#Light through a Broken Lens

[dragonowl]

Pathcode:

Light Through a Broken Lens

The Sky That Doesn't End: Part 2

Masterlist

Genre: EXO AU, Romance, Mystery

Rated: PG

Pairing: Byun Baekhyun x Lara (OC)

Summery: Exo has scattered. Now in hiding after the Red Force closed in on them and Luhan went missing. Baekhyun finds himself in a small town while he waits until they can reunite again. Guarded after everything that has taken place, he’s not looking for friendship, or anything else, until a light shines through, even as the darkness closes around them.

Next, AO3

Chapter 1: Depth of Field

The sun warmed Baekhyun’s skin against the cold breeze that weaved through the tall grass. It was turning golden, creating the perfect lighting for him to catch through his lens. The puttering of an old truck broke the stillness as it made its way on the road behind him, but he kept his focus on the camera. He was so focused that he didn’t notice the puttering had stopped. 

“You okay?” 

He jumped with a yelp at the sudden voice and spun around to find that the truck had come to a stop and its driver was addressing him. The light of the setting sun was blocking his view of the woman’s features, but he could tell she was young by her voice. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you need help?” she asked with a giggle that tinkled like soft bells. 

“I’m okay,” he responded, the Russian still awkward in his mouth. “Just catching some photos before the sun goes down.”

“Would you like a ride back to town?” she asked. “It’s quite a walk.”

“I’m going to be taking photos for a while, but thank you,” Baekhyun said and started to turn back to the scene he was capturing. 

“I don’t mind waiting,” the woman said. “I’d hate to leave someone alone on these roads after dark. They’re not the safest.”

“It could be a while,” he said, turning back to her again. 

“My evening is free.”

“Well…” he thought for a second. Walking back in the dark was not the most ideal situation. “Okay,” he finally conceded. “I’ll buy you dinner as a thank you.”

“I’d never refuse a free meal,” she said with a chuckle. 

He smiled at her honest response and then turned back to the scenery that was quickly changing with the sun’s descent. Faster than he anticipated, the sun was gone and he rushed to pack his gear in the lack of light, then made his way carefully through the tall grass to the road where the truck still waited. 

The young woman was now hidden in the heavy shadows of twilight, but she noticed him coming before he had even left the brush. 

“All done?” she asked, leaning across the truck to open his door from inside. 

“Yep,” he responded as he finally made it to the asphalt. “Where can I put my gear?”

“There isn't much room in the cabin, unfortunately, but you can get in here what will fit and place the rest in the bed if you’re okay with that.”

“Better than lugging it back to town on foot,” he said. He placed his camera bag on the floor then took his tripod to the back and placed it in the truck bed as securely as possible. When he climbed into the front she started the vehicle and then held her hand out to him. 

“My name’s Lara,” she said and he took her hand. 

“Baekhyun,” he said after a second of hesitation. 

“Korean?” she asked with surprise, her grip tightening as she pulled him closer.

He nodded, trying to pull back.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, letting go and switching to Korean. “I got excited. There aren’t really many Koreans in the surrounding towns. 

The language change surprised him and he noted the lack of accent. “Are you Korean as well?”

“On my mom’s side,” she said, then put the truck in gear and started driving. “Spoke both Korean and Russian growing up, so I’m fluent in both. Your Russian is pretty good, but I can tell it’s not a natural language for you. How long have you lived here? Must be fairly new if I hadn’t heard about you yet. Word about newcomers travels pretty fast around here.”

“I haven’t been around long,” he said, adjusting in his seat as he tried to come up with answers. “I travel a lot and liked some of the scenery in the area so I thought I’d stick around for a bit.”

“Do you work for a magazine, or…?”

“Just freelance,” he responded when she trailed off. “I’ll send shots to magazine companies sometimes and find random requests online to fulfill. I’d like to set up a studio someday though if I can ever settle down.”

“Wanderlust?”

“Something like that. Nowhere really feels like home.” He shifted again and coughed. “What about you?”

“I can’t really seem to escape the small-town life,” she said with a shrug. “Moved away from home, but only made it a few towns over. I didn’t really have any grand plans, just wanted to see how I would do on my own.”

“Sounds grand to me,” Baekhyun said with a smile. “Where do you work?”

“The little bakery on the east end at the corner. I was just coming back from a delivery to the next town over.”

“I’ve been meaning to go in there. What do you recommend?”

“We’ve got some pretty good muffins,” she said. “But they’re my specialty so I might be biased.”

“I happen to really like muffins,” he said. “I’ll have to give them a try.”

They continued to chat casually as they bounced down the road. Stars became more and more visible as the light continued to fade in the horizon and the homesickness that Baekhyun had been struggling with lightened slightly at the familiar language and constant chatter.

Next

[mggslover]

Killing machine

In which reader shocks herself with her abilities in the field, leading her to doubt the person she's become.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader Genre: angst, fluff Tropes: wound cleaning Word count: 1,8k A/n: the first one shot on this blog and also the first I've written in years!!

The sound of her heavy breathing and the occasional clicking of her broken flashlight fill the stuffy, cramped space of the abandoned container Y/n finds herself in. The BAU is after a team of unsubs who’ve been killing elderly widows who come from old money, using their grief as a way to make it into their lives and homes. They murder them in cold blood, stealing their most prized possessions and storing them in abandoned locations. For the past two days, Y/n has been visiting warehouses all over the state, trying to identify who the found property belongs to and finding new leads on where the unsubs could be. 

Today should’ve been another day of clearing out warehouses and containers. Y/n and the team split up after arriving on the property. Callahan, JJ, and Rossi taking one warehouse, Hotch, Morgan, and Reid taking the other, while Y/n got the task to search some smaller containers around the area. She squints her eyes in an attempt to fight the night blindness as her flashlight flickers. “Come on, just work with me,” she mumbles as she slaps her palm against the back of the flashlight, trying to get it to properly work. Y/n gives a small sigh of satisfaction when a bright light erupts out of the flashlight. As she tilts her head back up, she’s greeted by the chest of a male just inches away from her. Her flashlight shatters to the ground, her hard effort gone as the lens breaks into tiny pieces. The male, who she identifies as one of the unsubs, reaches in his jean pocket where the handle of a Glock is sticking out. Before the unsub has the chance to make a single movement, a bullet derived from Y/n’s gun makes a quick and clean hole in his forehead. She’s met with the familiar ringing in her ear and natural response of flinching as his blood splatters onto her. 

She hears a creak and turns around, expecting a team member to make sure she’s alright. 

“Hey, I-“

She stops dead in her tracks as she catches a small dim of light behind a wooden crate, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she makes out two eyes. The click of a gun makes her snap her head around, and she soon figures out it wasn’t just one of the unsubs hiding in here… it’s all of them. Gun in her clammy hand, she guides herself by the small sounds of movement that suddenly sound as loud as the beating of drums. Adrenaline courses through her veins, her gaze only focused on what’s in front of her as she starts firing. One by one the unsubs hidden behind boxes and shelves fall to the ground. She lets out a yelp and stumbles when a bullet grazes her cheek, making her land on her back. Y/n quickly holds herself up on her arms as she hits the final blow at her shooter. The sound of the gunshots had barely registered in her mind before the deafening silence followed. Her grip remains strong on her gun as her heart pounds into her chest. 

“Y/n!” Spencer’s shriek of panic is heard across the container. He stumbles his way over the boxes and bodies on the ground, only focused on her. “I thought you were dead,” he says as he kneels next to her, brows furrowed and mouth softly agape as he flashes his flashlight in her face, examining her. She hisses as his cold fingers trace the wound on her cheek. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes. 

The rest of the team follows Spencer into the container. Derek crouches to observe the lifeless body of the assumed leader of the group of unsubs. “Damn girl, that’s a good shot,” he compliments. 

Rossi looks around at the scattered bodies. “It’s not just him, all of these are aimed perfectly,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice. “I need to take some extra classes from you. I can’t even shoot like this in GTA.” His words earn some chuckles, but it makes her stomach churn. She didn’t even think twice about taking them down—how was that something she should feel proud of? The praise made her feel like a weapon, like she was being recognized for something she didn’t want to be good at. 

Hotch’s eyes softened when he noticed her clear discomfort and the state of shock she was still in as she couldn’t find the words to speak. “Reid, get Y/n to the medics outside and then take her home. We’ll get the paperwork done tomorrow.”

-

As Spencer turns the key into his apartment door, he makes sure to keep his hand steady on Y/n’s lower back, gently guiding her inside. “Let’s go clean this wound up. The medic told me you have to sanitize it twice a day, before going to bed and after waking up.” Spencer continues rambling on about the medical books he’s read and how he’s practiced cleaning dirty cuts on himself, as he makes her sit down on the edge of the bathtub. She doesn’t process any of his words, though. Her mind keeps spinning back to the container, how she didn’t experience a moment of doubt as she saw the unsubs armed and how meticulously she ended them. How easy it was to end the lives of five human beings in the span of a single minute. 

She tilts her head with a hum as Spencer repeats her name. “Can I take your vest off?” She nods as she lifts her arms, giving Spencer access. He helps her lift out of it,  tossing the bulletproof vest behind him. She cringes as she notices the dried blood and gunpowder coating it. “Hey… I’m right here, you’re okay,” Spencer softly coos, turning Y/n’s attention back on him. 

He traces the back of his finger against her unhurt cheek. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” When she doesn’t respond, he gently cups her chin, tilting it up to bring her attention to him. He crouches so that he can look her in the eyes. “Tell me what’s bothering you.” She bites down on her bottom lip, a nervous habit she has. She knows she can trust Spencer, but she’s feeling embarrassed. Embarrassed by the fact that she’s struggling so much about something that should be routine by now after the number of years she’s worked at the BAU, but also embarrassed by the fact that it’s supposed to be routine, since it shouldn’t. She shouldn’t have the skill to perform headshots like that and she definitely shouldn’t be praised about it by her colleagues. She knows they mean well, but she cannot get rid of the sick taste in her mouth. 

“Sweetheart, listen to me. I know it was terrifying being alone in there. I know you don’t like the dark or tight spaces, but it’s over now. You did so well.” 

“Did I?” Her voice comes out harsher than intended, making Spencer tilt his head in confusion. 

“I killed five people, Spencer, five,” she says as her voice shakes. Spencer rubs her shoulders up and down. “You were left with no choice, there was no other option.” 

“That doesn’t make what I did any better.” She whispers, her voice barely audible as the tears start to spill. She shakes her head as she scoffs a laugh in disbelief. “God… you heard what Rossi said. I’m a killing machine, Spencer! I didn’t even know I was capable of doing that.” She says. “Garcia fights the justice system to get the man who almost killed her off of death row, and what do I do? I don’t give them a single chance and kill them without even thinking about it. I swear Spence, it happened as a reflex. It shouldn’t happen as a reflex!” Y/n’s anxiety builds up as she keeps thinking of reasons as to why she’s a bad person. The empathy is visible in Spencer’s eyes as his hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the dirty bandage. It wasn’t the wound he was worried about— it was what he couldn’t see. How the strongest person he knew was shaking in front of him, wanting nothing more than to protect her from everything the job took from her. 

“You cannot compare those situations. Garcia saw the potential of him bettering his life. You had no other choice, you needed to protect yourself.” 

She swallows. “I used to be a lot like her, you know.” The memories of Y/n’s early days in her career flood her mind. Back when she could feel proud of her ability to protect others. Back when she could still relate to believing the good in people. She used to think every life had some value worth saving. She doesn’t remember the moment that changed. 

Spencer softly smiles down at her. “You still are, love. You’re a soft-spoken kind soul, you just put some protective layers over that. I know it’s hard to reconcile who you are now with who you were when you started this job,” Spencer says as he caresses her freshly bandaged cheek. “Your strength might have hardened you, but that doesn’t mean you’ve lost your compassion. You’re still the same person. You just do it differently now.” His words make her melt as she leans into his touch, surrendering herself to the security he offered. Spencer smiles to himself as he guides her up off of the bathtub, pulling her into his embrace and resting his chin on her head. 

“You’re such a caring person, sweetheart. The fact that you’re worrying about this tells me enough of how good of a person you are.” Her eyes water as he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I don’t know anyone as gentle and loving as you,” he whispers between kisses as he continues showering her in words of affection and reassurance.

 “You’re the most perfect woman I’ve ever met and you’re amazing at the job that you do. The risk you took has saved so many people, love, just think about it.” Warm, full tears soak his sweatshirt as she buries her face in his chest. Finding gratitude in the fact that her boyfriend always knows the right words to comfort her. 

He takes her face in his hands. “I’m not going to lie to you. It’s going to take a while to get over this, but we’ll go through it together,” he says. Those sweet, brown bambi eyes looking deeply into hers make her believe every word he says. 

“Will you help me? When I need to fill in the evaluation?” She softly asks, already dreading going through the case again, but Spencer's soft gaze calms her. 

“I will, love. I’ll be there every step of the way.”

[peachsayshi]

🩵

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ minors / ageless / blank blogs (dni) - dad gojo x reader

papa's scary face is how your daughter describes it. the difference when her usually bubbly, bright father morphs into somebody else. the expression he makes when she accidentally walks in on you and satoru having a serious argument. when she catches him coming home from work with his shoulders taut and his brows furrowed.

satoru's daughter is the light of his life - his little peace of heaven on earth. that's why he is so terrible when it comes to discipline (a lecture you constantly have to give him). she has never been on the receiving end of your lover's scary face. isn't familiar with the hardened muscles he express when serious, or notices the angry twitch of his jaw when frustrated.

it's rare, but these moments happen. satoru may possess godlike powers, but he's still inherently human. his very essence the same that make up you and your daughter.

you're surprised when you see her quietly tiptoe her way towards the sofa, towards you and her father. her energetic aura dwindled by silence. her bottom lip is tucked tightly between her teeth, her beautiful round eyes varnished with tears ready to fall.

satoru's face instantly drops with concern. his body immediately growing protective with his arm lightly slipping away from around your waist.

"you okay, mochi?" he asks sweetly, his brow quirking at her arms tucked behind her back.

you both know that she's hiding something.

"I did something bad" she says quietly, her worried voice so small it makes satoru spring to his feet to meet her halfway.

he crouches on his knees, his height daunting compared to hers. he lightly tugs at her frosty pigtail, and she sniffles ever so slightly to keep her brave face in place.

always trying to hold a strong front, just like her father.

"what did you do?" he asks with a gentle smile, watching her shift from one foot to the next.

" I..uhm...I was playing with your toys," she mumbles, unable to meet his gaze as she keeps her own firmly on her pattering feet. "I know they're yours. I know I have’ta ask first. I was tryna to be...uhm..."

"careful?" satoru completes, tilting his head in an attempt to make contact with his hesitant daughter who still hasn't figured out all her words just yet.

"yeh that..." she grumbles to reveal what's behind her hands.

you press your fingers against your lips when you see it.

satoru's favorite pair of sunglasses.

a limited edition pair from one of his favorite high fashion brands. he splurged a stupid amount of money of it. even kept the packaging because he hyper fixated on the details. the frame was extremely delicate, which is why he rarely wore it. but he gushed over it for almost a year since it's pre-release was announced.

his daughter, however, has a habit of sneaking into her father's room to steal one of the many pairs of shades that your lover wore. she enjoyed "modeling" them, and would flash poses in front of your bedroom mirror while sifting through his collection like they were treasure.

you and satoru have caught her doing this many times before, and while the both of you found it adorable, you realized that your daughter wasn't very careful when handling things.

she scratched the lens of another pair that belonged to her father. bent the temple of a second, which he hasn't been able to fix.

so, when satoru received these specific shades, the two of you sat her down to try and explain that she couldn't freely just loot around his stuff without asking for permission.

right now, those very shades where split into two in his daughter's hands.

satoru's jaw goes slack when he picks them up from her tiny palms, his cheeks tinting a slight red from surprise.

"im sorry, papa," she timidly begs, bringing her now empty hands to cover her eyes. her body heaves, you can see that she is trying really hard not to cry.

satoru allows the shock to settle for only just a minute, before he places the broken sunglasses by his side. there's something else that washes over him - relief.

he circles his arms around her wrists, tugging them away from her face but she keeps them fiercely in place. he chuckles with ease, shaking his head in disbelief as he loosens his grip to grab her waist and pull her into his frame.

"silly girl," he teases. "it's okay, papa's not mad, I promise..."

"but I didn't listen to what you 'n mama said-"

"I know," he sighs calmly, "and you know that was wrong, right? not to listen?"

she nods her head yes, her hands still covering her face.

"Eyes on me, grabby hands..." satoru lectures but she shakes her head no.

"Don't wanna see your scary face," she awkwardly admits, and you can't help but bite back a smile.

she's far too innocent to understand what those expressions. to young to acknowledge that they weren't always bad. that they were, in fact, normal. and that one day she will bare the cross of these complex emotions herself.

"scary face?" satoru huffs, "you think daddy has a scary face?"

she drops her hands to her side swiftly, revealing her guilt and wet cheeks. she furiously shakes her head no, taking in a large inhale as she wipes her face with the back of her hands.

it makes your heart ache watching her try to comprehend the weight of her small feelings.

"nu-uh," she reassures, "but-but sometimes..."

satoru kisses her plush cheek three times over to interrupt her eyes, "I am not mad at you, mochi," he consoles, "just promise you won't do it again."

