#✩⋆⁺₊ warnings — mentions of body weight | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

little-jana · 2 days ago

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- 5 times you ask Hotch to touch you and the 1 time he asks to be held -

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader

Genre: fluff, some angst (not between them)

Warnings: case talk, injuries during a case, blood mentioned, insecurities, crying, needing comfort, kissing, happy ending

1. "Can you hold my hand?"

The first time you asked him to touch you, it felt like a lifeline — a fragile tether keeping you from falling into the darkness that had begun to creep in. You were both walking out of the interrogation room, the air still charged with the tension left behind. The unsub had been particularly vile, his words slicing through your defenses like a blade. You had held your composure in the room — you always did — but now, with the door closed and the weight of the case pressing on your chest, the cracks were starting to show.

You could still hear the unsub’s voice in your head, the way he had spoken about his victims as though they were nothing more than objects. Your hands trembled as you clenched them into fists, trying to push away the nausea rising in your throat.

Aaron walked beside you in silence, his presence calm and steady, as it always was. You envied his ability to compartmentalize, to walk away from horrors like this without letting them leave a mark. But as you glanced up at him, you caught the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders seemed just a little more rigid than usual. He felt it too — he just hid it better.

“Are you okay?” His voice broke through your thoughts, low and grounding.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, though your voice wavered.

He didn’t respond right away, his sharp eyes flicking down to your hands, which you had unconsciously begun rubbing together in a futile attempt to steady them.

“No,” he said quietly but firmly. “You’re not.”

Your instinct was to deny it again, to brush off his concern and pretend you had everything under control. But the words died in your throat as the tremors in your hands grew worse. Without thinking, you reached out toward him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can you hold my hand? Just… just for a second.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hand slid into yours, warm and solid, his fingers wrapping around yours with a strength that was both gentle and grounding. The world seemed to tilt back into place as his thumb brushed over your knuckles in a slow, reassuring motion.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his deep voice steady and unwavering. “I’ve got you.”

You stared at where your hands were joined, the contrast between your smaller, trembling fingers and his strong, steady grip. A lump formed in your throat, and you took a shaky breath, the trembling beginning to subside as the warmth of his hand anchored you.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t let go right away. His thumb continued its gentle path along your skin, a silent reassurance that he wasn’t rushing you, that he was there for as long as you needed.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, his voice soft but firm, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket.

For the first time in a long time, you felt the truth of those words sink in. And for the first time, you let yourself believe him.

2. "Will you help me up?"

The chase had been brutal. It was the kind of pursuit that left no room for hesitation, no time to think beyond the thundering of your heart and the pounding of your boots against the forest floor. The unsub was fast, darting between the trees with the desperation of a cornered animal. You were faster, but the uneven terrain was unforgiving, and your focus was split between keeping your eyes on him and avoiding the roots and rocks scattered across the ground.

You didn’t see the root until it was too late. Your foot caught on it, and you went down hard, the impact jolting through your body as your ankle twisted beneath you.

“Damn it,” you hissed, trying to push yourself up. But when you shifted your weight onto your injured ankle, a sharp, searing pain shot through you, forcing you back onto the ground.

The sound of footsteps brought you back to the present, and you looked up to see Aaron sprinting toward you. His gun was drawn, his eyes scanning the trees even as he made a beeline for you.

“Are you hurt?” he asked as he dropped to his knees beside you, his voice calm but edged with urgency.

“It’s nothing,” you said through gritted teeth, waving him off. “I just need to get up—”

“Stop,” he said sharply, his tone brooking no argument.

You opened your mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes silenced you. He was already reaching for your ankle, his hands sure and gentle as he assessed the injury.

“It’s sprained,” he said after a moment, his brow furrowed. “You’re not walking on this.”

“I can manage,” you insisted, even as the pain made your vision blur. “Just help me up—”

“No,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.

Before you could protest further, he moved with a decisiveness that left you momentarily stunned. Sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back, he lifted you off the ground as though you weighed nothing.

“Hotch—”

“Don’t argue,” he said, his tone softening just enough to take the sting out of his words. “You’re hurt, and I’m not letting you make it worse.”

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks as you realized how close you were to him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for balance. His chest was solid beneath you, his heartbeat steady and strong, a grounding rhythm against the chaos of your own.

“I can walk,” you mumbled, though your voice lacked conviction.

“You don’t have to,” he said simply, his gaze fixed ahead as he carried you back toward the team.

The words hung between you, their weight sinking into your chest. For once, you didn’t argue. Instead, you allowed yourself to lean into him, your head resting lightly against his shoulder as his arms held you secure.

And for the first time, you felt what it meant to truly let someone else carry the weight for you.

3. "Can you hug me?"

The case had been devastating. Cases involving children were always the hardest, but this one had left a particularly deep scar. The unsub, a man who had systematically targeted families, had shown no remorse — if anything, he seemed to revel in the pain he caused. Even though the team had caught him, the damage was done. A family was gone, ripped apart, and no amount of justice would bring them back.

The jet ride back was suffocating. Everyone was quiet, the weight of the case pressing down on the cabin like a physical presence. You sat by the window, staring out at the night sky as the clouds blurred past. Your stomach churned, and your throat felt tight, but you held it together. You always did.

When the jet landed, you lingered behind as the others disembarked. The thought of going home to an empty apartment, sitting alone in the silence, was unbearable. You told yourself you just needed a moment to collect yourself, but the truth was you felt stuck, unable to move or breathe properly.

“Are you alright?” Aaron’s voice cut through the quiet, startling you.

You turned to see him standing near the doorway, his expression calm but his dark eyes watching you closely. You hadn’t realized he’d stayed behind too.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, the lie slipping out without hesitation.

He didn’t move, didn’t look away. His silence stretched, unspoken but understanding, and suddenly you felt exposed. The walls you’d so carefully built over the years began to crack under the weight of his steady gaze.

“I’m just… tired,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

His brows drew together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you want me to stay?”

You shook your head quickly, embarrassed by the question and the vulnerability it implied. “No, I’m fine. I just need to—”

You stopped, the words catching in your throat as the ache in your chest grew unbearable. You looked down at your hands, clenching and unclenching them in your lap as you tried to find something to hold onto.

Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Can you hug me?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and raw. You didn’t dare look up at him, afraid of what you might see.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, you heard the soft rustle of his jacket as he crossed the space between you.

“Come here,” he said gently, his voice low and steady.

You looked up, and before you could second-guess yourself, he was pulling you into his arms. His embrace was warm and firm, his hands resting on your back as he held you close. You buried your face in his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

His hand moved in slow, soothing circles on your back, and the knot in your chest began to loosen. You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt the wetness on his shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he held you tighter, as though he could physically hold you together while you fell apart.

For what felt like the first time in forever, you let yourself lean on someone else. And in his arms, the weight of the case, of everything, didn’t feel quite so crushing.

4. "Can you just stay with me?"

The motel room was small and unremarkable, its beige walls and faded floral bedspread screaming mediocrity. The case had taken its toll on everyone, and you could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on your chest as you stepped out of the shower, toweling your hair dry. Your limbs were heavy, your mind foggy, but you couldn’t ignore the ache in your chest — the remnants of a particularly brutal day on the job.

You’d seen it before: the aftermath of people’s worst moments. But this case was different. It had crept under your skin, latched onto your soul, and refused to let go. The faces of the victims lingered behind your closed eyes, and no matter how many deep breaths you took, you couldn’t shake the suffocating weight.

When a soft knock came at your door, you startled slightly, pulling the towel tighter around you before calling out, “One second!” You scrambled to throw on a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, padding barefoot across the cheap carpet to open the door.

Aaron stood on the other side, his presence grounding and commanding even in the dim light of the hallway. He looked as tired as you felt, his tie gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and his sleeves rolled up. There was a faint crease between his brows, one you recognized as his default expression when something was troubling him.

“Hotch,” you said, surprised. “Is everything okay?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his dark eyes scanning your face as though searching for something. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and careful.

“I saw your light was still on,” he said. “I just wanted to check on you.”

The words were simple, but the weight behind them wasn’t lost on you. He wasn’t just checking in as your boss or your team leader. This was personal — a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of the fact that he could see the same weariness in you that he felt in himself.

You stepped aside, holding the door open. “Come in.”

He hesitated for only a second before stepping into the room, his presence filling the small space. He moved toward the lone chair by the window, sitting down with a quiet sigh as he leaned back, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“You don’t have to check on me, you know,” you said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’m okay.”

He gave you a pointed look, one that said he didn’t believe you for a second. “You’re not okay,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Guess I’m not hiding it very well.”

“You’ve had a hard day,” he said. “We all have. It’s okay to not be okay.”

Something about the way he said it — so calm, so matter-of-fact — caused the knot in your chest to loosen ever so slightly. You looked down at your hands, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“I can’t stop seeing their faces,” you admitted quietly. “Every time I close my eyes… it’s just there. And it feels like no matter what we do, it’s never enough. We can’t save everyone.”

There was a long pause, and when you looked up, Aaron was watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“No,” he said softly. “We can’t save everyone. But we saved someone today. And that matters.”

His words were meant to be comforting, but they only brought the sting of tears closer to the surface. You swallowed hard, blinking quickly to keep them at bay.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “How you keep going, case after case, loss after loss.”

He leaned forward then, resting his elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together. “Because I have to,” he said simply. “Because if I stop, if I let it get to me… then it wins. And I can’t let that happen.”

There was a rawness to his voice that you rarely heard, a vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to show. It was a side of him that reminded you he wasn’t just your leader — he was human, just like the rest of you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence in the room was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a shared understanding, a quiet acknowledgment of the weight you both carried.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can you just stay with me?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and tentative. For a heartbeat, you thought he might say no, that he might retreat behind his walls and insist on maintaining the professional distance he was so careful to preserve.

But then he nodded, his eyes softening as he stood from the chair. “Of course,” he said quietly.

He crossed the room and sat down beside you on the bed, his presence warm and solid beside you. For a moment, you didn’t move, unsure of how to close the distance between you. But then his hand came to rest on your back, his touch gentle and reassuring, and the tension in your shoulders melted away.

You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder as his arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His hand moved in slow, soothing circles against your back, and you felt yourself relax for the first time all day.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said softly. “I’m here. Always.”

The quiet conviction in his voice sent a warmth spreading through your chest, and for the first time that day, the suffocating weight began to lift.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, wrapped in his embrace. The minutes blurred together, the world outside fading into insignificance as you let yourself lean on him, let yourself draw strength from his presence.

And when you finally closed your eyes, the faces of the victims were no longer the first thing you saw. Instead, it was Aaron’s face, his quiet strength and unwavering support a balm to your weary soul.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but in that moment, you knew you weren’t alone. And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

5. "Can you hold me?"

The house was silent now, eerily still in the aftermath of chaos. The team had already left, but you and Aaron remained behind to tie up loose ends — packing evidence, reviewing case notes, and ensuring the crime scene was left intact for the local authorities. The work was necessary, methodical, but it felt like moving through molasses. The weight of the case clung to you, thick and suffocating.

You stood in the unsub's living room, staring at the remnants of his twisted life. The photos on the walls, the personal items strewn across the floor, all told a story of pain and control. You’d seen scenes like this before, but tonight, it felt like too much. The air felt heavy, as though the walls themselves were pressing down on you.

Behind you, Aaron’s steady presence filled the room. You could hear the soft rustle of his coat as he moved closer, the faint creak of the floorboards under his weight. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his gaze on you, warm and steady like the sun breaking through clouds.

“You should sit down,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though the tightness in your voice betrayed the lie.

Aaron stepped closer, his footsteps deliberate. “You’ve been standing there for ten minutes,” he pointed out, his tone carrying a gentle note of concern. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

His words hit harder than you expected, and your throat tightened. You shook your head, trying to keep it together, but the weight of everything — the victims, their families, the endless parade of darkness — pressed down on you like a tidal wave.

“I’m just tired,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tired of seeing all this pain, all this... evil. Sometimes it feels like no matter what we do, it’s never enough.”

Aaron didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stepped closer until he was standing right beside you. The warmth of his presence was grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing.

“It’s not easy,” he said finally, his voice soft but steady. “But you’re stronger than you think. And you’re not alone in this.”

The sincerity in his voice broke something inside you. You turned to face him, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t feel strong right now,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I feel... lost.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his dark eyes searching yours as though trying to find the right words. Finally, he reached out, his hand brushing your arm in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache.

“You’re not lost,” he said quietly. “You’re here. You’re standing. And that’s enough.”

The tears you’d been holding back slipped free, and you quickly swiped at them, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop,” he interrupted gently. “You don’t have to apologize. Not to me.”

His words were a balm to your frayed nerves, and before you could second-guess yourself, you asked, “Can you hold me?” The words came out soft, almost hesitant, but they hung in the air between you like a plea.

For a moment, Aaron hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he was Aaron Hotchner — measured, thoughtful, always careful with the boundaries he set. But then his expression shifted, and without a word, he stepped closer and opened his arms.

You didn’t hesitate. You stepped into his embrace, your hands clutching the fabric of his jacket as his arms wrapped around you. The world seemed to fall away as he held you, his touch firm and steady, as though he was anchoring you to the earth.

His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, and his hand moved in slow, soothing circles against your back. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble.

The floodgates opened then, and you let yourself cry. Not the quiet, restrained tears you’d been holding back, but the deep, gut-wrenching sobs that came from the core of your being. And through it all, Aaron didn’t let go. He held you as though his only purpose in that moment was to keep you from falling apart.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his breath warm against your hair. “Let it out. I’m here.”

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, wrapped in his arms, but time seemed to lose all meaning. Slowly, the sobs began to subside, and your breathing evened out. You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, but his hands remained on your arms, grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, though this time your voice was steadier. “I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”

Aaron shook his head, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You don’t have to apologize for being human,” he said firmly. “You carry so much, and sometimes it’s too much. That’s why we’re a team. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The warmth in his voice, the unshakable conviction in his words, made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with sadness. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave you a small nod, his hands still resting on your arms. “Anytime.”

The moment stretched between you, heavy with unspoken emotions. You wanted to tell him how much his support meant to you, how much he meant to you, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you leaned into his embrace once more, resting your head against his chest. He didn’t hesitate to hold you again, his arms wrapping around you like a shield against the darkness.

And in that moment, you felt lighter. Not because the weight of the world had disappeared, but because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. Aaron was there, solid and steady, and as his heartbeat thrummed beneath your ear, you realized something important: with him by your side, you could face anything.

+1. "Can you hold me?"

It was late. The office was shrouded in shadows, the hum of the building’s air conditioning the only sound cutting through the silence. You’d expected the bullpen to be empty when you arrived, yet the faint glow spilling from Aaron’s office told you otherwise. You weren’t surprised — late nights like this had become the norm for him, his relentless dedication often bordering on self-punishment.

