Vera Alexis

Parings: Poly!Peaky blinders x Reader

Summary: A seemingly lost soul finds a home within the Shelby family, becoming indispensable. But as secrets unravel, their true purpose — a vengeful mission against the Peaky Blinders — threatens to tear everything apart.

Warnings: Emotional Manipulation, Violence, Strong Language, Underage Drinking (minor character), Deception, Betrayal, Implied Violence, Psychological Manipulation.

The flickering gaslight of the Garrison Lane pub cast long, dancing shadows, illuminating the familiar faces of the Shelby family. Tommy, always a storm brewing behind his blue eyes, nursed his whiskey. Arthur, loud and boisterous, was halfway through a rant about some blighter who’d crossed him. Polly, sharp as ever, observed everyone with an almost unnerving calm. And you, a seemingly indispensable part of their chaotic tapestry for the past three years, laughed freely at something Finn had just whispered, your arm slung casually around John’s shoulders.

You'd arrived in Small Heath like a gust of wind, a seemingly lost soul with a knack for numbers and a quiet determination that intrigued Tommy. He’d given you a chance, and you'd burrowed deep into the heart of the Shelby Company Limited, and more importantly, into their lives. You were at every family dinner, every tense meeting, every celebratory, whiskey-soaked night. You were their confidante, their strategist on occasion, and to them, undeniably family.

“Bloody hell, that’s a good one,” John chuckled, nudging you. “Always got a clever retort, don’t you?”

You just smiled, a genuine smile that hid years of carefully constructed lies. “Someone has to keep you lot on your toes, John-boy.”

Polly’s gaze, however, lingered on you a moment longer than usual. A flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. You dismissed it. Polly was always observant.

The cracks in your carefully built facade began subtly. A misplaced word, a glance held a moment too long, a question about a detail you shouldn’t have known. Tommy, ever the chess master, began to notice. He started watching you, not with suspicion, but with a growing, unsettling curiosity.

One rain-slicked afternoon, Tommy called you into his office at the Betting Shop. The room was dim, the air thick with the smell of tobacco and ambition. He sat behind his imposing desk, steepling his fingers, his gaze unblinking.

“I’ve had some… information brought to my attention,” he began, his voice low, almost a purr. “Things that don’t quite add up.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You kept your expression neutral, a skill honed over years. “Oh? And what might that be, Tommy?”

“You told me once your family was all gone. Lost in the war.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air. “Yet, I’ve heard whispers of a family, with a very similar story, but a very different name, in London.”

A cold dread seeped into your bones. You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “Whispers can be unreliable, Tommy. People often fabricate stories.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “But these whispers, they’ve been corroborated. By sources I trust implicitly.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The family in question… the Changrettas.”

The name hit you like a physical blow. You felt the blood drain from your face, your carefully constructed composure beginning to fracture. You had known this day might come, but the reality of it, the cold, stark truth of being exposed, was paralyzing.

Tommy’s eyes, those piercing blue eyes, were fixed on you, searching, analyzing. “Funny, isn’t it? How a family with a deep-seated vendetta against the Shelby name just happens to have a long-lost daughter with your exact description, who conveniently appeared in Small Heath three years ago.”

You clenched your fists beneath the desk, your nails digging into your palms. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He merely raised an eyebrow, a clear sign he wasn’t buying it. “Don’t lie to me. Not now. You’ve been in our home. You’ve broken bread with us. You’ve looked us in the eye and called us family.” His voice hardened, a dangerous edge creeping in. “Tell me the truth. Are you Isabella Changretta’s daughter? Luca’s cousin? Or is it something else entirely?”

The air in the room grew heavy, suffocating. You had two choices: continue the charade and dig yourself deeper, or confess and face the inevitable wrath of the Peaky Blinders. The weight of your deception pressed down on you.

“Yes,” you whispered, the single word a betrayal of everything you had pretended to be. It felt like tearing a part of yourself away. “Yes, I am. Isabella was my aunt. My father… he was her brother.”

Tommy’s face remained impassive, but his eyes, they burned with a cold fire. “And why are you here?”

The years of living a lie, the years of carefully crafted smiles and feigned affection, all coalesced into this moment. You lifted your chin, a flicker of the Changretta defiance showing through. “For revenge, Tommy. For what your family did to mine. For the bloodshed, for the humiliation. Every single one of you.”

His gaze never wavered. “So every kind word, every laugh, every moment of ‘family’… it was all a lie.”

“A means to an end,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts. “I learned your weaknesses. I saw your vulnerabilities. I knew your routines. I was waiting for the opportune moment.”

Tommy stood, slowly, deliberately. The movement was quiet, yet it filled the room with an unspoken threat. He walked around the desk, his presence looming over you.

“And what was this opportune moment?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

“To bring you all down,” you confessed, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “From the inside. To dismantle everything you’ve built, brick by brick. Just as you dismantled my family.”

He leaned closer, his eyes narrowed to slits. “You truly believe that, don’t you? That you could have done it?”

You met his gaze, defiance warring with a profound weariness. “I had a plan. A good one.”

“No plan is perfect,” he countered, his voice like chipped ice. “Especially not one built on deceit against those who would have died for you.”

The news spread through the Shelby household like wildfire. Polly was the first to confront you, her face a mask of furious betrayal. She found you in the sitting room, staring blankly at the unlit fireplace.

“You little snake,” she spat, her voice laced with venom. “You played us all for fools.”

You turned to her, your own eyes raw with unshed tears. “Polly, please, let me explain.”

“Explain what? How you wormed your way into our lives? How you made us trust you, love you, like our own?” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I treated you like a daughter. I told you my secrets, my fears. And all the while, you were planning our downfall.”

“It wasn’t easy,” you confessed, the words catching in your throat. “Every day was a battle. To pretend, to lie. But my family… they were shattered by yours. I had to do something.”

“There is no justification for this,” Polly roared, her eyes blazing. “You don’t know what we’ve been through. You don’t know the sacrifices we’ve made. You just saw what you wanted to see, the monster in our shadow.”

Arthur burst in then, his face flushed with rage, John close behind him. Finn hovered at the doorway, a look of shocked hurt on his young face.

“Is it true?” Arthur bellowed, his fists clenched. “You’re one of them bloody Changrettas?”

You nodded, unable to speak.

“I’ll kill her!” Arthur roared, lunging forward, but John caught his arm, holding him back.

“Arthur, no!” John pleaded, his own voice strained with disbelief and anger. He looked at you, his eyes filled with a pain that mirrored your own. “How could you? We… we cared about you. We trusted you.”

The accusation in his voice was a sharper blow than any punch. “I know,” you whispered, tears finally escaping and tracing paths down your cheeks. “And part of me… part of me truly did care for you all. That was the hardest part.”

“A convenient lie, wasn’t it?” John said, shaking his head. “All of it.”

Tommy walked in then, his presence immediately quelling the storm of anger, replacing it with a chilling silence. He looked at each of his siblings, then at you.

“She confirmed it,” he stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “She is a Changretta. And she was here for revenge.”

The air crackled with tension. Everyone looked at Tommy, waiting for his pronouncement, for the inevitable judgment.

“What are we going to do with her, Tommy?” Arthur asked, his voice still simmering with rage.

Tommy’s gaze settled on you, and for a fleeting moment, you saw something akin to regret in their depths, quickly masked by his usual impenetrable facade.

“She knows too much,” Polly stated, her voice cold and hard. “She’s a threat. She has to be dealt with.”

The words hung in the air, a death knell. You braced yourself, your body tensing, your mind racing through possibilities, none of them good.

Tommy took a slow breath. “Leave us,” he commanded, his eyes still fixed on you.

Arthur grumbled, but Polly, after a long, assessing look at you, nodded and pulled him and John out of the room. Finn lingered for a moment, his eyes wide with hurt and confusion, before Polly gently steered him away.

Silence descended, heavy and suffocating. You stood before Tommy, stripped bare of your defenses, your lies exposed.

“So,” Tommy finally said, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful. “You were willing to destroy everything we’ve built.”

“I was,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “My family deserved justice.”

He walked over to the window, staring out at the grimy streets of Small Heath. “Justice. A powerful word. Often mistaken for vengeance.”

He turned back to you, his eyes piercing. “You had ample opportunity. Why didn’t you act sooner?”

“I… I hesitated,” you confessed, the words tumbling out. “The more I was here, the more I saw… it wasn’t as simple as I thought. You weren’t just monsters. You were… people. With families, with loyalties. It complicated things.”

“Complicated things,” he repeated, a hint of something unreadable in his tone. “So, what now? Do you still intend to bring us down?”

You looked at the floor, then back at him, your eyes pleading. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. The hatred that brought me here… it’s still there, but it’s mingled with… with everything else. The good memories, the genuine moments.”

Tommy walked closer, stopping just inches from you. His presence was overwhelming. “You put yourself in a dangerous position. We are not a forgiving family, especially when betrayed.”

“I know,” you said, your voice thick with unshed tears. “I understand if you… if you have to do what you have to do.”

He studied you for a long moment, his gaze unblinking, searching. The silence stretched, filled with unspoken accusations, regrets, and a chilling uncertainty.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, almost a murmur. “There are two roads before you. One leads to a swift and brutal end, for what you’ve done, for what you intended. The other… the other is unknown.”

You looked at him, hope flickering amidst the despair. “What… what is the other?”

Tommy’s eyes held yours, a complex mix of anger, calculation, and something else you couldn’t quite decipher. “You could disappear. Leave Small Heath. Leave this life behind. And never, ever return. If you do, if I ever see your face again, or hear so much as a whisper of you, I will find you. And then, there will be no other road.”

He paused, letting his words sink in, then continued, his voice hardening. “But if you choose the second path, you will carry a secret. A secret that could destroy you, and us, if it ever came out. You will live with the knowledge that you betrayed us, and that we, in turn, spared you for reasons only I will ever truly understand.”

The choice was stark, terrifying, yet undeniably a lifeline. Your life, or the fleeting, destructive satisfaction of vengeance. The truth was, after three years embedded in their lives, the revenge felt hollow, a distant echo of a passion you no longer fully possessed. The genuine connections, the laughter, the shared moments – they had tainted the purity of your mission.

“I choose… I choose to disappear,” you whispered, the words barely audible. The weight of your deception was still crushing, but the possibility of a future, even one shrouded in secrecy and regret, was a desperate comfort.

Tommy nodded, a grim satisfaction in his eyes. “Good. Because the Peaky Blinders don’t forget. And we don’t forgive easily. But sometimes… sometimes, we make exceptions for those who, despite everything, managed to touch something within us, even if it was with a lie.”

He turned and walked back to his desk, picking up a pen. The conversation was over. Your fate was sealed. You were no longer family. You were a secret, a ghost. And in the dark, dangerous world of the Peaky Blinders, sometimes that was the best you could hope for.

You turned and walked out of the office, past the knowing glances of Arthur and John, past the cold, betrayed eyes of Polly. You didn’t look back. You just kept walking, out of the Garrison, out of Small Heath, and into an uncertain future, forever marked by the family you had tried to destroy, and who, in a twisted way, had saved you.

Parings: Reader x Platonic!Ada Shelby,

Summary: A forbidden love blossoms amidst the Shelby family's world, threatening to unravel a cherished friendship and expose a dangerous secret.

Warnings: Implied violence (typical of the Peaky Blinders universe), themes of illicit relationships, emotional tension.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Watery Lane as you and Ada made your way through the bustling market. The vibrant chaos of stalls piled high with fresh produce, brightly colored fabrics, and an endless array of goods usually lifted your spirits. Today, however, a knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. Ada had been uncharacteristically quiet, her usual easy chatter replaced by a thoughtful silence that felt heavy with unspoken meaning.

You tried to break the tension. "Polly was particularly feisty this morning, wasn't she? Went on a rant about the price of good tea."

Ada offered a small, distracted smile. "She did. And she's not wrong. But… I've been meaning to talk to you about something else."

Your heart did a small, nervous flutter. "Oh?" You feigned casualness, but your voice felt a little too high.

She stopped at a flower stall, her fingers tracing the delicate petals of a deep red rose. The scent was sweet, almost cloying. "You know," she began, her voice soft, "I've always valued your honesty. More than anyone else's, perhaps."

Your throat felt suddenly dry. "And I yours, Ada. You know that."

She finally turned to face you, her gaze direct and unblinking. "It's just… lately, you seem different. Distant, almost. And you've been spending a lot of time with my brothers."

A cold dread seeped into your bones. This was it. "We've always spent time together, Ada. We grew up together," you managed, attempting to sound genuinely bewildered.

"Yes," she conceded, her eyes still fixed on yours. "But this feels… different. More guarded." She picked up the rose, twirling it slowly between her fingers, her brow furrowed in thought. "Especially with Thomas."

Your breath hitched. You could feel the blood draining from your face. You tried to appear nonchalant, but your hands, you realized, were clenching into fists. "Thomas? What makes you say that?" The words came out in a rush, a little too quickly.

Ada finally met your gaze, and this time, there was no mistaking the knowing glint in her eyes. "Because I've seen the way he looks at you. It's not the way he looks at anyone else. And I've seen the way you look at him. It's not the way you look at a friend, not the way you look at me."

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant calls of the market vendors and the rumble of a passing cart. You felt utterly exposed, as if all your carefully constructed walls had crumbled in an instant. There was no denying it, no twisting your words. Ada knew.

"Ada…" you started, your voice barely a whisper, thick with unshed tears.

She held up a hand, stopping you. "Don't. Just… don't lie to me. Please." Her voice softened, a hint of hurt lacing her words. "You, of all people. I thought we told each other everything. Didn't you trust me enough?"

Tears pricked at your eyes, hot and stinging. The thought of hurting Ada, of breaking her trust, was a sharper pain than any fear of discovery. "I'm so sorry, Ada," you confessed, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "I wanted to tell you, I really did. But… it's complicated. And dangerous. You know Thomas. You know what he's like."

Ada sighed, a long, weary sound. She placed the rose back on the stall, her fingers lingering for a moment. "Dangerous? You think I don't know about dangerous, living with the Shelby family?" She gave a small, humorless laugh, a bitter edge to it. "So it's Thomas, then? My brother, Thomas?"

You hesitated, then nodded, a single tear escaping and tracing a hot path down your cheek. "Yes. It is."

Ada closed her eyes for a long moment, a slow, deep breath escaping her lips. When she opened them, her expression was unreadable, a complex mix of emotions swirling in their depths. "And how long has this... this been going on?"

"A few months," you admitted, feeling the immense weight of the secret finally lifting, even as a new kind of fear settled in.

She was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on something in the distance, perhaps seeing beyond the market, to the grimy streets of Small Heath and the life that had shaped them all. You braced yourself for her anger, for her disappointment, for the inevitable lecture about the dangers of getting involved with a Shelby, especially Thomas. But when she finally spoke, her voice was surprisingly calm, almost weary.

"Does anyone else know?"

"No!" you said, shaking your head vehemently. "Absolutely not. Only you. And… us, of course."

Ada nodded slowly. "Good. Keep it that way."

You stared at her, utterly bewildered. "What? What do you mean?"

"I said, keep it that way," she repeated, her voice firm now, but not unkind. "Do you think I haven't noticed Thomas being… different lately? Less closed off, dare I say, almost… content?" She gave you a wry, knowing look, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "It appears you've managed to do what no one else, not even Polly, has managed to do for him."

A hesitant hope flickered within you, small but persistent. "So… you're not angry? Not completely?"

Ada let out another sigh, running a hand through her dark hair. "Angry? Perhaps a little. Hurt, certainly, that you didn't trust me enough to tell me sooner. But… I'm also worried. You know what he's like. What this life is like. It's not a fairy tale, is it?" She paused, her gaze softening, a flicker of genuine affection in her eyes. "But I also know you, and I know you wouldn't do anything without reason. And if Thomas… if he truly makes you happy, in that twisted way he has…" She trailed off, the complexity of her feelings evident in her expression.

