#also in case I need this for a work book later

[ellswritings]

Hiii I was wondering if you could do a Cody Rhodes x reader with the backstory being that reader was like the only female member of shield. And her and Cody Rhodes had a flirty storyline together and the rest of the shield are kinda “protective” over here. and it evolves into something more outside of work please. If you want to add smut that is perfectly fine with me. Please and thank you 💜

My Favorite Plot Twist

Cody Rhodes (Runnels) x reader

TW: Reader is a bit prickly. Damien Sandow says something derogatory about reader. The Shield boys are literally guard dogs. Also, I’m sorry this took me twenty years to write

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling

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Y/N sits in the Shields designated locker room, wrapping her hands tightly as she prepares for her match later that night. The boys were running late, as expected. She got used to arriving first out of the four of them. Being the only girl in the faction is pretty much the equivalent to being the keeper of the group. She booked the hotel for them, she found the places to eat, made sure they were up at a reasonable time, but the only thing she couldn’t manage to do was make them on time.

Sweat clung to her collarbone despite the AC humming somewhere above. It was the usual quiet before the storm — or, in her case, before three oversized brothers came barreling in like a stampede. She barely had time to flex her taped knuckles before the door banged open. Colby Lopez — Seth Rollins to everyone else — swaggered in like he owned the building, duffel bouncing off his hip, hair still damp from the shower.

“Well, well, Captain, I’m officially ready to carry our asses for the night.” He plopped down next to her, too close, as always. He peered at her wrap job and clicked his tongue. “Too tight. Gimme your hand.”

She rolled her eyes, half-shoving him. “Back off, Lopez. I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, I know you do — that’s what terrifies me.” He winked, then reached anyway, redoing the final loop on her thumb.

The next in was Joe — Roman Reigns — phone in hand, earbuds dangling from around his neck. He took one look at the two and snorted, voice rumbling like distant thunder. “You two married yet, or what?”

Seth fired back, deadpan: “She couldn’t handle all this full-time.”

Y/N elbowed him so hard in the ribs he nearly toppled off the bench. Joe let out a deep, amused laugh — his version of a belly laugh — then set down his bag with a controlled thud. “Ambrose?�� he asked, glancing around.

“Probably yelling at someone for stealing his rental spot again.” Y/N took a swig of water, eyeing the door like it owed her money.

Right on cue, it banged open a second time — Jonathan Good, half-dressed as Dean Ambrose, sweat dripping off him, eyes lit up with that reckless glint that meant trouble. “Hey, sweetheart.” He pressed a cold bottle of water to her cheek, ignoring her annoyed squeal. “You miss me?”

“I miss my sanity. Put on a damn shirt, Jon.”

He shrugged, ruffling her hair with a grin. “Don’t hold your breath.”

The four of them finished getting ready, their segment being one of the earlier ones for the night. They walked out of the locker room, stuck in their own little world with one another. The four of them moved as they always did: tight formation, quiet murmurs under the hum of rolling crates and distant crowd noise. Seth needled Jon about last night’s bar tab. Joe half-listened, mostly keeping one big arm ready in case his brothers started throwing hands early. Y/N stayed tucked between them — not because she needed protecting, but because it shut up the creeps who stared too long when she walked alone. As they rounded a bend near Gorilla, they almost ran straight into Cody Rhodes and Damien Sandow, who were deep in conversation. Cody caught her eyes first — a flicker of something old and cocky danced there.

Sandow sneered the second his eyes flicked to her. He raised a mocking brow. “Well, if it isn’t The Shield and their little— what’s the word— mascot.”

Colby bristled. Joe’s jaw flexed. Jon outright stopped dead, turning his full body toward Sandow.

“Come again?” Jon’s tone dropped so low, even a camera guy passing by paused mid-step.

Sandow crossed his arms, smug. “You heard me. Thought the big boys liked to fight their own battles, but maybe they just need a pretty distraction to stay relevant.”

Y/N’s spine snapped straight. She opened her mouth— but Jon was faster. He lunged so quick that Cody had to shove Sandow back to avoid getting clocked too. “Hey— HEY!” Cody stepped between Jon and Sandow, shoving his hand at Jon’s chest. “Easy, Good. He’s a mouthy bastard but you know the suits’ll fine you if you smash his face in back here.”

Jon snarled back, “Fine me then. I’ll pay in cash, right now—”

Joe grabbed Jon’s collar, Seth crowded closer to Cody, and in the middle of the swirl stood Y/N, hands braced on Jon’s shoulder trying to keep him from murder. Cody leaned closer to her while the guys postured. His voice dropped, almost gentle, that faint grin curving his mouth. “You really oughta leash your watchdogs, sweetheart. One of these days they’re gonna bite the wrong throat.”

She snapped her eyes to him, voice low but slicing. “Careful, Rhodes. Might start with yours.”

Something in his grin tightened — a flash of heat, of amusement, something she didn’t have time to read because Sandow piped up behind him, “She talks tough for a mascot—”

This time Colby didn’t wait for Jon. He shoved Sandow so hard into a stack of road cases it rattled. Cody shoved Seth back — Jon lunged again — Joe barked a sharp ENOUGH that rattled the pipes overhead. Security spilled in seconds later, a chorus of “Break it up! Back it up!” filling the corridor. Cody still hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

“See you out there, Shield Girl,” he murmured, backing off with Sandow under an arm, his grin all trouble and promise and something else she wouldn’t name yet.

She wiped sweat from her brow and glared after him. Colby snorted beside her. “Someone’s got a crush on you.”

She flipped him off. “Shut up before I crush you.”

“I don’t think dirty talk is supposed to be that violent, Y/N/N,” Colby grins childishly.

Y/N moves to lunge at him but Jon grabs her and places her in between him and Joe. She might be considered the mature one in the friendship they’ve created, but that doesn’t mean she’s levelheaded on all fronts. Joe chuckles and nudges her shoulder. “C’mon, troublemaker. Let’s go remind ‘em why they don’t screw with The Shield.”

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

The Shield’s heavy boots thudded on the plush carpet as they filed in — Jon first, shoulders rolled back like he might tackle the CEO himself; Colby trailing with a smirk he didn’t bother hiding; Joe looming behind them like an annoyed wall of muscle. Y/N drifted in last, arms folded tight over her chest, jaw set hard enough to crack.

Behind a huge oak desk sat Vince McMahon, in a pinstripe suit that probably cost more than her car. He didn’t look up right away — just scribbled something on a paper with more force than necessary. The air crackled, the boys shifting on their feet like guilty teenagers. Finally, Vince’s head snapped up, eyes locking on them with the force of a hurricane. “Do any of you have a clue how many sponsors I had to reassure tonight?” He slapped the desk for punctuation. “Do you?!”

Jon tilted his head, half-cocked grin already brewing. “I dunno, boss — how many do we have left after last time?”

Joe’s elbow discreetly slammed into his ribs. Jon grunted but stayed grinning. Vince pointed at him like an executioner. “You— zip it. All of you — overgrown dogs with no leash, tearing up my backstage like it’s a damned dive bar in Cincinnati—” He jabbed a finger at Colby. “And you! Egging him on!”

Colby shrugged, completely unbothered. “To be fair, Sandow asked for it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Oh for god’s sake, Vince—”

Vince’s voice boomed right over hers: “And you!” His eyes narrowed at her, but not with the same raw anger he leveled at the boys — more like a caged grin trying not to break through. “The little brain behind this group, I suppose you’re innocent in all this chaos?”

Y/N’s lips twitched. She clicked her tongue, feigning sweetness. “I tried to break it up. Blame your golden boy and his Shakespeare reject sidekick for running their mouths.”

Jon barked a laugh. “She’s not wrong.”

Vince slapped the desk again. “Shut up, Good!” He inhaled through his nose like he might burst a blood vessel, then exhaled slow — an old wolf reining in his bite.

“Listen to me, all of you: if you start one more brawl backstage — especially over petty, juvenile insults — I’ll have you each working dark matches in Des Moines for the rest of the year. Understood?”

Joe answered first, curt: “Understood, sir.”

Colby threw up two mocking thumbs. Jon just winked at Y/N like he was proud of her, and she smothered a laugh behind her hand. Vince glared at them all before jerking a thumb toward the door. “Out. All of you. Except her.”

The three heads snapped toward her in perfect unison. She shrugged at them, equally confused, but Jon leaned in to hiss dramatically, “If he tries to kiss ya, scream twice.”

“Get out, now!” Vince thundered, and Jon scuttled backward, cackling all the way out.

The door clicked shut and now Y/N stands alone.

Vince leaned back, hands folding over his chest, eyes settling on her with that predator’s glint he reserved for moments of genius — or trouble. “Sit.”

She perched on the edge of a chair, crossing one leg over the other, brows lifted. “What, you wanna lecture me solo now? Promise I’ll behave next time—”

He cut her off, voice lower now, conspiratorial. “You know, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know when lightning strikes twice in one corridor.”

She frowned. “...What are you talking about?”

Vince tapped a folder on his desk, pushing it slightly toward her. “I saw the security footage. You and Rhodes.”

Y/N’s entire spine stiffened, a flush creeping up her neck. “Oh hell no. If you’re about to pitch me some damsel crap—”

He chuckled — genuinely amused. “Quite the opposite. I’m pitching you something fresh. Fiery. Improvised. You’re interrupting Cody’s promo tonight. No one knows it but you and I — not him, not your boys, not creative.”

She scoffed, half rising from her seat. “Vince— no. I’m not babysitting Dusty’s spoiled son because Sandow can’t keep his teeth behind his lips. I’ve got my own match tonight—”

He raised a hand. The room went deathly still. “You do this — you get your match schedule as normal. You don’t…” He paused for effect, a shark’s grin creeping in. “You stand at ringside for the Shield. For a year. No matches. No singles push. No spotlight except the scraps those three give you.”

Y/N felt her pulse hammering at her temples. Her tongue was halfway to a retort she knew she couldn’t afford. Instead, she exhaled through her nose, the fight simmering to a cold, resigned flicker. “Fine,” she ground out. “I’ll interrupt his precious promo. But if he so much as winks at me—”

Vince barked a laugh, utterly pleased. “Good girl. Now get out there and make us a fortune.”

She stood up so fast her chair nearly toppled. “Yeah, yeah. But you owe me a main event after this, old man.” She slammed the door behind her so hard the security guard flinched.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

Y/N stormed down the narrow hallway, the concrete echoing with each slam of her boots. Just ahead, Gorilla loomed — and through the thin curtain, she could already hear the opening swell of Cody Rhodes’ theme song pulsing through the arena. The crowd’s roar matched the pounding in her skull.

Behind her, a chorus of familiar voices rose like a thundercloud. “Hey — Y/N!” Colby’s voice cracked through the noise first, footsteps pounding as he sprinted to catch up. “Hold up a damn second!”

She didn’t break stride, just tightened her grip on the headset in her hand, knuckles whitening. Jon’s laugh — sharp and disbelieving — cut in next as he and Joe caught up, flanking her on either side like personal bodyguards ready to tear someone’s spine out. “You got that look — who do I have to knock out this time?”

Joe’s rumble was quieter but twice as dangerous. “Y/N. Talk. Now.”

She let out a tight, humorless snort, eyes locked dead ahead. “You three wanna know? Vince called us in. Read us the riot act for your genius little bar brawl. And now — surprise, surprise — guess who’s the lucky golden goose that gets a storyline with that smug prick out there?” She stabbed her thumb back toward Gorilla, where Cody’s voice was dripping over the live feed.

Colby nearly tripped over his own boots, eyes wide. “Rhodes?! You gotta be shitting me—”

Jon scoffed, voice climbing an octave. “No. Nah, hell no. Not him. Anyone but him. We’ll go back in right now — we’ll fix it. I’ll threaten Sandow’s neck again if I gotta—”

Joe leaned in, voice low, trying reason where Jon barked chaos. “What’s the angle? Romance? A match? What’s Vince pushing?”

She barked out a bitter laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth mockingly. “Oh, I don’t know, Joe — maybe Vince liked the brawl footage so much he thought, hey, let’s stir up some scandal — Shield girl versus the pretty boy! It’s bait for cheap headlines. And guess what — if I don’t do it? No matches. I’m just eye candy at ringside for the next year.”

Colby grabbed her elbow, tugging her to a sudden halt so hard Jon nearly slammed into her back. “Y/N. Listen to me. We know what he’s like. You’ve seen it. He’s a snake with a fancy smile and a shiny suit — he’ll twist this storyline, he’ll—”

She yanked her arm free, eyes blazing as she whirled on all three of them. They braced as if she might swing first. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see right through him? I do. Better than you ever will. But I also know I’m not about to sit on my ass for a year just because you three can’t keep your testosterone in check!”

Joe rumbled, slow and deliberate: “If he so much as looks at you wrong—”

She cut him off with a sharp laugh, jabbing her finger at his chest. “I’ll break his nose before you even blink, big man. And you—” she turned to Jon, eyes narrowing, “—keep your fists to yourself for one night. One. I swear, Jon, you throw a punch tonight, I’m gonna deck you myself.”

Jon just glared, defiant but cornered. “I don’t trust him around you.”

Colby added, voice strained but pleading, “We’re not trying to run your life, Y/N— but he’s not like us. He’s… him. And you’re—” He gestured at her gear, at her badge. “You’re ours.”

She softened for half a heartbeat — just enough for the truth to flicker through the fight. “Yeah. I know. But I’m not just yours. I’m mine. And this—” she jerked her chin toward Gorilla, Cody’s promo still rolling smooth as honey, “—this is what I’ve busted my ass for. Let me handle it my way.”

Y/N could hear his music ending, his cocky voice filling the arena. She rolls her eyes, bracing herself for about of confused questions from the stagehands. She turned back to her boys, braced her fists on her hips, and said with finality: “Stay back. Let me handle him. I promise you — he tries anything? I’ll remind him real quick why I’m the meanest damn dog in the yard.”

Colby raked a hand through his hair, eyes darting between Joe and Jon, resigned but proud in that big-brother way. Jon just muttered under his breath, “Break his pretty teeth if you gotta…”

Joe didn’t say a word — just pulled her into a bone-crushing hug so quick she nearly squeaked, then shoved her forward with a gruff, “Go show ‘em who he’s messing with.”

She grinned at them, a flash of steel and mischief. “Watch and learn, boys.”

Cody Rhodes prowled the center of the ring like it was a throne room built just for him. The lights caught every glint of gold on his new tights, bouncing off the smug curve of his smirk. The microphone danced in his fingertips — a king playing with his crown. “You know, there comes a time,” he purred into the sea of noise, pacing slow circles, voice dripping that old-school bravado that got under people’s skin and stayed there, “when talent alone won’t get you noticed — when being the best-looking man in this building just ain’t enough.”

He stopped dead center, peering into the hard camera with eyes that dared anyone to step up.“But brains? Brains, ladies and gentlemen… get you everything. That’s why, unlike some people around here, I don’t need to hide behind a pack of dogs in riot gear. I stand here alone— because I’m better alone. And there isn’t a soul backstage with the guts to prove me wrong.”

He flicked his tongue over his teeth, mocking. “You hear that, boys in black? Send whoever you want. I’ll still—”

The arena practically exploded. The sudden thunder of Y/N’s entrance theme shook the rafters, drowning out Cody’s next word. For a split second — one heartbeat — the confident mask slipped. His eyes cut hard to the stage, his tongue stilled behind his teeth.

Michael Cole, trying to yell over 15,000 screaming fans: “WHAT?! IT’S Y/N — THE SHIELD’S ENFORCER — SHE LOOKS LIKE SHES ON A MISSION!”

“Or here to kill someone,” Jerry Lawler adds.

JBL stares on, a grin in his voice: ���Rhodes might wanna wipe that smirk off his face. Look at her eyes. She’s about to rewrite his entire monologue.”

Y/N hit the top of the ramp like a bullet in human form. Her boots ate up the steel grating; her eyes locked on Cody with a predator’s promise. There was no Shield theme tonight — no flanking hounds behind her. Just her, the lights, and that smile that said she’d never been more dangerous alone. She slid under the bottom rope in one clean motion, rising slow, nose to nose with Cody before the echo of her music even faded. Cody recovered his smirk — barely — the mic raising back to his lips, though his pupils were blown wide with something that wasn’t fear.

“Well, if it isn’t the Queen of Riot Gear herself…” He drew it out like velvet, eyes dragging from her boots to her mouth and back again. He circled her, slow, close enough to brush her shoulder with his bicep — testing her patience like a man poking a lion in a cage. “Tell me — your boyfriends too scared to fight me themselves? Sent their little mascot out instead?”

Y/N’s jaw ticked at the mention of the insult used by Sandow earlier on in the evening. She lifted her mic without blinking. Her voice dripped poison, each word razor-sharp but calm enough to scare him more than yelling ever could. “No. I came out here to remind the world you’re still the same cheap suit who spent three years telling everyone how dashing you were — until someone finally told you to shut up.”

The fans roared so loud the front row spilled beer. Cody barked a laugh, stepping close enough their chests almost brushed. “Oh, sweetheart— trust me. You want me to shut up?” He dropped his voice, all fake sweetness. “You might have to find another way to keep my mouth busy.”

A collective gasp from the front rows. Wolf whistles. A drumbeat chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that made the back of Y/N’s neck flush hot, despite herself.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to his mouth for a dangerous half-second — then she smiled, all teeth, and shoved a finger into his chest. “Careful, Rhodes. I’m not one of your bimbos backstage. You try that on me and I’ll break your jaw so fast you’ll need Sandow to feed you soup for a month.”

The crowd howled — half laughing, half chanting her name like a heartbeat. She didn’t back up. Didn’t flinch. She smiled — slow, wolfish — then jammed her finger right in the middle of his chest, shoving him back a single defiant step. “You think you’re special because you’re pretty? Newsflash: I’ve seen prettier faces, better men — and you’re not half as dangerous as you like to pretend.” She stepped in again, the mic right up to her lips, daring him to close that inch of space back up.

“You want my attention so bad? Earn it. Or shut the hell up before I do it for you.”

The arena detonated — chants mixing with laughter and a few die-hard Shield loyalists barking “BREAK HIS JAW!”

Cody’s grin didn’t fade — if anything, it softened, just around the eyes. For a flicker of a moment, something raw passed between them: a promise, an insult, a dare neither one fully understood yet. He opened his mouth, words brewing, but she was already stepping back. She dropped her mic with a clatter, the sound punctuating her exit like a gunshot. She climbed a corner turnbuckle, one boot planted on the ropes, and threw her arms wide — soaking in the roar of a crowd that had just tasted the beginning of something very new.

Michael Cole, practically squeaking: “I don’t think Rhodes knows what he just started — that’s The Shield’s wild card! And tonight she didn’t come out here on a leash.”

JBL smirks, low laughter under his breath: “Careful what you wish for, Cody. Because she’s not just gonna ruin your promo — she might just ruin your whole life.”

Cody watched her from the center of the ring, that same half-smirk stitched on his mouth — but now it was a mask for the way his eyes tracked her every move like he couldn’t look away if he tried.

And the fans knew it. They all knew it. This wasn’t the end — it was the spark. And they were going to burn each other down before it was over.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

Backstage was chaos in motion — production assistants dodged camera cables, a ring crew hustled to tear down a set piece, and somewhere down the hall, an intern nearly got steamrolled by Roman Reigns storming through with murder in his eyes.

Y/N hadn’t even made it ten feet past Gorilla before Jon’s hand clamped around her wrist. He spun her to face him so fast she nearly elbowed him on instinct. “You think that was funny?” Jon snarled, voice low but sharp enough to draw side-eyes from the stagehands pretending not to listen. “Letting him talk to you like that out there? Flirting with him for the crowd?!”

Before she could answer, Colby wedged in, eyebrows halfway up his forehead, pure disbelief etched on every line of his face. “Did you hear the things he said, Y/N? ‘Keep his mouth busy?’ He said that with kids in the damn front row! You shoulda punched him—”

Roman caught up last, more collected but no less thunderous. He crossed his arms, glaring down at her like a disappointed dad. “What did we say about guys like him? Huh? He’s still that same ‘dashing’ asshole— just with a shinier coat of paint. You don’t deserve to be part of his cheap little ego trip.”

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. She loved them — loved them more than anything — but god, sometimes they made her feel like she was twelve. “Boys—” she started.

“Don’t ‘boys’ us—” Colby snapped.

She snapped her eyes open, voice slicing through them like steel. “ENOUGH! Listen to me — I didn’t pick this, alright? Vince shoved it in my lap because you three started a fight next to the catering table, and now the only way I get ring time is if I play nice with Mr. Rhodes. So you know what? I’ll flirt, I’ll spit venom, I’ll let him run his mouth — and then I’ll shut it for him in the ring. End of story.”

Her chest heaved with the force of it. All three Shield brothers stared, caught between guilt and frustration. Before Jon could grumble out his apology, a headset-wearing production runner jogged up. “Y/N— Vince wants you. Now.”

She exhaled through her teeth. “Perfect.”

She huffs, her boots echoing on the concrete floor as she takes the route to Vince’s office. She swears she’s in that man’s office more often than she’s in the locker room. It’s either for something she did, or making sure the boys don’t get themselves fired. This feels like a mix between both.

When she reaches the room, she slams the office door behind her so hard the cheap gold nameplate rattled half off its screws. Vince didn’t even flinch — didn’t even lift his head, just flicked a glance up over the rim of his reading glasses, eyes sharp as ever. “You wanted to see me? Or am I getting fired because the promo wasn’t exactly what you wanted?” Y/N snapped, crossing her arms tight enough to bruise.

Vince’s mouth twitched — never quite a smile, more a wolf showing teeth. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A dramatic exit, a big ‘screw you’ on the way out.”

She threw her hands out. “Oh, believe me, I’d like a lot of things right now. Getting shipped off to be Cody Rhodes’ personal prop isn’t exactly at the top of the list.”

Vince set his pen down with agonizing calm, folding his hands across the desk. “Sit.”

She didn’t move. Her silence said everything. He sighed — more annoyance than exasperation — and leaned back in his leather chair. “Fine. Stand there and pout like a teenager, then. I’ll be quick. You’re not traveling with The Shield for the next few months.”

The words hit her like a punch to the ribs. Her jaw clenched so hard she thought her molars might crack. “You’re kidding.”

“Does this look like a face that jokes?” He spread his hands, voice calm but brimming with iron. “Starting next week, you’re with Rhodes. Hotels. Rental cars. Media appearances. Charity gigs. The works.”

She shook her head once, twice, like that could shake the words out of her ears. “No. No, Vince. You can’t— they need me. Have you seen those idiots? They lose their passports every other week. They forget flight times. They can’t even—”

He cut her off with a quiet snarl, enough to chill her blood. “I don’t give a damn if they wander into the wrong airport and end up in Paraguay. You saw what happened out there tonight — you two light up an arena. You made people care. About him. About you. About what happens next. Do you know how rare that is?”

She clenched her fists until her nails dug half-moons into her palm. “So you punish me for your bottom line? Rip me away from my family so I can play girlfriend to a self-obsessed pretty boy?”

He cocked his head. “I’m not punishing you, Y/N. I’m promoting you. Do you think people chant his name like they chant yours? You’re a star, kid. And stars make sacrifices.”

She laughed — brittle, sharp, a sound with no humor left in it. “Right. And if I say no?”

His eyes went flinty, the grin evaporating like smoke. “Then you remember the arrangement. You say no — you stand ringside. Cheerleading. Not a single match booked. You watch your boys break their backs while you smile for the camera and clap when they win.”

She flinched — just a flicker — but Vince saw it. He always did. He leaned forward, voice dropping into that deceptively soft gravel that could command a stadium or crush a dream in the same breath. “You’re a Shield member. But you’re mine first. And you don’t get to decide when you’re too good for the business that made you. So, you want your matches? You want the spotlight you bled for? Then you give me this story. You and Rhodes. Real tension. Real heat. Maybe more, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. People will believe it because you two make them believe it.”

She looked away, chest heaving. Her eyes burned but she refused to blink — she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her crack. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse with the weight of it all. “You don’t care if it tears up the only thing I have left, do you? My friends? The only people I consider family.”

Vince didn’t soften. He never did. “They’ll manage. They’re big boys. And you? You’re the biggest draw I’ve got right now. So do your job, Y/N. Make ‘em believe. Or stand ringside and wave pretty.”

She swallowed hard. The heat behind her eyes turned to salt down her throat. She forced her hands to uncurl, forced her shoulders to square, forced herself to remember who the hell she was. “Fine,” she ground out. “But when this blows up in your face — when he tries to turn this into something it’s not — you remember you built that bomb, not me.”

Vince’s grin returned — shark teeth in a grandfather’s face. “Atta girl.”

She didn’t trust herself to answer. She spun on her heel, yanked the door so hard it slammed into the wall with a satisfying crack — and this time, she didn’t look back. Y/N didn’t get far. Thirty feet down the hallway, she ducked behind a stack of battered flight cases — and snapped.

Her fist smashed into the cold metal once. Twice. A third time, knuckles flaring with pain she barely felt over the roar in her head. She kicked a rolling cart so hard it rattled halfway down the hall, squeaking pathetically before crashing against a wall. But it wasn’t enough — not nearly enough.

Her breath came ragged, shoulders jerking as she braced both palms on the crate’s edge and bowed her head, forehead nearly touching steel. The tears came next. Hot, silent, furious. They dripped off her nose, splattering the black road case below. Behind her, boots pounded the concrete. Voices — hers. Always hers.

“Hey— hey— Y/N—” Jon’s rough rasp, usually all bite and sarcasm, now gentle as a bruise. He grabbed her shoulders, spinning her before she could flinch, pulling her tight against his chest like he could muscle the world back into place for her. She didn’t fight him. Just sank into the familiar scent of leather and sweat and brotherhood. Her fingers fisted in the fabric of his vest, anchoring herself there while the ugly, broken sobs punched out of her one by one.

Colby and Joe closed in like a shield made flesh. Colby’s hand slid to her back, palm moving slow and steady over her spine, grounding her. Joe’s big arm caged around them all, his chin brushing the crown of her head. “Hey— look at me.” Joe’s voice, low thunder that somehow sounded kind. “Breathe. You gotta breathe, yeah?”

She dragged her face from Jon’s chest, the tears streaking black under her eyes. Her lip trembled, rage and heartbreak making her chest squeeze tight. “He— he’s— he’s sending me with Rhodes. On the road. Away from you guys. All because I opened my mouth and you started a damn fight—!”

Jon flinched like she’d slapped him. “Y/N—”

“He wants me to fall for him. Wants it to look real. Wants me to be some— some soap opera side piece so people tune in for his precious ratings.” She swiped at her face, but the tears kept coming. “And if I don’t play along, if I fight him on it, I’m back to ringside. Stupid fucking Sandow would be proven right. I’d be your mascot, clapping while you three run the whole show without me.”

Colby’s hand stilled on her back, fist curling in the fabric of her vest. “I’ll kill him. I’ll actually—”

“Same,” Joe rumbled, forehead resting against hers now, voice so soft it cracked her all over again. “No man does this to you. I don’t care what he’s worth to Vince. You’re worth more.”

She let out a watery laugh, the sound sharp and exhausted. “You three can’t even remember what town we’re in half the time. You lose your wallets, your gear, your entire hotel keys— how are you gonna save me from this?”

Jon barked a humorless chuckle, but his eyes burned like coals. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “Because we’re The Shield, sweetheart. And The Shield doesn’t abandon its own. Ever. He might share your rental car, but he doesn’t get you. Not really.”

Colby grinned through the storm, leaning his forehead against hers so their eyes locked. “He can have your time on the road. He’ll never have your back in the ring. That’s ours.”

A fresh tear spilled, but this one carved through the smallest, fiercest smile. “God, you idiots. You make it so hard to hate you.”

Joe chuckled low, pressing a careful kiss to her temple like sealing a promise. “Good. Now breathe, sister. You go do this dumb angle. You get your paycheck. You keep your place at the top. We’ll be right behind you — whether they write us in or not.”

She sniffed, dragging her wrist under her nose, trying for a brave face. “Promise me you won’t try to jump him next week.”

Jon snorted, voice dripping dry venom. “No promises. But we’ll aim for backstage, not on camera. Better for ratings.”

That pulled a half-laugh from her chest — small, real, enough to make the ache bearable for now. She huffed out a breath and let them hold her a few seconds more, safe in the fortress of riot gear and reckless love. She was being shipped off to fight an angle she never asked for — but as long as these three shadows stayed behind her, she’d never really be alone.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

The rumble of Cody’s rental car idled in front of the hotel. He leaned one elbow on the open window, sunglasses on despite the overcast morning, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to some classic rock station humming low through the speakers. When the back door slammed open, he straightened just in time to see her stalk out dragging her gear bag behind her like it owed her money. He couldn’t help it — the smirk slid right into place. “There she is. My favorite Shield member.”

She shot him a glare so sharp it might’ve cracked his windshield. She didn’t break stride, tossing her bag in the back seat before yanking open the driver’s door. “Out.”

Cody blinked behind his shades. “Uh — beg your pardon?”

She jerked her chin at him, brows arched with lethal calm. “Out. Of. My. Seat.”

He gave a mock laugh, glancing around the empty lot like maybe she was pranking him. “You’re serious?”

She planted one palm on the roof and leaned down until they were nose to nose. “You really think I trust you driving me through two states? Get your pretty boy ass in the passenger seat. Now.”

A laugh cracked from his throat despite himself. “God, you’re a piece of work.” But he got out, sidestepping her with a playful twirl of his keys before tossing them back.

“Try not to hit anything. Insurance doesn’t cover bruised egos.”

She snatched the keys mid-air, hip-checking him toward the other side. “Buckle up, Rhodes. I drive fast.”

The first hour on the interstate was exactly what he’d expected: tense silence, punctuated by her death grip on the wheel and the occasional murder glare when he so much as adjusted the air vent.

He tried anyway. Of course he did. “So… Y/N, right? Short for anything?”

“Nope.”

“You always this chatty?”

“Only when idiots are talking at me.”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “You know, most women would kill for alone time with me.”

She snorted, eyes locked on the road. “Congrats on being delusional. Must be peaceful in that head of yours.”

He chuckled low, leaning back in his seat. He watched her hands more than the highway — the way her fingers flexed and adjusted around the wheel, the faint white line of an old scar near her knuckle. Little pieces of her that the Shield boys kept the world from ever seeing. She caught him staring and snapped, “Eyes on your side, Romeo. I know where I’m going.”

“Relax. I’m just appreciating the view.” He wiggled his brows. “Gotta make this road trip worth the trauma, sweetheart.”

“Touch me and I swear to God I’ll break your nose.”

“Promises, promises.”

They bickered about gas stations first. Cody pointed at a bright neon sign for a big chain stop half a mile ahead, practically bouncing in his seat. “Take that next exit. That place has Starbucks. And a bathroom that doesn’t double as a crime scene.”

Y/N didn’t even glance at the sign — she veered off at the very next random exit without slowing down. “We’re stopping here. I want real coffee. Not overpriced hipster sludge.”

He squinted out the window as she coasted into a cracked lot behind a battered old gas station. The ‘OPEN’ sign flickered like it might give up at any moment. “Real coffee?” he repeated, deadpan. “This place looks like a horror movie. If I get tetanus, you’re paying my hospital bill.”

She popped the door open with a pointed smile. “Don’t be dramatic, Rhodes. One rat tail in your latte builds character.”

Inside, she stalked straight to the dusty snack aisle while Cody hovered suspiciously near a leaking soda machine. She plucked bags of jerky, two Red Bulls, and a suspicious-looking muffin from a basket near the register. He trailed behind her, dropping an armful of candy and chocolate on top of her pile. She narrowed her eyes. “We are not buying your sugar stash. Put it back.”

He feigned innocence. “Protein and carbs, sweetheart. You need fuel if you’re gonna keep threatening to kill me every five miles.”

She swatted his gummy bears back at him — he lobbed a chocolate bar at her head in retaliation. She caught it one-handed and whipped it back into his chest. The old man behind the counter watched them with mild horror.

Back on the road, it was only a matter of time before the radio battle started. Y/N cranked Metallica up so loud it rattled the passenger door. Cody grimaced, fingers stabbing at the dash controls until he managed to cut it off mid-guitar solo. “Jesus — my ears are bleeding. My playlist, my rules.” He plugged in his phone, Taylor Swift crooning an upbeat chorus a second later.

Y/N threw him a look so lethal it should’ve stopped the car. “Are you kidding me right now?”

He grinned, drumming his knuckles on the armrest in time with the chorus. “You need to lighten up, princess. Consider this an education in actual music.”

“I will launch that phone into the next state.”

“Try it. I’ll file a complaint with HR for harassment.”

She barked a laugh, but it was all teeth. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?”

He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, legs stretched obnoxiously wide. “No, everyone thinks I’m cute. Big difference.”

She bit back a scoff, switching back to Metallica with a vengeful stab at the dash. “It must be exhausting to be this cocky ”

His smile dropped for a heartbeat. “You know, you talk a lot of shit for someone who doesn’t actually know me.”

“Don’t need to know you. I’ve heard enough.” She shrugged, eyes on the road. “The boys keep plenty of receipts.”

He let out a low whistle, voice softer but sharper somehow. “Ah. So that’s what this is. Jon’s bedtime horror stories about how I once big-timed him for catering. Colby swearing I was sniffing around places I don’t belong. Joe acting like I’m a stray mutt with rabies.”

“Maybe don’t act like a mutt then,” she shot back. But her grip on the wheel tightened, betraying the edge under her words.

Cody studied her in the flickering lights of passing trucks, the playful spark in his eyes tempered by something real now. “Newsflash, sweetheart: I might be a pain in the ass, but I don’t need your boys to like me. I do need you to maybe think for yourself, though.”

That made her laugh — but it cracked at the end. “Don’t flatter yourself, Rhodes. I think just fine. And trust me — if you were worth the benefit of the doubt, I’d have given it.”

A tense silence settled in. Metallica growled low in the background, the road yawning endless ahead. He turned away first, looking out his window with a grudging smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then I guess I’ll just have to prove ‘em wrong, huh?”

She didn’t answer, but the way her jaw unclenched told him enough to know he’d landed a hit.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

By the time they’d been on the road four hours, dusk spilled across the highway in bruised streaks of purple and gold. The cab of the car felt like a tiny universe — half Metallica riffs, half the low hum of the engine, all crackling tension that had somehow shifted from barbed to something almost��� bearable.

Cody saw it first: the telltale drift of her eyelids at a long red light. The way her hand, clenched white-knuckle on the wheel for hours, now flexed limply between shifts.

He cut the volume down with a flick of his thumb, voice softer but sharp enough to slice through the tired fog she’d wrapped herself in. “Hey. Pull over.”

Her scowl was automatic, almost sluggish. “Shut up.”

“You’re exhausted, sweetheart. I can see you blinking in slow motion.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.” She scrubbed a palm over her face, fighting the sleep dragging at her bones. “And I’m fine. Stop mothering me—”

“Fine?” He barked a humorless laugh, drumming his fingers on the console. “You just missed a sign for the highway you’ve been ranting about for an hour.”

She squinted at the road signs ahead, jaw tightening when she realized he wasn’t wrong. “Eat shit, Rhodes.”

