#one of those cases of the right story at the right time

[elbiotipo]

Is it weirdly confrontational to point out that tropical climates and people outside Europe are stereotyped?

Yes, of course English-speaking works are based on the experiences and cultures of the anglophone world by the most part. You should realize, however, the cultural pull those works have over the rest of the world. I live in a very warm, subtropical part of Argentina, and I've read books from local authors that incorporate such Middle Ages tropes like nothing, because that's how you do things in the genre, because that's just how things are done. I've seen very talented authors from East Asia that do the stereotypical European Standard Fantasy Setting, and it does get me wondering why. Because this is in fact, not new, after all, European literature, and then Usamerican literature, had a prestige that other wished to imitate; not only in these specific examples, but also in many, many other ways, from themes to style to the language itself. The prestige was not so much in the quality itself, but in the sense that they were considered more, well, prestigious, a way to make your work more noticeable. Or in our current times, more sellable.

So it's not just "English writers write what they like, and other people write what they like too!". When you see the same tropes replicated by people all over the world, you have to wonder what's going on?

In fact, I'm talking to you right now in English. English, and so English culture and tropes (ah, like knights, and castles, and potato stew, see where I'm going with it?), seems to be a prerequisite to writing popular fantasy. I'm very sure there are lots of Middle Eastern fantasy that feature the culture and landscapes of the region, as such from all region. Yet, why do we see them as exotic? Why don't we see those works get as popular as others? Why do so many fantasy authors want potatoes and pine trees for our fantasy to feel "normal" so much that people have argued to me on these kinda posts to the point of ridiculousness? Why are tropical fantasy and science fiction worlds considered the exotic? You can count probably with your two hands, and maybe that's too much, heroes from popular franchises that come from a tropical land or world. Yet the default, the pine trees and castles, is unremarkable. Why is this so, why we see so few stories from other places popularized?

Yes, of course anyone can write whatever their want. I am also free to find such stereotypes and criticize them.

In fact, I'll just repost the paragraph that imsobadatnicknames2 managed to resume so well:

Like I personally couldn't care less if these things happened in just like. One fantasy story. Or a handful of isolated incidents. Like in that case I would agree that pointing it out would be a bit of a Cinemasins ding moment. But when it's not one story, but instead the vast majority of the fantasy genre being comprised of medieval europe-inspired settings where people are constantly eating potato stews and tomato soups and wheatever, I do care about how it reflects a very particular cultural-level blindspot in how global north people tend to see the world.

👀

[the-badger-mole]

I still find the notion that every air nomad was born a bender ridiculous. The three other nations have a good equal of benders and nonbenders, so why so it be different Air? It just seemed to me like another attempt for the Air Nomads to be this lost, pure and righteous race.

The realistic answer is Bryke is terrible at actual world building, and it makes more sense for it to not be true (and based on the show bible, it seems like it wasn't true originally, although I think LoK confirmed it was true? Someone let me know if I'm right, please. I'm not rewatching to check). The interesting answer is that all Air Nomads were not airbenders, and they did Something Horrible™️©️®️ to the non-bending children. That's my headcanon.

If I wrote this story, the fact that this happened among the Air Nomads comes out, but no one believes it at first. It's widely accepted to be Fire Nation propaganda, like when Aang found out that the Fire Nation kids were being taught that the Air Nomads had a formal military that was defeated by Sozin and not that the Air Nomad civilians were ambushed. But then Something Happens, and it's slowly revealed that no, it's true. The Air Nomads had skeletons in their closet, too (literally, in some cases). The Something depends on what timeline I'm envisioning.

Scenario 1: Canon compliant, until... Kya is born, and now Aang has TWO non-airbending children. That calls into question the idea that all Air Nomads were benders, because it's impossible that a nomadic people who traveled all over the world (and who may not have held monogamy as a universal standard) didn't have children with people of different nations. Either it's a myth that all Air Nomads were airbenders, or babies born without bending weren't considered Air Nomads (and what does that mean for Katara's children?), or Aang really is the first Air Nomad to try to have babies with a non-airbender (pffftt!!!). That opens up a whole lot more uncomfortable questions. During the time that all of this is happening, more Air Nomad artifacts confirming some unpleasant truths are discovered.

Scenario 2: Kataang doesn't happen (yay for Katara!). The questions start coming because air benders are being discovered in pockets around the world. They are born to people who weren't air benders, or not any sort of benders at all. In tracing their family lines, some of them discover Air Nomad ancestors. Those are the ones that were raised by their non-Nomad parents. There are others- a disturbing number- who aren't able to trace their lineages back very far because their Nomad-descended ancestors were given away. Some in under the table adoptions, others to orphanages, and more than a few were given into servitude and poverty, and even they were among the lucky ones. The world is turned on its head when the mass graves full of small bones are found....During the time that all of this is happening, more Air Nomad artifacts confirming some unpleasant truths are discovered.

[bluelotuswrites]

2024 fic rec list :)

So here's a list of fics/authors that I read in 2024! A lot of them are Batman-related, and Jason-centered :P

Six Degrees of Separation by @oliocelottafanfics. It's a Criminal Minds crossover with Batman, where Penelope Garcia is the one to find Jason after his resurrection and adopts him. This is one of those fics where I didn't know I needed it until I saw it, and now it's stuck in my brain.

The Right Substitution is Key by Addicted Apple. A fun what-if story where Batman and Nightwing go missing, so Robin recruits Red Hood to fill in as Batman while completely oblivious to the fact that Red Hood is Jason Todd.

Five Reactions to Pepper's New PA by gladdecease. Short, but Bucky ends up becoming Pepper Potts' personal assistant. It's very funny and wholesome.

@cdelphiki's Three Terrors Cinematic Universe is a top fic that many probably already know. Talia tried to escape the League with Jason, Damian, Anathasia, and Mara al Ghul. She didn't make it, leaving Jason to be the one to protect them.

Along with that is cdelphiki's The Time Before. Jason got sent back to the past by Black Mask, who wanted to kill him before he became Red Hood. Jason goes to Bruce for help and ends up healing and learning more about Bruce.

A League of Her Own by @comebackolivia. Immediately after the UtRH, Talia finds Jason in the rubble, kills to Joker, and takes him back to the League, where they try to take over and rebuild it with Nyssa. Jason becomes one of her generals. You might recognize them for their work on Not-So-Outlaw :)

VermillionFlame is another more recent author that has been working on Arkhamverse Jason. For Want of a Savior and Hold Fast (Don't Let Go) are two of my favorites.

For Want of a Savior has comic Jason wind up in Arkhamverse, and saves AK!Jason. He then helps him heal and the Batfam is in a panic after realizing Jason may be alive.

Hold Fast (Don't Let Go) is another AU where Jason shot Deathstroke while working on his revenge plan that would be seen in Arkham Knight. He then shows up at Wayne Manor for protection, throwing the family's peace into chaos as so many things come to light and people butt heads.

Echoes of Future Past by orangesky37 on AO3/ @kindlingkeen. Immediately after Jason's throat got slit in UtRH comic, he gets yeeted back to the past and is found by authorities. James Gordon brings Batman onto the case, not realizing Batman is Bruce Wayne. He gets protective of Jason when he tells Gordon that 'his dad did it.'

Going Down Like the Titanic by @sunnylighter A shortish Arkhamverse AU where Joker succeeds in getting Bruce to succumb to the Titan virus by showing Jason still alive in Arkham Asylum.

Bruce Wayne Must Die by @reginalusus. Jason wants to kill Bruce, only to find out that he's missing. He teams up with Harvey Dent to find him, and there's father-son bonding vibes between Harvey and Jason.

Do Unto Others by @romiress. Arkhamverse again (listen, I'm a sucker for that storyline when it comes to Jason. It's maximum angst potential). Khalid Nassour (Doctor Fate in DC comics) worked at Arkham Asylum under the payroll of Joker, albeit reluctantly. He was brought on to fix up Jason, and eventually he sneaks him out to help him heal.

Don't Let Them See You Cry by @daisyapples. Oh my god, you guys. Let me tell you. This series is vibrates in my brain to an insane degree. Shortly after Bucky breaks free from his Winter Soldier programming, he finds Jason and adopts him. It's so good, y'all. I literally drop everything to read this whenever it updates.

The Glue by sleepynarwhal. Daredevil is the one to mentor Spiderman instead in the MCU and it's very adorable how much Matt goes from reluctant mentor to embracing it, as well introducing him to the other Defenders.

the road home by @drakefeathers. Jason is homesick during his Lost Days Era world murder-tour and ends up returning home.

I'll Catch a Break Someday by @victory-in-the-skye. Fullmetal Alchemist crosses over with the MCU. It has Fem!Ed, which might not be everyone's cup of tea, but it definitely contributes to the story in a way that makes it interesting. The author does a fantastic job of capturing Ed's voice, even in first person! It's a series, but it hasn't been updated in a while and I hope the author is doing okay!

Arkham Compendium by @lananiscorner. If you're a fan of Arkhamverse, I cannot recommend this series enough. Focusing on Jason before, during, and after Arkham Knight, the author does a fantastic job of delving into Jason's psyche during the course of his life. Ill Weeds Grow Apace is my favorite of the series, focusing on Jason healing after Arkham Knight, and slowly reconnecting with his siblings. Lanani also has many other fantastic fics in DC, especially with Jason. While the author might not be in the fandom anymore, I will always be grateful for the fics that were written because they are masterpieces.

(If you're one of these authors on the list and I missed your tumblr @, let me know and I'll edit them in!)

[rpwprpwprpwprw]

02:14 am as I comment my thoughts

I'm exactly like this right now, no joke ☝🏻

Get ready because my review is going to be big. I'm absolutely scarred for life with this fanfic that made me take at least 4 deep breaths while reading it.

“Because he was young, foolish and so in love that he could for once be egoistic enough to say the world was at his feet while you were in his arms smiling into the kiss and mumbling those stupid three-letters-long word”

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT????????

It's like watching a romantic comedy so good that every second you feel blessed to be alive and to have access to something so beautiful. And you wish the whole time that there was one more minute of the movie, one more scene, in my case, more lines.

Your writing is one of the most beautiful things I've had the pleasure of reading, and the characters and atmosphere are absolutely fascinating.

You intertwined the present with flashbacks with extreme mastery and I found myself laughing the whole time, out of sheer happiness.

Their affection, the reality of everyday life and all the love they have for each other.... was beautiful.

And the smut part... as hot, romantic, melancholy and intense as possible. The tears, the surrender and his palpable devotion to her... a totally unique experience. I'm overwhelmed by everything I felt

To find a story as fascinating as this one, so rich, well-written and developed, and with namjoon? 16.7k words? That was a blessing for my soul, honestly.

Wherever you are, I wish you all the best and may the coming year be wonderful for you! I hope to see more of you soon @smoochkooks 💗💗💗💗💗💌

—it’s december (and i still want you) | m.

⇢ pairing: kim namjoon/reader

⇢ genre: smut, angst, fluff (the holy trinity)

⇢ word count: 16.7k

⇢ warnings: explicit sexual content, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (be safe kids!), dirty talk, just good, ol’ emotional sex

⇢ summary: as the final farewell to your soon-to-be-ex husband namjoon, you spend with him one last christmas in your parents’ cottage far away from the city, reflecting on your life together before you will part your ways for good.

a/n: omg guys!! i’m so excited to post this, you have no idea:( i’ve been working on writing this for a whole month but i had this particular fic in mind since last year so i can’t believe i actually managed to finish this before christmas like i had planned. i hope you will like this. i’m sending you lots of love for the new year! xx, julia.

For how long you could remember, you’ve always adored Christmas.

There’s something discreetly magical in this time of the year, no matter if it’s an unique aura or the fact you’re the family type of person, Christmas used to hold a special place in your heart, spread a distinctive kind of warmth in your body that made you feel calm and loved. 

This year though, it’s different. Not because the weather doesn’t suit the occasion and instead of snowing, the sky is cloudy. The very reason is on your kitchen table, next to the big cardboard box you’ve scribbled ‘xmas decorations’ on in black ink. There lay neatly folded in manila folder documents, untouched for about a week since postman delivered them. Your future is inside, just above your signature. You know those papers are not going to be read through anytime soon, that the blank space next to your name will be crystal white until the very New Year.  

You know he won’t say a word about it unless it’s necessary. He won’t plead, beg, ask for delay. He’s accepted it. Deep down you wish he put up some fight, resisted, fell to his knees in front of you and counted all his mistakes promising it won’t happen again. But it’s your decision. And he has never denied your choice. 

You’ve always loved Christmas. Family gatherings by the table, the smell of cinnamon in your mum’s famous rolls, the colourful lights on the Christmas tree your dad never stops complaining about when he’s assigned to put them on. 

This year however, Christmas is nothing but an unceremonious reminder that it’s going to be your last celebration spend with your soon-to-be-ex husband, Namjoon.

Continuar lendo

[satoru-is-the-way]

A/N: Hello everyone it has been a while since I have done any sort of fanfiction. I want to try and get back in the groove for this new year. There are so many fandoms I want to write for. I want to try and get all my drafts and inbox requests cleared out by June but who knows if that will happen. Right now I will focus on them one at a time. But for now I want to focus a bit on Squid Game since the new episode just released. This will be a two part fanfiction.

Triggers: Mention of death, Gore (part 2), smoking, alcohol use, age gap (reader is 25 , Seong is 50,) and SMUT (PART 2)

Seong Gi- Hun x Reader

Game of Hearts pt.1

Seong Gi- Hun had his heart, mind, and soul set on finding the person who currently ran the Squid Game. He needed to find not only their leader but the island he was sent to in hopes of stopping the horrid games once and for all. His first step was to find the salesman who recruited him. Gi- Hun needed a team searching everyday for signs of this recruiter, and with his money he could afford anyone he desires. That is how (Y/n) (L/n) landed an invitation from Gi- Hun to discuss a partnership. Doing his research on possible hires, her name somehow kept finding its way to the top of his list. (Y/n) (L/n) came from an international family who of course aren't exactly on the right side of the law. Gi- Hun normally would not converse with people such as this but he needed someone discreet. It is possible this foreigner may be just the thing he needed to give a different perspective, and if they were caught it wouldn't connect back to him.

Gi- Hun sat patiently waiting for (Y/n) to arrive. His leg bounced nervously as the anticipation continued to grow. He was eager to get his mission started and this was only the first step in his plan. So many doubts ran through his mind. Everything that happened, all the friends lost, and worst of all the betrayals. A gentle knock at the door instantly grabbed his attention. “You may enter.” He spoke in a monotone voice. A cricking sound echoed in the room as (Y/n) entered. Now Gi- Hun had seen many beautiful foreigners in his life but this woman took his breath away. A feeling was rekindling he never thought possible again especially with how things ended with his ex wife whom Gi- Hun used to harbor feelings for. (Y/n) was a decent height, not taller than he was. Her sharp (e/c) eyes had been the first thing that captivated him. A look someone in power gave and it made him almost fall to his knees in front of her. (Y/n) held her head high taking a seat in front of him. She crossed her legs elegantly ready for business. Suddenly his lips were dry he quickly wets them taking a breath in.

“Are you just going to sit there and sweat all over the place or talk business?” Her tone that made him hang off every word spoken.

Gi- Hun nods,” Forgive me. I am looking for someone and I believe your team has the skill set needed to help.”

“Sure, do you have a picture of this suspect? Do you want them dead or alive?” (Y/n) got straight to the point.

“No I don’t have a picture but I can describe him, maybe even draw a reference up, but I do need him alive. This man is very dangerous. I didn't plan to go into detail about him. I do think you need to know what I have been through…” Gi- Hun then goes into details about how the salesman looked and tells her the synopsis of his time in the Squid Games. In honesty he simply needed to vent to some who might listen. Like any normal person of course her facial expressions changed throughout the entire hour he spent rambling on. Just as she was about to call him a lunatic and storm out for wasting her time Gi- Hun pulled out a case of money. The sum only one could achieve if his story was true. He looked like a desperate man needing someone, anyone to believe him.

“I’m in.” Those are the words that sealed their fate.

_1 Year Later_

The first year was rough for Gi- Hun who struggled with no progress. The pressure built on his shoulders as (Y/n)’s team searched. No leads, signs, or any traces of this guy or any others recruiting for their sadistic game. He is currently lighting a cigarette leaning back in his chair. It was time for (Y/n)'s weekly update. She walked into the room. The once stone cold eyes now turn soft seeing Gi- Huns distress. It was easy to notice he was worked up, especially today because it happened to be the ‘anniversary’ of him winning the games.

(Y/n) had also opened up with Gi- Hun the older man constantly turned to her for conversation. Normally she would dismiss clients' interests in becoming more than just professional partners… However this man , using those sad puppy looks made her professional code crumble after the first 3 months. Today Gi- Hun started their normal conversation about who went where and searched what stations including all the evidence of their searches that had been submitted via picture. (Y/n) in the middle of their debriefing took a bold step behind Gi- Hun’s desk gently placing both of her soft hands on his shoulders. At first he tensed up, unsure of her movements. Little by little her hands began to move , rubbing his shoulders.

“What…why are you doing this?” His voice shakes from the amount of relaxation he was drifting into. She chuckled at his response and applied more pressure at the base of his neck earning a moan. “You are trying to kill me aren't you?”

“Gi- Hun if I wanted to kill you and take all of your money I would have done so already. But I wouldn’t ever think of doing that. After meeting you nothing feels the same… I want to meet more than once a week. I can see this is tearing you apart. You have been at this for a year… we may not have much progress… but I know destiny brought us together and it's just begun. I won’t leave your side.” She could not stop as her heart took over.

Gi- Hun is speechless gazing up into her large (e/c) eyes that sparkle in the dim light of this run down hotel. “It's dangerous, I am dangerous. All the people that were killed… I hated that I even got you involved… you are the closest friend I have made in a very long time.”

Friend… just like that her world crumbles this whole time she had only been a friend to Gi- Hun and nothing more? All the late nights thinking of him. How (Y/n) casually would scroll through their texts… Each sweet compliment or kind gesture from Gi- Hun meant nothing but… friendship… (Y/n) refused to let her emotions show now.

“Yeah, what are friends for! I know you would do the same for me if the roles were reversed… or at least I would hope so.” She felt her cheeks warm up as he stood gazing down at her. Gi- Hun pulled her into a hug needing more physical contact. (Y/n) quickly embraces him as well, feeling the need to act as if this was no more than a friendship.

