michael robinavitch x fem!reader. sfw, mild hurt/comfort, fluff, fainting/passing out, mentions of skipping meals, mentions of reader smoking, informal medical exam, probably medical inaccuracies, protectiveness
a/n: this is a purely self indulgent fluff blurb… i’m sure 1000 of these exist in the pitt fandom but it was so fun to write so i hope ya’ll enjoy
word count: 600
“Wha-?” you mumble groggily, blinking away your blurred vision until Michael’s concerned face comes into view. Your back and head ache, and the position you find yourself in is far from comfortable. “Am I on the floor?”
“Yes you are,” he responds matter-of-factly. You prop yourself up on one elbow, wincing slightly as the movement jostles your sore head. “Don’t get up yet, sweetheart.”
‘What happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.” Michael reaches out to grasp your chin. “Look at me,” he murmurs. He assesses your pupils, then gently turns your head from side to side to check for any glaring injuries. “You walked through the fuckin’ door then went right down. You were only out for a couple seconds, but it sounded like you hit your head pretty good.”
You blink at him, processing the information slowly through both the haze of fresh consciousness and the distracting attentiveness of his examination. “Oh, shit.”
He lets out an exasperated scoff. “Yeah, kid. What’d you eat today?” He starts lightly palpating with his fingertips, starting at your temples and working his way around the crown of your head. He notes the way you wince when he reaches a certain spot on the back of your skull. You swallow and glance at him warily, knowing that he won’t like the answer to his question. That’s all he needs.
“Christ.” He shakes his head disapprovingly.
“I was busy.” You insist – definitely not whining, though Michael would probably call it that. “We were slammed today and Amira called out, so I only got to take a 15.”
“And let me guess, you had a cigarette on your walk home?” He raises his brows at you. You let out a huff.
“You caught me.”
Again, he shakes his head. “Fuckin’ nicotine on an empty stomach.” He holds up his finger, and you knowingly follow its movements with your eyes. “Need me to give you any more reasons to quit?” He scorns. “I’ve got plenty.”
“Fuck off and help me up.” You snip back once he drops his finger. You start to sit up fully. Michael’s hands shoot out to grasp your shoulders, steadying you and aiding the movement.
“Easy.” He murmurs. “How do you feel now? Any dizziness? Vision okay?”
“Fine, no, yes.” You recite the answers dully. Michael sighs, grasping your hands in his large ones.
“Alright, you’re gonna get up nice and slow.” He instructs. You do so with his help, only wavering slightly on your feet when the change in elevation briefly makes your head spin. “Okay?”
“Yup.” You slide your hands free from his hold. “All good.”
He eyes you closely for a moment longer. “Fine. Show me you can walk to the couch.”
You do as directed, striding easily out of the entryway of Robby’s apartment. Once in the living room, you plant yourself on the sofa. Michael nods, seeming satisfied.
“It doesn’t seem like you have a concussion. Sit tight, I’ll get you a soda while I make us some lunch.” He heads for the fridge in the open-plan kitchen. “If your head keeps hurting or you feel any nausea you tell me.”
“I will.” You respond, letting your head rest back against the cushion. He returns, handing you a cold can of Sprite.
Before you can even scrunch up your face in distaste, Michael says “We’re out of Coke. Just drink it.”
“Fine.” You grumble, scowling. You wrench open the tab.
Michael shakes his head at you for the umpteenth time, muttering “brat” under his breath as he returns to the kitchen to start cooking.
Hi!! I think it's super brave of you to take requests, but I'm also really glad you are. If you want, could you do a soft little blurb where the reader is Sam and Dean's sister? No romance, obviously, just soft sibling things. Perhaps after a hunt or in a lull between hunts. Thank you, even for considering!! 🥰
Dean sometimes forgets that you aren't a kid anymore, and it's apparent in the way he's handling you. A warm, wet cloth drags down the curve of your bloodied cheek, and it carries the same roughness as a cat's tongue does on a kitten's fur. The scene isn't so different.
Though the blood isn't yours, it still stirs your brother's protective instincts and sends them aflame. Sam slips through the bathroom doorway, silhouetted by dim, flickering light and holds out a cotton round swollen with antiseptic.
"Sam," you breathe, huffing at how Dean is handling your face. "I can do that myself."
He shakes his head. Subtly nervous hazel eyes meet yours, though he knows you're alright. He can't help the anxious weeds that bud within him, when it comes to you. After a moment of silent debate, "I've got it."
Sam's delicate fingers move then, working to soothe an angry, hissing scrape on your shoulder. Dean pulls back and chucks the cloth into the sink, giving you a quick once-over that turns into a twice-over, just to be sure. You're his baby. He can't allow any injury to fester.
"Dude. I'm fine," you insist. "Go on. S'too crowded in here. Pick a movie for us to watch or something."
He hums. Glances at the scrape. "Nothing else hurts?"
You shake your head and sigh and see the parent dissipate to reveal somebody just as familiar, but more welcome. Dean, your brother, who will always worry and pester and question. Sam will, too. But it's not so bad, when you really think about it.
Two people that love you very much are here, forever. With their hugs and their stupid jokes, hands that pick you up when you're far, far down. Rock and roll and gentle advice and leather. Overbearing, but it's golden, too. A special, glowing bond.
Dean makes his way out, and you dip your head to watch Sam dispose the cotton. He leans down towards you with a caring smile that sends a small spill of guilt through your chest, for being so annoyed with it all.
"I know it's a lot, sometimes," he murmurs. "We just worry about you. Tons. Okay?"
Something vulnerable squeezes at your heart, and you think you're very lucky that their care is so blatant. "Okay, Sammy."
Assuring silence fills the room in two, short moments of multitude, before he straightens with a soft sigh and gives your unharmed shoulder a gentle pat. "C'mon, hon."
Aaron texting reader on his way home after a case that he has some “minor bruises” on his face from something that happened on the case and him coming home and reader’s reaction being like “we need to talk about our definitions of the word ‘minor’” and then taking care of him even though he insists he’s fine??? I love a hurt/comfort moment!!!!!!!
a matter of perspective
ugh aaron you stubborn man 😣<3 cw; fem!reader, established relationship, injury and blood descriptions, hurt to comfort, fluff!!! wc; 1.1k
I don't want you to freak out.
Your heart stopped. A second text chimed in soon after.
And I'm fine. Please don't worry.
Frowning, worry deepened in your brows as your fingers flew across the keyboard - What happened????
Minor altercation. Minor bruises on my face. Thought I'd warn you so it's not a surprise.
You exhaled heavily as a sinking feeling settled in your chest, simply replying with a :( . Your phone went off again seconds after.
I'm just fine darling. Be home in thirty. I love you.
Anxiously awaiting his return you settled into bed, book in your lap as you attempted to pass the time. You mindlessly stared at each page, not absorbing any of the plot or dialogue whatsoever. Instead, you were distracted with one singular thought: if it had actually been a small bruise, he wouldn't have said anything.
You've seen your fair share of injured Aaron - scrapes, pulled muscles, bruises. You've been the one to re-dress his wounds as needed: re-bandaging, cleaning, massaging the knots out of his tense areas.
If he gave you a warning, it had to be bad. And when he finally entered your shared bedroom, it was clear you'd been right.
Dark bruises shaded his cheekbones, different hues of color painting his skin. The same was present along his chin and jawline. His lip was a tad swollen, the coloring indicating a lip bleed as well. Whoever had it in for him, clearly targeted his face and successfully landed the punches. Your heart plummeted into your stomach, book falling forgotten to the side.
