#thanks to the ones who kept on waiting for it

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part ii)

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: on today's episode of 'angry idiots and sad assholes', introducing the one and only Joel Miller! I let out a few tears writing this one, too, it's really painful when you think about how Joel probably perceives himself, or how I think he does. onto other happier news, I simply cannot believe the kind of response the first part garnered, and I'm shook! rise up, depression girlies!!! To everyone who responded in the comments and reblogs, I've read them all twice over and giggled and twirled my hair and threw up butterflies. Thank you, and I hope you like this one! :)

Joel settled into his routine like a man settling into an old wound. Patrols, clearing trails, the stables, the repair shop, the bar, dinner in silence, rinse and repeat. It was easier that way—easier than thinking too much about a vain attempt. He ignored his neighbour’s existence completely. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But ignoring something didn’t make it disappear.

Every morning, he still ended up at the dining table—the one he never used—sipping his coffee too slow for his patience, gaze drawn to the big white house across the street like a goddamn magnet. Watching for movement. Watching for them.

And he fucking hated it.

Hated the part of him that waited, that noticed, that took account of the smallest details like they meant anything to him. Like he still had a reason to care.

Sometimes, Maya fussed too much, and Leela would come outside, her hair a little unkempt, gait all botched, but her hands steady as she cradled her baby against her chest. He saw her murmuring softly to the baby girl, pointing to the sky, the trees, the shifting clouds, the falling snow. A little trick from Maria, he figured. It worked well enough. Maya would quiet, those big brown eyes so curious, distracted by the vastness of the world she barely understood.

And Leela—she still looked tired. Still looked like she was moving through a fog, unseeing, carrying more than just the baby in her arms. But she took to Maya differently now, touched her calmly, like she was no longer afraid she might break her.

That was good. That meant she was doing fine. That meant she didn’t need him. And that meant Joel could stop worrying about the things that weren’t his to worry about.

Joel was outside, tightening the hinges on his porch gate, bracing against the cold, when he heard her steps crunching in the snow. Still quiet. Still waiting. He didn’t look up right away, just kept his focus on the task in front of him. If she needed something, she’d say it.

"Good morning, Joel," Leela greeted warmly.

Joel gave a short nod, adjusting the grip on his screwdriver. "Mornin’."

She lingered there. Honestly, he just wished she’d just go back inside. So, he kept working, unbothered, and didn't look up.

"Loose hinges?" she asked.

Courtesies. He wasn't falling for it. "Mhm."

He knew when he wasn't wanted. She was finding her feet now, somewhat starting to take care of herself, carefully taking care of Maya. She didn’t need him checking in, didn’t need him hovering. And maybe—maybe that should’ve felt like a relief. It didn’t.

"You need anything else?" he asked, voice gruffer than he meant it to be.

"No, I just..." Leela wavered, softly, like she already knew he was about to shut her down. "I wanted to say thank you. For helping me out these few weeks. I couldn't have done it without you."

Joel finally glanced up at that. Just a flicker.

Leela shifted in her puffy pants, adjusting Maya against her shoulder. The baby girl was bundled up tight, small fists curled into her mouth, watching him with that blank, childlike wonder in big eyes. It took every bit of strength he had to not fall for that, and just forget everything that happened.

Joel hung his head, nodding again, keeping his focus downward on the screw.

She was being friendly. Trying to meet him halfway. And he hated that this was what it had come to—that she felt like she had to say something, to extend some kind of olive branch, when all he’d done was build a wall between them. For no fucking reason.

He straightened up with a muffled grunt, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Nothin’ to thank me for. It was all you."

She half-laughed, something wry and knowing. "I know that's not true."

Joel glanced up, stiffening, but she wasn’t looking at him, just rubbing slow circles into Maya’s back, pressing a slow kiss to the top of her head, consoling herself.

He knew what she was doing. He wasn’t stupid.

She was trying to make things normal again. Like they hadn’t spent nights under the same roof. Like he hadn’t seen her fall apart. Like she wasn’t still here, right now, offering him something—a small, careful thing—and he was too much of a coward to take it.

So he didn’t.

Joel scratched the back of his neck with the screwdriver, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. "You oughta get inside," he said instead. "It’s too cold for the kid."

Leela’s expression flickered. Not hurt. Just resigned. He felt like he'd ripped the bandaid off a baby.

"Okay. Yes." She slowly nodded but hesitated a step back. Then—too quietly, almost like an afterthought—"It’s nice to see you around, Joel."

And with that, she started back down the road, holding Maya closer by her head, and Joel let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. That was better. Cleaner.

He grabbed his tools and turned back to his door, locking his jaw. He hadn’t meant to come off short, but it was better this way. Best to stay in his own lane. Best not to make something out of nothing. That’s what he told himself.

But later that night, when he was eating that damn delicious soup she’d left for him by his door—still warm, still considerate—he felt like a grade-A asshole.

From then on, it was Tommy who had taken over fixing the nursery, finishing what Joel had started. He figured that was for the best. It kept things clean. Tied up loose ends. He had no business stepping into that house anymore, no reason to.

And yet, his eyes always caught the details—the way the curtains in the nursery window shifted, the way light flickered between the slats, the way the wood he had sanded and painted was still unfinished, the way Tommy started bringing someone else along.

Mal.

Joel had seen him before, a younger guy with an afro that Tommy had taken under his wing. Handy with repairs, and good with his hands. Nothing special.

At first, Mal actually worked. Brought his toolbox, put up a few shelves, and nodded along to whatever Tommy said. Kept to himself. But then—things started changing. Mal started staying longer. Talking... to her. Right on the front stoop until the sun went down.

It was fine at first. Two steps between them. Then one. Then none at all. Soon, he was leaning close on the porch railing, shoulders nearly brushing hers, speaking in low, easy tones that Joel couldn’t quite make out from across the street. And then—laughter. Leela’s laughter. Soft, hesitant, but real.

More than Joel had ever gotten out of her. Not that he’d ever tried.

Tommy and Maria stopped coming around entirely. It was just Mal now. Every goddamn day. He’d stroll up, toolbox in hand, tap on the door, and then—nothing. No sounds of work being done. No hammering, no shifting furniture. Just conversation.

Joel told himself it didn’t matter. Repeated it like a prayer, like a lesson he should’ve learned by now. That whatever Leela did, whoever she let into her home, was none of his business. That was the whole point of leaving, wasn’t it? Cutting ties, walking away.

He didn’t care about the way Mal lingered on that porch, didn’t care about the way Leela had started looking at him—not quite wary, not quite inviting. Like she was still learning how to trust people but was willing to try. Didn’t care about the way Maya reached for Mal, the tiny fingers curling into his beard, the easy way Mal let her.

And yet, he always saw it.

The way Mal leaned just a little closer, the way Leela’s shoulders, once so tight and drawn, started to loosen. The way her fingers twisted in the fabric of her sleeves when she spoke to him, soft and hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to enjoy the conversation.

Joel hated how much he noticed. It was worse when he overheard them.

He'd been out all damn day. Sun up to sundown, rifle slung over his shoulder, dealing with raiders, clickers, and everything in between. The kind of day that made his bones ache, that made his back scream when he so much as breathed wrong. The kind of day where all he wanted was to go home, put his feet up, and maybe—just maybe—close his eyes for longer than ten damn minutes.

But no. Because just as he was rounding the corner to his place, the world ready to lay even more shit on him, he heard them.

"You mean to tell me no one's ever spun you around before?" Mal was saying.

Joel's step faltered. He should’ve kept walking. Should’ve ignored it. But of course, he didn’t. Joel adjusted his grip on the sack slung over his shoulder, slowing his pace, letting their voices drift through the cold evening air.

Leela snorted, light and dismissive. "Like dancing?"

"Exactly like," Mal confirmed, smooth as you please. "Having a little fun, letting go, feeling the music. Bet you don’t do much of that."

Joel’s fingers curled around the strap of his bag, grip tightening.

"There's more pressing matters than romance," Leela muttered, but she was laughing.

Joel didn’t like that one bit. He didn’t like the way she said it. Playful. Entertained. That was the first thing that rubbed Joel the wrong way. The second was the way the kid kept talking.

"Well, I bet Maya’s never even seen her mama all dolled up before, huh? Imagine that, baby girl," Mal cooed, and Maya's sweet crool followed like a melody.

Fuck this.

Joel didn’t hear Leela’s response, didn’t hear whatever she said next, because he was already moving—boots heavy, hands fisted, the strap of his bag biting into his palm.

The frozen dirt beneath his boots crunched as he made his way there, shoulders squared, hackles raised, barely restraining the urge to grab that kid by the collar and shake some goddamn sense into him.

Because who the hell did this punk think he was?

Talking like that, acting like Leela was some blushing girl to be sweet-talked. Like she hadn’t spent the last few weeks barely holding herself together. Like she hadn’t bled for that kid in her arms. Like Joel hadn’t been the one who—

He stopped himself there. Tamped it down. Shoved it deep into the pit of his stomach where all the other shit lived.

Instead, he turned away, kept his head down and walked straight home, fists tight around anything. By the time he kicked the door shut behind him, his jaw ached from how hard he’d been clenching it. Fucking Mal.

Joel dumped the sack of supplies on the table and went straight for the bottle. Pulled the cork out with his teeth, and poured himself a glass with a hand that was damn near steady.

He took a sip. Let it burn. Let it settle. Then he muttered, "Goddamn kid."

He wasn’t mad. Not really. Because why should he be?

She liked him. Sure, he wanted her to be happy. If that happened, he'd finally get a good night's sleep. And yet, it wouldn't mean a fucking thing to him if Mal was the reason. One day when he's going to see her and Mal inside her home, silver rings glinting off their hands, little Maya nestled between them, the picture of a perfect family...

Joel knocked back the rest of the whiskey and swallowed hard. Good. That was good. Good for her. She didn't need him. Maya wouldn't need him. He'd butt out and live alone, in peace.

He set the glass down a little harder than he meant to. Stared at it. Then, just to be sure, he muttered it out loud.

"Ain't my problem."

But the facts remained.

She still wasn’t eating much or sleeping well. The dark circles under her eyes hadn’t faded. She still rubbed at her temples when she thought no one was looking, still blinked a little too long, like she was fighting off exhaustion every second of the day. Food was out of compulsion, not hunger, for the sake of staying healthy for Maya.

And then, one night, he saw her asleep on the porch swing. Curled in on herself, arms tucked tight, shivering slightly against the cold, exhaustion dragging her under where she sat.

It took everything in him not to walk over and wake her. To shake her by the shoulder, drag her inside, make sure she was warm. It took everything in him not to care.

Because this wasn’t his anymore. He had no claim over them.

Didn’t change the fact that every time he saw Mal leaning against that railing, looking like he belonged there like he’d always belonged there—that knot in his chest twisted tighter.

And he hated that, too.

X

Joel had truly been looking forward to dinner. It was the same thing every week. He’d go over to Tommy's, have a decent meal, shoot the shit with his brother, and let Ellie fill in the gaps of conversation. It was comfortable. Familiar. Nice. A welcome change from the silence of his own home, from days spent running the same damn circuit—patrol, repairs, the bar, then back to a house that wasn’t a home, not really.

But tonight, something was off. Joel could feel it from the moment he sat down.

Maybe it was the way Maria and Ellie kept glancing at him like they were waiting for something. Or maybe it was just Tommy—sitting across from him, chewing through a mouthful of steak, his expression too nonchalant like he had something up his sleeve.

Joel didn’t think much of it at first. He focused on his food, carving through the meat, grounding himself in the scrape of his fork against the plate.

Then Tommy opened his big hole of a mouth.

"Mal’s been spending a lot of time over at Leela’s place."

Joel’s hand tensed around his knife. And just like that, his appetite was gone. He kept his face neutral and didn’t look up. Just kept chewing, lagging and deliberate motions, like he hadn’t heard a damn thing.

Tommy, either oblivious or just plain cruel, kept going. "Helpin’ out with the nursery. Putting some time in with the baby girl." He ripped a piece of bread in half, completely unaware of the way Joel’s grip had turned his fork into a weapon. "Good guy. He and Leela get along well. It's nice to see."

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose. Focused on his plate. Flattened a piece of potato with the back of his fork. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem. That was the whole goddamn point, wasn’t it?

He’d helped Leela out. Gave her time. Took care of her baby. That was it. She was somebody else’s problem now. And yet, the idea of some guy stepping into his place, rocking Maya to sleep, working on the nursery, fixing things, being there—his mouth flattened into a hard line. It stung.

No. It wasn’t his place to care. He'd told himself so many times, it felt like one of those daily affirmations bullshit. Thou shall not think of thy neighbour's handyman and his fuckeries.

Though, still, before he could stop himself, the words were already out of his mouth. "Nursery ain’t even done yet."

The second it left him, he regretted it. A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, too slowly, Joel looked up—and immediately hated what he saw. Maria and Ellie were smirking. That stupid, all-too-knowing, ready-to-annoy-the-shit-out-of-him-smirk. He had the greatest urge to leave the room.

Maria lifted an eyebrow. "And how exactly would you know that, Joel?"

Joel pursed his lips casually, setting his fork down with a little too much care. "They live right across the damn street. Hard to miss."

Ellie leaned forward, propping her chin on her fist. "Right. And how much time do you spend looking across the damn street?"

He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Don’t start, Ellie."

Tommy tilted his head, giving him a look that made Joel want to knock his damn teeth out. "You’ve been actin’ real funny ever since you left that house, y’know."

"Ain’t nothin’ to act on," Joel muttered, shifting in his seat. "I helped her out. End of story. Moving on."

Tommy wasn't letting go, damn him. "Uh-huh. Then why you sittin’ here lookin’ like you just bit into a bad lemon the second her name came up?"

Joel’s jaw ticked.

"Yeah," Ellie added, grinning. "Why’s your face doing that thing?"

Joel frowned. "What thing?"

She pointed with her fork to the furrows above his eyebrows. "The thing where you pretend you don’t care, but your forehead says otherwise."

Maria hid a knowing smile behind her glass while Joel rubbed at his face consciously, glaring over at Ellie. "You could just go over there, you know."

Joel let out a short, humourless chuckle. "Oh, c'mon. For what?"

"Dinner," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Just a meal with friends. Tommy, me, you, Ellie—Leela and Maya. Nothing big."

Joel stared down at his plate. His food had gone cold.

"We don’t need to be doin’ all that," he muttered, shaking his head. Getting familiar and cosy. It'd only invite more trouble.

Maria ignored him. "She’s got that nice, big dining room. French windows. Good view of the lawn. It’d be like a little party."

Joel didn’t respond.

"Come on, man," Tommy pressed. "What’s stopping you?"

That was the question, wasn’t it? Joel wasn’t sure he had an answer. Or maybe he did—and just didn’t want to say it.

Because the truth was, he had no business going back. He’d done what he came to do. He’d helped. That was it.

But then there was Maya—her featherlight body in his arms, the way she’d reached for his shirt in her sleep. There was Leela—standing in the doorway that last morning, silent, watching him go. There was the stillness in his own house, the way he’d catch himself in the middle of the night, listening for a cry that never came. What the hell was wrong with him?

Instead, he just stabbed his fork into his potato and muttered, "Pass."

Maria and Ellie exchanged another conspiratorial glance. And Joel had the distinct feeling this wasn’t over.

Once dinner had progressed into a chore, Ellie and Joel, ever the gentleman, helped Tommy dry the dishes. Well—Joel did. Ellie, on the other hand, was just sitting on the counter, swinging her legs and cracking jokes about Tommy’s new manbun. The kitchen was warm, the soft clatter of dishes filling the space and laughter, the steak dinner still settling in Joel’s stomach.

“You’re really doing the whole ponytail thing now, huh?”

Tommy rolled his eyes, flicking on the tap. “Jesus, you sound like Joel.”

“Hey, you take that back! I am way cooler than Joel,” Ellie corrected. “And I'm a thousand times funnier. Pun-nier.”

“Debatable,” Joel muttered.

“Did Maria do this to you?” she asked, flicking a sudsy fork in Joel’s direction. “Blink twice if you need help. I've got emergency scissors.”

Tommy snorted, stacking the last plate in the cabinet. “It’s practical. And I'm starting to like it.”

Ellie tilted her head, unimpressed. “It's lazy. Tragic.”

Joel smirked but said nothing, wiping down a plate before handing it over. Tommy shot him a glare like he was expecting some backup, but Joel just shrugged. Not his fight.

Maria walked in from behind them, and Joel noticed that infuriating look on her face. Oh, nothing good would come out of this. She set a small box on the counter with a dull thud, right beside Joel. He barely glanced at it before she plopped another paper box on top—leftovers from tonight. Steak and potatoes just for a special someone.

“Could you pass this on to Leela on your way back?” she said casually, drying her hands. “It's one dose a day, each.”

Joel looked down, his hands bracing against the counter. Vitamins. Of course.

Maria tapped the food box. “And dinner.”

Joel eyed them both, then her. The way she said it, like it was no big deal. Like she hadn’t just put him in a position he couldn’t easily wiggle out of.

He sighed, already seeing where this was going. He set down the dish towel, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tommy can pass it to her tomorrow.”

Maria simply raised an eyebrow. “Meat’s gonna go bad.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “Oh, so this is how you’re gonna play it?” He glanced at Tommy, then Ellie, both of whom were very pointedly looking elsewhere. “Really?”

Ellie grinned. “It’s a neighbourly thing to do, Joel. Don't you call yourself a gentleman?”

“I’m with her on that one,” Tommy added, crossing his arms.

Joel let out a slow, irritated breath. Family? No, just a bunch of annoying, traitorous little shits.

Maria only smiled, sliding the box closer to him. “Wouldn’t want her going without. She's already skin and bones. And you know... you live right across the damn street.”

Ellie burst out laughing, raising her fist to Maria, who bumped with her own knowing smile. “Respect.”

Joel clenched his jaw. She'd got him right where she wanted. Because now, if he didn’t take the stupid thing, he’d look like an asshole. And Maria knew that. She was being fucking shameless about it.

His gaze flickered down to the box. Then, before he could stop himself and leave them standing, an image surfaced—Leela, sitting on that damn porch swing, curled up against the cold. Maya’s tiny fingers tugging at her collar, red-cheeked, catching swirling snow in her dark curls.