“I don't know what I would do without you.” He whispered. It was breaking Gi- Hun to tell her this was nothing more than a friendship because he craved more. But he didn't need to put a target on her back. If she got caught up in these horrid games… if they killed her… Gi- Hun wouldn't be able to move on.

“I should get going. I have some more paths to lay out with my men. They need to know where to head for next week.” (Y/n) pulled back, turning to leave.

Gi- Hun grabbed the small of her forearm, “Wait! How about we get some drinks tomorrow. It's an off day… I would really like to treat you… Come here and I’ll take you somewhere nice… as professional friends of course!” It took a moment for her to respond properly, she had to make sure her voice did not waver, not in front of him anymore.

“Yeah I would love that. How does around noon sound?” She asked after receiving a confirmation from Gi- Hun (Y/n) left returning to her apartment tossing herself in the bed with a sigh. Why is she putting herself through this? The desire to cancel this meetup was close but she had to see him… She craves Seong Gi- Hun.

-To Be Continued.

[hoe4hotchner]

Chapter 11 - The unsub’s next move

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: 14.9k

Warnings: READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!! Discussion of past abuse and trauma, mentions of inappropriate touching, derogatory comments, and psychological manipulation, emotional distress and psychological turmoil, repressed memories and trauma recovery, triggering content related to sexual assault. Alcohol mentioned once for a "joke" but not consumed. I put reader in therapy in this one. The word bitch a couple of times.

A/N: This is a heavy one and I ask you all read the warnings before continuing as it can be extremely triggering to people who have experienced similar. Read at your own risk!

Masterlist

A sharp gust of wind nipped at Hotch's skin as he stepped through the doors and into the arena, the now familiar sound of your blades carving patterns through the ice echoed faintly through the hall.

Hotch stood a few feet away from the door, his posture as composed as ever, but his expression betrayed a flicker of unease. And as much as he wanted to lean against the boards, to call out for you, to grab your attention, he waited until you approached. His gaze was steady following you around the rink as you twirled and jumped.

“What is it?” you asked cautiously gliding towards him as soon as you had noticed his presence, sensing the weight of what he was about to say.

“It’s Eric Collins,” Hotch began, his words were short, almost bitten off by his own anger. “He’s the unsub.” Hotch had beat himself up the past 24 hours, wondering how he could've let Collins slip through his fingers. He had had him in His interrogation room, on His turf. And he had let him go.

The words didn’t register at first. You blinked in shock, the name hanging in the air threatening to evaporate into smoke. “Eric?” you repeated, your voice trembling. “That can’t be right. I... I knew him.”

“I know,” Hotch said gently, his voice lowering as if to soften the blow.

The ground beneath you felt unsteady, the normally familiar ice felt a little more foreign, a little more slippery, threatening to kick your skates out under you. Memories surged forward unbidden — long hours of training under Eric’s sharp eye, the way he’d barked orders but followed them with detailed critique, those moments he had seemed almost fatherly in his encouragement and teachings.

“But now that I think about it...” Your voice trailed off as the realization began to crystallize in your brain, your thoughts running like threads weaving a darker image of your time together. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Hotch nodded, watching as you wrestled with the revelation. He didn’t interrupt, letting you work through it aloud.

“I left him for Branson,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “Eric said he understood, but... there was something about the way he looked at me. I always thought he was just disappointed. And Leah...” Your stomach twisted as you pieced it together. “She left him too. She switched coaches years before I did. She said he was... too intense... and a little insane."

Hotch’s brow furrowed slightly, his silence prompting you to continue.

“I thought she was being dramatic,” you admitted, guilt settling in. “But now... now it doesn’t feel like a coincidence, does it? Leah and I — we both left him. We both—” You broke off, unable to finish the thought. "But that kid? She was never—"

Hotch stepped closer, his presence steadying your mind a little. “This isn’t your fault,” he said firmly, his tone cutting through your spiraling thoughts. “Eric made his choices, and we’ll stop him. But I need you to focus right now. Anything you can remember about him, anything unusual — could be critical to the investigation.”

You nodded slowly. The rink seemed quieter now, as if even the ice held its breath, waiting for what would come next, what you would say next.

Hotch’s silence stretched for a moment as he absorbed what you’d said during your spiraling, his expression sharpening with thought. You recognized that look — it was the same one you had seen spread across his face when the pieces of a case were beginning to fall into place.

“Collins feels betrayed,” he said finally, more to himself than to you. “You and Leah were supposed to be his success stories, the proof of his skill as a coach — his way to The Olympics I guess. When you left, it wasn’t just a professional loss to him — it was personal. He would have seen it as you rejecting him, as if you were saying he wasn’t good enough to help you achieve greatness.”

You swallowed hard, his words settling in your chest. “And Leah...”

“She left first,” Hotch confirmed, the tone in his voice was calm. “She may have been the initial trigger, but your departure likely reinforced whatever narrative he’s created for himself. He doesn’t just see you both as former students — he sees you as symbols of his failure.”

It was hard to breathe, your mind racing through every interaction you’d ever had with Collins. You couldn’t believe you’d been so blind to how deep his resentment must have run.

“What now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “What do I do?”

Hotch’s gaze softened, his usual sternness and furrowed brows giving way to something gentler. “You don’t have to change anything in your routine right now,” he assured you. “Keep preparing for regionals as you normally would. We’ll have Garcia focus on tracking Collins’ movements. With the information you’ve given us, we have a clearer picture of his motivations and what he might do next.”

“And if you don’t find him before regionals?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened briefly, but his voice remained soft, careful not to frighten you more than you already were. “We will,” he said, leaving no room for doubt. “But even if he hasn’t been apprehended by then, you won’t be alone. We’ll take every precaution to ensure your safety. We'll plant more security throughout the arena than we had at sectionals. You won't have to worry about anything but your program.”

His confidence steadied you, even as anxiety continued to simmer under the surface. You had already endured the stress of nationals with a shadow hanging over you — could you handle it again?

“I won’t have to compete like I did at nationals?” you pressed, needing the reassurance.

Hotch’s expression softened further. “That’s the goal,” he said firmly. “I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you can focus on skating. We’re closing in on him, and I have no intention of letting him get anywhere near you — or anyone else for the matter.”

His words offered another layer of comfort, but the unease lingered. You nodded, forcing yourself to draw a steady breath. “Okay,” you said, more to convince yourself than him.

“We’ll keep you updated,” Hotch added. He glanced around the rink, his eyes scanning the space as though searching for invisible threats. “If you notice anything unusual — anything at all — you call me. Understand?”

“Yes.”

His gaze held yours for a moment longer before he gave a curt nod. “Good. Now get some rest when you can. You’ll need it.”

As Hotch turned and began walking toward the exit, his phone already in hand, you stayed behind for a moment, letting the reality of the situation sink in. The rink felt colder, your balance more wobbly on your blades. You weren’t just skating toward regionals anymore — you were skating toward an uncertain future, one that depended on a team of people working tirelessly to stop a man you had once trusted.

Hotch paused just before the exit, glancing back when he heard your voice.

“There’s one more thing,” you said, hesitating as you opened the door to jump away from the ice, suddenly scared to fall. “The board of directors here has been trying to find me a new coach — someone who can take over my training now that Branson is... gone.” You winced at the word, the loss still a little too fresh in your memory, too raw to say casually.

Hotch’s expression shifted, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered this new piece of information, wondering if a new coach would bear another murder. “Have they made any progress?”

You shook your head. “Not yet. They’ve reached out to a few candidates, but it’s not like there’s a long list of coaches with the time, credentials, and experience to step in at this level and point of the competition season. And even if they do find someone, it probably won’t happen before regionals. If I’m lucky, I might have a coach by nationals. That’s assuming I even make it that far.”

The last part came out quieter, tinged with doubt, and you hated yourself for letting it slip, fearing the words spoken would jinx your whole career. You weren’t one to let fear or uncertainty show — especially not to someone like Hotch, not if you could help it.

“You will,” he said firmly. “And regardless of whether you have a coach by then, you’re not in this alone. You have a team working to protect you, and I’m not going to let anything compromise your chances. Even if I have to put those damned skates back on again” He attempted a joke, drawing your attention back to the day you had promised to teach him how to skate.

You managed a small, grateful smile, though the knot in your chest didn’t fully loosen. “Thanks. It’s just... hard to imagine going through all of this without Branson.”

Hotch nodded. “I understand. Losing someone who believed in you, who guided you — it’s not something you recover from overnight. But the fact that you’re still here, still training and pushing forward, says a lot about your strength and willpower — and about your character.”

His words carried a weight that surprised you, and for a moment, the air between you felt heavier. There was an unspoken understanding there —an acknowledgment of loss, resilience, and the determination to keep moving forward despite the odds. You knew Hotch's pain was worse than yours, having heard from the team how he had lost his wife a few years earlier.

“I’m trying,” you admitted.

“And that’s enough,” he replied. “For now, keep focusing on what you can control. Leave the rest to us.”

“I’ll admit... I’m nervous.”

“Nervous about what, exactly?”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat for a moment. “This is the first time I’ve had to do all my training by myself,” you said finally, gesturing vaguely toward the rink. “No Branson. No one pushing me when I’m too tired to care. No one analyzing every little detail and telling me what to fix.” You exhaled, a note of frustration slipping through. “I’ve always had someone in my corner, guiding me. Now it’s just... me.”

Hotch’s posture shifted slightly, a subtle lean toward you that felt grounding. “That’s a lot to shoulder on your own.”

You nodded, letting your words settle between you for a moment before continuing. “It’s not ideal, I know that. But if I want to progress — if I want to make it through regionals — I’ll have to keep going. I can’t afford to fall apart right now.”

Your voice cracked just enough for Hotch to notice, and his expression softened further.

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself,” he said, his tone monotone but not unkind. “You don’t have to handle it all perfectly. No one does.”

You managed a tight smile, crossing your arms as you tried to keep your emotions in check. “Maybe not, but this sport doesn’t leave much room for error. I can’t just skate half-heartedly and hope it’s good enough. Every day I don’t train the way I should is a step backward, and I don’t have many steps left to spare.”

Hotch studied you for a moment as if weighing his words carefully. “You’ve been through more than most skaters ever will,” he said finally. “The fact that you’re still here, still determined to compete, tells me you’ve got the resilience to face this. You might not have a coach right now, but you have experience — and more grit than I think you realize.”

You nodded again. As Hotch turned to leave once more, his phone pressed to his ear as he no doubt began organizing the next steps in the investigation, you took a moment to steady yourself.

You glanced out at the ice, the familiar surface shimmering under the lights. It wasn’t ideal, and the path ahead felt daunting, but Hotch was right — you’d made it this far. You could keep going. Regionals weren't just for you anymore. You were skating for everyone who had believed in you — Leah, Branson, and now, perhaps in some way, Hotch too.

You had to.

The glow of Garcia’s multiple monitors bathed her office in shades of blue and green as her fingers flew across the keyboard. Lines of code scrolled rapidly, interspersed with maps and search results that flickered across the screens. She leaned in closer, a furrow etched deep between her brows.

“Come on, Collins, where are you hiding?” she murmured, her voice a mix of frustration and determination as her eyes scanned every single result popping on her screens.

The phone’s signal was proving unavailable, bouncing between cell towers miles apart. It was like chasing a ghost — no discernible pattern, no clear location. The closest she’d gotten was a vague trajectory suggesting movement, but it didn’t stay consistent long enough to track.

“Too smart for your own good, huh?” she muttered, biting the tip of her pen in thought before quickly resuming her typing.

She’d already issued APBs on Eric Collins to every law enforcement circle in the state and neighboring ones, her fingers deftly navigating the protocols to ensure nothing slipped through the cracks. If he so much as jaywalked in front of a patrol car, someone would know.

Still, the lack of tangible leads gnawed at her. “No phone trace, no paper trail… Did you take a crash course in disappearing acts or something?”

A new window popped up on her screen, notifying her of an update on Collins’ financials. She let out a huff as the result loaded.

“No credit card activity either. Of course.” She rolled her eyes, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “But don’t think you’ve outsmarted me yet.”

With a few swift keystrokes, Garcia set up alerts on every single one of his cards. The moment he swiped or tapped, anywhere, she’d know. “Try buying so much as a candy bar, and I’ll be all over you like glitter on a craft project.”

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the machines and the rhythmic clacking of her keyboard as she dug deeper, searching through bank accounts, travel logs, and even local surveillance feeds.

When another blank search result flashed across her monitor, she groaned and leaned back in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s good. Too good.”

She glanced at the APB notifications again, as if willing something to come through. “But you’re not perfect, Collins,” she said, determination rekindled in her voice. “Nobody is. And when you slip up — and you will — I’ll be waiting.”

With renewed focus, Garcia returned to her screens, her fingers resuming their relentless pursuit. Somewhere, Eric Collins was out there, and no amount of distance or misdirection would stop her from finding him.

As Garcia’s search branched into Collins’ past, her expression shifted from frustration to grim determination. With a few quick keystrokes, she accessed public records, police reports, and any disciplinary actions tied to his name. The results were far worse than she anticipated.

A string of short-lived coaching tenures stood out like red flags. Athlete after athlete had left his training program not long after starting, most without any official explanation. But buried among the silent ones were statements — thin threads of accusations that painted a disturbing picture.

Police reports surfaced, some closed, others left open. Athletes, young and promising, had accused Collins of inappropriate touching, derogatory comments, and emotional abuse. While no charges had ever stuck — either due to lack of evidence or fear of retaliation — it was clear this wasn’t an isolated pattern.

Garcia’s fingers paused over the keyboard, her confident demeanor dimmed by the weight of what she was reading. The cases weren’t recent; many were years old, filed, and forgotten in the overwhelming tide of the legal system. But each line, each detail, hit like a gut punch.

Her mind drifted to you. You had trained under him, and spent long hours on the ice and off, trusting him to guide you at such a formative stage in your career. Had he hurt you, too? The thought sent a cold wave down her spine, making her grip the edge of her desk for support.

“God, I hope not,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the hum of her equipment.

Shaking her head, Garcia tried to refocus, but the unease lingered, clawing at the edges of her thoughts. She knew how young athletes often stayed silent, too afraid or ashamed to come forward. Her stomach churned as the possibility refused to let go.

“No,” she said firmly to herself, forcing her hands back onto the keyboard. “Don’t go there, Penelope. You don’t know that. You can’t think like that.”

Still, the idea of you enduring such a thing festered. She clenched her jaw, channeling the surge of emotions into a renewed determination to catch him. Whatever Collins had done in the past, whatever horrors he might have inflicted, Garcia would ensure he wouldn’t hurt anyone else — not you, not anyone.

Her fingers flew faster, pulling up every shred of information she could find about the accusations. Each file added to her growing arsenal of evidence against him. She flagged the most critical details and sent them to Hotch with a note: “You need to see this. We may have more than just a murderer on our hands.”

Garcia took a deep breath, pushing back the knot of worry in her chest. She had a job to do, and worrying about hypotheticals wouldn’t help you or the team. But as she continued her work, she couldn’t shake the silent promise forming in her mind.

If he hurt her, he’s not getting away with it.

Garcia groaned in frustration, leaning back in her chair as the latest search attempt ended in yet another dead end. Collins’ phone continued to ping erratically between cell towers, each signal spanning an impossible distance in mere minutes. It was clear he’d either ditched the phone entirely or was using burner devices to throw off any attempts at tracing him.

“Come on, you slippery son of a— ” she muttered, cutting herself off as her fingers flew across the keyboard to initiate another round of scans.

Still nothing.

She shifted her focus to his credit cards, hoping for at least a breadcrumb trail. But those, too, yielded no results. Collins had been smart enough to avoid using anything traceable. Garcia sighed, rubbing her temples.

“Of course,” she muttered to herself. “Because why would a dangerous lunatic make it easy for me?”

Every trick she had tried— even facial recognition sweeps on traffic and security cameras — had come up empty. It was like he’d vanished off the face of the earth.

Still, Garcia wasn’t ready to admit defeat. She initiated automated scripts to keep running in the background, scouring any data source that might eventually lead to a hit. He couldn’t stay invisible forever.

Her gaze drifted back to the notes she had compiled on Collins. The accusations, the police reports, the twisted behavior that seemed to drive him — all of it painted a picture of a man consumed by resentment and control. Garcia felt a hit of unease. If he was staying off the radar this effectively, it wasn’t because he was running scared.

He was planning something.

With a huff, she pushed herself up from her chair, pacing the room for a moment to clear her mind. She couldn’t let frustration cloud her focus. Collins might be a ghost for now, but she had faith in her systems. Sooner or later, something would give, and when it did, she’d be ready.

Returning to her desk, she repositioned her headband, her determination hardening. “Alright, you want to play hard to get? Fine. But I don’t lose, Eric Collins. You hear me?” It almost came out as a yell.

She rechecked the parameters of her scripts, ensuring every possible avenue of data collection was covered, before leaning back with a sigh. All she could do now was let her tools work and wait for the slightest slip-up.

Garcia glanced at the time on the corner of her screen and frowned. It was getting late. She should check in with Hotch soon, and update him on the lack of progress.

Garcia hesitated at the door to Hotch’s office, clutching the printed report in her hand. She had spent years working alongside him, and while she knew him to be calm and composed in even the most harrowing circumstances, this wasn’t just another lead. This was personal, and even if he wouldn't admit it, she knew that there was something more burrowed deep down between the two of you.

Taking a deep breath, she knocked softly and pushed the door open when Hotch called her in. He was seated at his desk, poring over case files, the stress etched into his features. As she stepped inside, he looked up, and the faint crease of his brow deepened when he saw the serious expression on her face.

“Garcia,” he said, sitting up straighter. “What did you find?”

She closed the door behind her and crossed the room, laying the papers on his desk with a careful hand. “It’s… not exactly what we were hoping for. I still can’t locate him — no credit card activity, no solid location on his phone. But while I was digging, I came across something else — Did you see my email?”

"No, not yet." Hotch’s eyes dropped to the report as she continued.

“Collins has a history, sir. A really dark one. Several skaters under his training left after a short time. Many didn’t say anything, but some did. There are police reports — accusations of inappropriate touching, degrading comments, physical and emotional abuse.”