“Pull. Over.” His tone dropped — not cruel, just immovable. The same stubborn steel that got under her skin and, she’d grudgingly admit, kept her awake better than the Red Bull rolling around at her feet.

She sucked in a breath, teeth sinking into her lip as if she could bite back the exhaustion by sheer force of will. “I don’t need—”

“You do,” he cut in, voice low but calm now. “You do. Just this once — drop the act, princess. Everyone’s human. Even you.”

Her hands clenched tighter on the wheel. She hated how that landed — gentle, exasperated, annoyingly real. She hated that he saw her cracking and didn’t make a joke of it.

With a muttered curse, she yanked the car onto the shoulder, tires crunching over gravel. She slammed it into park so violently the whole car rocked. “Touch my seat or mirror settings and I swear—”

Cody popped his door open with a smirk, leaning in close enough their noses nearly brushed.“Relax,” he murmured, voice dipping warm and taunting at once. “I can handle the beast of your preferred car settings. You just handle the snoring.”

She blinked at him, thrown for a heartbeat by how sincere that sounded under the teasing edge. He chuckled at her silence, brushing past her to slide behind the wheel. She stalked around the hood, muttering, “I hate you.”

He shot back without missing a beat, “And yet you look at me like you almost trust me right now. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your guard dogs.”

That shut her up. She climbed into the passenger seat with a glare that couldn’t quite hide the flicker of something softer beneath it. Minutes later, her head drifted toward the cool window, lashes fluttering once, twice — then gone, sleep tugging her under faster than she could fight it.

Cody gripped the wheel, knuckles whitening as he risked a glance at her.

God, she looked different like this. The hurricane armor was gone: no clipped insults, no eyes sparking hellfire. Just a stubborn girl who carried three grown men on her shoulders and wouldn’t admit she was tired until she damn near crashed. He caught himself staring too long at a green light — had to clear his throat, dragging his gaze back to the endless ribbon of asphalt.

Yeah. This was gonna be a problem. She was gonna be a problem.

And the worst part? For once in his life, Cody Rhodes wasn’t entirely sure he minded one damn bit.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

The next show felt like stepping into the same storm — only now, for Y/N, the wind was blowing from two directions at once. She’d barely dumped her duffel in the Shield’s locker room when the door swung open like it owed Jon money.

“There she is,” Jon announced, boots thudding across the concrete. “The runaway bride herself. How was the romantic road trip with Golden Boy?”

Joe ducked under the doorframe behind him, tossing a water bottle back and forth between his hands. “Yeah. How many times’d he beg you to marry him? Or did you murder him and bury him behind a Waffle House?”

Colby, always the quieter hammer, planted himself on the bench beside her bag, smirk sharp as a blade. “Well? Did he make you wanna leap from a moving car or what?”

Y/N braced her elbows on her knees, taping her wrists slower than usual. She opened her mouth — ready to fire off some trademark venom — but the words stuck. Instead, her mind traitorously flicked back to the dark road. To him telling her to pull over. To his stupid warm voice saying to pull over. To the fact that when she woke up hours later, she felt like someone had cared.

She cleared her throat, voice too casual. “He’s still alive, so... I guess that’s a disappointment for all of us.”

Colby frowned, catching the way her teeth sank into her cheek. “You didn’t answer the question.”

She forced a lopsided grin, flicking her eyes up at him. “Oh, yeah — I was this close to gouging my eyes out. He wouldn’t shut up. Played Taylor Swift, for god’s sake.”

Jon barked a laugh, satisfied — but Joe tilted his head, suspicious. “Huh. And you let him live?”

Y/N shrugged, tugging her tape tighter than necessary. “I was too tired to fight him and the radio.” Her voice dropped softer than she meant. “He just... drove. So I could sleep.”

Colby’s eyebrows shot up — but before he could probe that, a sharp knock rattled the door. A stagehand peeked in, headset crooked, shuffling a paper in his hand like it burned. “Uh— hey, sorry — Ms. Y/N. Vince wanted me to give you this. There’s been an adjustment tonight.”

Y/N took the paper, eyes scanning the fresh ink. Her stomach did a flip she refused to show on her face.

Mixed Tag Match: Y/N & Cody Rhodes vs. The Miz & Eve Torres

Of course. Perfect. Vince was doubling down on the fireworks.

Jon snatched the paper from her hands, reading it like it was a threat. “Nope. Not happening. No way you’re getting thrown into a soap opera match with him now, too—”

Joe growled low in his chest. “We already said we’d handle it if he gets handsy—”

She cut through their fury, voice calm but distracted. “Guys. It’s fine.” She lifted her chin at them. “It’s business. And it’s Miz and Eve — not a bloodbath. I can handle it.”

Colby’s eyes narrowed, studying the subtle shift in her — the fight in her tone replaced by something quiet, almost... uncertain. “You sure about this? You don’t look like you wanna break his face anymore.”

She threw him a sharp look. “Don’t push it. It’s a match. That’s it. And I’m still running your segment later — I’ll be ringside, barking orders at you idiots as usual.”

The stagehand coughed into his headset. “Uh— sorry — there’s more. Vince wants The Shield out there during her match, too. As ‘support.’” He made finger quotes, face apologetic. “He said — and I quote — ‘Their snarling makes her look tougher.’”

Jon huffed, but it morphed into a savage grin. “Damn right it does. Fine. He wants us ringside? He’s gonna get the Shield ringside.”

Joe clapped a hand on her shoulder, squeezing just shy of bone-crushing. “You call the shots. He gets cute — you say the word, we break his teeth.”

Y/N blew out a breath, fighting the tiny traitorous curl in her chest that she refused to name.

“Relax, you big guard dogs. It’s a match. And when it’s over... we’ll still be us.”

And in her chest, for the first time, the thought whispered back — But maybe not just us, anymore.

The arena pulsed with the bass of Cody Rhodes’ theme — sharp, confident, just cocky enough to drag a tidal wave of boos and squeals in equal measure. He emerged under the arch of lights, arms spread, that smug half-grin firmly back where it belonged. He took his time on the ramp, soaking it up like a sunbeam, glancing at the hard cam with that signature Rhodes wink.

When he reached ringside, he leaned back on the ropes, chin tilted toward the entrance — waiting.

And then—

“SIERRA. HOTEL. INDIA. ECHO. LIMA. DELTA… SHIELD.”

The roar hit like a bomb. Black-tactical storm pouring through the crowd — Jon leading the charge, Joe a stone wall beside him, Colby stalking in his wake. But behind them, a fourth figure stepped out under the lights — all sleek riot gear and lethal confidence — and the pop hit another level.

Y/N stalked ahead of the boys at the barricade, eyes locked on Cody like a heat-seeking missile. She didn’t so much as glance at the fans screaming her name — her whole focus was the man leaning cockily against the ropes, waiting for her.

The boys took up guard at ringside, pacing like wolves with too-short leashes as she climbed the steps and slipped between the ropes — stopping nose-to-nose with Rhodes. He mouthed something the cameras didn’t catch. She answered with a smirk and a shove that made the front row lose their minds.

DING DING DING!

The Miz tagged in first, smirk plastered on his face as he circled Cody — but the crowd knew the heat was in the corners. Cody and Miz traded holds, quick and clean, until Miz tagged Eve with a flourish.

Y/N launched herself over the ropes before Eve’s foot even hit the mat. They locked up hard, Eve trash-talking something fierce until Y/N snapped off a perfect arm drag that made the crowd roar. A stiff dropkick followed, then a running knee that cracked Eve flat.

Outside, Jon punched the barricade, howling with pride. “That’s my girl—!”

But the momentum shifted. Eve ducked a clothesline, tagged Miz back in, forcing Cody’s return. Cody didn’t miss a beat — sliding in smooth, catching Miz with a beautiful standing dropkick that echoed. It was fast — crisp — but the magic hit when Miz ducked, caught Cody in a front headlock, and Y/N slammed her palm on Cody’s shoulder. Blind tag.

She vaulted the top rope while Cody launched Miz backward — she flipped, caught Miz mid-rotation with a flying neckbreaker, and the arena exploded.

Colby’s jaw dropped. Joe slapped his chest, wild with disbelief. “You seeing this shit?!”

Miz scrambled, tagged Eve again, but Eve looked hesitant now. Y/N baited her in, feinted left, then whipped her across the ring. She caught Eve with a spine-shaking backbreaker and pointed at Cody — challenging.

He read her in an instant — no cue cards, no missed beat. She sprinted to the corner, Cody braced low, and she ran straight up his cupped hands — springboarded clean onto the top rope, spun mid-air and crashed down on Eve with a flawless corkscrew crossbody.

The crowd lost their minds.

Jon was practically climbing the barricade now, half furious, half shocked out of his skull. “WHAT THE HELL DID WE TEACH HER?!”

Colby shouted over him, “SHE’S NEVER TRUSTED ANYONE TO BASE FOR THAT—”

In the ring, Cody stalked over as Miz lunged back in to break the pin — but Cody met him halfway, hooking him into Cross Rhodes and driving him straight into the mat.

Three seconds later: 1… 2… 3!

The bell. The roar. Y/N on her knees, panting over Eve’s defeated form, Cody towering above her with a cocky grin that almost looked proud. He grabbed her wrist, tugging her to her feet, then lifted her arm high. For a heartbeat, she glared at him. For another, she let the grin crack through — small, unguarded, just for him.

Then he stepped in — no script, no camera cue — and pulled her in tight.

The Shield boys went ballistic on the floor, barking curses and pacing like caged tigers. The crowd, meanwhile, practically shook the rafters off the building:

“THIS IS AWESOME! THIS IS AWESOME!”

Cody didn’t let go until he felt her stiffen — not in rejection but in realization. He lingered just one second more than he should have, then eased back, brushing a stray hair off her cheek before she could slap his hand away.

The boys climbed the apron, snarls barely restrained. But Y/N barely noticed them — her pulse was thunder, her eyes locked on Cody’s mouth as he leaned in close, voice low enough for only her to hear:

“Hell of a team, huh, sweetheart?”

And this time — for once — she didn’t have a comeback ready.

Backstage was a frenzy of movement and noise — but all of it blurred at the edges for the Shield the moment they cornered Y/N just past Gorilla. Jon planted himself directly in her path, eyes narrowed, voice low enough to cut glass. “What. The hell. Was that out there?”

She yanked at her wrist tape like it offended her, not looking at any of them. “A match, Jon. That thing we get paid to do.”

Colby crossed his arms, stepping closer until they boxed her in. “Don’t get smart. You know what he means. You pulled the corkscrew. With him. You won’t even let us catch you on that one.”

Joe’s broad shoulders tensed. He jabbed a finger at her chest, frustration barely contained. “And the hug? The crowd was eating it up — and so was he. You didn’t shove him off. You didn’t even flinch.”

She snapped her gaze up at that, fire flaring for a heartbeat. “I was working, okay? The fans want tension? I’ll give them tension. I’m not gonna tank the damn chemistry just because you three can’t stand him breathing the same air as me.”

Jon barked a mirthless laugh. “Chemistry? That’s one word for it. He’s got your head spinning so fast you didn’t even see the way he looked at you when you hit Gorilla. Like he owns the ring and you with it.”

She bristled — about to fire back — but her eyes flicked across the hall, drawn like iron to a magnet. There he was. Cody Rhodes. Standing a few feet away near a row of crates, Sandow at his side yammering about god-knows-what — but Cody’s attention wasn’t on Sandow.

It was locked on her.

Not cocky or mocking this time. Just… intent. There was a softness there she hadn’t signed up for, wrapped up in that maddening smirk. He lifted his chin at her, the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth — a silent question: You feel that too, don’t you?

She hated that her chest squeezed at the sight. Hated that she almost smiled back.

Colby followed her gaze, and his exasperated groan snapped her out of it. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Don’t tell me he’s already gotten under your skin—”

She tore her eyes away, rolling her shoulders like she could shake him off her skin. “Don’t flatter him. He’s nothing. It’s business. Vince wants sparks, I’m giving him fireworks. That’s all.”

Joe frowned, reading the lie in the tight lines around her eyes. “You sure about that?”

She didn’t answer. Just flicked her wrist, tossing the shredded tape into a bin. Cody, still across the way, tilted his head — a dare in his eyes now. Her pulse stuttered.

Jon rapped his knuckles on the back of her shoulder, snapping her back to the present. “Hey. You coming? We gotta prep for our segment.”

She sucked in a breath, tearing her gaze from Cody’s. That stupid grin was still there, softer than it had any right to be. She hated how it made something warm coil low in her stomach. She forced her feet to move, brushing past Jon and Colby with a muttered, “Yeah. I’m coming.”

As she walked away, she could feel Cody’s eyes burning into her spine the whole way down the hall — and for the first time, she couldn’t tell if she hated it… or wanted him to look harder.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

The ride back to the hotel should’ve been easy — ten minutes of asphalt and white noise — but instead it was suffocating. Cody could feel every word they weren’t saying pressing against the windows like fog. He didn’t dare break it. Not yet.

By the time the car rolled into the lot and they trudged up to their room, both were wired and bone-tired all at once. Two queen beds, identical duvets — neutral, forgettable, safe. But the air between them felt anything but.

Cody dropped his duffel by the far bed, eyes flicking to her as she tossed hers onto the nearer one. She sat immediately, elbows braced on her knees, shoulders hunched like she was physically bracing for a fight.

He drew a breath, slow. He hated dancing around things — it was why people liked him on the mic. So he didn’t bother with small talk. “You absolutely killed it tonight. You know that, right?”

Y/N didn’t look up. “We did what Vince paid us to do.”

He pushed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, considering. “Yeah, well, we did it better than anyone else could’ve. Commentators loved it. Even your three angry watch dogs probably loved it — even if they wanna punt me off a bridge about it.”

That got the faintest tug at the corner of her mouth, but it didn’t stick. She picked at a loose string on her sleeve, nails worrying at it until it frayed. “Doesn’t matter. To them, I’m still too reckless. Too naive. Too trusting for my own good. It’s always been that way.”

Her voice cracked just barely at the end. Cody’s ears pricked — the real her was peeking through, whether she wanted it to or not. He sat on his bed, leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees so he was eye level with her. “Hey. You’re gonna have to explain that. Because from where I’m standing, you’re the least naive person in the locker room. You’ve got more spine than half the roster put together.”

She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. It scraped her throat raw. “Yeah, well… wasn’t always true. Before the Shield, before WWE even looked my way, I worked indie shows no one remembers. Barns, fairgrounds — you name it. Promoters loved me because I was marketable. ‘Look, a girl who can take a bump — let’s put her in a bra and toss her through a table.’ Didn’t matter if I bled for it. Didn’t matter if I could run the ropes better than the guy they were pushing. I was just the sideshow. ‘Bring her out when the crowd gets bored.’”

She didn’t mean to keep going — but it poured out, unstoppable now that she’d cracked the seal.“Got so used to doing it alone. Proving I wasn’t just a body in shorts. Then I met Jon. He was at one of my shows, thought I had something. He was in NXT at the time. So he vouched for me to Hunter. He and Joe and Colby — they treated me like I mattered. Not as a prop. As a soldier. An equal. So yeah — they’re overprotective assholes. But… without them, I probably wouldn’t even be here.”

The room buzzed with the soft hum of the AC unit. Cody didn’t dare interrupt. He just watched her — her throat working around words she hated giving away, her hands trembling just slightly. When she finally glanced at him, there was a flash of embarrassment there, like she’d suddenly realized just how much she’d revealed to him of all people. “Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, more bite than strength in her tone. “I don’t do the sob story thing. I hate it.”

But Cody didn’t smirk this time. Didn’t tease. His eyes stayed steady, quiet. “Not looking at you like anything. I’m listening. Maybe you don’t get enough of that.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then barked a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Great. Now I get to add ‘pity’ to the list of reasons I can’t stand you.”

He leaned back with a huff of amusement, but the warmth stayed in his eyes. “No pity. Just respect. And maybe a little regret that I didn’t see it sooner. You’re hell on wheels in the ring, but outside? I get it now. Why you guard your heart like that.”

She stayed silent, teeth worrying her bottom lip until it hurt. A second passed — then another — before she broke it with a muttered curse. “God, I don’t even know why I told you that. I never tell anyone that. They’d laugh. They’d say I’m soft now.”

Cody shook his head immediately. “Not soft. Never soft. Just tired of fighting alone.”

He let the words hang there like an offering. And for once, she didn’t swing back with a snarl. She just watched him, eyes searching his face for whatever trap she was sure he’d laid — but there was none.

He stood then, scrubbing a hand through his hair like he needed to burn off the sudden rawness.“Anyway. I’m gonna grab a shower before I get too philosophical and ruin my reputation.”

She cracked a dry grin, voice almost fond despite herself. “Wouldn’t want the big bad Rhodes to go soft, huh?”

His answering smirk was softer than it should’ve been, but it made her stomach flip all the same. “Careful, sweetheart — keep talking like that and I might think you don’t hate me anymore.”

Before she could throw a pillow at his head, he ducked into the bathroom, leaving her alone with the echo of her own heartbeat and the terrifying realization: For the first time in forever… she didn’t feel alone. And that scared her more than anything.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

The next few months turned out to be nothing like she’d expected. At first, Y/N braced herself for misery: a long stretch of awkward silences and cheap, infuriating digs from Cody Rhodes every time they had to share a car, a locker room, or an arena hallway. She’d even packed extra headphones just so she wouldn’t have to listen to his smug voice on long drives.

But somewhere between midnight gas station raids and adrenaline crashes in half-lit hotel parking lots, something subtle shifted.

They still bickered — God, they bickered — about everything. Over whether to take the interstate or the backroads, which podcast was less insufferable, who got the last handful of trail mix. She told him he had the emotional depth of a garden rake; he told her she was all sharp tongue and no follow-through.

Yet, under all that static, something warm had begun to flicker.

She learned he never drank energy drinks after sunset because he hated lying awake. He learned exactly how she liked her coffee — black, but with a shot of cheap hazelnut syrup she’d never admit to buying. He started bringing her an extra cup when he knew she’d pretend she didn’t want it but would steal his anyway.

She noticed the way he always checked that the hotel door latched twice before he’d let himself relax. He noticed how she curled her fingers around the seatbelt when she fell asleep in the passenger seat — as if bracing for some old nightmare.

Sometimes, he made her laugh so hard she’d have to bite her knuckle to muffle it. Not the polite chuckle she gave the boys to keep them from asking too many questions — real laughter, the kind that cracked open something she’d welded shut years ago.

And the ring? Together they were chaos on tap. Audiences ate it up: the Shield’s lone wolf and the golden prince side by side, crackling with tension that blurred so perfectly between storyline and reality that half the locker room started taking bets on when they’d drop the act — or if it was ever an act at all.

They were so good that Vince began building entire nights around them. She was still the Shield’s bullet in a flak vest, but with Cody at her side, she got to show a sharper edge — more cunning, more poison, more reckless risk that made the crowd chant her name until the rafters shook.

And off-screen? Well. Off-screen, she was still telling herself it meant nothing. That it was just business. That the way she sometimes caught him watching her when he thought she wouldn’t see was just part of the job.

But late at night, when they’d stumble into some cheap hotel room after a match and collapse on opposite beds, there were moments when she wondered if the line had disappeared altogether.

One night, somewhere between Omaha and Des Moines, it bled out louder than usual. She was leaning against a rental car, hair still damp from the shower she’d rushed through at the arena. Cody stood opposite her, passing a cheap sandwich back and forth because the only diner for miles had closed at midnight.

“—I swear to God, Rhodes, if you tell the boys I ate a gas station BLT, I will smother you in your sleep.”

He barked out a laugh, wiping a crumb from the corner of her mouth with the back of his finger. The touch was so easy now she didn’t even flinch.“Oh, so now you’re worried about your image? After you German-suplexed Ziggler through a barricade tonight?”

She shoved his chest lightly, but she didn’t move away. “Dolph had it coming. And shut up, you loved it.”

Cody tilted his head, that grin softening into something that felt too dangerous in the moonlight. “You know what I loved? Watching you trust me to catch you again tonight. No hesitation this time.”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice went quiet at the edges. “Don’t make it weird. It’s just business.”

He didn’t look away. “Yeah. Sure. Just business.”

For half a second, they were frozen — the cool night air buzzing around them, a radio muttering static in the car. She could smell his shampoo, feel the warmth radiating off him. She should have stepped back. Should have thrown another jab. Instead she muttered, almost to herself, “You’re not as awful as I thought you’d be, you know that?”

He caught it. Of course he did. His mouth curved, slow and victorious. “Careful, Y/N. Don’t want anyone to think we’re friends now do we?”

She laughed — real and reckless — and shoved him harder this time. “In your dreams, Rhodes.”

But later, dozing off against the window as the Iowa highway hummed under the tires, she caught herself replaying that moment on loop.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

Tonight was more of the same chaos — except tonight it felt different, heavier, like a fuse burning toward a powder keg. Y/N had gotten ready faster than usual — gear laced up, hair braided back tight, eyeliner sharper than any blade Colby owned — and slipped out before the boys even realized she’d vanished. She needed a breath of quiet before the noise that always came with them.

They didn’t notice until Jon asked if she’d seen his gloves. Then Joe checked for her in the hallway. Then Colby asked where the hell his phone charger went and realized she’d been gone ten whole minutes.

It took them thirty seconds to split up and sniff her out like a pack of guard dogs.

They found her tucked by a stack of crates down a shadowed hall. But what stopped them cold wasn’t the hidden corner — it was the sound: her laugh, warm and open, like she didn’t know they were listening. Cody Rhodes stood so close to her their boots nearly touched. One hand braced on the crate by her head, the other absently playing with a loose end of her braid. It was casual, almost intimate — too damn familiar for Colby’s eyes.

They caught enough of the hushed conversation to light Jon’s fuse.

“—told you I’d never drop you,” Cody was saying, voice low, almost soft. He tugged her braid playfully. “You never trust me until you have to. Starting to think you just like the thrill.”

She smirked, smacking his wrist away but didn’t move an inch from his chest. “Keep dreaming, pretty boy. You’ve caught me so far. Try it again tonight and maybe I’ll start believing you’re not completely full of shit.”

He leaned closer, breath ghosting her cheek. “I’ll catch you every damn time. Promise.”

That’s when Colby snapped. Boots pounding the concrete, voice a snarl. “Hey! Rhodes — BACK THE HELL UP.”

Cody didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at him first. His eyes stayed on her another heartbeat before flicking lazily over Colby’s shoulder. His grin was infuriating. “Evening, Colby. We were just talking—”

Colby slammed a palm into Cody’s chest, driving him back a step. “I said back up. Or I’ll put you through that wall.”

Y/N jolted, eyes wide. “Colby, what the hell—!”

Cody laughed, low and mean, pushing back into Colby’s space. Their chests bumped, tension humming electric. “Look at you. Alpha dog routine still working? Or you worried she might finally want something you can’t scare off?”

Jon and Joe skidded up just in time to see Colby rear back and swing first — a full haymaker that cracked against Cody’s jaw so hard it echoed.

“Colby, STOP!” Y/N’s scream barely registered as Cody stumbled, then lunged back, fists swinging. The crates behind them rattled as they crashed into them, locked in a vicious snarl of fists, elbows, curses.

Jon grabbed Colby’s arm but got shoved for his trouble. Joe caught Cody’s shoulder, dragging him back only to get an elbow in the ribs. “Always hiding behind your stupid charm, huh Rhodes?!” Colby spat, teeth bared. “Can’t get her unless we let you, right?!”

Cody’s lip split, blood slick over his teeth — but his grin was feral, a promise of more. “You think you own her? She’s not your damn property, Lopez—”

Y/N shoved between them so hard she nearly fell. “ENOUGH! All of you — STOP!”

But they didn’t. Not until Vince’s roar cracked the hallway like thunder. “HEY! ENOUGH! I SAID ENOUGH!”

Everything froze. Fists cocked, chests heaving. Vince stalked into the circle, suit jacket flaring like a cape, eyes gleaming with both rage and glee. “You boys want to kill each other so bad? Fine. New main event: Seth Rollins versus Cody Rhodes. Tonight. You want blood, do it where it makes me money. Or you’re all fined, you got it?!”

Cody wiped his mouth, eyes still locked on Colby. Colby seethed, barely held in check by Jon’s iron grip on his vest collar.

Y/N’s shoulders shook as she turned on her brothers — eyes bright, voice ragged. “What the hell is wrong with you?! You think I’m too stupid to stand here and talk to someone without you storming in like rabid animals?! You don’t trust him — fine! But do you trust me? Or is this what it’s gonna be forever?!”

Colby flinched, guilt flickering behind the rage but too proud to drop it. Jon looked like he might hit a wall just to vent the tension. Joe’s big hand hovered on her back, grounding her, but she shrugged it off, furious tears welling.

Cody watched her, eyes softer now but still burning for a fight. When she glanced at him, she hated that some part of her chest didn’t tighten in anger — it loosened instead, and she didn’t know what that meant.

Vince pointed at them like an executioner. “You three — gear up. You,” he jabbed at Cody, “get your pretty face cleaned up. Ring in twenty minutes. And you—” He rounded on Y/N, voice dropping. “Better decide whose corner you’re standing in. Because tonight, sweetheart — you don’t get to have both.”

Silence.

Then Cody, a hint of a smirk through his split lip, said just loud enough for her to hear. “Guess you gotta pick, sweetheart. Hope you trust me.”

She didn’t answer him. She couldn’t. Not with Colby’s glare burning a hole through her back and Jon’s wounded stare cutting deeper than any blade. Tonight, lines weren’t just blurred. They were drawn in blood. And for the first time, Y/N wasn’t sure which side she wanted to stand on.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

The air inside the arena vibrated with a tension so sharp you could taste it. Cody’s entrance hit first, but tonight he didn’t strut — he stalked. Jaw tight, eyes locked dead ahead at the ring like it owed him blood and payback in equal measure. Fans screamed, half for him, half for the chaos they knew was brewing.

Then The Shield’s war drums rumbled out. The reaction was a thunderclap: three silhouettes emerging from the crowd, Colby leading with that murder glare etched across his sweat-slick face. Jon and Joe flanked him, bodies coiled tight with fury. Y/N walked behind them this time — not beside, not hidden — trailing just far enough to be apart, close enough to remind everyone who she was.

When they hit ringside, Jon and Joe fell naturally to Colby’s corner, arms folded over the ropes like hellhounds. Y/N hovered at the corner post, but she didn’t climb up. She stayed halfway between Cody’s side and theirs — feet planted on neutral ground no one else seemed to occupy but her alone.

The bell rang.

The first few minutes were technical, precise — two pros testing each other’s limits with crisp grapples, tight reversals, nothing wasted. But it didn’t stay professional for long.

Colby slapped Cody hard across the face during a rope break — the crack echoed all the way to the cheap seats. Cody answered with a vicious forearm that sent spit flying from Colby’s mouth.

“This is personal!” Cole hollered on commentary.

“You think?! These two are trying to kill each other for real, Michael!” JBL barked.

Y/N’s eyes darted back and forth, heart hammering. She hated how her body betrayed her — every stomp Colby landed, every elbow Cody fired back, she felt it like a phantom bruise under her ribs.

Ten minutes in, Cody caught Colby with a slick Disaster Kick out of nowhere — the crowd popped huge, but his landing was ugly. His ankle rolled awkwardly on the canvas with an audible pop and he stumbled into the ropes, teeth bared in a silent snarl of pain.

Colby smelled blood immediately. He hooked Cody under the arm, yanked him up, and dumped him back-first into the turnbuckle so hard the whole ring rattled. Cody crumpled, clutching the ankle, sweat dripping from his brow to the mat in big, sick splatters.

He’s hurt.

Y/N’s lungs squeezed tight — the world narrowed to Cody’s labored breath, the way he tried to stand but immediately buckled again, jaw clamped to stop himself from screaming. Colby stalked him like a wolf circling a deer with a broken leg. Jon barked encouragement from the apron, Joe pounding the turnbuckle.

Don’t do it, Colby. Her hands curled around the rope. Don’t—

Colby hit the ropes, rebounded at full speed — going for the stomp to the back of Cody’s skull. One decisive end to a match turned real.

Y/N didn’t think. She reacted.

She vaulted the ropes in a single fluid motion, boots pounding the mat as she lunged. The crowd shrieked, a wall of white noise as she threw herself between them — arms spread wide, her body a living shield.

Colby skidded to a stop so fast he nearly ate canvas. He stared at her, chest heaving, murder flickering behind wide eyes. “Y/N. Move.” His voice was hoarse, low, but edged in steel.

She didn’t budge. Not an inch. Her breathing was ragged, shoulders trembling under the bright lights. She didn’t dare look back at Cody, didn’t trust herself not to lose her nerve.

Jon and Joe were shouting over the ropes — confusion, betrayal, a mix so thick you could taste it. Colby stepped closer, close enough she could see the tiny tremor in his clenched jaw. Rage softened for half a heartbeat when he noticed her ribcage shuddering like she couldn’t pull in enough air.

“Y/N…” He tried again, quieter this time, a plea buried under the fury. “Please. He’s nothing. He’s—”

She cut him off, voice low and savage. “He’s hurt.”

A fresh wave of chants crashed over them — half the arena booing, half screaming her name, torn in every direction. Behind her, she felt Cody shift — a hand brushed her lower back, feather-light. No smirk this time, no quip. Just a broken rasp: “Y/N, it’s okay. Let him finish it.”

She squeezed her eyes shut — once, hard enough to burn the tears back into her skull where they belonged. Not here. Not in front of them. She swallowed every emotion on her tongue, and when she opened her eyes, they were stone again. She stepped back slowly, uncoiling herself from the blast zone, but she didn’t look at any of them. Not Colby, not Cody, not Jon or Joe.

And then she did what none of them expected — she ducked under the ropes, dropped to the floor, and just… walked away. No fanfare, no explanation. Just her shoulders rigid, boots pounding the ramp until the shadows swallowed her whole.

The commentary table was a mess of disbelief: “Y/N just… abandoned The Shield?!”

“She protected Cody Rhodes — did we see that right?!”

“What does this mean for The Shield? What does this mean for Y/N?!”

In the ring, Cody slumped to one knee, watching her go with something raw flickering behind bruised eyes. Colby didn’t move right away. The hurt on his face cut deeper than any stomp ever could. Tonight, lines weren’t just blurred. They were erased. And for the first time in a long time, Y/N wasn’t sure who she was fighting for anymore.

Y/N barely felt her boots hit the ground as she staggered through the maze of halls. Voices passed her left and right — crew, agents, security — but they were static under the deafening ringing in her ears. Her pulse drummed so loud it drowned out everything except the fire in her chest. Y/N shoved through the locker room door so hard it bounced off the cinderblock. For a second she just stood there, staring at her gear bag like it had personally betrayed her.

Then she broke.

Boots, wrist tape, shirts — she flung them across the benches. A bottle of water cracked open mid-flight, splattering the walls. She ripped a spare pair of gloves in half. Her travel hoodie got kicked so hard it slid under Jon’s bench.

She couldn’t contain herself, the panic rising in her chest. She swung blindly, her fist connecting with one of the metal lockers. She grunts out in pain, her hand instantly throbbing from the impact. Her knuckles are now bright red, no doubt a gnarly bruise getting ready to form on them.

She didn’t touch their gear though — not one thing. She couldn’t.

Her breath sawed in and out until her throat burned. And before the reality of the mess caught up to her, she bolted — pushing back through the door, down another hallway, ignoring the shocked faces of a few green rookies frozen in place.

She needed to get out. She needed space. Needed air. She had to find some sort of haven that quieted the noise in her mind. She didn’t know how her body knew where to take her, but somehow, she found her way outside the venue. The summer night slapped her in the face like ice water. She stomped past rows of rental cars and cargo trucks until she hit a back wall next to the loading dock.

Then she screamed. Raw, primal — a sound that dragged the fight out of her lungs and left her empty.

She slid down the wall, gear scraping the brick, until she sat in a heap. Hands tangled in her hair. Shoulders shaking, though she wouldn’t cry. She would not cry. She hated this. Hated feeling big feelings. Hated that it wasn’t just work anymore. Hated how alive he made her feel and how her boys — her family — looked at her like she’d stabbed them in the back for letting herself care.

Back inside, the guys were furious. Or maybe more confused. Jon was the first through the curtain, boots pounding the concrete as he practically shouldered it open. Joe shadowed him, his broad frame filling the hallway. Colby lagged just a step back — and for once, he was the quiet one. They’d been calling her name the whole way from the arena floor.

“Y/N! C’mon, sweetheart, answer us!” Jon’s voice bounced off the cinderblock walls, rougher than he meant it to be.

“Y/N, you better not be hiding just to mess with us,” Joe grumbled, but the tension in his shoulders said he didn’t believe it even as he said it.

Colby didn’t call out. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack open like glass. They hit the locker room door in near unison — Jon wrenching it open so hard the handle banged the wall. “Y/N—?”

But the word died in his throat. The room was empty — but it was anything but quiet. Her absence howled louder than any shout could have. Her gear bag lay gutted on the bench, its contents flung in wild arcs like a storm had ripped through. Wrist tape shredded into curls on the floor. A half-full water bottle leaking into a dark stain on the concrete. One boot flung so far it nearly lodged under the lockers.

Colby stood frozen in the doorway, eyes tracking the mess like he was seeing it frame by frame — an unspooling of her mind they’d never been allowed to witness.

“Jesus,” Joe whispered, bending to pick up a tangle of ring gear. It dripped water from where she’d hurled it. He squeezed the fabric, knuckles white. “She’s never… not her. She doesn’t lose it. Not like this.”

Jon turned a slow circle, breathing like he’d run a mile flat out. That’s when he notices the caved in locker. “This ain’t just mad. This is— it’s panic. It’s her head cracking open, man. We did this.”

Colby stepped inside last. His boots crushed a torn wrist wrap underfoot. He didn’t move to pick it up — just stared at it, jaw working behind clenched teeth. He finally rasped, “She doesn’t do cages. She never has. And we locked her in one, expecting her to pick sides like some damn trophy.”

Joe slammed a hand to the row of lockers, the metal clanging under his palm. “She’s on her own right now. Panicked. We promised we’d never let that happen again—”

Jon turned, stabbing a finger toward the door, voice tight with command. “Then what the hell are we waiting for? She’s ours. We find her. Now.”

Joe nodded once, hard, already halfway out the door. Colby lingered just a moment longer, eyes flicking to the chaos she’d left behind. Quietly, to himself more than the others, he muttered, “We fix this. No matter what it costs.”

Then he turned on his heel, boots echoing in step with the other two as they stormed back into the maze of hallways — calling her name into every shadow, every echo, ready to tear the whole building apart if that’s what it took to bring her home again.

Y/N’s head stayed buried in her arms, forehead pressed hard to her knees. She’d been sitting on that freezing concrete for what felt like forever, just letting the cold bite at her back and the rough wall scrape her shoulders through her shirt. She hated how stupidly dramatic she felt. She was a professional. A fighter. And here she was, choking on air because her world suddenly didn’t make sense anymore.

When the arena door creaked open, she didn’t lift her head. Not at first. Heavy steps, slower than usual. A low grunt. She knew that sound by now — the subtle wince Cody tried to hide every time he had a new bruise to nurse. A soft thud beside her. He dropped down with a pained exhale, his shoulder brushing hers as he leaned against the same wall. She felt the heat of him before she dared to look.

