#i’ve been thinking about this a lot lately | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kisses4reid · 1 day ago

Text

scare | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,, (part 1)

synopsis - you’re in a relationship with some one else and have a pregnancy scare, both your own reaction and spencer’s makes you realise that you’re not happy.

genre - bau!reader x spencer, friends to lovers, multi-part, pregnancy scare, reader has sort of a douche bf, one sided love (at first), angst and fluff

warnings - pregnancy talk, mentions of sex, unhealthy relationships, stress, sickness

w/c - 1.4k?? take a guess cause that’s mine.

a/n - i’ve got 9 weeks free. yeah, i have a job. and yeah, i have about 6 other hobbies i enjoy. but am i gonna make promises i can’t keep about writing more?? yeah. i am. here, enjoy. (pls lemme know abt mistakes it’s rlly late at night rn.)

The plane whirrs, small chatter from Morgan and who you assumed to be Penelope over the phone humming along with the music you try to distract yourself with. It isn’t working.

Because every song has its own special and quirky musical instrument that happens to sound like a message notification. And you keep getting your hopes up.

Your left leg started to bounce, your fingernails found their way to your anxious teeth. And Spencer noticed.

He noticed about halfway through the case, when you stopped talking as much, started drinking an influx of water, started discreetly taking pain medication. At first, he thought it was a simple stomach bug, and he knew your stomach didn’t agree with a lot of travel. But then you started getting nervous.

Spencer glanced at you a few times before moving, sitting next to you (attempting to be discreet). He can’t be discreet though, because every time he’s around you, his body does this weird thing where it can’t decide whether it should be instantly calm or instantly more nervous. Your presence stopped his fidgeting hands, his tired thoughts. But god, when he looked at you, it’s like his heart wants to see you for itself.

And right now his heart hurt, why were you scared?

You barely noticed Spencer sit down, usually you would, but your phone was annoyingly blank, silent. You turned it off and on three times, and re-entered the plane’s wifi password five times.

And now your stomach was grumbling, and not in the way that those nice small sandwiches can help out with.

“Are you okay?”

You jumped, taking your earphones out and staring at Spencer surprised. You laughed nervously, quietly, “Spencer! Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine.”

His warm eyes searched yours and for a second you could ignore the tight feeling in your chest. It made you think back around 8 months ago, when Penelope, your childhood best friend and now co-worker, created a pros and cons list for both Lloyd, and… Spencer.

It was unprofessional and inappropriate, especially when you decided to listen because you had nothing better to do. And especially when she started making some good points.

He squinted his eyes, and you sighed.

“Sorry, I’m just a bit antsy. Feeling a bit… off.”

You felt sick, and stressed, and like your thoughts were going to be the cause of your death. Because you’ve never been sick like this. And to your overworked brain, it only meant one thing.

Spencer’s a great profiler. And although the team collectively agreed to not profile each other, it becomes hard for Spencer when the girl he’s in love with is so obviously in distress. Even worse when he can’t be the hero.

“I can leave you to sleep if you want.” He says, getting up to leave.

“Oh, no. That’s okay. Honestly, I think sleeping would just make it worse.”

Ah, right. Travel sickness, Spencer thought. He gaps his mouth slightly and nods. He relaxes into the couch and looks over to you, heart picking up slightly as pieces of hair fell from your loose ponytail.

You looked over to the table he was previously sat at, the book you gifted him last Christmas open and nearly finished. You smiled to yourself, but it was bittersweet.

“You’re actually reading it?” You asked, looking back at him with slight surprise.

“Of course. I’ve read it 6 times already, it’s a great pallet cleanser- Just like you said in that Christmas card!” He smiled childishly, like he was recalling the first snow.

“I know right! It’s so simple but interesting, I mean I’ve only read it three times but to me I always found it to clear my head.”

Spencer angled himself towards you, “Did you know that the author actually interviewed his daughter’s teachers to see what ages teachers were more invested in compared to class sizes? He said in an interview that depending on a students intelligence, there’s an underlying emotional connection made between student and teacher,” he took a breath, “It plays into the intelligence to ego ratio that so many people claim isn’t true. Which I’m not trying to say you have a big ego, or that I do-“

You waved you hands, “Woah, woah. Why would I think you’re talking about me?”

He furrowed his eyebrows, “Well, you’re very intelligent.”

“Oh!… Thanks for thinking I’m intelligent, or smart.” You shrugged, “But I think you insulted yourself. You don’t have a 187 IQ for nothing do you?”

“You remembered my IQ?” He laughed nervously. His smile warms your chest like a candle. Like that candle he got you randomly in April, after you mentioned your favourite one being used up by your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend. Ugh.

You smile falters for only a second, “Of course. You only mention it to every person that second guesses you.”

He nods and smiles, “Must be my ego.”

You laugh, subconsciously bumping your shoulder with his. But- Jesus. Your stomach is queasy.

“Hey, uh, do you want some travel sickness pills?” He reached over for his satchel but you grab his forearm and smile as convincingly as you can.

“No, no. We’re landing soon, but thank you.”

You’re overreacting.

That’s what he said. When you texted your boyfriend of a year and a half that you thought you were pregnant he said, You’re overreacting. Two words, two hours after your first text, on his day off.

Maybe you are. You started feeling sick on a slightly more gory case, it’s lasted ever since the case started, you get travel sick as well.

The headaches are from the computer screen and stress. The stress is from fatigue. The fatigue is because of the lack of sleep. The lack of sleep is because of the headaches.

Why do you always do this? Always thinking that there’s something wrong with you. Always being the biggest person in your own life, selfish.

But… what if?

There’s a sudden squeak from behind you, and you instantly snapped out of it. You took a deep breath and looked at your surroundings. You were at your desk, standing, the strap of your bag clutched in your hands - god, your knuckles were white. Your eyes darted in surprise and confusion, and you jumped once again when Spencer spoke into the silence.

“You okay?”

“Um…”

You didn’t look back at him, only looking down at your shoes and taking a deep breath. You plastered on a smile despite the bile collecting in your throat.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve gonna go, the bus leaves at um…”

You took out your phone. He didn’t even respond to your text asking him to pick you up.

“I’ll drive you home. But uh, I gotta pick up some groceries. I hope you don’t mind.”

He curved to your desk and gently took your bag from your hands, glancing at the way you traced your knuckles and how the leather strap now had slight wrinkles in it. He smiled, warmly. And he started walking like you rejecting the idea wasn’t an option.

Which is wasn’t, because he knew you too well.

“Well, a cucumber actually has 3% more water than watermelon. So if you really want a refreshing snack, cucumber is your man.”

You smiled and raised your eyebrows in interest. He’s had many vegetables and fruits in the basket, not a lot of protein. Explained a lot.

My man, you thought with a smile.

My man, you shivered.

“I don’t like cucumbers.” You said like it was distraction, and he nodded, picking up some kewpie mayo as he you around to the next aisle. He glanced at you,

“I know. You say it’s tasteless. I like it.” He shrugged.

“I know.” You smiled, and he smiles back.

God, you wish you could bask in it, the warmth. But your chest was still tingly, and your heart hadn’t stopped aching ever since you got excited about an email notification.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay? I noticed you’ve been tense for like… a week.” He grabbed some pasta sauce and put his hand on your shoulder to turn you around - you obviously looked too far into your own head.

“Yeah, just feeling-“

“Y/n.” He turned to you, stopping your venture into the dairy aisle. His eyes were hard, worried. The fluorescent lights swayed slightly. A worker walked by the end of the aisle with a trolley full of food.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t,” he lifted one arm, wanting to rest his hand on your upper arm, to help you, “Don’t say sorry. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“I have been feeling sick. That’s true. And I’ve been stressed and, thinking a lot. A lot.”

It felt weird to nearly tell Spencer about your relationship problems. It was like complaining to a doctor about healing crystals. It was like a slap in the face. Maybe that’s why you never did tell him about it, because it was facing your fears.

It was the pros and cons list made by Penelope.

But I’m overreacting.

“It’s nothing.”

Spencer sighed. You had that habit, of nearly opening up, and then shutting the door just as he was about to walk in.

You heard his sigh.

“Okay. I gave Lloyd my car because he has the day off, and he likes going to his friends houses on his days off. And, I told him something that should probably freak him out. But he doesn’t really care. I don’t think he really cares, about anything. At least about me.”

You started walking, because holy shit you’ve never said that out loud before, and Spencer followed you,

“Y/n, if you want to tell me something-“

“I think I’m pregnant.” You stopped, and started picking at your fingers, acting as if it was admitting to not knowing your left and rights, or that you don’t really like coconut.

His eyes widen, and his heart drops. It was like his worst nightmare coming true- jesus, how could he even think about himself right now? The girl he loved felt trapped with a man she thought might be the father of her baby.

Spencer gulped, “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

You looked at each other, scared, you more than him. And then you cringed,

“God, I’m sorry Spencer. I shouldn’t have said anything-“

“No- Y/n, it’s fine. I’m glad you told me-“

“I haven’t even, like, taken a test yet-“

“Wait so-”

You spun on your heel and looked at him exasperated.

“So… let’s go get some tests.” He said (he hopes) calmly. He was really trying, to pretend to be calm and collected. That’s what you needed, a clear head to replace yours.

He paid for everything, even the 5 pregnancy tests and the over sized lollipop you put in the basket to ease your nerves later on.

The moon was high, you were about three hours late to get home now, and your head was attacking itself with rambles and aches and honestly, you were sick of it.

You shivered, huddling in your jacket and drawing only slightly closer to Spencer. His silence was like a hook, drawing you in closer and higher and taking every word you had been thinking that day to the tip of your tongue.

You looked up to him. His hair fell into his eyes, the breeze reddening his cheeks slightly.

It’s Spencer. You’ve known him for nearly 6 years, but it feels like you’ve known each other for ever. You know everything about him, and he knows everything about you. Well, not everything. He doesn’t know how you feel in your own apartment, how every anniversary had been forgotten even when it was the ‘1 year’ mark, how you felt like you were raising an over grown child who could drink.

He knows you’re strong, but admitting all that? I’d look weak.

You have looked weak in front of Spencer. He stayed overnight in your hospital room, he held you when you watched a little girl die, he wiped your tears when you watched a sad short film during your break.

You couldn’t hide anything from him.

“I don’t think I’m pregnant- Well, I mean I might be, but there’s a very low chance,” You started, Spencer’s jaw clenched for a millisecond, “I’ve just been feeling sick and… it could be because of stress from work, or just general stress- like, I don’t know.”

Spencer moved the grocery bag to his other hand.

“Kids are great, don’t get me wrong. Some people don’t get the chance to have kids. I mean…” You gulped, and Spencer finally looked down at you. But now, all you could do was stare at the car park’s concrete floor. Speaking out loud was like clearing your brain, the fog was lifting. “Lloyd doesn’t want kids. I do, at least in the future, not right now. I just hope it’s not with-“ You cut yourself off, and slow down a bit. Spencer matches your pace.

I just hope it’s not with him.

He gulps, and clears his throat, looking down at you with understanding eyes, “With everything that’s going on.”

“Yeah… yeah. You know, my job, my…” It’s no use lying to Spencer. He knows. He’s known, for a long time.

Your chest was tight, and you made eye contact with the pregnancy tests lying on top of Spencer’s groceries. The thought of going home, rushing to the bathroom, avoiding your boyfriend who was already waiting angry, made your throat close up. Because only now, when you were three hours late from work and ignoring his one attempt at a phone call, Lloyd texted, ‘I think you need to calm down.’ It was a bare minimum, and finally Spencer could see you realizing it.

No, ‘Wre you okay?’, ‘What’s making you think this?’ ‘Where are you?’

No. He was making you out to be the crazy one, the one to be over thinking, over bearing, too much.

You were confused. To put it blankly. And scared. And questioning your life decisions. And honestly you just wanted to curl up in a ball and to have Spencer make you bad cucumber salad at his warm apartment.

You looked up to Spencer but he was already looking down at you, reaching for his keys and nodding, “You can come to mine, it’ll be okay.”

taglist (open) - @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es @0108s22m @aurorsworld @theoraekenslover @c-losur3 @littlelearningbrat @khxna @laurakirsten0502 @cultish-corner

#criminal minds #spencer reid #cm #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid oneshot #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic

365 notes · View notes

starsreality · 2 days ago

Text

I’ve been experimenting with a lot of different subliminals styles lately to best intercept your subconscious, and I have to say, I’m really excited about how this one turned out. I think it’s got something special to it—definitely one of my favorites so far.

The DEATH subliminal detaches you from the 3D and putting your focus back onto the 4D, surrendering the need to obsessively control your desire and observe the 3D while the BIRTH subliminal grounds you to your desire, making it feel natural and gives you faith to persist in your assumption no matter the circumstances.

youtube

57 notes · View notes

ingravinoveritas · 2 days ago

Text

My contribution to Azirafeast 2024 (albeit a few days late):

One thing that I really, really love about Good Omens and particularly Aziraphale is that he is a truly one-of-a-kind character. Crowley is wonderful, but he’s somewhat of an archetype of that cynical, tough on the outside/soft on the inside character that we’ve seen in other shows and movies (though of course given a uniquely delightful touch in both the writing of the book and by David in the show).

But Aziraphale broke the damn mold.

I’ve been in a lot other fandoms and one thing that's common to all of them is questions like “Which Disney character would [Character/Actor/Band member] be?”. Yet if I attempted to do the reverse, to choose any band or characters from another medium and say which GO characters they are, I don’t think there could ever be an analog for Aziraphale, because he’s just too him.

Aziraphale is too him to be another Gabriel clone, too him to put a piece of paper over and try to trace his outline on someone else. (And that’s in no small part due to the brilliantly nuanced performance of Michael Sheen, who brings Aziraphale to fully-realized life, takes that certain indefinable quality that makes Aziraphale who he is, and cranks it up to a thousand.)

Aziraphale is incredibly special to Michael, and now he's become incredibly special to us. Aziraphale is indelible, unforgettable…and absolutely one-of-a-kind.

#good omens #aziraphale #azirafeast #azirafeast 2024 #this is an update of an old post #there truly is no character quite like Aziraphale out there #in large part because of how Michael plays him #and i am here for it #i also think the line between character and actor is quite blurred in Michael's case #because somewhere in his soul he *is* the angel #and is able to be Aziraphale so completely because of that #<3 #thoughts #discourse

48 notes · View notes

scootingaround12 · 3 days ago

Text

So I’ve been on kinda a Star Trek lower decks kick lately and one idea I’ve come across that won’t leave me alone is that Brad Boimlers is an augmented human.