Hotch’s hand froze over the pages. His jaw tightened, and his lips pressed into a thin line as he absorbed the information. Garcia’s voice softened, but the words seemed to hit even harder.

“It’s clear he has a pattern, and he’s been getting away with it for years. I couldn’t stop thinking about…” She trailed off, her voice catching for a moment. “I couldn’t stop thinking about her, sir. She was so young when she trained with him. I mean, what if…”

Hotch closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a slow, measured breath, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the storm building inside him. He didn’t want to imagine it, didn’t want to consider the possibility that Collins had inflicted that kind of harm on you. Yet the thought clawed at him, refusing to be dismissed.

“She hasn’t said anything,” he murmured, more to himself than to Garcia. His voice was low, yet strained. “If something happened, she hasn’t shared it.”

Garcia’s heart twisted at the anguish in his tone. “I know, and I hope—” She stopped herself, unwilling to say the rest out loud. She didn’t want to voice the hope that nothing had happened to you because even that thought was too painful to bear.

Hotch straightened, his gaze hardening. “Collins won’t hurt anyone else. We’ll find him, and when we do, he’ll answer for everything.”

Garcia nodded, her usual brightness dimmed by the weight of the conversation. “I’ve put every system I have on alert, sir. He can’t hide forever. If he slips up, even for a second, I’ll catch it.”

“Thank you, Garcia,” Hotch said, his voice steady despite the turmoil behind his eyes.

Hotch remained seated, staring down at the report. His thoughts were with you, replaying every interaction you’d had with Collins that you’d mentioned. Had there been signs he’d missed?

His fists clenched as his protective instincts surged. Whatever Collins had done in the past, Hotch vowed he wouldn’t let him anywhere near you again.

There was a hesitant knock at the door, and both Hotch and Garcia turned toward the sound. You peeked in cautiously, dressed in a puffer jacket with your bag slung over your shoulder, a faint sheen of exertion still visible from your training session.

“Hey,” you greeted softly, your eyes flicking between the two of them. “I just finished up at the rink. I was hoping there might be… any news about Collins?”

Garcia’s expression shifted immediately, her lips pressing together in a line. “Oh, honey,” she said softly, her voice full of sympathy as she gave you a look that was both pitying and protective. “I’ll, uh… I’ll leave you two to talk. I think that's for the best.”

Your stomach twisted at the tone, confused at what Garcia had meant, dread started creeping in as she slipped past you and out the door.

Hotch rose from his desk, his usually expression softened ever so slightly. “Come in,” he said, gesturing toward the couch.

You hesitated for a moment before stepping fully into the room, closing the door behind you. Hotch crossed the office, moving from behind his desk to sit in the armchair adjacent to the couch. The act was subtle, but you recognized it for what it was: an effort to meet you on even ground, to put a little distance between himself and his usual position of authority.

You lowered yourself onto the couch, placing your bag at your feet. Your hands fidgeted with the zipper as you looked up at him, your brows furrowing. “What’s going on? Did P find something?”

Hotch leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. His gaze was steady, but there was a gentleness in it that made your chest tighten. “We haven’t found him yet,” he admitted, his tone carefully even. “Garcia’s running every possible lead, but so far, Collins has gone completely off the grid. We’re doing everything we can to locate him.”

Your shoulders sagged slightly, a mix of relief and frustration. Relief that he wasn’t right outside your door, but frustration that the uncertainty still loomed over you, that he was still out there somewhere.

“I know this isn’t the answer you were hoping for,” Hotch continued, his voice softer now. “But I promise, we won’t stop looking. We’ll find him.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I just… I keep thinking about him. About everything I missed back then. How did I not see it?”

Hotch’s eyes darkened slightly, but his tone remained calm, trying not to overwhelm you as he picked his next words carefully. “You were young. It wasn’t your responsibility to see it. It was his responsibility to act like a decent human being — and he failed at that.”

You blinked, taken aback by the quiet intensity in his voice. It wasn’t like Hotch to let his emotions slip through so clearly, but this was different. This was personal. You weren’t just another case to him, and that realization made your heart ache in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I’ll keep training,” you said after a moment, straightening your posture slightly. “I have to. I can’t just stop because he’s out there somewhere. If I do, then he wins, right?”

Hotch nodded, a faint trace of admiration flickering in his expression. “That’s exactly right.”

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, but even in the heaviness, there was a sense of solidarity, an unspoken understanding that you weren’t facing this alone.

Hotch sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a hand across his jaw. The weight of what he was about to say was heavy in the air, thick and suffocating. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to his hands before meeting your eyes again.

“What I’m about to ask you…” His voice was low. “It’s not easy. And I need you to know that I wouldn’t ask about it if it wasn’t necessary.”

Your brows knit together in confusion, your stomach twisting with unease. “What do you mean?”

Hotch inhaled slowly, the lines on his face deepening as he gathered his words. “During Garcia’s search, she uncovered a history of allegations against Collins — former athletes who’ve accused him of inappropriate behavior. Touching, comments, even abuse.”

Your stomach dropped. You stared at him, your mind struggling to process what he was saying.

He leaned forward slightly, his tone gentle. “I need to know if anything like that ever happened to you while you were training with him.”

The question hit you like a freight train. Your lips parted as if to respond, but no words came out. You felt blindsided, your chest tightening as a flurry of emotions churned inside you — shock, confusion, denial.

“No,” you finally managed, your voice shaky and barely above a whisper. “No, that didn’t happen. He never… he wouldn’t…”

Hotch’s gaze remained steady on you, persistent but not accusatory. He wasn’t pushing, but he also wasn’t letting you brush this aside.

“I mean,” you stammered, your hands clutching the edge of the couch as if grounding yourself. “Sure, he was strict — he yelled sometimes — but that’s… that’s just how coaches are, right? He was hard on me, but…”

Your voice trailed off as memories you hadn’t revisited in years began to surface. Small, seemingly insignificant moments suddenly felt different, tinged with an unease you couldn’t fully name. You shook your head, as if trying to physically dispel the thoughts.

“No,” you repeated firmly, almost to convince yourself. “He didn’t do anything like that to me.”

Hotch’s expression softened, but there was still a shadow of concern in his eyes. “If you ever remember something, even if it feels small or insignificant, I need you to tell me. It’s important.”

You swallowed hard, nodding even though your mind was still spinning. “I will,” you said quietly, though the words felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.

Hotch’s voice lowered even further, the warmth in his tone breaking through the tension. “You didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault.”

The reassurance struck a chord, and you nodded again, though the tightness in your chest refused to ease. You sat in silence for a moment, the enormity of what he’d asked settling over you.

The silence between you and Hotch hung heavy, thick with unspoken words. His question had hit you harder than you’d anticipated, and now, as you sat there, a terrible awareness began to crawl over you. The memories — small fragments of your childhood training, things you’d long buried — began to resurface.

You had repressed those memories for a reason. As a child, the training had been your world, and Collins had been the figure you trusted most. But over time, as you grew older and moved on, you locked away those feelings — those moments — that felt off, uncomfortable, and wrong. You never allowed yourself to question them.

But now, in this moment, Hotch’s question made everything surface again. A rush of flashbacks hit you, and the weight of them felt suffocating. You could see his face, the way he’d looked at you sometimes, like you were an object to be molded — his voice, raised in anger when you made a mistake. The way his hands had occasionally lingered too long, too close. You remembered the way you’d shrunk back, trying to hide your discomfort, but never really understanding why you felt it.

You took a deep breath, suddenly feeling like the walls around you were closing in. Your throat felt tight, and the tears you’d worked so hard to keep at bay threatened to spill over. But you held them back, clenching your hands into fists as if the physical tension could somehow prevent the memories from overwhelming you.

You didn’t want to remember. You didn’t want to feel those things again — those horrible, confusing emotions from when you were too young to understand what was happening. It was easier to pretend that it didn’t matter. Easier to bury it and convince yourself that you were just being sensitive, that the things he’d done were just part of the tough love that came with being a competitor.

But now, as those suppressed memories tried to claw their way to the surface, the truth became undeniable. There had been moments when Collins had crossed a line, even if you hadn’t fully understood it at the time. And now, sitting here with Hotch, you were forced to confront the fact that you had been carrying that weight with you all these years, even though you had buried it so deep.

You shook your head slowly, not because you disagreed with what Hotch was saying, but because you didn’t know how to voice what you had been trying to block out.

“I—” You stopped, swallowing hard. “I don’t know,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I blocked it out, Hotch. It was too much to deal with when I was younger, so I pushed it away. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to remember...”

Hotch’s gaze softened, his eyes filled with understanding. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to remember everything now. But when you’re ready, if anything comes back to you, I need you to know that I'll be here.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of everything you had locked away. “I don’t want to be one of his victims,” you said softly, the words feeling like a confession. “I never wanted to be one.”

Hotch nodded slowly, his voice gentle. “You’re not, and you never were. But if anything — anything at all — feels wrong, you need to speak up. We’ll protect you, and we’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

You looked at him, unsure of what to say next, but his presence was a small comfort in the storm of emotions that raged inside you. Slowly, you nodded, though the unease still clung to you like a second skin. You weren’t sure what to do with the flood of memories, but you knew that Hotch and the team would be there to help you, even if you weren’t ready to face them just yet.

Without realizing it, the first tear slipped down your cheek, followed quickly by another. The dam you’d worked so hard to hold together finally began to crack, and before you knew it, memories — fragments of your training — started flooding back, each one as sharp and raw as the day they had happened. You could feel them in your chest, a deep, aching weight pressing on your heart, the burden of years of silence crashing over you.

You didn’t want to remember, but the images came anyway, unbidden, like ghosts from a past you thought you’d buried forever. Your body trembled as you saw him, Collins, standing behind you, adjusting your posture during one of your many long training sessions.

You were only nine then, too young to truly understand what was happening, but old enough to feel a sense of discomfort that you couldn’t place. He had always pushed you to be better, to perfect every movement. But that day… that day was different.

You remembered the coldness of the rink beneath you, the chill in the air that you usually welcomed as it sharpened your focus. Collins had come up behind you, his breath too close to your ear, telling you to straighten up for the next spin. You had been working on your camel spin, struggling to get the posture just right, and like always, he had insisted that your position was everything, that it was the key to keeping you safe on the ice — which in itself was true.

You had been so focused on the movement, trying to balance on one foot, your arms raised in perfect form, when his hands had settled on your body. One hand on your lower back, the other uncomfortably close, placed on your hip, above your crotch. It didn’t feel right. Even at that young age, your instincts told you that much. But he had been your coach, your authority, and you hadn’t questioned him.

He said it was to help you position your body just right so you wouldn’t tip over, but the sensation of his touch lingered in a way it shouldn’t have. You had thought nothing of it at the time, convinced yourself that it was just part of the job — just part of the training. But now, as you sat here, those memories felt suffocating, and you realized how much you had repressed just to survive them.

You closed your eyes, squeezing them tight, as another tear fell, trailing down your cheek.

Hotch was silent, watching you, but not intruding. He didn’t need to ask you to explain. The memories you were reliving spoke for themselves, and he could see the pain in your face. The guilt, the shame, all of it.

A shudder passed through you as you tried to push the memory away, but it was like a wave crashing over you, it was cold. Your hands clenched into fists in your lap, and you forced yourself to take a shaky breath.

“I didn’t… I didn’t know it was wrong back then,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I thought he was just helping me. But now… now I see it. It wasn’t just coaching. It was… manipulation.”

Hotch’s heart broke for you, but he kept his voice collected, not wanting to show the anger that was boiling within him. “You were just a child. You did what you had to do to get through it. But now, we know the truth. And he won’t get away with it.” He tried to reassure, reminding you over and over that Collins would be tried based on every single allegation and charge Hotch could find on him. Even if he had to jump into his old role as prosecutor one last time.

You nodded, still spinning from the memories that kept trying to pull you under. Your chest ached with the weight of it all. It wasn’t just the bad memories; it was everything you’d suppressed for so long, all of it returning.

Hotch sat beside you, close but not too close, giving you the space to breathe. His presence, calm and steady, anchored you as you tried to process the flood of emotions and memories that threatened to drown you.

“I don’t know what to do with all of this,” you confessed, your voice small and fragile.

“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Hotch said gently. “Just take it one step at a time. We’ll be here, every step of the way, no matter what.”

For the first time in a long while, you felt like you could let yourself feel all of it — the pain, the confusion, the fear — and know that you wouldn’t have to work through it alone.

The tears still flowed, but through the haze of pain, more memories continued to press in. They were sharp and unwelcome.

You remembered the comments — too many of them to count, each one cutting deeper into your young heart. They weren’t the type of things a coach should say, let alone to a child. Remarks that had no place in any form of encouragement or training.

One particular instance pushed to the forefront of your mind. You had been just twelve years old at the time, working through your program in the rink. Collins had been watching you, his eyes narrowed in a way that made your stomach turn. He’d muttered something under his breath, something you hadn’t quite understood at first.

You remembered hearing him say, just loud enough for you to catch, “Bitches like her are only good for…”

The rest of the sentence was muffled, lost to your confused ears, but the implications of those words were clear. At twelve, you had no idea how to process it. You had never heard anything like that from an adult before. You froze, unsure whether to confront him or simply pretend you hadn’t heard anything. You hadn’t dared to question him. He was the coach, after all. You were just a kid.

But as you sat in Hotch’s office, with that moment replaying in vivid detail you couldn’t ignore it anymore. The disgust, the shame, the fear — it was all there, over and over again. You had been far too young for those words, far too innocent.

Hotch’s hand on your knee broke through the storm of thoughts. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you had been gripping the couch until his touch reached you. His fingers gently squeezed your knee, a simple gesture, but it was enough to ground you pull you back to the present, to remind you that you were safe.

“Hey,” Hotch’s voice was soft, his presence unwavering next to you. He didn’t need to say much; you could feel his understanding of your situation. His hand remained on your knee, it was his way of telling you he was there — with you.

“It's not your fault,” he said quietly, his tone was like a soothing balm to the rawness of your emotions. He didn’t want to push you.

You tried to take a deep breath, but everything, all of it all was still too much to handle. It felt as though a dam had broken, and you were drowning in the flood of memories and emotions, trying to pull yourself back to shore. You knew you had to keep going, had to find a way to work through this pain, but you let yourself be still. Let yourself be held in the moment of comfort that Hotch provided.

Hotch’s hand remained on your knee, but you could feel the tension in his touch — his concern for you, for what you were going through. He spoke again. “You don’t have to share anything you’re not ready to, but I do want you to know that what you went through… it might qualify as sexual assault.”

The words hung in the air between you, they were unexpected, you hadn't even clocked the connection in your memories, but you refused to believe him. You froze, your breath catching in your throat. The shock was like a physical punch, knocking the wind out of you. “What? No,” you gasped, shaking your head in disbelief, denying his thoughts. The idea that what Collins had done to you — what you had endured — could be labeled in such a way felt impossible to process.

You instinctively scooted a little further away from him, your body trembling as a wave of panic swept over you. You weren’t sure why you moved away from him, why you had that instinct to create distance.

Maybe it was because of the harshness of the term he had used, or the fact that it made everything feel too real. It was easier to pretend that what had happened had been some kind of twisted mistake, something that didn’t truly qualify as that kind of violation.

But Hotch didn’t move. He just stayed where he was. His hand on your knee still lingered, despite your movement, it didn’t feel intrusive, but it was comforting in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

“I’m not going to push you,” Hotch said quietly, his voice almost a whisper, “but if you’re ready, I’m here to listen. Whatever you want to share, I’m not going anywhere.” He kept repeating himself, almost as if you hadn't heard him the first time. You knew it was a tactic to get you to calm down, but you didn't want to hear it. All you wanted to do was scream.

For a moment, all you could do was sit there, his words pressing down on you. You knew he was right. Deep down, you understood that what you had experienced was more than just a set of uncomfortable moments. You hadn’t fully confronted it until now, and the reality of it felt like a tidal wave that was just starting to hit you. You were sure that there were more memories buried deeper down in the rabbit hole, memories that you might never fully unlock, but would still feel the weight of as you started discovering more and more about your past.

Tears kept spilling from your eyes as the memories — those fragments of your childhood — muddled around in your head. The hands, the comments, the shame, the feeling of being trapped. You tried to hold back, tried to keep it together, but you couldn’t.

You didn’t know where to start, didn’t know how to make sense of it all. You opened your mouth, wanting to tell him, but your words caught in your throat. “I… I don’t know, Hotch,” you stuttered, the tremor in your voice betraying the depth of your fear and confusion. “I just… I remember him… touching me, his hands on me… I thought it was part of the training… I was so young.” You choked on the last part, the words feeling like they were burning on their way out.

You felt small, like that scared little girl again. The tears were coming faster now, staining your cheeks. Hotch didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to comfort you with empty reassurances. He just listened, his expression unreadable but full of empathy. He was allowing you the space to say what you needed to say, to let the memories tumble out no matter how painful.

“I — I didn’t know,” you sobbed, curling in on yourself as the images came crashing forward. “I didn’t know it was wrong… It was just… him... making me do things, putting his hands there... and saying things... I thought it was just part of the training, just the way it was… I didn’t know, I didn’t know—”

Your words were broken now, coming in ragged gasps. You screamed in frustration, the pain of it all too much to contain, the anger, the shame, the betrayal all coming together in a scream that echoed in the room.

Hotch didn’t flinch, didn’t try to stop you. He just stayed, patient, and let you get it all out. His only movement was the slight shift of his hand, as he gently squeezed your knee again, just a reassuring touch, as if to remind you that he was still there.

You screamed again, the words catching in your throat, but Hotch just listened. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t rush you. He was giving you the space to say everything you needed to say, even if it wasn’t perfect, even if it wasn’t easy.

“I didn’t know… I didn’t know… I was just a kid,” you whispered between sobs, your voice barely audible. You didn’t even know if you were making any sense, but it didn’t matter. Hotch was there, as silent witness to your pain, and that was enough for now.

When the tears subsided, when the screaming finally died down, all you could do was sit there in the silence, feeling utterly drained. Hotch didn’t say anything for a long while, but his presence still anchored you. He hadn’t tried to fix it, to make you feel better. He had just allowed you to feel everything you needed to feel, and that made all the difference.

Once the storm of emotions had passed, and the quietness of the room settled around you like a heavy blanket, Hotch exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving you. His expression was soft, but there was an intensity in his eyes, something deep and understanding.