Reading your face, he attempted humor to alleviate the situation. Although coming from him, his joking fell flat, sounding rather defeated. "You should've seen the other guy."
"Aaron." You squeaked gently, throwing the duvet off yourself and hurrying to him. Your hand cupped his cheek, tilting it towards the light. "Oh my god."
It was worse up close, vivid purple with pink spotting, and a black eye in the making. Your stomach lurched again, feeling sick due to the sight and pain he must've felt.
He winced, mustering up some normalcy in his voice. "It really doesn't hurt."
"Yeah, and I'm suddenly the director of the Bureau." You sighed, running your thumb ever so carefully across the broken surface of his skin. "This is what you call minor?"
His gaze held yours, a faint guilt flickering in his brown eyes. "Yes?"
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" You did a quick scan, gently grabbing his wrists and taking a small step back. "Concussion? Did you see a medic?"
He shook his head, regretting the brisk movement immediately. "Nothing else. No concussion, and yes, I did. Figured my wife would have a fit if I didn't."
The words lightly left him, a soft smile on his face, meant to soothe. It kinda worked; still were you gravely unsettled, but at least he had been cleared by a medical profession - that eased some of your worry lines.
You tutted softly, a sigh leaving you as your hand found his face once more. "Get changed, do what you need to do, and get into bed. You need to take it easy." You began to retreat, until your next thought caused you to pause. "Or do you need my help-"
"I'm fine." He insisted, offering you a kiss in hopes of settling your worries further. He kissed you tentatively, in concern of his lip that 'didn't hurt', you were sure. "It looks worse than it is. It's just part of the job."
Yeah, and you hated that.
You hurried to the kitchen, in search of the ice pack kept in the freezer. For Jack - susceptible to soccer and your normal kid bumps. And evidently for your husband, with his dangerous occupation. Before heading back up, you grabbed a few other necessities.
When you returned, Aaron had changed, sitting up against his pillow. After placing a cup of water and ibuprofen on his nightstand, you climbed onto his lap, straddling it.
"Oh?"
"You're funny." You laughed as his hands went to your hips, scrunching your nose at him before pressing the ice pack to his cheek. Gingerly - he flinched at the contact. "We're discussing the exact definition of what constitutes a minor injury."
He leaned back, letting you take charge. "Alright."
"Minor injuries. Paper cuts, a nose bleed, I'll even throw in a goose egg, but that can vary. Maybe a small bruise." You narrowed your eyes teasingly, so he wouldn't run with the idea. You moved the ice pack to his jaw, wishing you had one that would dote on all bruises at the same time. "Not minor injuries: everything I didn't list."
A stiff chuckle shook through his chest, but quickly faded. He nodded once, "understood."
"I'm serious," you stated firmly, brushing a few of his cowlicks back. Your tone at end of your sentence hinted you had more on your mind, and you had intended on continuing, yet you stayed silent.
Aaron felt it, the way your body dropped. The small drag of your finger on his wrist, a self-soothing measure. The subtle, tense swallow in your throat, a clear sign you were holding back tears.
"Hey," his hand squeezed your hip, indicating he wanted to see your eyes. "I am okay. Don't cry, sweetheart."
"I know," you said as you met Aaron's gaze, his thumb lifted to pad away a lone tear. "I just... don't like it. Or will I ever get used to it. Seeing you in pain... seeing the pain. I hate it. I hate it so much."
He nodded apologetically, his eyes full of quiet remorse. "It comes with the territory, unfortunately."
His words were a simple reminder that this wouldn't be the last time he would come home covered in blood, contusions, or worse. Much much much worse. You shook the thought from your head, not wanting to dwell on it.
"I want to reassure you that I am being careful, I promise. I wouldn't put myself in grave danger unnecessarily. I want to come home to you in one piece."
You nodded, your gaze dropping once more to the patterned duvet below. A whispered hey passed his lips, lifting your chin with his index finger before his hand slid softly against your skin, his palm cupping your cheek.
You offered him a weak smile, your eyes full of sympathy as you leaned into his touch, your expression only softening further when you got a closer look at his injured face. "I do appreciate you letting me know though."
"Of course. Please let me know if there's anything I can do more."
"Really?" You raised an eyebrow, causing a soft crease of curiosity to form between his brows. "Think you could suggest adding a layer of bubble wrap to agent uniforms?"
He laughed warmly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I'll see what I can do."
hi congrats on 10k this is sooo deserved!!!! i was wondering if you could write a blanket fort poly!marauders drabble w the prompt “i didn’t have anywhere else to go”? if you already have an idea in mind for this please write whatever you would like to but if you’re open to having something to go off of i was sort of thinking of pureblood!reader maybe crashing a sleepover at potter manor after deciding to leave home because of a similar situation to what sirius went through
Thank you <3
cw: implied family abuse (both for Sirius and reader, though it's left vague what that entailed), takes place after hogwarts, insanely cheesy narration sorry not sorry
poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words
You don’t actually knock.
You’re planning to. Or, you think you were planning to. You don’t actually know that you had a plan. You just—you apparated here on panic and adrenaline, but Merlin, what the fuck? You’re a mess. It’s the middle of summer, and you’re shaking, your bones rattling around in the hollowness of your body like coins in a tin cup. This is the worst idea you’ve ever had. They won’t want to see you. A crushing loneliness digs its fingers into your gut, and you turn to go, but the door just—opens.
An older man stands on the threshold with a rubbish bag in his hand. His eyes widen to find you in his path, a warm, familiar brown. He says your name.
You’re surprised that Monty would remember you. You only met once, and you were a child then, trailing behind James and Sirius down Diagon Alley, trying diligently to keep up with their long-legged pace and rapid-fire jokes. He does, though. Monty says your name with a familiarity you didn’t realize you shared and a warmth that makes your chest ache. It feels like you blink and then you’re inside the Potter’s home with him closing the door behind you.
You can hear the boys in the next room. It’s that unceasing jabber that seems to accompany the marauders wherever they go, sometimes cut through with a bark of laughter or a shout of mock offense, voices rising and falling and overlapping in a cadence you feel like you know even now, but it sounds distant, like the echo of another life. Still, you move towards it.
Remus spots you immediately as you come around the corner of the kitchen. James and Sirius are too caught up in whatever they’re making—half of the pantry shoved into a blender, by the look of it—but Remus’ eyes lock on yours, the both of you stilling. Ultimately, it’s his aburpt silence that gets the attention of the other two. Monty’s quiet throat-clearing helps.
Sirius reacts much the same as Remus. Freezing, like he can’t make sense of you here and he doesn’t trust it. James, though—Godric, he looks just like his father when his eyes flare like that. They’re all older than you left them, more adult, and though you’d known they would be it pangs in a way you hadn’t expected. James breathes your name like it belongs to a ghost.
“I’m sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Monty has disappeared—it will never feel less strange to you, how much liberty the Potters give their son with his privacy—so there’s nothing between you and the door. You think it’s best if you go back from where you came.
“What?” Sirius’ brows furrow in a way that wavers between bemusement and upset. “Why are you—what are you doing here?”
Isn’t that the question of the evening? You don’t know, either.
You think James sees this on your face, sees that you’re about to run, because he steps around the counter with his hands held out in a pacifying gesture. “We’re just surprised to see you,” he says.
