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Stop Changing the World With Violence
Are lone gunmen as entitled as the elite they claim to defend against?
Rachel Donald, Planet: Critical
Excerpts:
When the CEO of UnitedHealthcare was gunned down by a masked man on the busy streets of New York, the internet erupted with visions of what this could mean. Was it a vigilante? A victim of the American healthcare system? A former employee? A revolutionary? Was this the event that would trigger a mass movement against extractive capitalism?
In contrast, extractive capitalism barely blinked. In fact, UnitedHealthcare executives carried on with their 9am meeting barely two hours after Thompson was killed. It is a shocking and revealing fact, one that makes perfect sense when you stop to think about it. Brian Thompson was as unimportant to UnitedHealthcare as its customers because the customers who die from denied insurance policies can be replaced, just as CEOs who are killed can be replaced.
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The tone [of the manifesto] speaks volumes. It certainly would not surprise me if this was the manifesto of a 26-year-old who thought they were the very first person ever to face the reality of corruption and greed âwith such brutal honestyâ. It would also not surprise me if that 26-year-old, self-isolating from any community with whom to discuss their beliefs, came to the conclusion that murdering a CEO would in any way help.
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You might think, given everyone lives within the same economic system and falls on the same spectrum of suffering, that assassination attempts are carried about by a range of people which reflects the diversity of our societies. That is not the case. If we look at Presidential assassinations in the United States, the alleged perpetrators are always white, and almost always in their mid-twenties:
John Wilkes Booth was 26 when he assassinated Abaraham Lincoln
Charles J. Guiteau was 39 when he assassinated James Garfield
Leon Czolgosz was 28 when he assassinated William McKinley
Lee Harvey Oswald was 24 when he assassinated JFK
John Hinckley Jr. was 26 when he attempted to assassinate Ronald Reagan
Thomas Crooks was 20 when he attempted to assassinate Donald Trump
Murder is one of the most vivid acts of entitlement in the world.
Frankly, itâs unsurprising that those on the top of the social pyramid created by extractive capitalism would typically be the the only group to think themselves as bearing the right to take anotherâs life for the wider sake of society.
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I believe acting in self-defence is imperative in a crisis. I would like to see the climate movement engage in more acts of self-defence. I support the right to sabotage the private property of polluting industries in protest, and I donât believe we have to forgive our abusers if ever we reach a moment of collective justice. I think the fight to save the earthâs systems and our own societies from collapse is a fight to save ourselves. It is a collective act of self-defence, and it is utterly justified. Its very collective nature sets it apart from lone gunmen who believe they are the arbiters of honest assessment and have the last word in what the world should look like.
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Systemic change is complex. It cannot be achieved by a single act, or a single person.
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The reality of human violence is the result of thousands of years of extractivism and exploitation. It promotes violence because it feeds off of violence. Those who engage in violence at its service are in no way excused, but
rather than argue their evil nature we should reflect upon their lack of imagination and cowardice.
These people donât want the world to change because it suits them very well. This is actually a perfectly normal conclusion. That they donât want it to change at the expense of others is a conclusion that can only be supported by an economic, political and cultural system which promotes separation and individualism. Everything is geared to support that narrative.
Those who are thriving in it are perhaps not all evilâtheyâre just very good at doing what theyâre told and see no reason to question the world they maintain.
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Brian Thompsonâs murder wonât stop for-profit maximisation of healthcare in the USA. It has provoked more conversations about it, certainly, and galvanised, if not radicalised, a cross-section of the internet who are intrigued by the daring and physique of the alleged killer. Some will say his actions were worth that alone. Yet, simply talking wonât help American society progress towards a more equitable future. To get there, they will have to organise systemic attacks on the infrastructureâboth ideological and physicalâwhich makes extractivism and exploitation possible. To arrive at a future of non-violence, we must coordinate and defend against violence. To do so alone is fundamentally inefficient.
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The radical flank is a critical wave in any social movement, making the peaceful protesters look amenable and worthy of an invitation to the table: MLKâs ideals were buttressed by the radicalism of Malcolm X.
I have seen arguments to suggest that Thompsonâs killer represents the radical flank. I worry these arguments are misleading because they suggest that any single person acting alone has the same right to change the world as a collective of people who have hammered out their ethos and strategy by listening to one another and sharing their lived experiences. I worry that a movement will be reduced to a single person, painted as heroic or evil, who will distract from the relentless on-the-ground organising taking place all across the world, and especially in the USA in the lead up to Trumpâs inauguration. I worry we will fall prey to utilitarian arguments where the ends justify the means and murder takes precedence over justice. I worry young men in their twenties will think they have found an easy way to achieve the greatness they believe themselves entitled to. I worry we will conflate killing in cold blood with self-defence.
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Extractive capitalism wonât stop for anyone, and if violence is its currency then no amount of death will ever be enough to shock it into submission. It must be dismantled, hospiced, destroyed; such is a labour of care and dedication and bravery. And, to be brutally honesty, that is much harder work than any single act of violence.
#i post#i link#substack#planet: critical#rachel donald#stop changing the world with violence#brian thompson#killing of brian thompson#unitedhealthcare ceo#us politics#us healthcare#luigi mangione#collective action#capitalism#extractive capitalism#assassins#presidential assassinations#john wilkes booth#abraham lincoln#charles guiteau#james garfield#leon czolgosz#william mckinley#lee harvey oswald#jfk#john f kennedy#john hinckley jr#ronald reagan#thomas matthew crooks#donald trump
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SOCIETY KEEPS KILLING ONE OF THEM BCS THEIR FRIENDSHIP WOULD BE INCAPABLE FOR GALAXIES TO HANDLE !!!!!
#theyre actually the same height but cliffjumper's pedes are made for climbing leaping causing pain to others#so he has spikes that sheath and unsheath from the soles and he keeps them out pretty much all the time which gives him height#fuzzy fat bumblebee and ANT#cliffjumper#i want cliffjumper sounds just like Miss SecondOpinionson but monotone & says everything like it's a fact#he keeps a permanent judgemental and suspicious expression and will tell you all of his surface level judgement of u#which js A Lot as he is Very observant and skeptical of Everything#mirage loves him bcs he doesnt play nice. he tells u how he sees it when he sees it#meanwhile bee is mewing from the amount of hatred secretly boiling inside him & is constantly changing himself for others#when they have time to reunite as old best friends .. the girlies have fun which means cliff is smiling for once & bee is not#everybody feels bad for bee when they see this bcs they think cliff is boring him or something & ruining his good mood#but actually bee is having the time of his life venting finally abt all his 'mean thoughts' which are just His thoughts but he cant say that#and cliff loves violence & is uncomfortable with social etiquette upkeep so of course hes indulging#i need the world to stop pitting my girlbosses against each other like just get creative with their designs lol#characters can have depth without merging personalities together into 1 and killing off the other half to cover up ur stealing lol#bee def has anger issues too but it's an after effect from his overthinking backfiring#while cliff has anger issues that flares b4 actions due to not wanting to think in favor of pure Doing#i think they are lovely foils which should be explored and can be done rlly interestingly if they were friends#who keep getting pit against each other by life but refuse to lose that friendship .. it's just a little cracked now.. & keeps cracking#bumblebee#transformers#maccadam
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If you feel that you can't discipline a child without hurting them, you are a coward and should not be around children. At all.
Idc if the kid popped outta your own body, grow up and develop some patience and parenting skills or sit down and shut up. Good god.
#cw child abuse#violence is abuse. always.#that's not how the âreal worldâ works at all#does your boss hit you when he's mad? no bc there are ASSAULT CHARGES FOR THAT#but hitting the most vulnerable of our population is ok?#you can't make that make sense. stop trying to.#fuck parents fuck the last 5 generations fuck society fuck abuse apologists#how to get them to make a change? idk#i think the most painful part is knowing they're capable only if they try.
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mizutaigen is literally like. the first "toxic" m/f ship i've ever cared for. cuz like usually my taste in m/f ships is basically "unhinged baddie" x "badass wifeguy" *
* (see:yen/geralt. trevor/sypha. adolin/shallan. kataang but katara is sane and they're literally so wholesome like theyre traumatised kids in love who are each other's emblem of hope in a war-torn world! so basically they don't count. anyway. i'm rambling.)
and to that end my friend called mizutaigen yaoi-adjacent and im like. yeah you're right actually cuz like hell yeah non-binary mizu and bisexual taigen rights and all the gender fuckery in the show in general
but also like.
theres just SOMETHING else about mizutaigen that just GETS me. like there's a special secret sauce like the pheromones in that one sephora lotion attracting spiders and i am the silly spider!!! there's just something about it!!! it's not even the enemies to lovers trope cuz i personally am not even usually into that (obv it's fine if you are. but yk.)
so as i keep rotating these thoughts around i thiiink it's the fact that, yknow, theyre so similar. like i honestly truly think they could be besties in another universe: a kinder universe where taigen was not taught to hate. a universe where mizu was not born a girl in a deeply misogynistic society or half-white in a xenophobic homogeneous society.
yeah now that i think about it that really just might be THE secret sauce!!! like the fact that they COULD be perfect and happy together, if only things were different, if only they werent themselves.
smth v bittersweet about that's just driving me insane and makes me want to root for them to overcome all those obstacles, to say "fuck all that" (re:the world and all its fucked up shit) and find each other in the end. to eventually become each other's fav person and confidant. who obv still bicker and tease and insult each other all the time but they dont really mean any of it and over time it just becomes a running gag between them and no one else has to get it because it's just between the two of them.
#mizu x taigen#taigen x mizu#taimizu#[clenches fist] it's about the POTENTIAL of it all!!!!!#like taigen's last words in s1 being 'we're not done yet' like ?!? has me WANTING to see more. wanting to see them grow with each other#like i want taigen by the end to be ridiculously head over heels WHIPPED and SMITTEN willing to die and kill and just be BETTER. for mizu.#mizu. the person who changed his entire life. his entire worldview. pulled the rug from under him and made him a man forever changed.#to overcome his selfishness so he can be mizu's HOME in a world that doesn't allow her one#i want him to end up deciding like. 'on purpose. im going to love you on purpose.'#and mizu no matter how much she tries to convince herself that she cannot love or be loved. ends up accepting it anyway#love as work and violence but also love as rest and safety#and also bcs taigen represents the ideals of society. him willing to change & grow also represents society's potential to change & progress#LMAO okay sorry i absolutely cannot stop rambling about these bitches the brainworms are insane#bcs i just noticed that other mizutaigen enjoyers tend to also be in the same fandom circles for ships that i just. do not like. at all#and wondered like huh. i wonder why that is. and wondering what makes mizutaigen different#idk just ignore me i dont even know if im making sense my brain is goop from working on my research proposal#shut up haydar#fandom.rtf
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Leftists aren't asking you to burn down walmarts or whatever shadow you're boxing we literally just want you to help us organize community support and mutual aid the other 364 days of the year you aren't fucking voting
#im so tired of asking liberals to do something and hearing the burning down walmart violence shit#its a strawman#help us help people NOW#You wanna be katniss then pick up the soup pot and lets go give people some food#you wanna be percy well grab that box of narcan we're going to hand them oit#stop fighting so hard to not do ANYTHING except what the system wants from you#Im not asking you to do anything violent and any leftist who says you HAVE to be violent to help people is a dangerous person to be around#We cannot create radical change from thin air nor violence we need help getting people things they need#you want a better world? stop complaining about the scary leftists and pick up the fuckin sharps box#leftist#leftism#anarchism#anarchy#anarchist#socialism#communist#communism#socialist#activism#praxis#fnb#food not bombs#food#mutual#community#community support#networking#liberal#vote#voteblue
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a character's self-deprication being what keeps them from being in a relationship can be really good but mostly when the self deprication is 1. justified and 2. only no longer an issue because their significant other is Into whatever they're angsting about
#random thoughts#writing ref#like 'i can't be with them because i've committed horrible atrocities and know only violence' and the SO is like đđđ please murder me#or like. one i really like is a dude who's like a hardcore submissive. can't get off any other way.#and he's just kind of assuming he'll be alone forever because yknow gender roles and whatnot#figures at best he'll have a sexless marriage#and then he meets the world's bitchiest woman <3#this is what i imagine clark kent and lois lane are like btw#idk. something about a big fat man. brick shithouse of a fella. being dominated by a very angry pixie woman#plus typically with that kind of setup the big reveal would be the woman *letting her guard down* and *submitting*#but i really like the idea of her letting her emotional walls down enough to let this man submit for her. to have someone reliant on her#like she's a business woman who's all work because she's been constantly disappointed in her dating life#because people try to ~get to know her~ and get her to ~let her guard down~ but like sorry she's just like this#she's the kind of woman who plays stardew valley with spreadsheets. runs that farm like the navy#she likes being in charge!!!#god the more i think about these two they're just becoming more and more autistic#they both like structure because the guy likes not making decisions and the gal doesn't like surprises#like the guy doesn't like making decisions on the spot and likes being guided through stuff#and he likes knowing that if he DOES do something wrong then there's a guarunteed result (safeword) which tells him to stop and change#and the gal likes being in control and hates surprises because it means she has to think up what to do on the fly with no data#she likes planning things and scenes make it so everything can go smoothly#she makes like. worldbuilding for her roleplay scenes. has a lore bible#both of them have to communicate effectively!!! NO ROOM FOR MISCOMMUNICATION#kink negotiation scene where they're both dressed in office casual. sitting at a table. they shake hands afterwards shksjakaka#i think they're like. i don't think they're dating. at least not yet#they're living together and having sex on a regular basis and would probably get married but i don't think they're dating#they don't kiss. i don't think she likes kissing on the mouth#they're like. best friends who fuck. queerplatonic. can people in queerplatonic relationships fuck?#god this got away from me
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AN OPEN LETTER to THE PRESIDENT & U.S. CONGRESS
No more arms transfers! Ceasefire now. The hostages must come home.
637 so far! Help us get to 1,000 signers!
Last week, President Biden expressed his outrage over the Israeli militaryâs killing of seven World Central Kitchen workers directly to Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. Within hours, the Israeli cabinet voted to increase aid deliveries in Gaza â a welcome sea change in its months-long siege that can help tens of thousands of people avoid famine.
Thereâs no need to wait for the Israeli military to make another deadly decision for President Biden to do all he can to save lives now. President Biden should enforce U.S. law immediately to suspend U.S. military aid to Israel and ensure the indiscriminate killing of aid workers and mass starvation of Palestinians ends today. We need the focus to shift to peace negotiations, rescuing the hostages, and rebuilding.
The U.S. government is likely the only one capable of swaying the Israeli government from deepening the crisis and tipping the entire region into all-out war. It must do so. Americans overwhelmingly want the carnage to stop.
Thanks.
✠Created on��April 8 by Jess Craven ¡ 636 signers in the past 7 days
đą Text SIGN PXPEFM to 50409
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#JESSCRAVEN101#PXPEFM#resistbot#Ceasefire Now#Save Gaza#End Violence#Humanitarian Crisis#Peace Negotiations#Israel Palestine Conflict#US Congress#President Biden#Foreign Policy#Human Rights#International Aid#World Central Kitchen#Stop The Violence#Diplomacy#Middle East Conflict#Global Peace#Save Lives#Political Action#Advocacy#Call To Action#Support Peace#End War#US Foreign Relations#Humanitarian Aid#Peaceful Resolution#Global Community#Policy Change
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My first post...
Sometimes we forget how fragile we really are and how things can be taken from us in an instant.
In our goal driven greedy frenzy, we forget to remember those we trample over or those once close that we now ignore or neglect.
We forget that irrelevant of doing what's wrong and even what's right in this life, you yourself can fall into irrelevancy and of no interest to anyone the minute you have nothing on the table left to offer, to do or left to say?
We forget!
We forget to love, to be humble and to remember who carried us to where we are today. We value personal interests, material possessions and meaningless people who we sometimes use to our own benefit and who subsequently pave the way for us to reach our goals... Sometimes to a point of no return!
How does one survive in this evergrowing careless egocentric problematic world where greed and power are the common denominators?
Where's the generational moral compass that guided us and the rock of foundation we once stood upon? Where's the respect, the humility, THE LOVE for your neighbour and for one's self??
Have we all lost our voices and right to say enough, our right to say NO and fight against the injustices of this world? A world that's dying day by day in every way!!
Are we all afraid to speak up for whats right, to speak the truth or are we all brainwashed and resigned to our fate?? Do we even have a consience to simply care?
The world I knew from the 70s as a child is a galaxial distance away and a polar opposite of these troubled times.
Our endless struggles in fighting for a better world have served no purpose! Humanity is lost and I fear for generations to come.
The lines that once defined moral/imoral, rational/irrational behaviour are no longer existent and its now "ok" to push agendas, to make ludicrous miscellaneous government demands, to be disorderly in public and take what's not yours, to be rebellious and kill all those of different beliefs, cultural and religious upbringings!!
The mediatic desensitisation of the human being is now very much prevalecent and the entitlement and disrespect for human life is now the new religion in many parts of the world...should I mention, all in the name of "peace!"
Needless to say, a capitalistic excuse where the very few powerful, have much more to gain than all the thousands of human lives lost in the process!! Little do we know how many hands are blood stained!...but we really SUSPECT WHO and will eventually find out...
Where there's a war, there will always be a GREEDY reason to start one in the first place.
Today we are being spoon fed lies in good faith, fed by the media and corporate giants that own them.
That better utopian world we all once dreamt about, is now controlled by a handful of politicians hand in hand with corporate giants and with common interests.
Maybe this is a grim reminder of the "end of days" and a warning sign that the worst is still yet to come!
We forget!
We forget that we aren't invincible, imortal, untouchable and that sooner or later, all the legacy of good and evil that we leave behind, will either flourish for decades or just wither away like rotten soil!!
I would like to think that the latter will quickly dissipate into obscurity and that in my dreamy utopian world, love and peace will always prevail.
Peace in this world..."The only one we can live on!"