You pushed the door open softly, peeking inside to find him sitting at his desk. His jacket was slung over the back of his chair, his tie loosened, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Papers were scattered across his desk, though it was clear from the distant look in his eyes that he hadn’t been reading them. He was staring blankly at his hands, his brow furrowed, the weight of something heavy pressing down on him.

“Hotch,” you said gently, stepping inside.

His head snapped up, his dark eyes meeting yours. He looked exhausted — not just physically, but emotionally, the kind of weariness that ran bone-deep.

“You should go home,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, though it lacked the sharpness you were used to hearing from him.

“So should you,” you replied, stepping closer to his desk.

He didn’t respond, his gaze dropping back to the desk as his fingers traced aimless patterns on the surface. There was a vulnerability about him that you rarely saw, a crack in the unshakable armor he always wore.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, concern threading through your voice.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He seemed to wrestle with himself, his jaw tightening as though he were trying to force the words down. But then he looked up at you, his eyes dark and filled with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Can you hold me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The vulnerability in his words hit you like a punch to the chest. Aaron Hotchner, the stoic, unshakable leader who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, was asking you for something so raw, so human.

You didn’t hesitate. Closing the distance between you, you reached out and pulled him into your arms. He came willingly, almost collapsing into you as his head dipped to rest against your shoulder. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his grip desperate, as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

For a long moment, neither of you said a word. You simply held him, your fingers threading gently through his hair as he buried his face against your neck. His breathing was uneven, the tension in his body radiating off him in waves.

“It’s okay,” you murmured softly, your lips brushing against his temple. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His hands tightened on your back, and you felt him exhale, a shuddering breath that seemed to carry with it the weight of everything he’d been holding in. You had always known Aaron carried more than he let on — the responsibility of the team, the guilt of the lives he couldn’t save, the endless burden of being the one everyone else relied on. But in this moment, he let himself lean on you, his walls crumbling in your arms.

“I don’t…” he began, his voice muffled against your shoulder. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his brow furrowed, his expression pained. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let someone else—”

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” you said, cutting him off gently. You brought a hand to his face, your fingers brushing against the stubble on his jaw. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, Aaron. Let me help you. Let me be there for you.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat back into the safety of his walls. But then something shifted in his expression, the tension in his shoulders easing as he leaned into your touch.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

Before you could respond, his hand came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. The intimacy of the gesture sent a warmth spreading through your chest, and you felt yourself leaning into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment.

When you opened them, he was watching you with an intensity that stole your breath. His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.

“Aaron,” you whispered, his name barely audible.

He closed the distance between you in an instant, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender. His hands framed your face, his touch reverent as though he were afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful.

The kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as your heart pounded in your chest. There was no hesitation, no holding back — just the raw, unspoken emotion that had been building between you for so long finally spilling over.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting together as the world slowly came back into focus. His hands remained on your face, his thumbs brushing gently against your skin as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said again, your voice soft but firm.

For the first time, you saw the tension in his face ease, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I know,” he said quietly.

And as he pulled you back into his arms, holding you tightly against him, you knew he meant it. For the first time, he was letting himself believe it too.

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lupinqs · 14 hours ago

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CHAPTER FIVE ━━ I Get You

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 4.9K

❀ ━ warnings: mentions of injury, angst

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: these hoes are gay

PAIGE SITS on the sidelines, her crutches propped up against the wall, the weight of her brace a constant reminder. The gym smells like it always does—sweat, pine-scented floor cleaner, and faintly of old rubber. It’s familiar, almost comforting, but today it just feels hollow. Every bounce of the ball, every squeak of sneakers against polished wood, every shout of her teammates feels like a sharp stab. She should be out there. She should be running those plays, setting up the assists, pushing the pace, and taking those impossible shots. Instead, she’s stuck here, immobile and useless.

Her hands grip the edge of the chair, the cool metal biting into her palms as she leans forward to watch the scrimmage. Jo’s running point, calling out a play with that calm, sure voice Paige has come to admire. Jo makes it look easy, like she’s been apart of this team forever, and the rest of the girls respond to her without hesitation. It’s the kind of command Paige used to have, the kind she oddly always thought no one could replicate.

But between Jo and Nika, they’re doing fine without her.

And she thinks that’s the hardest part.

Every pass, every cut, every layup feels like a slap to Paige’s pride. The team doesn’t crumble without her; they adapt. Jo steps into the role Paige left vacant, and Paige can’t even dislike her for it because she’s so damn good at it. She runs the offense and with precision, directing the team perfectly. And, of course, it’s not like Paige wants her team to fail without her. It’s just a reminder of what she can’t do anymore—or, at least not for a long time.

Her stomach twists as she watches the scrimmage play out. She’s never been good at sitting still, and now, that’s all she can do. Sit and watch. She used to be the one lifting everyone’s spirits, the one pushing them through tough practices. Now she’s just another body on the sidelines, invisible and irrelevant. She feels like a ghost of herself, haunting the gym where she uses to thrive.

The ache in her knee is dull but persistent, a constant undercurrent to her frustration. The brace is still and cumbersome, and the crutches are a pain in the ass to deal with. Even getting to this chair had felt like a marathon. She hates every second of this—the injury, the recovery, the helplessness. It’s not just the physical pain; it’s the way it chips away at her identity. She doesn’t know who she is without basketball.

She glances down at the clipboard balanced on her lap, a half-hearted attempt to stay engaged. Geno had given it to her, suggesting she could help track plays and stats during practice, but it feels like a consolation prize. Like something he made up to keep her busy, to make her feel less like dead weight. The truth is, she doesn’t know what the hell her role is anymore. She doesn’t know how to help when she can’t be on the court.

Paige forced herself to focus back on the scrimmage, her eyes narrowing as Jo drives toward the basket. Jo’s quick, her movements sharp and meaningful, and instead of finishing with the layup, she does a no-look, dishing it out to Azzi on the perimeter, who buries a three. Paige catches Jo’s eyes as she jogs back up the court, and Jo flashes her that smile—warm, reassuring, effortless. It’s the kind of smile that should make Paige feel better, but—for once—it doesn’t.

Paige doesn’t have the energy to smile back. She knows Jo means well, knows she’s trying to be supportive, but it just makes Paige feel worse. She’s not in the mood for reassurance. She doesn’t want to be told it’s going to be okay, because it doesn’t feel like it ever will be.

Jo looks away and gets back into the flow of the game, and Paige’s gaze drops to the clipboard again. She scribbles something down, not because it matters, but because she needs something to do with her hands. She feels the tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and she bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to hurt.

The gym fades into background noise as her mind races. She thinks about the months ahead, the endless rehab sessions, the games she’ll have to watch from the bench. She thinks about how everyone else will move on, how the media will forget her name, how the team will find rhythm without her. She wonders if she’ll ever get that rhythm back, if she’ll ever feel like herself again.

She thinks she will. She has enough trust in God to hope he’ll at least give her that. But, here, right now, that feels so far ahead that it’s almost just wishful at this point.

Paige closes her eyes, breathing deeply. She can’t do this here, not in front of everyone. She pushes herself up from the chair, fumbling for her crutches. The awkward motion makes her wince, but she swallows the ache and glances at Geno.

“Gotta go to the bathroom,” she says, her voice too clipped to be convincing.

Geno narrows his eyes slightly, the way he always does when he’s trying to figure someone out. He nods once, and Paige feels the weight of his gaze as she turns away. She knows he can see right through her excuse, but he doesn’t call her out on it. She doesn’t need another lecture about staying engaged.

The moment she’s out of the gym, the air feels different—quieter, cooler, easier to breathe. The hallway stretches ahead of her, lined with murals of UConn legends. Paige’s crutches thud against the floor as she hobbles forward, her eyes skimming over the faces and names that loom on the walls. Maya Moore. Breanna Stewart. Diana Tayrasi. Sue Bird.

Her chest tightens.

She’s supposed to be part of this legacy. She’s supposed to be one of the names people remember, one of the faces immortalized in paint and pride. But now? Now she’s a girl with a busted knee and a brace that feels like a goddamn prison. The thought makes her stomach twist with equal parts anxiety and frustration, a bitter cocktail she’s been choking down since the surgery.

As she continues down the hall, trying to push those thoughts out of her head, she nearly collides with someone rounding the corner.

“Paige!”

Celeste Sinclair’s voice is bright and warm, and Paige immediately regrets leaving the gym. The grin that spreads across the redhead’s face feels too familiar, too personal, like an inside joke Paige isn’t in on.

“Hey,” Paige mutters, gripping the crutches tighter.

She hasn’t seen Celeste since before her ACL tear, and that’s probably for the best. The girls Paige hooks up with always have a way of getting too attached. Paige doesn’t blame them, not really. She knows she’s charming, knows how to make people feel like they’re the only one in the world when they’re with her. But that’s all it’s ever been: a moment.

Celeste is nice. Pretty. Accomplished. Good in bed. But Paige has never wanted anything more, never even given it a thought. Relationships aren’t for her. They never have been. Basketball has always been her first and only love, the one thing she’s willing to give herself to completely. And now that’s gone—at least for now. The last thing she needs is another reminder of how much she’s failed.

“I haven’t seen you since…” Celeste trails off, gesturing vaguely toward Paige’s knee, her voice tinged with sympathy. “How’re you holding up?”

Paige forces herself to smile, though it feels more like a grimace. “I’m good. Just takin’ it one day at a time.”

Celeste beams at her like she’s just said something profound, and Paige wants to die a little inside.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Celeste replies. “I wasn’t sure—did you get my card? I gave it to Jo to pass along before your surgery. Um, but you haven’t really said anything.”

Oh, right. The card. The one Paige didn’t even read. The one that’s now resting in a hospital trash can. Paige rubs a hand over her face, buying time to piece together an answer. “Yeah—uh, yeah, I got it. Sorry I said nothin’. Thanks, though.”

Celeste’s smile widens, and her eyes soften in that way that makes Paige want to shuffle awkwardly away. Celeste always looks at her like that, like there’s something more between them, something Paige knows she’ll never be able to—or want—to give.

“You’re welcome,” Celeste says gently. “I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you.”

Paige more, hoping that’s the end of it, but of course, it’s not.

“Hey,” Celeste starts, her tone shifting to something more professional, “any chance you’d be up for, like, a TikTok? Just something to show the fans you’re healing. They’d love to see you.”

It’s times like these that Paige understands why Jo thought it was so funny she was fucking their media girl. Paige stares at Celeste for a long second, feeling a spark of irritation flare in her chest, because, seriously, why would she even ask that? “No, Celeste. I don’t wanna do any media.”

The words come out sharper than she intends, but she doesn’t care enough to soften them. She adjusts her grip on her crutches, already turning to leave.

“Right,” Celeste says quickly, falling into step beside her. “I get that. Totally. Just… heal up, okay? Call or text, if you want to. You know where to find me.”

Paige doesn’t respond, just gives her a brief nod before hobbling down the hall. Her pace is slow, each step a frustrating reminder of how far she is from where she wants to be. Celeste finally stops following, and Paige exhales in relief as she rounds another corner, desperate for some space, some air, anything that doesn’t feel like pressure or pity.

AFTER PRACTICE, Jo walks into the locker room with the rest of the team, the chatter and laughter bouncing off the walls as everyone unwinds from the session. She’s still buzzing with the energy of the scrimmage (and the sprints they were forced to do after because of one-too-many missed layups), but as she rounds the corner to the lockers, she notices a familiar figure slouched on the bench.

Paige had disappeared halfway through practice, and though Geno didn’t make a big deal out of it, Jo had been aware of her absence like a missing puzzle piece. Now here she is, sitting in front of their side-by-side lockers, her crutches leaning against the bench and her gaze a little unfocused. Her brace sticks out awkwardly from her bent leg, and Jo feels a pant of sympathy tighten her chest.

“Hey,” Jo says as she tosses her bag in the cubby of her locker. She sits down beside Paige, close enough to make her presence known but not enough to crowd her. “You okay?”

Paige shrugs, her lips pulling into a vague shape that might be a smile but doesn’t come close. “Yeah. ‘M fine.”

Jo doesn’t buy it. It’s not that Paige is necessarily a bad liar; she’s just too proud, too stubborn to admit when she’s not. Jo watches her for a beat, the slump of her shoulders, the way her fingers fight with the hem of her T-shirt. She knows this posture, this energy. It’s the same one she’s seen in teammates who’ve been sidelined by injures, the same one she’s seen in herself on the bad days.

But Jo doesn’t push. She knows how that can feel—suffocating, like someone prying open a door you’re not ready to unlock. Instead, she plants her hands on the bench and leans back a little, changing the subject.

“Did you see Lou get me with that spin move earlier?” Jo asks, keeping her tone light. “Literally cooked me.”

Paige lets out a small, breathy laugh, almost imperceptible, but Jo catches it. It’s the first sign of life she’s seen in her all day.

“Didn’t even look like she was trying,” Paige mutters, her voice flat but laced with the ghost of a smirk.

“Right?” Jo exclaims, throwing up her hands in mock indignation. “It’s like, leave some dignity for the rest of us, y’know?”

She continues on, telling some half-dramatic story of when Nika picked her pocket after Paige left, weaving in jokes at her own expanse. She avoids anything too basketball-heavy, keeping the focus on the absurdity of her own experiences instead of the game itself. It’s a careful balance—Jo knows that bringing up basketball might sting, but it’s also a thread that ties them together, a shared language Paige can’t—and Jo knows she doesn’t want to—escape from.

Paige hums in response now and then, her focus flickering like a weak signal. Jo can tell she’s only half-listening, her mind somewhere else entirely. Still, she keeps going, hoping that her presence, if nothing else, might pull Paige out of her head a little.

After a while, as everyone’s getting up to go, Jo shifts the conversation again, tilting her head toward Paige. “Y’know, we could hang out later—maybe watch a movie or something?”

Paige looks at her, and for a split second, Jo thinks she might say no outright. Instead, Paige forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes and says, “Maybe.”

The hesitation is there, sharp and obvious, but Jo doesn’t call it out. She knows better than to push. She lets the word hang in the air for a moment before nodding, as if “maybe” is a real plan.

“Okay,” Jo says, keeping her tone casual.

Paige turns back to her hands, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the bench. Jo watches her out of the corner of her eye, thinking of something that might reach her. She’s learned that Paige is pretty independent, something that stems from her childhood if Jo had to guess, and Jo respects that. She does. But there’s a difference between being independent and shutting everyone out, and Jo worries that Paige is tipping too far into the latter.

She tries to think of something—anything—that might help. She doesn’t need to cheer Paige up, necessarily. She’s learned by now that joy isn’t always the right goal. What Paige needs isn’t sunshine and rainbows (though Jo would probably be better at giving her that). What she needs is something steadier, quieter. A reminder that she’s not alone, even if she feels like she is.