When she did, her chest squeezed painfully.

A fresh split in his brow leaked a thin line of dried blood toward his temple. His lip was purple and cracked. He was cradling a half-melted ice pack against the worst of the swelling in his jaw. But his eyes — those infuriating, stupidly kind eyes — were locked on her.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice sanded raw but careful. “You okay?”

She let out an unsteady laugh, instantly annoyed at how shaky it came out. “Rhodes, you look like a horror movie and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

He tried to smile, winced when it tugged the cut on his lip. “Well… you look like you’ve been to war. So, even trade.”

She snorted, wiped her face with her sleeve. “Shut up.”

He leaned in just a fraction, trying to read her the way he always did. “Y/N… talk to me.”

She didn’t. Instead, she yanked the ice pack from his hand, ignoring his small protest. She scooted closer, knees pressed against his thigh, and carefully pressed the ice to his bruised cheek.

“Hold still, you big baby,” she muttered.

His eyes fluttered shut under her touch. When they opened again, they dropped to her hands — to the knuckles she didn’t realize were still red and raw from where she’d smashed them into a locker.

He cursed under his breath, reached up to take her wrist in his calloused fingers. “You did this?”

She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her. His thumb ghosted over the split skin, so gentle it made her throat burn. “I’m fine,” she lied, voice small.

He laughed, humorless and thick with something deeper. “You gotta stop saying that word when it’s the biggest lie you tell people.”

“Don’t—” she breathed, but he cut her off.

“I mean it. I never wanted you in the middle. I swear to God. You shouldn’t have to pick sides — not with them, not with me, not for anyone. You deserve better than that. Better than me.”

“Stop it—”

“No. I will never be the reason you break your damn hand on a locker ever again, you hear me?” His voice cracked, low but urgent. He pressed her bruised knuckles to his chest, right over the steady drum of his heart. “You’re worth so much more than this stupid shit. And I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to stand alone tonight.”

Her eyes stung — but she refused to let tears fall. Instead, she scoffed, trying to wrap herself back in sarcasm like armor. “Damn it, Rhodes. Why do you gotta be nice now? You were easier to hate when you were an arrogant bastard.”

His mouth twitched. “Still an arrogant bastard. Just your favorite one now, apparently.”

She huffed a tiny laugh, despite herself — and that laugh broke her guard wide open. She leaned in, her free hand drifting up to cup his battered cheek. Her thumb brushed over his eyebrow, careful not to reopen the cut. His breath hitched. And before she could stop herself — before she could talk herself out of it — she kissed him. Soft, deliberate, more honest than any word she’d spoken in weeks.

He stilled, surprise flaring bright in his eyes — then melted into her, his hand sliding to her hip, tugging her closer until there was no air left between them but the taste of bruised lips and old secrets.

When they broke apart, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing too fast. He whispered, voice hoarse but certain, “If you want me to stop... if you want me gone... just say it. I swear to you, Y/N, I’ll never be the reason you feel like this again.”

She swallowed, fingertips brushing the rough line of his jaw. “Don’t you dare go anywhere.”

Neither of them noticed the quiet figures standing just inside the door they’d left ajar. Jon, Joe, and Colby stood frozen — guilt, relief, and something like wonder flickering in their eyes as they watched their girl wrapped up in the last man they’d ever wanted for her. But watching the way she cradled Cody’s face, the way he held her like something fragile but fierce — they finally saw it for what it was.

Joe’s voice broke the silence first, low and certain: “She doesn't need saving from him.”

Jon nodded, lips twitching in the ghost of a grin. “She just needs us to remember she’s stronger than all of us put together.”

Colby didn’t say a word. He just watched her laugh softly when Cody cracked some quiet, dumb joke. And for the first time in a long time, he realized: maybe the best way to protect her was to let her have something — someone — just for herself. And maybe, they’d finally help her smile the way she used to.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

Y/N helped Cody to his feet, the two of them slowly making their way back inside. He held her hand gently, rubbing the bruised knuckles she’s sporting as softly as he could. They walk through the door together, Y/N hearing her heart pounding loudly despite having calmed down. She knew she had to talk to them. They would have found what she did to the locker room by now, and are no doubt waiting for some sort of explanation about what happened.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Cody whispers. “I’m right behind you.”

Y/N smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. They reach the locker room door and she slowly pushes it open, the hinges creaking as always when she does. As she expected, Jon, Joe, and Colby are all standing there waiting for her. But what she wasn’t expecting was to see all of her stuff cleaned up.

Every piece of evidence that showed how badly she crashed out was gone. Her bag was put together nicely on the bench, all three boys looking as if they just got caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.

“Hey…” Y/N says softly, Cody following behind her. He doesn’t fully step into the space, not wanting to infiltrate what they consider their safe haven. “Um, I’m assuming you saw all of…” She gestures around to the whole room, “that.”

“You mean you going all hulk smash on your stuff?” Jon says with a hint of sarcasm. “Yeah, we saw.”

“How’s your hand?” Colby asks, nodding towards the locker with an Y/N sized fist indent.

Y/N swallows thickly, shrugging. “Sore,” she answers. “It’s not as bad as when I punched you in the face though,” she nods over to Joe.

He huffs out what sounds like a laugh, “Yeah, well, a jaw of steel will do that.”

Y/N glances back at Cody briefly, trying to find the right thing to say. He sends her that small grin that has managed to worm its way into her head, despite her trying hard to keep it out. She exhales, easing her nerves before facing her family. “Listen guys, I’m–”

“If you’re gonna apologize, you can save it,” Jon cuts her off.

Y/N feels her heart drop. She knew they’d probably be mad, but she wasn’t expecting him to not even hear her out. Does this mean they’re gonna excommunicate her? Vince probably would have them wait to do it in front of a camera for drama purposes. Y/N can feel the anxieties returning as she thinks about being sent away by them. The boys could clearly see her internal struggle and they all share a similar look.

That’s when Colby steps forward, “Because if anyone should say sorry, it’s us.”

Y/N blinks, “What?”

“We put you in a bad position,” Joe says, his voice rumbling through the locker room. “You had to do all of this because we got into a fight. We shouldn’t have been surprised when you and Rhodes ended up being buddies after spending months on the road together,” he glares slightly in Cody’s direction, his protectiveness still not fading. “We shouldn’t have made you feel like you had to choose.”

Y/N’s mouth opened but nothing came out. She looked between them, eyes flicking from Colby to Jon to Joe, trying to process that they were actually apologizing. Jon cleared his throat, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot. “You’ve always had our backs. Even when we didn’t deserve it. Tonight just… proved that we need to do better by you.”

Joe crossed his arms but his voice was softer than usual. “You’re our sister. Doesn’t matter what storyline Vince cooks up. Doesn’t matter what suit wants what pop. You don’t owe us your sanity to keep this family glued together.”

Colby’s jaw flexed. He was the last to look her dead in the eye, stepping a little closer. “We got so busy fighting for you, we forgot you can fight for yourself. Hell — you’ve been doing it longer than any of us.”

Y/N sniffed — and immediately scowled when Colby looked like he might say something about it. She jabbed him lightly in the ribs with her knuckles. “If you tell anyone I almost cried, I’m throwing you through the announce table next week.”

Colby cracked a tiny grin, his shoulders easing for the first time all night. “Fair deal.”

Jon pulled her into his chest first. No big speech — just a tight squeeze that knocked the breath out of her lungs for half a second. She hid her face in his shirt, muttering something about him smelling like cheap soap and bad decisions. Joe looped an arm around both of them next, pressing his forehead to hers for a second. “We clean up your messes. You clean up ours. Same as always, yeah?”

She nodded, pretending her eyes weren’t wet. “Yeah.”

Colby waited until she pulled back, then wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind, his chin hooking over her head like he’d done a thousand times before. “We love you. Even if you have trash taste in company.” He cut his eyes at Cody, who raised an eyebrow but stayed silent — letting them have this. Finally, Colby stepped back just enough to jab a finger in Cody’s direction. “You. Hurt her? Blink wrong at her? You won’t see us coming, Rhodes.”

Jon clapped a heavy hand on Cody’s shoulder for emphasis. “We mean that in the warmest, most brotherly way possible.”

Cody smirked, even though it tugged at his split lip. He stepped forward, extending a hand to Colby first. “Fair enough. She’s worth every threat.”

Colby studied him for a beat that felt like a year, then gripped his hand hard enough to crack bones. Cody didn’t flinch — which, admittedly, earned him a flicker of respect he’d never get them to say out loud. He turned to Joe and Jon next, offering the same handshake — an unspoken promise they didn’t have to spell out in words. He’d never be the reason she felt alone again.

Y/N cleared her throat when the testosterone standoff started dragging. “Alright, enough. If we stand here any longer, someone’s gonna start chest-bumping someone and then I’m gonna have to call HR.”

She nudged Cody’s side with her elbow. “Come on, tough guy. Let’s get out of here before they decide to pull you into another three-on-one ‘lesson’ about respecting me.”

Cody chuckled, leaning down just enough so only she could hear, “If they try, I’ll just hide behind you.”

“Damn right you will.” She shoved his chest, careful of the bruises. She turned back to her boys, pointing two fingers at her own eyes, then at each of them in turn. “I’m still mad you made me punch a locker. Next time, we talk out whatever issues we have, okay?”

Jon winked. Joe gave her shoulder a squeeze. Colby only rolled his eyes. “Go before we change our minds and duct tape Rhodes to a forklift.”

She flipped them all off playfully and stepped out the door, Cody trailing a step behind her — close enough that his fingertips brushed hers once they were in the hall. They walked in silence for a few beats until she leaned into his side, voice quieter now that it was just them. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“For what?” He glanced down, brow furrowing gently.

“For… tonight. For not making me feel stupid about… everything. For sticking by me when you didn’t have to.”

Cody stopped walking, tugged her gently until she was facing him under the dim flicker of an old hallway light. He ran his thumb over her knuckles again, soft as the breeze. “I’d stand behind you, beside you… hell, in front of you if you let me. You don’t owe me a damn thing, Y/N. But I swear to God — I’ll earn whatever piece of you you give me.”

She huffed, embarrassed by how warm her chest went at that. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Yeah.” His grin was crooked, half-swollen. “But you like me anyway.”

She didn’t answer. She just rose up, cupped his jaw gentle as glass, and kissed him again. Slow. Sure. Hers. When she pulled back, he pressed their foreheads together, breathless but laughing softly. “You keep doing that, sweetheart, and your boys are gonna break every rib I’ve got left.”

She smirked, tapping his lips with her finger. “Then don’t piss me off and maybe I’ll protect you again.”

His laughter echoed down the hall as she tugged him forward, hand in hand — both of them a little battered, but lighter than they’d felt in months.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

13 years later…

Y/N_WWE

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Y/N_WWE: 13 years ago, I told myself I hated him. 8 years ago, I promised in front of a bunch of people (and one extremely judgmental priest) that I’d love him forever. Tonight, he still snores in my ear, still steals my fries, still calls me ‘sweetheart’ when he wants something — and I wouldn’t change a single second. People always ask how we’ve made it work this long in a world where nothing lasts. I think it’s simple: he lets me be exactly who I am, even when I’m a mess. And somehow, after all these years, he still looks at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to him (which I am, obviously). Here’s to more late-night road trips, more stolen pizza slices, more me pretending I don’t love him when he leaves his boots in the hallway. Happy 8 years married, americannightmarecody — thank you for loving every sharp edge and soft part of me. You’re my favorite plot twist. ❤️🤍💙

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americannightmarecody: You’ll always be my favorite part of the story. Thanks for choosing me, even when I snore. Happy anniversary, sweetheart. ❤️

wwerollins: She did hate him. This is 100% true. Happy for you both though. 😂🖤

jonmoxley: Shocked you two didn’t burn the house down by now. Congrats, ya weirdos.

natbynature: Love like this makes my heart so full. Happy anniversary, you two deserve every bit of it. 🥹❤️

mikethemiz: Gross. But also adorable. Happy anniversary! 😂

trishstratuscom: Two legends. One love. Happy anniversary!

wrestlegirlie13: THEY ARE THE BLUEPRINT. 😭❤️

heelqueen4eva: This is the only real love story I trust tbh.

wwemomentsdaily: Not me crying at work, BYE 😭😭😭

indypunkprincess: The fact that y’all lasted thru all the chaos >>> #goals

y/nfanclubofficial: We been knew she was gonna marry him since 2012 😌 #powercouple

[ibrithir-was-here]

Once there was a fantastic concept, to bring together multiple works of Victorian literature into an epic crossover adventure, and it completely fumbled the ball in terms of characterization or really paying any attention to the source material.

And that happened twice.

Once with "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen" and again with a trilogy of YA books called "The Extraordinary Adventures of the Athena Club"

One first has already been corrected above and beyond by the excellent @lxgentlefolkcomic

The second, well I got three other comics I need to finish plus a book to write, but here is my humble offering of a springboard. A concept bible if you will

The year is 1892. Noted doctor Robert Matheson has suddenly died, and a young woman training to become the rare Victorian female doctor is given the chance to take up one of his more peculiar cases...

Emlyn Sherringford Verner, training to become a doctor at the London School of Medicine for Women, breadwinner for herself and her sister-in-law Clara Verner ever since the death of her husband Fredrick last year, and yes, cousin of Sherlock Holmes.

Not that the relationship helps her much now, as he fell off a waterfall in Switzerland last year.

Last year was a very bad one for Emlyn Verner.

But now she has a chance to prove herself. One of Dr. Matheson's erstwhile patients is a young girl plauged by odd fits of mania, and Emlyn is determined to do what she can to help the child.

That she finds herself having to protect young Lyssa from mysterious kidnappers who may be part of a ancient cult is just an addendum.

I changed her up from having any personal connection to Dr Jekyll like her Athena counterpart did, as having her be Jekyll's daughter 1. Is completely against his character, and 2. Really brought nothing to the story. And by gum if her greater connection is to Holmes its gonna be familial and not at all romantic :p And since Holmes canonically has a relative named Verner who buys out Dr Watson's practice with Holmes's help, that fit perfectly. And yeah I gave her a unique E name to play into the amusing coincidence of the two best known female relatives given to Holmes having unique E names (Enola and Eurus)

The last year has been equally hard on young Clara Verner. Already an orphan, when her beloved brother died she was forced to leave school and move to England with her new sister-in-law.

Still in mourning and struggling to find her place, Clara takes solace in studying what she can about the mechanical advancements being made in this modern age.

A past time that leads her into making a like-minded friend, a Fraulein Coppel, who has also just moved to England from the German Empire.

A new friendship may be just what she needs to distract her from her grief--and the odd looming presence she keeps feeling is watching her from the shadows.

Surely all the bad luck that has plauged her line back to the Frankenstein family must run out at some point...

So, for a while, I thought I would actually keep the" Justine reanimated as the Bride, but she survives" concept from The Athena Club. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt just kinda icky about it. Like, the poor woman has been through enough due to Victor, and she gets to be left in peace. And since Ernest was left alive, it's totally plausible he'd have descendedants who could become rolled up into the family's dark past later on down the line. If I do keep the Creature alive in this he's also not going to he obsessed with making her his Bride, like in the Athena books. He'had 100+ years to feel remorse/ get some growth. So if anything he'll actually be trying to protect the last of the Frankensteins from the true threats out there.

Lyssa is for the most part like any eight and a half year old girl. She likes to read and roughhouse and sometimes play with dolls and sometimes climb trees.

And yes she may be an orphan but she's at least been lucky enough to end up in a kind orphange. Things would be fine overall--if it weren't for her fits, where she feels like something Bigger and Older then she is keeps trying to break out of her.

And if it weren't for the strange, Wrong feeling people who keep trying to take Lyssa with them. She's managed to avoid being adopted by them so far, but now they seemed determined to take her by any means necessary.

Lyssa thinks they might have done something bad to Dr. Matheson, and she hopes that Dr. Verner won't meet the same fate trying to help her...

It makes sense that Hyde could possibly produce an illegitimate daughter, but I didn't like that the Athena counterpart was like, 100% sassy rude gremlin child all the time, and that's what made her Hyde's kid? Like, that's not really how the potion works? So my thought here with Lyssa is that, yeah she's kinda sassy but that just because of her, and she can also be sweet and kind and rude and selfish just like all little kids are. But, whatever Jekyll did to make that potion, how it affects his offspring is that every once and a while she has these intense, literally Manic fits, where its almost a cthonic Pythoness experience, and she's Seeing into something vaster. Really bring some Alchemy themes into Jekyll's Alchemical like work. He ripped himself apart, and its rippling down into trying to make his daughter a Doorway. Also, at the end of this all I want her to get taken in by Utterson as his god-daughter/ward)

Olimpia Coppel has an old soul. And she isn't meant to have one at all.

About 100 years ago, her Papa Spalanzani made her out of gears and wires and Other Things, with the help of the occult doctor Coppelius--who then soon after kidnapped her.

Of course, Olimpia wasn't much more then a doll then, barely able to speak and only able to move as her clockwork directed. But Coppelius worked on her over the years, until she could move and speak as well as any flesh and blood person--and she could think and feel as well.

But she doesn't let Coppelius and his associates know that. She doesn't know what he'd do to her if he ever found out.

So she plays the parts The Society of the Seekers of Enlightenment asks her to, biding her time, looking for a chance to break free. Her current assignment is to act as Handler-er, Companion, to the Society's newest asset.

But surely there can be some moments spared for a new friend, the first she's ever had...

So in the Athena books, Olimpia'a counterpart was Beatrice Rappaccini from "Rappacinni's Daughter"-- a work that takes place two centuries before Frankenstein does. And the mad science done on her doesn't make her immortal (as evidenced by her dying in the story), just immune to posions/poisonous to the touch. All I could think of the whole time reading her parts was "How are you here??" But you know who could last a hundred years and is also a girl linked to a very likely immortal mad scientist? Our oft forgotten and misnamed robot girl Olimpia, that's who. So that's why I replaced her xD

Three years ago, before she knew what years were, she was captured and taken to the Place of Pain. She was cut and broken and had Things done to her head, things the Cruel Man said that he had done no other Being before her.

The Things Done to her Head helped her to escape, and she killed the Cruel Man. She almost died as well. The Beings around her thought she had. But the Things Done to her Head helped her fool them.

She lived far away from the other Beings and the Other Man on the Island. She watched as the Beings returned to what they were Before. She watched as the Other Man left the Island.

She stayed. And the Things Done to her Head did not go away, but continued to Grow.

One year ago, The New Man came to the Island, looking to Hunt the beasts the Other Man had spoken of. He found her instead. He brought her back to the New Island with him, and the Woman with the Soft Hands changed her shape once more. Not back to what it had been, but she soothed the Pain, and she taught her how to form the Things Done to her Head into Speaking, and the Wearing of Clothes and Wigs.

The Woman with Soft Hands gave her a name "Blanche. Like the little cat in the fairytale that became a princess."

She is not sure what they want of her. She is Hunting for them, she knows that. There is no Whip here. No Room of Pain. But still, the more the Things Done to her Head grow, the more she isn't sure that she hasn't traded one Island cage for another...

So, in the Athena books, Blanche's counterpart is a black panther, which is not what a puma is. Also she is POC coded in the Athena books which I get is to try and get more then just white girls and that's good, but I felt weird having the one POC coded character in the story also be an animal? So I just reverted to what color a shaved puma would be. This led to a very 😳😬😳 moment when, having got nothing but the shoes using "Puma," I attempted to Google "shaved cougar"...do not do that. Anyway, I will attempt to get more diversity in here in any further updates. But yeah Madame Sara is a more obscure character who also appeared in The Strand Magazine. She is a "professional beautifier" who may or may not be using arcane arts and is definitely probably poisoning people.

[sombreset]

Gambit work log— WIG

I’m really, really picky about wig stuff, so I usually take forever with styling. Gambit will certainly not be an exception here lmao

So far I’ve washed the wig (I do not like how they feel or look out of the bag) and blow dried it upside down for an initial fluff starting point, and then went over the majority of it with a straightener followed by teasing the wefts before the sections cooled. I’ve still got a little bit more to do, but after that it’s time for actual cutting and styling!

[liquidstar]

a friend who'd wait :)

[altruistic-meme]

Updates in bookbinding:

BOOKPRESS!!! yes it's kind of bad bc it's 2 $5 cutting boards from walmart and some screw c-clamps but im EXCITED to have smth better than. a large stack of books piled on top of each other.

currently being pressed is Scared to Live (But I'm Scared to Die) by @major816 bc its what i managed to get to the printing stage first! I'm gonna be sewing tomorrow since I'm only working a half-day so wish me luck with that :')

and for printing stage... well...

let's say I've had quite a time figuring that out

something something my printer was only like $40 and among the things it lacks, including the ability to actually do printing on both sides automatically (I could cry)(actually I did cry), i have also learned it likes to do scaling when printing in booklet :) which is why I've been having such a difficult time with the huge margins and tiny fonts and printing 2789 signatures trying to fix the issue as you can see above :)

with Scared to Live, I did the typeset for it which meant I had a lot of ability to edit the original document in order to fix the issues presented by my printer, which meant ultimately there were only ~6-7 test prints to fix it.

Even In Another Time by @irregularcollapse however. well. she did the typeset herself and shared it and i have spent so much time staring at it bc it's so pretty and i adore it. however that meant I only had the pdf version and pdf is infamous for being basically uneditable. which has been fun.

outside of staring listless at my computer, I also got help from my dad, and then help from a family friend who does printing semi-professionally (among other things), and we Still Didn't Kniw What To Do. eventually I caved and got the adobe free trial and FINALLY I fixed the issue. So yay! EIAT is next to be printed, possibly tomorrow or over the weekend :)

now i need to find a place to recycle paper. bc I have So Much.

[mortalityplays]

talking about impenetrable accents/dialect just reminded me. when I was in Milan a couple of years back I was staying in this little rathole hotel and I had the biggest fucking migraine, so I was like non c'è problema I'll just go buy painkillers. of course every pharmacy on the map in a three block radius was closed, so my stupid ass just starts wandering around trying to figure out on the fly if you can get OTC from supermarkets in italy.

I walk into this little everything store (to my foreign eyes the kind of place that back home could sell you a bunch of carrots, a 6-pack of beer, pantyhose, bleach and a screwdriver set) and I see some household basics in the back but not what I need. with the confidence of a person who is only in the city for 3 days because he got bored and packed a bag and booked the cheapest flight available the week before (<= MENTAL ILLNESS), I was like no worries I know some italian, I can just ask.

I grab a bottle of water, walk up to the counter, and I'm like Ciao, hai il paracetamolo? And the guy is like che, and I'm like paracetamolo. Per la mia testa. And he's like che?

This is where I would have said 'aspirina' except I can't take aspirin for medical reasons, or 'antidolorifico' except I don't know that word and I've got no phone data for google translate and also I'm stupid. So in my fucked up leith-glasgow-italian accent I'm like paaa-ra-cetta-mollll-ooo. He's like ohhh bene, bene, and he calls another guy out of the back and asks him to go get something. Other guy then walks out of the store into the street, and before I can be like hey, che la fuck, he comes back and hands me a huge bundle of herbs.

At this point I'm like okay this entire interaction has been a bust, but these guys have been very nice and patient and they're both smiling happily at me because they've been of service, so I'm like ahh perfetto, grazie, pay them a couple of euros and leave.

EVENTUALLY I find a pharmacy that's open, and my head is fucking killing me, and my phone still isn't connecting, and now I have this small shrubbery poking out of my coat pocket, so I don't even bother looking around the shelves. I just walk straight to the counter and I'm like uhh ciao, scusi. And hearing my nightmare of an accent the guy answers in english and I'm like thank christ, do you please have paracetamol. Not aspirin, I can't take aspirin. And he's like yeah yeah hold on, goes into the back, comes out with what I need.

Only when he comes out he gives me this look, and then he starts laughing. And then he pretends he's not laughing and rings me up and I pay, and as I'm leaving I can see him losing it. But I don't care, my head is going to explode, I'm going back to the rathole to close the blinds and fall comatose for four hours.

When I get back to my hotel room I take off my coat and remember the huge bouquet of herbs in my pocket. They smell amazing, and I'm like I'm pretty sure this is parsley in which case I can just get some tomatoes and mozzarella later and make it work. but since I have no idea what that interaction was, I want to make sure. I bring out my phone to get a visual reference of what parsley leaves look like, and because I was using it for google translate earlier I put 'parsley' in the wrong box like a dope and translate it to italian.

prezzemolo

I wish I could have been the pharmacist in the moment he looked at my tired pissed off anglophone ass, heard me say 'paracetamol' in my fucked up accent, and turned around saw what was in my pocket. I'd have lost my shit too.

[ramonathinks]

matters of the heart — Nanami K.

summary: finding out your ex-boyfriend wrote a novel detailing your relationship isn’t how you expected this week to go and to make matters worse everyone on the internet now thinks your “character” is a total bitch. you decide to pay your ex a visit, but can you do that without succumbing to your natural urges? well, no!

tags: 18+(MDNI/blank blogs) slight porn with plot, oral (f! receiving), brief nipple sucking, daddy kink, creampie, i guess nanami is a bit toxic in this lol, nanami might also be a bit ooc in here

to the moaners: has this been sitting in the draft for about 3-4 months? yes! but happy birthday month, kento 😚. artwork by @/_3aem (twt); @ryomens-vixen (this was the fic I mentioned a while back) word count: 5.6k (yuck), I don't really like this

I’m going to kill him, that was the only thing on your mind once you closed out of the novel. Normally, your weekends were spent relaxing with a fruity bubble-gum colored cocktail but today was different. Shoko called your phone at exactly 9:26 am claiming it was time she divulged some news to you. At exactly 9: 28am, she sent you an online copy of a book titled, “Matters of the Heart” and told you it was nothing but a two or three hour read and then to call once you finished. 

The book had a slow start and it seemed pretty average, just any old love story. Lately, anything was getting published and it seemed that was the case here — wait, you paused your reading and sat up straight. No. Just no. Something just clicked for you which led you to completely start over from page one. 

The moment you finished, at exactly 1:01 pm, you grabbed a salmon colored low cut shirt and light washed jeans, slipped on your white shoes and hurried to get into your car. You didn’t need to call her phone because you were going to talk to her face to face; this situation warranted a real conversation. It was nothing but a 17 minute drive to Shoko’s house, so when you arrived at exactly 1:18 pm, her door was already open. “They’re bashing me, Shoko. Fucking bashing! How could he do this to me?” Were the first words that flew out of your mouth, holding your phone close to her face so that she could see the reviews. 

“Well, it’s not like anyone would know it’s you.” She yawned, handing you a cup of water – probably because of how crazy you looked – before she ushered you to a seat on the couch. A golden brown blanket was lazily thrown on the seat, which she hurried to move. You sat down and faced her with a look of what Shoko could only describe as pure sadness. She had seen you like this many times before, all because of one person. 

“You did.” You sniffled with an eye roll, you couldn’t help but feel uncertain. Reading this book only brought back more uncomfortable feelings towards the breakup and him. You thought that you were over him and the memories that the book produced made you question everything. One question remained which is: Why?

She giggled drily. “Hey, I read all his works. Pseudonym or not. He can’t hide from me. Plus, I know you both and everything that went on. I was there too, remember?” She mumbled the last part. “Maybe this was his way of coping?”

“It’s been years… and I heard he’s announced a sequel. Shoko, a SEQUEL! It’ll be released later this year.” You spoke in a shaking watery voice while she rubbed your back in an attempt of comfort. Your mind could only think of what the reactions would be to your character in the sequel… insecurities that you never knew were there flooded your mind.

“There was enough material for a sequel? I thought he covered everything…” Shoko rubbed her chin and looked deep in thought. You just stared at her, she couldn’t be serious. “Sorry, ignore me.” She shook her head ignoring your stare.

“Do I even confront him over this? A-and how would that make me look, like I still check on him right? I’ll look crazy and bitter… which apparently I am. Oh and I’m bitchy and a ‘total cunt’ as they’re putting online.” He didn’t know just how much you changed, he missed your growth. Rubbing your eyes, you ask:“Why did you tell me about this? What made you take so long… I just don’t understand.”

“Well, at first… I didn’t think you’d care.” Moving a strand of her nut-brown hair out of her face, she continued. “Then about a month ago, I decided it was right to tell you, just in case someone else pieced it together.”

“Gojo read it then, huh?” You mentally cringed at the thought. It was the only person you could think of who’d be so crude about it. He knew how damaging the breakup was for you but not as bad as Shoko knows. Now, you’re just grateful that she told you before he did.

“Yep, so I figured that I had to tell you before he did.” She clicked her tongue. “But let’s just calm down before you make any rash decisions on how to handle this.” 

“He wrote a fucking duality series about me, our relationship, our sex life and you want me to calm down? Are you listening to yourself? This is a serious matter. I am being called a bitch, a slut and more on Goodreads and multiple websites, reviews, etc. and he didn’t even have the audacity to give me a heads up. You had to call me.” You let out an unladylike snort.“Why couldn’t he stick to his mystery novels? Wasn’t he doing good at those?”

“Writer's block.” Shoko said in a singsong-like voice. “He hadn’t written a mystery book since you two broke up and then… he alerted his supporters he wanted to switch things up and then… that was that. Ladies loved it, a big hit. By the way, if you two were really fucking like that I need to se—”

“Shoko, now is not the time!” Your face felt hot all over, your mind racing. “I just can’t believe this.” You wrapped your arms around your body and squeezed, giving yourself one big squeeze. It was hard not to cry but you could feel it all in your throat. 

“I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think his intentions were to make you feel bad.” She hugged you to her chest, pressing a small kiss to the crown of your head. “I think he still loves you. I mean, isn’t this book proof? After all these years, he wrote about you.” 

“I’m sure he moved on by now.” You whispered, your eyes growing tired already and the day had barely started. “I just need to lay down. I need to rest.” Your mind seemed to finally grow calm and your breathing steady, a small hiccup now in your throat but with a gulp of water, you were better.

“Just stay here. I don’t trust you to be alone right now.” Shoko’s voice drowned out as sleep overtook you, you could only feel her warmth as she held you and honestly it was all you needed at this moment, Shoko always made you feel safe and you couldn’t thank her more than enough for that right now as you slept.

You were a light sleeper, it was always something that Nanami pointed out about you. He always said how he felt like he couldn’t leave the room while you slept even if it was to use the bathroom afraid to wake you. He knew how important sleep was to you and he’d risk having a bladder infection if you got all 8 hours that you required. Nanami was sweet and caring like that. 

You didn’t think you’d break up with him ever. He was the one for you and he always made that clear. He pampered you and even after the breakup – though you didn’t need it – he left you with a check for five thousand dollars, saying it was for his half of the lease for the next few months. 

The breakup was brutal for you. You almost quit working entirely. Shoko was the only person you’d confined into and the only friend you left to check in on you especially when you didn’t want to leave the house. She brought you groceries and helped you shower until you finally were able to get up again.

Though it was hard to believe, it was Nanami who broke up with you. You thought it was a joke, a cliche little joke. 

“Baby, I’m not joking.” His voice was quiet and husky, he spoke as if he was going to cry. “I just need some time to myself. I need to figure out if this is what I want. You don’t have to wait for me, you just keep on living your life and being happy. But… I think it’s time we let this go.” 

You didn’t cry in front of him. You didn’t cry when he packed his things up. You certainly didn’t cry when he shut the door, leaving his key on the table because you knew he was joking. He had to be. But when you called him and his number was disconnected and you were blocked on any form of social media… that was when you broke down and cried. 

It happened out of nowhere. You overanalyzed every aspect of your relationship for where you went wrong. You wrote down every conversation you could remember and dissected it word by word. You watched every video and picture you had of the two of you looking for a bit of regret or anything on his face. You read every text message, looking for malice. He said he needed time to figure out if he wanted this but he always made it clear that he did and even that he was looking forward to having kids together, you two had even gone ring shopping months ago. 

You didn’t sleep and when you did, it was only for 4 hours and sometimes barely that. Your heart had an ache in it and the tears wouldn’t stop. You could only think why wasn’t I enough?

When you opened your eyes Shoko was still holding you and a small smile grew on your lips. “Thank you Shoko.” You knew if you could count on anyone, it was always going to be her. She was the one who pieced you back together and made sure that life didn’t destroy you and you couldn’t help but to be grateful. 

“Of course. ‘M going to let you spend the night here, okay? Let’s get some takeout and watch your favorite movies, how’s that sound?” She knew the way to your aching heart like the back of her hand. 

“It sounds amazing!” You stretched your arms out wide, leaning off of her and sitting up. “Should we start with Uptown Girls or Legally Blonde?” 

It took two days before you confronted him. Shoko was adamant about not giving you his address and you were tempted to get it from her phone. But luckily, you wore her down, she was probably tired of you bringing him or his book in every conversation. So now you stood there, nerves washing over you in waves.

The mahogany colored door stared at you – mocked you – and you returned the glare before you knocked on it, hard. This was just a door and you were angry at the person behind said door, not the door itself. 

It was almost like he was waiting on you because the door unlocked and opened. He even stepped aside to let you in, quiet. His straw-colored hair was parted differently and he even looked taller or broader – you couldn’t completely tell – but he looked different… seemed different. The atmosphere around him made your stomach clench and it made you mad; why did it feel like only you suffered from the breakup? Here he was – strong and tall – and you were nothing or rather the same.

“You wrote a romance erotica novel about our relationship?” It was what you practiced saying before you got out of your car – making sure your voice didn’t tremble – this time, it didn’t. 

“Well, hello to you too. Even after three and a half years, you still like to get straight to the point.” He grinned, putting a hand on your back to guide you to a seat on his couch. “I must ask, what makes you think it’s about you?” He does a slight laugh and raises his brow.

“We have the same initials, almost the same name. Are you kidding me?” You retort, folding your arms across your chest. You tried to ignore the fuzzy feeling in your chest that occurred when you heard his voice after so long, hearing him and seeing that damned smile… your nose scrunched up.

“Sorry, I just didn’t know you kept up with me… with my books…” He muttered, glancing your way, a demure look in his amber eyes. “Should I be flattered?” Almost in an instant, he turned on a slight cockiness to himself, though his body language showed his nervousness – his thigh bouncing a bit and his fingers tapping on the couch handle. A light sense of relief filled your system knowing that you weren’t the only one being affected by this.

“I don’t.” You inhaled deeply. “Shoko told me about it and then, I checked it out.” Fiddling with your fingers and even picking at your nails, that was your tell all sign of nervousness and right now you were engaging in it more than ever before. 

“I wanted to tell you or rather, to ask you. I know you got the voicemails I sent last year…and then you kept dodging my calls.” He tells you, you could feel his eyes on you – or more so your fingers… the nasty habit that he had finally got you to stop all those years ago rushing right back in an instant.

“Writing a book to trash me and our relationship… to make you look like some sort of… ugh, like you’re so amazing and I’m just shit. Yeah, that certainly got my attention.” If you were coming off bitchy or rude right there, you couldn’t care less especially when there were worse things that you could’ve said or even could’ve done at this moment. You really wanted to slap him. 

“Is that all you got out of it?” He asks with his head low, almost as if he was admitting defeat or as if he couldn’t believe you came up with something so trivial. 