#life lessons#world politics#greed#life quotes#make a change#make a choice#politics#hidden#one chance#weforget#changetheworld#stop the war#senseless violence#love your neighbor#peace in the world
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elon musk did a nazi salute twice at the inauguration, and republicans are defending him.
trump revoked executive order 11246, which prohibited discrimination.
trump put all dei employees on leave to be fired.
trump blamed the dc plane crash on dei.
trump banned all lgbtq+ flags from being hung in government buildings.
trump ordered the pentagon to cancel celebration of mlk jr. day, black history month, women's history month, holocaust remembrance day, asian american pacific islander heritage month, lgbtq+ pride month, juneteenth, women's equality day, national hispanic heritage month, national disability employment awarenessmonth, and national american indian heritage month.
trump proposed removing all palestinians from gaza, turning the area into a vacation resort called âriviera of the middle eastâ.
trump posted an ai generated video showing what he hopes to turn palestine into, with a large golden statue of himself in the middle of it.
trump rolled back bidenâs executive order to lower prescription drug costs for people using medicare and medicaid.
trump rescinded the $35 cap on insulin, and prices are expected to rise to $1500 a month.
trump ordered the national institutes of health to cancel their review panels on cancer research.
trump ended the guidelines to prevent ai misuse. the guidelines prevent many things, but notably it prevents production of ai child pornography.
when sean hannity asked trump about the economy, he said âi donât careâ, after campaigning with the economy as his main talking point.
trump has withdrawn the us from the world health organization.
trump is ordering health agencies to stop reporting on bird flu and halt publications of scientific reports.
trump has pardoned over 1500 people who stormed the capitol on january 6th.
trump changed denali back to mount mckinley.
trump signed an executive order to rename the gulf of mexico to gulf of america.
trump shut down cbp one, an app which granted legal entry to 1 million+ immigrants.
trump has discussed introducing a âgold cardâ, which would allow the wealthiest people to buy us citizenship for $5 million usd.
trump is allowing ice raids at churches and elementary schools.
trump announced plans to declare a national emergency at the us-mexico border.
trump signed an executive order to expand the use of the death penalty.
trump disbanded the school safety board that works to prevent school shootings. it was comprised of survivors, educators, and gun violence prevention advocates and formed after the school shooting in parkland.
trump has threatened to invade panama to claim the panama canal.
trump withdrew from the paris climate act.
trump revoked all protections for transgender troops in the us military.
trump rescinded executive orders made by biden that benefited and protected women, lgbtq+ people, black americans, hispanic americans, asian americans, native hawaiians, and pacific islanders.
trump is attempting to make it legal to refuse to hire or fire pregnant women.
multiple state legislators are drafting bills to allow the punishment for abortion to be the death penalty.
trump pardoned 23 individuals convicted under the freedom of access to clinic entrances (FACE) act for their anti-abortion activism, including oftentimes violent protests at abortion clinics.
trump signed an executive order allowing deportation of foreign students who they believe express support for hamas or hezbollah.
trump announced that the us government will from here on out only recognize male and female as sexes. intersex is not legally recognized anymore.
trump has told all schools and universities that they have two weeks to end all diversity initiatives, or he will cut federal funding. (as of feb 19, 2025)
trump fired the staff of the federal aviation association after a deadly plane crash in dc.
trump has fired the heads of the tsa and coast guard, and gutted a key aviation safety advisory committee.
the supreme court weakened the clean water act's limitations on raw sewage discharge into our water in a 5-4 ruling.
the official white house twitter account posted an âillegal alien deportationâ asmr video where they did closeups of chains and the sound of ankle chains hitting the metal stairs of the airplanes deportees were being loaded onto.
on truth social, trump posted, âLONG LIVE THE KING!â.
at CPAC, a republican group called the âthird term projectâ held a rally to support changing the constitution so trump can run for a third term. on their posters, theyâre photoshopping his face onto julius caesarâs, seemingly forgetting what happened to julius caesar.
the trump administration paused health communications to prevent the fda from announcing food recalls.
republicans on tiktok are recreating elonâs salute to prove that it âwasnât a nazi saluteâ, and theyâre either doing it completely wrong because they know if they replicate it then it will actually be a salute, or theyâre doing the proper salute and posting it online.
google and apple maps now display the gulf of mexico as âgulf of americaâ.
rfk jr. wants to ban SSRIs and put everyone on them into labor camps.
andy ogles drafted a constitutional amendment to allow trump to be president for a third term.
the us senate confirmed russell vought, one of the main authors of project 2025, will lead the white house budget office.
nancy mace repeatedly used the t-slur during a congressional meeting, three times were out of spite.
andy biggs introduced a bill to abolish osha and completely eliminate federal workplace safety protections.
georgia republican congressman mike collins called for the deportation of new jersey born mariann budde, the bishop who urged trump to âhave mercyâ on the lgbtq+ community and immigrants during a service at the national cathedral.
florida republican anna paulina luna has introduced a bill to add trump to mount rushmore.
new york republican claudia tenney introduced a bill to make trumpâs birthday a federal holiday.
west virginia republican delegate lisa white has introduced house bill 2712, which would remove rape and incest as exceptions for abortion, even for minors. you can call her at (304) 340- 3274 or email her at [email protected] and let her know your opinion on that.
there is a bill named the SAVE act which would require americans to provide their birth certificate, passport, or other citizenship documents every time they vote, and would require the last name on their driverâs license to match that of their birth certificate. this would prevent married women who have changed their last name from voting.
bill h.r.1161, which is available publicly on congress.gov, would authorize trump to enter into negotiations to acquire greenland and to rename it to "red, white, and blueland".
six states (arizona, idaho, iowa, kansas, mississippi, and north dakota) are planning on challenging obergefell v. hodges, which would end same-sex marriage nationwide. about a dozen more states have representatives are also considering filing similar resolutions.
a bill to ban the mRNA vaccine has passed out of the house committee.
amazon revoked protections for lgbtq+ and black employees.
the cdc has removed their hiv prevention page.
the united states state department has officially changed its âtravelers with special conditionsâ page which previously said âlgbtqi+ travelersâ to âlgb travelersâ, completely getting rid of the tqi+.
every single republican told us we were overreacting. trump swore he had nothing to do with project 2025 yet continues implementing details outlined in it. not a single person has the right to tell us weâre being dramatic anymore.
hope âcheaper eggs and gasâ was worth it.
EDIT: i removed the âtrump refused to swear on the bibleâ point because it was being taken as me being an offended christian. iâm not christian, im agnostic. the reason i included it in the first place is because heâs the first president in history to ever refuse to swear on ANYTHING. meanwhile his âconservative christianâ followers had no issue with this, and decided to continue to scramble for excuses instead of admitting he may not be as religious as he claims he is. i figured taking that point out entirely is probably better than filling this with an explanation in the middle of the other important issues.
#*#allie talks#politics#us politics#fuck trump#trump administration#donald trump#trump#inauguration#current events#elon musk#fuck elon musk
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5 years ago, I was in Rehab.
10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.
But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.
One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.
Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that weâd even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.
For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.
But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.
Happy.
It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwellâs Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.
Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.
Itâs not the meal itself, I said, itâs the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.
A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.
5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.
It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.
Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.
Iâm a Rescue.
She gave me a Home.
And, so, I gave her a Family.
It seemed fair
This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.
I donât know who needs to hear this, but you donât know what the future holds.
donât give up yet, ok?
It could get good, even.
#troglodyte thoughts#tales from Real Life#cw addiction#cw alcohol#sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlamp of an approaching train#run#fight#hide#SURVIVE#do not go into the light#there are unpet dogs#and unhugged children#and unseen sunsets#and maybe even love#even for a wretch like me#the best part of your life might be old age#you donât know
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I can't stop thinking about the news out of Palestine. Israel is sieging al Shifa hospital. Videos of people's limbs being severed off are haunting (graphic video tw). The hospital has ran out of fuel and 39 babies in incubators are fending for their lives by themselves, because Israel has stationed snipers around the hospital and is shooting all medical crew that walks into their sight.
First, the narrative was Israel would never bomb hospitals. Now, the hospitals are Hamas bases. Then, we respect journalists. Now, we have a fucking kill list of journalists because they are Hamas collaborators. First, we are not letting fuel in until the hostages are released. Now, we are not accepting the hostages back because that would stop our ground invasion and let Hamas win. And I could go on about every single lie they're making up. If you look up "Hamas rape" on google, the first link leads to Times of Israel saying Israel has found no forensic evidence of sexual violence, and only one eyewitness testimony out of 3.5k people attending the rave. If you Google "Hamas beheaded babies" the top links say they have no evidence for the claim besides word of mouth from extremist soldiers. Israeli extremists think about the ugliest goriest scene they can make out in their sick heads, tell that to a international journalist and they run away with it like it's gospel.
And children are being killed in the name of these lies. Thousands are being displaced in images that remind me of the pictures of Tantura 75 years ago, with their hands up so the tanks don't shoot them. Amputees are leaving the hospitals in wheelchairs hours after their surgeries because they are being shot at. Elders who survived the Nakba on 48 are having to walk towards Southern Gaza on foot (imagine walking from one end of your city to the other on foot), displaced again. People are cheering for the haunting images of white phosphorus bombs being dropped over Gaza. Gazan workers who were arrested in the West Bank are being thrust back into the bombings wearing numbered labels.
This is not normal. We are seeing the early stages of the settler colonial genocide of an indigenous population. Native leaders who have visited Gaza say its refugee camps look eerily like reservations. We can stop this. For the first time we are able to see wide scale accounts from the hands of the people suffering the genocide, and Israel is so scared of it they have cut all communications in Gaza.
This is our litmus test. I think we have never seen more clearly, with Palestine, Armenia, Congo and Sudan how colonialism has made our world a rotten place to live in.
The South African apartheid collapsed due to boycotts. We have to do everything in our power to stop Israel's hegemony. Even talking to a group of friends about Palestine changes the status quo. There's no world where we can live peacefully if Israel accomplishes their goals.
Keep yourself updated and share Palestinian voices. Muna El-Kurd said every tweet is like a treasure to them, because their voices are repressed on social media and even on this very app. Make it your action item to share something about the Palestinian plight everyday. Here are some resources:
Al Jazeera, Anadolu Agency, Mondoweiss
Boycott Divest Sanction Movement
Palestinian Youth Movement is organizing protests and direct action against weapons factories across the US
Mohammed El-Kurd (twitter / instagram)
Muhammad Shehada (twitter)
Motaz Azaiza (instagram) - reporting directly from Gaza.
Hind Khudary - reporting directly from Gaza. Her husband and daughter moved South to run from the tanks but she stayed behind to record the genocide. The least we can do is not let her calls fall on deaf ears.
You can participate in boycotts wherever you are in the world, through BDS guidelines. Don't be overwhelmed by gigantic boycott lists. BDS explicitly targets only a few brands which have bigger impact. You can stop consuming from as many brands as you want, though, and by all means feel free to give a 1 star review to McDonalds, Papa John, Pizza Hut, Burger King and Starbucks. Right now, they are focusing on boycotting the following:
Carrefour, HP, Puma, Sabra, Sodastream, Ahava cosmetics, Israeli fruits and vegetables
Push for a cultural boycott - pressure your favorite artist to speak out on Palestine and cancel any upcoming performances on occupied territory (Lorde cancelled her gig in Israel because of this. It works.)
If you can, participate in direct action or donate.
Palestine Action works to shut down Israeli weapons factories in the UK and USA, and have successfully shut down one of their firms in London.Some of the activists are going on trial and are calling for mobilizing on court.
Palestinian Youth Movement is organizing direct actions to stop the shipping of wars to Israel. Follow them.
Educate yourself. Read into Palestinian history and the occupation. You can't common sense people out of decades of propaganda. If your arguments crumble when a zionist brings up the "disengagement of Gaza", you have to learn more.
Read Decolonize Palestine. They have 15 minute reads that concisely explain the occupation (and its colonial roots) and debunk popular myths, including pinkwashing.
Read on Palestine. Here's an amazing masterpost.
Verso Book Club is giving out free books on Palestine (I personally downloaded Ten Myths about Israel by Ilan Pappe. If you still believe in the two states solution, this book by an Israeli professor debunks it).
Call your representatives. The Labour Party in the UK had an emergency meeting after several councilors threatened to resign if they didn't condemn Israeli war crimes. Calling to show your complaints works, even more if you live in a country that funds genocide.
FOR PEOPLE IN THE USA: USCPR has developed this toolkit for calls, here's a document that autosends emails to your representatives and here's a toolkit by Ceasefire in Gaza NOW!
FOR PEOPLE IN EUROPE: Here's a toolkit by Voices in Europe for Peace targeting the European Parliament and one specific for almost all countries in Europe, including Germany, Ireland, Poland, Denmark, Sweden, Netherlands, Greece, Norway, Italy, Portugal, Spain, Finland, Austria, Belgium Romania and Ukraine
FOR PEOPLE IN THE UK: Friends of Al-Aqsa UK and Palestine Solidarity UK have made toolkits for calls and emails
FOR PEOPLE IN AUSTRALIA: Here's a toolkit by Stand With Palestine
FOR PEOPLE IN CANADA: Here's a toolkit by Indepent Jewish Voices for Canada
Join a protest. Here's a constantly updating list of protests:
Global calendar
Another global calendar (go to the instragram of the organizers to confirm your protest)
USA calendar
Australia calendar
Feel free to add more.
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â CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; çŚĺ
summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.
You never did go pro.
Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development.Â
The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:
What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?
How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun?Â
You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago.Â
Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide.Â
You see it differently.
Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions â anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest.Â
You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent.Â
You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence.Â
Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.
What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time?Â
Or, bright and sunny Tao â a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education â whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown.Â
He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care.Â
He isn't a villain-in-training.Â
None of them are.
It's important to teach them that young â and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children.Â
So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents.Â
You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet.Â
After all, you never did go pro.
And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.
He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it.Â
It was the beginning of the end, then.
His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce â no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class?Â
Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.
It drags him back to reality â to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes.Â
Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant â one of the HoH's lead tour guides â excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:
Endeavor's wing.Â
There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now.Â
Very different.
Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."
"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it'sâ"
"Oh, ho, no way!"
Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again.Â
"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'â"
"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."
It is you.
You look... good.Â
Happy.Â
You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time.Â
For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.
It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto.Â
"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chanceâ"
Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass â his favorite pastime â and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.
Shoto is on the move.
The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.
Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes â and the eyes of the tour guide â widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero.Â
Shoto Todoroki.
He looks... good.Â
Really good.
He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders â it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.
For a second, you're seventeen again.
It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.
They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.
There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.
"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever."Â
You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously â like she was caught doing something naughty â introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk.Â
Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" â and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher.Â
"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"
"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember.Â
"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"
"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.
Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing.Â
"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk â Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"
There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle.Â
You're using him as a teaching moment.
Shoto's smile is soft.
You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."
"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"
Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute.Â
You're different than he remembers â but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all.Â
He hangs back.Â
He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto.Â
...It's kinda cute.
Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was.Â
Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation â about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds.Â
And he deserves to be happy.
Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation â a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.
You hang back.Â
Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.
"Hey."
"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."
"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."
His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."
You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.
Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."
"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."
"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."
Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose.Â
And the underdog in question can read a room.Â
This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.
"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screenâ"
You jump.
How long has he even been there?
"Hi, Dâ Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.
"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youthsâ"
"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."
Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.
"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for himâ"
"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."
Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time â and a lot of therapy â but we've all managed to come out the other side."
"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."
There's a long silence, then â and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions.Â
It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks â and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment.Â
"Would you like toâ"
"Are you freeâ"
Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.
"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"
You make yourself available.
Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night â winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki â yes, stop screaming, Todoroki â is picking you up at 8pm.
Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell.Â
From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.
"Seriously, Sho'? AÂ suit?"Â
"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy."Â
"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.
"Father was the one who suggested it."
"...That old dog."Â
Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"
The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.
Shoto winces.
"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.
"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."
Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.
"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.
Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya.Â
"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."
"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excitedâ"
"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlierâ"
"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."
"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?"Â
"She wants me to call her afterâ"
"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disapâ"
Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.
"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."
Shoto lets out a long breath.Â
Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kindâ"
"âHold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, tooâ"
It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "âAnd do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."
Easier said than done.
You never did go pro.
Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto â but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates.Â
You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.
He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful.Â
Fuyumi's contribution.Â
You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.
The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back.Â
It feels like you've been lit on fire.
You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine.Â
Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory â it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables.Â
The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.
You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you.Â
For a second, you're seventeen again.
Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then â somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A.Â
You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks.Â
A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night â a rarity he was even drinking at all â and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass.Â
He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy.Â
"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."
Graduation day was the last time you saw him.Â
Until this morning, that is.Â
You smile into your drink.Â
"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.
His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.
"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."
Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."
He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."
The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."
You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.
He notices.
Shoto's face feels hot.Â
He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school.Â
Shoto's always been a good listener â but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.
Now, less so.Â
It's adorable.Â
Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home.Â
While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto â his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it.Â
Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.
His silence is calming â and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you.Â
His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss.Â
But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen.Â
The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said â the car door, too â and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you.Â
It's sweet.
Really sweet.Â
The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation â you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit.Â
"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.
His hand settles there.Â
Your stomach does a flip.Â
You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure.Â
Keep it together.Â
He isn't seventeen.
He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years.Â
...Right?
Green light.
His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment.Â
The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park.Â
It makes your chest ache.
Shoto swallows thickly.
Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.
He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.
What if you don't want to kiss him?
When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?
Why does he feel like he's going to die?
"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly.Â
"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."
You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."
"Iâ" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."
"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"
Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."
"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weirdâ"
"I'm not being weirdâ"
"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.
"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."
His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest.Â
It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?
Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now.Â
"You don't need to be."
Shoto's breath catches at that.
So, he makes his move.
His hand comes first â his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment.Â
Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.
Your eyes flit up his wrist â a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone.Â
He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful.Â
The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit. Â
Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together.Â
Then, his eyes stick to your lips.
"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face.Â
You never did go pro.
But, Shoto did.Â
It shows.Â
Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flowerâ
His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory.Â
It's better than anything he could have ever imagined.Â
And then you whimper.Â
It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again â this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching.Â
You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.
He needs to slow down.
He is not having sex with you in his father's car.
That's shameless.
He needs to slow down.
He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up.Â
Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him.Â
You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.
It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that?Â
He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect.Â
"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."
A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person.Â
"Are you serious?"
"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.
"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"
Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face.Â
"Are you free this weekend?"
"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."
"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"
"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."
Shoto scoffs.Â
Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:
"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."
Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.
Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend.Â
Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki.Â
#todoroki x reader#shoto todoroki x reader#shoto todoroki x you#shoto todoroki imagine#mha imagine#bnha imagine#shoto x reader#shoto x y/n#touya todoroki#i LOOOOVE HERO TOUYA#HE IS SOOOOOO CUNTY
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the team noticing how comfortable shy bau reader has gotten with hotch and they all find it very sweet
Slipping Into the Light warnings: brief mentions of cannon typical violence paring: hotch x shy!bau!reader
||||
The bullpen is its usual brand of chaosâagents moving between desks, papers shuffling, the hum of conversation filling the air. Itâs comfortable, routine. Nothing out of the ordinary.
At least, until she walks in.
The team barely notices at first, too caught up in their morning tasks, but thenâthen, something odd happens.
She walks past Hotchâs office, and without a second of hesitation, she reaches out and knocks twice against the open doorframeâlight, quick, easy.
Hotch glances up from his paperwork, and instead of his usual curt nod or unreadable gaze, something soft crosses his face. Itâs barely there, a flicker of warmth before he schools his expression. But itâs real.
And thenâthenâshe says, âMorning, Hotch,â like itâs nothing. Like itâs normal.
Not Good morning, sir. Not a quiet, hesitant nod in passing. No, just Morning, Hotch, said with the kind of familiarity that suggests it isnât the first time.
He returns it with a quiet, âMorning,â like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
And thatâs when the team starts paying attention.
Morganâs head tilts up first, brows knitting together. Emily, mid-sip of her coffee, pauses with the cup just short of her lips. Reid frowns at the exchange like itâs a puzzle he hasnât figured out yet. Rossi just smirks.
The door to Hotchâs office closes a moment later, and she moves toward her desk, entirely unaware of the looks being exchanged across the room.
Emily recovers first, setting her coffee down and leaning toward Morgan. âMorning, Hotch?â
Morgan shakes his head, almost in disbelief. âThatâs not normal, right? She doesnât talk to anyone like that. Not even me,â he points out, sounding offended. âAnd Iâve been workinâ on breaking her out of that shell for years.â
Reid blinks, clearly running through past conversations in his head. âSheâs never greeted me like that before, either.â
âOr me,â Emily agrees, before throwing a glance toward Rossi. âYou?â
Rossi just takes a slow sip of his coffee, unreadable.
âSomethingâs up,â Morgan mutters.
Emily hums in agreement. âSomething.â
||||
It happens again the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Each time, itâs something smallâsomething easily overlooked if you arenât paying attention. But they are paying attention. Because once profilers start noticing something, itâs impossible to stop. It becomes a game between Emily and Morgan, noticing the small ways you've warmed up to Hotch.