"He does," you whispered, a genuine smile finally gracing your lips, though it was still tinged with uncertainty. "More than I ever thought possible."

Ada finally took your hand, squeezing it gently. Her touch was a balm, a silent reassurance. "Then I won't stand in your way. But," she warned, her voice dropping to a serious tone, her grip tightening slightly, "if he ever hurts you, if he ever breaks your heart, or if this… this goes wrong in any way, you come to me. Understand? You come straight to me, and we'll deal with him. And anyone else."

You squeezed her hand back, relief washing over you in a powerful wave, a lump forming in your throat. "I understand, Ada. I promise. Thank you. Thank you so much."

She gave you a small, knowing smile, a hint of her usual spark returning. "Just… be careful. And try to be a bit more discreet. You two aren't exactly masters of subtlety, are you? I've seen the way you two look at each other, even across a crowded pub. It's written all over your faces."

You chuckled, a genuine, joyful sound, the weight on your shoulders feeling significantly lighter. "We'll try, Ada. We really will."

As you walked back through the bustling market, the sounds and smells now a comfort rather than an oppressive weight, the world seemed a little brighter. The secret was out, at least to Ada, and her acceptance, however grudging, felt like a precious gift, a lifeline in the dangerous currents of the Shelby world. The fear was still there, a quiet hum beneath the surface, but now, knowing you had Ada in your corner, it felt a little less daunting. With her by your side, and Thomas… well, with Thomas, you felt you could face anything.

————

The pub was less crowded than usual that evening, a rare quiet that settled heavy in the air. You found Thomas in his usual booth, a half-empty glass of whisky in front of him, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance. He looked tired, the lines of worry around his eyes more pronounced than usual. Taking a deep breath, you slid into the seat opposite him.

He acknowledged you with a subtle nod, a silent invitation to speak. You wrapped your hands around your own glass, the condensation cold against your palms. "I need to tell you something," you began, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned his head slowly, his piercing blue eyes finally meeting yours. "What is it?" he asked, his tone flat, betraying nothing.

"Ada knows about us." The words tumbled out quickly, leaving a nervous tremor in their wake.

A muscle in his jaw clenched, and for a long moment, he said nothing. His gaze intensified, searching your face for any hint of deception. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You watched him, your heart hammering against your ribs, bracing yourself for his reaction. Would he be angry? Scared? Disappointed?

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and dangerous. "How?"

"She noticed," you explained, trying to keep your voice steady. "Said we weren't subtle. She saw the way we looked at each other." You omitted the part about her suspicions about his newfound "contentment," knowing he wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. "I didn't tell her anything directly, not at first. But when she confronted me, I couldn't lie. Not to Ada."

His eyes narrowed. "You couldn't lie? You risked everything, then, for a clear conscience?" There was an edge to his voice, a coldness that made you shiver.

"No!" you insisted, leaning forward. "I risked it because she's my best friend. And because she deserved the truth, Thomas. She felt hurt that I didn't tell her." You paused, choosing your words carefully. "She's also worried about you. About us. About this life."

He scoffed, taking a long sip of his whisky. "She's always worried. It's in her nature."

"She's worried about me," you corrected, meeting his gaze squarely. "About me getting hurt. And she only wants us to be careful. To be discreet."

He set his glass down with a soft thud, leaning back against the worn leather of the booth. He ran a hand over his face, a rare gesture of weariness from the usually unflappable Thomas Shelby. "So, she's not going to tell anyone?"

"No," you confirmed, relief washing over you that he was focusing on the practical rather than the emotional. "She promised. She just wants us to be more careful. And if anything goes wrong, if you ever hurt me, she said she'd come for you."

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. "She would, too." He looked at you then, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, perhaps a hint of respect, or even… affection. "You trust her, then."

"With my life," you affirmed without hesitation.

He nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression replacing the earlier tension. "Good. Trust is a rare commodity in this family." He paused, taking another sip of whisky. "And you, you trust me?"

The question hung in the air, weighty and profound. You met his gaze, your own conviction clear. "Yes, Thomas. I do."

Parings: Arthur Shelby x Wife!Reader

Summary: Once loving, Arthur and his wife are now locked in a bitter war. His destructive acts turn their shared history into a battleground.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Alcoholism, Addiction, PTSD, Mental Health, Emotional and Verbal Abuse, Infidelity, Violence, Marital Conflict, Betrayal.

The clatter of cutlery against porcelain was the only sound in the vast dining room, a stark contrast to the usual boisterous energy that filled the Shelby home. You sat at the foot of the long mahogany table, a seemingly unblemished picture of composure in your tailored dress, but inside, a storm raged. Across from you, Arthur, once the very sun around which your world revolved, chewed his toast with a vacant stare. The man who had once burned with such a fierce, protective love for you was now a ghost, haunting the very rooms you shared.

It hadn't been a sudden shift. The cracks had appeared slowly, almost imperceptibly, after the war. The shell shock he'd brought back from the trenches had festered, twisting the gentle giant you married into a volatile stranger. At first, you’d been patient, understanding. You'd nursed his wounds, both visible and invisible, with a devotion that bordered on desperation. You’d whispered reassurances into the dark, early hours of the morning, held him as he trembled from unseen horrors, and fought for him against anyone who dared to question his sanity.

But patience, even yours, had its limits. His temper, once an infrequent flare, had become a constant, unpredictable inferno. Words, sharp and cruel, had replaced the endearments. And then came the other women – fleeting shadows, yes, but each one a chisel chip-chipping away at the foundation of your love. You’d tried to talk, to reason, to plead. You’d even tried to leave, only to be pulled back by a desperate, fleeting glimpse of the old Arthur, a glimpse that always proved to be a mirage.

Today, however, was different. Today, a line had been crossed. This morning, a letter had arrived from your brother, detailing how Arthur, in a fit of drunken rage, had ruined a business deal that would have secured your family’s failing textile factory. He hadn't just jeopardized your inheritance; he’d intentionally sabotaged your kin.

You finally broke the silence. "Arthur," your voice was a low hum, steady despite the tremor in your hands beneath the table.

He grunted, not looking up. "What is it, love?" The endearment, once so sweet, now tasted like ash.

"My brother's letter arrived this morning."

That got his attention. He paused, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth, and finally met your gaze. There was a flicker of something in his eyes – guilt? Regret? Or perhaps just annoyance at being confronted.

"Oh," he said, taking a bite. "That."

"That?" You leaned forward, your voice rising in volume. "That, Arthur, was our last chance. Our family will lose everything because of your recklessness!"

He slammed his fist on the table, making the cutlery jump. "Don't you dare speak to me about recklessness! I'm the one who keeps this family afloat! I'm the one who deals with the filth of Small Heath so you can live in this damned house!"

"And what about my family, Arthur? What about the promises you made?" Your voice cracked, the carefully constructed wall around your emotions finally crumbling. "You swore to protect them! You swore to protect us!"

He stood up, towering over you, his face a mask of simmering rage. "I swore a lot of things, didn't I? Things I couldn't keep. Things I shouldn't have to keep for a woman who constantly questions me!"

"I questioned you because you were destroying us!" You rose too, meeting his furious gaze with a defiant fire of your own. "You destroyed everything, Arthur. You destroyed the man I loved. You destroyed the trust. And now, you’ve destroyed the last shred of loyalty I had for you."

He scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound. "Loyalty? You wouldn't know loyalty if it slapped you in the face, you pampered little…." He stopped, the word dying on his tongue as he saw the steely resolve in your eyes.

"No," you said, your voice cold and precise, "I know exactly what loyalty is. And I know what betrayal is. And you, Arthur Shelby, are the master of both." You took a deep breath, the decision solidifying in your heart. "Consider us adversaries, then. Because from this moment forward, I will fight for what you tried to take from me. And I will not stop until I win."

His face contorted, a mixture of shock and dawning understanding. For a fleeting moment, you saw a flicker of the old Arthur, the one who would have been devastated by such words. But it vanished, replaced by the hardened mask of the man he had become.

"Is that a threat, wife?" he growled, stepping closer.

You didn't flinch. "It's a promise, Arthur."

Parings: John Shelby x Rival Daughter!Reader

Summary: A dangerous encounter with a certain Shelby changes everything.

Warnings: Strong language, mature, themes, violence.

A/N: b

The night air of Small Heath was a cold balm on your skin, but it did little to cool the fire in your veins. You tossed and turned, the familiar comfort of your bed a foreign landscape now. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw them: John Shelby’s striking blue eyes, the ones that had held a flicker of something you couldn't name. It was unsettling. It was infuriating.

You knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that your accidental run-in wasn't an isolated incident. In Small Heath, nothing was ever an accident. The encounter felt like a fuse being lit, a direct consequence of a silent war that had festered for years. This wasn't just about a stolen moment; it was about territory, about two families circling each other like wolves, each waiting for the other to show a sign of weakness.

You rose from bed, pulling on a thick woollen shawl against the pre-dawn chill. The house was silent, a rare moment of peace before the waking city and the demands of your family’s business. You crept downstairs, careful to avoid the loose floorboard on the second step. The kitchen was an island of quiet, the faint smell of last night’s stew still lingering. You found yourself drawn to the window, staring out at the grey-streaked sky, the rooftops of Small Heath silhouetted against the coming light.

It was in that moment of stillness that you heard it: the tell-tale murmur of voices from the street outside. Too hushed for a regular conversation, too purposeful for a casual gathering. Your family had their own set of signals, their own ways of communicating without drawing attention. This was a meet.

Your heart rate picked up. Something was happening.

You pressed your ear to the glass, straining to listen. It was your father’s voice, low and gravelly, punctuated by the sharper, more agitated tones of your cousin, James. The fragments of conversation that reached you were like shards of glass: "...that swaggering bastard, Tommy Shelby..." and "...pushed back on the Rag Market…" followed by your father's cold, final word: "Retribution."

You pulled back from the window, a knot tightening in your gut. They were discussing the Shelbys. And judging by the tone, it wasn't a peaceful conversation. It was a declaration of war. You knew better than to ask questions. To question your family’s business was to show weakness, to invite a lecture on loyalty and the cold, hard rules of their world. Your job was to be a silent spectator, to pretend you knew nothing, while the world you lived in teetered on the brink.

As the sun began to paint the sky in hues of orange and pink, you heard the front door creak open and shut. The meeting was over. The silence that followed felt heavier than the conversation itself.

Later that morning, the air in the market was thick with a new kind of tension. Vendors went about their business with a practiced nonchalance, but their eyes flickered nervously, their voices were pitched a little lower. The Shelby presence was palpable, a shadow hanging over everything. You saw them huddled in small groups, their peaky caps pulled low, their gazes sharp and assessing. They were on the defensive, or perhaps, on the hunt.

Your cousin, James, met you at the family stall. He didn't offer a grin or a joke. His eyes were hard, his jaw set. "Right, listen," he said, his voice a low command. "Today, you stick close. No straying off. The Shelbys are getting bold."

"What happened?" you asked, unable to stop yourself.

He gave you a sharp look. "Just do as I say, [Your Name]. They're testing us. Trying to find the cracks." He lowered his voice even further. "They took out a few of our men on Garrison Lane last night. No witnesses. Clean. Tommy’s losing his grip on his men, or he’s pulling the strings himself. Either way, it means trouble."

Your blood ran cold. The word "retribution" echoed in your mind. This wasn't a skirmish; this was retaliation. And it had been set in motion by a direct provocation. A terrible thought, unbidden and unwanted, crept into your mind. Could last night’s encounter—your encounter—have been the spark? Had a mere jostle and a few sharp words set off a firestorm?

"Keep your head down," James said, his hand resting on your arm, a gesture of rare sincerity. "And for God's sake, don't talk to anyone from that lot. Not for any reason."

You nodded, the lie sitting heavy on your tongue. The unspoken truth was that you had already done exactly that. And the sheer weight of that secret felt like a heavy chain around your neck. You worked the rest of the day in a daze, the numbers on the ledgers blurring, the faces of the market's patrons a wash of color. Every rustle of a coat, every passing figure, made you jump. You felt a set of eyes on you, a constant, unnerving pressure. You didn’t dare look up to see who they belonged to, but you knew. It wasn't the Shelbys in general you were watching for; it was one in particular.

As the day waned and the crowd thinned, you were tasked with a final delivery. A small box of ledgers needed to be taken to a back-alley business near the train tracks—a long walk in a darkening part of town. The route was well-known to your family, and usually safe. But today was different.

You clutched the box to your chest, your heart pounding with every footfall. The narrow alley was eerily quiet, the distant clatter of a train the only sound. You were just past the half-way point when a shadow detached itself from the brick wall ahead.

You stopped dead in your tracks.

A man was blocking your path, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but his eyes, glinting in the dim light, were anything but. The peaky cap, the sharp suit, the unmistakable swagger.

It was John Shelby.

He took a step closer, and then another. "Well, look what we have here," he said, his voice a low rumble. "A little songbird, far from her nest." He was baiting you, testing you. There was a faint bruise on his cheek, a cut on his lip that hadn't been there yesterday. He’d been in a fight. Had he been one of the men involved in the attack James had mentioned?

You didn't move. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch. You met his gaze, your own eyes narrowed. "Get out of my way, Shelby."

A faint smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Feisty. I like that. But you should be careful, love. The streets of Small Heath ain't a good place for little bookworms to go wandering about alone."

"I can handle myself," you shot back, the words a challenge.

"Can you?" he mused, stepping closer still, a predator to your prey. He stopped just inches away, close enough for you to smell the sharp scent of tobacco and something else, something metallic. "Because it seems to me your lot is starting to crack under the pressure. Little miss, you're a liability. An easy target."

He was pushing you, goading you, and in that moment, the anger that had been simmering since yesterday finally boiled over. You shoved the box of ledgers at his chest. "I said, get out of my way!"

He stumbled back, more out of surprise than force. He looked down at the box, then back at you, the smirk gone, replaced by a cold, calculating look. "You've got guts, I'll give you that," he said, the low growl back in his voice. "Just don't let them get you killed."

He stepped to the side, leaving a narrow path for you to pass. You hesitated for a moment, then walked on, your spine ramrod straight, refusing to look back. But you felt his eyes on your back the entire time, a burning weight that followed you until you were safely on the main road again.

Parings: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Summary: Your return forces Thomas Shelby to confront their past, revealing a forgotten secret and igniting old, painful memories.

Warnings: Implied emotional manipulation, discussion of past trauma (war, abandonment), unrequited love/one-sided pain, strong language, mature themes.

A/N: The past is a powerful force, isn't it?

The incessant Birmingham rain lashed against the windows of Thomas Shelby's office, each drop a percussive reminder of the city's ceaseless churn. He sat behind his polished oak desk, a half-empty glass of whiskey at his elbow, the smoke from his cigarette curling lazily towards the high ceiling. The Shelby Company Limited was a leviathan now, its tendrils reaching into every corner of the city and beyond, but even with all his power, there were shadows he couldn't outrun.

A soft knock at the door. "Come in," Thomas grunted, his gaze still fixed on the rain-streaked pane.

Arthur poked his head in, his usual boisterousness subdued. "Thomas, there's… someone here to see you. Says she knew you from before."

Thomas's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Before what, Arthur? Before I was born?"

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "Says her name is {Your first and last name}."

The name hit Thomas with the force of a physical blow, scattering the carefully constructed walls around his heart. {Your Name}. He hadn't heard that name in fifteen years, not since the mud and blood of France had swallowed the boy he once was.

"Send her in," he said, his voice a low growl.

The door creaked open, and you stepped into the room, bringing with you a ghost of sunlight into the dim space. You were older, of course, the soft curves of youth replaced by the refined lines of a woman, but your eyes were still the same — that startling shade of hazel that had always held a spark of defiant joy. Your dress, though modest, was well-tailored, hinting at a comfortable life somewhere far from Small Heath.