He finally spoke, his voice steady and serious. "What you just shared with me — everything you went through with Collins — that was assault, and I want you to know that. You weren’t wrong for feeling what you felt. You weren’t wrong for being confused, for thinking it was normal. What he did to you was wrong, and it’s not your fault."

You nodded slowly, his words sinking in. Hearing him say it out loud made something inside you break just a little bit more, but at the same time, it offered a kind of validation you hadn’t realized you needed. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t deserve it. It was like your twelve-year-old self's voice echoed around the walls in your head. It was almost too much to fully accept, but in that moment, it was all you needed to hear.

Hotch shifted slightly in his seat, his eyes never leaving you as he chose his next words carefully. "I need to ask you something else, and it’s not easy to admit. But have you ever thought about seeing a therapist? Someone who can help you work through this? I know it’s hard to even consider, but it might be something that could help."

You looked up at him, feeling the familiar walls start to go up again. The idea of opening up to someone else, someone professional, felt overwhelming. You had spent so many years locking this all away, keeping it buried. The thought of dragging it all out again, of talking to someone about it — someone who didn’t know you, didn’t know your story — it felt almost like a betrayal.

You shook your head, the lump in your throat making it harder to speak. “No. I’ve never thought about it… I mean, I don't even know where to start,” you admitted, your voice small. The idea of seeing a therapist felt foreign to you, as if it was a door you’d been too afraid to open for fear of what you might find on the other side.

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his expression filled with compassion but also a determination that you knew meant he wouldn’t let you brush this aside. That despite his attempts not to push you to share your memories, he would definitely push you to see a shrink. "It’s okay not to know where to start. I’m not saying you have to dive into it right now, but I want you to know that you don’t have to work through everything on your own. There’s someone on the team, a therapist that we all use when we need it. If you’re open to it, I can help you set up a meeting with her. She’s good, and she’ll understand. She’ll help you."

You looked at him, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the walls you had carefully started to rebuild. Part of you was still hesitant, scared of what might happen if you opened up that door. But at the same time, a small voice inside you told you that maybe it was time — time to start healing, time to stop pretending it didn’t hurt.

You took a deep breath, wiping the last remnants of your tears away. “I... I think I’d like that. I don’t know where else to turn right now,” you said, your voice shaky but resolute. "If you can help me set that up... I think it’s time."

Hotch gave you a soft nod, his eyes full of understanding and approval. “I’ll make the arrangements. You don’t have to do this alone, and you don’t have to do it all at once. Take your time, okay? But I’ll be here, every step of the way.” He smiled. "And if you're ever ready to share your past with the rest of the team, I know that they'll be there too."

The relief you felt from his words was almost immediate, like a weight had been lifted from your chest, if only for a moment.

The air in the bullpen felt thick with tension. Despite the constant hum of ringing phones and the clatter of keyboards, there was an underlying quietness in the office, a heaviness that weighed on everyone. The clock ticked relentlessly, counting down the days until Regionals, but for Hotch, it might as well have been an eternity. He sat behind his desk, rubbing his eyes as if he could erase the exhaustion from his body with just the pressure of his fingers.

Three weeks had passed since you’d opened up about Collins, and despite every effort, there had been no sign of him. Not even a trace. The M.O. had become clearer, but Collins had vanished, blending into the shadows with a precision that felt almost calculated. He was staying hidden, every move more deliberate than the last. Hotch had pushed himself past his limits trying to track him down, working late nights, following every lead, exhausting every avenue of the investigation. Yet, they still had no solid answers.

Garcia had been on the case just as tirelessly. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, working her usual magic in the background, but even she had reached her limits. “I’ve run every search, every database, and nothing, Hotch,” she had told him earlier that day, her voice tinged with frustration. "This guy is a ghost."

It had been a week since she'd found that final lead, the last clue they thought would point to Collins’ whereabouts, but it had gone cold. No credit card activity. No phone pings. No movement. Nothing. Collins had covered his tracks too well, and the team had run out of options.

Hotch leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen of his computer. His mind was racing, jumping between leads, possibilities, and worst-case scenarios. One week. One week until Regionals. He couldn’t afford to let Collins remain hidden for much longer. Not when you were so close to competing, not when the stakes were this high.

The thought of you, training on your own with no coach, weighed heavily on his mind. He could only imagine the pressure you were under, the anxiety creeping in every day, knowing that without a coach, you had to rely on your own strength to get through this. It wasn’t ideal, and Hotch knew it. He could see how much you were struggling, even when you tried to hide it. But more than that, he feared for you. The thought of Collins slipping through their fingers again, of him getting to you before they could protect you, made his gut twist in knots.

Across the bullpen, Garcia sat at an empty desk, her eyes glued to her computer, her face a mixture of exhaustion and determination. She hadn’t taken a real break in days, and her eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. And as a last hope of an epithany, she had moved to the bullpen to gather energy from the rest of the team and power through.

Still, despite the lack of good news, she refused to give up. She had always been relentless, and this case was no exception. The fear of Collins slipping through their fingers kept her up at night too, gnawing at her every time she closed her eyes. She glanced at Hotch, noticing his weary demeanor.

"Hotch," she said softly, her voice carrying across the quiet office. "We’re running out of time. We can’t keep waiting for him to make a move. We need something solid, a breakthrough, anything." She hesitated before adding, "You’re not going to let him get to her, right?"

Hotch met her gaze, the same weariness stuck on his features. "I’m doing everything I can, Garcia," he said, his voice quiet, tired. "I won’t let him get close to her. Not while I still have breath and life in my body."

Garcia nodded, but it was clear that the words weren’t enough to ease her worry. She could tell how tired he was, they all could, but everyone knew that telling him to take a break was out of the question. She turned back to her computer screen, fingers hovering over the keys, desperately searching for a clue, any clue, that might lead them to Collins.

In the meantime, Hotch’s thoughts drifted to you again. How are you holding up? He wondered if you were still feeling the weight of the pressure, of training alone, of the anxiety about Regionals. He wished he could do more to help you. But wishes didn’t get things done, though.

Action did.

The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the room as you sat on the plush chair, fidgeting with your fingers in your lap. The office was soft and comforting, an effort to make you feel at ease — something that hadn’t come easily since your first session with the FBI therapist, Dr. Jensen. The walls were painted in muted, calming tones, and the shelves were filled with books that seemed both inviting and distant at the same time. A small window allowed soft sunlight to filter in, casting a glow over the room that felt oddly distant, like a world outside that you couldn’t quite connect to.

You had been here a few times now, and though Dr. Jensen was kind and patient, there was still a wall between you and the process. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to get better, to address the things that had been locked away for so long — it was just... difficult. The memories came in flashes, fragments, and with them, a flood of emotions that you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in years, not since that afternoon in Hotch's office. So much had been buried beneath layers of trauma, layers that you didn’t even realize were there until they started to unravel.

Dr. Jensen sat across from you in her armchair, her posture open, her expression gentle. She had been understanding from the beginning, never pushing too hard, never rushing you. She let you set the pace, which, in a way, made things feel even more vulnerable. You weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“So,” she began, her voice soft but steady. “How have you been feeling this week? Any new memories or emotions coming up?”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. The question felt like a trap. On one hand, you didn’t want to lie — there had been more memories, nightmares, more pieces of the past that had started to surface, things that you hadn’t even known were still buried there. But on the other hand, you didn’t know how to put those feelings into words. It was like trying to speak a language you hadn’t used in years — maybe even one you hadn't learned — and even when you did manage to form a sentence, it felt like you were speaking to a stranger.

“I… I don’t know,” you replied after a long pause, your voice soft. “It’s hard to tell, Dr. Jensen. Every time I start to remember something, it’s like my brain shuts it down, and locks it away again. I can’t get it all out, and I don’t even know if I want to.”

Dr. Jensen nodded, her expression understanding but still focused. She’d heard this from her patients before — the brain’s defense mechanisms were strong, and sometimes, they were the only thing that allowed a person to survive the trauma. But she also knew that the process of healing required breaking through that lock, even if it was a slow and painful journey.

“We’ve talked about your coping mechanisms before, and I know this has been difficult,” she said. “But you’re here, which is already a big step. And you’ve made progress, even if it doesn’t feel like it. The memories you’ve shared with me, the ones that have come up in pieces, are a sign that your brain is beginning to trust you again, even if it’s just a little. You have to remember that since the memories aren't recent, your brain has had time to fortify the lock to your past trauma and forgotten where it left the key”

You bit your lip, your eyes downcast. You had shared some memories, but they were always partial, fragmented — like shattered glass. The images came and went, a blur of faces and moments that never seemed to make sense. But there was always that one piece that stuck with you, the part of Collins that kept pushing its way forward.

“Last session,” Dr. Jensen continued, “we worked on trying to bypass that shutdown response, remember? We talked about using grounding techniques, staying in the present moment when the memories start to resurface. How has that been going for you?”

You felt a tightening in your chest as the question hit you. You had been trying, really trying, to apply those techniques when the memories started to bubble up, but it wasn’t easy. Every time something new surfaced, it felt like a wave pulling you under, and all you could do was fight to stay above it.

“It’s hard,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I try to breathe, focus on the here and now, but when the memories come, it feels like everything else disappears. It’s like… like I’m there again, you know? And I don’t know how to pull myself out of it.”

Dr. Jensen nodded again, her gaze never wavering from you. “I understand. And that’s a very normal response. It’s not easy, and it doesn’t happen overnight. We’re working together to help your mind feel safe again, so that it can process those memories when you’re ready.”

You nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. You wanted to be ready, so badly. You wanted to be able to put the past to rest, to stop feeling like you were constantly running from something that didn’t belong in the present. But the truth was, you weren’t sure you ever would be ready.

“Do you think… do you think I’ll ever be able to fully remember everything?” you asked, the question hanging heavy in the air.

Dr. Jensen’s expression softened, and for a moment, she looked almost wistful. “The truth is, not every memory comes back all at once. And not every memory needs to. The important part is that you’re gaining control over how you process them, not letting them control you. We’ll work together, step by step, to help you find peace with whatever comes up.”

You stared down at your hands, the weight of the moment pressing down on you as you realized you had dug your nails into your palms, stamping small crescent shapes into your skin. You unclenched them.

You didn’t know if peace would ever come. You didn’t know if the memories would ever fully make sense. But as you sat there, listening to Dr. Jensen’s steady voice, a small part of you wondered if it was possible.

It wasn’t going to be easy.

“Well,” you said quietly, lifting your head and meeting Dr. Jensen’s gaze, “I’m ready to keep trying.”

Dr. Jensen smiled, a soft and encouraging expression. “That’s all we can do. Keep moving forward, one step at a time.”

And for the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe that was enough.

Dr. Jensen watched you with an encouraging, patient look, sensing the subtle shift in your demeanor. You had become quieter, more introspective, but there was something else, too — a nervous energy that you couldn't quite shake. It felt like something was on the edge of breaking through, and for a moment, you almost wished it would stop.

But then, as you focused on the task she had set for you — to recall what you could, without judgment, without trying to force it — it happened. The memory flashed in your mind.

It started with a feeling of discomfort, something you couldn’t quite place at first. It was familiar, but hazy. Then, you saw the rink — vivid, in full color, more clear than it had been in years. You were younger, maybe 10 or 11, your body stiff and uncertain on the ice as you tried to perfect a spin — you weren't sure which one, that part was still blurry.

Collins was there, too. His voice, sharp and demanding, echoed in your mind. “You’re not centered. You’re not doing it right. Do it again. Again.”

Then came the touch. His hand pressing against your back, right at the small of it, forcing you to arch in a way that didn’t feel natural. You remembered the awkwardness of it — the closeness, the pressure where it shouldn’t have been. It wasn’t right. But your young self had tried to ignore it, thinking maybe you weren’t working hard enough. That you were the problem.

The memory shifted quickly, just as the sensations did, and now you were standing at the edge of the rink, tired and frustrated. He had yelled at you, berated you in front of the others for being “too slow.” And then, you remembered — the comment. His words slithered into your mind, a venomous whisper: “You’ll never make it, not with that body. Bitches like you will never get it.” It must've been the first time he had referred to you like that.

Your throat tightened, and a wave of nausea rolled through you. The words, the tone, the way he looked at you when he said them — it felt like you were back there, in that moment. You had never told anyone, not even your parents, not even Leah, because you didn’t know how to make it stop. How to make the words and the touch go away.

Tears began to well up in your eyes, but you forced them back. The memory was overwhelming, raw, and terrifying. You couldn’t look at Dr. Jensen just yet, couldn’t break the fragile connection with what was coming to the surface. But you felt like you had no choice but to share it, to say it out loud.

“I… I remember now,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “He... He told me I wasn’t good enough. That I was too slow. That I’d never make it.

"And then... he… he touched me, right here.” Your hand instinctively went to the small of your back, where you could still feel the phantom pressure of his touch. “He said things, terrible things. I didn’t even understand it at the time, but now — now I know what he meant. It wasn’t just a coach being harsh. It wasn’t right.”

Dr. Jensen nodded slowly, carefully maintaining the calm, measured tone that you’d grown accustomed to. “What you’re describing is a significant memory, and it’s important to note that the brain often stores traumatic memories in fragmented forms, especially when the mind feels unable to process them fully at the time of the incident. It’s common for these types of memories to be repressed, compartmentalized, or distorted, and they may not emerge in a coherent or chronological order. However, as we’ve seen today, your brain is starting to allow access to those memories because you’re in a safer, more supportive environment now.”

You nodded, still trembling, but starting to feel the reality of what you’d just remembered. It wasn’t just something that had happened, it was wrong. Collins had crossed a line. You hadn’t been imagining things or overreacting.

Dr. Jensen took a deep breath, shifting slightly in her chair to sit more forward. She spoke carefully, and deliberately, her voice both soothing and clinical. “(Y/N), even though you don't want to admit it just yet, what you’re describing is an experience that fits within the broader context of sexual abuse or harassment. It’s important to acknowledge that just because someone is in a position of authority or has a role of responsibility, it does not give them the right to touch, comment, or control your body inappropriately. At some point, you'll have to admit that to yourself, I fear that that will be a step closer to healing.”

The words stung, and you blinked rapidly, trying to process them. Sexual assault. The term still felt too clinical for what you’d just described, it seemed too formal, too distant from the overwhelming emotions that still churned inside you. But Dr. Jensen wasn’t saying it to diminish what had happened; she was framing it in a way that would allow you to make sense of it, just like Hotch — because, for so long, you hadn’t been able to.

“I know this is a lot to process, and it might not feel like you have all the pieces yet, but we’re getting closer to understanding what happened,” Dr. Jensen continued. “You’ve taken a major step today by recalling these memories, and that’s crucial for moving forward. Now, we need to focus on making sure you work with the tools I've given you during our last session to manage these emotions when they resurface, because they will continue to come in waves.”

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice again. You had been right to feel uncomfortable. You had been right to feel hurt. And now, you didn’t have to carry that uncertainty with you anymore.

Dr. Jensen’s eyes softened, and she leaned forward, speaking in a tone that felt more personal than clinical. “I want you to understand that what you’re experiencing now, what you’re remembering, is the hardest part of healing.”

A small, hesitant breath escaped you, and despite the heaviness in your chest, a small weight seemed to lift. It wasn’t fixed, not by a long shot.

As the session wrapped up, Dr. Jensen gave you a gentle, reassuring smile. "I want you to go home, take the rest of the day to relax, and once you feel ready for it, I want you to work on coming to terms with calling your assault at what it is. Because it is assault" she said, her voice calm but insistent. "Don’t worry about training today, maybe not even tomorrow, but as soon as you're ready. We’ll pick up where we left off next time."

You nodded faintly, though the thought of not training gnawed at you. The competitive drive inside of you was restless, even though it was "only" about training your mind. But you were glad that she wasn't expecting you to start right away. Your emotional reservoir felt empty, drained of everything you had been holding onto. Even the idea of getting back on the ice felt overwhelming. You had no energy left, no willpower to push through.

With a small, tired nod, you stood up, gathering your things. You had barely made it out of the therapy room when the weight of it all began to settle in. You had barely enough strength to drag your feet to the elevator. It was as if your body was rebelling, each step feeling heavier than the last.

When the elevator doors opened, you barely acknowledged the presence of anyone else inside. You were too exhausted to pretend you were fine. You leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring at your reflection in the shiny metal doors. Your slumped shoulders, your defeated expression — everything felt too much, too heavy to carry any longer.

As the elevator reached the lobby, the doors slid open. You stepped out, not paying attention to the world around you, too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice Hotch standing just a few feet away. It wasn’t until you heard his voice, calm and steady, that you realized you weren’t alone.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his eyes studying you with concern.

You didn’t have the energy to mask the way you were feeling. Your whole body was slumped, the exhaustion both physical and emotional evident in every movement, every gesture. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so instead, you gave him a small, tired shrug.

Hotch took a few steps closer, his gaze softening as he took in your state. "You look like you’ve had a rough day," he said, his voice low trying to shield you from the attention of passing agents. "I’m heading in the same direction, and I can give you a ride home if you want. You don’t need to be on your own right now if you're not feeling well."

The thought of getting home felt like a mountain to climb. Your legs felt like lead, and your mind was a jumble of emotions you weren’t ready to face. The idea of having someone else with you, someone who understood without needing to ask questions, was strangely comforting. Maybe just a few minutes of silence, a few minutes of not having to hold it all together, would help you reset.

You met his eyes and nodded, though the words caught in your throat. "I — I’d appreciate that," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hotch gave you a reassuring nod and walked with you to the car. You didn’t say much during the drive — mostly because you couldn’t. Your mind was too scattered, and you didn’t have the energy to make small talk. The silence between you was comfortable in a way, not pushing you to speak when you weren’t ready. He seemed to sense that you needed this quiet space.

By the time you reached your apartment, the exhaustion had settled in fully. You felt hollow, like there was nothing left inside of you. As you climbed out of the car, Hotch didn’t move to leave immediately. Instead, he turned to you, his expression serious.

"You know, you don’t have to do this all by yourself," he said gently. "You’ve got people here who care about you. If you ever need to talk, or if you just need a quiet place to breathe, you don’t have to hesitate, my door is always open."