Easier smiles, passing him in the plane when you would usually wait for a larger gap, conversations continued when he walks into the room rather than screeching to a halt like before.
It's nothing massive to the untrained eye but, well, they are trained to notice breaks in patterns, to see when things change and how they do.
Like today.
Hotch walks into the bullpen, coffee in hand, heading straight for his office. Nothing unusual there. But as he passes by her desk, she glances up from her file, eyes flicking toward his cup.
âDid you eat?â she asks, casuallyâtoo casually.
Hotch slows just a fraction, just enough for the team to catch it. âNot yet.â
She hums, glancing at the time. âBagel shopâs still open. They have fresh bread until nine.â
âIâll be fine,â Hotch assures, but he lingers. Just for a second.
She gives him a pointed look before returning to her file. âMm.â
Thatâs it. Thatâs the whole exchange. And yetâ
Morgan immediately turns toward Emily. âYou seein' this?â
Emily nods, hiding a grin behind her coffee. âOh, Iâm seeing it.â
Reid, who has been diligently pretending not to be part of this entire conspiracy, clears his throat. âI mean, she could just be concerned about his health?â
Morgan gives him a look as Emily snorts. âSheâs never told us to eat.â
âSheâs never told anyone to eat,â Morgan mutters, shaking his head. âExcept Hotch, apparently.â
Spencer frowns slightly, watching as Hotch disappears into his office. Then he looks back at her, catching the way she glances one more time at the closed door before focusing back on her file.
âOkay,â he admits. âThat was weird.â
âThank you,â Emily says, throwing her hands up.
Morgan shakes his head, settling back into his chair. âIâm just saying, thatâs not nothing.â
||||
It happens again later that evening, this time in the briefing room.
Theyâve wrapped the case, a particularly grueling one, and now itâs the slow process of debriefing, paperwork, and waiting for the jet to be refueled in case they actually need it tomorrow - they've been able to help over the phone today but everyone is certain tomorrow will bring a tragedy the necessitates travel tomorrow or the day after. The team is scattered around the tableâsome flipping through reports, others making half-hearted attempts at conversation, everyone running on fumes.
She's tucked into the corner of the room, curled over a file, her pen tapping absently against the paper. If she stops moving, sheâll fall asleep. And she doesnât have the energy to be embarrassed about that.
The door opens, and Hotch steps in. The conversation dulls, but only slightlyâitâs always like that when he walks in. Not because theyâre afraid of him, but because his presence naturally shifts the atmosphere.
She barely looks up. âCoffee?â she asks, already moving to stand.
Hotch shakes his head. âI got it.â
She pauses, then settles back down, flipping a page. âOkay.â
Thatâs it. No hesitation, no stammering, no overthinking the fact that she offered in the first place. Just easy.
And that is very interesting.
Morgan narrows his eyes slightly, tilting his head as he watches her. Itâs subtleâprobably something even she hasnât noticedâbut thereâs no way in hell heâs imagining it now.
The old her wouldâve never spoken to Hotch without being spoken to first. Wouldâve never offered him something so casually, so easily, like it was second nature.
And Hotchâ
Hotch, who usually doesnât acknowledge small gestures like this, doesnât even bat an eye. Doesnât make a comment, doesnât pause, doesnât do anything other than react without thought.
Which means this isnât the first time itâs happened.
Emily catches Morganâs look and raises a brow. You seeing this?
Morgan smirks. Oh, Iâm seeing it.
They share a knowing glance, and thenâjust to test the watersâEmily leans forward, setting her elbows on the table.
âHey, Hotch,â she says casually. âSince youâre already up, can you grab me one too?â
Hotch glances at her, then at Morgan, who looks far too interested in his answer. He exhales sharply, amused but unamused, and turns toward the door.
âNo.â
Morgan barks out a laugh, and Emily grins, triumphant.
And in the corner, she remains blissfully unaware, still flipping through her file, still tapping her pen, still completely oblivious to the way the entire team is slowly piecing this together.
||||
The next moment happens in Rossiâs office.
She hadnât meant to end up here. Itâs late, past the point of pretending sheâs being productive, but she told herself sheâd finish one more report before heading home. Somewhere along the way, sheâd wandered, coffee in hand, and now sheâs leaning against Rossiâs doorway, blinking sluggishly at him as he flips through a leather-bound journal.
âLong day?â he asks without looking up.
She nods, then remembers heâs not looking. âYeah.â
He hums, setting the journal aside. âAnd yet, youâre still here instead of going home. Or is it that you donât want to go home?â
âI was going home,â she argues, though they both know sheâs lying. âI just⌠got distracted.â
Rossi leans back, eyeing her with the kind of gaze that makes it impossible to lie. Not that sheâs in the habit of lying to himâespecially since heâs usually at least five steps ahead of her anyway.
She glances at the clock. 10:42 PM. She exhales through her nose, rolling her lips together.
âYou should get some sleep,â he says, but thereâs something else in his tone. A lilt. An implication.
She squints at him. âWhy do you sound like that?â
âLike what?â
âLike you know something.â
Rossi shrugs. âI know a lot of things.â
âRight,â she mutters, narrowing her eyes.
Heâs enjoying this. That much is clear. She doesnât know what heâs enjoying yet, but sheâs sure heâll make her figure it out on her own.
And thenâ
âOh.â She blinks. âWait. No.â
Rossi smirks.
Her stomach flips. âYou know?â
He doesnât answer, just reaches for his glass of scotch, taking a slow, measured sip.
She feels heat creep up her neck, spreading across her cheeks.
He knows.
Which means Hotch told him.
Which means Hotch talked about it.
Which meansâ
âRelax,â Rossi drawls, interrupting her impending spiral. âItâs not like he gave me a play-by-play. He just mentioned you two had dinner.â He pauses, then grins. âAnd that it went well.â
She shifts her weight, suddenly too aware of herself. Oh.
Itâs not that she thought Hotch would keep it a secret forever, but hearing that heâd told Rossi, that heâd spoken about it in any capacity, makes it feelâŚÂ real.
More real than the way her heart stuttered when Hotch had smoothed a hand over hers at dinner. More real than the quiet, steady confidence heâd had in their them-ness while she was still fumbling over the weight of it.
Rossi watches her carefully, still amused but softer now. âYou okay?â
She nods, pressing her lips together. âYeah. I justââ
She gestures vaguely, words failing her.
He chuckles, shaking his head. âGo home,â he says again, more insistent this time. âAnd tell Aaron I said youâre welcome.â
She sputters, eyes wide, and Rossi just laughs, already reaching for his journal again.
She doesnât know if sheâs embarrassed or endeared, but as she slips out of his office, warmth tucked into her chest, she thinks maybe itâs a little bit of both.
||||
The moment is small. Blink and youâd miss it.
Hotch is standing by the coffee maker in the break room, pouring himself a cup. She wanders in a moment later, her movements unhurried, her posture looser than usual. The case theyâd just wrapped had been rough, but the team was back home, safe, and exhaustion was settling in around all of them like a thick fog.
She steps beside him, reaching for the sugar, only to find his hand already on it.
She blinks up at him.
Hotch smirks, just barely. âYou were going to put in two scoops.â
Her eyes narrow. âAnd?â
He hands her the spoon, ignoring the way the corner of his mouth twitches. âAnd you always complain that it makes the coffee too sweet.â
She exhales, glaring at him for being right, and scoops one spoonful instead.
âYou should get your own coffee if youâre just going to judge mine.â
âI was here first,â he reminds her. "Making my own coffee, not yours."
âI was letting you make mine for me.â
The words are out before she fully registers them, her lips parting slightly at the realization.
Across the room, Morgan and JJ freeze mid-conversation.
Hotch stills, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the handle of his mug. He watches her, slow and appraising, and thenâ
He leans in. Not much, but just enough. âYou've got me there. Here." Slowly, he places the cup in her hand, a spoonful and a half of sugar poured in, slowly curling her fingers around the mug for her. Pleased at the reaction he so easily brings forth.
And then he walks out, leaving her standing there, fingers curled around her coffee cup, ears burning.
Morgan lets out a low whistle. âDamn.â
JJ, still wide-eyed, elbows him. âDonât make it a thing.â
âOh, itâs already a thing,â Morgan mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. âDid you see that? She flirted back.â
JJ presses her lips together, fighting a grin. "Still, not our business." She insists, despite the way warmth curls in her stomach at the thought.
||||
The jet hums beneath them, a steady, soothing vibration. The case had been long and brutal, but it was over, and they were finally on their way home. The team was scattered around the cabinâMorgan and Emily playing cards, JJ half-dozing with her headphones in, and Rossi nursing a glass of something dark.
And her?
She was sitting stiffly in her seat, her arm propped awkwardly against her side, doing a terrible job of pretending she wasnât in pain.
The gash on her ribs wasnât deep. Sheâd already been patched up at the local hospitalâstitched, bandaged, and thoroughly instructed to take it easy. But âtake it easyâ apparently translated to everyone treating her like she was made of glass.
Emily had tried to grab her go-bag for her earlier.
Morgan had asked if she wanted him to get her a drinkâwhen had he ever done that before?
Even Spencer had hovered like a worried sibling, his gaze flicking toward her every few minutes like he was expecting her to keel over.
She could deal with that. What was harder to deal with was the fact that Hotch hadnât said anything at all.
Not until now.
âYou need to rest,â his voice cut through the low hum of conversation, steady, sure.
She looked up from her untouched cup of tea to see him standing in front of her, arms crossed, expression unreadable to anyone who wasnât her.
She sighed. âIâm fine, Hotch.â
âYouâre in pain,â he countered, not unkindly.
âIâm always in pain after a case,â she pointed out, arching a brow.
His lips twitched in a way that was almostâbut not quiteâa smile. âThis is different.â
He knew. Of course, he knew. She should have expected that.
Her shoulders eased just a little. âI just donât want everyone fussing over me.â
âTheyâre only fussing because they care.â
She couldnât argue with that. But still, she rolled her eyes, shifting slightly in her seatâonly to wince when the movement tugged at her stitches.
Hotch sighed and sat beside her. âCase in point.â
She huffed, tilting her head back against the headrest, aware of the small, knowing glances being exchanged around the cabin. No one said a word, but she felt itâthe way the energy shifted.
Like they were all watching something unfold, something inevitable.
She kept her gaze on Hotch. âYouâre not going to let this go, are you?â
âNot a chance.â His voice softened just enough to make her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with her injury.
And despite the pain, despite the exhaustion pressing down on her limbs, she found herself... warm.
Because he knew her. Knew when to push and when to step back. Knew how much she hated being coddled, but also knew exactly when she needed to be told to stop pretending she was fine.
It wasnât suffocating.
It was steady.
It was him.
||||
The bar was too loud, too dimly lit, too full of bodies swaying and pressing together in a way that made her head ache.
Sheâd never wanted to come, not really. But Morgan had a way of making things sound like a good idea until she was already in them, halfway slumped over a sticky bar top, nursing a drink she barely had the energy to lift.
"You look like youâre about to pass out," Morgan teased, leaning his elbow against the bar beside her.
"Probably," she murmured, not even pretending to refute it.
She was wrecked. The case had been long and grueling, every hour stretching into the next with little more than caffeine and sheer willpower keeping her upright. When Morgan had invited her out, she hadnât been sure why she said yesâmaybe just to avoid thinking too hard about things.
But now, with exhaustion weighing her down and the music pounding too loudly in her ears, she wished sheâd just gone home.
Morgan nudged her shoulder. "Alright, lightweight. You eat anything today?"
The question barely registered before she answered, too tired to filter her words. "I had dinner in Hotch's office."
It was out before she could stop it.
Morgan blinked. Then grinned.
"Ohhhh," he drawled, sitting up straighter, eyes lighting up in that way that meant trouble. "Thatâs why you two have been acting different lately."
She frowned, sluggish. "What?"
"Come on, donât play coy now. Dinner? With Hotch? In his office? Thatâs why youâve been all up in each otherâs space. I knew something was up!"
Oh, God.
Her stomach plummeted, warmth flooding her face so fast she thought she might actually faint. "Morgan," she hissed, suddenly far more awake. "IâI didnât meanâ"
"You totally meant," he cut in, smug as hell.
She buried her face in her hands, groaning. "You tricked me into coming here. Iâm too tired for this interrogation."
"Youâre too tired to lie," he countered, tapping the bar. "And thatâs the best time to get the truth."
She let out a long, slow breath, willing herself to cool down, to deflect, to not make this worse. But Morgan was already grinning like heâd won something, like he had all the confirmation he needed.
He leaned in conspiratorially. "So, how was dinner?"
She didnât even bother answering. Instead, she waved down the bartender. "Two shots, please."
Morgan laughed, clinking his glass against hers when they arrived. "Now that is an answer."
||||
"I'm so sorry," she groans, squeezing her eyes closed against the admission.
Hotch has the nerve to laugh, covering his face with his hand. Red peers up and over his palm where it covers his expression. "I'm not mad," he insists, "just very amused."
"How is this amusing?" She asks, exasperated, turning to pace across his office.
"I've been opening flirting with you for months, almost a year. It's been a running joke, darling. It's amusing because you're only just now getting the heat for it. For reciprocating it."
"Reciprocating!" She exclaims, injust.
"Oh, are you not? Should I clear my calendar for tomorrow, then, cook for just me and Jack?"
She scowls, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "No," she pouts, voice near a whine. "I just thought you didn't want the team to know anything was up."
"Oh, so something's up between us now?"
Leave it to him to use this moment to tease you, of course. When she first joined the team, Hotch was broody and withdrawn. It hadn't taken long for her to see his exterior crack, the flaws shining beneath.
He appears as a rule follower, a stickler for what's right and just, but he constantly bends for his team, for the victims, for children. And now, for you, he bends so far from that rigid form people perceive him in she has difficulties seeing his stiffness anymore.
Still, moments like these shock her. Aaron Hotchner is a flirt and an expert one at that.
"Maybe!" She concedes, too flustered to wiggle her way out of his trap. "That's not the point."
"I think that's exactly the point." Hotch catches her wrist, halting her pacing. "But it's okay. I don't mind the others knowing that 'something's up' with us."
"Oh my god," she groans, heat in her face nearly as brilliant as her smile.
#x reader#bubbs.writes#criminal minds#cm#aaron hotchner#hotch x reader#Aaron hotch x reader#Aaron hotchner x reader#Aaron hotchner fluff#criminal minds x reader#fluff#shy!reader#fem!reader#Aaron hotchner x shy!reader#shy!bau!reader
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đŚđđđđŚđ¨đŤđŠđĄđ¨đŹđ˘đŹ | đŹ.đŤđđ˘đ
đŹđŽđŚđŚđđŤđ˛: each of youâespecially spencerâknew that the words let's split up never ended well. yet, they still escaped his lips, something he would regret for the rest of his days. now, held captive, you must decide whether to place your hope in being rescued by the team or to start a psychological game with the unsub and escape on your own.
đđ¨đ§đđđ§đđŹ/đđ°: spencer reid x bau!female reader, kidnapping, psychological and physical torture, captivity, bloodletting, reader attempting to commit s (to end their suffering), split narrative, performing a ritual, mention of sexual abuse, everything being broadcasted live by the unsub, incestous relationship, sad but not tragic ending
đ°đ¨đŤđđŹ: 14.8 k
đ/đ§: i admit, thereâs not much romance in this, and yep, probably the freakiest shit i've written so far. a slightly modified request from an anonâreally hope you like it. i hate how i described this investigation. please overlook the absolute lack of logic at times (especially in the beginning) (in my defense i've never kidnapped anyone lol). oh, almost forgot, happy valentine's day (to those who celebrate) <
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/ËmetÉËmÉËfÉsÉŞs/ a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one
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You took a step back when your friend threw herself at you with a joyful squeal, wrapping her arms around your neck.
"Happy, happy birthday, my dearest!" Penelope exclaimed.
"My dearest?" you echoed, raising an eyebrow. A wide smile stretched across your face as you remained in her firm embrace, breathing in the pleasant scent of her sweet perfume. "Wait till Morgan hears that..."
"I heard," a deep voice sounded behind you. "But just for today, I'll let it slide. Happy birthday, kid."
Turning around, you spotted Morgan and Prentiss stepping out of the office elevator, each holding an identical cup of coffee. Both had smiles on their faces, and both pulled you into tight hugs while Garcia and Rossi were providing a cappella, completely off-key performance of Happy BirthdayÂ
In seconds your hands were fullâtwo gift bags and a box, and you hadnât even managed to take off your coat yet. You thanked everyone with genuine warmth and gratitude but didnât want to drag out the moment too long. It was still morning before work officially started, and you were already running later than usual. JJ had practically begged you to stop by first thing because your godson, Henry, simply couldnât wait to give you his gift and wish you a happy birthday.
Either way, you had already been hugged by everyoneâexceptâŚ
âCome back in five minutes,â Hotch instructed the two of you, nodding at the rest of the team. âWe need to get started on the case.â
And just like that, you and Reid were left aloneâa surprisingly thoughtful decision from your boss. You were just friends, of course. Just like the rest of the teamâŚokay, maybe a little closer than that.
âHere, let me help,â he offered, watching with a soft smile as Garciaâs massive gift nearly slipped from your grasp. True to his word, he carefully took it from you and placed it on your desk with the kind of caution usually reserved for handling evidence.
âAre you doing this because youâre an altruist,â you teased, âor because youâre afraid Pen would murder you if her present got damaged on your watch?â
âWhy do you assume sheâd only murder me?â
âBecause I have a birthday,â you said matter-of-factly. âItâs weird to hurt someone on their birthday, donât you think? Pretty sure even savoir vivre has something to say about that.â
Reid let out a short laugh, but whatever he was about to say next seemed to get caught in his throat. Under different circumstances, he probably would have kept talking, but time wasnât on your side. In five minutes, youâd both have to return to a world filled with kidnappings, murders, and violence.
âSoâŚâ he started, briefly glancing down at his shoes before slowly reaching into the pocket of his blazer. âOhâfirst and foremost, happy birthday. I know youâve already heard that about a hundred times today, butâŚâ
âBut not from you.â
âHappy birthday,â he exhaled, almost nervously.
You frowned slightly, wondering why he seemed so worked up over this.
âSorry, I justâŚI spent a lot of time trying to figure out if youâd like this gift, and I really wanted to see your reaction. So much so that I kind of forgot to actually say happy birthday.â He let out a nervous chuckle. âAnyway, I hope thatâŚâ
He stopped short at the look on your face.
For a moment, you just stared at what he was holding, lips slightly parted, completely silent. Then, slowly, a delighted smile spread across your face.
âYou hope Iâll like it?â you repeated, shaking your head in disbelief. âTickets to Heathers? Spence, of course I love it! You know how much I love musicals, and oh my god, I wanted to see this so badlyâŚâ
You opened your arms to hug himâbut then hesitated.
You knew he was one of those people who tended to avoid physical contact, and his comfort had always been your priority. Even after all these years of friendship, you had only truly hugged a handful of times. And by truly, you meant something more than the brief, passing embraces that came with birthdays or other celebrations.
Spencer caught your gaze, his lips parting slightly as if he was about to say something. But instead, he simply gave a small nodâand wrapped his arms around you. The corners of your lips lifted againâthough, honestly, you werenât sure theyâd ever really dropped. Not that he could see it, not with your hands resting against the fabric of his sweater and his chin lightly hovering over your shoulder.