She’ll figure something out.

PAIGE LIES sprawled across her bed, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of the string lights draped along the wall. Her eyes are fixed on her crutches, propped up against the wall next to her like a taunt she can’t escape. They stand there, silent and unmoving, mocking her with their stillness while the rest of the world seems to keep spinning without her.

Today has been one of the most frustrating days she’s had since the injury. The hours feel heavier, pressing against her chest, leaving no room to breathe. Practice was a disaster, even though she wasn’t really in it. She hates watching from the sidelines, hates feeling so useless. She’d escaped halfway through, hobbling out of the gym under the guise of needing air, only to run into Celeste, of all people. That interaction still churns in her stomach—awkward and uncomfortable, like a bruise pressed too hard.

Jo had asked her earlier if she wanted to hang out tonight. Just a movie, something simple. Paige had said “maybe” at the time. But an hour or so ago, when Jo knocked softly on her door, her voice east and unassuming as she asked if Paige wanted to make good on the plan, Paige had thrown out some half-baked excuse about being tired.

Jo didn’t push, of course. She never does. She just nodded, smiled a little, and closed the door, before Paige heard her leave the apartment—probably to go upstairs and hangout with their teammates. Her stomach twisted with guilt as she listened because Jo is Jo—kind and patient and the only person who seems to understand that Paige doesn’t want to talk about any of this. She doesn’t want to be asked how she’s doing, doesn’t want to be told it’ll get better, doesn’t want to be smothered in sympathy that feels more like pity.

But Jo’s absence now feels louder than her presence earlier. Paige stares at the ceiling, trying to will herself into a calmer state, trying to shake off the weight of the day, the week, the last month. It doesn’t work.

She sits up abruptly, shoving the blankets off her legs and swinging them over the side of the bed. Her knee twinges at the movement, the brace digging into her skin, and she lets out a frustrated huff. Her eyes land on the crutches again, the sharp lines of their edges casting long shadows in the dim light. She feels a bubbling in her chest—an anger she doesn’t know how to direct, a helplessness she doesn’t know how to contain.

Before she even realizes what she’s doing, Paige grabs one of the crutches from beside the bed and hurls it across the room. It crashes against the wall with a dull thud, sliding to the floor in a defeated heap. The sound echoes in the silence, and for a moment, she just stares at the aftermath, her chest heaving.

And then the tears come.

It’s not the first time she’s cried since the injury, but it feels different tonight—uglier, rawer, like the dam has finally burst. She curls in on herself, her hands tangling in her hair as sobs wrack her body. She doesn’t bother trying to quiet them. There’s no one here to hear her, no one to ask if she’s okay, no one to offer meaningless reassurances she doesn’t want to hear.

Except, there is.

A soft, hesitant knock at Paige’s bedroom door jolts her out of her spiraling thoughts. She freezes, her hands instinctively wiping at her face, smearing away the tears that have already begun to dry against her skin. Confusion threads through her—she thought Jo had left. She hadn’t even heard her come back.

The door creaks open, and there Jo is, standing in the sun light spilling from the hallway. Her brows are furrowed, her mouth pulled into a concerned line. She takes a step inside, her eyes scanning the room. Paige knows what she sees—the red puffiness of her face, the dampness of her cheeks, and the crutch lying discarded by the wall like a casualty of war.

“Sorry,” Paige blurts out, her voice cracking as the word tumbles out in a rush. She feels a fresh wave of shame rise up. She’s been awful to Jo, she knows that. First brushing her off earlier, and now this—disturbing her peace with her mess, her ability to just hold it together for once.

Jo doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands there, her eyes roving over Paige’s face, taking in every detail. Paige hates how exposed she feels, like Jo can see right through the flimsy walls she’s been trying to keep up all day. Finally, Jo sighs and steps fully into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

“Paige,” Jo says gently, “you don’t have to be sorry.”

There’s something in Jo’s voice that makes Paige want to believe her. Something so simple, yet so genuine, that it threatens to unravel the last bit of control she has. She doesn’t respond, just watches as Jo walks closer. She sets something—a bag, Paige thinks—on the floor next to the bed, but Paige doesn’t even bother to look at it. Jo sits down on the edge of the mattress, close enough that Paige can smell the faint traces of strawberry body wash on her skin. She hates that it makes her stomach do that weird fluttery thing, hates that it makes her feel anything at all.

“I’m just—” Jo pauses, and Paige looks up at her. Jo’s eyes are soft but unwavering, and the way she’s looking at Paige, like she’s trying to will her to understand something without saying it outright, makes her heart squeeze. “I’m really worried about you, P.”

The flutter in Paige’s stomach turns into something heavier, like a weight pressing down on her stomach. Jo’s worried about her. Paige knows that other people have probably been worried about her too—her parents, her teammates, her coaches—but it feels different coming from Jo. It feels too much. She shifts uncomfortably, trying to ignore the way Jo’s gaze feels like it’s peeling back all her layers.

“I’m fine,” Paige says automatically. The word sound hollow even to her, like a tired script she’s forced herself to memorize.

Jo shakes her head, her expressing softening even more. “No, you’re not. And it’s okay not to be.”

Paige doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to put into words what’s been clawing at her chest since the injury.

“But you’re shutting everyone out,” Jo continues, her voice steady but not accusatory. “It’s like you won’t even look at me some days, let alone talk to me. And I get it. I do. But I just—I want you to know that I’m here. That you can talk to me, because I’ve been there.”

Paige stares at her, the words catching her slightly off guard. I’m here. It’s such a simple thing to say, but the way Jo says it, low and earnest, makes something in Paige’s chest twist. She doesn’t know what to do with that—doesn’t know how to accept it without feeling like she’s admitting defeat.

“Azzi already tried,” Paige says finally, sounding shaky. “She tore her ACL in high school, and she tried to talk to me about it. But it’s just—she still didn’t seem to get it. No one does—I don’t know—” Her voice cracks on the last few words, and she feels the tears welling up again, hot and relentless.

Jo studies her for a long moment, her head tilting slightly. “You think nobody gets you?” she asks softly.

Paige nods, the movement slow and heavy, her throat too tight to speak.

Jo nods too, as if she’s been expecting that. “It’s not true,” she says simply. “I get you. I do.”

Paige shakes her head, a weak protest already forking. “Jo—”

“No, really,” Jo interrupts, leaning forward slightly. “You feel like everyone expects you to be perfect, all the time. You feel like if you’re not the Paige Bueckers everyone knows—the player, the leader, the star—that you’re letting everyone down. Your team, your coaches, your fans, your family—yourself. You feel like you don’t even know who you are without basketball, because it’s been your whole life for as long as you can remember. And now that it’s been taken away from you, you don’t know how to exist. You feel lost, like a piece of you is missing, and you’re scared—terrified, actually—that you’ll never get it back And you’re so used to dealing with everything on your own, to putting on a brave face and pretending you’re fine, that the thought of letting anyone in feels basically impossible. Like if you let even one crack show, then the whole thing will just come crashing down.”

The words hit Paige like a tidal wave. Every sentence is a punch to the gut, not because it hurts, but because it’s true. Jo’s right—about all of it. About the fear, the pressure, the suffocating wright of it all. And the way Jo says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes it even harder to ignore.

“Was I right?” Jo asks softly, her eyes searching Paige’s face.

Paige swallows hard, her chest tight as she stares at Jo. There’s something about the way Jo’s looking at her—steady and unwavering, like she’ll wait forever if she has to—that makes Paige feel like the room is tilting. She wants to run from it, but she also doesn’t want Jo to stop.

Finally, she nods, her voice barely a whisper. “Yeah,” she says, her throat dry. “You were.”

Paige doesn’t know how to process the way Jo’s smile hits her. It’s small, soft, and knowing, but it wraps around Paige like a hug. Jo leans a little closer, her voice warm and teasing when she says, “See? I told you.”

There’s something about those words, about the certainty in Jo’s tone. She doesn’t want to cry anymore—God, she doesn’t want to—but something about Jo makes her feel like it would be okay if she did.

Jo’s voice interrupts her thoughts. “Scoot over.”

Paige blinks at her, furrowing her brows. “What?”

Jo doesn’t elaborate, just gestures for Paige to move. Paige hesitates, unsure of where this is going, but she shuffled over, making room on the bed. Jo grabs the bag she set down earlier and pulls herself up onto the bed. Paige watches as Jo leans back, settling against the wall, her shoulder brushing Paige’s, her other side cuddling into Sunny, the stuffed animal she gave Paige.

“What’s that?” the blonde asks, gesturing toward the bag with a slight sniffle. Her voice is still shaky from earlier, and she hates how small she sounds.

Jo pulls the bag into her lap, her voice lighter now, almost back to her usual bright, less-serious self. “Oh, this?” She opens it and pulls out a little tub of ice cream. “I went out and got us ice cream. I got your disgusting mint chip.”

Paige blinks, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself. That’s where Jo had gone, even after she’d bailed on their plans. Paige takes the ice cream Jo offers, along with a spoon, feeling a warmth spread through her chest that has nothing to do with the food.

Jo retrieves her own tub—still cotton candy, still gross—and balances it in her lap.

They sit in silence for a moment, and Paige lets herself watch Jo as she digs into her ice cream. There’s something so effortless about her, the way she fits into Paige’s space like she belongs here.

Jo suddenly looks around, frowning a little as if searching for something. “Where’s your—?” she starts but doesn’t finish before her eyes lick on something and she leans over Paige, reaching toward the nightstand.

It happens so quickly that all Paige can do is freeze. Jo’s arm brushes her side, her hair falls near Paige’s face, and Paige can smell her shampoo, something sweet and faintly strawberry. Paige’s heart starts racing, and she doesn’t understand why.

Jo grabs the TV remote and sits back, settling into her spot again like nothing happened. Paige feels ridiculous for how flustered she is, but she can’t help it.

Jo turns on the TV, flipping through the streaming apps before looking over at Paige. “You ready to finally start The Vampire Diaries?”

The blonde groans, leaning her head back against the wall. “No, I don’t wanna watch that.”

Jo’s been pestering her about this show for what feels like forever, insisting Paige would love it if she just gave it a chance. Paige, naturally, has resisted every time.

The younger girl shrugs, clearly unfazed. “Well, I don’t care. You’re already a little too depressed to keep watching Grey’s, sorry. It’s more fun to watch vampires eat people. Besides, the Salvatores are hot.”

Paige deadpans, “I’m gay.”

Jo doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, Nina Dobrev’s hot.”

And, yeah, Paige supposes she can’t argue with that. She sighs, defeated, and waves a hand toward the TV. “Fine. Put it on.”

Jo grins like she’s won a battle, which she kind of has, and presses play. Paige doesn’t know what to expect, but she lets herself settle in as the first episode begins. Part of her wonders why this show is Jo’s favorite. Because, really, what is it about brooding vampires and dumbass love triangles that she loves so much? Maybe, Paige thinks, if she watches closely, she’ll learn something about Jo.

They eat their ice cream in comfortable silence as the show plays, the room filled with the sounds of dramatic dialogue and overly intense music.

After a while, Paige’s appetite fades. She sets her ice cream tub on the nightstand, not in grow her arm brushes Jo’s when she moves. Her heart stutters again, and she tries to ignore it, sliding back into her spot.

Without really thinking, she leans her head on Jo’s shoulder. It’s a small gesture, but it feels huge for some reason. Paige tells herself it’s just because she’s tired, that she needs comfort after everything that’s happened today. But the way her heart races says otherwise.

“Thanks, Joey,” she murmurs quietly.

Jo shifts slightly, and then Paige feels it—the warmth of Jo’s hand as it settles over her own. Paige’s breath catches, her stomach doing something weird and unfamiliar.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Jo says softly, certain.

But Paige does want to thank her, even if she doesn’t know how to put it into words. She doesn’t know how to explain what this means—Jo showing up, staying, not letting her spiral alone. All she knows is that her hand seems to fit perfectly under Jo’s slightly smaller one, and she doesn’t want to move.

The episode plays on, but Paige isn’t really watching anymore. She’s too focused on the warmth of Jo’s shoulder against her cheek, the quiet rise and fall of her breathing, the way her hand hasn’t moved from Paige’s. And in the back of her mind, Paige knows there’s something here—something bigger than she’s ready to admit.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wcbb #wbb #uconn #ncaa wbb #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers angst #wcbb x reader #nobody gets me #wlw #lgbtq

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fushiguruuzzzz · 20 hours ago

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+ CHAPTER NINE // COOLIO.

series mlist

Tags — mentions of alcohol, mentions of cheating, implications that readers mother was cheated on, angst Words — 0.7k

Toge Inumaki was a liar.

Toge Inumaki was a big fat liar because not only had he promised he’d be watching you, but he also said girls never paid him any mind. As you stared at him across the room, through the clumps of people swaying drunkenly along with your music, you could see him contradicting both of those statements. You had to force your voice to remain steady as you watched them, eyes locked onto the frame of the woman clinging to him like she was wrapped around his finger—like he was hers to wrap around. Was he? Well, it wasn’t like he was yours either, but that knowledge didn’t do much to soothe the aching in your ribs.

His back was turned to you. You could only imagine his face, but you figured it was much more attentive than it was when he looked at you. She was pretty by any standards, she just had this… glow to her. She radiated looks and confidence, magnetic and enticing as she batted her lashes up at him. As much as you hated to accept it, you knew Toge was only a man. Thats what you’d always known. That’s why you never bothered with men in the first place, until now, when you’d foolishly believed his eyes weren’t those who wandered.

Ripping your eyes away was a challenge, and had your chest not been resident to the bitter sickness planted by another’s beauty, you’d have been proud.

Her hand was on his arm. She was laughing. His shoulders shook as if he was too—but he remained faceless, expression as unknown as his entire presence felt in the moment. Was she leaning closer? You felt your heart pulsing in your ears, entire body crumpling in time with the beat. There was a sharp ringing in your ears, blocking out the strumming of guitars and the beating of drums. Then her lips were on his and you suddenly felt nauseous and the room was shrinking around you—all you knew was that you needed to get out. It was suddenly a curse that you had this love song to finish, because how could you let such tender things fall from your lips when all you felt inside was anguish? You felt utterly foolish. You’d been warned of these things, told stories like urban legends of the boys and the girls who swooped them up in their claws. You dared to glance back and were met with the same horrible sight, except it somehow felt worse than it had before.