Like maybe one or more of his parents had health issues/problems that they really didn’t want passed down to their child/ would make it so that child wouldn’t survive to adulthood.

But they were still desperate for a biological child of their own so ended up going to some shady doctor/scientist who said that they would rewrite the baby’s genetic code enough so that it wouldn’t have the health issues but still be there’s genetically.

In order to do this they basically had to create DNA that self replicated and healed as the baby lived so that none of the health conditions would kill him. It was partly successful, while Brad is very frail and displays a lot of the health issues and allergies of his parent/s he’s still able to mostly be healthy.

An unforeseen side effect of this was purple hair and that when enough adrenaline is pumping and the body feels like it has to go into survival mode the self healing DNA kicks into overdrive and he’s somehow able to survive experiences that would kill most others.

Seriously he’s come back from death/near death like 3 times and off the top of my head survived falling off a mountain with a local stating he’s the first she’s seen live afterwards in a current episode.

Also this is absolutely me looking way to deeply into a joke but I’m on a roll so hear we go: Mariner makes a comment that no Brad isn’t aging in reverse he just doesn’t get enough vitamins, what if due to his DNA constantly having to repair itself it basically leaches important vitamins and minerals from his body resulting in Brad being underweight and scrawny he also has problem digesting certain foods so has a hard time getting nutrients from that. He definitely should be on some kind of medical grade supplements but he’s delt with it his entire life and to him it’s normal (his parents were not risking taking him to a doctor more than they had to in fear they might find something out).

The whole but about him dying his hair could be him being paranoid about Starfleet listening to logs and him trying to cover his tracks if his hairs ever brought up. Also another person mentioned his admiration of Una to me and watching the episode it honestly felt deliberate with how clearly he hero worships her along with mentioning how he joined star fleet because of her, Una who’s Illyrian species known for it’s genetic modifications.

I’m thinking that Brad is a genetically modified human and starfleet as a strict no augmented humans allowed rule due to past experiences and worries they have about their unstable DNA.

Brad however has always dreamed of being in starfleet so despite the risks joins claiming to be just a regular human who some less than great genetics.

Honestly I think it could also be a really interesting way to show the not so nice and downright prejudice aspects of starfleet as a whole.

Especially if Brad is ever found out, since not only would he be kicked out he’d most likely be arrested for lying to starfleet about being an augmented human.

Starfleet is in no way prepared for the fury that is mariner, Tendi and Rutherford along with the entire cerritos crew coming for them.

#star trek lower decks #Star Trek #lower decks #brad boimler #headcanon #beckett mariner #d'vana tendi #sam rutherford #au #spoilers

49 notes · View notes

er-osion · 3 days ago

Text

Cruel Summer

pairing: Kaz Brekker x gn!Reader

summary: A fic based on the song Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift. Reader is a Crow and has unfortunately fallen for their boss in the summer heat spell.

word count: 2.2k

warnings: none, fluff

you can see the full taylor swift song-fic masterlist here

⋄∘∗⋅⋆≁≁⋆⋅∗∘⋄

You always seem to forget how unbearably hot Ketterdam can get in the summer, especially during a heat wave. Your skin is sweltering and sticking uncomfortably to your clothes. The summer sun is bright and accosting, hanging high above your head in the clear blue sky. You greatly missed the typical overcast weather and fog. The Crow Club was just a few blocks away, all you had to do was hold on until you got there, and then you could collapse at the bar and scarf down an icy drink. The mere idea of a cool beverage put a weary smile on your face and added a pep to your step.

The Club was rather full for a weekday afternoon. However, it made sense that people would be wanting to beat the heat here. Entertainment, food, drinks, and a relatively cool space, you didn’t blame the ‘pigeons’ one bit. Even though you knew he hated the heat, Kaz was always happy to see the boom in business during heat waves like this. You shook your head defiantly. This has been happening lately. Kaz, your boss, had been popping up in your head as of late, and at the most unnecessary times. Suddenly you’d become concerned with his likes, dislikes, moods, health, and so on and it was bugging you as all get-out.

It’s not that you didn’t like Kaz, quite the opposite, you liked and respected him a lot. He is, dare you say, a friend. But you didn’t think about your other friends as often as you did your cane-wielding boss, and that is the issue. You know he’s not a good guy. Though, how could anyone be a good person in this city? He’s bad. He’s honestly nearly a bad friend too. But this knowledge of the obvious has done nothing to discourage your traitorous brain from drawing up images of the man at times when you should certainly be focused on something else.

You arrived at the Club and saw Jesper sitting at the bar clearly waiting for a drink from the bartender. A half smile crept onto your face and you snuck up behind him.

“Hey, Jes.” You said calmly from your sudden place right beside him.

Jesper jumped, “Holy shit, you have got to stop doing that.” Your gunslinging best friend put his hand over his heart, taking deep breaths dramatically as he settled back into his seat.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” You shrugged, feigning innocence. “How’s it going today?”

“I think I might just melt.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” You nodded your head in solemn agreement and ordered a drink. You took a moment to look around the club. You were searching for someone in particular but decided to pretend you were just surveying the floor. “Have you seen Brekker at all?” You questioned without even thinking and as the words left your mouth you wanted to smack yourself.

Jesper’s lips slipped into a teasing smirk as he lay his head in his hands. “I saw him earlier. He was watching the club for a bit and then went up to his office. Why? Is there some job you need to discuss with him? Or are you just looking for some unpleasant company?” Jesper’s tone was goading as he watched your face closely for a reaction.

Your brows furrowed in annoyance and you rolled your eyes. “I was only wondering because I’m not used to not hearing his nags. Usually he’d have griped about something one of us did or didn’t do right and I’m just now realizing how strange it is to not have heard that already.”

Jesper hummed, and you couldn’t tell if he was convinced or not. “Well if you’re looking to sour your already lovely mood, I’m sure you can find him in his office.”

You scoffed and motioned to the bartender for another drink, but not for you this time. “I think I’ve had my fill of Jesper Fahey for the day. I’ll go make sure the boss man hasn’t melted into a puddle with his layered wardrobe.” You got up from your stool and elected to ignore the teasing comment the gunslinger threw your way as you shuffled through the crowd and toward Kaz’s office.

You knocked on the wooden door and waited a few seconds before cracking the door slowly and entering. You were going to say something as you entered the room but the words died on your tongue when you caught sight of your boss.

Kaz was sitting at his large desk, a gift you and the other Crows had all pitched in to get him two years prior. His eyes were focused intently on the stack of papers in front of him, and you noticed how his styled hair threatened to fall apart and into his face. His jacket was hanging on the back of his leather chair. The top buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned and the sleeves of the black shirt had been rolled up past his forearms. The sunlight was streaming in through the two windows in the room, illuminating all the dust floaties that typically annoy you but at the moment seemed magical. All in all, your brain short circuited.

You stood there for several seconds, unmoving, simply staring watching Kaz in all his glory.

“Did you need something?” Kaz’s gruff voice broke you out of your stupor.

“Just came to give you this, really.” You explained carefully, walking toward him slowly and setting his drink down on the edge of the wooden desk. Kaz eyed the drink suspiciously with a raised eyebrow. “It wouldn’t exactly be good for my paycheck if you died of heat stroke.” You supplemented.

“How heroic of you.” Kaz scoffed, unimpressed and put his attention back on the papers in front of him. You rolled your eyes and looked around the room.

You grabbed one of the chairs in front of your boss’s desk and dragged it quietly to the window. He hadn’t told you to get lost, and for some reason, there wasn’t anywhere you’d rather be than Kaz’s stuffy office, right now. You sat down and pulled a book from your bag. You took one last cautious glance at Brekker before settling down into your chair and picking up your book from where you’d left off.

You spent the next several hours like this. You wouldn’t have even noticed any time had passed were it not for the movement of your light source –the sun. Somehow, this moment felt so clandestine. There was something so unnervingly domestic in the hours you’d just spent together. So unnerving that it felt as if the whole thing was some deep secret the two of you must take to your graves in order to keep your peace. You gently closed your book, as it had become a strain on your eyes to read in the dim lighting. You looked up at Kaz and saw he was getting out of his chair. Brekker unrolled his sleeves and you found yourself missing the delicious sight of his veiny forearms. Control yourself, you begged internally. Kaz slid on his jacket and purposefully put all his papers away. Then he turned to you and gave you an expectant look that had your heart hammering in your chest.

“Time to go, then?” You asked rhetorically, getting up as well and re-shouldering your bag.

In truth, Kaz had originally planned on working in his office at the club for a few more hours. In fact, he had also been planning on doing another round of surveying the floor a couple of hours ago, but had not done so. At the time, he didn’t want to leave your company and now, didn’t want you hurting your eyes trying to keep him company. Kaz picked up the empty glass on his desk to drop off at the bar on your way out. It had been his favorite summer drink. When did you figure that out? Did you even know? Either way, Dirtyhands had enjoyed the beverage far more than he should have.

You and Kaz walked together down the cobblestone road from the Club to the Slat. A comfortable silence hung between the two of you. Night had fallen so the street lights provided the only cheap illumination of the uneven pathway ahead. The temperature was still hotter than you’d ever prefer, but there was a constant cool breeze that kept you from staggering under the hot heavy air. Kaz’s cane clicked rhythmically against the ground as the two of you meandered toward the Slat.

You risked a glance at the boy beside you and felt your breath catch. It wasn’t fair. How could someone look so pretty just existing? Everyone would surely laugh you out of Kerch if they heard you thought the infamous Dirtyhands was pretty. But it’s true, in the weirdest of ways, Kaz Brekker is very pretty.

“Is there something on my face?” Kaz probed suddenly.

“Huh?” You blinked in surprise at the unanticipated interruption of the fragile silence.

“I said; Is there something on my face? You’re staring.”

You felt your face heat up in embarrassment at getting caught ogling. “Yes, I was trying to figure out what it was. It’s right here.” You lied with confidence, pointing to a random spot along your chin to show where you’d found the invisible spot on his face.

Kaz’s eyebrows pulled together in confusion and offense, but brushed his chin anyway.

“There you go.” You reassured him with a lilt.

“That book you were reading earlier…” Kaz paused, for the first time in a long time seemingly unsure about his next words, “is it good?” His voice grew quieter at the end and your lips pulled into an excited grin.

You instantly began an enthusiastic ramble about your latest book. Describing in detail the plot and your favorite and least favorite characters with rapid hand motions. Kaz originally only watched you through short glances, but quickly he took to rapt attention. You had enthralled him. The Bastard of the Barrel gazed with uncharacteristic interest as you went off about the book, mentally taking notes about all the things you spoke about with increased passion. He decided right then and there that his first errand tomorrow would be to the bookstore. He was overcome with the unusual desire to engage you in an equally eager discussion about this book he’d previously never heard of.

Kaz drank in your form and felt his heart thundering in his chest. He was growing warmer, and he subconsciously knew the weather was not to blame. Against the dark backdrop of the night and draped in the honey-color lamp light Kaz Brekker was sure you were an angel. Rolling your eyes at the stupid decisions a character you were describing had made, Kaz felt his heart roll with you.

Kaz kept you engaged by asking further questions about the book, specific enough to tell you he’d been listening attentively. Your heart soared at this demonstration and your grin widened impossibly. Words could not describe the joy this boy was giving you in this moment.

And all of the sudden, like a rock slide, your minds hit both of you with possibly the scariest and worst realization.

I love you.

The words were heavy on your tongues, too heavy to convey. Those three life changing words were not uttered, but the mutual realization was rocking. And as if your minds were truly connected, the both of you immediately blamed the dreaded summer for this unexpected awareness of your own feelings. It was this cruel summer to blame, obviously. The characteristic heat and the light of summer that was so unusual for Ketterdam that it made it easier to romanticize things. It tricked you. Lightening the quintessential gloomy mood of the Barrel and erupting feelings not fit for the reality of this city.

But at the same time, maybe it wasn’t so bad. You were putting the pieces together and finally understood the real reason behind your recently pleasant mood. Falling in love with Kaz Brekker, the Bastard of the Barrel, may not be the smartest decision, but it was a decision that evoked the most wonderful feelings. Your skin was itching and butterflies danced in your stomach but you had no desire to get rid of them. You embraced them, because they were proof of your love for the young man beside you.

Kaz now understood why so many great novels were centered around love. Dirtyhands was slowly coming to the conclusion that his recent special interest in you was not without reason. And yes, it was terrifying. Yes, it was perturbing. But if this feeling is love –and he was unfortunately sure that’s what this is– then he can’t imagine trying to get rid of it. Kaz Brekker can no longer picture a life where he does not love you, and this picture is becoming less and less frightening by the minute.

You’re washed with elation when you notice the barest ghost of a smile gracing Kaz’s carved features. How can a man not be happy in your presence?

Summer can be awful. It can be uncomfortable. It can be agonizing. But it can also be a gift. Or rather, in the Barrel, it can come bearing gifts. Like the gift of loving someone who’s been by your side for many summers prior, and hopefully will be for many summers more.

#kaz brekker x reader #x reader #kaz brekker #kaz brekker x you #grishaverse #x you #six of crows #kaz brekker fanfic #kaz brekker fic #grishaverse x reader #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker fluff #song fic #taylor swift song fic #kaz brekker song fic

32 notes · View notes

raven-at-the-writing-desk · 11 hours ago

Note

Well if given how the anime will adapt the Manga, it makes me wonder about the savanaclaw adaptation given how many delays due to the artist's personal life that octavinelle Manga came around and is now have overblot Chapter before Savanaclaw does. I wonder if the author will have time to finish it and given how heartslabyul will release in October 2025, it might take awhile to animate savanaclaw.

[Referencing this news!]

Decided to put these together because the topics were similar enough and I have similar advice for both asks. To briefly clarify the second ask, I believe the Anon made a typo and meant to say "Yana Toboso was NOT involved in the anime's production". This is because Yana made a tweet recently stating that she and her team were surprised and honored that they were making an anime adaptation based on the manga.