You let out a soft sigh as you pulled away, reluctant but aware that time was chasing you both. Besides, you had something to show him.
There was a quiet tension in the air as you slowly stepped back, just barely out of his arms. Spencer watched intently as you reached into your coat pocket.
âHenry gave me this this morning,â you said, handing him the homemade card your godson had made. A small, knowing smile tugged at Spencerâs lips even before he took it, his gaze dropping to the stick figure that was supposed to be you. âHe said Iâm his favorite aunt in the whole world,â you added, a playful lilt in your voice. âBut Iâm not supposed to tell Uncle Spence because it might make him sad.â
He placed a dramatic hand on his chest, his eyes flickering between the card and you, back and forth.
"That would have really hurt my feelings," he began, "if he hadn't told me the exact same thing on my birthday."
You burst into laughter. With a small nod, you gestured that you should head back to the rest of the team. Walking side by side, you made your way in the right direction.
"Should we tell JJ that there's a little liar growing up under her roof?" you asked along the way.
"Well, the lying phase is actually a natural stage of child development," he mused. "A lack of distinction between fantasy and reality, a desire to please adultsâthere are various reasons. So I think we can spare her that particular worry. At least he's empathetic."
You had already reached the door to the briefing room, but before either of you could grab the handle, Spencer stepped forward slightly, stopping you in your tracks. You looked at him, a bit surprised by the gesture.
"And by the way..." he began, his tone drastically different from the one you'd been using just moments ago. You saw him swallow, carefully choosing his words. "Are...are you okay? The case we're working on...it seems to be affecting you a lot. You have dark circles under your eyes."
You had the urge to scoff defensively and sarcastically thank him for the compliment. You probably would have with anyone elseâbut with him, you never felt the need to hide your worries. It was easier to admit to them. Easier, but not easy.
You took a deep breath, lowering your gaze as you nodded.
"I just really want to catch these people," you admitted quietly, truthfully. "It's been going on for too long. They've hurt too many girls..." You clenched your eyes shut, avoiding his gaze, which was filled with concern. You nodded toward the door in front of you. "Come on."
He watched you for a brief moment before sighing and stepping aside to let you go first.
Soon all of you were seated around the long table, noses buried in the case files. Penelope was briefing you on a new discovery related to the case you were working onâthe one that, as Reid had noted, had been keeping you up at night. She kept her gaze averted from the image on the screen, never able to handle such sights well. And the body of a young woman, drained of every last drop of blood, was particularly disturbing.
"Just like in the previous cases, abandoned seven days after the abduction," she announced, clasping her hands at stomach level. "Iâve been tracking themâI mean, really staring at my screen for hours, even more than usualâbut our twins havenât streamed a single broadcast since then."
"We've entered the transition phase," Hotch said quietly, though his rough voice, as always, carried enough weight to reach even you and Reid, seated farthest from him. "Their ritual failed. They disposed of the body and now need time to prepare for the next one. Restocking supplies, medications, medical equipment."
"This is when we should strike," Prentiss said, leaning both elbows on the table. "They're out of their hideout, likely making transactions, meeting with suppliers. It's all illegal, of course, but the underground market, or at least part of it is under our surveillanceâŚ"
This case was difficult.
Usually, you followed a certain pattern. First, there was the crime. Then, piece by piece, you uncovered the missing fragments of a complex puzzle, eventually identifying the unsub. Or unsubs, as in this case. When dealing with an abduction, the final step was typically locating the victimâs holding site.
And that was exactly where you were stuckâon this fucking last stepâfor yet another week.
In the meantime, one of the unsubs had launched a career as a streamer, broadcasting their actionsâat least fragments of themâon the dark web. The streams started at irregular hours, lasted for inconsistent amounts of time, and seemed almost spontaneous. He had to believe that he would attract psychos like himself and his sisterâpeople who would be fascinated by the process.
As strange as it sounded, moving the crime online had actually filled you with a twisted sense of hope.
You thought it would make everything simple. Garcia would trace their location, or maybe, by watching the streams, youâd catch some clue that would lead you right to them.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
He only ever showed you that one roomâa space resembling a hospital ward that could have been anywhere. It could have been hidden in the basement of any house in the country, inside some abandoned warehouse, on a remote farm miles away from civilization. Anywhere.
The only thing that had changed was that now you could see the victims' faces. You could watch the hope drain from their eyes as they realized no one was coming to save them.
And that thought drove you to madness.
How you even uncovered their identities and names was an even more complicated story. It all started with an offhand theory Reid had muttered under his breathâone that no one had paid much attention to at first, but which later escalated into the truth.
You had already known there were two unsubs. Their names were Lavinia and Leon Schuylerâthirty-three-year-old twins. Well, technically, triplets.
Piecing together fragments of their lives, you discovered they had another sister, Lydia. The three of them had spent their childhood deeply bonded, drifting from one dysfunctional foster home to another. Since the third sibling wasnât involved in their crimes, you concluded she had recently died. That theory was reinforced by the fact that their victims all resembled herâand that during the streams, Leon addressed them by one name Lydia.
And, once again, through analysis, you realized what all of this was leading to.
The twins believed they could bring their sister back to life.
You had all of this. But until you had their location, it was as if you had nothing at all.
"Prentiss is right," Derek announced, his hand tightening around his coffee cup. "Our best chance is to track them now, while theyâre searching for their next victim. Because we all agree there will be another, right?"
He wasnât looking for confirmationâeveryone knew cases like this didnât just end.
Hotch nodded thoughtfully. "Thatâs our job for today," he began. "Not just todayâwe keep looking until we find them. We need to reach out to our informants, track down their supplier for drugs and medical equipment. And we need to pinpoint the location where the transaction might take place."
With a quiet sigh, you rubbed your forehead, fully aware that the next few hours would be pure informational chaos. But you were completely prepared to dive into itâanything to finally bring this case, the one that had been keeping you up at night, to an end.
In a perfect scenario, that would happen before another victim was taken.
âď¸
"Guess this isnât how you planned to spend your birthday evening?" Reid asked.
With your hands resting on the steering wheel, you gave a small shrug. He might not have even seen the gesture in the dimly lit car, the empty road ahead reflecting the brief flashes of headlights cutting through the night.
"I wasn't in the mood to celebrate anyway," you admitted.
Under different circumstances, you might have let your teammates drag you to a bar or invited them over, picking up a cheap cake from the first bakery you passed on the way home. But from the moment you came across the information about a human blood sale taking place that night in an abandoned ruinâonce a shopping mallâyou all knew there would be no chance to catch your breath anytime soon.
You were almost certain that the twins would be one of the parties involved in the transaction.
At first, it filled you with doubt. Human blood? Why would they need to buy it when they were kidnapping all these women for that very purpose? Every body had been drained of itâwhatever ritual they believed they were performing revolved entirely around blood.
"Maybe it's a form of experimentation," Reid had tried to explain a few hours earlier at the office, his furrowed gaze fixed on the board cluttered with all the data you'd been compiling. He paused, thinking. "Our unsubs are deeply delusional. They believe their actions will bring their sister back to life. So far, they've tried twice and failed. But instead of admitting that what they're doing is utterly irrational and illogicalâbecause, of course, a blood transfusion into a dead body won't resurrect itâthey'd rather blame the process itself, look for errors in their methods. Buying blood allows them to practice, to refine their approach without wasting what they truly desireâthe blood of their victims."
"Actually, the fact that I'll finally get to see Heathers soon totally makes up for having to do... this on my birthday," you added after a moment of silence, gesturing toward your bulletproof vest.
Spencer didnât respondâhe was listening intently to Hotchâs voice coming through the car radio. A brief summary of what was unfolding at the ambush site.
You had your doubts about it, ones you kept to yourself. This was your best shot; you had to believe it would work. There hadnât been enough time to prepare. You didnât even have up-to-date blueprints of the place.
The abandoned building was in such a state of decay that most people driving past probably had no idea it had once been a shopping mall. The floor was coated in dust and shards of shattered storefront glass. Water from a leaking roof had seeped into the walls, leaving behind dark stains. Plastic tables from the long-defunct food court lay overturned and filthy. From what youâd managed to gather, a lot of people from the local underworldâmostly dealersâhad passed through here at least once in their careers.
You didnât feel that you were properly prepared, nor did you like your role in all of this. Your job was to circle the area in an unmarked car, providing backup in case your unsub somehow managed to slip away. That meant you had no direct view of the ambush and had to rely entirely on the descriptions and updates from your teammates. So far, though, no one had shown up.
"Hm, Spence?" you suddenly said into the space between you, a little uncertain. You kept your eyes on the road as you drove, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw him tilt his head questioningly. You fell silent for a moment, trying to keep your tone casual. "I got two tickets from youâŚand, you know, I was wondering if maybe youâd want to, wellâŚsee it with me?"
You had no idea why you suddenly felt so tense. After all, you were friends, and friends went places together sometimes. Just the two of them.
"Are you sure?" Reid asked, making you shift in surprise. Was he going to say no? He quickly added, "I mean, I donât want you to think I expected you to invite me just because I gave you the ticketsâŚItâs a gift, and if youâd rather take someone else, a friend orâŚ"
"I want to take you," you interrupted, shifting your gaze to him.
For a moment, you just stared at each other, the glint of your eyes visible in the dark car. Spencer gave a small, gentle smile.
"She's here. Alone. We're waiting in position until she goes inside," Morgan's voice informed you.
You both straightened up, as if brought back down to earth. The sense of satisfaction, even excitement, that had grown within you after he agreed suddenly took a backseat. You remained silent, listening for further instructions. Sitting there in the car, you felt utterly useless. Sheâs here. Just Lavinia? What about her brother? Did she come alone? Had they suspected something was off and decided not to risk being caught together? Your breath caught in your chest for several long minutes, stretching into a quarter of an hour.
âFuckâÂ
Your grip on the steering wheel tightened.
âFuck! She got away. She was alone, and she still managed to slip throughâŚthere must be a hidden exit in the warehouseâŚâ
Reid brought the radio to his lips.
âWeâre nearbyâwe might be able to catch her. Did she come on foot? If so, her car could be parked somewhere close, maybe with her brother waiting. Sheâs probably heading straight there.â A faint crease formed between his brows, the mark of complete focus. âGarcia, you got me? Check the maps. Find anywhere they might have stoppedâŚâ
âHow the fuck did she slip through?â you hissed under your breath, your heart hammering against your bulletproof vest.
You werenât thereâyou had no right to judge. But for godâs sake, it was one woman against a trained FBI team!
âGuys, I think Iâve got something!â Penelopeâs tense whisper crackled through the radio. âAn abandoned parking lot, Iâll guide you thereâŚâ
You shoved your anger and confusion aside for the moment, yanking the wheel sharply as you turned toward the location Garcia had given. Cracks in the concrete had been overtaken by tufts of grass, something you noticed the moment you stepped out of the car, the door slamming shut behind you. It was nighttime, and darkness sprawled between the trees ahead, swallowing up what little visibility you had. The entire area was unlit, making it hard to see muchâexcept for the single parked car standing out in the gloom.
You and Reid didnât need to discuss your next move. A brief exchange of glances was enoughâa silent reminder to stay cautious. Weapons drawn, you approached the vehicle from opposite sides, moving in sync without a word. You expected to see the face of the man you had been staring at endlessly over the past few days of the investigation. You hoped to find him in the driverâs seat, to yank him out with a firm pull, slam him against the hood, and cuff his wrists as his face met the cold metal.
But the carâs interior was empty.
âDamn it,â you muttered, lowering your gun. âIs this even their car? Maybe we came here for nothingâŚâ
âLetâs find out,â Reid murmured, scanning the area cautiously before tugging on the surprisingly unlocked front door. His brows liftedâhe seemed just as surprised as you.
You circled around the vehicle to join him on the same side, resting a hand on the open door as you watched him pull on a pair of gloves. He reached for the glove compartment, likely expecting to find some documents inside.
âNothing,â he sighed after a long moment, disappointment lacing his voice.
He turned his face toward you, his tense jaw easing as he parted his lips to say something else.Â
Then everything was drowned out by the sharp crack of gunfire. One shot. Then another. Bullets slammed into the hood of the car with a metallic clang.
It all happened too fast.
You spun around, your flashlight beam cutting through the darknessâand landing on her. Blonde hair wild around her face, cheeks flushed from a desperate sprint.
Her gun was raised. Her finger tight on the trigger.
And you.
Most of your body shielded behind the open car door.
Most of it.
But not your head.
ThenâReidâs hands gripping your waist. Yanking you down.
The bullet shattered the window, glass exploding around you. Instinctively, you both ducked, heads low as sharp fragments rained down.
Curled up together, arms tangled, you locked eyesâboth of you breathing hard, lips parted in shock. It had only been seconds, but in his gaze, that raw flash of fear stretched endlessly.
Your fingers dug into the fabric of his vest, gripping onto the solid warmth of his body as the world tilted. The ringing in your ears was deafening, the gunshot echoing in your skull, stretching time unbearablyâlike a warning of the next shot to come.
But it didnât.
And when another second passed. Then anotherâ
You moved.
Ignoring Reidâs sharp inhale, his hand reaching to hold you back, you pushed up onto your feet. The flashlight beam managed to catch Lavinia for a brief moment before she disappeared entirely into the stretch of trees between you. You couldn't let her escape and make it back to their hideout, the one you had been struggling to locate for so long.
Following her trail, you shot across the parking lot like an arrow. Reid was a fraction slower to react, but he wasnât about to let you go after her alone. You could hear his footsteps behind you as you ran forward with determination, nearly tripping more than once over scattered rocks and branches along the forest path. You knew the flashlight was giving away your position, but you kept it on, scanning the surroundings for one of the unsubs.
It was as if she had vanished into thin air. As if the trees had swallowed her whole, even though the narrow, mostly overgrown path led only forward. You stopped, desperately looking around. You had no idea how far you had run, but your breath had become uneven, despite your excellent physical condition as an FBI agent. You couldn't accept the fact that she had slipped away from you twice, that she would soon meet up with her brother and together start planning the abduction of another victimâŚ
Reid's hands reached for yours to turn off the flashlight you were clutching. In one moment, his face was right in front of yours, perfectly lit with squinted eyes, and in the next, it disappeared. You could still sense his presence just in front of you, his heavy breathing when he spoke.
"We have to..." he started in a slightly hoarse, quiet voice.
"We have to catch her," you interrupted through clenched teeth. You pulled away, moving forward again, but then he grabbed your wrist tightly.
"This is pointless," he replied, to which you immediately snorted in response. You wanted to argue, but then his finger landed on your lips, stopping you from speaking. "It's pointless for both of us to chase her like this," he explained, finally calming his breath. "Give me the flashlight, I'll go on alone. You head back to the car and take the other route. The forest is small; she'll have to come out on the other side soon. And above all, notify the team about everything."
His hand pulled back only after he finished explaining the plan. At that point, you no longer had the desire to protest. Everything he said made sense, even though something deep inside you screamed that you shouldnât split up. You ignored it and forced yourself to nod. You handed him your flashlight and, after a last exchange of glances, you jogged back.
âSpence,â you turned suddenly after taking only a couple of steps. He also looked at you, clearly surprised. âBe careful.â
 Reid nodded.
âIâll be fine,â he reassured you. âBe careful too. Weâll meet up in a bit.â
It was only when you were running back to the car that you realized just how far your pursuit had gone. Anxiety clung to your back and didnât let go, even as you emerged from between the gnarly trees. You gripped your gun tightly and tucked it back into your waistband as you sat behind the wheel of your car, not even pausing to catch your breath. Without hesitation, you leaned over to the radio, but before you could get a word out, something flashed in the corner of your eye.
You froze at the sight of the gun aimed at the driverâs side window.
You didnât even fully turn to the side, you didnât wait. You knew what was expected of you. With slow, almost rigid movements, you opened the door and stepped outside. You dragged out the process, analyzing the stance of the man, the second of your unsub suspects. He wasnât a tall man, and after reviewing his history, you knew he had no significant experience with weapons or combat skills you had mastered long ago.
You almost smiled when you managed to use the element of surprise, grabbing his hand and redirecting the gun to the side. The shot rang out.
Leon Schuyler hissed with satisfaction, as if he had expected it all along. Then, before you could slam your knee into his groin, another sound escaped his lips. It was possible you had misheard it, but it sounded very much like a goodnight.
And after that, a sharp needle of a syringe pierced your neck with precision.
âď¸
It wasnât until morning that Spencer began to grasp what had actually happened.
And even then, not fully. He felt as if he were blankly staring at the script of a playâone whose plot and themes filled him with such deep discomfort that he wanted nothing more than to leave the theater without so much as murmuring an apology to the people he passed. Yet at the same time, his entire body was nailed to that rough seat, his head immobilized, unable to look away. He wanted to run onto the stage and shout, enough, to put an end to it allâbut he had no such power.
Who did?
The ambush for the twins had been set around midnight. About an hour later, they had both taken off after the fleeing woman. Then they had split up.
He didnât remember much after thatânot until five in the morning, when the entire team finally stopped scouring the area, clinging to the desperate hope that they might stumble upon the unsub by sheer accident. For the first time, Spencer felt so detached from the passage of time that even when he looked at his watch, the position of the hands made no real sense to him.
Hotch had announced that they needed to return to the office. To regroup. To think carefully about their next move.
They were the first to arriveâSpencer trailing behind Hotch more like a shadow than an actual participant in events. Others followed, one by one. Shaken. Furious. Devastated. But most of all, still bewildered, still unable to accept what had happened.
The sun had begun to rise, but even that seemed slower than usual, reluctant to banish the wretched darkness still clinging to these walls.
Spencer realized he was staring blankly out the window instead of using his so-called genius to find a solution. His mind felt empty, and the shame of it hit him like a physical blow, followed by something even more tangible.
A pair of hands shoved against his chest, forcing him backward.
âJJâŚâ
Derek was between them in an instant, stepping in to hold her back.
She froze, staring at her own hands as if surprised by what they had just done. Then she clenched them tightly across her chest, her gaze locked onto Spencer, raw and overflowing with emotion.
âHow could youâŚhow could you even suggest splitting up?â Her voice trembled, her head shaking in disbelief. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. She had been the last to arrive, the one who stayed out searching the longestâdesperate, frantic, chasing down any possible lead that could tell her where they had taken her best friend, the godmother of her son. âYou know this never ends well, Spencer. You know that. You should have known thatâŚâ
"Enough" Emily appeared beside them, gently wrapping her arms around JJâs shoulders.
JJ slumped, a single tear glistening in her eye for the first time.
"This isnât helping," Emily said softly. "We need to focus on finding her as quickly as possible. They⌠they donât kill their victims. Not right away. We still have a chanceâŚ"
"They donât kill their victims," JJ repeated blankly, wiping her eye with a stiff movement. She didnât look at any of them. "They just keep them locked up for days, drain their blood, and throw them away like garbage."
She took a breath.
"I need to see Penelope."
She tore herself from Emilyâs grasp and walked away without looking back.
Her words lingered, filling the space, stretching the silence into something unbearable.
Spencer felt like he might throw up if he even tried to swallow
By accident, his gaze met Emilyâs. Her brown eyes were surprisingly gentle.
He looked away.
Facing JJâs fury had been easierâit was just a fraction of the hatred he felt toward himself. But he couldnât stand any attempt to soften just how badly he had fucked up. He opened his mouth, maybe to apologize, before realizing just how meaningless it would be. What would his apology change? The only thing he could do at that moment was pull himself together and find her.
