage. There is bruising to your ribs and throat. You feel dizzy. You feel childish. You are drunk. Your are in love with somebody who is too good for you. You are always alone. You are beginning to doubt it is external forces leading you to always being alone.

You think you might be wrong. You think you might be wrong about a lot of things.

Form and take a course of action.

You probably need to finally take a shower.

Quickly, you discard of your garments, throwing them out to litter the counter. The relatively easy part done, you claw and grip the smooth tiled walls around you as you stumble to your feet. Your head spins, and you taste blood, harsh and wet on your tongue as you clumsily grapple for the handle, jerking it sideways. Freezing water cascades down to sear your sensitive skin.

You shriek, and hastily, you spin the handle the other way. A somewhat habitable temperature sprinkles from the nozzle, and finally, you stand, swaying under it.

Why did you do this again? Your head pounds, dizziness settling over each crinkle and curve of your brain and refusing to give itself a home elsewhere. The alcohol helps it.

Maybe you should sit down again. You don't. Instead, you lean against the wall, feeling each small start of pain as you breathe in and out. In and out, in... out...

Three, rapid consecutive knocks erupt from the doors place. Your fellow enforcer. Come to check on you after you shrieked like a cat in heat, perhaps.

There is a small pause as they wait for a response, one that drags on, before the door slowly creaks open, slow enough that you could call out if you so wish.

You don't.

He carefully pushes a long, slender teal arm through the gap, his hand pushing outwards to let you know it's him.

You already know, though. You recognised the knocks. How pathetic is that?

"Come in." You croak. He obliges, pulling his hand back, opening the door and carefully, like you are a spooked animal, stepping forward. The burst of teal is garish against the off-white tiles.

He’s not looking at you. It’s polite. You’re unclothed, after all. But you find yourself rather wishing he would as his eyes meet the empty bottle on the counter. A reminder of your exploits with Loris.

His expression changes, subtly. You’re too fucked up to make it out.

You’re looking at him, trying to carve the emotions you know are there out of the lines in his face, when you’re suddenly falling. Your knees hit the tiles with a crack, and you suck in air through your teeth, groaning.

He’s already on you before you have time to process the rapidly blooming bruises from your fall, swinging the shower door open. There’s a lapse, a pause, as he struggles to navigate helping you while not manhandling your drunken naked body, before he’s tilting your head up, glancing down at you, the tiles.

“I’m fineee.” You wave him off, batting his hand away. “All good. All good.”

You swear the look he fixes you with is worse than the pounding of your head.

“Oh, come on. All high and mighty, now?” You grimace. He sighs, still crouched before you. Faint stray droplets splatter across the fins lining his cheeks, and they flicker, shimmering under the cheap motel lights. In your woozy state, you cannot but stare in wonder.

He shifts.

“Don’t leave.” You quickly push out, perhaps sterner than intended. “I’m injured. I might die.” He swallows. You continue. “I— I’m sorry I yelled at you, earlier. I didn’t mean it.”

Carefully, he mimes calming you down, waving his hands out. Then, he shifts so his position is more comfortable looking, more permanent looking.

You almost collapse in relief.

Social etiquette demands you avert your gaze, pretend like you aren’t leaning over to watch him, his little micro expressions, his baby-blue eyes blinking, his second set of eyelids… whoever decided that shit was a rule probably never met him.

“Wash my hair?” You murmur. Is that odd? Are you allowed to ask that?

Conflict dances behind his eyes. You brace for a gentle rejection, and surprise yourself when he, forgoing removing his clothes, climbs in to sit beside you. The water continues to cascade down, though he doesn’t seem to mind.

The shampoo bottles, little cheap things, sit neatly on the floor beside you. He leans over, taking one in his hands and slathering it over his fingers. You lean against him, feeling him stiffen. His muscles lose their tension when you begin the speak, your words slurring into one another.

“God. Calm yourself, fish man. I’m not gonna to tear your face off. I’ve thought about it, though. Don’t get too comfortable.”

You bark a laugh, turning your head towards him. Your faces are close enough that you feel his breathing, warm against your wet skin, before he, gently, mind you, grips your head in his hands and turns you forward.

Fair enough.

Coconut, something rich and creamy, and the faintest hit of orange, drips through your scalp, cool, but not uncomfortably cool, against your skin. It’s nice. His fingers are careful, as always, and you can’t help your mind wondering towards them tugging.

Trying to push the thoughts away from your traitorous mind, you start to stumble over your words. “I think I’m going insane. Really. Jinx’s tricks. Kiramman on my ass. Fucking politics. A curse to live in interesting times, huh?”

God, you are a chatty drunk.

“They’re all worried about civil war, infighting, and shit. I… This isn’t what I signed up for.” Your voice is quieter, now. Too quiet, for your liking. “This… the threat was… it was never…”

You hope he cannot hear you. You know he can.