And, well, that’s fair. You haven’t seen any of them since your parents collected you at Kings’ Cross after your last year. You haven’t seen much of anyone, honestly. And while you were locked up at home, thinking of your friends and fantasizing about leaving, they were off living their own lives. Now, reunion stings. It reminds you that there was a separation in the first place.
Your voice shatters as you finally answer Sirius’ question. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
James’ arms come around you, and you become aware of the rattling again. You’re rattling yourself apart. He holds you together as best he can, though not tightly. It reminds you that this isn’t his first time. You’re not the first wounded stray to come to the Potters’ doorstep, and James knows how to handle you.
“It’s okay, you’re alright,” he says into the side of your head, letting you grip him so that your fingers bunch in his shirt. “You can always come here.”
“I’m—I—” Your breaths come harshly. You taste salt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“Shh. Sweetheart, it’s alright. Why don’t we have some tea, yeah?”
You’re transferred smoothly into another set of arms. The worn knit of Remus’ jumper wraps around you. He rubs your back and ushers you into a seat.
Sirius stands over you. He cups your face, that same confusing furrow between his brows. “Are you hurt?” he asks.
“No.” You want to shrink, but his eyes trap yours. “Not…not in a way that’s…”
Pain flickers in Sirius’ expression. “Right. Okay, I understand. You’re okay, darling.”
His touch slips to the back of your head, and it’s all your need to drive you forward, your hands clutching his hips as your face buries itself in his chest. Sirius holds firm as you break down.
His voice tightens and strains, and you think of the peace you’d stolen from them by coming here. It makes you cry harder, broken apologies stuttering out your lips.
“Shh, breathe.” Remus rubs between your shoulders. His touch is heavier than the others’, lacking their same awareness of the state of you, but you welcome the ache. “Deep breaths. We want you here. We always want you here.”
“I just—when I left, I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking—”
“Hey, didn’t you hear Remus?” There’s a gentle teasing to Sirius’ tone now. “Breathe.”
You don’t feel like you deserve to, but you try for their sake, forcing air in and out of your nose. Sirius’ shirt smells like laundry detergent. You wonder if James’ mother washed it for him.
“There we go.” His nails scratch at your scalp rewardingly. “I think we’re all glad that you didn’t think, sweetness. However you ended up here, we’re happy about it. Okay?”
You sniffle. The clink of porcelain against the table turns your head. James is setting a cup of steaming tea in front of you, diluted with cream to just the color you like.
“I wasn’t invited,” you croak, just to him. “Your parents…”
His eyebrows lift. “My dad brought you in, didn’t he?”
You have no reply to that.
James smiles. It’s not his happiest, but the sight of it lightens something in you anyway. “You’re always welcome here, sweetheart. Consider it an open invitation, alright?” He nudges the cup toward you. “Have some tea.”
So you pick up the tea James made for you, with Remus’ hand on your back and Sirius lingering by your side like he plans to stand between you and the outside world. It tastes like coming home.
Y/N Halstead has been pushing herself to the breaking point, eventually, she can't do it anymore. Will her brothers be able to help her rebuild and teach her it's ok to not be, ok?
There was a subtle tightness in her chest from the moment she woke up. A pressure. Not painful, not alarming. Just… heavy. But she ignored it. Because she had things to do. A full day of classes, studying for her CCMA Certification exam, a closing shift at her restaurant job.
Always something.
Always moving.
Because if she kept moving, maybe her world wouldn't give in on her.
Her brothers, Will and Jay, had been worried. She brushed them off like she always did. "I'm fine," she said that morning. "Just tired."
But the thing about constantly carrying weight is that eventually, you drop it, and you never know when it will happen.
It started in her favorite class. Medical Assisting.
The heaviness in her chest had turned into shallow breaths. Then the chest pressure spread, like an invisible hand pushing down on her lungs. Her hands trembled, and the room began to tilt.
She didn’t know what to do. She ran.
Jay was sitting at his desk at the Precinct, when he got the call from an unknown number.
“Halstead.” He answered.
“Hi. Detective Halstead. This is Mrs. Nalton from the Vocational Center. I just wanted to let you know that Y/N ran out of class very abruptly. I just wanted to make sure she was ok.” She stated, genuine concern in her voice.
“Oh wow, that is not like her at all. Thanks for letting me know.” He ended the call without so much as a goodbye.
He got up from his desk and went to Voight.
“Sarge, Ive gotta take a personal. Y/N’s teacher just called. She ran out of class.”
Voight looked up at him in shock. “Go. Keep us posted.” He said with no hesitation.
Jay nodded and ran. He called Will as he did. “Will, be ready outside Med. Its Y/N.” No further statement was needed. Jay got in his truck and gunned it towards Med.
Y/N didn't even know how she drove home, but she did.
Get water, her brain said. Water will help.
She stumbled through the door, into the kitchen, her vision doubling, black creeping in at the edges. Her heart slammed against her ribcage, each beat a frantic warning.
By the time she reached the sink, she was gasping, each breath more difficult than the last.
And then the floor rushed up to meet her, the last thing she heard was the shattering of the glass she tried to grab.
Will and Jay arrived, Jay barely putting the car in park before he was out of the truck, Will hot on his heels.
The first red flag was that the front door was ajar.
"That isn't like her at all," Jay muttered as they entered the apartment.
"Not at all," Will replied, already concerned. He dropped his keys. "Y/N?"
No answer.
Jay reached the kitchen first.
And he froze.
"WILL!"
Y/N lay crumpled on the floor. Her skin pale, her breaths shallow and fast. One hand was curled toward her chest. There was broken glass nearby and blood on her palm.
Will dropped beside her, instinct kicking in.
"Y/N, hey!" he called. She didn’t respond.
He pinched her trapezius. Nothing.
Then he did a sternal rub—knuckles against her sternum, hard. Her eyes fluttered open at the pain stimulus, but they were glassy, unfocused.
"There she is," Will breathed.
"What—what happened to her?" Jay asked, voice cracking.
"Panic attack. A bad one," Will said. "Help me lay her flat"
But as they tried to help her to her back, Y/N flinched violently.
"No… no, don't touch me!" she cried out, eyes wide with terror.
"Y/N, it’s us," Jay said quickly, kneeling next to her. "It’s me. Jay. You’re safe."
She pushed his hands away, barely coherent. "I can’t breathe… can’t—"
"Will," Jay said urgently.
"She's combative," Will murmured. "We need to ground her."
Jay didn't hesitate. He sat her up, pulled her into a tight bear hug from behind, arms wrapped securely around her, anchoring her like he had when she was little and scared after nightmares.
"You’re okay," he whispered into her hair. "I got you. We got you."
She struggled for a moment, then slowly melted into his hold, sobbing, shaking, and hyperventilating.
Will took her hand that wasn't bleeding and held it to his chest. “Y/N, sweetheart, listen to me, and follow my breathing.” He said as he started to take deep, exaggerated breaths.
Once her breathing was under control, Will grabbed a towel and gently wrapped her bleeding hand. "Just a small cut. We’ll take care of it."
He helped them move to the couch. Jay held her while Will cleaned the wound.
"You fainted," Will told her gently. "You were hyperventilating. Do you remember?"
She nodded weakly.
"It’s okay now," Jay said, brushing hair from her face. "You’re not alone."
"I’m fine," she whispered a few minutes later.
Will froze. Jay sat up.
Will looked up, eyes shadowed. "Y/N…"
"I’m okay. I just—needed a moment. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s nothing."
