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whirlybirbs · 6 months ago

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— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

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.

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?

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago.

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.

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — 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.

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent.

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.

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?

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — 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.

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care.

He isn't a villain-in-training.

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — 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.

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.

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet.

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.

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 — 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?

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes.

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 — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing.

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.

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's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again.

"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'—"

"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.

Happy.

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.

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.

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — 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 — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero.

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good.

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 — 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."

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — 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.

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — 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.

"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.

"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.

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — 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.

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.

You're different than he remembers — 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.

He hangs back.

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto.

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was.

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — 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.

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — 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.

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.

And the underdog in question can read a room.

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 screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— 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 youths—"

"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 him—"

"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 — and a lot of therapy — 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 — 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.

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment.

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

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 — 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 — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell.

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'? A suit?"

"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."

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog."

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.

"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 excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"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?"

"She wants me to call her after—"

"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' disap—"

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.

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 kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And 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 — 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.

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful.

Fuyumi's contribution.

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.

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.

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables.

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.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — 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.

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.

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 — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass.

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy.

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him.

Until this morning, that is.

You smile into your drink.

"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.

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.

Shoto's always been a good listener — 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.

It's adorable.

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.

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 — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it.

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 — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you.

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss.

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen.

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 — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you.

It's sweet.

Really sweet.

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — 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.

"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.

Your stomach does a flip.

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.

Keep it together.

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.

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment.

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park.

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.

"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..."

"I—" 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 weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"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.

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.

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — 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.

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — 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.

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful.

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.

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.

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face.

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did.

It shows.

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 flower—

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.

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined.

And then you whimper.

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 — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching.

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.

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.

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?

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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

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.

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki.

#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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sincerelybubbles · 1 month ago

Note

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 chaos—agents moving between desks, papers shuffling, the hum of conversation filling the air. It’s 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 then—then, something odd happens.

She walks past Hotch’s office, and without a second of hesitation, she reaches out and knocks twice against the open doorframe—light, quick, easy.

Hotch glances up from his paperwork, and instead of his usual curt nod or unreadable gaze, something soft crosses his face. It’s barely there, a flicker of warmth before he schools his expression. But it’s real.

And then—then—she says, “Morning, Hotch,” like it’s nothing. Like it’s 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 isn’t the first time.

He returns it with a quiet, “Morning,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And that’s when the team starts paying attention.

Morgan’s 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 it’s a puzzle he hasn’t figured out yet. Rossi just smirks.

The door to Hotch’s 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. “Morning, Hotch?”

Morgan shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “That’s not normal, right? She doesn’t talk to anyone like that. Not even me,” he points out, sounding offended. “And I’ve been workin’ on breaking her out of that shell for years.”

Reid blinks, clearly running through past conversations in his head. “She’s never greeted me like that before, either.”

“Or me,” Emily agrees, before throwing a glance toward Rossi. “You?”

Rossi just takes a slow sip of his coffee, unreadable.

“Something’s up,” Morgan mutters.

Emily hums in agreement. “Something.”

||||

It happens again the next day.

And the next.

Each time, it’s something small—something easily overlooked if you aren’t paying attention. But they are paying attention. Because once profilers start noticing something, it’s 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.

“Did you eat?” she asks, casually—too casually.

Hotch slows just a fraction, just enough for the team to catch it. “Not yet.”

She hums, glancing at the time. “Bagel shop’s still open. They have fresh bread until nine.”

“I’ll be fine,” Hotch assures, but he lingers. Just for a second.

She gives him a pointed look before returning to her file. “Mm.”

That’s it. That’s the whole exchange. And yet—

Morgan immediately turns toward Emily. “You seein' this?”

Emily nods, hiding a grin behind her coffee. “Oh, I’m seeing it.”

Reid, who has been diligently pretending not to be part of this entire conspiracy, clears his throat. “I mean, she could just be concerned about his health?”

Morgan gives him a look as Emily snorts. “She’s never told us to eat.”

“She’s never told anyone to eat,” Morgan mutters, shaking his head. “Except Hotch, apparently.”

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.

“Okay,” he admits. “That was weird.”

“Thank you,” Emily says, throwing her hands up.

Morgan shakes his head, settling back into his chair. “I’m just saying, that’s not nothing.”

||||

It happens again later that evening, this time in the briefing room.

They’ve wrapped the case, a particularly grueling one, and now it’s 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 table—some 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, she’ll fall asleep. And she doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about that.

The door opens, and Hotch steps in. The conversation dulls, but only slightly—it’s always like that when he walks in. Not because they’re afraid of him, but because his presence naturally shifts the atmosphere.

She barely looks up. “Coffee?” she asks, already moving to stand.

Hotch shakes his head. “I got it.”

She pauses, then settles back down, flipping a page. “Okay.”

That’s 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. It’s subtle—probably something even she hasn’t noticed—but there’s no way in hell he’s imagining it now.

The old her would’ve never spoken to Hotch without being spoken to first. Would’ve never offered him something so casually, so easily, like it was second nature.

And Hotch—

Hotch, who usually doesn’t acknowledge small gestures like this, doesn’t even bat an eye. Doesn’t make a comment, doesn’t pause, doesn’t do anything other than react without thought.

Which means this isn’t the first time it’s happened.

Emily catches Morgan’s look and raises a brow. You seeing this?

Morgan smirks. Oh, I’m seeing it.

They share a knowing glance, and then—just to test the waters—Emily leans forward, setting her elbows on the table.

“Hey, Hotch,” she says casually. “Since you’re already up, can you grab me one too?”

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.

“No.”

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 Rossi’s office.

She hadn’t meant to end up here. It’s late, past the point of pretending she’s being productive, but she told herself she’d finish one more report before heading home. Somewhere along the way, she’d wandered, coffee in hand, and now she’s leaning against Rossi’s doorway, blinking sluggishly at him as he flips through a leather-bound journal.

“Long day?” he asks without looking up.

She nods, then remembers he’s not looking. “Yeah.”

He hums, setting the journal aside. “And yet, you’re still here instead of going home. Or is it that you don’t want to go home?”

“I was going home,” she argues, though they both know she’s lying. “I just… got distracted.”

Rossi leans back, eyeing her with the kind of gaze that makes it impossible to lie. Not that she’s in the habit of lying to him—especially since he’s 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.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, but there’s something else in his tone. A lilt. An implication.

She squints at him. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something.”

Rossi shrugs. “I know a lot of things.”

“Right,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes.

He’s enjoying this. That much is clear. She doesn’t know what he’s enjoying yet, but she’s sure he’ll make her figure it out on her own.