“Was there anything else to get?” You counter, shifting your body towards him. Maybe it was best that you sat down and actually listened to the author and his interpretations of his work.

“How about that I love you regardless of any flaws… how about I find your stubbornness and attitude sexy and how I knew this breakup would be good for you. I was holding you back. I mean, I heard you got promoted 3 times since we broke up… I just felt like I was changing you, hindering your growth. I needed to reflect on myself and this book helped that.” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, yet another sign of his anxiousness. “Believe it or not, I still care about you. No matter what happened between us.”

“What happened? You mean when you decided to just leave? You could've told me everything you just told me and I would’ve understood better. We could’ve talked and came to a compromise. You don’t understand what you put me through after it.” You were close to tears but you straighten your posture and sniffled, it was best not to think about what happened before. “I just needed a bit of closure too, I guess that’s why I came. I just was caught off guard. You could’ve knocked on my door or something, forced me to answer… forced me to talk.”

He met your eye for the first time since you came over. “You wouldn’t have listened,” He huffs. “Didn’t I mention how stubborn you are? Plus, I meant what I said. I needed time to myself and I think we both did.”

“I guess…But Nanami, this book was too much. A letter would’ve been fine if you needed closure, don’t you think?” You see his lips quirk up a bit before he licks them, trying not to laugh it seems.

“My publisher got a hold of some of the documents where I was just going over things, writing here and there. She loved the idea… plus I’m in a contract for six books so I had to put something out soon, it had already been a year.” He told you, sitting his chin on top of his knuckles. “I honestly didn't mean to hurt you. I was writing for fun… reminiscing about us and then later down the line, I realized I was writing because I wanted you to read it, I just didn’t exactly know how to get you to since you were very adamant on avoiding me, which is understandable. But regardless, I didn’t think it’d get on the bestseller list or for the reviews to get so harsh.” He admits, reaching for your hand before his hand froze in midair and he stopped himself, choosing instead to put it behind his head.

“Is there anyway you can stop the sequel from being published then… since you got my attention after all this time?” You asked, putting your most dazzling smile on, hoping to sway him. 

“I can talk to my publisher. Everything’s in print and materials are already done… but I’ll try to see if I can stop production.” His adam’s apple bobbles when he does a harsh swallow. “Are we… okay? Do you forgive me?”

The question made you pause. He always made it hard for you to not forgive him; it took one look or a smile and a small explanation and it made it easy to fall in love with him all over again, no matter what he did… it seems. But it made you ask yourself: Were you too easy? Did you really forgive him? It was thoughts like that swirling around the corners of your mind. You wanted to forgive him, he was just writing and telling a story… but it was your story, not just his. Using this for your attention when he could’ve written about anything else, he didn’t have to. Were you just ready to forgive him because you still loved him? 

You hadn’t realized how deep in thought you were until you felt the couch dip and even then, your mind was still spirling.“You don’t have to…” His voice brings you out of your thoughts, his body so close to yours that it was getting hard to breathe. He still smelled the same; citrus and woodsy and it was easy to get yourself sucked back in. 

“So you can write another book about my stubbornness?” You give a quiet giggle, scooting a bit away from him, seeing him frown from the corner of your eyes. You didn’t want to fall back but he made it all so simple. It was easy and you were already falling back on him and you didn’t need that… Did you?

“Baby…” Your body buzzed and hummed, turning to him with wide eyes. “I’ll do anything I can to make this right. Anything for you to forgive me… If they can’t stop publication, what can I do to make us right?” He was doing more than a gaze, he was full on staring and from how close he was it was hard to avoid. 

“Nanami I–” You stopped yourself. You couldn’t really think of anything he could do but you could think of several unhealthy things you could do to ruin your progress on going over him. He had betrayed you and made you a laughing stock so why are you stuck thinking about forgiveness when you should be leaving.

“I never stopped loving you.” His fingers traced up and down your pants but his eyes stayed on yours. “I never thought about anyone but you… I never slept with anyone… it’s always been you. But, I understand what I put you through and I’ll apologize every second until you forgive me…” The blond man who you never saw shed a tear looked more than close to it. “But just please… forgive me.”

“I’m sorry, honest.” He tries again after being met with absolute silence. “Just… let me show you, okay?” His breath tickles your face for a second and when you look into his cocoa brown eyes, you feel everything you once felt again.

Memories of good times dulls out the odd feelings in the pit of your stomach – the confusion and pain – instead are replaced with joy. The trip to Malaysia where he rubbed sunscreen on your entire body and laid back to read a book and you watched as his eyes kept drifting to you while you played in the cerulean water; how you kept begging him to come in until he complied and how eventually in the early hours of the morning when you wanted another dip, he fucked you twice — once in the golden lush sand and another in the cool ocean water. 

His face is in your thighs and you couldn’t help but feel better, feeling his breath fanning so close to your pants covered pussy, your body felt scorching hot. He’s grumbling, “Will you let me make it up to you? Will you let me show you how sorry I am?” 

You must’ve nodded because he was already unbuttoning your pants and helping you lay back, pulling your shirt up just a bit to see your perky tits – he must’ve remembered how you never wore bras unless you felt it was necessary, which was mainly work or any important events. 

He blew a bit on your hardening nipples before he took one into his mouth – playing biting them with a smug look on his face before he began licking around your areolas and kissing around the swells of your breast. He doesn’t say anything but he looks deep in thought as he kisses down your body, his fingers scraping down your sides as he works your pants and your panties all the way down. Bringing his head up for a minute, he looks in your face. “I love you.” He says it simply, heavy emotions swirling in his brown eyes.

Removing your pants and underwear completely from your body, he spreads your thighs and looks over your body – a trimmed low pretty bush sits between your thighs and it makes him smile, he always loved seeing the curled hair on your delicate lower lips. He spreads your pussy, watching the skin stretch with a deep smile on his face. You could feel yourself … the wetness leaking down under your body and it made you cringe, but the way he was staring at you made the insecurities vanish. “All this for me?” He takes a tentative lick before he slurps, clutching your hips. “I know you like to run… but I need you to stay put, got it?” It was hard for you to listen to him, your head already fuzzy and the thoughts swirling around were only about him, nothing more. 

Then your body bucks up, “Wait–!” A broken moan escapes your mouth when he presses a soft wet kiss to your clit. Nanami had always been gentle and very careful whenever he ate you out; making sure his tongue was wet enough and that he wasn’t too rough. His tongue was wide enough to make your back arch, your body leaving the couch when it finally hit your clit and he gave you no time to recover before he peeled back the hood, sitting the tip of his tongue there and rapidly flicked at the bud. 

Hearing the lewd squelching noises coming from the mixture of your cunt and his mouth made you close your eyes, squeezing them shut tightly. He spits before he licks it up and down your aching slit, nudging his tongue inside only slightly, much to your dismay. You’re gasping every second when more of his tongue slips in and out of your pussy; sliding a bit more each time and it makes your thighs shake. When he finally slips his entire tongue inside of you, curling it just enough that you can feel it everywhere, your legs attempt to close up around his head. “Please– ‘m so… soo–oh…” His fingers join in on the fun and in small sloppy circles he rubs your clit, pressing down on the pearl while his tongue continues flicking inside of you. The split second that you open your eyes, his are already on yours and it was that moment, that made your body tense up and for you to cum. 

It happens fast, clear sticky wetness leaks out of you and Nanami still tries to get more of it on his tongue, catching anything that drips and sucking on your folds. “Always so fucking good…” He mutters, spreading you again and smearing more of your slick on his face by shaking his head between your thighs, so that he’s completely covered in you. 

When he moves his head, embarrassment comes over you, looking at his wet face… even his forehead was wet and you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, baby but… I’ll be right back, stay wet for me.”

Your heart hammers against your chest, lying there on this now wet couch. You didn’t come over here for this and yet here you are… about to get fucked and really, it was no turning back now. You’d been on dates with men after Nanami but they never lasted past the second date and you certainly hadn’t had sex in a while, but he made you come apart like it was nothing.  

But then again, Nanami knew your body… so of course this was a walk in the park for him. It honestly annoyed you right now, you couldn’t even make yourself cum half the time especially these last few years and now, barely an hour here and he has you right where he wanted you… bare and practically back in love with him.

Nanami came back with a fresh face and unbuttoned pants that he was currently pulling down. You clenched around nothing, your mind thinking only of the perfect dick that was going to be coming out of those pants. You licked your lips, this would be the first dick you saw in years and it was his. 

His drooling cock slapped his stomach and you swallowed, your mouth felt unreasonably dry. The length of his cock always impressed you, standing tall at seven and a half inches, he shakes with laughter which snaps you out of your daze. “Now let me look at you.” His whispers and even though he already saw you, both years ago and right now, you can’t help but feel hot all over again. He’s staring – drawing his eyes down every inch of your body –  focusing on your breast before getting to the stare of the show yet again. He smirks, laying you back down, pressing his body against yours to kiss you. 

Your breath was caught in your throat, his tongue still tasted of you and his hands cups your jaw. He’s gentle, his tongue moving around your mouth messily before he stops, saliva breaking apart when he does so. His fingers make a ghostly featherlight touch on your clit that makes you jump, the head of his cock at your entrance. He holds out his hand, close to your mouth. “Spit.” Gathering up some, you spit in the palm of his hand and stroke it along his length, huffing at the sensation. 

He pushes in, taking his time to work himself inside of you, a strained expression on his face. Hips pulled back, he focuses more on just the tip of himself fucking you, watching your pussy stretch with just the tiniest bit of resistance. Inching himself inside, you watch his torso flex and he groans, obscene noises plop and plap around the apartment, his heavy cock pushing in and out of you, your toes curling. 

“Pussy still mines, right? Didn’t give it away, did you?” You’re struggling to talk - to fucking breathe - your eyes rolling back and your jaw slacked but you babble out a soft ‘no’ which makes him finally thrust in you harder, completely bottoming out. You feel him in your belly, feeling full and embarrassingly wide with him stretching you out, his balls sitting on the crest of your ass before he moves. 

He moves you a bit, your bodies flush to each other and he moves his hips in harsh circles, his pelvis so close to your clit. His hands on your calves, he pushes your legs so that they rest on his shoulders, your knees touching your ears makes you tighten up and he groans above you.

“Nanami I-” You call out, eyes closed with pleasure shaking through your core, wetness slapping between the both of you. 

“Nanami? No, call me what you used to call me.” His hips slowed down, a whine escaping your lips. His cock dragging inside of your walls, pulling out slowly, awaiting your response. 

“Please…don’t slow down, Ken—” before the word even left your lips, his hand slapped your cunt, leaving your legs shaking a bit and your eyes snapping open. Drops of tears run down your cheeks and you sniffle, reaching for him… you couldn’t help but feel so small in his presence.

“Say it.” Then, you knew what he meant. A name that now feels foreign in your brain and even when it leaves your mouth, it comes out in a strange rattled whimper.

“Oh, oh… daddy, ‘m sorry. Please, keep fucking me. It’s so goooood!” He’s grinning before the words leave your mouth.

“Still my good girl huh? Always so fucking good for daddy.” He licks up your neck and it makes you tremble, your tongue lolling out a bit and he moves to suckle on it. “Did you skip over all those sex scenes or did you rub this pussy out to them?” He asks, his fingers digging in the back of your thighs. 

You choked out, sobbing, “I did, daddy… But I-I don’t want to remember everything.” 

“You don’t remember all the words I used to describe this cunt? This pretty pussy? That changed his life… my life? That made him always crawl back? That made him so fucking hard? The pretty words I used to describe you? To describe how pretty she always looked when he fucked her? How his heart felt like it was going to explode when she looked at him too long because he loved her so damn much?” He’s groaning in your ear, thrusting into you, his depth reaching your g-spot, your pussy spasming and begging for his cum at every word he uttered. 

Pumping himself inside, you could see the white creaminess that was on his cock, most likely because of you, he was constantly fucking the cream inside of you, your nails digged into his arms and he moaned at the feeling. Your stomach tightens and you move to push him away, “I’m going to c–cum!” You felt him throbbing inside of you, signaling that he was close too. “Please, cum inside of me… I can’t take it.” You couldn’t stand it any longer, it’s been years and you needed him to fill you up. He stopped for a moment, changing positions so that you’ll be sitting on his lap, grabbing your hips and forcibly bouncing you on his dick, dangerously slow. 

Wetness gushes on him as his tip hits you from a new angle, seeing the outline of him in your tummy, he’s stretching you again with each nasty thrust. Each drag of his cock making you go crazy and the aching between your legs continue, your body shaking and both of you moaning loudly and over each other. 

Finally, your orgasm rattled and shook your entire body, your pussy sucking him in, milking him for all he’s worth and it makes his body shake and he releases inside of you, trying to stay quiet as his body jerks up, unable to stop himself from fucking you through both of your orgasms.

It’s quiet for a while, just heavy breathing with you laying on his chest. “I love you too…” Your voice is scratchy and your face tear stained. He doesn’t say anything, his cock still pulsing inside of you.

“I know. I love you too, never stopped.” 

“Did you at least read the acknowledgements or did you just dive right in?”

“I never read the acknowledgements for books, thought you would’ve remembered that.” You watch him get up, walking around the living room, looking for something. You were both still naked and the entire room smelled of sex. 

“I did remember that and when you barged in my door, I already knew that you still hadn’t changed when it came to that. Here, read this part right here.” He brings you over a copy and you run your fingers around the softback cover with a small smile on your face; this silly thing had brought you both back together and right now you could give less than a fuck about those reviews. 

Feeling the spine of the book, you open it and can practically smell the scent of an unopened new book. Turning the first few pages, you go to the one page acknowledgment and read it aloud: “She might not read this book. But if she does, by chance. I hope she knows that I still love her.” You wiped your eyes and smiled. “You’re an asshole, you know?”

He lets out a hearty laugh, “I know baby.” Kissing the top of your head, he gets up and grabs his phone from the kitchen counter and you follow him. “I think I have enough material to write a third book now.” He grabs his phone and starts typing, his eyebrows furrowed as if he was deep in thought. Attempting to grab his phone he chuckles and uses his height to his advantage by standing taller.

Standing on the tips of your toes you snort, “Don’t even joke about that!” But a smile takes over your face and he can’t help but smile too. 

[clockwayswrites]

The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 3, Part 2

masterpost (pls no editing or concrit, my words have been a mess but I'm trying!)

Dick took the corners of the halls at reckless speeds, careening around the corners in a way that only his Robin training saved him from smashing into walls. Speed was more important than safety.

Wally might be here.

“Verdict?” Dick heard Gar ask.

“Your vegan macaroons get a ten from me, could eat way too many,” a voice that Dick didn’t know said. “Though I still don’t get why you’re feeding me.”

“Dude, your heart stopped a few days ago. Cookies are in order after something like that!”

Who’s heart stopped?

Why?

Dick made himself to slow down a little from his panicked sprint as he entered the room. He scanned the space instantly: Victor, Raven, Gar, and the mystery person all settled on the couch. The news played silently on the TV.

“N.” Cyborg set the device he had been fiddling with down and stood. “This is Danny.”

Danny stood and spun around. He almost looked like he could have been an early Wayne with the black hair and blue eyes and weight he carried on his shoulders. “Flash sent me here. He said to tell you that you’re a ‘real dick’, but he said it fondly or like it was a joke!”

“Yeah,” Dick choked out. Even though Victor had told Dick the message, it still took him out at the knees to hear it from this stranger. “He would have.”

“I don’t know why that phrase works on all of you, but, I, um,” Danny grabbed a spiral bound book off the coffee table. “I also have a drawing I did of him after the first time that I got to see him clearly, if that also adds to what I’m saying. It’s him without his mask.”

Dick was torn between rushing over or going slowly in case that the image shattered their hope. He was there before he had decided how to proceed, taking the sketchbook.

Wally stared back at him from the page.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Danny asked, voice almost impossibly gentle. “He says he’s trapped in something called the Speed Force.”

“It’s him,” Dick said after clearing his throat. It didn’t help the mixed feeling of tears and relief clogged there. He brushed his fingers over the dotted freckles of the drawing. “And he would get trapped by his own powers. Idiot.”

“Why don’t all sit down!” Gar said with forced cheer and a clap of his hands. “Danny can explain things now that you’re here and then we can figure out how to rescue W—Flash!”

“I even have drinks, since someone abandoned me as soon as he had cookies,” Donna said with a pointed look towards Gar as she entered from the direction of the kitchen. She passed out the armful of sodas to everyone as they sat back down. When she got to Dick, she took the drawing from his hands (he resisted the urge to grab it back) and replaced it with a ginger ale.

It was the same drink Danny had gotten.

“Explain from the start. From before Flash,” Raven instructed, which sounded foreboding.

Danny turned the drink between his palms. “Like I said, I’m a psychopomp. Ghosts and I—death and I have a pretty close relationship with each other. Have since I was fourteen and I sorta died in an accident in my parent’s lab, which I really don’t want to get into. But they’re ectobiologists, they study ghosts.”

“And one lab accident later you can talk to them?” Victor said. “Sure you’re not a superhero?”

“You joke, but I was, at least as far as my home town is concerned. Seems to come with having a fucked up lab accident, you know?” Danny asked, his smile crooked.

“Yeah,” Victor rumbled. “I know.”

“Anyways, I was never anything big, and I’m okay with that. It doesn’t really matter now anyways, dying comes with a pretty limited lifespan for a superhero sort of body,” Danny said with a wave, as if that would be the end of that conversation. “But the talking to ghosts stuck around.

“Outside of my home town, most haunted place in America, they’re pretty quiet and pretty incorporeal. They don’t bother me often, but sometimes there’s one strong enough that needs help moving on—willing or not. It’s usually not a problem to do it around my work and college, but then your Flash shows up and he’s not like the other ghosts.”

“How quickly could you tell that?” Donna asked.

“Pretty much instantly. He feels like… you know when you’d put a hand up against an old TV or CRT monitor? And you could feel that static hum? He feels like that,” Danny explained. “I couldn’t see him or communicate with him either. There was no sort of… Ancients this is hard to explain. There was no resonating vibe with him. It didn’t—doesn’t mean that he’s not dead, though he’s sure he’s not, but I knew he wasn’t a normal ghost right away. And that was before the seizures.”

Nightwing rested his head against the cold can of ginger ale. “…the seizures?”

Danny hummed. “Whenever Flash gets too close—touches me, I think—I have a seizure.”

“Dude! And that doesn’t concern you?” Gar shouted, bits of macaroons flying.

And Danny just shrugged, like it didn’t! “Well, I mean, I’ve already died? Twice. Well, three times now if my heart stopping counts.”

“Yeah,”Dick mumbled, “I think that counts.”

“Anyways,” Danny continued guilelessly, “the seizures basically put me in a state where I could have contact with Flash. I could see him, at least. There were only a few anyway before I tried the tea. The tea worked enough for me to talk to him. He gave me the messages, and now I’m here.”

Victor leaned forward. “I want you to take us through what Flash told you as best as you can remember.”

“And I want to know what was in that tea,” Raven said.

“And I want to know if you have your medication!” Gar chirped. Everyone turned to him and he deflated a little. But he continued gamely on as he always did, “Dude still has a hospital bracelet on! He might have come right here. See! Look at that face! He came right here.”

Danny did look pretty guilty with how he was rubbing at the back of his neck and pointedly wasn’t looking at any of them.

Dick sighed. He might not have Wally right then, but it did seem like he had another overly thoughtful idiot to look after in the mean time. “Did you come right here?”

“I had to let you know about Flash!” Danny said. “I know how long he’s been hanging around me and who knows how long it took him to find me. You all have to be worried.”

“Your medication?” Dick asked.

“It’s being filled?”

“Right. We can have Kori grab it on her way. She was finishing a thing up with the Outlaws,” Victor said. “We’ll just need your full name, birthday, and pharmacy where it’s being filled.”

Danny took a long breath and then took a decisive nod. “Right. I can do that. And then I’ll call Miss Wilhelmina Aleshire, so brace yourself for that.”

[writersdrug]

I need, need need neeeeed to know who you would picture bar owner price with 😩 picturing bar owner price has me week in the knees. I need more, how would he be around the bar when he was there? Supporting, bossy,silly? The possibilities are endless. 🥰

I'm loving how people are requesting things for the rest of the 141!!

Bar Owner!Price isn't there every day, and most often not during the actual shift. He's there some mornings, already at his desk on the floor above the pub, setting up the next inventory order and dealing out everyone's tips before Simon climbs down from his flat on the third floor. They both grunt at each other, tired and in need of a hot breakfast and some tea.

He helps set up for the shift - he likes being in the kitchen with Soap. He feels bad the man is back there all by himself, even though he says he doesn't mind it. "I get to cuss 'n bitch all I want back 'ere, sir." Still, Price spends a majority of his time back there with him, prepping burger patties and making sure everything is stocked and ready. Gets on his case about updating the menu, but Soap insists the customers like it the way it is.

Price makes an appearance on the floor every now and then, opting to help run food or bartend on the busier nights. He checks in with the regulars, leaning his forearms on the bar with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, laughing and chatting with them and occasionally offering to refill their drinks. Simon grumbles quietly about him being in the way, but Price doesn't take it to heart.

He doesn't stay late. John isn't that old, but he likes to be back at home by a decent hour. One ruined sleep schedule and he's a shot for the rest of the week. He likes to get back to his flat, make himself a sandwich and pour himself some whiskey, and be on on his sofa and reading his book no later than ten in the evening. Routines have always been a part of his military career, and what can he say? Old habits really fo die hard.

Then you came along.

You didn't just rock Simon's world - you'd gotten Price, too. Though introductions could have been smoother (you nearly beat him with a keg when he came in through the back door and scared you), he's grown fond of you. First, as a hard worker and go-getter; then, as a pretty little waitress with a dazzling smile that likes to keep him on his toes. You love poking fun at him, calling him "bossman" or "barmaster" (doesn't make sense to him, since he's hardly behind the bar - but he finds it cute). You tease him for the way he runs your food, then gets stuck at the table for five minutes just chatting up the customers. You ask him things like, "Who do you prefer, Cardi B or Nicki Minaj?" And laugh when he just stares at you with a furrowed brow. He'll happily let you tease him for being an "old" man just to hear your laughter.

Then Simon sent that photo in the group chat, and Price felt something stir in his chest: looking at you, posing all prettily for your picture, working to push your little idea out there and bring in a crowd. He's impressed, but he's also intrigued. He's got his sights on you, and he's dying to figure out more about his waitress.

"'S the post making any headway?" He asks one night, leaning on the bar next to where you sit. Your tips are finished, money waded into the pocket of your apron as you scroll on your phone, sipping on a screwdriver.

"Kinda..." You mumble, a pout on your face, creasing the skin between your eyebrows. "People are seeing it, and there are a few likes, but no one's really engaging. Not sure if this will do well."

Price hums thoughtfully, looking at your lips while you stare at your screen. He's holding back the urge to lean in and take a whiff of your perfume, afraid it might seem just a bit too strange. "Have you tried promoting it?"

You look at him, laying your phone on the bar top. "Well... I could, but..." You wanted to finish with 'it would cost money'. But then, you'd be insinuating that you expected him to pay you. You could boost the post yourself, but you'd rather not spend money on something that might flop.

"'S there a problem?" Price asked, leaning in closer to you.

"I mean... promoting a post costs some money. Like, for it to be advertised to five hundred people, you'd pay around one fifty. And I think, depending on how far you wanted the post to reach - like, literally, how big of a geographic area - that would cost even more."

Price chuckles. "You do realize how much business you've brought in since you've joined the team, hmm?"

That makes your cheeks warm, pressing your lips into a line to avoid grinning like an idiot at the compliment. "I mean... sure..."

"Go upstairs to the office and get my wallet." he says, standing up from his seat at the bar.

You watch with a stupefied expression as he walks to the POS and prints some blank receipt paper. "You- you mean it? Are you sure?"

He sits on a barstool near the kitchen door. "Wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it. Hurry up- before I change my mind."

You don't need to be told twice. You drop your phone onto the bar and bolt towards the stairs - you stop yourself, running back to where Price sits and hugging him from behind. He lets out a surprise grunt as you do your best to smother him.

"You're the best boss ever!" you squeal. Then, just like that - you're off to the office upstairs. He preens over the compliment as he hears you leaping two steps at a time.

"Be careful." he calls over his shoulder. He sits there a moment, staring at the paper in front of him. He's surprised he hadn't accidentally thrown you off of him purely out of instinct, but he can't say he isn't absolutely delighted by the hug. It lingers in his mind, his chest still remembering your arms around him. He shakes his head, reaching forward to grab a pen from behind the bar.

His eyes meet Simon's - the man is glaring daggers, his head framed by the window in the kitchen door, mask hanging from his ear. His lips are pulled down into quite possibly the angriest frown Price has ever seen. His nostrils flare as he exhales - Price wonders what sort of insults are flying through the bartender's head right now.

He glares right back. If Simon wants something, he'll give it to him. But he'll make him ask for it, like any normal human being. John isn't going to surrender just because Ghost is huffing and puffing, expecting his boss to back away from you just because he's stomping his foot and looking menacing. But how can he be sure that Simon really wants you, more than he thinks Price deserves you, if the lad won't say anything? It's only reasonable, right?

"If you want something, Simon, say something." Price calls out, never backing down from Simon's jealous gaze.

He huffs again and disappears from the kitchen window. Price can hear shuffling and banging, followed by Soap's irritated voice: "Oi, I got it! Get yourself outta my kitchen n' go your own shite, 'fore you break my stuff."

Price sighs, scribbling down some numbers on the paper in front of him. He'll cave, eventually.

[gghostwriter]

A Series of Happenstance

Spencer Reid x House!Daughter!Reader

Summary: The three times Spencer loathed to see you and the one time he pleaded to Trope:Angst; think post Tobias Spencer Reid w.c: 5.2k Disclaimer: I am no way a medical personnel, least of all a psychiatrist so there will be medical inaccuracies A/N: this is part one of my house!daughter series and it’s angst, babes. Spencer is just mean and lashing out here which is totally understandable. It also took a while since writing such heavy pieces of fiction takes a toll on me but I hope, especially to the ones who were excited for this series, love it still. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The first meeting

Spencer didn’t want to be here—here being in this cream colored, four cornered room, facing off the ultimate nemesis of profiler. Not an unsolvable case, not an unsub, but rather a psychiatrist contracted by the FBI for psych evaluation. 

He was fine, he insisted to Hotch. He can compartmentalize well, he rationalized to Gideon. He just needed rest and the comfort of his own bed, he stated to the whole team. But protocols were protocols and his unit chief was a stickler to rules especially when it involved the care for his team. 

That was how he found himself on a Tuesday afternoon, sitting in silence and watching the ticking of the clock as if it was the most interesting piece of art there was. 

The tension was stifling. Spencer could almost see it tainting his vision red. Biting the insides of his cheek, he wanted to keep everything in. 

No, he needed to. 

He knew he was being rude, petulant even but for once, he didn’t have it in him to care. He didn’t know you. You were a complete stranger being paid by the government to report back any findings that could keep him out of the field. It wasn’t fair. You were just accepting the call of duty but you bore the brunt of his ire and hostile gaze. 

In the normal setting, he would have found you intriguing. Your office colored in taupe—cold, distant, and linked to the desire to escape from the world but in the farthest side of the room was a shelf littered with books and small knick knacks that seemed to be collected over the years rather than curated to match the professional setting. The books ranged from published psychology dissertations, medical teaching materials, and collections of essays from well-revered and obscure writers. 

You were dressed in black and white, standard for your importance, but your nails were painted in a pale pink color—close to looking natural but not quite. And lastly, your looks. 

You were beautiful, don’t get him wrong, he may not have the same experiences as Morgan did with the opposite sex but he knows a beautiful attractive woman when he sees one. No, it wasn’t that, it was how young you looked—almost or maybe even sharing the same age as him. 

A genius, then.

A prodigy in your own field just like him. 

“Doctor Reid,” the low timber of your voice bringing him out of his musings. It sent a shiver down his spine when he first heard you speak. A reaction that he catalogued in his mind as a mystery to be revisited later on. 

He subtly tilted his head to the side, an indication that you had his attention albeit reluctantly.

“Anything you say in this room is strictly confidential,” you gestured with your hand. “No file or notes will be passed to your unit chief or any personnels of the brass. I promise you.”

He scoffed, breaking his vow of silence. “That’s not a hundred percent true, Doctor. Lying to get your patient to talk can only get you so far.”

“I understand where you’re coming from but all I submit to the FBI is my conclusion if you’re fit to go back to work or not, patient-confidentiality still stands—” your delicate fingers feebly holding your pen. “Now, I sensed a little resentment. Is it coming from your self-loathing about having to choose a victim for Tobias Hankel or is it your displaced anger from separating with your team liaison, Agent Jareau?” 

He glared at you. How dare you imply the seething anger from within him is directed at anyone but himself. “What? No, no, no. I’m not angry at anything or anyone! Maybe at you and this whole evaluation but never at JJ or—” he cut himself off.

“The suspect,” you continued on for him, jotting down notes on your black leather journal.

“The unsub. Unknown subject.” He corrected, second nature of him to do so. “We call them the unsub.”

You nodded, a lock of hair falling away from your bun. A distracting motion that momentarily rendered him speechless. “Alright. Are you angry at yourself and your decision to separate with Agent Jareau during the case?”

He scoffed but opted to stay silent. Spencer had already given too much of his emotion away by answering the earlier questions. 

For any regular citizen, it may seem like the opposite but given the sound of you scribbling away on the pages of the notebook, you beg to differ.

You crossed your pant covered leg and stared into his eyes, a maneuver that could mean two things: 1) you were sizing him up, which was highly unlikely given the dynamics, regardless of his hostility or 2) you were trying to connect with him, a move backed by science that stated eye contact releases oxytocin—a bonding hormone. 

A study he didn’t want to prove right at the moment.

“Do you perhaps feel remorse for the unsub?”

His left eye twitched. “Tobias Hankel.”

“Is there a reason behind why you’d prefer to call the unsub by name?” You further asked, having found a sore subject to poke and prod to elicit a reaction.

The answer was yes, of course. Tobias was just a victim as much as he, Spencer Reid, was—the unsub, in his eyes, was a victim of bad fate that resulted in fracturing his psyche but a shrink didn’t need to know that. 

To be exact, the FBI didn’t need to know that he, an active and upstanding agent, felt remorse and guilt for not being able to save Tobias. Human emotion rarely had a place in bureaucracy and paperwork.

“How old are you?” Spencer nonchalantly inquired to throw you off his trail. “You look too young to be a Doctor contracted by the brass.”

You scribbled something again in your notebook before answering in a monotone voice as if your reply has been well rehearsed. “24, about to turn 25 and yes, I do look young. I graduated early due to my intelligence which I believe is the same case for you, Doctor—” you clasped your hands in front of you, leaning slightly forward. “—which brings us back to the topic, the anger inside of you, who is it directed to?”

His eyes shifted to the clock—5pm. 

A small smile graced his face. The time was up.

“Well, I believe we’re done here, Doctor—” he proceeded to stand up, picking on an imaginary lint as he did so. “—I would say it’s been nice meeting you but that would be a lie you’d no doubt catch and analyze.”

Your lips pressed thinly together, imitating a smile but Spencer knew that move quite well—you were reining in any unsolicited and possibly inappropriate comment regarding his snappy behavior. 

A small chuckle escaped his lips. If he, a profiler, considered you, a psychiatrist, his number one nemesis, there was no doubt you consider him the same. 

As he was about to step out of the office, your slender fingers brandished a calling card.

“Here’s my number—” he gingerly took it as if it contained some unknown pathogen. “—and my door is always open when you’re ready to talk, Doctor Reid.”

He nodded once, a goodbye. “Doctor House.”

There was little doubt in Spencer’s mind that he’d never willingly stop by your office again but if he had been paying attention to your subtle patronizing words of farewell, he would have picked up that this encounter was far from over. 

Especially when he found out on a busy Tuesday morning from Hotch that you had deemed him unfit to return back to the field—effectively barring him from the jet on its way to Idaho. 

The second meeting

There was a series of rapid knocks on your office door. 

As a psychiatrist with your own practice, it was highly unusual for clients to suddenly show up with no prior appointments or even a customary phone call. 

It was a Tuesday morning and like clockwork, you’ve allotted the first half of the day in catching up with paperwork dealing with your office and evaluations for the FBI. 

That gave you a pause, remembering a snipping agent who you deemed unfit for duty. Dr. Spencer Reid. The genius profiler who joined the ranks at the tender age of 22. A prodigy in his old field, just like you.

He was closed off, simmering with rage almost, and there was little doubt in your mind that he was the one behind the door, ceaselessly knocking. After all, when you sent in your evaluation directly to his unit chief, the stoic man’s face twitched with concern and maybe a little bit of annoyance in the paperwork it would entail.

“Come in,” you called out, hands clasping together on top of your desk. A perfect picture of professionalism.

The door swung open, revealing a tightly wounded Dr. Spencer Reid. 

With a thick cardigan adorning on his body and a leather satchel draped over his shoulders to his front, he looked normal. But you knew better, his choice of outerwear represented a security blanket in the middle of September and his placement of satchel acted as a shield and its’ straps a stress ball. With just that one look you knew he wasn’t ready to back with his team. 

“Dr. Reid, what can I do for you?” You asked, hand unclasping and indicating to the seat in front of you. “Please sit.” 

Closing the door behind him, he shuffled closer to your desk but made no indication to sit down. “I’d rather stand, Dr. House, and I think you know why I’m here.”

A show of dominance. Right away, he wanted control the outcome of this conversation to his favor. It was textbook psychology, a taunt you wanted no part of.

A slight smile appeared on your face, one that could be translated as friendly for those open and condescending for those closed off. “I believe I don’t follow.” 

“My evaluation, you made a mistake,” the left corner of his mouth lifting for a smirk. There was a vein visible on his temple, his anger and will to bottle it up manifesting physically. 

You tilted your head to the side, unwavering in your gaze, hands clasped and index fingers tapping together. The pause and silence was a standard tactic to get a patient to break, similar to what law enforcement uses with suspects but results may vary especially when used on a seasoned profiler.

Right away, Spencer understood your tactic. “That won’t work. We use that in every case, I know the standard—” he looked around the room. “—should I lower the temperature too?” 

You answered with silence. The agent in front of you now was no longer thinking clearly. His objective mind that would deem him fit to return for duty clouded with emotion, anger and something else. 

His right hand touched above his left wrist. A subconscious move provoked by your unrelenting gaze. A move that gave away an important piece of information that his unit chief no doubt omitted in the reports.

Ah.

Tobias Hankel was a drug addict.

And in turn has subjected the agent in front of you to his vices.

You sighed. Suddenly the case no longer felt black and white, it was treading close to home as you remembered your father who’s abusing Vicodin in lieu of his leg pain. It was a sore spot for you—a clink in your armor. 

“Sit, please,” you indicated to the chair in front of you again.

Spencer complied this time, having heard a change in your tone. 

“Dr Reid,” you started. “I believe my evaluation of you is still correct—”

He opened his mouth to argue.

“—but, please let me finish, perhaps we can compromise. As a psychiatrist, it’s not in my practice to give in to my client’s demands but as you are not a regular client, I believe it would be beneficial for the both of us to reach an understanding.”