Jay stood fast. He started pacing.
Then turned. "Don’t you dare say it’s nothing."
She shrank into the couch.
Jay crouched in front of her. "We walked in and found you on the floor, barely breathing. There was blood. You didn’t know where you were. And you think we’re just gonna let that go?"
Tears brimmed in her eyes, threatening to flow over again.
Will’s voice was softer, but no less pained. "Y/N… you ran out of class. Your teacher called us. That’s not ‘fine.’ That’s not ‘a moment.’ You’re not okay, and it’s okay to say that."
Jay sat beside her again, not touching her yet.
Will leaned forward. "You know what kills me? I see patients like this every day. People who push themselves too far, who hold it in until their bodies give out. And I didn’t see it in my own sister."
Y/N’s lip quivered.
"I should’ve noticed," Will said. "The late nights. The way you brush us off. You’re so damn good at pretending. You didn’t have to be."
"I didn’t want to be a burden," she choked out.
Jay swore and pulled her into his arms. "You could never be a burden."
She broke.
Sobs wracked her frame, raw and shattering. Jay held her tighter. Will wrapped an arm around both of them.
"You’re ours," Will said. "There is nothing you could go through that we wouldn’t want to help you with."
"I thought… if I just worked harder… kept pushing… I could hold it together."
Jay tucked her hair behind her ear. "You’ve been holding the world on your shoulders. You never had to."
Jay helped her to the bathroom, sat on the floor while she washed her hands. When she couldn’t dry them, he did it for her.
Will brought her a sweatshirt from her childhood—soft, oversized, familiar. He helped her into it.
They settled her on the couch. Water. Weighted blanket. Quiet.
After a long silence:
"I’ve been having attacks like that for a while."
Will didn’t look surprised. Just sad. "How long?"
"Weeks. Maybe longer. This one was… different. I couldn’t stop it."
Jay’s jaw ticked. "We’re getting you help. No arguing."
"I know," she said. "I want to."
Will looked stunned for a second, then nodded.
Later, she lay curled under the blanket, Will on the floor beside her, Jay at the other end of the couch with his hand resting on her ankle like an anchor.
Almost asleep, she heard it again:
"Don’t break. Don’t break. Don’t break."
But something had shifted.
"You broke.
But they were there.
And you’re still here."
High on meds Bucky who keeps howling about how you put bee bum juice in his tea.
"Bucky, it's just honey-
"BEE. BUM. JUICE"
You arched a brow at the prominent pout that stayed plastered on Bucky's face as he sat swaddled in a blanket on the couch with his arms crossed against his chest.
"You always like honey in your tea Buck, it's good for you, it'll help your sore throat-
"She's putting bee bum juice in my tea!" Bucky shrieked as Steve walked by, refusing to take a sip of what you'd made for him countless times before.
"Bee bum juice...?" Steve's face scrunched while his best friend huffed, still deeply offended at the tea spoon of sweetness you stirred into his drink.
"Honey. I put honey in his tea" You said in exasperation, "He's on antibiotics for a sore throat. Of all things to take him down, this-" You motined to the bundle of blankets containing 1 super soldier inside, "this is what does it"
"Here, let me try" Steve took the cup from you and sat beside Bucky, putting it on the table when Bucky shuffled away from him, wracking his brain over what he could eat or drink in his current state.
Hotch’s bad-cop behavior triggers memories from your past.
Includes bau female reader; mentions of abusive past relationship; implied psychological abuse; platonic Hotch my beloved; hurt/comfort; set in the ‘Bloodline’ episode. I am wordy most times but this is short but healing for me <3
“I’m sick of this! Where are your husband and son?!”
The loud bang of Hotch’s hands slamming against the table—and his even louder voice— put you on instant alert. This behavior shouldn’t have taken you by surprise, yet you reacted the same way the suspect did.
You flinched—a sudden jerk of your body accompanied by never-ending blinks. It may have gone unnoticed if your forearm hadn’t flown to cover your face, but it did, and it threw Hotch off for half a second. A micro expression.
You straightened yourself on your seat right away all while your stomach twisted. You tried your best to stay in character but then Hotch dared to manhandle Kathy, pushing her chair towards the table so she could get a better look at the crude pictures of the murders her family had committed.
This was a performance, you were well aware. This wasn’t his real self. You knew him, soft and caring Aaron Hotchner. You also knew his true anger was silent, and harmful to no one but himself.
Still, your entire body froze right then. Memories from your past—a man raising his voice at you, insulting you, twisting your words—washed over you and they almost didn’t let you finish your job.
You blinked repeatedly trying to bring yourself to focus, you cleared your throat and stuttered through the rest of the interrogation. You avoided looking at Hotch through it all but felt his piercing gaze until you managed to break the woman. You finally released a deep breath, giving Hotch a quick glance before standing up from your seat and walking out of the room before you should’ve, letting Hotch handle the rest.
There was a tight knot forming on your throat.
“You okay?” Reid asked as you walked behind him.
“Bathroom,” was all you managed to say on your way out without looking back.
You hurried your steps, drying your sudden sweaty hands on your blouse and locked yourself in a stall to allow your body to feel it.
The weakness.
The fear.
They were still somewhere within you and just like that, you became small all over again.
Angry tears pricked the back of your eyes.
You’d promised yourself, the time you finally walked away from your abusive relationship for good, that you would never let anyone make you feel that way. You’d moved on, but you didn’t forgive nor forget all those times someone made you feel less.
You weren’t that person anymore, you kept telling yourself. You weren’t fragile so you took a deep breath and gathered all your strength to go back and do your job.
Reid was gone, and it was just Hotch with his eyes trained on the woman behind the two-way glass.
“Did she confess where the children are?” You stood next to him.
“She did.” He gave you a quick glance. “Reid and Morgan are after her husband now.”
“Good.” You folded your arms over your chest.
A foreign tension built between you and him, and a few quiet seconds went by before he broke the silence.
“You flinched,” he spoke in his normal gentle tone.
You gulped. So he noticed.
“Sorry?”
“In there. I saw you flinch at the way I raised my voice, then again when I lifted her off the chair.”
“I”—you shifted on your feet—“don’t think I did.” You scoffed. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know. But why did you?”
It wasn’t something you had ever talked about, so he didn’t really know. But of course, being the profiler he was, it wasn’t hard for him to assume.
You looked at him and as he scanned your face with concern, your vision soon blurred.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.
More bitter memories cascaded over you.
“Don’t… apologize.” You tore your gaze off him and shut your eyes. “It doesn’t make it better.” You tried to smile at him so he wouldn’t feel guilty about it. “And it’s… not about you I just— I’ve never seen you that way.”
“That wasn’t me,” he was quick to assure you.
“I know,” you slightly frowned, then said through a small laugh, “I know, you… you’re probably one of the few men I consider as gentle and… soft, so I know that wasn’t you. But—“ you sighed, shaking your head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” With a bit of hesitation, Hotch gently rubbed your upper back, his comforting perfume enveloping you right after. “Don’t belittle your feelings.”
“I just thought I’d healed.” You nodded repeatedly and looked up at him. Your lips quivered attempting to smile through the ever growing knot in your throat. A knot full of rage.
“Everyone’s healing process is different.” He raised his brows as he spoke. “You might think you’ve healed and then this happens. Something… triggers the memories and you might feel like the wound opened but it doesn’t mean you’re back where you started. It’s part of it.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder and he moved his hand to your upper arm to bring you into his embrace. His chin landed on the top of your head while he kept with the comforting strokes on your arm. You wanted a proper hug from him, but this level of physical touch with Hotch was new.