And then—

“Oh.” She blinks. “Wait. No.”

Rossi smirks.

Her stomach flips. “You know?”

He doesn’t 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 means—

“Relax,” Rossi drawls, interrupting her impending spiral. “It’s not like he gave me a play-by-play. He just mentioned you two had dinner.” He pauses, then grins. “And that it went well.”

She shifts her weight, suddenly too aware of herself. Oh.

It’s not that she thought Hotch would keep it a secret forever, but hearing that he’d told Rossi, that he’d spoken about it in any capacity, makes it feel… 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 he’d had in their them-ness while she was still fumbling over the weight of it.

Rossi watches her carefully, still amused but softer now. “You okay?”

She nods, pressing her lips together. “Yeah. I just—”

She gestures vaguely, words failing her.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Go home,” he says again, more insistent this time. “And tell Aaron I said you’re welcome.”

She sputters, eyes wide, and Rossi just laughs, already reaching for his journal again.

She doesn’t know if she’s embarrassed or endeared, but as she slips out of his office, warmth tucked into her chest, she thinks maybe it’s a little bit of both.

||||

The moment is small. Blink and you’d 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 they’d 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. “You were going to put in two scoops.”

Her eyes narrow. “And?”

He hands her the spoon, ignoring the way the corner of his mouth twitches. “And you always complain that it makes the coffee too sweet.”

She exhales, glaring at him for being right, and scoops one spoonful instead.

“You should get your own coffee if you’re just going to judge mine.”

“I was here first,” he reminds her. "Making my own coffee, not yours."

“I was letting you make mine for me.”

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 then—

He leans in. Not much, but just enough. “You'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. “Damn.”

JJ, still wide-eyed, elbows him. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s already a thing,” Morgan mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Did you see that? She flirted back.”

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 cabin—Morgan 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 wasn’t in pain.

The gash on her ribs wasn’t deep. She’d already been patched up at the local hospital—stitched, bandaged, and thoroughly instructed to take it easy. But “take it easy” 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 drink—when 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 hadn’t said anything at all.

Not until now.

“You need to rest,” 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 wasn’t her.

She sighed. “I’m fine, Hotch.”

“You’re in pain,” he countered, not unkindly.

“I’m always in pain after a case,” she pointed out, arching a brow.

His lips twitched in a way that was almost—but not quite—a smile. “This is different.”

He knew. Of course, he knew. She should have expected that.

Her shoulders eased just a little. “I just don’t want everyone fussing over me.”

“They’re only fussing because they care.”

She couldn’t argue with that. But still, she rolled her eyes, shifting slightly in her seat—only to wince when the movement tugged at her stitches.

Hotch sighed and sat beside her. “Case in point.”

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 it—the way the energy shifted.

Like they were all watching something unfold, something inevitable.

She kept her gaze on Hotch. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.” 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 wasn’t 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.

She’d 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 you’re 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 hadn’t been sure why she said yes—maybe 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 she’d 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. "That’s why you two have been acting different lately."

She frowned, sluggish. "What?"

"Come on, don’t play coy now. Dinner? With Hotch? In his office? That’s why you’ve been all up in each other’s 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. "I—I didn’t mean—"

"You totally meant," he cut in, smug as hell.

She buried her face in her hands, groaning. "You tricked me into coming here. I’m too tired for this interrogation."

"You’re too tired to lie," he countered, tapping the bar. "And that’s 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 he’d won something, like he had all the confirmation he needed.

He leaned in conspiratorially. "So, how was dinner?"

She didn’t 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

1K notes · View notes

darkmatilda · 1 month ago

Text

𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: each of you—especially spencer—knew 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.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: 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

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 14.8 k

𝐚/𝐧: i admit, there’s not much romance in this, and yep, probably the freakiest shit i've written so far. a slightly modified request from an anon—really 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) <

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

/ˌmetəˈmɔːfəsɪs/ a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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 Birthday

In seconds your hands were full—two gift bags and a box, and you hadn’t even managed to take off your coat yet. You thanked everyone with genuine warmth and gratitude but didn’t 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 couldn’t wait to give you his gift and wish you a happy birthday.

Either way, you had already been hugged by everyone—except…

“Come back in five minutes,” Hotch instructed the two of you, nodding at the rest of the team. “We need to get started on the case.”

And just like that, you and Reid were left alone—a surprisingly thoughtful decision from your boss. You were just friends, of course. Just like the rest of the team…okay, maybe a little closer than that.

“Here, let me help,” he offered, watching with a soft smile as Garcia’s 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.

“Are you doing this because you’re an altruist,” you teased, “or because you’re afraid Pen would murder you if her present got damaged on your watch?”

“Why do you assume she’d only murder me?”

“Because I have a birthday,” you said matter-of-factly. “It’s weird to hurt someone on their birthday, don’t you think? Pretty sure even savoir vivre has something to say about that.”

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 wasn’t on your side. In five minutes, you’d both have to return to a world filled with kidnappings, murders, and violence.

“So…” he started, briefly glancing down at his shoes before slowly reaching into the pocket of his blazer. “Oh—first and foremost, happy birthday. I know you’ve already heard that about a hundred times today, but…”

“But not from you.”

“Happy birthday,” he exhaled, almost nervously.

You frowned slightly, wondering why he seemed so worked up over this.

“Sorry, I just…I spent a lot of time trying to figure out if you’d like this gift, and I really wanted to see your reaction. So much so that I kind of forgot to actually say happy birthday.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “Anyway, I hope that…”

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.

“You hope I’ll like it?” you repeated, shaking your head in disbelief. “Tickets 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 badly…”

You opened your arms to hug him—but 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 nod—and wrapped his arms around you. The corners of your lips lifted again—though, honestly, you weren’t sure they’d 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.

“Henry gave me this this morning,” you said, handing him the homemade card your godson had made. A small, knowing smile tugged at Spencer’s lips even before he took it, his gaze dropping to the stick figure that was supposed to be you. “He said I’m his favorite aunt in the whole world,” you added, a playful lilt in your voice. “But I’m not supposed to tell Uncle Spence because it might make him sad.”

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 adults—there 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 else—but 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 on—the 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. "I’ve been tracking them—I mean, really staring at my screen for hours, even more than usual—but our twins haven’t 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 surveillance…"

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 victim’s holding site.

And that was exactly where you were stuck—on this fucking last step—for yet another week.