You walked towards the locked cabinet to your right. It was where you kept all medical equipments—including medicine for patients. Reaching back to the depths of the lower shelf, your hand brought out a non-descriptive black pouch from its hiding. You sat beside Spencer, effectively communicating that you are both on the same level.

“I will approve your return for duty as long as you come back for a couple of sessions, not FBI contracted, strictly confidential, and you—” handing him the zipped pouch before continuing on. “—get drug tested.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he knew that his unit chief and mentor kept the delicate nature of his case out of the bureau and wondered how you pieced everything together. He underestimated you, you realized. A mistake on his end. 

“I’m a psychiatrist, I know the signs Dr. Reid, and besides, I’m a genius just like you,” you adjusted your posture, slightly leaning back. 

Check. 

He smiled, one that you could say no longer contained malice. It was instead filled with resignation and relief. “You’re right. I underestimated you, Dr. House.”

Standing up, you dusted imaginary lint from your black pencil skirt before extending your hand out for a handshake. 

He hesitated before reaching over shaking it once. His hands were rough and calloused from frequent holding of his gun but felt oddly warm and soothing. It represented who he was in your eyes—prickly and rough around the edges but soft and good on the inside.

As he exited your office with a soft thud of the door behind him, you admitted to yourself that you took a huge gamble. Rather than a checkmate, all you did was check his king. You didn’t ask if he had built his own stash of drugs after the case was finished. It was a risk you were willing to take just to take a step closer in getting the agent to trust you. Baby steps were better than nothing. You could work with that.

There was still the drug test you could rely on. A black and white piece of paper that would tell the truth if done at the right time. After all, the most important teaching your father, the older Dr. House, has imparted on you was—

Everybody lies.

The third meeting

The bar at the corner Main Street on a Friday night was a rare place for you to be. The echoes of its pulsing music could be heard a couple of shops away, luring bodies than the space could ever handle like it were Pied Piper and the people—by extension, you, were the unsuspecting kids. The lights were colored orange, giving the area a tint of good times and bad decisions. The aged brick walls discolored in a multitude of shades and the decorative posters were aimlessly nailed to the wall. There was a section far from the bar that was filled with moving bodies—people letting loose and exhibiting what you’d call a mating dance for anyone interested and beside the bar were two dart boards, popular with the crowd, but had seen better days. 

This wasn’t your usual scene as you excused your way to the bar tucked at the center space. It wasn’t due to snobbery, like what your friend Kyle once joked, it was preference.

The sticky floor beneath your sensible nude heels had you wishing that your feet were tucked in a soft blanket with mind numbing television playing in the background instead of navigating the throng of people holding their drink of choice and inhaling the musky scent of liquor and sweat.

“Haven’t seen you around here,” a tenor voice flirted from beside you.

Your eyebrow raised as you took in the source—a burly African-American with a buzzcut. There was something distinct about him that set him apart from the rest. It wasn’t his built or the way his grey shirt stretched to fit around his biceps. It also wasn’t the twinkle in his eye as he tried to entice you to flirt back. One of his hands drifted down to his waist and with his wide leg stance, you knew.

A cop. An off duty law enforcement officer.

You laughed. “Does that line usually work on women, especially from—” you paused for suspense. ”—a cop?”

“Okay,” the stranger chuckled. “Close, want to try again?”

A smile stretched your glossed pink lips. You were never one to back away from a challenge—it was one of the traits you inherited from the other Dr House.

“Well, if we’re basing it on where the bar is located nearby and my fifty percent guess from a while ago, I’d say you were a cop—maybe for a couple of years, before joining the FBI. Maybe counter terrorism—” the memory of Dr. Reid talking about his team found its way to the forefront of your mind. “—or by any chance, the BAU?”

He could no longer hide the surprise from his face. “Right, that’s right. What gave it away? Was it my ruggedly handsome looks or are you just a mind reader?”

You thanked the bartender before trying to find your way out of the surge of people behind you, clamoring to place their order. The stranger stretched out his muscular arms, guiding you away from the bar towards his booth.

“Just a mind reader,” you simplified—an action that came as second nature to you. In the past, when you would disclose your job as a psychiatrist, people would react in two ways. One, they’d get subconscious that you’d read into every body language they’d have, causing them to shy away or two, they’d become over-zealous and ask you to diagnose them all in good fun like it was some sort of magician’s trick.

A mop of light brown curly hair parked beside a long blonde hair caught your periphery. He had his back turned but it was a presence you’ve slowly started getting familiar with. It was Dr. Spencer Reid, out in the natural setting, a first.

Your eyes slowly widened as you realized where he was guiding you and who he might be. 

“Huh,” you uttered under your breath before flashing a smile to the stranger beside you. “Are you by any chance, Derek Morgan?”

“Okay, now you’re starting to freak me out. How’d you do that, Ms. Mind Reader?”

A different timber of voice answered. “It’s because I told her—” a pair of hazel eyes turned to you, filled with accusation. “—Dr. House. Are you keeping tabs on me?” 

“Dr. Reid, I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

He scoffed. “In a bar? Near my office? The statistics on seeing me here is actually surprisingly high.”

He was hostile, understandably so as here you were, a stranger, who knows his deepest, darkest secret mixing in with the otherwise innocent parties of his personal life. It was no harm, caused no click in your armor—he’d been cooperative as of the late within the confines of your office but seeing you beyond the four corners of your taupe walls threw him off the loop.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” the blonde woman beside Spencer, flashed you a smile, hand stretching out for a handshake. “I’m Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ.”

You shook her hand. “Ah, it’s great to meet you, Agent Jareau.” 

“So, how do you know Spence?”

You smiled, unsure on how to disclose your psychiatrist-patient relationship with someone he works with. You didn’t know how much his team members knew about his scheduled Saturday meetings with you or if they even knew at all what Dr. Reid was going through.

From the past appointments, you’ve categorized the agent as an anxious avoidant type—something geniuses who grew up in a non-secure household tend to share. Yourself, included.

Your eyes glanced at Spencer before drifting towards the table behind him, subtly trying to figure out his choice of drink. You hoped it was non-alcoholic. He’d be suffering from withdrawals and if he clung to a substitute vice, you’d have to find a roundabout way to tackle the issue without pushing him to close off again. You didn’t need that, he was just starting to open up after all, plus if he stopped cooperating, you’d have no choice but to bring it up to his supervisors, jeopardizing his career. 

A clear glass came into view as he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other.

Water. It was water.

You breathed a sigh of relief before slowly panning up, locking eyes with Dr. Reid. His gaze narrowed, having understood what you were checking on.

Checkmate.

“She’s FBI’s contracted psychiatrist,” he explained, jaw tight from anger. 

You flashed him a little smile before averting your eyes in chagrin.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you look a little to young to be a licensed doctor,” Agent Jareau observed. 

“I graduated early.”

Morgan’s left hand pats your back while the other pats Dr. Reid’s. “Another genius, then. You’d get along great with our pretty boy over here. He’s always going on and on about facts and statistics—��

“No offense Morgan, but I don’t think we’d get along at all,” Spencer sneered. “I’d rather not get to know someone who has an ulterior motive.”

Your hand tightened around your glass. “It’s great to meet you, Agent Jareau and Agent Morgan but I think my friends would be looking for me,” you flashed the young agent a dejected smile. “Dr. Reid, hope to see you again soon.”

“I don’t,” he sardonically replied.

You nodded once before turning back to where you friends would be, settled in the four seater booth, unaware that you may have just burned the rocky bridge you’ve built with a patient in need. 

The fourth meeting

A warbled hum roused you from slumber. 

With one eye straining to stay open, the digital clock on your dresser displayed 12:21. Midnight—the time for humans to all be in stupor but based on the humming, subdued underneath your pillow, there was one exception.

You sat up, blindly reaching for the phone. There was no programmed name for the number and right away, an eerie feeling started swirling in your gut. This was no social call. A call this hour could only be one thing, an emergency.

“Hello. Who is this?” Your voice still rough from sleep.

No answer. 

You pressed the phone closer to your ear, hard enough to possibly leave a mark. There were light rustles on the other end that indicated a presence, a person that wouldn’t or couldn’t answer your inquiry.

“Hello,” you tried again, voice raising at the end from tension. “Is anyone there?”

There was silence. The dread in your stomach further worsening as if group of bats decided to wreak havoc in its dark crevices. There was no indication that this was a prank call and there was also no indication that it wasn’t. 

You bit your lip, torn between hanging up and waiting for an existence to make itself known. It could be nothing or it could be—your train of thought suddenly taking a sharp left turn to the corner that a certain FBI agent unknowingly occupies. You had given him your number, having scrawled it at the back of your calling card during the very first meeting, purely out of the goodness of trying to put back the broken genius that graced and intrigued your doors.

“Dr. Spencer Reid?” You hesitantly asked, hoping that your intuition was wrong. That this wasn’t the agent calling for help.

A deep groan answered.

“Oh gods,” you breathed out. “Okay, okay. Just—shit, just stay on the line. I’m coming, I swear. Just—fuck.” Your feet scrambled out of the apartment, never mind the lights or the chill that the midnight had cloaked the air with.

It was your worst nightmare. You knew what this call was, you knew his state on the other side of the phone by experience.

Hands trembling as you started the ignition of your car and speedily backing up the parking lot and out the streets in little time. 

“Spencer,” formality be damned at this point as you turned a sharp right, your GPS indicating 8 minutes away from destination. “Spencer, are you still there?” 

A light rustle replied. 

“I’m almost there, hang on for me, okay,” your hand letting go of the steering wheel to push the tousled hair away from your face.

Each second felt like an eternity, each time passed threatened to push your mind into the fog of panic and memory of your very own father taking a whole bottle of Oxycodone and leaving a message for you and your grandmother. The panic, the fear, and the dread of that very moment had come back in two folds.

Your clammy fingers leaving pinch marks on the back of your palm. “Not now, not now,” you whispered to yourself. “I can’t have an attack now, keep it together.” 

“Dr. House,” Spencer gravely slurred.

You haphazardly parked the car at the nearest available sidewalk space, uncaring if by some miracle you get ticketed. “I’m here, Spencer. I’m here.”

There was a groan as you hurriedly ran up the apartment stairs, grateful that the security below was surprisingly lax.

Third floor, get to the third floor. I need to get to the third floor—you repeated under your breath. You could have called an ambulance or better yet his team member, SSA Derek Morgan, but you felt the urge to make sure he was alright. To make him see that someone else besides from his mother and team care about him. To make him see that life was worth living, no matter the good or the bad.

“Spencer, I’m outside your door,” you tried to catch your breath. “Do you think you could let me in?”

And for a few seconds, there was only the tense silence before a series of gasps and groans crescendo’ed louder and louder from the phone speaker and on the other side of the door. 

Shit. You knew what those grunts of pain and pleas meant, he was seizing.

Slamming down on the ground, uncaring if your exposed knees get bruised, you sent a silent thank you to your past self for leaving a hair pin inside the pockets of your sleep shorts. Breaking and entering was yet another skill set you learned from the other Dr House and his team of skilled doctors, you just never imagined you’d be applying that knowledge in breaking and entering a federal agent’s home. 

The door unlocked and you barreled your way to the living space where a frightful sight greeted you—Spencer on the floor, laying still as if he was peacefully sleeping.

“No, no, no,” you slid beside him, mind cataloguing every detail for the right action. An empty needle near his exposed right arm and an empty glass bottle of Dilaudid.

No rise and fall of the chest.

And no pulse. Medical training kicking in, you tilted his head up, clearing the pathway, and started chest compressions.

One. Two. Three—

“C’mon, Spencer, breathe,” you grunted in between pumps.

One. Two. Three. Four—

You leaned down to his chapped lips, blowing air to his mouth. “I need you to breathe for me, okay. Breathe, Spencer.” 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five—

“Breathe, c’mon Spencer,” you knew there was a high probability for the agent to have his own stash of narcotics and in by agreeing to keep his secret, lest he loses his badge, to get him to open up was a gamble. A risk you were now regrettably paying for.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six—

“Dammit Spencer, I could lose my license for this. Breathe, I need you to breathe.”

A sputtering of coughs escaped his lips.

“Oh thank you, thank you,” you breathed out, arms sagging from the pressure of performing CPR and the weight of fear that you might have been too late. 

Spencer groaned. “Dr. House?”

You nodded, the salty tears blurring your vision. The image of him lying still was burned into your memory, the same way the mirage of your own father lying in a pool of his own vomit. He’s alive—they’re both alive.

Your hands angrily erased the rivulets the tears left behind on your cheeks. Now wasn’t the time to give in to relief and emotion. Although Spencer was out of the woods, there was still a huge uphill battle to tackle. 

“I’ll carry you to bed, lean your weight on me,” you huffed as you helped him up the floor, making sure to take in most of his weight that you could.

The form of you, tears still streaming down your face and steps away from a breakdown, and his hunched form, weak and pliant, was a sight to behold. It was a sight after battle—after the white flag had been waved and the injured tying their best to find their way back to life.

It was sad. It was hopeful.

It was a brush on humanity’s eternal friend, death. Death that still loomed in the corners of the apartment, biding his time to take what was promised.

You laid him gently on the bed before running back to the spied kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. The smell of books permeated the air as if to try and bring your panicked mind back to the present. If it were any other day, you would have found yourself perusing his shelves of eclectic classic literature but this wasn’t the right time and place.

Your bare feet sliding across the floor to make its way back to the groaning figure on the bed, threatening to sit up.

“No,” you tapped his shoulder to get him back down. “I need you to rest.” 

“But—”

“No buts Spencer. Rest, I’ll stay here.” 

His drooping eyes reading yours, trying to find any type of lie that would break his being further than it already was. Spencer was a broken man and this was the first time you could see written in his eyes his plea for help and company. “You promise?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” 

His hands blindly groping across the bed spread before it found the treasure it was searching for, your hand. He enveloped his with yours, calloused fingers intertwining with smooth. A contrast that brought him comfort—you were here. You were real. You felt safe. You saved him.

He was alive.

And with that, his eyes closed to fall into a peaceful slumber, one that he hadn’t had in months. 

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[shadowuponstorm]

He is Nothing Like You

Tim and Reader have been secretly married for three years, which has done them good, considering the risks of Tim's occupation. One day, while Tim was on shift, he never expected his secrets to start ripping at the seams and spill onto the floor.

MDNI 18+ since it involves sexual activities! I might do a second part

"I've been meaning to ask you, what's the ring around your neck?" Lucy asks, trying to break the silence in the shop.

"Not that it's any of your business, but it's just a ring to me, no specific meaning," Tim responds while silently praying Lucy would end the conversation there, "Also it's safer if it's around my neck than on my finger."

"Grey wears his wedding band, and you don't see him having any trouble with it," Lucy mentions as Tim chuckles and reminds her that Luna would kill him if he ever took his ring off.

"Just let it go and focus on other important things, like that carjacker right there," Tim said, causing Lucy to jerk her attention back in front of her as he stopped the shop and the both of them get to work.

Once the carjacker was booked and processed, Tim and Lucy were on their way to get back on the road when Grey stopped them with a, "Bradford, my office real quick."

Lucy asks, "What is that all about?" Tim responds, "I don't know, just wait by the shop. I'll be there when I'm finished."

Tim enters Grey's office to see his wife, Y/N, sitting in one of the chairs. "She doesn't look pleased about something," Tim thought to himself before Grey excused himself to let the couple talk privately.

-Y/N's POV-

"Is everything okay?" Tim asked me while I got up from the seat to stand in front of him before I ask him, "Do you remember telling me when we first started dating that your dad died?"

Tim gulps before clearing his throat and answered, "Yes, why are you bringing that up?"

"I was cleaning the house up when the phone rang. It was a hospice nurse calling for you because Tom Bradford was asking for you," I responded before continuing, “Thinking it was the wrong number, I called Genny to ask her what was happening. She told me I needed to have that conversation with you."

Before Tim could answer me, Grey popped his head in to remind Tim about an old case regarding a family friend, Monica Ochoa.

"Do you need to go? I'm not mad. I'm just so confused," I said before Tim turned his head towards Grey and told him he was still on it before turning his attention back to me.

"I'll explain it later, I promise," Tim responds before I nod. Understanding his tone's urgency, I told him I'd be waiting with Kojo at home.

Hours passed before I heard the doorknob jiggle; Kojo had heard it since he had jumped off the couch to run to the door and greet Tim.

"Hey bud," I hear Tim say as his footsteps start toward the living room, bringing him into view.

"Hi," I say as Tim takes a seat next to me before he takes my hands in his.

"I haven't been honest with you about everything, and I am truly sorry. It wasn't fair of me to let you get whiplash from finding out I lied about my dad being dead," Tim responds as I notice tears brimming in his eyes, making me take my hands back and put one of them on his cheek, running my thumb along the bone.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I meant what I said. I'm not mad at you," I whisper, reassuring him before he sighs and responds, "I know, but it still wasn't right of me. So, I want to tell you everything."

"Okay," I say as Tim clears his throat to mention, "The reason I told you he was dead is because he's dead to me. He was abusive. To me and Genny, mostly me."

Before I can ask, he says, "When I was 7, he smashed my head into a wall. Another time, he left me at Griffith Park with only a compass to find my way home, said it's supposed to turn me into a man."

"Tim," I croak out before tears started to fall down my cheeks, "Now I feel bad that you had to reopen those wounds."

"No, no, don't you dare blame yourself," Tim said as he wiped the tears before continuing, "I should've been honest from the get-go, but instead, I wanted to keep that part of my past secret to spare you from the pain. And it was about time I told you since I have to see him."

"You don't need to see him if you don't want to. Don't let this hospice situation guilt you," I respond before Tim shook his head and told me it had to do with the Ochoa case.

"I think he had something to do with it; now I have to face him," Tim says, looking like the little boy who just wanted his dad's love, which prompts me to ask, "Want me to come with you?"

"No, you don't have to. I wouldn't force you," Tim started to say before I cut him off, "I want to. You're my husband, and my vows stated that I will be by your side for every obstacle in your path."

"Okay," Tim whispered as the both of us exited the house hand in hand, preparing to battle this demon together.

We arrived at the facility and entered the room to see my father-in-law lying in his hospital bed.

"Oh, man. Never thought I'd see your face again. Genny tell you to visit?" Tom says as I squeeze Tim's hand harder in comfort.

"Wow, liver really did a number on you, old man," Tim responds before Tom tells him he doesn't have it so bad.

"Nurses here all love me. It's just no one will bring me that shot of Patron I keep asking for," Tom says as he jesters toward the apple juice, saying it's a joke.

"A cruel joke if you ask me," I thought before glancing at Tim's face to see he thinks the same.

"You always seem to have someone looking after you, even when you don't deserve it," Tim responds, squeezing back my hand.

"Something on your mind, son?" Tom asked, clearly wanting this to be done and over with.

"Remember Frank Ochoa? Lived down the street. Shot to death 25 years ago. Well, I'm sure you remember his wife, Monica," Tim responds.

"Can't say I do," Tom deflects, obvious sign that he does remember.

"Come on. You were sleeping with her behind Mom's back," Tim says, making Tom laugh, and he asks where he got that from. Tim mentions that he saw the two of them together when he was 13.

"Oh, crap," Tom says before Tim continues, "For some reason that I still don't understand, I lied for you, lied to Mom."

"Poor little Tim-Tim," Tom degrades before spouting out, "What are you bitching about? You kept your mouth shut. You did good. Now get over it."

I feel my blood start to boil in anger at the audacity, the disrespect this son of a bitch in front of me had for the man I plan to spend forever with and have children with, but I keep quiet because he seems to not care about my presence.

"You know, I found the gun that you hid in the wall. I know you killed Frank. But why'd you do it? You wanted Monica all to yourself?" Tim asked before continuing, "Ruining one family wasn't just enough for you, was it?"

Tom takes his cannula out before getting off the bed and walking towards us. "And so what if I did?" What are you gonna do about it?"

"Get back in bed," Tim grits out as he moves me to stand more behind him for safety reasons, prompting Tom to challenge him with a "Make me."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. You're right. I killed Frank. But he had it coming. So screw him, and screw you," Tom says before telling Tim to put the cuffs on him and drag him away from his deathbed like a big man.

"This isn't over," Tim responds as he grabs my hand again, and we both leave Tom's room.

"I'm sorry. You shouldn't have heard all of that," Tim whispers before entering the truck, "I have to get to the station and type up that report. I'll drop you off at home before I do."

"No, take me with you, it would save gas," I said as I explained to Tim it wouldn't make sense to do that.

After arriving at the station, Tim heads to one of the computers while I follow him. I glance over to see his rookie, Lucy, walking over.

"My dad confessed to Frank Ochoa's murder. I'm typing up the report," Tim tells Lucy as she looks at me before gesturing there were ears listening, "She's my wife, she knows."

"Wait, wife?! As in ring on the finger?" Lucy asked in shock as I raised my left hand to show her my wedding band, "We'll get to that later, but Tim, while you were gone, I brought Monica Ochoa back in."

"Why?" Tim asks as Lucy explains, "Because I knew there was more to her story. You couldn't see past the version that you wanted to see."

"What'd she say?" Tim asks again, before Lucy tells him what was confessed.

The look on Tim's face tells me we're going straight back to that hospice facility. We walk back into the room and see Tom snoring in the chair, so Tim places the shot glass and pours Patron before placing the bottle on the table, waking Tom up.

"You brought me a present?" Tom asks before Tim tells him to think of it as a push.

"You didn't kill Frank," Tim says as Tom repeats that he did and tells Tim to cuff him, "Monica confessed."

"Leave her out of this," Tom responds.

"Frank was beating her. She fought back. She shot him. She was terrified, so she ran to you. You came up with the burglary story, helped her stage the house, then you hid the gun in case the cops got too close and you needed to frame someone else," Tim says.

"He was a brutal, abusive bastard. She deserves a medal for what she did," Tom responds, making me and Tim look at him in shock.

"He was an abusive bastard?" Tim asked, testing Tom for what came out of his mouth.

Feigning confusion that was fake, Tom asked if he was like him, which prompted him to say he was nothing like Frank.

"I taught you what you needed to know, son. You're a man now because of me," Tom says before I finally let my voice be heard.

"No, absolutely not. You are not getting credit for how Tim turned out," I gritted through my teeth as Tom looked at me with disdain before asking me who I was, "I happen to be the woman your son is going to spend the rest of his life with. I'll be damned if I stand by and let his piece of shit father try to take what's rightfully his credit. You deserve nothing of the sort, he's nothing like you and he will never be like you."

"Tim, you're going to let your wife speak to me this way?" Tom asked before Tim scoffed and responds, "She's right. I'm who I am in spite of you."

As Tom sits there stunned, Tim says, "Goodbye, Dad. I hope it hurts."

We left the facility without looking back, and after we arrived home, I suddenly felt my body being moved to where my back faced the door and I craned my neck up to look into Tim's eyes.

"Thank you," Tim whispers as I look at him in confusion, "Thank you for being by my side for that. I know it wasn't easy, but you were right. I needed you there with me."

"You don't have to thank me for that, I will always be there for you," I say before Tim smiles and leans down to kiss me.

After kissing for what felt like minutes, Tim moves his mouth to be near my ear and he whispers, "I'm also really turned on by you defending me."

I laugh before asking, "Oh are you? What are you going to do about it?"

I feel Tim's hands move down to my ass before I squeak out in surprise as he hoists me up, causing me to wrap my legs around his waist and feel the outline of his dick through his jean.

"I think I'm going to give my beautiful wife a thank-you gift," Tim whispers before moving towards our bedroom and putting me down on the bed.

"Tim, you don't have to," I started to protest before he cuts me off, "Just let me do it, you deserve it."

My attention gets grabbed while I watch his hands curl around the collar of his shirt before he pulls it up off his body, which, I feel myself start to drool over my husband's abs. His hands then moved to his belt to unbuckle it before he walk up to me and get down on his knees so he can be on the same level as me. Tim pulls me into another kiss, one more passionate than the last, as I feel his hands unbutton my jeans before he pulls the materials down to my ankles to take them off, leaving me in my black panties. He then positions my body to lean back against the pillows before he moves himself to be above me, Tim asks, "Is this okay?"

Not trusting my voice, I nodded my head before Tim's fingers curled around the sides of the panties as he started pulling them down. He groans out in pleasure as he changes his position, his shoulders in between my thighs, keeping my legs where he wants them to be, his hands near the area I yearn for him to pay attention to. I shivered when I felt his breath before he placed his mouth on me, causing me to let out a shuttered moan. When I felt myself getting close, Tim pulled away, causing me to groan out in frustration, making him laugh.

"The only way you're cumming is around my dick," Tim whispered in my ear as he gets himself out of his pants and boxers while he pushes my shirt up to above my chest, showing the matching black bra.

The both of us let out a groan as Tim enters me and starts to thrust, his dick hitting all the right places. After minutes passed, the both of us came and Tim's body moves to his side of the bed as I tell him that was a great gift, making him he let out a soft laugh.

"Glad to be of service," Tim says getting out of bed and putting on clean boxers and pajama pants before he goes to the bathroom to grab a washcloth to clean me up.

After Tim cleaned me up and helped me get dressed, he got back into the bed to pull me into him so we can cuddle.

"Tim?" I said after a moment of silence, causing him to say, "Yeah?"

"I have something for you," I respond before reaching over into my nightstand and pulling out a small box, "I was going to give you this later, but now feels right."

Tim opens the box and pulls out a onesie that says, "My daddy will arrest you if you mess with me."

"Babe, this is perfect for our future baby," Tim responds before he felt his voice stop short when he sees what else is in the box, reaching in to pull out the pregnancy test, "Are you really?"

"Yes, I found out two weeks ago, you're going to be a dad, Tim," I said as Tim pulled me into a tight embrace before kissing the top of my head, "And you're going to be the best dad, I just know it."

"I love you so much," Tim whispers before pulling me into the most loving kiss a girl could ask for.

Tim may have had the worst pick in the dad potluck, but no doubt in my mind he will never treat our children the way Tom treated him and Genny.

[angelltheninth]

Hey I got into arcane recently. The art is just so goooooood. A feast for the eyes really. And everyone is hot like… help. Anyway, sorry for this loser request, but if you haven’t already can you do arcane characters with a virgin fem partner please

Loser request? I really hope that the loser part isn't that the virgin part, because I will have you know Anon that I am no loser. I am on my way to becoming a wizard!

Pairing: Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn Kiramman, Maddie Nolen, Ekko, Vander, Silco, Sevika, Viktor, Jayce, Mel x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, kissing, virginity loss, gentle sex, praise, cunnilingus, size kink, fingering, orgasm encouragement, aftercare

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: I'm also asexual so my chances of becoming a wizard are higher than your average persons. Only a few more years and I can be a better version of Harry Potter! Chat please tell me you know the meme I'm referencing and I don't sound like I'm crazy.

Was surprised for sure

She doesn't exactly have a ton of experience either but she has some

Can't say she's not excited about taking your virginity

Literally vibrates with excitement and anticipation of having sex with you and being the first one to make you come

At least as orgasms that are given by someone else that is, she would like to watch you fuck yourself sometime

Gets pussydrunk so easily, her grin smug and eyes literally shimmering

Really into making you ride her face, as you will learn over the course of your first night together

Has so much stamina that you can never even hope to keep up with but she never expected you to

Flattered that she could make you come just with her tongue

But wants to work on your stamina in the future

At first she thinks that she should tease you about it

Then she thinks better of it, since it's not exactly something to be ashamed of, she didn't mean anything bad by her teasing either

It's just... she knows she's not your first girlfriend, so how come you never had sex before

Nerves, well in that case she'll go slow with you, make sure you're not overwhelmed by her

Enthusiastic as she is she holds back, her fingers spreading you open slowly, only pushing them in a bit and then stopping fully

Doesn't stop talking dirty to you, grinning smugly when she feels your pussy tightening around her fingers

Likes it when you're flustered around her, not when you're uncomfortable

Cocky for sure, especially when she manages to make you come and didn't even need to touch your clit to do it

If she did she would have overstimulated you, you were already shaking so much

Keeps assuring you that you don't need to return the favor, but would love it if you do

Been a while since she slept with a virgin so she's actually a little nervous as well

Romantic dates, candle lights, relaxing baths, a massage, she pulls out every trick in the book to make it the best night ever

There's a lot of soft touching and affirmations from her

Has to battle a smile when you're blushing because she's making you feel good

Asks what makes you feel good when you're doing it by yourself and tries to do the same

Experimenting can come later, she wants to make your first time a nice experience, a memorable experience

Kisses down your body, almost like she's worshiping you

Seeing you sopping wet for her definitely helps her know she's doing a good job before she dives forward to eat you out

Tells you to pull her hair a lot, she won't mind

Keeps saying how pretty you are, how beautiful your moans sounds, how she wants to be the only one you moan for from now on

Feels really happy and excited that you'd trust her enough to be the first person to sleep with

Very touchy with you, not just as she's undressing you but in general, so it doesn't feel like it's too much when she guides you to the bed

Grinning she pulls you into a deep kiss and wraps her arms around you to press you against her, thighs sliding between each other

She guids your hips to move against her thigh, chuckling when she feels how slick you're making it

Kisses you the whole time because it's her favorite thing to do and because she knows it'll calm you

Doesn't go for penetration for your first time

But really wants you to sit on her face and to fuck you with her tongue

Subtly writes her name on your clit

Won't rush you into an orgasm, she lets you chase it on your own, her hands soothing against your trembling thighs

Post-orgasm cuddles are some of her favorite things so don't think this will be a one time thing

Before you told him you were a virgin he was a lot more relaxed

Now he feels a kind of pressure on himself to make your first time good

His first time was a quickie and not that memorable at all

So as your boyfriend he wants to give you a better experience and make sure you remember it for the rest of your life

Teases you to cover up his own nerves

He talks to you a lot, particularly when he's getting ready to push his cock into you

Before he does he does warn you that it can be painful but it won't last long

Shakes while pushing his cock into you, he really wants to fuck you but he's holding himself back, he's being considerate of you

Keeps his thrusts slow, smiling down at you before he pulls you into a gentle kiss, telling you how good you feel around him

Leaves it up to you if he pulls out or not

Genuinely surprised, so surprised he drops a glass and it breaks

Doesn't think you should be embaressed by it at all

Some people take a lot of time to feel safe and comfortable to be intimate with others

He's actually pretty flattered that you want him to be the one who took your virginity

Knows he's on the bigger size in terms of dick size so he really doesn't expect you to be able to take all of him, maybe half if you're lucky

It can be too much for your first time

You can just make up for it by giving him a really nice handjob

Pulls you onto his lap and wants to cuddle you afterwards, he was always pretty protective and caring towards you

Now that he's your lover you can expect that his protective tendencies will get even stronger

Surprised when you want to go again so soon but he won't argue with you

Had a feeling you were inexperienced but he didn't want to say anything

Then you might feel pressured into having sex with him and that's the last thing he wants

Besides if he was only after sex then he could get it easily

He wants more than just a one night stand, by now you know that he cares about you and wants this to be a serious relationship

Just because he's serious about this doesn't mean he can take the day off

Actually he thinks it might be better if happens spontaneously

His cock is rock hard when he pulls you onto his lap when you tease him in his office

You need to learn that there are consequences for your actions

Keeps his hand on your mouth as he fucks his cock into you, it would be bad if you were interrupted for your first time and you don't get that orgasm you've been so desperate for

From this moment on he expects you to be at his full disposal and he will be at yours, naturally, there's a lot you still need to learn about pleasuring a man like him

Tries to hold back her cocky smirk but she just can't, oh this is too good, a hot lady like you and no one's fucked you yet

Just means she gets to be the first one to show you how good sex can be

After she's done with you there won't ever be anyone else that'll be able to satisfy you like she could

Has to brag about her skills but won't make fun of you for your lack of skills

Offers to do it in the 69 position so you can mimic her movements

The best way to teach is a hands on method, or in this case the mouth and tongue on

Even though your own movements are a little clumsy and you can't focus all that well you still try to follow her lead the best you can and believe her she loves that hard working side of you

Smokes after sex, that's a habit at this point

But the catch is that she smokes after really good sex so you should take that as the highest of compliments

How soon can you go again because she would love to keep you going all night long

Well he doesn't have much experience to speak off either

So you can both learn new things, you don't have to be nervous around him

Gets hard for you really easily and has to focus to keep himself from coming too soon

Usually this isn't a problem for him but you've been the object of his fantasies and dreams many times before, he hopes this isn't another one of those fantasies

But the moment he pushes his finger inside of you he's convinced it's real, it feels right, to pleasure you, to love you

Keeps rubbing his cock while fingering you, he wants to show you he's just as eager and excited for this as you are

He moves really damn fast when he finally pushes his cock into your pussy, he can't help himself, he can't hold back, it's almost overwhelming

After he feels your inner walls pulsing and massaging his cock he slows down just a little

Not fully slow, but enough to get some control over himself

Doesn't want you get you pregnant on your first night together but in the future you can discuss such things

Almost comes in his pants from excitement

Now that would be embarrassing, for him not for you, he bets you'd love to see that

Someday maybe you will but for now he wants to focus on your pleasure not his

Eats you out like he's been starving for eternity

You have to push him away to get him to stop, your juices dripping from his mouth and into his beard, making it all shiny

Kisses your thighs, covers them with kisses and bites actually, same with your pussy

His eyes roll back when he bottoms out inside of you, he honestly didn't think you'd want all of him for your first time but you were very determined

That determination should be rewarded

He has always been the giver, he loves making his lover feel pleasure, especially if he's the first one to do that for her

You won't escape his arms when he wraps them around you from behind, pampering the back of your neck and shoulders with lazy, appreciative kisses after sex

You should have told her this information sooner, then she wouldn't have flirted with you so hard

Not that she regrets having you naked in her bed or anything like that, the opposite is true, she thinks she should have given you more time to fall into her bed

But if you're still sure you want to do this with her tonight then she will be more than happy to give you pleasure until the Sun rises

Always had a way with words and praise is no different

She might be three fingers deep in your pussy and making you squirt but she'll be damned if she'll stop talking about how sexy you are or how lucky she feels tonight

Never been much of a cuddler, she was always very guarded, but this is a special occasion

Of course she'll let you return the favor

Don't worry about clumsiness or anything like that, just do what feels right, do what makes you feel good

Trust that she'll tell you if it doesn't feel good

She doesn't really do one night stands but she also doesn't sleep over at other people's places a lot, so if you want to do this again you're gonna have to make your intentions clear next time

[pejite]

Hi! Today, I’m sharing a list of mods that I consider essential for playing historical gameplay in The Sims.

I often have friends who want to dive into the Decades Challenge but aren’t sure which mods to use or where to start. So, in this post, I’m going to share the mods I personally use and think are indispensable for creating that authentic historical experience.

Deaderpool's MC Command Center: This mod allows you to manage and modify many aspects of your game, including handling pregnancies, university careers, and enabling teen relationships so your Sims can marry earlier, among other features. You can also enable autosave and adjust the length of a Sim day.

Lumpinou's RPO: This mod enhances relationship dynamics and expands pregnancy features. It's extensive, with many modules, and once you've tried it, you won't want to play without it.

Pandasama's Realistic Childbirth: Offers multiple realistic childbirth options, including natural bed births and spontaneous labour, adding depth to your Sims' family lives.