And suddenly, you were your mother in a younger woman’s body. Nothing but a bystander to the downfall of your own romance. Her lips were on his, claiming the place you’d hope to mark as your own. It hit just a little too close to home, so you treated it like home. As soon as the familiar tune of the song ended, you ran. The microphone hit the ground and left nothing but a dull clang in place of your melodic vocals. You darted away so quickly that you didn’t see the way he scrambled away from her, nor the way his mouth opened to call after you. All he was met with was a door swinging shut and the crushing weight of a wrongdoing that wasn’t his, the misfortune of bad timing shattering his bones as well as your heart.

Megumi, Nobara, and Yuji didn’t waste any time in following you. They’d been frozen in place, background characters as the scene unfolded before them. The three shared one pit in their stomachs, growing deeper with the stretch of your absence and the desperate look in Toge’s eyes. His own friends were all the same, lips parted and for once, they were collectively unsure what to do. Only those who remained in the bar knew of your not-quite-lover’s resistance, those who had left only seeing one side. The bad side; the vague, untrue one. The one that would make you hate him, and even he knew that.

Toge lingered there, unable to swallow the lump in his throat as he glanced between where you once stood and his three peers. Shoving his face into his hands, he groaned. He was completely fucked.

Toge was HORRIFIED

Like he actually jumped four feet away from her

He only has huzz when he doesn’t want the huzz

Toge started blasting xxxtentacion full volume and lying starfish position staring at the ceiling

He was also chewing gum. Apparently the entire bottle of dawn dish soap didn’t wash out the taste of sluttery

Yn started blasting sad Lana del Rey and they were twinning from different households

“Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars” ass

Nobara went on a hate rant about Toge and threatened to sign him up for the military

I should really start proofreading shouldn’t I. Forgive me if these are booty I peaked as a writer a while ago Christmas break is almost over… 💔 I want to get Kilby girl done before then PLSSSUHHGG I’ll try. Ig…

Taglist — closed 50/50

@anotherwriternamedclara @ruruisru @adoresia @auroratumbles @sh0ot1ngst4r @soobin1437 @mystic-megumi @cinnamxnangel @lizbix @s3ns4ti0n4l @anonnieghost @s4toruz @gumims @bubybubsters @k4ss11333 @rreveurdoll @kaged-kitty @rwura @aldebrana @hqnge @good-mourning0 @daisies-and-domming @vi0let-writes @dazaisfavgf @hearts4aloise @coolgirl458 @keyaea @jealovsie @sirenla @academiq @mammoanlmao @moonchhu @ichcocat @blubearxy @hayl09 @q2uq2u @potteraep @fiannee @lailakys @jxisnwaol @treeguzzler @yatiimariiee @zayuriluvs @kr1nqu @cloudxox @azinniyaa @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @rottingvxmpire @gradmacoco @spkyssn

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smau #jjk inumaki #jujutsu kaisen inumaki #toge inumaki #inumaki x reader #inumaki toge #inumaki smau #inumaki toge x reader #toge inumaki x reader #toge x reader #toge jjk #toge smau #toge x you

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gay-dorito-dust · 2 days ago

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@honeydreamhearts

Geta didn’t remember the last time he was on the receiving end of affection and love as unconditional and unprovoked as yours. Even if he did it was merely a faded memory with blurred out faces and voices that he could no longer recall of whom they once belonged to.

The moment he ascended to the throne tender touches of love and affection were the last thing he wanted nor needed when ruling an empire with his twin brother, whom took just as much out of him as being emperor did, as the weight on his shoulders from his duties made him become more temperamental and prone to snapping more quicker then others; along with the perpetual tiredness he often experienced with everything that he had to handle alone.

And that is not even mentioning the senate that schemed to see him and Caracalla overthrown for a better suited candidate.

So whenever you held his face within your hands, caressing his cheeks and looking upon him like he could do no wrong. Geta wanted to move away from you as the touch and feelings your brought forth within him were foreign, or at the very least long forgotten, and suppressed under the pressures of being a man with so much power but yet feeling so out of control and out of his element when things happen spontaneously without pre warnings.

Yet other then slightly jerking his head away from your grasp, Geta remained where he was as his dark eyes watched your every movement, almost as though he was waiting for you to do something that would justify his weariness and his need to prove that nobody could be trusted. He waits and he waits, and he waits for the moment where your betrayal would arise but it doesn’t, instead your fingers brush against his aching temples, breeze past the dark bags under his exhausted eyes all the while you looked at him as though he was nothing short of perfect.

It worried him greatly at just how such displays of affection had him acting like a cornered animal within his own home, Geta didn’t understand it, nor the way his body seemed to soon find comfort in your affectionate displays and yearn for more as he finds himself leaning into your palms. Finding more comfort in your hands then he ever did in the arms and words of anyone else past or present.

He was too tired to fight and his voice was hoarse from all his yelling, he was too tired from holding Caracalla back as he went through his episodes where his illness took over, everything ached within him that begged for rest. It was moments like these where he is reminded that he is very much human but the moment the golden laurels touched his head, the idea of power and greed made him feel like he was one closer to the deities he called upon for judgment and guidance, it’s easy to forget your origins when you have the power to rewrite how you come across in history yet to come.

The kisses were another thing that he had to grow accustomed to also before later becoming addicted to as you’d scatter them across his face and just where he needed them the most. Geta knew he wasn’t affectionate in the slightest, possessive? Yes but he was greedy when it came to you and your spontaneous bouts of love that he couldn’t get enough of.

He once hated spontaneity as it never brought him anything good, but when it brought him an abundance of your touches on his arms, hands, jaw, cheek and or hair, then he’s more then willing to be subjected to your seemingly never ending need to shower him with all the love that he could’ve ever hoped to have in his entire lifetime.

Sure there maybe times where he couldn’t give you all of him, being an emperor meant being anywhere but your side, however when he was he was more or less expectant of you to be all over him as you kissed his lips until they were bruised and deliciously puffed up. He loved to be lavished and with you he would always find himself being in no shortage of being loved, of being wanted and desired without having it thinly veiling something sinister.

It was pure, sweet, warm and Geta didn’t know how much he needed you showering him in kisses, running your hands through his hair or even brushing aside loose eyelashes that you find upon his cheeks, using it as an excuse to kiss the apples of his cheeks before giving his Cupid’s bow some much needed attention. Geta had no need for concubines as much as he used to, not when now that he had someone who would wholeheartedly give him their heart on a golden platter without question, you didn’t needed to be provoked to love him because you did truly love him without his influence to persuade you into doing so.

You love him enough to go out of your way to hold him close, keeping him pressed against your heart, and all Geta could find himself able to do was burry himself into your chest and cling only your waist desperately and firmly. He needed this and he knew it but didn’t want to admit it to himself as it meant admitting to being human, however the moment he felt you touch his hands or kiss his lips, he felt himself crumbling under your touch and yearning for more but feeling unable to do so due to his position of power.

After all it was unbecoming of an emperor to ask for anything that he didn’t have and especially form someone who wasn’t similar to him in upbringing and status. So when he finally finds his voice and makes his move to let it be known that he’s weak under your touch, it’s only in moments of severe vulnerability where Geta thinks nothing else could get worse as he looks at you with those big brown eyes wet with tears, looking pathetic but beautiful at the same time as you kiss away his tears while he whimpers underneath you. (I need to stop)

However feeling as helpless and powerless as he did under your touch was the best feeling Geta could have ever felt in his life, for your affection held more power then he lets on and it would be travesty to have that come to an end.

#emperor geta imagines #emperor geta x reader #geta x reader #geta x you #emperor geta x you #emperor geta x y/n #Geta imagine #Geta imagines #emperor geta imagine

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jiinxswife · 3 days ago

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Jinx x fem!reader body headcanons

Warnings: none? Just fluffy and body supportive content, obesity mentioned.

Body types mentioned: skinny, mid size and chubby

Autor’s note: another small Drabble, just to keep you all feed

Skinny

•she’s used with skinny people, she lives in zaun after all

•will definitely pick you up and carry you around like her personal teddy bear or something

•if you ever dance with her, expect her to pick you up and spin you around

•worries about you being underweight, will try her best to keep you in a healthy weight

•she’s skinny herself, but will always try to gaslight you into how “baggy her clothes look on you and how small you are”. Truth to be told, she wants to make you feel small and defenseless so she can protect you (all in a good manner)

Mid size

•likes to grab your more juicy parts

•will still try to pick you up, even if she struggle. Will ask Vi to help her workout so she can carry you around

•she’s way too skinny (probably underweight) will steal your clothes when she wants to look “formal” yet a bit more comfortable

Chubby

•you’re her pillow 24/7

•will try to make you carry her around sometimes, she can’t quite carry you, but you can carry her

•grabs your body fatness as a stress relief

•will try to get you to exercise, not for you to become skinny, but for you to not haven an unhealthy weight

•steals your clothes and wears them as pijamas

In all of the cases, she loves you, for who you are, your body will always be pretty to her, her only request is you to be healthy. She wants to have as much time with you as possible, won’t risk loosing you for heath problems she could have avoided

#arcane #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #jinx x reader #jinx x y/n #jinx x you #league of legends #lesbian #cannon x oc #cannon x reader #amazing body #natural body #bodyworship

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hisfavegirl · 2 days ago

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Unspoken Desires - Mafia!Aegon Targaryen x RivalDaughter!Reader

Summary : As you tried to navigate the dangerous waters of business, betrayal, and loyalty, the world shifted. The very people you trusted, the ones you loved, turned against you. The power struggles between your families bled into your personal life, and your love became the price to pay. When your life was on the line, when you were betrayed by those closest to you, you felt yourself slipping away, your body and spirit breaking under the weight of it all.

Warning : mention of blood, gun, murder, violence and many more.

Aegon Masterlist.

The world seemed to spin as you lay on the cold pavement, your body aching with the weight of betrayal and the sharp sting of injuries. Blood pooled around you, the metallic scent filling your senses as the sound of footsteps grew fainter. The headlights of your crumpled car flickered weakly in the darkness, casting faint shadows against the desolate street.

You tried to move, but pain radiated from every limb, rooting you to the spot. A soft whimper escaped your lips as your mind struggled to process what had just happened. The men who walked away… they were your father’s.

You had always known that your choice to be with Aegon carried risks, but you never imagined it would lead to this. The rivalry between your father and Aegon had always been a storm waiting to erupt. Aegon’s business ventures clashed directly with your father’s, and your relationship was the spark that ignited an unspoken war.

Your vision blurred as you thought of Aegon—his smirk, his touch, the way he whispered promises of a better life far from your father’s control. Would he even know what had happened to you? Or would this be another casualty in the relentless feud?

A distant sound of tires screeching broke through the haze, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. A car approached, its headlights flooding the street with light. You closed your eyes, unsure whether it was help… or more danger.

The car came to a screeching halt beside you. Doors slammed, and hurried footsteps approached. A voice you recognized instantly called out, panicked and raw.

“Stay with me! Stay awake!” Aegon’s face hovered above you, his hands trembling as they pressed against your wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. His usually calm demeanor was gone, replaced with sheer desperation.

“I’m… sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“No,” he snapped, his voice breaking. “Don’t you dare apologize. This is not your fault. I’ll fix this—I’ll make them pay.”

Darkness began to creep in at the edges of your vision, but you held onto the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hands on yours. Would this be the end, or just the beginning of a storm far greater than you ever imagined?

Aegon’s steps were hurried and uneven as he carried your limp body into his house, his shirt soaked with your blood. His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear and fury as he stormed past his startled family. Alicent, who had been sitting in the living room, stood abruptly.

“Aegon, what happened?!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking.

“Call the doctor. Now!” he barked, not stopping to explain as he headed for the stairs.

The urgency in his tone made Alicent fumble for her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed the number. Aegon didn’t wait to hear if she’d made the call. His only focus was on you.

Reaching his bedroom, he kicked the door open with a force that sent it slamming against the wall. The sound echoed through the house, but he didn’t care. Gently, he placed you on his bed, his hands hovering over you, unsure where to start.

“Aegon…” you murmured weakly, your eyes barely open.

“No,” he said firmly, leaning closer. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. Stay with me. Please.” His voice cracked, and for the first time, you saw the raw emotion in his usually guarded expression.

His hands trembled as he grabbed a towel from a nearby chair and pressed it against your worst wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Blood seeped through the fabric, and his jaw clenched tightly.

“You’re going to be fine. The doctor’s on the way,” he whispered, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

The door behind him opened, and Alicent rushed in, her face pale with worry. “The doctor is on his way. Aegon, tell me—what happened?”

He didn’t even look at her, his focus entirely on you. “They did this. Her father’s men,” he spat, venom dripping from every word.

Alicent’s breath hitched, but she quickly composed herself. “Aegon, let me—”

“No!” he snapped, his voice rising. “She’s staying here. No one else is touching her but the doctor. No one.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you watched him, his anger and desperation palpable. “I’m… sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Stop,” he said, his expression softening for just a moment. He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours. “You don’t get to apologize. You don’t get to leave me. Not now. Not ever.”

His words were both a plea and a command, and as your vision began to blur again, you held onto the sound of his voice, the unwavering determination in it.

Aegon paced back and forth at the foot of the bed, his hands running through his hair in frustration and panic. His usually confident demeanor was shattered, replaced with pure desperation. His voice cut through the tense air as he barked orders to his men.

“I don’t care what it takes—get me everything. Machines, medicine, everything she needs. I’ll pay whatever it costs!” he growled. His sharp gaze turned to Alicent, who lingered by the door. “Make sure no one comes near this house unless I say so.”

Alicent nodded silently, her face pale but composed. She stepped out to relay his commands.

The doctor finally entered, a professional yet tense expression on his face as he took in the scene. He approached you cautiously, his bag in hand. “Let me take a look,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

Aegon immediately stepped aside but hovered close, his eyes never leaving you. “Fix her. I don’t care what it takes—just fix her,” he demanded, his voice trembling slightly.

The doctor nodded and got to work, checking your pulse and inspecting the wounds. He pulled out supplies from his bag, quickly stitching and dressing the worst of your injuries while monitoring your vitals.

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said, his tone serious. “We’ll need a transfusion. Has her blood type been tested?”

“Mine’s the same,” Aegon interjected without hesitation. “Do it now.”

The doctor hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Alright. I’ll set it up, but she’ll need constant care. She’s stable for now, but the next 24 hours are critical.”

Aegon didn’t wait for the explanation to finish. He grabbed his phone and began making calls, demanding specialists, equipment, and anything else that might help. His usual bravado was replaced by a singular focus on keeping you alive.

As the doctor worked, Aegon sank into a chair beside the bed, his hand finding yours. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, his grip firm yet gentle. “You’re not leaving me,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You hear me? You’re staying right here. With me.”

Even in your hazy state, his presence anchored you, his words cutting through the fog of pain and fear. You squeezed his hand weakly, a small sign that you heard him, that you were still fighting.