Now, about the first ask: we are not aware of what the manga and anime creation process looks like for Twst. Yes, the Savanaclaw manga has had a number of delays, but we cannot be sure if this impacts the anime at all. For example, we don't know how much of the Episode of Savanaclaw anime is even done yet. We don't know if the anime team is going to be in talks with the mangaka to coordinate things. We don't know when the Episode of Savanaclaw will air (and for all we know, it could give the mangaka ample time to finish up). There are many things we do not know, so it would be VERY hasty to conclude anything now.

Regarding the second ask: Yes, it does seem like Yana had no involvement in the anime. This, however, should NOT be taken as an immediate sign that the anime will be poor quality or that the anime will deviate from the main story in large (and bad) ways. Nothing of the news we've heard so far would indicate any sweeping changes. This is equating a past occurrence with something that has yet to even happen without even knowing if the production circumstances are even the same between them. The only thing we know that is linking the animes of early Black Butler and Twst is Yana's lack of involvement. This doesn't account for ANY other factors in production, and it's also assuming that Yana's mere presence makes a product good--and, conversely, her absence automatically makes a product bad. I don't think this is the way to go, as it's jumping to conclusions based on minimal evidence and it's putting way too much weight on Yana's shoulders to carry the quality of the Twst anime.

And that brings me to the thread linking together not just these two asks, but a lot of the anime-related posts and asks that I've been seeing as of late: fearmongering and doomposting. Lots of it.

As I’ve said multiple times now, it's fine to be hesitant about the anime. I'm hesitant of it myself! However, let’s not draw preemptive conclusions or fret over what are ultimately hypotheticals. It’s so far off, and we have zero of the actual final product to look at and judge the quality of. I'm seeing so many people make mountains out of molehills, working themselves up over nothing, assuming the worst-case scenarios... 💦 and again, all of this based on little to no information. I can't help but that time and energy could be better spent on other fandom efforts or things we actively enjoy. It's valid to be anxious about the anime and how it presents something we care so much about, but putting those feelings in a public space paints the fandom in a bad light. It gives the impression that we'll jump the gun and claim something is bad before letting the product speak for itself. If you're a current Twst fan that is excited for the anime, it may not feel so good seeing others theorizing about how bad it will be. If you're a potential new Twst fan seeing this stuff, you'd feel very unwelcome or unwanted. I worry this will fester and create divides in the community... unintentionally creating an environment that isn't fun to be in, and that's the antithesis of what I think fandom should be. I guess I'll end on this note: There is a difference between being healthily skeptical and assuming the worst of a production. Please take a moment to reexamine your concerns about the anime and ask yourself "Is this a reasonable fear?", "What am I basing this off of?", and, "How, if at all, will this affect my own enjoyment of Twst?" If it gets to be too much for you, then please, please step away from social media (where a lot of these fears are being touted) and take a break. Do something you like, take a walk, whatever. I just beg of you, don't allow yourself to be consumed by feelings that will bleed the fun of fandom out of you 💦

#disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twisted wonderland #twst #twst anime #twisted wonderland anime #notes from the writing raven #Black Butler #Kuroshitsuji #advice #episode of savanclaw #episode of savanaclaw manga

37 notes · View notes

jewish-vents · 21 hours ago

Note

I’ve been thinking a lot about the musical Cabaret recently- I’m a fan, and I remember at live shows you’d get reactions of shock and horror from audience members who didn’t know what to expect. Like the one scene where the performer in a gorilla costume is revealed to be a parody of a Jew- people used to go ‘oh my god’ at that, and at themselves, because up until that moment the bit is funny and they’re laughing along. And now I think… would people stop laughing? Cabaret is about how insidious this hatred is, how it creeps up on you, how people make excuses until it’s too late. I wish I could sit these idiots down and explain to them that this is exactly what they’re doing. How is it that in a play it’s obvious that what’s going on is wrong and terrifying but when it’s happening in real life so many people can’t see it??

#jewish vents #antisemitism

24 notes · View notes

bunnymami13 · 2 days ago

Text

male friendships

a little stream of consciousness… this is probably gonna make no sense but i’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

i’ve been finding it hard to be around my male friends lately and to engage with them in a meaningful and positive way.

i feel like there has always been a subconscious disengaging on my part to ignore the fact that even if they are my friends, they’re still men. and so many men hate women.

they hate us.

some in smaller and some in bigger ways but lately i’ve been finding it hard to feel connected to them, almost like the glass finally shattered and i can’t put it back together again.

it’s like i’m noticing all these small things they would say about women that seem like jokes but are so deeply rooted in the patriarchy. it’s like no matter how kind they seem they still hate women.

i’m trying to figure out what i’m going to do now that i’ve learned this about the people in my life.

if anyone reads this and has something to add or any advice i’d be happy to talk about this some more

23 notes · View notes

hoe4hotchner · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 9 - Sectionals

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: 12.4k

Warnings: Tense atmosphere, explosion, anxiety and uncertainty, protective behavior, law enforcement taking charge, mentions of potential danger, team coordination, emotional reassurance, crisis response.

A/N: I've been so busy lately that this chapter took way longer than expected, but here it is, and I hope you enjoy it.

Masterlist

The drive to the arena was tense, the silence between you and the rest of the team hung heavy in the air. None of you dared to break it, knowing any conversation would inevitably turn to strategizing — and a discussion that could mean the difference between life and death for you. The silence was only broken by the steady hum of the SUV’s engine as Hotch drove closer and closer to the arena.

The city blurred past in a haze of neon signs and glowing streetlights, muted by the darkness of the tinted windows as the sun started rising out in the distance. You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, while Hotch remained focused on the road. His grip on the steering wheel was tight. It occasionally became tighter, you noticed his knuckles whitening, his expression was unreadable, but the faint crease in his brow betrayed the weight of his thoughts — you wondered what exactly he was thinking about, although you could probably imagine what it was.

Behind you, the team followed in two other SUVs, their presence both reassuring and unnerving. You couldn't see them, but you could almost feel their concern for you and their focus on the job at hand. Because that was what it was to them — a job. Despite how close you'd grown to the team, situations like this would always just feel like a job to them, while to you it could mean the end.

As the arena came into view, its massive structure rose against the skyline, the glowing display flashing the name of the event. You could sense the crowds of people flowing through the open entrance, their excited chatter muffled by the glass of the SUV. Competitors lugged their gear, some laughing, others stone-faced, and some with pre-competition nerves, while spectators bundled in scarves and coats hurried inside, eager to escape the cold outdoors.

Your chest tightened as your gaze lingered on the doors.

Hotch glanced over at you briefly. His steady presence had been a constant since the case began. He didn’t need to say much to steady you; his composed and authoritative demeanor spoke volumes. “We’re almost there,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the silence and the jumble of thoughts racing through your mind.

You nodded, your eyes fixed on the road as Hotch turned to enter the parking lot at the back of the arena, meant for staff only. You drew in a deep breath. The moment settled heavily on your chest, but you found enough strength to murmur, “Thank you, Hotch. For… everything. I know I haven’t made it easy at times.” The words felt awkward as they left your lips, catching slightly in your throat, but they were true.

“Don't worry about it," He put a hand on your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before removing it again. "You’ve been handling more than most people could,” he replied, his voice was low. His eyes flicked toward you again, and this time, a small, reassuring smile softened his features. “You’re stronger than you realize. I’ve seen it, and I know you’re going to get through this.”

Those words lingered in your mind, they were reassuring to you as the SUVs pulled into the designated area that had been blocked off by the arena’s back entrance. Staff waved the vehicles into position, their movements efficient and practiced — they had clearly been trained to do so, you thought. The low rumble of the engines faded as Hotch shifted into park and shut the car off. You opened the door, and the moment you stepped out, a burst of crisp air greeted you — it was nice.

You adjusted your jacket, the motion almost instinctive, and drew in a steadying breath, letting the cold air settle your nerves. Behind you, the car door shut with a solid thud as Hotch stepped out as well. Straightening your posture, you turned to face the scene ahead.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement as the rest of the team approached from the second SUV. They closed the distance quickly, their expressions reflecting a shared determination to do whatever it'll take to keep you — and to some extent the other skaters — safe and hopefully catch the unsub if he decides to show up.

“You ready to show everyone what you’re made of?” JJ asked, her voice was gentle. She rested a hand lightly on your shoulder.

You met her gaze and forced a small smile, the weight of the moment pressing on your chest but not breaking you — not like it would've without them. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied, your voice was steady, even though your heart raced.

They didn’t press for more. Their quiet support spoke volumes. You felt the strength of their presence in the air.

Hotch stepped closer, placing a steady hand on your shoulder. His grip was brief but firm, and before he let go, his words followed in its wake. “We’ll be here the whole time,” he said. “If you need anything, just let us know.”

With a deep breath, you nodded, hiking your gear bag up on your shoulder to get a better grip — Morgan had offered to carry it, but you declined, wanting to feel the weight of your stuff. The moment was still heavy but it felt more manageable. Together, you walked toward the arena’s entrance, the team moving seamlessly as a shield around you. The sound of your footsteps mixed with the distant hum of voices.

The crowd inside was thick, a mix of families, coaches, and fellow skaters, each group immersed in their own world of preparation and excitement. The backstage area was alive with chatter, the buzz of anticipation rising, and you could feel the collective energy as people moved around, some barely noticing the presence of the FBI agents at your side. But others — more curious — turned their heads, whispering amongst themselves, eyes briefly falling on you and the imposing figures accompanying you.

The whispers felt distant, and detached, almost as if they were happening to someone else. You tried to focus on the competition at hand, but despite the support surrounding you, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being utterly alone in the face of it all, especially with Branson missing — he was supposed to be here.

The familiar scent of the ice and the competition hit you the moment you walked past an open door into the rink — a mix of cold air, buttery popcorn, and the faint, metallic scent of blades. It was a smell that carried memories, memories of countless hours spent on the rink at home, memories of minor competitions that held no weight now, of dreams that had once seemed without reach — but now were closer than ever before. For a brief moment, you paused, standing still trying to ground yourself. The sound of the crowd was distant, and it felt muted.

You could almost feel the echoes of your younger self, the excitement, the determination, the hope. You took one last, steadying breath, letting the familiar air settle in your lungs before turning back to the team. Their faces were set in stoned expressions waiting for you to be ready to move on.

Hotch met your gaze and gave you a nod — a small but powerful gesture. It was the kind of nod that said he trusted you completely, that he believed in you unconditionally, that he gave you the time that you needed, even in the face of the unknown where his constant command would've been safer than letting you take breaks — but your well-being was just as important as your safety. That belief, so clearly reflected in his eyes, gave you strength.

With a deep breath, you squared your shoulders. Each step forward felt like a small victory — each step you were still alive — you were reclaiming your story, the dreams you had held so tightly when entering the skating world.

As you moved down the corridor, the team led you to a locker room that had been specially reserved for you. Hotch had insisted on this extra security measure, making sure you had a private space to prepare, away from the prying eyes of the crowd and any potential threats.

The tension was thick as Hotch and Rossi stopped just outside the locker room door, their expressions unreadable. They exchanged a quick glance and a nod — moving completely in sync — before stepping inside. You stood in the corridor surrounded by the rest of the team, your hands fidgeting in front of you, the nervousness spilling over despite your best efforts to suppress it.

Inside the locker room, Hotch moved with the precision of someone who had done this countless of times before. His eyes swept across the space, gun held ready at his hip as he methodically checked every corner, every shadow, his steps silent. Rossi, just as meticulous, crouched to inspect the lockers and checked the hidden crevices. Their movements synchronized. It was a routine they had perfected over the years, and while its necessity was unsettling, it was also a source of comfort, knowing that they did everything in their power to ensure your safety.

Outside, the seconds dragged on, stretching the silence between being reassured that you would be okay. You caught JJ’s hand briefly, grounding yourself. Even Garcia’s energy had damped for a moment as she reached over to give your arm a squeeze, her eyes brimming with her usual unshakable belief in you.

Finally, the door opened, Hotch and Rossi stepped back into the hallway. Hotch's gaze met yours immediately, the edges of his expression softening just slightly. “All clear,” he said simply, moving away from the entrance to give you the clearance to enter.

As his eyes lingered on yours, he gave you a brief nod, and in that moment, it felt like more than reassurance — it felt like a promise.

With a grateful smile, you stepped into the locker room, the door closing softly behind you. The space was quiet, the kind of stillness that magnified every sound — the faint flicker of the overhead lights as the fluorescent tube lights popped a little, the rustle of your bag as you set it on the bench. Normally, this room would be alive with chatter, nervous laughter, and the hurried sounds of skaters making last-minute adjustments to their costumes. But today — today, it was just you. The solitude felt daunting, you'd much rather have peers to hang around. Despite the competitions between you, you knew that being around the other skaters would've helped you calm your nerves.

You unzipped your bag, pulling out the elegant black costume you’d packed. The fabric shimmered as it caught the light, the rhinestones adorning the bodice and forearms glinting like stars. It was stunning, a dress meant to command attention on the ice, and as you slipped out of your warm clothes and into the costume, it felt like an armor. The fabric against your skin was grounding, the tulle part of the skirt barely covering your upper thighs. The costume was a reminder of the hours you’d poured into perfecting every move and every detail of your performance.

Adjusting the dress in the mirror, you smoothed it over your shoulders. You paused, your hand brushing against the rhinestones as you took a steadying breath, letting the reality sink in — you had made it this far, surely you could make it a couple of hours more.

Sitting down on the bench, you pulled your skates on and laced them tight. You snapped the blade guards into place, the sound of each click echoing in the room. When you stood, the tiles beneath your blades felt foreign for a second, but you balanced yourself easily, the muscle memory of years of practice kicking in.

Your eyes flicked to the mirror again, and for a moment, you simply stared at the reflection. The girl looking back wasn’t just a skater. She was strong and resilient, someone who had weathered unimaginable storms and emerged on the other side stronger than before. You took a moment to meet her gaze, finding strength in her determination.

This was it. The culmination of everything you’d fought for. Straightening your shoulders, you gave yourself a small, confident nod. You weren’t just walking out there to compete — you were reclaiming a piece of yourself, reclaiming your own narrative.

With a last anxious sigh, you walked to the door and cracked it open, your heart pounding as you signaled to the team. The moment they saw you, their expressions shifted, their faces lighting up as they took you in.