Joel closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't shake it off. And he admitted it to himself, despite all his grievances against this, he missed them. He missed Leela's soft footsteps in the nursery past midnight, he missed Maya entirely. He missed the sense of normalcy once the blood and gore of patrol ended, to head to a warm home and lay down, exhausted, knowing he hadn't had a drink to fall asleep.

Then, wordlessly, he grabbed the boxes off the counter.

Ellie elbowed Tommy in the ribs, giggling. “See? Look at him. Good ol’ Joel, real man of the people.”

Joel shot her a warning look while heading over to grab his jacket, the delivery under his arm. “Don’t push it, kid.” Then pointed a threatening finger at Tommy as he yanked the front door open. “Can't believe we're related.”

Tommy only puckered his lips at him, miming a kiss. “Mensch Miller.”

X

The house across the street was unlocked again.

Joel stood at the threshold, jaw clenched, boots planted firm against the porch floorboards. The door was cracked open, swaying slightly from the evening breeze, the light from inside spilling out onto the steps. Did she even care about safety? It should’ve been locked. It should’ve been bolted shut, curtains drawn, an armoury stacked by the doorway. But Leela still acted like the world wasn’t what it was. Like Jackson was different.

It had been a whole two months since Leela brought Maya into this world, a month of struggling, of barely eating, barely sleeping, barely breathing. And now she had the nerve to leave her door wide open like she was inviting trouble? Like Jackson was some safe little haven where nothing bad could ever happen? A dangerous thing, that kind of trust. He’d seen what happened to people who had it.

His jaw ticked. He took the porch steps two at a time and pushed the door open without knocking.

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and something faintly sweet—baby powder, maybe, or that lavender soap Maria kept handing out. The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing restless shadows across the room, licking at the edges of the high-backed armchair and the mathematics-riddled books and papers neatly stacked up in scatters.

And there she was, standing in front of it. Leela was running a brush through her hair, violently. Dragging it down, tangling it further, hissing under her breath when it snagged. Frustrated, impatient. Needed a haircut.

The same damn nightgown again. White, sleeveless, falling in soft folds just past her knees. But this time, his eyes caught the details—the way a single pearl button at her collar had been left open carelessly, the way the thin cotton made the dark silhouette of her body visible beneath, and the odd little cherries sewn sparsely into the fabric. Small, stitched by hand.

He had no idea why all that stood out to him. It just did. And boy, did it leave nothing to the imagination.

Leela stilled, catching sight of him in the doorway. The brush hung mid-stroke in her hand.

“Oh,” she said, like he hadn’t just barged into her house uninvited. “Hello.”

Her eyes and voice were warm. Soft, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary, as if she wasn’t standing there in nothing but a slip of a dress while the light of the fire turned her edge golden.

Joel forced his gaze away. His eyes flicked over the living room instead, to the couch against the far wall—his couch, as much as he hated to admit it. The blankets were still there, folded neatly, stacked with the pillows like she’d been expecting him to come back. His grip tightened around the boxes in his hands.

“I—” He cleared his throat, stepping forward, extending the boxes toward her. “Maria sent you some stuff.”

Leela blinked again before setting the hairbrush down, padding toward him on bare feet. She took the boxes gently, fingers barely brushing his. “Thank you, Joel,” she murmured, flashing a little smile.

“Just vitamins,” he played off.

She pried the lid off the larger box and inhaled deeply. He caught the way her nose twitched, her fingers tightening just a fraction around the edges.

“Her famous steak dinner,” he offered her.

And then, like clockwork, her stomach betrayed her, the low grumble cutting through the quiet between them. She stiffened, laughing, breathless and sheepish.

“Sorry.”

“You should eat—”

A sharp cry cut through the air, calling for her. Both their heads swung toward the staircase.

Leela sighed first, setting the boxes away. “Napkin,” she murmured, as if reciting from a schedule. “Please help yourself to anything. I’ll be right back.”

But Joel stepped forward, one arm extended, the box acting as a barrier between her and the stairs. He despised the unfamiliarity.

"Eat," he said, firm.

She hesitated. Her gaze flickered between him and the staircase, like she was weighing her options, debating whether to argue or just go along with it.

Another cry echoed from upstairs—short, needy. Joel could tell. It wasn’t hunger, wasn’t pain. Little Maya was lonely already.

“I got this,” he assured.

Leela chewed her lip. “But—”

“I know the drill.” He jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “Just eat.”

A long moment passed, heavy with hesitation. Then, finally, she relented, her shoulders sagging as she breathed in surrender. She took the box from him.

“I’ll grab a fork, I guess,” she muttered, turning toward the kitchen.

Joel smothered a grin while watching her go, and took the stairs two at a time, powerless to his anticipation. Two weeks since he held the baby girl. He'd missed the shit out of her, not that he would admit that to anybody. Of course, he wasn't about to pass up this chance for anything.

From the landing, the nursery's door cracked open, light from the hallway bleeding into the dim room. Joel frowned as he leaned in to inspect.

The first thing he noticed was that the crib had moved. His boots made no sound over the wooden floor as he stepped inside, scanning the space. The wooden shelves were up, already home to Maya's folded clothes, towels and napkins. The light installation dangled halfway, unfixed. No one had even begun work on painting the walls. No armchair. No rug.

This Mal guy was a complete jackass. Maya's nursery was a mess.

"Good with his hands, my ass," Joel muttered. "What a fuckin' tool."

Joel angrily followed the hallway light, stepping through the open doorway into the furthest bedroom, a room bigger than any he’d ever seen in Jackson.

Massive was an understatement. This was the kind of bedroom you’d see in a damn commercial—the kind of thing he would’ve scoffed at, once upon a time. The bed alone was ridiculous. Olympic-sized, sunken into a floor for itself, with plush, overstuffed pillows and thick sheets, barely disturbed. A sliding-door closet stood at the far end, pristine, untouched. A plasma-screen TV mounted to the opposite wall, thick with dust.

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line. There was something unnatural about it. The way it felt more like a untouched display than her bedroom.

Maya’s cries pulled him from his thoughts. Joel crossed the room, approaching the crib—the one he’d worked on. All pink and polished for the spoiled little girl.

The moment she saw him, her cries hitched. Big, teary brown eyes blinked up at him, wide and glistening, like she was struggling to focus. She sniffled, tiny fists flexing against the mattress, mouth wobbling around her jutting tongue, as if trying to place him.

Joel couldn't resist a grin, brushing a coarse knuckle at her soft cheek.

“Hi, baby girl.” Then leaned closer to whisper, “Traitor.”

Maya sniffled, blinking again, then reached for him—small fingers curling, grasping blindly before finding his much larger one, tugging it toward her mouth. She gummed at his gnarled knuckles with a fussy little noise, her brows furrowing in concentration.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That ain't fair. That's your apology?”

Maya made another small whimper of a sound. And a real smile. A big, toothless, gummy grin, full of warmth and recognition. Something nearly uncoiled at his ribs.

He pulled a so-so face. “Hm, I'll bite.”

It was muscle memory, really. The way his hands moved—effortless, practised. He'd done it more than fifty times in two weeks. He made quick work of the napkin, wiping her clean, then slid his hands beneath her arms, lifting her up in one smooth motion.

He grunted as he did, “C'mere, sweetheart. You beautiful, beautiful girl. Did you miss me, huh?”

She squealed, legs kicking excitedly as he cradled her against his chest, supporting her head the way he always did. And just like that, he eased into the old rhythm without thinking. That familiar weight against him, that warmth—gentle, swaying, murmuring under his breath. It was easy. Too easy. Like breathing. Like falling asleep.

She nestled into his shoulder, tiny fist pressing against his neck, seeking his warmth. She’d gotten bigger. Not by much, but enough. Still delicate, still small—but stronger now. More aware. Smart, like her mother.

"Yeah, you missed me," he murmured when she nuzzled against his neck.

And then—pure, infallible instinct—he dipped his nose into her hair and breathed her in deep. Soft linen and old cotton, warm and faint.

Sarah used to smell like this once. For just a little while. That same invisible claw tore at his memories. Joel closed his eyes, just for a second. He remembered how, when she outgrew it, he'd missed it terribly. How he’d sometimes let her sleep curled up in his arms all night long, his back against the headboard, just to hold onto that smell. Just to keep that small, fleeting moment of innocence before the world could take it away.

That nostalgia settled deep in his ribs, quiet and whole. This seemed like the only place in the world where suffering didn’t exist. Like his hands weren’t stained with all the things he’d done, all the lives he’d taken.

Because here, right now, with Maya, he wasn’t the man who had lost and lost and lost again. He wasn’t the man who’d left behind nothing but bodies and broken promises. No, she didn’t know any of that. She didn’t care.

She only knew his warmth. She knew the steady beat of his heart, the scratch of his beard against her soft skin, and the way he said her name. She only knew him as someone safe. And fuck, he wasn’t, he wasn’t, but—

God help him, he wanted to be.

Maya sighed, a tiny, content sound, pressing closer. And Joel—he let himself believe, just for a moment, that he was clean.

A soft gasp behind him made him turn to reality and toward the door. “Oh, Maya.”

Joel turned to find Leela standing in the doorway, hand to her mouth, eyes wide in amusement. She had changed—finally—into one of those oversized sweaters he’d seen her wear on colder nights, sleeves swallowing her hands. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at his chest.

Joel frowned. “What?”

Leela bit her lip, trying—failing—to smother a smile. She motioned vaguely toward him. Joel tracked her finger and glanced to the side. And felt it. Hot, damp.

Damned baby spit-up.

Maya’s little betrayal soaked through the fabric of his shirt, spreading down from his collar and shoulder to his chest in an uneven, milky stain. She smacked her lips contentedly against his collarbone, completely unaware of the mess she’d just made.

He sighed, shifting her to the other arm. He levelled her with a playful glare. “You gonna warn me next time you ruin my shirt, darlin'?”

Maya only gurgled in response, a soft, pleased little sound.

And then, following her daughter—Leela laughed.

Not the quiet, polite kind that he'd managed out of her once. Not the forced kind, either. A real laugh. Breathless, unexpected, warm. Like it had slipped out before she could stop it.

Joel felt it like a slow-moving punch to the gut. He didn’t hear that sound often. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard it before on his account. He'd finally done it.

It changed something about her, softening her face in a way that caught him off guard. Her eyes creased at the corners, the tightness in her shoulders eased, the exhaustion in her expression smoothed over—just for a moment.

It did something strange to him. Something he didn’t have the time to name. So he just exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath as he adjusted Maya over to the other arm, rubbing a hand over his damp shirt.

“Yeah, real funny. Your girl just aired her paunch all over me,” he grumbled.

Leela tried to sober up, apologizing, but another chuckle slipped out in between, and Joel caught the way she bit her lip, fighting to suppress it.

She was enjoying this. And he was in big fucking trouble.

"Don't move. I'll get you a spare shirt," she said, laughing, before walking to the adjacent closet doors.

Joel didn’t even get the chance to protest before Leela slid one side of the closet doors open, revealing—sweet Jesus.

His eyes landed on the neat rows of men’s clothing hanging inside. Not just a few misplaced items, not something left behind by chance. An entire collection.

Button-downs, slacks, henleys—clothes meant for daily wear. Added into the mix, were pressed suits, the kind that cost more than a month’s worth of supplies, the kind men used to wear to skyscrapers and boardrooms, back when the world was still upright. And golf shirts. For fuck’s sake, golf shirts.

Joel’s jaw hinged back up. Golf was a rich man’s game. He’d worked jobs near country clubs in his past life, and seen the kind of people who played. Men with money. Her father, perhaps.

Leela had definitely grown up rich. And looking at this—this untouched wealth, just sitting here, long past its time—it became clear. She probably still was.

Joel’s grip on Maya shifted slightly, the warmth of the baby pressing into his chest the only real thing anchoring him as his eyes dragged over the closet once more.

For all that Leela lived like a ghost, for all that she barely let anyone near her, this place still held echoes of what she came from. A past life that didn’t match the woman he’d seen standing at her front door, exhausted and hollow-eyed, desperate for her baby to stop crying.

Leela flipped through the hangers without hesitation, fingers brushing past labels he recognized—Armani, Burberry, Hollister. Eventually, she pulled out a green pullover. Soft, fine material. A little small for him, but it’d do.

She turned, offering it wordlessly.

Joel didn’t move to take it right away.

He was still staring at the closet. Not because he gave a damn about how much a fucking sweater cost, or whether she had a trust fund hidden away somewhere, but because it told him something. Something he hadn’t really thought about before.

Leela had come from comfort. Stability. A world where things were taken care of. And yet she’d buried herself in this big, empty house, alone, fighting tooth and nail to survive—like everyone else. And she never asked for help.

Leela cleared her throat. "It should fit. My father was a tall man."

Joel managed a sigh, shifting Maya in his arms. He took the pullover with one hand, already halfway through plucking open the buttons of his flannel.

While he worked, Leela stepped closer, ready to take Maya. She was quick about it, but Joel caught the way her fingers lingered, just for a second, as she scooped the baby up from his arms. Not on Maya.

On him.

Joel really tried to push it out of his head, write it off as an illusion, already plucking open the buttons of his shirt. His fingers brushed the fabric, and he paused when he caught the tag inside. Ralph Lauren, for fuck's sake.

Leela noticed with a small smile. "I didn’t take you for a man with fancy taste," she mused.

Joel let out a dry snort. "Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it."

He pulled off his flannel, the sleeves catching briefly on his wrists before he tossed it aside. The room wasn’t cold, but the air bit at his skin anyway. The scars felt it first—every healed cut, every old wound stretched over knotted muscle, each one a reminder of what his body had been through.

"Oh, man," he couldn't help but grunt, stretching his arms.

He worked the pullover over his head in one smooth motion, the fabric soft, snug across his shoulders. Felt like something he would’ve bought for Sarah back in the day, something she’d pull from a Macy’s rack, nodding in approval before insisting, "Dad, just try it on."

It fit better than he expected, but Joel barely registered that. His body had begun to ache. Not in one place—everywhere. It was late at night, it was cold, he missed his daily dose of whiskey, and he needed sleep for tomorrow.

The exhaustion sat in his bones now, permanent and familiar. His bad knee throbbed, aggravated from the cold, from the weight he put on it patrolling for hours at a time. His back had never been the same after that one fall, a long time ago. Some mornings, he woke up and could barely stand straight, feeling every single one of his years sink into him.

And yet, his body still held. Still worked. It wasn’t much to look at anymore. Not that it ever had been.

He had no delusions about himself—he wasn’t built for admiration. Never had been. Picking up girls and fooling around; was Tommy's thing. He wasn’t the kind of man people looked at twice, not in the way that mattered. His body told a story, but not the sort anyone wanted to read or had a happy ending,

His hands were ruined things, thick with callouses from years of exertion, from gripping rifle stocks, from skinning game, from chopping wood in the dead of winter. His knuckles were perpetually split, healing just enough before the next fight, the next job, the next reason to curl his fists. Scars mapped his skin, uneven and jagged, old bullet wounds and knife cuts, hard edges, marks of a life spent fighting for something—for anything.

He wasn’t young anymore. He wasn’t some smooth-talking son of a bitch with a face that turned heads. He was always angry at something, thinking about something, readying his next step, even if it was a complete waste of his time.

But he was still formidable. He could protect. He could endure the rough-hewn demands of survival, even now. He could fight like hell. That had to count for something.

But Leela—she wasn’t staring, exactly. Wasn’t not staring, either. It was subtle. Barely there. A flicker of something implicit, something fleeting, the way her gaze traced along his arms, his shoulders, abdomen, the sharp cut of his collarbone before snapping away. As if she hadn’t meant to look, and she’d caught herself a second too late.

Joel had been around long enough to recognize when a woman was checking him out. And hell—he wasn’t gonna lie to himself. It made him feel good. Fucking fantastic, really. Like he could wake up tomorrow feeling twenty years younger. Like he could leap right out of bed and his back wouldn’t stiffen before noon. Like he still had something left in him worth looking at.

He wasn’t an idiot, though. He wasn't going to let it go to his head.

Leela adjusted Maya in her arms, moving her weight as if giving herself something to do, something to focus on that wasn’t him.

And Joel—he pretended not to notice. Didn’t say a damn word about it. Didn’t shift under her gaze, didn’t smirk at her, didn’t let her see that she’d gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected.

Just muttered a quiet, "Thanks," and left it at that.

Leela hummed in response, turning away to lay Maya down, who was already dozing her little head off, into the crib with practised care. Then, just as easily, she pivoted back to her bedside dresser, fingers moving over a stack of neatly folded quadrille paper.

"Can you pass something to Tommy for me?" she asked, voice soft, controlled. "It’s really important he gets this as soon as possible."

Joel might not have paid it much mind, might’ve brushed it off as just another errand he wasn’t keen on running—but then he saw it. The way her posture stiffened, the way her hands smoothed over the edges of the papers like they were something fragile, something vital. But whatever this was—it mattered.

She flipped through the pages, and for the first time since he’d met her, he saw something rare. Excitement. A flicker of life.

"It’s a wonderful breakthrough, Joel," she said, and there was a rare enough lightness in her voice, bordering on unguarded enthusiasm.

Joel just blinked. Leela wasn’t the type to get excited. Or maybe he's just never seen it in her before.

"So, I’ve been working on…" then she went into something technical for his dense mind, talking fast in words that blurred together. It all went miles over his head. Circuits, electrical theory, conduction points—half of it might as well have been a foreign language.

Joel just stared when she finished with a deep breath.

Leela instantly caught the look and pursed her lips. "Okay, um. Let me put it this way."

She shifted toward him, gesturing as she spoke, putting it into Layman's terms. "You know how the dam stops producing enough energy in winter? When the river freezes over?"

Joel gave a slow nod.

"So we rely on fuel, but fuel’s very limited. We've got the town expanding, and people coming in. So our batteries drain. If we had an alternative energy source, something reliable—" She held up the paper, tapping a rough sketch. "And that’s where this comes in."

Her hands moved as she spoke, cutting through the air with sharp, purposeful gestures. Not just passion, not just expertise. Conviction.

"Lightning is erratic, but it’s raw power. Joules of energy. Think about it. If we can direct a strike into a controlled medium—like a graphene capacitor—we can store it."