In the meantime, one of the unsubs had launched a career as a streamer, broadcasting their actions—at least fragments of them—on 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 sister—people 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, you’d 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 room—a 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 breath—one 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 Schuyler—thirty-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 wasn’t involved in their crimes, you concluded she had recently died. That theory was reinforced by the fact that their victims all resembled her—and 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 they’re searching for their next victim. Because we all agree there will be another, right?"

He wasn’t looking for confirmation—everyone knew cases like this didn’t just end.

Hotch nodded thoughtfully. "That’s our job for today," he began. "Not just today—we 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 it—anything 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.

♊︎

"Guess this isn’t 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 ruin—once a shopping mall—you 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 it—whatever 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 illogical—because, of course, a blood transfusion into a dead body won't resurrect it—they'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 desire—the 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 didn’t respond—he was listening intently to Hotch’s 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 hadn’t been enough time to prepare. You didn’t 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 you’d managed to gather, a lot of people from the local underworld—mostly dealers—had passed through here at least once in their careers.

You didn’t 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 you…and, you know, I was wondering if maybe you’d want to, well…see 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 don’t want you to think I expected you to invite me just because I gave you the tickets…It’s a gift, and if you’d rather take someone else, a friend or…"

"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. She’s 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.

“Fuck”

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“Fuck! She got away. She was alone, and she still managed to slip through…there must be a hidden exit in the warehouse…”

Reid brought the radio to his lips.

“We’re nearby—we 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. She’s probably heading straight there.” A faint crease formed between his brows, the mark of complete focus. “Garcia, you got me? Check the maps. Find anywhere they might have stopped…”

“How the fuck did she slip through?” you hissed under your breath, your heart hammering against your bulletproof vest.

You weren’t there—you had no right to judge. But for god’s sake, it was one woman against a trained FBI team!

“Guys, I think I’ve got something!” Penelope’s tense whisper crackled through the radio. “An abandoned parking lot, I’ll guide you there…”

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 much—except for the single parked car standing out in the gloom.

You and Reid didn’t need to discuss your next move. A brief exchange of glances was enough—a 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 driver’s 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 car’s interior was empty.

“Damn it,” you muttered, lowering your gun. “Is this even their car? Maybe we came here for nothing…”

“Let’s find out,” Reid murmured, scanning the area cautiously before tugging on the surprisingly unlocked front door. His brows lifted—he 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.

“Nothing,” 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.

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 darkness—and 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.

Then—Reid’s 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 eyes—both 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 unbearably—like a warning of the next shot to come.

But it didn’t.

And when another second passed. Then another—

You moved.

Ignoring Reid’s 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 wasn’t 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 victim…

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 shouldn’t 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.

“Spence,” you turned suddenly after taking only a couple of steps. He also looked at you, clearly surprised. “Be careful.”

Reid nodded.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassured you. “Be careful too. We’ll meet up in a bit.”

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 didn’t 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 driver’s side window.

You didn’t even fully turn to the side, you didn’t 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 wasn’t 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.

♊︎

It wasn’t 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 play—one 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 all—but 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 didn’t remember much after that—not 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 arrive—Spencer 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.

“JJ…”

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.

“How could you…how could you even suggest splitting up?” 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 longest—desperate, frantic, chasing down any possible lead that could tell her where they had taken her best friend, the godmother of her son. “You know this never ends well, Spencer. You know that. You should have known that…”

"Enough" Emily appeared beside them, gently wrapping her arms around JJ’s shoulders.

JJ slumped, a single tear glistening in her eye for the first time.

"This isn’t helping," Emily said softly. "We need to focus on finding her as quickly as possible. They… they don’t kill their victims. Not right away. We still have a chance…"

"They don’t kill their victims," JJ repeated blankly, wiping her eye with a stiff movement. She didn’t 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 Emily’s 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 Emily’s. Her brown eyes were surprisingly gentle.

He looked away.

Facing JJ’s fury had been easier—it was just a fraction of the hatred he felt toward himself. But he couldn’t 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.

“I need to focus,” 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 everything—literally everything.

But then Penelope appeared in the doorway, the color drained completely from her face.

“Guys, you need to see this…” she choked out.

For a second, everyone froze—until, led by Spencer, they rushed toward her office.

"Just like in the previous cases, I can’t 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 inside—motionless. She was biting her thumb, staring at one of the monitors in a trance. "They’re 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 point—the 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 footage—no, the live feed.

"Is recording this really fucking necessary?" a woman's voice snapped—it belonged to Lavinia.

Spencer's mind flickered with the image of her face—those 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 wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest anymore—just a loose nightgown that ended at her elbows. Her eyes were half-lidded, blinking slowly—probably just waking up.

"We already talked about this. It is," her brother replied. "What are you doing?"

Lavinia stepped into the frame. They weren’t wearing masks, weren’t bothering to hide their identities—fully aware that law enforcement already knew their names.

One of her hands clamped down on the captive’s, 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 couldn’t force a single word out. He couldn’t 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, I’m 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 tension—some kind of conflict…"

"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, I’m not wasting our time on her.

"…That'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.

"…We should—"

"She’s AB Rh+."

Hotch finally turned to look at him. So did the rest.

They froze—silent, motionless—not because they didn’t 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.

I’m 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 Penelope’s cheek. She didn’t even try to wipe it away.

“Let me check,” Leon, the male unsub, suddenly offered. “Go turn the heat up. Even I’m cold, and I’ve got a jacket on.”

His sister hesitated for a moment before she agreed.

Spencer finally opened his eyes—not to torture himself with the helplessness on his colleagues’ 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 wouldn’t fix anything, but maybe—maybe—it 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 wouldn’t have to endure days of suffering, uncertainty, and fear. He knew that feeling. He knew it all too well—praying for his own death when the pain became unbearable when fear and exhaustion drained the last of his strength. He didn’t want her to go through that.

He didn’t want her to go through any of this.

But that…that especially.

"And?" Lavinia returned to the room after a long moment.

"Well, what can I say? I’ve got a good eye," her brother said lightly. "O Rh-, a universal donor. We couldn’t have asked for a better match. You know what this means? That this time, we might finally succeed."

Everyone exchanged glances, utterly confused.

“Spencer…” JJ looked at him for the first time since their argument. “You said…you yourself said that she—”

“Because she is,” he interrupted. “He lied.”

Prentiss snapped her head up, a spark of hope flickering in her eyes. Spencer didn’t share her optimism. He did feel some relief, that much was true. But he was painfully aware that this wasn’t over. The nightmare was only beginning, and it was up to them to end it—before it was too late.

♊︎

You were afraid to be afraid.

Absurd—you 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 whatsoever—you 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t 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 victim’s 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 didn’t 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.