"Thomas," you said, your voice a gentle murmur, a stark contrast to the cacophony of his life.

He rose slowly, his gaze raking over you, searching for the girl he remembered, the one who used to laugh so easily by the canal. "{Your Name}," he replied, his voice rough. "I… I didn't expect to ever see you again."

You offered a small, hesitant smile. "Life has a way of surprising us, doesn't it?" You gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "May I?"

He nodded, sinking back into his own chair as she sat. The air crackled with unspoken history, a heavy silence punctuated only by the drumming rain.

"You've done well for yourself, Thomas," you finally said, your eyes sweeping over the opulent office, a hint of something unreadable in their depths. "From the stables to… this."

He scoffed, a wry twist to his lips. "It's all blood and iron, {Your Name}. Not much different from the stables, really, just a different kind of horse."

You chuckled softly, a sound that stirred embers of forgotten warmth in his chest. "You always had a way with words, even then. Always so… intense."

"And you were always so damn naive," he retorted, a flicker of the old bitterness surfacing. "Believed in pretty things and happy endings."

Your smile faded. "I believed in you, Thomas. Or at least, the boy you were. Before the war. Before… everything."

He flinched, the words a direct hit. He knew what you were referring to. The secret. The one they had shared, innocent and reckless, beneath the weeping willow by the Cut.

"What brings you to Birmingham, {Your Name}?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation away from the treacherous shoals of the past.

You clasped your hands in your lap, your gaze dropping to them. "My father passed, a few months ago. He had some distant relatives here, and I came to settle some affairs." You paused, then looked up, your eyes locking with his. "And I… I heard about you, Thomas. Everyone has. I was curious."

Curiosity. Or something more. He felt a familiar knot of apprehension tighten in his gut. "And now you've seen. Are you satisfied?"

"I don't know what I am, Thomas," you admitted, your voice low. "It's a strange thing, seeing someone you knew so well, become someone entirely different. I remember a boy who used to read poetry to me, who talked about running away to the sea."

"That boy died in France," Thomas said flatly, taking a long pull from his whiskey. "He didn't survive the trenches."

"Did he, though?" You challenged, your voice gaining a quiet strength. "Or did he just get buried under layers of ambition and steel?"

He slammed his glass down on the desk. "What do you want, {Your Name}? To dig up old ghosts? To remind me of a life I chose to leave behind?"

You met his intensity without flinching. "No. I… I just wanted to see if there was anything left. Of us. Of what we had." Your voice softened, almost a whisper. "Do you remember the night by the willow, Thomas? The moon was full, and you swore you'd never forget me."

A cold sweat pricked at Thomas's skin. The memory was sharp, vivid, a clandestine embrace beneath the pale moonlight, the whispered promises. The secret they had shared, born of youthful passion and desperate hope – the small, silver locket he had given you, containing a lock of a pressed flower from the meadow where they first met and a saying he had wrote inside the locket.

"It was a lifetime ago, {Your Name}," he said, his voice strained. "We were children."

"And yet, it feels like yesterday when I close my eyes," you countered, a tear shimmering in your eye. "I kept the locket, Thomas. All these years."

He looked at you, truly looked at you, and saw not just the woman before him, but the girl you had been, the one whose innocence he had perhaps, unknowingly, taken with him into the war. And with that gaze, a tremor of something he hadn't felt in years – not fear, but a deeper, more profound vulnerability – ran through him.

"Why now?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "After all this time?"

You stood, walking slowly towards the window, your back to him. The rain had begun to ease, replaced by a dreary mist. "Because some things," you said, your voice thick with emotion, "they don't just disappear. They haunt you. And sometimes, you need to face them to finally be free."

You turned, your eyes, still holding that spark, now held a challenge. "Are you free, Thomas? Or are you still haunted by the boy you left behind?"

The question hung in the air, a silent accusation, a forgotten secret unearthed. Thomas Shelby, the formidable gangster, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp Birmingham air. The past had returned, and it was demanding its due. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was not just a visit. This was a reckoning.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, between them. Thomas’s gaze, usually impenetrable, flickered, betraying a flicker of the turmoil within. He pushed himself up from his desk, walking to the window you now stood before, looking out at the murky expanse of Birmingham. The mist clung to the rooftops like a shroud, mirroring the fog in his own mind.

"Free?" he finally scoffed, his voice laced with a bitter irony. "There's no such thing as 'free' for a man like me. Not when you've seen what I've seen, done what I've done. The past isn't a ghost you can outrun; it's a part of your bones."

You turned, her expression unreadable. "Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Thomas?"

He spun to face you, his eyes blazing. "I don't sleep at night. I plan. I fight. I build. This empire, it's not some childhood dream. It's a shield. Against the chaos, against the damn world that tried to break me." He gestured around the luxurious office. "This isn't for show. It's control. And control means leaving certain things buried."

"Like us?" You asked, your voice soft but sharp, cutting through his defenses. "Like the locket? The child we spoke of, even in jest?"

The mention of the locket, and more importantly, the fleeting, innocent dreams of a future child, struck him like a physical blow. He walked to a side table, pouring himself another whiskey, his hand trembling slightly. "There was no 'us'. There was a boy and a girl, too young, too naive. The world broke that boy, and the girl… she moved on, didn't she?"

"I had to," you whispered, your eyes filling with unshed tears. "You left. You went to war. And then you came back a stranger. A ghost in the flesh, Thomas. You never came for me."

"And what was I supposed to do?" he roared, the raw pain in his voice surprising even himself. "Come back from the hell of the trenches and offer you… what? A life of poverty in Small Heath? A husband haunted by the dead? I saw things. Things no man should ever see. I carried the war in my bones, and I knew I couldn't drag you into that darkness." He took a long swig of whiskey, the burn doing little to quell the ache in his chest. "I did what I thought was best. I cut you loose, for your own damn good."

"For my own good?" You cried, your voice cracking. "Do you truly believe that? Or did you just… forget? Did all the ambition, all the power, just erase us from your mind?"

He stared into his glass, seeing not the amber liquid but the swirling shadows of his past. "I never forgot you. Not for a single day. Every decision I made, every risk I took… a part of it was always about making sure that no one I cared about would ever be that vulnerable again. That they wouldn't have to face what I faced. You were safer without me."

You shook your head, tears finally tracing paths down your cheeks. "Safer, perhaps. But alone. And with a piece of my heart always wondering what became of the boy who read me poetry by the canal." You reached into your handbag, pulling out a small, tarnished gold locket. It was the one he’d given you, still holding its secrets. "This wasn't just a trinket, Thomas. It was a promise. A memory of something pure, something untouched by the ugliness that came later."

He looked at the locket, then at your tear-streaked face. The familiar, almost instinctual urge to shut down, to push you away, warred with a new, unsettling sensation – a profound ache of regret. This woman, standing before him, was a living testament to a life he’d irrevocably altered.

"What do you want from me?" he asked again, his voice raw, stripped of its usual command. "Absolution? I don't have it to give."

You stepped closer, your hand reaching out, hesitantly, towards him. "I don't want absolution, Thomas. I want… I want to know if the boy who gave me this locket is still in there, somewhere. I want to know if he remembers." Your eyes, so full of sorrow, were also full of a desperate hope. "I don't know why I came here, truly. Part of me wanted to confront you, yes. But another part… another part wanted to find a piece of myself that I lost when you walked away."

Parings: John Shelby x Rival Daughter!Reader

Summary: A dangerous encounter with a certain Shelby changes everything.

Warnings: Strong Language, Mature themes, Violence.

A/N: uh oh…looks like someone’s cuaght between rival families.

The first true breath of day in Small Heath wasn't the clean snap of morning air, but a thick, acrid lungful of coal smoke and the clatter of carts on cobblestones. For you, it was a familiar symphony, the backdrop to a life lived on the fringes of legitimate society. Your family, the [Reader's Family Name]s, held their own, a formidable force carved out of the city's underbelly, a constant, simmering rival to the infamous Shelby clan.

You’d accepted it, once. Accepted the hushed conversations about 'business,' the coded threats exchanged like pleasantries, the occasional brawl that spilled into the street like spilled ale. It was simply how things were, a grim inheritance passed down through generations. You were a [Reader's Family Name] – a fact etched into your bones, visible in the careful way you navigated the bustling market, even in the way you held yourself: strong-willed, self-assured, and outwardly confident, a mask you'd perfected over years. But with each passing year, the lines blurred, the justifications thinned, and you found yourself more and more caught in the sticky web of animosity you had no part in weaving, yet were bound by blood to defend. The thought often pricked at you, a dull ache behind your eyes, that this constant state of war might one day cost you everything, everyone. Losing your family – that was the true, silent fear that coiled in your gut.

"[Your Name]! You going to stare at that bloody book all day, or are you going to help with the stalls?"

Your mom’s sharp voice cut through your reverie, a familiar summons. You sighed, bookmarking your page in Wuthering Heights – a worn, cherished edition. You were a bookworm at heart, finding solace and escape in the printed word, a stark contrast to the brutal realities of your daily life. Sometimes, you wondered if anyone in your family truly understood the quiet hunger for knowledge that gnawed at you, or if they simply tolerated it as an odd quirk.

"Coming, mom," you called back, slipping the novel into your satchel, careful not to bend the precious pages. You adjusted the plain, practical coat you wore, a deliberate choice to blend in, to avoid drawing undue attention to yourself in a territory that was, technically, contested ground. Today, your task was simple: help your cousin, James, haggle over the price of some questionable fabric down by the Rag Market.

As you threaded your way through the narrow, grimy alleys towards the market, the sounds and smells intensified. The shouts of vendors, the insistent bleating of a sheep being led to slaughter, the metallic tang of something unidentifiable in the air. You kept your gaze forward, but your eyes subtly scanned the crowd, a habit ingrained from childhood. You knew the faces of your family’s men, and just as importantly, you knew the faces of the Shelby men. They were always around, like ghosts, or vultures, depending on the day.

You saw a group of your own kin gathered outside The Black Horse, voices low and serious. Your cousin, James, spotted you. "There you are, [Your Name]! Thought you'd gotten lost in one of your bloody novels again." He grinned, but there was a tension in his eyes you recognized. "Just finished dealing with that lot from Garrison Lane. Always trying to muscle in, eh?"

"They'll always try, James," you replied, your voice more accustomed to the rough edges of their world than you cared to admit. "Doesn't mean they'll succeed."

You stood with him for a moment, making conversation about the mundane details of their 'business,' your ears subtly picking up snippets of conversation around you. It was always about territory, about the flow of illicit goods, about maintaining their fragile hold. You listened, contributed where expected, but your mind was elsewhere, already anticipating the quiet solitude of your room and the world within the pages of your book.

"Right, I'm off to the stalls," you announced, giving James a nod. "Don't get yourselves into too much trouble before supper."

"No promises," he chuckled, lighting a cigarette. "You watch yourself, too. It's a busy day."

You continued your journey, past the overflowing bins, the wary faces of shopkeepers, and the hawkers shouting their wares. Your hand instinctively went to your satchel, touching the spine of your book, a small comfort in this harsh reality. You were a few streets away from your designated stall, momentarily distracted by the vibrant colours of a fruit vendor’s display. Your internal monologue was debating the merits of a new literary criticism you'd heard about, when it happened.

A sudden, sharp jostle.

The book slipped from your grasp, landing with an audible thud on the grimy cobblestones. Your head snapped up, temper flaring. Before you stood a man, broad-shouldered and sharp-suited, a peaky cap pulled low over eyes that, even in this brief moment, held an unnerving intensity. He stooped quickly, retrieving your fallen treasure with a surprising gentleness.

"Careless, aren't you?" he drawled, his voice a low rumble, laced with the unmistakable accent of Small Heath. He held the book out, his gaze unwavering as it met yours.

You felt a flicker of annoyance, quickly overridden by a deeper, more unsettling recognition. The cut of his suit, the confident swagger even in his still posture, the way his eyes seemed to assess everything at once – he was a Shelby. No doubt about it. And not just any Shelby, but one of the brothers. John, if the whispers were to be believed. Youngest of the core three, notorious for his quick temper and even quicker fists, but with a surprising glint of something almost... thoughtful, in his eyes.

You snatched the book back, perhaps a little too forcefully. "I'd say you're the one who needs to watch where he's going," you retorted, your voice steady despite the sudden spike of adrenaline. "Or perhaps your kind just believes the world should part for you."

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. "My 'kind' knows how to handle themselves on these streets, love. Better than some book-reading lass who's got her head stuck in the clouds." He gestured vaguely at the market chaos around them. "This ain't a library, you know."

"And you, I presume, are a connoisseur of fine literature?" You raised an eyebrow, a challenge in your tone. You knew precisely who he was, and he clearly knew what you represented. The unspoken animosity hung heavy between you, a tangible thing amidst the market's noise.

He chuckled, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. "Hardly. But I know a pretty face with a sharp tongue when I hear one." His eyes, a striking blue, lingered on yours for a moment longer than necessary, a spark of something unreadable passing between you. Not quite hostility, not quite interest, but a volatile mix of both.

"And I know a Shelby when I see one," you countered, your voice dropping to a near whisper, the family name a curse on your lips.

His smirk vanished, replaced by a hardened, almost dangerous set to his jaw. "Aye," he said, the single word a low growl. "And I know a [Reader's Family Name] when I smell one. Now, if you'll excuse me." He tipped his cap, a gesture that was more mockery than politeness, and turned to walk away, disappearing into the throng of people before you could formulate another retort.

You stood there, the weight of Wuthering Heights suddenly feeling much heavier in your hands. The encounter had lasted mere moments, yet it had shifted something within you. The casual animosity you usually felt for the Shelbys had coalesced into a sharp, uncomfortable awareness. John Shelby. He was just as crude, just as dangerous as the rumours claimed, yet there was something else, an unexpected depth in his eyes that had caught you off guard.

This was more than just a rival gang member. This was a man who had seen you, truly seen you, for a fleeting moment, beyond the family name, and in doing so, had irrevocably drawn you into the very heart of the conflict you'd tried so hard to observe from a distance. The game, it seemed, had just changed.

————

The scent of stale beer and desperation clung to the air inside the Shelby betting office. John leaned against the counter, absently tracing a pattern on the grimy wood with his finger, his mind replaying the fleeting encounter in the market. The lass with the book. A [Reader's Family Name]. He’d known it the moment her eyes, sharp and defiant, had met his. They were the enemy, pure and simple, yet there was something about her – the quick wit, the way she clutched that damned novel as if it were a shield – that had stuck in his craw.

"Everything alright, Johnny?" Arthur’s voice, a little too loud, broke through his thoughts. His eldest brother stood by the door, scanning the street with an almost manic energy.

John grunted. "Fine, Arthur. Just thinking."

"Thinking ain't for us, lad. Best leave that to Tommy," Arthur chuckled, a hollow sound. "So, did you get those new ledgers from the printer's?"

"Aye, they're here somewhere." John pushed off the counter, but his mind drifted back to her. He’d seen plenty of [Reader's Family Name]s, men and women, all with that same hard-edged look, but she was different. Not soft, not by a long shot, but… refined. A bookworm in Small Heath. It was an anomaly, like finding a delicate orchid growing in a slag heap. He dismissed the thought. She was the enemy, no matter how intriguing.

————

Meanwhile, you hurried away from the market, the encounter with John Shelby replaying in your mind like a disjointed nightmare. Your pulse still hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He was everything you expected a Shelby to be: arrogant, dangerous, and utterly captivating in a way that made your teeth ache. And those eyes… they had seen too much, too quickly.

You found James haggling with a portly vendor, his voice already hoarse. "Took your sweet time, didn't you, [Your Name]?" he grumbled, though a faint smile touched his lips. "Thought you'd run into trouble."