At the end of 4x01, Morgan tells Hotch that he reassigned an "Agent Davis" (her) who was meant to drive Hotch back from NYC to Quantico so Morgan could.
And now I'm desperate for a fic where reader gets randomly assigned to drive a grouchy Hotch and it's a road trip disaster (car break down, bad storms, motel with only one bed, all the drama, all the tropes) where they fall in love in the end.
So any Hotchner x Reader writers who want to pick this up, go wild!
Hello! I’m new to your blog and am in the middle of consuming all of it. I have to say EMT maurauders are my fav so far though! If you haven’t done it yet and if it’s not too much trouble, would you be willing to do something with EMT! Maurauders where reader gets a bad bloody nose in the middle of the night and can’t get it to stop on her own so she’s panicking and feels bad about waking up the boys who of course take care of you and make you go to the ER since it won’t stop?
Thank you ☺️ Keep up the amazing work, your writing is phenomenal, I can’t wait to read more 👏❤️
Thanks for requesting lovely <3
cw: blood, mention of hospital
emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 986 words
You give yourself twenty more minutes before you wake James. Sidling up to his side of his bed like a child who’s had a nightmare, one hand pinching your nostrils shut and the other holding ice wrapped in a paper towel to your nose. You feel glad that it’s too dark to see all the red staining it.
James rouses with a reluctant throaty sound. He mumbles your name and takes your hand where it’s nudging his shoulder, content until the moment he feels the cold paper towel closed in your palm. His eyes peel open.
“Sorry,” you whisper. It feels paramount that he know waking him wasn’t your first choice. Of your boyfriends, though, James is the most likely to help you without making a fuss.
“What’s this?” In the dark, the cold hard thing in your hand is a mystery. James cups his hand around yours with a small frown.
“My nose won’t stop bleeding,” you explain.
His frown worsens. You feel bad.
But James has no resentment for your midnight ailment; only sympathy. “Yeah?” He feels blindly for his glasses on the nightstand. “Does it hurt?”
You slide them to his hand. “No,” you say.
“It just…just started?”
You should’ve taken him out of the room before telling him. Already, you can see Remus starting to wake, the covers on his side of the bed shifting.
“Yeah.” You lower your voice, though you know it’s pointless. “About a half hour ago.”
James is rubbing underneath his eyes drowsily, but at this, his brows draw together. “It’s been going since then?”
“Yeah,” you breathe.
“What’s going on?” Remus asks. His voice croaks a little, but aside from that he sounds more awake than James.
You wince. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, dove. What is it?”
“Her nose is bleeding,” James says through a great yawn. In between them, Sirius makes a half-asleep whining sound, but doesn’t move. “She says it has been for half an hour.”
Now Remus is frowning, too. “It woke you up?”
You hum, feeling your mouth pucker in distaste. “It got in my mouth.”
“Let’s see.” Without warning, James turns the lamp on. Both you and Remus rear back as if stricken, and Sirius’ head retreats beneath the covers seemingly by reflex. “Sorry, sorry,” James says, giving you soft eyes as he reaches for a box of tissues. “C’mere, sweetheart.”
You take his cue to let go of your nose. As soon as you release it, you know it starts bleeding again by the way James raises his tissues in a hurry.
“Christ,” he mumbles, moving them just slightly to see the damage. “This much since it started? Has it slowed at all?”
“I don’t think so,” you say, stuffy.
“How do you feel?” asks Remus. He’s sitting up now, bedsheets fallen around his waist and one hand resting on the lump that is Sirius. “Are you dizzy? Can you breathe alright?”
“Through my mouth, yeah.” James is still peering at your nose, and it’s making you shrink. He lets you take the wad of tissues from him. “I’m not dizzy.”
“Still…” Remus looks at James.
“Yeah.” James sits up the rest of the way, stretching. He lets out another yawn. “Let’s go.”
“Go to…” you hesitate, unsure “...hospital?”
James hums in the affirmative, squeezing your shoulder as he gets out of bed.
A moan of protest comes from behind him. You look to see Remus rubbing between Sirius’ shoulder blades, searching for his slippers on his side of the bed.
“Get up.”
“S’too early to be up,” Sirius whines.
Remus shushes him, at once chiding and soothing. “We’re bringing y/n to A&E.”
At this Sirius falls quiet. A moment later, his head picks up, puffy black hair and a furrowed brow. “What for?”
“My nose won’t stop bleeding,” you say meekly. “Sorry.”
“Angel,” James laughs, coming up from behind you to pass you some more tissues. He’s already dressed. “Stop being sorry. Did you plan this?”
“No,” you reply, softly.
“Right. As I thought.” He grins, planting a kiss on your cheek.
As usual, James has come awake remarkably quickly once he’s set his mind to it. Remus moves toward the closet a tad less energetically, and Sirius appears to have to claw his way out of bed.
He does it in your direction.
“You okay?” Sirius asks, studying you as he drags his legs over the edge of the mattress. “Does your head hurt?”
“I don’t think so.” His concerned gaze melts you to your core. You think you’d admit to anything if it got you a hug right now. “I’m just tired.”
Sirius cracks a smile, though his eyes are soft with pity. “Well, yeah, baby.” He stands, smushing a kiss into your hair. “It’s the dead of fucking night. Your nose is a real blight on us all.”
“Don’t talk about her nose that way.” James gives you the hug you wished for, strong arms wrapped around your middle. His chest is warm against your back. “Don’t listen to him, angel; he’s a prat when he’s tired.”
“It’s fine.” You lean back into James. “It is a blight on us tonight.”
“Precisely. You get it,” Sirius says, squinting his eyes at James. “I cherish her nose every other day, I’ll have you know.”
“Get dressed.” Remus emerges from the closet to give Sirius a gentle shove in that direction. He takes yet more tissues, passing them to you seemingly without noticing the handful you’ve already got from James. “Are you ready to go, dovey? Have everything you need?”
“What do I need?” you ask, worried.
“Nothing, sweetheart.” James drops his voice at the first sign of fright from you; Remus does the same, both of your boyfriends softening around the edges. “We’ll take care of it, yeah?” He starts taking tissues from you, shoving them into the pocket of his sweatpants. “We’ll take care of everything.”
I read the Derek and Spencer fainting bit and now I want to complete it with Hotch :)))
If that’s alright of course…
thank you for your request ♡ fem!reader
Aaron knows you harbour more affection for him than anyone else on the team, which is a true compliment to him, as you adore Spencer. He can never tell if you're friendly or loving, if you want some or all or nothing, the line between you blurred.
When Morgan and Garcia first began their flirtatious friendship, Aaron thought they were seeing each other on the sly for a whole fortnight. He's a profiler, but he doesn't know everything.
He does, however, know that something is wrong with you today. Hand held up over your eyes, you squint out over the crime scene with a wrinkled nose. The lakeside smells as bad as it looks with gore blackening the surrounding grass. He's been telling you for months to get some shades. You've been ignoring his advice.
Your disapproval of the smell is normal. Your unsure footing is not. You take his forearm when he offers it and step across the muddy bank to the body without audible complaint, though you give him a 'this fucking sucks' narrowing of the eyes when he gives you the time.