Joel narrowed his eyes, the concept clicking into his lagging brain. "So what, you think you can catch a goddamn thunderstorm and turn it into a battery?"

Leela wheezed a quiet laugh. "More or less."

He thought about it. "Seems like a hell of a thing to gamble on."

"It’s not a gamble. It’s math. Physics. It will work, Joel, I know it."

Joel didn’t argue. He didn’t understand it, not really, but he’d seen Leela work before. He trusted her genius. The nights she couldn't sleep—he’d sometimes blink awake to the sound of chalk scraping against a blackboard, catching sight of her standing there in the dim glow of the bulb, mapping something out with surgical precision. Or hunched over a notebook, scribbling feverishly, lost in calculations that only made sense to her.

It wasn’t just her passion—it was her outlet. A relief. A tether to something greater than herself, something she could control before she lost herself completely in the demands of motherhood. And if this was what she was holding onto, then perhaps it was more than just an idea.

She tucked the paper back into the stack, leveling him with a quiet look. "I also have a prototype," she said simply.

Joel raised a brow.

Leela nodded toward the hallway. "It’s in the basement if you want to see."

Joel wasn’t big on machines. Or gear. The finer technical details weren’t for him. But—he glanced at her, at the way she stood, weight shifting from foot to foot, something unreadable behind her eyes.

She wasn’t pushing him. She was waiting.

After a beat, he sighed, tilting his head toward the door. "Lead the way, ma'am."

X

The stairs were steep, the kind that creaked under their weight, but Joel kept a firm hold on Leela’s elbow, steadying her as they made their way down. She was still weak. Too breakable. As far as his knowledge went, she should've gotten better by now. And how the hell was she supposed to do that when she barely ate without cringing?

Joel had half a mind to tell her that, to point out how unsteady she was, how she winced when she put too much pressure on her feet—but she’d just brush him off with a shaky smile. So instead, he let out a quiet breath through his nose and adjusted his grip, keeping her close until they reached the bottom.

"There you go. Watch that last step," he guided as gently as he could.

She glanced up at him from the fringes of a smile, letting his hands go. "Thank you."

He expected damp walls, waterlogged corners, mould creeping up the corners, and a basement that smelled like rot and rust. As what he had been always used to when he went scouring towns nearby for supplies. What he got instead stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Well, I’ll be damned," he blew out.

It was a workshop. A big-ass one. Tools lined up on the magnetic walls, neatly arranged, half-finished projects sitting on a worktable, schematics pinned up in careful rows. More of Leela's notes and markers, taped-up designs. Funny how there was life only around all this machinery. Off to the side, an old wine cellar, the glass cases still intact, though the bottles inside were coated in dust.

And then—the cars.

Joel let out a low whistle. Two of them. Just sitting there like some abandoned luxury showroom. One was a Dodge Aspen, a classic in its own right. All violet and under repair. But the other...—his eyes caught the silver emblem glinting under the dim basement light. A prancing horse on the red steel.

"Come on," he muttered in disbelief, stepping forward, barely resisting the urge to run his hand over the hood. "Is that a… Maranello?"

Leela took a deep breath, still recovering from the stairs. "Yes. Custom made. Not sure if there's any left out there anymore."

"Holy shit." His fingers flexed at his sides. He didn’t want to seem desperate, but fuck, when was the last time he’d seen something like this? Much less, been this close?

"Can I, uh…" He gestured indistinctly at the car.

Leela flashed him a small grin. "Knock yourself out. The door's unlocked."

He didn’t need to be told twice. Joel reached out, fingers brushing over cool, crimson steel before yanking the door open. The new car smell hit him right in the face—leather, polish, something untouched by time. His chest tensed at the familiarity of it.

He slid into the driver’s seat, running his hands over the wheel, the knitting around the stick shift, and the soft beige leather of the custom interior. And just for a second—he let himself imagine it. Top down. Gliding down the I-10, no speed limits, no patrols, just him and the open road, wind in his hair, sun on his face, Raybans on. That dream all felt like a lifetime ago.

A soft knock on the passenger side window startled him back to reality.

Leela’s face appeared through the glass, her lips quirked in amusement. "Should I leave you two alone?"

Joel huffed, turning slightly to mask the grin tugging at his mouth. She opened the door and drudged her way inside, moving slowly. The descent had taken more out of her than she was willing to admit.

When she shut the door, he immediately rolled down his window, straining his ears toward the stairs. The one time he wished his hearing wouldn't betray him. Had he locked the door upstairs? Could he hear Maya if she cried? What if he couldn’t? How come Leela didn't seem to think about this? God, this girl really had no clue.

Her voice broke into his thoughts. "I wish I knew how to drive it." She ran her hand absentmindedly over the dashboard, voice softer now, almost wistful. "I believe the last great invention of man was the automobile."

"You said it," he mumbled.

Joel glanced at her and did a little mental math. She must’ve been nine, maybe ten when the outbreak hit. No middle school. No high school. No road trips, no late-night drives with her friends, music blasting. No first kiss. Just one world ending, and another one starting—a crueler one.

Leela exhaled, long and slow, sinking deeper into the leather seat like she could melt into it. Her fingers drummed idly on the handlebars, tracing invisible patterns, slipping into an old rhythm—one she didn’t even seem aware of.

Then, soft as a whisper, she started humming.

It was unhurried, quiet, like something she’d sung to herself a thousand times before. But it was enough to make Joel pause, something about the tune pulling at him. A half-buried memory, something from before. He knew that song. Hadn’t heard it in years, but it was still there, lodged somewhere deep in the creases of his mind.

"That’s—" He frowned, tilting his head, listening closer. "That Patsy Cline?"

Leela glanced up, surprise flickering across her face before something warmer took its place. "Walkin’ After Midnight. Yeah."

Joel hid a grin. "That is way before your time."

"So?" She smirked, tipping her head back against the seat, fingers still tapping, moving. "I had old parents. Rubbed off on me."

A layer beneath her words made Joel tread carefully. He, of all people, knew how age could sit heavy on a person, how some things weren’t worth prying open.

"Can’t have been that old," he muttered, though he wasn’t sure why he said it.

"My mom was seventy-eight when she passed."

Joel blinked. "W-o-w." The syllables came out slow, one after the other before he could stop himself.

Leela let out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. She glanced down, her fingers still moving, trailing over the leather, the stitching, following some old path only she could see.

"I miss them every day," she said, voice softer now, more distant. "I’m grateful they singled me out of those photographs. Brought me here." She gestured vaguely to the house above her, her home, before exhaling, like she was letting something go. "I just hope I’m doing them proud."

Joel felt something shift, and he realized: too much sharing. It had to go both ways. And he was never going to be ready for that. So he did what he did best, avoided and threw her off the scent.

"Man," he said abruptly, with a cluck of his tongue, "if I had the keys and some fuel, I’d ride the hell outta this beauty." The words came out before he could stop them. "And die a happy old man."

Leela laughed. A loud laugh, sounding much like her daughter just then, deep in her chest, like she hadn't done it in a long time.

"It’s got fuel," she said, still grinning. "You can still ride it."

"Just sitting here like it's nothing." He shook his head, a small laugh rolling out. "Christ. This is amazing."

He glanced down at the stick shift, thumb absently tracing the edge of the gear knob, but something else caught his eye.

Her nightgown. Hitched up, ruffled around the tops of her thighs, loose fabric pooling where she sat. Bare skin. Soft, smooth, taut over lean bone—too much of it. The way she shifted, unthinking, rubbing one knee over the other, restless. He felt a rock dislodge in his throat.

Fuck. For all that he could be—a guardian, a protector—he had to be a man.

His fingers curled against his palm, an old instinct, something long-trained. Look away, don’t think about it. He turned back to the wheel, forcing his eyes forward. Dashboard. Windshield. Glove compartment. The thin layer of dust coating the steering column. Anything but the way one more inch of movement would have left too much for his mind to comprehend.

But the problem was—she hadn’t bothered to fix it. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care. So why should he?

He swallowed, jaw flexing tight. Because that was the kind of man he was. Greying, frustrated, scarce on love.

His fingers twitched, itching for something to do, something to grab. Instead, he moved without thinking, across the partition—one finger. Just a light tug, barely a breath of a touch, dragging the hem of her gown down, covering her knees. A simple thing. A quiet thing. A mistake.

Her whole body jerked, a sharp intake of breath—like she’d been touched by fire. Really, Joel felt it more than he saw it. The way her muscles tensed, a shudder raced, the quick clutch of her fingers as she held the fabric in place now, suddenly conscious of it.

Shit.

He withdrew instantly, fingers curling into a fist on the steering wheel. Should’ve just minded his goddamn business. Stupid, stupid man.

For a second, the air between them felt too tight. Even with the windows rolled down and winter winds howling outside, he broke into a sweat.

"Didn't see it," she mumbled.

He just shook his head, a small, dismissive grunt, keeping his eyes straight ahead. And that was that.

But the silence that settled over them after wasn’t comfortable. Not one either of them knew how to break.

Joel exhaled through his nose, fixing his stare on the windshield., fingers tapping slowly against the wheel, like he could smooth out the moment just by waiting it out. Jesus, he should’ve never touched her. Should’ve let it be.

“So, that prototype of yours,” he attempted to distract, voice rough. “You got it nearby?”

No response.

He frowned, risked a glance at her—and stopped cold.

Leela sat stiff in the passenger seat, her posture folded in on itself. One slender hand curled at her side, gripping the hem of her nightgown tight until her knuckles went white, the other was pressed to her face, knuckles braced against her nose. Her eyes filled with tears in seconds.

A long, slow breath in, too shaky.

Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that sound. He had seen a lot of it in his time. Had seen grief in all its forms—loud, violent, shattering. But this—this was different. This was quiet, heavy, desperate.

Her shoulders hitched, her breath sucking in too sharp like she was holding something back—something about to give.

And then, just like that, as if a thread had been cut, she sucked in another sharp breath, her whole body curling forward, hands coming up to cover her face—and it hit.

That same soft, keening sound he’d heard from her room almost every night. The one that came through thin walls, muffled by pillows, engulfed by fatigue.

But this time, she wasn’t hiding.

And Joel—he didn’t know what to do. His hands flexed against the wheel, confused and useless.

She wasn’t supposed to be crying. Not because of his pathetic self. Whichever way he saw it, this was his fault. He’d crossed a line, broken through a wall he’d meant to keep standing, and now she was here—crying. Because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

His mouth opened, and his throat worked, but nothing happened. Fuck. What the hell was he even supposed to say? Everything seemed inappropriate. There was no justification for what he'd done.

His fingers curled tighter, nails digging into his palm. He had to fix it. Before it got worse.

His voice came out too rough, uncertain. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Just go.”

It hit like a crack of thunder. A faint, clear command, strangled between a cry. His stomach twisted.

He hesitated for half a second, long enough to hear the way her breath hitched, how her fingers curled deeper into her hair, how she looked like she wanted to fold in on herself, disappear into the goddamn leather seat.

He swallowed, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He'd had seen women cry before. Ellie, Tess, hell even Maria. He’d occasionally held them while they did. But not this. Not her. And he hated—hated—that it was because of him.

His fingers flexed against his sides, fighting the instinct to reach out, to fix something he wasn’t sure could be fixed. But she’d made herself perfectly clear. To leave her alone.

So he did.

He wrenched the door open, barely registering the way it swung shut behind him. Didn’t look back, didn’t breathe until he was back up the stairs and out the door.

As he jogged down the porch stairs, the cold biting sharper now, cutting straight through the thick weave of his sweater, Joel tried to breathe. Snowflakes clung to the expensive fabric, melting fast, sinking in. He barely noticed. His inhales came long, exhales too short, not quite ragged, but uneven—like he couldn’t get enough air, like something in his chest was pressing down too hard, and no matter how deep he pulled, it wasn’t letting up.

It wasn’t panic. He knew what that felt like all too well.

This was different. A slow, creeping wrongness. A feeling that something had already slipped through his fingers, something he hadn’t even realized he was holding onto. And now it was gone, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to fix it.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, and wiped it down the scruff on his jaw, trying to steady himself, trying to shove it all back where it belonged. It wasn’t working.

His fingers curled into an aching fist. His breath fogged in the air in clouds.

He needed that fucking drink now.

X

The cold still lingered in the morning air, settling deep in Joel’s bones, but that wasn’t the only thing weighing him down. He hadn’t slept worth a damn. Tossed and turned all night, drifting in and out of restless half-dreams—images he didn’t want, memories he didn’t need. He woke up cold, despite the blankets, with a dull ache in his joints, and a scratch in his throat. Maybe from the weather. Maybe from something else.

Didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting out of that house. Getting up, getting moving. Keeping his hands busy, keeping his mind from straying where it wanted to go—back to last night, back to the way she had curled in on herself, hands to her face, shaking with something he couldn’t fix. He despised being around something unfixable. Made him feel incompetent.

He gripped the stack of papers tighter, the edges digging into his fingers as he stepped into the stables. Tommy was there, adjusting the saddle on one of the mares, humming some old tune under his breath. The familiar smell of hay, leather, and horse filled the space, grounding Joel in the moment. He clung to that.

“Tommy,” Joel called, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Tommy glanced up, brow lifting in mild curiosity. “Mornin’, brother. No hard feelings from last night,” he said, giving the straps one last tug before stepping back. His gaze flickered to the papers in Joel’s hand. “What’s all this?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just extended them out. Tommy brushed his palms off before taking them, flipping through the pages absentmindedly—until he wasn’t. His fingers slowed, putting together the pieces, his brows knitting together, his mouth parting just slightly.

"What in the... I mean—I talked to her about this,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Told her we'd be having trouble. That was last week.” He let out a low breath, rubbing at his mouth as he stared at the pages like they had just appeared out of thin air. "She really did all this?"

Joel exhaled with a slight grin, feeling like someone had just handed him a gold star. An odd feeling settled in his chest—one he didn’t quite know what to do with. It wasn’t his place to feel this way, no right to. But still, pride curled warm and solid in his ribs.

“She stayed up workin’ on ‘em,” Joel muttered, not quite looking at him.

Tommy let out a short whistle, shaking his head. “Christ. This little genius just saved our asses out of the red.” He waved the papers at him. “Takin' this straight to Maria.”

Joel rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Not just yet. There's a page is missing.”

Tommy paused and frowned, flipping through again. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

Joel crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I’ll give it to you if you let me fix that nursery instead of that goddamn kid.”

Tommy looked up at that, blinking. Then, realization dawned, slow and amused. His mouth curved into a smirk.

“For real, Joel?”

Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “Can’t even fix shelves right.”

Tommy cocked a brow. “He's just doing his job.”

“Little shit damn near had it fallin’ apart the last time I was there,” he argued. “Look, do you want the page or not? I'll just feed it to the horse.”

Tommy let out a sharp laugh, tipping his head back slightly. “You really got a bone to pick with this poor guy, huh?”

Joel’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer. Just kept his arms crossed, eyes unwavering. He wasn't backing down just yet.

Tommy shook his head, flipping the last page with a chuckle. “Fine, fine. You can fix whatever you want.” Then, without missing a beat, he held out his hand. “Now gimme the damn page.”

Joel handed it over without another word. But the way Tommy was still looking at him—grinning like he had something to say but was letting Joel walk away with his dignity intact—had him turning on his heel before his brother could get the last word in.

X

[ wow you read this far! now, if you're still reading, I'd just like to know - what song crept into your mind, about Joel or Leela, as you read this chapter? For Joel, definitely: Pain and Misery by The Teskey Brothers and as for Leela, ooooh: Wasteland by Royal & the Serpent! what about you? ]

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[darkmatilda]

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) <3

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

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You took a step back when your friend threw herself at you with a joyful squeal, wrapping her arms around your neck.

"Happy, happy birthday, my dearest!" Penelope exclaimed.

"My dearest?" you echoed, raising an eyebrow. A wide smile stretched across your face as you remained in her firm embrace, breathing in the pleasant scent of her sweet perfume. "Wait till Morgan hears that..."

"I heard," a deep voice sounded behind you. "But just for today, I'll let it slide. Happy birthday, kid."

Turning around, you spotted Morgan and Prentiss stepping out of the office elevator, each holding an identical cup of coffee. Both had smiles on their faces, and both pulled you into tight hugs while Garcia and Rossi were providing a cappella, completely off-key performance of Happy 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.

[wendichester]

I would like to request a story/one-shot of Dean. Please, my idea is to have the reader come back from trying to have a normal life after 2 years but being saved by Dean from the reader's abusive ex-boyfriend, who was possessed by a demon. The reader calls him from a motel after being attacked and almost killed. The reader would be the same age as Dean. I love angst, fluff, smut, action. I can't wait to read it.

ִֶָ་༘࿐ back to you,

summary. you left hunting behind for a normal life, but normal almost killed you. and when you call dean for help, he comes without hesitation.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 739

warnings. abuse, violence, blood, angsty and slightly smutty ; mdni!

notes. hope i managed to do your idea justice! thank you for the request hun 🩷

You don’t know why you dial his number.

Maybe it’s instinct—something buried deep, something you thought you let go of years ago.

Or maybe it’s because you know, without a doubt, that if you call, he’ll come.

The motel room is dimly lit, the air thick with copper and fear. Your hands shake as you press the ice pack to your ribs, wincing at the deep bruising beneath your shirt. The bedspread is stained with your blood—your ex’s blood, too, but it’s black, inky, curling in places it shouldn’t.

You knew something was wrong when he changed. When the apologies stopped coming, when the anger started twisting into something unnatural, something cruel. But you kept telling yourself this was what you wanted—a normal life. Stability. Something different than hunting.

Now, you’re paying the price.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Then—"Y/N?"

You almost sob at the sound of his voice. "Dean."

His tone sharpens immediately. "Where are you?"

You swallow hard. "Pinewood Motel, off Highway 6. Room 14."

"Are you hurt?"

"Yeah," you whisper, voice shaking. "I—he—" Your throat closes, bile rising at the memory of hands wrapped around your neck, snarled threats spilling from a mouth that wasn’t his.

Dean doesn’t need you to say it. "Stay put. I’m coming."

Then the line goes dead.

You barely register the roar of the Impala pulling in. By the time the knock comes—loud, insistent—you’re already up, crossing the room.