Emily reacted first, her eyes widening as they swept over your costume. “You look incredible,” she said, her voice carrying a mixture of awe and pride as she grabbed both your shoulders and leaned back to take your beauty in. Her smile was infectious, and you quickly found yourself smiling back at her as a little of the tension in your chest started melting away.

Garcia was the next, she let out a soft gasp, clasping her hands dramatically over her mouth for a moment to prevent herself from screaming. “Oh, honey,” she squealed. “You’re a vision! They’re not going to know what hit them!”

Hotch lingered at the back for a moment before stepping forward. He didn’t say anything right away, but his gaze spoke volumes. His eyes softened as they met yours, his expression filled with belief and encouragement, knowing that you were strong enough to do this. When he finally did speak, his voice was more monotone than you had hoped. “You’re going to do great,” he said, a simple statement. The way he looked at you — it felt like a mix of pride and trust — but it was words you knew he'd never speak out loud, although no matter what you wanted to hear or feel, you knew he was in your corner.

You straightened your shoulders — your back cracking a little as you did — and managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” you said, your voice was quiet. “It means a lot to have you all here.”

Emily grinned and nudged you playfully. “We wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Now go out there and show them how to win.”

Standing in the doorway to the locker room, you stared at the team, gathered together in a circle around. Months of preparation, countless grueling hours of training, and the ever-present threat that had loomed over you leading up to sectionals were settling in your stomach. It all felt like it was catching up with you now, making each breath harder to take.

You’d faced competitions before, even high-stakes ones early on in your journey where the pressure had been almost unbearable, but this was different. This time, it wasn’t just about winning. It wasn’t just another event to check off a list — it was everything. The culmination of every sacrifice, every setback, every late-night practice, and every moment you’d fought to get to this place. And with it, a vulnerability you couldn’t shake, a sense that so much more was riding on this than you’d ever allowed yourself to acknowledge before.

Can I do this? The question echoed in your mind loud enough to make your body tense up. The nerves were so overwhelming that you had to fist your hands so you wouldn't shake. The anticipation was almost suffocating, and it felt like there was no room for doubt, no time for hesitation.

As if sensing your internal turmoil, Hotch stepped in. There was no hesitation in his movements, no uncertainty in him. His authority radiated, drawing the team’s focus back to the mission as he began to address the group.

“Alright, everyone, listen up,” Hotch began, his tone was sharp. “While she’s on the ice, we’ll be operating in two key positions: interior and exterior monitoring. Emily and JJ, you’ll be stationed at the arena entrance and rinkside doors. I want both of you on high alert for any unusual movement or non-ticketed entries. We’re not taking any chances. If anyone looks out of place or tries to slip by, I want eyes on them immediately. You’ll have comms linked directly to the rest of us on the interior.”

His eyes scanned the room, ensuring everyone was absorbing the information. “Maintain clear visual contact at all times — especially if large crowds are entering or exiting. Don’t let anything slip under the radar.”

Emily nodded quickly, her hand already reaching for the comm device on her belt to place it in her ear. “Got it, Hotch.” Her voice was confident.

Hotch’s gaze briefly shifted between the two of them, a subtle nod of approval in response to their readiness. But he didn’t linger; there was no time for that. His focus sharpened again as he continued to lay out the plan. You could feel the shift in the room.

Hotch turned to Garcia next. “Penelope, you’ll be monitoring security feeds in the surveillance room with stadium security. I need real-time video feeds on all arena exits, the main rink, and the locker room corridor. Any gaps in the footage — no matter how small — need to be flagged and investigated immediately. If anything, even remotely suspicious comes up, I want to know about it. We’ll have a secondary comm channel open for you, in case you need to escalate something right away.”

Garcia’s eyes lit up with her usual enthusiasm as she slipped her earpiece in. “Consider it done, boss-man. I’ll keep my eyes peeled. If anyone so much as sneezes suspiciously, I’ll catch it.” Her voice was light-hearted and confident with the sharp focus that always defined her when it counted.

Hotch gave her a quick, appreciative nod before his gaze shifted to Morgan and Reid. His posture remained alert. “Morgan, Reid — I want you both covering the back entrance. Ensure no one slips in unauthorized. You’re on backup detail in case there’s any movement that needs immediate attention.”

Morgan nodded firmly. “We’ll keep a close watch, Hotch. Nothing’s getting past us.”

Reid, who had already started analyzing the arena layout in his mind, added with his usual systematic accuracy, “We’ll also do a sweep of the corridor near the locker rooms.”

Hotch’s eyes flicked to both of them, he had trust in their abilities. “Good. Make sure you’re ready for anything. The moment something’s off, I want to know about it.”

Finally, Hotch turned to Rossi. “Dave, you and I will stay rinkside. We’ll be the first point of contact if anything happens, and we can coordinate directly with the rest of the team from there. We’ll be covering her from every angle.”

Rossi met his gaze with a nod. “You got it, Aaron.” There was no hesitation in his voice, just the confidence of someone who had been in countless high-pressure situations before — and had made it out alive every single one of them.

Lastly, Hotch turned to you, his gaze softening slightly, though his tone stayed constant. “You’re going to be in our constant sightline while you’re on the ice,” he said. “If anything feels wrong, don’t push through it. You signal to us, and we’ll handle the rest.”

You nodded, comforted by the structure and clear plan Hotch had concocted. He’d thought of everything, and accounted for every possible risk, ensuring that you wouldn’t have to shoulder anything if it was up to him. It eased a fraction of the tension that had coiled in your chest. They weren’t just here to watch; they were here to protect, each one stationed like a wall around you. That clarity, that assurance — it was your lifeline.

Around you, the team moved into their positions. Emily’s quick nod, JJ’s reassuring glance, Morgan’s confident stance, Garcia’s friendly smile — all of it steadied the nervous energy threatening to overwhelm you.

As you stood there, letting their presence anchor you, you took a deep breath — a very deep breath.

As everyone began filing out to their positions, Hotch’s hand came up, a subtle but unmistakable signal for you to stay back for a moment. You froze mid-step, glancing up at him in surprise. He motioned toward the locker room, away from the door and prying eyes. It was just the two of you now, the buzz of the arena and the team’s footsteps fading into the background.

He’d noticed the telltale signs — the way your fingers fidgeted with the rhinestone-laden sleeves of your costume, how your teeth pressed into your bottom lip during his briefing, the way your shoulders seemed to sag under invisible doubts. His instincts were always attuned to the smallest details.

“Hey,” he began, his voice was low like he was carefully choosing every word. “Before you go out there, I want you to know something. You’ve got this. You’ve put in the work, and we’re right here with you. Nothing’s going to happen that we aren’t prepared for.”

The warmth in his words was unexpected. But even as his reassurances settled over you, the lingering weight of your fears refused to be fully silenced. Swallowing hard, you found yourself speaking before you could second-guess yourself. “Hotch, I know it’s irrational, but I feel… I don’t know, like I’m not ready, or maybe just not strong enough to do this without him.” The words tumbled out faster than you’d planned, more vulnerable than you'd expected and that surprised even you.

Your eyes dropped to the floor, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze. Instead, you focused on the intricate pattern of the tiles, moving them to your skates, tracing the laces with your eyes as if they held the answers. “Every time I’m about to step on the ice, there’s this voice in my head,” you admitted, your fingers gripping the edge of your sleeves a little tighter. “It keeps telling me I’m not ready… that I don’t have it in me.”

Hotch’s hand reached out, resting firmly yet gently on your shoulder. His touch wasn’t just grounding; it kept you from drifting too far into your spiraling thoughts.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You’ve already proven your strength by coming this far. I know losing Branson has made this feel impossible, and I understand that. But what you’re doing — going out there, honoring all of the victims by competing despite everything — takes more courage than most people will ever know.”

His words hit you like a wave. He spoke with such conviction, as though he could see something in you that you couldn’t.

“But what if — what if I mess up?” you whispered, your voice trembling. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “What if all of this training and everything I’ve done just… falls apart?”

The fear had been gnawing at you for weeks, a persistent whisper in the back of your mind that no amount of practice or preparation had been able to silence. Saying it out loud as if naming it might make it real.

Hotch’s grip on your shoulder tightened. “Then you’ll keep going,” he said, his voice was layered with emotion, but he quickly snapped out of it, “just like you’ve done every time before. Messing up doesn’t change what you’ve accomplished or who you are. And it certainly won’t change how proud everyone is of you. Mistakes don’t define you; what you do next does. And right now, I see someone strong enough to face this, no matter what happens.”

His words cut through the doubt. It wasn’t just what he said — it was the absolute certainty in his tone, the way he delivered like it was fact. You could feel his belief in you.

“Thanks, Hotch,” you murmured, your voice was soft as you looked up at him. Your lips curved into a smile — a genuine smile.

He held your gaze for a moment longer, his own expression softening slightly too. With a firm nod, he released your shoulder, his hand lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Now go out there and show them.”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward ever so slightly and it felt like a spark igniting in your chest. You were ready.

The energy in the arena buzzed, and the hum of the audience seemed to seep into your skin as you stood in the narrow waiting area just off the rink. Your fingers twisted the fabric of your costume, an unconscious attempt to tether your thoughts as your eyes locked on the skater gliding effortlessly across the ice.

Natalia Ivanova.

Even the name carried weight — she was a rising star whose performances had already sparked whispers of greatness within the skating world. She wasn’t just good; she was extraordinary. You’d known that before today, had watched grainy footage of her routines — that Branson somehow had gotten his hands on through some dodgy Russian website — during late-night study sessions, dissecting her artistry and precision. But seeing her in person was an entirely different experience.

Natalia’s presence on the ice was magnetic and held a refined grace. Every movement she made was deliberate, every step part of a larger, perfectly choreographed narrative. Her coach’s reputation preceded her — a great figure in Russian skating known for a ruthless dedication to perfection. The rumors of severe training schedules and discipline seemed to manifest in every controlled motion Natalia delivered. She wasn’t just skating; she owned the ice, bending it to her will.

As she launched into a series of jumps, each one higher and more precise than the last, your breath hitched. Natalia’s triple Lutz was perfection, her spins faster than you'd ever managed, and it blurred into a vortex. Her footwork was sharp and fluid all at once as if the ice itself answered only to her. Watching her was both inspiring and daunting, and it was a reminder of the sheer level of competition you were up against.

The crowd erupted as Natalia neared the end of her routine, their cheers swelling into a roar of approval as she struck her final pose. Arms extended, chin lifted, she held her position for a fraction longer than necessary, commanding the spotlight on her even as the music faded. The applause was deafening.

You exhaled slowly, willing the tightness in your chest to ease. The reality of Natalia’s skill loomed over you. She’d set the bar impossibly high, and now it soon was your turn to step onto the ice, you were scared that competing after such a talented skater would be your certain doom.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the arena, delivering Natalia’s score, it made the crowd erupt once again. It was an impressive number. She was undeniably talented, her performance near-flawless, and now she stood at the top of the leaderboard as the skater to beat. The thought gnawed at you. Could your routine, no matter how tirelessly you had trained, truly stand up to hers? The crowd’s energy seemed to affirm Natalia’s dominance.

Your mind wandered, replaying every hour of practice, every late night spent refining your choreography until the music and movements felt like second nature. You knew you’d worked hard — relentlessly hard — but the small, insidious voice of doubt whispered that maybe it wasn’t enough. That no matter how prepared you thought you were, someone like Natalia was more talented.

Your gaze dropped to the ice, searching for something — focus, courage, clarity? The polished surface reflected the arena lights in fractured glints, as the Zamboni made its way across, preparing the ice for you. You felt the storm of "what ifs" building in your chest until you sensed him behind you. His presence wasn’t loud or invasive, but it was a constant amidst the chaos. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Hotch. His aura was unmistakable.

You could almost sense the picture of him, towering a little over you. The mental picture of a Doberman popped into your head — alert, loyal, fierce — and the image almost made you smile despite the tension coiling in your chest. If Hotch was the guard dog, you were the kitten, small and vulnerable but you were protected. Somehow, that strange picture settled your nerves just enough to let you breathe a little deeper. Hotch had been that way since the night you first met him: a silent guardian who didn’t have to do much to remind you that you were never truly alone in anything you faced.

Natalia glided off the ice with a satisfied attitude as she passed by. Her presence lingered maybe even taunting you, to match what she had just delivered. The weight of it threatened to send you spiraling again, but before it could, Hotch’s voice cut through the noise.

“You’re going to be incredible,” Hotch said, stepping a little closer until his chest was nearly brushing against your back. His voice was calm — maybe a little too calm given the situation. “You’ve got this, no matter what anyone else scores. Remember, this isn’t about them. It’s about you and what you’re here to do.”

You nodded, drawing in a deep breath. There wasn’t an ounce of doubt in his tone, and somehow that steadiness seeped into you, pushing back against the nervous energy buzzing in your chest. Hotch didn’t offer more words, but he didn’t need to. His presence was enough.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena, calling your name, and the atmosphere shifted as the crowd’s attention swung toward you. A murmur rippled through the stands, accompanied by polite applause, but it all blurred into background noise as you took a step forward. The bright lights bore down on you, and the cold, crisp air prickled against your skin, heightening your senses. For a moment it all swelled, threatening to overwhelm you — but then you glanced back.

Hotch was still there, rooted in place, his eyes meeting yours and with a firm and steady gaze, he gave you a small nod. It wasn’t overbearing; it was just enough to remind you of everything, of the people who believed in you and the work that had brought you here.

That nod was all you needed.

You turned toward the ice, exhaling. This was your moment, and you were ready to claim it. As your skates touched the ice you glided to your starting position, the arena’s energy wrapping around you.

The announcer’s voice carried on, introducing you, but just as you reached the center of the rink, his tone shifted. It grew softer, more solemn as if hinting at something — you weren't sure if he would announce it, but you sure hoped he didn't. The slight change sent a surge through the crowd, quieting the murmurs as anticipation settled over the audience.

"And now, representing Quantico, Virginia," the announcer's voice carried through the arena, "a brave young woman who, not long ago, suffered the tragic loss of her longtime coach in a heartbreaking incident that has no doubt deeply affected her journey here today."

The words struck, rumbling through the arena. You froze, the announcement cutting through the confidence you’d just pieced together. It wasn’t just the mention of your coach’s death — it was the way it was framed, so public, so intrusive, as if your grief were a narrative for the world to consume. You hadn’t prepared for this, for the raw wound to be laid bare before thousands of spectators.