Aegon sat by your bedside, his hands clenched into fists as he replayed the events in his mind. The thought of your father—someone who was supposed to protect and cherish you—going to such lengths to harm you made his blood boil. He glanced at you, lying there pale and still, and the fire inside him only grew stronger.

“I knew he hated me,” Aegon muttered, his voice low and filled with venom. “I knew he’d try to destroy me, to ruin what I’ve built. But this?” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “Hurting his own daughter to get to me… I never thought he’d stoop this low.”

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands covering his face. The weight of his anger and guilt pressed down on him. “I should have seen this coming,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I should have protected you better.”

The door creaked open, and Alicent stepped inside, her face a mix of worry and anger. “Aegon,” she said softly, approaching him. “You need to calm down. Losing your temper won’t help her recover.”

Aegon looked up, his eyes red and wild. “Calm down? Calm down? She’s lying here because of him, Mother. Because he couldn’t stand that she chose me. And you want me to calm down?”

Alicent placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Yes, I do. Because if you lose control, you’ll play right into his hands. He’s trying to provoke you, to make you act recklessly. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Aegon shook his head, pulling away from her touch. “I won’t sit here and do nothing. He needs to pay for this—he can’t just get away with it.”

Alicent sighed, her expression softening as she glanced at you. “She needs you right now, Aegon. Focus on her. We’ll deal with him when the time is right.”

Aegon’s gaze returned to you, his hand finding yours. He stroked your fingers gently, his anger momentarily giving way to a deep sadness. “I’ll keep her safe, no matter what,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alicent nodded. “And I’ll make sure you have the support you need. We won’t let him hurt her again.”

But in Aegon’s heart, he knew this wasn’t over. Your father had crossed a line, and no amount of reasoning could quell the storm brewing within him. For now, he stayed by your side, his resolve only growing stronger. This wasn’t just about business or rivalry anymore—it was personal. And Aegon wouldn’t stop until justice was served.

Aemond stepped into the dimly lit room, his gaze shifting from you, lying unconscious on the bed, to Aegon, who was pacing like a caged lion. His silver hair fell messily over his shoulders, his expression dark with fury.

“They wiped the CCTV,” Aemond said, his tone calm yet sharp, like a blade about to strike. “Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”

Aegon stopped in his tracks, his head snapping toward his brother. “Of course, they did,” he spat, his voice dripping with venom. “It’s him. It’s her father. That bastard won’t rest until he’s destroyed everything I care about.”

Aemond narrowed his eye. “If he’s willing to go this far, then this is war, Aegon. We have to be careful.”

“Careful?” Aegon’s laugh was bitter, almost unhinged. He turned to face his brother fully, his fists clenched. “You think I care about being careful? Look at her, Aemond!” He pointed to you, his voice cracking. “She’s lying there because of him. Because he couldn’t handle the fact that she chose me!”

Aemond didn’t flinch, his expression cold and calculating. “Recklessness won’t help her. Think this through.”

But Aegon was beyond reason. He grabbed the nearest chair, hurling it against the wall, the wood splintering on impact. “I don’t care about thinking! I want him to pay! Gather everyone—all of them,” he growled. “Every man who owes me a favor, every contact we have. I want him to feel what it’s like to lose everything.”

Aemond hesitated for a moment, his eye flickering between Aegon’s wild rage and your fragile form on the bed. “And what about her?” he asked, his voice softer but no less serious. “She needs you here, Aegon. If you go after her father now, you’ll leave her vulnerable.”

Aegon’s chest heaved as he struggled to calm his breathing. He looked at you, his expression softening, but the fury in his eyes didn’t fade. “I won’t leave her,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “But I won’t let this go, either. Do what I said, Aemond. Start gathering them. Quietly. I want everything in place.”

Aemond gave a curt nod, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Very well. But don’t let your emotions blind you, brother. Revenge won’t mean anything if it costs you what you’re trying to protect.”

Aegon didn’t respond, his gaze locked on you as he sank into the chair by your bedside. He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “I’ll protect her,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “No matter what it takes.”

Aemond left the room without another word, his steps purposeful as he began to carry out Aegon’s orders. The storm brewing between Aegon and your father was about to reach its breaking point, and nothing would ever be the same.

The dim light of the room cast long shadows across the walls, broken only by the steady beeping of the monitor and the whispered pleas of Aegon. His hand trembled as it held yours, his thumb brushing gently over your bruised knuckles.

“Please,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, laced with desperation. “You have to wake up… I can’t do this without you.”

He looked at your face, pale and still, your body a stark contrast to the vibrant person you once were. Tubes and bandages obscured the familiar features he adored, and it tore at his soul. The sight of you like this was unbearable, a reminder of how cruel the world could be.

His mind drifted back to the first time he saw you, a fleeting moment of warmth in the chaos of his life. He remembered how you’d smiled at him, not with the wary caution most showed, but with a genuine light that pierced through the darkness he carried.

It had been at a gallery opening, one of many events he attended out of obligation rather than interest. But there you were, standing in the corner with a glass of wine, your eyes scanning the room with a quiet curiosity. When your gaze met his, something shifted in him.

He’d approached you with his usual arrogance, masking his nerves with a smirk and a teasing comment. “Lost in the art or just trying to avoid the crowd?”

You’d laughed, a sound that still echoed in his memory, and replied, “A bit of both. Though, judging by your expression, I’d say you’re doing the same.”

From that moment, he was hooked. The nights that followed were filled with stolen glances, whispered secrets, and laughter that seemed to make the world fade away. He loved the way you challenged him, the way you saw past his bravado to the person he tried so hard to hide.

But then your father found out.

The man who’d once smiled at his daughter’s joy had turned cold, his anger palpable as he confronted Aegon. Business rivalries and old grudges fueled his hatred, and he’d made it clear: Aegon wasn’t worthy of you.

Aegon clenched his jaw at the memory, his grip on your hand tightening. He’d known there would be consequences for defying your father, but he never imagined they would come to this. Seeing you lying here, broken and battered, filled him with a guilt he couldn’t shake.

“I should’ve protected you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I should’ve done more.”

He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to your hand. “But I swear to you, this isn’t over. I’ll make him pay for what he’s done. And when you wake up… we’ll leave all this behind. Just you and me. Like we always planned.”

His words hung in the air, a desperate promise to the woman he loved. As the night stretched on, Aegon stayed by your side, his mind replaying every moment, every memory, every reason he couldn’t let you go.

The endless field stretched before you, its emerald grass swaying gently in the breeze. The horizon seemed infinite, a serene yet haunting sight. You turned your head, searching for him.

“Aegon?” you called, your voice trembling. The emptiness that answered you sent a chill down your spine.

Panic set in as your mind raced with questions. Am I dead? Is this the end?

Then, faintly, you heard it. A sound that pierced the silence—a cry, desperate and broken. His voice. Aegon’s voice, calling your name, filled with anguish.

Your heart pounded as you turned toward the sound. Relief flooded you for a brief moment. “Aegon!” you shouted, your feet moving instinctively toward him. “I’m here!”

But the more you ran, the farther the sound seemed to drift. His cries grew distant, fading into the wind. You pushed yourself harder, your legs aching as you sprinted across the endless plain.

“No! Please, don’t leave me!” you yelled, tears streaming down your face.

The harder you tried, the more futile it became. The distance between you and his voice felt insurmountable, like chasing a shadow that always slipped through your fingers.

You fell to your knees, breathless and defeated, tears pooling in the grass beneath you.

“I’m here,” you whispered, though you knew he couldn’t hear you. “Aegon, I’m right here…”

As your voice faltered, the sound of his sobs echoed faintly in your ears, like a cruel reminder of the love you were desperately reaching for. The field around you blurred, a haze of green and gray, as despair wrapped around you like a shroud.

For the first time, you felt truly lost, caught in a liminal space where the world and the one you loved were just out of reach.

The first rays of sunlight crept into the room, casting a pale golden glow over the chaos. Aegon sat beside you, his eyes red from lack of sleep and tears, his hand clutching yours as if letting go would mean losing you forever. His disheveled hair and the dark circles under his eyes bore witness to his unwavering vigil.

He hadn’t moved, not even when the hours dragged on and the world outside began to stir. Every beep of the monitor made his heart lurch, each shallow breath you took a fragile reassurance that you were still there.

When the door opened and Alicent stepped in, her gaze softened as she took in the sight of her son, broken and relentless.

“Aegon,” she said gently, walking toward him. “You need to rest. You won’t do her any good if you collapse.”

He shook his head without even looking at her, his grip on your hand tightening. “I’m not leaving her,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t.”

Alicent sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “She needs you strong, Aegon. Please, just an hour—”

“No.” His voice cracked, and he finally looked up at his mother, his eyes filled with desperation. “If something happens while I’m gone… if she wakes up and I’m not here… I can’t, Mother. I can’t leave her.”

Alicent’s heart broke at the sight of him. She knelt beside him, brushing his hair back the way she had when he was a child. “She’s strong,” she whispered. “And she’ll fight to come back to you. But you must take care of yourself too, my love.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze returning to you. He whispered softly, “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay right here. She’ll wake up… and I’ll be the first thing she sees."

Alicent stood, realizing there was no convincing him. With a final look at her son and a silent prayer for your recovery, she left the room, leaving him alone with you once more.

Aegon stood in the center of his study, his hands trembling with anger and frustration. The room, once neat and orderly, now resembled the aftermath of a storm—papers scattered, furniture overturned, glass broken. His usually composed demeanor had been shattered, replaced by a raw, unrelenting fury that had been simmering for days.

It had been more than four days since you had fallen unconscious, your body battered and broken from the cruel attack. And yet, you hadn’t opened your eyes. No sign of movement, no sign of life beyond the machines monitoring your vitals. Each day that passed felt like a lifetime, a slow suffocating spiral that he couldn’t escape.

And the one thing he needed, the one thing that could give him the smallest shred of peace, was still out of reach. His men had been unable to bring your father before him. The man who had torn you apart, who had put you in this position, was still hidden behind the walls of his power, unreachable.

Aegon’s chest heaved with each labored breath, his heart racing with frustration. The people he trusted had failed him, and the one thing he needed more than anything—revenge—was slipping further from his grasp.

“Why can’t I fix this?” Aegon muttered through gritted teeth, his voice raw. He slammed his fist into the desk in front of him, the wood splintering slightly under the force. His anger echoed through the walls, but it did nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

He paused, staring down at his bloodied knuckles. His frustration boiled over once again as he sank into the chair, burying his face in his hands.

“I can’t lose her…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I won’t.”

The room was silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Aegon’s eyes closed tightly, as if willing the tears back, unwilling to let anyone see him break. He didn’t know how much longer he could endure this. The weight of it all was pressing in on him, suffocating him. But still, there was one thing that kept him going. The thought of you.

He wouldn’t let you die. He couldn’t.

Aegon stood up abruptly, his decision made. He would find a way to make your father pay. No matter what it took.

Aegon’s heart skipped a beat as Alicent rushed into the room, her face pale with fear. The sight of her mother’s panicked expression sent a jolt of dread through him. He didn’t need words to understand what had happened. Something was terribly wrong.

Without a second thought, he bolted for the door, his feet pounding against the stone floor as he rushed toward your room. His mind raced with terror, imagining the worst. His breath hitched as he reached the door, the sounds of frantic activity spilling into the hallway.

He threw open the door, his eyes immediately locking on the sight of you in bed. Doctors and nurses surrounded you, their hands working quickly, but the sight was enough to freeze him in place.

You were pale, your chest barely rising and falling. A machine was hooked up to you, pumping your heart back into rhythm, the steady beeping of the monitor the only sound breaking through the heavy silence.

Aegon’s breath caught in his throat, his legs weakening beneath him as he stumbled forward, unable to tear his eyes away from your still form. His whole world seemed to shatter in that instant. Every nightmare he’d had since you’d fallen unconscious seemed to come to life before his eyes.

He heard Alicent’s voice behind him, calling out in desperate pleas for the doctors to do more, but all Aegon could focus on was you. His heart clenched as his knees gave way, and he collapsed beside the bed, reaching out to gently take your hand in his.

“You have to wake up,” he whispered, his voice breaking. His fingers trembled as he gripped your hand tighter, his eyes never leaving your face. “Please, you have to wake up. I can’t lose you… not now.”

His voice cracked with the weight of everything he felt—fear, anger, desperation. It was all too much to bear, the thought of losing you, of not being able to fix what had been broken.

Time seemed to slow as he waited, his heart racing with every passing second. The doctors worked feverishly, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, praying that you would come back to him, that this nightmare would end.

And then, just as he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, the machine beeped louder, more steady, more hopeful.

Aegon’s breath hitched as he watched the monitors show signs of improvement. The doctors exchanged relieved glances, but Aegon didn’t care about their reassurance. He only cared about you.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. “Please, stay with me.”

Aegon sat by your bed, his hand clutching yours with a desperation he couldn’t hide. His heart ached as he watched you, lifeless and pale, the once vibrant spark that lit up his world now dimmed. He was never one to show fear, never one to feel helpless—but now, as he looked at you, vulnerable and still, a deep terror gripped him.

“You can’t leave me,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Please, just open your eyes. Come back to me.”

The words escaped him in a choked breath, the weight of the truth crashing down on him. He had lived a life filled with power, control, and dominance, but in this moment, he felt small, powerless. His world, his future, was slipping through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He leaned closer, his forehead brushing against your hand as he held it tightly, as if the simple act of contact could somehow pull you back from the brink.

“I can’t lose you,” he continued, the pain evident in his voice. “I can’t… I never thought I could feel this way, but now, all I want is for you to wake up. For you to be okay.”

He gently brushed a lock of hair away from your face, his fingers trembling as they traced the contours of your cheek. The sight of you in this condition, so still, so pale, was something he never wanted to see again. It was too much to bear.

“Aegon Targaryen isn’t supposed to be afraid,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he leaned over you. “But right now, I don’t know how to live without you. Please… don’t leave me. I need you.”

The room was filled with the soft sound of the machines, the occasional shuffle of the doctors and nurses, but Aegon was unaware of anything other than the overwhelming fear in his chest. His eyes never left you, his grip on your hand never loosening.

The uncertainty of it all felt unbearable. He had never felt so vulnerable, so out of control, and yet, as he sat there beside you, he realized just how deeply he cared—how deeply he loved you.

“I’m not strong enough to face this without you,” he murmured. “But I’ll stay here, and I’ll wait for you. I’ll do anything, just please… wake up.”

Aegon’s heart skipped a beat when he felt the faintest movement of your finger. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. He watched you closely, desperate for any sign that you were returning to him. His eyes were wide, filled with hope, yet tinged with fear.

“Love,” he whispered, his voice trembling, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment. He leaned closer, his hand still gripping yours, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers. “Please, just a little more… I’m here.”