The sincerity in his voice struck a chord, and for a moment, you were almost overcome with emotion. You had never wanted to be a burden, never wanted to rely on anyone else, but the idea of being understood and supported without question was more than you had ever allowed yourself to accept.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice cracking just a little. "I don’t know what to do right now, but… thank you for being here."

Hotch gave you a soft smile. "Anytime," he replied, his voice quiet.

Your body seemed to be dragging behind you as you walked slowly to your door, your movements stiff and mechanical. Hotch, ever observant, was quick to follow, steadying you when you stumbled slightly on the way up the steps.

When you reached the door, you fumbled with your keys for a few seconds, as if your fingers weren’t quite working the way they were supposed to. Hotch didn’t say anything, just stood by, ready to step in if need be, his eyes soft with concern. He could see how drained you were, your exhaustion both emotional and physical, a stark contrast to the person he had gotten to know, zooming around on the ice. He hadn’t seen you like this before, and it hit him harder than he expected.

Once you finally managed to unlock the door, he stepped in behind you, gently guiding you inside. You made no move to take off your shoes, your coat, or even acknowledge your surroundings. You just stood there for a moment, like a shell of yourself, your eyes blank and unseeing.

Hotch moved toward you, helping you out of your coat and guiding you over to the couch. He didn’t push you to speak, but he couldn’t leave without knowing if there was anything he could do. He knelt down in front of you slowly unlacing your shoes one by one and removing them from your feet. His voice was low as he moved to hang up your coat and place your shoes on the rack near the door. "Is there anything I can do before I have to head back to the office?"

You blinked slowly, the thought of anything sounding impossible. But then, almost as if the weight of everything in the room was too much to hold, you let out a small breath of a laugh, dark humor threading through your words.

"If you could make a bottle of whisky not have any effect on my training or my physique, then that would be perfect," you said, the words as serious as they were dry. The joke was there, buried beneath the heaviness of everything else, but it wasn’t lost on Hotch. He chuckled softly, the sound comforting in the quiet apartment.

"I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of magic," he said with a half-smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"How about I run you a bath?" he suggested, his voice soft and careful. "Something to help you relax, maybe ease some of the tension in your muscles."

You hesitated for a moment, the exhaustion heavy on your shoulders. Your eyes flickered toward the bathroom, and for a brief second, the idea seemed almost impossible. But you nodded, the prospect of warmth and comfort tempting.

"Okay," you whispered, too drained to protest further. "Thank you, Hotch."

With that, he nodded, a small, quiet smile pulling at the corner of his lips, before turning toward the bathroom.

He set to work with precision, a habit that seemed to stick with him even in moments like this. He didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but he also knew the importance of making sure you felt cared for in whatever way he could. As he filled the bathtub, he picked up the various bath salts and products — everything from soothing lavender salts to the soap and bath bombs he recognized from when Haley was still around. He’d always loved the way her skin smelled after a long soak. The familiar scent was comforting to him, though it wasn’t lost on him how much he missed those days.

He heard you moving behind him, the soft sound of clothes dropping to the floor, and then the silence again. When he turned around, he caught a glimpse of you in your underwear, standing near the edge of the bathroom door, still looking somewhat distant, the weariness radiating from you. He wasn’t prepared for the sight — it wasn't unusual, but in that moment, he felt a rush of guilt for noticing. The soft curve of your body, the way you looked so vulnerable, stirred something in him, and his gaze lingered for a second longer than he intended.

Quickly, he mentally punched himself, shaking his head and reminding himself of the task at hand. "Just focus," he muttered to himself under his breath, hoping you hadn't noticed as he forced his attention back to the bath and the water now rising in the tub.

He cleared his throat, turning to face you again. "The water’s ready when you are. You can take your time."

You nodded, still seeming somewhat disconnected, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips, as if you were thankful for his effort, even if it was a small gesture in the grand scheme of everything.

"You really didn't have to do this, Hotch," you murmured, though it wasn’t said with protest — more like a tired acknowledgment that you couldn’t do it all yourself, but still wanted to feel strong.

"I know," he said, his voice calm and steady. "But I want to. Just relax, alright?"

He wasn’t sure what had caught his attention more — how fragile you looked or how perfectly composed your body seemed despite the bruises from training. To him, despite the wear and tear, you were beautiful and resilient. You had a way of making even the most difficult moments seem somehow graceful.

He shook his head, forcing those thoughts away. Focus, Hotch. Focus on helping her.

He let out a quiet sigh, and after a beat, he spoke, his voice soft and gentle. "Are you sure you’ll be okay?"

His tone was full of care, but there was an edge of concern too. He wanted to make sure you were alright, physically and emotionally, after everything you’d been through recently. He didn’t want to leave you in a vulnerable state, especially after the therapy session and everything that had come up.

You gave him a faint smile. "I’ll be fine," you said, your voice quieter than usual. "I’d rather be training, honestly, but... I’m thankful for your help, Hotch. It means more than I can say."

The sincerity in your voice tugged at him, and he gave a small nod. He could see the exhaustion still pulling at you, but there was a lightness in your words that told him you appreciated everything, even if you weren’t ready to show it entirely. He didn’t want to push any further.

"Alright," he said. "If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. I’m just a phone call away."

For a moment, he stood there, his hand hovering near the door, a strange feeling building in his chest. He wanted to stay, to make sure you were okay, but he knew he couldn’t. He knew you needed space. But the desire to hug you, to offer that comfort, gnawed at him. He paused, his heart tightening in his chest, but he quickly dismissed the thought. A hug would feel too personal, too much. It would complicate things, make it awkward.

Instead, he forced a final, reassuring smile. "Take care of yourself," he said, and without waiting for a response, he turned to leave.

As he stepped out into the hallway, his footsteps heavy on the floor, a part of him regretted not doing more — hugging you, staying longer, offering more support. But he also knew the boundaries he had to keep. You needed time, and he had to respect that. He had to let you process, to heal on your terms.

As he left the apartment, the door softly clicking behind him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wanted to do more, but he also understood that all he could do was wait for the moment when you were ready for more than just help. He only hoped that moment would come soon, before the competition, before things could spiral further.

As you finally finished undressing, the cool air hit your skin, sending a slight shiver through you. You stepped carefully into the bath, the water enveloping you with a soothing warmth that instantly began to work its magic on your tired muscles. The tension that had been gnawing at you all day seemed to dissolve with each breath you took, the steam from the bath rising gently around you like a comforting cocoon.

For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt your mind slow down, the whirlwind of thoughts and memories momentarily pausing. You sank deeper into the bubbles, closing your eyes for a moment, letting the silence surround you. The heat from the water soaked into your muscles, loosening them in a way you hadn’t realized you needed so badly.

You hadn’t expected Hotch to draw such a perfect bath. It wasn’t just the bath salts or the bath bomb — the water itself was the perfect temperature, just warm enough to soothe but not too hot. The scent of lavender and something else — a fragrance you couldn’t quite place, although he had found every product used in your cabinets, you instantly recognized it from when he’d mentioned his late wife — filled the room. It was calming, gentle, and surprisingly comforting. It almost felt like he had anticipated your need for something more than just physical relaxation, as though he had drawn the bath not just to ease your body but to give your mind some space to breathe.

The soft lights cast a gentle glow across the room, and for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to relax. Willing your brain not to think about skating. Your body and mind, though still worn from everything that had happened, finally began to feel lighter, as if the weight of the last few weeks had been temporarily lifted.

You let out a soft, quiet sigh, sinking further into the water and allowing yourself to float in the moment, the bubbles swirling around you like a shield.

There was still so much to do, so many things to work through. But for now, in this space, you allowed yourself to be at peace, even if it was just for a brief moment.

The next morning, you found yourself back at the rink, the cold air biting at your skin as you laced up your skates. The bright lights above you cast sharp reflections on the ice, and the rhythmic sound of your blades slicing through the surface became a familiar, comforting noise. You were here, doing what you knew best — training. But it felt different today. It was harder to push through the exhaustion, everything that had happened hanging just at the edge of your mind.

You weren’t just training for yourself anymore; you were training to prove something to yourself, to prove that you could keep going despite everything that had happened. Regionals were just around the corner, and you had to be ready. The pressure was mounting, the fear of failure creeping in. It had always been there, but today it felt different.

You set up to perfect a quad jump, your body somehow aching from yesterday’s long session with Dr. Jensen, but your mind was determined to push through. You practiced the loop first, focusing on the way you entered and exited the jump, then quickly transitioned into the axel. Each attempt was a little more precise, and a little cleaner, but still not perfect. You could feel the frustration creeping up your spine with each failed attempt. The jumps weren't coming together like you wanted, but you couldn’t afford to give up. Not now.

You knew that Natalia was probably working on quads too. Her coach had a reputation for pushing her just as hard as Branson had pushed you, although her coach seemed to be harsher than Branson had ever been. You and Natalia were nipping at each other's heels, and a quad seemed to be the only way to beat the other for now. It was always a mental game with her, a battle of nerves, and right now you weren’t sure who would crack first.

The thought of "losing" again, despite having won, especially after everything that had happened, made your stomach twist. You couldn’t let that happen. You wouldn’t.

You tried again, this time focusing even harder on your technique, the timing, the fluidity of the jump. The ice felt different under your feet today, harder, sharper — like the pressure of it all was being reflected back to you. You spun through the air, and for a brief second, everything clicked.

You landed, the thud of your skates hitting the ice as your toepick dug into the surface was barely audible over the beat of your heart. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. You held the landing for a second longer than usual before your body swayed, and you stumbled just slightly. But it was progress, and that was enough to keep you going.

You took a deep breath and turned to do it again. The road to regionals wasn’t going to be easy, but you couldn’t afford to stop now — not with everything you had worked for on the line.

And as the hours passed, you pushed your body to the limit, reminding yourself over and over that you would get this jump down. You had to.

As the session wore on, the fatigue in your muscles grew, but you pushed through it, determined to keep going. You ran through your entire program — each jump, spin, and glide, feeling the rush of adrenaline with each movement. The quad jumps were a struggle, but there was something else that had started to click. You could feel the shift in your body, the way you were moving, and the way your mind was finally starting to align with your movements.

Then, as you launched into the quad salchow, something happened. For a split second, time seemed to slow. The ice beneath you felt like it held its breath as you completed the rotation. You landed — barely, but with enough control to keep from falling.

You held the landing for a beat longer than you had ever managed before, your heart pounding in your chest. It wasn’t perfect, but it was there — something real to work with. That was the one. You’d have to keep working on it, keep refining it, because this was no fluke.

But you also knew the truth. This success had come from a combination of focus and luck, and you couldn’t afford to rely solely on luck again. Regionals were only days away and you’d have to dig deeper, work harder, and get the landing to feel as natural as breathing if you were going to pull it off at regionals. It was a race against time and you didn't know if you would reach the finish line before the competition.

For now, you took a deep breath, feeling the sweat on your brow, your chest heaving as you recovered. You let the program play through your mind one more time, and as you looked back at the rink, you knew there was still much to do.

But for today, you had taken a step forward. And that, you reminded yourself, was all that mattered.

With one last glance at the ice, you let the tension in your body ease just a little, knowing there was still work ahead, but also feeling the tiny spark of hope that maybe you could do this.

The end of the session had come, and so too had the quiet realization that you had the fight to keep going, to fight, to get justice for everyone wronged by Collins.

@love4lando @therealbaberuthless @crazyunsexycool @pear-1206 @bookworm124 @itsmytimetoodream @c-losur3 @lumestar @evvy96 @booknerd2004 @werebearcocoon @hotchnersgirlxx @jazzimac1967 @gamingfeline @soyobi-wankenobi @meg-black @maxinehufflepuffprincess

[isa-ghost]

I think my final stance on the cQuackity finale is:

Should it have been done? Eeh. But is it valid to want to revamp what was previously done because the time period the prev happened in kinda sucked? Absolutely. As an artist, writer, and veteran roleplayer with 13+ years experience, I 100% understand why Q redid it and I respect that. He also has every right to close off the chapter of his mcrp journey that involved those shit people, especially Mr. Racist Ringleader, the way he did.

And with that in mind, the finale we got was the best it could be given... *stares at how, again, half the ccs involved with cQ's story suck.* Quackity shouldn't have to sit unhappy with something he did just bc he can't conclude it to the full extent it could've/should've been. I would've loved for him to be able to unpack everything he should've been able to. It just isn't possible bc people suck. At least Q cares enough to want to redo it in the first place, even if the redo maybe isn't better or whatever. Caring enough to redo it at all is more than could be said for quite a few ex dsmp members. :/

It 100% fit the character and people are being way too pearl clutchy about how not every character gets a happy ending. Listen man, I'm sick of mcrp stories ending with "and then I killed myself" too (/gen), but in cQ's case at least it's fitting. I haven't seen a single person that's mad about the ending suggest a better "happy" alternative that fits cQ as a character or is a choice cQ would Actually make. I'm not gonna write another whole analysis about why the ending makes sense again, go find that post. I could say more over there if it matters that much to someone, but I'm not gonna argue about it.

Also this might shock some people: *gasp* Quackity can do what he fucking wants with his characters. That doesn't mean you have to like it. What the fuck ever happened to "don't like it? Don't interact"?? I'm so tired.

I liked the finale and I think it fit cQ. It's not perfect by any means, but of the finales we've gotten after the tension of dsmp's fallout died down, it's a decent one.

People need to chill the fucking hell out, they have been WAY too hostile about the finale. I've seen people call Q a garbage writer, wishing he'd go broke, that he doesn't care about any of this (despite the fact that he was NEARLY IN TEARS because of how much these stories mean to him, especially cQ), that it was a ruse to plug merch, etc. Absolutely ice cold heartless garbage takes about Quackity. And some of them are from blogs who are supposedly fans of his bc their entire BLOG is decorated with him!!! Those are fucking nuts things to say about a guy you supposedly like!!!! You don't know someone's OC better than they do. Period. Fuck you, cope. I can't fucking stand people who feel entitled like that.

Anyway if you start shit on this post or with me I'm just blocking you. I'm not here to argue about this shit man, I'm just sick of people being so black&white and overly critical of shit so I wanted to air out the thoughts buzzing around in my mind so they stop driving me crazy.

Shout out to everyone who's actually capable of being nuanced and fairly critical of things they like without being a total fucking asshole that blows shit out of proportion and takes every little thing in bad faith to the furthest extreme.

[feralbutkind]

WE'RE LOSING THE PLOT, YOU FUCKS.

Yesterday was an absolute shitshow for everyone involved and truly should be a wake-up call. I am so baffled by the events that occurred yesterday that I truly need to google synonyms to be able to comprehend my own emotions.

Before I start if you truly need to know, I ship Lukola because I enjoy their friendship and how they talk about each other. I focus on no one else but them because I am here for them and only them. I love Luke and Nic separately and it just so happens they have a great relationship that makes me ship them together. Nothing else fucking matters to me and will never to me. I don't think I am better than anyone for the way I ship them, but I know I am better than these sick fucks who feel the need to disrespect Luke and Nic for their own personal gain.

I do not care if you ship Lukola, if you think they’re real, if you believe they are dating other people, etc. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. We don’t know them, nor are we entitled to know these personal aspects of their life. Even when they share it, we are still not entitled to know it. The gall of this fandom to feel the need to argue all the time about who is right or wrong is embarrassing. To put Luke and Nic’s safety in harm’s way and invade their privacy to feed their pride and ego over because they want to be “right” and not be embarrassed for being wrong is atrocious. You should be ashamed. You should be embarrassed. You should be ridiculed.

To invade someone’s privacy just to prove you’re right over people on the internet is diabolical and insane. These accounts that you’re getting any proof from are private nor are they accounts that Luke or Nic publicly own therefore you have no reason to be there in the first place. You are here for Luke and Nic not for anyone else, especially family members. This whole thing is disrespectful to everyone involved just for your shitty pride to be right over strangers on the internet. Take a moment to grasp that. You are actively choosing to disrespect and invade someone's (who you claim to be a fan of if I must make it personal for you to understand the severity of this situation) privacy to be right against strangers on the internet. Your lack of morals is embarrassing and concerning. You are not a better person if you are right. In this case, you’re a terrible human, who should be shamed and ridiculed, for using a celebrity’s privacy for your own personal gain and to feed your bruised ego. Is your ego that pathetically weak that you must treat others with disrespect to feel better? That’s embarrassing. I truly pity you and any who interacts with you.

At the end of the day, being right or wrong does not matter. If you have ever shipped a duo in your life, you would know this. Shipping is not meant to be “correct” or accurate in facts. Shipping is meant to enjoy a duo for how they interact, for how they present their relationship, for how they look fucking good together, etc. It is to be fun and lighthearted. It is embarrassing I must explain this. If this isn't the sole reason why you're shipping them, get the fuck off the ship because you're embarrassing the rest of us. Hate to be next to a disappointment while I'm trying to enjoy my favorite people.

Don’t start with me saying shipping is disrespectful to their potential partners because they don’t know you and they never will. You will never know them to a level where if you ship them, it's seen as disrespectful. It is not the same concept as shipping your friends who are with other people. When you ship your friends, you know those people, you know their story, and you know more than what the general public knows about your friend group so shipping them with other people other than their partners is disrespectful to them. Compared to Luke and Nic who are strangers to you and will never know you. They will never know how you feel about their potential partners if you mind your business and only focus on them. Focusing on Luke and Nic works in everyone’s favor too because news flash: things you would be celebrating (interactions, photos, etc.) are celebrating their relationship (platonic or not) in the way they do and have encouraged themselves. As long as you’re not talking or focusing on their potential significant others, you’re not being disrespectful. You don’t know these people and you ignoring their potential significance will not affect them. Hell, they’ll probably prefer it if all you do is talk badly of these people.

If you made it to the end and felt offended, I hope this was the wake-up call you needed. If the shoe fits, wear it and learn from it. If you didn’t learn anything from this and agreed with everything I said, glad to know there are still good people out there. We really need to do better, not only for Luke and Nic, but in general as humans. As functioning people in society, we need to do better. This is embarrassing and pathetic. I want better for Luke and Nic. This behavior is not worthy of ever receiving anything from them again (shipping favored or not).

[operation-out]

Analyzing Once Upon a Time

This can't be how the story ends

Since this blog is now as old as Henry in the Pilot, we thought this would be a good time to re-introduce this Once Upon a Time theory to the new kids on the block - and to the old kids on the block, because we have learned a thing or two during the decade we've been researching this concept.

