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aealzx · 4 months ago

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As Sonic slammed through the enemy’s weapons Knuckles slid to a stop next to Shadow and threw his body protectively over the black hedgehog’s smaller form, a hand resting on Shadow’s head, and face turning to snarl at the soldiers. Only when significant damage had been done did Sonic skid to a stop, standing between the soldiers and Shadow with his arms spread wide, blue lightning rippling off his form. The quiet that fell over the field wasn’t complete, but it was still numbing. “Stay down, new hedgehog. I’ll keep you safe,” Knuckles spoke quietly to Shadow when he tried to push himself up despite the form over him. He smelled of blood mixed with ash, and Knuckles could hear the slight wheeze in his painfully heavy breaths. It was a simple command, but Knuckles was uncertain if the way Shadow’s form relaxed after a moment was a good thing or not. He seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open.

____________

“Mr. Wachowski. Care to enlighten me why you’re here?” Commander Walters returned the greeting. “Well, I live here,” Tom answered with a brief smile. “Green Hills is right over there, in case you weren’t aware. We’d appreciate it if the military wasn’t firing off weapons so close to town.” “A minor incident. We have it under control, and will be leaving shortly.” Sonic snorted and opened his mouth to shoot a bitter reply, but Tom stopped him with a hand. “Great! Well then, I’ll just pick up my kids, and we’ll pretend this never happened. We can tell the town you were cleaning up a rogue Eggman drone?” Tom suggested brightly. That got Commander Walters to crack a fake smile. “Ah. Yes, that should do nicely.” “Cool! Keeping it simple. I like it,” Tom breathed, clapping his hands together and turning slightly. “Honey, is kid number four safe to move?” “Four?” Commander Walters spoke in mildly confused protest. “Uhhhhh yeah. Two right here, and then two over there with Maddie makes four,” Tom returned easily, pointing to Sonic and Tails near him, and then Knuckles and Shadow as Maddie reached them. Commander Walters cleared his throat. “I’m sorry Mr. Wachowski, there seems to be a misunderstanding. Project Shadow is property of G.U.N.. I can’t allow you to take it.” “Huh,” Tom voiced, forcing a pause. “That’s strange. I thought slavery was illegal in the United States.” “You know what I mean.” “No, I actually don’t. Care to enlighten me how kidnapping a lost child and subjecting him to experimentation and indefinite imprisonment is something the government does?” Commander Walters’ expression twitched, and Tom started nodding his head. “Yeah, we figured some things out,” Tom confirmed the unspoken, possible question. It prompted Commander Walters to change tactics, shifting his shoulders and drawing a breath for a new conversation. “We’re simply containing a dangerous weapon. It’s standard procedure.” “Excuse me? The only dangerous weapon we’ve had to deal with recently was that moon slicing cannon your people built. The one that my kids stopped, because some nutcase stole it from you. Remember that?” “Didn’t he almost kill you in the process?” “Because he thought I was you!” Tom snapped. ”And seeing what you've done to him now I can see why his first reaction to seeing you was to fight!” “He's dangerous-” “He is a child!” Tom bellowed. “And if you would treat him as one, as a person, instead of a weapon he may have come to like you instead of wanting to kill you the moment he saw you! Now are you going to take my suggestion and get the hell out of here without a fuss, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”

____________________

“I think he passed out.” Maddie faltered for a moment, but then pushed through, somewhat reassured since they were already in the clinic. “Alright. That’s okay, bring him over here,” Maddie directed, pointing to a shallow bathing station. “We need to get him clean. Can you get his gloves and shoes off?” she gave for further instruction before turning to her three boys. “Knuckles, take your brothers to the front room and call Uncle Wade to come help watch you three.” “But I wanna help!” Sonic protested, already having been dancing around their feet staying out of the way but also trying to stay as close as he could. “I know, but this is a little more intense than I’d like you to have to deal with,” Maddie assured, running her hand over his head. “I’ll be good, I’ll listen.” “No, Sonic,” Maddie stressed. “I’m gonna have to do surgery to fix his ribs, and I don’t want any of you to see that. Okay?” Sonic’s eyes went wide, and Maddie raised her hands to steady him if needed. It was a little blunt, but she didn’t have time to keep trying to convince him. “It’ll be okay, boys. I’ll take care of it. So just be good for Wade, alright?” “I’ll watch over them, mother,” Knuckles assured, moving forward with Tails already clinging to him and putting a hand around Sonic. “Come. Let us contact our Uncle, then construct a plan to welcome Shadow home.”

__________________________

Iiiiiii have a lot of scattered incoherent thoughts about Shadow getting adopted that I cannot figure out how to string together in a straight story, so I'm just doodling and writing the lil bits that pop into my head. 8 |

Something about Shadow trying to find his inhibitor rings again, but he only gets the 2 for his legs and G.U.N. finds the other 2 first, which leads to Shadow trying to steal them back but inevitably getting worn down by them and his own chaos energy beating him up. So he gives in and goes to Green Hills to find Sonic for help because "I thought that...since you wouldn't kill me… even after all I did, all I said, I thought that maybe…. maybe… you could help me"

This all took long enough that the Wachowski fam had enough time to talk things over about everything.

This also might be the 'I may have beat Shadow up a lil too much haha whoops' headspace 'cause he ended up with this list of injuries by the time the fam got him:

2 displaced broken ribs on the right (stabilized by Maddie with pins to be removed later)

broken right arm

broken left leg

injured right lung (causes wheezing mostly)

large laceration on right torso and right thigh

I'm still not sure if I want Walters to be the one there chasing Shadow or if it should be the other military lady and Walters helps stop them and let Tom and Maddie take Shadow 8 |

anyway post is getting way long so * finger guns and leaves ya'll with this *

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f1sh-bone · 6 months ago

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Injured and scared whumpee who has to be held down and blindfolded while receiving medical treatment, and after a while they stop thrashing around, quietly shivering instead..

When caretaker gently takes off their blindfold, the whumpee's eyes are still locked shut.

They try to comfort them, but whumpee just flinches at the touch.

#fish scribbles #whump #whumpee #caretaker #medical whump #med whump #medic caretaker #doctor caretaker #restrained whumpee #injured whumpee #scared whumpee #hurt/comfort #recovery whump #comfort whump

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asherwesley · 9 days ago

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“Folded, Faded, Hidden”

Simon “Ghost” Riley x You

He carries your picture. Carries you in silence.

You’d never seen it.

Not once.

Not taped to the wall of his bunk, not tucked inside his wallet, not swiped through on his phone. You used to wonder – just briefly – if he even kept something of you when he left for missions.

But you never asked. Not because you didn’t want to know. But because he didn’t want to say.

So when he tells you – months later, after coming home with bruised ribs and a stitched-up shoulder – it’s not during a moment of vulnerability.

It’s when you’re folding laundry. Quiet, routine, domestic. That’s when he says it.

“I carry your photo,” he murmurs, like it’s an afterthought.

You pause, hands still on the fabric.

“What?”

“Printed. Small. Folded. Sewn into the inside of my vest, right over my heart.”

A beat. Then, “So no one could find it. No one could use it against me.”

There’s no softness in his voice. Just steel.

You realize then – he’s kept you close, closer than you ever imagined.

Not as a comfort token, but as something sacred.

Something worth hiding. Something worth surviving for.

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

Then another night, somewhere miles away —

The mission goes bad.

Extraction late.

Too fast. Too many. Blood seeps down his side, thick and hot. Leaking through the tactical fabric like black water. He’s behind cover, vision graying at the edges. No one’s answering comms. He knows he’s alone.

He doesn’t panic.

Simon Riley doesn’t panic.

But he does press one trembling hand against his chest – right over the hidden seam, the tiny flap of cloth hand-stitched shut by his own needle and thread.

And beneath it: a small picture.

Crinkled from wear. The ink faded. Folded into fourths until your face is barely visible, but it’s you all the same.

You, smiling. Head tilted. Unaware he ever took the shot.

He presses his palm harder. Breathes deep.

“Still with me.”

That’s what he thinks, right before the darkness takes him.

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

When he wakes in the med bay, broken but alive, the first thing he checks is that vest. That hidden seam.

It’s still there.

You’re still there.

Always. First and last.

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

Later on, you find the vest. He doesn’t let anyone else patch it.

You stumble upon the pocket by accident – fingers brushing a seam that feels thicker than the others.

And when you tug the thread free and unfold the tiny square, the photo slips into your hand. Your face. Smudged. The colors faded to warm sepia. Corners worn nearly to tissue.

It’s been kissed. Or clutched. Maybe both.

Simon doesn’t say anything when he sees you holding it.

But he watches you like you’re the only anchor in a storm-ripped sea. Like if he speaks, the weight of that tenderness might crush him.

And still — no “I love you.”

Just this,

“You don’t go in my phone. You go with me.”

──── ⊹⊱⊱♡⊰⊰⊹ ────

“The first thing that steadies his breath.

The last thing he thinks about before the dark close in.

It's you.”

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runraerun · 8 months ago

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Steddie Amnesia Fic: 1/3

-> Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

cw: lots of head trauma/brain injury/recovery stuff.

Steve wakes up in the hospital with someone snoring loudly on his leg, mouth open, drool getting soaked up into the scratchy hospital blanket over him.

Steve just stares.

It’s… Freddie? No, that’s not right... Eddie! Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson, known delinquent and drug dealer… resting his head on Steve’s lap.

What the hell…?

Steve reaches up with a wobbly, IV-ridden hand to clumsily pat along his head, but instead of meeting messy hair, he meets a thick wad of bandages. He flinches when he hits an especially tender spot.

It’s not much but it’s enough to wake Eddie Munson up with a jolt, and a random jumble of words that sounded something like, “the dice have spoken!”, but Steve can’t be sure. Not with the sharp ringing still going off inside his skull.

“Steve? Steve! Oh thank fuck, Jesus H. Christ, you scared the ever loving shit out of me.” Eddie stood and grabbed at one of Steve’s shoulders, shaking him enough to elicit another wince.

“Oh, damn, sorry. I’m like a fucking bull in a china shop here, man. There’s way too much expensive, breakable shit here. I’m not used to it. I accidentally ripped your IV out the other day... Fuck. The nurses hate my guts.” Eddie chuckles, eyes wide and solely on Steve, talking like they were old friends or something.

But that can’t be right. Steve doesn’t remember saying more than two words to Eddie Munson during the entire time he knew he even existed, and even then it was just to discuss weed prices.

“For real though, talk to me Harrington, how you feelin’, hm? Loopy? Gonna yak again? Apparently they got you on the good stuff,” Eddie flicks a liquid filled bag hanging above Steve and shakes his head, “but they keep cutting you back. Dicks.”

Steve’s eyes try and follow Eddie’s erratic movements but his eyes ache the more he moves them. He blinks against the harsh fluorescents and tries to open his mouth. And thank God, Eddie Munson seems to take this as a sign and shut up.

“What happened?” Steve finally croaks.

One of Eddie’s brows jumps. “You don’t remember?”

Steve gives his head a small shake. Did Eddie hit him with his car or something? Is that why he’s sleeping at his bedside and talking to him like they’re buddies?

“You fell, Stevie.” Eddie makes a whistling noise and mimicks something falling with his hands, then makes a crashing sound when his hand lands on Steve’s bandaged head. “Like a coconut out of a tree. Landed right on that big ol’ melon of yours. There was blood everywhere. It scared the shit out of me and the kids. Especially when you wouldn’t wake up.”

Steve’s throat feels like sandpaper, but he manages to swallow, his throat clicking as he did, and gets out, “The kids?”

Eddie seems to notice, even before Steve can ask, and reaches for a water bottle with a straw already in it, and half chewed. Eddie’s own, no doubt. Against his better judgment, Steve accepts it when Eddie offers it to him. He was just so goddamn thirsty.

“Don’t worry, they’re all fine. They were just shaken up. I’ll radio the little gremlins and give ‘em the good news in a sec.” Eddie’s smile falters a little, seeming lost for words. Like he wants to say something, but can’t quite get it out.