"Just a minor inconvenience," you said, forcing a casualness you didn't feel. You didn't elaborate. There was no need to feed the fire, to mention a Shelby, especially not to James, who had a temper almost as volatile as Arthur Shelby's. You were already walking a tightrope, and acknowledging even a brief interaction with the enemy felt like holding a match to the rope.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of mundane tasks. You helped sort fabric, tallied figures, and listened to the endless chatter of market life. But beneath the surface, your mind gnawed at the brief exchange. His eyes. The way he had held your book. The sheer audacity of his presence. It was unsettling, the way he had chipped away at your carefully constructed indifference.

That evening, as the smoky dusk settled over Small Heath, you finally retreated to the sanctuary of your room. You lit a single candle, the flickering flame casting dancing shadows on the worn pages of Wuthering Heights. You tried to immerse yourself, to lose yourself in the wild, passionate moors of Emily Brontë’s world, but your mind kept snagging on a different kind of wildness. John Shelby.

You knew the stories, the rumours that clung to the Shelby name like soot. Violence, ruthless ambition, a disregard for anyone who stood in their way. Your family wasn't innocent, not by a long shot, but there was a raw, untamed ferocity to the Shelbys that set them apart. And John was perhaps the most unpredictable of them all.

"Bloody hell," you muttered to yourself, slamming the book shut. "Why him?"

Part 1// Part 2 (Final)

Parings: Jay Halstead X Reader, Will Halstead x Reader

Summary: Your past was a silent scream, but with two brothers you never knew, you might finally find your voice and a home where love echoes louder than lies. This isn't just about healing old wounds; it's about building a family from the ground up, brick by painful brick.

Warnings: Child abuse (depicted through its aftermath and discussion of past events), trauma, emotional distress, mutism.

The turning point for Y/N won't be a single grand gesture, but rather a culmination of countless small acts of consistent kindness and patience, eventually breaking through the carefully constructed walls of her fear. The true shift will likely occur when she witnesses Jay or Will in a moment of genuine, relatable vulnerability or when she herself feels safe enough to exhibit a tiny, unprompted act of trust that is met with unconditional acceptance. It will be a moment that directly contradicts everything her father taught her about them.

The psychologist, Dr. Aris, had suggested that a sense of routine and normalcy, however mundane, could be grounding for Y/N. So, Jay had started a new ritual: every evening, after his shift, he'd sit on the living room couch and watch an old, slightly cheesy sci-fi movie. He wouldn't invite Y/N, wouldn't even overtly acknowledge her presence. He just was.

For weeks, she'd stay in her room, the door slightly ajar. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, she began to creep out, perching on the far end of the sofa, always with her back mostly to him, as if she were merely passing through. She never looked at the screen, never reacted. Jay never pushed it.

One particularly grueling shift had left Jay physically and emotionally drained. He was slumped on the couch, the movie playing, but his mind was elsewhere, replaying a particularly tough case. He let out a long, ragged sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. He felt the weight of the job, the stress of the new living situation, the constant worry for his little sister. He didn't realize he was audible, or that Y/N, who had been sitting quietly in her usual spot, was listening.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "Man, that was a tough one," he mumbled to himself, unaware he wasn't alone. He felt a deep weariness in his bones.

A soft rustle. Jay slowly lifted his head, his eyes widening slightly. Y/N had moved. She was now sitting closer, still not looking at him directly, but her body was angled slightly towards him. And for the first time, she made a sound other than a whimper or a gasp – a tiny, almost imperceptible sniffle. It was so faint, he almost missed it.

He stayed still, not wanting to scare her. He didn't speak. He just sat there, allowing his own raw exhaustion to show, something he rarely did, especially around her.

After a few more moments of silence, he heard another sound, distinct this time. It was a faint, almost shy, whisper. "You... sad?"

Jay's breath hitched. He slowly, carefully turned his head to look at her. Her eyes, usually darting away, were now fixed on his face, wide and vulnerable. It was the first time she had spoken, the first unprompted question.

"Yeah, Y/N," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. He didn't sugarcoat it, didn't try to be strong for her. He just told her the truth. "Yeah, I'm kinda sad right now. Long day."

Her gaze lingered on him. There was no judgment, no fear in her eyes at that moment, just a hesitant curiosity. Her father had likely told her that Jay was emotionless, cold, too tough to care. Seeing him vulnerable, admitting to a feeling that she herself knew intimately, chipped away at that lie.

Then, a moment that would forever be etched in Jay's memory. Your small hand, scarred and still bruised, moved slowly, tentatively, until your fingertips brushed lightly against his arm. It was a fleeting touch, barely there, but it was a conscious, intentional act of comfort.

Jay froze, his heart pounding. He didn't recoil, didn't flinch. He simply let her touch remain. He looked into her eyes, and in that brief connection, he saw not just fear, but a flicker of compassion, a nascent understanding.

"It's okay," you whispered again, your voice still reedy, but clearer this time. "To be... sad."

Tears pricked at Jay's eyes. He managed a shaky smile. "Yeah," he whispered back, his voice thick. "Yeah, it is." He gently, slowly, turned his hand and lightly covered hers, a silent promise of protection and acceptance. You didn't pull away.

Meanwhile, Will was also having his own quiet breakthrough moments with Y/N, often centered around his medical knowledge. He'd been meticulously redressing her remaining, smaller bruises and cuts, explaining each step, not expecting a response, but providing information.

One afternoon, he was cleaning a small scrape on her knee. He noticed she was watching his hands intently, a rare focus. "This is called an antiseptic wipe," he explained softly, "It helps keep out germs, so your knee can heal properly."

He applied a fresh bandage. As he straightened up, he noticed her gaze linger on his medical bag, which was open on the floor. She pointed a tiny, hesitant finger.

"That's a stethoscope," Will explained, pulling it out. "Doctors use it to listen to your heart and lungs. Want to try it?"

He gently placed the earpieces in her ears and then guided the diaphragm to his own chest. You flinched slightly but didn't pull away. Then, a tiny spark of wonder lit up your eyes. You could hear his heartbeat, a steady, rhythmic thrum. It was a sound of life, of presence, of a body working as it should.

Your father had likely presented the world as a chaotic, dangerous place, and adults as unpredictable forces. But here, through this simple medical tool, Will was offering you a glimpse into an ordered, predictable world, where bodies functioned, and where someone was there to explain it, to fix it. He was demonstrating control, not over her, but for her, through his knowledge.

You kept the stethoscope pressed to his chest for a long moment, listening. When you finally took it off, a faint, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile touched your lips.

"My... heart," you whispered, pointing to your own chest.

Will's face softened. "Yes, your heart," he confirmed gently. "It's strong, Y/N. Just like you."

These were the moments. The shared vulnerability, the simple act of human connection, the gentle demystification of the world around her. Each touch, each word, each shared breath chipped away at the edifice of lies, slowly but surely, allowing a fragile bud of trust to emerge.

—————

Beyond the initial breakthroughs in trust, the next major step in Y/N's recovery will be finding her voice and reclaiming her story. This involves not just speaking again, but being able to articulate her experiences, her feelings, and eventually, her needs and desires. It's about moving from passive silence to active self-expression, directly confronting the trauma, and beginning to process it on her own terms.

The small moments of connection with Jay and Will continued to build, slowly chipping away at her silence. She'd started to sit at the kitchen table while they ate, occasionally accepting a glass of juice or a piece of fruit offered without pressure. She'd even started watching the sci-fi movies with Jay, sometimes even looking at the screen for more than a fleeting moment. Dr. Aris was making slow but steady progress in their private sessions, using play therapy and non-verbal communication techniques to establish a rapport.

One evening, Jay was cleaning up after dinner. Will was sitting at the table, patiently teaching you how to play a simple card game, "Go Fish." You still hadn't said a full word to him, communicating mostly through gestures and faint hums.

"Do you have any… sevens?" Will asked gently, holding up his cards.

You looked at your hand, then at his, then back at your cards. You shook your head slightly.

"Go fish, then," Will said with a smile.

You reached for the deck, your small fingers fumbling slightly. As you drew a card, a stray card from your hand slipped and fluttered to the floor. It landed face up: the Queen of Hearts.

Jay, instinctively reaching for it, noticed something. Etched faintly into the back of the card, almost invisible unless you knew to look, was a small, crudely drawn stick figure. It was bent over, tiny 'X's for eyes.

He picked it up, his brow furrowed. "Y/N, what's this?" he asked, his voice soft, but with an underlying current of concern.

Your body tensed instantly. Your eyes, wide and terrified, snapped to his face. The fragile progress of weeks seemed to shatter in an instant. You snatched the card from his hand, clutching it tightly to your chest, your body beginning to tremble uncontrollably. Your breath came in shallow, panicked gasps.

Will immediately picked up on your distress. "Hey, hey, it's okay, Y/N," he said, moving closer, his voice soothing. "Jay didn't mean anything by it. It's just a card."

But you were already spiraling. The silence in the room was no longer just quiet; it was charged with your escalating terror. You started to rock back and forth, a low, guttural whimper escaping your lips, building in intensity. It was the sound of pure, unadulterated fear.

Jay knelt down, trying to meet your eye level. "Y/N, it's okay. No one's mad. We just want to know if you're okay," he pleaded, his heart aching at your distress.

The whimper turned into a choked sob. You were holding the card so tightly your knuckles were white. Then, amidst the muffled cries, a single, broken word forced its way out, raw and painful.

"No… bad!" you choked out, your small voice cracking, full of a desperate, ingrained fear. "He… bad!"

Your father. The stick figure, the terror, the 'bad.' It all clicked into place for Jay and Will. This wasn't just about a card; it was about a memory, a punishment, something he had done to you. The card was a trigger, a tangible link to the abuse.

Will moved swiftly, gently taking the card from your trembling grasp. He looked at the drawing, his own face hardening with grim understanding. He then slowly, deliberately, tore the card in half, then into quarters, then into tiny, irreparable pieces. He let them flutter into the nearby trash can.

"It's gone, Y/N," he said, his voice firm but kind. "It can't hurt you anymore. He can't hurt you anymore."

You watched the pieces fall, your sobs slowly subsiding, replaced by ragged, hiccuping breaths. You looked from the trash can to Will's face, then to Jay's. Their faces, though filled with sadness for you, held no anger, no judgment, only an overwhelming protectiveness.

Jay reached out, slowly, offering his hand. You hesitated, then slowly, tentatively, placed your small, shaking hand in his. He squeezed it gently.

"You don't have to be scared anymore, Y/N," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Whatever he told you, whatever he did… it's over. We're here. We're not letting anything bad happen to you ever again."

You didn't say anything more that night, but something had shifted. The dam had cracked. You had spoken, even if it was just a few words born of terror. More importantly, you had seen Jay and Will react with understanding, with protection, with a clear act of defiance against the very thing that had terrified you. They had validated your fear, implicitly acknowledging his "badness," and then they had removed the symbol of that badness.

This was the beginning of reclaiming your story. It was the first time you had externally expressed a piece of your trauma, and it was met not with punishment or dismissal, but with unequivocal support and action. From here, with continued therapy and the unwavering love of your brothers, you could slowly begin to put words to the unspeakable, to untangle the web of lies, and to finally, truly, heal.

—————

Once Y/N starts to verbalize her past experiences, the biggest challenge will be processing the immense pain and trauma she's been carrying, and crucially, learning to trust her own reality over the distorted version her father created. For so long, her abuser controlled her narrative, making her doubt her perceptions, her memories, and even her worth. Now, as she speaks, she'll confront the horrifying truth of what happened, distinguish it from his lies, and integrate it into a healthy understanding of herself and the world.

Dr. Aris had described it as "unearthing a buried landscape." The initial whispers about the card were just the first tremors. In the weeks that followed, during her sessions with Dr. Aris, and occasionally in the quiet safety of Jay and Will's apartment, more fragments began to surface. Still hesitant, often accompanied by intense fear and physical reactions, but they were there.

One afternoon, Will was sitting in the living room, reading. Y/N, now a regular fixture on the couch, was coloring, her movements less rigid than before. Suddenly, she stopped, her crayon hovering over the paper. Her eyes widened, and a faint tremor ran through her.

"He... he didn't like..." she started, her voice a barely audible rasp, "colors. Bright."

Will looked up, his expression gentle. "He didn't like bright colors?" he prompted softly, giving her space to continue.

You nodded, your gaze fixed on the bright yellow crayon in your hand. "No. Said... too loud." Your voice was filled with a childish fear, even now. "Made me... hide."

A wave of nausea hit Will. He could easily imagine Pat, his own father, using such a petty preference as a weapon, turning something as innocent as a bright color into a source of punishment and fear. "He made you hide if you used bright colors?" Will asked, his voice carefully neutral, trying not to show the anger churning inside him.

You nodded again, a tear slowly tracing a path down your cheek. "In... closet. Dark."

Will felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. The dark. The silence. The terror. All because of a color. He fought to keep his composure. "That sounds really scary, Y/N," he said, his voice laced with genuine empathy. "You shouldn't have had to hide for liking colors."

You looked at him, your eyes full of a heartbreaking confusion. "But... he said... bad. I was... bad. For the colors." The deeply ingrained belief, the self-blame, was still there, a venomous echo of your father's manipulation.

This was the core of the challenge: disentangling the truth from the lies. You had been systematically taught that your natural instincts, your preferences, even your very existence, were "bad."

Later that evening, Jay walked into the kitchen to find Will leaning against the counter, a distant look in his eyes. "What's up?" Jay asked, sensing the shift in his brother's mood.

Will relayed Y/N's revelation about the colors. "She still believes she was 'bad,' Jay. He made her internalize all of it. How do you convince a fourteen-year-old that the person who was supposed to protect her was actually the one inflicting the 'bad'?"

Jay clenched his jaw. "It's going to take time. A lot of time. And constant reassurance. Every single time she says something like that, we have to counter it. Not just by saying 'no, you're not bad,' but by showing her, over and over, that her feelings, her choices, are good. That he was the one who was bad."

Facing the Trauma and Rebuilding Self-Worth

As Y/N began to speak more, the stories emerged in fragmented pieces, often triggered by seemingly innocuous things. A loud noise might bring forth a whispered memory of being yelled at. A particular smell might evoke a feeling of hunger from times she was denied food. Each revelation, no matter how small, was a step towards liberation, but also a step into immense pain.

The emotional toll on Y/N would be immense. Reliving these moments, even in a safe space, would be terrifying. She might experience flashbacks, nightmares, or renewed periods of withdrawal as her mind tried to cope with the influx of suppressed memories. Jay and Will, with Dr. Aris's guidance, would need to provide unwavering emotional support, creating an environment where these difficult emotions were not just tolerated, but validated.

The other crucial part of this stage was rebuilding her sense of self-worth. Her father had systematically chipped away at it, making her believe she was unlovable, worthless, and deserving of the abuse. Jay and Will would need to actively, continuously show her the opposite. Celebrating her smallest achievements, praising her efforts, listening intently to her thoughts (however fragmented), and simply being present with unconditional love would be vital.

One evening, you tentatively brought a drawing to Jay. It was a simple picture of a sun with bright, radiating yellow rays. You held it out, your eyes still holding a hint of trepidation.

Jay took it gently, his face breaking into a wide, genuine smile. "Y/N, this is beautiful! Look at those colors. So bright and happy." He looked at her, then back at the drawing, making eye contact. "This is good. You're good at this."

A tiny, almost imperceptible warmth spread through you. For the first time, you had created something and had it affirmed, not just tolerated.

Pairings: Spencer Reid x Black!Reader, Derek Morgan x Familial!Reader

Summary: A hidden romance, surprising family ties, and a hilarious team meeting turn Spencer and the reader's worlds upside down.

Warnings: None

A/N: Lol, hope y’all enjoyed the surprise!

Spencer was having an internal crisis. He sat across from his best friend, Derek Morgan, in the bustling bullpen of the BAU. The team had noticed it for weeks – Spencer was… different. Less prone to rambling, more prone to staring off into space with a soft, almost giddy expression. He even dressed a little less like he’d raided a forgotten closet from the 80s.