The heart of the theory can really be summed up in one sentence:

"Everything that happened on Once Upon a Time also really happened in our world, and it is all a metaphorical retelling of Emma's life experiences in the past and in the present."

That's the part of the theory that we are certain about. Every episode has a deeper meaning, there is no fluff and together they all form one big story.

Does that mean that the story that we watched, didn't really happen? No, it's more like getting two stories for the price of one. The best metaphor we can come up with is that of lenticular cards.

Remember those little cards that you would twist and then the image would change? It doesn't really matter which one of those two images is real, because they both are. Someone had to draw and print both of them and use the right technique so we could see them both. Usually the images tell a bit of a story when you combine them, but they work perfectly fine as two standalone images.

So what we are doing is simply twisting the card, we're revealing our second story. We've really emotionally invested in these characters and now we're entering an Alternate Universe that was written by the same writers. And that's the real appeal of this theory, to get another story after the show's been off the air for so long, with the characters we know and love, because they are both.

Let's say the genre of the story we watched on television for 7 years is fantasy and the genre of our new AU is magical realism. So take a seat, suspend disbelief and enjoy the ride, because we're about to watch the official trailer of this new ABC show called Once Upon a Time.

If you watch the trailer, you see the idea of the two sides of the story being reinforced. You also hear the voice-over tell us that "someone from our world" needs to save the fairy tale characters while showing an unconscious Emma. This is the moment when the story splits in two.

Once Upon a Time takes place in what Jung called "The Collective Unconscious", or in this case The Enchanted Forest - a place where humankind's stories are real, where the fairy tale characters we know and love live - the world of archetypes.

A metaphorical curse is cast when Emma crashes her car. She loses consciousness and travels to her own subconscious mind. The fairy tale world and Emma's personal world collide and she gradually steals the fairy tale characters to work through her own issues and traumas. This is how the fairy tale characters actually get trapped in our world.

This is why this version of the story is "Magical Realism" - In magical realism, the underlying idea is that the world we currently live in actually has an undercurrent of magic, of intelligence, a magic that expresses itself through uncanny coincidences. We see this in the Pilot. Emma makes a heartfelt wish, and a second later, her long lost son rings the door bell. Unlikely, but possible in our world. When she slams her car door in anger, electric sparks fly and when she looks up at the clock, it's stuck on 8:15. August 15th. The date her long lost son was born. Odd coincidences, but entirely possible.

This magical world, however, is also a world of karma, because she violently knocks a man against his steering wheel earlier in the episode. Later that night, she hits her own head. This was the only way for the hidden magic of our world to grant Emma's wish and to restore her karma. The intelligent universe forced her to confront her demons with the help of age-old archetypes, so she could heal from her traumas, learn the life lessons she needs to allow people like Henry and Regina into her life.

Everything we saw on this show was Emma's real experience during the show's timeline, but the undercurrent of the world she experienced was created by her memories and by everything what's going on in the world around her while she is in different states of consciousness. Like Jefferson points out during "Hat Trick", even fictional stories come from a real place. They come from the writer's emotions and experiences, codified into story.

What we didn't know when we first started writing this theory, was how weird our consciousness really is. Real comas are nothing like movie comas where people just sit up one day. Maybe they need a little bit of physical rehab and then off they go. No, in the real world, people spend days, weeks, months or even years living in between their dream world and reality, trying to make sense of it all. Some people report having no memory of the months after they woke up and after they were up and somewhat functional. Many report strange dreams and remembering conversations that happened around them - except they thought they were participating.

Based on this newfound knowledge, we concluded that Emma was only in a deep coma for parts of the show's timeline. We think Emma's state in this theory closely aligns with what medical professionals call a minimally conscious state (MCS). Sleeping curse victims in an MCS are awake but show limited awareness of their surroundings. They may respond to stimuli, have brief moments of purposeful behavior, or even show emotional reactions to familiar voices or events. While their consciousness seems fragmented, they can form connections between external events and their inner experiences. The show uses David's coma story to tell us what's happening with Emma. He is able to grab Mary Margaret's hand, which he couldn't do if he was in a full coma. That means Emma is sometimes saying words and interacting with the people around her. They can connect with her in meaningful ways. And they do.

The show is peppered with hints that point to Emma's state in the land without magic. Jefferson is one of the characters who is used as a part of her subconscious that is trying to make Emma aware of her situation in the reality realm, but during the second episode, Emma herself gives us a description of the curse that she is now trapped in.

Emma: "So, for decades, people have been walking around in a haze, not aging, with screwed up memories, stuck in a cursed town that kept them oblivious."

What's very important about this description, is the "screwed up memories". The flashbacks about Emma's life that we have seen, are just as metaphorical of the other parts. They did happen, but they didn't happen in the way we saw them happen. The best explanation for how these 'new memories' are created is by looking at one clear example.

The "memory" of Emma giving birth to Henry is actually a metaphorical memory of Henry coming back into Emma's life, through parallels and visual clues. In this new memory, she expresses how she really felt in that moment, in so much emotional pain she could scream, and terrified to be asked to be a mother. This is how all the stories are created.

Much of the show works this way, except unlike during this scene, we haven't seen the original experience that the metaphor is based upon. So to decipher the rest of Emma's memories, all we can do is look at the recurring themes and storylines, as they show what Emma is wrestling with. Season 1 is full of car crashes, because crashing her car in the Pilot is a very recent trauma. Parents giving up children is a recurring trauma, because it matches both her story and Henry's story. This is the translation key to figure out Emma's story. Look at the patterns.

If we listen back to the show's trailer one more time, the theme song that was chosen to represent the show couldn't be more of an invitation to see the reality layer of the story.

Rescue me

Show me who I am

'Cause I can't believe

This is how the story ends

Fight for me

If it's not too late

Help me breathe again

No, this can't be how the story ends

This is Emma fighting for her life in reality. Asking Regina and Henry and the people around her to help her come back to life, because this can't be how the story ends. This can't be how she dies.

Ooookay... so where's the fun exactly?

You may be wondering, what is the appeal? Admittedly, this story is somewhat sad and dark at first glance, but remember when you watched the first season and you were trying to guess the characters' fairy tale identities? You get to do that again, except this time you are trying to guess the real world identities. You get to experience the curse from the inside and it really does feel like you can recapture some of the fun from the first time around.

Once you realize that the memories we saw were warped, many questions bubble up to the surface. How did Henry really find Emma? Who gave him the story book and why? How did he come to his conclusions? Is he the author because he is creating the fairy tales he is reading to Emma? Who are Emma's real parents? Why was she given up for adoption? What really happened to her in foster care? Is Neal really Henry's father or is there more to the story? What is wrong with Emma? Was there something fishy about the adoption? Why is she in and out of consciousness? How do Henry and Regina react? Did Regina really try to kill her? If Regina wasn't actually the evil queen, why did Henry think she didn't love him? Why is everyone suddenly related? Who is Emma Swan? Who is Regina Mills? Who is Henry? And Gold? And Hook?

It becomes a gigantic mystery, a fantastical true crime show. And the more people lend their ears and their eyes to it, the better our chances are to actually solve this very, very weird puzzle. Because as we said, the only part of this theory that we are sure of, is that everything we saw, is all a metaphorical retelling of Emma's life in the past and in the present. We report on the connections we find, the possible interpretations. The recurring themes. The meaningful parallels. We don't claim those are the correct interpretations, because they change as we dig deeper.

So consider this an invitation to take a bite out of the forbidden fruit of knowledge, join in and share your observations, because we would like to see the full picture once we tilt our little card to take another look.

[befuddledcinnamonroll]

QL Things That Made Me Happy in 2024

It's the end of the year, and people are doing a lot of cute things with superlatives and such, but with my limited bandwidth, I'm gonna keep it simple. Those who follow me know I am here to have a good time, and I like to focus on what brings me joy. 2025 is going to be a rough one, and I know I'm going to continue to need the QL space to help me emotionally cope, so if you'll indulge me, I want to just roll around in the good and the happy for a bit.

(Note, there is also a ton of 2024 content I did not have time to watch, so this does not capture everything good that happened this year!)

Diversity of Genre

Every year we're breaking a little bit more new ground! I'm particularly excited to be seeing more mystery/thriller, for both our BLs & GLs. Robots, vampires, animals turned human, and hopefully soon, mermen. We're getting weirder and wilder, and I am here for it.

Baby Steps in Representation

I know, I know, we all want it to get all better right now, but as someone in my fifth decade of life, I've also seen how small step after small step over the years can lead to huge changes. And in a world where a lot of people are trying to drag us backwards, it's important to keep pushing forward, and celebrate each successful step, even when it feels like it's not enough. (And keep advocating for more, of course!)

Continuing to Give Friendship Its Due

Amazing friend groups are fortunately a QL staple, and this year was no different. We got so much good friend representation this year!

Japan Being Japan

The very top at efficient story-telling, whether it be hitting your heart or tearing it apart.

Taiwan Being Taiwan

Never change Taiwan. Just keep feeding me, pretty please.

Acting Highlights

Wow, did we get some incredible performances this year. Way more than I can list here, but here's a few that came immediately to mind.

Special Mentions

ie stuff that didn't fit under one of the above categories.

A year of TayNew

Step one, be the absolute most in the cutest shit ever. Step two, queer up a found family story. Step three, celebrate owning 2024. (And we get more of them in 2025!)

Big getting his due

We've been chomping at the bit for a Big Thanakorn lead role for ages, and our man delivered! And we're gonna get more next year!

A win for creative independence

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I am so fucking proud of Yin and War. They did something incredibly difficult at great personal cost, and made something genuinely unique. Jack & Joker had a lot of layers, including a lot of cultural depth, along with social commentary. That kind of thing is always going to alienate some people, but that's part of what impressed me so much. If they wanted to make something to appeal to the most generic possible audience, they would have done it. They swung big, and made an impact, and I hope it opens up so much more opportunity for them.

When talent grows exponentially

One of my favorite things about having been into QL for a while now is getting to see actors grow and develop past their initial roles. Often the raw talent is there from the beginning, but as in all careers there is a benefit from experience, the right kind of support, and the right opportunities.

2 Moons 2 was a largely forgettable series that managed to land some unforgettable talent, and both Joong and Pavel were highlights. They've both done so well, but in this particular case, I need to rave about Joong's growth in his performance as Fadel. The entire cast is rocking it in Heart Killers, Dunk is also doing incredible, but I have such a soft spot for the boy I immediately fell for way back in my first year of BL, and seeing him steal scenes from some of my all time favorite GMMTV actors. Well done, bebe, well done.

In summary

This doesn't remotely encompass everything (I didn't even get to all the delightful spice from this year!), I am limited by time and image restrictions per post, but as always, I am so grateful to have discovered this arena of media and this space in which to squee about it, and I am endlessly grateful for the people in this space who bring positivity, nuance, grace, compassion, caring, open-mindedness, humility, and curiosity to my dash.

Happy New Year, y'all.

[chriscalledmesweetie]

2024 Tumblr Top 10

 Dec 26 2024

Nov 8 2024

If you need a laugh, for reasons…

Allow me to offer:

I Am John Watson, I Speak for the Curls

Reverse Psychology

Three Continents, No Compliments

The Wake-Up Fairy

Cocky Locky

X Marks the Spots

Unconventional

Not in Front of the Children

Sherlock and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

Nov 7 2024

Feel-Good Fluff

In case anyone needs this, for reasons:

If You Give Sherlock a Biscuit

If You Give John a Jumper

John is NOT the Little Red Hen

The Three Holmes-Watsons Gruff

Midnight Becomes You

The Story

Biscuits

Do You Want to Know a Secret?

Every Song Reminds Me of You

Wizard of Paws

Goodnight Sherlock, Goodnight John

 Oct 12 2024

A match made in heaven, thanks to the generosity of @totallysilvergirl and all of the other amazing writers and artists (like @khorazir @chained-to-the-mirror and @bluebellofbakerstreet, featured above) who contributed to this project.

Sep 8 2024

Sherlock and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

John is away. Sherlock is NOT pleased.

Written by @chriscalledmesweetie and recorded by @juuls for the @pod-together challenge. You can both read and listen at the link above.

Feb 15 2024

But It’s a Ten, John!

“Don’t you dare respond to that text.”

“It’s Lestrade.”

“It could be the queen for all I care. Don’t respond.”

“It might be a case.”

“It could be a hundred cases. Don’t even look at your phone.”

“It’s a locked room triple homicide!”

“I told you not to look. Put the phone down.”

“But it’s a ten, John!”

“I don’t care if it’s an eleven. Drop the phone.”

“The scale only goes up to ten.”

“Sherlock, I am not going to ask you again. Drop the phone or I’m pulling out.”

“Fine. But this fuck had better be a ten.”

Dec 12 2024

Sherlock’s Ugly Christmas Apparel Series

Seven Days of Ugly Christmas Apparel by ChrisCalledMeSweetie How much ugly Christmas apparel can John convince Sherlock to don? With the right incentive, quite a bit…

[Cover Art] for Seven Days of Ugly Christmas Apparel by JL4art (IamJohnLocked4life) [NSFW]

[PODFIC] Seven Days of Ugly Christmas Apparel by Lockedinjohnlock (Podfixx)

The British Government’s New Clothes by ChrisCalledMeSweetie Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t be caught dead in an ugly Christmas jumper.

The Elves and the Brew-Maker by ChrisCalledMeSweetie Mrs. Hudson is determined to bring Sherlock and John together - with a little help from some ugly Christmas jumpers and a wee bit of magic.

Podfic: ‘The Elves and the Brew-Maker’ by ChrisCalledMeSweetie by peasina

Dec 14 2024

When Sherlock first made a proposal Alas, it was not for betrothal He asked John to shoot His brother, to boot Then help with the body’s disposal

You can find all 31 of my Holly Jolly Johnlock Limericks on AO3.

Thanks to @notjustamumj for the December 2024 prompts and to @ghostofnuggetspast and @friday411 for their own delightfully inspiring limericks.

Sep 22 2024

The Murder of Major Sayer by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

Do you want to know what really happened during the fateful week when John Watson first met Sherlock Holmes? John’s sister Harry is here to set the record straight—or not, as the case may be.

Chapter 13:  Secrets Revealed to Sherlock Holmes

I suppose we each have our own priorities when it comes to the secrets we choose to keep. Some people conceal the truth to avoid heartbreak, others to avoid scandal, and still others to avoid prosecution. There may also be times when the fear of one of those evils—for ourselves or our loved ones—may drive us to reveal something we would otherwise have kept hidden.

Many thanks to @bluebellofbakerstreet for the amazing cover art!

Nov 1 2024

Pitter Pat by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

Is the flutter in John’s heart atrial fibrillation? Or could there be another cause?

Created by TumblrTop10

[aishangotome]

Azel Radwan: Chapter 11

Chapter 10 Premium Story

Thank you @shatcey for providing the video for this chapter!

♡———♡

Emma: ...In addition to increasing my debt, I have a request.

The more I got to know the wicked and greedy Living God, the more a sense of discomfort grew within me.

It was a small bud at first, but now it had grown so large that I couldn't ignore it.

-

Emma: Would it be alright if I called you Prince Azel from today?

Azel: What's with the sudden request...?

Emma: I've gradually become uncomfortable calling you Living God.

(Maybe it's because I've seen your human side.)

*flashback*

Azel: You don't have to formally call me "Living God." I may not have introduced myself, but I'm Azel.

Emma: ...I'll refrain. I feel like there's some ulterior motive.

*flashback over*

(I refused back then because I didn't understand you, but...)

Emma: I want to call you Prince Azel.

When I said it clearly, he let out an exasperated sigh.

Azel: ...Do as you like. I'm going back to sleep.

Emma: Thank you, Prince Azel!

(Yes, as I thought... "Prince Azel" suits him better than "Living God.")

I couldn't help but grin at Prince Azel, who had disappeared under the blanket.

-

After spending a few days at Prince Azel's temple, I learned a few things.

For example, his eating habits—

Azel: ...

Emma: What book are you reading today?

Azel: I'll tell you if you pay.

Emma: ...Right.

Prince Azel was silently reading, with a book open next to his meal.

It seemed to be a habit of his to eat with one hand and turn the pages of a book with the other.

His manners weren't praiseworthy, but I couldn't help but admire his neat eating posture.

Azel: ...

Azel: ...What? You've been staring at me. You can read a book too, you know.

Emma: I'm not that skilled.

Azel: You don't do anything while eating?

Emma: I often eat with other people, so all I do is talk.

Azel: Hmm.

Emma: You don't seem interested.

Azel: You're right.

Azel: I prefer silence. It doesn't seem like we'll get along.

Emma: That's a shame.

(It's lonely, but when in Rome, do as the Romans do... I have to get used to it.)

-

For example, how he carries out his official duties—

Azel: This is today's divine message.

Official: Thank you very much. I have received it.

Azel: Regarding the harbor renovation project, could you show me the first draft of the budget? I'll use it for divination.

Official: I'll bring it to you immediately. As for the embassy's approval...

Azel: I'll leave that to Enis. You don't need to report to me.

(He's doing it again.)

Every day at a set time, an official from the royal court would come to Prince Azel's temple.

The "divine message" was written in a letter, and judging from the conversations I overheard, it seemed to be related to government affairs.

Emma: Why don't you go to the castle directly?

One day, I asked him after the official had left.

Azel: To go to the castle, I have to pass through the city.

Emma: Ah, it would cause a commotion. It might be easier to walk at night, like last time...

Azel: Daytime is hell. It's ridiculous to get exhausted just from going to work.

Azel: However...

Azel: I might consider going to work if you become a human sacrifice.

Emma: A human sacrifice?

Azel: If you cause some kind of unusual incident that attracts attention, I could go to the castle while everyone's distracted.

Emma: ...That would damage my reputation as a merchant.

Azel: Mine wouldn't be damaged at all.

(This person...)

Azel: Well, I have no intention of going unless something happens that absolutely requires me to.

Azel: I don't like being surrounded by people.

Emma: Certainly, being "surrounded" in your case, Prince Azel, seems like it would be tiring.

Azel: Right? I'm surrounded even at this very moment.

Emma: ...I apologize for my lack of consideration. I'll be careful from now on.

Azel: Yes, please do be careful... You don't have to look so dejected, though.

Emma: ......