From the corner of your eye, you caught the team’s reactions. Morgan’s jaw clenched, JJ's mouth parted in shock, her eyes narrowing in disbelief as she turned sharply toward Hotch from the door. Reid stood just behind Morgan, his brows furrowed, his face carrying a sense of sorrow that spoke to his own experiences with loss. He looked like he wanted to say something, to object, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.

Hotch, however, was unreadable. His body was taut with control, his expression carved from stone as his eyes stayed locked on you. There was no visible anger, no outward sign of the frustration he undoubtedly felt, but the tension radiating from him was unmistakable. His jaw tightened ever so slightly and his hands locked on his hips were the only signs of his frustration with the announcement.

Instinctively, your gaze sought his. Your eyes, wide with disbelief as you silently pleaded with him to do something. Why did they say that? What does this mean? The once-excited hum of the arena was replaced by a heavy and stiff silence. Everything felt too loud and too quiet all at once, your thoughts colliding as you tried to process what had just been said.

When Hotch met your gaze, his response was immediate. He didn’t break eye contact, slowly, he gave you a single, deliberate nod. It wasn’t dismissive, nor was it overly reassuring. Instead, it was an unspoken promise. I’ll handle this, his eyes seemed to convey. But right now, I need you to focus. I’m here.

The crowd’s murmur began to rise again, unsure, but you held onto that connection, that lifeline Hotch had silently extended.

You took a deep breath, reminding yourself of your routine, your hard work — nothing, and no one could take that away.

The arena settled into silence as the lights dimmed, and a single, piercing spotlight illuminated you. For a fleeting moment, the world outside the ice disappeared. The crowd, the noise, even the ache of loss — it all fell away.

You pushed all doubt aside. This was your moment, your chance to honor everything you’d worked. The cold of the ice seeped through the delicate fabric of your costume. It wasn’t uncomfortable — it was nice.

Another breath. Deep, steady, intentional. And then you moved into your starting pose. As the first haunting notes of your music filled the air, the stillness gave way to motion. You stepped forward with the confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times before. The sharp sound of your blades cutting into the ice echoed softly.

The spotlight followed you as the rest of the rink faded into shadow, casting the rhinestones on your costumes into sparks of light. They glittered like fragments of a starry sky, transforming you into something otherworldly under the glow. The shimmering stones caught the light with every subtle movement.

The music flowed soft and melodic, carrying you forward. Each turn, each spin, flowed effortlessly from the next, the choreography imprinted in your muscles from endless repetition.

You leaned into the music, letting it guide you. Your arms arced gracefully through the air as you performed a series of elegant steps, each more intricate than the last. The swish of your blades cutting across the ice was almost hypnotic.

The crowd’s reaction was lost to you — at least, for now. You were no longer aware of anything beyond the ice and your own movements. There was only the rhythm of the music, the glide of your skates, and the rush of adrenaline that propelled you forward.

You felt the audience’s eyes on you, but it didn’t matter. The whispers of the crowd faded away. This was your stage, your moment. You were more than the grief. You were strength, determination, and resilience personified. As you launched into your first jump, the air seemed to hold its breath.

Your legs extended gracefully, kicking high as your body twisted through the air, weightless for that perfect second. Then, you landed, cleanly, your blades biting into the ice with a satisfying sharp The crowd’s gasp of awe rippled through the arena, but you barely registered it. Your focus was unshakable, channeled entirely into your routine.

From that first jump, you flowed seamlessly into the next sequence. The choreography demanded a balance of strength and elegance, a challenge you had spent years perfecting. Each turn, each spin, held power, telling a story that words and pictures never could.

Yet even as you lost yourself in the rhythm of the music and the beauty of your performance, one constant remained. Hotch.

He stood at the far end of the rink, a dark figure blending into the shadows. His eyes were locked on you. But his focus wasn’t just on the grace of your movements or the artistry of your routine — it was on everything. The arena, the audience, the exits, the subtle shifts in energy around the room. He didn’t stop calculating, didn’t stop scanning, his mind constantly processing potential threats and outcomes.

Even in stillness, his posture radiated control. He didn’t draw attention to himself, but there was no mistaking the command he held over the space around him. To the audience, he might have been just another spectator. To you, he was so much more.

As he watched you glide across the ice, his expression softened in a way that most people would never notice. But you would. He saw the fire behind your performance, the resilience you poured into every spin, every leap, every graceful line you created on the ice. He knew the depth of your struggle.

And still, he couldn’t let his guard down. As you moved, so did he, his tall form cutting a purposeful path around the rink’s perimeter. His sharp eyes swept the crowd, assessing every face, every possibility. He wasn’t here to enjoy the show. He was here to protect you.

But even in his attentiveness, his heart wasn’t untouched. With every flawless element of your routine, something entirely different swelled in his chest. He wasn’t one to dwell on sentiment, but watching you out there, defying the odds, he couldn’t help it. You were doing it. You were proving to everyone — and, most importantly, to yourself — that you were unbreakable.

And as you skated through the crescendo of your routine, the crowd held its collective breath, captivated by your story and your skill. Hotch remained on edge. You might have been performing under the bright spotlight, but in his eyes, you were the brightest light of all.

The end of your routine drew near. You could feel the intensity mounting in the air, every note of the melody urging you onward. This was the final stretch, the moment you’d trained for, the pinnacle of everything you’d worked so hard to achieve. Your heart raced, adrenaline flooding your veins as you propelled yourself into the final series of moves.

You spun with unrelenting grace, the rhinestones of your costume catching the spotlight in dazzling bursts. The rink was your stage, and you commanded it with every turn of your body, every subtle shift of your weight.

And then came the moment you had been building toward — the most difficult element of your routine, the leap that required every ounce of your strength, focus, and courage. With a deep inhale, you pushed off, your legs kicking powerfully as you launched yourself into the air. The arena seemed to hold its breath as you soared — knowing fully well the danger of your element — your body twisting in a perfect arc.

When you landed, the ice met your blades with a satisfying slice. The momentum carried you smoothly through the final steps, your movements slowing as the music swelled to its last note. With a fluid motion, you struck your final pose at the center of the rink, poised and frozen in a picture of perfection. The arena was silent.

And then, like the shattering of a dam, the applause erupted. It started as a ripple before surging into a roaring wave, filling the arena with deafening sound. The cheers, whistles, and stomping feet seemed to shake the very ground beneath you. You stood there for a moment, chest heaving with the exhilaration of your performance, your mind struggling to grasp what you had just accomplished.

From the shadows, Hotch’s gaze remained fixed on you. To the untrained eye, he appeared calm, but inside, pride swelled in his chest. He had seen every step of your journey the past few weeks, every struggle and triumph, and now, he watched as you stood victorious.

The applause still echoed around you as the announcer’s voice cut through the air. The crowd hushed slightly, their attention shifting toward the scoreboard. You remained at center ice, your body still, though your fingers twitched at your sides. The adrenaline still coursed through you, making the moment feel both impossibly long and achingly brief.

Your eyes locked onto the scoreboard, the only thing in your line of sight now. Time seemed to slow as the numbers flickered, the world holding its breath alongside you. Your chest rose and fell steadily, but inside, your heart pounded. Waiting, hoping, believing.

Then, the numbers appeared.

"Total Score: 147.56," the board lit up, and the individual breakdown of your program components appeared underneath it:

- Technical Elements: 72.34

- Program Components: 75.22

It was a great score — a strong one, especially when measured against the competition in the competition. The crowd reacted with scattered applause and murmurs of approval, but your gaze instinctively flickered toward the scoreboard again, scanning for context. Just moments before, the Russian skater's score had flashed onto the board. She had also received a 147.56, but with a slightly higher technical mark and a lower program component score.

Your heart leaped in your chest as the realization sank in. The tie, the near mirror image of your scores, seemed almost impossible given how flawless her performance had been. The breath you had been holding came out in a shaky exhale. This was more than good; it was remarkable. You had stood your ground against one of the most highly praised skaters of the season — the one glorified as the "rising star" and "unbeatable." And here you were, matching her score.

But a flicker of doubt pushed its way into your mind. Your eyes darted back to her, standing by the sidelines, her posture rigid as her score glowed next to yours. Her expression was unreadable, but her body language betrayed a hint of frustration.

It wasn’t a perfect victory — there was no gold medal being handed to you just yet. But this wasn’t about medals or rankings anymore. This was your moment, your proof that you could rise to the occasion, even without your coach.

The numbers on the board seemed to glow brighter. A faint smile crossed your lips, hesitant at first, before blooming. You had done it. You hadn’t stuttered, you hadn’t stumbled. You had poured every ounce of your heart and soul onto that ice, and it had paid off.

The applause began to swell again as your name was announced, pulling you from your thoughts. You glanced up at the crowd, your chest rising and falling as you took in the moment. For all the loss and grief that had brought you here, for all the challenges you’d faced in your training, this was your triumph. Not just because of the score, but because you had proven something to yourself.

You stepped off the ice, your skates leaving faint, sharp lines in their wake, and allowed yourself to feel the mix of emotions swirling inside you — relief, pride, and a lingering ache for the absence of your coach. But even that ache was quieter now, overshadowed by the sense of accomplishment. You had competed, and you had competed well. That was what mattered.

But before you could fully bask in the moment, a loud bang shattered the atmosphere of the arena. It wasn’t a celebratory sound, nor the kind of noise you might expect in a place like this. It was sharp and deep, thundering through the air like an explosion. The echoes seemed to cling to the walls, leaving behind a strange silence that pressed down on everyone present.

It didn’t belong here, not in this arena meant for elegance and artistry. It was utterly wrong.

Your heart skipped a beat, the sound sending a jolt through your body. Instinctively, your head snapped toward the direction of the noise. Your muscles tensed, and a cold wave of unease rushed through you. Around you, the crowd, which had moments ago been alive with applause and cheers, seemed to freeze. Confused murmurs began to rise, growing louder and more urgent as the initial shock faded.

Your eyes darted to Hotch. He was already moving, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. His piercing gaze swept across the arena, narrowing on the source of the disturbance. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching as his mind worked quickly to assess the situation. He stood rigid yet poised, every part of him ready to act.

Even in his intense focus, he glanced toward you. It was just for a moment. But the moment didn’t linger. His expression hardened again, his attention snapping back to the task. Whatever this was, he was already working through it, calculating every possibility.

Without hesitation, Hotch moved toward you, his steps deliberate and controlled. He reached out, his hand clasping your arm firmly but gently. It wasn’t just a touch — it was a message. His grip communicated a silent directive to stay close and follow his lead.

You didn’t need him to speak. You trusted him, knowing that in situations like this, he was the one person who could bring order and keep you safe.

Around you, the murmurs in the crowd grew louder, some voices rising in alarm. Hotch’s sharp gaze flicked back to the arena’s perimeter, his body tense as he scanned for any signs of further danger. His hand remained on your arm, anchoring you to him, his protective instincts driving every movement.

The silence of the arena was breaking, but your focus stayed on him. Whatever was about to unfold, you knew he would take care of it.

Parents clutching their children, coaches exchanging uneasy glances, spectators craning their necks to catch a glimpse of what was happening. Yet, amid the chaos, one thing was abundantly clear: something was wrong. The rest of the BAU team was already moving, their training kicking in. Eyes scanned exits and entry points, steps purposeful, bodies coiled and ready for action.

Hotch’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade, drawing your attention back to him.

“Stay close. We’ll get you to safety,” he said, his tone firm and edged with an urgency that matched the adrenaline pulsing through your veins. Around you, his team moved into position. JJ was speaking quickly to a nearby event organizer, while Morgan and Rossi spread out to survey the crowd. Emily and Reid were already coordinating with security and checking sightlines. No one was leaving anything to chance.

The atmosphere in the arena shifted further, tension thickening like a storm cloud about to break. Your stomach twisted as you watched the judges exchanging concerned looks, the skaters huddled near the edge of the rink, and the crowd fidgeting in their seats. Whatever had caused the explosion remained a mystery, and the not-knowing only made it worse.

You felt your thoughts scatter, your pulse pounding in your ears.

People remained seated but shifted nervously as if preparing to flee once getting the go-ahead.

“Everyone stay where you are,” Hotch barked, his voice roaring over the noise. The authority in his tone was enough to quiet the murmurs in his immediate vicinity, though the tension in the room didn’t reduce. His gaze flickered back to you as if ensuring you were still steady under his protection. Even as his body remained composed, you caught the tightness in his jaw and the subtle way his shoulders squared — he was ready for anything.

In one fluid motion, Hotch pulled his phone from his jacket and dialed. His voice turned cold and precise, each word clipped and efficient as he relayed the situation to the local police.

“This is Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner with the FBI. We have a potential security threat at the Sectional Skating Championship. Requesting immediate assistance. Unknown cause of disturbance — a loud explosion-like sound—followed by unusual crowd behavior. My team is securing the area. Lock the building down — no one in or out until further notice. I’m on the ground. We need a full investigation.”

He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd once more as he listened to the dispatcher’s response. When he spoke again, his voice was even sharper, cutting through the noise around you.

“Yes. Multiple agents on-site. We’ll hold until local law enforcement arrives.” There was a brief pause as he listened to the other end, and then he added, “Send an officer to every exit and have them check for anything suspicious. I want the building swept. No exceptions.”

The brief crackle of static from Hotch’s phone was drowned out by the rising noise of the crowd, but you could still catch the exchange between him and the dispatcher. Even after the call ended, the residual weight of his authority lingered. Hotch wasn’t just standing beside you as your protector — he was assuming command, his focus split between ensuring your safety and piecing together the origin of the threat.

As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, Hotch turned toward you. Though his posture remained stiff, his expression softened for just a moment.

“Stay close,” he instructed, his tone low but firm, just audible over the murmur of the crowd. His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as he began issuing orders to the team.

“Morgan, Prentiss,” he called, his voice sharp as a commander's. “Check the perimeter. Sweep the hallways and backstage areas. We don’t know if this was an isolated incident or the beginning of something larger. Make sure everyone’s accounted for.”

Morgan’s response was immediate, his posture tense with readiness. “On it,” he said, already scanning for exits as Emily moved in tandem.

Hotch’s gaze flicked toward one of the arena officers, who was fumbling to coordinate with staff. With his usual efficiency, Hotch strode over and handed off a series of rapid instructions, his tone leaving no room for question. It was clear to everyone that he was taking control.