"pinky swear!" she yelps as she searches for his long, slender digits. the relief brings the color back into her face, the pale sheet of white bloomed with a tiny blush. she hooks her pinky around satoru's, the size different so prominent, before eagerly wrapping her arms around his neck. "m'sorry, papa"

"it's okay, baby," he coos as he kisses her forehead.

the scene is heartwarming, and while satoru maintained his cool, you can still read the disappointment on his face.

the pair slip away from each other's arms, your daughter picking up the broken shades as she patters her way back down the hallway to give you both some privacy.

satoru gets up, his hand clutching his chest as he turns to give you a pathetically sad expression.

"how much does it hurt?" you tease, watching him drag his feet back to you.

you grumble when he collapses into your chest, burying his nose into your neck as he wraps his strong arms around your waist.

"this is the worst heartbreak of my life," he groans obnoxiously, and you raise your own brows in surprise.

"I thought our break up was the worst heartbreak you’ve experienced," you chide, twirling the strands of his soft hair between your fingers.

"seriously? you want to bring that up now? while I'm in mourning?"

you giggle when he sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh of your neck, nipping at your skin tenderly before exhaling with sorrow.

"ugh, she's got me wrapped around her fingers like taffy," he moans like he can’t believe his own defeat, "did you see her face? how can I even get mad?"

"I know, my love," you coo, consoling your own crybaby.

Minutes pass in silence before satoru finally ponders that, "maybe, I can find another pair online or something-"

"papa!" your daughter chirps, interrupting the moment as quickly as she graced it.

satoru untangles himself from your embrace, sitting upright to see her pigtails bouncing as she scampers towards you both. her steps hit the ground fast. he doesn't even have a chance to answer before she climbs on his lap, her eyes still a little glossy from shedding her tears. she wipes away the rogue strands of feathery hairs that stuck to her temple, before showing off what's in her hand.

"I fixed it for you," she beams, her face hopeful and optimistic.

Satoru picks up the glasses from between her fingers, noticing that she had used one of her washy tapes to stick the bridge back together.

It was blue, and had little ducks on it.

You can feel an eruption of laughter bubbling in your chest, but pure love bleeds through Satoru's eyes, completely moved by her gesture.

"Aww, mochi," he gently replies, tracing his thumb over the tape.

He arches forward to kiss her nose, while she seeks another embrace between mumbling into his ear that she loves him.

You simply melt by their side.

Satoru doesn't wear the glasses anymore, but he still keeps them. Bringing them out every once in a while to show his daughter that he still loves them.

Even though they sit quite lopsided on his handsome face.

[requests are closed]

[mindmelter]

A Body Stealer Tale: A Capture To Remember

When I arrived in Italy, I found out my camera was broken from the travel. Frustrated, I wandered through Italy until I found a small, dusty shop tucked between old buildings. Inside, an elderly shopkeeper offered me an old camera model, calling it "special." I was desperate, so I bought it, not realizing just how “special” this camera would actually be.

I’d only been in Italy for a day when I spotted him—an absolute Adonis. I was just wandering through the cobbled streets of the old town, camera in hand, getting lost in the architecture and the vibes, taking photos of every old building I saw. Suddenly, there he was: this hot Italian guy walking alone past me. I couldn’t resist. I knew it was a little risky, but I raised my new camera to grab a quick shot of him without him noticing.

I mean, I would never see him again after that, so I should as well capture the moment to remember.

But then, the moment I pressed the shutter, there was a flash of bright light. It wasn’t from my camera. It was like a white ball of light bursting out from the man's back and zipping straight into my camera, vanishing without a trace.

And before I could even gasp, his whole body crumpled like a pile of clothes, totally hollowed out. I blinked, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. I mean, there was this whole empty Italian guy lying there on the street—skin, hair, face, everything—but no bones, no organs, nothing inside. Just a bodysuit.

I just stood there, completely dumbfounded, staring at the bodysuit that had been a whole man only seconds before. Luckily, there was no one on the street but me, which honestly was a miracle. My heart was racing, but curiosity got the better of me. I glanced around, making sure I was alone, and slowly crouched down, reaching out to touch the hollowed man's face. It was surreal, it felt smooth, soft, and very real, I mean... it was real. As I caressed his stubble beard and admired his slack empty face, I noticed an opening on his nape. Curious, I pulled his sagging head by the hair and noticed a small opening on his back, it was the exact place where the ball of light had come out of him.

An idea popped into my head—completely insane, but somehow, I knew I had to do it. Before I could second-guess myself, I slipped off my shoes and started undressing right there on the sidewalk. Yeah, risky, but I wasn’t gonna let this opportunity slip away.

One leg at a time, I stepped into the suit's open hole, pulling his muscular calves and thighs over my own legs. The fabric—no, the *skin*—wrapped around me like a second layer. I could feel his muscles molding to my shape as I slid my arms into his and finally tugged his handsome face over mine like a mask.

Then… something amazing happened. I could feel the strength of his body taking over, the weight of his muscles filling me up, the opening in his back closing, and even his face settling into place over mine. I wasn’t just wearing him—I *was* him.

I glanced down and saw those fit pecs, those ripped abs, and a big flaccid cock that now belonged to me. The guy was very hung, I thought.

I couldn't help but give my new cock a few strokes. I chuckled at the thought of someone walking and seeing this stud jerking off naked on the street.

But I wasn't in the mood to spend my new hot body in an Italian jail, so I grabbed the man's jeans from the ground and pulled them back up. His wallet fell out of his pocket, so I grabbed it and looked for his ID.

"Luca Moretti, 23 years old," It said.

Well, I guess that's my new name for now, I thought as I put a shirt on.

I grabbed the camera from the ground and looked at the lens, my eyes squinted as I tried to look inside for any sign of life, "Hello? Do you hear me?" I waited for a response and chuckled at how ridiculous I looked talking to a camera. I was about to put it inside my backpack when I heard a distant voice in my head. It was a male voice, and it was screaming in Italian.

"Che cazzo sta succedendo? Non sento più nulla… posso solo vedere attraverso questa maledetta lente! Ma cosa mi è successo? Sono intrappolato qui dentro? Non può essere vero… Aiuto! Qualcuno mi tiri fuori da qui, vi prego!"

I couldn't understand what he was saying—I don't speak Italian! I gazed into the lens, letting a look of gentle compassion soften my new features.

"I'm sorry man, I can't understand what you're saying. But it looks like that's your new home now. Your body is mine and It's going to be so fun being you, I hope you don't have a girlfriend because I'm really going to put this ass to use. But don't worry though, I will make sure you get some company soon."

I put the camera inside my backpack and casually walked away as if I’d always been him. I’d never felt this confident in my life, and proof of that was the huge bulge I proudly displayed in my jeans. This is going to be one unforgettable trip.

Next time, I won't be taking photos of old buildings, but of hot men whose bodies I want to capture.

[screampied]

saying “goodnight,” to gojo is one of the worst things you could ever tell him.

some may ask why . . it’s a simple word, a sweet farewell of good dreams if you will. but in this case, perhaps not. just a simple word, a simple word that always knew how to bring the strongest to complete tears.

“goodnight, ‘toru.” you’d murmur, swiftly running your hands through his white tangled strands. he was struggling to keep his eyes open. the calmness of your voice soothed him. cerulean irises stared right back into you before he lets off a soft sigh. his face was so relaxed, he stares into your eyes with his own becoming a bit droopy.

“goodnight,” he’d utter before his eyes briefly closes. “i love you.”

is what you thought he’d say in a moment like this. but even sometimes, reality can be faux. life’s pretty funny, isn’t it.

gojo didn’t like the word ‘goodbye’ simply because it brought back too many hard memories.

he wasn’t one to really explain why, he was more resvered sometimes than anything. he was often too embarrassed to get things off his chest. especially things like this, you did always wonder why though. how sometimes you’d kiss him on the cheek, reaching for the light before uttering off those fatal words of, “goodnight, satoru.”

despite everything though, he always gives you a soft kiss on the lips, murmuring, “sleep well, angel,” instead of goodnight. he’d hold you in his arms, stroking you gently until you fell fast asleep into his arms, where you always belonged.

why was goodnight such an avoidance to gojo’s vocabulary. it was simple, really. a bad experience, a very bad experience actually.

“i don’t like seeing you cry like that,” he’d grumble in a merely defeated voice. he sounded so different, so tired, so … weak. gojo’s voice, it was once so full of life and oh so effervescent. and now, it sounded like he was clinging onto his last and final conclusive breaths—in which he was. “hey, hey. look at me.”

you’d sniffle, glancing at gojo. your eyes were merely blind with your own pathetic tears, everything you saw through your own lens of eyesight was straight blurry. that dumb dorky smile remained plastered on his face despite the circumstances.

the circumstances, gojo satoru had been finally defeated. the strongest, considered as once the strongest, was now lying in your arms, squeezing your wrist as if it’d be the last time he’d touch you. and it would be.

“don’t cry for me. you’re gonna make me cry, silly,” he whispers in a jesting tone, brushing a thumb against the outer part of your hand. you always loved his touch, there was nothing like it. gojo actually for once seemed scared, he was always so good at concealing his emotions—but with you, that was an entire different story.

you could hear the tremble in his voice, his time was rapidly running out, and he just wanted to reassure you, even though perhaps you should have been reassuring him.

“s-satoru,” you’d reply in a shaky voice, you felt an abrupt sharp sting prod through your heart.

you didn’t expect to come to contact with the feeling of heartbreak so soon, but it hit you like a truck. you hated feeling powerless, you couldn’t do anything but just sit here and . . hold his hand.

one … last … time.

“you’ll be okay,” he murmurs, and he lifts up your hand, struggling at first. you’re kneeled down beside him as he lies on the floor. a pool of his own defeat starting to fill from underneath him before he kisses the palm of your hand. “i… i want you to promise me something though. can you do that, angel?”

“y-yes,” you immediately reply, your grip on his hand only growing tighter. suddenly, the air felt so thick and warm—everything felt so out of place. your ears, both of them rang and rang. there was a sting in your heart and it refused to go away. you were experiencing heartbreak at its finest, in slow slow waves.

gojo inhales, and you watch as his pretty lashes flutter at least twice before he says in the most broken, defeated voice you’ve ever heard.

“promise me,” he starts, and you watched as a tear ran down the corner of his eye. even he knew what his fate was coming to, everything was catching up to him and you were sharing the exact dreading emotion. gojo’s eyes flicker up towards you before he sniffles. “promise me, promise me that you’ll be here when i wake up?”

silence—pure silence was your reply, you didn’t know what to say.

but that pure silence only lasted for about three seconds before you nodded, feeling your own tears start to trickle out the crevices of your eyes. “i promise, i’ll be here, i’m always here, ‘toru,” and with a sob nearly escaping your lips, you whimper out a, “i love you.”

“i love you,” he replies with a cheeky grin, and by now he’s really clinging onto his final breaths.

all gojo could focus on was your face, the tears that swelled up through your eyes. he hated seeing you cry, he truly loathed it. with your fingers interlocked with his, gojo says in a soft broken tone, “goodnight, baby.”

“… goodnight, ‘toru.”

but instead of waking up next to gojo like promised, you woke up alone with his side of the bed empty. then reality hit you, he was already gone.

[julymusings]

PORTRAIT jason hates taking photos. it's a shame you find him so beautiful.

Jason Todd isn’t one to take pictures. Standing there with a fake smile, posing for a deceptively happy vignette of an unhappy reality feels awkward. He never knows what to do with his hands. He doesn’t like the way his face translates through the lens; the green of his eyes glows just this side of too spectral, his broad, stocky frame towers over that of his siblings, and the scars on his face bring memories of a darker time, an intentional carelessness for his life he used to carry. He leans away when others huddle together to smile. Pretends to notice something behind him when caught in the background of the lens.

Enter you. Only capable of looking at him with hearts in your eyes. Serving on a silver platter what he used to starve and scavenge for in dimly lit bars on the lips of women who only saw him as something to sink their teeth into and then spit out, never sticking around for longer than one night. Jason feasted at first, he’ll admit, stuffing himself to sickness on your unconditional adoration until it was almost too much to bear.

You take pictures of him and gush over them, telling him how pretty he is. How he belongs in a museum. He never believed you, never bothering to actually look at the pictures you take. But pretty soon he’s everywhere; you set him as your lock screen and screensaver, and print photos to frame on your bedside table. When your storage is maxed out, you steal Jason’s phone to flood his camera roll, and he finds that he keeps going back to stare at the photos you take. Selfies where you kiss his cheek and his mouth curves upward just enough to transform him from brooding to disarming; portraits where he looks, not at the camera, but just beyond and his eyes crinkle, the tips of his sharp canines peeking out over his bottom lip. He looks…different. Better. He starts to believe the things you tell him; his beauty is ancient. Michelangelo himself carved the contours of his body. The Trojans and the Greeks fought for a decade over him.

But what is it about this camera, he wonders, that makes his appearance digestible? Is it the way you frame him front and center, the backlighting sun rays extending in all directions behind him, encircling him with a holiness he doesn’t deserve? The scenery against which you capture him, busy nighttime streets under city lights, just dark enough to smooth out his rough edges? 

Or maybe it’s just you. Seeing himself from your point of view. Seeing himself as yours. His hooked nose, crooked from being broken one too many times, belongs to you for the early mornings when you trace down the bridge, around his lips, and up his jaw, drawing a portrait with your fingertips. His unruly hair, with streaks of white that make him stick out like a sore thumb, exists only for you to run your fingers through when he lays his head in your lap. His scars are for you to kiss on those difficult days until he can bear to look in the mirror again. He wants nothing more than to be a museum of all things you.

Jason Todd isn’t one to take pictures. But when you ask so nicely, showering him with compliments and promises of thank-you-kisses later on, how can he say no?

why are we as a society still striving for more definition and higher quality photos for anything other than, like, x-ray imaging and space exploration. I don't want 8k ultra-max hd in my phone that highlights every hair and pore and eye bag i want grainy and dark and fuzzy because it makes me look hotter and that's a fact. rant over

anyway he's so pretty i wanna take candids of him and kiss his face and squeeze his huge ti-*GUNSHOTS*

this is gonna be my last post for the next few weeks because i have finals. see you on the other side🫡 (born to be a farmer on a remote island, forced to study STEM) i'll be on requests as soon as i'm back trust

[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is How To Disappear Completely by Radiohead

tws: death of a parent, suicidal ideation, abuse/harassment, self inflicted burn (sh), trauma

chapter 1 -> next chapter

word count: 1.2k

Even when you were nestled in your mother's warm belly, coddled by her own blood and flesh, you could tell you were a burden. A miracle, the doctors said when you were born. Your mother's heart stopped beating for 4 minutes while in labor—vital to a fetus and its host. The miracle was the baby bathed in blood and mucus, not the lifeless mother, puckered and pearl.

You didn’t cry when you were born, too occupied trying to get your walnut-sized heart to betray you, set you free of the hell you’d just begun.

You were never a child who cried for attention. Instead, you swallowed your sounds, held your breath, and watched the world through the lens of someone who wasn’t meant to stay. The hole in the shape of a woman you never met was always there, a mark left in the silence—a picture on the wood-paneled wall. Belly swollen, smile wide. No stories to tell, no lullabies, no warmth from the one person who was supposed to make you feel like you belonged.

Instead, it was just the quiet hum of a broken home, where nothing was ever whole enough to be considered sound.

The nurses said you were a fighter, wrapped in white cotton and a pink cap. You survived the nightmare. You were strong.

But strength doesn’t mean survival, does it? It just means you keep waking up. And waking up—day after day—feels more like a punishment.

You spilled coffee down your shirt today. It seared into your skin and left it hot and freckled. Ronny coughed a whiskey-smelling bark into your face when you stammered into the kitchen with water in your eyes and a half-empty coffee pot trembling in your hand. You felt the pull, the familiar flicker in your neck—small but sharp, like a wire snapping in your spine. It tugged your head to the side before you could stop it. Ronny’s face twisted, his lip curling around the cigarette as though your body’s rebellion were some kind of offense. You watched through blurred vision as he slapped a damp rag against your chest and snarled Clean yourself up, bitch through his cigarette before brushing past you, too close to be accidental. You keep your eyes on the streaked linoleum and mutter an apology.

“Blue, honey,” Olive gasped through the doorway, rushing in and plucking the pot from your shaking hand as though it might shatter, “Are you alright?”

You nodded, shallowing back shards of glass. If you tried to speak, you knew it would come out warbly and wet. The buzz radiated under the damp rag like it wanted to remind you it was there, that you were here. Alive, maybe. Existing, at least.

She steered you into the employee bathroom, the fluorescent light hissing overhead like an unwelcome witness. Perched on the cold, cracked toilet seat, you felt her fingers hastily unbuttoning the top four pins of your blouse. When she saw the angry red blooming across your collarbone and down to your breasts, she winced as if the burn had somehow reached out and burned her too.

Twenty-five minutes and half a roll of gauze later, you were back on your heels, tray in hand, weaving through the diner like a ghost. Grease clung in the air, mixing with the sting of antiseptic rising from your skin. You didn’t glance at Ronny as you passed, but the weight of his eyes was enough of a reminder that he was there.