âI need to focus,â he said, his throat so dry the words barely made it out. He wanted to leave the room, to be back among the case files, to lose himself in analysis and overlapping thought patterns, to check everythingâliterally everything.
But then Penelope appeared in the doorway, the color drained completely from her face.
âGuys, you need to see thisâŚâ she choked out.
For a second, everyone frozeâuntil, led by Spencer, they rushed toward her office.
"Just like in the previous cases, I canât trace this transmission," Penelope explained frantically, nearly running beside him on her high heels. They burst into the dimly lit room full of screens, where JJ was already insideâmotionless. She was biting her thumb, staring at one of the monitors in a trance. "Theyâre using satellite internet, masking the signal, and constantly jumping between servers..."
Behind them, Prentiss let out a strangled sound.
The whole thing was being streamed via a handheld camera, mostly fixed on one pointâthe face of their teammate. It seemed to be set down on something, maybe a table, because if someone were holding it, the frame would be shaking.
Hotch stepped in as close as possible, his eyes shutting for a brief moment. He was reliving it all over again. Once more, one of them had been taken, and the rest were forced to watch, helpless.
But if Tobias Hankel had left behind anything remotely useful, it was that they knew how to handle this.
Silently, painfully, they all gathered around Garcia, absorbing the footageâno, the live feed.
"Is recording this really fucking necessary?" a woman's voice snappedâit belonged to Lavinia.
Spencer's mind flickered with the image of her faceâthose empty green eyes staring down the barrel of a gun aimed directly at them. Her brow furrowed. She had no visible injuries on her face. She was lying on a stark white bed, the kind that looked like it belonged in a hospital, covered by an equally white blanket up to her waist. She wasnât wearing a bulletproof vest anymoreâjust a loose nightgown that ended at her elbows. Her eyes were half-lidded, blinking slowlyâprobably just waking up.
"We already talked about this. It is," her brother replied. "What are you doing?"
Lavinia stepped into the frame. They werenât wearing masks, werenât bothering to hide their identitiesâfully aware that law enforcement already knew their names.
One of her hands clamped down on the captiveâs, pulling it toward her with little care before pricking the tip of one finger.
Confusion rippled through everyone watching. Spencer might have rushed to explain if not for the fact that he couldnât force a single word out. He couldnât even look away.
"I'm checking her blood type, what else?" she scoffed. "You kidnapped her without running it by me, and you should know that if this bitch has the wrong blood type, Iâm not wasting our time on her."
"Pay attention to the way they speak to each other," Hotch started, bracing a hand against the desk. "There's tensionâsome kind of conflictâŚ"
"Hotch," Spencer cut in, his eyes shut tightly. Nausea churned in his stomach. Keeping his eyes closed was the only way to stay on his feet.
Lavinia's words pounded against his skull on repeat. If this bitch has the wrong blood type, Iâm not wasting our time on her.
"âŚThat's a good thing. It means they're less coordinated, and it's more likely they'll make a mistake..."
"Hotch," he tried again.
This time, it was almost a plea.
"âŚWe shouldâ"
"Sheâs AB Rh+."
Hotch finally turned to look at him. So did the rest.
They frozeâsilent, motionlessânot because they didnât understand what it meant, but because they refused to accept it.
AB Rh+, a blood type that could only be transfused to someone with the same.
All the previous victims had type A blood.
Iâm not wasting our time on her.
Prentiss sank into the nearest chair, as if her knees had simply given out beneath her.
So this was how it was going to end?
Before they could do anything to help her? Before he could even come up with a single idea on how to save her?
A single tear slipped down Penelopeâs cheek. She didnât even try to wipe it away.
âLet me check,â Leon, the male unsub, suddenly offered. âGo turn the heat up. Even Iâm cold, and Iâve got a jacket on.â
His sister hesitated for a moment before she agreed.
Spencer finally opened his eyesânot to torture himself with the helplessness on his colleaguesâ faces, but to force his gaze onto the screen. He fixed his eyes on her half-conscious face, searching for any sign of understanding. Did she get it? Had she already connected the dots?
Breathing started to hurt.
He wanted so badly to apologize. It wouldnât fix anything, but maybeâmaybeâit would dull the ache.
Him. Spencer Reid. And his stupid idea to split up.
He had sent her back to the car.
He had sent her to die.
That thought was dangerous, but maybe it was a good thing that the end was so close. That she wouldnât have to endure days of suffering, uncertainty, and fear. He knew that feeling. He knew it all too wellâpraying for his own death when the pain became unbearable when fear and exhaustion drained the last of his strength. He didnât want her to go through that.
He didnât want her to go through any of this.
But thatâŚthat especially.
"And?" Lavinia returned to the room after a long moment.
"Well, what can I say? Iâve got a good eye," her brother said lightly. "O Rh-, a universal donor. We couldnât have asked for a better match. You know what this means? That this time, we might finally succeed."
Everyone exchanged glances, utterly confused.
âSpencerâŚâ JJ looked at him for the first time since their argument. âYou saidâŚyou yourself said that sheââ
âBecause she is,â he interrupted. âHe lied.â
Prentiss snapped her head up, a spark of hope flickering in her eyes. Spencer didnât share her optimism. He did feel some relief, that much was true. But he was painfully aware that this wasnât over. The nightmare was only beginning, and it was up to them to end itâbefore it was too late.
âď¸
You were afraid to be afraid.Â
Absurdâyou were well aware of that. But ever since you woke up in that hospital-like room, hooked up to an EEG and an IV, with a pulse oximeter clipped to your finger, your thoughts had focused solely on one thing. Not panicking. Calmness gave you a sense of control. Of course, you had none whatsoeverâyou were entirely at the mercy of two lunatics who believed they could bring someone back to life. But if they could be delusional, then so could you.
You knew this room from the recordings. For the longest time, you couldnât determine where exactly it might be located. Was it a repurposed basement? A cabin in the middle of nowhere? Even now, being here in person, you couldnât say for sure.
The moment you were left alone, you seized the opportunity to unhook yourself from all the machines and pressed your ear against the wall.
Once, your team had found a victimâs location by identifying the sound of a plane taking off in the background of a ransom call. You hoped for something similar to happen now. But you quickly realized the grey walls were lined with soundproofing foam. The floor, covered in rubber, absorbed footsteps completely. You didnât even hear anyone approaching until a flat palm struck you across the face so hard that you collapsed back onto the bed.
Lavinia was ridiculously strong.
âIf you get up without permission again, Iâll cuff you to the damn bed,â she said, tossing a bottle of water onto the mattress beside you. âDrink. Youâll get food when you do something for me.âÂ
"As if I have anywhere to run," you muttered under your breath, reluctantly reaching for the water. "What do you want me to do? What time is it?"
Every time one of the twins visited you, you asked for the time. You needed to know how long you had been there. But with the constant doses of sedatives they were giving you, you couldnât even estimate it.
Deep inside, you felt like it had been no more than a day.
The others had been kept for seven days beforeâŚ
You shook your head. You couldnât think about the others if you wanted to hold on to what was left of your sanity.
âGood night,â Lavinia muttered, messing with the IV drip.
âBut you said I had to do somethingâŚâ You frowned in confusion.
The blonde shrugged. She was wearing a green coat with fur on the hood. Both she and her brother always came to see you dressed warmly, even though the temperature in your little prison was relatively comfortable.
They had changed you into a thin nightgown that ended just above your knees and at your elbows, but curled up under the blanket, you were relatively warm.
That led you to one conclusionâwherever you were, the rest of the building wasnât as well-heated. It was cold enough that they needed extra layers.
Whatever was in the IV worked.
You woke up on the floor. And freezing. Oh God, it was so cold. Your entire body immediately started shaking.
When you tried to push yourself up at your own sluggish pace, someone simply yanked you upright, like pulling a vegetable from the ground. You hissed in pain, instinctively trying to push the woman away, but all that did was earn you another hit.
Lavinia didnât hold back.
The previous victims hadnât been beaten this badly, so you assumed she particularly disliked the fact that her brother had chosen to kidnap you.
Leon, unlike her, didnât hit you.
He just kept shoving the camera in your face.
Honestly, you preferred a busted lip and bruises over the fact that your team was seeing what was happening to you.
That awareness hurt a thousand times more than any torture ever could.
You managed to take a look around this new room before you were shoved toward the bed.
Unlike yours, it didnât look like a mad doctorâs operating room but rather an ordinary, slightly old-fashioned bedroom. Dark wooden floors, a wardrobe with ornate handles in the corner, no windowsâjust like your room. Bottle-green walls.
Your gaze finally fell on the bed, and you barely managed to choke back a scream.
Suddenly, you understood why it was so unbearably cold in the room.
In front of you lay the body of a woman, her eyes closed, but her face was so unnaturally blue that you could never have believed she was merely sleeping. If not for the fact that she had been dead forâwhat you estimated to beâseveral weeks, she would have been identical to Lavinia.
Only after the initial shock of the sight wore off did her name come back to you.
Lydia.
The last of the triplets. The one who had died. The one they were trying to bring back with theirâŚritual.
As an FBI agent and profiler, you were accustomed to seeing dead bodiesâbut this one unsettled you in a way you couldnât quite rationalize.
Lavinia approached the corpse and smiled down at it with an affection so genuine, so reverent, that it sent a shiver down your spine. It was the kind of smile only mothers gave their children. Then, without hesitation, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to Lydiaâs cold, gray cheek.
The dead womanâs short blonde hair fanned out across the pillow like a halo. Her hands were folded neatly atop the blanket, eerily reminiscent of someone in prayer. You were shaking, and it probably wasnât just because of the cold.
"From now on, you will take care of our sister twice a day," Lavinia began, opening the drawer of the bedside table. She took out a hair comb, a bottle of some liquid, and a silk cloth. "Brush her hair and wipe her body."
As she spoke, she demonstratively rolled up one of Lydiaâs sleeves. She was dressed in a nightgown similar to yours, but with lace at the collar and long sleeves reaching down to her wrists. You couldnât suppress a shudder at the sight of her exposed skin. You were trembling too much from the cold for Lavinia to notice.
Lydiaâs veins were dark. The blood transfusions into her lifeless body had caused it to clot. Small lumps had formed where the blood had thickened, and her arms were covered in scars and puncture marks.
âW-why do I have to do this?â you asked, clenching your teeth to stop them from chattering.
Lavinia shrugged as she wiped her sisterâs skin with the cloth.
âSomeone has to take care of her,â she said. âBy doing this, youâre building a bond with her. Here, try it. Just be gentle.â
For a moment, you just stared at her. You were now certainâabsolutely certainâthat both Lavinia and Leon had crossed the threshold of madness and were living in a world where logic held no place.
Her gaze hardened as she shoved the cloth into your hands. It almost slipped from your trembling fingers.
You looked down at the body and hesitantly wiped its surfaceâŚa violent gag reflex hit you so hard that you staggered.
You heard a contemptuous scoff.
âIf you throw up on her, you have no idea what Iâll do to you,â she warned.
This was sick. Sick, sick, sick.
Your breath caught in your chestâyou couldnât look at Lydia, laid out in bed as if merely asleep. Taking care of her as if she were alive. But another warning glance and the flash of a weapon beneath Laviniaâs coat forced you to keep going. You started wiping down each of her limbs, one by one.
She was a small woman, barely any weight to her, and yet it felt like the task stretched into eternity.
Sick, sick, sick.
When you were done, a comb was shoved into your hand. Its teeth were wide-set, meant to avoid damaging the delicate hair of a corpse. Lavinia kept hissing softer through gritted teeth every few seconds.
Sick.
You forced yourself to set the comb down calmly instead of flinging it away like it burned you. Following instructions, you reached for Lydiaâs hands, gently folding them back into the same position as before. As you did, your gaze lingered on her wrists for a long, drawn-out moment. The deep, jagged wounds. So thatâs how she died? Suicide?
Lavinia stabbed you with a syringe.
âď¸
You lay in bed, your body still trembling.
You werenât cold anymore, yet you curled up under the blanket. Just as Lavinia had warned, she forced you to do it again a few hours later. Taking care of Lydiaâs body now dictated when morning came and when night fell. Not once had you fallen asleep on your ownâthere were always the drugs, injected mostly when they needed to move you to another room. You wondered why you couldnât just walk there yourself.
Not that you would have been able to sleep anyway. You made sure not to close your eyes. When you did, your mind conjured sick visionsâof the corpse lying right beside you, feeding off your blood, slowly consuming you the way mold devours fresh fruit.
You were afraid to be afraid, yet fear was beginning to take hold of you.
You were still searching for a way out of all this⌠You knew the team was looking for you too, doing everything they could, but you couldnât just sit and wait. You had to find a way to gain some sort of advantage over the unsubs. There was no use trying with Lavinia, but LeonâŚ
He was the weaker link in this duo.
He had lied about your blood type, which meant he wanted to keep you here.
You heard him enter the room. They usually took turns coming to see you, rarely together. His arrival was always preceded by the small wheeled table carrying all the electronic equipment and streaming cables. If only Garcia could trace itâŚ
âHow are you feeling?â Leon asked, sitting on the edge of your bed, keeping his distance, the camera aimed directly at your face. You tried to turn your head so the bruise under your eyeâcourtesy of his sisterâwas out of view. A poor attempt. Your lip was swollen too. âYou look weak. My sister told me to bring you something to eat, but⌠you know, Lydia is smaller than you.â
You raised your eyebrows. So what, was he planning to starve you until you resembled his sisterâs corpse? You didnât even try to understand it anymore. It wasnât worth the effort for your exhausted mind. You didnât answer, unsure of what you even should say. But you wanted to keep the conversation going.
âWhyâŚwhy are you even recording all of this?â
You couldnât stop yourself from glancing directly into the camera. It was impossible that the whole team was watching the stream. You hoped as few of them as possible were seeing you like this. Especially not Penelopeâshe wasnât built for this. Not JJ, your best friend. And definitely not Spencer.
On second thought, you didnât want any of them to be watching.
Leon cleared his throat.
âWell, weâre doing something incredible. People want to see it. Theyâre curious if weâll succeed.â
Youâre doing something sick. Freaks want to watch it. Theyâre fascinated by it, you corrected him in your head.
âSo, I have fans?â You tried to sound playful, friendly.
Leon was surprised by the warmth in your voice. Pleasantly surprised. His pale face, green eyes brightened slightly.
âYes. I guess you do,â he admitted. He almost seemed shy, as if he hadnât kidnapped you. âCan IâŚcan I talk to you? Maybe theyâd like to know something about you. The previous onesâŚthe previous ones didnât really want to say much. Mostly, they just screamed.â
You used all your strength not to flinch.
âSure,â you replied, forcing a soft smile. It was just a game, a mask. You tried to observe the conversation from the outside, detached, clear-headedâwhile pretending you didnât hate him. âWhat do you want to know?â
He didnât move closer, but he shifted slightly to make sure the camera captured as much of you as possible.
âI know youâre a fed,â he began. âI even looked you up. I know your name. How old you are. But nowhere did it say what you like. You know, what you do. In your free time.â
You hesitated for a moment. You were kidnapped. If it were someone else in your position, youâd tell them to be as human as possibleâhonest, even. Make your captor see you as a person with feelings, desires, dreams.
So you took a breath and tried to answer truthfully, even though it hurt.
âI love musicals,â you finally said.
You thought about the two ticketsâSpencerâs gift.
It hurt unbelievably much.
You prayed he wasnât watching. That he wouldnât hear this.
You told Leon a little about the last musical you had seen. It had been a long timeâyour job left you no time for such things. You looked him straight in the eyes as you spoke, because the sheer disgust you felt toward him was the only thing keeping your tears from spilling over. You felt so fragile, talking about something you loved to a man who, in just a few days, planned to drain you of blood.
You didnât want to die like this. You refused to.
âDo you want kids?â he asked suddenly.
The question was so unexpected that you didnât even have time to think.
"I guessâŚI guess so," you said.
But your surprised mind quickly sharpened, pulling up information from their biography. You knew that the twins' mother had died in childbirth. You didn't know what was driving him to ask this question, but you preferred to be cautious.
"I mean, no. I donât know, actually. Maybe. To continue the species."
Or to have a loving family, but of course, you werenât about to say something so personal out loud.
Leon remained still for a moment, then suddenly laughed. You pretended to laugh along, but you couldnât stop the sharp flinch when he suddenly moved closer, touching your cheek with his hand. He lowered the cameraâit was now pointing at the floor.
"You're so funny," he said with strange tenderness. "Just like Lydia. SheâŚshe was the same way."
For the first time, he referred to her in the past tense instead of the present. Was he starting to realize that she was gone?
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Another question.
"No."
"Have you ever loved someone?"
"WhatâŚwhat really happened to Lydia?"
The team had never found that out. But you had seen the wounds on her wrists and figured it out yourself. Still, you wanted to hear what he had to say about it. Because by now, you were starting to suspect.
"She passed away because of an illness," he said shortly, enigmatically, cutting off any further questions. Then, he repeated himself. "Have you ever loved?"
"In what way? Romantically, like a sibling, like family�"
"It doesnât matter."
Your posture became more alert, analytical. Leon withdrew his hand from your face, but he didnât point the camera back at you, as if he had forgotten he was even holding it.
"Of course, Iâve loved," you said quietly. "And I still do. And you loved Lydia, right?"
The man nodded, a certain longing filling his green eyes.
"Itâs late," he announced after a moment of silence. "I should go."
But before he even moved to stand, he leaned in. His lips brushed the top of your head, hesitant. You fought the urge to push him away. You had to keep up the act, continue this game. Wrap him around your finger, so that the very thought of hurting you would terrify him.
"Goodnight, Lydia."
âď¸
A certain force kept him bound to that chair, watching each broadcast over and over again.
He believed that, eventually, he would spot some previously overlooked detailâone that would immediately allow him to pinpoint the location. But in part, he also wanted to punish himself. Because what could hurt more than watching the face of one of the most important women in his life grow paler and more bruised with each passing moment?
A woman he himself had condemned to this fate.
But he didnât stay in the office for another night just to drown in his own guilt. He was capable of multitasking, so while the weight of it pressed down on him, he poured everything that came to mind onto paper.
He noted the exact moments the streams began, measured their precise duration, wrote down every single word spoken, and searched for any hidden meaning.
Maybe, somewhere in one of those conversations, she had hidden a message meant for their teamâa clue to help them find her.
Three days had passed. Logically, it made sense to assume they were following the same pattern as in previous cases. And that meant nearly half of their time was already gone.
Spencer kept thinking about Leonâs cryptic wordsâthat his sister had supposedly died of an illness. He wondered if that was true or if the twins had chosen to live in denial. Maybe it was easier for them to accept that fate, a cruel and indifferent universe, had taken herârather than the possibility that she had done it to herself.
He rubbed his tired eyes and let out a heavy sigh when he realized he was getting nowhere.
Garcia had allowed him to stay in her office aloneâsomething that, under any other circumstances, would have gotten him killed. She hated when anyone touched her keyboard.
But time was relentlessly moving forward, and they all had to sleep at some point. Usually, only one or two of them were assigned to monitoring the broadcasts at a time, while the rest focused on other search efforts. They worked nonstop.
They had already experienced a moment of sheer terror at the very start, forced to confront the brutal reality that she could die. And they were determined not to let that happen.
Especially Spencer.
Not just because he owed it to her. It wasnât only about guiltâthe fact that he had been the one to suggest they split up. Even if he had nothing to do with her current situation, he would still be glued to this chair in the dimly lit room, illuminated only by the glow of the screens, a single desk lamp, and the rhythmic ticking of the clock.