Steve finishes swallowing his few, meager gulps of water before he asks, “What is it?”

“Don’t freak out—“ Eddie begins.

And, okay, that’s exactly the thing you tell someone before they freak the fuck out. Steve’s stomach is subject to a growing, sluggish panic. “What? Dude, tell me—“

“It’s your hair.” Eddie seems genuinely pained at having to deliver this crushing of a blow to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

Steve can hear the beeping from the monitors he’s hooked up to begin to pick up speed as his heart begins racing. “My hair?”

“It’s okay! It’s okay, it’ll grow back! They just had to take a little bit off where the stitches went, you can hardest notice it—well, that’s a fucking lie, you could spot that landing strip from space—but I think if you part it to the other side it won’t look so… y’know.”

“No, dude, I don’t know.” Steve says, eyes wide, brows pinched.

“Like a drunk toddler took a pair of rusty kitchen shears to your mop.” Eddie says, huffing out a nervous sort of laugh.

Steve groans, half due to the bastardization that’s happened to his favorite feature, and half due to the migraine that’s looming on his horizon.

“You’re still pretty, Stevie, don’t worry.” Eddie grins, eyebrows raised, like he’s trying to be cute or something.

That weirdest part is, it’s kind of working.

Steve must have hit his head really, really hard.

The doctors eventually come in and perform all sorts of tests, and he tries his best to comply with them and jump through whatever hoops they make him jump through. He just wants to get the hell out of this hospital bed.

Unfortunately for him, Steve hadn’t exactly aced any of the tests.

In fact, he had failed most of them pretty fucking dismally. He couldn’t remember the date, who the president was, where he lived, couldn’t say the alphabet backwards… although, who the fuck can do that? He stands by that failing grade.

A couple of CAT scans later and it’s clear that Steve’s brain got smacked around a little more than they had originally thought.

Among a pile of other stuff, the thing that sticks out the most to Steve is his diagnosis of something called short term amnesia. They explain it like the past 2 to 3 years has just been wiped from his brain. The last clear thing he really remembers is getting the shit beat out of him by Billy, and then it all sort of gets jumbled. Fragmented. The doctors explain that this is pretty typical for head trauma patients.

He’s a head trauma patient, now.

It’s normal for memories of trauma to link, creating spiderwebs throughout your brain.

Which, that’s great. So when he gets beat up again, there’s always a chance his brain will try and erase his easy, happy years and revert back to a trauma default. Really helpful brain, thank you.

And the thing that sucks the most is that his years after the Billy beat down sound pretty great. Traumatizing, sure, but great. Once the Upside Down shit was locked up, with every scary nightmare fuel monster inside of it, life in Hawkins didn’t sound all that terrible.

He lived with Robin, who’s his best friend, (his ‘platonic soulmate’ even, as she explains it), he’s working a retail job, (also with Robin), and coaches the high school basketball team during the evenings. He’d even been talking with Hopper about joining the force.

Well, he was. Now he’s more or less useless, working full time at re-learning his life, along with a couple of fine motor skills that got glitchy after the fall.

And then there’s Eddie.

Eddie, who’s apparently also his best friend, only their soulmate link isn’t platonic at all.

The strange and weirdly exciting reality was that Steve Harrington had woken up from his 3-day medically induced coma with not only a full fledged relationship, but a boyfriend.

It’s a lot to digest, and part of him still doesn’t even know how to process it, but hearing the stories being told around him, seeing how Eddie is practically living in his and Robin’s two-bedroom apartment, and just… the way Eddie looks at him?

It’s with love—Steve can see it. Feel it. Eddie’s practically vibrating with it.

What’s even crazier is that when Steve looks at Eddie, he feels the exact same way.

It’s like looking at the stars. Steve’s heart skips a beat when those dark eyes of hit him, and Steve wants nothing more than to make Eddie smile—no, better than that, to make him laugh, just so he can watch Eddie’s adam’s apple bob up and down and hear that manic, unhinged cackle. It’s downright delightful. Steve loves being in relationships like this, where it’s all consuming.

Steve may not have the memories of falling in love with Eddie, but he has all the feelings.

No one talks about it with Steve, of course. Maybe they think it’s going to be too heavy for him to process that he’s into dudes now, but Steve isn’t a big dumb baby. Sure, he’s got a pretty severe brain injury, and yeah, alright, it takes him a minute to remember people’s names sometimes, and he has a harder time controlling his emotions, but he isn’t a complete invalid. Only a little bit of one. He’s working on it, dammit.

And Eddie is so painfully, frustratingly patient with him. He never pushes. He’s clearly letting Steve retrieve his memories before he makes a move, because despite his whole outward appearance, Eddie Munson is a goddamn gentleman. He never so much as reaches for Steve’s hands, but Steve can tell by the way their pinkies graze when they watch movies late at night that he wants to.

Steve can tell by the way Eddie teases him, the way he’s there with him through his recovery, that he doesn’t ever make Steve feel stupid when he asks the same questions over and over again, when he cries at the drop of a hat or when he gets sort of confused about the lay out of his apartment—he doesn’t care about that of that.

Because he’s in love with Steve. It’s so painfully romantic, it brings a painful lump to Steve’s throat every time he thinks too much about it.

The two of them are driving to one of Steve’s therapy sessions, Eddie in the driver's seat, Steve in the passengers, listening to a low racket of some kind of heavy metal music. Eddie always keeps the volume low now, for Steve.

He’s just been so intensely good about everything that Steve needs to try and do something good for Eddie in return. He needs Eddie to know that there’s a light at the end of this tunnel that they’re both currently lost in.

“I’m sorry about this, y’know.” Steve says when they finally pull up the building that has ‘Brain Injury Recover Center’ written on the front. So all the boys and girls with scrambled eggs for brains know where to converge.

“Don’t worry about it, man. I work the evening shifts, remember? My days are free.” Eddie explains, and Steve wonders if he’s had to be told this bit of information a couple of times now. Sometimes it takes a few times before something sticks to his brain now. His short term memory is still majorly flighty. But no, Steve remembers that Eddie bartends at a local bowling alley most evenings. He’s gone a few times. Not to bowl, of course—too much hand eye coordination involved—but just to hang out with Eddie. He’s pretty decent at Ms. Pac-Man though.

Steve shakes his head. He knows his mind must have wandered because there’s been a lull where no one’s spoken. Eddie never seems to care about that though. “I don’t mean about the drive. I was talking about… y’know.”

“Wha’dy’mean?” Eddie mumbles as he backs into his parking space, hand on the back of Steve’s headrest.

Steve sighs and decides to just come out and say it: “I mean having your boyfriend forget everything about you and your relationship. I just… that must be really tough.”

Everything in Eddie Munson comes to a jarring halt, hand frozen over where he’s turned to ignition off.

It’s sort of unnerving—Eddie is always moving, fidgeting. Damn near bouncing off the walls. But now it’s like someone hit the poor guy with a freeze ray gun.

Steve chuckles softly as he reaches out and touches Eddie’s arm, giving him a playful jostle, to loosen him up a little, “it’s okay, Eddie. I know. You don’t have to keep going easy on me. I’m gay! Or, bi-sexual. Whatever.” Steve shrugs, “see? Not falling apart. I can handle being in love with another dude. You don’t need to keep babying me.”

The side of Eddie’s mouth twitches into a downturned smile that he seems to be trying to hide.

“I know, I know. Not just any dude.” Steve rolls his eyes, a smile still firmly on his face. He takes Eddie’s hand from the steering wheel, and Eddie seems to watch it go in a detached sort of awe. Steve wonders if Eddie’s proud of him for being so cool with it all. “In love with you.”

“Steve, I don’t think—

“Wait, just let me finish.” Steve asks, and Eddie blinks and works on closing his mouth. Knows it’s important to let Steve get his thoughts out quickly, lest they be lost to the giant black hole inside of his beat-up brain now. “I know that I don’t remember any of the important stuff with us. Our first date, or our first kiss or, y’know, any of our other first firsts. So maybe it feels like you’re cheating on the old Steve with me? But… Eddie, I know it’s crazy but even though my brain forgot all of the specifics; my heart didn’t. I look at you, and it’s all there. I’m still so into you, dude. I can feel it, even though I don’t remember how I got here. I’m in l—“

“Steve! Stevestevesteve wait, holy shit—!” Eddie’s eyes snap up from his intense stare at the place where their hands are linked. “Steve—”

“Yeah?” Steve prompts when Eddie doesn’t seem to be able to find the words. He runs his thumb gently over Eddie’s knuckles. It feels so nice to finally be able to hold his hand again. They fit together so well, and Steve wonders briefly if it’s some kind of muscle memory.

Eddie opens his mouth a few more times before he remembers how to make the words come out.

“Steve. Buddy. We’re… we’re not dating.”

Steve’s face falls, and he can feel a lump form in his throat, but he keeps a firm hold of Eddie’s warm hand in his own. “Yeah, I know, I know. We haven’t had any time to be a couple. And it’s probably been torture for you, man. You’re so busy taking care of me and making sure I don’t freak out over everything that you’ve clearly been neglecting your own hierarchy of needs.”

Eddie raises a brow.

Steve chuckles, “Shut up. It’s a therapy term.”

Eddie laughs in his throat. “Steve, you gotta slow down and listen to me.”

He turns his shoulders so that he’s fully facing Steve while he reaches his free hand over and tugs at one of his earlobes. “Got your hearing ears on?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he nods just the same.

“We… we weren’t dating before your accident,” Eddie speaks slowly, his voice warm, gentle. “Hell, I didn’t even know you were, y’know, into dudes like that. Much less me.”

Something throbs dully behind Steve’s eyes. It’s the start of a migraine—the one that makes it hard to process much of anything. Steve squints, trying to make sense of what Eddie’s saying. “…you’re not my boyfriend?”

Eddie shakes his head very, very slowly. “No.”

Steve snatches his hand back like he’s only just now noticed how burning hot Eddie’s hand is.

He settles back in his seat, staring out the front window. The sounds from the outside world are muffled, and everything feels far away and sort of… Made up. Just like everything he’d imagined was going on between him and Eddie. Not real.

He feels painfully detached from reality. Unmoored. Maybe this was the disassociation thing the doctor mentioned might happen…

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, risking another glance over to Eddie, who hasn’t taken his eyes off him for a second.

“Pretty fuckin’ sure.” Eddie snorts.

“Oh, God. This is… I’m—sorry. I’m so stupid. Fuck, I gotta—“ Steve suddenly attacks the door handle with a clumsy fury that has his hand fumbling with the handle for way too long. Fucking busted up, bruised as fuck fucking brain-!

“Steve, it’s okay, dude,” Eddie says from behind Steve, but that’s easy for him to say; he didn’t just humiliate himself in front of his not-boyfriend, definitely-crush, possibly ex-friend—“Steve, wait!”

Steve flees the van on unsteady feet, not daring to look back.

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spinzolliii · 11 months ago

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People forget that recovering from an injury takes so much energy. It’s not just pain, but a constant exhaustion as your body dedicates all of its resources to repairing itself. This can last weeks or months.

The same is true in the aftermath of a severe illness. You’re not necessarily “well” after the infection passes. Your body has to recover from the damage done by the infection. It leaves a person weak and lethargic well after they’ve “recovered” from their illness.

So, imagine a Whumpee being forced to work again immediately after an illness or injury.

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reidsmanuscript · 5 months ago

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Seven Seconds

Summary: when Katie Jacob's gets abducted in a Mall, setting the clock for the BAU, who needs a legal favor, and it's been a year since the A.D.A. has know anything about Spencer Reid. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: pinning, SLOW BURN, maybe right moment?, angst bc i love angst wc: 4.6k! (i know so small comparing to part 1 bear with me) TW: cm canon typical violence, set in 05x3 "Seven seconds" (obviously lol), sexual violence, implied reader's dark past, glimpses of female rage. A/N: my idea for the serie is be taylor jenkins reid and have you question if lawyer reader exists or not (delusional bitch), english is not my first language and let's pretend it's proofread part I - part II - part III - part IV - masterlist

　　　　　　　 .˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅.　　　