"Do you think we're doing the wrong thing? We're hunting them like dogs." You say, finally. He hums, his fingers gently massaging the shampoo into your hair before letting you go. You find yourself missing the contact.

Carefully, the lines thick and smooth against the precipitation, he stencils his words against the glass shower frame. YOUNG. STILL TIME.

“I’m young? You’re just like— like thirty? Late twenties? I think? You’re not old.” You drunkenly slur. Is that what he thinks of you? An overeager, ambitious youth? Is that why he cares? Is that why he’s washing your hair?

He smiles, you think, making a small noise. It’s such an odd sight you turn, and almost accidently push yourselves together with your drunken reflexes. He’s tall enough that you don’t smash faces, but your forehead grazes his lips, the warmth of him seeping into you.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. Flickers of a smile still dance in his eyes. “Forward. Right, right. Right.”

You turn forwards.

A long pause.

“…does it get easier? I just… I don’t think I’m doing the right thing. The future is so murky, like this fucking grey, and I— I don’t know how much more of it I want to inhale trying to see.”

He doesn’t reply. You’re about to start talking again, maybe turn around again, when you feel it.

He hesitantly, very gently, presses his forehead to your shoulder blade. You feel his skin. You feel his breath, low and hot on your back.

He angles his head up, until his mouth gently pushes against the crook of your skin.

You think you hear him kiss the curve.

“Oh.” You say, very simply and very stupidly.

A moment passes, one you should probably fill. You do not. His warmth leaves you, and then he’s back to washing your hair, massaging the shampoo out of your hair like he didn’t just shatter and then rebuild your heart in your chest.

You take initiative. Your professors back at school always said it was your best trait, after all. You turn, and cradling his skull in your hands, you shift. The soft stubble growing out of the shaved sides he hasn’t been able to maintain brushes against your palms.

“Everybody leaves me. You won’t, right? Leave me?” He nods, and you see something else dip into his expression. Perhaps the realization of your circumstances, how vulnerable you are, drunk, naked and depressed. He's always been such the gentlemen. You hate it.

He gently pries your hands off of him. Fear spikes through you. He cannot leave. He cannot leave, not yet. You grapple for the conditioner bottle. "Hey, come on. You're not done yet, are you?"

He does not leave. What he does is so, so much worse.

He takes the bottle from you and continues. His movement is gentle. His movement is soft. You’ve watched him beat somebody within an inch of their life. You’ve watched him handle a rifle with even-precision. You’ve watched him, stoic and calm under pressure that would have you crawling into your skin.

And yet his hands are still tender.

You don’t know how long you sit there, his fingers threading through your hair, and then you’re up, shivering. A warm towel is promptly wrapped around you. Everything blurs, spins. You don’t think you’ve ever been so tired in your life.

"Goodnight." He whispers to you, his fingers lingering on your shoulder. When did you get here? Pillows, cradling you, the hard motel mattress beneath you…

His hands are gentle, and you are so very wanting, but he still leaves, and you still let him.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You wake remembering every moment of the night before you and hating it.

The open windows breeze carries the cities air, thick with smog, cigarettes, and chatter, into the room. Sleepily, you watch the sunlight flicker across the bedsheets, before you heave yourself up, taking stock of your area.

Maddie is gently snoring beside you, her red hair splayed out around her, uniform discarded. Loris is on the floor, obviously having been kicked out during the night. (You don’t want to think about why your glorious leader and her adoring, yet scary dog might object to company. Grossssssss.)

And Steb. Steb is across from you, wrangling with his clothes. The same shirt from last night, the white, long-sleeved one, is draped across the window to dry, along with his pants. Always the early bird.

You meet his eyes.

He nods once, very gently, before pointing beside you to the bedside table. A glass of water. Pills for your headache.

You take them gratefully and yearn.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You will not be letting them leave. Not again. Not Steb, not Maddie, not Loris, not even Vi and Caitlynn. Not now when you know how far you can fall; how hard you can scrape rock-bottom.

You will not be alone again.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Notes:

oh… haha, act 3 happened and i let’s just say… you will be letting them leave ao9jioehfihrfioerhfierfhrfi Suggest any ideas you may have!!! Part two of chatty reader coming next. No more angst!!! AND MORE KISSING (or will I write another 3000 words of yearning… this is my curse)

@skyetheseagull, who asked to be tagged.

thank you all for the kind words! I read and cherish them all

#arcane #steb #steb arcane #arcane season 2 #steb x reader #arcane steb #arcane season two spoilers #x reader #stebxreader #ngl i kinda hate this one #maybe because i've been working on it for too long...#oh well

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ellecdc · 2 months ago

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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.

#marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfiction #reader insert #self insert #james potter #bodyguard!james potter #bodyguard!james #james potter x reader #james potter x you #fem!reader #james potter fic #james potter ficlet #james potter imagine #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter x fem!reader #james potter hurt/comfort #ellecdc fics

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