“Alright, Pretty Boy,” Morgan said, leaning forward with a smirk, “spill it. Who is she?”

Spencer’s head shot up, his cheeks flushing. “Who is… who?”

JJ, ever observant, chimed in, “Don’t play coy, Spencer. You’ve got that look. The one that says you’re secretly planning a romantic getaway to a quantum physics convention.”

Hotch, ever the pragmatic leader, simply raised an eyebrow. Even Rossi looked intrigued.

Spencer sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. There’s someone.”

A collective gasp, then a chorus of excited murmurs.

“Details, Reid, details!” Morgan pressed.

Spencer hesitated, a small smile playing on his lips. “She’s… incredible. She’s brilliant, funny, and she doesn’t make me feel like I need to explain everything.” He paused, then added, almost to himself, “And she makes the best blueberry muffins.”

“Blueberry muffins, huh?” Morgan teased, nudging him. “Sounds like she’s a keeper. So, when do we get to meet this domestic goddess?”

Spencer looked down at his hands, fiddling with a pen. “Well, that’s the thing. I… I haven’t actually told her much about my job. Or about all of you.”

JJ’s eyebrows shot up. “You haven’t told her you work for the FBI?”

Spencer winced. “More specifically, the BAU. It just… never felt like the right time. But I want to. I want her to meet you all.” He looked up, a determined glint in his eye. “In fact, why don’t you all come over tonight? I’ll call her, and we can all just… meet.” He took a shaky breath. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a memorable evening.”

Morgan clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit, Pretty Boy! Operation Meet-The-Mystery-Woman is a go!”

Across town, you were just about to put a fresh batch of cookies in the oven when your phone rang. It was Spencer, and his voice held a nervous energy you hadn’t heard before.

“Hey, you,” you answered, smiling. “Everything okay? You sound like you just discovered a new prime number.”

He chuckled, a sound that always made your heart do a little flutter. “Better, actually. Look, remember how I told you about my… friends? The ones I work with?”

“The FBI buddies?” you clarified. “Yeah?”

“Well,” he took a deep breath, “they’re actually the Behavioral Analysis Unit. And… they’re all coming over tonight to meet you.”

Your eyes went wide. “The BAU? As in, the profilers? The ones who catch serial killers?”

“The very same,” he confirmed, a sheepish note in his voice. “I might have… neglected to mention the specifics of my job.”

You laughed, a genuine, delighted sound. “Oh, Spencer! This is going to be interesting. My cousin Derek works for the FBI too, you know. He’d get a kick out of this.”

A beat of silence on the other end. “Your cousin… Derek?” Spencer asked slowly.

“Yeah, Derek Morgan. He’s in some kind of special unit, I think. Always traveling, always cryptic about what he does.”

Another beat of silence, longer this time. Then, Spencer’s voice, a little breathless. “You… you have a cousin named Derek Morgan?”

“Yup! We’re not super close, he’s a bit older, but we keep in touch. Why?”

Spencer let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “No reason. Just… a small world, I guess. See you in a bit.”

When the doorbell rang that evening, you took a deep breath, smoothing down your shirt. You opened the door to see Spencer, looking surprisingly dapper, with four other people behind him. Your eyes immediately locked onto the tall, muscular man with a confident smirk.

“Derek?” you breathed, your jaw dropping.

Morgan’s eyes, which had been scanning your face with a curious intensity, suddenly widened. “No… way. [Your Name]!”

The rest of the team exchanged bewildered glances.

“You two know each other?” JJ asked, her eyes darting between you and Morgan.

“Know each other?” Morgan boomed, pulling you into a bear hug. “This is my little cousin, [Your Name]!” He pulled back, holding you at arm’s length, a grin plastered on his face. He then turned his gaze to Spencer, who looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“Pretty Boy,” Morgan said, his voice laced with mock accusation, “you’ve been holding out on me! My cousin? Seriously?”

Spencer, red-faced, mumbled, “It, uh, never really came up.”

You, still reeling, looked at Spencer. “You never told me you worked with the Derek Morgan!”

“And you never told me you were related to the Spencer Reid!” Morgan shot back, then his eyes twinkled as he surveyed the two of you, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Dang, Pretty Boy. Didn’t know you had a thing for dark chocolate.”

The room erupted in laughter. Spencer buried his face in his hands, while you playfully punched Morgan’s arm. Even Hotch cracked a small smile.

“This is… unexpected,” Rossi commented, a twinkle in his eye.

“Understatement of the year, Rossi,” JJ chuckled. “So, you two have been secretly dating this whole time?”

You nodded, still giggling. “We met at a coffee shop. He was rambling about quantum mechanics, and I found it strangely charming.”

“And she corrected my use of ‘paradigm shift’ in the most polite way possible,” Spencer added, finally looking up, a fond smile on his face as he looked at you.

Part 1// Part 2 (Final)

Parings: Jay Halstead X Sister!Reader, Will Halstead X Sister!Reader

Summary: Your past was a silent scream, but with two brothers you never knew, you might finally find your voice and a home where love echoes louder than lies. This isn't just about healing old wounds; it's about building a family from the ground up, brick by painful brick.

Warnings: Child abuse (depicted through its aftermath and discussion of past events), trauma, emotional distress, mutism.

"Will, you got a minute?" Jay's voice on the phone was tight, a tone Will hadn't heard since their last major family crisis.

"Yeah, what's up? Everything alright?" Will's brow furrowed, already anticipating the worst.

"It's about Dad," Jay began, and Will braced himself. "He, uh, he passed away this morning."

A beat of stunned silence. Despite their fractured relationship with Pat Halstead, the news still hit them. "Oh," Will finally managed, "Wow. Okay. I… I didn't see that coming."

"Yeah, well, neither did I," Jay said, a hint of his usual sarcasm creeping in, quickly suppressed. "But that's not all. There's… there's something else."

Will's stomach dropped. "What is it?"

"The lawyer called. Dad apparently had a daughter. A fourteen-year-old sister neither of us knew about."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. A sister? Fourteen? "Are you serious, Jay? A sister? Why would Dad keep something like that from us?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Will. But here's the kicker: his will states that either you or I are to be her legal guardian. The lawyer wants us to come down to the office to meet her and discuss it."

The lawyer's office was hushed, the air thick with unspoken grief and bewildering revelations. Jay and Will sat opposite a small, huddled figure on a large leather couch. Your hair, dull and matted, partially obscured your face, but the visible skin was a tapestry of purples, blues, and an angry yellow. Your knees were drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, as if trying to disappear into the upholstery. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to you.

"Y/N," the lawyer, a kind-faced woman named Mrs. Davies, said softly, "these are your brothers, Jay and Will."

You flinched at your name, burrowing further into yourself. You didn't look up, didn't acknowledge them. Jay's eyes, usually so sharp and observant, were wide with shock and a deep, aching pity. Will, the ever-empathetic doctor, looked as though he'd been punched in the gut.

"Hi, Y/N," Jay said gently, his voice rougher than usual. "I'm Jay. This is Will."

You didn't respond. Your breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible. Each bruise they saw sparked a fresh wave of protective fury in both brothers. The cuts on your knuckles, the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders trembled ever so slightly – it was a litany of neglect and abuse.

"Y/N, is it okay if we… if we talk to you for a moment?" Will asked, his voice soft, almost a whisper.

Still nothing. Your gaze remained fixed on the floor, your body language screaming a silent, desperate plea for invisibility.

Jay glanced at Will, a silent conversation passing between them. What happened to her? Jay's eyes asked. I don't know, but we're going to find out, Will's answered.

"The police found Y/N at your father's home," Mrs. Davies explained, her voice hushed. "It appears she's been… enduring a difficult situation. Social Services is involved, of course, and they've been incredibly helpful. Given the circumstances, they've fast-tracked this. They believe a stable family environment is crucial for her recovery."

"A difficult situation?" Jay's voice was tight with suppressed rage. "She looks like she's been through a war."

Mrs. Davies nodded grimly. "Unfortunately, yes. She hasn't spoken since she was found. The doctors believe it's a form of trauma-induced mutism."

Your hands clenched tighter around your knees. You felt their eyes on you, their pity, their concern. And a different emotion, too – something that felt like… recognition? But that couldn't be right. Dad had told you stories, endless, vivid stories. Stories of their indifference, their selfishness, their absolute disregard for anyone but themselves. He'd painted them as monsters, too busy with their own lives to ever care about a hidden sister. He'd said they'd abandoned him, abandoned you. You knew their faces from the crumpled photos he'd sometimes leave around, pictures he'd spit on or tear, using them as props in his twisted narratives. You knew those eyes, the same piercing blue, the same set to their jaws. But they weren't supposed to look at you like that.

"Y/N," Will tried again, his voice even softer, "we just want to help you. We promise."

A shiver ran through you. Help. That was a word you hadn't heard in a long time, not truly. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to run, to hide, to disappear. You could feel the lies Dad had fed you festering in your mind, twisting everything, making their genuine concern feel like a trap. They're just pretending. They don't care. They'll just leave you like he said they did him.

Jay knelt down, slowly, carefully, so he was closer to your eye level, but still giving you space. "Hey," he said, his voice a low rumble. "We're not going to hurt you. Nobody is. You're safe now."

Your breath hitched, a tiny, almost inaudible sound. Safe? The word felt foreign on your tongue, in your mind.

"We know this is a lot," Will added, leaning forward slightly in his chair. "And we know you probably have a lot of questions. We do too. But… we want you to know that whatever Dad told you about us, it wasn't true. We didn't even know you existed."

Your head snapped up, just a fraction, your eyes, wide and terrified, flicking to Will's face, then to Jay's. The truth in his voice, the raw pain in his eyes, pierced through a tiny crack in the fortress you'd built around yourself. It was a fleeting moment, gone as quickly as it appeared, but it was enough for both brothers to see. The seed of doubt, planted by their father's lies, was starting to bloom.

Jay and Will exchanged another look. This wasn't going to be easy. It was going to be a long, arduous journey, filled with silent battles and gradual victories. But looking at your small, trembling form, they knew one thing with absolute certainty: they weren't going to let you go. You were their sister, and they were going to fight for you.

"She looks like she's seen hell, Jay," Will said later that evening, sitting across from his brother in Jay's dimly lit living room. They had just left the lawyer's office, agreeing to temporary custody, with a plan to apply for full guardianship.

"She has, Will. And he did it," Jay's voice was low, laced with fury. "Our father did this to her. The bruises, the silence… what kind of monster does that to his own kid?"

Will ran a hand through his hair, his face etched with exhaustion and grief. "The kind of monster he always was, I guess. We just never saw this side of it." He paused, then continued, "Did you see her when I said we didn't know about her? Just for a second, but she looked up."

Jay nodded slowly. "Yeah, I saw it too. He clearly filled her head with a lot of crap about us. Made us out to be the bad guys, probably to keep her isolated."

"She knows who we are, Jay. She recognized us," Will mused, his brow furrowed in thought. "He must have shown her pictures, talked about us. Twisted everything, I'm sure."

"Of course, he did. That's his M.O.," Jay scoffed, his anger simmering. "He wanted to control everything. And she's the ultimate victim of that."

A heavy silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant hum of city traffic.

"This is going to be a long road, Will," Jay finally said, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the room.

"I know," Will replied, his voice softer. "But we'll walk it with her. We have to. She's family."

Jay looked at his brother, a rare moment of shared understanding passing between them. "Yeah," he said, a grim determination in his voice. "She is. And we're not letting her go. Not ever again."

—————

The immediate physical wounds, while severe, were only the surface. For Jay and Will, the biggest challenge in Y/N's recovery will be dismantling the deeply ingrained lies their father fed her and, from that shattered foundation, rebuilding her ability to trust. Her complete silence and withdrawal are direct manifestations of years of manipulation and emotional abuse.

"She won't even look at us, Will," Jay observed a few days later, watching you from the doorway of the guest bedroom in his apartment, where you now resided. You were curled up in a ball on the bed, facing the wall, a single, worn teddy bear clutched to your chest. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning.

"It's not that she won't, Jay. It's that she can't right now," Will replied, his voice gentle. He was sitting on the floor a few feet from the bed, reading a medical journal, occasionally glancing your way. "Every instinct she has is telling her to protect herself. Dad made us out to be the enemy, remember? To her, we're probably just new versions of the monsters he described."

"But how do you fight that, Will? How do you tell someone, without words, that everything they've been told about you is a lie?" Jay's frustration was palpable. He was used to dealing with clear-cut cases, visible threats. This was different, a shadowy war waged in the mind of a traumatized child.

Will sighed, closing his journal. "It's not about telling her, Jay. It's about showing her. Every single day. Consistent, unwavering proof that we're safe. That we care. That we're not going anywhere."

—————

The first few weeks were a painful exercise in patience. You ate only when left completely alone, your meals barely touched. Attempts at conversation were met with an immediate retreat, your small frame shrinking into itself. Will had brought home a variety of art supplies, hoping to encourage some form of expression, but they remained untouched in a corner of the room. Jay tried leaving comics and simple puzzle books, only to find them unmoved.

One evening, Jay was attempting to make dinner. The aroma of simmering tomato sauce filled the apartment. He heard a slight creak and turned to see you standing hesitently in the hallway, your eyes fixed on the stovetop. It was the first time you'd ventured out of the bedroom on your own.

Jay froze, not wanting to spook you. "Hey, Y/N," he said softly, keeping his voice even. "Just making some pasta. Want to... want to watch?"

You didn't answer, didn't move. But you also didn't retreat. Jay went back to stirring the sauce, deliberately making a little extra noise, letting you know he was there but not focused on you. After a few minutes, you slowly shuffled a little closer, still keeping a significant distance, your gaze fixed on the steam rising from the pot.

Will walked in then, fresh from his shift. He saw you and gave Jay a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. "Smells good, Jay," he said, before glancing casually at you. "Looks like you're curious, Y/N. Want to try some later?"

You flinched at being addressed directly and immediately retreated back into the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

Jay let out a frustrated breath. "Almost had her."

"That was progress, Jay," Will countered, patting his brother's shoulder. "Small steps. She didn't bolt immediately. She looked. That's a huge win."

—————

A major hurdle was the sheer weight of the lies Pat Halstead had sown. He hadn't just created a narrative of abandonment; he had likely painted Jay and Will as uncaring, dangerous, or even responsible for the very neglect you had endured. For you, these weren't just stories; they were your lived reality, reinforced by your father's erratic and abusive behavior. Every gentle gesture from Jay or Will, every kind word, was likely filtered through a lens of suspicion and fear.

One afternoon, Will was sitting quietly in the living room, reading. You had cautiously emerged from your room and were sitting on the far end of the sofa, meticulously picking at a loose thread on the cushion. Will subtly moved a few of his old, worn photo albums onto the coffee table, open to pages showing him and Jay as children, with their mother. He didn't say anything, just left them there.

Slowly, you edged closer, your eyes darting from the thread to the albums. Hesitantly, you reached out a small hand, turning a page. It was a picture of Jay, maybe ten years old, with a mischievous grin, holding up a fish he'd just caught. Then another, of a younger Will, wearing a ridiculously oversized doctor's coat during a school play.

Will watched you from the corner of his eye, his heart aching. You looked at the photos with an intensity that suggested you were trying to reconcile the images with the monsters your father had described. He knew this was a fragile moment.

Suddenly, you stopped at a picture of Jay, mid-laugh, with a woman who was clearly their mother. Your hand hovered over it. Then, with a choked sound, a small, barely audible whimper, you snapped the album shut and scrambled back to your room, slamming the door.

Jay, who had just walked in, looked at Will, bewildered. "What happened?"

Will sighed, picking up the closed album. "She saw Mom. And probably herself, in the context of what Dad told her. He probably told her we abandoned Mom, too. Or that she abandoned us. He used those lies to create his own twisted narrative, and it's going to take everything we have to untangle it."