MizoreYukii's Arranged Marriages: Allows you to arrange marriages for convenience. Parents can agree on marriages for their children, but breaking the arrangement won’t be easy.

Necrodog's Carriages and Horses: Adds functional carriages, enhancing immersion. While it doesn't work with the horses of Horse Ranch pack, it’s still incredibly useful.

Kuttoe's Enlist in War: It will allow your Sims to enlist in the war. Whether they live or die will be random, but if they survive, they'll receive the Veteran trait, a lifetime pension and some lasting traumas.

JaneSimsten's Regency Romance: Perfect for simulating the Regency era. It adds class differences, property ownership, etiquette skills, new traits and careers, events, and widowhood. Though inspired by the Regency era, it works well for later decades too.

SimKatu's Reading Animation Override: Changes the reading animations, with different ones for men and women, making your Sims’ reading time more immersive.

Zero's Deadly Dickensian Sicknesses: Introduces the risk of diseases like Tuberculosis, Typhoid Fever, and Cholera. It’s incredibly realistic with its contagion system.

Adeepindigo's Healthcare Redux: A comprehensive health mod that adds various illnesses and treatments, including tuberculosis and (early access) cancer. While Sims can buy modern medicines, many illnesses can be cured with natural remedies.

Adeepindigo's Simulated Endings: This mod will enhance everything related to your Sims' deaths, allowing them to take out life insurance and designate beneficiaries, arrange funeral preparations, and introduce stages of grief for your Sims.

MizoreYukii's Functional Broom: Adds a functional broom with its own animation, letting you keep your Sims’ homes clean without resorting to modern vacuums.

Triplis's Quit or Join School: In case you need your teens or childs to quit school.

The Kalino's Farm Animal Set: Expands your farm with more animals, including goats, sheep, ducks and more, in addition to the standard cows and chickens.

JaneSimsten's Write With Quills: Replaces your Sims' pens with quills, adding a touch of historical accuracy.

JaneSimsten's Sidesaddle Override: Allows female Sims to ride horses sidesaddle, as they would have in the past.

JaneSimsten's Parchment Computer: Replaces modern computers with parchment and quills, complete with their own animations—perfect for pre-typewriter eras.

Frankk's Language Barriers: More realism to sims being from different worlds.

Rs4ella's 1920s Grade School Homework Override: Changes the look of the kids' homework book to a 1920s style, but it works well for earlier periods too.

Xbrilliantsims's Toddler Bathtime Overrides: Replaces modern bath toys and sponges with more era-appropriate items when bathing toddlers.

Lunamoth's Historical Infant Carriers: Swaps out modern baby carriers for fabric slings, suitable for any historical era.

Lunamoth's Rope Pet Leash: Replaces the modern pet leash with a simple rope, making it look more appropriate for historical gameplay.

300yearschallenge's Historical Baby Bath Override: Changes the baby bath seat to a more suitable design, or you can opt for

Sassymissollie's Invisible Infant Bath Seat to remove it entirely.

JaneSimsten's 5 Day Work Week: Choose Your Own Work Hours: Lets you adjust your Sims' work schedules for a more realistic experience.

JaneSimsten's Marksmanship Skill: Adds a marksmanship skill, allowing your Sims to practise shooting and hunting, with the hunted animals available for cooking.

Littlbowbub's Ye Olde Cookbook: Enables your Sims to cook historical dishes, perfect for low-income Sims in older settings.

Basemental's Basemental Drugs: Although mainly known for adding drugs, it’s commonly used for its smoking features, letting your Sims smoke cigarettes and cigars like a proper Victorian gentleman.

MizoreYukii's Children/Toddlers Can Die of Anything: Allows your child Sims to die, useful if your storyline requires it.

Ayoshi's Phone to Notebook Replacement Mod: If phone elimination mods are causing issues, this mod might help. It replaces the mobile phone with a small notebook, which could pass for a mini Bible or an old-fashioned notebook.

JaneSimsten's Extra Cross-Stitch Patterns: Adds historically accurate cross-stitch patterns.

[pillow-coded]

To Have and to Hold — Chapter 1

Summary: finding a lost toddler's mother in the library wasn’t how Spencer expected to spend his afternoon. Later, when her mother arrives—panicked, breathless, and beautiful—Spencer starts to forget how to breathe. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Brief depiction of a lost child, mild panic from a parent, emotional vulnerability word count: 5.3k

A/N: This is the first work I had the guts to post (genuinely scared lol), slow updates! (so sorry, but uni is killing me), and lastly, English isn't my native language, so please do let me know if i got any grammar mistakes! (also not proofread cause i'm too embarrassed to show any of my friends)

Series Masterlist

Libraries have always been a great comfort for me. It’s a place full of knowledge, warmth, peace. Maybe it’s the smell of old books and how I can easily link that smell to the amiable parts of my childhood.

Those Autumn nights when everything was fine, where my wires were still intact. Mom was doing well back then. She’d read to me those old books she collected from all her years of teaching. That’s how I saw them back then... Old, decrepit books that contained the most fun stories... At least, I found them fun. Like Shakespeare’s Tales Retold – child-friendly versions of Shakespeare’s works.

Nowadays, they’re more than just fond stories or old books. Those books are relics and a memory of when my mother was... well, more lucid.

What I loved most about libraries was the quietness of it all. I spent a couple of hours of my day when I could, basking in the quiet. It was nice not to have to hear the gruesome details of some innocent woman murdered in cold blood.

Days like these only made the quietness feel even better. Soft Autumn day, nearing Winter already. We had just come back from a tough case, children were involved. Thankfully, we managed to get on time.

I had watched that boy while JJ tried to talk to him, trying to understand what had happened to him. He was barefoot, his hair disheveled, and he looked achingly thin. We later found that the boy’s parents held a “discipline ring.” According to his parents, it was a “behavior modification” experiment—one they claimed was “research-backed,” designed to “train” their child into being the perfect prodigy. The boy was denied food, affection, and even basic care when he disobeyed. But worse? The parents live-streamed it all on private forums for a group of like-minded “disciplinarians.”

It didn’t matter that we caught his parents. That the live-stream was shut down. That the others in that so-called “discipline ring” were going to prison. None of it mattered when he looked up at me with those eyes—hollow but obedient. Like love was something he still thought he had to earn.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone more than I hated those people.

I’ve done a lot of pretending in my life. Pretended I wasn’t scared. Pretended I wasn’t lonely. Pretended I didn’t want a family of my own. But that boy—he didn’t know how to pretend. He didn’t know how to fake normal. He just waited patiently in that hospital bed for someone to love him back.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, which is why I had decided to come to the library instead of resting after the case like a normal person. I needed a moment of peace, a moment of quiet.

That moment of quietness was rudely interrupted—torn apart by high-pitched, desperate sobbing. I turn to my left, and there's a girl at the end of the long corridor full of bookcases. A tiny one at that, since the whole corridor looked gigantic compared to her.

She couldn’t have been more than five, barely tall enough to brush the second shelf. A statistical outlier in this ocean of silence, suddenly very, very loud. There was something unsettling about how her tiny fists rubbed at her eyes. Children cried in a language everyone understood.

“Are you lost?” I ask hesitantly, not moving from my spot in the corridor. The little girl stops crying for a brief moment. Well, not stop, but slowed down. Her big eyes are still so full of fear and tears, but they open wide to look at me as if she hadn’t been expecting someone to help.

She doesn’t say anything.

Just looks at me—eyes still shimmering, lips trembling, chest stuttering around hiccuped sobs. She’s scared. That much is obvious. But it’s the way she clutches the fabric of her little coat that really gets me. Like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth right now.

I walk towards her. I'm not close—just close enough to show I’m not a threat. A non-threatening stranger in a cardigan and tie, kneeling among the books like I’m part of the furniture.

She stares, still trembling, still silent.

“It’s okay,” I murmur gently. “I’m not going to come closer unless you want me to. I just want to help.”

Her little hand scrubs clumsily at her cheek. She sniffles, her shoulders curling inward. Still holding it in. Still trying to be brave.

Then, finally—after a moment that feels like something unspooling—she shakes her head. And her voice, when it comes, is a soft, crumpled thing:

“I can’t find my mommy.”

I nod, matching her quietness. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

A pause.

“I’ll help you find her, alright? No rush. We can check the kiddie section together. That’s probably where she’ll look first.”

I didn’t offer my hand. It felt like too much for both of us. Instead, I walked beside her, slow and steady, letting the silence settle between us like soft dust. She kept sniffling quietly the whole walk down.

I desperately needed a way to make the little cries stop.

“What's your name, sweetheart?” I asked softly.

She tilted her head back to look up at me—really look this time. She was so small she had to crane her neck to find my eyes. Her expression still carried that flicker of uncertainty, her trust not quite earned yet.

“I’m Spencer.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just stares for a second, like she’s still deciding whether I’m safe. Then, in the tiniest voice—barely above a whisper—she says:

“...Maddie.”

Maddie.

I nod, repeating it once under my breath to make it real.

“That’s a beautiful name, Maddie.”

She says nothing, but her fingers curl tighter around the hem of her coat. She’s still scared, but she’s not looking away anymore.

Progress.

I scan the rows of shelves ahead. The kiddie section’s not far now—colorful bean bags, tiny chairs, picture books splayed on wide tables.

“Do you like magic tricks, Maddie?”

She nods her tiny head, her eyes warming up to me at the thought.

I felt something in my stomach… I wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe yearning?

She nods—just once—and I see it. That flicker of trust, like a light turning on behind her eyes. Not quite safety, but something near it.

And something stirs in my stomach.

I don’t know what to call it. It’s not adrenaline, and it’s not fear. Maybe it’s yearning. Not for her, necessarily—but for what she has. What she’s lost. What she’s looking for.

For someone to come back for her.

For someone to call her name.

“Okay… how about I show you some magic tricks while we wait for your mommy to get here? that sound fun, Maddie?”

This time she nods enthusiastically. Her big eyes excited to see what sorcery I had planned to show her.

I dig the pocket of my pants, my movements slow and deliberate. I pull out a simple quarter. It’s nothing special. Just a plain, shiny quarter that for some reason, I’ve held on to for way longer than I should’ve.

“Behold,” I announce, holding it up between two fingers like it’s enchanted. “A perfectly ordinary quarter.”

She leans in, captivated—eyes locked on the coin like it’s something rare. A small smile starts to tug at her cheeks.

“It’s your everyday quarter,” I say, twirling the tiny thing between my fingers, doing my best to keep this unfamiliar girl comforted—as if her calm is the only thing keeping me steady.

“Watch closely.”

I place the coin on my open palm and slowly close my fingers around it. Then, with my free hand, I give the air above my fist a little wave—like I’m stirring something invisible.

“And now… it’s gone.”

I open my hand. Empty.

She gasps.

I see it—the way her mouth falls open, the way her eyes light up like I’ve just rewritten the rules of the universe.

I lean in, just a little. Not too close.

“Huh. That’s strange…” I murmur, pretending to look around her, behind her, above her. “Where could it have gone…?”

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, I reach behind her ear, and pull the coin free like I just plucked a star from the sky.

Her breath catches. She stares at the quarter in my fingers like it’s a miracle.

“It was behind your ear this whole time,” I whisper, grinning.

She beams at me, her fear momentarily forgotten. Her laughter is soft but real, bright and bubbly and innocent in a way that makes something sharp tug behind my ribs.

“Are you a sorcerer?” She asks, her big, curious eyes staring into my soul, trying to get answers out of me.

I blink, “A sorcerer?”

She nods, completely serious, “like the ones in Harry Potter.”

I chuckle fondly at her question, “Well… I don’t have a broom. Or a wand. Or an Owl.”

“But you made the coin vanish…” She pouts slightly, and although the sight of her minor pout was adorable, I would’ve given anything to see her smile again.

I didn’t know why. Maybe it was the case that had me feeling so fond of a child I just met. Maybe it got all the loose wires within me, all frayed and sparking from things I still hadn’t worked through. But there was something about this moment—this tiny human with tear-streaked cheeks and a Harry Potter reference—that made something ache deep in my chest.

I felt it so sharply it almost hurt.

This... this mattered.

And I hated how much I wanted it—interactions like this. Not just the comfort or the connection but the permanence. The possibility of something that was mine.

Kids of my own.

I glance down at her, still wide-eyed, still waiting for more magic. Her little hands twitch with excitement like she’s ready to believe anything I say.

“Yeah, but it’s only a magic trick, sweetheart,” I murmur, trying to offer the truth gently, without breaking the illusion. Without hurting her feelings.

But maybe I shouldn’t.

Maybe I should let her believe in it a little longer. Let her live in the dream. Give her what I wish someone had given me at that age—a reason to believe in wonder.

So I sigh, dramatically, like I’m about to confess something world-altering.

“Okay… you got me. But you can’t tell anyone, alright?”

She leans in, eyes shining.

“I’m actually a wizard.”

She gasps, delighted. A smile blooms across her face so fast it nearly knocks the air out of me.

“I knew it!” she squeals.

“Yeah, you did,” I grin back. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

She looks like she’s about to burst with thousands of questions. Eyes wide and shining with a special curiosity. I just hope her parent doesn’t murder me for fueling these wizard dreams that she has.

“Are you friends with Harry?”

I try my best to suppress a warm chuckle, but I can’t help the smile that shines through.

“Harry Potter?” She nodded so hard at my response that I worried her head might pop off. “Well… I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s mostly busy these days. But yes, we’ve met.”

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands, and this time, I couldn’t subdue the fond chuckles that her reactions got out of me.

“Can you show me more magic?”

I smile, helpless to deny her. “Alright. One more, but you gotta sit down for this one.” I say, holding up a finger like I’m laying down a rule neither of us will actually follow.

She hurries to a small chair in the kid tables. Wiggles in place, hands clasped in front of her like she’s bracing for something incredible.

I reach into my pocket again, fingers brushing against the familiar coolness of the coin.

“But you have to pay very close attention, okay? This one’s advanced wizardry.”

She nods like she’s preparing for a test at Hogwarts.

“We have, the very same coin from earlier,” I move the coin to the center of my palm, “But if I place it right here… and you keep your eyes on it…”

I curl my fingers over it, give them a little dramatic wiggle.

“This simple quarter will just…”

Disappear. Or—it’s supposed to.

Everything was going fine. The coin’s in my palm. My fingers close around it. I make the usual gesture—slight misdirection, a practiced flick of the wrist, the classic illusion.

Except this time… something goes wrong. There’s a soft metallic clink followed by—

“Ow!”

Not me. Behind me.

The little girl’s eyes go wide, delighted at first by the trick. But then her head snaps toward the voice—the one behind me, the one that just yelped in surprise.

And just like that… the magic disappears.

“Mommy!” She takes off running.

I stand and turn instinctively, ready to reassure the parent—let her know her daughter’s safe, that I was only trying to help. Maybe even apologize for the quarter that, somehow, made impact.

But then I see her.

And for a moment… I forget what I was about to say.

She’s standing there, breathless, eyes wide with relief, and the softest kind of panic still clinging to her expression. The kind that says she’s been searching—not just through the aisles, but through every possible worst-case scenario in her head.

And yet, despite the tension in her posture, despite the flurry of emotion on her face...

She’s—God, she’s beautiful.

Like something from another lifetime. Light catching in her hair. Autumn caught in her breath.

An angel.

I’ve always thrived on routine. Wake up, brush teeth, get dressed, go fulfill today’s duties… It wasn’t anything exciting, but it was dependable. Familiar.

That all changed when I had her.

My Madelyn.

Now, my mornings depend on a dozen unpredictable factors. Maybe Maddie wakes up before I do and cuts my desperately needed seven hours of sleep short. Maybe she had a nightmare. Maybe she wet the bed. Or—more often than not—she’s just too excited for the day and bursts out of sleep like it’s a celebration.

It’s exhausting.

But she’s my entire world. My sun. My moon. And I’d sacrifice every ounce of sleep or peace of mind a thousand times over if it meant making her life feel safe and full of joy.

Still, we do have one day of the week that rarely breaks pattern.

Saturdays.

Every Saturday, for as long as I can remember, I wake up early, make pancakes, get dressed, and head to the library—the one place where time slows down, where stories open like doorways and the world feels just a little quieter.

Bringing Maddie into that routine was surprisingly easy. I started taking her when she was just a month old. I would’ve done it sooner, but I was still figuring things out—how to be a single mother to a newborn. Just surviving those first few days was its own kind of story.

She loves our Saturdays.

Every Saturday morning, once the pancakes are ready, I head to her room—and without fail, she wakes up with the biggest smile.

She always knows it’s Saturday because of the smell. Like clockwork, the scent of warm batter reaches her tiny nose, and her whole body just springs to life. She throws off her covers, races into the kitchen barefoot and beaming, already asking for her syrup before I can even plate the first stack.

This Saturday morning was different.

I should’ve known things would go wrong the moment I decided to step even slightly out of routine.

“Good morning, princess,” I sing, beaming as I step into her bedroom—blueberry pancakes in hand. “Brought you breakfast in bed. Aren’t you a spoiled little princess today?”

Her face lights up like it always does. “Good morning, Mommy!”

She spots the pancakes, and her eyes sparkle. She bounces a little beneath her blankets, already reaching for the plate. “Blueberry?”

I nod, smiling. “Well, I know how much you like them, so I decided to change things up,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Alright, eat up. The library’s waiting for us.”

She hummed as she ate, little legs swinging off the edge of the bed, syrup smeared near the corner of her mouth. It was such a small thing, but I remember thinking—this is what happiness feels like. A plate of blueberry pancakes and a five-year-old who thinks I hung the stars.

We left a little later than usual.

Just ten minutes. That’s all.

She insisted on picking out her own outfit—a striped shirt and a pink coat—and I let her. Another tiny detour from routine. Nothing dramatic. Nothing dangerous.

The nearest library, which we were used to visiting, was a three-story building. It was old, but they kept it clean. The library had a huge variety of books, from Children’s books to cookbooks.

It was just as it always was. Quiet. Warm. A kind of sacred.

We walked in together. I remember holding the door open while she skipped inside.

I remember telling her—“Stay close, baby.”

she nodding.

And then…Then I blinked. I looked up from the shelves. And she was gone.

I’ve never lost my Maddie before. She’s a curious child, and she loves to wander off on adventures. She probably inherited that from me. This need to find whatever’s glowing. I understand it. We’re moths, both of us. Fragile, flitting things, always blinded by the glow, unaware that it might hurt us.

But I’ve gotten better at spotting the danger.

At least… when it comes to her.

I watch everything. Every step she takes. Every handrail she climbs. Every crack in the sidewalk I gently guide her around. Not even the tiniest fruit fly gets near her without me noticing. I make sure of it. I always make sure.

So how did I miss this?

how did I lose her?

“Maddie?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Maddie, where are you, sweetheart?”

No reply.

Just silence. Just shelves. Just the sound of someone flipping a page somewhere far away.

I couldn’t see her.

I couldn’t hear her.

Panic bloomed in my chest, sharp and fast. I started moving—too quickly to think, too slowly to matter. I scanned every row, every corner of the first floor, spinning in half-circles, eyes darting, throat dry.

Think. You have to think. Breathe.

I forced myself to stop. Just for a second. Inhaled. Shaky. Exhaled. Useless.

That’s when I saw it.

A sign hanging above the staircase in soft, colorful letters:

Children’s Section – Second Floor.

I don’t think I’ve ever taken stairs that fast in my life.

I practically leapt two steps at a time, nearly tripping—twice—but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. My heart was pounding too hard, my breath caught somewhere between a prayer and a scream.

As soon as I reached the top, I heard it. Laughter. Soft, bubbling giggles echoing from the back corner of the floor.

Maddie. My sun.

I followed the sound like it was oxygen, rounding the shelves toward the children’s section—and there she was. She was fine. Smiling. Whole. Lit up with joy I hadn’t seen since breakfast.

I was so blinded by the sight of her—so completely caught in the gravity of that relief—that I didn’t see the small, shiny object flying straight at my face.

Thunk.

“Ow!” I yelped, instinctively pressing a hand to my forehead where the coin made impact.

“Mommy!” I blinked, still holding my forehead, and finally looked up to see my daughter running full speed to me.

I dropped my hand and opened my arms just in time, catching her as she flung herself into me.

The force of her little body nearly knocked the breath out of my lungs—and I didn’t care. I clutched her to my chest, my hands smoothing over her hair, her back, her arms—like I needed to physically confirm every part of her was still here.

Still mine.

“I was looking for you,” she mumbled into my shoulder.

“I know, baby,” I whispered. “I know. I’m here.”

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and only then—only then—did I let myself breathe. Let myself relax and look around with a clear mind.

And that’s when I saw him.

A man—tall, gangly, cardigan-ed, and completely mortified. His wide brown eyes darted from the coin in the floor, to my face and back again like he wasn’t sure which deserved more immediate attention.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t—I mean, the coin wasn’t… is your forehead okay?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. He reached down and took the quarter in his hands.

He was nervous. The poor thing couldn’t even get a full thought out without stuttering or switching pitch. He looked like a deer caught in headlights—in the most endearing way possible.

I adjusted Maddie in my arms and slowly rose to my feet, brushing a hand over the spot where the coin had hit.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m okay.”

“Mommy, that’s Spencer. He’s a wizard, but you can’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” Maddie’s little voice cut in, muffled by my shoulder. Her tiny hands clung to my shirt like this secret was sacred. Like this moment mattered.

“Is he now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

The poor man looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink, and he kept shifting like he wanted to disappear behind the nearest bookshelf. He was clearly mortified for making my daughter believe he was an actual wizard.

Meanwhile, Maddie looked like she might explode from sheer joy.

“He did magic, Mommy!” she beamed. “He made the coin disappear! And he’s friends with Harry Potter!”

I looked at him again—this tall, blushing stranger in a cardigan, holding a rogue quarter like it was evidence from a crime scene—and for the first time since the panic hit…

I smiled. No, not just that. I giggled.

“He’s friends with Harry Potter, sweetheart?”

“Yeah!” Maddie chirped, her little head nodding furiously against my shoulder. “He told me so!”

I glanced down at Maddie, still glowing with excitement in my arms, then back at him—this stranger with a guilty expression and a coin pinched nervously between his fingers.

“So you’ve met the famous Harry Potter?” I asked softly, more amused than anything else.

His mouth opened… then closed again. He looked completely out of his depth, like he wasn’t sure whether to defend himself or disappear behind the nearest bookcase.

“I… may have implied we’d met,” he said, almost apologetically. “In a—fictional sense.”

“Fictional,” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, eyes flicking anywhere but at me. “She asked if I knew him, and I just couldn’t say no. Plus, it calmed her down.”

My heart twisted, gently. Of course it did.

I crouched to set Maddie down, brushing a hand over her curls. “Don’t wander off, sweetheart.”

She nodded seriously—too seriously for someone who just believed she’d befriended a wizard—but she stayed put, her wide eyes still bouncing between me and the man standing awkwardly by the bookshelves.

When I stood, he was watching me. Not in a weird way. Just… watching. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say something, or leave before he embarrassed himself further.

I finally broke the silence.

“Thank you,” I said. “For keeping her calm. And for the magic tricks. Even if one of them involved hitting a complete stranger in the face.”

His eyes widened. “Oh my god—yes. I’m really sorry about that. That was not part of the trick. I swear it usually disappears. Like, away from people.”

I smiled again, gentler this time. “I believe you.”

A beat passed.

“You’ve got a very brave little girl.”

My chest squeezed.

“Yeah,” I whispered, looking over at Maddie, who was now spinning slowly in place, humming to herself like nothing had happened.

“She really is.”

I looked back again, and of course—despite being told not to wander—she had already drifted toward the toy shelf, her tiny fingers trailing along the edge of a plastic castle.

Moth. Always drawn to whatever glows.

He hadn’t stopped staring.

He kept looking at me like he wanted to tear me open—not in a violent way, but in that quiet, curious way. Like he needed to understand what made me me. Like he was trying to read my soul the way other people read books.

I hadn’t even noticed—Not until I turned my gaze back to him, and when I did, I nearly forgot how to breathe.

There was something behind his eyes—something searching. Gentle, but sharp. Not the kind of stare meant to intimidate. No, it was worse. It was the kind that saw. Saw too much.

The kind of look that made you feel like maybe you weren’t a collection of masks and moments. Like maybe you were a story he’d just opened to the first page.

It made my skin warm.

I looked away first. Not because it was uncomfortable—But because it wasn’t.

Because I didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at me like that. Like I was worth reading.

“So… she read the Harry Potter series?” he asked, breaking the silence.

His voice jolted me back to reality. I blinked a couple times, trying to shake myself free from whatever trance those hazel eyes had pulled me into.

“Has she read—? No, no. She still struggles a bit with reading. The only books she’s managed on her own so far are Frog and Toad Are Friends and The Tales of Oliver Pig.”

His lips twitched at that, like he was trying not to smile too hard.

“Do you mind me asking… how old is she?”

“She’s turning five in a couple weeks.”

He blinked. “And she’s reading at a first-grade level? That’s impressive.”

I smiled, soft and proud. “She’s always been a quick learner. Loves stories. I think it’s how she makes sense of the world.”

He nodded, like he understood that. Like maybe he did the same.

“So I take it she’s only seen the Harry Potter movies then?” he asked, circling back to his original question.

“Oh—no. I read to her a lot. We actually went through the entire Harry Potter series last summer.”

His eyebrows lifted, impressed. “All seven?”

“All seven,” I nodded. “It took us a few months, but she was completely obsessed. She didn’t want me to put the books down, not even to sleep. Had a million questions. Wanted to know why Harry had to live in the cupboard, how the time-turner worked, what butterbeer tastes like.”

He chuckled softly. “She sounds like someone I would’ve been friends with at her age.”

“You read a lot as a kid?”

He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he seemed to be sorting through too many memories at once.

“Pretty much all I did,” he said eventually. “Books were easier. Made more sense than people did.”

There was something in the way he said it—like it wasn’t just a fun fact, but a truth he’d learned the hard way.

I didn’t push. I just nodded, quietly understanding.

“Maddie’s the same,” I offered. “She talks to books like they talk back.”

He smiled at that. “That’s the best kind of kid.”

I was about to reply—to agree with the praise of my daughter, to maybe say something more—but then she came barreling back toward us, beaming.

“Mommy, Mommy! Look!” She held up a Rapunzel doll.

“Can I have her? Please? She has real brushable hair!” Maddie clutched the box to her chest like she’d just been entrusted with state secrets.

I chuckle, “That’s yarn, sweetie. You can’t brush it.”

“Can I have her? Please, Mommy?”

I looked at him, then at my daughter’s wide, pleading eyes. The panic from earlier was still fading in my bones, but the joy on her face grounded me again.

“Fine,” I said with a knowing smile. “Let’s check her out and ask if she’s ready for a new home.”

Maddie squealed and ran ahead toward the counter.

He straightened, glancing at me with the softest grin.

“She’s something else,” he said.

I met his eyes, the warmth still lingering between us.

“She really is.”

He smiled—soft, sheepish. A little unsure.

There was a pause.

My eyes flicked between him, the floor, and Maddie standing at the counter, rocking on her heels with the raggedy doll held up against her chest.

I didn’t know what it was about him. Maybe it was the way he spoke to her, so tender.

Maybe it was the way he panicked when I first approached them—all flustered and apologetic, tripping over his words like he hadn’t spoken out loud in days.

Maybe it was his eyes—big, toffee-colored, and far too curious. The way he kept looking at me like I was a puzzle he genuinely wanted to solve.

Despite everything in me that usually resisted introducing new people into our lives, I felt it—that pull.

I wanted to know him.

“I should get going,” he said, his voice low, like he didn’t really want to.

I nodded, even though something in me quietly hoped he’d stay just a little longer.

“Of course. Thank you again. For everything.”

He looked down, then back at me, like he was still trying to memorize something.

“It was… nice meeting you. Both of you.”

“It was nice meeting you too.”

He took a step back, then paused.

“I hope she keeps believing in magic,” he said, glancing toward Maddie with something almost wistful in his eyes.

“She will,” I said, smiling. “She has a good reason to.”

He didn’t say anything after that. Just smiled once more—brighter this time—before turning and walking away.

And even though I knew I’d just met him… I wanted to call out after him. Maybe invite him to eat with us, I had the pretense of him keeping my daughter safe. It would be so easy, just go, “hey wait!”

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because despite having every reason to call out to him, to try and integrate him into my life, the fear in me always ended up eating my intentions up.

Still. I had a feeling that wouldn’t be the last time I saw him..

I stayed still for a moment, just watching him leave.

It wasn’t until he disappeared from view that I finally moved—walking to the counter where my daughter was waiting, still cradling her new doll like a prize.

“Where did Spencer go?” she asked, as soon as I appeared beside her.

Spencer. So that's his name.

It fit him, somehow. A little old-fashioned, a little too soft around the edges for someone who carried so much weight in his eyes. But now that she’d said it out loud, I couldn’t imagine him being called anything else.

“He had to leave, sweetheart.”

Her little face fell just slightly. “Will we see him again? I want to see more magic.”

I crouched beside her, brushing her hair back behind one ear as I pulled her into my arms. The weight of the day finally caught up to me—settling in my chest like something too big to name.

“Who knows, Maddie,” I murmured, holding her tight. “Maybe someday.”

I pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“I need you to promise me something, okay?”

She blinked up at me, her Rapunzel doll dangling loosely from one arm.

“Don’t ever wander off like that again. Spencer was kind, and he kept you safe. But not everyone is like him. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

She nodded, serious now. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“I know, baby,” I whispered, holding her again. “I just need you safe.”

“I promise, Mommy.” She murmured.

“Thank you, honey.” I kissed her temple. “Now… let’s buy you this doll and go get something to eat.”

She grinned, her earlier worry forgotten, clutching Rapunzel to her chest like she’d just made a new friend.

We walked out hand-in-hand, the late morning sun spilling through the library doors as they shut behind us.

And even though I told myself it was just another Saturday…

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else had quietly begun.

Next Chapter

[darkmatilda]

𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: there’s a stranger living in your body. after a traumatic experience, you shed your own identity and adopt another—one that belongs to the sister of your captor. while spencer fights desperately to restore your lost memories, the rest of the team decides to use the piece of a person that lives within you to catch the unsub.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: continuation of metamorphosis, spencer reid x fem!bau reader, split narrative, amnesia and loss of identity, cult, hotch acts like a total bitch but it is explained later, a vague, even imprecise description of a psychiatric facility, forgive me for all the inconsistencies and plot simplifications because there are plenty of them lol (same goes for those few corny moments)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 15k

𝐚/𝐧: sorry it took e so long to write the second part—it required a lot of planning. to make your reading more fun, you can use my reading game and see if you manage to get bingo <33 the biggest thanks to my dear @angellic4l not only coming up with this title but also for the overall help with planning, and to @mggslover for holding my hand during this difficult labour...

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/ˈkrɪs.əl.ɪs/ a moth or butterfly at the stage of development when it is covered by a hard case before it becomes an adult insect with wings or the case itself

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I am Lydia.

The cardboard box landed on the counter, accidentally knocking over a piece of paper, which Spencer didn’t even notice. Instead, he began placing the first items inside—items he honestly hadn’t expected to be so numerous. Choosing the first one proved immensely difficult. He paced the walls of his apartment, feeling as if his feet weren’t even touching the floor.

I am Lydia.

Bringing small, personal items is a therapeutic practice often used in cases of amnesia or identity disorders. Their presence, touch, and smell can sometimes break through the walls built in the mind of a person suffering from memory loss, shattering them and allowing everything that had once been separated to flood in like water through a broken dam. In theory, it sounded logical, even simple. In practice, someone had to choose the right items.

I am Lydia.

Even though days had passed since he saw her empty gaze settle on his face and her lips form that sentence, so certain of its truth, it still haunted him.

The kidnapping, the torture, the pretending—it had all completely broken her mentally, causing her to truly adopt the identity of her captors’ sister. She genuinely believed she had become her. First, she spent some time in the hospital to regain her strength, but very quickly—in fact, it was only the fourth day since her escape—she was transferred to a specialized psychiatric facility for federal agents.

And now he was about to visit her for the first time.

Reid spent the most time choosing the first item. Well, initially, he had only planned to bring one. One small thing—something that wouldn’t overwhelm her. He settled on her badge.

The moment his fingers gently lifted it, opened it, and his gaze fell on her expressionless face in the photo, he seemed to slip into a trance. She didn’t remember who she was, for heaven’s sake. The badge itself wasn’t a talisman that would magically restore all the lost years, names, faces, and relationships. So he decided to take something else too.

The earrings Penelope had given her for her birthday—her favorites, though their shape and color meant she never wore them to work, not wanting them to clash with her professional demeanor.

An old, used ticket to a musical she had already seen, still pinned to her fridge.

A handmade card from their godson, Henry. 

A book he had given her, its pages filled with two distinct handwritings—their separate annotations intertwining between the lines, overlapping at times like strands of hair in a braid.

Photos—all the photos he could find.

Before he knew it, he needed a box to take everything with him.

"Seriously, Spence?" JJ’s eyes widened in surprise as he slid into her car and set the box on the floor, reaching for his seatbelt. He avoided her gaze—just a little. "I’m not even sure they’ll let you in with that much stuff."

He shrugged. It was morning; they had arranged the day before to go together. Actually, it was JJ who had offered. Not only did she not want either of them to face this alone, but she also still seemed to feel a bit guilty for blaming him for her abduction.

He wasn’t offended. Not because he thought she didn’t have the right to blame him, but more because his mind was currently consumed by a much greater worry.

"Well, as long as I’m not bringing anything dangerous."

"They still might say it’s too much," she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. She took in his hunched, exhausted shoulders, the tension in his body—like he was bracing for a blow, caught in a state of perpetual waiting. For things to get better. Or worse.

She didn’t look much better herself, deep shadows under her eyes, but she was holding it together. JJ always held it together. Spencer sometimes caught himself wondering what it would take to truly break her—then immediately shut the thought down the moment he reached the obvious answer. It made him feel sick, and he refused to go there.

Suddenly, she pressed her lips together. "At least, I think so. I’ve never been there. Never..."

Her eyes fixed on the road. She had never had a reason to go.

When they finally pulled up to the facility and Spencer grabbed the box, JJ hesitated for a moment before stepping out of the car.

"We only have thirty minutes," she announced.

Spencer’s brows shot up in surprise, his mouth opening in protest, but she pressed her lips together—almost apologetically.

"I know it’s basically nothing," she admitted, "but Hotch wants us back at the office after. We’re starting a new case."

He already knew that.

Which didn’t mean it didn’t feel like a fucking joke.

After they got her out of the oil rig, the surviving kidnapper—Lavinia—had escaped. She reached a boat before the police helicopter hovered over the scene, something they hadn't been aware of at the time. After that, she vanished without a trace.

They should have been looking for her. She was a serial abductor, a murderer. She had nearly drained her of blood—had done it to other women before. But the official stance was that, after losing both her siblings—including her sister’s body—Lavinia had also lost whatever force had been driving her crimes. She wasn’t a danger to civilians, they said. She would rather disappear than strike again.

And in the meantime, there were other cases, more urgent ones. People abducted, children held captive—where hours, even minutes, could tip the scales between life and death. That was the nature of the job. Priorities. Because they couldn’t save everyone.

Spencer understood that. But he couldn’t just let her stay free. Neither could the rest of the BAU.