By 11, the diner was mostly empty, its silence broken only by the occasional clatter of a spoon against porcelain. Three regulars slouched over the bar like wilted plants, nursing their coffees and bacon, while two new faces lingered in the shadows of the back corner.

Olive had clocked out at 8, leaving the newcomers to your care. Their eyes snapped to the bandages the moment you approached, their stares like tiny spotlights burning through your sticky skin.

You tugged at the puppet strings of your face, drawing your lips into a smile that felt brittle enough to crack. “Hi. What can I get for you guys?”

Their dirtied hands moved in unison, flipping through the laminated menus with a sound like shuffling paper. Both men hummed, low and indecisive, until the one with the prickly, dark mohawk spoke first.

“I’ll tek ah ham n’ cheese toastie, and some orange juice, bonnie,” he chirped, his voice thick with a Scottish accent, coarse as gravel. His crooked smile curled like a frayed ribbon across his chapped lips, his eyes lingering on your bandages for a beat too long before snapping back to the menu.

“And I’ll jus’ ‘ave a cuppa, light an’ sweet,” the blond huffed in a British accent, his dirt-covered palms sliding the menus across the counter.

“Those will be right out for you,” you say with a small smile before retreating to the back to put in their orders.

Rain taps a steady rhythm on the metal roof as you wait for Tony, the cook, to finish. Glancing out the window, you watch the downpour drench the empty lot. The walk home is going to suck. Of course, you don’t even have an umbrella.

The food bell rings and you're quickly balancing a plate in one hand and their drinks in another. The toastie sizzled on the plate as you slid it in front of the mohawk man—Johnny, you decided, based on the stitched patch on his jacket. The mug landed gently in front of the blond, whose tag says Riley. His eyes flickered up at you as if weighing something, but he said nothing. Johnny didn’t bother hiding his stare.

“Yer chest,” he started, jerking his chin toward the gauze peeking from your blouse. “Looks nasty. Burn?”

Your hand hovered on the edge of the table, fingers tightening around the curve like it might anchor you. For a moment, the words sat heavily on your tongue, like pills you were too afraid to swallow.

“Just an accident,” you muttered, the smile on your lips wilting at the edges.

“That so?” Johnny leaned back, his yellow construction jacket creaking as he shifted. His accent softened, as though he was testing the weight of your lie. “Guess this place gets rougher than it looks, eh?”

You huff out a laugh that makes your sternum stutter like a kindergartner on the first day of school.

Riley—the blond—stirred sugar into his coffee with slow, deliberate motions. His gaze is like a dagger, the blade barely nicking your skin. Johnny’s stare doesn't let go either. He’s waiting for more, expecting more—like it’s not enough. You can feel the tick of the words in your neck, the way they press against your skin like a bruise.

Before you can stop it, you feel the familiar flicker—a twitch, a sharp pull that catches your breath. Your head jerks sideways, and you hear the strange, strangled sound of a laugh—an involuntary, sharp noise escaping you, even though it isn’t funny. You want to shove it back down and swallow it back inside you, but it’s out there, splintered in the air between you.

Riley doesn’t seem surprised. His eyes flicker between you and Johnny, an unreadable expression passing over his face. You know he’s noticed. They both have.

But then the tension, thick and bruising, is broken by the shuffle of feet behind you as another customer slides into a booth. You feel the burn of their stares fade just as quickly as it came, but the heat in your cheeks doesn’t fade. Still, your hands shake as you back away, your smile a brittle thing you have to patch together before you disappear back into the shadows of the diner, pleading for Tony to hand them the check.

[revelboo]

(Or Madam) Tfp Shockwave 🥺 if you have the inspiration and or inclination to write for him? Also I hope you had a fantastic birthday!!! 🎂 🎈 🎁 ironically it was your birthday and you’ve been giving all of us gifts 😂 I thank thee very much!

You’re welcome! My family doesn’t really do parties or make big deals about birthdays, so I tend to just treat it like any other day 😁

Point of Extinction Pt 2

TFP Shockwave x Reader

• Slowly, that disconnect rattling about in his processor eases and he can move again. What’s the next step? Stick to the routine. Logical steps. Venting, he retrieves his data pad and a scanner. Reaches into the box to lift you out and place you on the exam counter where you huddle, trembling. Eyes darting around for a way to escape. There is none and he watches your shoulders sag as you realize that. Accept it. When he lifts the scanner, you tense like you’re considering flinging yourself off the counter anyway. “Will it hurt?” You ask him, soft voice breaking.

• I’m not supposed to be here. It hurts. Were those his words? He’s not sure, but his antenna flick back as that disquiet stirs. “No,” he says as he thumbs on the scanner and uses the end of his cannon to nudge you. Not a lie, this won’t hurt. But other experiments will. “Stand, Thirteen.”

• You want to correct him, tell him that’s not your name, but feel like you’ll come apart if you try to speak again. Just start bawling and be unable to stop. Reaching out a hand to use the muzzle of that cannon at the end of his arm to pull yourself up, you feel it when he flinches at the touch. Antenna on the sides of his helm folding even further back like the ears of an affronted cat. As soon as you’re on your feet he turns the thing in his hand on you and green light plays over you. It doesn’t hurt and you obediently turn for him so he can scan you. Is this why he took you? Just curious about humans? This… this is okay.

• You’re staring up at him, those intelligent eyes watching his every move. His other lab animals hadn’t looked at him that way, hadn’t understood anything but the pain. Wishes you wouldn’t look at him. That jangling sense of something he can’t understand is still there. The same unpleasant, illogical feeling that had welled up when he’d been brought prisoners on Cybertron. What might be guilt. It’s hard to be sure when he experiences the world around him through a cold, numb lens of dispassionate logic. Knowing something is wrong with him, but unable to remember exactly what. Almost remembered things, broken memories he can’t even claim as his shouldn’t affect him. It’s illogical. He’s still for so long aside from the faint tremor as he tries to sort everything into things he’s certain are real and the murky memories he can’t understand or quite recall. Doesn’t realize you’ve moved until he feels that little hand on the end of his cannon again. Helm tipping down as you look up at him. “Are you okay?”

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[partfae]

Sauron, Galadriel, & Tolkien's Theology of Repentance - Part One

Summary: Character meta analysis on Sauron (and Galadriel, through the lens of Sauron). Based on both Silmarillion & RoP canon. 3.5k words. Discussion of Catholic theology involved. Blanket TW for discussion of violence, manipulation, etc., because Sauron. Spoilers for S1 & S2 and the Silmarillion, of course. The tragedy of Sauron is that he gets offered so many legitimate chances at redemption and forgiveness, and he denies them every single time. But we know he wants absolution, because that’s what he sees Galadriel as: his chance to bind himself back to the light, to be Mairon again, to heal the pain that he caused and that was caused to him under Morgoth. But because he has such a warped view of himself and his actions, he dismisses genuine extensions of compassion, forgiveness, and care as simultaneously beneath him and too good for him. And yet, he still pursues redemption, but through none of the channels offered to him.

In The Rings of Power, he’s given the explicit instruction to change for the good in the village after he’s reborn. He’s given the chance leave his past behind and work meaningfully in Númenor. He’s given the chance to redeem himself by Galadriel's offer of friendship (or love, depending on your interpretation). In the Silmarillion, he's even given the chance by Eönwë himself, and comes close to leaving Morgoth behind completely!

Let's look at this passage from Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age (emphasis mine):

When Thangorodrim was broken and Morgoth overthrown, Sauron put on his fair hue again and did obeisance to Eönwë the herald of Manwë, and abjured all his evil deeds. And some hold that this was not at first falsely done, but that Sauron in truth repented, if only out of fear, being dismayed by the fall of Morgoth and the great wrath of the Lords of the West. But it was not in the power of Eönwë to pardon those of his own order, and he commanded Sauron to return to Aman and there receive the judgement of Manwë. Then Sauron was ashamed, and he was unwilling to return in humiliation to receive from the Valar a sentence, it might be, of long servitude in proof of his good faith; for under Morgoth his power had been great. Therefore when Eönwë departed he hid himself in Middle-earth; and he fell back into evil, for the bonds that Morgoth had laid upon him were very strong.

This passage is clear that Eönwë is willing to pardon Sauron--he simply did not posses the power to do so. But when Sauron was told he must appeal directly Manwë, he gave up entirely and skulked back to Middle-earth. There are a few ways to read this:

1. He was not wholly repentant

Sauron simply wanted the protection of a new master in the absence of Melkor. i.e., he was rather fickle and simply wanted to be on whatever the "winning" side was. This is supported by the text literally saying that at least some of his obeisance was completely false, and that he only made a point of feeling bad about anything once his master had been chucked into the Void and his armies and strongholds were being destroyed (Thangorodrim). In this reading, perhaps Eönwë saw Sauron's treachery and referred him to Manwë knowing that it would be a test of his true intent. However, while a valid interpretation, I believe this to be the less holistic of the two.

2. He was truly repentant

Sauron did truly feel badly and "abjured all his evil deeds," but he was unwilling/unable to humble himself after being so fundamentally broken by Melkor and developing an insatiable power lust (hey, he isn't defined in the narrative by lust and pride for nothing).

Earlier in this same chapter, Tolkien wrote that Sauron could "...deceive all but the most wary." This is in the specific context of his physical shapeshifting. But, I would argue that this can also be tied to his lies. Tolkien has a specific ethic of beauty, where physical perfection is equated with moral goodness. Sauron completely inverts what is otherwise a hard and fast rule within Tolkien's writings by being the character most frequently described as "fair"--seven times to Lúthien's six, and she was the most beautiful woman to have ever lived!

(Side note: I have another post on Tolkien & beauty in the works where I'll get more into this idea)

Why does this matter? Even though this interaction with Eönwë takes place in the First Age, Sauron could at this point be in the demonic form Mirdania describes in the forge. And, I am inclined to believe that Eönwë, as the head Maiar and herald of Manwë, would be a pretty wary guy, and thus able to sense any of Sauron's trickery. I read this to mean that Eönwë looked at Sauron and saw his potential to be Mairon again, either in absence of his evil form or in spite of it.

Because Sauron is incredibly beautiful. And even if it is a disguise of the true, depreciated form of his spiritual essence, he presented himself to Eönwë at his most beautiful. He wanted, even in his act of repentance, to make himself more favorable in Eönwë's eyes. To show up as Mairon (who was likely close friends with Eönwë before everything went down, since they are considered to be two of the most powerful Maia and would have worked closely together).

But I don't think this was all manipulation on Sauron's end. I agree with the scholars mentioned in the text who believed that Sauron was truly repentant--which is why Eönwë even bothered referring him to Manwë instead of kicking him into the Void with Melkor.

And this is the tragedy: Sauron is told exactly how to repent, and believes fundamentally that it is an impossible path for him. And yet, he still longs so intrinsically for it! He was, under Aulë, a Maia of precision, perfection, and order. Under Morgoth, he feels disordered, dis-regulated. He needs to correct the fundamental imbalance within him, so why does he flee Eönwë?

It comes back to Sauron's pride.

If he follows through with this path of reconciliation, there is no way he can hide or pretend his actions away. If he cannot trick his fellow Maiar, he certainly cannot trick the Valar. And he cannot stand the idea of submitting himself back under their rule, especially now that he has tasted power. This is a pride wound; it is why the idea of confessing to Manwë would be humiliating to him as opposed to just upsetting/uncomfortable.

Again, the pivotal moment: he is told how to make amends for crimes and determines that he cannot do it. So he returns to Middle-earth and stews in his own self-hated and self-pity for a few years. In that time, he consciously or subconsciously latches onto Eönwë's offer--forgiveness from penance. It is the way forward. And if he cannot earn penance at Manwë's hand, he will do it on his own.

The Prodigal Son

This is where we have to talk about the Catholic roots of Tolkien's work for a moment. The scene where Sauron approaches Eönwë mirrors the biblical parable of the prodigal son. In this story, a man abandons his family, spends all his money, and falls into ruin. But when he recognizes his failings and returns to his father to get help, he is welcomed back into the family without question--in other words, he is forgiven and restored to his former position.

17 But when he [the prodigal son] came to himself he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! 18 I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; 19 I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’” 20 So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. - Luke 15:11-32, NRSV CE (emphasis mine)

The parallel is clear; Mairon, the repentant Maia, returns home with hopes of reconciliation. He is prescribed the same task that the prodigal son offered to his father: he must be bound in servitude to his father/creator in order to pay off his debts. This is a deliberate allusion from Tolkien. The story of the prodigal son models the path of reconciliation that Eönwë describes. Tolkien seems to be drawing a line in the sand with this: Sauron is unwilling to do the work required by the Valar for repentance, so he is unable to receive the grace of a warm welcome back into the fold of the Ainur. Since he did not humble himself, he has to be told to do it. And he does not want to! He wants to be loved, but he also wants his power--evidence, in a way, of how his character was fundamentally altered in his time with Morgoth.

His pride--and his fear--cut him off from the potential of grace. He does not know for certain that Manwë would subject him to servitude (though I would argue that it's textually evident that it is a custom), but this assumption leads him to flee, which allows him to slip back into his old ways.

He wants to be Mairon (admirable) again, not Sauron (abhorrent). He wants to be accepted and loved, but not punished. He wants the benefits of reconciliation without the work he would have to do to earn it or the shame he would feel as he did. It's pride, but it's also deep shame--the flip side of his extreme ego is an implicit self-hatred, one that we can see in the subtext of how he speaks about himself and about his time with Morgoth.

Even the language Tolkien uses is heavily shame-coded, especially in a Catholic context; Mairon did not go willingly, he was "seduced." He admits to Celebrimbor that he was "tortured by a god". It becomes exceedingly clear through both text and on-screen canon that Sauron was routinely broken and abused for centuries. This has fundamentally damaged his self-perception, which is ultimately what leads him to "[fall] back into evil"--whether due to pride or shame, he hides, perhaps because he consciously or subconsciously does not believe that he deserves forgiveness, no matter how much he craves it.

Naked in the Garden

His flight back to Middle-earth after meeting Eönwë is reminiscent of another biblical scene, where Adam and Eve, after committing the first sin, hide from God in shame and fear (emphasis mine):

7 Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked...9 But the Lord God called to the man, and said to him, “Where are you?” 10 He said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.” -Genesis 7-10, NRSV CE

The image of nakedness is, here, one of vulnerability, and Tolkien establishes that Sauron fears that which he cannot control. He needs the Rings under his power. He needs his armies and his enemies under his watchful eye. He is petrified of letting his power slip away (possibly due to never wanting to feel powerless in the hands of a Vala, fallen or not, again).

The biblical allusion here hearkens back to the fear Tolkien describes Sauron as feeling regarding his return to the Ainur. In the religious system Tolkien has established, which is likely inspired by his own religious beliefs, Sauron has sinned, and must make penance. But he is afraid of God/Manwë, and does not want to "let go" of his sin. In other words, he is not truly repentant. This reflects the Catholic sacrament of confession, which requires self-reflection and resolve to never commit the sin again.

Instead of shame driving him to contrition, it drives him to isolation.

But he still wants forgiveness. So, in his years of hiding in Middle-earth, he decides to earn it himself. His own way.

Enter the Rings.

Sauron wants to perfect the wrong he wreaked so that he can both earn his way back into the Ainur and keep his power. But what he does not realize is that this does not work. Eönwë is clear that he must forsake his true temptation--absolute power--through penance by submission. Yet Sauron in his pride thinks he can have it all. Sauron is a very carefully controlled villain, and the only times he snaps or makes significant mistakes are when his inflated self-perception is challenged, revealing the self-loathing and/or self-pity underneath. The best example of this is when he kills Celebrimbor prematurely, and cries afterwards. Why? Because Celebrimbor was right about him, and he hates it. He hates knowing that he is nothing more than the Morgoth's shadow, because Morgoth was his master as much as he was his tormentor. As Sauron puts it, his relationship with Morgoth was often defined by pain as a test to see "whose will was the mightier":

This image carries more shame, both in its implicit sexual connotations and in the simple power dynamic of it. Sauron, even though misguided, is rallying against Morgoth. He wants to break what Morgoth has created and build something new, something better, something apart from his old master entirely. But Celebrimbor confronts him with reality: he has not created something new, and perfect, and special, as he so wanted to--he can only act in imitation, not in generation. And when he got close with the Rings, it cost him everything. It's almost like he wants the power of a Vala, and loathes that he cannot attain it.

And this is why he becomes so singularly obsessed with Galadriel.

She’s his foil. They both crave power and adoration, but in the end of things, she does not fold under his temptation. She turns down everything she has ever wanted for the greater good and for the sake of her own soul. Sauron looks at Galadriel and perceives that she would have succeeded at Eönwë's test because she is willing and able to humble herself. This maddens him to the point of both desiring her and desiring to break her.

She learns that she is easily tempted and becomes strong enough to handle it (through a lot of tough love from Elrond & co.). She has to learn how to do it, but she is able to.

She grows from someone who resisted and rejected authority to someone who is trusted as an authority because of her ability to wield it wisely (see: Gil-galad allowing her to answer for him in 2x08).

In other words, she earns the trust, love, and support of her community. Sauron has to force his to comply—it is an illusion of love.