Because she was his friend. Because she was an inseparable part of his life.
Because she was someone he could say, without a doubt, that he loved.
Whether that love was purely platonic or something more didnât matter right now.
The only thing that mattered was the silent promise in his mindâthat he would make sure they watched that musical together.
Hundreds of them, if she wanted.
He drank surprisingly little coffee. What kept him on his feet and his mind sharp werenât the stimulants but the occasional glances at the drawing Henry had madeâa gift she had left in the office, intending to take it home after work. To pin it to her fridge with a cat-shaped magnet. Of course, Henry had no idea what had happened to the best aunt in the world.Â
He drifted off in thought for a moment, only to be pulled back by movement on the screen.
The stream was starting.
Spencer immediately straightened in his seat, giving his cheek a light slap to wake himself up, to force himself into absolute focus.
Like every time, something clenched painfully in his chest.
He barely recognized her, even though the light in her room was on.
Several details hit him all at once.
First, the wound on her cheekâone that hadnât been there before. Second, her hair. It had been cut to the exact same length Lydiaâs had been in the photos heâd seen of her. The association filled his mind in an instant, vivid and unshakable. Third⌠the bandages wrapped around her wrists. Both of them. His hand shot toward his phone to alert the team, to wake everyone up. Or maybe someone else had already done itâhe wasnât entirely present in his own body.
But before he could move, before he could do anything at all, his breath caught in his throat. A thought began to scroll across his mind like a news ticker.
Metamorphosis had already begun.
âď¸
When Leon cut your hair, you took advantage of his momentary distractionâhis mind entirely consumed by memories of his sisterâand stole the scissors, slipping them under your pillow.
You wished you could say it was part of some greater plan. But in reality, you were exhausted, your strength fading more and moreânot just physically, but mentally too. If your calculations were right, at least three days had passed. Twice a day, they drugged you and moved you to a room so cold that you lost all feeling in your limbs for hours, forced to care for a dead body. Staring into Lydiaâs empty eyes, at the bluish veins beneath her lifeless skin, you couldnât stop imagining yourself the same wayâdiscarded by the roadside, drained of every last drop of blood.
You didnât want to go like that. You wanted to go on your own terms.
You seized your chance that evening, when they left you alone without sedatives. You hesitated. But what if the team had finally tracked you down? What if they were already on their way? Wait or donât wait? They would understand. You knew that. You were relieved that the camera hadnât been on you 24/7. You had at least spared them from witnessing this, the desperation and terror slipping from your wrists along with your blood.
It was Leon who found you. He collapsed to his knees beside you, consumed by sheer panic, screaming Lydiaâs name over and over, begging her not to leave him again. His cries alerted Lavinia. You had hoped that despite her medical experience as a nurse, she wouldnât reach you in time.
You squeezed your eyes shut, not wanting their faces to be the last thing you saw before death. With the last remnants of your strength, you struggled against their grasp as they tried to lift you from the floor.
Then, everything faded away.
"Leon, this is a waste of time."
The blurred words drifted into your consciousness, floating there like debris on the surface of water. You observed them with closed eyelids, seeing nothing, feeling little, barely understanding anything.
"SheâŚmaybe we should just get rid of her. Find a new one."
"We canât," her brother responded firmly. You had never heard him speak in such a commanding tone before. "We canât take that risk. Theyâre on our tail. PoliceâŚFBI. If we try againâŚthis is our last chance. She is our last chance, and this time, it will work. I can feel it"
He paused.
"Sheâs just like Lydia."
His twin remained silent for a moment before letting out a weary, resigned sigh.
"I guess you're right," she finally replied. "I'll go refill the boat's fuel. Keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't do anything stupid. And when she wakes up, take her to Lydia. They need toâŚthey need to bond. A stronger bond. Right now, she's too weak."
"Be careful," her brother warned her gently.
You opened your eyes only after Lavinia left the room. The light stabbed at them painfully. For a moment, the helplessness consuming you was utterly devastating. You wanted to scream, to wailâit took everything in you not to beg the man to put you to sleep again. If even death couldnât save you from this fate, then what could?Â
Leon didnât say a word to you. After a while, he simply helped you up, touching your body as if it were made of fragile porcelain, then guided you into the hallway, offering light support. You were weak, horribly weak, but the moment you left your room, a flicker of strength began to return.
For the first time, they allowed you to walk to Lydia on your own instead of carrying you there unconscious. That gave you a chance to take in your surroundings more clearly. You were so surprised by this newfound freedom that, for a moment, you forgot how unsteady your legs were.
You stepped into what seemed like a corridor. Instead of soundproof foam, the walls were lined with metal, rust creeping along some of the panels. The air carried a certain chillânot the biting cold of Lydiaâs room, but something more natural, like a draft seeping through an imperfect structure. And then there was another sound, layered beneath the whisper of wind slipping through the cracksâa faint, steady noise.
Rushing water.
Leon kept leading you forward. You crossed a threshold, and that was when you saw itâan old window at the end of the corridor. Something inside you surged forward, an instinctual pull. You wantedâneededâto press yourself against the glass, to look outside, to at least see where you were. The unfamiliar sounds and the stark change in environment stirred something deep within you.
The will to survive.
You thought it had died back there, on the floor, when you miraculously lived. But it hadnât. It had only been waiting.
Leon pulled you along more forcefully. For the first time, you thought about hurting him. He wasnât as strong as his sisterâif you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck at just the right angleâŚYou were alone there, Lavnia had gone⌠You tried to recall her blurred words. Refill the fuel in the boat? A boat? So your intuition had been rightâyou were somewhere on the water.
You had done this so many times that he didnât need to hand you the cloth or the comb; you already knew where to find them. As you opened the drawer, you could feel Leonâs gaze on your back. You moved slowly, hoping to find something sharp. Anything. Even the comb would doâŚ
You turned around and saw Leon sitting on the table by the bed, his forehead resting on his sisterâs lifeless hands.
A perfect opportunity. Perfect circumstances. He was distracted, not paying attention to you.
Unfortunately, you werenât fully focused either. His sobbingâŚ
"My beautiful Lydia," he wept softly into his sisterâs body, burying his face in it as if hoping she would embrace him, stroke his head. "My dear Lydia. I loved her, you know. I love her."
You didnât move, clutching the comb in your hands. You barely felt the cold, even though your body registered it perfectly, making you shiver. And although rage filled youâa wild, feral madnessâyou wanted to lunge at him. Yet somehow, you found a sense of calm, a sliver of reason.
You remembered your previous strategy. Leon, the weakest link.
Leaning in, you gently ran your fingers through his blond hair.
âI love you too,â you replied with difficulty.
The man stopped sobbing, remaining still for a moment. With a slow inhale, he straightened up, his wide-open eyes locking onto your face. A slight shiver ran down your spine.
It was possible that you had just made the worst mistake imaginable.
But there was no turning back now. You held his gaze, refusing to look away. You couldnât tell what emotions were flickering behind his stare. Was it shock? Suddenly, he stood up abruptly. Instinctively, you flinched, raising your hands to shield yourself, bracing for the kind of blow his twin sister had delivered so many times before.
But it never came.
Instead, without a word, he simply turned on his heel and left. He didnât call for you to follow. He didnât say anything at all. For a moment, you stood motionless before slowly setting the comb back onto the table. Your feet barely lifted off the ground as you moved toward the door, only to freeze once you reached it. Seconds passed. Then minutes.
You pushed it. And it opened.
A strange wave rolled through your chest.You were alone at the threshold of an open door. Alone on your own feet, not tethered to anything that could put you to sleep at a momentâs notice. You didnât think long.
You ran.
The world spun violently from the sudden movement, your weak body barely managing to stop in time to avoid crashing into the window. Your heart pounded furiously, drowning out your thoughts.
You would regret it. In fact, you already did a second later.
Your gaze had barely locked onto the space outside the window when strong arms seized your clothes, yanking you back and slamming you to the ground. You landed hard on your elbow, too disoriented to even feel the pain. Lavinia stood over you, clad in a jacket, her hands clenched into fists. But before she could take a step toward you, her brother moved between you, shaking his head.
"Don't hurt her," he pleaded.
He reached out to touch her, but she slapped his hand away, redirecting her fury toward him instead.
"Don't hurt her?" she echoed mockingly. "And how else is she supposed to learn that she can't just go running off? Why did you even let her?"
"Sorry, it's my fault. I forgot to lock the door," he said.
You didnât even care whether he was telling the truth. Your mind was spinning too much, especially as you tried to push yourself up.
"But she's our sister, and you can't keep hitting her."
At those words, both you and Lavinia froze.
You looked at her faceâpure shock, trembling lips. You were surprised too, but⌠the corners of your mouth twitched. You masked it quickly, pretending there wasnât even a trace of satisfaction in you. That your plan wasnât starting to fall into place.
âGet her out of my sight,â Lavinia said coldly, her voice devoid of emotion.
You watched as Leon slowly stepped toward you, helping you to your feet. As he led you back to your room, you caught a glimpse of Lavinia hiding her face in her hands. You stayed silent for a long time, watching him carefully. It hit youâthis was the first time you were with him when he didnât have his camera.
Slowly, you sat down on the bed, waiting to see if he would sit next to you. And he did.
You swallowed. You couldnât let yourself feel too confident yetâyou still had to be careful, still had to watch every step you took.
âYou defended me,â you noted gently.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked just as bewildered as you felt. You hoped he wasnât starting to regret calling you that. You hoped his own delusions were wreaking havoc in his mindâto your advantage.
âThank you,â you added.
âYou donât have to thank me,â he said. He straightened up, turning his head toward you. There was a strange devotion in his green eyes. âYouâre my sister. Of course, I have to protect you.â
You nodded gently.
"I am your sister," you repeated clearly, locking eyes with him, willing these words to sink deep into his very core. "I am already your sister, Leon. Lydia. But⌠our other sister wants to hurt me."
As you spoke, you reached out your bandaged hand, lightly touching his arm. He stiffened under your touch, staring at you with growing astonishment. In fact, he looked almost in awe. As if you had just descended from the heavens. You took that as a good sign.
"You know what she wants to do to me. To drain my blood. How many days do I have left?"
His breathing grew heavier.
"Tomorrow," he answered. "Tomorrow at midnight."
"TomorrowâŚ" you trailed off, shaking your head. You forced panic to take hold of you. You must have been unconscious longer than you'd thought. "But I am already her. Can't you see?" You ran your fingers through your hair, smiling brightly. "Weâre together again. We love each other again. And she wants to tear us apart."
You saw hesitation creeping onto his face, the subtle furrow of his brow betraying his uncertainty. You had forgottenâLavinia was his sister too. He loved her as well. Turning him against her wouldnât be that simple.
Swallowing your nerves, you spoke again.
"We have to convince her that I have truly become Lydia. But for that to happenâŚyou know, thereâs something still holding me back. An anchor. Two anchors, actually. They keep me from letting go of who I used to be."
He gazed at you with growing intrigue. A metaphor like that had to be especially stimulating for his deranged mind.
"What are these anchors?" he asked, a readiness in his voice, as if he was already prepared to rid you of them.
"One of them," you began slowly, carefully choosing your wordsâmostly because you hadn't fully thought this through yet. "One of them isâŚI need to say goodbye. One last farewell that will sever all ties to my previous life. I wish I could let go without it, butâŚLeon, Iâm afraid itâs necessary. Itâs holding me back against my will."
You could see him absorbing everything you were saying.
"Say goodbyeâŚto whom?"
There were many names you could have given him. But you chose the one that would strike straight at his orphaned heart.
"To Mom. I donât need to see her. JustâŚjust a short phone call would be enough."
The silence between you was so heavy, you genuinely feared he might hear your heartbeat. And it was raging in your chest, pounding so fiercely that your limbs trembled. You waited. Everything depended on his answer.
Leon averted his gaze, staring blankly into the distance. You prayed you had reached him. That his desire to have Lydia back was strong enough.
"Tomorrow, I will bring you a phone. One that can't be traced," he finally said.
Okay, that was not part of the plan.
"But tomorrow, Lavinia willâŚ"
"She won't," he cut you off. "I wonât let her⌠Weâll get rid of the anchor, and sheâll understand that youâre already here."
You could have argued, but you were too afraid of accidentally undoing everything you had achieved so far. So, you agreed. Even an untraceable call was better than nothing. Especially since, in that brief moment you had stood by the window, an idea had begun to form in your mind.
Leaning in, you pressed a grateful kiss to Leonâs cheek. He allowed himself a brief smile.
"And what is the second anchor?"
You told him.
âď¸
When you woke up, you knew it was morning.
Lavinia had dragged you to Lydiaâs room the old wayâwhile you were unconscious. At the same time, she had announced that this was the last time and that you had better start getting it right. So, you wiped the womanâs body with as much care as possible. For the first time, you were able to look directly into her eyes.
This was going to end soon.
She would finally end up in a grave, those two would be in prison, and youâŚ
You tried not to fantasize too much. You had to stay focused.
You slowly combed through Lydiaâs short hair. Time passed, but Lavinia did not return. You had grown somewhat accustomed to the fridge-like cold, but you had never stayed here longer than fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. You waited for someone to come, but when the chill became unbearable, you approached the door and started pounding on it. Your frozen hands didnât even register the pain.
"Iâm still here!" you shouted.
Had they forgotten about you?
"And thatâs where youâll stay," Laviniaâs voice answered from the other side.
You frowned, hugging your trembling body.
"Youâll stay there until the ritual. Iâll come for you before midnight."
"But itâs morning!" you screamed.
No response.
You slammed your fists against the door again. Harder. Again and again, until blood coated your knuckles and your lungs burned from breathing in the freezing air. One moment, you had everythingâa plan to keep yourself alive. The next, you doubted youâd survive the next few hours in this cold.
Had the previous victims gone through the same? Or were you the exception because Lavinia wanted to make sure you never made it out?
You paced around the room, hoping that movement would warm you up. Meanwhile, thoughts of hypothermia and its fatal consequences circled in your mind. You wavered between determination to survive and pure despair, convinced that you wouldnât make it. You had no idea how many minutes had passed before your gaze landed on the wardrobe that had been standing in the corner of the room the entire time.
With almost blissful relief, you layered on piece after piece of clothing found inside. You knew you would make it until nightfall.Â
What came next remained uncertain.
âď¸
Leon found you curled up inside the wardrobe, so accustomed to trembling that it felt like a natural state for your body.
âCome on, we have to hurry,â he said, offering his hand to help you out.
You clung to him tightly, as your legs refused to support you.
âWhatâŚwhereâŚLaviniaâŚthe phoneâŚâ you mumbled, your frozen body unable to form coherent sentences.
âI have the phone, but we need to move fast. I got here just before her to give it to you. Come on.â
He led you out of the room. You turned your head toward Lydia lying on the bed, wondering if this was the last time you would see her.
When you were back in your own room, you wrapped yourself tightly in the blanket, leaving only your head and hand exposedâthe hand in which Leon pressed the phone. Your body slowly began returning to its optimal temperature. You couldnât believe this was really happening.
Leon crossed his arms over his chest. He had no intention of leaving you alone with the phoneâhe was going to listen to the call. But you were prepared for that possibility.
Instead of frantically dialing, you looked at him. He didnât have his camera with him.
âDonât you want to show⌠this moment to your fans?â Your voice still trembled slightly, your tongue struggling to cooperate. He frowned, not seeming to understand what you meant. You had always avoided the camera before. âWell, you k-knowâŚthe final moment before my complete metamorphosis. Theyâve followed you for so longâŚIâd think theyâŚtheyâd want to see it.â
"You're right. Absolutely right. Wait here."
Not that you had anywhere to go.
He returned, as always, pushing his small table along and clutching his camera in his hand. His fingers trembled slightly. Acting behind his sisterâs back must have been stressing him out, but his desire to get Lydia back was too strong. At that moment, you were certain he would do whatever you told him to. With stiff fingers, you dialed the number twice before getting it right. You were calling your mother to say goodbye. That was the official version.
There werenât many numbers you knew by heart, but Spencerâs was one of them.
Under Leon's watchful eye, you pressed the phone tightly against your ear to make sure he wouldn't hear a male voiceâone that was definitely not maternal. The camera was aimed straight at your face, and you stared into it without blinking, as if challenging it to a contest of who would break first.
If the team wasnât watching this, you might as well smash the phone against the floor.
"Hi, Mom," you said the moment the call connected.
You didnât breathe. The fear of ruining everything made your throat tighten, and you swallowed hard against the lump. For a moment, there was only silence on the other end.
You didnât look away from the camera, your senses sharpening from the sheer intensity of your focus. The adrenaline burning through you kept you warm.
Still, no response.
"Hi, sweetheart," a womanâs voice finally saidâJJâs voice.
Tears stung at your eyes, and you worried they would give you away in front of Leon. You made a mistake while blinking and you bit down hard on your tongue as punishment.
JJ was pretending to be your mother.
"I don't have much time, Mom," you began. "I'm just calling... just to ask how you're doing. Is everything okay?"
"Garcia, can you trace where this call is coming from?"
Spencerâs voice.
Another mistake.
Your next breath felt like choking, and you had to steady yourself. You needed to do one more thingâjust in case this didnât work.
"That's great," you threw in a random half-sentence to make the conversation sound real for Leon. "Uh-huh...I'm glad everything's fine. Yes, I'm okay too, donât worry"
You fell silent for a second, too long. Leon raised an eyebrow. You were supposed to be saying goodbye.
"I...I...Mom, do you remember my favorite mug? The one you accidentally broke last time?"
You swallowed hard, never breaking eye contact with the camera. You couldn't come up with any other cover story besides the mug, so it had to be enough.
"I...I kinda yelled at you back then. Sorry. It was my favorite, but now I...I know it wasnât your fault."
Your voice grew weaker as you spoke.
Don't cry, you warned yourself.
"It wasnât your fault, Mom. Not your fault, SâMom."
Terrified, you glanced at Leon, hoping he hadn't caught it. But he only waved his hand impatiently, urging you to hurry.
You swallowed hard, and before anyone on the team could say anything else, you spoke your final words.
"I love you. Goodbye."
Then you hung up.
For a moment, you stared at each other without moving, until he turned off the camera and you handed the phone back to him. Hearing their voicesâpossibly for the last timeâtightened something in your chest, a pressure you struggled to release.
"Thank you, brother," you said softly. You nodded slightly, grounding yourself, pulling yourself back to the plan. You had to act, to keep moving before Lavinia returned. "You know what we have to do now, right?"
Leon nodded.
âď¸
âWhat was that about the mug?â Prentiss asked as the call ended.
JJ closed her eyes for a long moment. The rest of the team, gathered around the computer where the stream had played just moments ago, looked utterly confused.
âYou think she was trying to send a message? A hidden clue?â
âGarcia, can you play it from the beginning?â Spencer cut in, leaning toward the screen.
The first time he watched it, emotions had taken control, clouding his focus. He had been stupid, so incredibly stupid. Most of his attention had latched onto the repeated words itâs not your fault which only deepened the devastation in his mind. But a small part of him had registered the way her eyes moved.
âSure, just a secâŚâ Penelopeâs fingers flew over the keyboard, and soon the footage played again.
âDo you understand what she was trying to say?â Rossi asked.
Spencer shook his head. A rush of adrenaline, almost intoxicating, coursed through him.
âShe didnât hide a message in her words,â he explained, straightening up. His gaze darted around Garciaâs desk, searching for something to write with. He grabbed a notebook with a pink, glittery cover and a pencil topped with a fluffy pom-pom. âLook at the way sheâs blinking. Itâs Morse code.â
Everyone fixed their eyes on the screen, trying to see it for themselves.