—————

Jay and Will knew this wouldn't be fixed overnight. It would be a marathon, not a sprint. They'd need to continue to provide a safe, consistent environment, where your basic needs were met without question or condition. They'd need to celebrate every tiny step of progress, no matter how small—a sustained glance, a faint sigh, a willingness to be in the same room.

Crucially, they understood that professional help was non-negotiable. They had already arranged for a child psychologist specializing in trauma to begin working with you. The psychologist's guidance would be essential in navigating the complexities of your emotional landscape and finding ways to help you process the trauma and eventually, hopefully, find your voice.

"She's ours now, Will," Jay said late one night, after you had finally drifted off to sleep, curled tightly in the same position you had been in for weeks. "And no matter how long it takes, no matter what he put her through, we're going to get her back."

Part 1// Part 2 (Final)

Parings: Conrad Hawkins x Reader, Nic Nevin x sister!reader, Nic Nevin x Conrad Hawkins (implied/secret)

Summary: You, Nic Nevins sister and Conrad Hawkins girlfriend discover a shocking secret.

Warnings: Angst, Betrayal, Heartbreak, Cheating.

A/N: I sense a little professional frost 🥶

The ER continued its relentless pace, a welcome shield against the storm brewing inside you. You moved from patient to patient, barking orders, making quick decisions, your mind a steel trap focused only on the immediate crisis. You didn't consciously avoid Nic or Conrad, but you didn't seek them out either. When your paths did cross, the air crackled with a silent tension.

The first time you saw Nic after that night, she was discussing a patient's chart with another nurse. Her eyes flickered to you, wide with apprehension, then quickly darted away. You walked past without a word, your expression unreadable, and it was clear from her sudden slump that your silence spoke volumes. It was a calculated move, one you hadn't planned but executed flawlessly. You weren't going to give her the comfort of a confrontation, or the relief of an argument.

With Conrad, it was even more acute. He seemed to materialize in your vicinity often, hovering, his gaze always on you, a mixture of guilt and confusion etched on his face. He'd try to catch your eye, perhaps even open his mouth to speak, but you'd simply pivot, engaging a resident or checking a monitor. You responded only to direct questions about patient care, your answers clipped, precise, and devoid of any warmth.

One instance stood out. You were both in Trauma Bay 1, working on a critical case. "I need an arterial line, stat," Conrad said, his voice strained. You didn't look at him, simply reached for the kit, your hands steady. "On it." Your movements were efficient, your focus unwavering. You could feel his eyes on you, but you ignored them. When the procedure was done, you just moved on to the next task, leaving him standing there amidst the controlled chaos, a ghost in your immediate vicinity.

The other staff noticed, of course. The whispers started almost immediately. Doctors and nurses exchanged glances when you, Nic, and Conrad were in the same room. The usual camaraderie that defined the Chastain ER was replaced by an uncomfortable awareness. You weren't openly hostile, but the absence of your usual easy rapport with them was glaring. You had built a wall, sturdy and invisible, and no one dared to breach it.

————

Away from the frenetic energy of the ER, your internal world was a desolate landscape. Sleep offered no escape. Your mind replayed every interaction, every shared laugh, every intimate moment, meticulously dissecting them for signs you had missed. The ease with which they had lied, the sheer audacity of their deception, gnawed at you.

There was a profound sense of loss, not just of a relationship, but of a fundamental trust. The image of your sister, your closest confidante, sharing hushed secrets and intimate moments with the man you loved, was a constant, searing pain. It felt like a violation of your very being.

You found yourself working longer shifts, volunteering for extra cases, anything to fill the void and exhaust yourself enough to prevent the thoughts from spiraling. The hospital, once a place of belonging, now felt like a battleground where you fought a silent, solitary war. Yet, paradoxically, it was also your refuge. The urgency of saving lives, the immediate demands of medicine, provided a stark contrast to the slow, agonizing process of piecing your own life back together.

The tension in Chastain had become a palpable thing, a silent hum that everyone felt but no one acknowledged. You continued to operate with a cold, precise efficiency, a stark contrast to the warmth you once exuded. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling surgery, you found yourself alone in the doctors' lounge, reviewing a patient's chart. The door swung open, and Conrad walked in. He stopped dead when he saw you, his hand still on the door handle. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words and festering wounds.

Finally, he broke it. "Can we talk, (Y/N)?" His voice was low, tentative, a stark departure from his usual confident tone.

You didn't look up from your chart. "About what, Conrad? Patient diagnostics? I'm happy to discuss the post-op care for Mrs. Davies." Your voice was flat, devoid of the emotion that clawed at your insides.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. "You know what I mean. About… us. About everything." He took a step further into the room, closing the door behind him. "Please, just… look at me."

Slowly, you raised your head, your gaze meeting his. There was no anger in your eyes, no tears, just a vast, chilling emptiness that seemed to unnerve him more than any outburst could. "There is no 'us,' Conrad. And 'everything' has been dealt with."

"Dealt with?" He scoffed, a flicker of his old arrogance returning, quickly subdued by the raw pain in his eyes. "You just… walked away. You haven't said a single word, not a single accusation. Don't you think I deserve that much?"

You finally put the chart down, leaning back slightly. "What good would it do, Conrad? What would you like me to say? That I'm hurt? That I feel betrayed? That I'm disgusted by both of you?" Your voice remained steady, a weapon of controlled ice. "Do you want me to scream and cry so you can feel better about what you did? So you can justify it as some dramatic reaction?"

His shoulders slumped. "No, of course not. I just… I need you to understand. It wasn't planned. It just… happened."

A dry, mirthless laugh escaped you. "Oh, it 'just happened'? For how long, Conrad? Weeks? Months? While you were telling me you loved me? While Nic was comforting me about my 'stress' at work?" You finally allowed a hint of the venom to seep into your tone. "Don't insult my intelligence. This wasn't some spur-of-the-moment mistake. This was a sustained, calculated deception by two people I loved and trusted more than anyone."

Just then, the door opened again, and Nic stepped in, her eyes wide as she took in the scene. She had clearly been looking for one or both of you. Her gaze fell on you, then on Conrad, then back to you, her face a mixture of fear and regret.

"Nic," Conrad said, a plea in his voice.

Part 1// Part 2

Parings: Conrad Hawkins x Reader, Nic Nevin x sister!reader, Nic Nevin x Conrad Hawkins (implied/secret)

Summary: You, Nic Nevins sister and Conrad Hawkins girlfriend discover a shocking secret.

Warnings: Angst, Betrayal, Heartbreak, Cheating.

The familiar scent of Chastain Memorial Hospital, a blend of antiseptic and brewing coffee, usually brought a sense of comfort. As Nic Nevin's sister and Conrad Hawkins's girlfriend, these halls were practically a second home. Lately, though, a subtle, creeping unease had replaced that comfort. Conrad's sudden "emergencies" and Nic's averted gaze when his name came up were small things, easily dismissed as the usual stress of their demanding jobs. Yet, a persistent knot in your stomach tightened with each passing day.

One Tuesday evening, the hospital was quieter than usual, the emergency room momentarily calm. You headed for a late-night coffee, a habit picked up from Nic, when a low murmur of voices drifted from an on-call room. The door was slightly ajar, and the undeniable sound of Conrad’s voice, soft and intimate, sent a shiver down your spine.

"Are you sure about this, Conrad?" Nic's voice, surprisingly vulnerable, followed. "What if she finds out?"

Your hand, reaching for the coffee machine, froze mid-air. She? A cold dread seeped into your bones. You didn't want to hear more, but you couldn't move.

"It's just… it's different with you, Nic," Conrad whispered, his voice closer now, as if he'd moved towards her. "It always has been."

Then Nic's soft laugh, a sound you knew so well, but now laced with a sickening intimacy you’d never heard her direct at anyone but you. "We can't keep doing this, Con. It's too risky. And... (Y/N)... she's my sister."

A sharp, searing pain shot through you. Sister. The word twisted in the air, mocking you. The "secret affair," as they called it, wasn't a sudden lapse; it was a long-standing shadow you'd been blind to.

You carefully placed the plastic coffee cup back on the counter, the quiet click echoing in the sudden, horrifying silence that followed.

The on-call room door opened. Conrad stood there, his eyes wide with shock, his face draining of color. Behind him, Nic appeared, her usually composed features a mask of pure terror, tears already welling in her eyes. The air crackled with unspoken truths, thick and suffocating.

You met Conrad’s stunned, guilty gaze, then Nic’s tear-streaked, pleading one. The sister you trusted, the man you loved, stood before you, their betrayal laid bare. The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow, but you refused to let it show. Your jaw tightened, your expression carefully neutral.

"Excuse me," you said, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. Conrad took a step forward, his hand outstretched, but you held up a hand, a silent barrier. "I need to get back to my shift."

You turned, your spine rigid, and walked away. Each step was precise, controlled. The familiar hum of the hospital now sounded like a distant drone, irrelevant. Your mind, usually racing, felt strangely calm, almost clinical. You navigated the familiar corridors, past nurses’ stations and bustling residents, your face a professional mask. No tears. No outburst. Just a chilling, resolute emptiness.

You headed straight for the ER, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing impersonally. Another patient was coming in, a fresh admission. You took a deep breath, the sterile scent of antiseptics filling your lungs, grounding you. This was your job. This was your life. And right now, it was the only thing you could control.

The sterile scent of Chastain Memorial Hospital, usually a comforting backdrop, now felt heavy, almost suffocating. As you moved with quiet determination towards the ER, leaving the shattered remains of your relationship in the hallway, Conrad and Nic remained frozen, the quiet click of the coffee cup you'd placed on the counter echoing in their ears.

————

Conrad, typically the picture of unwavering confidence, stared at the empty space where you had just been, his face pale with shock. "She… she didn't even yell," he murmured, his voice hollow with disbelief. "She just… walked away." He ran a trembling hand through his hair, his mind racing. He'd braced himself for tears, for an explosion, for anything but that chilling, professional detachment. It was worse than any angry outburst. It was a complete dismissal.

Nic, who had sunk against the wall, her initial tears now dried into stark lines on her cheeks, managed a bitter, humorless laugh. "What did you expect, Con? For her to throw a fit? You know (Y/N). She's always been the strong one. The one who cleans up everyone else's messes." Her voice was low, trembling with a mixture of raw guilt and a dawning, icy fear. "This is worse. This is so much worse." The casual way you had simply ended it, without a scene, without a single raised voice, spoke volumes. It was final. Absolute.

"What do we do?" Conrad asked, finally tearing his gaze from the hallway to face Nic, his usual assertiveness replaced by a desperate plea. The weight of his actions, previously compartmentalized, now crashed down on him.

Nic pushed herself off the wall, her shoulders slumped. "There's nothing to do, Conrad. She just ended things. And she did it without even needing to say a word." The implication hung heavy in the air: you had already moved on, mentally severing ties before they could even formulate an excuse. The betrayal had not only fractured their lives but had exposed the quiet strength you possessed—a strength they had clearly underestimated.

————

As you plunged back into the controlled chaos of the ER, your movements were precise, your focus unwavering. You were a doctor. This was your domain. Your hands were steady as you expertly intubated a trauma patient, your voice firm and clear as you gave instructions. On the surface, you were professionalism personified.

But underneath, a cold, sharp anger simmered. It wasn't the fiery, explosive kind, but a chilling resentment that settled deep in your bones. All those times, you thought, meticulously adjusting the oxygen mask, all the late nights, the comforting lies, the stolen moments they shared while I was just… there. Every memory of Nic's quiet reassurance after a tough shift, every time Conrad had looked at you across the room with a silent promise in his eyes—all of it was now tainted, replayed through the distorted lens of their deception.

It wasn't just that they had an affair; it was the sheer audacity of it, the calculated secrecy, the way they had both looked you in the eye and lied. The betrayal felt like a phantom limb, an ache you couldn't quite pinpoint but knew was devastatingly real.

Part 1// Part 2// Part 3 ( Final)

Parings: Thomas “Tommy” Shelby x Reader

Summary: After years of hidden trauma, you find unexpected solace and fierce protection in Thomas Shelby, the man you once viewed as your enemy.

Warnings: mentions of abuse, smoking, Implied emotional abuse/neglect, PTSD symptoms, Discussions of self-worth, self esteem issues.

The journey from a whispered hope to a tangible reality was one of profound transformation. The news of your pregnancy, when it finally arrived, settled over the Shelby household with an almost sacred hush. Thomas, usually a man of contained reactions, had simply stood, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach, a flicker of awe in his usually unreadable eyes.

"Are you certain, Y/N?" he'd murmured, his voice barely audible, a stark contrast to his usual booming presence. You'd simply nodded, tears pricking your eyes, and watched as a slow, almost tender smile spread across his face, a smile reserved only for you. His initial response had been a quiet, possessive joy, but quickly, it morphed into his characteristic forward-thinking.

He became meticulously attentive, not in an overbearing way, but with a quiet, unwavering focus on your well-being. "Polly, ensure Y/N has her fortified milk at precisely eight each morning," he'd instruct, or "Finn, make sure the carriage ride is smooth today, no unnecessary jolts." He'd appear unexpectedly, finding you reading in the drawing-room, and simply pull up a chair, settling in with a book of his own, his presence a silent guardian. One evening, as you were struggling to get comfortable, he’d gently adjust the pillows behind you. "Comfortable, love?" he’d ask, his hand brushing your hair back from your forehead, a gesture of profound tenderness.

Your own anxieties, while present, were consistently assuaged by Thomas's steady presence. There were moments when the old fears would creep in – the idea of a child being vulnerable, of making mistakes, of the echoes of your own childhood – but then you'd look at Thomas, at the fierce love in his eyes, and the fear would recede. He didn't just promise protection; he embodied it. He had a way of making you feel so utterly safe that the idea of bringing a child into this world, a child you would love with every fiber of your being, no longer felt like a terrifying prospect, but the most natural, beautiful culmination of your love.

————

The birth of your first child, a son with Thomas's striking blue eyes and a surprising curl to his dark hair, was a moment that redefined everything. Holding him, a tiny, perfect being utterly dependent on you, brought forth a tidal wave of emotions – overwhelming love, profound protectiveness, and a raw, visceral understanding of the responsibility that lay ahead.

Thomas, witnessing the birth, had been uncharacteristically quiet, his face etched with a mixture of exhaustion and profound wonder. When the midwife placed the swaddled infant in his arms, his large hands seemed almost clumsy in their tenderness. He simply stared, a long, silent moment, before his gaze lifted to meet yours. "He's perfect, Y/N," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, a vulnerability you’d rarely seen. "Absolutely perfect." You saw a crack in his formidable facade, a glimpse of the man beneath the calculating exterior.

Parenthood, for both of you, was a constant learning curve. Thomas, the calculating strategist, approached it with the same methodical precision he applied to his business. He would spend hours just watching your son sleep, observing his breathing, his tiny movements. "He's got your hands," he'd murmur one evening, tracing the baby’s tiny fingers. "But my stubbornness, I reckon." He insisted on being present for the nightly routines, taking turns with you to rock the baby, to soothe him back to sleep. He might not have been skilled at the delicate art of diaper changes or the lullabies, but his presence was a powerful anchor. When the baby cried inconsolably, and your own nerves were frayed, Thomas would simply take him, his deep voice a calming rumble as he paced the room. "Easy, lad, easy," he’d whisper, and surprisingly often, the baby would quiet, soothed by his father’s steady rhythm.

You, in turn, found an instinctual strength you never knew you possessed. Your past, instead of crippling you, gave you an extraordinary empathy. Every cry was met with unwavering patience, every scraped knee with genuine concern. You understood, intimately, the importance of a child feeling safe, seen, and heard. You fostered an environment of open communication, where emotions were acknowledged, and fears were addressed with gentle reassurance. You remembered the chilling silence of your own childhood home, and vowed your children would never know such a void. "Tell me what's wrong, my darling," you’d say, pulling your son onto your lap, "Mama's here."