Azel: Stop looking at me with those sad eyes like a dog abandoned in an alley.

Emma: ..............

Azel: Okay, okay, I forgive you. I'll forgive you if you want me to, all right?

Emma: Thank you! I knew you'd say that, Prince Azel—

Emma: Ow, ow, st-stop it, ple-please!

Azel: ...You disrespectful creature.

-

For example, how he spends his free time—

Azel: Hand me that stone.

Emma: This one?

I chose the stone that Prince Azel seemed to be looking for from among those scattered on the ground and handed it to him.

Prince Azel, who was climbing a ladder, took the stone with one hand while holding tools in the other, and proceeded to repair the collapsed outer wall.

Emma: You're quite skilled.

Azel: How many years do you think I've been doing this?

Emma: Do you do all the repair work by yourself?

Azel: Who else is there?

Emma: Amazing...

Azel: It's no big deal once you get used to it.

(I think it's a big deal.)

The reason this thousand-year-old ruin still functions as a human dwelling is because Prince Azel uses his knowledge in this way, fulfilling his role as caretaker.

Emma: Don't you hire anyone?

Azel: I hired a slave.

(Calling me a slave again...)

Emma: I'm not a slave, I'm a maid.

Azel: You think you can have an equal employment contract when you're a debtor?

Emma: I thought the merciful God might allow it.

Azel: Unfortunately, I have no mercy to give you.

Emma: ...I thought you'd say that.

Azel: Anyway, putting aside such idle chatter...

Azel: I do hire people sometimes, but a request from a God becomes an order.

Azel: People are afraid and anxious because they can't refuse, and they might be punished by the God if they fail.

Azel: It's a feeling you, a daughter of another country, wouldn't understand... That's what a "God" is.

(I see. He can't casually hire people precisely because he's a God.)

(It's just like Prince Azel to have the "conscience" to not hire people even though he could.)

Azel: Ah.

(Hm?)

As if he had noticed something, Prince Azel descended the ladder and quickly went back inside the temple as usual.

While I was still stunned, he returned and handed me a piece of paper.

Emma: What's this?

Azel: I need you to buy some additional parts. Right now.

(..............)

Azel: Oh, and if you fail to buy them, you might be divinely punished, so be careful.

Emma: Isn't that a bit unreasonable!?

Azel: This is the proper relationship between a debtor and a creditor.

Azel: Have a good trip, and please come back soon. I can't proceed with my work without those parts.

(...This is also typical of Prince Azel, I suppose.)

-

And, for example—

Emma: Prince Azel?

Prince Azel was at the center of the dream world I repeatedly saw.

He was sitting rather unceremoniously at the oak table at the end of the path, and when he saw me, he made an obviously disgusted face.

Azel: Even in my dreams...give me a break.

Emma: ...That's strange. I feel like this isn't the first time we've met in a dream like this.

(I feel like this happened before, and before that...or maybe not...?)

(I feel like I can almost remember, but I can't quite grasp it...it's a strange feeling.)

Azel: Whether it's the first time or not isn't important in a dream.

Azel: After all, it's just an illusory memory that only exists in this moment. Don't think too deeply about it.

Prince Azel got down from the table and pinched my cheek, perhaps to interrupt my growing thoughts.

(...Is the Prince Azel in this dream an illusion I created?)

(Even so, only Prince Azel's presence feels vivid.)

(It's as if he's the only one with a clear outline in this hazy world...)

Azel: More importantly, did something good happen to you?

Emma: Something good?

Azel: That.

Releasing my cheek, Prince Azel pointed to a part of the roses surrounding the world.

(A bud is opening...!)

In this space where there were only half-formed buds, a single rose stood out like the main actor on a stage.

Emma: Does a flower bloom when something good happens?

Azel: I don't know.

Azel: However, dreams are a mirror that reflects a person's heart. The change in your world indicates a change in the real world.

Emma: ...You know a lot about this.

Azel: Don't you know? Another name for the Moon's Incarnation is the God of Dreams.

Azel: The moon watches over the sleep of all humans...

Azel: It seems that the God in myths used to give divine messages directly in dreams.

Emma: ...So, this dream I'm having now is also...

Azel: Don't be ridiculous. I don't like unrealistic logic.

Emma: You're the one who brought it up!?

Azel: Did you believe it? Is your head just for decoration?

Emma: ...So, what you said earlier was a lie?

Azel: I wasn't lying.

Emma: ..................

Azel: Don't look at me so accusingly. Academic progress hasn't caught up with dreams yet.

Azel: Why do people dream, why do I "dream of people?" It's a mystery that current human wisdom can't reach.

After rapidly uttering those words, Prince Azel looked up at the sky. The sky of the dream world, like the night sky depicted in the mural, emitted a mystical glow.

Azel: But maybe that mystery will be solved in the future.

Azel: Mysteries are like that, their structure is exposed one by one and incorporated into reality.

Azel: The fact that there were so many mysteries in ancient times, but not in modern times, is proof of humanity's progress.

Azel: ...Perhaps only when humans move forward can the God of Tanzanite finally step down from his position.

(Prince Azel...?)

His last words had a poignant, prayer-like tone.

Was the only "living mystery" on the continent afraid or happy to be incorporated into reality?

Azel: Anyway, I didn't appear in your dream to give you a divine message.

Emma: Then why?

Azel: I'd like to know that myself. Meeting you, whether in a dream or in reality, is hell.

Emma: You should keep those thoughts to yourself, even if you feel that way.

Azel: How honest of you.

Emma: ...You may hate it, Prince Azel, but I don't hate it that much.

As I approached the single blooming rose and gently poked it with my finger, I felt as if a starlight-like light scattered.

Emma: I think this rose bloomed thanks to you, Prince Azel.

Azel: Me?

Emma: That's the only recent change I can think of...

Emma: There have been some "good things" since I started spending time with you, Prince Azel.

Azel: Oh? Being drugged and paraded through the city in harem attire is your idea of a "good thing"—

Emma: That incident allowed me to see your twisted kindness, Prince Azel.

Azel: ...Stop it. You're giving me goosebumps.

(He really has a "disgusted" look on his face.)

Emma: Of course, don't worry, it's not like I'm falling in love with you or anything.

Azel: Of course not, you idiot.

Emma: Could it be that you're just embarrassed—

Before I could finish speaking, he poked my cheek with his finger, and even though it was a dream, I felt as if it hurt.

Azel: Listen, I'm not keeping you around to play house.

Azel: I've recognized your value as a convenient slave and a political hostage.

Azel: Rhodolite isn't an enemy country. But it's not an ally either.

Azel: You could also become my enemy depending on the circumstances. Don't forget that.

(That might be true.)

(I'm on Clavis and Luke's side, I can't be on Prince Azel's side.)

(All I can do is pray that things don't turn into a situation where we become enemies...)

(...Huh?)

Suddenly, the scenery distorted.

It blurred, the voices became distant, and the boundaries became ambiguous.

I knew this feeling.

(...The dream is ending...)

Azel: I'm not a philanthropist.

Azel: In the end, I will...you...

-

—Waking up, the remnants of the dream crumbled away.

As I sat up, the blanket slipped to the floor.

I wasn't surprised by the current situation, as I had recently taken to sleeping on the edge of the bed.

However, a vague sense of discomfort lingered in my heart.

(………… What dream was I having?)

(I feel like Prince Azel was there, or maybe not...)

(...Prince Azel?)

I looked around, but the owner of the room was nowhere to be found.

There wasn't even any warmth left on the sheets.

(Where could he be...?)

-

Azel: ––...Is it that gathering again?

Kumush: Yes, the invitations have already been widely distributed. Moreover, it's close to the date... This is troubling.

Azel: Unfortunately, I'll have to remain a bystander this time.

Azel: However, please inform Sinan. There will likely be a considerable number of victims.

Kumush: ...It's...difficult to do nothing when you know what's going on.

Azel: I'm also frustrated. But there's no point in ruining everything by giving in to momentary emotions.

Kumush: .............

Azel: Everything has an end. There's no such thing as a dream that doesn't end, is there?

Azel: Please believe me.

Kumush: Prince Azel...

Azel: More importantly... eavesdropping is rather rude, isn't it?

(...!)

Giving up and emerging from behind the pillar, Kumush, who had been talking with Prince Azel downstairs, widened his eyes.

Azel: Good morning, Emma.

Emma: Good morning, Prince Azel... and Kumush.

Kumush: To think I'd meet you here. I heard that a woman had taken up residence with Prince Azel...

Azel: She's a devout priestess. We're not in the kind of relationship you're thinking, so don't misunderstand.

Kumush: I know, I know.

Kumush, whom I had met before at the Tourism Bureau headquarters, didn't change his attitude even in front of Prince Azel.

Like with Kamal and Basil, there was a friendly atmosphere between the two.

Emma: You know Prince Azel?

Azel: I have various connections with the Tourism Bureau.

Azel: Kumush, you're not a man of leisure, are you? Thank you for the report.

Was it because I had interrupted them, or had they already finished discussing important matters—

Kumush raised his hand in a brief farewell and left the temple.

(...I wonder what that gathering was about.)

(Both Prince Azel and Kumush had grim expressions...)

Azel: What's for breakfast today?

Even though he must have sensed my questions, Prince Azel, back to his usual self, beat me to the punch.

(It's like he's telling me not to pry.)

Emma: ...Bread and soup, but I'd like to learn how to cook Tanzanite cuisine soon.

Emma: Is there anything you like, Prince Azel?

Azel: Something I like...

Azel: I might like the things you make.

Emma: ...!

Azel: Ah... I mean, I like anything that other people make. It's a free meal that saves me effort.

Emma: ...

Azel: Don't grin, it's annoying.

Emma: Ow... Stop pinching my cheeks!

Prince Azel, frowning in displeasure, was the same as always.

(But is it my imagination that he seems a bit absent-minded...?)

-

—A few hours later.

???: Is this also divine guidance? Emma, it's been a while.

The peace didn't last long.

.

.

.

Chapter 11 Letter

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to buy me a coffee here! :)

[lisbeth-kk]

2024 Wrapped!

I might regret doing this, and if you lose interest, I totally get that. When I looked through my AO3 account, it seems I did nothing but write fics all year. But didn't I travel to Canada for...right...the Writer's Retreat...doing more...writing... Let's just face it, I did A LOT of writing this year. Buckle up!

The year started with a third instalment in my Mrs. Hudson's diary series: Six Days of Countdown

Summary: Mrs. Hudson is despairing when her hopes for the Christmas past are shattered.

January continued with the last fic of the Fluffbruary Extended Edition 2023: My Heart is Yours

Summary: During the holiday in gorgeous Tuscany, John makes a decision for this year's Christmas. Their last night in Italy doesn't change his mind in the slightest.

My first entry to the new year's Sherlock Challenge: Perfectly Phrased

Summary: Sherlock is dead. John can't cope with that information. He just can't. But he's seen the evidence. The dead body. The blood. The missing pulse. How to go on from here?

And then, February came along, and we all know what that means - Fluffbruary. Apparently I wrote a new fic for every day of the month. Here they all are:

Never Forgotten Summary: For a long time, John couldn't forget those cerulean eyes and that mischievous smile, but eventually he did. Until he saw them again, and again. John's decision to ask the greatest favour of the young man they belonged to the first time they spoke, proved to be life altering for both of them.

A Sugar-Coated Solution Summary: Sherlock remembers a remark Mrs. Hudson made about recipes when John draws his attention to a distinct smell on the victims fingers. Just minutes later, Sherlock has solved the case, but John is furious, and Sherlock doesn't understand why. Until something dawns on him...

A Tale of a Lifelong Habit Summary: Greg finally asks Mycroft about his strange habit. The answer is more loaded and emotional than Greg anticipated.

My One and Only Summary: The secret story of how Sherlock Holmes and John Watson became lovers.

Back in the Dungeon Summary: Sherlock is utterly confused. He doesn't know where he is. His bed is not his own and he feels the emptiness around him even with his eyes closed. And where is John?

Classical Misstep Summary: John is ready for his date, but then Sherlock reminds him that John is otherwise occupied this evening, and John has to make an awkward phone call. The relief he feels afterwards is both expected and disturbing.

His Everything Summary: Sherlock and John are visiting Sherlock's parents. Violet Holmes muses about how John and Sherlock's relationship has changed her youngest son. The son in question surprises his mother with a few statements during the visit, and one of them brings her to tears.

Unwavering in his Loyalty Summary: John wakes up alone. A message is waiting for him. From Sherlock. Time to get out his gun.

Where His Heart Belongs Summary: As a child, Sherlock lost his heart to London but it took him years to finally get there. When he lost his heart the second time, Sherlock knew it didn't matter where he lived anymore.

Dark as the Night Summary: Sherlock loves John and tells him and shows him that every day. But he's only able to tell John his deepest thoughts and feelings at night when John is asleep.

Encumbered With a Secret Summary: Molly Hooper reminisces about her friendship with the greatest detective of all times before her guests arrive. She has quite a story for one of them.

Fire Meets Ice Summary: Rosie has a school assignment, which Sherlock is more than happy to help with. When John wants to greet Sherlock, Rosie behaves cheekily, which captain Watson refuses to tolerate.

Distaste and Aversion Turned to Longing and Fondness Summary: Mycroft arrives at Baker Street to reveal something personal. Both he and Sherlock are utterly puzzled that John already knows what it is.

Indulge Me? Summary: Sherlock has planned Valentine's Day this year, and won't tell John anything apart from letting him know they'll go away for the weekend. John aren't even allowed to pack his own bags, which puts him on edge.

Touched for the First Time Summary: John meets a Sherlock in disguise and instantly knows there's something wrong with Sherlock's eye colour.

Love Potion, Truth Serum, or Both? Summary: They're both quite drunk. Sherlock doesn't remember where they are or what they're doing in a place that's clearly not Baker Street. When John starts talking about a game and animals, Sherlock fears his brain has collapsed. But one thing is clear to him. He wants to kiss John.

Wondrous Awakening Summary: Sherlock needs to access his mind palace but finds it quite difficult because of two women glaring daggers at him. When he realises why, he texts John for advice. As always John has the perfect solution to Sherlock's predicament.

Bespoken Vanity Summary: It took a big brother to save him from addiction, a detective inspector to save him from boredom, and an ex-army doctor to let his walls fall.

Not His Cup of Tea Summary: As per usual she has baked for the boys. Sherlock's particularly pleased with her choice. His brother begs to differ...

His Beloved Armour Summary: After he got the Belstaff, Sherlock loathes the warm season. He feels naked without his grand coat. Until John starts to send him appreciative looks. When the cold season is upon them and Sherlock brings out his coat again, John's expression changes.

A Personal Touch Summary: They've had a lovely dinner at Mycroft and Greg's, but on the way home John doesn't say a word. He's clearly disappointed with Sherlock, but Sherlock has no clue what's caused it. After John has gone to bed, Sherlock retreats to his mind palace to find a solution to this awful situation. What he finds, makes him devastated. How can he fix this?

Crucial Involvement Summary: Harry and Clara come to visit John and Sherlock. It takes embarrassingly long for John to realise why, while the great detective understands immediately.

Under the Bridge Summary: Mike is playing matchmaker after a lost bet. John agrees to the terms of a blind date with a pilot called Max. Before John's taken the first sip of his beer, he hopes that his date never shows up.

Words He Wrote Summary: When Sherlock returns from the dead, John's been gone for two weeks. Not even Mycroft knows where he is. And then the post arrives.

Benevolent Care Summary: John Watson has a fever and can't bear to be touched. Sherlock Holmes is NOT okay with that.

Safe Keeping Summary: John has sent Mrs. Hudson to her sister so she's better protected against Covid. Sherlock disagreed, but had no say in the matter. When John urged Sherlock to move to his parents, the great detective stood his ground. After a gruesome double shift, John breaks down, and realises he needs his lover close.

A Different Approach Summary: Sherlock gets a mysterious text from Mike Stamford of all people. He wants to meet, and he needs Sherlock to keep the meeting a secret from John. What Mike tells him, makes Sherlock lose track of time, before he decides to take Mike's advice.

Streets Filled with Music Summary: John has always been fascinated by street musicians. After he meets Sherlock Holmes and refuses to move in with him, John walks the streets of London listening to the different musicians. Quite a few play the violin.

Fervent Radiance Summary: Sherlock Holmes writes about how meeting John Watson changed his life. He also lets us witness a particularly hot post-case scenario.

And with that it was time for the Fluffbruary Extended Edition 2024. It started with: Higher, Always Higher Summary: Sherlock and John want to ask each other the same type of questions, but neither man dares to utter them. That Philip Anderson proved to be the catalyst came as a surprise to both of them.

Sherlock Challenge next: Cold Tears Summary: Sherlock has to go on this mission to save John Watson despite the fact that John will consider him dead if he does.

Another Fluffbruary Extended Edition entry: Green and Forbidden Summary: After Sherlock's injury, it seems to John that he's dreaming about something that baffles him. Hopefully Sherlock will remember everything once he wakes from his unconsciousness. The story Sherlock tells John is quite remarkable, and his conclusion in the end skips at least one crucial step...

Then May arrived and with it the May Prompts, instigated by the lovely @calaisreno My fic The Luckiest Girl in the World was a real challenge, but worth every struggle. Summary: Rosie thinks back to the day her and John's life changed because of Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, I wrote a fic for the Fluffbruay Extended Edition as well, because of course I did... I've Been Waiting for You Summary: Two women had great influence over John as a boy. One taught him to love all kinds of music. The other predicted a life altering meeting decades later.

A bit of poetry weaved its way into my June fic: Being a Rainbow in Someone's Cloud Summary: Sherlock and John meet as kids. Now, being an old man, John writes about the emotional journey of being in an out of Sherlock Holmes' orbit. A trip up to London in present time, brings back the horrors of their past, and makes Sherlock reveal thoughts he's had for quite some time.

July followed, as it often does: Kings, Queens, and Everything in Between Summary: Sherlock and John play the Rizla game decades after John's stag night. This time Sherlock is determined to end the evening differently, just like he's dreamt of.

August was a favourite month of mine this year. For more reasons than one. If I Cannot Have You Summary: Sherlock Holmes has done it again. Chased after a criminal through London, far away from Baker Street. Without John Watson on his heels. When he was attacked, he wished he had heeded John's warning to be more careful.