His possessive obsession with her also stems from her fairness. She was the object of her uncle Fëanor's obsessive desire for creation as well. Her hair was the inspiration of the Silmarils (see: The History of Galadriel and Celeborn; The Shibboleth of Fëanor - source with page #s here), which Morgoth desired more than anything to possess.

Sauron, wanting to spite his master, wants one better--to own that which inspired the Silmarils, to own the image of fairness (and thus of moral good) completely. This is why he wants to bind himself to her. This is why he needs her. He sees Galadriel as his mechanism of repentance, and his last triumph over Morgoth. Winning her is his salvation as much as it is proving that his will is the mightier. It is his way of dominating Morgoth. This starts, I think, as a genuine effort at proving himself to the Valar, but quickly consumes him entirely. He is overcome with the desire for revenge, just as Galadriel was at the beginning of the First Age.

And he sees this in her. Sees their similarities. Sees that she, too, is angry and lonely and so afraid of losing her power. And he leverages that to befriend her. This is where it gets ambiguous and you can read RoP as either painting the image of Sauron being earnest but completely misguided in his proposal, or you can see it as him being entirely manipulative.

I think the truth of that scene probably falls somewhere in the middle; just like when he presents himself to Eönwë, he is sincere in his desire, but only knows how to present it in an inherently contriving way. He does want to bind her to him, so he tries to only reveal to her the good aspect of that desire (and also of his desire for power, which he allows her to see because he believes that it is good and also because she understands it), and not the ugly underside of his internal struggle against Morgoth, the Valar, and himself.

And I do think, in his own way, he cared about her. Galadriel consistently shows kindness and compassion to him. In S1, they grow to know each other's minds and souls, and she considers him a close friend. He finds comfort in this, that someone could see the blackness of his heart and care for him anyway. He thought, in his isolation, that he lost that chance when he fled back to Middle-earth. And here is the very picture of the light itself telling him that she supports him, that she sees the good in him, that she wants to help him set the world to rights! Of course he is infatuated by this. Of course he also wants to use it. He is Sauron.

But Galadriel succeeds where he fails, so he stops playing nice and tries to forcibly drag her down with him. First, by baiting her with the image of the man she cared deeply for:

Then, by reminding her of all she is losing by rejecting him:

And she is still strong enough to say no. And not just to say no, but to shut the door completely. To look in the face of everything she has desired for centuries and turn it down, understanding that it will ruin her. Yes, she hesitates. Yes, she still wants it (wants him). But she wins the day by holding fast to the light that Sauron wishes so badly to bind himself to.

Because she has lost everything--her brother, her husband, the station as commander, the trust of her high king and best friend--and earns it back only through her resistance of her greatest temptation. It is a struggle, it is painful, it nearly kills her--but she does it. She wins the test that Sauron could not even bear to face.

In their headlong, self-sacrificial tendencies, they are the same. Both view themselves as fundamentally stronger/better than their peers while also being deeply lonely due to their self-imposed isolation (Galadriel's laser-focused hunt for revenge, Sauron's exile in Middle-earth). But to Galadriel, the light is more important than her pride.

For Sauron, the light is his source of pride. He desires it more than anything, but condemns himself to never being able to touch it due to his rejection of Eönwë's offer. Paradoxically, he tries to grasp at it through Galadriel, the living silmaril, and succeeds only in darkening her. We learn from Gil-galad in 2x08 that his crown piercing her flesh in an act of brutal domination nearly strips her soul from her and pitches it into the unseen world. In this, Sauron is saying: If I cannot have you, I will force you to need me. I will break you into loving me.

He says this to Celebrimbor as well. He no longer knows how to love properly. He only knows how to inflict pain until this object of his obessive desire needs him--just like how his immortal spirit was broken into submission by Morgoth. And isn't this revealing of his own sense of self? He refuses to suffer the path of light, but willingly suffers the maddening path of darkness because it is a comfortable, familiar suffering. One, he tells Celebrimbor, he even grew to enjoy (2x08). As the path of the Rings drive him madder and madder, his desire for the light (Galadriel) and the return of his power (Celebrimbor) become further disordered and corrupted until they culminate in him destroying them--and his chance at earning/owning them--entirely.

And this is Sauron's ultimate point of no return (which we will hopefully see in S3 🤞). The razing of Eregion and slaying of Celebrimbor were acts of petty rage he committed when his pride was injured. This was the final nail in the coffin. Galadriel, in her rejection of him, ruins what he sees as his true chance for redemption.

Galadriel, now stepping into the role of Eönwë, re-opens the invitation: "Heal yourself!" (2x08). But in rage and shame and stubborn pride, he turns it down again. I believe this is where his desire to heal Middle-earth shifts fundamentally into desire to dominate Middle-earth. He always wanted to rule, but now he wants to own.

[wordsinhaled]

“I need you” isn’t “I love you,” and it isn’t “Yes, let’s go off together,” but the thing is, it might as well be. And it might be one of the more honest things Aziraphale has ever said.

He has never said it aloud before now. Not like this, with eons worth of raucous indignant feeling crawling up into his throat. He had not wanted, not expected to say it like this, mocked by his own stricken reflection in Crowley's sunglasses, each lens a dark mirror.

"I—I need you," says Aziraphale, and his voice breaks down the middle. It might as well, for he's confessed too late. Crowley is shut to him, recedes from him like a wave broken on the terrible bedrock of Aziraphale's futile stubbornness.

And still, even like this, Aziraphale needs him.

His presence, his constancy. His unfailing, tenacious friendship.

Crowley’s kindness, his softness, his solicitousness under the prickly façade Aziraphale sees is just that—a layer that can be so easily peeled away to reveal the deep core of caring beneath, too entrenched to be deserved by any world they could live in. He needs Crowley’s unguarded gaze, needs the way Crowley’s forever looking at him across distances when he thinks Aziraphale doesn’t notice: chin tilted up, eyes soft as marigold petals.

A phone call away whenever anything or nothing at all happens is Crowley’s dear voice; his lovely dry humor; his sauntering, slithering, improbable walk despite which he somehow flawlessly falls into step alongside Aziraphale anywhere and all the time. His hip knocking against Aziraphale’s, casual as anything and yet so much more than. Flashes of black and wisps of red flitting in and out of Aziraphale’s periphery for thousands of years.

He needs their circuitous arguments, their winding ethical debates—after most of which they somehow end up on the same side, that is, their own side, terrifying and exhilarating in its Promethean familiarity—and Crowley’s chaotically-sure moral compass. The times Crowley is braver than Aziraphale could ever be; and the times Crowley reminds him of how brave he actually always has been.

And Aziraphale needs even the great big awful rows, the ones that end in their standing on opposite verges of another chasm of their own making. Because the culmination of such a fight is always the meeting again in the middle. It’s the low sweeping bow of their apology, a ritual not half earnest for all its facetiousness, which says so much without either of them having to utter a word. Crowley holds a whole conversation in the dip of his fiery head and the exaggerated flutter of his elegant wrists, when it’s his turn; and, when it’s Aziraphale’s, the hashing-out of differences is there in the way he executes each familiar movement with the practiced ease of a faithful courtier, though it’s been ages since he stood in any king’s court.

He needs the knowledge that they always forgive each other. Because, well, they do. They must. They will. What’s a spat or a quarrel or even a proper falling-out to two beings like them, to him and Crowley?

Aziraphale needs Crowley’s happiness. His truest happiness. If that isn't the crux of it all, what is?

He remembers the ancient light of Crowley's joy, how it had shone once about both of them like an aura through the blackness of undeveloped space. It never left, all that bright, barely reined-in giddiness, all that frenetic energy, but he's transmuted it, magpie-like, into something else. Aziraphale can sense it whenever Crowley brings him a new vintage record to add to his collection. Whenever Crowley pulls out Aziraphale’s chair for him outside Marguerite's, or orders just what he likes for him at the Ritz. Whenever he drops into the shop unannounced with a little box tucked under his arm, full of gorgeous petits fours from the new bakery Aziraphale hasn’t yet tried, and says, gleeful, Ohhh, you wouldn’t believe all the wiling I had to do to get my hands on these, angel. You’ll have to thwart me for this, I know. But first—no, no, no, first! The only sensible thing for you to do would be to try them… you’ll like the pear macaron...

And of course Crowley is right. He's right about most things, isn't he, after all? Because Crowley knows him, and he needs to be known, but it simply wouldn't do for anyone else to be the one doing the knowing.

Aziraphale likes the pear macaron, just as Crowley knew he would.

He likes all the things that come along with Crowley, really. The fast car, oh yes, sleek and stylishly classic and so very Crowley through and through, though Aziraphale has committed staunchly to grousing about it. The way no companionable silence held in Crowley's company is ever truly silent. The jaunts to the park on seasonable days: Crowley's touch lingering where he pours frozen peas for the ducks into Aziraphale's cupped palm; the fondness in Crowley's tone poorly disguised as he points out his favorite mated pair trawling placidly across the pond. The drinking together long past the small hours of the morning in the back room of the bookshop, where the walls are the same warm ochre shade as Crowley’s eyes.

It isn't ever so much about the drinking as it is about the together bit. How the space between them dwindles with the syrupy passage of time. How Crowley softens and melts into the settee. How he becomes Aziraphale's to watch, for once. How he grows so wondrously relaxed and gloriously at home there in Aziraphale's space that Aziraphale begins to wonder if this will at last be the night Crowley does not, eventually, get up and retreat back to his Bentley to take himself away again...

There is always that fragile little moment, right after sobering up, when everything in their universe seems at the same time to be entirely too set in stone and entirely too much as though it all hangs by one delicate, dissembling thread. Always the split second in which Aziraphale looks into Crowley's guileless face and remembers he could unravel everything with a single tug.

Yes, one sharp tug on the lapels of Crowley's jacket would do it, he knows. How easily it could be done... Tumble the two of them into one another, just then, and they would never be parted again. And his deft-tongued Crowley would lick the heat and the aftertaste of Talisker into Aziraphale's mouth, then, before it had the chance to dissipate completely.

He could. He could.

It's in those stretched milliseconds, brimming with a tender longing so acute it tips right over into an agony, that Aziraphale realizes: I do need all of you, darling, don't I? So terribly much it might unmake me one day. Never mind Aziraphale's most fickle and blustering attempts at denial, he knows this to be true as he knows the truth of little else in the cosmos.

And perhaps today is that day—the day Aziraphale will dissolve and be remade in the permanent shape of lack.

[dragonowl]

Pathcode: Light Through a Broken Lens

The Sky That Doesn't End: Part 2 Masterlist Genre: EXO AU, Mystery Rated: PG Summery: Exo has scattered. Now in hiding after the Red Force closed in on them and Luhan went missing. Baekhyun finds himself in a small town while he waits until they can reunite again. Guarded after everything that has taken place, he’s not looking for friendship, or anything else, until a light shines through, even as the darkness closes around them.

Prev, Next. AO3

Chapter 2: Tao: Barcelona, Spain, 10:09

Voices. Whispers and quiet conversations mixed easily with the sound of the buzzing machinery and soft piano music. The scent of roasting beans and brewing coffee was rich and wafted around Tao like a warm hug, reminding him of the early school mornings and Xiumin’s passion for fine coffee. He’d nearly chosen the traditional hot chocolate and churros for breakfast, but the homesickness that hit him after smelling the coffee had changed his mind. 

Bringing the warm glass to his lips, he paused and then quickly placed it down as he lifted up the morning’s paper. A small section near the base of the newspaper’s front page caught his attention and he quickly flipped through the pages to find the full article. 

His heart stuttered as he processed the words that made him feel sick. A light flickered and his eyes shot up just as a bulb shattered. He brought the newspaper up to protect himself from the flying debris as he flinched at the noise, but the debris never hit. The cafe went silent instead of beginning to clammer at the danger, and he looked around to find the cause.

His breath caught when he realized he’d frozen time without even realizing it. 

The hold he had was wavering though and he knew he needed to get out. The Red Force had found a way to track them down and using his powers would likely narrow down their search parameters if they had the right tech. Chen hadn’t been able to determine how they had been found, but he and Suho had cautioned against using their powers in case that had been the cause.

He rushed out of the cafe in a daze, trying to ground himself enough to find his way back to the small room he was staying in. After what felt like forever he made his way back and stumbled multiple times as he ran up the flight of stairs and through the door, gaze darting around to keep an eye on his surroundings. 

Once inside he rushed to grab his bags and throw in any essentials he had left lying around. He tried to make a mental list as he double and triple-checked everything. Unable to handle being there any longer, he prayed he had everything that couldn’t be replaced. He’d need to go by the public locker and grab a different ID and some money, and then maybe take a train to another city to fly out of. Deciding on his next location in the moment would hopefully throw off any tail he might have. Something completely random. 

Slinging his bags over his shoulders, he exited the small space and quickly made his way down the stairs and outside to the sidewalk.

Someone collided with him, his fast pace and height making him completely miss their presence.

“I’m sorry,” he stumbled, arm encircling the young woman to keep her from falling.

“It’s okay,” she said, her hands fully grabbing his arms to steady herself. “You should pay more attention to your surroundings though. You could get hurt.”

A chill washed over him at her words and he tried to see her face, but she had kept her head bowed. She let go of one of his arms and grabbed the other tightly before he could move and he winced when there was a sudden prick, immediately followed by what felt like fire in his veins. Stumbling back, he found a purchase against the brick wall and dropped his bags as his head erupted in pain, making him drop to his knees. He cradled his head in his hands as the pain drowned out his other senses and his breathing became labored. It ended as quickly as it started and he slumped against the wall, his arms falling to his sides in exhaustion. Tao blinked at the young woman standing over him, but his eyes were too blurry to make out her features and drooped closed as he fell into unconsciousness. 

Prev, Next

[miriellesandthegiantpeach]

Anatomy of a Breakup | Bucktommy

All it takes is one moment; one sentence that’s misinterpreted, exposing their insecurities, and it falls apart. An argument that neither of them remember how it started, but spiraled into something else entirely.

‘I really can’t do this right now, Evan, I gotta go.’ Came from Tommy where he meant he was tired of arguing and needed a breather and Buck interpreted it through the self conscious lens that Tommy was done done. One too many slip ups on Buck’s part.

‘Wait what? Fine fucking leave then! See if I give a shit,” Buck spat back in anger and confusion and insecurity. So Tommy left his loft and came back an hour later to find it empty. And maybe Tommy called a little too late at night and Buck was a little too tipsy to be able to talk through it or decide to wait for a better time, so they decided to just end it.

The thing is, they didn’t seem to get the memo that they were exes now; neither of them quite understanding it meant they needed to let each other go. They weren’t too good at the whole broken up thing.

**

It’s when the rest of the 118 crew petter out one by one from the bar, conveniently leaving Tommy and Buck to be the last two standing outside attempting to order separate Ubers.

Tommy is already outside when Buck closes out his tab, not even looking at how much he spent or drank for that matter. He walks out into the crisp night loose limbed and relaxed. He catches Tommy’s eyes and can’t help the smile that spreads across his lips; he believes for a moment that it’s written in the stars that Tommy is still there and not due to the Ubers taking a while. Walking over to Tommy, Buck realizes he doesn’t actually have a plan, but he knows he wants Tommy.

“Uh, hey,” Buck says a little less than eloquently. The soft smile Tommy shoots his way sends little sparks of hope down Buck’s spine. “Hey back,” Tommy says easily, refocusing on his phone.

Buck drops the need to be flirty, they’ve gone through that, they know each other better than anyone else. He goes for earnestness because that’s what works best on Tommy. Taking Tommy’s hand out of his jean’s pocket he says, “I don’t wanna go home alone tonight.” Tommy meets his eyes again and dips his chin, mouth forming a flat line.

”Evan.” That’s all Tommy says as he drops the hand holding his phone. For a minute there’s silence, searching each other’s eyes, looking for answers neither of them have. Tommy sighs and decides he’s too drunk for rational thinking especially when Buck’s hand is warm in his and tugging slightly. “You know what, me neither,” Tommy sighs and pulls Buck in the rest of the way and meets his mouth halfway. They melt against each other; they kiss easily because it’s so familiar.

Tommy breaks the kiss just long enough to check his phone, and says against Buck’s mouth, “Uber’s seven minutes away.”

Tommy can tell himself that this could be anyone’s cologne. But if he’s being honest with himself, this scent is forever associated with Buck. This lethal combination of bergamot, cardamom, and cedar that’s woodsy and sweet and has become Tommy’s own personal aphrodisiac. He takes a big indulgent inhale, aware that this could be the last time he’s this close to Buck.

He can convince himself that Buck’s stubble feels just like anyone else’s, and almost does, up until the moment Buck rasps out ‘Tommy’. No one says his name like him, whines his name the same, moans his name in such a particular way to send Tommy directly into a tailspin.

**

The hospital lights are blinding as Tommy cracks open his eyes. When he adjusts, his tired gaze falls onto Lucy.

“Donato,” he croaks, “Call Evan.”

Lucy gives him a reluctant look, “You sure? I thought you guys had a pretty nasty breakup?”

“He’s gonna find out anyway and there’s no stopping him from coming here, might as well speed up that process.” Tommy can barely move, his left arm feels numb and his ribs feel all kinds of bruised.

As soon Lucy steps into the hallway, Buck’s number on her screen, she sees said man storming down the hall looking frantic. “Calm yourself, Buckley,” she says, holding up a hand to stop him. “He’s okay, he just woke up and asked me to call you.”