“If you get up without permission again, I’ll cuff you to the damn bed,” she said, tossing a bottle of water onto the mattress beside you. “Drink. You’ll get food when you do something for me.”

"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 couldn’t even estimate it.

Deep inside, you felt like it had been no more than a day.

The others had been kept for seven days before…

You shook your head. You couldn’t think about the others if you wanted to hold on to what was left of your sanity.

“Good night,” Lavinia muttered, messing with the IV drip.

“But you said I had to do something…” 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 conclusion—wherever you were, the rest of the building wasn’t 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 didn’t hold back.

The previous victims hadn’t been beaten this badly, so you assumed she particularly disliked the fact that her brother had chosen to kidnap you.

Leon, unlike her, didn’t 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 didn’t look like a mad doctor’s operating room but rather an ordinary, slightly old-fashioned bedroom. Dark wooden floors, a wardrobe with ornate handles in the corner, no windows—just 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 for—what you estimated to be—several 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 their…ritual.

As an FBI agent and profiler, you were accustomed to seeing dead bodies—but this one unsettled you in a way you couldn’t 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 Lydia’s cold, gray cheek.

The dead woman’s 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 wasn’t 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 Lydia’s 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 couldn’t suppress a shudder at the sight of her exposed skin. You were trembling too much from the cold for Lavinia to notice.

Lydia’s 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.

“W-why do I have to do this?” you asked, clenching your teeth to stop them from chattering.

Lavinia shrugged as she wiped her sister’s skin with the cloth.

“Someone has to take care of her,” she said. “By doing this, you’re building a bond with her. Here, try it. Just be gentle.”

For a moment, you just stared at her. You were now certain—absolutely certain—that 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 surface…a violent gag reflex hit you so hard that you staggered.

You heard a contemptuous scoff.

“If you throw up on her, you have no idea what I’ll do to you,” she warned.

This was sick. Sick, sick, sick.

Your breath caught in your chest—you couldn’t 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 Lavinia’s 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 Lydia’s 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 that’s how she died? Suicide?

Lavinia stabbed you with a syringe.

♊︎

You lay in bed, your body still trembling.

You weren’t 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 Lydia’s body now dictated when morning came and when night fell. Not once had you fallen asleep on your own—there were always the drugs, injected mostly when they needed to move you to another room. You wondered why you couldn’t 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 visions—of 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 couldn’t 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 Leon…

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 it…

“How are you feeling?” 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 eye—courtesy of his sister—was out of view. A poor attempt. Your lip was swollen too. “You look weak. My sister told me to bring you something to eat, but… you know, Lydia is smaller than you.”

You raised your eyebrows. So what, was he planning to starve you until you resembled his sister’s corpse? You didn’t even try to understand it anymore. It wasn’t worth the effort for your exhausted mind. You didn’t answer, unsure of what you even should say. But you wanted to keep the conversation going.

“Why…why are you even recording all of this?”

You couldn’t 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 Penelope—she wasn’t built for this. Not JJ, your best friend. And definitely not Spencer.

On second thought, you didn’t want any of them to be watching.

Leon cleared his throat.

“Well, we’re doing something incredible. People want to see it. They’re curious if we’ll succeed.”

You’re doing something sick. Freaks want to watch it. They’re fascinated by it, you corrected him in your head.

“So, I have fans?” You tried to sound playful, friendly.

Leon was surprised by the warmth in your voice. Pleasantly surprised. His pale face, green eyes brightened slightly.

“Yes. I guess you do,” he admitted. He almost seemed shy, as if he hadn’t kidnapped you. “Can I…can I talk to you? Maybe they’d like to know something about you. The previous ones…the previous ones didn’t really want to say much. Mostly, they just screamed.”

You used all your strength not to flinch.

“Sure,” you replied, forcing a soft smile. It was just a game, a mask. You tried to observe the conversation from the outside, detached, clear-headed—while pretending you didn’t hate him. “What do you want to know?”

He didn’t move closer, but he shifted slightly to make sure the camera captured as much of you as possible.

“I know you’re a fed,” he began. “I 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.”

You hesitated for a moment. You were kidnapped. If it were someone else in your position, you’d tell them to be as human as possible—honest, 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.

“I love musicals,” you finally said.

You thought about the two tickets—Spencer’s gift.

It hurt unbelievably much.

You prayed he wasn’t watching. That he wouldn’t hear this.

You told Leon a little about the last musical you had seen. It had been a long time—your 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 didn’t want to die like this. You refused to.

“Do you want kids?” he asked suddenly.

The question was so unexpected that you didn’t even have time to think.

"I guess…I 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 don’t know, actually. Maybe. To continue the species."

Or to have a loving family, but of course, you weren’t about to say something so personal out loud.

Leon remained still for a moment, then suddenly laughed. You pretended to laugh along, but you couldn’t stop the sharp flinch when he suddenly moved closer, touching your cheek with his hand. He lowered the camera—it was now pointing at the floor.

"You're so funny," he said with strange tenderness. "Just like Lydia. She…she 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?"

"What…what 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 doesn’t matter."

Your posture became more alert, analytical. Leon withdrew his hand from your face, but he didn’t point the camera back at you, as if he had forgotten he was even holding it.

"Of course, I’ve loved," you said quietly. "And I still do. And you loved Lydia, right?"

The man nodded, a certain longing filling his green eyes.

"It’s 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."

♊︎

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 detail—one 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 didn’t 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 team—a 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 Leon’s cryptic words—that 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 her—rather 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 alone—something 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 wasn’t only about guilt—the 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 didn’t matter right now.

The only thing that mattered was the silent promise in his mind—that 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 weren’t the stimulants but the occasional glances at the drawing Henry had made—a 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.

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 cheek—one that hadn’t been there before. Second, her hair. It had been cut to the exact same length Lydia’s had been in the photos he’d 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 it—he wasn’t 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.

♊︎

When Leon cut your hair, you took advantage of his momentary distraction—his mind entirely consumed by memories of his sister—and 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 more—not 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 Lydia’s empty eyes, at the bluish veins beneath her lifeless skin, you couldn’t stop imagining yourself the same way—discarded by the roadside, drained of every last drop of blood.

You didn’t 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 don’t wait? They would understand. You knew that. You were relieved that the camera hadn’t 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 Lydia’s 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 wouldn’t 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.

"She…maybe we should just get rid of her. Find a new one."

"We can’t," her brother responded firmly. You had never heard him speak in such a commanding tone before. "We can’t take that risk. They’re on our tail. Police…FBI. If we try again…this is our last chance. She is our last chance, and this time, it will work. I can feel it"

He paused.