Then, his attention was back on you. He closed the space between you, stopping just short of crowding your personal space. Even now, as chaos brewed around you, Hotch was attuned to your needs, knowing exactly how to make you feel secure without overwhelming you.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he said softly. This was Hotch at his core — methodical, persistent, and entirely focused on the task while ensuring you remained his top priority.

Strategically, he moved to position himself near the entrance to the locker rooms, creating a barrier that no one could pass without confronting him first. His protective stance made it clear: you were his responsibility, and nothing was going to slip past him.

“JJ, stay with her,” Hotch directed, nodding toward the blonde agent, who was already on her way to your side. Her movements were brisk but deliberate, and her warm smile was meant to comfort, even though the tension in her eyes mirrored the unease in the room.

“Got it,” JJ replied, standing close enough to reassure you without adding to the weight of the moment.

Meanwhile, Hotch’s focus returned to the broader scene. He continued issuing orders. “Dave, you and I will manage the investigation at the main entrance. Coordinate with the local PD and security. Stay in contact with the team — if anything changes, I want to know immediately.”

Rossi gave a sharp nod, already moving to carry out the directive. Around you, the team dispersed like clockwork. Yet even as they moved, Hotch’s eyes flicked back to you intermittently.

His movements were quick, sharp. Rossi gave him a firm nod before he walked off toward the entrance. Meanwhile, Hotch turned back to you, his hand lightly resting on your shoulder once again, the gesture offering reassurance, though you could see the tightness in his face.

You swallowed hard, nodding in acknowledgement, though a lump had formed in your throat. The scene before you had turned from a competition into something far more complicated, far more dangerous. Hotch, though, was steadfast in his focus, ensuring that everyone had a role to play in securing the area, keeping everyone safe.

"You'll be fine," Hotch said again. "We’ve got this under control, but I need you to stay right here with JJ. Don’t go anywhere. I won’t be far."

You glanced at JJ, who offered you a comforting, gentle smile, and you felt the small knot of anxiety in your stomach begin to loosen slightly. The team had it under control, but even still, the looming threat and the lingering chaos left you feeling a little off-center.

He moved to take his place at the front of the arena, ready to address the situation head-on, but with a glance back at you — just a quick look, to make sure you were still safe.

The tension didn’t ease, not by a long shot, but for the moment, you had the protection you needed.

The air was thick with tension as Morgan and Emily moved through the backstage area, their footsteps silent but quick. Every corner, every shadow, was a potential hiding spot for the person behind the explosion sound. The buzz of activity and officers calling out orders had begun to fade as the pair zeroed in on their search, their movements precise.

“Here,” Morgan murmured, motioning toward the steel door at the end of the hall. The hum of machinery echoed from within the room — the Zamboni room, where one of the two ice-resurfacing machines was stored when not in use. A room that, until moments ago, had been nothing more than a utilitarian part of the rink’s operation.

Emily’s hand was already on the door handle. She pushed it open, and they both stepped inside, their eyes quickly adjusting to the low light. At first, the room appeared as it always did — rows of machinery, a place for storage, a place for repairs. But then, their gazes locked on the destruction in the center of the room.

The Zamboni was in pieces.

The giant machine had been obliterated. The frame had been crushed, twisted metal hanging off at odd angles like the remnants of a wrecked car. Bits of shattered glass and chunks of the vehicle’s undercarriage were scattered across the floor, the machinery was unrecognizable. The cause of the explosion was now painfully clear — someone had sabotaged the Zamboni with a destructive force designed to do one thing: send a message.

"Jesus," Emily breathed, her voice low but laced with disbelief as she tried to think of exactly how the Zamboni had been destroyed like that. Her hand instinctively reached for her gun, though there was nothing left of the machine to be worried about anymore. The force of the explosion had left a crater of destruction in the middle of the room, the walls and floors marred by scorch marks.

Morgan’s jaw clenched as his eyes narrowed. He surveyed the wreckage, his gaze flickering over every damaged piece. But it was something on top of the destroyed Zamboni that caught his eye.

There, resting on the crushed metal, was a small, unaffected object — something that, at first glance, seemed almost out of place amid the wreckage. It was a plain, seemingly unmarked CD.

"Is that...?" Emily began, stepping forward cautiously as she pulled her flashlight from her belt and cast its beam on the CD. "No way."

Morgan approached the machine slowly, his hand never far from his weapon as he reached for the CD. He gingerly picked it up, his fingers brushing against the surface. The words scrawled on it in thick, bold Sharpie were specific: Play Me.

“Damn,” Morgan muttered under his breath. He turned the CD over in his hands, checking the back for any other markings or labels, but it was just the words.

"Whoever did this... they want us to listen," Emily said, her tone dark, as she stood back from the wreckage. "But why? What’s on it?"

Morgan glanced over at her, his eyes flashing with the usual resolve. "We need to get this to Hotch. He’s gonna want to see this right now. Whatever’s on this CD, it’s tied to all this." His voice hardened, knowing that this wasn't just a random act of destruction; it was part of something bigger. A message. A warning — and it was all for you.

They exchanged a brief look — silent, but their thoughts aligned. The situation was escalating, and they needed to act quickly. They couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

Morgan pocketed the CD in his vest and turned to leave the room, his focus sharp. Emily followed close behind, and as they made their way out, she glanced back at the destroyed Zamboni. She couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. Whatever was coming next, it wasn’t going to be good.

They moved through the hallway with urgency, heading straight for Hotch, who was already coordinating the investigation. The ominous CD in Morgan's pocket felt like a ticking clock. The message had been delivered. Now, it was up to them to decode it before everything spiraled out of control.

Morgan and Emily hurried back to Hotch, the tension between them noticeable as they moved quickly through the hallway. Morgan had the CD tightly in his grip. As soon as they arrived at the part of the area where Hotch was, Morgan handed over the disc without a word, his expression tense.

Hotch glanced at it before his sharp gaze snapped back up to Morgan. "What do we have?"

Morgan answered, "It's a message. We found it at the scene — the Zamboni room. Whoever did this... they're taunting us."

Emily added, "There's no label on it, just the words 'Play Me' written on the CD. We knew it was important, so we brought it straight to you."

Hotch nodded, his face hardening as he took the CD. Without wasting a second, he led them to a nearby office — one they'd set up as their temporary command center. Inside, he sat down at the computer and inserted the disk into the drive. The monitor flickered before the video began to load.

The figure that appeared on the screen was cast in darkness — his face obscured by shadows, the low lighting ensuring his identity remained hidden. He spoke with an eerie calmness, his voice laced with a mix of confidence and amusement, as though he were already in control of the situation.

“You really thought you could stop me, didn’t you?” His voice was low, calculated, and filled with an unsettling arrogance. If he had had him in his interrogation room, Hotch was sure he would've needed to step out before he let his anger overtake him. “You thought Branson’s death meant the end. But I’m always one step ahead. I'm always ahead." He repeated

The video flickered, and images began to appear on the screen. First, a photo of you, being led to Hotch’s SUV the night Branson was murdered. The image was clear, documenting the aftermath of a tragedy, and the protectiveness in Hotch’s gaze as he escorted you away from the crime scene.

The next photo was taken from a distance — again, it was of you, practicing alone on the ice at the rink, completely unaware of the watchful eyes on you. Anderson who had been there to keep an eye out for you, stood off to the side, watching intently. Fire bubbled within him — Anderson was supposed to look out for you, yet he had let the unsub get close enough to take pictures that day.

Then, another image — you again, this time accompanied by the girls, laughing with them during your night out, a moment of lightheartedness in the midst of everything that had been happening. It was a candid shot, but it held the terrifying realization that you had been watched the entire time.

You had been followed. And you hadn’t known.

The room was dead silent as the images flickered across the screen. It was clear now — this wasn’t just a stalker. This was someone who had been tracking your every move, every breath, for who knows how long. And now, he was making sure you knew it.

The last image hit them hard — a photo of you, surrounded by the team, smiling during your celebration after a long practice, completely unaware of the danger that had been stalking you. You had been followed everywhere, and it was more disturbing now than ever before.

The man’s voice returned, his words dripping with amusement. “You’ll learn soon enough who’s really in charge. This is only the beginning. I will get to her sooner than you think”

The screen cut out abruptly, leaving a chilling silence in its wake.

Hotch stood still for a moment, absorbing the implications of the video. His jaw was clenched tightly as he took in every detail. The fact that this man had been following you, watching you from the shadows — it wasn’t just disturbing, it was personal — he took it personally.

Morgan and Emily exchanged a look, both now fully aware of the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t just about stopping a random killer. This was a calculated, dangerous individual who had been in control the whole time — more than they had thought he had been.

Hotch finally spoke, his voice steady but firm. “Lock down the perimeter. Every exit, every corner, needs to be checked. We need to find out who’s behind this — and we need to do it now. Morgan, Prentiss, you’re with me. We’re going through all the footage from tonight, starting with the security cameras. We need answers, and we need them now.”

He paused and turned to you, his eyes softening just slightly. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you. Stay close. We’re going to handle this.”

You nodded, feeling a surge of both dread and relief. The man behind the video had been watching your every move, but you weren’t alone. The team was here, and they were going to make sure he didn’t get away with it.

Hotch’s jaw was set tight, his eyes dark with fury, but he didn’t let it show outwardly. He was a master of control, and right now, his focus needed to be on the team and you. The anger simmered beneath the surface as the weight of the situation pressed in on him, but he couldn’t afford to let it slip — especially not now. The lives of the people in this arena, particularly yours, depended on him remaining calm.

Still, he couldn’t help but make a mental note, his mind already ticking off the necessary steps. Anderson was next on his list of reprimanding, he had failed to notice, or worse, ignored the warning signs while protecting you. If there was even the slightest chance that Anderson could've prevented this by pulling his head out of his ass, Hotch would make sure he was held accountable. Anderson was going to be in for one hell of a reprimand the moment they got back to the office.

He turned his attention back to the screen, his gaze darkening as the images flickered in his mind. The unsub had been planning this for so long, watching and waiting. And now, Hotch was furious that he’d let this slip under his radar for so long. The thought of you being followed, the pictures of you taken without your knowledge, without your permission... it gnawed at him.

But this wasn’t the time for personal anger. This was the time for action. He couldn’t afford to lose focus. First, he needed to make sure everyone was safe. Second, he needed to find out exactly who this man was and put a stop to him, once and for all.

As his mind ran through the next steps, he made a note to himself: once they were back in the office, he would need to pass the disk over to Garcia. She would be the key to deciphering this he thought — she would find something, maybe a code, in the data hidden on the disk, that would lead them to more answers — maybe she could find the origins of where the disk had been purchased. The words used in the video were no accident, and Garcia’s knack for digging into digital trails was exactly what they needed.

“Take this back to Garcia as soon as possible,” Hotch said, his voice sharp, as he looked at Morgan. “Make sure she checks it from every angle. I want to know who’s behind this, and I want to know now.” He almost growled.

Morgan nodded quickly. “Got it, Hotch.”

Emily, standing by his side, glanced at you briefly. She had a similar, unspoken understanding as Hotch. Whatever was happening now, it was becoming more personal by the second. The killer wasn’t just playing games — he was making his presence known, and he wasn’t going to stop. Not unless they made him.

Hotch turned back to the group with that same steely focus. “Once we have the answers, we move fast. No hesitation. We clear out every area of this arena. Every single corner gets checked. And keep your eyes on the crowd. This man might be hiding in plain sight.”

You, still shaken but determined, met his gaze for a split second, offering him a silent nod. It wasn’t just about safety now. It was about stopping a person who had been lurking in the shadows for far too long. And you were done being the prey.

Hotch’s hand flexed into a fist for a brief moment, his anger still simmering beneath the surface, but he clamped down on it, ready to lead his team with the precise command they needed. He couldn’t afford to let the personal emotions cloud his judgment. Not now. Not when it was all on the line.

“Let’s move,” Hotch said quietly, his voice still calm but filled with that unmistakable urgency. “And remember — stay close. We don’t take any chances.”

They all nodded, shifting into action, and Hotch stayed close, positioning himself as a protective shield between you and the unknown danger that was closing in around you.

And when the case was over, he would deal with Anderson. But right now, there was only one priority: keeping you safe.

The air in the arena was tense as the team waited for the all-clear. Hotch had done everything in his power to ensure the security of the building and those within it. The bomb threat was real, but after a thorough sweep, there was no sign of the unsub inside the arena, no lingering danger. The decision to continue the competition was made with careful consideration, but Hotch wasn’t willing to leave anything to chance.

The FBI had taken over perimeter security, local law enforcement assisting with the sweep of the area, and all competitors were closely monitored. Hotch made sure the team was in position, watching the exits, the crowd, the ice, and each other’s backs. They’d gone over the plan several times already, but the weight of the situation wasn’t lost on him. Even though the threat was seemingly neutralized, Hotch wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. Not while you were so vulnerable.

As the final skaters took the ice, Hotch kept his eyes on you, watching you from a few feet away as you sat in the designated area, the bright lights of the arena casting sharp contrasts across your expression. He noticed you were still tense, though you did your best to hide it. Your body was still tightly wound, the nerves from earlier lingering, but you were focused — your eyes intent on the ice as each skater performed their routine.

Hotch had made it clear earlier that the team was staying close, and he kept that promise. He wasn’t going to let you out of his sight — not now, not ever. He stationed himself just behind you, standing protectively, while the rest of the team remained nearby, their eyes scanning the crowd and the rink, ensuring no one would get too close.

Morgan was just a few feet to his left, standing with Emily, both of them making sure to keep watch of the area around you, while Reid sat a little further away, his eyes flicking between the skaters and the crowd. Garcia, on the other hand, was in constant communication with Hotch, eyes glued to the security feeds on her laptop, making sure there was no sign of the unsub reappearing.

You glanced up at Hotch and offered a small, thankful smile. You appreciated the support, even if you weren’t sure you could perform at your best with everything going on. The fear that had been gnawing at you earlier was still there, buried under layers of nerves and adrenaline, but you could feel a little of it slip away with Hotch’s presence so close by. It was almost like he was your rock.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, sensing your unease. His voice was calm, yet it carried assurance.

It was that voice that reminded you that he was there for you — not just as an agent or as a protector, but as someone who cared deeply about your safety and well-being. You nodded, grateful, and looked back to the ice, your mind still swirling with the weight of everything happening around you. You focused on your breathing, trying to steady yourself, trying to find that quiet place where your mind and body could align.