When you open the door, Dean is standing there, eyes wild, breath heavy like he broke every speed limit to get to you. He takes one look at you—swollen lip, bruised cheek, the dark stains on your shirt—and his jaw clenches, something lethal flashing in his eyes.

"Son of a bitch," he breathes, stepping inside.

You don’t realize you’re shaking until he reaches for you, fingers brushing over your arms, your shoulders, his touch careful, reverent. "Did he—?"

"He’s dead," you say quietly. "It wasn’t just him, Dean. He was possessed."

Dean’s grip tightens. His eyes flicker over you again, checking, cataloging. "You sure it’s over?"

You nod, but your voice wavers. "I think so."

Dean exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before pulling you into his chest. It’s automatic—the way you fit against him, the way his arms wrap around you like he can hold you together.

"Jesus, sweetheart," he mutters. "What the hell were you thinking?"

You let out a choked laugh. "That I could have a normal life."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, fingers tilting your chin up. "And how’d that work out?"

"Really fucking bad."

His lips press together, something softer, sadder settling in his gaze. "You should’ve never left."

The weight of those words settle deep in your chest, guilt threading through your ribs. "I thought I wanted to."

Dean’s thumb brushes over your cheek, barely ghosting over the bruise there. His voice lowers, rough, but there’s something unbearably tender beneath it. "And now?"

You look up at him, at the concern carved into his face, the way his hands still tremble slightly where they hold you.

"I don’t want normal," you whisper. "I want you."

Something breaks in him at that. He breathes out your name like a prayer before his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s desperate, consuming. His fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand slipping under your shirt, tracing over bruises like he can erase them. Your hands pull at his jacket, needing him closer, needing him to ground you.

When he backs you against the bed, you go easily, gasping as he lowers you down. His lips never leave yours, not as his hands work your clothes off, not as he presses kisses down your neck, over your shoulder, mapping every place that hurts with his mouth.

"Mine," he murmurs against your skin, voice hoarse, possessive. "No one gets to touch you like this. No one but me."

And you don’t want anyone else.

The night is slow, filled with whispered apologies, soft moans, the warmth of him sinking deep into your bones. He doesn’t let go of you—not once. Even after, when the adrenaline fades and exhaustion crashes over you, he holds you tight, fingers laced with yours, his lips pressed to your temple.

"You’re coming back with me," he murmurs. "Not gonna let you go again. Nothing bad's ever gonna happen to you again."

You sigh, sinking into him, into home.

"Not going anywhere."

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @img14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098

[maskedbyghost]

When Angels Fall

Hello, my lovely people! Ready for some soul-crushing angst? No? Too bad—send your tears via mail. Love you! Also, all blame should be directed to the anon who requested this. Okay, thanks, bye!

Simon never believed in angels.

The world was too cruel, too ugly for something as pure as that. Wings were clipped, halos were tarnished, and heaven felt like a myth told to children who hadn't yet seen the things he had. He knew better than to believe in fairytales.

And then he met you.

You were 141’s guardian in the sky, an airman with a reputation that preceded you. Your callsign was Halo. It fit, he supposed, given how you watched over them, weaving through the air with a precision that impessed him since the very beginning he met you.

Your voice, crackled through his comms during every mission, would guide them out of hell and back home. You kept them safe, and God, if you weren’t the calmest person he’d ever known.

But it wasn’t just the security you brought that got under his skin. It was you—your voice, your laugh, the way you could turn a routine check-in into something that made him feel less like a ghost and more like a man.

“Wheels up in ten, boys,” you’d say, and Simon would find himself smiling under his mask, comforted by just the sound of you.

He didn’t know how it happened—how you managed to slip past the walls he had spent years building. Maybe it was the way you read him like an open book, saw through his hard exterior, or how you never once pushed him for more than he could give. Maybe it was because you still spoke to him like he was worth saving despite all the blood on his hands.

He didn’t know how, but he fell. Hard.

And the most terrifying part? You caught him.

It started small. You’d read off mission briefings in that smooth, calm voice of yours, and he’d listen like it was scripture. Then, you’d tease him about his accent and call him ‘big guy’ over the radio just to hear his exasperated huff. He didn’t even mind—not really. He’d never admit it, but he liked it. He liked you.

And at some point, it wasn’t enough to hear you only on missions.

One night, after a brutal mission, he found himself restless, the heavy burden of the battlefield clinging to him. He didn’t think—just grabbed his radio and switched to your private frequency.

“You up?” His voice was rough, and you immediately knew that he wasn’t okay.

There was a pause, then a soft chuckle could be heard coming from your side. “Simon Riley, calling me just to talk? I must be dreaming.”

He should’ve played it off and made some excuse about mission reports or logistics, but instead, he said, “Can’t sleep.”

A moment of silence passed, and then you said, “Want me to read to you?”

He frowned. “What, like a bedtime story?”

“Exactly like a bedtime story.”

He should’ve said no. Should’ve shut off his radio and suffered through another sleepless night like he always did. But he didn’t.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, alright.”

And so you did. Some book you had lying around, something about stars and the vast, endless sky. He barely remembered the words—just the sound of your voice, soft and lulling—until sleep finally took him.

After that, it became a habit. Whenever the weight of the world became too much, he’d reach for his radio, and you’d be there, voice soft in his ear, pulling him back from the darkness in a way nothing else could.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone.

But, he should’ve known happiness like this wouldn’t last.

The mission was supposed to be routine. Get in, retrieve intel, and get out. Simple. Clean.

It wasn’t.

Everything went to hell fast. Some kind of ambush, a miscalculation on their part, and the enemy waiting for them like they knew they were coming. The ground team was pinned and cut off from their extraction point, and Ghost could hear the tension in your voice as you called for support.

“Hang tight, I’m coming in,” you promised, your aircraft screaming through the sky.

He had no doubt you would. You always did.

You swooped in, raining fire from above, giving them enough cover to push forward. For a moment, it worked. For a moment, he thought they might actually make it.

Then the missile hit.

The explosion was deafening—a violent burst of flame and metal as your aircraft took a direct hit. Ghost felt it like a punch to the gut, his heart lurching into his throat as your voice crackled through his comms.

“Mayday, mayday! I’m hit—controls are—fuck—”

The world slowed.

He could hear Gaz yelling, could see Soap moving, but all he could focus on was your voice, filled with panic and your breathing ragged as you tried—tried so hard—to stabilize.

“Ghost—”

And he knew. He fucking knew.

“Eject,” he ordered, his voice steady despite his whole body shaking from the shock. “Now.”

“I—”

A choked sound. Static.

And then—

Silence.

They found the wreckage hours later.

What was left of it actually.

The ground was scorched, metal twisted and blackened, and the smell of burning fuel filled the air around them. There was no body, just fragments of what had once been your aircraft, pieces of you scattered like shattered glass.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. Just stared at the wreckage, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms.

Price placed a hand on his shoulder and murmured something meant to comfort. He barely heard it.

All he could hear was your last transmission, looping in his mind like a broken record. Your voice—his anchor, his safe place—reduced to a desperate cry for help he couldn’t answer.

That night, for the first time in years, he reached for his radio and switched to your private frequency.

Static.

He closed his eyes, gripping the radio so tightly it trembled in his hands. He waited, hoping—praying—that somehow, against all logic, you’d answer.

But you didn’t.

You never would again.

And Simon never believed in angels.

Not until he lost one.

-------------------------------------------

gonna go hide now.

@daydreamerwoah

[be4chywritez]

lucky you | luke hughes

luke hughes x fem!reader

rec:#37 with Luke? Maybe he goes down on the ice and the reader freaks out when she sees him laid up? Thanks! Love your writing 🫶

prompt: Shit. Shit, shit, shit, c'mere."

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

Luke had been wired since the moment he woke up.

Jack had noticed it immediately—the way his little brother was practically bouncing from room to room, energy barely contained, constantly checking his phone. Jack had been willing to ignore it until the loud, painfully obnoxious country music started blaring from Luke’s room.

Jack groaned, rolling over in bed and grabbing his phone, but one look at the time made him throw the blanket off instead. Storming down the hall, he banged a fist against Luke’s door. “Jesus, LUKE!”

The music lowered—not off, just low enough to be tolerable. A second later, Luke stepped out, wearing his good suit. Not his usual game-day one, but the one he only pulled out for interviews. Or—

Jack narrowed his eyes. “What’s with the good suit?”

Luke didn’t answer right away, but the small twitch of his lips gave him away. That stupid, dopey smile that made Jack want to shove him into a locker.  He looked ridiculous, lovesick in the most obvious way.

“Oh, never mind,” Jack groaned. “Your girlfriend’s coming.”

Luke didn’t even try to deny it. Jack didn’t blame him—he likes you, actually. You were funny, sharp, and most importantly, you were one of the few people who could shut Luke up when he was being a pain in the ass. But watching Luke act like this? Jack could do without it.

Luke ignored the way Jack grimaced as he grabbed his bag off the floor. “Shut up, man,” he muttered, brushing past his brother. But Jack caught the way he checked his phone one last time before locking the screen.

Jack shook his head, following him out the door.

By the time you got to the arena, warm-ups were already underway. Your seat—right by the glass—gave you the perfect view as the Devils took the ice. Your eyes immediately searched for Luke.

It took a few minutes, but eventually, he spotted you.

And, just like that, his entire expression changed.

He skated over, tapping his stick against the glass. “You come here often?” he mouthed.

You laughed, rolling your eyes at him.

Luke reached into his glove and pulled out a puck, holding it up dramatically before flipping it over the glass. You caught it easily, tucking it into your lap as he gave you an approving nod.

“Lucky catch,” he mouthed, flashing a grin before skating off, but not before sneaking in a wink over his shoulder.

Your heart fluttered. He was such an idiot.

The first period was fast, aggressive. Luke had been playing well, making quick plays and smart decisions. You could tell he was locked in.

And then—

It happened so fast.

Luke was chasing the puck into the corner, his focus locked in on the play, when an opposing player came barreling into him, shoulder first. The hit landed hard.

Too hard.

The sound of the collision—Luke’s body slamming into the boards before crumpling onto the ice—made your stomach drop.

Something wasn’t right.

He wasn’t moving.

Your grip on the railing tightened as you watched, waiting, willing him to get up. Nothing.

The hit was hard. Too hard.

Luke didn’t get up.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

He always got up.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the ice, willing him to move. Nothing.

Jack was already there, skating over in record time. His whole body was tense, eyes darting between Luke and the guy who hit him. His fists clenched at his sides like he was seconds away from throwing down, but his focus kept shifting back to his brother.

Come on, Luke. Get up.

You barely registered the trainers rushing onto the ice, kneeling beside him, talking to him. The whole arena felt eerily silent, the energy completely different from the roaring crowd just moments ago.

Finally, Luke stirred.

Your breath whooshed out of you as he groggily pushed himself onto his side, barely nodding to the trainers. He winced when they helped him up, his weight leaning into them as they guided him toward the tunnel.

Straight to the training room.

Not the bench.

That wasn’t good.

Your stomach twisted.

Jack was still on the ice, his gaze flicking toward you, as if to check that you were seeing this too—like he knew you were probably freaking out. But his glare quickly snapped back to the guy who hit Luke, a murderous look in his eyes.

For the rest of the game, you barely paid attention. Your fingers drummed anxiously against your knee, your eyes constantly flickering to the tunnel, hoping for any update.

Nothing.

And then, finally, your phone buzzed.

Jack: Training room. I’m outside. You can come see him.

You didn’t hesitate.

By the time you made it to the hallway outside the training room, Jack was already there, still in his gear, arms crossed, looking impatient.

“He okay?” you asked, slightly breathless.

Jack sighed, tilting his head toward the door. “See for yourself.”

Luke was slumped against the training table, his good shoulder resting against the wall, looking like he was seconds from either passing out or saying something incredibly stupid. His jersey and pads were long gone, replaced by a thick wrap of ice around his left shoulder. His whole body was loose, almost boneless, but his eyes were sluggish and unfocused in a way that made it obvious he wasn’t fully present.

“Baaaaabe,” he slurred the second you stepped inside.

Jack, who was still lingering by the door, groaned audibly. “Kill me.”

You ignored him, exhaling as you stepped closer. “Jesus, Hughes. How many did they give you?”

Luke blinked at you, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face. “Dunno. But I feel so floaty.”

Jack sighed, crossing his arms. “I told them to only give him half a dose, but he was already feeling it before I could stop them.”

Luke squinted up at you like he was trying really hard to focus. “You came,” he said, like he was just now registering that fact.

“Of course I did,” you murmured, finally reaching him, letting your hand rest lightly on his uninjured arm. “How’s the shoulder?”

Luke’s brows pulled together. He shifted like he was about to sit up straighter—

And then immediately sucked in a sharp breath, his face twisting in pain.

“Shit,” you cursed, reacting instantly. “Shit, shit, shit—c’mere.”

Your hands were on him before you even thought about it, guiding him gently back against the table. His whole body had gone tense, jaw locked, breathing uneven.

Luke let out a shaky exhale, his head tipping back against the wall as he blinked up at the ceiling. “That sucked.”

You swallowed, pressing your lips together. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Jack muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like idiot, but you didn’t acknowledge him. Your focus was entirely on Luke—on the way he was forcing his muscles to relax, blinking sluggishly as he readjusted his position.

You reached out again, this time more careful, brushing your fingers lightly over his forearm. “You need anything?”

Luke hummed, tilting his head toward you. “A kiss.”

Jack immediately gagged.

You sighed, shooting Luke a look. “Try again.”

Luke huffed, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smirk. “Mmm… a ride home?”

You softened. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Jack perked up from his place by the door. “Wait, she’s driving?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to?”

Jack glanced at his brother—who was still slumped against the table, barely holding himself upright—then back at you. “…No.”

“Then shut up.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.

Luke, meanwhile, had a very pleased look on his face. “I love you,” he murmured, voice still slightly sluggish.

You exhaled, shaking your head with a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s get you home.”

Getting Luke into the car was an ordeal.

He was heavy—not in the way where he was too big for you to help, but in the way that he wasn’t doing much to help himself. Jack was the one who had to sling his arm over his shoulder and maneuver him into the passenger seat, muttering curses under his breath the whole time.

You climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusting until you were comfortable. Luke’s car was nice, but it definitely wasn’t your car.

Jack barely got himself buckled in the back before Luke was adjusting in his seat, slumping slightly to the side so his head rested against the window.

You glanced over. “You good?”

Luke made a vague noise of confirmation, eyes half-lidded. “Mmhmm.”

Jack snorted. “He’s gonna be out cold in five minutes.”

You hummed, starting the car. “Good. That means I don’t have to listen to him whine the whole way home.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.

The first few minutes of the drive were quiet, save for the occasional sound of Luke shifting.

Then—

“Hey, babe?”

You flicked your eyes toward him briefly. “Yeah?”

Luke sighed, tilting his head slightly toward you. “You’re really good at driving my car.”

Jack let out a loud groan from the backseat. “Oh my god.”

You smirked, keeping your eyes on the road. “Glad you think so, Hughes.”

Luke hummed in response, already sounding half-asleep.

Jack sighed, resting his head against the window. “This is gonna be a long night.”

You just smiled, shaking your head as you drove the two of them home.

Luke wasn’t completely out of it—just slower, his movements lazier, his usual filter missing. He walked fine, if a little unsteady, but there was a looseness to his posture, a sleepy, heavy-lidded look in his eyes that told you the meds were still doing their job.

You kept a steady hand on his lower back, guiding him toward his room. Jack had already disappeared into his own, muttering something about not dealing with this shit before slamming his door. That left just you and Luke.

Once inside, you flicked on the lamp. “Alright, Hughes. Let’s get you changed.”

Luke sighed, dropping onto the bed. “You just wanna get my clothes off.”

You shot him a look. “Not with you like this, dumbass.”

He smirked, eyes half-lidded as they raked over you. “So you’re saying you would under different circumstances?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer to help him with his hoodie. “That’s not what I said.”

Luke let you tug it off, his smirk never faltering. “Didn’t say it, but you didn’t deny it.”

You huffed. “Shut up, Hughes.”

His grin widened, but he let you work. He even managed to push down his dress pants himself, though when you knelt in front of him to help, he made a low, thoughtful hum.

“This is kinda nice,” he mused, voice dipping lower. “You, on your knees for me.”

Your hands froze on his waistband. “LUKE.”

He laughed, head tipping back against the pillows. “I’m just saying.”

You smacked his thigh—not too hard, given the state he was in—and yanked the fabric off the rest of the way. “Try saying something that doesn’t make me want to kill you.”

Luke stretched out, smug and unbothered, as you tossed his clothes aside. “Can’t help it, babe. You’re taking such good care of me. It’s kinda hot.”

You ignored him, moving toward his dresser. “I need to change, too.”

That got his attention. “Into what?”

You grabbed one of his T-shirts. “Jeans aren’t exactly comfortable to sleep in.”

Luke watched, eyes darkening slightly, as you pulled off your jersey, leaving you in just a sports bra. His gaze dropped, flickering over your bare skin, then lower to the spandex hugging your thighs.

His good hand flexed slightly against his thigh. “Jesus.”

You turned back to him, pulling his oversized shirt over your head. “What?”

Luke blinked slowly. “That’s my shirt.”

You snorted. “Yeah, I know. I just took it from your drawer.”

His tongue flicked out over his bottom lip. “Yeah, but it’s my shirt. And you’re in it. Looking like that.”

You frowned, tugging at the hem. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Luke let out a slow, low breath, his fingers drumming once against his thigh before he muttered, “It means I should be injured more often.”

You huffed a laugh, moving toward the bed. “Get under the covers before I make Jack put you to bed.”

Luke smirked but did as you said, shifting under the blankets. The second you slid in beside him, his good arm immediately pulled you in, his fingers finding your waist.

“You know,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple, “if I wasn’t so tired, I’d make you regret putting that on.”

His fingers skimmed just under the fabric. “Yeah. I’d take my time peeling it off… starting real slow.”

You snorted. “Mmm. Sounds like a lot of effort for someone who could barely put his own pants on.”

Luke tensed slightly. “…I could still do it.”

You bit back a laugh. “Sure, Hughes.”

His fingers twitched. “Don’t ‘sure, Hughes’ me.”

You turned your head, letting your lips graze his jaw, voice dropping to a whisper. “Then prove it.”