So they worked the case after hours, burning through sleepless nights.

It wasn’t like the FBI had entirely abandoned the search. Lavinia was a wanted fugitive. The first day after her escape, dozens of roads had been shut down, the entire country put on high alert. Airports had been monitored, all the usual places checked.

But Reid had a feeling it wouldn’t matter.

She was too smart. Too careful. Too experienced at running.

They wouldn’t find her in a location.

They had to find that location in her mind.

"Are you sure you can handle this?" she asked quietly as they got out of the car. She looked at him carefully her expression gentle, almost cautious. "You know, going in there, seeing her..."

"JJ, I could ask you the same thing," he cut in dryly. He didn’t like the way she was treating him like someone who needed to be handled with care. "Even if I'm not ready, it doesn’t matter. If she’s going to get her memories back, she needs to see the people she knew."

"I know. Her therapist said the same thing. I just want to make sure you're okay."

"Let's just go."

She gave him a long look, sighed, and let it go.

The moment he stepped over the threshold, a strange feeling washed over him. It didn’t surprise him—he even knew its name, which, given how common the term had become, wasn’t exactly impressive. Just a déjà vu. Recognition without recollection.

Just like JJ, he had never been to this place before. But his brain still reached for a memory that felt almost identical, if he really thought about it. Someone close to him, memory loss, hospital visits—the more he let his mind go down that path, the less prepared he felt, which was completely irrational.

And Spencer deeply hated when things in his life didn’t fit within his personal definition of logic. He felt uneasy dealing with things beyond its reach. He felt uneasy then. 

But he was already standing right in front of her door, which was slowly opening before them, and there was no turning back.

"Lydia, like I told you, you have visitors," the facility worker announced.

JJ looked at him, pale. His jaw also tensed when he heard the name the worker had used.

“It’s meant to reach her and gain her trust,” he explained to his friend in a whisper, the words barely making it past his clenched teeth.

He already knew he would simply speak to her without using any name at all. Nothing else would physically make it past his lips—more likely, it would get stuck in his throat and choke him first.

He adjusted his grip on the box. The room didn’t resemble a hospital ward; in fact, it was a rather cozy space with large windows and an abundance of flowers. Soft turquoise walls, dark flooring, a wooden floor lamp with a slightly old-fashioned shade adding a touch of character, and a small bookshelf filled with books. Spencer felt relieved that she hadn’t been placed in a setting that visually resembled the one where she had been held captive.

Before he managed to find her with his gaze, he exchanged one last glance with JJ. He gave her a small nod. It was okay. She nodded back.

The woman standing by the window turned to face her visitors. She was already dressed in casual, comfortable clothes instead of the ones she had been given at the hospital. Because of that, and the cozy decor of the room, she could have passed for an ordinary person, surprised by friends dropping by unannounced. For a brief moment Spencer felt exactly that way—like it was their day off, and he had just stopped by without warning, only for her to open the door with a pleasantly surprised expression, happy to see him, glad she had no other plans.

Recognition without recollection.

He had to shake off that feeling. But he didn't do it himself—her face did it for him. Marked by healing wounds and entirely indifferent to the sight of her friends. In fact, her gaze barely lingered on them before shifting uncertainly toward her therapist, thumb brushing against her lips. She lightly bit down on her nail—a reaction to stress.

She never used to bite her nails.

"These are your friends," the therapist informed her, stepping slightly to the side as if to encourage her to focus on Spencer and JJ. "You might not remember them. They just dropped by to talk, to see you."

Slowly, she looked at JJ first, then at him.

He caught himself overanalyzing her every smallest gesture and movement, searching for something familiar. If she were herself, her eyes would have gone to the box first. A foreign object, yes, but held by someone she knew, someone she was friends with, someone she saw almost every day—the box would have instinctively drawn her gaze.

But instead, she looked at him first. A stranger standing in her room. Only then did she glance at what he was holding.

"I can stay if you feel like you need me to," he continued. "But if you'd rather I leave..."

"Stay," she finally spoke.

Though her voice was quiet, Spencer heard her with an almost heightened frequency. Each syllable distinct, separate, rather than a fluid sound.

The therapist nodded but subtly shifted into the corner, giving them space to talk.

Spencer met her gaze and tried to speak, but no words came out.

"I'm JJ," his friend finally said, stepping forward toward the woman she used to greet with a hug and a kiss on the cheek on various occasions.

This time, she extended a stiff hand instead.

"Jennifer Jareau, actually. Or maybe...maybe you know who I am?"

She didn't answer. And by not answering, she didn't deny it either. And so, Spencer felt a surge of a naive hope.

"Should I?" she asked.

JJ closed her eyes longer than a normal blink, trying not to show how much it affected her. Meanwhile, Spencer was staring at the box—at a pair of colorful earrings lying on the cover of the book he had picked up. Only then did he notice its title. A Case of Identity by Arthur Conan Doyle.

Oh, fuck you, coincidence. Do you always have to mock everything?

"And I'm Spencer Reid," he replied after a brief silence from all sides. He tucked the box under his arm so he could also shake her hand. That seemed like the right thing to do—touch from familiar people might help her remember them.

Her hand wrapped around his uncertainly, lightly, as if testing the waters.

"These are, um, things that might interest you. They..." He hesitated, unsure if he should phrase it that way. But pretending she truly wasn’t herself didn’t seem particularly helpful in the process of recovering her memory.

She was herself—just buried deep within.

And they had to reach for her slowly, subtly.

"They belong to you."

Her lips parted in surprise.

He handed her the box, and she stared at it, bewildered, yet drawn to it.

His heart pounded faster, and he struggled to swallow, his throat suddenly tight.

Unmoving, he watched—along with JJ and the therapist—as she sat down on the bed and silently examined the items.

Each of them, in their own way, hoped for a breakthrough.

The musical tickets confused her. The earrings, she simply called pretty. When she picked up the book, she only glanced at the cover before setting it aside without a trace of interest.

“Where did you get these?” she asked. “You said they were mine, but that’s not true. I’ve never seen them before.”

Before anyone could respond, her fingers caught one of the many photographs.

“Oh, that’s you. Oh, this boy…” she sighed, surprised at the sight of Henry’s picture.

JJ shifted uneasily, her face lighting up with something close to hope.

“He looks just like my brother when we were kids. Same hair.” She let out a quiet chuckle before tossing the photos back into the box.

"You don’t—" Spencer started, his tone almost sharp, surprising even himself.

He had meant to say You don’t have a brother, but he managed to stop himself. So did JJ’s hand, gently reaching for his forearm in a subtle gesture of restraint.

He drew in a deep breath, wincing slightly.

"You have no idea what a smart kid he is. His name is Henry."

She nodded, her gaze drifting between him and JJ.

"Your son?"

"My son," JJ corrected gently.

She let go of his forearm, but before she did, her eyes flicked to his watch. And the time.

"Spence, we have to go," she murmured.

He looked at her in surprise, then at his watch.

She was right—the small window of time allotted for their visit was nearly up.

He couldn’t even begin to articulate how deeply disappointed he felt. He hadn’t expected her to recognize them immediately, but he had hoped for something—some flicker of familiarity. A gesture, an expression, a phrase she used to say. Or at the very least, some tension, some sign that deep down, something inside her was fighting to surface.

Instead, she acted like a stranger who had stolen his friend’s face.

After they said their goodbyes—or rather, after JJ said goodbye, because he hadn’t managed to—they walked out into the hallway in silence.

He was too shaken, too numb. His body felt disconnected from his mind, moving only out of ingrained habit. If his muscles hadn’t carried him forward automatically, he might have collapsed face-first onto the floor.

“It was the first meeting,” JJ said after a long moment. “With time…with time, it’ll get better.”

Spencer only looked at her, wanting nothing more than to believe that.

ʚଓ

He wanted to visit her the next day, and the one after that, but something always got in the way.

Specifically, work.

Over twenty-four hours on high alert during an attempt to rescue a kidnapped child—an attempt that not only failed but ended in tragedy, with the unsub still at large. His eyes burned from exhaustion, and the edges of objects blurred if he stared at one spot for too long. When he finally decided he couldn't push through any longer (the first of his three standard milestones before completely collapsing), Hotch assigned him to an interrogation.

They had managed to track down several people from whom Lavinia and Leon had been acquiring medications and medical equipment. Spencer personally considered it a waste of time; he was convinced that no one knew where the woman they were searching for was—except for herself, of course. But he couldn’t exactly refuse an order, so he headed to the dimly lit interrogation room, feeling as though his tie was slowly strangling him.

During the questioning, he inadvertently managed to extract a piece of information from one of the men. It didn't necessarily bring them closer to catching Lavinia, but it was something that absolutely warranted FBI follow-up. That alone took hours, and in the meantime, at least twice, the rest of the team consulted him about their current unsub’s profile (the second of his three standard milestones before completely collapsing).

And when it was already late at night, there was still the report.

Hotch had made it clear that he wanted to see it on his desk before either of them left the office.

So, Spencer hovered over the documents, their pages tinted yellow under the glow of the desk lamp. The ticking of the clock filled the silence, and in his exhaustion—pushed to the point of absurdity—his brain started generating the sound of a cricket chirping, as if bitterly and ironically emphasizing its opinion on this amount of work and staying this late.

He was dangerously close to the third milestone, so he took a detour around logic.

Instead of finishing the report and going home, he started procrastinating—his chin resting on his hand, a pen in his fingers feeling as heavy as a barbell. They always had packed schedules, but this was starting to get excessive. Suspiciously excessive.

There was a high probability that exhaustion alone was making him unusually receptive to conspiracy theories, but that didn’t change the fact that one had started to take shape in his mind— as if it didn’t already have enough to deal with.

Either he was imagining it, or the boss showed up with another task at the exact moment he finally managed to finish the last one.

He didn’t suspect Hotch of plotting to work him to death. But he did suspect—just a little—that he wanted to keep him at the office as long as possible.

And that’s where the conspiracy part began.

It crept into his mind hesitantly, uncertainly, suggesting that maybe—just maybe—this was meant to keep him from visiting her again.

Why?

Well, no logical explanation came to mind, though he tried hard to find one. He clung to the thought. It wouldn’t leave him alone. Was it just a tool to stretch out this hazy, half-dreaming moment of procrastination, or was there actually something to it?

He never answered that question because then, someone knocked on his office door. 

He quickly pulled the barely started report closer and pretended to be engrossed in it as Rossi walked in, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder.

"Have you even eaten anything today?" Rossi asked.

"Nice to see you too.

The older man stepped closer to his desk and placed a triangular sandwich in a plastic container on it. Spencer regarded it with mild surprise, but before he could thank him, Rossi spoke again.

"You've been here way too long," he noted. "I know you're using work to avoid thinking about everything that's going on. I get it, really, but you're going to burn yourself out, Reid."

Spencer gave a small shake of his head—not an energetic denial, just the barest movement.

"It's not like that," he refuted. "Not this time. I want to go home, but Hotch told me to finish this report."

"He could've had anyone else do it, seeing the state you're in."

"I'm not in any—"

Rossi cut him off with a sharp scoff.

"Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?"

For a moment, Spencer just stared at him, exhausted eyes dull and unblinking. Then, without a word, he reached for the sandwich, his fingers trembling slightly from an excess of caffeine. Rossi sighed because, of course, he had noticed.

"How I look is the least of my concerns right now," Spencer muttered.

"This isn’t about anyone’s sense of aesthetics, though, forgive me for saying this—you look like hell. It’s about what’s happening to you."

He paused, waiting for Spencer to say something, but he simply stuffed his mouth with the sandwich, so Rossi decided to continue. He spared him the lecture about his health, though.

"What about her? Any progress?"

The food started to swell in his mouth, and he struggled to swallow it. The reason was simple. Guilt.

"I've only seen her once," he admitted. The thought gnawed at him. In a way, it was because of him that she had been kidnapped, he hadn’t done anything to save her, and after everything, he hadn’t even been there for her. Friend of the year, truly. The best she could have ever wished for. He felt the need to justify himself in Rossi’s eyes. To make sure he didn’t think he was avoiding her because he was too weak to face it. "But that’s only because I practically live here."

Rossi nodded, watching him analytically.

"From what I’ve heard, though, there hasn’t been any improvement," Spencer added after a moment.

"These things take time. But she’ll pull through soon, trust me."

"I don’t understand it," Reid blurted out, his voice slightly louder, shedding its usual apathetic tone. It had been festering inside him for days, growing, and he didn’t know why it chose to escalate and escape right then, in that dimly lit office—but he let it.

"She was holding up so well…I mean, what she went through was horrific, and I’d do anything to keep her from experiencing it…We watched those streams, you saw them too. She was pretending to be Lydia, I thought, No I didn't think she was actually becoming her…If that were true, she wouldn’t have done what she did then…”

"As you said, she’s been through a lot," Rossi replied, watching him with quiet concern. Because of course, Spencer’s voice had faltered as he got the words out, and with exhaustion clinging to him so completely, he must have looked like nothing more than a pathetic, broken mess. “Trauma finally caught up to her. Before, she was too focused on surviving. But now she’s safe. She has access to professional help, she has us, she has you. She’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure him. “Go home.”

“What?”

Reid froze, thinking he must have misheard.

“I said, go home. Get some rest. I’ll finish the report for you.”

“No, Rossi, you can’t—”

“As it happens, I can. I’d rather stay late for one evening than have to watch you in this state again tomorrow,” Rossi said, taking advantage of Reid’s surprise to snatch the report from right under his nose. He let out a chuckle when it became clear the report was practically blank.

At Reid’s incredulous look, he just shrugged. “What? I mean it. Go home. And tomorrow, I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you can go see her. Even if it means yelling at Hotch.”

He hesitantly rose from behind his desk, his gaze still fixed on it. He could see from Rossi’s expression that he was sincere, that he truly cared about him—and that feeling tightened something in his chest.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Then don’t. Just go. Seriously, get the hell out.”

For the first time in days, a faint smile appeared on his lips. He grabbed his half-eaten sandwich and reached for the bag waiting for him beside his desk. Just as he slung it over his shoulder and cast one last grateful glance at Rossi before heading toward the door, they opened—without his doing.

In other words, they opened because someone else had stepped inside.

At the sight of Hotch, he froze, his fingers tightening anxiously around the strap of his bag.

At the sight of JJ standing behind him, his brow furrowed in deep confusion.

The two of them, here, at this hour? Right at the moment he was about to dump his responsibilities onto Rossi? Sometimes, fate really seemed to hate him.

"I need a word with you," Hotch announced, his face as unreadable as ever.

He didn’t seem surprised to see another team member there. JJ, on the other hand, was avoiding his gaze, her arms stiffly crossed over her chest. They both stepped inside, forcing Spencer to take a step back.

"Oh, Aaron, give it a rest already," Rossi sighed, rolling his eyes. "Just look at him. He looks like he’s about to drop dead any second now, and he probably will. It was cruel to make him stay in the first place—"

"Dave, this will only take a moment," Hotch cut him off.

"What is this about?" Spencer asked, his voice hoarse.

He was exhausted, desperate to go home, but he couldn't suppress his curiosity. Or the worry creeping in as he thought about it more. A chill ran down his spine, making him stand a little straighter. Had something happened? Was it about her? Had she regained her memory?No, judging by their expressions…

"I think we have an idea on how to catch Lavinia," JJ spoke up, glancing at her boss from the corner of her eye.

She seemed tense, almost hesitant, and Spencer couldn't help but wonder if this was truly a plan they had come up with together. What exactly did it entail to make her react this way?

"But it will require…uh, it will require—"

"We want her to hold a press conference," Hotch clarified for her, pausing to let the weight of his words fully register with Reid.

It didn’t.

Spencer had no idea what he meant. Neither did Rossi, who crossed his arms over his chest and silently mouthed what?

"We'll make sure it's broadcasted on every possible channel. Wherever Lavinia is, she's likely keeping track of the news and any police activity related to her," JJ continued, running her fingers through her hair in thought. "When she sees that she has her sister's identity… we're assuming she'll believe her ritual was a success, that Lydia truly has been reborn in her body."

Either due to exhaustion or because the plan simply made no sense, he struggled to follow their reasoning. But the longer he sat in silence, analyzing it, the more he started to grasp what they were trying to convey.

"But," Rossi began, crossing his arms. "Let's assume she does believe that. Then what? How exactly does that help us catch her?"

"Lavinia lost her brother and was left alone," Hotch said. "And for her, their sibling bond was always the most important thing. We believe she's delusional enough to actually believe this—more than that, to come back for someone she thinks is her sister. But she's also cautious and will likely consider the possibiity that we're setting a trap."

"Which means we need to plan this carefully. As... as Lydia, she has to be convincing. She needs to mention something only the two of them would know..."

Spencer raised his eyebrows higher and higher at the blonde woman.

"And how exactly is she supposed to do that if she's not Lydia and doesn't have that information?"

"Oh, c’mon, Garcia will definitely be able to dig up some details from their childhood. Besides, she spent some time with the twins. Leon told her a lot about them. She just needs to agree to say what we've rehearsed with her beforehand. And that's where we might have a problem—she might not want her sister, or well, someone who thinks she's her sister, to get caught” 

JJ paused for a moment, her gaze locking with his, catching his eye.

"You need to help me convince her," she asked.

For a brief moment, Spencer stood motionless, unsure of how to respond. Rossi didn’t seem to know what to say either. The two of them had managed to explain the plan reasonably well, but when he tried to imagine her in front of cameras, talking about her sister as if she truly was Lydia, as if she had really been reborn in her body, he felt a wave of nausea. He shook his head in disbelief.

“No. No, no, no way,” he started repeating, even though he wasn’t quite sure how to justify it yet. No, and that was it. “This…this is like encouraging her to stay Lydia. To stay without her true identity. What if it makes her condition worse?”

“It’s just one press conference. Alright, maybe two. Enough to gain Lavinia’s trust and suggest a place where they could meet. So far, there hasn’t been any progress, nothing we could undo or waste. At least…at least maybe we can catch the person who did this to her.”

Her words hurt because, in a way, she was right. There hadn’t been any progress they could ruin.  However, that didn’t mean he was going to agree to it. The small chance, the risky and somewhat flawed plan to catch Lavinia, shouldn’t matter more than the potential harm it could cause to her, their best friend. They should be helping her regain her memories, not feeding her head with new, false ones that didn’t belong to her and forcing her to speak of them convincingly, reinforcing the identity of an imposter.

"It will hurt her," he said quietly, trying to reach JJ, even though it was clear she had doubts too. She had to—this was about the godmother of her son. He clung to the belief that she had those doubts. He looked at both of them, including Hotch, who, it seemed, briefly lowered his gaze. "Do you really want to risk her health?"

He hesitated before responding. Spencer had long given up on deluding himself that he truly understood the emotions hidden behind that serious facade.

“We’ll consult with her therapist,” he finally decided. “But if he agrees, then that’s exactly what we’ll do. No matter your personal doubts.”

He exchanged glances with both of them before they left the room. JJ looked as though she wanted to stay and discuss it with him one more time, but his expression made it clear that he wasn't up for it, and she relented.

The only thing he wanted now was to go home. Thank goodness Rossi had agreed to finish that report for him.

ʚଓ

“She did something bad, didn’t she?” she asked. “That’s why you’re looking for her. And that’s why you want me to help you.”

She was sitting on her bed at the facility, one of the available books left open beside her when they walked in. She looked at JJ with clear distrust. The moment they brought up Lavinia, she tensed, and her responses became sharper, as if she was determined to defend her sister at all costs.

Spencer stood a few steps away, arms crossed over his chest, listening more than actively participating in the conversation. As always, he found himself staring at her. The injuries on her face were healing, and in theory, she should have been looking more familiar to him. But it was the opposite. Even in silence, she no longer resembled the person he once knew.

Missing someone who was right there beside you was something truly difficult to describe. He could say that the feeling only grew stronger the more time he spent with her, which felt almost paradoxical. When he visited her, he spoke little. He simply couldn’t bear the way she answered his questions or addressed him, treating him like a complete stranger.

He berated himself for it in his thoughts. She wouldn’t remember who she was if he didn’t communicate with her. On top of that, he was placing the entire burden of this situation on JJ. He rubbed his temples, feeling the growing pulse within them. Thanks to Rossi, he had managed to get home a little earlier, but that didn’t mean he had gotten any sleep. The thoughts and worries haunting him weren’t the kind he could simply jot down in the journal on his nightstand, pour out of himself, and empty his mind in the process. They had long since seeped into it.

He still didn’t trust the plan to capture Lavinia, even though he had agreed to go with JJ to the facility to discuss it with her. Deep down, he hoped she would refuse.

“You’re right,” JJ said after a moment of careful thought, choosing her words with great precision. “She did something wrong, something that can’t be undone. But running only makes things worse. If she comes back on her own, the consequences will be far less severe. Someone has to convince her, and we thought you would be the best person for that,” she paused, her lips trembling before she forced out the next words. “As her sister.”

He watched as the woman swallowed, hesitation nesting in the corners of her face. Spencer, looking at her, tried to pierce into her mind and decipher the inner monologue unfolding within. What did it look like from the inside? Did she truly believe she had become someone else, or was there a lingering feeling that something was off?

How far would he have to go, wander, and search to stumble upon the remnants of her true identity—something that could be rebuilt and revived?

The sound of a phone ringing broke the silence. JJ reached into her pocket and whispered a quick apology before stepping out into the hallway, leaving them alone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. An unpleasant feeling coiled in his stomach.

"You can sit," she finally said, nodding toward the spot their friend had occupied just seconds ago. "If you want."

"I’m fine," he replied.

A moment later, he sat down.

Something strange began to weigh down the air the moment he did. Physically, he was close to her, yet for once, physical proximity did not define reality—it deceived it. They were far apart, so far that he had no idea what to say. What to talk about with her.

"If Lavinia comes back," she suddenly began, shifting her gaze to him and fixing it on his face. Did something in her subconscious recognize him? "Will I be able to see her?"

He hesitated before answering. If he denied it—if he truthfully said that if Lavinia came back, she would never leave prison again—he would likely cause her to refuse. Hotch’s entire plan would collapse before it even began because she wouldn’t agree to take part in the press conference.

“Yes,” he finally forced out, against his better judgment. He didn’t know what had tipped the scale. He had been ready to observe his team’s scheme from the sidelines, yet he couldn’t face her alone. “If it works. And she comes back.”

For a moment, her expression blurred, her gaze unfocused. She must have been lost in the vision of seeing her sister again—he could almost swear the corners of her lips lifted in a dreamy, longing way. He looked away, unable to watch as the thought of someone who had hurt her so deeply evoked a better reaction than seeing him did.

JJ still hadn’t returned—she must have received an important call. They sat in silence. His gaze landed on the cardboard box in the corner of the room, the one filled with the things he had brought her. He recalled the frantic state he had been in while packing it, grabbing item after item, hoping they would help restore her memory. They had failed. Maybe they had never had that kind of power to begin with. Maybe he should try himself instead of relying on keepsakes.

“H-how…how do you feel here?” he asked at last, hesitating. “I mean…in this place.”

She seemed surprised that he was starting a conversation with her. She studied him for a moment without saying a word, then shrugged slightly.

“It’s nice here,” she said. There was a lot of emptiness between her words. There wasn’t much more she could say when she wasn’t there entirely by choice. Or even fully understood why she was there. “Just a little boring. I mostly read.”

He felt even guiltier for not spending more time with her. He was just about to speak when she added:

“And I really miss my siblings.”

Spencer stayed silent, not knowing how to respond. He got angry every time she said something like that—not at her, of course, but at everything that had happened to her, everything that had led her to this state.

“It’s good that you have books,” he said quietly. “Have you read the one I gave you?”

She furrowed her brows before finally remembering.

“Oh, that one. No, sorry. I don’t think it’s really my thing. What about you? Do you like it?”

He nodded.

"One of my favorites."

"Maybe I should give it a chance, then," she mused.

Spencer nodded again. He remembered the annotations in it, the small pencil notes in the margins. They had both written down what they thought the solution to the mystery would be.

"I think you'll like it. It's Sherlock Holmes."

"Then no wonder it's one of your favorites. I mean, you're with the police, right?"

"With the FBI."

"And you're here, visiting me, because something happened to me."

He froze on the spot, not expecting the conversation to take this turn. Was she starting to remember something? He struggled to find words, so he just nodded again. The pressure inside him grew, tightening his chest and buzzing in his head. 

"Yeah. Yeah, that's why...Do you remember anything?"

He hoped she would hesitate, that something would start to break through the fog clouding her mind. He waited for her answer, his gaze locked onto her with quiet desperation.

She shook her head.

"Nothing at all," she said.

Spencer couldn't hold back a disappointed sigh, and at the sound of it, she flinched slightly.

"I'm sorry."

Their eyes met and held for a long moment.

He was about to say she had nothing to be sorry for—that none of this was her fault—but something in her gaze stopped him. There was sadness there, the kind you don’t direct at a stranger. Unless, of course, you're a natural-born empath. But usually, it's just a trace of pity, dusted with awkward sympathy.

With her, it was genuine sorrow. And something else.

She looked away.

"I'm back," JJ announced, stepping through the doorway and tucking her phone into the pocket of her jeans.

Her eyes landed on them, sitting side by side. It was clear what they had been talking about. For a brief second, her expression brightened—but then she caught sight of their faces and hesitated, momentarily thrown off.

"It was...a call about the conference happening tomorrow," she explained. "The one we really want you to be part of."

A moment of silence stretched between them as JJ cast a meaningful look at the woman sitting beside him.

For a second, it was impossible to tell what she was going to say. Would she refuse, realizing that their main goal was to capture her sister? Or would the need to see her again win out? And, more importantly, had she believed him earlier?

"What do you want me to say?" she asked.

Her tone sounded like agreement.

Spencer exchanged a glance with JJ, wondering if she truly believed they were doing the right thing.

"We'll give you a script and go over everything with you, so don't worry," JJ assured her. "We just need to know...hm...we need to know if you and Lavinia had any places that were important to you as siblings…”

They spent another hour at the facility, listening to her suggestions—her memories, or at least what she believed to be memories.

She knew a surprising amount.

And the worst part was that she spoke with such conviction, as if she genuinely believed she had lived through it all.

ʚଓ

You had never been in front of cameras before.

Or rather, you had once, a long time ago, but the experience was so small and insignificant that it had disappeared from your memory. You had never stood in front of cameras knowing that everything—your face, your voice, your body language, your behavior—would be broadcast on national television.

You were incredibly nervous, despite all the preparation. You didn’t have to think about what to say; you simply followed the guidelines given to you by the agents working with you. They handed you the script that you had built together. They told you that Lavinia might not believe you were really her sister, which seemed absurd to you. Why wouldn’t she believe it? You were family. You came from the same womb, and you had always, always trusted each other. No one provided you with an explanation, and eventually, you gave up on the questions, focusing on other things instead.

Your words had to be planned. They had to form a code, one that could only be understood by her, for her. There were going to be two conferences. In the first, you only had to introduce yourself. Show that you were truly yourself, whatever that meant. In the second... they hadn’t explained that to you yet. But they had asked about some place that only you two knew about. You didn’t understand why, but you felt a strange emptiness in your head when they asked. The more you thought about it, the more anxiety gripped your body. What if you couldn’t name any place? What if you never saw your sister?

Finally, you managed to force out the name of your family’s hometown. The last foster family you were sent to. You hadn’t been there long, only two years, but it was the only place that truly felt like home.

"Please, be honest with me. Did I do well?" you asked, looking at the blonde woman.

 JJ, as they called her.

She bit her lip, hesitating before answering. It was right after the conference, and she had taken you for a walk outside the center so you could clear your head a little. It was nice to finally leave that strange place. The trees were much more beautiful when you could walk past them instead of being confined to watching them through a window. Why did you have to stay there? Why couldn’t you just go back to...you didn’t even know where. To Lavinia, you could have said.

"Well, it was clear you were stressed," she started, and you frowned, so she quickly added, "But don’t worry. It’s normal, anyone would be stressed in your shoes. The important thing is that you got all the necessary information across. In two days, you'll have another conference, and I'm sure you'll do better then."

For a moment, you stared at her in silence. It seemed like she wasn’t telling you the whole truth. That, secretly, she was dissatisfied. in fact, it always felt like you weren’t getting access to the full truth. There were always these unspoken things, doubts. People even looked at you in a strange way. Her and that other agent.

Oh, especially him. Although looked was too strong a word. He avoided your gaze. Spencer, the surname slipped your mind. Spence, JJ called him.

She didn't form an opinion about either of them, but while she could say that JJ was nice and seemed to care about her, she couldn't say the same about him. He appeared less often, spoke little, and when he did, it seemed like he forced himself to say each word, holding back a grimace every time she opened her mouth. However, he stared at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

How should she interpret such behavior? The more she tried to understand it, the more she thought about him, and when she did, a buzzing filled her head, like the sound you get from awkwardly adjusting a radio dial.

JJ’s phone started ringing, and with a sigh, she reached into her jeans pocket, murmuring apologies under her breath.

You decided to focus on the walk, pushing aside thoughts of the press conference, of finding Lavinia, and of the peculiar agent for a brief moment. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t let you leave the four walls of your room entirely. You just couldn’t leave the building alone, and while someone always accompanied you, with JJ by your side, you felt much less watched. More at ease.

“What? What happened?” she asked, pressing the phone tighter to her ear. Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Oh. I understand, I understand, I’m so sorry. It’s just…Will’s not home, would you be able to...yes? Thank you...”

You watched with curiosity as she tucked the phone away. She seemed slightly shaken, but not completely rattled.

“It’s the neighbor who was supposed to take care of my little one,” she explained, noticing the look on your face. “She called because her mom was admitted to the hospital...My husband is also at work, so I asked her to drop him off here. Hope it’s not an issue if we head back a little earlier?”

You felt a bit disappointed, but understood that these things happened. You shook your head in denial and soon, you both turned back toward the center. Within minutes of walking, a car pulled up beside you, and a small boy jumped out. The woman behind the wheel offered a few more apologies before driving off.

JJ looked at her son, then at you. She swallowed and made a sound, as though searching for the right words, probably about to introduce you, but the blond-haired boy beat her to it.

In fact, he threw himself into your arms.

“Auntie!” he exclaimed joyfully, colliding with you, his little body crashing against yours.

At first, you completely froze in place, not expecting this at all. But as the initial shock passed, or rather just a fraction of a second earlier, you reacted almost instinctively, holding the boy tightly and closing your eyes with a strange feeling of relief in your chest.

When you opened your eyes, you immediately caught JJ’s gaze. 

You hold it for too long, and by then, you already knew she knew.

ʚଓ

"Are you leaving?"

Spencer didn’t freeze upon hearing his boss’s question. In fact, he was—he had finished his work and had every right to do so. He slung his bag over his shoulder and gave a confirming nod.

"As you can see."

The coldness in his tone had long since slipped out of his control. He was too tired for anger, so he stuck to his short, sharp replies and cynically thrown statements, all while ignoring the echoing question in his mind if was this behavior leading him anywhere? 

"Reid," Hotch called him back before he could take even a single step away. Lately, it seemed like he was constantly holding back a tired sigh. Well, with one of their team members suffering from memory loss, a serial killer still on the loose, and yet another case just beginning, it was taking a toll on all of them.

"I have to ask you not to visit her today."

He remained silent for a moment before letting out a short laugh. He wasn’t particularly surprised to hear something like that from Hotch. Well, he would have been once. But lately, things had changed a lot between them.

"There's another press conference tomorrow," Hotch explained, watching his reaction without so much as blinking. "She did terribly at the last one. I assume you're aware of that. If we want everything to go according to plan—"

"We have to keep letting her believe she's Lydia, resurrected through some ritual," he finished sarcastically. A surge of anger clenched his chest, but it faded quickly, replaced by nothing more than sheer disappointment. That was probably the best word for it.

"This is hurting her. What does it matter if we catch Lavinia if she ends up staying like this forever?"

His voice wavered slightly, and for a brief moment, it seemed like something close to concern flickered in Hotch’s eyes before he pushed it down.

"Recovering memories takes time, Reid. Just because she hasn’t yet—"

"Oh, I’m well aware that it takes time. You don’t need to explain that to me." He exhaled sharply, irritation laced in his tone. "What I also know is that by now, there should have been some progress. Even the smallest sign."

He took a deep breath, recalling the last time he saw her. After that conversation about books—when he thought he'd caught something strange in her expression—he had stuck to his decision and visited her as often as work allowed. He had hoped to dig down to that spark again, to turn it into something bigger. But maybe he had been wrong. Despite the few conversations they’d had since, her eyes still didn’t light up at the sight of him like they once did. There was only unfamiliarity in them.

"Don't you think it might be different if we didn't force her to pretend in front of cameras that she's someone else? Or if you didn’t keep me here until ridiculous hours, making it impossible for her to see the people she actually knows?"

"I'm only keeping you here as long as necessary. And right now, it is very necessary."

"Or," Reid lowered his voice, suddenly aware of the weight of his own words, "you're doing it on purpose, so she doesn't regain her memories too quickly."

A shadow flickered across Hotch’s face.

"Because that wouldn't be convenient for the case."

Reid swallowed. "I thought… I thought you could see us as more than just coworkers, Hotch."

His boss’s jaw tensed, but it didn’t stop him from continuing. Before he spoke again, Spencer took a deep breath, making sure his voice was even lower. If he was going to say this, he was going to be brutally honest.

"Because we’ve always seen you as more than that. As family. At least—I did."

For a moment, they remained motionless before Reid finally tore his gaze away from Hotch’s unreadable face and walked away, not giving him a chance to respond. Not that he thought Hotch would have continued the conversation anyway.

Lowering his eyes to his hands, he realized they were trembling. He clenched them into fists to stop it. He had let out a lot, but it hadn’t brought him any relief. If anything, saying it out loud had made it hurt even more.

He left the office with measured steps, his breathing slightly uneven. Despite the request that had started this conversation—this argument, or rather his own bitter monologue—he decided to go there anyway. To her.

A strange nervousness settled in his chest, a sense of foreboding he couldn’t shake. His desperation had reached its peak. He knew this visit wouldn’t be like the last ones, when he had carefully measured his words, speaking softly so as not to overwhelm or frighten her.

This time, a little turmoil—some real emotion—might be exactly what was needed.

It might be the spark.

He was afraid that Hotch might have made a call revoking his right to visit her. So, upon arriving at the facility, he tried not to draw attention to himself and slipped into her room as discreetly as possible.

She was sitting by the window, a closed book resting on her lap. She wasn’t reading, but the moment she heard the door open, she suddenly grabbed it, as if caught off guard. However, when she saw that it was him, the book fell limply in her hands.

“Um, hi,” she said, showing him the book’s cover. It wasn’t the one they had discussed. “I still haven’t started that one, I’ll admit it. But like I said, I don’t think it’s really for me…”

She trailed off, watching as he approached the small bookshelf and pulled out the book in question—the one filled with their shared notes and annotations.

Gripping it a little too tightly, he sat down across from her.

“But I think it is for you,” he said. His voice came out weak, despite his efforts to keep it steady, despite the storm of emotions raging inside him.

He handed her the book—almost pushed it into her hands.

“Open it.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“On any page. Please.”