Spencer sat on the park bench reading a book while playing chess with Ethan, brilliant kid for his age and good opponent, not good enough though because when he cheered “I see checkmate in 5, What do you see?” It took Spencer one glance to calculate all the movements necessary.

“I see it in 3” he answered looking at his book again, the kid turned around the board and moved the pieces

“We've missed you out here” he said, staring at the board amazed.

“Thanks. I, uh, I had to take a little break”

“How come?” His hands froze on the book for a second before closing it.

Spencer had been clean for over a year now, it was 14 months and 2 weeks ago that he had freaked out after noticing his stash of Dialud was gone along with his needle. Where could he find more? Who knew about his addiction? Where was his stash? Who the fuck is Dr. Fitzgerald? Did you report him?

His first instinct was confronting you, given that you were the only person who found out his drugs that he knew, the first days he was a complete paranoid, he jumped every time Hotch called his name, or that Gideon looked at him a little too long.

At the end of the week he was thinking where he could find more, and when that thought scared him, he called the number of the card you had left in the same pocket his drugs used to be.

“Hello this is Dr. Fitzgerald” said a calm voice, it was 10 p.m. so there was a higher chance of going to voicemail, but he got an answer and the tremor of his hands got a little worse. Was it the anxiety or the withdrawal?

“Umm hello.. this is.. Dr.. this is Spencer Reid and someon-""I've been waiting for your call Dr Reid” the other line interrupted, he froze for a second.

“I used to play with a co-worker friend of mine. He's probably the best mind I ever went up against. One day, he just decided that he didn't want to play anymore.”

Fast forward, she helped him get clean and stay clean after Gideon left, getting tested regularly, and gave him the contact of the help group of FBI addicts. He was better, he was alive.

“So you gave up, too?”

“Just the opposite. I attempted to play Through every permutation of moves on a chessboard.”

“That's an infinite number of games.”

“It's not infinite. It's just- it's exponentially large.”

“You couldn't have played through them all.”

“There's an average of 40 moves per chess game, And I'll tell you something– the more I played, The more I realized that every single match every single chess game, Is really just a simple variation on the exact same theme. You know? It's aggressive opening, Patient mid-game, inevitable checkmate, And I realized why my friend quit. He was tired of repeating the same patterns And expecting a different outcome.”

“That's because you haven't come up on Fridays or Mondays in a while” the way his eyebrows went up along his voice tone made him feel like he knew something that he didn't.

His eyebrows furrowed “What do you mean?”

“There's this great player who comes around those days, she even brings the best pastries, and her games is similar to yours, always two or three moves ahead, she always beats everyone here… i think her boyfriend called her Buzz or something like that, like the Toy Story character”

“Buzz?… i don't really remember anyone with that nickname”

“It’s probably not that one but you don't know her because she started coming like 8 months ago.. I'm sure you have a lifetime of chess strategy in your head that you're just sitting on, but when you meet her?” He made a dramatic pause “You'll have to play it.”

He glances at his watch to realize his 15 minute break is coming to an end. “I still use it. I just, uh... I apply it differently. I have to go. It's good seeing you.”

　　　　　　　 .˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅.　　　　　　

That evening, the BAU was called in for a local case—a little girl, Katie, had been kidnapped from a busy mall. A week earlier, another girl had been taken from the same location and found dead hours later. Now, they were all racing against the clock.

Katie’s parents were desperate. As any parents would be in this situation, right? But when Hotch asked the father if either of them was having an affair—a routine question in abductions—the man took offense. Deep offense. So much so that he refused to let the FBI search their house.

Now, what kind of parent refuses to help the police find their missing child?

In a small surveillance room, Morgan and Reid sat with Garcia, who was visibly frustrated by the mall’s ancient security system. They were surrounded by screens displaying grainy footage from different angles—well, almost every angle. They had a single glimpse of Katie in one video, and then, seven seconds later, she was gone.

JJ and Prentiss were with the mother, aunt, and uncle, trying to get a read on the family dynamic. Meanwhile, Morgan and Reid had conducted a cognitive interview with Katie’s cousin. It had led nowhere.

“The family has refused permission to search the house,” Hotch announced as he stepped into the room.

“What do you mean they denied?” Morgan’s frustration was evident. “Your only child goes missing, and you refuse to collaborate?”

No one disagreed. They were all thinking the same thing.

“The cousin didn’t say much,” Reid added. “He was too distracted in the game room to notice anything.”

Hotch exhaled sharply. “I’ll speak to the detectives, see if we can get a warrant.” His tone was firm, but they all knew time wasn’t on their side.

Garcia adjusted her glasses. “Sir, I mean this in the best way possible, but it’s almost 8 p.m. I don’t think-”

“I’ll handle it,” Morgan interrupted.

All Reid and Garcia turned to him with identical looks. What do you mean you will handle it?

Hotch’s eyebrows furrowed, but after a moment, he gave a small nod and walked away. Morgan was already pulling out his phone.

“I have a contact,” he explained, dialing.

He put the phone on speaker. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, a voice answered—sharp, direct, and all business.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

Reid went rigid.

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It was late in the office; most people had already gone home, including your assistant Molly. All but Austin, who was still there because he had a lead on one of your cases. You knew he was still hanging around because, over a year ago, when someone had snuck into your office to harm you, you’d become a little paranoid. You’d gotten better, but Austin insisted on keeping you company, especially since your car was in the mechanic’s.

You were reviewing a legal brief, pen in hand, skimming the margins to jot down notes when the desk phone rang. Without looking up, you hit the speaker button with the tip of the pen.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

There was a beat of silence before a familiar voice cut in—smooth, direct, urgent.

Morgan called your name “Hey. We need a warrant. Fast.” You blinked, setting the pen down.

Reid and Garcia exchanged glances as Morgan jumped in without hesitation.

“Katie Jacobs. Eight years old. Abducted from a mall earlier tonight,” Morgan started, all business. “Another girl was taken from the same place a week ago—she was found dead hours later. We’re working against the clock.”

You frowned, swirling the pen, going through the multiple scenarios. You had heard about last week’s case, and how slow the police had moved back then.

“We’ve got mall surveillance footage,” Morgan pressed. “At first, we thought she just vanished, but Garcia finally pulled something from one of the side corridors. Katie wasn’t taken by force—she was walking calmly with someone.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around her pen. “Someone she knows.”

“Exactly,” Morgan confirmed. “That narrows it down to family or close acquaintances.” They all shared a silent thought. Family.

We know they’re hiding something,” Morgan corrected. “We just don’t have the probable cause to kick the door down.”

Garcia watched as Morgan paced slightly, his tone firm but urgent.

“That’s thin, Morgan,” Your voice came through the speaker, steady and unyielding.

“We don’t have time for airtight,” Morgan countered.

Your jaw tightened. “You don’t have time for me to get laughed out of a judge’s office, either. Refusing a search isn’t a crime, and suspicion alone doesn’t cut it. I need more.” You understood where the suspicious came from, how are you supposed to help them if they had nothing?

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then, another voice—one you hadn’t heard in over a year.

“99% of abducted children who are killed due within the first 24 hours” He cleared his throat, willing his voice to stay even. Spencer Reid. “75% within the first 3 hours, and what only law enforcement knows is Jessica Davis joined the 44% of children who are abducted and killed within the first hour. We’re already past the three-hour mark. If we don’t act now, statistically speaking—”

“The likelihood of recovery drops exponentially,” You sighed, already standing up, ignoring how his voice sounded. So different. So… clean.

Your gaze flicked to the clock. 8:06 p.m. Damn it.

You grabbed a blank warrant form from her drawer and reached for a pen. “Send me the address and everything else you have. Give me 20 minutes.”

Click. You didn’t have time for goodbyes.

Austin raised an eyebrow from his seat. “Guess you’re not going home anytime soon.”

You didn’t look up as you started writing. “I never was.”

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The courthouse was mostly deserted at this hour. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly, and the stillness of the evening was only interrupted by the sharp click of your heels on the polished floors followed by Austin’s boots toward the judge’s chambers.

“You sure you don’t want me to take this one? Sweet-talk her maybe?” he teased.

You shot him a look. “You think Judge Holloway is the type to be charmed? Plus, you’re a private investigator, not a lawyer.”

“She’s not gonna like you showing up this late.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “If she’s still up, she’ll make time for this.”

Taking a steadying breath as you stopped in front of the door, you quickly ran through your notes, making sure you had every detail in order. Then, without hesitation, you pushed through the heavy wooden doors of Judge Evelyn Holloway’s chambers.

Inside, the judge barely glanced up from her paperwork. “You have two minutes, Woodvale.”

Stepping forward, you set the warrant request on the desk. “Your Honor, I apologize for the late hour, but we have a child abduction case we’re working against the clock. A young girl, Katie Jacobs, was taken from a mall over three hours ago. We’ve obtained surveillance footage showing her walking with an individual—someone she likely knows. We believe the family is withholding information, and they’ve refused to allow us to search the residence.”

The judge narrowed his eyes, folding her hands on the desk. “And what do you propose I do about it? What evidence do you have to warrant a search?”

You kept your voice steady. “We have footage of the girl with someone who wasn’t a stranger, Your Honor. The parents are refusing cooperation, and the father was evasive when asked about possible affairs, which raises red flags about his involvement.”

Holloway sighed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s thin.” You were ready for that.

“I have the full footage from the mall security, including a timestamp showing the precise time the girl went missing. She is last seen walking calmly with someone she knows, most likely family.”

There was a brief pause, and for a second, you thought you were about to lose her. So you pulled Reid’s words from memory, adjusting them just enough to make them your own.

“Time is working against us. Statistics show that 99% of abducted children who are murdered lose their lives within the first 24 hours 75% within just the first three. And only law enforcement-”

She cut you off with a raised hand, signaling you to stop.

The judge exhaled through her nose, it was late and you were rambling about statistics and you knew she wanted you out as soon as possible when you started citing numbers. So pushing himself out of her chair with a slight groan. “Fine. Get me the paperwork. I’ll sign it—but you better have your ducks in a row.”

You nodded, her demeanor unflinching. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

As you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the hours ahead of you. But you were used to this—fighting against the clock.

“Let’s move,” motioning to Austin. He gave you a small nod. “You got it.”

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Exactly 15 minutes after the call, 5 minutes earlier than promised, Morgan’s phone rang. He answered it without even looking.

"You got your warrant. I'll meet you there," Alex’s voice came through, crisp and businesslike, just as expected.

Morgan exhaled, his relief barely hidden. "Thank you, Woody."

He paused for a moment before adding, "I owe you one," then hung up, turning to Reid.

“Tell Hotch we’re heading to the Jacobs’ house,” he instructed, already moving toward the door.

Spencer had been timing her. It wasn’t the first time he'd gotten caught up in the tense waiting game of law and order, but the pressure of it had a different weight today. The memory of your voice, clear and resolute, echoed in his mind, sharper than before.

For Reid, part of getting clean wasn't just the physical withdrawal—it was the emotional weight of confronting his mistakes. The memory of how he'd lashed out at you a year ago still haunted him. How could he have been so cruel? The hurt in your eyes, the way he dismissed you, the way it all spiraled… it wasn’t just the drugs that had made him say those things. And the fury he saw when you looked at him, Dialuid in hand, how you looked like a timing bomb when he was trying to see if he could talk to you, the tension in your shoulders, the lock in your jaw, the grip on the file. He’d been battling so much more since then, in his mind, you saved his life by doing what he couldn't do.

He’d rather die than relive that moment again, than say those things. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of another chaotic case, still carrying that guilt with him. He stayed behind Morgan for just a beat before pushing down his feelings and moving quickly.

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The engine of Austin's bike rumbled to a stop as they pulled up in front of the house, where Morgan and Reid were standing in front of the black SUV. You slid off the back with practiced ease, taking off the helmet and letting your hair fall loose.