————

The protective instincts you both possessed, honed by vastly different experiences, merged into an unbreakable shield around your children. Thomas ensured their physical safety with an almost obsessive vigilance. Any perceived threat, no matter how minor, was met with swift and decisive action. A new nanny was vetted with the thoroughness of a political candidate. A loose railing on the stairs was repaired within hours. He instilled in them a sense of confidence and resilience, teaching them early on the importance of standing their ground, of knowing their worth. "Never let anyone tell you you're less, son," he'd tell your boy, his hand resting on the child's shoulder, "You're a Shelby."

For you, the protection extended beyond the tangible. You guarded their emotional landscape, ensuring they felt secure enough to express themselves, to make mistakes and learn from them without fear of judgment or retribution. You taught them compassion and kindness, showing them through your own actions how to heal and how to offer solace. When your son, still very young, would occasionally wake from a nightmare, crying out for you, Thomas would be the first to reach him, holding him close. "It's alright, mate, just a dream," he’d murmur, his whispered reassurances a steady beat against the child's small chest. You would then follow, sitting on the edge of the bed, a soft hand on their forehead, waiting for the fear to fully dissipate.

As your children grew, they were surrounded by a love that was both fierce and tender. They knew their father was a formidable man, respected and feared in equal measure, but to them, he was simply "Papa," the one who taught them how to ride horses through the fields, who answered their endless questions about the stars and the workings of the world with surprising patience, and whose rare, genuine smiles were treasures. They knew their mother was a beacon of warmth and understanding, the one who listened without judgment, who offered comfort with a gentle touch, and whose quiet strength was an inspiration. You’d often hear your daughter mimicking your gentle tone with her dolls, a testament to the nurturing environment you’d created.

Parings: Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: You discover Spencer has been secretly working on a case that directly involves your past, forcing him to choose between the BAU and protecting you, leading to a shocking revelation about his true feelings.

Warnings: Emotional distress, Trauma, Slight betrayal, trust issues, Implied violence/crime, Difficult choices and sacrifice, Reader discretion is advised.

You stumbled upon the cluttered desk in Spencer's study, a place usually off-limits to your curious eyes. He was out getting more coffee – a necessary fuel for his late-night research binges. Your initial thought was to simply leave a note, but a peculiar file, thicker than the rest, caught your attention. Its cover was blank, no official BAU insignia, just a single, handwritten initial: “S.”

Curiosity, a trait Spencer often teased you about, got the better of you. You opened it, and your breath hitched. Photographs, grainy and faded, stared back at you. Your childhood home. Your parents. And then, a picture of you, younger, smiling innocently, a date stamped at the bottom – the day before everything changed.

Panic seized you. This wasn't some old family album; these were crime scene photos, albeit expertly disguised. You flipped through, your hands trembling, until you found it: a detailed schematic of the old abandoned warehouse where it happened. The case that had shattered your life, leaving you an orphan and forever scarred. The case that was officially cold, unsolved.

"Y/N? What are you doing in here?" Spencer’s voice, usually a comforting balm, now sent a jolt of fear through you. He stood in the doorway, two steaming mugs in hand, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and something akin to dread.

You whirled around, the file clutched to your chest. "What is this, Spencer?" Your voice was barely a whisper, laced with a betrayal so profound it choked you. "Why do you have this? Why are my parents in here?"

He set the mugs down with a thud, his gaze dropping to the file. "Y/N, I… I can explain." He took a hesitant step towards you, his usual composed demeanor replaced by a palpable nervousness.

"Explain what?" you demanded, your voice rising. "Explain why you're secretly investigating my past? My trauma? The one thing I've spent my entire life trying to outrun?" Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring his concerned face. "Are you… are you working a case on me?"

He flinched at your accusation, his shoulders slumping. "No! Never. It’s not like that, Y/N, I swear." He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for the right words. "This is… it's an unofficial investigation. Off-book."

"Unofficial?" You scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "What does that even mean, Spencer? Are you just doing this for fun? A personal pet project?"

"No!" He finally met your gaze, his eyes earnest, almost pleading. "After we… after we started dating, and you told me about what happened, I just… I couldn't let it go. There were so many inconsistencies in the official report, so many loose ends. I started looking into it, just a little at first, and then…" He gestured vaguely at the file. "It spiraled. I needed to know, Y/N. I needed to know what really happened to your family."

A fresh wave of pain washed over you. "You didn't trust me to tell you the full story?"

"It's not about trust, Y/N," he said, stepping closer, his voice softer now. "It's about closure. For you. And… and for me. I couldn't stand the thought of you carrying that weight alone, knowing there might be answers out there."

"So you just decided to play detective with my life?" You took a step back, the file still pressed against you, a barrier between you two. "And what happens when the BAU finds out? When Hotch realizes you've been working a classified case without their knowledge? What then, Spencer?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "That's… that's the choice, isn't it?" He opened his eyes, and the raw vulnerability in them stunned you. "This case… it’s getting close, Y/N. I'm so close to finding out who was responsible. But if I pursue it officially, if I bring it to the BAU, it becomes public. Every detail. Every painful memory you've tried to bury."

He paused, taking a deep, shaky breath. "And if I don't, if I continue to work it off-book, and I get caught… I lose my career. I lose everything I've worked for. The BAU is my life, Y/N. It's who I am."

Your heart ached for him, torn between your anger and the sudden, overwhelming realization of the depth of his feelings. He was sacrificing everything for you.

"So what are you saying, Spencer?" you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears.

He took another step, closing the distance between you. He reached out, his fingers gently prying the file from your grasp, placing it carefully back on the desk. Then, his hands cupped your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks.

"I'm saying," he began, his voice hoarse with emotion, "that for weeks, I've been wrestling with this. The logical choice, the only sensible choice for my career, is to hand this over to the BAU. To let them take it from here. But the thought of you having to relive all of that, of your pain becoming a public spectacle… I can't do it."

His gaze intensified, searching yours, his eyes mirroring the turmoil in your own heart. "And the more I worked on this, the more I realized… it wasn't just about closure for you. It was about you. About protecting you, about making sure no one ever hurt you again, the way you were hurt then."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "Y/N, I… I love you. More than my career, more than the BAU, more than anything. And if it comes down to choosing between the two, there's no choice at all."

Your breath hitched. You'd seen glimpses of his affection, his quiet devotion, but this… this was a raw, unvarnished confession that shook you to your core. The brilliant, logical Spencer Reid, the man who lived by rules and facts, was ready to throw it all away for you.

A tear finally escaped, tracing a path down your cheek, and Spencer gently kissed it away.

"I've loved you for so long, Y/N," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Even before I knew it myself. This case… it just made me realize how much. How much I need you safe, how much I need you happy. And if that means sacrificing everything else, then so be it."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, burying your face in his shoulder. The fear and betrayal were still there, but beneath them, a powerful wave of love and understanding washed over you. He wasn't just investigating your past; he was trying to heal it, driven by a love so profound it defied all logic.

"Spencer," you choked out, your voice muffled against his shirt, "You're an idiot, you know that?"

Pairings: Parent!Tony Stark X Parent!Reader, other avengers

Summary: A peaceful movie night at Stark Tower takes a chaotic turn when Tony and Y/N's young children, Josie and Josiah, accidentally activate a prototype temporal displacement unit, sending them back to 1985.

Warnings: Accidental Time Travel, Brief Peril to Children, Parental Fear, Mild Swearing.

The soft glow of the enormous TV screen illuminated the faces of the Avengers, a rare moment of peace in their often-chaotic lives. You, Y/N, nestled into Tony’s side on the oversized sectional, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on your lap. Steve, Clint, Sam, Bucky, Natasha, Bruce, Thor, and Wanda were scattered around the Stark Tower living room, a mix of comfortable silence and hushed comments filling the air as Paddington 2 played on.

“Honestly, this bear is more competent than half the villains we face,” Clint muttered, reaching for another handful of popcorn. Natasha smirked, nudging him with her foot.

Tony, ever the showman, chuckled. “He’s got a good agent, Barton. That’s all.”

Just as Paddington was about to embark on another charming adventure, a high-pitched giggle echoed from the hallway, followed by a deeper, more insistent “No, Josie, don’t touch that!”

Tony groaned playfully. “The gremlins are awake.”

You smiled, already knowing what was coming. Three-year-old Josie, with her wild, curly hair and mischievous grin, tumbled into the living room, followed by five-year-old Josiah, a miniature Tony with his neatly combed brown hair and an exasperated sigh already perfected.

“Mommy! Daddy! Look what we found!” Josie shrieked, holding up a small, ornate device that looked suspiciously like a miniature, glowing arc reactor. Josiah, meanwhile, was frantically trying to wrestle it from her hands.

“Josie, put that down!” Josiah pleaded, his voice cracking with urgency. “Dad said not to touch his new… thingy!”

Tony’s eyes widened, a dawning horror creeping onto his face as he recognized the experimental temporal displacement unit he’d been tinkering with. “Josie, sweet pea, give Daddy that,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm, but the underlying panic was evident.

Before anyone could react, Josie, in a burst of toddler logic and pure unadulterated curiosity, pressed a brightly glowing button on the device. A blinding flash of light erupted, engulfing the two children. The Avengers instinctively threw their arms up, shielding their eyes, and when they lowered them, the space where Josie and Josiah had been standing was empty.

Silence. A deafening, terrifying silence.

Then, Tony’s voice, a raw, choked sound, broke the stillness. “Josie? Josiah?” He was on his feet in an instant, frantically searching the now-empty hallway. You were right behind him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“They’re gone,” you whispered, the words barely a breath. The reality of it hit you like a physical blow. Your babies. Gone.

Steve was the first to react, his Captain America instincts kicking in. “Tony, what was that device?”

Tony ran a hand through his hair, his face pale. “It was… a prototype. A temporal displacement unit. I was trying to miniaturize it, make it more efficient…” He trailed off, the implications sinking in. “They must have time traveled.”

Bruce, ever the scientist, quickly moved to the glowing spot on the floor where the kids had vanished. “There’s residual energy here. A massive temporal signature. It’s unstable.”

Wanda’s eyes glowed crimson, her hands reaching out as if to grasp at the vanished children. “I can’t… I can’t sense them. They’re not just gone from this room, they’re gone from this time.”

Clint, usually the jokester, was grim-faced. “So, what, we just… wait for them to pop back?”

Tony shook his head, already pacing. “No. No, no, no. Who knows when they went. Or where. They’re three and five, for crying out loud! They don’t know how to operate that thing. They don’t even know what a landline is!” His voice was rising in pitch, the panic setting in.

“We need a plan, Tony,” Steve said, his voice firm, trying to cut through Tony’s rising hysteria. “Do you have a way to track the device?”

Tony stopped pacing, his eyes darting to a hidden compartment in the wall. “The original unit. It should have a temporal signature lock. If I can recalibrate it, I might be able to pinpoint where and when they went.” He was already moving, his hands flying over a holographic interface that materialized from the wall.

Natasha, ever practical, was already on the comms. “FRIDAY, activate Level One lockdown. No one in, no one out. Prepare a Quinjet for immediate departure. Alert SHIELD, but keep the details need-to-know.”

Thor, his brow furrowed with concern, picked up the discarded popcorn bowl. “So, our task is to retrieve the younglings from the annals of time?”

Bucky, surprisingly calm, placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll get them back, Y/N. We always do.”

You looked at him, then at the frantic energy of the room, your heart a tangled mess of fear and a fierce determination. “We have to.”

Tony worked with a furious intensity, his fingers flying across the holographic keyboards, muttering to himself about quantum entanglement and temporal paradoxes. Bruce, leaning over his shoulder, occasionally offered a suggestion, while Wanda, her eyes still glowing, kept a watchful vigil over the lingering temporal residue.

“Got it!” Tony exclaimed, a triumphant, if weary, look on his face. “Temporal signature lock acquired. It’s faint, but it’s there.” A complex diagram materialized in the air, showing a flickering line tracing back through time.

“When?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Tony zoomed in on the timeline. “Looks like… 1985. And the location… rural Pennsylvania.” He frowned. “Why there? Did they just… land randomly?”

“It’s plausible,” Bruce mused. “The device was a prototype. Unstable. They could have been shunted to a point of least resistance in the temporal fabric.”

“Right. Great. So we’re looking for two tiny little time travelers in the age of shoulder pads and bad hair,” Clint deadpanned, but his usual sarcasm was laced with genuine concern.

“And no cell phones, obviously,” Sam added. “How are we even going to find them?”

Tony was already pulling up old satellite imagery. “They’ll stand out. Two small kids with clothes that are… not exactly 80s fashion. Plus, Josie has that… glowy thing.” He pointed to a faint, shimmering outline on the temporal map, the residual energy from the device.

“Alright, team,” Steve said, his voice taking on its usual command. “Tony, Bruce, you’re on lead for temporal mechanics. Wanda, you’re our best bet for tracking their energy signature once we’re there. Clint and Sam, recon and security. Natasha, Bucky, you’re with me. We need to be discreet. We don’t want to cause any more temporal anomalies than necessary.”

You stepped forward, your voice firm. “I’m coming too.”

Tony looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of protest and understanding. “Y/N, it could be dangerous. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

“They’re my kids, Tony,” you said, your gaze unwavering. “I’m not staying behind.”

He sighed, knowing it was futile to argue. “Alright. But you stick with me. No heroics.”

“Agreed.”

The Quinjet soared through the night sky, its cloaking device making it invisible to the unsuspecting world below. The atmosphere inside was tense, a stark contrast to the earlier movie night. Thor, silent for most of the flight, occasionally muttered about the fragile nature of mortal time.

As they approached the designated coordinates, Tony’s monitors flickered. “Getting a stronger reading. Looks like they’re in… an abandoned farmhouse. Go figure.”

The Quinjet landed silently in a remote field, the ramp lowering with a soft hiss. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and distant woodsmoke. The moon cast long, eerie shadows over the overgrown fields.

“Alright, team,” Steve whispered, drawing his shield. “Let’s move.”

They moved through the tall grass, their footsteps barely disturbing the quiet night. The farmhouse loomed in the distance, a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky. Tony, holding a specialized temporal scanner, led the way, his eyes fixed on the device.

“Stronger here,” he whispered, pointing towards the farmhouse. “They’re definitely inside.”

As they approached, a faint, almost imperceptible hum emanated from the house. Wanda’s eyes glowed brighter. “I feel it. Their energy… it’s inside.”

Steve kicked open the rickety front door, and they entered the musty, dust-filled farmhouse. Moonlight streamed through the grimy windows, illuminating cobwebs and overturned furniture.

“Josie? Josiah?” you called out, your voice echoing in the stillness.

A small whimper answered you, coming from upstairs. Your heart leaped.

They moved stealthily up the creaking staircase. The hum from the temporal device grew stronger, and the faint, glowing outline on Tony’s scanner became clearer.

They found them in what looked like an old nursery, illuminated by the soft, pulsating glow of the temporal device. Josie was curled up in a dusty corner, clutching the device to her chest, her thumb in her mouth, tears silently streaming down her face. Josiah was huddled beside her, his arm wrapped protectively around his little sister, his own eyes wide with fear.

“Mommy!” Josiah cried out, his voice a mixture of relief and terror, scrambling to his feet.

“Josie! Josiah!” You rushed forward, scooping Josie into your arms, holding her tightly, burying your face in her soft hair. She clung to you, sobbing.

Tony was right behind you, pulling Josiah into a fierce hug. “You two! You scared the life out of us!” He kissed the top of Josiah’s head repeatedly.

Josie, still sniffling, held up the glowing device. “It just… lit up, Daddy. And then… boom!”

Tony gently took the device from her, his fingers already expertly examining it. “Well, ‘boom’ it certainly did, sweet pea.”

Steve knelt down, his voice soft. “Are you two alright? No bumps or bruises?”