My first FTH fic for the wonderful @totallysilvergirl was a wonderful thing to dive into. Beta extraordinaire @heretic1103 kept me right throughout. Always a Soldier Summary: Mycroft arrives at Baker Street with disturbing news which even Sherlock can’t ignore. Going abroad, even when the circumstances are horrible, might be just what both he and John need to avoid stagnation.

The September fic was: Obstinate Fascination Summary: Molly gets an invitation that puts her on edge. Sherlock turns to John for advice when he realises that Molly still fancies him. John concocts a plan and Sherlock holds his breath and crosses his fingers that everything works out for the best.

I even dared to make a podfic! Much thanks to another Silver. Instant Fascination Summary: John Watson never thought Sherlock Holmes was a romantic or a cuddler. Looking back, he's glad he was wrong.

The first fic where neither of the boys got their say: Observations of a Quaint Duo Summary: The people closest, and some not so close, ponder the relationship between the world's only consulting detective and his blogger. There are also some introspection going on.

Look Me in the Eyes was an emotional one; a fic I'd lost but managed to rewrite with the support of all the lovely people at the Writer's Retreat. Summary: From an early age, John has been fascinated by eyes. The older he got, the more dangerous that fascination became. It all culminated with a blow that scarred John's soul for life.

My first ghost story was originally a flash fiction fic posted on Tumblr, but in the end I also posted it on AO3: Graced by Death Summary: John and Sherlock find themselves in a large manor house. It's supposed to be empty, but John is not convinced. When they split up to search for whatever Sherlock needs to solve the case, John can't shake off the feeling that someone is watching them.

The last parent!lock of the year: A Magical World Summary: Rosie has been given a school assignment where the premise is to present her family and the dynamic between her and them. In the end, some adjustments are needed. For reasons...

My first Mystrade fic was a gift for my friend @melanie75851150 Beyond the Horizon Summary: Mycroft is finally home after an exhausting job trip abroad. All he wants is to sleep, but a certain detective inspector has other plans. Mycroft isn't particularly averse to said plans.

The Lost Chord was my entry to the Yuletide Johnlock Exchange. Summary: After his recovery from a nasty cold, Holmes takes his doctor with him on a trip to the seaside, which would have been enticing if it weren't for the timing. December is hardly a pleasant time of year to visit the British coast. Watson doesn't brood long, and he is quite enjoying himself until a member of the hotel staff interferes.

And last, but not least, my December fic, using the prompts from the @fluff-cember blog - Polychromatic Wrapping Summary: Sherlock and John take turns to tell us about their past and present. There are lots of new knowledge and head canon stuff here. Toot-rotting fluff, but also sexy times. Each chapter is wrapped in a different paper/colours, but it's the same universe throughout.

So, if you're still conscious after this, I salute you! Thank you all for your endless support through 2024. See you soon. Tomorrow, actually. It seems 2025 will be busy as well...

[professional-loser-pisces]

My Story

Like everyone else, I've been following this case since day one. We've all laughed at the jokes and felt abject sympathy for those negatively impacted by UHC or other such companies. I thought now it was time to share my own small anecdote on the American Healthcare system.

I'm from Tennessee, and up until May I had a Mamaw (my great-grandmother) which is a word you've no doubt heard from JD Vance recently, or really through the entirety of his campaign. My Mamaw died in May, and she had UHC. Thankfully, UHC deemed her worthy of having full coverage. There were no copays for her family to worry about. And I'm grateful for that, but my Mamaw is only 1 success out of 10,000 failures. However, as just some general information on the American healthcare system, here are the total prices from her two hospital stays:

March 15th,2024 to March 22nd, 2024- $30,988

May 4th,2024 to May 6th,2024 to May 9th, 2024 (including her hospice care price from May 6th to her date of death, May 9th)- $15,600

Now my Mamaw died a rough death. She had COPD, CHF, and massive fluid retention. Up until her death, my mother dedicated her whole life to giving my Mamaw 24/7 care. She was unemployed at the time because of that fact. My mother even held my Mamaw in her arms as she died, fighting for every breathe. My mother now has PTSD from my Mamaw's traumatic death. My mom is employed now, has insurance, and has been pulled out of the depressive episode she fell into after our Mamaw's death, but that wasn't always the case.

My mother had TennCare, the healthcare given to most people in Tennessee. My mother was stripped of her insurance the week after she held my dying Mamaw in her arms. She was already in a severe depressive episode due to her experiences and previous history with MDD. After her insurance was taken from her, she didn't have access to her mental health medications or access to the medications for her many chronic illnesses. So she slept constantly. And it was left to me, newly 19 years old and grieving, to keep everything afloat. I bought everything to keep our home running, I bought her medications so she could move her body freely without pain, and most importantly, I bought her mental health medications. I nursed my mother out of her depressive episode while also working my hands to the bone to keep us alive. My mother almost wasn't here right now. The only reason my mom is alive is because I made sure she had the medications and mental health services she needed. My mother is alive because of ME. Not because of a healthcare CEO, not because of the American government, but because of ME. She is alive because I saved her when the American government and healthcare system failed her.

Not everyone has been as lucky as my mother. Not everyone has had someone to care for them and their health. In fact, most people don't have a support system like my mom had.

We see the stories on the news, the "wholesome" stories of kids selling their toys to pay for a friend or family member's chemotherapy, or the downright despicable stories of the elderly being refused care because they couldn't afford life-saving treatment. We see these stories,and it's easy to become desensitized to this dystopian reality. I want to leave you with a story about someone I personally knew, a neighbor of mine in fact.

Let's call this neighbor Trevor. Trevor was a 32 year old man, and he worked at a textile factory. Trevor didn't have insurance. One night he felt incredibly sick, and fell to his knees in pain. He was crying, and his fiance thought he was a goner for sure, so she called an ambulance. Trevor begged her not to call because he knew he couldn't afford the $5,000 charge. When the EMTs got to his home, they found Trevor lying in the floor, clutching his side. The paramedics told him he needed a hospital immediately, as he would have to have emergency surgery to remove his gallbladder. If he couldn't afford an ambulance, he couldn't afford the hospital stay and surgery charges either. So he didn't go to the hospital. He didn't get in the ambulance. He didn't get the help he needed.

Trevor died in a pool of his own blood, pus, and urine. His gallbladder entirely ruptured, and his body was found by his family. Trevor didn't die because of his inability to pay his medical bills, Trevor didn't die because he refused to get into the ambulance, and he didn't die because his fiance stepped outside for two minutes after he assured her the pain was subsiding. Trevor died because of the American healthcare system, and their consistent, systemic failures of the American people. At the time this happened, in 2019, I only heard blame on his part for not getting into the ambulance. Many times I heard, "Why didn't he just make a payment plan like everyone else?"That sentiment has very quickly changed since Brian Thompson was adjusted. In the days since December 4th, I have heard only sympathy and understanding for Trevor's story, and for the thousands of stories just like Trevor's. I can't convince you to care about those thousands of people without names or faces, but hopefully I can convince you to care about Trevor.

December 4th changed something in the American people. Keep changing, and keep fighting. Stop letting stories like my Mother and Trevor dominate our airwaves. Embrace true patriotism and acknowledge the deep-rooted fascism that America was founded on. Embrace true patriotism and care for your neighbor, care for the stranger living halfway across the country who sits at their kitchen table crying at night over piles of medical debt. I implore you to have empathy for your American people, not for the vile CEOs that have already committed massive acts of legally defined domestic terrorism.

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. ﹙ the charming inventor reaper. ﹚: zhào jìngyí 9819.𖹭 ݁

. . . your alibi, darling !! 🍒 : “how bold, flirting with the detective while you’re being interrogated with. shall i flirt back hm? ”

꒰ verse ꒱ 9819

꒰ species ꒱ grim reaper

꒰ ethnicity ꒱ chinese

꒰ age ꒱ 35

꒰ gender ꒱ male

꒰ mbti ꒱ esfj

꒰ alias ꒱ fěixīn ( courtesy name ), talisen ( other name ), detective zhào, greatest artificer of the century, heir of the yuè sanctuary, shadow weaver, the scarlet stare’s shade, time’s boy, the clockwork pawn ( derogatory )

꒰ story ꒱ 

through calm smiles and charming eyes lies a mind of absolute intellect and innovation. skilled hands eager to work on his next project or hold his scythe dutifully.

zhào jìngyí, zhào fěixīn to most, a man of incredible talent as well as never-ending charming. and he knows it. up in his clocktower he strives, working on his newest invention to marvel the masses or - determined on an ongoing case. the inventor of the century and one of the leading investigators along his partner rishen.

behind all of this lies a cunning man when need be. gleamed with a calculative stare and gears turning through his head with various strategies and manipulative tactics. sure his mind might titter the lines of morally correct and not but. . . if it’s for the sake of justice, what does it matter?

one must do what they can to succeed. his perfectionism and stubbornness won’t let him do much else. whatever it takes to complete his duty. he can’t lose. he won’t lose.

how could he? with his sharp mind and charming persona? what else could anyone expect from the innovator of the century and highly respected investigator. in his constant game of chess with himself and those around him.

 

꒰ appearance ꒱

maroon eyes with slits for pupils. when reaper features show his sclera go black

messy black, long hair, always put into a bun where a pair of goggles are pushed into

tan skin, freckled lightly with beauty spots on his right cheekbone, the tip of his nose and right below his eyes. iris quartz litter is body, especially on his spine,

sharper features than soft, his reaper features come out more in this verse

6’7” ( 201 cm ) in height with an athletic build

rows of sharp teeth to match with his long black talons on both his hands and feet.

forked snake tongue

has two standard and upper lobe piercings, with a helix on his right ear.

usually wears his mechanical gear in cases something needs to be fixed

wears a black, lower face mask to prevent inhaling any bad dusts and smokes

dark brown aesthetics, usually in a very vintage autumn styled aesthetic

always has one of his mechanical spiders on his shoulders or in his pockets

sometimes forgets he works with coals and other sorts of material and accidentally smears it out on his face at times

always wearing pocket watches, as a matter of fact, he is famous for sounding like several clocks when he walks by, due to the amount of pockets filled with pocketwatches

 

꒰ personality ꒱

an extremely charming and charismatic man who knows it and uses it to his advantage. exuding a calm aura of which he is marked by. has a sort of sophistication to him.

intelligent and innovative. he prefers plans and precision. this ties in very well with his extreme perfectionism.

confident in everything that he does, but a sort of easy-going confidence. he does not show-off, he knows his worth far too much for that. instead he is effortless.

has a way with words. whether that be his poeticness or through the next point: deception and cunningness.

through his compassion and loyalty, he is a man with a second face - although uses it for the right reasons. deceptive, manipulative and cunning when need be. all while keeping up his general charming persona.

incredibly observant. you have to watch what you say around him because he will use it to his advantage if need be. he asks questions hat many would not bat an eye at but is all for the sake of information.

duty-driven, which ties in very well with his stubborness as well. if there is something he wants to get done, he will do so.

daring and impulsive at times. while he prefers his plans, he will do anything to see to it that they are carried out.

he can be quite competitive at times. he does not enjoy losing or the thought of it.

can be judgmental.

can be considered overprotective. and even a little ( actually a lot ) paranoid. something that he tries not to show especially with his general stature.

through it all is a wise man with a sharp mind. one that many adore and fear all at the same time.

 

꒰ with a lover ꒱

very verbal about his affection. this suits especially well with his poetry. from endearments to compliments to saying some of the most adoring things without even realising it at times

acts of service as a love language is a big part of being in a relationship with him. whether it be getting your things ready or aiding you in whatever you in. it’s especially prominent in his cooking - he’s always cooking and making sure that you eat when necessary.

enjoys calm moments with his lover. sitting along the clockwater with you, arms around you. simply swaying. perhaps cuddling up in bed. he doesn’t mind if there’s no talking — your mere presence makes him feel at ease.

this also transcends into the dates. late night walks or early morning coffee dates. he also is not opposed to art gallery dates or simply sitting around and reading together.

writes poetry for you all of the time and leaves it around for you to find. this is especially apparent when he is not around - so that you have his words even when he is not there.

makes little trinkets for you whenever he gets the time. from jewellery to gadgets and gizmos, stuff to make your life a bit easier. the amount of new inventions he’s created just to make your life more convenient is bizarre.

leaves some of his robotic fireflies with you when he’s away for extended periods of time. you can directly connect to him via calls through these. they’re also nice to have around when he can’t be there. aiding you in whatever you need and giving you little nightmares.

writes down notes about you. the things you say - your favourites - things you may need - etc. he uses his observation skills to the fullest and makes sure that he listens to you. so that he can show you that he cares in this way too.

likes late night dancing on the balcony of his clocktower with you. your silhouettes frame the face of the large clock upfront and he dances with you to the beat of different ticks.

loves when you trace along his iris quartz. especially the ones along his arms and his spine. he melts into you immediately when you do this

tries to use all of his time with you to fullest because of how busy he is. his schedule can be quite sporadic, but he’s always taking every opportunity that he can to be with you. any opportunity to remind you that he loves you despite the time apart.

 

꒰ strengths ꒱

sharp intelligence: an extremely intelligent and innovative person

soul-reaping: rishen has the ability to reap more than 200 souls and carry them on his scythe until he can send them away to the afterlife. unfortunately he doesn’t really use the scythe much.

vapour teleportation: can shift his physical form into a dark vapour and can move at high speeds towards a different location.

dark vapor production: produces a dark vapour from his back and shoulders that can blind and disorientate enemies greatly.

hallucinative vapor production: similar to his dark vapour, however causes those that breathe it in to hallucinate; often multiple versions of him.

can see souls/ghosts: as a reaper rishen has the ability to see ghosts, spirits, wraiths, etc. along with the souls of both living and dead.

 

꒰ weaknesses ꒱

daylight: as a nocturnal reaper, daylight and other bright sources of light can weaken his senses of sight as he is used to the darkness of the night.

d’akar: an anti-magic material that can greatly weaken him if he comes into contact with it.

extreme emotional attachment: while reapers may remind one of humans, they are not. they are beings with very empathetic instincts and have souls bigger than the average mortal being — a thing that has been with them since their creation. they become extremely attached to things they love and it may cause them to become erratic if enough they love is taken away from them.

fading: occurs when a reaper goes through immense hurt and pain. their physical form quite literally begins to disappear, making them appear transparent. it can be a very painful process, both emotionally and physically. until their physical form eventually fades away and their soul moves on to the afterlife

 

꒰ relationships ꒱

rishen herrera: boyfriend, best friend, childhood friend

zhào mèng yáo: mother

zhào mùchén: father

zhào hàoyu: younger irish twin

zhào haitao: younger brother

zhào yìzé: younger brother

zhào yu xi: younger sibling

alessio agresta arias: prime suspect

kyung seong-jin: co-worker

indra rosales: co-worker

shi jùn lái: mutual

shi tài: mutual

shi xuan jie: mutual

denara agyros: friend, nurse

danae agyros: motherly figure

orpheus agyros: fatherly figure

 

꒰ extra ꒱

he is known as the “innovator of the century”, he is one of the most prolific inventors of his time

he is both an investigator and profiler with experience in combative field

breaks into random theatre performances together with rishen sometimes after long days

they have a cat named beatrice, who often come with them to missions and helps them sniff out stuff. she wears a cat sized detective hat.

he does not like when the tax collectors come to the clocktower

always noting stuff down

speaks more poetry in the autumn

he makes his own clocks and has a ( failing ) clock business

[billveusay]

Why I love mechas/real robots stories

In 2023, I played Armored Core 4, For Answer, and 6. And I loved them. On top of being incredible games, there was something about them... something that seemed to scratch an itch just right in some part of my brain I never noticed. A few months later, I got into Gundam and apparently loved it enough for it to become my biggest special interest ever. And for a while, I wondered why. I didn't like every gundam show/movie I watched but the ones I liked... seemed engaging beyond their individual quality. Something about them giant robots just works for me. And after giving it some thought, I think I finally nailed why.

Coldest take ever : there's something appealing about works of fiction that get crazy with scale. Larger than life, you could say, whether it's in terms of worldbuilding, action or aesthetics. Galaxy spanning civilizations are cool, huge armies are cool, big monsters are cool, big explosions are cool. However, for me at least, there's a threshold where the scale gets so big it becomes meaningless. This is why I kinda bounced off DBZ and 40k. Through no fault of theirs, mind you (DBZ is awesome and 40k... contains awesome stuff), they just weren't what I was looking for. Because most of the time, what makes stories click for me is immersion, so for the stories that go BIG it often means a human point of view to put the scale in perspective.

Now, this can be done in every genre or medium featuring large-scale setpieces, using their respective tools. For example, many action movies emphasize the size of their setpieces with grounded directing, filming at shoulder height looking up and making the big stuff break frame. However it's also baked in the very core of several genres. For example, it's a building block of Lovecraftian horror.

But not only is this contrast between human-sized and big as balls a large part of real robot stories, they also let the human-sized humans bust some big-ass balls. You can have fight scenes on par with Avengers or DBZ but inside the 20 meters tall death machine, there are relatable squishy dudes, which is an immediate +5 in investment for me.

However, this specific kind of appeal is a hard balance to strike. Super robot animes and superhero stories with giant piloted robots often don't have that tangible feel. But there are also pieces of media that lean harder on the "realism" aspect, and those tend not to work as well for me, because they don't give off the same sense of awe at seeing something incredible from a grounded POV. Real robot at its best is a bridge between immersive storytelling through human eyes and wild, massive concepts, setpieces and action. It also provides nice theming if your story is about humans being small in the face of overwhelming forces beyond their control, like war or capitalism. Funny how often that happens.

In Armored Core 6, the titular mechs are 10 meters tall, and they're mostly used to showcase how everything is even more bloody gigantic. There's a robot worm that's 1,5 km long, a walking mining ship boss that's 5 km long and 1 km tall, and if you're not familiar with it, just google "armored core vascular plant". In most games, this would probably pull me out of the story, but somehow it works here. Because despite only interacting with them through radio comms, the characters feel very believably human. With human feelings, motivations and relationships. Also, they did a great job making all the technology look and feel grounded, which helps the immersion. So er... yeah. Can you tell me if that made sense ? Or if I was just pointing out the obvious, because I genuinely can't tell. In any case, thanks for humoring me in this longexplanation of why I didn't watch Gurren Lagann. Cheers!