Austin followed your lead, taking his helmet off with a groan. “So, what exactly are we looking for?”

You shot him a quick, sidelong glance, handing him the helmet, keeping your expression flat knowing he’s about to be a drama queen. “You’re not coming inside. The warrant’s for FBI and police only. Not P.I.s included”

Austin paused, a mock pout crossing his face. “Excuse me? I just got you here, through all that traffic, risking myself to get a speeding ticket and now I don’t get to search? This is the second time in the night that you P.I. shaming me. Do you hate me?”

“If I hated you I wouldn’t have bailed your ass out of jail… twice” you remark the last part. He had a talent for sticking his foot where he shouldn’t be, maybe that’s what makes him good at his job.

“You act like you wouldn’t do it a third time” he was mocking, but he was right, something you would never admit to him.

You start walking to the house “Mhm.” you hum rolling your eyes, heading towards where Morgan and Reid were.

You didn't expect him to be there, or maybe you did, maybe you wanted to see him and know what had happened to him since the last time you saw him. They were looking at you, Morgan with a curious already-profiling-you stare, while Reid expression was more… cautious. He looked so different, his cheekbones were prominent in an attractive way and not sickly, he had put on some healthy weight and was not fidgety. You were not mad anymore, because of course at the moment the hurt had turned into rage like it always does for you, but it was more because of phantoms than anything else.

“Got your golden ticket” you said, avoiding Reid’s gaze as you pulled the warrant from the inner pocket of your gray coat and swung it toward them.

Morgan nodded “You staying?” He gestured with his head to Austin who was leaving.

“I have to make sure you find something, otherwise the judge will have my head for this,” you said dryly, shrugging as though the threat didn’t bother you, but there was a flicker of seriousness behind your words. You were only talking to him, which felt rude because Reid’s stare was locked in your profile.

Reid was thinking how pretty you looked, how the black vest suited you, and he couldn’t ignore the fact you had changed your brown bag to a black one that looked nothing like his. Your white shirt and gray coat gave you an older, wiser look, but as Reid analyzed your features, he realized he didn’t even know how old you were. You couldn’t be older than him. Serious, sharp, and young... How was it possible for someone that young to be the A.D.A.?

Reid’s mind couldn’t let go of the numbers. The average age of an Assistant District Attorney in the U.S. is 36. You couldn’t be older than 25, and yet you were already in that position.

You glanced at him for a moment before stepping inside the house, feeling the weight of his stare. The look made him snap out of his trance-like state, and of course, his eidetic memory hated him, because for that brief second, he remembered how you had looked at him a year ago.

Morgan nodded and thanked you again before he and Reid walked into the house. You left the warrant on the hall table with a deliberate touch, your fingers lingering for just a moment—as if to remind yourself that you weren’t entirely done with this.

“Somebody lit a fire last night,” you heard Reid say.

“Well, there are dirty dishes for three in the kitchen, so they eat together as a family.” Morgan’s voice carried from the other room as they moved through the house, taking in the details.

If Katie was in danger, the signs wouldn’t be in plain sight. You had to look where they hid—where children kept their secrets. Their bedrooms.

“Hey, my favorite movie from when I was a kid.” Reid held up a DVD, turning it in his hands before pulling it from the player just as you passed by him, tugging on latex gloves before heading upstairs, you did feel a little guilty for not even looking or talking to him, but it was something you did unconsciously.

“So they watch movies together, too,” Morgan mused. They were starting to build a picture of the family’s dynamic.

“By a fireplace in a house that’s straight out of a catalog,” Reid added. “Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted this any cozier.”

“That’s what worries me.” There was weight in Morgan’s voice. A tension that sat between them.

Upstairs, you searched through the rooms with careful precision.

When you first became a lawyer, you made a promise—never ignore a sign. Since then, you have gone further. You didn’t just refuse to ignore them; you searched for them. Hollow eyes. Unexplained bruises. Small bloodstains. You looked for them in teenagers, in young adults, in the elderly. But nothing—nothing—was more painful than a child who couldn’t speak up.

Because they were small. Because someone older, someone stronger, was hurting them. There's nothing more hurtful than not being able to speak out, to say something and stand up for yourself. Except when someone did—someone saw the bruises, the fear, the signs—and they looked away deliberately. Because a child’s pain was inconvenient. Because it came with a mountain of paperwork no one wanted to touch.

You had spent your whole life making sure you never looked away.

That’s why you were hunched over the small desk in Katie’s bedroom, flipping through her drawings when Morgan and Reid entered the room. They started searching, their movements efficient and methodical.

“Katie’s been wetting her bed,” Reid said as he lifted the duvet, inspecting the mattress beneath it.

“A lot of six-year-olds do. Could be bad dreams,” Morgan replied, crouching beside you as he sifted through a pile of toys.

You considered that possibility—it was perfectly logical. In a perfect world.

“Some kids won’t get up at night because they’re afraid of the dark,” Reid added, his tone careful. Almost knowing.

“Or it could be a lot more complex than that.”

Morgan had found a doll. Not a Barbie missing a shoe or one that had simply been played with too much. No—this doll was different.

Its hair had been hacked off, jagged strands sticking out unevenly. Red marker smeared across its face like smeared blood. Its clothes were yanked askew, twisted, and wrong.

“Most girls covet their dolls like an extension of themselves.” He took the doll in his hands like it was made of fine glass.

“Reid, I know these signs-— acting out on her toys, wetting the bed. She's obviously covering up something about that necklace.”

“And her cousin might be holding something back.”

“Well, this looks more like a man than a boy to me,” you said, holding up a drawing of a tall, shadowy figure towering over a small, crying child.

Morgan took it from your hands, his expression hardening as he analyzed the image.

“Psychology says drawing is a child’s way of channeling their inner world. Look at the strokes—how harsh they are,” you pointed to the dark, jagged lines forming the tall figure, then traced your finger over the smaller one. “And this looks like Katie to me. She forgot to draw the hands, which means she feels powerless… helpless.”

Morgan took his phone out, dialing up “Hotch, we think Katie’s being molested,” Morgan said, his voice clipped. “And we both know the odds.”

A brief silence. Then Hotch’s response, firm and certain. “Most likely by someone under the same roof.”

He hung up, and both men started toward the door, their movements brisk with purpose. But you stayed behind for a moment, rooted in place, taking in the scene. Trying to quiet the distant sirens that echoed in your mind, the same ones always shouting when you were face to face with these situations. A loud pause—maybe out of respect for Katie and her pain, for everything she had been forced to endure.

From the doorway, Spencer glanced back. The dim light from the hallway cast your figure in stark contrast, outlining you in shadow—your form dark against the soft glow of the room. He couldn’t see your expression, couldn’t read your face. He focused on the way your hands curled into fists at your sides, the tight set of your shoulders.

And he wished—just for a second—that he could see more.

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You stood outside, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over your chest. By your side were Morgan, Jeremy, Katie’s cousin, and Reid.

Turns out, Katie’s uncle, Richard, was her abuser. A disgusting son of a bitch who deserved to rot in hell. And you were going to make sure he did. He had destroyed Katie’s childhood, probably more than just hers, shattering an entire family in the process. His own son, standing right next to you, was collateral damage he clearly hadn’t spared a thought for. And then there was his wife. The woman who had chosen to look away. Who had taken Katie and nearly gotten her killed, all for the pathetic, desperate hope that it would somehow stop her husband from creeping into little bedrooms at night. She deserved the same hell he did.

A stretcher rolled past, Katie’s small frame barely visible beneath the blankets as the paramedics guided her into the ambulance. Her mother clutched her tiny hand, whispering something—words meant to soothe, to promise safety.

A young voice cut through the air. “I heard her call my mom’s name. That’s what I remembered before.”

You closed your eyes, your mind already racing ahead. Your attorney brain was piecing it together, sketching out the battle that was coming. If the kid had heard it, that made him a witness to the abduction. His own mother had committed the crime against her niece. And God only knew what else he had seen—what else had been happening in that house—without fully understanding it.

“We get it, kid. That’s your mom,” Morgan said, his voice steady. But you knew the truth: if Jeremy could barely say those words to them, getting him to the stand in front of a jury would be another fight entirely.

The boy shifted on his feet, staring at the ambulance. “What’s gonna happen to me now?”

If God existed, He had already been too cruel. He had let all of this happen. And you knew how these things worked—knew there was a very real chance that Katie’s parents, burdened with their own grief, would resent Jeremy by association. That they wouldn’t take him in. That he would be swallowed by the foster system.

You wouldn’t let that happen.

The sirens blared outside the mall, cutting through the air with urgency, but it was the ones inside your mind that were louder—screaming in the same rhythm, as if they were one and the same. Distant and deafening, they filled every corner of your head, drowning out everything but the grim reality unfolding before you.

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” Reid answered, his voice gentle. “But we’re gonna make sure you’re alright, okay?”

Jeremy didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the ambulance. “Is Katie gonna be all right?”

You wished—desperately, violently—that you could tell him yes. That you could say it with certainty and make it true. But how could you give him something you didn’t have?

“She will, eventually,” Morgan said, his voice firm.

You exhaled sharply. The words made your skin crawl.

“Is she?” The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it—low, bitter, nearly spat out under your breath. Just quiet enough that the kid wouldn’t hear. Just loud enough that Morgan did.

Before he could respond, you were already moving.

Your feet carried you toward the police car, toward the sick, selfish bastard they were shoving into the backseat. Your hand shot out, slamming the door closed—harder than necessary, just enough that it cracked against Richard’s face.

Morgan watched. So did Spencer.

And for the first time, he realized just how much of a puzzle you really were.

Partially because, throughout all of this, you hadn’t looked at him once. Not when he entered the room, not when he spoke, not even now, standing just a few feet away.

Partially because your eyes, when he finally caught a glimpse of them, were full of something he rarely saw outside of a case like this. Pure, undiluted rage.

Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something deeper. Something personal.

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part III　 Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

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serickswrites · 5 months ago

Text

Go to Sleep

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort

"Hero, love," Superhero said as they watched Hero nod off and jerk awake for the third time in the row, "let's get you up to bed. You'll be far more comfortable there. You can go to sleep and you'll feel better."

"No," Hero said as they stifled a yawn. "I'm not even drowsy yet. I can finish the movie."

Superhero knew Hero was lying. They knew Hero hadn't been sleeping well since they were rescued. No doubt they were afraid they would dream of the days of torture they endured. But Hero needed to sleep. It would heal them faster.

"Well, I'm feeling drowsy," Superhero lied as they watched Hero's eyelids droop lower and lower. "Maybe you can come cuddle me while I fall asleep?"

"Mhmmm," Hero hummed. "I....I can do that."

Superhero smiled as they watched Hero carefully climb the stairs. They knew Hero was still hurting. That their body was still in pain. But they were glad Hero was home. And that they could hold Hero in their arms once more. Even if they had to trick Hero into going to sleep.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

#serickswrites #whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump writing #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced torture #hurt/aftermath #hurt/recovery #hurt/comfort #hero #superhero #hero x superhero #hero x villain community #whumpuary2025 #day 25 #prompt: drowsiness #queue

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cricket-reader · 4 days ago

Text

Shadows Wrapped Around My Neck

summary: One night, your boyfriend’s anger goes too far. Deciding you’ve had enough, you run away to the apartment of the only man who makes you feel safe—the man who has shown you nothing but kindness and respect: Spencer Reid.

warnings: domestic abuse, strangulation, alcohol abuse, violence

word count: 5,050

A/N: prompt fill for day 17 of @juneofdoom | "Give me another chance" | Bruises | Begging

{Read on A03}

Large hands wrapped around your throat, cutting off your air supply. Your hands reached up to his wrists, nails biting into his skin as you desperately tried to pry his hands away. As the air left your body, the face in front of you blurred, black seeping into the corners of your vision. The last thought that crossed your mind before you passed out was that you didn’t want to die, not like this.

