#Women in Arena one piece

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[thedeadathlete]

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[starcrossed-lov3rz]

The Vow Spoken Through Time - Part 3

Daemon x Rhaenyra x Wife!Reader

Series: Series Masterlist

Warnings: MDNI, violence, minor character death, general filth, mild smut, dirty talk, oral (fem receiving), and Daemon Targaryen is his own warning 

Tags: marriage, poly relationship, Daemon being hopelessly in love with his wives, Queen!Rhaenyra

Words: 2.2K

Description: Y/N is having a rough morning. She's fired. She's hungover. She's in a stranger's bed. She's waking up in a new world? She's married?!

Rhaenyra and Daemon's day started normal. Waking up next to their darling wife before tending to their duties. The difference? Their wife is speaking in riddles and has no memories of them.

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You gaze out across the stadium, shocked at the hundreds of people clamoring to see the violence and pageantry of the tournament. Your hands smooth down your dress anxiously. Rhaenyra picked a beautiful gown. The deep red of the gown is offset with gold embroidery along your shoulders and waist. The patterns resemble dragon scales, glistening as the light hits it.

Rhaenyra looks over, seeing your anxious movements and grabbing your hand to still the gesture. She brings it up to her mouth, kissing the back of your hand before she turns to address the crowd.

“Be welcome!” She shouts. “I know that many of you have traveled great distances to witness these games. I trust you will not be disappointed.”

The crowd’s cheers are deafening, but Rhaenyra continues once they die down to a dull roar. “Looking across the fine knights here today, I see a group without equal. May the luck of the seven shine on our combatants!”

She raises your joined hands in a cheer. You brace yourself for whatever disapproval might come from the crowd. If two women in modern days still got weird looks in public, you weren’t sure you were ready for whatever reaction this medieval world would have. The crowd continues to cheer, and you swear you can hear someone shouting “all hail the queens.” 

Rhaenyra pulls you in for a chaste kiss before motioning for the tourney announcer to take over. Your cheeks are on fire from her very public display of affection. “I wasn’t expecting that reaction,” you admitted as you both took your seats. 

“Whatever do you mean, darling?”

“I-” you pause for a moment. “You know? I just didn’t think people would be so accepting of our relationship?”

Rhaenyra laughs, “the smallfolk have always adored you. How could they not?”

“It’s just that people where I’m from-”

“You’re from here.” Rhaenyra interrupts, frowning. “Your place is with me, with us. Our people–your people–would fight wars in your name.”

You sigh in frustration. Rhaenyra, Daemon, and the maester were still convinced that you fell and all the memories of your past life were just an odd dream. It wasn’t a frequent argument, but one that never failed to begin at the most inconvenient times.

When you don’t respond, Nyra cups your face in her hands and forces you to look her in the eyes. “Do you know what the smallfolk see when they look at you?”

“Nyra-”

“They see the same thing that I see,” she says. “A queen.” Your hand comes up to cover hers as you lean into her palm. 

Rhaenyra’s thumb gently strokes your cheek. “I love you. It doesn’t matter where you came from, you’re here now. You’re here, and you’re mine. Never forget that.” 

Your breath catches in your throat. “It’s not fair,” you whisper. “You always know exactly what to say.”

Before Rhaenyra can respond, a yell from the arena draws your attention. “My queen! My lady!” Daemon’s voice reverberates through the stadium. Both you and Rhaenyra walk to the edge of the balcony, and the site nearly takes your breath away. Your husband is terrifying in his armor, and so, so, so attractive. 

“Fuck,” you swear. The dark armor is covered in the Targaryen crest and adorned with dragon-reminiscent flairs throughout the pieces. Daemon removes his helmet, shaking our his hair and preening at the attention.

“My beautiful wives, I am certain that I will win this tournament.” Daemon boasts. “But with your favor, there will be no doubt.” 

Rhaenyra laughs, “I don’t know. Should we offer our dear husband our favor?” 

“Hmmm,” you pretend to think it over. “I fear there are many knights worthy of this honor. How am I to deci-”

“My love, must I get on my knees to beg your favor,” Daemon teases.

“It would certainly be a start,” you smirk. “I suppose I can give you our favor, on one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Win this tourney swiftly so we might celebrate your victory together.” You say, grabbing the favor.

Daemon winks at you, raising his fist as the crowd roars in approval. You watch your husband ride out to meet his first opponent. 

“You know we are never going to hear the end of it if he wins,” Rhaenyra sighs. Daemon takes his place across from the other knight, placing his helmet back on and adjusting his grip on the jousting lance. 

“Was there ever a doubt he would?” you ask as Daemon and his opponent charge at each other on horseback. The crash as the lance hit lands and breaks is unsettling. Daemon’s opponent flies from his saddle, landing hard on the ground.