"She’s 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 to…they 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 wail—it took everything in you not to beg the man to put you to sleep again. If even death couldn’t save you from this fate, then what could?

Leon didn’t 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 chill—not the biting cold of Lydia’s 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 cracks—a faint, steady noise.

Rushing water.

Leon kept leading you forward. You crossed a threshold, and that was when you saw it—an old window at the end of the corridor. Something inside you surged forward, an instinctual pull. You wanted—needed—to 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 hadn’t. It had only been waiting.

Leon pulled you along more forcefully. For the first time, you thought about hurting him. He wasn’t as strong as his sister—if you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck at just the right angle…You 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 right—you were somewhere on the water.

You had done this so many times that he didn’t need to hand you the cloth or the comb; you already knew where to find them. As you opened the drawer, you could feel Leon’s gaze on your back. You moved slowly, hoping to find something sharp. Anything. Even the comb would do…

You turned around and saw Leon sitting on the table by the bed, his forehead resting on his sister’s lifeless hands.

A perfect opportunity. Perfect circumstances. He was distracted, not paying attention to you.

Unfortunately, you weren’t fully focused either. His sobbing…

"My beautiful Lydia," he wept softly into his sister’s 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 didn’t 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 you—a wild, feral madness—you 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.

“I love you too,” 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t call for you to follow. He didn’t 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 moment’s notice. You didn’t 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 didn’t 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 face—pure shock, trembling lips. You were surprised too, but… the corners of your mouth twitched. You masked it quickly, pretending there wasn’t even a trace of satisfaction in you. That your plan wasn’t starting to fall into place.

“Get her out of my sight,” 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 you—this was the first time you were with him when he didn’t 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 couldn’t let yourself feel too confident yet—you still had to be careful, still had to watch every step you took.

“You defended me,” you noted gently.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked just as bewildered as you felt. You hoped he wasn’t starting to regret calling you that. You hoped his own delusions were wreaking havoc in his mind—to your advantage.

“Thank you,” you added.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. He straightened up, turning his head toward you. There was a strange devotion in his green eyes. “You’re my sister. Of course, I have to protect you.”

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."

"Tomorrow…" 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. "We’re 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 forgotten—Lavinia was his sister too. He loved her as well. Turning him against her wouldn’t be that simple.

Swallowing your nerves, you spoke again.

"We have to convince her that I have truly become Lydia. But for that to happen…you know, there’s 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 words—mostly because you hadn't fully thought this through yet. "One of them is…I need to say goodbye. One last farewell that will sever all ties to my previous life. I wish I could let go without it, but…Leon, I’m afraid it’s necessary. It’s holding me back against my will."

You could see him absorbing everything you were saying.

"Say goodbye…to 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 don’t need to see her. Just…just 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 will…"

"She won't," he cut you off. "I won’t let her… We’ll get rid of the anchor, and she’ll understand that you’re 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 Leon’s cheek. He allowed himself a brief smile.

"And what is the second anchor?"

You told him.

♊︎

When you woke up, you knew it was morning.

Lavinia had dragged you to Lydia’s room the old way—while 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 woman’s 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 you…

You tried not to fantasize too much. You had to stay focused.

You slowly combed through Lydia’s 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 didn’t even register the pain.

"I’m still here!" you shouted.

Had they forgotten about you?

"And that’s where you’ll stay," Lavinia’s voice answered from the other side.

You frowned, hugging your trembling body.

"You’ll stay there until the ritual. I’ll come for you before midnight."

"But it’s 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 everything—a plan to keep yourself alive. The next, you doubted you’d 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 wouldn’t 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.

What came next remained uncertain.

♊︎

Leon found you curled up inside the wardrobe, so accustomed to trembling that it felt like a natural state for your body.

“Come on, we have to hurry,” he said, offering his hand to help you out.

You clung to him tightly, as your legs refused to support you.

“What…where…Lavinia…the phone…” you mumbled, your frozen body unable to form coherent sentences.

“I have the phone, but we need to move fast. I got here just before her to give it to you. Come on.”

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 exposed—the hand in which Leon pressed the phone. Your body slowly began returning to its optimal temperature. You couldn’t believe this was really happening.

Leon crossed his arms over his chest. He had no intention of leaving you alone with the phone—he was going to listen to the call. But you were prepared for that possibility.

Instead of frantically dialing, you looked at him. He didn’t have his camera with him.

“Don’t you want to show… this moment to your fans?” 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. “Well, you k-know…the final moment before my complete metamorphosis. They’ve followed you for so long…I’d think they…they’d want to see it.”

"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 sister’s 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 weren’t many numbers you knew by heart, but Spencer’s 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 voice—one 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 wasn’t watching this, you might as well smash the phone against the floor.

"Hi, Mom," you said the moment the call connected.

You didn’t 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 didn’t 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 woman’s voice finally said—JJ’s 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?"

Spencer’s voice.

Another mistake.

Your next breath felt like choking, and you had to steady yourself. You needed to do one more thing—just in case this didn’t 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, don’t 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 wasn’t your fault."

Your voice grew weaker as you spoke.

Don't cry, you warned yourself.

"It wasn’t your fault, Mom. Not your fault, S—Mom."

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 voices—possibly for the last time—tightened 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.

♊︎

“What was that about the mug?” 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.

“You think she was trying to send a message? A hidden clue?”

“Garcia, can you play it from the beginning?” 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 it’s not your fault which only deepened the devastation in his mind. But a small part of him had registered the way her eyes moved.

“Sure, just a sec…” Penelope’s fingers flew over the keyboard, and soon the footage played again.

“Do you understand what she was trying to say?” Rossi asked.

Spencer shook his head. A rush of adrenaline, almost intoxicating, coursed through him.

“She didn’t hide a message in her words,” he explained, straightening up. His gaze darted around Garcia’s 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. “Look at the way she’s blinking. It’s Morse code.”

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 expression—just hope.

Reid wrote down the message she had sent.

Oil rig.

♊︎

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 Lydia’s body, wrapped in a bedsheet and lying just a few steps away. This was the last anchor—the 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 message—one 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.

“Okay, I’m ready,” he said, nodding slightly and exhaling as his eyes lingered on his sister’s body.

You pushed him.

When you planned this, you hadn’t accounted for how weak you would be.

Leon staggered, yes—but he didn’t 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.

You groaned as your body slammed against the hard surface.

“You… bitch,” 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 pain—you heard the crunch of his nose breaking—and 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 wasn’t like Lavinia, but he also wasn’t as weak as a starved woman who had spent nearly an entire day in a freezer.