Josiah shook his head, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Just… cold. And it was dark. And Josie cried.”

“It’s okay, buddy,” Tony said, ruffling his hair. “We’re here now. And we’re taking you home.”

Bruce approached, his scientific curiosity overriding his concern for the moment. “The energy signature is still active. It’s creating a localized temporal distortion.”

“We need to get out of here before this thing decides to send us all to the dinosaur age,” Clint muttered, his eyes scanning the windows.

Tony, with Josiah still in his arms, quickly worked to disable the device. “Almost… got it.” He pressed a series of buttons, and the glowing light flickered, then died out completely. The humming stopped. The air in the room felt normal again.

You held Josie tightly, relief washing over you in a powerful wave. You kissed the top of her head, tears blurring your vision.

“Alright, everyone,” Steve announced, standing up. “Let’s get our little time travelers back to the present. And Tony, next time, maybe keep the time machines under lock and key.”

Tony grinned, a genuine, relieved smile finally breaking through his earlier panic. “Lesson learned, Cap. Lesson learned.” He looked at you, then at the two children nestled safely in your arms and his. “Definitely lesson learned.”

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Garcia!Reader, Penelope Garcia x Sister!Reader, BAU x Reader

Warnings: Content and Trigger Warning

Summary: After a tough breakup, Y/N moves in with her sister Penelope, only to have her secret relationship with Derek Morgan unexpectedly exposed when her ex shows up.

A/N: Unwelcome Guests 😩

The insistent buzz of the doorbell dragged you from a fitful sleep. You groaned, pulling the blanket tighter around you, but Penelope's chipper voice floated from the living room. "I got it, sweet pea!"

You'd been living with your older sister, Penelope Garcia, for the past months and a half, ever since your dramatic, and frankly, emotionally exhausting, breakup with Mark. He'd been a controlling jerk, and the sudden need for a fresh start had brought you straight to Penelope's door. Her vibrant, technicolor apartment was a stark contrast to your own minimalist, muted decor, but it was safe. And more importantly, it was far, far away from Mark.

A deeper voice, one that sent a familiar flutter through your chest, followed Penelope’s. "Hey, Garcia. Got a minute?"

Your eyes flew open. Derek. He wasn't supposed to be here. Not now, not when you were a mess of tangled hair and old sweats. You scrambled out of bed, grabbing the first relatively clean shirt you could find.

"Morgan! What a surprise!" Penelope's voice was a little too loud, a little too cheerful. You heard footsteps approaching your bedroom door. "And guess who’s here! You remember my little sister, right?"

Panic flared. You weren’t ready for him to see you like this. Not after the clandestine, stolen moments you’d shared over the past few months, the secret dates, the whispered conversations in the dark. He knew about Mark, of course – he'd been a quiet, unwavering support throughout the whole ordeal – but the pretense of you just being Penelope’s "little sister" needed to be maintained.

The door swung open, and there he was. Derek Morgan, in all his broad-shouldered, perfectly tailored glory. His eyes, warm and dark, met yours, and a flicker of something passed between you – understanding, concern, and a hint of that familiar, illicit spark.

"Hey, Y/N," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Long time no see."

You managed a weak smile. "Derek. What brings you to Penelope's lair of wonders?" You tried to sound casual, but your heart was hammering.

"Just dropping off some case files," he replied, holding up a manila folder. "Garcia's the only one who can decipher my chicken scratch."

Penelope, oblivious to the silent communication zipping between you and Derek, clapped her hands. "Well, since you're here, why don't you stay for a bit? I was just about to make some coffee."

"Sounds good," Derek said, his gaze still on you for a beat longer than necessary.

You excused yourself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face. This was going to be harder than you thought. You and Derek had been so careful, so discreet. The last thing you needed was Penelope, the queen of observation and deduction, putting two and two together.

When you emerged, Derek was perched on a stool in the kitchen, casually chatting with Penelope while she bustled around, clinking mugs. He glanced up, offering you a small, reassuring smile that only you would understand. It was enough to settle your nerves, just a little.

"So, Y/N," Penelope said, handing you a mug. "Tell Derek about your big plans for getting back on your feet! You know, now that you're free as a bird." She winked at Derek, clearly referring to your breakup.

You felt your cheeks warm. "Oh, you know, just figuring things out. Maybe a new job, definitely no more toxic relationships." You threw a pointed look at Derek, a silent reminder of the unspoken rules of your secret.

Derek chuckled, a low, easy sound. "Sounds like a good plan, Y/N. Sometimes a fresh start is exactly what you need." His eyes held yours, a silent message passing between you: I'm here for you. Always.

The rest of the morning passed in a surprisingly normal haze of coffee and comfortable conversation. Derek was, as always, charming and engaging, and Penelope was her usual effervescent self. You even found yourself relaxing, almost forgetting the precarious balance of your secret. Almost.

As Derek finally gathered his things to leave, Penelope walked him to the door. You, feeling a sudden surge of something you couldn't quite name – longing? relief? – followed them.

"Thanks for the coffee, Garcia," Derek said, turning to Penelope. "And it was good to see you, Y/N." His eyes lingered on you for a moment, a subtle message in their depths.

"You too, Derek," you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

Just as he was about to step out, the distinct sound of a car horn blared from the street. A moment later, a familiar, unwelcome voice shouted, "Y/N! I know you're in there!"

Your blood ran cold. Mark. He’d found you.

Penelope’s eyes widened, a flicker of alarm crossing her face. Derek, however, went absolutely still. His jaw tightened, and his gaze sharpened, shifting from you to the door.

Before you could react, the doorbell rang again, aggressively this time.

"Who in the blazes is that?" Penelope muttered, already moving to look through the peephole. Her jaw dropped. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. It's Mark!" She turned back to you, her expression a mixture of anger and confusion. "What is he doing here?"

You swallowed hard, your mind racing. You couldn't let Mark in, not here, not now. But you also couldn't have him making a scene on Penelope's doorstep.

Derek, however, had already made his decision. Without a word, he stepped forward, placing a hand on the doorknob.

"Derek, no!" you whispered, but it was too late. He swung the door open, revealing Mark, looking disheveled and furious.

Mark’s eyes, narrowed with anger, landed on you, then on Derek. "So, this is where you ran off to, Y/N? Hiding out with your sister and... who's this?" His gaze, full of suspicion and malice, raked over Derek.

Derek’s posture was impossibly calm, impossibly intimidating. He stepped forward, putting his body between you and Mark. "The name's Derek Morgan," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "and I'm Y/N's boyfriend."

The words hung in the air, a shocking, unexpected declaration. Penelope gasped. You stared at Derek, your heart leaping into your throat. He met your gaze, a subtle, confident smirk playing on his lips. It was a lie, yes, but a convenient one. And judging by the way Mark’s angry expression faltered, it was an effective one too.

"Boyfriend?" Mark spluttered, his voice losing some of its bluster. "But... but you just broke up with me!"

"And she moved on," Derek said, his voice unwavering, "with me. Now, I suggest you leave. Unless you want to have a very unpleasant conversation with the police."

Mark hesitated, glancing from Derek's unyielding stare to your wide eyes, then back again. Finally, with a frustrated huff, he turned and stomped back to his car. A moment later, the roar of his engine faded into the distance.

Silence descended, thick and heavy. Penelope was staring at Derek, then at you, then back at Derek, her mouth slightly agape.

Derek turned to you, his intense gaze softening. "You okay?" he murmured, just for your ears.

You could only nod, still reeling.

Penelope, however, finally found her voice. "Boyfriend?!" she shrieked, her voice an octave higher than usual. "Since when are you two... together?!" Her eyes, wide with shock, bounced between you and Derek, demanding answers.

Derek just grinned, a genuine, dazzling smile that reached his eyes. "Well, Garcia," he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side, "it's a long story." He squeezed your shoulder, and you felt a warmth spread through you, a mixture of relief, surprise, and something undeniably like joy. The secret was out. And somehow, it felt like the beginning of something real.

————

Penelope’s apartment, usually a haven of chaotic joy, was now an arena of stunned silence. Her eyes, wide as saucers, darted between you and Derek, who still had his arm casually draped around your shoulders. The air was thick with unspoken questions.

Finally, Penelope found her voice, though it was still a little high-pitched. "A long story? Morgan, don't you dare 'long story' me! I'm your best friend! And you're my little sister! How long has this been going on? And why in the name of all that is holy did you two keep it from me?"

Derek chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through your side. He looked at you, a silent invitation in his eyes to take the lead. You took a deep breath.

"Penelope, calm down," you began, trying to sound more confident than you felt. "It's… it's complicated. And we didn't mean to keep it from you, not really. It just… happened."

"Happened?" Penelope threw her hands up in exasperation, her brightly colored bracelets jangling. "Things like this don't just 'happen,' Y/N! There are dates, there are phone calls, there are feelings! And you two, the master of secrets and the queen of… well, me! You kept this from me?" She looked genuinely hurt.

Derek squeezed your shoulder gently. "Garcia, listen. We know we messed up by not telling you. There's no excuse for that." He turned his full attention to Penelope, his expression serious. "But it wasn't because we didn't trust you, or because we didn't care. It was… complicated." He looked at you again, a shared understanding passing between you.

"When we first started getting close," you picked up, "it was after… after a really bad time for me. Mark was still in the picture, and things were messy. Derek was just… a really good friend at first." You glanced at Derek, who nodded. "Then, when things ended with Mark, it became more. But it was still new, and fragile. We didn't want to complicate your relationship with Derek, or mine with you, if it didn't work out."

"And then," Derek added, his voice softer, "when Y/N moved in with you, we knew we had to be even more careful. We didn't want to put you in an awkward position, or have you worrying."

Penelope listened, her initial shock slowly giving way to a more thoughtful expression. She crossed her arms, her gaze still sharp. "So, you were being… considerate?" she asked, a hint of skepticism in her tone.

"In a convoluted, terrible, secrecy-ridden way, yes," you admitted with a wry smile.

Derek stepped forward, letting go of your shoulder and facing Penelope directly. "Look, Garcia. I care about Y/N. A lot. And I care about you too. You're like family. The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you or make you feel like we were going behind your back. We should have told you. We know that now."

Penelope studied them both for a long moment, her bright eyes assessing. Then, a slow smile spread across her face. It started small, then grew, lighting up her entire face. "You two are idiots," she declared, but there was no malice in her voice. Instead, she let out a delighted squeal and threw her arms around Derek first, giving him a bone-crushing hug. "But oh my god, I knew it! I knew there was something!"

Derek laughed, hugging her back. "You did?"

"Of course, I did, you big oaf!" She pulled back, then turned to you, her eyes sparkling. "My little sister! And Derek Morgan! This is… this is amazing!" She enveloped you in a hug, squeezing tight. "I'm still a little mad you didn't tell me sooner, but I guess I can forgive you… eventually." She pulled back, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Now, spill. Every. Single. Detail. When was the first kiss? Who made the first move? Did you really think you could keep it a secret from the queen of all information?"

You groaned, but a smile touched your lips. Derek just chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. The tension in the room had dissipated, replaced by Penelope's infectious excitement.

"Well, Penelope," Derek said, his gaze lingering on yours, "it all started with a late-bootycall…"

Parings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Platonic!Sam Wilson x Reader, Platonic!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: When an unexpected departure shatters your world, you find yourself adrift in a sea of grief and self-doubt, until two steadfast friends step in to pull you back from the brink

Warnings: Angst, Emotional distress, grief, self-blame, implied past relationship, character depression, Hurt/Comfort, Sam Wilson & Bucky Barnes Friendship, Reader-Insert.

A/N: A raw look at the aftermath of a superhero's choice : (

"What do you mean he's not coming back?" You dropped the mug, watching it shatter against the Stark Tower floor. Your voice was barely a whisper, a stark contrast to the roaring in your ears.

Sam was the one who broke the news, his face etched with a pity you couldn't stand. "He went back. To be with Peggy."

That was a week ago. A week of pretending to be okay, a week of isolating yourself, a week of the same four words echoing in your mind: He's not coming back.

Now, the apartment you and Steve once shared felt vast and empty. Every corner held a memory, a phantom touch, a whispered promise. You traced the outline of a picture on the mantle, a candid shot of you and Steve laughing, his arm tight around your waist. You remembered the warmth of his embrace, the genuine joy in his eyes, and a fresh wave of nausea washed over you.

"It's my fault," you whispered, the words catching in your throat. "If I was... more like her.. maybe he would have stayed."

You hadn't eaten a proper meal in days. Sleep was a luxury you couldn't afford, haunted by replays of Steve's gentle smile, his strong hands, the way he'd always made you feel safe. Now, safety felt like a cruel joke. The only thing you felt was a gnawing emptiness, a self-inflicted wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.

A knock at the door startled you. You pulled your robe tighter, burrowing further into the couch cushions, hoping they'd go away.

"It's us. Sam and Bucky," Sam's voice called out, muffled by the door. "We know you're in there.

We're not leaving until you open up."

You considered ignoring them, but the persistence in Sam's tone told you it was futile. With a sigh, you dragged yourself to the door and opened it a crack, peering out. Their faces were grim, concern radiating off them in waves.

"Hey," Bucky said softly, his eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. "Can we come in?" You stepped back, allowing them entry. They walked in, their presence filling the quiet apartment. Sam immediately noticed the shattered mug on the floor. He knelt, carefully picking up the pieces

"You haven't been taking care of yourself, have you?" Sam asked, his voice gentle, but firm.

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "What's the point?"

Bucky sat on the armrest of the couch, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving you. "The point, doll, is that you're worth more than this. Steve made his choice. That doesn't mean you stop living.

You flinched at Steve's name. "It's easy for you to say. You weren't…. you weren't the one he left behind."

"No," Bucky conceded, his voice hardening slightly. "But I know what it's like to feel lost. To feel like you're broken beyond repair. And I know what it's like to have people give up on you." He paused, his gaze intense. "We're not giving up on you."

Sam, now done with the mug, joined Bucky, sitting opposite you. "Look, we've been through a lot with Steve. We know he's a good man, but he made a choice that hurt you deeply. And it's okay to be angry. It's okay to be sad. But it's not okay to self-destruct."

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring their faces. "I just... I keep thinking about what I could have done differently. Was I not enough? Did I not love him enough?"

"Woah, stop right there," Sam interjected, leaning forward. "This is not your fault. Not even a little bit. Steve made a decision based on his past, on a life he never got to live. It has absolutely nothing to do with your worth or how much you loved him. You loved him with everything you had, and anyone could see that."

"Yeah, Bucky added, his voice surprisingly soft. "He was crazy about you. He never stopped talking about you. This wasn't a reflection of you, sweetcheeks. It was a reflection of him needing to close a chapter that never got to start."

You hugged your knees to your chest, a sob escaping your lips. "But it feels like... it feels like he just erased me. Like I never even existed.'

"He didn't erase you," Sam said firmly. "And we're certainly not going to let you erase yourself.

You're a part of our lives. A big part. And we care about you. A lot."

Bucky nodded in agreement. "We're here for you. We're not going anywhere. You want to scream? Scream. You want to cry? We'll grab the tissues. You want to talk about how much you hate Steve right now? We'll listen. But you're going to eat. And you're going to try to sleep. And you're going to let us help you, because that's what friends do."

You looked from Sam's earnest face to Bucky's unwavering gaze. The wall you had meticulously built around yourself began to crack, a tiny sliver of hope peeking through. "I... I don't know how to stop blaming myself."

"It's a process," Sam acknowledged gently. "It's not going to happen overnight. But it starts with letting us in. Letting us help you carry some of this weight."

Bucky reached out, his metal arm resting lightly on your knee. "You're strong Stronger than you think. And we'll remind you of that every single day if we have to. But you gotta meet us halfway, okay?

You took a shaky breath, the first in days that didn't feel like a struggle. The emptiness was still there, but now, a flicker of warmth joined it. It was the warmth of their presence, their unwavering support.