"Agent Hotchner," a deputy greets, "Agent L/N. We found the second body here. Bystanders pulled the first out thinking she was still alive, but that was unfortunately not the case."
You shift unprofessionally close to Aaron. He doesn't really care. The sheriff barely looks at you both, his attention on the corpse hidden between overgrown cattails.
Aaron hates to admit that he gives you more of his attention than is helpful. You seem odd. Call it intuition, call it plain old profiling, Aaron reads the next minute of events in the smallest twitch of your finger.
You put your hand on his back and he doesn't think, he just grabs you. The sheriff deputy startles as you fold over Aaron's arm like a marionette with strings sliced, exhaling hard as your body does its best to hit the grass beneath your feet.
"Agent L/N!" The deputy yelps.
"I got her," Aaron says, easing you down to the ground. He keeps a hand behind your head to lay you down flat, the other quick to leap from your side to your cheek. You'll likely have bruises in the shape of his hands at your waist. "Y/N?"
He rubs his thumb under your eye. Quick, he leans down with an ear to your lips and relaxes at the sound of your shallow breathing. He pulls away, resting a hand atop your chest.
"Can you hear me?" he asks, conscious of and ignoring the copious pairs of eyes watching over you.
You don't respond. Aaron goes into emergency mode, flagging down a cop who races for a paramedic, hands at your throat unbuttoning the first button on your blouse, the second in an overabundance of caution.
"Y/N, if you can hear me, I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that?" His tone wavers somewhere between demanding and desperate. "Come on. Come on."
Fainting is one thing. Fainting with no signs of dehydration and little sun exposure is another, especially considering you hadn't moved from one position to another. You've passed out with no obvious cause. Any number of things could be wrong.
He doesn't slap you —it works in the movies and not often elsewhere. In fact, Aaron finds himself at the opposite end of the spectrum. Patient outwardly and insanely panicked on the inside, he holds your face in his hand and waits for someone to tell him you're alright.
Your breath catches, your head lolling into his palm. He straightens it, weary of your airways. "Y/N? Tell me you can hear me."
The whirlwind of your fall and the eternity of your recovery has him holding his breath.
"I can hear you," you mumble, again attempting to turn your head. He lets you this time. He's so relieved, he'd let you do anything.
He fights the urge to shout, Where's the medic? instead following your face, tilting his head to the side. "Open your eyes, honey," he murmurs, for your ears alone.
Your lashes twitch against his pinky index finger. You frown as though you're in pain and finally rouse to attention.
"What hurts?" he asks, brows furrowed.
"Nothing hurts…" Your frown worsens. "You look really unhappy."
"I'm not ecstatic about this," he says. He gives in, shouting, "Where's the medic?"
"Oh, no, please," you say, trying to sit up, "that is so embarrassing."
Aaron pushes you flat to the grass beneath you. "Stop, you need to stay flat. You passed out. This is the solution–" He puts his hand flat over your chest as you put in some effort. "Hey, this is what you need to do. Listen to me, agent."
"What happened to honey?" you ask quietly.
"That's when you were doing what I wanted."
You close your eyes in a faux strop. "I guess I'll have to do what you want more often, sir."
"That's enough." He sounds fond. Why does he sound so fond?
The deputy clears his throat. "Paramedics are here."
You groan. Aaron hides a smile. Through everything, his hand has stayed on your cheek. He doesn't pull it away until he absolutely has to, and even then, he holds some part of you. Your elbow, your wrist. He has the sense to be sheepish about it when the paramedic ushers him back, but even then, he's thinking about when he'll get to touch you next; he needs the assurance that you're okay.
He gets it a half hour later when you're sipping on a gatorade in the back of an SUV.
"Do I still get paid for today?" you ask, smiling playfully. "Or is this a write off?"
He wants to joke about it with you, but there's work to be done. He sends you back to the hotel with a frankly unprofessional hug and a demand to take it easy. He's sure you'll be back stepping on his heels by late afternoon.
mae my lovely, can i possibly request emt!marauders and reader who hasn’t replied to any texts in a few days/a week? pre-established relationship but not quite living together, and reader struggles with her mental health and has holed herself up in her apartment which worries the boys greatly? please don’t write if you feel uncomfortable (and if you’ve already written it but i’ve devoured emt!marauders today and i don’t think you have) obviously!! love you
Thank you for requesting my love! And thanks to @ellecdc for helping me figure out the emt stuff <3
cw: mental health struggles, self isolation
emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.5k words
Sirius’ knuckles rap loudly on your door.
“Fuck, ease up.” James winces. “She’s gonna think we’re the cops.”
“Good. Maybe she’ll answer for them.”
“You need to calm down.” Remus’ voice is patience with a firm edge. “We don’t know what’s going on. If we go in angry with her, it’s not going to help anything.”
“I think I have the right to be somewhat miffed,” Sirius argues. “You ghost someone after a first date, not once you’re in a relationship. It’s fucked.”
“She’s not ghosting us,” James says certainly. Sirius’ mouth pinches in response.
James knows that, truly, his boyfriend is as worried as any of them. You’re well past the point in your relationship where you feel the need to establish the next time you’re going to meet before parting, but after your date last week it took the boys a few days to put it together that none of them had heard from you.
At first, James presumed you’d simply gotten busy. Remus was convinced he’d done something to upset you. Sirius, secretly the most prone to worry, would rather believe he’s been slighted than consider the possibility that something might be keeping you from responding to their calls. Now that it’s been nearly a week, James is convinced something’s happened. You’ve had to take an emergency trip out of town or something’s spooked you and made you avoid them or—worst case scenario—you’re ill and have been holed up here with no one to check in on you for almost a week.
Once he brought up that idea, it wasn’t difficult to convince his boyfriends to do a wellness check during their shift.
“Just don’t be harsh with her,” Remus says gently.
Sirius huffs. He knocks again, albeit somewhat softer.
“NHS,” he calls.
James holds his breath when he hears some shuffling from inside. Gradually, it gets closer and louder, until the door is creaking open and you’re peering through the crack.
Your voice is scratchy, like you haven’t used it in a while. “What’re you doing here?”
James expects Sirius to snipe at you, is already prepared to smooth it over himself with kinder words and a gentler tone, but something seems to shift in the other boy at the sight of you. He pushes through the crack in your door, hugging you fiercely.
“We…” Remus seems as thrown by this deviation as James is. “We thought we ought to check up on you.”
Your hand migrates up, touching Sirius’ back tentatively. “Why?”
“It’s a wellness check.” Sirius’ voice is bitter, but the effect is somewhat muddled by how he’s speaking into your neck. “We had reason to believe you could be harmed or deceased.”
“Oh,” you murmur.
James takes a moment to look you over. You’re in pajamas, visibly rumpled, and yet you look as tired as if you’ve not slept in some time. There’s something off about your expression, something missing that he can’t put his finger on. It’s unsettling in a way that makes him want to wrap you up in a tight cuddle and not let go.
“Are you okay?” he asks, perhaps more brash than he means to be. Normally he’d expect more tact from himself, but he’s shocked Sirius hasn’t asked yet, and someone has to.
“Can we come in?” Remus asks at the same time.
You look between them like you’re not sure what to do with them. Like you’re questioning whether you’re still in some sort of dream.
“Yeah,” you say after a moment. James gets the sense you mean it to answer both of them. You step back from the door to make room for them, and Sirius moves with you. “Um, forewarning, it’s really bad in here.”