He watched your face, willing you to open your eyes, to show him that you were still there, that you could hear him. The room seemed to shrink around him, the steady beep of the heart monitor, the distant sounds of footsteps, all fading away until it was just the two of you.

His voice cracked again, soft and pleading, “You have to come back to me. I can’t do this without you. You’re the only thing that matters.”

But despite the movement in your hand, your eyelids remained closed, and Aegon’s hope flickered just as quickly as it had ignited. His grip tightened on your hand, as if holding onto you could somehow pull you back from the edge, back into his arms.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes,” he murmured. “I won’t give up on you.”

The room was silent except for the rhythmic sound of your breathing and the faint pulse of the machines. Aegon continued to watch you, his face a mixture of hope and desperation, every fiber of his being urging you to come back. He could feel your pulse, steady beneath his touch, and he clung to that small sign that you were still with him, even if you couldn’t respond yet.

He would wait for as long as it took, because losing you was not an option.

Alicent approached slowly, her footsteps soft as she neared Aegon and the bed where you lay motionless. She stopped beside her son, her gaze full of concern, both for you and for Aegon. Gently, she rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Aegon,” she said softly, her voice steady yet filled with maternal authority. “You need to rest. You’ve been here for days without sleep. If she were awake, you know she would be upset seeing you like this—exhausted, not taking care of yourself.”

Aegon shook his head, his grip on your hand tightening as though letting go, even for a moment, would mean losing you. “I can’t leave her, Mother,” he said hoarsely, his voice cracking with emotion. “What if something happens while I’m gone? I can’t risk it.”

Alicent crouched down beside him, her eyes meeting his as she spoke with gentle insistence. “I’ll stay with her. I’ll watch over her, I promise. But you need to sleep, Aegon. You’ll be no good to her if you collapse from exhaustion.”

Aegon’s jaw clenched, his eyes flickering between Alicent and you. He didn’t want to leave, not even for a moment, but deep down, he knew his mother was right. He couldn’t help you if he wore himself down to nothing. Reluctantly, he nodded, though his hand still lingered on yours.

“Promise me you won’t leave her side,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alicent placed a hand over his. “I promise. She won’t be alone. Go rest, Aegon. She’ll need you strong when she wakes up.”

With one last lingering look at you, Aegon leaned forward, brushing a soft kiss against your forehead. His lips trembled against your skin, and when he pulled back, his eyes were red but determined. He released your hand slowly, as though it pained him to do so, and stood up.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispered, his voice filled with a promise. Then, with one final glance, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving you in Alicent’s care. She settled into the chair beside your bed, her expression calm but watchful, silently praying for your recovery.

Alicent sat quietly beside your bed, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out to gently stroke your cheek. Her touch was soft, almost hesitant, as though afraid that even the slightest pressure might hurt you. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of sorrow and hope, lingered on your face—pale and motionless, yet still so full of life to her.

“You’ve become more than a girlfriend to my son,” Alicent whispered, her voice barely audible but steady. “You’re the second daughter I never had, the light in this family’s darkness.”

Her thumb traced gentle circles against your skin, her expression softening as memories of you filled her mind. “You’ve brought a change to all of us—Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Daeron… even me. I see how you’ve touched each of our lives in ways I never thought possible.”

A faint smile appeared on her lips, though it was tinged with sadness. “Aegon… he’s a better man because of you. You gave him purpose, something no one else could. You’ve shown him love, real love, and I will forever be grateful to you for that.”

Her voice wavered slightly, but she continued, her words spilling out like a quiet prayer. “Helaena, she smiles more when you’re around. Aemond… he listens to you. He respects you, and that’s no small feat. Even Daeron, though he’s far away, feels the strength of this family because of what you’ve brought to it.”

Alicent paused, her gaze lowering as tears gathered in her eyes. “And me… You gave me hope, my dear. Hope that despite everything this family has endured, we can still find peace. You’ve shown me that.”

She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment as if willing her strength into you. When she pulled back, her eyes were resolute. “You have to come back to us. To Aegon. To this family that needs you more than you know.”

Her hand remained on your cheek as she sat back in her chair, silent now, but her heart filled with determination. She would not leave your side. Not until you opened your eyes and returned to the family you had so deeply changed.

Aegon stormed through the dimly lit corridors of his estate, his footsteps echoing with the weight of his fury. His hand gripped the pistol tightly, knuckles white from the force of his hold. Aemond was already waiting in the underground chamber, standing stoically with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression calm but his eyes cold with menace.

The heavy door to the basement groaned open, and Aegon stepped in, his face a mask of controlled rage. In the center of the room, shackled to a chair under a single hanging bulb, was your father. His face was bloodied, his suit torn, yet his expression remained defiant. Aegon's lips curled into a bitter smirk as he approached, the pistol glinting in the dim light.

"So, this is the man who thought he could take her away from me." His voice was low and dangerous, each word dripping with venom. "You dared to harm her, your own flesh and blood. Did you think I'd let you walk away from this?"

Your father sneered, spitting blood onto the floor. "She betrayed her family for you, Aegon. She deserved to be reminded of where her loyalty should lie."

Before the words could settle, Aegon lashed out, the back of his hand striking your father's face with a sickening crack. Aemond didn't move, his presence as silent and foreboding as a shadow.

"She chose love," Aegon hissed, leaning in close, his eyes blazing. "Something you'll never understand. And now, she's lying in my bed, fighting for her life because of you."

Aegon straightened, pacing back and forth, the pistol still clutched in his hand. Aemond's voice broke the tense silence. "Aegon, focus. If you let your anger control you, you'll make mistakes."

Aegon shot his brother a glare but didn't respond. Instead, he turned back to your father. "You've made one fatal error," he said, his voice eerily calm now. "You thought l'd crumble. You thought l'd let her slip through my fingers. But you underestimated me, just like you underestimated her strength."

He raised the pistol, aiming it squarely at your father's chest. The room was thick with tension, the air almost suffocating as Aegon's finger hovered over the trigger. Aemond stepped forward, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Aegon," he said firmly, his voice measured. "Think. Killing him will be too easy. Make him suffer. Make him understand what it means to lose everything."

Aegon hesitated, his grip tightening on the weapon. Then, slowly, he lowered it, his expression dark and unreadable. "You're right," he muttered. "Death would be a mercy for him."

Turning to one of his men, Aegon barked, "Lock him up. No light, no food, no water. Let him rot."

As your father was dragged away, his defiance finally cracked, replaced by a flicker of fear. Aegon stood still, his chest heaving with anger. Aemond placed a hand on his shoulder again, grounding him.

"She'll wake up, brother," Aemond said quietly.

"And when she does, you'll need to be there for her-not consumed by this." Aegon nodded, his jaw tight. "She's the only thing that matters now."

Aegon sat down beside you. His eyes, once full of fire and determination, were now clouded with pain, his expression crumbling as he held your hand tightly in his own. His fingers trembled, but his grip remained firm, as though he feared letting go of you would mean losing you entirely.

“You… you have to wake up,” Aegon whispered, his voice breaking, filled with raw emotion. “I’ve done everything. Your father is in my hands now. No one will hurt you again, I swear it.”

He paused, his breath hitching as the weight of everything seemed to crash down on him. “I will make him pay for what he did to you, I will make sure that no one ever lays a hand on you again. I’ll destroy anyone who dares to hurt you.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he wiped them away angrily, trying to regain some composure. His voice cracked again, and he lowered his head, pressing it against the bed, the sound of his sobs filling the quiet room. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve known what you were going through. But now… now, I’ll do anything to make sure you’re safe. You can’t leave me. I can’t… I can’t live with myself if I lose you.”

He raised his head, his eyes desperate as he stared at your still face. “Please, just wake up. Come back to me… to us. I can’t bear this silence, this emptiness without you. Please, don’t leave me alone in this world, not after everything we’ve been through.”

Aegon’s voice trailed off as he let his tears fall freely, his head resting gently on your hand. He stayed there for what felt like hours, never moving, never leaving your side, hoping that somehow, through all his pain, you could feel his love, feel the desperation in his heart to see you open your eyes again.

Your vision slowly began to clear as the world around you came into focus. The first thing you noticed was the warm pressure of Aegon’s hand holding yours. His face was buried against your intertwined hands, his breathing slow and heavy as he rested beside you.

You managed a faint smile, despite the dull ache coursing through your body. Slowly, you moved your hand, your fingers brushing through his disheveled silver hair. It was a small motion, but enough to wake him.

Aegon stirred, his eyes fluttering open, confusion clouding his face for a moment. Then his gaze locked onto yours. His body froze, his mouth slightly agape as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. His grip on your hand tightened as tears welled up in his eyes. He leaned closer, his free hand brushing your cheek as though to confirm you were real.

“I thought I lost you,” he said, his voice breaking as tears began streaming down his face. “I was so scared… so scared that I’d never hear your voice or see your smile again.”

You gave him a weak smile, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here, Aegon.”

The relief on his face was overwhelming. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his tears falling onto your skin. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he murmured, his voice both firm and pleading.

You squeezed his hand gently, your strength slowly returning. “I’ll try,” you whispered with a faint chuckle, your smile growing as you looked into his teary, overjoyed eyes.

In that moment, the pain, fear, and uncertainty that had plagued him for days melted away, replaced by a profound sense of gratitude and love.

After the doctor examined you and assured Aegon that you were stable, he finally exhaled the breath he’d been holding. The weight on his chest seemed to lift, though his grip on your hand remained firm, as if afraid you might slip away again.

You offered him a weak but heartfelt smile, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry, Aegon… for causing you so much pain.”

His expression hardened, not with anger but with determination. He shook his head, his thumb brushing over your hand. “No. This isn’t your fault, and you don’t have to apologize. Ever.”

He leaned closer, his voice low but laced with a fiery resolve. “Your father will pay for what he’s done. I swear it. But right now, none of that matters. I’m not leaving you again. Not after this.”

You saw the raw emotion in his eyes—the pain, the guilt, and above all, the unwavering love. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as if to silently promise he’d never let anything happen to you again.

For the first time since the ordeal began, you felt a sense of safety and comfort. Aegon’s presence, his strength, was enough to anchor you amidst the chaos that had tried to pull you under.

As Aegon lay beside you, holding you protectively in his arms, you felt a small sense of solace despite the lingering pain in your body. You took a deep breath, feeling his steady heartbeat against your back, and began to speak.

“I remember everything, Aegon,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “That night… it’s etched into my mind like a nightmare I can’t wake from.”

His arms tightened around you as if he could shield you from the memory itself. “Tell me,” he said softly, though his tone was edged with barely-contained fury.

You swallowed hard, tears forming in your eyes as the memory replayed vividly. “I was on my way to see you. It was late, and the streets were quiet. Then, out of nowhere, they came. Cars rammed into me from all sides, like wolves circling their prey. The sound of metal crunching, the shattering glass… it was deafening.”

Aegon remained silent, but you could feel his anger simmering beneath the surface.

“When the car finally stopped moving, I was in so much pain I could barely breathe. And then… I heard him. My father.” Your voice cracked, and a tear rolled down your cheek. “He was there, Aegon. I heard his voice. He told them the job was done. Told them to leave me there… to die.”

Aegon’s grip on you became almost desperate, his breath harsh against your shoulder. “That bastard,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “He dared… he dared to do this to you”

You nodded weakly, your voice faltering. “I don’t understand how he could hate me so much… how he could do this to his own blood.”

Aegon shifted, turning you to face him, his eyes filled with a mix of anguish and unyielding determination. “You’re not alone anymore. I won’t let him get away with this. He’ll regret the day he tried to take you from me.”

You nodded, resting your forehead against his, finding comfort in his strength. Despite the terror and betrayal, you knew Aegon wouldn’t let you face this alone.

Aegon’s touch was a balm to your shattered soul, his gentle strokes through your hair and the warmth of his kiss on your forehead grounding you amidst the storm of emotions. You melted into his embrace, finding solace in his presence.

The quiet moment was interrupted by the soft creak of the door opening. Turning your head, you saw Alicent and Aemond stepping inside, their faces filled with relief and urgency. Alicent’s hands were clasped tightly in front of her chest, while Aemond stood slightly behind her, his sharp gaze softening as he looked at you.

“You’re awake,” Alicent said, her voice breaking with emotion as she quickly moved to your bedside. “Oh, thank god. We were so worried.”

Aegon reluctantly pulled away, allowing his mother to take your hand. Her touch was warm, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “You’ve been through so much,” she said softly. “But you’re here, and you’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

Aemond stepped forward, his usual stoic demeanor cracking ever so slightly as he nodded at you. “You’re stronger than any of us could have imagined,” he said. “But you should have never had to endure this.”

“I’m sorry to have worried all of you,” you said, your voice still hoarse.

Aegon interjected before anyone could reply, his voice firm. “None of this is your fault. It’s them who will pay. I won’t let them rest until they’ve answered for what they’ve done.”

Alicent placed a comforting hand on her son’s shoulder, grounding him. “We’ll deal with them,” she assured, her voice gentle but resolute. “But for now, let’s focus on her recovery. That’s the most important thing.”

Aegon nodded reluctantly, his protective gaze never leaving you. Meanwhile, Alicent brushed a strand of hair from your face, her affection clear. “You’re part of this family now,” she said softly. “And we’ll protect you. Always.”

The weight of their support, their love, filled the room, and for the first time in days, you allowed yourself to believe that you truly weren’t alone in this fight.