Everyone except JJ.
She was looking at Spencer, no trace of anger in her expressionâjust hope.
Reid wrote down the message she had sent.
Oil rig.
âď¸
The cold was almost liberating.
You stood with Leon at the edge of the oil rig. Ever since you managed to reach the window, you'd been trying to figure out where they had kept you. The realization had come to you slowly. The sound of water surrounded you both, and the wind played with your freshly cut hair. It felt so good that, for a brief moment, you closed your eyes.
But only for a moment.
You couldn't celebrate victory when you hadn't won yet.
Your gaze shifted to the man beside you, then to Lydiaâs body, wrapped in a bedsheet and lying just a few steps away. This was the last anchorâthe one you had convinced him needed to go.
Lavinia would be back any second. It had to happen now.
Of course, it was never really about anchors. The whole story about your mother had been nothing more than a way to send a messageâone you hoped your team had understood and was already acting on. And the one about Lydia? That was just to bring Leon to the edge of the oil rig.Â
âOkay, Iâm ready,â he said, nodding slightly and exhaling as his eyes lingered on his sisterâs body.
You pushed him.
When you planned this, you hadnât accounted for how weak you would be.
Leon staggered, yesâbut he didnât disappear beneath the waves. Instead, his hand caught the thin fabric of your nightgown, and with a short, startled yell, he yanked you both down onto the floor.Â
You groaned as your body slammed against the hard surface.
âYou⌠bitch,â he said, almost in despair, realizing you had been lying to him all along.
You kicked him in the face with your bare foot and pushed yourself up onto your elbows. He let out a sharp gasp of painâyou heard the crunch of his nose breakingâand for a fleeting second, you thought you were on the fast track to escape.
But then his hand clamped around your ankle, yanking you down again.
You let out a frustrated sound as his knee pinned you to the ground. You struggled to shove him off. He wasnât like Lavinia, but he also wasnât as weak as a starved woman who had spent nearly an entire day in a freezer.
Right. He wasnât like her.
He was fucked up, but not enough. Not enough madness in him.
Your nails clawed blindly at his skin while your other hand fumbled against the surface, searching for anything. You felt like you could kill him with a feather if you had to. But you found something far more practical than a feather.Â
A brick.
Leon collapsed when it struck his temple. But that wasnât enough. With a pained breath, you pushed yourself up over him and swung again. You kept swinging, not caring that your fingers were sticky with blood and the brick was beginning to slip from your grip. You kept striking longer than necessary.
Leon had been dead for a while.
You threw the brick aside, gasping for air. Everything felt so unreal, so distant. For a moment, you closed your eyes, still kneeling over his motionless body. When you opened them, ready to face the sight before you, your gaze accidentally met someone else's.
Lavinia stood a few steps away, disbelief and slowly growing fury in her eyes.
For a moment, you just stared at each other, neither of you fully grasping what had just happened.
Then it hit herâyou had killed her brother.
And it hit youâthat you were absolutely screwed.
Well, that thought only truly settled in once she tackled you to the ground. Punch after punch rained down on your face, so relentless that you couldnât think, couldnât come up with an escape plan. Was there even one? Your hands fell limply to your sides, no longer attempting to fight back. The ends of her blonde hair mixed with yours, strands stained red from the blood streaming down your face.
When she stopped, for a brief moment, you thought you were dead.
You had always imagined death as a very quiet experience. Peaceful.
But instead, you could hear her ragged, frantic breathing, a sound almost like a sob, and barely intelligible words cutting through the air.
"Iâll finish this."
During your entire time in that place, she had always moved you from one location to another by knocking you out with sedatives first. But this time, it wasnât necessary. Your body was so battered that all she had to do was grab you by the leg and drag you along, not caring that your skin scraped against the rough surface.
When your vision finally sharpened and you realized you were back in that same cursed room where it had all begun, for a moment, you thought the recent events had been nothing more than a dream.
But thenâ
One glance at your bloodstained hands.
One glance to the side, at the neighboring bed and the lifeless body of Lydia resting upon it.
One glance at the IV lines piercing the crooks of your elbows, the slow, steady flow of liquid passing through them.
Your blood.
The only thing that brought you solace was the slowly creeping realization that, at the very least, you had managed to say goodbye to those closest to you. They had seen your face, the raw pain and love in your eyes as you whispered your final goodbye. At least you had assured Spencer that none of this was his fault. You could only hope that, in time, he would start to believe it. At least partially.
You had long drifted off when the door to the room burst open with a bang.Â
âď¸
She was saved by the fact that she was a universal recipient.
Still, by the time they found herâafter Garcia had finally tracked down the illegally sold oil rig through a bankrupt extraction companyâshe was already weak. Very weak. So much so that the following hours were filled with even greater fear than the past few days.
She couldnât slip away from them now that she had been rescued. Or rather, now that she had rescued herself. Spencer had no intention of taking creditânor letting anyone else take creditâfor her brilliant moves and meticulous plan.
He sat in the hospital corridor, while JJ rested her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. Her leg trembled, and with it, her entire body. Emily held her other hand tightly.
"Spence," she finally said. Her gaze had been fixed on the floor, and it took effort to lift it to him. But it was necessary for what she was about to say. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. For how I reacted, for how I treated you these past few days."
He wasnât quite sure what to say, so he just gave a small nod.
âSheâs your friend. Itâs normal thatââ
âSheâs your friend too. Ours. We should have been supporting each other this whole time instead of yelling at one another.â
âYou were the one yelling.â
The words slipped out before he could stop them. JJ opened her mouth but said nothing.He hadnât meant to throw it in her faceâhe didnât even feel angry. Back then, he had only cared about one thing. One person. But before he could add, retract, or clarify his words, a nurse approached them, informing them that someone could go inside. The entire team stirred in their seats, but only two people were allowed in at a time.
Spencer sat back down, nodding toward JJ and Emily.
Emily raised an eyebrow.
âYouâve got to be kidding me, Reid. Of course, it has to be you.â
Although he had been ready to step aside, a faint, grateful smile crossed his lips.
He followed JJ into the hospital room, his steps slowing as they approached her bed. Unpleasant flashbacks flooded his mindâseeing her like this on a screen, the helplessness that had gripped him then. It took him a moment to shake off the feeling, to ground himself in the realization that he was here now. That she was right in front of him.
A sudden chill of panic ran down his spine. What was he supposed to say to her? Was he even capable of opening his mouth without turning into a pathetic, guilt-ridden mess, mumbling endless apologies and self-deprecating confessions? JJ spoke first, sparing him from his spiraling thoughts. She started with something simpleâa quiet whisper of her name.
She said it again, and slowly, her eyelids fluttered open. Spencer felt something tighten in his chest. A relief so immense it almost hurt.
She murmured something weakly.
Both he and JJ stepped closer, and this time, he was the one to say her name.
âDonât call me that,â she rasped. Her eyes shut again, and she turned her head to the side, as if refusing to look at them. Shutting them out. âThatâs not my name,â she whispered.
âIâm Lydia.â
post-reading authorâs note:
if you survived reading such a long ficâCONGRATULATIONS and THANK YOU and also im SORRY. i know there wasnât much reid not much of the team and honestly it had very little to do with canonâit was mostly just a product of my imagination. i hope youâre not disappointed.
if any topic in this fic triggered you, i apologize. i tried to include everything in the tw but i might have missed something.
#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid#criminal minds fanfic#spencer reid criminal minds#spencer reid fanfic#dr spencer reid#spence reid#doctor spencer reid#spencer reid x y/n
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Quotation marks around worshippers because theyâve lived long, brutal lives, constantly in war and fights and skirmishes and tearing others apart in a bid to simply survive and keep a malicious god content enough it doesnât kill them and destroy what little theyâve fought hard to win.
John is the oldest. Heâs lived long enough to know hope is just a word made by those already deafeated. It doesnât exist. He has fought bloody and dirty to have his own spot. Itâs all his, his only source of safety and isolation from the rest of the godâs violent domain. It should be just his, because trust should also not exist.
Yet he still took in Ghost. His old name burnt away in the ashes of the crumbling arena, more scars than clear skin, face hidden with a mask and all his opponents dead, John still took him in.
He also takes in Johnny. Bright Johnny, with blood coating his teeth and who laughs in the face of death, as if the chaos only strengthens him. Johnny, with his wild grin and reckless spirit, has survived every fight, every slaughter, not by brute force alone but by sheer audacity. He revels in the violence, thriving in the blood-soaked madness that their war god delights in. Despite Johnâs reluctance, Johnny becomes part of his world- part of the strange, brutal family theyâve formed under the watchful eye of a cruel god.
But John doesnât stop there. He takes in Kyle, too. Kyle, quick and resourceful, with sharp eyes and sharper instincts. Heâs newer to this war, but no less hardened. He knows how to fight, how to survive. He has to, in order to endure the hellish existence demanded by their god. Like the others, heâs marked by the battles heâs fought, by the lives heâs taken, the blood that stains his hands. Thereâs no room for softness here, no room for weakness.
Together, the four of them are bound by the violence theyâve endured and the desperate struggle to appease a god who feeds on their suffering. They donât question it. They donât dare. Itâs all theyâve ever known. Itâs all theyâll ever know.
Then, you arrive.
But youâre not just some strange outsider, not just another fragile soul lost in the wasteland of their godâs domain. You are another god- a goddess. The goddess of fertility, of harvest, of life itself. The opposite of everything they know. Where they come from a world of blood and fire, you bring growth, peace, and something they canât name- something theyâve long forgotten.
John is the first to notice the change. Itâs subtle at first. The small patch of ground heâs claimed for himself, once barren and dead, begins to show signs of life beyond the very little moss that has made itself home on the rocks and cracks of his area. Tiny sprigs of green push up through the cracked earth, the soil somehow softer, richer. He doesnât understand it, but he feels it- something shifting, something outside of his control. It leaves him with his hackles raised, eyes narrowed and shoulders often tense.
(He doesnât shove you out. Doesnât fight, or attack, or kill you. He doesnât know why he lets you stay, like that moss that lingers.)
Ghost remains quiet, watchful as always. He doesnât speak of it, but he, too, notices the strange calm that seems to settle around them when youâre near. The land seems less hostile, the sky a less oppressive red and more of a deep orange. Itâs unsettling in a way that makes him wary, but heâs drawn to you nonetheless. Thereâs something about you that soothes the storm inside him, something that makes the endless violence seem⌠far away.
Johnny, in contrast, is the first to approach you openly, grinning through bloodstained teeth. âYer naw like the rest of us, bonnie.â he says with a laugh, almost in awe. He doesnât know why he feels at ease around you, why the chaos in his mind quiets when youâre near, but he doesnât question it. You smile at him, your touch soft as you brush dirt from your hands, tending to the small garden youâve coaxed from the dead soil.
Kyle watches from a distance, suspicious at first. Heâs seen enough in this brutal world to know nothing good comes without a cost. But as the days pass, he, too, begins to feel the shift. Thereâs a strange sense of peace when youâre around, a warmth that feels foreign but not unwelcome.
They donât realize it at first, but youâre pulling them out of the war godâs grasp, slowly, gently, without them even knowing. With every seed you plant, with every gentle touch, you weave them further into your domain the same way your hands weave flower crowns for each of them. They donât know that the violent god they served is weakening, that his power is crumbling as you pull the earth itself away from him, reclaiming it for yourself.
The land around them begins to change. The once-scorched earth softens beneath their feet. Where the air was once thick with ash and smoke, it now carries the scent of growing things, of rain, of life. They donât understand how itâs happening, why the violence that once defined their world seems to be fading, but they can feel it.
And you, always quiet, always gentle, never tell them the truth.
They donât know that youâve been dismantling the war godâs domain piece by piece, tearing down the walls of blood and fire that have kept them trapped for so long. They donât know that with every moment they spend in your presence, theyâre moving further from the god they once served, deeper into your realm of peace and growth.
Their trust for you starts small.
You offer them food, but not the scavenged scraps theyâre used to- fresh bread, warm and soft, made from the grain youâve grown in the earth that once seemed too dead to nourish anything. âEat,â you tell them with a soft smile, your voice a balm against the harshness of their world. âYouâve fought enough for now.â
John eyes you warily at first, his mistrust of softness deeply ingrained. He hesitates, but the hunger gnaws at him, and he finds himself taking a piece. Itâs better than anything heâs tasted in years. The others follow suit, their suspicion momentarily forgotten in the simple act of sharing a meal.
When Ghost returns from another brutal skirmish, bloodied and bruised, youâre there. Quietly, without a word, you kneel beside him and start tending to his wounds. His body tenses at first and he is almost read to push you away- heâs used to pain, used to enduring it alone. But your touch is gentle, your hands soft and careful as you clean his cuts and wrap his injuries. He doesnât speak. When this simple act becomes a routine, something begins to flicker in his eyes, something he hasnât felt in a long time: relief. Safety.
âYou donât have to fight alone, not anymore.â you murmur, and though Ghost doesnât reply, he doesnât pull away either. The next time heâs hurt, he seeks you out before anyone else.
Johnny, always bold, is the first to embrace your presence without hesitation. He grins when you touch his arm, your fingers brushing away dirt from his skin. âYouâre soft,â he says quietly, as if he canât quite believe someone like you exists in their world. You only laugh gently and tousle his messy mohawk, unfazed by his wildness. âMaybe,â you reply, âYou deserve it. All of you.â
Johnnyâs grin widens, and soon, heâs lingering around you more often, like a star drawn to the sunâs orbit. He chatters about nothing and everything- battles heâs won, places heâs seen, jokes that make no sense. And you listen, never once judging the darkness behind his stories, always meeting his reckless energy with calm kindness.
And Kyle⌠Kyle is the last to trust. He watches you from a distance, wary and skeptical. Heâs been burned too many times, lost too much to believe in something as simple as kindness. But even he canât deny the peace that settles over him when youâre near. One evening, after a particularly grueling fight, you sit beside him, your presence quiet and soothing. You donât push, donât ask him to open up. You just sit there, offering him a slice of bread and a cup of fresh water.
âWhy are you helping us?â Kyle asks, his voice low, guarded.
You smile, your eyes warm. Your face is always so open, so welcoming. Kyle does not know how you do it. âBecause youâve fought enough. You deserve rest. Peace.â
He doesnât respond, but the tension in his shoulders eases just a little. He still watches you from the corner of his eye, but slowly, he begins to let down his guard.
As the days pass, you continue to tend to them- feeding them, healing them, offering warmth in a world where warmth is rare. They donât understand it at first, but they begin to feel the shift. The land around them is changing, softening. The earth that was once barren begins to bloom with life. Where there was only death and destruction, now there are signs of growth- flowers, crops, greenery creeping up through the cracks in the wasteland.
John, who has spent his entire life guarding himself, feels it most of all. He watches you with something like confusion, like a man seeing the sun for the first time after years of darkness. He doesnât understand why he feels calmer, why the constant tension in his body is easing. But despite his better judgment, he finds himself drawn to you- drawn to the softness heâs fought so hard to keep out.
You smile at him, always gentle, always kind, even when heâs rough around the edges. âYou donât have to fight anymore, John,â you tell him one evening as you hand him a fresh scone, drizzled with sweet honey and cream. âThereâs more to life than just surviving. Let me show it to you.â
Ghost remains distant, but even he starts to let his guard down around you. The mask he wears, both literal and figurative, feels less necessary when youâre near. The weight of the violence heâs carried for so long feels lighter, though he doesnât know why. It helps that he comes to you for every injury, your hands gentle and tender on his scarred skin.
Johnny is the most at ease with you, laughing more, fighting less, as though the fire that once consumed him is finally starting to burn out. And Kyle, ever watchful, finds himself relaxing for the first time in a long while, though heâs still unsure why he feels so drawn to you, so at peace in your presence.
Little by little, without them even realizing it, youâre pulling them away from the war god who has held them captive for so long. Youâre bringing them into your world, a world of life and peace, where they can be more than just warriors, more than just tools of violence.
And the war god, once so powerful, is fading. His domain is crumbling, and soon, he will be nothing more than a memory.
But they donât know. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
There is no need to drag them into what happens between gods, you reason to yourself, humming a sweet melody. Catching Johnâs gaze- they are working on your ever-expanding garden, tending to the soil- you smile and wave at him, delighted by the way his shoulders untense.
Yes. There is no need to ruin this little haven youâve created.
#cod#cod x reader#cod x you#tf 141 x reader#tf 141#tf 141 x you#noona.posts#cod imagines#john price x reader#poly!141 x reader#poly 141#noona.writes#ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#kyle gaz x reader#gaz x reader#kyle x reader#soap x reader#johnny soap mctavish x reader#call of duty x reader#simon riley x you#simon ghost riley x you#john price x you#kyle gaz garrick x you#kyle gaz garrick x reader#i wrote this while eating a kebab sorry for any mistakes#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x you#poly 141 x reader#soap x you
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Simple Math / Part Twenty
Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.1k words - AO3 Tags: 18+ mdni, nurse reader, feelings of fear and panic, PTSD, references to domestic violence. Trauma, blood. Flashbacks. Dubious ethics and morality, dark content.
âAre ye cominâ inside?â
âI need a minute.â He needs more than a minute. He needs days, weeks. Needs to wind back the clock and slam it into the ground, over and over again, until the springs and hands and tiny numbers splinter into pieces.
Failure. He failed. They failed.
They failed you.
âWait, go back.â The video pauses and rolls backward, all the way until Simon tells Kate to stop it when you step out of the elevator. âWhatâs in her hand?âÂ
âDinnae,â Johnnyâs nose is practically touching the screen.Â
âThe recording is pretty low quality; Iâve tried enhancing it with no luck.â Kateâs voice crackles through the speakers from the other side of the laptop, the other side of the world. This is the first time theyâve managed to get a hold of her in weeks, and even now, the connection is half static.Â
âLooks like a piece of paper, or a picture?â Johnny murmurs, leaning back.Â
âThis is just before she bolts,â the playback continues, and they watch as you walk down the hall, bright smile fading when you reach the corner. âSheâs here for a minute and then runsâŚâ Simon is glued to the screen, forward on his haunches, and Johnny rubs his back, kneading his knuckles into that ever-present knot in his shoulder. He watches your head turn, your back stiffen, and Johnny sucks in a breath.Â
Kate nods the confirmation. Sheâs already put the puzzle together.Â
Graves.
Youâre reacting to Graves, seeing Graves. Entire demeanor shifting, changing from their sweet, smart girl with newfound confidence, to a deer, shocked and startled, running from a scope.Â
Graves.
Itâs simple math. Plain as day. You take one look at where heâs come around the corner, running his mouth, chewing that fucking gum, and split.Â
Itâs Graves.Â
And it all makes sense.Â
â-you donât know what heâs capable of. You donât understand. Heâs chased me across the world, he always finds me, no matter what, no matter what I doâ
âHeâs in the military. Some sort of security work, department of defense, or something. He never really talked about it.â
âHe always finds me.âÂ
âHe has resources. Has followed me across the globe more than once. My only saving grace is that when he has to work, he has to work, and itâs usually for long chunks of time.â
âIâm originally from Texas.âÂ
Texas. Texas. Texas.Â
There was a conversation, months ago, that slipped through Simonâs fingers. A wisp of a suspicion, one pushed away by doubt, by disbelief. Â
Not possible. A coincidence.Â
He was wrong, about being wrong. He was right, all along.