Luke inhaled sharply—actually sharp—before going completely still.

You grinned. “What? No snarky comeback?”

He blinked, processing. “I—I…” He huffed, shaking his head. “Not fair.”

You laughed. “Oh, it’s completely fair.”

Luke groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus. I’m never getting injured again.”

You patted his chest. “Good plan.”

Luke sighed, finally relaxing again. His voice was softer when he murmured, “You’re taking good care of me, babe.”

You smirked. “Well, someone has to.”

Luke huffed, eyes already slipping shut. “Lucky me.”

You smiled, letting your fingers brush lightly over his side. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Lucky you.”

And with that, Luke Hughes—NHL player, hockey menace, and normally way too cocky for his own good—fell asleep with a slight pink tinge to his ears.

And that? That was a win.

[gf2bellamy]

first of all, i want to say that i love love love your fics so much they're so cute and you write Spencer so well omg 😭😭😭

could i request girlfriend reader and spencer where he just got out of prison and they reunite and stuff and they just want to be close to eachother because theyve never spent that much time apart??

(preferably very fluffy and cute?)

<3

reunited — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (no use of y/n ) content warnings: a bit of angst a/n: THANK YOU SM !!! <33 means alot to me <3 hope this is what you asked for !!

The moment Spencer stepped through the doors, your heart felt like it was going to burst. You had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, counting down the seconds, the minutes, the hours until he was free again. Until he was back in your arms. And now, here he was—alive, real, and standing right in front of you. 

His eyes found yours almost immediately, and the way they lit up made your chest ache. The man who had been your anchor, your safe place, your everything.

And now, after weeks of being apart, he was finally here. 

You didn’t even realize you were moving until you were running toward him, your feet carrying you faster than your thoughts could catch up. He met you halfway, his long arms wrapping around you before you could even say a word. The force of his embrace nearly knocked the air out of you, but you didn’t care. You clung to him just as tightly, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear if you let go. 

“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, and you could feel the way his hands trembled as they held you. “I missed you so much.” 

When you finally pulled back, you didn’t even notice the tears streaming down your face until Spencer gently brushed them away. His touch was soft as his fingertips traced the paths of your tears.

For a moment, he just looked at you, as if he were memorizing every detail of your face, as if he needed to remind himself that you were real, that this was real. 

And then, without a word, he pulled you back into his arms, holding you even tighter than before. His face buried into your shoulder, and you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his body seemed to sag against yours, as if he’d been holding himself together for weeks and only now, with you, could he finally let go.  

An hour later, you were home, and Spencer still hadn’t left your side. He had changed out of his clothes, and you were pretty sure that was the only time he hadn’t been touching you in some way. But even then, he had kept his eyes on you, as if afraid you might vanish if he looked away for too long.

Now, sitting on the couch, he had practically pulled you on top of him, his arms wrapped securely around you as if he couldn’t bear even the slightest distance between you. 

Your head rested on his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took. One of his hands was tangled in your hair, gently playing with the strands, while the other traced slow, soothing circles on your back.  

“I missed this,” Spencer said quietly, his voice soft but filled with emotion. “I missed you. I missed the way you feel in my arms, the way you smell, the way you make everything feel… okay.” 

You tilted your head to look up at him, your heart swelling at the raw honesty in his words. His eyes were still a little red.

“I missed you too,” you said, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from his face. “Every single day.” 

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment as if savoring the feeling of your hand against his skin.

“I don’t ever want to be apart from you again,” he said quietly. “Not like that. Not ever.” 

You smiled, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “You don’t have to be,” you said softly. “You’re stuck with me, Spencer Reid. For as long as you’ll have me.” 

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Forever, then,” he murmured against your skin.

You sighed contentedly, settling back against his chest. His arms tightened around you.The two of you stayed like that for what felt like hours.

Even the next morning, Spencer’s need to stay close to you hadn’t faded.

When you woke up early, you had to practically untangle yourself from his grip, his arms still wrapped tightly around you even in his sleep. You smiled softly as you carefully slipped out of bed, brushing a stray curl away from his forehead.

He looked so peaceful, his face relaxed in a way it hadn’t been in weeks. He deserved to rest, and you weren’t about to wake him. 

You padded quietly into the kitchen, the early morning light streaming through the windows. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was a genuine smile on your face as you moved around the kitchen.

You hummed softly to yourself as you started making breakfast, the familiar routine feeling almost new again now that Spencer was home. The smell of coffee brewing and eggs sizzling filled the air.

You were so lost in thought that you didn’t hear him come up behind you.

Suddenly, you felt his arms slide around your waist, pulling you gently against his chest. You let out a small, surprised laugh as his chin rested on your shoulder. 

“You’re up early,” he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep. His breath tickled your neck, and you could feel the way he nuzzled closer, as if he couldn’t bear to be even a step away from you. 

“I wanted to make you breakfast,” you said, tilting your head to the side to give him better access as he pressed a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. His lips lingered there for a moment, and you could feel the way he sighed, his body relaxing against yours.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, his hands tightening slightly around your waist. “I would’ve been happy with just… this.”

You smiled, turning your head to catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes were still half-closed, his hair adorably messy from sleep, and the sight made your heart swell. “I know,” you said softly, reaching up to brush your fingers through his hair. “But I wanted to. You deserve something nice after… everything.” 

Spencer didn’t respond right away, instead he pressed another kiss to your shoulder, his arms holding you just a little tighter. “You’re too good to me,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something like awe. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You turned in his arms, your hands coming up to cradle his face. His eyes were soft, filled with love and gratitude. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve me, Spencer,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “You’re enough. You’ve always been enough.” 

For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. And then, without a word, he pulled you back into his arms, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to make up for all the time you’d spent apart.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with so much emotion it made your chest ache. “So much.” 

“I love you too,” you said softly, brushing your hands through his hair. “Now, how about we eat before the food gets cold?” 

He smiled as he pulled back, and nodded. But instead of letting you go, he kept one arm around your waist as he reached for the plates, refusing to let you get too far.

And you didn’t mind one bit. 

A couple days later, Spencer had a spontaneous yet nostalgic idea.

It was well past midnight when Spencer suddenly sat up in bed, his eyes wide and alert as if he’d just had the best idea of his life. You blinked up at him, still half-asleep, as he turned to you with a boyish grin that made your heart skip a beat. 

“Let’s go for a drive,” he said, his voice low but filled with excitement. 

You raised an eyebrow, squinting at him in the dim light of the room. “A drive? Right now? Spencer, it’s like… 2 a.m.” 

“Exactly,” he said, as if that explained everything. “No traffic, no people, just us. Come on, it’ll be like old times.” 

You couldn’t help but smile at the enthusiasm in his voice. Midnight drives had been your thing before everything happened—spontaneous adventures where the two of you would just drive aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing, the world feeling like it belonged only to you.

The thought of doing it again, of reclaiming that little piece of your life together, made your chest warm. 

“Okay,” you said, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. “But you’re driving. I’m too sleepy to be responsible.” 

Spencer’s grin widened, and he practically bounced out of bed, pulling you up with him. He didn’t let go of your hand as he grabbed his keys and led you to the door, his excitement contagious. You couldn’t help but laugh as he practically dragged you to the car. 

Once you were both in the car, Spencer reached over to adjust the seat for you, his hand brushing against your leg as he did. He didn’t pull away immediately, his fingers lingering for a moment as if he needed the contact. You smiled, placing your hand over his and giving it a gentle squeeze. 

The streets were quiet, the city bathed in the soft glow of streetlights as Spencer drove with no particular destination in mind. Spencer’s hand found yours again, his fingers intertwining with yours as he rested your joined hands on the center console. 

“This is nice,” he said after a while, his voice soft. “I missed this. Just… being with you, no pressure, no worries. Just us.” 

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “I missed it too. I missed you.” 

He glanced at you, his expression softening. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “I know I keep saying it, but… I just can’t stop thinking about it.” 

You shook your head, bringing his hand to your lips and pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “Stop apologizing,” you said firmly. “You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Let’s just enjoy this, okay?” 

Spencer nodded, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. “Okay,” he said, his voice warm. “But just so you know, I’m not letting you out of my sight for a long, long time.” 

You laughed, the sound light and carefree. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” 

The two of you drove for what felt like hours, the city slowly giving way to quieter roads and open skies. At one point, Spencer pulled over at a lookout point, the stars stretching endlessly above you. He turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat, his hand still holding yours. 

“Remember the first time we did this?” he asked, his voice soft. “You were so nervous. You kept asking if I was sure I knew how to drive.” 

You groaned, covering your face with your free hand. “I was not nervous! I was just… cautiously optimistic.” 

Spencer laughed, the sound warm and rich. “You were nervous,” he teased. “But it was cute. And look at you now—completely at ease with my driving skills.” 

“Don’t push it,” you said, poking his side. “I’m still cautiously optimistic.” 

He grinned, pulling you closer so he could press a kiss to your temple. “I love you,” he said, his voice soft but filled with so much emotion it made your chest ache. 

“I love you too,” you said, leaning into him. “Now, let’s go home before I fall asleep in your car.” 

Spencer chuckled, starting the engine again. “Your wish is my command.” 

The drive back home was quiet, but it was a comfortable silence. Spencer’s hand never left yours, his thumb absently tracing circles on the back of your hand as he drove.

Every now and then, he’d glance over at you, a small, content smile playing on his lips, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were really there beside him.

When you finally pulled into the driveway, Spencer turned off the engine but made no move to get out of the car. I

nstead, he sat there for a moment, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as he stared out at the entrance of the apartment.

“Hey,” you said softly, turning to face him. “You okay?”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared out at the dark windshield, his fingers tightening around yours. 

Finally, he spoke, his voice low.

“There were days when it felt like the walls were closing in,” he admitted, his eyes still fixed on some distant point. “Like I was never going to get out of there. I just… I don’t think I could’ve made it through everything without knowing I had you to come back to.”

Your heart ached at his words, a sharp, almost physical pain that made your chest tighten.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak without your voice breaking, so you just nodded, your hand squeezing his a little tighter.

Your other hand reached up to brush a stray curl away from his forehead, your touch gentle, reassuring. You wanted him to feel how much he meant to you, how much you’d missed him, how much you’d fought to hold onto the hope of this moment.

Spencer leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment. When he opened them again, there was a softness in his gaze.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice warm. “For waiting for me. For believing in me.”

You smiled, though your eyes were stinging with tears. “Always,” you said simply, because it was the truth.

Spencer’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, and he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Let’s go inside,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “I just… I want to be close to you.”

You nodded, your smile widening as you squeezed his hand. “Lead the way.”

Once inside, Spencer didn’t let go of you. He followed you into the kitchen as you grabbed a glass of water, his hand resting on the small of your back. When you moved to the living room, he was right there with you, his arm draped over your shoulders as you sat down on the couch. And when you finally settled in, leaning against his side with your head on his chest, he let out a content sigh, his fingers gently playing with your hair.

“This is nice,” he murmured, his voice soft and sleepy. “Just… being here with you. I missed this.”

You smiled, tilting your head to look up at him. “I missed it too,�� you said, your hand resting on his chest. “But we’ve got all the time in the world to make up for it now.”

Spencer’s lips curved into a small smile, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he said, his voice warm. “We do.”

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

FEAR OF WATER

rafe cameron x fem!reader

SUMMARY: after an abusive past, y/n struggles with toxic communication in her relationship with rafe. when fear pushes her away, love teaches her to stay.

based on this ask !! this was a really angsty and emotional one to write and i LOVED it anon, so thank you, and apologies it’s taken a while <3

(check out my other rafe cameron & drew starkey works here !!)

WARNINGS: angst w/ a comforting ending, slightly toxic!reader (unintentional), emotional abuse (by readers ex), trauma responses, arguing, crying, cursing, soft!rafe, fear of letting people in, flinching, detailed descriptions of emotional abuse & manipulation. (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

THIRD PERSON +

The slam of the front door rattled the picture frames on the walls, the weight of Y/N’s footsteps heavy against the wooden floor as she stormed into the kitchen. Her hands were shaking—she hated that they always did when she was this upset. It made her feel weak, even when the anger inside her burned so hot she thought it might consume her entirely.

Rafe followed behind, slower, guarded. He had that look in his eyes again—the one that made her stomach twist with guilt before she could even process why. The look of someone who was tired, not from the fight itself, but from the exhaustion of never knowing how the next argument would go.

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this,” she spat, her voice sharper than she intended. “You know exactly what you did.”

Rafe exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “Y/N, I don’t—what did I do? Just tell me.”

His calmness made her angrier. It made her feel unheard, like he wasn’t taking this seriously. Her brain was wired to expect resistance, to expect gaslighting, to prepare for the fight that had always followed in her past relationship.

“You said you’d call, and you didn’t. You do this all the time, Rafe. You make promises, and then you break them, like it doesn’t even matter.”

“That’s not fair,” he said carefully. “I got caught up at work. I should’ve called, I’m sorry, but it’s not like I did it on purpose.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, right. There’s always an excuse.”

He frowned, stepping closer, but she took a step back, arms folding over her chest like she was shielding herself from an attack that wasn’t coming. He sighed, something pained flickering across his face.

“Do you hear how you’re talking to me right now?” His voice was quiet, not angry, not defensive—just… tired.

And that was when it hit her.

She wasn’t even really arguing with him. Not Rafe. Not the boy who held her when she had nightmares, who traced circles on her back when she was overwhelmed, who had never once raised his voice at her even when she threw words like daggers. She was arguing with the ghost of the man who had hurt her before, who had made her feel like she had to fight to be heard, to be understood.

Her chest tightened, shame creeping up her spine.

She was training him.

She was teaching Rafe—patient, loving Rafe—that no matter how hard he tried, it would never be good enough for her. That he’d always be walking on eggshells, waiting for the next time he slipped up and she lashed out.

She was turning him into someone who feared her.

The realisation knocked the air from her lungs, and before she could stop herself, her feet were already moving, carrying her toward the door.

“Y/N, wait,” Rafe called, but she couldn’t—she couldn’t.

If she let him say something kind, if she let him look at her with that soft, exhausted sadness in his eyes, she’d break down right in front of him.

She barely registered getting into her car, barely noticed the shaking of her hands as she fumbled with the keys.

And then she was driving.

Her vision blurred with tears, and she blinked them away furiously, but they just kept coming, spilling down her cheeks in hot, silent streams.

She had pushed him too far this time.

She knew it—knew, in the deepest part of her heart, that there was only so much someone could take.

She wanted to be better. She needed to be better. But how could she, when she didn’t even know what that looked like? When she had spent so long being told that love was a battlefield, that the only way to be heard was to yell louder, fight harder?

She should’ve let Rafe in. She should’ve told him why she reacted the way she did, why she felt like she had to accuse before she could be accused, hurt before she could be hurt.

But it was too late.

She had to leave before he could do it to her.

Because that’s what she had been taught—that love never stayed, that sooner or later, they always left.

And she’d rather be the one walking away than the one being abandoned.

The thought shattered something inside her, and for the first time in a long time, she let herself sob.

—

Rafe had never felt this kind of exhaustion before.

It wasn’t the kind that came after a long day working in the heat or the kind that settled in his bones after a sleepless night. No, this was different. It was the weight of not knowing—the crushing uncertainty of whether or not he had just lost the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He hadn’t stopped calling since the moment Y/N ran out of his house. The first few went straight to voicemail. Then, after what felt like an eternity, a text finally came through.

I’m safe. I just need some space.

The relief had been instant—so strong that his knees nearly buckled. But it didn’t last long. Because the truth was, she might be safe, but she wasn’t okay.

And the worst part? He didn’t know how to fix it.

Rafe sat on the edge of his bed, phone still clutched in his hands, staring at the screen like it might give him the answers he needed. But there were no answers—just the hollow ache in his chest and the endless loop of their fight playing over and over again in his head.

It wasn’t the argument itself that unsettled him. Couples fought—it was normal. He and Y/N had had disagreements before, sure, but never like this.

The way she’d looked at him tonight wasn’t how someone looked at the person they loved. It was how someone looked at a threat.

And that… that was what haunted him the most.

Rafe never wanted to be something Y/N had to defend herself against.

His thoughts raced, trying to piece together why she had reacted the way she did. It wasn’t like he’d done anything that bad—he’d forgotten to call. That was all. It wasn’t like he lied, or cheated, or intentionally hurt her. And yet, the second he tried to explain, she had shut down, turned on him, twisted it into something it wasn’t.

It was almost like… she expected him to hurt her.

The realisation hit him hard.

Y/N had mentioned her ex before, offhandedly. Just a couple of times. She never said much, just that he was shitty, that he messed her up.

But this… this was more than just the baggage of a bad breakup. This was damage.

And if there was anyone who might have more answers, it was Sarah.

—

Sarah wasn’t surprised when she opened the door to find Rafe standing there, disheveled and tense, like he’d been pacing for hours.

She sighed, leaning against the frame. “I figured you’d show up eventually.”

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Did she tell you?”

Sarah nodded her head. “She sent me a short text. It was reallt vague, but I gathered it wasn’t good.”

Rafe swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I just… I don’t understand. She got so defensive. It was like—like she thought I was trying to hurt her. And when I tried to calm things down, it just made her angrier.”

Sarah’s expression softened. “Rafe…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “You know her last relationship wasn’t good, right?”

“She said it was shitty, but—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise how bad.”

Sarah sighed, crossing her arms. “Her ex was emotionally abusive. Manipulative. The kind of guy who’d twist things until she thought she was the problem. He made her question everything. Gaslit her, isolated her. It took her forever to get out.”

Rafe’s stomach twisted.

Y/N had never told him any of that.

Sarah continued, her voice quieter now. “She’s not like this because she wants to be, Rafe. It’s a trauma response. She learned to survive by being defensive. By fighting back first before she could be blamed. And now, even when she’s with someone who actually loves her, it’s hard to unlearn that.”

Rafe nodded slowly, his jaw tight. He could see it now, see how it all fit together.

How the moment something felt like it could go wrong, Y/N would push him away. How she always needed control over the situation, how she sometimes twisted his words—not because she wanted to hurt him, but because that’s how she had survived before.

She wasn’t fighting him. She was fighting the past.