”Thanks,” he says, rushes into Tommy’s room and pulls up a chair next to his bed.

“Tommy? What the hell happened, we heard over the radio-“

“Evan-“

“As soon as I heard there was a chopper from Harbor down I drove straight here-“

”Evan, please-“

”What happened? No one knew anything and I-“

“Baby!” That shuts Buck up so Tommy can finally talk. “I’m sorry. But I needed to get your attention.” He knows that word is off limits, but Buck just wouldn’t stop talking.

For the next five minutes Tommy explains everything, Buck’s hand gripping his tightly. Buck’s eyes are red rimmed making them a lighter shade of blue and Tommy can’t look at him. When he’s done, Tommy’s head falls back to the pillow and he rolls his head to make eye contact with Buck, “thanks for coming.”

“I’m so relieved you’re okay, I don’t know what I’d do if-”.

”Shhh- I’m okay.” Tommy soothes him, rubbing a thumb back and forth on his hand. Buck swallows hard and just nods, canting his body towards Tommy like he’s going to kiss him. They both feel it- the pull like gravity. They resist, both knowing they can’t break the dam, not now anyway.

**

“Tommy?” Buck chokes out as soon as Tommy answers the phone. “I didn’t know who else to- my parents-”.

“On my way,” Tommy interrupts him and speeds over to Buck’s.

The door is unlocked and Tommy finds Buck pacing in the kitchen. Without a word Tommy wraps Buck tightly in his arms. Buck takes a minute to let himself cry into Tommy’s shoulder, seeking the familiar comfort. Tommy doesn’t ask, knowing Buck will tell him. All he has to do is stroke the back of his head and pull him back by the shoulders.

There’s a telltale tremble in Buck’s hands so Tommy takes them, holding tight. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have anyone else who’d understand. Maddie and Chim were there and Jee is sick and my parents said you were just an experiment.” Buck’s tears are flowing freely down his cheeks. Breath trembling, Buck continues, “I just lost it, calling you a fling and that they were relieved I ‘got you out of my system’”. Buck spits out his parents' words in pure anger and hurt.

There’s a vice around Tommy’s heart, strangling it, because if they were being completely honest with themselves, there’s a very slim chance of them getting each other out of their systems. Their internal wiring has permanently changed.

Tommy pulls Buck’s head back into the junction of his neck and shoulder, big hands rubbing up and down his back. He clasps his hands together across Buck’s lower back and rocks them side to side. “You’re okay, Evan. We know what they’re like. Don’t let them change what you know, okay?”

Buck sniffles against his collarbone and nods, hands hanging onto Tommy’s shoulder blades. “You can always come to me, even though-”, Tommy stops himself from finishing that sentence. Even though what? Even though we're not together. Even though we’re too hurt to talk about what we need to. Even though we’re still obviously, painfully in love but too scared to admit it.

“Stay,” Buck whispers against Tommy's ear. And Tommy is powerless. Anything, Tommy thinks. I'll do anything, just say the word. If Buck asked him to, Tommy would take Buck straight to the courthouse and say ‘I do’ with whatever they can find to wrap around their ring fingers. Even now.

“Okay,” is all Tommy says out loud. He takes Buck's hand and silently pulls him upstairs and into sheets they've been tangled up together so many times before.

**

“Buck, I can’t take it anymore, you’re miserable and it’s making me miserable. For the love of God talk to Tommy and fix this,” Eddie tells Buck, frustrated that his best friend is being so hard headed.

Buck groans and puts his head in his hands. “It’s not that simple, Eds! He literally said ‘I really can’t do this right now.’ Like how else am I supposed to interpret that any other way then he’s done with me? I was fun for him while I lasted I guess, but the novelty wore off, just like with all my ex-girlfriends.”

“Well, did you give him an actual chance to explain? Maybe it wasn’t that. I know that man is absolutely head over heels for you, so I don’t believe for a second that he’s done with you.” Eddie sighs and puts a heavy hand on Buck’s shoulder. Buck turns to look at Eddie with his signature Buck sad eyes and pout.

“I’m just scared of being this huge disappointment to him, like I just feel like I’m going to slip up in a big way because of my inexperience. He gave me an out so I panicked and took it.”

Eddie tilts his head and gives Buck an exasperated look, “Maybe I’m betraying Tommy’s trust but I’m tired of you moping and you were my best friend first. Tommy is stupid over you, he was literally talking about moving in and settling down with you. Does that sound like you’re a huge disappointment?”

“He-he what?” Buck is blinking back tears. He didn’t let himself hope for all that no matter how desperately he wanted it. He wanted everything with Tommy.

“Go. Please. He’s off tonight.” Eddie barely finishes his sentence before Buck is out the door and in the Jeep.

Tommy hears the familiar engine cut off and looks up through the front window with anxious hope. Ten seconds later there’s a hasty knock on the door. Buck is on the other side, eyes are red rimmed from either crying or trying not to. Tommy tugs the other man wordlessly in by the wrist and closes the door.

With a deep breath, Tommy asks, “Evan?”

“You want to settle down with me?”

Goddamn it, Eddie, Tommy thinks, that was supposed to be confidential. All he can do is clear his throat and meet Buck’s too sincere eyes. “Yeah, whatever that looks like. You’re it for me, Evan. I don’t want anyone else.” Buck’s breath hitches at the present tense Tommy uses- he still wants him, wants a life with him.

Lunging forward, Tommy catches Buck in his arms with a surprised huff. Tommy feels the hot tears now against his neck. “I’m so sorry, Tommy. Fuck. I- I fucked it all up.” He pauses to sniffle and breathe ragged breaths. “I want that too, God I want that so bad, more than anything. I was so afraid of letting myself believe that what we had, what we have, could be that. I’ve never had something like this, never felt like this before. I guess I thought I’d be easier to break my own heart before you did.”

“Baby-” Tommy’s voice breaks and he’s holding on tight to Evan, as hard as he can without hurting him. His tears are now falling freely too. “I’m sorry too, I should’ve talked and not walked out. I was scared too- insecure that you had your fill and were going to be done with me soon.”

Pulling back, Buck makes eye contact with Tommy and cradles his face, wiping away stray tears. “Never, honey.” Buck kisses the tear tracks left behind on each cheek. “I’ll never have enough of you, never get over you, never not want you.”

They lean their foreheads together and just breathe. Both beyond relieved but angry now with themselves that they could think letting the other go was even a possibility.

“I love you,” Tommy says.

“I love you more,” Buck says back.

“Respectfully I don’t think that’s possible,” Tommy counters and makes Buck laugh. They finally find each other’s lips in a kiss that says everything that’s been built up, letting the dam break.

“I don’t wanna be broken up anymore,” Buck says, meeting Tommy’s eyes.

“Same here. Let’s not ever do that again,” Tommy smiles and it reaches his eyes. “I’ll do you one better- move in with me. I can’t go much longer without you here everyday.”

“We’ll start tomorrow,” Buck agrees and pushes the words into Tommy’s mouth.

[imustbenuts]

theres a few ??? thing going on in trigun stampede that's explicitly japanese/sino-ish in culture but im entirely not sure what to make of it. 3 things.

Knives' birthname being settled as Kni/Nai,

JuLai's emblem symbolism,

and the Buddha Thread??? thing in ep 11 10

Knives' birthname is Kni and hm! ...無い?

this is specifically a stampede thing. nightow didnt give him this Kni name in his work, so i can only chalk this up to the stampede staff's deliberate decision. if you render it into japanese, it'd be Nai, and the immediate word i can think of is... 無い. meaning, Nothing, or Without.

it fits rather well considering stampede has officially placed an emphasis on his obsessive love towards his brother on his bio on their official site:

my TL:

Vash's twin brother. Possesses a cold and merciless personality. Filled with a hatred for humans, he masterminds an organization with a plan to massacre the entire human species. With abilities beyond human understanding, he has the power to destroy entire planets. He greatly loves his only younger twin brother, Vash to an obsessive degree.

interestingly, the word used for the obsessive love here specifically is 執着 shuuchaku, which has roots/association with the word Abhinivesha. from what i understand it is a mental state, a fear of death, and a desperation to cling onto life so much one becomes ignorant and causes their own suffering. and ignorance is another big core of what makes Knives' character tick.

so i feel like this has some pointers towards Knives, or even child Kni being nothing without his younger brother. (or it could just be a simpler play on the word naive lmao)

meanwhile for Vash there's not really anything japanese that jumps out at me, but some have pointed out his name sounds like the french word Vashe, used for female cattle. extremely passive and born for consumption and theres a lot to dissect in that direction but im not going there! his name is Knife and his brother is a cattle there's catholicism may your brain go brr.

theres more to the nothingness concept in buddhism that doesnt put it squarely in a negative category but lets talk about buddhism later. next:

JuLai's emblem

stared at this for a few seconds and yelled fuck me. this represents the twins, AND its the broken yin yang symbol:

:). hey look at that female thing popping up again--

Knives is evidently the light Yang, and Vash is the dark Yin. ngl this daoist thing is somewhat sexist but lets brush that over 2 thousand year old aspect aside for this post. for stampede's case we can clearly see what theming is going on especially for those in the know of the original work.

Knives is hella assertive to the point of echoing fascist eugenics nonsense, and Vash has that nurturing instinct that seems to pop in whenever there's a human child or people who needs help.

interestingly the planet No Man's Land has too much fugging sun and is too hostile for human life. to survive people have to live in the shade and turn to plants for counters to the harsh, hot celestial sun. so here if Knives is being the sun, hes also being hostile to human life, and meanwhile the feminine looking plants and Vash's personality plus actions are the only thing giving these people at chance at life. (also vash has the power of Dark Matter or something)

obviously, just like JuLai's broken symbol, the balance is completely and utterly out of whack. in daoism a broken balance is thought to cause a lot of suffering. in the finale, Vash doesnt have a single speck of white on him, and Knives doesn't have a single speck of black. this means there isn't a balance and they cant come to an agreement at all.

im gonna also point out here that vash's idea of co-existence even if accepted wouldnt be a permanent solution due to the dependents having limited lifespan. so through this lens, stampede seems to be saying that neither twin's ideas are really effective long term solution, tho Knives is completely unacceptable due to obvious genocidal reasons.

Buddha Thread

studio orange whaaat are you guys cooking over there... ok so. in ep 11, Knives drops Vash into the uhhh The Hell Pool, and Vash tries to get out of it with his wire and hangs for a bit. then we get a scene like this:

Knives proceeds to cut Vash's thread and he drops into The Hell Pool. and then the metaphorical SA scene happens.

i call it Buddha Thread but this can also be known as The Spider's Thread. there exists a story of The Spider's Thread that's very Japanese-Buddhist and well known over there.

the gist of this story is that Buddha lowers a single spider thread to a sinner in the deepest hell as a lifeline to get out, bc this heavy sinner had done a singular good deed of saving a spider he was about to crush with his foot. however, the thread is broken as a result of the sinner's selfishness yelling for the other sinners below him to let go, claiming this thread was his and his alone. the sinner having climbed halfway upwards the thread after great effort plunges back into the pits of hell. buddha having watched all of this reacts with sadness, and the days in paradise carry on as per usual.

and. digest that for a second. and then refer back to Knives and The Fall and this scene that plays later, when Vash's mind wipe begins proper:

fuck. me. knives is framed as a self proclaimed god in the loudest ways on multiple levels.

while these 3 aspect i just broke down explaining do not exist at least overtly in the original trigun, i thought it would be interesting to chew on in light of the overwhelming catholicism existing in the story.

there's some themes im also picking up from the original trigun that might be rooted in either buddhsim or japanese culture such as: the undeniable truth that yearning and hunger is part of the human living experience and to deny it is to deny living. but im not sure what to make of it bc A) not explicitly framed or explored as a buddhsim/japanese idea thing and B) catholicsm obv is the overwhelming theme of the entire work

idk what the heck studio orange is cooking exactly but. hm.

[snowleopardcrk]

more symbolism!!!

ah yes, more Midnight Lily, a silverbell cameo and two Moonflower doodles. AU by @cuppajj

For Moonflowers story, we have her main conflict with her father, Saint Vanilla Cookie. But what about Midnight Lily Cookie, her mother? To give a little context for whats coming up, Moonflowers story theming around the Saint where Moonflower symbolizes the Moon, which includes the Solar Eclipse to contrast the Saints light themed imagery. Plus Moonflowers additional and more religious theming being based on the Spirit of Apostasy.

It is abundantly clear that Midnight Lily is an enabler of the other Neo Beasts, while to some extent understandable as she is the weakest of the Neo Beasts (she has long crossed the line of it being acceptable).

To compliment well with the general religious theming, I did additional research into the role of a mother in the lens of the Bible. 'the mother is one who "binds" the family together, holding them together individually and collectively through her love and actions' Despite how broken the family is, the only remaining connection that Moonflower has with the Saint IS Midnight Lily. And in return, she does care for her daughter and the Saint at some level. Yet, she does nothing to genuinely mend what has been broken (no one is, Moonflower is afraid of her father and the Saint is so delusional that he believes that this is the best course of action to save everyone). This fits her pattern of enabling and being generally passive to the world around her, for the most part.

Another aspect that I have neglected to mention is her slow-burn of a plan, she seeks by the end to have the others at least playing by her rules, but also not liking when her children do things she does not like. This is now territory where I do a lot of guess work and personal thoughts n' research so this is very much subject to change if anymore gets revealed.

How I have understood the few tidbits we get about the Beast of Sovereignty, she is an enabler and insecure about being the weakest. And I think her insecurity in some way, even if unintentional may reflect on her relationships where she is the one in power. In general, she is fine with her kids, generally passive until they get too unruly. At that point, she will remind them with harsh words who the mother is. I'd like to note quickly, she will NEVER get physical. She only uses WORDS. It is also important to note that she does wish for her child to understand where she is coming from. She is an enabler because she holds little power over the beasts, but in dynamics where she is the one in power, this side vanishes for the most part. Despite valuing sovereignty I believe she still wants to retain some level of control so Cookies don't do things she does not like. This is generally in line with how leadership generally operate, they don't care when you're doing smth positive, but when it turns negative, that's when it starts turning sour.

As for the actual arc of Midnight Lily and Moonflower, I have a general framing but it is difficult to make something as substantial as the one she has with Saint Vanilla. Gotta wait until I get more lore and story for the gal. But in short, it is a conflict of the two trying to make each other understand their respective sides. With Moonflower trying to save her mother, her only remaining parental figure from being a beast- while Midnight Lily seeks to make Moonflower truly understand her side and hopefully have Moonflower join her permanently.

Heres other tidbits for Moonflower and her relationship with the Creme Republic. For her ventures to the Silver Kingdom are actually secret. She is a very powerful and talented magic user (similar to her parents), so her travelling long distances quickly is very possible. Moonflower is already an outcast in the Republic, it is well known who her parents are. And Cookies keep their distance, there are very few Cookies who come and check in her. Its mostly some scientists who are researching the neo beasts (espresso, maybe, depends on his condition in this au), Clotted Cream Cookie, GingerBrave, Financer (sort of, she tags along the Consul) and depending on the direction of the story, Madelaine Cookie(I will start really brewing something here once more stuff comes out~). She stays isolated in her lab in the undercity, she never comes out, and when she does, she hides her face and just retrieves things like food or research material. It is normal for her to not talk with anyone for well over a week with nothing but a single lost Raisin Crow to keep her company. I'd like to note that this raisin crow is now an albino, and Black Raisin tasked Moonflower to take care of it since it was bullied and ousted by the other raisin crows (I took inspo from the myth, but it is generally agreed that white color corvids are subordinate to the colored ones).

But she is also an outcast in the silver kingdom, despite being Midnight Lilys kid (its a well known fact), she has gotten into disagreements with their monarch and isn't the upmost loyal member- she has a strong stigma around her. Silverbell Cookie does take pity on Moonflower.

That's all for now. I'm gonna lay down, I've done so much research...I silently weep at the thought of fully showing the complexity of the three in full force.

[goldsbitch]

Right? p2

summary: Y/N is a photographer for McLaren F1 team. Hard working, goal oriented professional who would never put her career in jeopardy for some stupid crush, right?

That is until a photoshoot gets out of hand and there is no way to go but forward.

part 1

You almost started this day with a shot from the minibar. Contemplated faking a flu. But the qualifying was too important, the sponsors seemed to love this track and your boss was very clear that he needs every photographer, even if they had a broken arm.

With a sigh, you entered the common area of the paddock, quickly heading for the media office. Sure he won't be there, he must be having some prep time now. You were not ready to face him.

Nothing happened, you tried to calm yourself down with every shiver that came around every few minutes. It was just a kiss in the heat of the moment. No one would ever know.

Oh, but if it had only been just a kiss.

You were a bit shocked when he closed the distance between you two, put a hand on your cheek and his lips on yours. This was no light romantic kiss. Your body reacted immediately, faster than your mind, which shut down completely. Butterflies in your stomach flying over the roof.

Lando pulled away few centimetres. "Is this ok?"

You nodded. Nothing else for you to do, you were hooked.

"Use your words. I want to hear it."

"Yes," you whispered and went for more.