You woke up with an aching throat. Your head felt like it was going to explode as soon as you opened your eyes, the bright light seeping in from your bedroom too much for your sensitive eyes. Clenching your eyes shut, you tried to piece together what happened last night—it wasn’t rare for you to wake up with chunks of your memory missing and bruises littering your skin.

When you got home from work, you were so tired. The week had been long, facing nothing but one problem after the other at work and trying to douse the fires by yourself before they consumed the business was not easy work. You had settled down on the couch, thinking you could take a quick nap before your boyfriend came home. In your state of exhaustion, it hadn’t even crossed your mind to set an alarm.

By the time your boyfriend got home, you were still sleeping peacefully on the couch, his supper nowhere in sight. He woke you up by pulling you violently off the couch by your already bruised wrist. He had berated you and belittled you for what seemed like hours, and you had had enough. This whole week had been nothing but constant abuse, from both work and home. You had snapped. Stupidly, you had yelled at him, telling him that he can make his own damn food. Following it up with a rant about how he never did anything–how he was so lazy and useless probably wasn’t the best idea, but you were sleep deprived and your patience had been growing shorter and shorter with each passing day, your short fuse had been lit and it was far too late to extinguish it by the time the consequences came.

You had come so close to dying. You weren’t stupid, you knew that it only took minutes for death to occur from strangulation–if Spencer were here, he’d probably be able to tell you several statistics about domestic violence and strangulation.

It was almost funny. Before, you had only wished that something like this would happen. Death seemed like the only way out of this relationship. No one would believe you if you had told them, and even if they did believe you, you had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. But it seemed fate had something else in the cards for you when you met the Behavioural Analysis Unit of the FBI. They had worked with your boyfriend on a case a few months back. You had met Agents Emily Prentiss and Jennifer Jareau when you went to the police station with a note from the serial killer–unsub is what they called him. He was targeting you next, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to be as scared as you should have been. You were at a really low point in your life then. With nothing to live for, you had numbed yourself to your surroundings, barely keeping your head above water as you trod the choppy waters.

Emily could see it; of course, she could—she wasn’t a profiler for nothing, after all. Perhaps that was why, even after the case was solved, she invited you out with JJ and a woman named Penelope, who you found out was also a member of their team. Life was finally starting to look up for you. You had friends again (all of your previous friends had been cut out of your life when your boyfriend moved you to Virginia). You knew he didn’t like the fact that you had made friends again, but he never forced you to cut them out of your life. It was probably your saving grace that he didn’t.

Eventually, the girls’ nights turned into invitations to go to team events. Emily always teased that you were her plus one when you tried to refuse to go, citing that you weren’t a part of the team. She liked to say that you were her arm candy for the night, playfully flirting with you the whole time. She never failed to make you laugh.

It was there that you properly met Agents Hotchner, Rossi, Morgan, and Dr. Reid. Without the threat of a serial killer looming over them, they were a much more fun bunch than you had originally assumed. Rossi was an excellent host, only rivalled by his ability in the kitchen. Hotchner–Hotch as he told you to call him, actually smiled and laughed a few times (which you were told was a rare occurrence). Morgan effortlessly teased you as if you’d been a part of their little group for ages. Reid was a walking encyclopedia, always ready to share random tidbits of information with you.

You felt like you had regained some control over your life. No longer shackled to work and home, you found yourself feeling liberated. Whenever they were free, it seemed at least one of them would try to rope you into some kind of hangout. Your favourite was when Spencer would meet you at the library or a cafe. There was something so cathartic about sitting in each other’s presence, reading your own books, and not having to fill the space with idle chatter. And when you two did talk, you found his endless source of knowledge and rambling adorable.

They pulled you from such a dark headspace, and you couldn’t imagine what your life would be like if Emily had never invited you to get drinks that one Friday night.

Your boyfriend had never hurt you like he did last night before. He had a drinking problem, you knew he struggled with it for a long time. At the beginning of your relationship, he told you that he was getting clean because he didn’t want to be like his father. He really tried, you know he did. Every time he would slip, he’d wake up the next morning, tearful at the sight of bruises you hadn’t had the night before. He’d promise to get sober before the whole cycle started over and over again. The worst part about it was how you kept making excuses for him. He would never hurt you sober. It was the alcohol. He didn’t mean it. He loved you.

Last night, however, was your last straw.

He could have killed you. It was the first time you had truly thought you were going to die from his rage, and you knew that it was only the beginning. It finally clicked for you. He wasn’t going to change. No matter what he said, he wouldn’t get sober–not even for you. If last night was any indication of your future, you knew that you’d die by his hand. You couldn’t let that happen. You’d let this relationship go on for far too long, giving him way too many chances to clean up his act. Well, he had his last chance. There were going to be no more excuses. You couldn’t keep living like this. Not when you knew of kindness and gentle hands, not when you knew of sweet words and laughter. You deserved better. It had only taken seven brilliant people to convince you of that fact.

Your boyfriend walked into the room, a tray of food balanced in his hands and an apologetic smile on his face. “I made you breakfast, babe,” he said.

You sat up in bed, stomach swirling and head pounding violently. You needed to get out of there. Pushing yourself off the bed, you stumbled into the wall. Black spots danced across your vision as your boyfriend frantically dropped the tray on the bed to steady you.

You blearily pushed his hands away from you. There were red scratches littered on his hands and arms, only serving to further remind you of what those hands were capable of. “Go away,” you said, bracing yourself against the wall to try and regain your strength. You surprised yourself with how rough your voice sounded. “I’m leaving, I’m done.”

The way he said your name grated on your nerves, knowing this tone better than the back of your hand. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just so mad. Please, babe, I love you so much.”

You scoffed, brushing past him to your closet. “I’m done. We’re over, okay? Just… just leave me alone.”

He followed after you. “Give me another chance, babe. I promise it’ll never happen again. I’ll get clean, okay? Just please don’t leave me.”

“I can’t even tell you how many times you’ve told me that. I can’t believe you. You never change. It’s like you don’t even want to help yourself. It’s honestly pathetic. I gave you too many second chances; I won’t give you any more.” You rifled through your closet, looking for some clean clothes to throw on. You could come back to get your stuff later–maybe you could convince Derek to come with you in case your boyfriend started to get violent. You knew that your boyfriend would be way too intimidated to even try anything if Derek was watching over you.

“So, what?” His voice rose with every word. “You’re just giving up on me? On us? After all we’ve been through-“

“You mean after all you put me through?” you snapped at him, your throat aching with the effort of speaking so much.

“Oh, don’t do that.” He pushed your shoulder, forcing you to look at him. “This is ‘cause of that stupid fed, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, I know about your little dates with that pathetic little loser. You thought you could keep that from me? I can’t believe you’d leave me for someone like that!”

“I’m leaving you because you hurt me all the time, and I’m sick of being your victim,” you said, eyes brimming with fury.

“It wasn’t even that bad! You’re just exaggerating everything. Besides, you have nowhere to go. I’m the only one that cares about you-”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” you interrupted him, “I have friends now. They care about me way more than you ever did.”

“So you are leaving me because of them. I knew it! Which one is it?”

“Oh, get over yourself! You always wanted to see what wasn’t there. I should’ve known; jealousy issues are like one of the first red flags.”

You tried to stomp out of the room, clean clothes be damned, but he grabbed your arm, his grip bruising. “Let go of me!”

“You’re not leaving me!” He yelled, spit flying into your face. “You can’t leave. You’re all I have, and I can’t lose you.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you tried to kill me.”

His grip falters, hurt flashing across his face. “I wasn’t trying to kill you, baby. I love you. Why can’t you understand that? You just make me so angry sometimes. It’s not my fault.”

“And I’m supposed to believe it’s my fault?”

“Yes!” He aggressively agreed. “It is your fault. I wouldn’t be forced to hurt you if you didn’t make me so mad. I can’t help it sometimes. That doesn’t mean I wanted to kill you, though. I really do love you… even when you make me angry.”

“Well, I don’t love you.” You shift in his grip, trying to get free. “I don’t think I’ve loved you for a while now, if I’m to be honest with you.”

You watched as betrayal swept over his face. It was quickly replaced with rage. “You fucking bitch!” He screamed, backhanding you. “I gave you everything! Without me, you’d be nothing. How could you be so ungrateful? After all I’ve fucking done for you?”

You scrambled away from him, face stinging and heart beating out of your chest as you watched the man you used to love unravel before you. You’d never seen him this angry; he wasn’t even drunk this time.

“I’m sorry!” you cried out, blocking your face with your arms as he stalked over to you. “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry!”

“You’re an ungrateful little whore. I bet you’re screwing all of your new friends. I can’t see why else they would put up with you.”

A sob caught in the back of your sore throat as he continued to rant about how worthless and stupid you were. You wished Spencer were here. Out of everyone on the team, it was probably him whom you had grown closest to. He invited you out so often, you doubted that he had anyone else to share his life with. It made a part of you sad that he was so lonely he’d resort to hanging out with you (someone he only knew because one of his coworkers picked up on your abject misery), but it also, selfishly, made a huge part of you glad that you were the one he chose time and time again to rid him of that loneliness.

So maybe your boyfriend’s jealousy over Spencer wasn’t completely unfounded, but could anyone truly blame you?

Spencer was everything your boyfriend wasn’t. He was so kind, so inherently good. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he’d never raise a hand to anyone he dated. His words would never turn needlessly cruel, his hands would never bruise the skin of his lover in the name of anger.

You latched onto his kindness and held it tight. You didn’t realise how much you had needed it before Spencer—didn’t realise how rare it was for your own boyfriend to give you even an iota of kindness. The scraps of love and kindness your boyfriend gave you weren’t enough. You needed someone who could care about you more than half the time; someone who didn’t only show you care when he felt like it. You wanted someone who put as much effort into the relationship as you did.

A sharp pain shot through your scalp, disrupting your line of thought.

“Are you even fucking listening to me?”

Your eyes watered as you sat up to try and alleviate the pain. “Stop, you’re hurting me! Let me go!”

“Promise me that you’re not going to leave me! Promise me!”

“Okay! Okay, I promise! I’ll stay, I’ll stay… just please stop hurting me.”

Your body shook as a violent bout of coughing took over. It felt like shards of glass were lodged in your throat, scraping your esophagus raw and bloody. Your boyfriend sighed as he released your hair, crouching down beside your trembling figure. “I’m sorry, baby. You just shouldn’t make me so mad. You can’t leave. We love each other, and we’ll be together forever.”

You flinched as he reached up to smooth down your hair, bile rising in your throat. You just wanted to leave. But there was no way you’d be able to escape—not with him in the room with you. You wondered what Spencer would do in this kind of situation; he’d know what to do. He practically dealt with volatile people for a living.

Thinking back on it, you remembered him rambling about de-escalation tactics out in the field. Whilst you weren’t dealing with a serial killer, you could probably apply that knowledge to the situation you found yourself in. If you could just play along with your boyfriend—convince him that you’d stay with him, maybe you could run away the next time he leaves you alone. You just hoped you could be convincing enough to fool him for however long it took for you to get alone.

“Come now, eat your breakfast before it gets cold,” he said, voice soft and gentle as he guided you from the floor to the bed.

“I’m not hungry,” you rasped, the words barely audible. Frustration flickered over his face. Heart racing, you said, “I need rest. ‘m tired.”

“Okay, baby. I’ll go put this away, and we can cuddle. I know how much you like cuddling.”

Tears in your eyes, you watched him walk away. The only times he had cuddled you since moving to Virginia were after he hurt you. How you didn’t realise that until now was beyond you. He used to be so open with his affection, sitting down to watch a movie with you pressed against his side. Sweet kisses and cuddling in bed–not pushing for more.

You didn’t want his comfort anymore. The last thing you wanted right now was to cuddle him. You wanted to be as far away from his hands–the hands that almost killed you–as possible.

When he came back into the room, you were sniffling on muffled sobs. He made a pitying sound before climbing into bed next to you. His arms felt stifling as he wrapped them around you, pulling you closer to his body.