Tag list : @danytar @zaldritzosrose @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @callsignwidow

#hotd #hotd imagine #aegon ii targaryen #hotd one shot #aegon ii fanfic #hotd x reader #aegon x reader #modern aegon #aegon x oc #aegon fanfic #aegon targaryen x reader #prince aegon targaryen #hotd aegon #mafia aegon #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen #aegon targaryen x you #hotd alicent #hotd headcanon

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hoe4hotchner · 3 days ago

Text

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

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clownyclaushoe · 1 day ago

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art the clown x reader | bringing in the new year with a bang 🔞

spontaneously started writing this earlier after taking a nap 😄 unfortunately it's pretty short compared to my other works 😒 new year's eve with boyfriend art, with some fluff and romantic missionary fucking 😏😫 really the only warning is minor knifeplay and brief blood and death mentions

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

it was the last day of the year, the clichéd time when everyone wants to change everything about themselves, to evolve to someone different, better. it's a introspective time, when one looks back at the past year and ahead to the next year with hope and anticipation that only ends up lasting about a week or two, at most. you didn't bother making any resolutions for the coming year, you just knew you wanted to keep enjoying your life along side your boyfriend, art.

you'd met him this year, and it was the best thing that's happened to you - not only this year, but in the last few years.

when you'd returned home to his lair from the store earlier, art had surprised you with a little celebratory set up: a bottle of expensive champagne, two crystal champagne flutes, two paper party hats, and a "happy new year" banner taped to the wall that art wrote "let's have a killer year" over top with something that suspiciously looked like blood.

you wondered fleetingly what unfortunate soul had to die for him to acquire this haul of items.

as midnight soon approached you'd turned on art's tv to play new year's coverage, the staticky reception and low volume so it's like white noise in the background.

you walked back to where art was waiting for you, having filled both glasses with bubbly. though champagne wasn't your usual drink of choice, you would partake if the occasion called for it, like spending a romantic night in with your boyfriend.

you clinked glasses with him, both of you drinking, you watched him, giving his body a glance up and down over the rim of your glass. no doubt art had noticed, a knowing twinkle coming to his eye, a sexy smirk spreading across his mouth.

your attention is drawn to the television as the countdown to midnight begins. art gives a surprised gaping expression, taking both your glasses and placing them on his work bench table.

when it reached midnight, art slapped his hands excitedly and grinned, knowing it means you'd share a midnight kiss.

you smile at him, so endeared your heart aches, and when he leans down to capture your lips in a soft kiss, 'auld lang syne' playing softly in the background, the moment is so tender and perfect, you nearly swoon in his embrace when his arms wrap around you.

the kisses get more passionate, your hands wandering over his clown costume, and soon he carries you to the bed in the corner, stripping you both of your clothes.

he winds up lying on the bed, with you on top of him, kissing down his beautiful slender, pale body. you pause at his tummy, sitting up and grabbing your pocket knife from the bedside table.

you nick a small cut to your upper chest, squeezing the flesh together so that the blood will appear. art's eyes widen while he leans up to lick and suck the blood away, his hands gripping your hips to gently push you off him and onto the bed. he gets on top of you, the full weight of him making you feel safe underneath him.

he grabs his fully hardened cock, stroking quickly a few times before he pushes inside you, the familiar nearly painful stretch of your pussy around his fat girth sending sparks throughout you already. art was the best fuck you'd ever had, his demon clown cock satisfying you like nothing ever could.

"yes, baby, come on," your hands on his shoulder and back, pressing kisses to the base of his throat and up his neck.

he keeps his face close to yours as he thrusts quickly, the wet slap of skin-on-skin almost as loud as your moans and whines for art. your legs wrap tighter around his waist, the slight change to the angle of his thrusts making motion of his cock in and out of you all the more sweeter, the drag of his shaft pulling against your swollen clit, the piston of his hips pushing so deep inside you, his upward curved cock hitting your g-spot each time.

you are both so close to unraveling, you can feel it in the way his thrusts start to become less coordinated, and you clench around him helplessly wanting to come, desperately wanting to milk every drop of cum from him, to make him feel as fucking good as he's making you feel.

when he comes, mouth dropping with a silent moan you watch for as long as you can before your own orgasm grips you moments later. everything turns black, your mind going blank as your whole body shakes in glorious awe, like fireworks being set alight and rocketing up to illuminate the night sky. when you come back to yourself, you stare up at art and he smiles back at you, the type of smile you know is reserved for you alone. if this was the best thing that happened to you all year, it still would be one of the greatest nights of your life - just like every night you've spent with art.

you hold his face and lean up to kiss him. "happy new year, baby."

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

please like, reblog and/or comment, i'd really appreciate it. thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!

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wolviescigar · 17 hours ago

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౨ৎ ‎ ♡₊˚・₊✧ This is based off of a nightmare within a dream I’ve had, about him in conclusion I’m ill!!

Hurt/Comfort/Fluff

Pairing: Logan x Gn!Reader

Warnings:

Mentions of vomiting, anxiety ,panic attack

Terms of Endearment/Petnames ౨ৎ ‎ ♡₊˚・₊✧

. . .

The soft hum of the apartment was the only sound, the kind of quiet that settled around you after a long, full day. Logan had already fallen into a deep sleep beside you, his breaths slow and steady. But you weren’t sleeping. A nightmare had shaken you to your core, ripping you from sleep with a sharp, breathless gasp. The remnants of fear lingered in your chest, suffocating you as you tried to shake off the lingering dread. Your heartbeat was erratic, an anxious pulse that wouldn’t stop thumping in your ears, and your mind raced with images you couldn’t quite escape. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the side of the bed, but before you knew it, you were stumbling out of the sheets, desperate to escape the suffocating darkness of your own mind.

Panic overwhelmed you instantly. Jagged feeling of worries clawed its way up your throat, and before you knew it, you were rushing to the bathroom cold, smooth tile of floor felt like ice against your bare feet as you kneeled by the sink, pressing your palms against the cool porcelain. The room spun around you as nausea bubbled up in your stomach. Then, it hit. You threw up violently, your body convulsing in waves of sickness and sobs, tears blurring your vision.

Logan’s sleep was broken only by the sound of your breathing, now erratic and strained. He’d always been able to sense when something wasn’t right, and tonight was no different. The absence of your warmth beside him had him stirring, his instincts waking before his mind did. His eyes snapped open in the darkness, the sound of your muffled sobs piercing the silence.

His heart clenched as he shot out of bed, his movements swift despite the grogginess that still clung to him. His senses immediately picked up on the faint sound of your weeping—barely a whisper in the vast quiet of the apartment, but enough to send him into action. Logan’s feet thudded softly against the hardwood floor as he rushed to the bathroom, He was used to protecting you, and something inside him snapped when he found you on the floor, disoriented and shaking, tears streaming down your face. —Kneeling on the floor, trembling with your hands pressed against the sink.

Your sobs racked your body, and when you saw him, it only seemed to make it worse. You were shaking uncontrollably, eyes wide and unfocused, still trapped in the aftermath of the nightmare. Logan’s chest tightened, a familiar ache spreading through him. He kneeled in front of you without a second thought, his large hands hovering for a moment, unsure of what you needed but knowing he had to act.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay, sweetie’,” his voice was rough but soothing, a deep, gravelly sound that seemed to wrap around you like a blanket. He cupped your face gently, his rough thumb brushing away the tears that had fallen freely. “Look at me, baby ,” he coaxed, his eyes softening as he searched your face, his gaze filled with concern. “Talk to me. What happened?”

You turned to him, your eyes wide with fear and confusion. The tears didn’t stop, and you could barely get the words out—your voice breaking under the weight of it all. “I—I couldn’t… Logan, I couldn’t—” The words tumbled from your lips in a tangled mess, your chest heaving with sobs.

Logan’s hands moved to pull you toward him, and without hesitation, you fell into him, burying your face against his chest. He was warm, solid, and so unbelievably present—everything you needed in that moment. His arms wrapped around you, holding you so close you could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. He didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t push. He just let you cling to him, his large hand smoothing over your back in slow, even strokes. The rhythm of his touch was steady, unyielding, like the man himself. You were small, vulnerable, something so precious and fragile.

He spoke low, his voice soft as he rested his chin against your head. “I’m here, darlin’… I’m right here. You’re safe, okay?”

You nodded against him, but it wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed him to remind you that everything would be okay, that the nightmare wasn’t real, that you weren’t alone.

“I’ve got ya, sweetheart,” he murmured, his arms tightening around you, not to restrain, but to offer comfort, as if to say that nothing—nothing—would hurt you while he was around. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm but searching. “You’re safe here with me. Always.”

He brushed your hair back, fingers gentle as they ghosted over your skin. Logan’s voice softened as he spoke again, his tone a quiet reassurance. “What you saw… it ain’t real, I promise. But you’re here now. And you’re okay.” His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb running along the curve of your jaw as he looked at you, his eyes searching for any hint of comfort you might need.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Logan murmured, his hand stroking through your hair,. “Just breathe, darlin’.”

His big hand gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your lips, before he pulled you in close. His kiss was slow and tender, a soft press against your lips that lingered, grounding you in the moment, making sure you knew he was here, and nothing else mattered. You let yourself melt into him, your body finally starting to relax as you felt the weight of his care wrap around you.

When he finally pulled away, his lips brushed your forehead. “C’mon, baby,” he said, his voice low, rough. “Let’s get you some water, alright?

With one arm wrapped securely around you, Logan guided you to your feet, holding you steady as you stumbled toward the bed. He was gentle, never rushing, always there to catch you when you needed him. He handed you the glass of water, his eyes never leaving you, watching for any sign that you weren’t okay, that you weren’t healing.

When you finished, he took the glass and set it aside before he crawled into bed beside you, pulling the covers over both of you. He didn’t let you go. His arms were around you again, warm and strong, the kind of embrace that made you feel like nothing could touch you. His lips found yours again, this time a brief, loving kiss. “I’ve got you, darlin’,” he whispered against your lips, the words full of the quiet intensity that only he could convey. “I won’t let anything hurt you. Not now, not ever.”

“Better?” Logan asked quietly, his hand moving to cradle your face again, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

You nodded, “Thank you Lo” your eyes meeting his for the first time since the nightmare. There was something in his gaze—something soft and full of care—that made your heart ache in the most tender way. Without thinking, you leaned into him, closing your eyes as you let him hold you. His lips brushed your forehead in a kiss that was so gentle, so full of love, it left your skin tingling.

. . .

“I got you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple next, his hands securing you against him as he laid you down in bed, his body following you. He moved with ease, tucking you against his chest, enveloping you in warmth and safety. He wasn’t going to let you go. Not now, not ever.

“You’re safe now,” Logan murmured softly, his voice rumbling against you, sending a wave of comfort through your body. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Nothing’s gonna hurt you. Not with me here.”

As his lips pressed gently to the top of your head, you felt the last of the fear slip away, Your breathing slowed as you settled into him, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, and you allowed yourself to relax in his arms. Logan’s steady, rhythmic heartbeat was the lullaby that carried you back to sleep, the terror of the nightmare slowly fading into nothingness.

Lying there, nestled in his arms, you turned your head up to look at him, your voice thick with emotion as you whispered, “I love you so much, Logan.” Your words were soft but full of everything you felt in your heart. You never needed to say it, but tonight, in his arms, it felt like the most important thing you could say.

His gaze softened as he looked down at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I love you, too, baby,” he murmured, pressing one last gentle kiss to your forehead before settling in beside you, pulling you even closer.

#wolverine #logan howlett #hugh jackman #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #hurt/comfort #logan wolverine #hugh jackman wolverine #comfort #fluff #logan x reader #older boyfriend #oldermen

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dee-writes-anime · 1 day ago

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Chapter 1: The Witch Accused

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY In a village consumed by sickness and fear, you, an accused witch, are captured by a desperate mob and dragged to face judgment before the King of Curses, Sukuna.

CONTENT WARNINGS detailed depictions of a village struggling with disease, starvation, and decay, mentions of sickly children, livestock death, and human mortality, tense interactions between the narrator and villagers, including verbal accusations and implied mob violence, scenes of witchcraft involving blood and incantations, implied religious conflict, subtle criticism of faith and its intersection with fear and blame.

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The village had always been a brittle thing, teetering on the edge of ruin long before I was born. It was nestled into the crook of a valley, cradled by sinking hills that slumped like jagged scars against the horizon. It wasn’t a place you’d stumble upon by chance- hidden away from trade routes, tucked between forests thick with bramble and treacherous rives prone to flooding. The isolation had once been its greatest strength, a sanctuary from the wars and chaos that riddled the lands.

And then the sickness came.

It began as a quiet invader, seeping through the village like a shadow, causing soil to grow stubborn. Clinging to the roots of crops like a jealous lover, dark and heavy with clay. Even in the best seasons, it gave little, forcing villagers to rely heavily on cattle and scrape by on meager harvests of bitter greens, barley, and the occasional patch of onions.

Then those shadows curled through pens, infecting the cattle that the village had once praised. Once sturdy beasts began to collapse in fields, their bodies bloating under the summer sun, they milky eyes staring blankly into the void. The surviving livestock, fewer in number each year, were gaunt and skittish, their hides stretched thin over sharp bones. They too seemed to sense the growing death in the shadows as their milk soured and their offspring grew weaker and weaker.

And finally, shadows of sickness- of death- slipped through the cracks of straw roofs, finally having curled into every corner. The village itself was a patchwork of survival—wooden homes leaning against each other for support, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of neglect. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys, its bitter scent a constant companion, mingling with the acrid tang of unwashed bodies and the faint, coppery smell of blood from the butcher’s hut. A well sat at the heart of the village, its water once fresh and clear, now tinged with a faint, metallic aftertaste that no one dared question too closely.

The people bore the signs of its slow, merciless grip. Their skin was sallow, stretched thin over angular bones, their hands chapped and cracked from work that never seemed to end. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes told stories of sleepless nights and empty stomachs. Their clothes, once simple but serviceable, were now threadbare and patched so many times the original fabric was hardly recognizable. Loose tunics hung over narrow shoulders, cinched at the waist with frayed cords, and the occasional shawl or cloak—woven from coarse, undyed wool—offered meager protection against the cold.

The children fared no better. Their bare feet left prints in the mud as they scurried between homes, their laughter thin and fleeting. Many of them had red-rimmed eyes from coughing fits that never quite left, their small hands gripping sticks or scraps of wood as makeshift toys. Even the strongest among them looked frail, as though the village itself drained the life from them as payment for their survival.

Generations had lived and died here, their lives marked by toil and prayer, yet little else. The temple at the edge of the village was the tallest structure, its roof patched with mismatched tiles scavenged from who-knew-where. Its wooden beams sagged, and the faint chime of its bell at dusk carried a mournful note. It stood as a monument to the villagers’ faith—faith that had grown brittle over the years, much like the wooden beams that groaned under its weight.

Said temple was led by the “elders,” who could be considered a different breed entirely. They were wiry and hunched, their backs bent from years of labor in the fields and the weight of authority they carried like millstones around their necks. Elder Kazu was their figurehead, his face a web of wrinkles that deepened every time he spoke. His hair, sparse and snow-white, framed a narrow face with sharp, calculating eyes. He walked with a gnarled staff, its wood polished smooth by years of use, and though his voice cracked when he spoke, it still carried the weight of command.

Beside him were the others—Elder Masami, with her thin lips and perpetually furrowed brow, and Elder Daiki, who had long since lost his teeth but none of his sharpness. Their clothing was slightly more intact than the rest of the villagers’, a sign of their status. Masami’s long tunic was adorned with faded embroidery at the cuffs, a hint of red thread that might once have been vibrant. Daiki wore a heavy woolen cloak draped over his narrow shoulders, its edges fraying but still imposing in its bulk.

The market square was little more than a dirt clearing where merchants used to come, though their visits had dwindled to nothing in recent years. Even the well, the village’s lifeline, bore signs of decay. Its stone walls were cracked, and the water within tasted faintly of iron, as though the sickness had poisoned even the earth.