Lando pushed you down, you were now lying on the backseat with him over you. Your bodies seemed to speak in their own language, it was all so natural. Your hands in his hair, his lip biting yours. You'd do anything to stay locked in this moment for ever. How can someone have lips so soft? You roamed around his perfect body, and he did too. His hand quickly found a way under your crop top. And it was right when he was about to touch your breast when your phone rang.

It felt like being caught by a teacher. Except you were technically not caught. Your boss was just asking if you were going into overtime or if the photoshoot was wrapped.

The ride back to the hotel was silent from both sided, reality kicking in. It was probably the longest drive you've ever experienced.

//

You had a strict deadline. Editing photos from last night was the last thing you wanted to do right now, but duty calls.

Your heart sank after you skimmed though them. Not because they would be bad - on the contrary. The last photos had Lando with the hottest look on his face you have ever seen on him, dynamic close ups and him literally eye fucking you via the picture. These can't get out. You were almost jealous at the thought of anyone being able to see him like that. Somehow, you managed to dig yourself even a bigger hole than before.

Professional, right?!

You didn't see Lando until few minutes before the start of qualifying. Focusing on taking photos of Oscar was your strategy to survive today, because the butterflies were unbearable yet again. Lando's nonchalant presence was something you were not able to tune out this time.

Taking few snaps of Oscar made you seem busy. You'd take only few pictures of Lando today. But almost as if he could feel you the same way you felt his presence, he managed to look into your lens right at the moment you were taking a picture. You could melt right at the spot.

Lando seemed less chatty than his usual self today.

//

Third in qualifying, fourth in the Grand Prix. Podium slipped through Lando's hands. But nevertheless, great weekend for McLaren. Lando beat himself up, but made sure to highlight the job of the people at the factory and the whole team.

You danced around each other all weekend, always busy, never alone and without company. It was probably for the good, right?

Days rushed over and suddenly you were sitting at the usual Tuesday PR catch up. The team was analyzing the response of the fans in their usual matter. Lando and Oscar were due to join in.

You sat rather quietly, waiting to be addressed and not trying to join in - very unusual on your part.

The whole room was watching stats and analytics, talking about the boys as if they were not human, but some sort of character. You always found that strange.

You both successfully avoided eye contact until the moment where the growing female fan base of Oscar's was discussed. This being a subtle hint that Lando is getting side tracked. Once you locked eyes, it was hard to look away. The room went silent for you, could not stop focusing on his look and the way he subtly licked his lips.

"Merch time!" This way your cue.

"Yes, let's see the latest photos," you stood up confidently to take over. Fake it til you make it, right?

As you went over the selected 15 photos and explained the idea behind them and how you believe these might work for the targeted audience, Lando seemed to be more intrigued than usually.

"Thank you, y/n. Lando, can we approve these for the launch?" asked his lead PR.

"Um." Lando seemed to be lost for words, fascinated look on his face. The room paused for a second. "Can I see them again real quick?"

What was he playing at? Your heartbeat skipped a beat.

"Yeah, sure," you skimmed through each of them again, putting them on a replay.

Lando put on a fake serious face, as if he was thinking something through. "Yeah, I think these are great," he replied, making everyone in the room relaxed again. Then he turned to you and gave you a smirk. " I think we should do more of this."

That fucker.

part 3

______________________________________________________________

@i-wish-this-was-me

[hoe4hotchner]

Chapter 8 - Under pressure

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Summary: The story follows you a figure skater training for nationals and Aaron Hotchner as your lives intertwine during an investigation into the abductions of young athletic women, including the your close friend, Leah. As the BAU delves deeper into the case, you find yourself captivated by Hotch’s quiet strength and protective presence. When Leah’s body is tragically discovered at the rink, the tension escalates, surrounding you in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Word count: 10.3k

Warnings: Emotional struggle,  self-doubt and anxiety, a lot of forensics in the beginning, emotional support, bar scene, alcohol mentioned.

A/N: I promised I would relay this info from Y/N about their only interaction in this chapter: "Hotch is a little bitch"

Masterlist

The locker room was mostly quiet, a silence only broken by the low murmur from the forensic team, each member meticulously working their way through the crime scene. Gloved hands carefully collected evidence, cameras clicked softly, and the occasional hushed exchange passed between team members, their voices barely above a whisper. Every movement was precise and deliberate, ensuring the scene's integrity remained undisturbed to the best of their abilities. The dim lights cast an almost sterile glow across the room, highlighting the dust motes suspended in the air.

Hotch stood by the doorframe, arms crossed, his sharp gaze tracking every action. His imposing figure served as a barrier, ensuring no one else would enter and disrupt the investigation. As he observed, the weight of his responsibility was evident in his intense expression, his attention fully devoted to the scene before him.

A forensic technician crouched near a faint stain on the tiled floor, signaling to a colleague with a subtle wave. “We’ve got what appears to be trace blood spatter here,” she said, her voice was low. Her gloved fingers traced the edges of the stain without making contact, her eyes scanning the pattern with attention, trying to put the pieces together to form a theory of what had gone down. "The distribution looks inconsistent. The angle suggests some kind of lateral force — maybe a blunt object brought down from above.” She suggested, lifting her hand up in a fist as if holding the murder weapon. She moved her hand down again in a smooth strike, trying to act out the scene.

Her colleague crouched next to her, adjusting his gloves as he pulled out a small magnifying lens to study the details. He leaned closer, observing the discoloration and faint smears. “Could indicate that she tried to defend herself,” he murmured, his tone speculative. “Or possibly just post-mortem bruising... though we’ll need lab confirmation to be sure.” His gaze shifted thoughtfully as he took in the body next to him. He raised an eyebrow, as if considering something further. "Did we retrieve samples from her hands? Any fibers or skin under the nails?”

"Already bagged and sealed,” another technician responded, holding up a small evidence bag. Inside, beneath a clear strip of tape, were faint traces of what looked like skin fragments. The delicate specks of tissue clung to the tape, almost imperceptible against the plastic, but they could hold significant answers to getting closer to slowing this whole mess. “Looks like fragments of epithelial tissue. And they found it under her nails?” he asked, his voice quiet as he focused on not disturbing the rest of the forensics team.

He gave the bag a light shake, causing the tissue to shift slightly within. “We’ll send it over for DNA analysis. It should tell us whether the traces are her own or possibly from an assailant.” His tone carried the weight of years of experience; he knew how much hinged on this small but critical piece of evidence.

Hotch’s brow furrowed as he listened, absorbing every detail from the exchange. His gaze sharpened, and with a slight tilt of his head, he caught the attention of the lead forensic analyst nearby. “Do we have any indication of the time of death?” he asked, his tone was low but, though it cut through the quiet of the room.

The analyst looked up from her meticulously detailed notes, her expression neutral. “Based on initial observations of lividity and rigor mortis, along with body temperature readings,” she began, glancing momentarily toward the body before looking back at her notes, “we’re estimating the time of death to fall between midnight and 3 a.m.” She paused, her eyes shifting past him catching a glimpse at the ice lurking just behind Hotch's figure. “The environmental conditions here — specifically the colder temperature — may have impacted these markers slightly, but it’s a preliminary estimate for now. The autopsy should give us a tighter window.”

Her explanation was clinical and precise, yet held a hint of caution, acknowledging the limits of field estimates. Hotch nodded, absorbing the timeline, his mind already beginning to map out the next steps for the investigation.

Hotch nodded. “What about fingerprints?” he asked.

One of the forensic team members held up a clear strip of tape with faint, smeared fingerprints barely visible along its surface. “We’ve found a few partials,” she explained, angling the tape so the faint ridges caught the light. “Some of them are likely hers, based on the positioning and the smudging pattern. But we’ll process every print we find.” Her gaze shifted to the lockers, her expression darkening slightly. “The locker handles were clean, though. Could indicate they were wiped down, or that the unsub wore gloves.”

A subtle tension flickered across Hotch’s face, his jaw tightening as he processed this added complication. The unsub was way too good at what he was doing. “Make sure we document every single print, even if they’re smudged,” he instructed, his voice firm. “Cross-reference them with any recent visitors and staff on-site if possible. If the unsub left anything behind, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, sir.” She gave a quick nod, her focus already shifting back to her work, determined to extract every detail from the fragmented prints. Her gloved hands moved swiftly, preparing the evidence for lab analysis, while Hotch remained positioned in the doorframe, the team meticulously gathered every possible clue they could.

In the corner a photographer worked methodically, the rapid clicks of the camera punctuated the silence as he documented each aspect of the room. He moved from corner to corner, crouching low or stretching upward to capture every angle, pausing now and then to reframe his shots. Each image was a careful study of the crime scene, ensuring nothing went unnoticed, from the faint blood stains on the tile to the scattered belongings and the way the girl's hair lay curled around her head on the floor.

The forensics team operated with an almost mechanical coordination.

Hotch observed them in silence, his gaze sweeping across the room one more time. He absorbed every detail — the overturned bench and the streaked stains on the floor. His sharp, assessing eyes missed nothing, cataloging each point of interest as he mentally reconstructed the events the way they must have unfolded in the dark of the night.

As forensics concluded their initial examination of the scene, one of the technicians approached Hotch quietly. “We’re ready to move the body, Agent Hotchner,” he said.

Hotch gave a solemn nod, his gaze settling on the still shape lying on the tiled floor. Her face held a sense of tranquility that was disturbing, yet almost looked peaceful as she rested in her final slumber.

With careful movements, two technicians knelt beside her, unfolding the heavy-duty, dark body bag — which they'd done many times before. They moved gently, each gesture as respectful as possible, as mindful as possible, trying to preserve whatever dignity remained for her in death. The bag’s fabric unfurled with a soft rustle, and, together, they began the process of transferring her. Hotch’s jaw tightened as he watched, he hated when kids were involved, and even as his mind continued piecing together the puzzle of her final moments, he couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness underneath his gruff exterior.

As they lifted her, carefully sliding her lifeless form into the body bag, Hotch stood by ready to move or help if needed. He too had been here before — many times in fact — bearing witness to scenes of unimaginable loss countless times. But despite the familiarity, despite knowing what to do, it never got easier — especially not when it was someone so young, someone who had barely begun to explore her path.

The technicians zipped the bag shut. The metallic sound sliced through the silence, reverberating through the room like a cold punctuation mark. The air grew heavier, marked by the collective awareness of the body about to be rolled out of the room. They all looked up from what they were doing. The team moved seamlessly, lifting the bag onto the waiting stretcher. They secured the straps, their faces set in concentration.

Hotch walked slowly behind the stretcher, his footsteps echoing in the silence that had fallen over the locker room and that followed them into the arena. As the forensic team guided her toward the exit, other team members paused their work, their heads instinctively bowing as the stretcher passed — a momentary gesture of respect, acknowledging the life now gone.

Near the doorway, a young forensic intern hesitated, her face was pale, and eyes wide as she watched the body being taken away. She looked up at Hotch, clearly shaken as reality settled heavily upon her.

“First time?” Hotch asked quietly in a low murmur meant only for her to hear, it carried a softness that seemed to calm her a little — or at least enough to gain control of her mind.

The intern nodded, swallowing hard, she was unable to shift her gaze from the stretcher. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, her voice ready to break. “It’s…harder than I expected.”

Hotch offered a small, understanding nod, the slightest flicker of empathy breaking through his normally stoic expression. “It always is,” he replied, his tone was gentle — he was always gentle with the new kids on the team. With a subtle reassurance in his gaze, he gestured for her to continue, and together they followed as the stretcher disappeared down the corridor, before being loaded into a van to be taken to the morgue and examined.

Under the bright clinical lights of the morgue, the air was heavy with the pungent scent of formaldehyde. The room was silent only broken by the hum of refrigeration units in the room over, the ticking clock, and the occasional soft echo of footsteps against the floor as the examiner moved around. Hotch and Reid stood on opposite sides of the steel examination table, latex gloves snug on their hands, their expressions furrowed as they took in the white piece of cloth covering the young skater's body.

Across from them, the examiner prepared for the autopsy, his movements slow and methodical as he organized the array of instruments laid out on a sterile tray, each one carefully placed in a specific pattern — one where he knew where all the instruments were without looking. From an outside perspective, he would seem way too calm based on what his job entailed, but he was used to the grim work. He glanced up briefly, acknowledging Hotch and Reid with a quick, silent nod before returning his focus to the tools he would soon wield. A scalpel, forceps, probes — each piece a necessary instrument in the search for the truth.

“Agent Hotchner, Dr. Reid,” he finally greeted. “Thank you for coming down so quickly.”

Hotch acknowledged him with a returning nod, his gaze fixed on the cloth. “I appreciate you starting on this quickly. Time is of the essence.”

With a careful pull, the examiner peeled back the sheet covering the victim, exposing bruises marring her slender arms and faint, reddish discolorations circling her wrists. The ligature marks were evident, indicating that she had been bound at some point. There were signs of what potentially was her final struggle. Hotch’s face remained composed, every line of his expression hardened as he took in the sight before him. For a moment, his gaze softened as he remembered just how young she had been, but he steeled himself, pushing the thoughts aside.

Reid, standing just beside him, held a clipboard with one hand, pen poised as he looked over the notes and findings up until now. His own face was tense, eyes darting from the bruises and ligature marks and back to the notes, adding and cataloging more evidence as he noticed it. But even as his pen moved, Reid’s jaw tightened slightly — he too dwelled on the fact that the girl had passed way too soon.

The examiner reached for a light, adjusting its angle to illuminate the area near the girl’s collarbone, wanting to take a better look while the agents were present. Pausing, he noticed an unusual discoloration — the faintest mark, almost hidden against the pallor of her skin. With careful movements of his hand, he picked up a small magnifying glass on the tray beside him, leaning in to study it more closely. The discoloration suggested a pattern, though the exact cause was unclear. He frowned, examining the delicate skin with increased interest as if it held the key to understanding one more piece of the puzzle.

“I think I’ve found something interesting here.” The examiner’s gloved finger traced a faint, stray strand on her skin, its color and texture distinct against the muted backdrop of her skin. “It’s a fiber. Unusual color and texture, definitely not something standard to the clothing she was wearing when she came in.”

Reid leaned in, tilting his head to get a closer look at the small, off-color thread. Its faint sheen caught the light. “That doesn’t look like any typical textile fiber,” he murmured, his tone thoughtful. “It’s thicker. Possibly synthetic, maybe a blend — something designed to withstand stress or friction. It could indicate that the unsub works in a more labour-heavy setting.” He looked to Hotch as if waiting for a sign of approval. Hotch only nodded, not wanting to interrupt the trail of thoughts and the interaction between Spencer and the examiner.

The examiner too nodded, reaching for a pair of tweezers from his tray, his movements were cautious. “This fiber could tell you a lot, I hope,” he said, gently gripping the strand between the tweezers. “I’ll bag it up as evidence. It’s embedded just slightly in the epidermis here, so there’s a good chance it was transferred from contact not long before her death.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed, watching the careful extraction. “Could this indicate she struggled more than just in her bonds?” he asked, now realizing that the unsub most likely had captured her sometime before killing her — why no one had reported her missing yet was a mystery to him.

“It’s possible,” the examiner replied, sealing the fiber in a clear evidence bag and labeling it. “If this thread belongs to another person’s clothing or equipment, it could lead you to the unsub — or at least tell you more about what happened.”

Reid took a note, writing down the specifics of the fiber’s texture and placement, his mind already racing through the implications. He handed it to Hotch, knowing that he would hand it over to the forensics lab at the academy.

“I’ll have forensics take a closer look once we’re back,” Hotch said.

“The synthetic quality could mean it’s from carpeting, furniture…possibly even a vehicle.” Reid continued his trail of thoughts.

“Or it could have been from someone’s clothing,” Hotch added, brow furrowed as he considered the possibilities. “The fact that it was found near the ligature marks could suggest it was transferred during her restraint.”

The examiner, meanwhile, continued his external examination. “Based on the bruising and the angle of the contusions on her wrists and arms she likely tried to pull away — hence the deep abrasions here,” he said, gesturing to the raw edges of skin around her wrists. “This fiber is probably from whoever or whatever held her down — my best guess is either from hemp rope or possibly heavy-duty work gloves.”

Hotch nodded as he stepped closer, his posture was calm but vigilant. "Anything else you’ve found so far?"

The examiner paused, his gaze shifting to the girl’s head as he gently tilted it, exposing a faint, dried smear near her hairline. His brow furrowed slightly as he focused on the subtle mark. “There’s something here,” he murmured, using a cotton swab to carefully lift a trace of dark, dried blood just above her temple.

Hotch’s attention zeroed in on the spot, eyes narrowing as he absorbed the new detail. “A head wound?”

“Possibly,” the examiner replied, his tone thoughtful. “It’s minor — likely not a fatal blow — but there’s a small, shallow laceration here. Could be from striking a hard surface or perhaps from a mild blow. It’s hard to say definitively just yet, but at most it would've given her a concussion.”

Reid leaned in too, studying the location and nature of the injury. “Since it isn't the primary cause of death. It might have been incidental, meant to disorient her rather than to inflict serious harm.”

The examiner nodded, bagging the swap. “The blood pattern is faint and slightly smeared, suggesting there was some movement afterward — either on her part or by someone else’s hand. If someone else made contact here, there could be trace elements of DNA left behind in the blood.”