“Shhh, just go to sleep, baby. I’m right here. Everything’s going to be okay,” he cooed, his hand running over your head in what was supposed to be a comforting motion.

You closed your eyes and forced yourself to relax. Just a little longer. You just had to hold on for a little while longer.

When your boyfriend finally did leave the apartment after you convinced him to get you food from your favourite restaurant, you wasted no time in grabbing your dead phone and your coat. Slipping on a pair of shoes, you booked it out the door. The restaurant was in the opposite direction of Spencer’s apartment, ensuring that your boyfriend wouldn’t run into you on the way over.

By the time you arrived at his apartment, you were shivering, your hands frozen, and your shoes drenched with the slush and snow that covered the sidewalk. You buzzed up to his apartment, praying that he was home. You had nowhere to go if he wasn’t.

A woman exited the building, glancing at you. She did a double-take upon seeing you, her dark eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Are you okay, hun? Do you need somewhere to go?” Her voice was thickly coated with a southern accent, warm and soothing.

“I just need to get in the building.”

“Sweetheart, if someone is hurting you, I can get you help.” She handed you a card from inside her purse. “I’m a doctor at the battered women’s shelter down the road. Let me take you there.”

You realised then that you didn’t have the time to cover the bruises that no doubt were painted on your skin before leaving. “I got out. I’m okay, my friend lives here. He’ll help me.”

“Alright, sugar, but if you ever need anything, the shelter has room for you, okay?”

You nodded, thanking the woman for her kindness. You must’ve really looked awful if the woman’s face was anything to go by. Shame curled inside you, its tendrils wrapping around your heart. You didn’t want Spencer to see you like this. What would he think of you for staying in such a toxic relationship for so long? Would he blame you for not getting out sooner?

Slipping into the warm building, you tucked your hands back into your pockets in search of warmth. You climbed up the stairs, breaths laboured as if you were trekking a grand mountain. By the time you reached Spencer’s floor, you had to lean against the wall to clear some of the spots dancing in your eyes.

You knocked on his door four times, leaning against the frame. There was no response. Knocking again, you hoped that he was just busy with something in there—that he just didn’t hear you. You didn’t know what you would do if he wasn’t home. After knocking on his door three more times, your hope flickered out. You could’ve cried if you hadn’t shed all the tears that you had earlier that day.

Instead, you walked over to the side of his door and slid down against the wall. You could sit and wait for him to come home. Best case scenario, he was out shopping or at the library; worst case scenario, he was on a case and wouldn’t get back for several days. Whatever the situation was, you felt safest staying here. There was no way your boyfriend knew where Spencer lived. You didn’t have anywhere else to go that he wouldn’t think to check. You just hoped that no one kicked you out of the building.

You grumbled as something nudged you out of unconsciousness, not ready to wake up just yet. You were tired and sore–everything hurt, and you just wanted to fall back into blissful sleep.

The prodding was relentless, however, so you reluctantly opened your eyes. Craning your sore neck up, you were greeted with concerned brown eyes and messy, curly hair. Spencer called out your name, his brows furrowing as he took in the angry red handprint on your cheek.

“Spencer,” you croaked out, voice frail and hoarse. “You’re here.”

“What happened?” He asked, crouching down to your level. He took your face in his hands as he peered into your eyes. He furrowed his brows, breath stopping at the sight of your bloodshot eyes. He lifted your chin, inhaling sharply at the mottled bruising wrapped around your throat. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“I didn’t know where else to go, ‘m sorry. You were close.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he chided. “You should have called me. How long have you been waiting for me?”

“Phone was dead. What time is it?”

“It’s almost four in the morning.”

Your eyes grew large. “But it was just six o’clock.”

Frowning, Spencer bit his lip. “We should get you to the ER.”

“I’ll be fine,” you protest, knowing full well that you couldn’t afford a visit now that you’ve run away from your boyfriend, who put himself in charge of all your finances back when you first moved in together.

“No, you’re not. You were strangled. Brain damage and death can occur even weeks or months after the fact. They need to make sure you’re okay.”

“How will I even pay for it? What if he finds me there?”

Jaw clenching, Spencer still managed to speak with an even voice. “Don’t worry about those things. Please, just trust me. I won’t let him hurt you again.”

“I do… I trust you,” you murmured, eyes brimming with unshed tears. You couldn’t remember feeling this safe in such a long time. It was really nice.

“Good,” he said, voice betraying just how much it meant to him to hear you say that. “Is there anyone else you want me to call? I can call one of the girls. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind letting you stay with them.”

“Can I not stay with you?” You did your best to hide your disappointment from him. It wouldn’t be fair of you to expect anything more of him. You guys were just acquaintances, friends if you wanted to push it. Of course, he wouldn’t want to have to put up with you. You didn’t have to tell him who did this to you, and he didn’t seem all that surprised either. He probably thought you were foolish for staying with your boyfriend. You wouldn’t be surprised if Spencer would blame you for staying with him after all the times he’s hurt you.

“No, of course you can… I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable or anything.”

“Why would I be uncomfortable?” You tilted your head. “You make me feel safe.”

His face did something strange then, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Can you stand?”

You nodded, not wanting to further agitate your voice by saying anything else. You had already spoken too much. Hopefully, the pain will go away soon.

Spencer helped you to your feet, steadying you with firm hands. He helped you down the stairs and into the car you knew he rarely used. He had told you about his dislike of driving, and you felt bad that you were making him drive you to the hospital because you weren’t strong enough to get away from your ex-boyfriend sooner.

The doctors gave you a clean bill of health, instructing you to rest your voice and instructing Spencer to keep an eye on your breathing for the next few days. On your way back, you picked up some bruise cream, a toothbrush and toothpaste, tea and honey, and takeaway.

By the time you both entered Spencer’s apartment, you were exhausted. You could tell that Spencer was, too. If the dark circles under his eyes weren’t indication enough, he kept yawning intermittently, making you yawn as well.

“I don’t know about you, but after we eat, I’m going to sleep for the next week,” Spencer said, placing his keys in the bowl.

“Gonna hurt,” you whispered, eyeing the food Spencer set on the table with weary eyes.

“I know, but you really need to eat. Besides, the soup shouldn’t bother your throat too much. Do you want me to put on the kettle?”

You nodded your head. As you watched him ready the water for tea, you felt something warm in your chest. You weren’t used to being taken care of so attentively. Most efforts made by your ex were half-assed at best. Spencer was always thoughtful. It was like he could anticipate your needs.

Taking your phone out of your pocket, you figured you should probably text the girls. They didn’t know what was going on with you, but you figured it would be better if they heard it from you and not someone else. Tapping Spencer on the shoulder, you held out your dead phone.

“My charger is in the bedroom by my nightstand. Feel free to move it if you need.”

You nodded your head, wishing there was a better way to express your gratitude. You watched the device turn on, the logo flashing on the screen before your lockscreen popped up. Cringing at the picture of you and your ex-boyfriend, you made a mental note to change it as soon as you got done texting the girls.

Your heart dropped to your stomach when you unlocked it to see hundreds of missed calls and angry texts from your ex. He was murderous. Each text was worse than the last. Sniffling back your cries, you swiped over to the group chat Emily invited you to. You stared at the blinking cursor for what felt like hours, the screen blurring as the tears built up in your eyes.

You jumped when Spencer called your name from behind you, clutching your phone to your chest. Rubbing the tears from your eyes, he came into focus, concern written all over his face. “Let me see.”

“‘ave to text the girls,” you weakly protested. Sniffling, you typed out a brief message, making sure to emphasise that you were fine and safe with Spencer now. Once you hit the send button, you handed your phone over to Reid.

He frowned when he pulled up your ex’s messages, brows furrowing deeper and deeper with every threatening word aimed at you. His hand was white-knuckled around your phone, shaking with uncontrolled rage.

Usually, the sight of a man this angry would scare you, your relationship with your ex having thoroughly damaged your acute stress response, but you knew that Spencer wasn’t angry with you. He was angry for you.

“How long has he been like this?” Spencer asked you.

You shrugged, “Like what? Explosive? Usually only when he drank.”

“Did he do that often?”

You nodded your head. “Alcoholic.”

He glared down at your phone some more, the fire behind it strong enough that you almost worried your phone would spontaneously combust.

“Do you think less of me?” you whispered, eyes trained on the soft rug you were standing on.

Out of your peripheral vision, you saw Spencer’s head shoot up. “How could I ever think less of you for this?”

“I should’ve left the first time-” cough- “he hit me.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. That… that asshole should have never hit you in the first place.”

“I made so many excuses,” you whimpered, curling in on yourself.

“Do you… Do you want a hug?” Spencer asked, voice tinged with rigid uncertainty. You nodded your head, and faster than you could blink, warmth engulfed you as Spencer gently pulled you to his chest, arms wrapping around you with care. He held you steady as you cried, soaking his shirt with salty tears and snot. Normally, you’d be too embarrassed to let anyone see you like this, but after the day you had, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

You both stood there for what felt like hours. It was only as your cries began to taper off that Spencer said, “The tea and food are probably cold now.”

Chuckling, you wiped away the remnants of tears as Spencer grabbed you some tissues.

After the tea and food had been reheated, you and Spencer sat down to eat. Spencer put on your favourite movie, surprising you that he cared enough to remember something as simple as that about you.

“Even if I didn’t have an eidetic memory, I’d remember what your favourite movie was,” Spencer had said after you shot him a confused look. You felt your cheeks warm, heart fluttering in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. You were grateful for the dark room. He didn’t mean anything by that; he was just being kind. There you were latching onto the first drop of kindness again, desperate for the care you’d been starved of for so long.

You didn’t remember watching the last bit of the movie, but by the time you were aware of your surroundings again, you were being tucked underneath covers that smelled of cinnamon, a gentle kiss placed on your forehead, and the words, “Goodnight, angel. I love you,” echoing in your brain.

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jordanstrophe · 3 days ago

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"Found it," Caretaker muttered, hurrying in with an armful of pills, damp towels, and a blood pressure cuff.

“Quit smothering me, I’m not dying.” Whumpee groaned from the bed caretaker made for them.

“You had a head injury,” Caretaker argued, fluffing the pillow under their neck. “You will sit there and be babied, and you will like it.”

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #caretaking #comfort whump #hurt/comfort #injury whump #recovery whump #whump prompt #whump scenario #comfort prompts #whump writing #protective caretaker #whump prompts #whump dialog #caretaker dialog

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f1sh-bone · 6 months ago

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✩ Whumpee who gets blindfolded so that they don't recognize whumper

✩ Scared, injured whumpee who gets blindfolded by their caretaker, so that they don't freak out during medical treatment

✩ Scared, injured whumpee who feels comforted by their blindfold and caretakers gentle shushes

✩ Scared, injured whumpee who completely freaks out after losing their ability to see

✩ Whumpee being blindfolded by Whumper so that they don't get to see the weapons they're about to be tortured with (them not knowing what to expect makes it more fun for Whumper)

✩ Whumpee getting rescued and flinching when caretaker tries to take off their blindfold

✩ "Dangerous" nonhuman whumpee who is forced to wear a blindfold, combined with physical restrains, while being medically examined

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whumpologyy · 9 days ago

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inspired by this post by @whump-is-a-fabled-thing

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Whumpee has fallen asleep cuddled against Caretaker's chest while Caretaker is still awake

Caretaker notices that Whumpee's body has stiffened against them and Whumpee is slowly, almost imperceptibly, retreating their clenched fists closer to their own body. There's a small frown creasing between Whumpee's eyebrows - they must be having a nightmare. Caretaker gently traces their thumb along their furrowed brow, meaning to comfort them, but Whumpee flinches and their breath hitches and Caretaker realizes they're awake and frightened. Caretaker remembers with a sinking feeling what Whumpee had said about being forced to share a bed with Whumper.

“Shhh, hey…it’s just me. It's okay.”