It was clear she had no idea what he was getting at or why he was staring at her so intensely. But he wasn’t asking for the impossible—just for her to open a book—so she only sighed quietly and complied, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

She flipped to the first page and started skimming through, too fast and too carelessly.

“Read the margins,” he urged, his voice rough with something dangerously close to pleading. He swallowed hard. “D-do you recognize it?”

The woman remained still, her gaze tracing the pencil-written sentences on the pages. For a moment, Spencer could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart, drowning out everything else.

“You wrote them.”

She let out a surprised scoff and shook her head.

“I’m seeing this for the first time in my life.”

“It’s your handwriting,” he repeated, louder this time. “Yours. Our notes. I gave you this book a while ago. Three years ago. Exactly one thousand one hundr—”

“I’m seeing this for the first time in my life!” she cut him off, raising her voice as well. She lifted her hands as if to cover her face, to steady her breath that was growing too fast, too out of control.

Spencer caught them—too abruptly. She flinched when her skin touched his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, loosening his grip but not letting go. He simply held her hands as gently as he could, momentarily paralyzed by the sensation. He rarely exchanged handshakes, but when he did, he remembered them vividly. This touch, this specific feeling, was the only thing about her that had remained unchanged.

He smiled faintly, in a way that was both bewildered and heartbreakingly fragile.

The woman remained silent. Her gaze was fixed on their intertwined hands, her chest rising and falling in erratic rhythm.

"Look at them again," he pleaded. "Do you recognize them? Your handwriting? Your thoughts?" He paused to swallow. "Do you recognize me?"

Their eyes met. Hers were wide, his head tilted slightly in a silent, almost prayerful gesture. And then, gently, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

For a fleeting moment, he thought he might have imagined it. His breath halted entirely.

"You recognize me?"

"I do," she replied.

She looked down, but not at their hands this time—just away, retreating for a second.

"You're the agent working on my case. Because something happened to me. Something involving my sister. You visit me, so yes, I do recognize you."

All the hope that had begun to build within him shattered. It escaped as a short, broken sound—somewhere between a whimper and a sob of sheer helplessness.

For a moment, he thought it had worked.

That he had her.

That he had her back.

Spencer drew in a breath—he had to.

And then he did something absolutely spontaneous, reckless, unreasonable… in some way, even downright selfish.

For one last time, he lowered his gaze to their hands, shut his eyes, and leaned forward—before logic could catch up to him.

The unexpected pressure of his lips made her freeze. Shock tightened her grip on his hands, but otherwise, she barely moved. Holding her breath—just like him.

For him, it was tied to anticipation, to a foolish sliver of hope.

He had no idea why he, Dr. Spencer Reid, a devoted friend of reason, had chosen such a… fairy-tale-like gesture. Did he truly believe it would work? Some tiny part of him must have. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have done it.

And, God, he almost wanted to laugh at his own stupidity.

But then something happened that stopped him from laughing at himself.

She moved within the kiss—not to return it, but to examine it, almost as if she were testing something. He inhaled sharply through his nose, just as she jerked away from him as if burned, her eyes blazing with fury.

She said something, but he couldn’t hear it over the deafening rush in his ears. It happened. She…

"I want you to leave," the words spilled from her lips—lips he had just kissed.

It was like waking up from a trance. He shook his head.

“N-no, I— but I—”

“Before I call security.”

Spencer stared at her, his eyes wide. She looked straight into them, not avoiding him.For what felt like the thousandth time, he searched for something familiar in them. Anything.

She yanked her hands free from his grasp and nodded toward the door.

ʚଓ

two weeks earlier

Even though you had regained consciousness some time ago, you remained in a state of half-sleep for a while—where sounds around you alternated between growing louder and fading away, where your body sometimes floated on soft waves and at other times lay buried beneath tons of rubble, where your eyelids trembled against the hospital room’s light.

You forced them open with difficulty, immediately colliding with someone’s dark irises. Upon noticing your movement, they softened with fleeting relief—but only for a brief moment.

"It’s good to have you back," he said, though his voice carried no real ease. On the contrary, it was filled with an insistent tension that compelled him to speak again before you could utter a word. You were in a hospital. The events of the past few days began flashing through your mind.

“Am…I…” you started, but your weak, hoarse voice made it barely intelligible. You forced yourself to swallow. “Am I safe now?”

You needed to hear it from someone else to believe it.

Hotch didn’t answer your question. He just stared at you, motionless.

“She escaped,” he stated simply.

A crushing noise filled your ears. How was it possible that she had managed to get away? Just picturing that woman’s face, remembering the suffering she had inflicted on you, sent a jolt through your body.

You gathered every ounce of strength you had—some borrowed on credit—and pushed yourself up into a sitting position so you could look your boss in the eye.

“No.”

You shook your head, refusing to accept this reality. In truth, you wanted to scream—at Hotch, at the team, at everyone involved in the rescue mission for somehow letting this happen. At yourself, for not making sure you’d be free once and for all, the way you had with Leon. His memory flashed too vividly before your eyes—or rather the memory of his shattered skull.

You looked down at your hands. The blood had been washed away.

You almost choked on air as another wave of realization crashed over you.

“No,” you repeated. “We have to do something, Hotch. We have to catch her as soon as possible. Are there even any active searches? What about the airports and—”

“We’ve implemented all necessary procedures,” he assured you. “But keep in mind how cunning an escape artist Lavinia is. We might not be able to track her down right away. And if she refrains from further kidnappings, if she withdraws from the criminal world…”

“You’re telling me we might never catch her?”

Hotch remained silent for a long moment.

“Not exactly,” he finally said. “I’d say we might not be able to catch her using standard methods.”

He had only suggested it. The rest—the entire plan—was almost entirely your creation. The mere thought of Lavinia roaming free somewhere, even far away, made you sick to your stomach. You knew the nausea wouldn’t subside until handcuffs adorned her wrists. Just like the nightmares, the fear, and the lingering psychological terror wouldn’t fade. You were willing to sacrifice a lot.

In a way, even your own identity.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Hotch asked, once everything had been decided. "Do you really think you can pull off being Lydia? Enough to fool her own sister?"

You nodded without hesitation.

For a moment, he just stared at you, searching for any sign of doubt. Though he was a man of reason and logic, in crisis situations, he could commit to even the most reckless plans—if he saw a glimmer of hope, even the slightest chance of success.

"Hotch," you called out just before he stepped away from your bed, before he could leave the room.

Your throat felt dry again.

This next part—this next decision—you weren’t as sure about. But there was no time for hesitation. You had to trust your instincts. They had saved your life before.

"This stays between us."

His face flickered with surprise.

"If I’m going to become her, I need to believe it, at least in part," you explained. "I have to immerse myself as fully as possible. I can’t do that if every one around me knows the truth and keeps treating me like me. That’s why you can’t tell anyone."

"Not even…?"

Alone in the room, you touched your lips.

Spencer had just left—or rather, you had made him leave.

You had to.

You couldn't allow the mask you'd so carefully crafted to slip, even a little. Yet every time you spoke to him, it loosened, piece by piece. That was why you had asked Hotch to keep him away, to make sure he wouldn’t visit you again. When he agreed, when he kept the two of you apart, you knew there was no turning back. You were fully committed to the plan now.

At some point, you caught yourself linking Lavinia with the concept of a sister, losing track of your own reality, getting tangled in the web of your own thoughts and memories.

It had gone too far.

The only thing that stopped you from completely losing yourself was the conversation you'd had a few days ago, right before your first press conference. That conversation had been both a relief and a disappointment.

Because of it, you'd faltered.

And in this plan, everything depended on you.

You couldn’t afford another mistake.

Meanwhile, tomorrow's press conference loomed, and you sat by the window, an open book resting on your lap, still feeling the ghost of his lips on yours.

Your mind was clear. Sharp.

More aware of who you were—who you really were—than ever before.

Fuck.

ʚଓ

"If Lavinia watched the last press conference—and let’s hope she did—she’ll probably watch this one too," JJ muttered, standing across from you in the room where you were getting ready. Neither of you met the other's gaze, like two bullets that would explode on impact, tearing everything apart. "She probably already suspects you’re trying to send her a message, but she won’t think the FBI is involved. You need to mention the town where she and Lydia grew up, but subtly. Don’t say the name outright, just hint at it, maybe—"

"The town where we grew up," you cut in.

The words felt strange in your mouth. Just yesterday, calling Lydia yourself had been instinctive, as natural as breathing. But then Spencer happened. Then that stupid kiss happened. And after that, nothing felt natural anymore.

JJ’s correction made her look you in the eyes for the first time since she had figured it out—since your reaction to Henry hgging you had given you away.

You knew Hotch had let her in on the plan and ordered her not to tell anyone. But that didn’t mean she supported your actions. In fact, once the initial shock and relief had passed, all that was left was anger. Until now, she hadn’t allowed herself to explode or confront you.

Until now.

“How…how can you even do this?” she snapped suddenly, shaking her head in genuine disbelief. “Lying to us like this, playing a role while we’re all worried about you. Me, Derek, Emily, Penelope…” She started listing the team membersbut the last name got caught in her throat. She didn’t say it with frustration—just a quiet, precise accusation. “Spencer. Do you even know what he’s going through? And can you imagine how he’ll react when he…”

"And do you have any idea what I’m going through?" you hissed, completely breaking character. "Knowing that the woman who kidnapped me, tortured me, made me take care of a dead body, tried to drain my blood, and nearly killed me is still out there, living free?"

You scolded yourself immediately, ordered to get back into the act. The press conference was starting in just a few minutes—you had to stay in character. But it was unbelievably difficult when your best friend didn’t even seem to try to understand your situation.

"And you really think this is the only way to catch her?" JJ pressed. "This was reckless from the start—"

"It’s not the only way, but it’s the one I chose," you cut her off. "And trusting my own plans, relying on myself and my instincts, is what saved my life. When you couldn’t. So, forgive me for sticking with what works."

Her eyes remained wide open, her chest still, as if she had forgotten how to breathe. When she finally tried to draw air into her lungs, her whole body trembled.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to steady the shaking inside. You had hoped that letting out the anger—so deeply tied to who you were—would help you set it aside. At least for the duration of the press conference.

You both knew it was time to leave the room. JJ seemed to be waiting for you to turn toward the door.

"You could have at least told us," she said quietly.

Your hand closed around the doorknob, holding it too tightly, for too long.

For a moment, you were back in that small, freezing room where Lydia’s body had lain. Her hair fanned out over the pillow, the teeth of a comb gently untangling each strand. Her wrists, marked by wounds. The door that never opened. The closet where you had spent an entire day—the only way to survive the cold without freezing to death.

"No," you said simply. "I couldn’t."

ʚଓ

Spencer had a feeling that JJ had been acting strangely for a while now.

It was hard to pinpoint whether it had been like this from the very beginning. Ever since this whole thing started, they hadn’t actually spent much time together. Most hours, he was buried in work. Sure, they usually went to the facility together, but during those moments, his mind was occupied with other things—not with analyzing whatever was hidden in her expression.

They found themselves facing each other across the jet, separated only by a table and some sort of barricade that seemed to have appeared relatively recently. She avoided his gaze. Her answers were more general, but then she would almost as if reconsidering, add something after the pause. It was as though she was aware that her behavior betrayed whatever it was she was hiding, and she was desperately trying to mask it. The thing was, it was too late.

Or maybe she was just tired, like all of them, like him. Or maybe it was him slipping into paranoia again. What could she possibly be hiding from him? His gaze involuntarily shifted to Prentiss, sipping her coffee.. For a long time, he had struggled to forgive them for the lie, but eventually, he understood that it had been necessary. The circumstances had justified it. But now? What is happening now? 

He was quickly distracted by the sight of someone else. The whole team was present on the jet, including her. During the conference, she had done what they asked of her, subtly encoding the message in the meeting. They hoped that Lavinia, driven by the desire to reunite with her beloved sister—who had been brought back from the dead—would not only understand it, but also respond by showing up at the brief location mentioned.

Asheville was a city in North Carolina, where the triplets had been taken in by one of the many foster families throughout their lives. It was said to have truly been their home, the only place where they hadn’t experienced the cruelty of another human being, someone who was supposed to care for them.

Spencer watched her staring out of the window. Of course, she believed it was her first time flying on a jet. She sat directly across from Prentiss, who, by the way, had initially been against bringing her along. In the end, they hadn’t taken her for her knowledge of the area, which she clearly didn’t have, but to possibly lure Lavinia in.

"The couple that adopted them back then is no longer acting as foster parents to anyone," Morgan sat down next to them, his nose buried in the prepared files, flipping through them with little emotion. "The siblings spent exactly three years with them, from the age of fifteen to eighteen. After that, their trail goes cold until the first kidnapping. Doesn’t it make you wonder what happened to them during that time?"

Spencer shrugged. He didn’t feel very present in his body.

“Maybe they’ll answer that question for us,” JJ muttered. Of course, they had planned to interrogate them. “Assuming they know themselves. What exactly do they do, by the way?”

Mrs. Thomas opened the door for them, pressing a hand to her chest at the sight of the FBI on her doorstep. She was dressed in a brown button-up dress with a simple pattern, fastened high at the neck. She appeared outwardly elegant, but Spencer noticed that the fabric of her dress was visibly wrinkled, her eyes looked tired, and her face was gaunt.

“My husband isn’t home,” she announced almost immediately. Then, suddenly, her lips parted in alarm. “Oh, God, did something happen to him…?”

Morgan quickly reassured her with a gesture of his hand.

“This is about something else entirely. Actually, we’d just like to talk.”

They were invited inside. JJ accompanied them as well, while the rest of the team had been assigned to other tasks related to the search for Lavinia. Also, someone also had to keep an eye on her. Of course, they couldn't bring her to the Thomases. To them, she would be nothing more than a stranger claiming to be their former foster child.

When the woman was asked about the triplets, her face showed a tense expression, not entirely decipherable but clearly strained.

“Did you keep in touch after they reached adulthood?” JJ asked at one point during the conversation, as they were led into a living room filled almost entirely with dark mahogany furniture.

“Our paths diverged,” she stated curtly. Most of her responses followed the same pattern—brief and carefully measured.

"Has any of them tried to contact you recently?"

She watched Spencer closely as he glanced around the room. He wasn’t doing it out of nosiness—it was simply a profiler’s instinct. He always paid great attention to his surroundings, fully aware that clues could sometimes be found in the deepest corners of a home.

"You just asked if we kept in touch, and my answer was no. So I think it’s not hard to figure out that my answer to this question will be exactly the same."

There was no television inside. He wondered if she kept up with the news, if she had heard about the recent events and the ongoing search for Lavinia. He exchanged a meaningful glance with Morgan. She had taken on a passive-aggressive stance, seeming more than just displeased with their presence. Not even displeased—stressed.

“Mrs. Thomas, what made you decide to become foster parents all those years ago?” Reid asked, slipping his hands into the pockets of his blazer.

It wasn’t directly related to why they had come, but he needed to loosen her tongue somehow—perhaps get her to share something important, even by accident. The woman let out a short sigh before answering.

“My husband and I were never able to have children.”

“So you decided to take in three teenagers at once?”

“That’s admirable,” JJ interjected immediately, shooting him a look. “I mean, a huge responsibility, but also a beautiful gesture.”

The woman looked at her blankly.

When asked further questions about the siblings, she answered only as much as she had to, avoiding any details.

Yes, they were fifteen when they came to us. Yes, they were exceptionally close. Smart kids, always looking out for each other. Their mother died in childbirth. Their father abandoned them, as far as we know.

At that last part, her clasped hands tightened, causing her knuckles to turn slightly white.

Morgan raised his eyebrows.

JJ kept the conversation going while Spencer moved closer to a large bookshelf filled with books and what looked like typical family memorabilia. He could feel Mrs. Thomas’s gaze on his back.

His attention was drawn to a photograph of none other than the three blond-haired triplets, nearly indistinguishable from one another. Their hair fell to their shoulders, the only difference being their facial expressions. Lydia had a gentle smile, Lavinia stared straight into the camera, and Leon’s gaze wandered elsewhere.

They were all dressed in identical white garments resembling tunics and stood in front of a poster, partially obscuring a purple inscription in the background.

“They were the first children you and your husband decided to foster… and also the last,” JJ continued. “Was there a reason for that? Did they cause any issues that might have influenced your decision not to take in more children in the future…?”

Her voice faded as Spencer’s mind suddenly sharpened. A few pieces of information clawed at the edges of his memory, begging to be released from one of the countless overstuffed filing cabinets in his head.

Morgan stepped closer, intrigued by Spencer’s abrupt stillness. When he glanced at the photo, he didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy. He even picked up the frame, turning it slightly in his hands.

“It’s from a summer camp,” Mrs. Thomas explained quickly when she saw what had captured their attention. “We sent them there every year.”

“Reid?” JJ started, taking a step toward him.

Spencer looked at the photo again, at the words on the poster above the children’s heads.

“Do you guys know what The Chrysalis Fellowship was?” he asked, fixing a pointed stare on Mrs. Thomas.

He saw her inhale sharply.

Morgan shrugged.

“Never heard of it.”

“No surprise. It wasn’t exactly a big case,” Spencer replied, crossing his arms.

His friends were visibly perplexed by his reaction, but they understood that he had stumbled upon something significant. They watched him with anticipation and tension.

“But it was definitely not a summer camp,” he continued. “They presented themselves as just another religious gathering, kept a low profile…but in 2001, they drew some media attention when one of their members mysteriously ended up at the bottom of a cliff. Dead, for the record.”

JJ shook her head slightly, still not fully grasping what Spencer was trying to convey.

But Spencer wasn’t looking at her—his gaze was fixed on someone else.

“Mrs. Thomas, for what possible reason would you send the children on summer vacation to a cult?”

The woman fidgeted with the collar of her dress.

"I won't say anything else without a lawyer," she announced weakly. 

Spencer heard Morgan sigh heavily behind him. He placed the photo back on the shelf—it was no longer needed.

He was almost certain he knew where Lavinia was hiding.

ʚଓ

The terrain at the foot of the mountains was gently undulating and covered in dense trees. After a longer drive along a narrow, winding road, they reached a place that resembled something between a well-kept neighborhood of a quiet town and an abandoned campground. Seriously.

In a small area, there were a few houses with flat roofs and white walls, some of which bore the first signs of dirt and graying. However, what dominated above them, in terms of sheer numbers, were the trailers, spaced evenly apart, as if they symbolized a former order, a time of past prosperity.

In short, they quickly contacted the rest of the team to inform them of their destination. There was no time to waste. When they asked her to choose a location based on the information she had gathered during her week of being held captive by the twins, which Leon had revealed to her after she manipulated him, she pointed to this town. They assumed she was referring to the foster family's home. However, there was no sign of their missing person inside, and while Mrs. Thomas was hiding a lot, she had not reestablished contact with Lavinia.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t in the area.

When the three of them arrived at the nearly desolate location, which in its prime had been a thriving congregation with a large number of members, a middle-aged man immediately appeared on the doorstep of one of the houses. He was wearing nothing but a loose white shirt. His light hair reached almost to his shoulder blades, and his face was covered with a few days' worth of darker stubble.

“Hello, my children,” he nodded toward them.

“David Vaughn,” Morgan identified him instantly, thanks to the information Garcia had gathered for them.

The man simply waved his hand.

“You can call me Father.”

“Hell no.”

He didn't seem offended. In fact, his face was constantly adorned with a calm, almost serene expression. Spencer glanced around at the trailers, wondering if anyone actually lived in them. No one else had come out to greet them, and in such closed communities, the arrival of outsiders usually stirred up some general curiosity.

“Let’s get to the point. Is Lavinia Schuyler hiding here?”

The man opened the door to a small white house, standing in the doorway in a welcoming gesture.

“Come in, and we’ll talk.”

Without waiting for another refusal or command to step outside, he simply turned his back and disappeared inside.

After a brief discussion, they decided to follow him. Although, it was more JJ and Morgan doing the talking. Spencer, on the other hand, was completely absorbed in scanning the surrounding trailers, almost as if his gaze could penetrate through the walls and reveal whether Lavinia was hiding inside one of them. He didn’t even realize when his legs instinctively began to follow his friends, or when he found himself inside a cramped, multi-roomed interior. A stale, unpleasant odor hung in the air, and Spencer could confidently say that the owner wasn’t a fan of the activity called cleaning.

David Vaughn, a man once known for his reputation as a spiritual guide, dropped into a chair with such ease, it was as though there weren’t three FBI agents in his home at that very moment.

“So?” he asked cheerfully. “How are we doing this? You listen and stay silent while I speak, or do I speak, but you ask your obvious questions like what were you doing at 8 p.m. on Monday…’”

“We’re here for a different kind of obvious questions,” Spencer replied dryly. “What you were doing at 8 p.m. on Monday, or any other day of the week, is the last thing we care about. Where is she? And I know you know who I’m talking about. They all used to belong to this…”

“Fellowship,” the man finished for him. He scratched under his eye with a touch of nostalgia. “Haven’t said that word out loud in a long time. Ah, the good old days. Then everyone left, and that was that. But I’m not angry. Our lives are a constant journey. We arrive at a place, replenish our supplies, set a new direction. We wander…”

“Enough,” Morgan cut him off, his face expressing deep exhaustion with this nonsensical, pseudo-spiritual babble. “We don’t want to hear your philosophies, we want your answers. Is Lavinia Schuyler hiding here? This place will be searched soon, so you could make this easier for us…”

"Let's start with the fact that there’s no one by the name of Lavinia Schuyler," he said, causing everyone to furrow their brows. He flashed them a grin. "What? As my favorite daughter, she deserves the right to carry my last name. Lavinia Vaughn. Much better."

"Your...daughter?" JJ repeated in disbelief.

Spencer gave a subtle nod, seeing some sense in it.

"Abandoned by their father."

"Abandoned? Please. Life’s a journey, didn’t I mention that? I just moved on. Honestly, I believe children don’t need a father for proper development. A mother is only needed in the very early stages…"

“Back to the point,” Morgan interrupted again, stopping him from drifting off-topic. “Let me ask the right question this time. Is Lavinia Vaughn hiding here…”

“Aren’t you curious how I managed to bring my kids here when they were grown?”

“No, we're only curious about—”

“Well, I've been thinking about it for a long time. I knew they were approaching adulthood, bouncing from one foster home to another. A journey is a journey, but blood is blood, my blood. So I thought, why not? I asked my dear friends, oh, they were so young back then, just joined us, but already showing such loyalty. They did what I asked, of course. Took them in under their roof, sent them to me whenever the chance arose, so they could learn a bit about the world…”

Spencer could tell his friends were, deep down, intrigued by the story. After all, both of them were profilers, and understanding the backstory, discovering the circumstances that shaped a killer, was essential. Even he couldn't bring himself to stop the man, falling to some degree under the sway of his gift for persuasion. He mentally pinched himself when he caught himself in that moment.

Something about this whole situation didn’t sit right with him. Sure, some people were just chatterboxes, and this guy certainly fell into that category, but everything he said felt too calculated. It was as if he knew exactly what type of story would capture their full attention, drawing it to him and away from everything else.

"...they left me when all of this happened. You know, one guy ended up at the bottom of a cliff, and the media swooped in, saying we probably killed him in some cult ritual. Years passed, and my dear Lavinia only reached out to me recently," he suddenly stopped, grinning wide, a madness in his eyes flashing. "I was watching the news, right? She did it. That woman. That woman is now Lydia. Lydia is in her body. Oh, I always knew this girl, my Lavinia, was special. Some didn’t believe me when I said the soul is like blood. That you can transfuse it into another vessel. They thought I was speaking metaphorically, but she really listened to me..."

Spencer caught something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of light in the window, a glimpse of blonde hair. David was talking and talking, distracting them, pulling their attention away from other things. Like Lavinia, who was packing in another room and making her escape through the back door. He nudged Morgan, their eyes met, and without looking out the window, he understood.

They rushed after her, the sound of the man's loud, hysterical laughter echoing in their ears, a sound that would linger long after.

Reid’s heart pounded against his chest as, for a brief moment, he feared that when they reached the outside, Lavinia would already be gone. Her trail would vanish like it had on the drilling platform, and they would never catch her again. And he would be to blame—he would always be so, so guilty.

He stopped so suddenly that his body nearly collapsed.

But contrary to his dark visions, she was there. She was there, with a backpack slung over one shoulder, her hands raised high, frozen in place as someone had her at gunpoint, preventing her from fleeing any further.

The rest of the team arrived, and the person pointing the gun at Lavinia wasn’t Rossi, Prentiss, or Hotch.

It was her.

ʚଓ

Watching the woman who had nearly taken your life—and had certainly cursed it forever—being loaded into a car with her hands cuffed behind her back was both therapeutic and surreal.

A part of you felt relief, while the other hadn’t yet grasped the reality of the situation enough to fully process it.

Something heavy slid off your chest, but instead of crashing to the ground with a deafening thud, it dissolved into quiet.

Peace.

You hadn’t known that peace, relief, and respite—these supposedly positive emotions—could be so overwhelming that they left you frozen in place.

Someone appeared at your side.

JJ offered you a small smile. There was still a trace of lingering anger in her eyes, the remnants of her inability to understand your decision, the open disapproval that hadn’t faded and wouldn’t for a long time. But in that brief moment, above all else, she was simply relieved that it was finally over.

Her touch on your arm was hesitant, as if she were testing whether you were still yourself.

You looked at her in silence for a moment—then threw your arms around her neck.

You heard her inhale sharply in surprise.

And you didn’t even focus on the gazes fixed on you—until they became unbearable.

The first one you caught.

Hotch, nodding at you gently. As if confirming that it was over.

You almost smiled.

It was true. It was over.

So why did it still feel like something was weighing on you?

Then you caught the second gaze.

Spencer looked as if staying on his feet was a struggle. And yet, he managed to move—his expression a mask of merciless emptiness—as he closed the distance between you.

You felt your body beginning to crumble in JJ’s arms.

You stepped away before you could drag her down with you.

He stopped a step away from you, at a painfully close distance—technically, you could reach out and touch him. Do something you had wanted to do every single day and night spent on the oil rig. That is—to reach for him. In a way, it symbolized an escape for you. A return to what was good, constant, and safe.

You knew, however, that he wouldn't allow it. He would reject any attempt you made, for the lies you surrounded yourself with were dangerously toxic—they could taint and damage him.

He shook his head from side to side, clearly uncertain of what to say.

"All this time," he finally began. Quiet, but not weak.

A sigh escaped JJ’s lips. Her gaze wandered between both of your faces.

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this now. Maybe we should first—"

"And you knew too. Of course, you knew."

From the very beginning, you knew that when the moment of revealing the great truth came, looking him in the eyes again would be unimaginably difficult. You had also suspected that words would fail you, and that’s exactly what happened. Nothing seemed right. You couldn’t apologize, because you didn’t feel guilty. I mean, you did, in a way. You felt guilty for hurting him like this, but at the same time, you were ready to admit without hesitation that even if you could go back in time, you would still do the same thing, because it meant catching Lavinia.

“I had to do this,” you finally said.

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. He clenched his jaw. Nodded. In a way that not only showed he didn’t understand, but also that he couldn’t forgive.

ʚଓ

Twelve months had passed.

In the blink of an eye, they say. Well, if there was an opposite to that saying, it would fit your situation perfectly. Every day, week, and month carried the weight of everything that had happened since the moment the syringe with the sedative first pierced your neck. You were facing not only the trauma left by the abduction but also the consequences of pretending to be someone else and lying to those closest to you in such an elaborate way.

You got involved in Lavinia's case, making sure you'd never have to chase her again. You took temporary leave—your psyche simply needed it.

And as you began healing from within, you could reach further.

Most of the team pretended to accept what you had done, to be ready to move forward. Pretended, perhaps even wanting to believe it was truly over. But in their minds, you would always be trusted a little less. By pretending to be Lydia, you wanted them to believe you were a stranger. And in a way, that's exactly what happened. You would always remain slightly different, distant, to them.

With Spencer, things were particularly difficult. For a time, he simply cut himself off from you. When disappearing seemed like the easier option for him, you felt quite the opposite. You preferred to stay close, even if it meant hurting each other with those prolonged moments of tension, resentment, and the painful silence of unspoken accusations.

But what happened was that, for a time, you simply disappeared from each other's lives. You fell back into them by sheer accident. Well, actually, not such a clean accident. The Christmas party held at Rossi's house took you by surprise when you received the invitation. Spencer probably didn’t expect to see you there either. Ironically, you both arrived at the same time, and without a word, he held the door open for the two of you.

You didn’t talk about it, but over the next year, these small things and gestures, progressing with the passage of time, seemed to reintroduce you to each other. At one point, you were laughing together, not just the two of you, but with the whole team, yet it didn’t change the fact that the joyful sound was coming from both of you at the same time. There was a moment when you watched your godson play on the swings, and the silence between you no longer gave you that painful, guilt-ridden knot in your stomach.

Then, on your birthday, you sat side by side in the theater. A year earlier, he had given you tickets for the musical you’d always wanted to see. They had been lost, for obvious reasons.

Before it even started, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

"I never said sorry," you suddenly announced.

Spencer turned toward you, his gaze filled with surprise. You, too, didn’t know where that came from. Maybe it had been nesting inside you for a long time, and you chose that moment because you realized that for the next two hours, out of respect for those around you, you wouldn’t be able to talk. And the words would have to echo in the way they should.

He shook his head.

"You don’t have to."

"But I do. You can’t forgive someone if they never say they’re sorry."

A sigh escaped his lips, and after a long moment of hesitation, he reached for your hand. You flinched when it happened, so unaccustomed to his touch.

"I think I’ve already forgiven you," he finally said, turning his face slightly toward you. His gaze fell on your hands, barely visible in the dark theater. Just the faint outline of knuckles against the blackness. Somehow, you could hear him swallow.

"I’m just not sure if I’ll ever be able to trust you again."

The musical began, and your hands remained entwined until the very end.

[ithebookhoarder]

Never Let You Go (Aaron Hotchner x F!Reader)

Description: Being married to Aaron (A.K.A. your boss and the love of your life) has both it advantages and disadvantages - and being reprimanded by him for risking your neck in the field is definitely one of the latter... 💔

A/N: Hi everyone. I'm alive! Sorry that this is so short but it sort of just wrote itself and was a nice way to help try and ease me back into writing again as it's been a hot minute here 😅

Warnings: Angsty Hotch, arguing, mentions of threat, mentions of weapons, implied murder, references to abduction, sexual references, implied cases / unsubs. (Let me know if I missed any)

Masterlist

You knew when Aaron was angry. You knew the signs very well this far into your relationship, not only as a fellow member of the BAU but also as his wife. He didn’t even need to voice it for you to notice it, rolling off of him in waves… and unfortunately for you, you knew exactly what had caused it. 

You hadn’t meant to throw yourself into the proverbial frying pan, but when the Unsub you had been tracking had grabbed an innocent girl as a hostage you had simply acted without thinking. You had offered yourself instead, knowing your value meant he would not dispose of you as quickly as the others he had taken - and that your team would have to let him leave the parking lot you had chased him to. He knew it too, which was why he had quickly accepted, resulting in you being hauled into a van with a gun pressed against your head. 

Of course, the team had done exactly what you’d expected and located you within an hour. They had mounted a rescue and you had been safely back, unharmed, within mere minutes of the team arriving outside of the cabin. 

All in all, it was a win in your book… but not in your husband / boss’s.  

He had been the first through the door, intent on getting to you whilst Morgan tackled the Unsub into handcuffs. He had quickly cut you free, checked you weren’t seriously hurt, and escorted you back outside, tucked securely under his arm. However, the second you had made it back to the cars, Aaron had pulled away and hidden behind a mask of white hot fury. 

His silent temper had only got worse since you’d all got off the plane, with a thick and suffocating silence filling the car on the drive back. Everyone looked at one another anxiously, knowing better than to risk being the one to say anything and accidentally cause him to erupt in their direction. In fact, a minor miracle had occurred with Spencer not saying a single word until the whole team had spilled out of the elevator, even if it looked like it had caused him physical pain to do so. 

Hell, even Penelope had taken one look at everyone’s faces and done an immediate u-turn back to her lair, muttering she would ‘come back later’.

Unfortunately, you didn’t really have that option when Aaron was your husband and you both shared a car and a house… which was why you had watched as the others grabbed their belongings and finished debriefing, leaving their case files on Hotch’s desk for him to review on Monday. You’d followed along, the last to enter his office and leave your own on the top of the pile. 

However, your fingers had barely let go of the manilla envelope when you heard Hotch clear his throat, turning his attention squarely to the last two agents stood next to you. 

“Good work, everyone. Morgan, Prentiss, you can go. Have a good weekend - Y/N, stay where you are. We need to talk.” 

Shit. 

Your husband’s tone was calm but icy, telling you that this wasn’t up for debate; it was an order and god help anyone who went against him. It was why Emily and Derek made for the door without another word, although Emily shot you a final look over her shoulder, as if checking you were alright. 

You nodded subtly, trying to reassure her as she and Derek made their way out the door, closing it behind them. You knew without asking that the rest of the team would be watching from down in the bullpen, trying and failing to work out what was being said as Hotch ripped you a new one.  

Taking a deep breath, you crossed your arms over your chest and turned to face him. 

You hated seeing his beautiful face so hard and devoid of feeling. It was like a whole different man to the one who slept beside you every night, and greeted you first thing every morning. 

You gulped.

A cold sweat had formed on the back of your neck as he stepped closer slowly, deliberately dragging out the tension. You had to fight the urge to break off the staring contest between you, refusing to surrender to him just yet. It was probably why you opened your mouth first, desperate to beat him to the punch in case you lost your nerve. 

“Before you say anything, I know what you’re going to say, and I know what I did was dangerous and went against your orders,” you rambled, “I’m also well aware of the consequences and I won’t apologise for what I did, not when the option was risking that young girl and the rest of the team-“ 

“I am your superior here, Y/N. What I say goes. That is not up for debate, ever. You do not give me orders,” Aaron seethed, making you fall silent without even raising his voice - which somehow made it worse. It was as if your guilt was swallowing you whole. “What happened today will not happen again, am I understood? You do not ignore my orders whenever you feel like it, nor do you get to lecture me about why you did what you did. And above all? You never tell me to let you go, unarmed and alone, ever again. Is that clear?” 

Your eyes were glued to the floor, wishing silently for it to swallow you up.

“You know I was doing what anyone else on this team would’ve done. He had an innocent girl, Aaron, and he was cornered,” you countered. “He would have killed her the second he left the parking lot, or opened fire then and there. It was the only way to get him out of there, without risking the team and everyone in that area-“

“As the head of this team, I did what I would’ve done if anyone else had been in that position - which is tell you not to risk yourself - but as your husband,” he choked, “I cannot even begin to describe what I felt when he had that gun pointed at your head and that van door closed.” 

You gulped. You felt his pain drawing you in like a gravitational pull, making you desperate to reach out and soothe it from his brow.

“Aaron… You know I didn’t do this to hurt you,” you cooed. To your relief, he nodded, wrapping an arm around your waist and curling you into his chest as if needing to feel you were actually stood there in front of him.  

“It might surprise you to realise that I do know that. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make any of this easier.” You could feel the tension physically radiating off of him as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I… I thought I’d lost you. I... I can't lose you... I won't lose you or someone I love. Not again.”

“I know. I’m so sorry… I’m right here, my love. I’m right here… Always.”