Hotch’s expression remained focused. “Let’s be thorough though. Get more samples for DNA and trace analysis on this. If it isn’t her own blood, or if there’s any foreign material, it could lead us to our unsub if there's a match in our databases.”

“Understood,” the examiner replied, giving a confirming nod. “I’ll expedite the sample for lab analysis to ensure I can give you a result as soon as possible.”

Hotch acknowledged him with a quick nod, his gaze lingering on the wound for a moment longer, as though searching for answers. “Good. The smallest details might be what breaks this case open.”

The medical examiner double-checked each detail as Reid handed him back the clipboard, scanning for any remaining traces before closing his laying the board aside and pulling the sheet back over the victim’s body. “Please keep me posted if the lab picks up anything significant on this,” he said, curious about the potential findings. He’d seen far too many cases end here in the morgue, but he never let himself forget the weight of each one.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” he said, his tone neutral but with a hint of respect that wasn’t lost on the examiner. He turned, glancing briefly at Reid, with their work here complete, the two agents made their way to the morgue’s exit, the silence following them like a shadow.

As they stepped into the hallway, their minds were already racing through the next steps. Hotch’s thoughts sifted through the evidence — every cataloged detail, the fiber, blood smear, and head wound — as he considered how it might all connect. Reid, equally focused, was already piecing together possible timelines and scenarios, mentally processing the clues they would present to the team back at Quantico.

Hotch stepped into the sterile atmosphere of the academy’s forensic lab, the evidence bag containing the fiber sample cradled carefully in his hand. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, mingling with the subtle undertone of other lab chemicals that he couldn't quite recognize. The hum of the equipment provided a low, steady buzz to the air. Across the room, the chief forensic analyst was already preparing for the evidence, her workstation was arranged meticulously with an array of microscopes, testing agents, and delicate tools — each with their own specific use. She turned as Hotch approached, nodding in greeting.

“Agent Hotchner,” she acknowledged, slipping on a fresh pair of latex gloves with a swift, practiced motion — she knew what she was doing. “Let’s take a look at what we’re dealing with.”

Hotch handed over the evidence bag. “This fiber might be our only tangible lead in the case right now,” he said. “We need a full comparative analysis against textile databases — origin, composition, and any trace chemicals — if that is possible. Anything that might narrow down a source or point us in a specific direction.”

The chief's eyes sharpened as she handled the evidence, carefully transferring the fiber to a glass slide beneath the microscope. “Understood. I’ll also run a dye analysis as well. Certain textiles have unique dye markers that can sometimes trace back to a manufacturer if they're trademarked, or even a specific production batch if we’re lucky.”

Hotch crossed his arms, watching as she began the delicate work. “The smallest detail could matter here, I'll take anything I can get” he added. “Even if it’s something as minor as a manufacturing flaw or residue. We have to assume our suspect left this trace unintentionally.”

She nodded, already adjusting the microscope settings to bring the fiber into focus. “If there’s anything out of the ordinary, I'll find it — There's a reason why I'm the chief,” she assured him with a wink, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll flag any anomalies right away.”

Hotch nodded, his gaze locked onto the microscope as if he saw the magnified fiber as well. The step might've seemed minute, but he knew that solving cases with an unsub this meticulous, this organized often hung on such tiny fragments — one thread could lead to a name, a place, or even the dismantling of an alibi.

He watched closely, the weight of the investigation resting heavily on his shoulders — he couldn't help but think about you and your competition. “Would a spectrograph reveal any pollutants?” he asked, his brow furrowed with thought. “If the fiber originated from an industrial source, we might find trace chemical signatures that could narrow it down.”

The analyst glanced up at him, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Look at you being all scientific,” she teased, her eyes bright with amusement. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Aaron.”

He allowed himself a brief smile. “I dabbled a bit with science back in college. Mostly the parts that sounded impressive.” The subtle warmth in his voice added a slight levity to the otherwise grim circumstances of their meeting.

“Well, your instincts are spot-on,” she replied, preparing the sample under a high-powered microscope. “A spectrographic analysis will absolutely tell us if there’s anything unusual, down to certain chemical markers. But we’ll have to account for any contamination from trace elements or DNA that might have come from the locker room.”

Hotch nodded his focus back on the fiber.

The analyst’s gaze sharpened as she brought the fiber into view, her hands moving quickly. “I’ll start with the dye signature, then run it through spectrographic imaging to see if the fiber picked up any industrial pollutants or specific residue.” She adjusted the settings on her microscope.

As she initiated the spectrographic analysis, Hotch held his breath, watching as the machine began scanning the fiber for any unique chemical compositions. The wait was agonizing; they were so close to potentially finding a lead, but with every second, uncertainty loomed larger.

Finally, a series of lines and peaks appeared on the monitor, and the chief leaned in, her eyes scanning the data. After a few moments, she exhaled softly and turned to Hotch. “Here’s the initial breakdown. The fibers are cotton-based but treated with a blend of chemicals typically found in weather-resistant clothing — mostly silicon compounds. There’s also an unidentified polymer, likely synthetic.” As Reid suggested, Hotch thought as the chief spoke.

Hotch’s brow furrowed, leaning in to examine the data on the screen. “Weather-resistant… that could suggest outdoor clothing. Can we pinpoint anything more specific?”

The analyst tapped her pen against the screen, her gaze locked on the data. “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. The trace polymer we’re seeing isn’t exclusive. It could be used in a variety of jackets or even upholstery fabrics or gloves. The compounds are common enough in the industry that they don’t carry any unique markers. No region-specific elements or manufacturer identifiers.”

Hotch let out a quiet sigh, disappointment settling into his expression. “So, we’re looking at something mass-produced, nothing that singles out a specific item or brand.” If he had been alone he would've groaned in frustration. It couldn't be right that the unsub was this good at hiding his steps.

She nodded. “Yes. The chemical makeup is generic — common to a lot of brands of clothing, even some household items. The polymer itself is low-grade, suggesting that it isn't high-end manufacturing.”

“Then we’re back to square one on the fiber — and the rest of the case. What about cross-contamination?" Hotch straightened, taking a steadying breath. "Could these fibers have transferred from something in the rink itself?”

“It’s a possibility,” she confirmed. “Without a stronger match, we can’t rule out incidental transfer. The results are too generalized to tie back to the crime scene directly.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “For now. But I’ll keep running a few more tests. Sometimes, even the smallest variable can reveal more than we expect. I'll call if I find anything”

“Thank you,” Hotch said finally, forcing himself to maintain his composure. “I appreciate your help.”

As Hotch left the lab, the weight of disappointment settled heavily on his shoulders. The investigation had hit another wall, and frustration churned within him, though he refused to let it slow him down. There had to be something they were missing, some angle or piece of evidence that could be uncovered. He made his way back to his office, his footsteps echoing through the halls.

The familiar scent of paper files and polished wood greeted him as he entered. He closed the door with a soft click locking it behind him. With a deep sigh, he sank into his chair, its worn leather shaped by years of use. He leaned back in it, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to ease the tension pounding in his head.

Images from the crime scene replayed in his mind — the young girl, then they shifted to the sight of Branson at your place, then to Leah and the way you'd been shocked out of your mind. His protective instincts instantly roared to life, as always, but this time, they went beyond just the need to catch the unsub. He thought of you, your bright spirit and dedication to skating, your commitment to make it through your competitions as you chased your Olympic dreams.

You were so focused, so passionate, your every move on the ice fueled by ambition and hard work. But now, with you becoming the focal point of the unsub more and more, a dark, gnawing fear had taken root in him — a fear that the unsub might reach you too — sooner than he would like to think about.

He clenched his fists. You had come so far and still had so much to achieve. The thought of any harm coming your way made him all the more determined to solve the case. Hotch knew he couldn’t afford to let his worry show, not to you, not to anyone. But in the privacy of his office, he allowed himself a brief moment to feel the weight of it.

Then, steeling himself, he reached for the files on his desk, flipping through them. The hunt wasn’t over — not by a long shot — even if he had to move back to square one. He would find a lead, no matter how deeply it was buried, and ensure that no more dreams were shattered by this unsub.

The thought of forbidding you from competing in sectionals churned relentlessly in his mind, a constant tug-of-war between his professional duty and personal feelings. He knew it would be wrong — he knew that. You had worked too hard and sacrificed too much for this opportunity to let fear dictate your choices now. “It could ruin her career,” he whispered under his breath. The thought struck him like a cold punch to the gut. He could almost hear your voice in his mind — your tone sharp, frustrated, defiant — if he even dared suggest such a thing to you.

Yet the risks were undeniable. You were vulnerable, and he could not ignore that. The idea of you stepping onto the ice now felt like a potential battleground. There were so many ways the unsub could get to you without even touching you — even under the competition. The thought sent a shiver crawling down his spine, tightening the knot in his chest. "It’s my mess to take care of," he thought bitterly, gripping the edge of his desk as if it might anchor him to something stable.

Hotch leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers digging into the wood as he fought his internal battle. He could picture you clearly in his mind — poised and ready to compete, the determination in your eyes — he admired that strength. Then bang and you were injured — maybe even dead — he couldn't let that happen.

“What if something happens?” The thought refused to leave him. His mind cycled through every worst-case scenario he could think of, each one worse than the last — poison, stabbed, shot — everything he had seen in previous cases resurfaced in his mind. What if you were caught off guard, what if the unsub found a way to exploit your vulnerability, what if he couldn’t protect you in time?

But he couldn’t stop you. He couldn’t ask you to stop. You had worked too hard, and the truth was, he didn’t want to see you give up on what you loved, what you were meant to do. The decision wasn’t just about your safety; it was about respecting the very thing that made you who you were. And so, Hotch wrestled with that truth, torn between wanting to protect you and knowing that your fight was your own to face. As he sat there, the silence of his office pressing in on him, he knew there was no easy answer. No matter what, he would be caught in the middle — between keeping you safe and letting you live your life.

Finally, an idea began to form — a temporary solution, at least. “I could put her under surveillance,” Hotch mused aloud, the thought offering a small, yet comforting flicker of reassurance. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a way to keep you safe without completely stripping you of your passion. He could allow you to focus on sectionals, and stay in the game, while keeping a close eye on you, just in case. “Just until after sectionals. After that, I can reevaluate,” he decided, more to himself than anyone else.

But as the plan settled into his mind, a new wave of dread washed over him. The thought of confronting you with this idea felt almost unbearable. He could already see the fallout in his mind — the arguments, the anger, the disappointment. He could hear your voice, it was sharp and accusatory: “You’re treating me like a child, Hotch!” The imagined words cut through him. He knew you would feel betrayed and suffocated by his overprotectiveness.

He didn’t want to do that to you. He didn’t want to take away your autonomy, your ability to make your own decisions. But the reality was, he couldn’t stand the thought of you being in harm’s way, not with everything that had happened. The idea of surveillance seemed like a compromise, something temporary to bridge the gap between your safety and your dreams, but it was a fine line to walk. He or another agent would be hovering in the background, trying to protect you without making you feel like you were being controlled.

But it was a necessary risk. He had to do something — he couldn’t sit back and hope for the best. He couldn’t let you go into the rink, into the unknown, without some kind of safeguard.

With a deep sigh, Hotch leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, trying to find some semblance of peace before having to confront you. He could only hope that when the time came to explain himself, you would understand. He was doing this for you, to protect you.

Hotch took a deep breath, bracing himself for the conversation. He had anticipated this moment all day and knew it would be difficult, but now that it was here, the weight of it pressed down on him harder than he’d expected. The silence in his office felt suffocating, as though the walls themselves were closing in. He glanced at the clock — time was slipping away, and he could no longer put off the inevitable. The longer he waited, the harder it would be.

With a reluctant sigh, he reached for the phone on his desk, his fingers feeling heavier than usual as he dialed your number. His heart was thudding in his chest, the pulse loud in his ears as the rings echoed through the line.

“Hotch?” she answered, he could hear the curiosity in her voice.

His grip tightened on the phone, trying to steady himself. “Can you come to my office?” he replied, keeping his tone as neutral as possible, though it still carried a weight that he hadn’t intended. “I need to talk to you about something important.”

He could feel the shift in the air as your breath caught slightly on the other end. You didn’t respond immediately, and in that silence, he knew you were already picking up on his tension. Your voice, when it came, was a little more cautious. “Is it about the case?” you asked, a slight sense of anxiety creeping into your tone.

“Yes,” he confirmed. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again. “Just come to my office.”

He could hear you hesitate for a second, and he braced for the inevitable questions you would ask once you arrived. He didn’t have all the answers yet, and he wasn’t sure how to explain everything without making it worse. "I’ll be waiting," he added quietly, hanging up before you could say anything more, before you could protest.

As the silence settled in the room, Hotch couldn’t shake the feeling that this conversation was going to be just the beginning of something far more difficult.

An hour later, there was a soft knock at the door, and Hotch gestured for you to enter. You stepped inside. He could see the weariness in your eyes, the toll of the recent events, and the weight of your training settling in your features. You were trying to hide it, but he knew the stress was wearing you thin.

"Sit down," he instructed, motioning to the chair opposite his desk. You did so without protest, dumping your skating bag beside the chair and folding your arms tightly across your chest as if to shield yourself from what was coming. The way your posture stiffened told him that you sensed the gravity of the conversation already.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice shifting to a more defensive tone as if bracing for impact.

Hotch took a deep breath, leaning forward, his hands clasped tightly together. “I’ve been thinking about your safety,” he started slowly, his voice steady but laced with the concern he had been holding in. “About the upcoming sectionals. Given what happened… with Leah and the others, I’ve decided to put you under 24/7 surveillance until after the competition. An agent will be with you at all times”

Your eyes widened in disbelief, and you immediately shook your head. “What? Hotch, you can’t be serious. You’re going to treat me like I’m a child? I can take care of myself!” The frustration in your voice was unmistakable, the words barely containing the anger that was building inside you.

“This isn’t about treating you like a child,” Hotch countered, trying to keep his tone calm — raising his voice at you wouldn't help his case, you'd just get more frustrated. He leaned forward slightly as if hoping the distance between you could be bridged by his sincerity. “You’re in a vulnerable position right now. I can’t risk losing you too.”

“Risk losing me?” you shot back, your voice rising. “I’m not going to let fear control my life! I have sectionals in just a few days. I need to train!” The frustration boiled over, your fists clenching in your lap as you fought to keep your composure. “I can’t just stop everything because of some… some threat that may not even be about me!”

Hotch’s jaw tightened as he met your gaze. He could see the defiance in your eyes. “I understand how important sectionals are to you, but this isn’t just a threat — someone was murdered — several people were murdered, and it’s your world and community that’s been disrupted.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but Hotch pressed on, his voice more commanding now. “I’m sending Agent Anderson with you to the rink to ensure your safety while you train. You can’t be alone right now.”

“Agent Anderson?” you exclaimed, disbelief written all over your face. “You’re sending a babysitter? This is ridiculous! I’m not some damsel in distress, Hotch!” Your voice cracked slightly, frustration and embarrassment flooding through you. How could he even think you needed someone else to look after you? You had worked too hard, fought too long to be treated like this.

“Stop! Just stop!” he snapped, his calm demeanor finally breaking as his frustration seeped through. The sharpness in his voice took you off guard, but it also made something inside you tighten. “I’m trying to protect you. I can’t let you lose anyone else or yourself, and I refuse to sit back and do nothing. You may not like it, but this is the best option we have right now.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, but the words felt like they were stuck. Instead, you turned your head, looking anywhere but at him. The heat of anger was still there, but now there was a dull ache in your chest — a mix of hurt and confusion. He wasn’t supposed to treat you like this. You had always been able to handle things on your own, but now he was making you feel small.

The silence stretched on until you finally spoke, your voice quieter but still carrying your disapproval of the situation. “You don’t trust me,” you whispered, the accusation hanging in the air between you two. “You think I can’t handle this on my own.”

Hotch’s features softened slightly, his jaw unclenching a little as if he were trying to find the right words. “That’s not it,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I trust you more than anyone, but right now, I have to prioritize your safety above all else. Please try to understand.”

You took a deep breath, your shoulders slumping as if the weight of the conversation had drained the fight out of you. “Fine. But this doesn’t mean I agree with it,” you said, your voice low, but firm. “I’ll still train, and I’ll still do my best at sectionals. You can’t take that away from me.” The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but there was no way you were going to let this be the thing that stopped you.

Hotch’s face softened almost in a grin, but there was an edge of tension still present. “Of course,” he said, his voice carrying a note of relief. “Just know that this isn’t forever. It’s temporary until we figure something else out.”

You nodded. “I just hope you know what you’re doing,” you muttered, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you give in completely. With that, you stood up, turning toward the door, the space between you now thick with tension.

As you stepped out, you could feel Hotch’s gaze on your back. It lingered like an echo, reminding you that the conflict wasn’t resolved — even if it hadn't been much of a conflict — it was just postponed for now. You didn’t know what he thought, but the way he’d tried to control everything, to keep you safe in a way that felt suffocating, made you question everything between you two.

As you walked away, you couldn't shake the feeling that this decision — however well-meaning — might only push you further into the isolation the unsub so desperately wanted.

As you stepped onto the ice, the familiar chill wrapped around you, though it was a comforting feeling today it felt sharper, cutting through to your core. The vivid colors of your outfit and the music that filled the arena felt muted. Each time your skates carved into the ice, the sound seemed louder, the harsh scrape was a reminder of everything that had changed lately.