Right. He wasn’t 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.

A brick.

Leon collapsed when it struck his temple. But that wasn’t 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 her—you had killed her brother.

And it hit you—that 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 couldn’t think, couldn’t 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.

"I’ll 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 wasn’t 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 then—

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.

♊︎

She was saved by the fact that she was a universal recipient.

Still, by the time they found her—after Garcia had finally tracked down the illegally sold oil rig through a bankrupt extraction company—she was already weak. Very weak. So much so that the following hours were filled with even greater fear than the past few days.

She couldn’t slip away from them now that she had been rescued. Or rather, now that she had rescued herself. Spencer had no intention of taking credit—nor letting anyone else take credit—for 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 wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he just gave a small nod.

“She’s your friend. It’s normal that—”

“She’s your friend too. Ours. We should have been supporting each other this whole time instead of yelling at one another.”

“You were the one yelling.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. JJ opened her mouth but said nothing.He hadn’t meant to throw it in her face—he didn’t 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.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Reid. Of course, it has to be you.”

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 mind—seeing 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 simple—a 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.

“Don’t call me that,” she rasped. Her eyes shut again, and she turned her head to the side, as if refusing to look at them. Shutting them out. “That’s not my name,” she whispered.

“I’m Lydia.”

post-reading author’s note:

if you survived reading such a long fic—CONGRATULATIONS and THANK YOU and also im SORRY. i know there wasn’t much reid not much of the team and honestly it had very little to do with canon—it was mostly just a product of my imagination. i hope you’re 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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beloveds-embrace · 5 months ago

Text

Quotation marks around worshippers because they’ve 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 doesn’t kill them and destroy what little they’ve fought hard to win.

John is the oldest. He’s lived long enough to know hope is just a word made by those already deafeated. It doesn’t exist. He has fought bloody and dirty to have his own spot. It’s all his, his only source of safety and isolation from the rest of the god’s 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 John’s reluctance, Johnny becomes part of his world- part of the strange, brutal family they’ve formed under the watchful eye of a cruel god.

But John doesn’t stop there. He takes in Kyle, too. Kyle, quick and resourceful, with sharp eyes and sharper instincts. He’s 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, he’s marked by the battles he’s fought, by the lives he’s taken, the blood that stains his hands. There’s no room for softness here, no room for weakness.

Together, the four of them are bound by the violence they’ve endured and the desperate struggle to appease a god who feeds on their suffering. They don’t question it. They don’t dare. It’s all they’ve ever known. It’s all they’ll ever know.

Then, you arrive.

But you’re not just some strange outsider, not just another fragile soul lost in the wasteland of their god’s 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 can’t name- something they’ve long forgotten.

John is the first to notice the change. It’s subtle at first. The small patch of ground he’s 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 doesn’t 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 doesn’t shove you out. Doesn’t fight, or attack, or kill you. He doesn’t know why he lets you stay, like that moss that lingers.)

Ghost remains quiet, watchful as always. He doesn’t speak of it, but he, too, notices the strange calm that seems to settle around them when you’re near. The land seems less hostile, the sky a less oppressive red and more of a deep orange. It’s unsettling in a way that makes him wary, but he’s drawn to you nonetheless. There’s 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. “Yer naw like the rest of us, bonnie.” he says with a laugh, almost in awe. He doesn’t know why he feels at ease around you, why the chaos in his mind quiets when you’re near, but he doesn’t question it. You smile at him, your touch soft as you brush dirt from your hands, tending to the small garden you’ve coaxed from the dead soil.

Kyle watches from a distance, suspicious at first. He’s 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. There’s a strange sense of peace when you’re around, a warmth that feels foreign but not unwelcome.

They don’t realize it at first, but you’re pulling them out of the war god’s 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 don’t 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 don’t understand how it’s 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 don’t know that you’ve been dismantling the war god’s domain piece by piece, tearing down the walls of blood and fire that have kept them trapped for so long. They don’t know that with every moment they spend in your presence, they’re 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 they’re used to- fresh bread, warm and soft, made from the grain you’ve grown in the earth that once seemed too dead to nourish anything. “Eat,” you tell them with a soft smile, your voice a balm against the harshness of their world. “You’ve fought enough for now.”

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. It’s better than anything he’s 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, you’re 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- he’s 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 doesn’t speak. When this simple act becomes a routine, something begins to flicker in his eyes, something he hasn’t felt in a long time: relief. Safety.

“You don’t have to fight alone, not anymore.” you murmur, and though Ghost doesn’t reply, he doesn’t pull away either. The next time he’s 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. “You’re soft,” he says quietly, as if he can’t quite believe someone like you exists in their world. You only laugh gently and tousle his messy mohawk, unfazed by his wildness. “Maybe,” you reply, “You deserve it. All of you.”

Johnny’s grin widens, and soon, he’s lingering around you more often, like a star drawn to the sun’s orbit. He chatters about nothing and everything- battles he’s won, places he’s 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. He’s been burned too many times, lost too much to believe in something as simple as kindness. But even he can’t deny the peace that settles over him when you’re near. One evening, after a particularly grueling fight, you sit beside him, your presence quiet and soothing. You don’t push, don’t ask him to open up. You just sit there, offering him a slice of bread and a cup of fresh water.

“Why are you helping us?” 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. “Because you’ve fought enough. You deserve rest. Peace.”

He doesn’t 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 don’t 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 doesn’t 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 he’s fought so hard to keep out.

You smile at him, always gentle, always kind, even when he’s rough around the edges. “You don’t have to fight anymore, John,” you tell him one evening as you hand him a fresh scone, drizzled with sweet honey and cream. “There’s more to life than just surviving. Let me show it to you.”

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 you’re near. The weight of the violence he’s carried for so long feels lighter, though he doesn’t 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 he’s still unsure why he feels so drawn to you, so at peace in your presence.

Little by little, without them even realizing it, you’re pulling them away from the war god who has held them captive for so long. You’re 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 don’t 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 John’s 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 you’ve created.

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peachesofteal · 2 months ago

Text

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.

“Are ye comin’ inside?”

“I need a minute.” 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.

“Wait, go back.” The video pauses and rolls backward, all the way until Simon tells Kate to stop it when you step out of the elevator. “What’s in her hand?”

“Dinnae,” Johnny’s nose is practically touching the screen.

“The recording is pretty low quality; I’ve tried enhancing it with no luck.” Kate’s voice crackles through the speakers from the other side of the laptop, the other side of the world. This is the first time they’ve managed to get a hold of her in weeks, and even now, the connection is half static.

“Looks like a piece of paper, or a picture?” Johnny murmurs, leaning back.