The announcer called out the name of the last skater, and you turned your focus back to the ice as the young woman glided out with perfect form. Hotch’s hand subtly touched the back of your seat, the smallest gesture that was somehow grounding, reminding you that he was there — always within reach.

It was almost surreal, the calm after the chaos. The atmosphere was still electric, the energy of the arena humming with anticipation. The competitors were giving it their all, but your mind kept circling back to the moment that had nearly destroyed everything. You didn’t want to think about the danger anymore, but it lingered just beneath the surface.

The final skater performed her routine with grace, but there was something in the way she moved that didn’t quite have the same sharpness as the others. The audience cheered, but the applause wasn’t as thunderous as it had been for some of the earlier skaters. As she finished, the score popped up on the board — an impressive number, but nothing that would push her to the top.

“Okay,” Hotch muttered, giving a glance to Morgan. “Let’s keep it tight. No surprises.”

The last round of scores were being tallied. The scoreboard flickered momentarily as the announcer stepped up to call the final results. The crowd’s hushed anticipation was a thick tension in the air, and Hotch stayed standing by you.

Through the chaos of the competition, he had made sure to keep a cool, level head. His team was sharp, and they had done everything they could to ensure your safety. Now, it was your time to shine, despite the shadows still lurking in the background.

The results would soon be in. And no matter what the outcome, Hotch would stand by you, just as he had all along.

The competition had been intense, every skater pushing their limits, giving everything they had. You had performed your routine flawlessly, but the pressure and nerves still clawed at you. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the eyes of everyone in the arena on you.

The announcer’s voice broke through the silence, echoing through the arena.

“The scores are in for the women’s singles competition. And moving on to regionals in the first place is Natalia Ivanova and Y/N L/N!”

The crowd erupted into applause, and Natalia stood tall, a proud smile on her face, a glimmer of triumph in her eyes.

The cheers were louder than before, but you didn’t fully register them. Your heart was still racing, the rush of your performance still lingering in the pit of your stomach. You had made it to regionals, but sharing first place still felt bittersweet. Natalia had set the bar high, and you’d come so close, but it hadn’t been enough to truly overtake her in your mind.

But there was a sense of pride too. You had done your best. You had stayed focused and resilient despite everything. And you knew that getting to regionals was still a massive accomplishment, despite sharing the spot.

Natalia turned toward you, her gaze locking with yours across the rink. She gave you a small nod of acknowledgment, a respectful gesture. You returned it with a smile, a silent understanding passing between you. You had been rivals on the ice, but in this moment, there was nothing but respect between you.

“You did great,” Hotch said, his voice low and reassuring. “It is an incredible achievement.”

You nodded, the words from him soothing some of the tension in your chest. But a part of you was still restless — sharing first place meant that the job wasn’t finished yet. Regionals were still ahead, and the road was far from easy.

“Let’s get to the locker room. You’ve earned some time to relax,” Hotch continued.

You let him lead you off the ice, the team forming a protective circle around you as you made your way through the arena. Morgan gave you a thumbs-up from the sidelines, a proud smile on his face. Emily flashed you a wink, and Garcia was quick to send you an encouraging smile as she checked her phone, likely already gathering intel for anything suspicious.

You reached the locker room, and Hotch gave you a moment to catch your breath. The adrenaline from the performance was still running high, but a small sense of relief washed over you. You had made it through the competition, and despite everything, you had succeeded. Natalia may have outperformed you technically, but you were headed to regionals with her and had a better storyline and components in your performance.

And now, with the competition behind you, it was time to regroup, refocus, and prepare for what was to come. The threat was far from over, but for now, you had made it to the next stage.

Hotch stepped closer, his tone serious. “We’ll be right here with you. Let’s keep our focus sharp, and get ready for the next round.”

Tag list: @love4lando @therealbaberuthless @crazyunsexycool @pear-1206 @bookworm124 @itsmytimetoodream @c-losur3 @lumestar @evvy96 @booknerd2004 @werebearcocoon @ahotchnersreid @jazzimac1967 @gamingfeline @soyobi-wankenobi @meg-black

37 notes · View notes

the-great-papyru · 2 days ago

Text

been thinking about how going through and getting used to the resets would genuinely limit flowey’s ability to do… well, basic things. like form conversations.

think about it. he’s scripted everything. and he’s had all the time in the world to work on scripts, too.

what if he hears someone talk, and through unrelated circumstances they say something they usually say in another, unrelated scenario. like… i dunno, when toriel gets killed in a certain way, she’ll say something along the lines of “how could anyone do something like this?” and flowey’s prone to responding with “oh, you haven’t even SEEN what i’ve done to papyrus!” because he knows if he does she’ll remember papyrus’ name and, if he times it right, warn sans, and that has a snowball affect that leads to his run being much more interesting.

and then toriel says the line post-pacifist for whatever reason (maybe she’s reading the news) and absentmindedly flowey immediately responds with his usual reply.

he gets several strong looks, and papyrus checks his back to make sure flowey didn’t attach a sticky note with the words “kick me” on it again.

or, okay, he’s used to thinking through responses until he finds the perfect one. sans gives him a “heya” and he spends 2 minutes trying to figure out what he means by that greeting, what he knows (flowey’s been struggling maintaining his pre-prepared facial expressions lately for some reason, no idea why) and how to respond in a way that doesn’t let on that he knows sans knows, but also let him know that he’s not letting down his guard, not to mention figuring out what face to say it with… by then, of course, sans has muttered a brief “uh. okay then” and walked away. and flowey can’t just reload to finally let loose his carefully crafted reply like he’s used to, either.

he honestly probably finds it easiest to talk to frisk. he doesn’t have a running tally of their likes and dislikes. so he doesn’t have enough to base lines on, and he’ll sometimes even end up saying the first thing that comes to his mind. crazy.

also. i don’t know about you, but when i get multiple choices in a video game i often choose the clearly “wrong” answer just to see what people say. you can’t progress after choosing it, anyway, so there’s no real loss.

i wonder if flowey has that same mentality. it might do a lot more than make people angry, though. like… let’s say toriel asks him “what would you like to eat for dinner today?” and he goes with eggplant parmigiana, he hates eggplant parmigiana it’s gross and chewy and obviously the wrong answer. and he just wants to see what she’ll say before he reloads and chooses the right answer (snails). he realizes too late what he just did.

so yeah, flowey would really struggle with talking, i think. it’d be a learning curve for sure. he’ll figure it out, of course, but it’ll take a while.

#undertale #flowey #this is not hating on eggplant parmigiana by the way #i love eggplant parmigiana but flowey’s a weirdo so he probably hates it

22 notes · View notes

esmereldapearl · 3 days ago

Text

PJO Future AU head-cannon stuff (some ARE taken from other peoples head-cannons bc they’re awesome):

- Will Solace would not be a medic/be in the medical field— I feel like just because he’s good at it doesn’t mean he likes it. Maybe he’d be a teacher because of his leadership skills.

- I feel like from working in the infirmary and having people close to him pass, Nico would choose a medical field job. I feel like he’d be an RN (registered nurse) or doctor and work at like an urgent care (er is too crazy for him— or maybe it wouldn’t and he’d like the chaos)

- I also feel like there’d be a not so great injury and Nico would be like “Oh let me see” then see it and be like “oh that’s really cool” not much would phase him— or it would but he’d find it fascinating

- I feel like the fact that they didn’t have these new kinds of tech when Nico was growing up also adds to his fascination. Like what do you mean x-Ray machines exist?

- I feel like Percy would do well with water jobs— like maybe he’d be a marine biologist and he’d find it fun to just communicate with the ocean life.

- Frank and Hazel would take a lot of dual credit classes or graduate early from highschool so they could focus on the camp— like they’d take online stuff so they could spend more time focusing on camp. (hope that makes sense) I’m not sure what I think their careers would be.

- Leo would own his own mechanic shop after going to trade school (saw on tiktok)

- Jason (revived) would be a professor of history— probably mythology.

- As a Valgrace shipper (dont judge pls) I think that they’d get together shortly after Jason is revived (not too short— six months after?) because they’ve been through a lot already and don’t want to risk anything again.

Now, onto kids because I don’t see these often but I find it fun to imagine:

- Frank would be a girl dad. He’s got two daughters and is just so happy with them and Hazel.

- Percy and Annabeth would have three kids, two girls and a son, in that order. I feel like Percy and Annabeth would work hard to have good relationships with their kids and finally relax. I feel like they’d be sorta protective but also be very relaxed with them- educate them about being mature and making good choices.

- I feel like Annabeth would realize how important names were and try to name her kids after popular figures in history who had good stories

- Will and Nico would probably have two kids, both adopted, but one would be one of Will’s half-siblings/half-nephews. The kid was really little, like four or five, when he got to camp and Will just kinda adopted him so he didn’t have to be full-time at camp. They also have a daughter but not until the son is like 12. She’s also adopted and is also a half-blood but I feel like they wouldn’t know who her godly parent is until she’s 12 and then be shocked because she’s like a child of Zeus.

- Leo and Jason would wait a while and focus on their relationship and careers. Then they’d adopt two daughters (not at the same time) and raise them where they don’t know about half-bloods until they’re older. They’d probably be half-bloods so that way they could raise them the way they wished they were raised. Leo and Jason don’t want them to have to see and experience the stuff they had to at such a young age.

- I don’t think any of them would name their kids after any of their late friends. I saw someone, a while ago, bring up that it could result in bad memories or just not be an okay time yet to do so. So— I don’t think that Annabeth would name her kid Silena and I don’t think Nico would name his kid Bianca.

- However, I do feel like Annabeth and Percy would name their eldest Sally after Percy’s mom (it would work well with the headcannon that Annabeth would name her kids after people with good stories) and have her middle name be a positive powerful historical figure.

(I realize I left Piper out— I’ve been forgetting a lot about characters recently and need to go back and reread HOO in order to grasp what I think she’d do in the future)

#pjo tsats #pjo hoo toa tsats #pjo headcanon #pjo hoo toa #pjo fandom #pjo future au #valgrace #percabeth #frazel #solangelo #headcannons #percy jackson #annabeth chase #nico di angelo #will solace #hazel levesque #frank zhang #leo valdez #jason grace

41 notes · View notes

from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 1 day ago

Text

🪓 Hewn and Sewn 🪡

I’ve been thinking a lot about Háma’s death again lately and started this fic for Tolkien Horror Week. And then I both failed miserably on the timetable for that and realized that what I needed for myself was to find a way for his horrifying end (it’s there in the books, and it’s not pretty) to not be totally devoid of consolation. And so it maybe wasn’t right for a Horror Week event anyway. Your mileage may vary on whether you find anything remotely consoling in it. I just love my guy, my #1, and want him to be happy. I don’t know if this accomplishes what I want, but I tried.

CW: canonical character death. He met a brutal end, per Tolkien, and that’s here, along with a fair amount of battle/war reality, incl. some blood and guts and general violence/death.

Art by @ rinthecap

**********

A body is surprisingly hard to kill.

The first thrust of a spear may bring a man to his knees, the second fills his mouth with blood, the third can barely be extracted again from the depths of his chest, but only the fourth brings mercy at last. Until then, the body clings to its life like a sailor adrift in an ocean storm, scrabbling after any tiny scrap of floating debris and clutching with bloodied nails and broken fingers to the last vestiges of a smashed and splintered ship that somehow hasn’t yet totally disappeared beneath the roiling waves. The body finds its greatest strength at the moment of its greatest vulnerability, stubbornly refusing to relinquish its desperate hold on survival and rallying to endure unimaginable suffering for just a little longer — one more boot to the skull, one more arrow through the gut, one more blade in the back, one more, and one more, and one more — to see whether the body’s will to live can outlast the enemy’s will to kill.

Háma knows all of this now.

He knows that the great tales of history have left out much of the truth, that the epic songs of invincible riders who slice through enemies like a scythe through wheat are more fantasy than fact. They have left out the hard work of dealing death, the sweaty, gruesome, arduous labor of cleaving into skin and muscle, hacking through sinew and bone, splitting open hearts and stomachs and lungs. They have left out the vomit and the blood and the entrails, the slippery gore that loosens grips and unsteadies footings, sending blows wide of their marks and into places that deliver pain rather than ending it. They have left out the soul-deadening horror of looking another man in the eye and realizing the only way to end his misery is to first give him more.

These realities are seldom spoken of, threatening as they are to the necessary project of war. New soldiers each discover them on their own, and Háma was no different. He came to the army while still hardly more than a boy, an idealist raised on stories of grand, heroic campaigns and aspiring to the honor of being one of the king’s own guards. None but his mother had tried to warn him of the cruelties he was sure to encounter, for she knew well the gentle heart that beat in her son’s chest. Always the first to smile, to extend a hand of welcome, to offer quiet encouragement, to assume the best even of those who had done him harm, she knew how such a heart would rebel against those inevitable cruelties. But he had so little experience of all that was vicious and foul in the world that he couldn’t truly comprehend the warning, no matter how carefully he listened, and in the end her bleak, abstract prudence was no match for the vivid potency of his dreams. He kissed her farewell and went off in trusting pursuit of all that was noble and righteous, blissfully innocent of the ugly truth behind the fantasy.

It took only one battle for him to realize that the valiant and glorious contests of poetry were neither valiant nor glorious but rather panicked, messy slogs where nothing was simple, nothing was clear and nothing was as he expected it to be. The shock of it nearly got him killed, frozen fast in horror amidst a raging squall of bristling spears and glinting blades and hearing nothing but the echo of his mother’s words, suddenly so palpable and so obvious. Only the panic and the mess and the general disorder saved him from meeting his fate before he was able to rouse himself at last to the grim necessity of action and do what was expected of him. He waded into the carnage, he added to it, he turned aside from suffering that he couldn’t relieve, he tried not to look at suffering that he had caused. And somehow, by the grace of Béma, he survived to see the victory, though the word itself now caught in his throat, devoid of meaning.

He cried after that battle, hiding alone in a darkened corner of a stable and wracked by huge, shaking sobs that both embarrassed and reassured him, proof that the day’s bloody brutality had exposed his naive ignorance but not taken his humanity. He wondered whether that humanity could endure even one more such pitiless trial or if it would break him, changing the very core of who he was. He wondered if he was already broken in ways that he couldn’t yet understand, ways that would be revealed to him only later in the long dark of a sleepless night or the cold grip of a relived memory. He wept for the man he had been and for the man he had wanted to be, someone who might now be a stranger to him forever.