Sarah sighed. “I don’t want to say more—it’s not my story to tell. But if you really care about her, you’ll be patient. She needs to learn how to trust that you’re not him.”

Rafe nodded, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I do care,” he muttered. “More than I probably should.”

Sarah gave him a small, sad smile. “Then don’t give up on her yet.”

—

Rafe sat in his truck, staring at the dark road ahead, his mind still reeling from everything Sarah had told him.

It all made sense now.

It wasn’t that Y/N didn’t love him. It wasn’t even that she wanted to hurt him. It was that she didn’t know any different.

And that broke his fucking heart.

He thought about the way she looked at him when they weren’t fighting—when she was curled up in his arms, or when she laughed at something stupid he said, or when she kissed him like he was the only thing keeping her steady.

That was her.

Not the girl who lashed out. Not the girl who pushed and twisted things in an attempt to stay in control.

He couldn’t let this be the thing that ended them.

Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that Y/N deserved to be loved the right way. She deserved someone who wouldn’t run just because loving her required patience.

She deserved someone who would stay.

And if that meant showing up even when she didn’t know how to ask him to—if that meant proving to her that he wasn’t like the man who hurt her—then he’d do it.

He threw the truck into drive, determination settling in his chest.

He needed to see her.

He needed to talk to her.

So Rafe headed towards his place to grab his phone before heading to Y/N’s to fix things.

He had barely stepped into his house when the knock echoed through the quiet space.

He frowned, glancing toward the door. He hadn’t been expecting anyone, and after the night he’d had, he wasn’t exactly in the mood for surprises. But when he pulled it open, his breath caught in his throat.

Y/N stood there, her frame swallowed by an oversized hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands as she twisted the fabric between trembling fingers. Her eyes—blood-shot and swollen from crying—met his with a hesitance that made his chest ache.

She looked afraid.

Not of him.

But of what came next.

“Y/N—”

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice was hoarse, like she’d been crying for hours. Maybe she had. The weight of everything unsaid hung between them, thick and suffocating. Rafe wanted to say something, anything, but she beat him to it.

And when she spoke, the words tumbled out in a frantic, shaky rush.

“I—God, I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, sniffing as she swiped a sleeve under her nose. “I just—I need to say this before I lose my nerve.”

Rafe nodded slowly, heart pounding. “Okay.”

She took a deep breath, and then, like a dam breaking, everything spilled out.

“My ex—he wasn’t just shitty, Rafe. He was toxic. He—he manipulated me, controlled me, made me think I was losing my mind. Every time we fought, he’d twist my words until I couldn’t even tell what was real anymore. And when I got upset, that became the problem. I was the problem. He convinced me I was crazy. That I was too much, too sensitive, too difficult to love.”

Her voice cracked, and Rafe’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.

He had felt it before—the anger, the quiet rage that settled deep in his bones whenever he thought about the way Y/N’s past had left its mark on her. But now, hearing her say it aloud, it burned white-hot in his veins.

“I spent so much time walking on eggshells, just waiting for the next thing he’d use against me,” she continued, voice thick with emotion. “So eventually, I just… I learned to fight back first. Before he could get the upper hand. Before he could make me feel small again.”

Rafe swallowed hard, feeling something inside him break at the way she spoke—like she still carried the weight of it all, like she still believed she was the problem.

“Y/N,” he started, but she shook her head.

“I need to finish,” she whispered. “Please.”

He nodded, his throat tight.

She exhaled shakily. “I didn’t mean to treat you like him. I swear I didn’t. But I don’t know how else to be. Every time we fight, I feel like I have to defend myself before you can hurt me. But you never do. You’re nothing like him, Rafe. You’ve never made me feel small, never made me question myself. You’re the only person I’m actually terrified of losing, so tonight—” Her voice wavered. “Tonight, I left before you could.”

Rafe felt his heart shatter.

She had run because she thought he’d leave her. That he’d get tired of her, of the way she struggled to let go of the past.

She didn’t realise he never would.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she barely seemed to notice, too lost in her own confession.

“I don’t want to be like this,” she whispered, voice raw with desperation. “I don’t want to push you away. I don’t want to hurt you just because I don’t know what healthy love is supposed to look like.”

“Y/N…” Rafe’s voice broke, and suddenly, he was moving—closing the space between them, cupping her face in his hands with a gentleness that made her shudder.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, she just leaned into his touch, like she was memorising the feeling of him still being there.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry, Rafe. I know I’ve been difficult, I know I’ve been hard to love, but please—please don’t go anywhere.”

He felt his own tears spill over at that—at the sheer, heartbreaking fear in her voice.

She thought he was going to leave.

She truly believed that he’d wake up one day and decide she wasn’t worth it.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his grip tightening like he was afraid she might slip away again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Ever.”

Her breath hitched, and her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, like she was trying to anchor herself to him.

“I promise,” he continued, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “You are not too much. You are not difficult to love. I don’t care how long it takes for you to believe that, I’m not going anywhere.”

A sob wracked through her body, but this time, it wasn’t just pain—it was relief.

And then, in the quietest voice, she whispered, “I’ll get help.”

Rafe pulled back slightly, searching her eyes.

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I want to get better. I want to be better. For us.”

She let out a shaky breath, looking up at him with a mixture of fear and determination.

“Now I’m not afraid of the water,” she whispered. “I’ll dive right in. And I can be brave, so I’m gonna give it a try.” Her lip trembled. “Because I know you’ll be on the other side.”

Rafe’s heart clenched.

Because for the first time since she had come into his life, Y/N wasn’t running.

She was staying.

And so was he.

Rafe cradled her face, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, his own tears still slipping down his cheeks.

“I’m right here,” he murmured. “I’ll always be right here.”

She exhaled shakily, nodding as she let herself fall into his embrace, arms wrapping tightly around his waist.

And as they stood there, wrapped up in each other, Rafe knew—this was what love was supposed to be.

Messy. Imperfect. But real.

And this time, neither of them were afraid of stepping into unknown waters.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

thank you so much for this request anon, i love me some angst !! pls keep requesting everyone, i am working my way through them and i have like four in my drafts rn to be edited so stay tuned !!

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[bewaryofpity]

hello lovely, can i get angst with fluffy end #9 with jack Hughes

thank you for requesting ! 🫶🏻

9. “You're in love with me?!” “You just found out?”

.

The night had gone from bad to worse. You were hopeful in the beginning, your date seemed actually interested in getting to know you, but it soon turned into a one-sided cconversation as he kept talking about himself and only himself. You couldn’t wait for him to stop talking, to finally get the check, pay your part – because you knew he wouldn’t pay himself – and leave.

And so you used the good old excuse. You texted Jack to come pick you up, to call you and make it seem like there was an emergency. The guy in front of you seemed too absorbed in himself to notice your relieved expression as he rolled his eyes at you while telling you not to worry about the bill and to leave already. You were left sitting outside the restaurant, arms crossed, irritation simmering under your skin as you waited for Jack to pick you up.

Jack’s car pulled up to the curb, headlights sweeping over you and when he stopped, you yanked open the passenger door and slid in, slamming it harder than necessary.

“That bad, huh?” He asked, glancing at you before pulling back into traffic.

“You have no idea.” You muttered, staring out the window. Jack was quiet for a moment, looking over at you before speaking up again.

“I told you he wasn't worth your time.”

You turned to him, brow furrowing. “That’s exactly what I need to hear right now. Thank you, Jack”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, “you always go for the wrong guys. It’s like you’re determined to set yourself up for disappointment.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and focusing on the blurred city lights passing by through the window. His words hung in the air, all the frustration in your chest turning into fear, uncertainty, dread – it was uncomfortable. He wasn’t really wrong, you were chasing after something that could replace Jack, something that could make you forget how being in love with your best friend was a bad idea, and that was probably the reason why all your dates failed. Because nothing, no one could replace Jack. You let out a slow breath, your reflection staring back at you from the glass.

Jack sighed. “Look, I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“Well, maybe I don’t need you to.”

Silence stretched between you again. The car rumbled softly as he drove, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, voice quieter now. “Do you really not see it?”

“See what?” You turned to face him, eyebrows raised.

His knuckles turned white from the tense grip he had on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road as he exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re always looking for something that’s been right in front of you this whole time.”

You frowned. “What are you talking about?”

He pulled the car into your driveway and turned off the engine, hands falling on his lap. He shifted in his seat to look at you with an unreadable expression.

“I’m talking about me.” He said, voice steady despite the stiffness his body.

“What?”

Jack let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You’re in love with me?!” You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“You just found out?” He shot back, a wry smile playing on his lips, though his eyes held something deeper, something vulnerable.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as his words settled over you. Jack. Your best friend. The one who had always been there, the one who knew you better than anyone else. He was in love with you.

You searched his face, trying to process the weight of his confession. And he was doing the same, searching your face for hesitation or regret. But there was none. He knew you better than anyone, the rapid realization that maybe, just maybe, everything you’d been searching for had been beside you all along finally appeared in your eyes.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “So… what now?”

“Take me on a date.”

[a3therc0r3]

Boiling Blood

co-creator: @dragonspoems

summary: you wrote poetry during your time on Philos in your and Sylus’ own language; the poems found their way onto Earth and are now highly sought after, working to be decoded and being sold in auctions for billions. When Sylus learns about the poems, he immediately knows who wrote them, recognizing their language instantly. He has now made it his goal to hunt down as many of these poems as he can while simultaneously searching for you. 

content: sylus x f!reader, angst, past-relationship, pre-relationship, poetry, spoilers for sylus' myth

word count: 2,261

a/n: this is my first ever time posting on tumblr so i hope you enjoy!! i have some more fics coming in the near future(fluff, i promise-) also HUGE thank you to my amazing friend and collaborator @dragonspoems who not only wrote the poem in this fic but also gave me the idea for this fic!! go show them some love! this fic was also posted on ao3

first part is from sylus' POV

Appearances can be deceiving. For example, on the outside, one may see a violent lion, while on the inside, there is simply a shaking kitten. On the outside, one may see a calm, collected, well-kept man who sips occasionally on the venue-provided wine; swirling it around his glass in boredom. On the inside, his mind is racing, his eyes scanning the crowd and glancing back down to the list of goods. His knee bouncing as each item is sold off in a painstakingly long manner. Couldn’t they just get to what was important? What everyone was truly here for? Of course they couldn’t, you have to save the best things for last. 

Sylus watched as other guests whispered to one another, sharing rumors about the ancient writing that everyone was anticipating. They would lazily raise their paddles to pass the time, betting on a much less interesting artifact. A protocore here, a painting there, all while mumbling to their friends about the bits of this writing that had been released to the public. Hushed voices muttering about the beauty, the romance of the words. His beloved’s words. His. No one else’s. They didn’t deserve to read her literature, didn’t deserve to even attempt to translate their language. They didn’t watch from far away when she scribbled in a notebook. They didn’t know how her hands would smell of ink when she touched his face. They didn’t know anything and they never should.

Sylus’ grip on the list had tightened unconsciously to the point that his nails pierced through the paper. It had practically crumpled in on itself, his chest heaving as thoughts spun out of control. The masked twins beside him glanced at one another before leaning in slightly and whispering, 

“Boss? Are you alright?”

Sylus snapped out of his haze, clearing his throat and taking another sip of wine. The twins righted themselves and nodded, knowing to leave well enough alone. They knew better than anyone in here that hell was about to break loose the minute the poem was brought out. There was a high probability that it would end in bloodshed, considering how important this was to their boss; then again, there was always a possibility things could end in bloodshed with Sylus. 

After what felt like hours of waiting, the auctioneer finally grinned and leaned toward the microphone, 

“Now, ladies and gentlemen is the product that I have a feeling the majority of you are here to see. The antique poem is thought to have been preserved all the way from Philos,” guests leaned forward, their interests piqued, “Very few of these pages have been found, and even fewer have been translated from their original language. However, from what we can tell, these poems seem to be the story of beauty, tragic romance, the tale literally as old as time.” The man chuckled to himself, resting his weight on his hands placed on the edges of the podium, “Your faces tell me that many of you are already interested. Since these are so rare, I expect that there will be quite the competition, though we must ask that you all maintain your composure. Now, let’s start the bidding at fifteen million.”

Paddles raised instantly, calling out higher numbers on top of each other. Sylus crossed his legs and let his head rest against the back of his booth, his fingers turning the paddle over in his hand. He’d let them have their fun, wait until the cost had gone up before chiming in. 

“Fifty million from one forty-three, do I hear sixty? Sixty million anyone?” 

Guests continue to holler out their bids, waving their paddles impatiently. The auctioneer spoke a million miles a minute, pointing to each guest as he acknowledged the prices. Sylus remained silent until the bids had risen into the hundred millions. 

“One hundred and seventy million from Mr. Abrams, we are getting up there, ladies and gentlemen, do I hear eighty?”

Sylus raised his paddle, “Two hundred million.” His voice boomed above the others, a few turning to look at the unfamiliar vote. 

“Two hundred million! From Mr…” the auctioneer moved to spot him through the sea of heads, taking the microphone with him, “Mr. Sylus! Such an honor to have you here, sir! Two hundred million from Mr. Sylus, do I hear two hundred and ten? Two-ten, anyone?” 

A paddle was raised. So, they wanted to keep fighting? Bold move. The bidding continued, raising to two hundred and thirty million before Sylus spoke once more.

“Three hundred million.” The auctioneer practically laughed, “Three- three hundred million from Mr. Sylus! Another decent raise! Do I hear three-ten?”

Another paddle raised, “Three-fifty million,” the voice chimed out.

“Three hundred and fifty from this fine lady! Do I hear-”

The man didn’t get the chance to finish before Sylus cut in, “Four hundred million.” The woman who had placed the previous bet, turned from her seat to glare at Sylus, earning a smirk in response. 

“Four hundred million! The heat is cranking up here! Do I hear four hundred and fifty million?” The man strolled to the edge of the auction block, grinning as he spoke.

A paddle raised.

“Four hundred and fifty million from Mr. Abrams! Do I hear five hundred?” At this rate, it would take an hour to get the poetry. All Sylus wanted was something to remember her by, anything from his past life to cling onto while he searched for his beloved. Something to keep him sane in the meantime. He’d indulged them for long enough and now his patience was wearing thin. Sylus raised his paddle once more.

“One billion.”

More guests turned their heads, whispering to themselves as to why the leader of Onychinus would want a piece of poetry so bad. The auctioneer clapped dramatically, trying to excite the room, even though he had asked for the opposite moments prior. “One billion! Now that is an offer of the century. It’s going to be hard to top that, folks.”

“One point two billion.” The man from earlier–Mr. Abrams–raised his paddle, eyeing Sylus as he did so. 

Oh, so that’s how you want to play. Sylus held his paddle up before the auctioneer could even point to Abrams, “One point five.”

“One point seven.”

“Two billion.”

“Three.” 

The auctioneer chuckled wearily to himself, “Gentlemen, please, wait a moment for me to-”

“Ten billion.” Sylus carefully put his gun on the table, pointing the barrel in Abrams as he crossed his arms. His right eye glowed with such intensity that it made Abrams shiver on the spot as if Sylus could kill him with a mere stare. He probably could. The twins unsheathed their weapons, a silent warning, and had the man closing his mouth before he could voice another offer. It was time to shut up. Mr. Abrams turned back to face the auctioneer, placing his paddle down with a hmph! His wife muttered something bitterly to him.

The auctioneer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in, “Ten billion from Mr. Sylus! Do I hear any higher offers? Anyone? Ten billion, going once, going twice? Sold to Mr. Sylus for ten billion! Congratulations, my good sir!” 

He continued moving on with the next item, but Sylus couldn't care less; he had gotten what he came here for. He rose, taking the last swig of his wine and placing his gun back into its holster. With a flick of his hand, the twins stepped back, allowing Sylus to walk towards the backstage area. A few guests stood to block his path, turning to him with pleading gazes.

“Mr. Sylus, surely I can offer you a much better deal to take the poem off your hands. I could even pay you back the ten billion you lost!” A man stepped forward, his hands clamped together as he spoke.

A woman beside him scoffed, “Please! You don’t even have half that amount,” she stepped towards Sylus, purposefully bumping her shoulder against the man’s before caressing the Onychinus leader’s arm, “I can give you money and a good time.” 

Sylus grimaced in disgust, pulling his arm away as another guest behind him chimed in, “I’ll give you my first-born daughter! A-and any valuables you want!” 

“I’ll give you my daughter and my wife!” a voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd, quickly followed by a slap and a woman yelling in a foreign language. 

The first woman tugged at his sleeve again, “Mr. Sylus, please! Just reconsider and I’ll make it worth your time!” 

Sylus pulled his arm away for a second time and glared at the crowd surrounding him, a red mist pushed through the mob, forcing them to make a path for him. “You’re all pathetic, you sit here and let people piss on you without even the courtesy of calling it rain,” he strode through the swarm of guests that were still whispering offers to him, the twins following close behind him. The auctioneer seemed to be frozen in awe, unsure of how to proceed with the event. When Sylus reached the curtain that separated the backstage from the rest of the room, he turned to his henchmen, “Make sure they don’t disturb us,” and with that, he disappeared behind the fabric. 

The auctioneer let out a nervous chuckle, “Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats so we may continue with our schedule,” disappointed mumbles filling the silence as they complied. 

Behind the curtain, Sylus had been led to a private sitting room, where he awaited for the staff member to bring him his winnings. The flickering glow from the chandelier cast warmth through the room, hugging him in a mellow embrace. He crossed his legs, tapping his foot impatiently against the carpet. He could be wrong, the poem may not be what he thought they were. It could all be just a coincidence, every ounce of his past life was truly lost to a wind he would never feel again. Sylus grit his teeth and glared down at the rug, thoughts racing. 

A knock on the door interrupted his pondering, the woman that had escorted him stepped back into the room with a smile, “Your purchase, sir.” She handed him a leather binder with gloved hands and stepped back against the wall. 

He waved a dismissive hand at her. She bowed, seemingly disappointed, “We thank you for your appearance,” and with that, he was left alone. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, opening the binder with a shaky hand. A yellowed and faintly crinkled paper sat in a sheet protector. With careful fingers, Sylus pulled the paper from its film, rubbing his thumb over the familiar texture. He had recognized the handwriting immediately–it had been ingrained in his memory for as long as he could remember–the poem was exactly what he had hoped it was: one written by his beloved. Biting his lower lip, he read her scrawls, 

It’s been years, and yet I still couldn’t explain the ache, from what I was, my very essence. It was painful to contain it. 