“This is just before she bolts,” the playback continues, and they watch as you walk down the hall, bright smile fading when you reach the corner. “She’s here for a minute and then runs…” 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.

Kate nods the confirmation. She’s already put the puzzle together.

Graves.

You’re 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.

Graves.

It’s simple math. Plain as day. You take one look at where he’s come around the corner, running his mouth, chewing that fucking gum, and split.

It’s Graves.

And it all makes sense.

“-you don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t understand. He’s chased me across the world, he always finds me, no matter what, no matter what I do”

“He’s in the military. Some sort of security work, department of defense, or something. He never really talked about it.”

“He always finds me.”

“He 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 it’s usually for long chunks of time.”

“I’m originally from Texas.”

Texas. Texas. Texas.

There was a conversation, months ago, that slipped through Simon’s fingers. A wisp of a suspicion, one pushed away by doubt, by disbelief.

Not possible. A coincidence.

He was wrong, about being wrong. He was right, all along.

Johnny nearly flips the table before Simon urges him back down. “Where… where does she go after this?”

“She gets the car,” Simon answers, timeline clicking into place, “she borrows that gits car, comes home, packs a bag, and runs.” Johnny’s hands are shaking, fingers white against his knees.

They’ll kill him. He’ll paint the walls with Phillip’s blood. They’ll do what should have done in the first place.

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.

He failed.

They failed.

“That piece o’ shite, I’ll-“

“Kill him.” Simon finishes simply, and they exchange a look. A promise without words. Simon will shatter his skull between his palms if he has to.

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?

No.

They'd burn the world for you, to protect you, to bring you home to them.

Kate clears her throat. “There’s more.” More? “I 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.” Kate’s tone is wary, hesitant, and Johnny straightens.

“What is it?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line, unsure trepidation that’s so unlike Kate the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stands up.

“Kate…”

“She’s pregnant.” You could hear a pin drop. Johnny’s rage turns to panic, and an ocean of blood rushes in Simon’s ears.

“She’s- she’s what?”

“She’s pregnant. By now, she’s probably twenty weeks, maybe? I’m not sure. I don’t know much about those things, but her chart notes say both of them are… were in good health. Low risk.”

“Twenty weeks,” Johnny echoes, faraway look in his eyes.

A baby. You’re pregnant.

Pregnant. Pregnant and alone, and scared. Running away.

From them.

Simon’s trying to wrap his head around it, but he can’t. The information doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense.

“If she’s twenty weeks, then she’s been pregnant since before she left.” Johnny’s talking to himself at this point, because Simon can’t force his mouth to make words. “Why keep it a secret?” 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.

And then, she piles it on.

“Graves is in the wind.” Simon’s heart stops like he’s been struck by lightning, electricity jolting him alive.

“How?”

“He went offline. No traceable activity in the last week or so. Last known location was Texas. After that, I’m not sure. Yet.”

‘He can’t be in the wind,” Johnny whisper shouts, all too aware of Penny upstairs, napping. “We need to know where he is. Now.”

“I’m doing all I can. He has resources too, you know. A lot of them.” The screen goes black for a second, before she reappears, lips pressed into a grim line. “I have to go. I’ll keep you updated. Sorry guys.”

They can only nod.

It’s 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.

Simon presses his forehead to Johnny’s. “We’ll find her.”

“An’ bring her home.”

“No matter what.”

The rest is left unsaid.

You’re having a dream.

It’s a lovely one, more of a memory than anything else, but a dream, nonetheless.

“This still feels like a bad idea.”

“Isnae, ye’ll do great bun. Jus’ the ‘hawk now.” You’ve already finished the sides of his head, which were easy enough, but using actual scissors to cut hair is well outside your wheelhouse.

“What if I mess it up?”

“It’s jus’ hair, pretty girl. It grows.”

“How’s it going out here?” Simon leans out the sliding door, Penny in his arms, and you try to plead with him with wide, nervous eyes. He chuckles. “Looks good so far.”

“See?” 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.

“But… I don’t… I’m going to mess it up.” Johnny stands, warm hands on your arms.

“Ye could shave me bald and wouldnae mess it up, bun.” You nod, but the acid, noxious taste of worry is still there on your tongue.

“I just… I…” you’re starting to shake a little, fingers squeezing together. He tugs you into his chest, kisses your temple.

“Ye’re alright.”

“I know.” You do know. You’re safe. They’d never hurt you, never betray your trust or even yell at you, but muscle memory doesn’t forget. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Ye dinnae have to be sorry.”

“It’s okay, bunny.” Simon murmurs, but it’s not.

Is this how you’ll spend your whole life? Afraid? Shaking?

No.

Not anymore.

“If I ruin his hair… it’s not my fault.” Simon chuckles.

“We’ll blame him.” 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.

“It’s okay. If ye-“

“No, I can. I can do it.” You don’t know why you’re so nervous. It’s just a hair cut, for crying out loud, but for some reason it feels like plunging into the deep end of a pool. “Okay,” you breathe, making the first snip. He nods encouragingly and you roll your shoulders.

“See? Not so bad?”

“Not so bad.” You cut again and again, trying to manage it all into a proper length, shaping as best you can.

Each snip, something grows. Your hands tremble a little less, your jaw unclenches, lips flexing upward into your cheeks. You breathe deeper.

When Johnny turns around, he doesn’t care about his hair, or the slightly uneven chunks, or the fresh clippings on his shirt.

He cups your face, kissing you before pulling away to rub his thumb across your cheek.

“There she is.”

Spring rain. There’s nothing like it.

It washes away the gloom of winter. It’s 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.

You’ve 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 weren’t you at all. Until you were a girl in a mirror. Until you were a ghost.

It makes sense that you don’t know yourself now, haven’t known for years. On the run, there’s 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?

Do you like yourself?

You could have had these answers, you think. Could have learned these things, if it hadn’t turned out the way it did. If Simon and Johnny hadn’t 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. “You’re killing me, you know that?” You feel like you’ve 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 can’t sleep, the heartburn makes it hard to eat, you’re never comfortable.

The whole time, you curse them, Simon and Johnny.

Their fault, it’s their fault.

And yours too.

But no matter how tired, how sore, how cranky you are, you can’t bring yourself to regret it, and in your dreams, it’s like all the bad, all the awful betrayal didn’t even happen. You dream of a family with them, Penny holding her little sibling, the five you together. It’s all been buried in your mind, too deep and nearly impossible to dig out. The visions of them, the longing, the good memories. You’re infested with them.