You took a steadying breath, letting the air settle in your lungs, and began your warm-up routine. Starting with long, smooth glides, you pushed off the boards, your skates cutting steady lines into the newly resurfaced ice. The rhythmic sound of your blades gliding over the surface brought back a semblance of peace to your mind. Leaning into each movement, you transitioned into a series of spirals, stretching one leg behind you in a graceful arc, the wind catching your hair as you moved. For a moment, you felt a whisper of that old freedom — the joy in every graceful turn.

Building confidence with each lap, you shifted into more complex elements. First came a simple jump, the toe pick of your skate pressing firmly into the ice as you gathered momentum, launching yourself into the air. The split second of weightlessness was a welcome escape, the rush of adrenaline momentarily lifting you out of your grief. Tucking in tight, you spun, your muscles were tense but controlled, before landing cleanly, your other skate gliding effortlessly across the ice. For a moment, you felt normal again, almost powerful.

But as you completed the jump, that feeling faded, and a wave of sadness crashed back over you. Leah’s face filled your mind, her laugh, her smile, her quiet strength. She had been by your side through so much, always pushing you to be better, to reach higher. You could almost feel her presence. You blinked back the sting of tears, shaking off the encroaching sorrow, and continued, determined to reclaim this space for yourself, for her memory.

With each subsequent jump — an axel, a lutz, then a loop — you pushed yourself harder, landing each one. Your focus narrowed, muscles tightening with every leap as you worked to perfect the technique, to perfect your routine. The burn in your legs somehow fueled you, pushing you to keep going, to drive past the exhaustion. As you soared through a series of triple salchows, the rush of adrenaline surged as you rotated in the air.

But in the midst of your routine, a nagging sensation prickled at the edge of your attention, distracting you. You glanced quickly toward the bleachers, where Agent Anderson sat, his expression stone-faced, his eyes trained on you as if analyzing your every movement. A small notebook rested on his lap, and he was scribbling something, like he was documenting your performance — or worse, assessing your vulnerabilities while on the ice, or perhaps he was simply just working on a case file. The sight of him made your stomach twist.

His presence felt intrusive, as though you were under suspicion rather than simply preparing for the biggest competition of the year thus far. The thought lingered, you knew he was there for your safety, but the constant watch felt more like you were an animal in a zoo, caged in and made to be looked at all day.

You gritted your teeth, forcing the irritation aside. This was your space — your life. Taking a steadying breath, you centered yourself, tightening your core as you began a flawless spin, willing yourself to shut out Anderson.

You moved into your footwork sequence, letting each step flow seamlessly into the next. Your arms lifted gracefully above your head, your fingers reaching out as though drawing shapes in the air, feeling every nuance of the music.

Each movement was deliberate, transitions crisp as you executed twizzles and turns, your skates cutting patterns into the ice. You spun into a series of twirls, your body bending and stretching, almost like you were telling a story of your resilience, of elegance. But as you moved into a complicated turn, the ache surged, a reminding you of what — and who — you’d lost. The pain broke your focus for a moment, and you stumbled, your blade catching awkwardly, the balance slipping. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Anderson rise to his feet.

A flash of frustration rose, but you took a steadying breath. “Focus,” you murmured under your breath, forcing the emotion aside as you squared your shoulders, your determination flaring stronger. You weren’t just here to skate; you were here to win.

You transitioned smoothly into a series of spins, starting with a sit spin, your body lowering gracefully toward the ice, your extended leg forming a perfect line as you balanced precariously close to the cold surface.

As you twirled, snow forming on the ice beneath you, reality clawed its way back. A shiver ran through you, a cold that had nothing to do with the rink.

But you refused to let it hold you back. Pouring every ounce of your energy and frustration into your routine, you launched into a series of edge jumps, each leap a desperate attempt to shake the memories clinging to you. Yet, even at the height of each jump, you couldn’t fully escape the void left in Leah’s absence, the hollow space where her encouragement and guidance had once been.

As you landed one final, breathtaking jump, your skates hit the ice with grace, but the effort had taken its toll. The familiar satisfaction of a well-executed move was overshadowed by an exhaustion that settled deep into your bones. You slowed to a stop, catching your breath.

Your gaze drifted back to the edge of the rink where Agent Anderson was once again sat down, watching intently. "I don’t need a babysitter", you mumbled to yourself, your fists clenching at your sides.

With a sharp exhale, you forced yourself to unclench your fists, shaking your hands in an attempt to get the frustration out while also trying to channel the frustration and turn it into determination. You were stronger than this, stronger than the unsub.

As much as you resented being watched, a small part of you understood why it was necessary. But understanding didn’t mean you had to like it. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself of sectionals just days away.

Pushing yourself away from the boards and gliding across the ice, your movements started to lose their rhythm, slipping beneath the weight of your swirling thoughts. The cold stung your cheeks. Each slice of your blade seemed to echo with the whispers that had taken root in your mind since Leah’s death.

You missed the familiar faces of fellow skaters who’d once been your companions on the ice.

The absence of the camaraderie you'd been used to felt like a wall being built between you and everyone else. Where there had been smiles and encouragement, there was now distance. You couldn’t shake the feeling that they saw you differently now, that they might resent you for being allowed at the Pavilion.

The thought gnawed at you. “What if I can’t do this?” The words grew louder with each second in your head, intensifying the pressure that had already settled on your shoulders. You had trained relentlessly for this moment, dedicating countless hours to perfecting your routine. But now, after everything, the stakes felt impossibly high.

“What if I freeze out there? What if I can’t remember the routine?” The questions spiraled out of control, your heartbeat thundering in response. You could almost hear the judges’ cold, detached evaluations in your mind, the faint, disapproving murmurs that you imagined would follow each imperfection, and the unbelievably low score. "You’re not good enough. You’ll never make it to the Olympics. You’re a failure.” The wave of self-doubt coiled around your thoughts like a serpent, its grip tightening until each breath felt labored and heavy.

Your legs felt as though they were weighed down, every movement lacking grace. As you practiced your transitions, the fluidity you were known for seemed lost, each step feeling clumsy, awkward — like you were a mere shadow of the skater you’d once been, a puppet with tangled strings.

The rink felt big — too big. But even as doubt loomed, a stubborn part of you refused to give up, whispering that Leah wouldn’t want your downfall. That voice — her voice — faint but persistent, was all you had to cling to.

Pushing through the anxiety, you attempted a series of jumps, each leap feeling more strained than the last. “What if I fall?” The thought replayed, like a mantra of failure, taunting you as you launched into the air. You twisted and landed, but the moment was overshadowed by the wobble on your feet. You could almost hear Leah’s voice, telling you to believe in yourself, to not let everything that had happened affect you.

You glided to the edge of the rink, each breath escaping in shaky gasps as you leaned against the boards, desperate for a rescue from the storm brewing within you.

Your gaze drifted across the empty seats of the pavilion, rows of silence witnesses to countless practices, moments of triumph, and hours spent. A creeping thought tightened your chest: would the judges see you as the skater you were, or would they see only the girl who’d lost her coach just days before? Would they pity you? Or worse, dismiss you and tell you to check your dreams for another 4 years?

The thought wrapped around you, squeezing until you could barely breathe. For a moment, the idea of giving up flickered in your mind, tempting you with the promise of relief. But as quickly as that thought emerged, it also disappeared. It wouldn't be right — you couldn't let everyone gone down. They had believed in you — the little girl had even looked up to you — it wouldn't be fair.

You took a breath, clutching onto the boards. “I need to do this,” you murmured softly. Leah had taught you to be strong, to fight through the pain. You straightened up. This wasn’t just for you. It was for her — for them. And for the part of you that still believed you could rise above.

With renewed resolve, you pushed away from the boards, breathing in the sharp chill of the rink. The air filled your lungs, fueling the embers within you. Just as you prepared yourself for another round on the ice, the familiar rhythm of your skates was interrupted by the sound of a commotion near the rink’s entrance. Curious, you turned around and glanced over — and your heart skipped a beat.

There, bursting through the door, were Emily, JJ, and Garcia, the girls who had quickly become your friends away from the ice. Their arrival felt like a burst of color, piercing through the melancholic atmosphere.

“Hey, superstar!” Garcia’s voice rang out, full of enthusiasm, her words echoing across the empty seats. Her smile warmed you from across the ice, and in that moment, the weight you’d been carrying felt just a bit lighter. She waved with her signature flair, wrapped in layers of sequins that sparkled under the lights. Emily and JJ followed closely behind, grinning widely as they shrugged off their jackets, each of them exuding their own unique sense of support. JJ’s warm smile and Emily’s confident nod made your heart swell with gratitude; they were here to back you up, even in a world as foreign to them as figure skating.

Agent Anderson, relieved of his duties as your guard, stepped aside, a faint, amused smile playing on his face as he watched the trio claim their place by the rink. "I'll just be over here," he said with a nod.

“Show us what you’ve got!” Emily’s voice boomed with encouragement. “We’re here to watch you shine!”

You felt your lips curve into a smile, a real, genuine smile, as their support radiated through you. The rink felt brighter, as if a spotlight had turned on just for you, illuminating not only the ice but also the path that lay ahead.

Drawing a deep breath, you embraced the sense of purpose they had reignited within you. You pushed off, lapping once around the rink before settling into your routine.

As you launched into a sequence of jumps — an axel followed by a lutz —their cheers filled the air, urging you onward. Every leap felt lighter, every rotation more effortless. “Yes! That’s it! Beautiful!” JJ shouted, her voice resonating with genuine admiration, her pride reaching across the ice and pulling you higher.

The harmony of their voices intertwined with the soft sound of your blades, created a symphony of support and motivation. With each graceful movement, you felt yourself shedding the weight of self-doubt, the warmth of friendship allowing you to reach further, leap higher, and embrace the freedom you had been missing.

You glanced over at them, catching Garcia’s enthusiastic dance as she tried to mimic your moves, her playful antics making you chuckle mid-performance.

With each pass, you became more attuned to your body, your confidence growing as you executed your routine with precision. You attempted a particularly difficult combination, your heart racing as you soared into the air, the cold whipping around you as you twisted and spun, landing cleanly on the ice with a flourish.

“Stunning!” Emily exclaimed, her eyes wide with admiration. “You’re going to blow everyone away at sectionals!”

You rounded the rink one last time, the rhythm of your skates guiding you into the final stretch of your routine. The anticipation built in your chest as you prepared for the last element, the triple axel — a jump that always felt like a leap into the unknown, both thrilling and terrifying. It was so easy to mess up. You'd aced it a few times while training with Branson, but he had always been on the ice with you, ready to catch you before you'd injure yourself. Now you were all alone.

You focused, blocking out everything around you, channeling the energy and support from your friends.

With a deep breath, you launched yourself into the air, your body soaring upwards in a fluid arc. The world below you seemed to blur, the only sound was the rush of wind against your cheeks. Time stretched — almost in slow motion —  in those precious moments as you spun, feeling the freedom of flight before you landed, your blades gripping the ice perfectly. The impact resonated through your body, and as you completed the jump, you transitioned seamlessly into the final glide of your routine.

You'd done it.

You came to a graceful stop in front the girls, a triumphant smile spreading across your face as their cheers erupted like confetti around you. “That was incredible!” JJ shouted, her voice full of excitement as she clapped enthusiastically.

“Seriously, you nailed whatever that jump thing was! I can’t believe how perfect it was!” Emily added, her eyes shining.

Garcia was practically bouncing on her feet, a grin plastered across her face as she whistled loudly, her admiration filling the air. Her boundless enthusiasm spurred you on, a rush of joy surging through you with every cheer. As you skated toward the boards, exhaustion tugged at your limbs, your muscles aching from the day's session — but it was overshadowed by the accomplishment and satisfaction that now flowed through you.

“Come here!” you called out, reaching over the boards, unable to contain the grin spreading across your face. They immediately leaned in to meet you, laughter bubbling up as they pulled you into a warm, tight embrace. The moment you crossed that threshold, you felt their arms wrap around you, their combined warmth and excitement creating a cocoon around you. You melted into the hug, the weight of the past weeks lifting as you basked in the simple joy of their presence.

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this!” Garcia’s voice was muffled, but her excitement was unmistakable as she hugged you even tighter. “You’re going to absolutely crush it at sectionals!”

“Thanks, you guys,” you managed, stepping back just slightly to catch your breath, a laugh escaping as you took in their encouraging faces. “I really needed this today. I was honestly starting to worry I wouldn’t be able to do it without Coach. But you all…” You paused, swallowing down the emotions that threatened to surface. “You all reminded me why I started in the first place.”

Emily’s hand found your shoulder, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze. “You’re stronger than you think,” she said, her voice steady and sincere. “Branson would be so proud of you.”

The words settled over you, filling the spaces left by grief in your heart “Let’s do this,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

“Of course!” JJ said, her smile soft. “But enough about ice skating for now. Tonight, we want you to wind down and just relax!”

“Wait, what?” you asked, eyebrows raising as curiosity sparked. You glanced around at their mischievous expressions, trying to piece together their plan.

“It was all Garcia’s idea,” Emily said, throwing her hands up in defense before nudging Garcia with a playful smirk. Garcia responded with an exaggerated look of innocence, placing a hand over her heart in mock sincerity.

“What? I just thought you deserved a little fun to shake off the nerves before sectionals! You’ve been working so hard, and we’ve seen the toll it’s taken.” She grinned, unable to hold back her excitement. “So, we’re taking you out! Girls’ night, no skating, no stress — just good vibes to celebrate how amazing you are.”

You felt your heart swell with a mixture of gratitude and surprise. “You guys really don’t have to do that. I should probably be focused on practice…”

“Nope, no arguments,” JJ cut in with her mom voice, her expression firm but light. “We’re going out, and you’re coming with us. You’ve earned a break, and a little downtime will do wonders for your headspace!”

A small, delighted sigh escaped you as you finally gave in, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Okay, okay. I guess I can spare a night for some fun.”

“Perfect! I’ll grab the music, and we’re hitting the town!” Garcia clapped her hands, running as fast as she could to the electrical cabinet where your phone lay connected to the speakers.

The rest of you gathered your things. You quickly wiped your blades before you slipped the guards and soakers on them. Together, you headed out into the night, anticipation filling the air.

The lively atmosphere of the bar enveloped you the moment you stepped inside. Laughter mingled with the upbeat music. Dim lights cast a warm glow over the wooden tables, and the scent of pub food wafted through the air, making your stomach rumble. You had decided to forgo alcohol for the evening, opting instead for water. After all, with sectionals just around the corner, the last thing you needed was to jeopardize your focus.

As the four of you settled into a booth, the girls wasted no time in ordering drinks — JJ on the fruity cocktail, Emily opted for a beer, and Garcia excitedly picked a colorful drink that looked more like a dessert than a beverage. You watched them with a smile, feeling a sense of ease wash over you. It felt good to be surrounded by supportive females who genuinely wanted to hang out with you, not out of duty or competition.

“Okay, let’s make a toast!” Emily declared, raising her glass, her voice rising above the music. “To our girl, who just nailed that triple axel thing!”

“To Y/N!” JJ echoed, her eyes sparkling as she clinked her glass against Emily’s and Garcia’s. You felt a warm flush creep across your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. It was refreshing to hear such genuine cheers, compared to the competitive banter you often faced in the skating community.

Garcia leaned across the table, her energy radiating as she leaned in to ask, “So, tell us about your routine! What are you most excited about for sectionals?”

You took a sip of your soda, gathering your thoughts. “Honestly, I’m excited to show everyone what I can do. I’ve worked so hard this season, but it’s also nerve-wracking. I’ve been worried about performing without Branson… it just feels different.”

“Of course, it does,” JJ said, her voice softening. “But remember, you have all of us and the boys behind you. You’re not alone in this.”

“I know, it really helps to have you guys here,” you admitted. “Most of the friends I have in skating are also my competitors, so it can be… complicated. It’s nice to finally relax around girls who aren’t competing with me for once.”

Emily nodded, a knowing smile on her face. “It’s easy to feel isolated, especially when everyone is focused on their own goals. But this — this is what real friendship looks like.” She grinned, making big arm movements.

You chuckled, feeling lighter as you realized how true that was. “Yeah, it’s refreshing. I didn’t realize how much I needed a night like this until now.”

Garcia reached across the table, squeezing your hand in hers. “We’re here for the laughs, the late-night talks, and everything in between. No competition here, just support.”

The night continued with playful banter, stories of past competitions, and laughter that echoed through the bar. You found yourself sharing more than you ever anticipated, recounting the challenges you faced, the triumphs you celebrated, and the absurd moments that made you laugh out loud.

As the evening wore on, you all decided to hit the dance floor. The pulsating music drew you in, and before you knew it, you were twirling around with Garcia, while Emily and JJ joined in with playful dance moves. The laughter was infectious, filling the air with a sense of freedom that made the weight of your worries seem miles away.

You may not have been drinking, but in that moment, surrounded by friends who genuinely cared, you felt like you were celebrating life itself. The joy of being part of something bigger, of finding a sense of belonging, lifted you higher than any jump or spin ever could. You danced until your feet ached, savoring every moment, knowing that the bonds you were building tonight would carry you through the challenges that lay ahead.

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