It hurts so damn much, going through days knowing what fools I am surrounded by. They don’t know anything yet, born with silver spoons in their mouths, not a gem in their eyes. 

I wished to be like them. Ignorance is bliss to the things I’ve seen, letting them take more–all they think they need. 

Yet his voice, a devil’s call, to grow back my claws, to be the one he fell in love with, to be the one I am, the one I unforgivably was.

I knew that call. I knew that need–the need that claws inside of mine–to let the world be filled with traitors’ screams.

Killing what was mine, forcing my hands into the fire of unbeknownst burning in his chest. 

I hated him, loathed him for it, for he knew who I was–a beast, a creature within that wanted their blood, wanted to dance on their graves for all the wrongs they have done. 

Something in my mind telling me he was, he is mine, and mine alone. He belongs. I belong to no one but us, and the spirits of our own, souls of the same kind.

They banished and looked away, laughed and smiled, celebrated the unbecoming of something that was mine and mine alone. 

Soon enough they will know. They will find what they have done, through my everlasting boiling blood. 

I cannot blame him for what he did, for it is as well the doing of mine.

Sylus stared at the paper, biting his lip harder, blinking rapidly to banish the tears threatening to spill. He took another breath, cleared his throat, and looked down at the initials that sat at the bottom of the page. Your initials. Because it was always you, and it will only ever be. The only one he would spend billions on to read a few lines of poetry. 

Sylus gripped the paper tighter as if it would disintegrate in his very fingers, the same way he once had, lifetimes ago on another world. He gazed up into the flickering light of the chandelier; his mind had been made up the moment the fragments of his soul had blown through that breeze so long ago. He was going to find you, no matter how long it took. He would wait centuries, traverse hellscapes, die as many times as he needed to, to find his way back into the arms of his beloved.

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it

[saejinniestar]

A dark thought.

Daddy k!nk, fingering, breeding, subspace, puppy!reader, human! member. IT IS DARK so if you don't like that, then don't read. MDNI.

You were his puppy, his property. He signed a contract to have you. He was the nicest out of all the men who came to see you. He knew what he wanted, an untouched puppy. Luckily, you were his first pick. He read the papers, brought here during younger years, untouched, ready to be bought. He convinced his friends and family that he found someone and that he was ready for marriage. All he had to do was buy you.

It was easy really, using sweet words and kind gestures, you were already in love. You got into his car, so excited to finally be bought. When he got to his house, you jumped out and ran inside. You ran around, smelling the new smells and seeing new things. "Are you happy that daddy bought you, darling?" You ran back to him jumping into his lap, "Daddy? Your name is daddy?" He nodded. "Thank you daddy for buying me, I love you daddy!" He went close to your ear, whispering, "Daddy loves you too, daddy is always gonna love you."

He sat you down in his lap, watching all the guests enjoying themselves at your guys' wedding. You were wearing a pretty white dress but underneath you were wearing a white silk lingerie with easy access for him. He pressed kisses to your neck and traveled up to your ear. He lightly bit it and licked the shell of your ear. You whimpered and your body shook a little. He whispered sweet things in your ear, making you slowly drift away from reality into a subspace only he could enter. "Daddy's gonna make you feel so good when we get to the hotel."

He carried you all the way up to your room. He whispered in your ear about what he was gonna do to you. He talked while you listened, eyes glazed over and head without a thought. He sat you down on the bed, unzipping your dress. His hands roamed your body as he listened to your incoherent rambling as you came back down. "Mmh, d-daddy, feels so good!" He barely brushed his fingers against your panties. "You want daddy to breed you? Get your sweet cunt knocked up?" You nodded, dizzy by the feel of his fingers. "Hmm, you wouldn't even have a choice now would you? Who owns you, puppy?" You pointed to him, humping his fingers in the process. You were barely realizing that you were still humping his hand when he moved it.

"Now tell me, puppy, who does this cunt belong to?" You looked at him, "You daddy." He smirked, taking off his clothes. "And who do you belong to?" You whimpered as he kissed you. "I belong to you daddy, you bought me so you own me." He sucked your tongue, smiling. He taught you so well, teaching you what to say and what to do. Your tail was wagging rapidly behind you.

When he left to work, he knew you’d be at home waiting for him. You’d be there, pretty collar and pretty skirt, after all you needed to be wet and ready for daddy. He’d hear about how you rubbed your bare cunt on his pillow but it never worked, you needed his fingers and dick. He trained you so well, corrupted you beyond repair. He manipulated your mind, telling you things that weren’t actually true. One of them was coming inside. You knew that daddy was always supposed to come inside you, keep it inside so it could take. You weren’t supposed to sit anywhere else but on his dick, you were his pretty cockwarmer, even while you slept. Whatever he said was right, if he needed you to have your leash on, you would.

You were happy being with him, always kissing him and needing him. He kept you right by him, needy and desperate for him, cunt always wet for him. You were sitting in his lap, his tip kissing your cervix and his hands on your chest, your tongue wrapped around his, mind far away. He knew he made the right decision several years ago, you were the perfect puppy for him.

[bakuchrome]

Through my window

Katsuki Bakugo × Reader

Master List

Sypnosis: You have a deep infatuation for you hotheaded classmate Katsuki Bakugo that he may be secretly aware of

In the city of Musutafu, Japan, with a population of 50,000, most people, myself included, aspire to be heroes. UA, a prestigious school with an acceptance rate of less than 1%, was a challenge that i mamaged to overcome. Remarkably, another studeny there is Katsuki Bakugo.

Bakugo was more than just a classmate; he was an obsession.

You, a fellow student in Class 1-A, had been infatuated with Bakugo since the first day you laid eyes on him. His intense determination, raw power, and undeniable charisma drew you in like a moth to a flame. Every glance, every smirk, every explosive display of his quirk only deepened your fascination. You found yourself watching him from afar, memorizing his every move, and even keeping a journal of your observations. It was a secret you kept hidden, convinced that no one, especially Bakugo, could ever know.

But Bakugo was more perceptive than you realized. He had noticed your lingering gazes, the way you seemed to be everywhere he was, and the subtle changes in your behavior when he was around. He found it amusing, even flattering in a way, though he would never admit it. Instead, he chose to play along, pretending not to notice while secretly enjoying the effect he had on you. He would catch your eye in the hallway and smirk, knowing it would send your heart racing. He would stand just a little too close during training, relishing the way you would stumble over your words. It was a game to him, one that he was determined to win.

One morning, however, you didn't show up to school. Bakugo noticed immediately, his usual smirk replaced by a frown. He couldn't help but wonder what had happened. Were you sick? Had something happened to you? The day dragged on, each class feeling longer than the last. By the time school was over, Bakugo had made up his mind. He was going to find out what was going on.

As night fell, Bakugo found himself standing outside your bedroom window. He knew it was risky, but his curiosity and concern outweighed his caution. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he used his quirk to propel himself up to your window. He tapped on the glass lightly, waiting for a response. When none came, he tried again, a little louder this time.

You were lying in bed, feeling miserable. A nasty cold had kept you home, and you had spent the day feeling sorry for yourself. The last thing you expected was to hear a tapping at your window. Groggily, you got up and walked over, your heart skipping a beat when you saw who it was. Bakugo stood there, his usual confident smirk in place, as if he had every right to be there.

You hesitated for a moment before opening the window. "Bakugo? What are you doing here?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, climbing inside. "You weren't at school today. Thought I'd check on you."

Your heart raced at his words. He had noticed your absence? "I'm just sick. It's nothing serious."

Bakugo raised an eyebrow, his eyes scanning your room. "You sure about that? You look like crap."

You couldn't help but laugh, despite your embarrassment. "Thanks. I feel like crap too."

He smirked, taking a seat on the edge of your bed. "Well, I can't have my number one fan feeling like crap, can I?"

Your face turned bright red at his words. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

Bakugo leaned in closer, his eyes locking onto yours. "Oh, I think you do. I've seen the way you look at me. You think I haven't noticed?"

Your breath caught in your throat. He knew. He had known all along. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

He cut you off with a chuckle. "Relax. I don't mind. In fact, I kind of like it."

Your eyes widened in surprise. "You do?"

Bakugo nodded, his smirk softening into a genuine smile. "Yeah. It's kind of cute, actually."

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. Bakugo Katsuki, the boy you had been infatuated with for so long, was sitting in your room, telling you that he liked your attention. It felt like a dream.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "But next time, don't just disappear on me, got it? If you're sick, tell me. I'll come take care of you."

Your heart swelled at his words. "Okay. I promise."

Bakugo leaned in, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gentle kiss. "Good. Now get some rest. I'll see you at school tomorrow."

As he climbed back out the window, you couldn't help but smile.

"Holy shit." You spoke to yourself. Stunned by the fact Katsuki Bakugo was just in you bedroom.

▶︎˖𓍢 ✧˚.🎀

[toasttt11]

difficult

summary: having a boyfriend who can buy anything he wants makes it very difficult to buy presents for him

quinn hughes x reader

Dating Quinn Hughes meant always having the hardest time trying to buy him presents because what do you buy someone who has everything he wants.

For Valentine’s day this year she decided to do something a bit different and creative hoping he would like this more.

She set the square box that was wrapped in brown paper with a red bow on the counter and fixed the vase with flowers for Quinn.

Quinn got her a giant vase of flowers and left them on table for her to see them when she woke up this morning.

“Baby?” Quinn called out as he walked into their apartment after his morning skate and he took his shoes and jacket off.

“In here!” She called out softly biting her lip nervously.

“Hey you.” Quinn softly spoke smiling happily seeing her as he walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her resting his chin on her shoulder, “Who are these from?” Quinn asked looking confused at the pretty bouquet of flowers.

“For you.” She mumbled quietly fiddling with her fingers nervously.

“For me?” Quinn repeated softly sounding confused.

She turned around in his arms slowly nodding, “The red roses are for love and romance for Valentine’s day, Red tulips for eternal love, pink roses for affection and appreciation and white blooms are for adoration and given to someone meaningful to you.” She rambled out all the means of each flower in her bouquet having spent hours researching flowers and specifically chose each one.

Quinn’s face was soft listening to her, “You-”Quinn’s voice trembled with emotion and he shook his head cupping her face and pressing a long and passionate kiss to her lips, “I love you so much thank you.” Quinn mumbled emotionally. He’s never been given flowers and she not only gave him his first bouquet of flowers but picked flowers with specific meanings for him.

“I love you too my love.” She softly mumbled back sighing in relief that Quinn liked it as her hand played with the back of his hair.

“There’s one more thing.” She pulled back softly taking her hand out his hair making her bite back a whine missing her playing with his hair already.

She reached over grabbing the box not moving away as Quinn kept his arms wrapped around her.

She handed him the box and they shifted so he still had a one arm around her and she rested her head on his chest as he opens the box with one hand.

Quinn opened the box and pulled out a black crew neck and he immediately realized it was his crew neck from his favorite company that he gets his favorite crew necks from and it’s a new one because he’s worn his current one so much.

Quinn made a confused sound as she pointed to the sleeve and he picked up the sleeve and paused seeing something embroidered on the sleeve. A red heart with her initial. The embroidery was on the inside of the sleeve also exactly where he can feel his pulse from.

“This is adorable.” Quinn cooed seeing her nervous look, this is a perfect gift to him and he couldn’t wait to wear the crew neck and have a piece of her with him.

She sighed in relief smiling up at him and he leaned down pressing a kiss to her forehead, “Happy Valentine’s Day baby.” Quinn softly mumbled against her forehead.

[alacants]

in the space of 12 months jannik sinner happened. but i can't get into that or this post will REALLY get out of control. <- wait im new to tennisblr/this gen of tennis players (tho not to tennis, dormant fan ig) and i'd love to hear your take if u feel like elaborating!

oh hey welcome back to tennis!! idk how much exploration you've done so bear with me if i'm just telling you stuff you know. (and jannikblr sorry in advance for the abbreviated summary, i can't do 1200 words every time.) (edit: you'll never guess what happened next.)

the very brief recap is that jannik's tennis trajectory started out relatively normally compared to where he is now—he grabbed everyone's attention winning the 2019 nextgen finals, got a lot of hype, but then had ups and downs for the next few years. won some titles but got a reputation for flopping in big tournaments, for example the wimbledon 2022 qf where he was up two sets to love over novak and still lost. meanwhile carlos alcaraz, who apparently burst onto the scene fully formed, won the us open at 19 and wimbledon at 20. (and all the while was talking up jannik as his major rival. ok.) so the early narrative was that sinner was yet another victim of expectations who was failing to live up to the hype.

then in early 2022 he split with his long-time coach. took a while to adjust to his new team (his current coaches, cahill & vagnozzi) but by the end of 2023 he started to get results. and kept getting them, and kept getting them, until he won his first slam (ao 24), his second slam (uso 24), and went 73-6 for the entirety of 2024. he is now arguably the best player on tour, and inarguably the best player on hard court. and everyone compares him to novak.

(this is not necessarily a compliment.)

actual novak has lost three matches to jannik on the bounce, all on hard court. once again: end of 2023 was the turning point. jannik lost to novak 6-3 6-3 in the tour finals final—then literally the next week they met in the davis cup sf. jannik saved three third set match points, took the match (on the way to italy's first davis cup in 47 years), and has not lost to novak since. that includes the 2024 australian open, where jannik beat novak in four sets and handed him his first ao semifinal defeat ever. ever. 

this run of matches culminated with the shanghai 2024 final, where jannik beat novak in straight sets without breaking a sweat while roger and carlos watched from the box. like. ok we get it! thanks for the symbolism!

(as a side note, that match had me convinced novak was on the verge of retirement because he just did not seem to care, like, at all. sure, another final. whatever. well he certainly figured out how to solve that problem!)

so all of this—the 12 month meteoric rise—is going on in the background while carlos and novak are facing off at wimbledon, at the olympics, and finally at ao again. the very same australian open where jannik says he thinks djokovic/alcaraz is the best rivalry in tennis right now.

so the question is, why IS djokovic/alcaraz a rivalry in a way that djokovic/sinner is not, and why has novak embraced carlos with so much more enthusiasm than jannik. is it because right now the rivalry is so one-sided. (yikes but true.) is it because the comparisons rub novak the wrong way and he does not think he plays tennis like that actually. is it because he just likes other people persons more. (the historical record does not seem to bear this out.) is it because it's intensely frustrating to see someone who plays like you, who like you didn't come up through the ranks with a silver tennis spoon in his mouth,  get the validation you didn't at that age and then not respond to it. like if roger : carlos :: novak : jannik then this is incredible reverse fedole, where the charismatic genius is like LET'S BE FRIENDS and the self-made machine responds with, tennis isn't about friends.

(aka MEANWHILE, THE SINCARAZ OF IT ALL, which i TRULY cannot even begin to recap. i assume you've picked this up elsewhere. if not. god. idek where to begin man.)

i don't have an answer for this lol. jannik is going to stay harder to beat for novak, at age 37, than carlos because more of novak's game is going to hinge on finding exploitable weaknesses and jannik has so few. especially psychologically. novak and jannik both have terrifying levels of mental control; that makes jannik pretty immune to a lot of the strategies novak (or anyone else) might use to try and get inside an opponent's head. ...at least on hard court. novak and jannik haven't played each other on clay since roland garros 2023 sf or on grass since wimbledon 2022 qf, so. i think that might be fun. :)

addendum #1: there is more than one hallway in the big 4 house of mirrors. as if i would get through this whole post without bringing up novandy, please! there is something in carlos' eagerness to put himself and jannik on a special level together, and jannik's hesitance to accept, versus how novak did start out with a peer who was supposed to be his rival-partner in overthrowing the established order at the top, and who now tries to remove himself from that discussion entirely. carlos singling out jannik as his special rival and novak talking up the big four while jannik is like, i love djokoraz! and andy captions photos "the big 3 + some clown."

addendum #2: WAIT late-breaking addition to this post, user @virtual-particle just described novak getting close to carlos as potentially a low-key power play on not just carlos himself but also jannik, a "steal your boyfriend special rival's attention" vibe. and i would like 6000 words of fanfiction about this on my desk by monday ok thanks!

[cod-indulgences]

Dunno if you have written for like Poly!141/Nikolai x reader, or anything for Nikolai x reader at all, but I would love you forever if you could write it. I dig the D/s stuff in your other posts, dubcon is cool too. 🥺❤️

Nikolai x female!reader, implied poly!TF141, implied TF141 x reader, John Price x reader, dubcon, noncon, consensual nonconsent implied but not stated, light clit and nipple abuse, squirting, implied free use/gangbang scenario

(man I really just left so much implied lol, anon thanks for your patience)

You wake up slowly, sluggish. There was movement in the bed with you, a heavy, hard-muscled body moving against yours. You moan as big hands cup your breasts, squeezing and groping.

The man presses you into the mattress, nudging your thighs open, and you arch your back as he grinds against you. Everything is soft-edged with sleep but you can feel the damp spot on your panties, the way the head of his cock rubs against you, kept out by a thin cotton barrier.

You moan again, louder, as he pinches your nipples. It's almost too hard, and you try to push him back, only rubbing your pussy against him more. Stubble scrapes your skin as he nuzzles into your neck, sucking.

"Johnny?" You guess, and reach a hand back to cup his head- and stop cold as you find not a mohawk or buzz cut, but longer licks, tangling in your fingers.

You don't know who is in your bed.

"Aw, pet, don't recognize me?" The man croons, licking the shell of your ear. He releases your breasts and slides one hand down your panties, lifting your ass up as he plays with your clit. You jerk, unable to stop yourself from following the movements of his fingers.

His other hand comes up over your mouth and presses it closed. "Hush, don't bother the rest of them. All partied out, yeah?"

Your boys had partied hard- hosting a handful of friends they'd made over the years, flying in from all over the world, and the celebrating had lasted well into the else hours, still going when you excused yourself to bed.

And now one of those friends had slipped into your bed, and was teasing your clit with slick fingers, making your hips jerk and your heart pound- someone you didn't know, you couldn't place his accent, who all had been there? How many- you couldn't think- you moan and feel your pussy clench as he rubbed faster, making little slick noises that made your face burn with embarrassment. You whine and try again to shove him off, rocking your hips, only to have your shout muffled in his hand as his fingers pinch hard.