You didn’t want this. You wanted them, you wanted it all, and that might be the hardest thing about it. You weren’t 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 they’re loved.

No matter what.

It’s the train, always the train.

Not the long rail train, the commuter train. The one that takes you to and from work, the one that’s sometimes-standing room only, though most people offer you their seat, which is surprisingly kind, compared to where you’re from.

Regardless, you feel the gaze on the train, and no matter how hard you scan, dissect, watch the people around you, there’s nothing. All three faces, three sets of eyes, three profiles, are never anywhere to be seen.

It’s 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.

“Excuse me?” You jolt, startled by a man standing at your elbow, pointing to a vacant spot on a bench. “Would you like my seat?” His smile is subtle, matching an encouraging but not overly intrusive demeanor.

“Sure, thank you so much.” 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. “Sorry, thanks.”

“Of course, no problem.” You give him another glance. Really handsome, rich brown eyes you could get lost in. He’s got a baseball cap on, but it’s not pulled down over his face like your hood, he’s not trying to hide. “I’ll move when your stop comes up.”

“Okay, it’s not for a while so, no worries.” He might be kind, but he’s still a stranger, and you’re not going to divulge anything specific. Stranger danger.

Not everyone is a threat but…

“How far along are you?” You blink.

“Uh, about twenty-five weeks, give or take a few days.” He nods.

“My wife is due next week; it’s been a rollercoaster.”

“Yeah, it’s not the easiest.” You laugh, a little apprehensive, but also, a little glad, secretly, to have a casual conversation with someone. He sticks his hand out.

“I’m Kyle.” Your tongue rolls with the practiced name you’ve memorized, the one you’ve drilled into yourself over and over again. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too.” 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.

“This is me, have a good day.”

“Thanks.” He doesn’t look over his shoulder at you when he’s getting off, doesn’t watch you through the window from the platform. He’s 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 didn’t get to share an ultrasound with anyone, or have a shower, or hold someone’s hand to your belly as sunbeam kicked, but there’s 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 Sunbeam’s 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. You’ve 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. It’s wild to even think about, to even say to yourself, or out loud. You’re going to be a mom in ten weeks. Going to have a whole human depending on you for every single thing, in ten weeks.

You’ll 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.

You’re fine. You’re safe. Get it together.

“We’re home!” You announce to no one, no one except Gus the goldfish who’s 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.

It’d be nice to have something to come home to.

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 you’ve 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. They’re more like overstuffed sausages now, tops of your sneakers cutting into your skin. Every chance you get, you’re finding places to sit at work, caught yourself leaning most of your weight on your patient’s 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. You’re supposed to be watching your sugar intake, apparently, not because you’re 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. What’s it going to hurt? One more bite isn’t going to turn Sunbeam into a giant, it’s-

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 door’s direct line of sight.

The knocking gets louder.

Someone’s saying something on the other side of the door, but you can��t hear it over the buzzing, beeping sound in your ears.

How.

How? How did it happen so fast? Where did you fuck up?

The fear you once felt for yourself pales in comparison to the true fear you feel now. You’re supposed to protect Sunbeam, supposed to keep them safe.

You’re supposed to be a mom.

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 you’re 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, you’re 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.

You failed.

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.

You’re going to die.

But not without a fight.

Tears wet your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you choke, sliding a hand over little Sunbeam, “I’m so- so sorry.”

The creak of the door handle is unmistakable, a metal whine scraping against the frame. You close your eyes.

“Bunny.”

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. “It’s okay pretty girl, we’re here to take ye home.”

“Get away from me.” The knife is practically rattling in your hand.

"It's alright. We’d never hurt ye, either of ye. We know what ye saw and-“

“N-no,” you sob, voice cracking, shoulders shaking, “don’t come near me.”

“Put that down, sweet girl, it’s alright.” Simon edges around the counter, caution and wary weighing his steps. They’re supposed to be muffled you think, soft, but they ring so loud.

“Stop!”

“Just let us explain, give us a minute-“

“I saw you! I saw you w-with him.” Your vision is blurred by tears, and you look down at your belly, desperate. “Just let us go, please. Don’t- don’t let him-“

“Listen to me, sweetheart. We have nothing to do with Phillip.” His name makes your flinch, and you inch backwards.

“You know him.”

“We do. He tried to kill us, betrayed us, on a mission. Nearly succeeded with Johnny.” The words conflict, mash together into a scramble you don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.

More lies.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I know, I know you don’t. I wouldn’t if I was in your position either, but we’re telling the truth.” You shake your head.

“No. You’re just… you’re just trying to trick me.”

“We’re not,” Johnny murmurs, “We’ve always told ye the truth, bun. And we’d never hurt ye.” He steps forward. It’s too close, way too close, and you pivot, both knives still clutched in your hands.

“Put them down.” 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.

There’s no way out. You should have run when you had the chance.

Stupid.

The girl in the mirror stays silent. She says nothing.

For all you know, she’s 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.

“Now, sweetheart. We don’t want you to hurt yourself.” You laugh. It’s a sickly, nervous thing, too tinny and high pitched.

You’re falling apart. You’re not a fighter, you’re a runner, shot lame in a race rigged against you from the beginning. They’re closing in, wolves stalking the bleeding lamb between them, predators about to fall on prey.

“Don’t,” whisper, fingers tightening around the knife in front of your body, unable to hold it steady through the trembling.

“Bunny, listen to us, please.” Johnny is reaching and you get trapped in his gaze, spiraling into the swirl of misery and fear, mirroring your own. “I love ye, we love ye. Ye belong with us, at home, where we can keep ye safe.” You slam your eyes shut, trying to block him out. “I’ve loved ye since the day I opened m’eyes and saw ye leaning over the bed. We’d never hurt ye, we jus’ want to take ye home.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Simon moves. One powerful, huge step, and he’s on you, grabbing your arm, applying pressure to your knuckles to release the knife.

You scream. It’s instinct. Everything shuts down, narrowing down to one objective.

Run.

“Johnny,” he half shouts over your keening, holding gentle pressure against your arm as you try to rip yourself free. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.” You thrash, trying to twist out of his grip, shoulder shrieking in pain, and he goes with your momentum, providing slack so there’s no tension in your arm. “Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself sweetheart, you’re okay.”

You’re not.

You’re not okay. You’ll never be okay.

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.

They’ll take Sunbeam. They’ll turn you over to Phillip, throw you out like trash, and you’ll 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?

No.

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-

Did you just-

“Johnny,” he barks, but it barely registers, you’re too transfixed by the blood, hypnotized by it, too entranced to even register Johnny at your side, too stunned to see what’s in his hand.

A needle.

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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