Whumpee's eyes open cautiously and they peek up at Caretaker beneath their lashes. When they see it really is Caretaker, the tension melts off their face and they sigh gratefully, nuzzling against Caretaker.

“You're safe. You can go back to sleep.” Caretaker murmurs, and Whumpee let their eyes close again. Within a couple minutes, they're asleep again.

#I've read this one million times. It's sustaining my life force #also i try to use gender neutral pronouns so everyone can relate but i feel like it gets awkward so hopefully this is legible lol #whump #whump ideas #whump scenario #whump prompt #caretaker #recovery whump #whumpee #comfort #hurt/comfort #emotional whump #whump writing #my prompts #whumpee x caretaker

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pink-petal-horns · 1 month ago

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Something Soft

Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Bob hadn’t gotten out of bed in two days.

The apartment was dim, quiet. Your soft footsteps echoed against the hardwood as you moved through the rooms, arms crossed against the heavy silence. No news reports blared. No glowing golden aura pulsed under the bedroom door. He hadn’t even turned on the shower.

The only sign he was still there—still breathing—was the quiet creak of the mattress when you gently opened the door.

He lay curled toward the window. Bare-chested. His hair tangled. Eyes sunken. The soft, broken golden glow in his chest barely flickered beneath his skin.

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just sat down beside him and laid your hand on his back.

“I can’t move,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I know I should. But I can’t.”

“I know,” you said softly. “You don’t have to move. I’ll help you.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away.

You brushed his hair back. “You don’t have to fly. Or fight. Or save the world today. Just let me take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere soft.”

He blinked. His jaw tensed. “I’ll ruin it.”

“You won’t.”

“I’m not good to be around when I’m like this.”

You slid your hand down to his. Interlaced your fingers.

“Then I’ll be around you like this.”

It took an hour to coax him up. Another to help him into the shower. You combed his hair with gentle fingers, buttoned up the navy sweater you’d set out for him. It hung loose on his frame. His eyes never quite met yours. But he let you hold his hand the whole way there.

—

The cat café smelled like cinnamon and coffee and vanilla beans.

Bob froze in the doorway at first. There were four other people seated around small café tables, warm drinks in hand—and a sleepy gray tabby sprawled across one customer’s lap. Two black kittens wrestled near a scratch post. And one curious orange cat immediately padded over to sniff Bob’s boot.

You smiled.

“Let’s get you something sweet.”

You sat him down near the window, the softest corner of the café. Ordered him a honey latte and a slice of banana bread. And when the orange cat climbed up onto his lap—Bob didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe for a second.

Just stared down at the tiny creature now purring against his thigh.

“I think they like you,” you said gently.

He blinked. Lifted one shaking hand. Let the cat press its head into his palm.

“Why does it feel like this?” he whispered. “Like… I can breathe again.”

“Because it’s not asking you to be anything but here.”

You wrapped your hands around his coffee and guided it to him.

The first sip made him exhale. The cat curled tighter against his body. And you watched Bob Reynolds—glowing god, weapon of mass destruction, too much and too empty—start to soften.

—

He didn’t want to leave.

Not because he was scared anymore—but because he was peaceful.

“Can we come back?” he asked quietly.

You smiled. “Actually…”

You opened your bag. Reached in. And pulled out a small purple carrier.

Inside was a kitten. Pure black. Tiny. Sleepy.

“Her name’s Nova,” you said softly. “She’s yours.”

Bob stared.

Completely still.

Then his lips trembled. “You—you got me a—?”

“For the days you can’t move,” you said. “She’ll lay with you. Purr with you. Just like I will.”

His breath hitched.

He looked down at the sleeping kitten. Then at you.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered.

You reached up. Touched his cheek. “You deserve softness, Bob.”

His arms wrapped around you—tight, trembling.

And in the safety of your arms, with Nova asleep in his lap and coffee still warm in his hands, Bob Reynolds let himself cry.

Not because he was broken.

But because he wasn’t alone.

#mcu #marvel x reader #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #hurt/comfort #cat cafe #emotional support cat #depression recovery #domestic fluff #gentle love #thunderbolts #lewis pullman x reader #bob reynolds x y/n #bob reynolds #lewis pullman fanfic #robert reynolds x reader

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word-woven · 1 month ago

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After the Mold

18 Plus+ 🔞

Ethan Winters x Male!Reader

After surviving the worst days of his life, Ethan Winters finds quiet solace in the arms of someone who sees him for more than what he’s lost—someone who holds him like he still belongs to the world.

I just think Ethan deserves to be kissed stupid, held like a lifeline, and railed lovingly by a very patient man, okay? I don’t make the rules—I just write the smut

You met Ethan in the kind of silence that followed horror. Not the peaceful kind. The ringing kind—the kind that lives in your bones long after the screaming stops.

He was already back from Louisiana when you found him, if “back” was even the right word. He looked like he’d crawled out of hell on his hands and knees and didn’t trust the light anymore.

And who could blame him?

He didn’t talk about what happened at first. You knew the headlines. You knew what wasn’t in the reports too—the rumors, the whispers about a girl and a swamp and something that shouldn’t have existed. The mold. The Baker family. His wife. All dead, except her.

You never asked.

At first, you just fixed his injuries. Cleaned up the places no one else would. The scar across his hand that never quite healed, even with REACT tech. The jagged shrapnel wound near his ribs. The nightmares he tried to pretend didn’t happen.

“I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hoarse.

“You’re not,” you’d reply.

But you never pushed harder than that.

You learned to recognise the signs—when he needed space, when he needed silence, when he needed you to sit on the floor beside him and just be there. Sometimes he’d press the heel of his palm to his eye like he was trying to wipe something out from behind it. Sometimes he’d flinch at the creak of a floorboard, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there anymore.

He moved in with you after two months. Said it was temporary. Said he couldn’t be in that empty apartment. Too clean. Too sterile.

He slept on the couch. Then on your bed. Then beside you.

Neither of you talked about that either.

Until the night you found him on the bathroom floor, his back against the tub, sweat-soaked and shaking. Eyes blown wide. Breathing like the air was drowning him.

He didn’t say your name. Just, “She was there.”

You crouched beside him. Pressed a hand to his chest, over his racing heart. “Who?”

“Eveline. The girl.” His voice cracked. “But not really. I know she’s dead. I know she’s—I know—” His hands curled into his hair. “But it’s like I feel her sometimes. Like she’s still in my goddamn head.”

You didn’t say it would be okay. You knew better. Instead, you leaned forward, resting your forehead to his. “You’re not alone.”

He started crying.

He didn’t sob. Just went so quiet that you almost missed it—the way his breath hitched, the tears falling soundlessly onto your collarbone as you pulled him into your arms. He clung like a man broken open, like your touch was the only thing keeping him from dissolving back into the mold.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered, and it gutted you. “I don’t know how to be human anymore.”

“You don’t have to be,” you told him, voice low and fierce. “You just have to be. And I’ll be here.”

That was the first time he kissed you.

It was clumsy. Desperate. Teeth clacking and fingers trembling. But it was real. You kissed him back with everything you had—because he needed it, and because you wanted it. Wanted him. Not as a broken man or a haunted survivor, but as Ethan. The man who still carried groceries with both hands even if one of them ached. The man who told awful jokes at 3am and cooked breakfast like it was the only sacred act left in the world.

The man who finally let himself live.

That night, you didn’t fuck. You just held each other. You undressed slowly, reverently—like every scar he’d earned was holy, like every piece of him was something to worship. You kissed his wrists. His stomach. His throat. You laid him out across the sheets and laid your hands across his heart like a benediction.

“Do you want this?” you asked him, breath shaking.

He nodded. “More than anything.”

And so you gave him everything.

He moaned under your touch—soft, needy, unguarded. Every sound he made was real. No performance. No walls. Just Ethan, raw and open, letting himself feel. You took your time. You didn’t rush. You ran your tongue along the curve of his hip and watched him fall apart, whispering your name like it was the only thing grounding him.

When you were finally inside him—slow, deep, tender—he clung to you like you were salvation. His legs wrapped around your waist. His arms wound around your shoulders. His mouth on yours, again and again, as if kissing you could save him.

And maybe it did. A little.

After, he cried again. Quieter this time. You kissed the tears from his cheeks and held him until he fell asleep, his head over your heart.

In the morning, he reached for your hand under the covers and laced your fingers together.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be okay,” he said.

You pressed a kiss to his temple. “That’s fine. You don’t have to be okay. You just have to be here.”

He turned to face you. Eyes red. Voice steady. “Then I’ll stay.”

#resident evil 7 #ethan winters #ethan winters x male reader #male reader insert #angst to fluff to smut #hurt/comfort #emotional intimacy #trauma recovery #post resident evil 7 #slow burn #ethan winters deserves love #consensual smut #bottom ethan winters #top male reader #fanfiction #mlm fanfic #ethan winters fanfiction

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wandamaximoffsbadgirl · 1 month ago

Text

Where Softness Lives

Step mom!Wanda x step daughter!reader

Word count: 3K

Summary: You grew up with an abusive mother and a cold father, mother’s day used to mean broken dishes and bruised feelings. Now, it’s different. Wanda shows you what unconditional love really looks like. Gentle hands, lullabies, and whispered affirmations when the tears come back. This year, you planned Mama & Me Day down to the glitter stickers and muffins... but when old trauma hits hard that morning, Wanda meets you with warmth instead of expectations.

Warnings: childhood abuse (emotional/verbal/neglectful), a toxic mother, and an emotionally distant father. It touches on trauma responses, including a mild panic attack, and explores internalized guilt and fear surrounding Mother’s Day. Themes of healing, reparenting, found family, comfort and emotional safety

Authors notes: I'm sorry to any others who had neglectful parents and how hard these days can be <3

You remember the sounds of dishes breaking and yelling. Of pleading as your toys got shoved into black garbage bags.

“I'm sorry Mommy! I didn't mean it! Please! I'll be good! I'll be a good girl!” You plead and plead until your voice is raw, until you're curled up on just a mattress, shaking from the lack of blanket.

You wouldn't get your stuff back for another week when you proved you were good.

You sat across from your step-mom, Wanda, your dad had remarried less than a month after your mom passed. What you did not understand was what Wanda saw in your dad. He was older; much older. In his eighties, Wanda was closer to you in age, her being thirty-five and you being twenty-seven.

A scowl was covering your face, arms crossed. Your father is standing above Wanda, hand on her shoulder. He was almost as sharp as your mom. People used to, well probably do still think he is or was in the mob. A thick accent that never left him,

“Mother's day is next month and I'll be away on a trip unfortunately. I know things have been rocky, but–” you dont let him finish your defenses coming up like walls, your voice carrying until it hits the walls with how loud it was.

“SHE'S NOT MY MOM! I DON'T WANT A MOM! MOM WAS TERRIBLE AND I HATED HER AND I DON'T WANT TO CELEBRATE ANYTHING!” Your fists slammed the table. Then a slap to the face. It stung but you were used to it. Wanda gasped it wasn't the first time he'd smacked you, wouldn't be the last.

You leave the table, holding your cheek, heading out the door with nothing.

You came back hours later, cold, soaked to the bone because it had started to pour on your way back. As soon as you walked through the door Wanda was there. Towel wrapping around you before you could blink. Her hand gently cupping your cheek. The cheek your father hit. You felt like you weren't there. You weren't real as Wanda gently took you to the bathroom.

A hot bath running as she helped you out of the clothes stuck to your body. You felt like a little doll, her doll, no maybe not a doll, a baby…hers.

She helps you into the tub, kneeling next to it and gently washing your skin, she's using her body wash, cherry blossoms, it's grounding. You slowly look at her and she smiles gently. You try and give one back, but you can tell it's not right.

“It's okay baby don't force it. It'll happen naturally.” Her voice is so soft and sweet. You aren't sure what to do with it. No one besides Wanda has ever treated you with this kindness. It doesn't feel real. You want to lash out again, but your energy is gone.