“True,” Rhaenyra agrees. Daemon tosses the broken half of his lance, jumping to the ground and drawing his sword. “Next year I plan to find Daemon a real challenge.” Daemon stalks in a circle around his opponent, waiting for the knight to regain his footing and draw his weapon. The knight recovers, going on the offensive to swipe his sword at Daemon.

You snort in amusement. “Are the rest of the knights really that bad?” Daemon easily dances around blows, not even bothering to waste his energy by parrying them. He’s toying with the other knight. Letting him exhaust and embarrass himself in the arena before Daemon ends the fight. You see the ghost of a smirk play on Daemon’s lips as he tosses his helmet to the ground.

“No, they’re actually quite skilled,” Rhaenyra replies. The knight’s attacks become harder and more calculated. Daemon parries them with practiced ease. You see the knight lean in as he gets closer to say something to Daemon. They’re too soft for anyone else to hear, but Daemon clearly heard them. His smirk drops and his gaze darkens. 

He’s ending this now. Daemon pushes the knight back, swinging a hard blow with his sword.

“Daemon is just….” The knight scrambles to parry the swing, but the blow is hard enough to dislodge his grip. Your eyes widen in shock, Daemon is ending more than this fight. You instantly snap your eyes shut, but you can still hear Rhaenyra’s words in time with Daemon’s strikes.

“That.” 

“Much.” 

“Better.”

The knight’s screams stop with the final blow. You open your eyes to peak at the scene in front of you. The knight is unmoving on the ground. His armor dented in. His sword hand on one side of the arena. His head at the other.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” you mutter.

“A Targaryen tourney without at least one death would be considered boring.”

Your eyes land on your husband. He’s looming over the headless body of the knight. Daemon spits on the corpse before walking away.

Even Rhaenyra is shocked, but regardless, the tournament continues on throughout the late afternoon. The other fights are nowhere near as violent as Daemon’s round. Daemon is eerily calm as he wins his rounds with brutal efficiency. He doesn’t kill another opponent, but he makes light work of each one. 

After the stadium clears out, you walk with the maids back to your chambers as Rhaenyra left to greet some of the noble houses who haven’t visited Kings Landing since the last tournament. When you get back, you ask the maids to draw a bath and you gather up Daemon’s favorite soaps and oils. You didn’t realize just how serious a tournament was. After seeing that brutality, you were just relieved that Daemon was coming back safe.

The doors to your chambers shuts loudly,and you turn to see Daemon still in his armor. “Daemon-” He cuts you off with a kiss, sweeping you off your feet. 

“I need you.” Daemon says, pulling at your gown as he struggles to unlace the back. Growling in frustration, he tears the fabric. 

“Daemon! What’s gotten into you?” You yelp. “At least take off that damn armor first!”

“Fuck,” he swears, backing away from you as he begins slipping off his armor piece by piece. You reach forward to help him.

Once he’s rid himself of the armor, Daemon picks you up. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, and he grinds against you. He kisses and bites at your neck like a starved man. Whimpers and moans fall from your lips as you tug roughly at his hair. “Daemon, wait,” you say breathlessly. 

“Hmm,” he rumbles as he pulls back. 

“If you keep going, it’s going to ruin my plans,” you whine. “I wanted to spoil you. Please get in the bath before it gets cold.”

Daemon follows your gaze to the tub and sees your handiwork–candles meticulously placed around a steaming bath. The table next to the tub piled high with luxurious oils, wine, and fruits. “You did this for me?” He asks. You nod vigorously and he captures your lips in a heated kiss. “Gods above, you never fail to surprise me.”

You giggle as Daemon carries you to the tub and you both sink into the water. Daemon moans as the water eases over his sore muscles. You shift so that Daemon is leaning back against your chest and begin meticulously scrubbing his body. “You’re so perfect,” he groans as you massage at the knots in his shoulders. 

You hum in response, focusing on the knots. You find yourself softly singing as you work, and you glance down to see Daemon nodding off. Moving to work on his hair, you gently detangle his braids and massage the soap into his scalp.

“Love,” you begin, “what happened in that first fight?” You feel Daemon’s body stiffen against yours. 

“Nothing.” 

“Are you sure? It didn’t seem like nothing.” You answer. 

“It. Was. Nothing.” He’s definitely hiding something.

“No it wasn’t,” you insist. “He said something and you lost it. What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Daemon’s tone is short, but it’s clear he’s still upset over whatever that knight said.

“Yes it does, just te-”

“He called you a whore!” Daemon shouts, whipping around in the tub. “That spineless bastard called you a whore, and asked if he could take a turn after you finished eating Rhaenyra’s cunt on the balcony.”

You blink. Shocked. You assumed it was bad, but didn’t realize it would be quite that vulgar. “And you killed him for it?”

“If I could go back, I wouldn’t kill him,” Daemon bares his teeth as he hisses out the words.

You raise a brow in response.