Really bad by your standards isn’t the same as James’. If he hadn’t seen the way you normally keep things, he’d never notice anything was amiss. Your place smells a bit stale, like when you leave for a weekend and then come home. There’s a laundry basket on the floor with a few balled socks like you’d started to fold them and given up, and if he peers into your bedroom he can see a small trash pile on your floor and the covers of your bed all twisted up. It’s no worse than his side of the dorm he’d shared with Remus and Sirius in school.
“What happened?” Sirius asks you. His voice sounds clearer now, and James focuses back in to find that he’s let you go enough to press his forehead to yours. His brow and lips are pinched. “Why have you been avoiding us?”
James is nearly overcome by the desire to kiss him and rub his back, but he decides to let you have the honor, if you want it.
You look unsure whether you do.
“I’m sorry.” The words seem scraped out from some aching part of you. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“Then why didn’t you answer our calls?” Sirius’ tone matches yours for desperation. Remus’ expression twinges compassionately.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Sirius,” Remus chides softly.
Your shoulders are slumped, but when Sirius moves away you seem to droop further. He’s only giving you space, his expression far from unkind.
“Why couldn’t you pick up, dove?” Remus asks gently.
“I…” Your eyes meander the floor. “I didn’t know what to talk about. And then my phone died, and it was just easier. I’m really sorry.”
“Is talking to us really that bad?” Sirius is clearly making an attempt at joking, but the heartache underlying his words is unmissable.
“No,” you sigh. “I’m just not really fit for the world right now. I didn’t want you to worry.”
James’ ribs hurt at your admission, but he feels himself nodding. Even if he doesn’t know exactly what it is you’re dealing with, he’s familiar with people who think they’re somehow so damaged they don’t deserve to engage with anyone or anything. Sirius was like that once. Remus even more often. He sees the recognition on both of their faces now, pity and love and regret all tangled up into one messy thing.
“Well, it was a noble effort,” says James, giving you a small smile, “but you can’t stop us worrying. Can I hug you?”
You nod, making an effort towards returning his smile. It’s a half-hearted, flickering thing, but he appreciates it nonetheless.
He kisses your forehead as he folds you into his arms, starting gentle and tightening when you hug him back. Your grip feels a bit weak, if ardent. James pushes his palm up your spine.
“Have you eaten today, sweetheart?”
Your hum in the negative vibrates against his skin.
“I’ll make us something.” Remus starts toward the kitchen, passing a hand over James’ curls as he goes by. “A sandwich alright, dovey?”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” His voice raises as he enters the kitchen, and James knows he wants you to hear. To understand that this is something he would happily do for you.
“Let’s sit down,” James suggests. “Pads, would you mind opening the curtains some?”
Sirius complies with vigor, whipping open your drapes while James gets you situated on the couch. In the light, the shadows under your eyes are more evident, as is the redness in them.
James squishes you up against his side. Rubs up and down your arm. “It’s okay,” he murmurs.
You make a tiny, stymied sound, and turn your head down.
“Hey.” Sirius sits on your other side. He kisses your shoulder, worry hewn into the lines of his face. “What’s wrong?”
Your shoulders give a little shake. It’s small, defeated. You curl further in on yourself.
“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t have to explain,” James tells you, continuing to drag his hand up your arm. “It’s okay. You’re alright.”
“I wanted—” You take in a wet inhale. He feels close to tears himself. “I wanted to be better when I saw you. I’m sorry.”
“We don’t need you to be any sort of way, sweetheart.” Sirius’ voice is soft but fervent. “We just want to be with you.”
“As much as you’ll let us,” James agrees. His own voice is thick, and Sirius slides his arm around you to rub between his shoulders.
You don’t say much after that. James holds you tight until your trembling stops, and even then he only loosens his grip to let you eat the grilled cheese Remus has made for you. From the wrappers he saw in your room, it’s likely the closest thing to a prepared meal you’ve had in some time.
When you’re done eating, Sirius insists on kissing the saltiness from your cheeks even though your tears have dried. Remus coaxes you into a bath while James and Sirius tidy your room and change your sheets, and then Remus enlists Sirius to shampoo your hair while he tucks your sheets in more effectively. They put your phone on the charger. James makes dinner and puts it in the fridge for you to have later. None of it fixes anything, but he hopes it makes you feel less alone.
When they have to go out for another call, Remus gives you a long hug, James makes you agree to go on a walk with him the next day, and Sirius threatens to pester you with calls until you block his number if you ignore them ever again.
Your eye roll at his antics makes James’ heart sing.
I just read your shy reader and Hotch work and it's beautiful.
If you don't mind can I request something in a shy reader and Hotch setting? So, my request is that during a case reader and someone else on the team (other than Hotch) gets injured but the reader gets a concussion and other injuries and that's why she's not lucid. No one notices that R is injured and they focus on the other person until R just faints like Hotch did after the explosion on the show and the aftermath....
Thank you!!
tw: blood, cannon typical violence, poor writing after a too-long break
The room is spinning and Morgan is on the ground, clutching his arm. In the distance, you watch JJ drag the unsub over by the arm, his hands cuffed behind his back and a smug smirk on his face.
"Got you," the unsub barks at Morgan, spitting on the ground near his feet before JJ yanks him roughly toward the police cars.
Slowly, you stand, refusing to use the wall near you as support as you stumble to Morgan.
"Medic over here!" Hotch yells, jogging over and beating you to Morgan.
"It's just a graze," Morgan reassures Hotch, lifting his hand from his bicep and revealing the wound. Blood is trickling out in a slow stream from the wound, painting his dark skin crimson.
You nearly gag at the sight, nauseous from slamming your head against the ground. The fight is blurry in your memory, but you vaguely remember missing a step chasing the unsub down the stairs and knocking to the floor. You think the man might have pushed you, but you're unsure, the details lost in the loud bang from his gun, pointed at Morgan.
You drop to your knees near Morgan, pushing his and Hatch's unexperienced hands away and forcing your eyes to focus on the wound.
You were added to the team to fill several gaps, an experienced medic one of them along with another profiler on the team. While you wait for the paramedics to arrive, you can at least staunch the bleeding.
You think you hear Hotch asking questions but you can't focus on the low register of his voice over the ringing in your ears, solely prioritizing slowing the blood steadily pumping out of Morgan's bicep.
"Hey, sweetheart," Morgan nudges you away from his arm. You look up, confused. "Your boss is asking if you're alright." Nodding toward Hotch, Morgan smirks and rolls his eyes, "You know I'm good. Hurts like a bitch, but I'm good."
"Yeah," you mutter, nodding at the ground before refocusing on your task, "I'm alright."
You don't want to bring attention to the throbbing in your head, sure it's fine and even more sure that nobody saw you fall. The embarrassment of bringing attention to it is more then you could bear with the pounding between your ears incessant in its annoyance.
"If you're sure you have this handled, I would like to go talk to JJ." You wave Hotch off, catching sight of the paramedics rushing over.
He walks off, purposeful in his long strides, following JJ where she's leaning over the unsub in the back of a cruiser. You notice, in a fleeting moment, that his hair is rumpled, his shirtsleeves wrinkled. Hotch disheveled is a rare but welcome sight, one you ache to see more often, and you let yourself fall back and away from Morgan to admire it while the paramedics tend to him.