He may have quit that very day had an older soldier not stumbled upon him and his tears, pulling him to his feet and tossing him a scrap of cloth to dry his face. We have all felt what you’re feeling, the soldier said. Anyone who is untroubled by taking lives should never be trusted with a sword. The soldier walked him over to a nearby field where neat rows of villagers were laid out to await burial — old men holding canes, young mothers in bright dresses, a few girls and boys with skinned knees or milk stains on their upper lips — all caught unaware by the enemy before the forces of Rohan had arrived to drive them back. Remember that you have killed so that people like this might live, the soldier said, and he left Háma to keep watch among the corpses, to contemplate death anew.

It seemed a simple reminder, a basic truth so obvious that it need not be spoken, and yet he had needed to hear it all the same. To be a guardian, using his strength and abilities to protect others, had been his earliest aspiration, and now perhaps that dream could protect his own heart as well, offering him the sense of purpose that would help to make the suffering feel worthwhile. He walked slowly from the silent field and back into the center of the village, where water was being drawn, animals fed, children minded, lives lived despite the tragedy to befall them. He rejoined his éored with a brief nod to the older soldier, and when they rode out again, he did so with the rent in his heart not healed but at least knit loosely together again, mended with stitches of duty and honor.

*****

Since that day he has killed many times, never unprovoked or with wanton disregard and never with the overpowering horror of that first battle, but also never with the clean, simple ease that he had once been led to expect. Each time he is forced to inflict pain on another, he feels it in his own limbs, and though he hates no man, he comes closest in his despair over those who fight him the hardest, who persist through blow after weary blow and refuse to yield or retreat. Do not force me to do this to you, his mind pleads silently, and sometimes, though it means the same thing, do not force me to do this to myself. In direst conditions, compelled to keep defending himself from an opponent with the white glimmer of bone shining out from mangled red flesh or with a dark, empty space where an eye had just been, he cannot keep these thoughts contained to his own head. Barely audible amidst the clash of metal and the thunder of hoofbeats and the groaning of the injured and maimed, he speaks the words aloud. I am sorry.

Many of these men linger in his memories, images of them emerging suddenly and unbidden from the depths of his mind while in the middle of doing other, more benign things. The man who stared up at him from a puddle of gore, tears streaming from eyes that were the same pale green as those of Háma’s youngest sister. The grievously wounded man who had spit in Háma’s face when offered mercy before plunging a knife into his own throat. The man who whimpered one word over and over as they grappled for control, a word Háma later learned meant ‘please’ in the tongue of the Easterlings. These memories tear at the stitches in his heart, testing their strength and threatening to sunder him anew.

One man in particular haunts his thoughts, lurking always in the shadows of his waking mind or the hazy, fragmented mirages of his dreams. Part of a company of Dunlendings who crossed the Adorn without leave, this man was a talented warrior, and had he only been taller or slightly larger of frame things might have ended differently. As it was, it took three heavy strokes of Háma’s sword to bring him down, and the battle-notched edge of Háma’s blade caught on something as he sought to pull back the final stroke. Forced to lean in close, to brace his foot by the dying man’s chest as he struggled to free his weapon from whatever barbed hook of metal or bone had trapped it, he found something he did not expect on the haggard, shivering face that was now only inches from his own — a smile, small but clear, and growing only wider as the man pulled in his last rasping breaths and the light slowly dimmed from his eyes.

The memory of that smile never truly leaves Háma. It follows him everywhere, as attached to his mind as his shadow is to his feet. He sees it when he stands long, lonely hours on watch in the cold and when he sits in a crowded tavern that swelters with the heat of a hundred bodies pressed side by side. It creeps up on him in the quiet wandering of his thoughts while his hands perform some common, repetitive task, or it appears with startling suddenness in the middle of pressing matters, insisting on claiming a share of his focus with the urgency of its unknowable mystery.

He dreams up a thousand different reasons why a man would smile through such agony, somehow finding happiness in the moment of ultimate despair. Perhaps the man hated his life and was glad to be rid of it at last, or he felt honor and pride in the idea of dying for his cause, though that cause was repugnant to Háma himself. Perhaps the smile was brought on by a delusion or hallucination, a vision of pleasure or comfort that shimmered with false loveliness for that Dunlending’s eyes alone. Perhaps it wasn’t even a smile but rather a spasm or tic, an arbitrary contortion of muscles masquerading as a familiar emotion and torturing Háma now with a futile search for meaning in the utterly meaningless. The only man to know the answer has taken it to his hastily dug grave.

Háma lives these years balanced on the knife’s edge between revulsion and understanding, doubt and certainty, heart and gut. But with each battle, he learns better how to fight in a way that feels true to himself, anchored to his decency, and he learns better how to strengthen the parts of him that quail at the task, reinforcing those weak spots so that they prove all the harder to wound a second time. He patches himself with reminders of all that he fights for, and, in time, life gives him more and more to add to that armor. A beautiful wife who brings warmth and light into all of his days. A daughter who owns him, body and soul, from her first breath. Hard won respect and admiration, first from his commanders, then from the men entrusted to him, and finally from his king. He will never be a battle-hardened veteran, numb to the business of death, but he finds his way forward, refusing to let the sharp edges of those old memories and doubts carve and pare his spirit until it is shorn of all that is hopeful and joyous. Instead, he embraces the business of life, of being a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a King’s Guard, a captain, a doorward, all of his selves linked together like the rings of his mail and bringing him just as much strength. He is happy, and he is whole.

*****

And so it is that he finds himself strangely at peace on the ride to what will prove his last battle. He has spent a lifetime preparing himself for this moment, this challenge, and he will meet it with honor. The hand of fate has landed on Helm’s Deep, an unexpected turn but one that he welcomes. He knows this place, its gate, walls and keep, unbreached by any outsider in all the long years of history. A fortress and a refuge at once, it is everything that he holds himself to be: strength and shelter, protection and not aggression. If the Rohirrim are forced to this step, with the point of a sword at their backs, there is nowhere else he’d rather make their stand, defending the inviolable.

They have been warned that this fight will be unlike any other in the lifetimes of this army. This is no skirmish over the placement of a border, no periodic flare-up of ancient, simmering tensions. This is existential, a contest that will decide whether Rohan endures a little longer or falls entirely, and among their old enemies of Dunland there will be new enemies as well, orcs of Isengard that are taller, stronger, unafraid of the sun, more desirous of blood. They drink in the joy of death like a cat laps up cream, he is told. Show them no mercy, for none will be shown to you. He sees the logic of this advice even as he has no plans to follow it. He has worked too hard to keep the cruelty of the world from making him cruel in turn. He will do what must be done, but he will do it as himself, from goodness, and not in imitation of those he deems wicked.

Final commands are given. Théoden sends him to hold the gate, and though he feels ill at ease to leave the king, his one and only charge, he knows it is the greater need and he goes willingly. The ragtag assortment of defenders at the gate are his charge now — cavalry riders preparing to fight from foot, farmers of the Westfold, teenage boys whose beardless faces catch the moonlight — and he assures them that it is alright to be afraid. They will face the fear together. He feels some of that fear himself, more aware than ever of his captain’s uniform that will distinguish him among the masses, drawing attention in the one place where such attention is least welcome. But he would sooner die in this symbol of all he believes in and all he has worked for than to hide in common disguise. His uniform clothes him in courage.

The fighting itself, once it begins, passes quickly, as do most things that overwhelm. There is scarcely a second to take in what is happening before it’s happened, and things grow only more chaotic as the late night stretches into earliest morning. Fear keeps him moving, because to give in to the exhaustion, to stop for even half a second of stolen rest, is to expose yourself to the heavy stroke of an axe or a sword or a pike or any of the other tools Isengard has devised to sever the loose connections that hold a man’s body together. Fear keeps him on his feet, and courage keeps him pressing forward, unwilling to give ground toward that precious gate.

He fights this battle his way. He leaves those enemies who are injured beyond the point of threat to be collected by their countrymen. He dispatches mercy to those whose injuries have already guaranteed death, bringing an early end to their suffering. He takes no action from anger, only necessity. He kills, many times over, but always as a last resort and each time with a heavy heart, for even the orcs are living creatures, once descended from elves if old tales are true.

He is not unscathed in the struggle. Bloody weals, red and shining, cut across his cheek and throat, and his left arm hangs dead now at his side, the muscles needed to raise it severed by the point of a spear. But he is undaunted and rallies, again and again, as men and boys, soldiers and herders, guards and merchants, fathers and sons, fall all around him to the seemingly endless waves of new opponents. His luck holds, until suddenly it doesn’t.

The first sharp blow slides neatly into the narrow band of exposed leather near his shoulder, where a piece of his armor has been forcibly pried from his body. It slices cleanly through the layers of hide and cloth, cleanly between ribs, cleanly into the center of him. It stops him in his tracks, not from the pain, which is strangely delayed, but from the abrupt sensation that all the air has gone from his lungs, which leak uselessly now into the hollow of his chest. He is still standing, struggling to pull in delicate half breaths that each slice like a blade of their own, when the second blow lands, a sword at the knee that sends him to the ground. The third, a heavy, percussive jolt from a bludgeon, shivers the bones that don’t shatter outright and leaves him sunk helplessly in the muddy grass, surrounded by a pool of blood that started out as someone else’s but is soon more his than not.

A burst of flame to his left draws attention away as both sides rush toward the noise and light, and he is left for a moment on his own. Above him hangs the black, blank sky, the stars now blocked by clouds and haze and smoke. Beside him are an elderly man with no helmet and a split skull, eyes fixed open in unseeing horror, and a teenage boy, face gone grey and breathing shallow as the contents of his veins empty steadily from a gaping hole in his side. Háma would comfort him, take his hand and bid him a swift journey to the halls of his forebears, if he could only lift an arm or force a word from his lips. But there is no strength in that arm and no air to carry the sound. He manages only to inch his hand next to the fading warmth of the boy’s fingers, and he hopes the boy will feel it and know that he is there, that they are not alone. It isn’t enough, but it will have to be.

A burning pressure builds in his chest, pushing out against his broken ribs and mangled muscles with a force that could tear apart whatever is left of him that is still intact, and somehow, above the screaming and the thunder and the clang of weaponry, he can hear a wet, bubbling sound each time he tries to inhale, as though he is drawing breath through a sopping cloth. He wonders if he might drown, miles from any river or lake or tide except his own blood that is rising in his lungs, and he uses his last gasp of energy to weakly raise his head, eyes searching desperately for a friendly face that might be able to drag him to help. But the eyes that meet his are instead cold and cutting, and they sparkle with sharp malice when they recognize the fine armor and burnished insignia of the captain of the King’s Guard.

A voice calls in a tongue that Háma cannot understand, but he needs no translator to know its meaning or that of the answering calls. Fingers are pointed in his direction. Grips are tightened around axes and knives and clubs. Lips curl into wicked smirks as many feet advance toward him, the defenseless prey whose brutal end will send a message to no less than the king of Rohan himself. No mercy will be shown to you.

The crushing realization hits him in an instant, though perhaps he should have known it all along. This is the end. There aren’t enough allies left standing to save him, even if his wounds could be healed. The gate, the one object of his focus, is being torn now from its hinges, riven with deep fractures and fissures, and these men and orcs will pour through the gaping rupture just as soon as they are done with him. It will matter to none of them that he is as good as gone already, slowly choking to death on his own bile and blood, because they mean not just to kill but to destroy. They mean not to leave him in one piece, not to keep him recognizable even to those who love him best. They will take his life, but they will also take his identity, his dignity, his grace, his chance to be mourned over by those who would hold him, stroke his hair, kiss his brow, touch his cheek.

He turns his head again to the young man at his side, to see one last Rohirrim face, but it has gone stony and lifeless, an unmoving mask of arrested youth. Háma studies this face, the soft down of a first beard, the skin unmarred by old scars or new wrinkles, and his heart trembles at the thought of all that this boy never got to do or have. A whole lifetime that was yet to be lived, with loves to be found, achievements to be celebrated, misfortunes to be endured, contentment to be earned. His death is a tragedy of lost hopes, of all that might have been had the boy been given even the twenty extra years that Háma himself has had. And that is the thought that brings a sudden and utter calm to Háma’s spirit, quietly reassuring despite the looming specter of gruesome execution treading closer and closer each second.

He cannot see his own imminent death as a tragedy like this boy’s, for Háma has lived — not as long as many men, but fully and well. He has loved and been loved. He has made himself and others proud. He has laughed and cried and grinned and gasped. He has seen great beauty, heard words of great kindness, tasted much that was sweet, felt hands of true tenderness. He has served a land he reveres, one that he knows in his heart will prevail and find a way off its knees to stand tall once again. He has joined himself to people worth dying for, people that he would weep to leave if not for the knowledge that he was more fortunate than most to have ever had such people in his life, no matter how briefly. A wife who was the love that made all the others irrelevant. A daughter who was every bit as perfect as she adoringly believed him to be. Another baby that would arrive in four months’ time and bring consolation and joy to its mother when she’d need it most. They will be pained to lose him, but he trusts their strength, the kind that isn’t sharp and brittle like iron but binds and flexes like thread.

Amid all the suffering of the world, he has been blessed, his fate woven together so tightly with filaments of gladness and fulfillment and favor that those things can never be sundered from him, even now at the very end. When the first axemen crowd around him at last, he doesn’t feel fear or hatred or regret. He feels only gratitude for all that he’s been given. When an enemy first takes his leg at mid-thigh and then his arm at the elbow, he isn’t thinking of the pain. He is thinking only of how one man could be so lucky, how he had somehow managed to claim not only his share of good in the world but many times that much. When a blade takes his ear and iron-toed boots prod where his ribs no longer provide resistance, he hears Brytta’s sweet voice calling his name and feels Hálwinë’s soft cheek rested against his chest. And when the last rattling breath leaves his battered lungs, sighing softly from his bloodied lips, he looks right at the man above him and smiles.

#háma #my beloved #kind of dark and definitely has some blood and guts #which seems appropriate to the mood lately #but i swear i tried to find the uplift #he’s my number 1 favorite guy #and i just think he’s neat #lotr #rohirrim

23 notes · View notes