Johnny nearly flips the table before Simon urges him back down. âWhere⌠where does she go after this?âÂ
âShe gets the car,â Simon answers, timeline clicking into place, âshe borrows that gits car, comes home, packs a bag, and runs.â Johnnyâs hands are shaking, fingers white against his knees.Â
Theyâll kill him. Heâll paint the walls with Phillipâs blood. Theyâll do what should have done in the first place.Â
He should have protected you, should have seen it all clearly. Should have applied more pressure and made you crack, if only for your own safety.Â
He failed.Â
They failed.Â
âThat piece oâ shite, Iâll-âÂ
âKill him.â Simon finishes simply, and they exchange a look. A promise without words. Simon will shatter his skull between his palms if he has to.Â
Johnny nods. The gears are already turning. Are they so different from a man who has stopped at nothing to drag you back to him?Â
No.Â
They'd burn the world for you, to protect you, to bring you home to them.Â
Kate clears her throat. âThereâs more.â More? âI was checking some records, looking at her last clock out, when the last paycheck was paid out and I pulled her personal information, her medical chart.â Kateâs tone is wary, hesitant, and Johnny straightens.Â
âWhat is it?â Thereâs a pause on the other end of the line, unsure trepidation thatâs so unlike Kate the hair on the back of Simonâs neck stands up.Â
âKateâŚâÂ
âSheâs pregnant.â You could hear a pin drop. Johnnyâs rage turns to panic, and an ocean of blood rushes in Simonâs ears.Â
âSheâs- sheâs what?âÂ
âSheâs pregnant. By now, sheâs probably twenty weeks, maybe? Iâm not sure. I donât know much about those things, but her chart notes say both of them are⌠were in good health. Low risk.âÂ
âTwenty weeks,â Johnny echoes, faraway look in his eyes.Â
A baby. Youâre pregnant.Â
Pregnant. Pregnant and alone, and scared. Running away. Â
From them.Â
Simonâs trying to wrap his head around it, but he canât. The information doesnât fit. It doesnât make sense.Â
âIf sheâs twenty weeks, then sheâs been pregnant since before she left.â Johnnyâs talking to himself at this point, because Simon canât force his mouth to make words. âWhy keep it a secret?â Kate is telling them something about index hits and cameras, but it all amounts to nothing after you board the train, and Simon still fails to make a sound.Â
And then, she piles it on.Â
âGraves is in the wind.â Simonâs heart stops like heâs been struck by lightning, electricity jolting him alive.Â
âHow?âÂ
âHe went offline. No traceable activity in the last week or so. Last known location was Texas. After that, Iâm not sure. Yet.â
âHe canât be in the wind,â Johnny whisper shouts, all too aware of Penny upstairs, napping. âWe need to know where he is. Now.âÂ
âIâm doing all I can. He has resources too, you know. A lot of them.â The screen goes black for a second, before she reappears, lips pressed into a grim line. âI have to go. Iâll keep you updated. Sorry guys.â
They can only nod.Â
Itâs clear as day, what happened now. How you saw them in the hallway, how you drew the conclusion, one that seemed so painfully obvious, connected the dots that appeared in your mind, stringing together bits and pieces until it all made sense.
He knows what will have to happen now. They both do.Â
Simon presses his forehead to Johnnyâs. âWeâll find her.âÂ
âAnâ bring her home.âÂ
âNo matter what.âÂ
The rest is left unsaid.Â
Youâre having a dream.
Itâs a lovely one, more of a memory than anything else, but a dream, nonetheless.
âThis still feels like a bad idea.âÂ
âIsnae, yeâll do great bun. Jusâ the âhawk now.â Youâve already finished the sides of his head, which were easy enough, but using actual scissors to cut hair is well outside your wheelhouse.Â
âWhat if I mess it up?âÂ
âItâs jusâ hair, pretty girl. It grows.âÂ
âHowâs it going out here?â Simon leans out the sliding door, Penny in his arms, and you try to plead with him with wide, nervous eyes. He chuckles. âLooks good so far.âÂ
âSee?â Johnny smiles, one of the big ones that stretches his whole face and makes your knees weak. Penny loves them too, and she claps her hands together, giggling.Â
âBut⌠I donât⌠Iâm going to mess it up.â Johnny stands, warm hands on your arms.Â
âYe could shave me bald and wouldnae mess it up, bun.â You nod, but the acid, noxious taste of worry is still there on your tongue.Â
âI just⌠IâŚâ youâre starting to shake a little, fingers squeezing together. He tugs you into his chest, kisses your temple.Â
âYeâre alright.âÂ
âI know.â You do know. Youâre safe. Theyâd never hurt you, never betray your trust or even yell at you, but muscle memory doesnât forget. âI know, Iâm sorry.âÂ
âYe dinnae have to be sorry.âÂ
âItâs okay, bunny.â Simon murmurs, but itâs not.Â
Is this how youâll spend your whole life? Afraid? Shaking?Â
No.Â
Not anymore.Â
âIf I ruin his hair⌠itâs not my fault.â Simon chuckles.Â
âWeâll blame him.â You turn back to Johnny and put your hands on his shoulders, taking a deep breath, surveying the mop of unruly brown strands, and he covers one of yours with his own.Â
âItâs okay. If ye-âÂ
âNo, I can. I can do it.â You donât know why youâre so nervous. Itâs just a hair cut, for crying out loud, but for some reason it feels like plunging into the deep end of a pool. âOkay,â you breathe, making the first snip. He nods encouragingly and you roll your shoulders.Â
âSee? Not so bad?âÂ
âNot so bad.â You cut again and again, trying to manage it all into a proper length, shaping as best you can.Â
Each snip, something grows. Your hands tremble a little less, your jaw unclenches, lips flexing upward into your cheeks. You breathe deeper.Â
When Johnny turns around, he doesnât care about his hair, or the slightly uneven chunks, or the fresh clippings on his shirt.Â
He cups your face, kissing you before pulling away to rub his thumb across your cheek.Â
âThere she is.âÂ
Spring rain. Thereâs nothing like it.
It washes away the gloom of winter. Itâs the turning of a page, the spine of a brand-new book snapped open with a splintering crack. Cabin fever becomes walks in the park, lunches and coffees outside, hanging out on balconies and patios.
Dead things turned to soil now sprouting new life.
Like you, you guess.
Youâve been dead before. If someone looked really closely, they could see it in your eyes. The grey of decay, the separation of iris and pupil. Dead and brought back not quite right, every time. Sally, stitched together incorrectly, the wrong pieces of patchwork, poorly aligned.
Every time he ripped another piece of you away, you found a different one, one less like you, to put in its place.
Every time, until you werenât you at all. Until you were a girl in a mirror. Until you were a ghost.
It makes sense that you donât know yourself now, havenât known for years. On the run, thereâs not a lot of time to stop and consider things like that, those pieces. Coffee or tea? Chocolate cake or vanilla? Do you like snow? Do you like the beach?Â
Do you like yourself?Â
You could have had these answers, you think. Could have learned these things, if it hadnât turned out the way it did. If Simon and Johnny hadnât turned out to be a hydra, mouths open, waiting to devour you.
Sunbeam kicks. They nail you in the bladder, and you wince, rubbing over the crest of your belly. âYouâre killing me, you know that?â You feel like youâve been hit by a bus, every day. The aches and pains are never ending, your back and hips screaming by the end of a shift. You canât sleep, the heartburn makes it hard to eat, youâre never comfortable.
The whole time, you curse them, Simon and Johnny.
Their fault, itâs their fault.
And yours too.Â
But no matter how tired, how sore, how cranky you are, you canât bring yourself to regret it, and in your dreams, itâs like all the bad, all the awful betrayal didnât even happen. You dream of a family with them, Penny holding her little sibling, the five you together. Itâs all been buried in your mind, too deep and nearly impossible to dig out. The visions of them, the longing, the good memories. Youâre infested with them.
You didnât want this. You wanted them, you wanted it all, and that might be the hardest thing about it. You werenât given a choice, this decision was made for you, taken from you, just like almost everything else.
Except little sunbeam. You wanted them, chose them, will choose them, over and over, forever, keep them safe, make sure they know theyâre loved.
No matter what.Â
Itâs the train, always the train.
Not the long rail train, the commuter train. The one that takes you to and from work, the one thatâs sometimes-standing room only, though most people offer you their seat, which is surprisingly kind, compared to where youâre from.
Regardless, you feel the gaze on the train, and no matter how hard you scan, dissect, watch the people around you, thereâs nothing. All three faces, three sets of eyes, three profiles, are never anywhere to be seen.
Itâs overwhelming, unsettling. The stress of this prickling unease combined with the stress and physical strain of your job is taking its toll on both you and Sunbeam, as the midwife likes to remind you.
Take it easy, take some time off, try to relax. Stay hydrated, eat well.
Yeah⌠okay.
You rub your belly anxiously, tugging your hood farther over your head, trying to look around without being so obvious.
âExcuse me?â You jolt, startled by a man standing at your elbow, pointing to a vacant spot on a bench. âWould you like my seat?â His smile is subtle, matching an encouraging but not overly intrusive demeanor.
âSure, thank you so much.â He nods, stepping to the side, into the space between the seat and the divider, close to the door. You try to swing your backpack in front of you, but it gets caught, and he snags it before it falls. âSorry, thanks.â
âOf course, no problem.â You give him another glance. Really handsome, rich brown eyes you could get lost in. Heâs got a baseball cap on, but itâs not pulled down over his face like your hood, heâs not trying to hide. âIâll move when your stop comes up.â
âOkay, itâs not for a while so, no worries.â He might be kind, but heâs still a stranger, and youâre not going to divulge anything specific. Stranger danger.Â
Not everyone is a threat butâŚÂ
âHow far along are you?â You blink.
âUh, about twenty-five weeks, give or take a few days.â He nods.
âMy wife is due next week; itâs been a rollercoaster.â
âYeah, itâs not the easiest.â You laugh, a little apprehensive, but also, a little glad, secretly, to have a casual conversation with someone. He sticks his hand out.
âIâm Kyle.â Your tongue rolls with the practiced name youâve memorized, the one youâve drilled into yourself over and over again. âNice to meet you.â
âYeah, you too.â The next stop is announced, and he moves gracefully, reaching for his bag and tugging it over his shoulder, barely giving you a second glance.
âThis is me, have a good day.â
âThanks.â He doesnât look over his shoulder at you when heâs getting off, doesnât watch you through the window from the platform. Heâs completely uninterested, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
The box is delivered on a Tuesday.
The Scottish government gives you almost everything you need. Clothes, thermometers, baby books, a changing mat, a mattress, a sheet, a blanket, the list goes on. The box even doubles as a bassinet.
You cry over it. Rifling through everything, tears drip down your cheeks and you bury your face in your hands. You didnât get to share an ultrasound with anyone, or have a shower, or hold someoneâs hand to your belly as sunbeam kicked, but thereâs this. A box full of baby stuff, a box that says no matter how hard it is, you and sunbeam will have a good start. Even Sunbeamâs room is halfway sorted at this point, crib set up, dresser half stocked with clothes, collection of diapers and burp cloths and bottles starting to pile up in various places in their room. Youâve made it comfortable, slowly, mix matched furniture and all.
Every day feels like a year, but as each one passes, you slowly adjust to a new normal, a new life. Something you made, again, from scratch, for yourself, your survival.
And now, for Sunbeam.
One day, maybe it will feel like home.
You really need to stop buying so much crap at the store.
You practically have to drag your grocery loot into the elevator, bags overflowing with fruit, vegetables, cans of formula. Random cleaning products, stuff for baby proofing, a new candle.
Apparently, some call this nesting. You just call it annoying.
You lean against the wall and close your eyes for a moment, shifting your weight to alleviate the pressure on your spine.
Thirty weeks.
Ten weeks left.
Ten weeks left. Itâs wild to even think about, to even say to yourself, or out loud. Youâre going to be a mom in ten weeks. Going to have a whole human depending on you for every single thing, in ten weeks.
Youâll be alone, with a newborn, in ten weeks.
Alone.
It still aches. Stings. Salt in the wound-
Lit end of a cigarette against your skin.
You instinctively cup your belly, thumb rubbing over where one of your burn scars has been stretched by Sunbeam, and shiver.
Youâre fine. Youâre safe. Get it together.
âWeâre home!â You announce to no one, no one except Gus the goldfish whoâs swimming circles around his bowl. You got him two weeks ago on an impulse, following a pathetic, sad desire all the way to the pet store.
Itâd be nice to have something to come home to.Â
You tap a few flakes into the water and watch him gobble them up, oddly soothed by his presence in the flat.
This is how far youâve fallen. Taking comfort in a damn goldfish.
You blow out a breath and fall onto the couch, swinging your legs up onto the cushions, dragging the pillows under your ankles, or what used to be your ankles. Theyâre more like overstuffed sausages now, tops of your sneakers cutting into your skin. Every chance you get, youâre finding places to sit at work, caught yourself leaning most of your weight on your patientâs beds, more than once. Thankfully, your coworkers are overwhelmingly understanding.
And when you come home, you do this. Collapse on the couch. Talk to a goldfish, or Sunbeam, or both.
The oddest trio: Mom, baby, goldfish.
You manage to limit yourself to three bites of ice cream before putting the carton away in the freezer. Youâre supposed to be watching your sugar intake, apparently, not because youâre at risk for gestational diabetes, but because Sunbeam is already projected to be on the bigger side.
You look mournfully at container, spoon still in hand.
One more. Whatâs it going to hurt? One more bite isnât going to turn Sunbeam into a giant, itâs-
Knuckles rap against your door.
Your blood goes cold, colder than ice, and you instinctively find the floor, crouching by the fridge, using it to shield yourself, keeping away from the doorâs direct line of sight.
The knocking gets louder.
Someoneâs saying something on the other side of the door, but you canât hear it over the buzzing, beeping sound in your ears.
How.Â
How? How did it happen so fast? Where did you fuck up?Â
The fear you once felt for yourself pales in comparison to the true fear you feel now. Youâre supposed to protect Sunbeam, supposed to keep them safe.
Youâre supposed to be a mom.Â
A sob claws its way out, and you clap your palm over your mouth, agony squeezing your heart, panic clutching your throat in a vise, choking off your air, throttling you until youâre gasping.
You should run, should sprint into the bedroom and grab the gun from under your mattress, should start crawling out the window to the fire escape.
You should do these things, but instead, youâre trapped, immobile, watching with horror as the deadbolt turns horizontal, sliding the lock free with a bloodcurdling click.
Your baby. You were supposed to keep your baby safe.Â
You failed.Â
You stand, so unsteady you have to support your weight by leaning against the counter. The only thing in here are kitchen knives, and you rip two from the block, one hiding behind your back, the other brandished in front of your body like a sword.
Youâre going to die.Â
But not without a fight.Â
Tears wet your cheeks. âIâm sorry,â you choke, sliding a hand over little Sunbeam, âIâm so- so sorry.â
The creak of the door handle is unmistakable, a metal whine scraping against the frame. You close your eyes.
âBunny.â
Your heart stops.
The men you thought love you are standing just inside your kitchen, the sight of them turning your stomach, their eyes flicking between you and the shiny, sharp knife in your hand.
Johnny inches forward, his voice a low, gentle murmur, one that cracks your heart. âItâs okay pretty girl, weâre here to take ye home.â
âGet away from me.â The knife is practically rattling in your hand.
"It's alright. Weâd never hurt ye, either of ye. We know what ye saw and-â
âN-no,â you sob, voice cracking, shoulders shaking, âdonât come near me.â
âPut that down, sweet girl, itâs alright.â Simon edges around the counter, caution and wary weighing his steps. Theyâre supposed to be muffled you think, soft, but they ring so loud.
âStop!â
âJust let us explain, give us a minute-â
âI saw you! I saw you w-with him.â Your vision is blurred by tears, and you look down at your belly, desperate. âJust let us go, please. Donât- donât let him-â
âListen to me, sweetheart. We have nothing to do with Phillip.â His name makes your flinch, and you inch backwards.
âYou know him.â
âWe do. He tried to kill us, betrayed us, on a mission. Nearly succeeded with Johnny.â The words conflict, mash together into a scramble you donât understand. It doesnât make sense.
More lies.Â
âI donât believe you.â
âI know, I know you donât. I wouldnât if I was in your position either, but weâre telling the truth.â You shake your head.
âNo. Youâre just⌠youâre just trying to trick me.â
âWeâre not,â Johnny murmurs, âWeâve always told ye the truth, bun. And weâd never hurt ye.â He steps forward. Itâs too close, way too close, and you pivot, both knives still clutched in your hands.
âPut them down.â Simon instructs, a little bit of steel in his voice now. He can obviously see the one behind your back, and your heart starts to sink.
Thereâs no way out. You should have run when you had the chance.Â
Stupid.
The girl in the mirror stays silent. She says nothing.
For all you know, sheâs dead already. Killing blow dealt by your own hand.
You think about Sunbeam, all warm and safe, protected from the world, and despair swells in your chest, an entire ocean beneath your feet, waiting to swallow you up, drag you down and drown you.
âNow, sweetheart. We donât want you to hurt yourself.â You laugh. Itâs a sickly, nervous thing, too tinny and high pitched.
Youâre falling apart. Youâre not a fighter, youâre a runner, shot lame in a race rigged against you from the beginning. Theyâre closing in, wolves stalking the bleeding lamb between them, predators about to fall on prey.
 âDonât,â whisper, fingers tightening around the knife in front of your body, unable to hold it steady through the trembling.
âBunny, listen to us, please.â Johnny is reaching and you get trapped in his gaze, spiraling into the swirl of misery and fear, mirroring your own. âI love ye, we love ye. Ye belong with us, at home, where we can keep ye safe.â You slam your eyes shut, trying to block him out. âIâve loved ye since the day I opened mâeyes and saw ye leaning over the bed. Weâd never hurt ye, we jusâ want to take ye home.â
Out of the corner of your eye, Simon moves. One powerful, huge step, and heâs on you, grabbing your arm, applying pressure to your knuckles to release the knife.
You scream. Itâs instinct. Everything shuts down, narrowing down to one objective.
Run.
âJohnny,â he half shouts over your keening, holding gentle pressure against your arm as you try to rip yourself free. âShhh, itâs okay, youâre okay.â You thrash, trying to twist out of his grip, shoulder shrieking in pain, and he goes with your momentum, providing slack so thereâs no tension in your arm. âStop, youâre going to hurt yourself sweetheart, youâre okay.â
Youâre not.Â
Youâre not okay. Youâll never be okay.Â
The walls close in, and it all becomes so clear. Your future, what will happen if they take you, if you leave here with them.
Theyâll take Sunbeam. Theyâll turn you over to Phillip, throw you out like trash, and youâll die.
Are you going to let it happen, just like you let everything else? Are you going to roll over? Let it all be stolen, again and again?Â
No.Â
Simon reaches for the other knife and you swing it wide, slicing through the air until the blade meets flesh.
He hisses. Blood spills, drips down the handle, coats your fingers, and you stand there, frozen, gobsmacked.
Did you-Â
Did you just-Â
âJohnny,â he barks, but it barely registers, youâre too transfixed by the blood, hypnotized by it, too entranced to even register Johnny at your side, too stunned to see whatâs in his hand.
A needle.Â
He whispers your name, cradles your face-
And then everything goes black.
#peaches writes#ghoap x reader#simon riley#simon riley x reader#john soap mactavish#john soap mctavish x reader#ghost x reader#soap x reader#ghost x reader x soap
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