She helps you out, puts you in an oversized night shirt. It reminds you of being a kid, but in a good way. It makes you feel small, childlike. Your head was already a bit floaty before, but she takes you to your bed, gently brushes through the damp hair, softly sings a Sokovian lullaby, and hands you a teddy bear.

You brush your hands over the soft fur, everything about her movements and actions help ground you back from your episode. You lean back into her.

“I'm sorry mama…” It comes out softly and she kisses the top of your head.

“It’s okay Milaya I understand why you did it.” You feel tears in your eyes at her words. She was always so understanding of every lash out you had. From the very beginning when you were expecting a slap or harsh words back they never came.

It had only been a few weeks since the funeral. Since the house stopped smelling like your mom’s perfume and started smelling like lavender and coffee. Wanda had started staying over not long after—your father didn't believe in waiting, and you didn't believe in him anymore.

You came home from a miserable day at work to find a gift bag sitting on your bed. Pale pink with gold tissue paper and a tag that said:

Just because. –W

You stared at it like it was a threat.

Your chest tightened as you reached inside and pulled out a soft cardigan, light gray, your favorite color. Beneath it, a little enamel pin shaped like a cat with a book in its paws. The kind of thing someone only picks out if they’ve been paying attention.

That made it worse.

You stormed out of the room and into the kitchen where Wanda stood, humming as she stirred something on the stove. She turned with a warm smile—one that melted the second she saw your face.

“What is this?” you snapped, holding the cardigan out like it was burning your hands.

She blinked. “It’s… for you. I thought it looked soft. I know you get cold in the mornings sometimes.”

You threw it on the floor. “I didn’t ask for this! I don’t need your pity presents! You’re not my mom, so stop pretending you care!”

The words came out louder than you intended. Sharper. But you didn’t stop. Your fists were clenched, your voice shaking. “Just stop trying! You don’t know anything about me! You can’t fix me with a sweater and some dumb little pin!”

And then… silence.

You stood there, braced for it—your pulse pounding in your ears. Waiting for her to yell. To slap. To throw something. Your body tensed like it knew what was supposed to happen next.

But Wanda just stepped forward.

Slowly. Carefully.

You flinched as she approached, but she only lifted her arms. Gently. She wrapped them around your trembling shoulders and pulled you into her chest.

You froze.

No one had ever hugged you after something like that.

Her fingers moved softly through your hair as she rested her chin on top of your head. Her voice came low, warm like honey. “You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe. It’s okay to have big feelings.”

Your body shook as the dam inside cracked wide open.

All the anger, the grief, the guilt—it spilled out in quiet sobs against her shirt. You didn’t even notice when your hands curled into her back, holding on like you were drowning.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” you choked out, barely audible.

“I know,” she murmured, swaying you gently. “You’ve been carrying so much. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

You turn in her arms, burying your head in her chest, you hear the soft chuckle as her fingers comb through your hair. “It's all okay baby Mama's here. I'm not upset or angry, not one bit. I know why you said it to him. I understand. We'll celebrate in our own way won't we, pretty girl?” She tilts your chin up to meet her soft gaze. You get lost in them for a moment.

“Mhmm I have the day planned out!” You reach over to your notebook and flip through the pages, opening it to a beautifully designed page with times and bullet points. The title at the top of the page made Wanda smile; Mama and me day!

“Oh look at you sweetheart planning everything out for us!” She leaned down to kiss your cheek, but you turned your head, your lips met and you melted. It was unexpected, but not the first time. You reach up to cup her cheek and deepen the kiss.

It was late.

The kind of late where the world outside the windows had gone completely quiet. Just you and Wanda on the couch, wrapped in the soft glow of the fairy lights she’d insisted on hanging around the living room, “for ambiance,” she said. You’d rolled your eyes, but secretly… you loved them.

You’d had a hard day—one of those where everything felt too loud, where the weight of grief and history pressed on your chest like wet blankets. You hadn’t spoken much all evening, just let Wanda pull you into her side, her hand running slow and steady up and down your back.

Her touch grounded you, always. And she never asked you to explain. She never demanded your pain to be pretty or palatable.

You weren’t even sure when your head ended up on her lap, or when her fingers started gently combing through your hair. But they had, and her voice had eventually started humming something soft and unfamiliar. Sokovian, maybe.

“I wish…” you whispered into the quiet.

Wanda looked down. “What do you wish, baby?”

You looked up at her, heart in your throat. “I wish I’d had someone like you… back then. When I was little. When it all started falling apart.”

She smiled, bittersweet and full of something unspoken. “You have me now,” she said, fingers brushing a piece of hair from your face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest ache. You sat up, blinking back tears, looking at her like you were seeing her for the first time. All of her: soft and strong and steady. A lighthouse in the middle of the storm.

“Can I…?” you started, but didn’t finish. Your voice barely above a breath.

But she understood. Of course she did.

She leaned in slowly, her hand rising to cradle your jaw. There was no rush. No urgency. Just patience and quiet tenderness.

When your lips met, it wasn’t fireworks. It was safety. It was breath. It was the kind of kiss that stitched something back together inside of you.

And when you pulled back, Wanda didn’t say anything at first. She just rested her forehead against yours, her eyes closed.

Then softly, like a promise: “We go slow. As slow as you need.”

You nodded, the ghost of a smile forming as you whispered back, “Okay, Mama.”

You had it all planned.

The notebook still sat open on your desk, filled with scribbled hearts and bullet points written in your best handwriting. “Mama and Me Day!” it said in pink gel pen, with glittery stickers pressed carefully into the margins. Breakfast in bed. A walk in the park. Her favorite tea shop. A movie night with a blanket fort.

You even prepped everything the night before. Her favorite muffins were ready to bake. The card you spent three days making was tucked into the kitchen drawer. You went to sleep smiling.

But when you opened your eyes that morning, something felt wrong.

Heavy.

Like a shadow was sitting on your chest.

You lay still, staring at the ceiling. The excitement you’d felt for days was gone—replaced by a hollow ache in your stomach. The kind of ache that made you want to disappear beneath the covers and never come back out.

Your chest tightened. Tears welled up, uninvited.

You weren’t even sure why. It was supposed to be a happy day. Your day with her. Something you’d chosen—something she deserved.

But your body remembered other Mother’s Days. The ones filled with broken dishes, raised voices, the pressure to smile and say thank you when you were already in survival mode. The guilt. The confusion. The cold silence that followed if you didn’t do it perfectly.

You’d been up before the sun.

Tiptoeing around the kitchen, careful not to make too much noise, even though your small hands fumbled with the toaster and the eggs. You’d seen people do it in movies—Mother’s Day breakfast in bed. That’s what good kids did, right?

The toast was a little too brown. The eggs stuck to the pan a bit, and you’d spilled orange juice when you tried to pour it into her favorite glass.

But you were proud.

You’d even made her a card—cut out of folded construction paper, covered in glitter glue and crayon hearts. “To the best mom in the world!” it said, surrounded by crooked smiley faces and a drawing of the two of you holding hands.

And the bracelet—you’d spent all week secretly stringing beads in your room. Purple and silver, her favorite colors.

You carefully arranged everything on a tray and crept into her room, beaming.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” you said softly, your smile stretching wide.

She sat up groggily, eyes narrowing as she looked down at the tray. Her face changed quickly.

“What the hell is this mess?”

You blinked, smile faltering.

“The kitchen better not look like a tornado hit it,” she snapped. She picked up a piece of toast, sniffed it, and threw it back down on the tray. “It’s burnt. The eggs are rubber. Did you think this was good enough?”

You shrank back.

“I-I just wanted to surprise you…”

She scoffed and reached for the card. Her eyes scanned it for a second before she barked a laugh.

“This? You couldn’t even be bothered to write neatly. You think this is sweet? This is sloppy. You’re too old to draw like this.”

Your cheeks burned. Your heart pounded.

“And where’s my real present?” she demanded, like you owed her something grand. “Mother’s Day is my day. This is about me, not whatever crap you put together.”

You scrambled, hands fumbling in your hoodie pocket.

“I made you something,” you said quickly, pulling out the beaded bracelet and holding it out like a peace offering. “I wanted it to match your earrings—”

She took one glance, snatched it from your hand, and without a word walked over to the trash can and dropped it in.

“That’s not a real present,” she said flatly. “Jesus. You really know how to ruin a day.”

You just stood there, frozen.

And after a moment, she turned back to her bed, pulling the blankets up.

“Close the door on your way out.”

So you did.

You returned to the kitchen in silence, cleaned everything up on shaky legs, and sat at the table with your glitter-stained fingers, staring at the trash can where your bracelet disappeared.

And you promised yourself that next year… you wouldn’t try.

That it was safer not to.

A small sob caught in your throat. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to stop it before it spilled over.

Then—soft footsteps.

The door creaked open gently, and Wanda peeked in.

She was still in her robe, a sleepy smile on her face—until she saw you curled up, stiff and shaking.

“Oh, baby…” she crossed the room in an instant, crawling onto the bed beside you. Her arms wrapped around you from behind, warm and steady.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I had everything ready, I wanted today to be perfect, I swear—”

Wanda gently hushed you, one hand combing through your hair, the other rubbing slow circles into your arm.

“Hey… look at me, sweetheart.” You hesitated, but turned slowly. Her eyes were soft, full of knowing. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be perfect for me. Not today. Not ever.”

You sniffled, burying your face in her neck.

“But I wanted to make you happy,” you mumbled.

She pulled you closer. “You do. Every day. Even when you're hurting. Especially when you let me be here for you like this.”

You clung to her, shaking.

And after a while, she whispered, “How about we start the day right here, just like this? My favorite girl in my arms, where she’s safe and loved. No schedule. No pressure. Just us.”

You nodded slowly, breathing her in, letting her words settle over your skin like a blanket.

Wanda didn’t let go of you for a long time—not until your breathing evened out and your hands stopped trembling against her robe. You stayed tangled together beneath the blankets, your head tucked under her chin, her arms strong around you like armor.

Eventually, she kissed your forehead. “I’m going to go start some tea, okay?” she murmured. “You stay right here. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

You nodded wordlessly, reluctant to let go, but trusting her to return.

She always did.

When she came back, it was with a tray balanced in her hands—your favorite mug, one of her muffins warmed and sliced, a small bowl of strawberries. She set it on the nightstand and climbed back into bed beside you, pulling the blankets up again like you were in your own little world. Safe. Sealed off.

You sat up slowly and she handed you the tea, careful to wrap your fingers around the warm mug like she always did when your hands were shaky.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

“Of course I did.” She brushed her thumb gently across your knuckles. “You matter to me, baby. All of you. Even the messy mornings.”

A few moments passed, quiet but not empty.

Then you reached over, picking up the envelope you’d almost left in the drawer. You held it out with trembling fingers.

“I wrote you something,” you murmured. “A letter. I wasn’t sure if I could read it out loud, but…”

Wanda took it gently, eyes soft. “Would it be okay if I read it now?”

You nodded.

She carefully unfolded it, smoothing the page out in her lap. Her eyes moved over your handwriting, and you watched her face shift with every word—tender, proud, tearful.

When she looked back at you, there were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.

“I’m going to keep this forever,” she said, voice thick. “I’m going to keep it somewhere safe, so that any time I doubt myself, I’ll remember that I’ve been the kind of Mama you deserve.”

That cracked something open in you.

You launched forward, wrapping your arms around her middle. “You’re everything I ever wanted,” you choked. “Even when I didn’t know how to say it. Even when I was mean. You never stopped being soft.”

She held you tightly. “Because you deserved softness, even when you couldn’t ask for it.”

You stayed like that for hours.

The rest of the day wasn’t about plans or gifts or outings.

It was spent in the warmth of the blanket fort Wanda built on the couch, watching old cartoons, sharing quiet laughs, her hand stroking your back whenever your body tensed. You dozed in and out on her chest, a teddy bear cradled to your side and her heartbeat in your ear.

Mother’s Day didn’t need to be perfect.

It just needed to be yours.

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