The sickness only worsened from there as fevers stole both the strongest and weakest, the oldest and youngest, with seemingly no pattern, leaving behind far too little with scars in the shape of coughs that lingered like unwelcome guests. They seemed to move through this dying world like ghosts, their footsteps quiet, their voices softer still. A people clinging to the remnants of a life they no longer believed in and no matter how many stories the elders told, their eyes stayed empty. At first, they blamed the river, its waters swollen and brackish after a summer storm. Then they blamed the traders who passed through, though fewer came with each year. The blame shifted like the wind, but the sickness stayed, digging its claws deeper with each passing season. The village had limped through years of disease, desperation a constant companion whispering in the ears of the villagers as they eventually turned their gaze to me.

“Her,” they whispered. “It’s because of her.”

They never said it to my face, of course. They feared me too much for that. When I walked through the market square, their conversations would drop into hushed tones, their gazes shifting quickly to the ground. Mothers pulled their children close as I passed, shielding them as if my shadow might curse them. The few merchants brave—or desperate—enough to trade with me kept their words clipped and their hands trembling as they handed over what I bought. I never bargained with them. I paid full price or not at all. It wasn’t charity. It was control. They’d seldom leave small offerings at my doorstep —half-eaten loaves of bread, broken beads, wilted flowers. Apologies, or perhaps bribes, to keep my wrath at bay.

To them, I was an outsider, not because of where I came from but because of what I could do. They feared me, but they needed me, and that fragile thread had kept their hatred at bay for a while.

But it wasn’t always this way. Once, I had been one of them, tolerated if not entirely accepted. My knowledge of herbs and remedies had been a boon when the sickness first came. I had eased their fevers, soothed their children’s aches, and kept the worst of it at bay for a time. But the lands were sick—sicker than any tincture or spell could fix—and my small successes weren’t enough. The people needed someone to blame, and it was easier to point to the witch who lived on the outskirts of the village than to face their own failures or the cruelty of the world.

Their fear, though, was not entirely misplaced.

I was no saint. My patience had worn thin years ago. The first time someone dared to accuse me outright, I made a spectacle of it. I hadn’t harmed them—no need to dirty my hands for a fool—but I had spoken their name during a storm, loud enough for the thunder to carry it, and left dried bones where they would find them. I let their imagination do the rest. The next morning, they left the village, and no one dared to follow.

Now, they called me a monster behind closed doors, muttering their curses to their gods, but they still came to me when they had nowhere else to turn. When the children coughed too hard to breathe. When their crops failed, and they needed someone to tell them it wasn’t their fault. I helped them—sometimes—but not without reminding them of what I was capable of. They needed the fear as much as I needed them to feel it.

For all their hatred, they couldn’t help themselves. It was easier to fear me than to admit their gods had abandoned them, that the sickness in the lands had no cure.

Despite their fear, the village clung to its routines like a lifeline. The blacksmith’s hammer still rang out in the mornings, dull thuds echoing through the square. Children still played near the well, their laughter sharp and fleeting, as though they knew better than to let it linger. The temple bells still chimed at dusk, their hollow tones calling for prayers that no one truly believed would be answered.

But beneath it all, the air was thick with tension, like the pause before a storm. The villagers had spent years shouldering their burdens, but even the strongest beams splinter under enough weight. And when they broke, they would come for me.

The village was a place that could survive anything, but it would never thrive. It was a monument to endurance, a lesson in scarcity. It had stood against the odds for generations, but I could see the cracks spreading, could hear the creak of its foundations. These people had long since forgotten how to hope, how to dream. I’d watched it happen, year by year. All they knew now was fear.

And fear, I had learned, could only be contained for so long.

“Morning, Elder Kazu,” I said as I passed, my tone polite but edged with sharpness. My hands clutched the woven basket at my side, filled with bundles of herbs I had spent the morning collecting. The elder gave a stiff nod in return, but his jaw was tight, the corners of his mouth pulled downward.

“Witch,” he said finally, his voice low, as though afraid it might carry. “The land suffers, and you—” He hesitated, his lips trembling before he found the courage to finish. “You walk as if it doesn’t touch you.”

I stopped mid-step, turning to look at him. The others near the well froze, their eyes darting between the two of us like rabbits scenting a wolf.

“You think I’m untouched?” I asked, keeping my voice calm, almost pleasant. I stepped closer, slow enough to watch him shift uncomfortably. “Tell me, Elder Kazu, how untouched I must be when you’ve come to me five times this year for teas to ease your cough? Or when your grandson came to me, pale as death, because nothing the temple priests did could break his fever?”

Kazu’s jaw tightened further, and his fingers curled around the edge of his walking stick. “And I paid you for those things.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice like silk. “You did.”

I let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating. One of the other elders shuffled uncomfortably, the sound of his sandals scraping against the dirt breaking the quiet.

“I’ve done no harm to you or this village, and yet you speak of me as though I brought the sickness upon the land myself.” I leaned in just slightly, enough to make Kazu stiffen. “Perhaps you should stop looking for devils in the shadows and instead ask why your gods have turned their backs on you.”

The crowd around us sucked in a collective breath, their fear palpable. Kazu’s face turned red, anger mingling with something sharper, something he wouldn’t dare admit to himself: fear.

I straightened and turned to go, my basket swaying lightly at my side. “Let me know if your grandson’s cough returns,” I said over my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want him to suffer for your pride.”

Later that day, as I sat outside my small home on the outskirts of the village, I saw her approaching. I recognized her as one of the people in the crowd from earlier in the morning, she had been clutching the rosary at her chest as she watched the whole ordeal, shaking like a leaf. The woman’s steps were hesitant, her child clinging to her skirts. She wasn’t the first to come here, and she wouldn’t be the last. Still, I didn’t move, watching as she stopped a few feet away.

“Please,” she said, her voice trembling. Her eyes darted around as though she feared being seen. “My son—he hasn’t been able to breathe all day. The priest said... said it’s in the hands of the gods now.”

The boy’s face was pale, lips tinged blue, his breaths shallow and uneven. It was a cruel sight, one that tugged at the edges of my mind, though I wouldn’t show it.

“And you think my hands will do better than theirs?” I asked, leaning back against the doorframe. My tone wasn’t kind, but neither was it cruel. It was deliberate.

She hesitated, clutching the boy tighter. “Please,” she said again, desperation cracking her voice. “I’ll pay you.”

I tilted my head slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her fear to blossom. Then I stood and pushed the door open with a creak. “Bring him inside.”

She hurried past me, her steps unsteady but driven by urgency. The child let out a wet, gasping cough as she lowered him onto the cot near the hearth. I ignored her trembling, focusing on the boy. He was far gone, but not beyond my reach. Not yet.

“Wait outside,” I said, not bothering to look at her. “You’ll only make it worse.”

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it, retreating reluctantly. The door creaked shut behind her, and I let out a slow breath. Alone at last.

I crouched beside the boy, studying his face. His breathing was shallow, his small chest rising and falling unevenly. Reaching into my basket, I pulled out a bundle of herbs and laid them on the table, their pungent aroma filling the room.

I worked quickly, grinding the leaves into a thick paste with a mortar and pestle. The rhythm of the grinding was steady, almost hypnotic. With a knife, I nicked my finger, letting a few drops of blood fall into the mixture. The paste hissed and darkened as my blood met the herbs, a faint shimmer rippling across the surface.

“Breathe, child,” I murmured, my voice low and steady. “Breathe deep.”

I smeared the paste across his chest, the dark substance soaking into his skin. His body jerked, his back arching slightly as his lungs fought against the weight pressing down on them. I closed my eyes, pressing a hand over his chest as I muttered an incantation under my breath. The words were old, their cadence sharp and commanding, filling the space with a thrumming energy that crackled in the air.

The room grew still, the tension thick as the boy gasped suddenly, his breaths deep and ragged. The blue tint in his lips began to fade, replaced by a faint flush of color. His chest rose and fell evenly now, the rattling gone.

I wiped my hands on a rag and sat back, watching him sleep. The paste on his chest had vanished, absorbed into his skin, leaving only the faintest trace of its presence. I felt the pull of exhaustion settle into my limbs, but it was a familiar weight, one I had learned to carry.

The door creaked open, and the mother stepped inside. She froze when she saw him, her hands flying to her mouth. “He’s—” Her words broke into a sob as she dropped to her knees beside the cot, gathering the boy into her arms.

She turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Thank you.”

I should have known they wouldn’t leave it at whispers. Fear has a way of festering, and tonight, it seemed ready to boil over.

It had only been hours since I sent the woman back on her way that I heard a knock at my door. It was sharp, relentless, and entirely unwelcome.

I didn’t answer at first, letting it echo through the quiet of my home. Only a fool would come to my door so late, but then again, this village was full of fools. When the knocking didn’t stop, I sighed, setting aside the herbs I’d been drying by the hearth. The hour was late, and I wasn’t in the mood for their desperation tonight.

When I opened the door, I was met with the gnarled face of Elder Kazu. Behind him stood three men, their faces half-hidden in the dim glow of lantern light, their expressions tight with unease.

“Elder Kazu,” I said, my voice flat. “To what do I owe this intrusion?”

The elder’s gaze darted past me, as if searching for something—or someone—inside. His knotted hands gripped his staff tightly, and his jaw was set with a determination I hadn’t seen before. Behind him, the men shifted uncomfortably, their fingers tightening around the tools they carried: a shovel, a rusted scythe, and a length of rope.

“The child died,” Kazu said, his voice cracking like dry wood. “Despite your... efforts.”

I stiffened, the words sinking like stones into my chest. The child from earlier. His mother had come to me, begging for help, and I had given it. My craft was strong, stronger than their faithless gods. But sometimes, even I could not bend fate.

“And you think that’s my fault?” I asked, my voice calm, though I could feel the simmer of heat beneath it.

“You said you healed him!” one of the men snarled, stepping forward. I recognized him—Hajime, the father of the boy. His face was twisted with grief, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. “You lied! You cursed him, just like you’ve cursed this whole village!”

I met his glare, unflinching. “Your boy was dying when you brought him to me. I bought him time, nothing more. If you want to blame someone, blame the sickness in the land. Blame your gods for abandoning you.”

Hajime surged forward, but Kazu caught him with a firm hand. “Enough!” the elder barked. His voice wavered but held enough authority to make Hajime fall back, trembling with fury.

“It’s not just the boy,” Kazu said, turning back to me. His voice was quieter now, almost steady. “The crops failed again. The cattle are dying. More children are sick. And yet, here you stand, untouched. Unharmed.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You think my survival is proof of guilt? Perhaps it’s just proof that I’m smarter than the rest of you.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The men moved as one, lunging forward with clumsy but determined hands. I fought back, my nails raking across flesh as I twisted and kicked, but there were too many of them. Rope snaked around my wrists, biting into my skin as they wrenched my arms behind my back. Someone grabbed my hair, forcing my head down as they shoved me into the dirt.

“Let go of me!” I snarled, my voice cutting through the night. “Do you think this will save you? Do you think your gods will return because you’ve tied up the only one who ever helped you?”

“Quiet!” Kazu barked, his staff slamming into the ground with a dull thud. “We’ve had enough of your poison, witch. You’ll answer for what you’ve done.”

They hauled me to my feet, the rope biting deeper as they dragged me into the square. My bare feet scraped against the ground, the cold seeping into my skin as the village came alive around us. Doors creaked open, faces peering out, and soon the square was full of murmurs and nameless faces.

Shadows danced wildly across the thatched roofs of the village as torches flickered in trembling hands. They gathered around me like vultures circling a corpse, their whispers rising into a chant, fueled by fear and hatred that churned like poison in their veins.

I stood in the center of it all, bound at the wrists, my face cloaked in shadow but my eyes unyielding. The ropes dug into my skin, rough and unrelenting, but I refused to show pain. My gaze swept over the crowd, unwavering, as if I were the one passing judgment. Their anger faltered when I looked at them—cowards, every last one of them. Some shifted uneasily, others clutched their children closer, as if I might lash out and curse them where they stood.

“She brought this on us!” Kazu’s voice cracked like dry leaves, his bony finger trembling as it pointed in my direction. “The deaths! The sickness! It’s her witchcraft!”

I tilted my head, letting the ghost of a smile curl my lips. “Witchcraft?” My voice was low, but it cut through the din like a blade. “Is that what you call your own failures?”

The crowd rippled with unease, torches flickering as if the flames themselves feared me. I could almost taste their panic, a bitter tang that fed the growing ember of defiance in my chest. They wanted to blame me for everything that had gone wrong in their miserable little lives. They wanted a villain. And here I was, bound and ready to play the part. Their silence wasn’t just fear—it was a storm gathering strength, waiting to break.

“She has no shame!” a woman screeched, clutching her rosary so tightly it threatened to snap. “We must end this before her evil consumes us all!”

The crowd closed in, their faces a blur of fear and hatred, their torches casting wild, flickering light. I felt the first tendrils of panic claw at my chest, but I shoved them down, keeping my gaze sharp and my spine straight.

“If you think fire will save you,” I said, my voice ringing out over the square, “then you’ve already lost.”

The words did little to calm them. If anything, it seemed to embolden them, their cries rising into a unified chant: “Burn her! Burn her!”

Kazu raised a hand, silencing them with a single motion. “We’ll do nothing without the lord’s permission,” he said, his voice steady now. “Sukuna will decide her fate.”

The name hung in the air, heavier than the smoke. Sukuna. The King of Curses. The monster who ruled over life and death in this land. I had heard the stories—the whispers of his cruelty, his insatiable hunger for destruction, his throne built on blood and fear. A chill ran through me at the thought of standing before him, but I didn’t flinch. Not here. Not now.

The crowd parted as Kazu motioned for the men to drag me forward. My knees scraped against the dirt, my wrists burning against the rough rope. But I kept my head high, meeting their hateful glares with the same sharp defiance I always had.

The forest loomed ahead, its shadows deep and foreboding, swallowing the torchlight as if even the trees feared the lord who reigned over this land. I kept my eyes forward as they pushed me forward, every step deliberate. Each one echoed my silent vow: If death awaited me at the end of this road, I would meet it standing tall.

But deep in my chest, something stirred. Not hope—not even fear—but curiosity. A dark, creeping curiosity. If Sukuna was truly the monster they said he was, perhaps he would see what I already knew. That I didn’t belong in this crowd of cowards and fools. That my place wasn’t here, bound and powerless, but somewhere far greater.

The flames of the torches dimmed as we disappeared into the forest’s embrace. With them went the last remnants of my old life. Whatever awaited me on the other side, I wouldn’t bow to it. Not to Sukuna, not to anyone. If the King of Curses wanted to break me, he’d need far more than rope and cowardly men.

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE what better way to ring in the new year than posting the first chapter to a new series? Hope you enjoyed this one, my loves! More is coming very soon… hopefully 🩷🩷

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings

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