Blood has dried on your hands and you wipe them absently as you settle onto the ground. Nobody has quite noticed your sluggish movements in the awkward space of releasing adrenaline fading after days of building. The emptiness of it, the sudden space for more emotion and thought, is something you usually relish in. You enjoy having a puzzle to focus on, a problem to solve, simply for the pleasure of the release of that worry at the end. The solution is more satisfying than the untangling but you can't focus on that now, eyes unfocused as you watch Hotch cross his arms.
His muscles flex under the fabric of his shirt pulled tight around them. It's this distraction that you'll blame on the haziness of your thought, ignoring the consistent pain at the side of your skull.
You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, trying to bring your mind to focus on your actual priorities. You have processed you should be following, things to focus on, something important that you need to tell someone. You can't remember what, though, everything buried under the ever present haze of pain.
A call of your last name has your eyes snapping open. Hotch is looking at you now, eyes concerned. You struggle to think of what you've done to bring that look to his face.
Slow processing brings you to remember that you should probably be over there, reporting on the fight that he didn't see.
"Sorry," you say, louder then you wanted, scrambling to stand up.
"For?" Hotch asks, striding toward you. You could have swore that he was further away, that the space between you two was vast, far enough that your vision had reason to blur and you had enough cover to be staring at anything - not obvious that you were ogling him.
"Hm?" You ask, confused already, ignoring his offered hand to stand.
"Are you okay?" He asks, eyes flickering over your face.
You flush, blinking hard once and then again, slowly, nodding before attempting to walk closer to him, stumbling on your steps.
The world tilts, spinning, focused around Hotch (always, always focused on him) and you see his face catch on panic as you fall before everything goes dark.
----
You wake up in a hospital, the fluorescent lights familiar and unwelcome. You groan out, upset.
Your name catches your attention, a voice you would know anywhere. God, why is he here? You're sure you look a mess and whatever injury caused this visit is certainly not enough to warrant his attention and worry.
"Come on beautiful, it's time to wake up," a hand passing over your forehead reminds you that you shut your eyes against the lights and you warily open them again.
Hotch is in a sweatshirt, leaning against the railing of your bed, a kind smile on his face.
"Hi," he says, voice soft. "I'm very angry at you."
"Yeah, seems like it," you say, sarcasm dripping, before you remember who you're talking to. Your face warms rapidly, "oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to say that."
Hotch looks overjoyed, though, a smile widening across his face, warm and sweet. "Who knew a concussion is all I needed to crack that shell of yours?"
"Concussion?"
"Exactly the reason I'm mad, actually."
"What?" You ask, confused again, closing your eyes at a throb of pain.
Hotch chuckles, you're sure the sound of it will be your undoing, too hot as the sound of it bounces through your ears and straight to your chest.
"We'll talk about it later, rest now."
sorry I've been gone. I haven't proof read this, either, nor have I written in weeks. I missed you guys, though <3
I love your writing so much and think about it maybe too often haha. Today I fell and sliced the back of my hand open so I had to go wait 4 hours at the ER to get it sutured back together and I thought it might be a sort of funny scenario to write about with the marauders where R just walks up to them covered in blood like “heyy who wants to drive me to the ER” and is pretty chill in demeanour until the reality of having a hole in her hand sets in once they clean her up. I went into shock then, lost my hearing for a few minutes which was scary, but luckily I had a someone nearby who could help. Of course no worries if you don’t feel like it, I appreciate you and I hope you have a lovely day!♡
Thanks for requesting! I hope your hand is feeling better lovely <3
cw: blood, mention of razors (unrelated to blood)
poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 788 words
“Hey, Sirius?”
Sirius screws the brush of his nail polish back into the bottle. “Yeah?”
“Are you busy?”
“Not anymore.” He gets up from the bed, wandering towards your voice in the bathroom. “What’s up, gorgeous? You need something?”
Sirius stalls when he finds you. You’re standing there with a dissatisfied frown on your face, your hand a basin of blood held in front of you that’s overflowing into the sink.
“Maybe a ride to A&E?” you ask. “If you’re free.”
“What the hell happened?” Sirius goes to you. He tries to take your hand, but you move it away.
“Wait, your nails—”
“I’m not really worried about my nails right now, babe.” He holds you by the wrist, turning the faucet on to a gentle flow before bringing your hand underneath it. The blood washes away quickly, and Sirius blocks your view of the cut, leaning down to see it. “How’d you manage this?”
“I was just opening my new razors—”
“Razors?”
“It wasn’t even the razors that did it,” you say, a laugh somewhere in your voice. Your raised voices have drawn attention from the rest of the house. Remus and then James appear in the doorway. “It was the plastic it comes in. Surprisingly sharp.”
“What’s going on?” asks James.
“She would like to know,” Sirius informs him, “if it’s convenient for any of us to drive her to A&E.”
You roll your eyes. “Alright, you don’t have to say it like that. I just mean that it’s not so dire, I’m hardly bleeding out.”
“You might be!”
“What’d you do, love?” Remus moves forward to see, he and Sirius now clustered on either side of you, each closer to your own hand than you are.
“She managed to injure herself with plastic packaging.”
“Okay. Again, the tone is a bit much,” you say.
“Aw, sweetheart.” James’ arms wrap around your waist. He smudges a kiss onto your cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you tell him, audibly softening at the affection, “it doesn’t even hurt that bad, it’s only stinging…” You go quiet.
Sirius glances back at you, and you’re staring between him and Remus, your hand in your view for the first time. You look suddenly paler.
“Hey, baby.” Sirius’ voice draws the attention of the other two to what’s happened. He steps in front of your hand again, squeezing up the length of your arm. “You’re okay.”
“It’s…” You stare at where you had been for a moment longer, then snap your vision to the side. You’re breathing a tad faster. “God, sorry. I feel sort of sick.”
“Take some breaths, dove, you’re alright.” Remus holds your hand close to his chest, shielding it from your view as he reaches into a nearby drawer for bandages. “We’re just going to stop the bleeding and then take you to A&E, you don’t have to do anything.”
“All of you?”
“Why?” James gives your middle a light squeeze. “Are there some of us you’d rather not have there?”
“I knew she had favorites.” Sirius grins. “Cruel. We’re only trying to be there for you, gorgeous.”
You smile a little bit for their sake. You’re not sure either of them believe it, but James gives you a thankful kiss nonetheless.
“Keep breathing,” he reminds you, big hand rubbing up and down your abdomen. “You’re really doing so well. I was surprised by how calm you seemed a minute ago.”
“You should have heard her before you got here.” Sirius squints his eyes at you playfully. “She wouldn’t let me touch her hand because she was worried it’d mess up my nail polish.”
“Sweetheart,” James laughs, giving you another fond squeeze. “Really?”
“Priorities, babe,” Sirius chides you.
“Alright,” says Remus. You feel a kiss on your knuckles, and then he’s turning around, your bandaged hand still held protectively between both of his. “Is anyone going to warm the car, or do I have to do everything?”
You nod, chastened, and start towards the door, but you’re dragged back by three pairs of hands.
“I mean anyone not injured, dove.” Remus’ voice is heavy with loving exasperation.
“See what we’ve been dealing with? It’s a two man job.” Sirius squeezes your shoulder on his way past, presumably going to warm the car. James says something about getting your shoes and follows behind.
You give Remus a woeful look. He tsks, folding you into a hug. “Did you really prioritize Sirius’ nail polish over your bleeding hand?” he asks in a murmur.
You mush your cheek to his chest. “Only for a minute.”
Remus is quiet, but his amused breath fans over the top of your head as he brings his lips down for a kiss.