"Naughty pet!" The man says, he sounds delighted. You groan as he keeps his grip through your thrashing, your free hand yanking at his arm. He doesn't budge, and you pant through your nose, feeling tears start to leak from your eyes. "Going to listen? Be good?"

He starts twisting, and you shriek into his hand, nodding frantically as your hips slam up and back, trying to escape the pain. Your panties rub against his groin, pulled sideways, and he releases your clit just to tug the scrap of fabric fully away and slam his cock into you.

The hand muffling your mouth presses tighter, arching your head against his shoulder, and you struggle to breathe against the cock that is fucking deep into you. There's so wait, no slow build up, just a hard fucking that punches the air from your lungs, little sounds stealing past the man's grip on your face. More tears drip from your eyes as you hear the wet smack of his balls on your pussy, how your spread thighs offer no resistance. Just a wet cunt being fucked.

The man grunts against your shoulder, wriggling a hand back to your breast where it's pressed into the mattress. Your nipple is found quickly, and he starts pinching it the same way he did your clit, a hard, steady pressure that makes you moan, and squirm, and try to fight him off as the ache increases. You sob when he twists the little nub, and he laughs meanly in your ear.

"So many tears, and still your pussy is wetter," he says, and grips your other nipple to twist it as well. Your pussy throbs. "Don't play dumb, you wanted this, laying here with your legs open just waiting for cock."

"No, no," you moan through his hand, and get a second pinch for it. He's still fucking you, too hard, your pussy aching as he bottoms out.

"Yes, yes," he mocks, and hauls you upright to fuck up into you, spreading your legs open around him. Your back to his chest, you can feel your tits bouncing, hear even more clearly the wet sounds of his cock going in and out. All you can see is the dark shadows on the ceiling and the side of his head- dark hair, long like you'd felt in your hand, nothing else. His shoulder bunches under your head, flexing as his body works to drive you insane.

You moan and fall limp, giving in. It's too much, the fear and the unknown, a stranger fucking you so well your pussy is clenching, ready to come, your nipples bruised. You can feel his grin against your cheek as he lifts one of your knees up, and oh, oh no.

Pressure builds in you, a throbbing ache in your pussy matched by a deeper sensation, wetter, and you scrabble at his arms as the man's cock rolls over your g-spot. You can't do it, you can't, he's going- going to make you-

You sob and wail as you come, thighs shaking as you squirt, liquid spraying from your cunt and all over the bed, and the man swears and fucks his cock into you so hard he slams into your cervix, making you groan at the stab of pain in your belly, clit throbbing on each thrust.

When he finally comes, fuck, finally, he does it by dropping you flat to the bed again, letting you collapse limp into the soaked sheets, his come filling your pussy. You whimper as he pulls out, panting, and uses his thumbs to hold your hole open. Slick drips down your clit.

"Ah, too dark in here to see it," he comments, as casual as if he was talking about trying to read in dim light. "My friend, care to hit the light for me?"

A second voice grumbles, "Of course," and you flinch as the bedside lamp comes on, your eyes squinching shut against the glare. After a moment you open them again, your mouth trembling as Price stands from his seat on your makeup table bench.

The man behind you- Nikolai, now you remember- tugs harder, and you whimper, feeling the cool air inside your pussy, the wet drip of come, as vulnerable as you've ever been- and sob when your pussy tries to clench down, only a flutter against the iron-hard grip prying you open.

"Just as you promised, Price, nothing better than a wet cunt," he says crudely, and Price laughs. He's hard himself, and you drop your eyes to the outline of his cock, straining in his pants. When Nikolai lets go, you scramble to the edge of the bed, reaching out, throwing your arms around Price. He pats your head.

"Alright, darling? Hell of a wake up call, huh?" Your head spins. Pleasure and pain and fear and surprise all swirl together. Your pussy aches and you're dripping slick and come. "Now come on- Nik won the round to get to wake you up, but we've got a whole house wanting to spend more time with you. On your feet," and he tugs you upright, tucking your hair back, and leads you on wobbling feet out to the main room.

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

I almost posted an alternate for today, because I don't know if I love this one. But I'm home sick, so I don't want to think too hard. ANYWAY. Here's my day thirteen fill for BuckTommy Fluffebruary: Love Declarations, and here's how I got these crazy kids back together in the vague universe these fills are set in. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

There’s a helicopter over the building, and Buck has already heard Tommy’s voice over the radio. He knows who’s flying, who he’s going to see as soon as he’s lifted out, but he’s got a scared kid on his hip and can’t really be too tied up in what happened between them.

“Coming down,” Lucy says over the radio, and Buck acknowledges her.

“You ready?” he asks the kid, Susie, and she looks at him with wide, terrified eyes. She’d been the only one in her apartment when the fire broke out, and Buck had been cut off from the ladder and Eddie when he got her. She’d been smart, though, and stayed low and kept her face covered like she’d been taught in school. After scooping her up, Buck radioed for help, and Tommy’s voice had come in loud and clear telling him to go up to the south corner of the roof to avoid potential structure collapse on the north side. “I know the pilot in that chopper, he’s the best pilot in the whole world. I promise, he’ll get us out of here and we’ll get you back to your mom, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, barely audible over the rotors. “You promise?”

Buck lifts his gloved hand, pinky stuck out, and he holds her gaze as she locks her small finger around his. A five-year-old understands how sacred the pinky promise is, and she gives him a tiny nod.

“Wanna know something cool?” he asks as Lucy descends on the ladder. “He flew into a hurricane the night we met, and we’re still here. No one is better at this.”

Susie looks up at the helicopter with something like awe, and Buck hugs her close until Lucy can reach for her, clipping her onto a harness and yelling instructions that he can’t hear. He waits until they’re climbing up before he hooks his arms and feet into the rungs. The helicopter is steady as he climbs, and he even feels it tip a little when he’s climbing in to make it an easier angle to climb in.

“Show-off,” he mutters to absolutely no one. Lucy has Susie in her lap, Tommy is in the pilot’s seat, the seat next to him is empty. Buck unhooks his gear and secures it as best he can before he sits next to Tommy and puts a headset on. “Thanks for the lift.”

“You okay?” Tommy asks, his voice like a balm after two months apart.

“Could be worse,” Buck says, watching as the north corner of the building collapses. “That was my original exit.”

“I have a parking lot nearby cleared for landing,” Tommy says, nodding to something in the distance. Buck is too busy looking at him, drinking in the sight of his side profile.

Tommy looks alert, but there’s circles under his eyes. His hair is a little longer than he usually keeps it, so is his stubble. He looks like he had when he’d gotten food poisoning after Sal’s Labor Day barbecue. But he still flies with total confidence, checking and double-checking that no one is in their immediate airspace and that they have enough clearance for landing.

“Alright, we’re going to land now,” he says, and Buck twists around to see Lucy relaying this to Susie. The girl nods and asks something.

“Any word on her mom?” Lucy asks through the headset.

“She was in the laundry room downstairs,” Buck says. “She’s got a couple minor burns from trying to get the stairwell door open, but she’s on-site. Cap said she’ll be waiting.”

When they land, Lucy has to hold Susie tight until they’re ready to exit, and then Buck jumps up to help the girl out. He’s got her on his hip again and hears a woman scream her name as she runs toward them. Susie squirms in his grip, and Buck carefully sets her on her feet, watching as she runs toward her mom and gets swept up in a tearful hug.

He turns back to the chopper and climbs in to retrieve his gear. The rotors are winding down, because there’s people running around them and Lucy is outside talking to Bobby, and it’s quiet.

“You look like shit,” he says, and Tommy snorts from his seat. “Kind of.”

“You look good,” Tommy says, looking over his shoulder at him.

“I feel like shit,” Buck says, tucking his helmet under his arm. “Thanks for the ride.”

A hand reaches back before he can jump out, and Buck stops, looking down at the thick fingers curled around his elbow. It’s like a sad version of that day after the cruise ship rescue, when Buck had felt the need to reach out and touch Tommy and Tommy had reached back and smiled and made something flutter in his stomach. Now he feels like there’s a big stone there instead.

“Hey,” Tommy says softly, and Buck looks at him. “When are you off?”

“Now,” Buck says. “You?”

“Forty minutes ago.” His fingers rub the material of Buck’s jacket. “I gotta fly back, but can we talk after?”

Buck swallows around the lump in his throat. “Why?”

“Because I think I made the biggest mistake of my life,” Tommy says, looking at him with pleading eyes. “And I want to know if it’s too late to fix it.”

His heart seizes in his chest, feeling hope for the first time in two months.

“It’s not,” Buck says, his voice coming out in a rush, dropping his helmet so he can reach for Tommy’s cheek, ripping off his glove so he can feel the skin against his. “It’s not.”

Tommy leans into his touch and closes his eyes, the crease between his brows smoothing and the tension around his eyes easing. “I’m not brave.”

“I’m not either,” Buck says before he takes off his other glove with his teeth and reaches for Tommy’s other cheek. “I’m not a lot of things.”

“You’re perfect,” Tommy says, opening his eyes and smiling just the smallest amount. “God, Evan, you’re perfect.”

“I’m not,” Buck insists, moving to kneel next to Tommy’s seat. “I said everything all wrong. I didn’t mean for any of it to seem like I was just wanting to live with you because I admired you. I had a plan, and I-I panicked? I don’t know.”

“I think I would’ve run off anyway,” Tommy admits, his gaze dropping from Buck’s. “There’s this thing I do where I think I can see into the future, and it’s never good. And so I leave before it can get bad.”

Buck smiles, his heart breaking for Tommy all over again, and strokes his thumb over his stubble. “But what if it’s good? What if it’s good this time? Didn’t it feel like it was? Like it’d maybe always be like that?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, his hand coming up to hook over Buck’s wrist, his thumb rubbing against his bare skin. “You didn’t say anything wrong, just none of it was…correct. I’m not—I’m not what you think I am.”

“I think you’re everything I’ve ever been looking for.” Buck’s smile widens when Tommy’s gaze shifts back to his and softens. “And I think you’re the only person I’ll ever find who makes me feel the way you do, who puts up with everything that isn’t perfect about me. So I also think we should give this another shot.”

“Really?” Tommy says, his voice soft and disbelieving.

“You gave me a second chance after I really fucked up. What kind of guy would I be if I didn’t give you one?”

Tommy shrugs. “A reasonable one?”

Buck huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve never been that. Never been reasonable, never been great at thinking before I talk, I’m pretty bad at self-control, and I’ve got abandonment issues like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Yeah, but I love you anyway.”

It sounds so simple when Tommy says it, but Buck feels his breath stutter in his chest. Tommy knows about Daniel, about the lying, but he doesn’t know about that day. He doesn’t know what Buck had wanted more than anything from his parents, from anybody.

Tommy’s eyes dart between his. “Sorry, was that—”

Buck cuts him off with a kiss, Tommy's face still cradled in his hands. When a hand curls around the back of his neck, he feels safe.

“I love you,” Buck whispers in the scant space between their lips when they break apart to breathe. “We still need to talk, but I can’t let you fly off without saying that.”

Tommy kisses him again, and it’s messy and a little frantic and so, so familiar. It’s the way he’d kiss Buck when he seemed desperate for him, the way he’d kiss when they hadn’t seen each other in days because of shift schedules keeping them apart, the way Buck had kissed him in a hospital when he’d finally had someone show up for him.

“Hey, everything ok—oh, shit,” Lucy says from behind them, and Buck breaks the kiss quickly. It’s really not okay that they’re doing this on a call. “I mean, don’t let me interrupt.”

“No, sorry, I should—” Buck points his thumb over his shoulder and looks back at Tommy, who’s flushed and smiling and the prettiest thing Buck’s ever seen. “Cap’s probably waiting.”

“Yeah, I’d like to get home,” Bobby says from behind Lucy. “You okay, Buck?”

“Yeah,” Buck says with a shaky smile as he keeps staring into Tommy’s eyes. “Yeah, I’m great.”

He leans in and kisses Tommy again before slipping out of the chopper. When he looks back, Tommy is out of his seat and following him.

“Luce, can you fly us back?” he asks, and she nods, slipping into the seat he’s just vacated. Tommy turns his attention back to Buck and reaches for his hands. “I’ll make you dinner. Unless you want to go out or go to your place.”

Buck shakes his head. “No, that sounds nice. Also, all I have at my place is bread and two kinds of cake right now. Unless you want a bowl of ganache for dinner.”

Tommy’s brows knit together. “I—ganache?”

“Don’t ask,” Bobby says dryly.

“I’ll explain it later,” Buck says, flushing. “But, yeah, I can come over.”

“Okay,” Tommy says, smiling when Buck does. “God, I’m never letting you go again.”

“Good,” Buck says, leaning in until their foreheads are touching. “I’m not letting you go, either. I mean, other than literally, because I kinda have to go back to the station.”

Tommy laughs, and Buck pulls back so he can see the way Tommy’s nose scrunches. “God, I love you so much,” Tommy says.

“I love you, too,” Buck says, feeling every bone in his body melt away. He’s addicted to saying it now, he can feel it. His heart feels like it's made of air and sparks and butterflies, everything feels brighter. “I’ll see you soon.”

Tommy leans in and gives him a quick, too-fast kiss, because now they’re in public and really shouldn’t be kissing on a call. When they separate, Buck turns to see that Bobby, Eddie, Hen, and Chimney are watching with giant grins on their faces.

“Shut up,” he says, his face growing hot as he walks toward them, glancing back as Tommy climbs into the chopper. He waves, and Buck smiles and waves back.

“We didn’t say anything,” Chimney protests.

“Yeah, we’re just happy for you,” Hen says, throwing an arm across his back as they walk toward where the engine’s parked.

“Yeah, and I’m also happy because I just won like fifty bucks from Josh,” Eddie adds. “I said you’d get back together before Valentine’s Day, he had money on the day.”

“And we just cleaned out half of Harbor,” Chimney says, fist-bumping with Hen behind Buck’s back. “Because half of them said before New Year’s, half of them had Valentine’s Day or my wedding anniversary. We doubled down on January. I even got a bonus for it being under eight weeks.”

“I didn’t bet on your relationship,” Bobby says, patting Buck’s shoulder as he passes them.

“Thanks, Cap,” he says dryly.

“Because I knew you’d figure it out in your own time, and also Athena called it a ‘sucker’s bet,” he adds, grinning over his shoulder.

“I hate all of you,” Buck mutters.

“You love us,” Hen says, squeezing him tight.

“Not as much as Tommy, but we’re high on the list,” Chimney agrees.

“And we love you,” Eddie says. “Even though you were busy making up with your boyfriend while we finished putting out that fire.”

Buck throws up his hands in exasperation. “I had to get airlifted from the site!”

“By your bo-oyfriend,” Eddie teases.

“Guys,” Bobby says, opening the engine. “C’mon—”

Buck sighs. “Thank you.”

“—let’s not pressure them into any labels yet.”

Buck hauls himself inside. “Traitor.”

“My A1C is up half a point from last year, I don’t want to hear it. Let’s go, kids, some of us have dinners to get to and paperwork to fill out.”

They pile into the engine, and Buck slouches in his seat with a smile on his face. He texts Tommy that he’s bringing dessert, and he watches intently as a bubble appears until the text comes through.

Tommy

Sounds good :)

You can head over whenever you want. I’m leaving as soon as we land.

Got a hot date tonight. I hope. Lucy said she’s going to drop us out of the sky because she’s out $100??

I’ll see you soon, I’m getting reamed for not being a romantic and waiting until Valentine’s Day?

[toriafiction]

Fae Bound

Jason doesn't know who he inherited his traces of magic from, and he doesn't care. Though weak, it's helpful and has kept him out of some pretty bad situations. It isn’t anything fantastic. He just kind of senses the basic intentions of those immediately around him. Like if someone is dangerous or untrustworthy. It’s nothing specific, but it has saved him a lot of hurt living in the Alley.

If he ever meets whoever he inherited it from, he won't thank them. You never thank a fae, that is admitting that they have done something for you and puts you in their debt.

One night, Jason has a chance meeting with Robin when he is still just a young child, and he knows that he and Dick are meant for each other. It could be fate, destiny, or maybe they’re soulmates. All of that could mean the exact same thing. Jason doesn’t know, and as he gets older, he decides that he doesn’t really care.

Because he knows that he has fallen hard for Dick Grayson.

Too bad Dick doesn’t feel the same.

After the Joker is done with Jason and leaves him to die, Jason is capable of getting out of the warehouse. He even drags his piece-of-shit mother along with him because he is a hero, dammit, and he won’t just leave her to die even if she deserves it.

Just as Jason makes it to the door, it’s like he’s struck by lightning, he knows that somewhere out there in the universe, Dick is also hurt, but unlike Jason, he is quickly dying.

He could survive, but it will be in a universe without Dick, and that isn’t a place Jason wants to be in.

It’s his mother who offers him a solution. She’s dying, and as a last token of apology, she offers him a trade. Jason can stay and die in the warehouse with her, and Dick will live all the years that Jason should have had.

There isn’t a choice to be made.

Jason curls around the woman whom he hates for betraying him and loves for helping him save the one person he loves more than his own life or anything in all the infinite universes. He holds her close in a tight hug and waits to die.

~ ◆ ~ ◇ ~ ◆ ~◇~◆ ~ ◇ ~ ◆ ~◇~◆ ~ ◇ ~ ◆ ~◇~

Elsewhere in the universe, Dick makes an impossible recovery and knows.

He knows that when he makes it home, his Little Wing won’t be there.

It hurts.

It hurts more than he ever believed it could. It’s like somebody shoved their hands into his chest and tore all his insides out and took his soul along with it.

He's cold and hollow, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to live like this. Why would anyone make him live like this?!

Dick isn’t even aware that he’s thrashing and screaming while being pinned to the ground by his friends and teammates. He screams and cries so violently he rips his vocal cords, leaving his throat raw and bloody.

Even after he finally goes still and quiet, he cries and cries like he isn’t ever going to stop. Like he is going to shed enough tears for the whole damned universe.

How could Jason leave him like this?

They were supposed to have more time.

They were supposed to have a future together. They just needed a little more time…