“I would cut him apart piece by piece until he begged for death,” Daemon growls. “And when he’s on the brink of death, I would call for the maester to heal him so I could do it all over again.”

“Fuck,” you swear. Hearing your husband’s bloodthirst shouldn’t be this hot. Your breath quickens, and you shift.

Daemon notices your sudden shift in demeanor. “I see,” he grins. “I kill a man for disrespecting you, and all you can think about is my cock.”

You whine, desperate for Daemon to touch you. After he and Rhaenyra left you wanting this morning, you’ve been on edge all day. Daemon stands up, water sloshing from the tub as he climbs out and pours a glass of wine. He sips a mouthful before leaning down to kiss you. You moan as the wine hits your tongue. Daemon pulls back, popping a grape in your mouth before picking you from the tub and tossing you on the bed.

“I’ll just have to give my sweet girl exactly what she wants,” Daemon says. He drips wine across your body, lapping up the drops as he follows the trail with his tongue. Daemon knocks back the rest of his wine, placing the chalice on the dresser. He settles between your legs, wrapping his arms around your thighs as he dives into your cunt.

Daemon’s tongue swipes broad strokes across your cunt, lapping greedily. He suckles at your clit, and you cry out in pleasure as his hums vibrate against you.

“What is this?”

You try to shoot up to greet Rhaenyra, but Daemon’s arms have you locked in place. “Rha-Rhae-fuck-Rhaenyra” You struggle to speak as you feel your orgasm building. Your eyes roll back as Daemon moves an arm to slide two fingers into your weeping cunt. Moans fall from your lips as you buck into his mouth and hands.

Just before you climax, Daemon pulls back. “My queen,” he greets as Rhaenyra leans in for a kiss. 

“I take it our girl couldn’t wait?”

Daemon grins. “She never does.”

NOTE: This was supposed to just be smut, but I got carried away. Anyway, hope you enjoyed bloodthirsty Daemon, I know I did. Next part coming Friday or Saturday night (and yes, it’s going to pick up RIGHT where we left off). I have two delicious requests in the works: 1) a Feyd Rautha request (featuring the iconic darlings), and 2) a Daemon request (featuring some angst and steamy make-up sex). ~ Lacie <3

Taglist: @syraxnyra @avalyaaa

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[shockercoco]

Only Pleasure Remains

Feyd Rautha x reader

Warnings - 18+, smut, oral (fem receiving), fingering, squirting, penetration, dirty talk, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, basically enemies to lovers

Word count - 3608

a/n - this was supposed to be posted over a week ago, but I kept procrastinating on finishing it. This is also my longest imagine so far lol. Disclaimer: I haven't read the books yet I've only seen the movies, but I just ordered the first one. I hope you enjoy :)

You’re currently pacing back and forth in one of the vip suites, waiting for the fight to start. It’s the fight that will determine whether or not you’ll have to marry the most deranged person you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Feyd Rautha is known for being unhinged in and out of the arena. It could be because of his past that he lacks compassion, or he just has no regard for anyone other than himself. He’ll kill anyone in an instant without blinking an eye, but sometimes he’ll take his time to enjoy the moment.

You’ve never talked to Feyd and have only looked at him from a distance each time you visited the planet for your father to discuss business matters. When he would join the meetings you would avoid eye contact, but he would always watch you. When you guys would pass each other in the corridors you would keep your head down and walk faster, but you knew he was looking at you. You never knew if he was looking at you like a piece of meat or an actual human being. What really made you sick is that, despite his horrific personality, you still found him attractive.

Recently your father and Baron Harkonnen had a huge argument and couldn’t come to an agreement, and of course the only way to resolve the issue is with a battle with you as collateral. It wasn't completely out of the blue since  your father was somewhat close to the Baron, but it was a terrible proposition. Baron Harkonnen wants to make sure his bloodline is secure before he dies and Feyd takes control, but of all the women in the universe he had to pick you.

So now here you are a week later, along with the other citizens inside the arena, waiting to see the outcome of the fight. You already know what it will be though, everyone knows it, but you’re hoping that just this once the outcome will be different.

Eventually, you hear Feyd’s name being announced to the crowd followed by him strutting into the arena with no emotion on his face. You can’t bring yourself to watch the fight so you turn your back as soon as it starts, not even bothering to take a seat. The arena is dead silent once the fight starts, allowing you to hear the clashing of swords and the shouts coming from each man. 

It’s not long before Feyd’s announced as the winner, as usual, and the crowd erupts in cheers. You turn back around and catch sight of the dead bodies splayed around Feyd who's basking in the praise from the sea of people in the stands. Turning your head to your left you lock eyes with your father who gives you an apologetic smile, but you just shake your head not knowing what to say to him. You take one last look into the arena and at Feyd’s face, before leaving.

The guards already knew of the arrangement and wouldn’t let you stray too far from the grounds of the house. It didn’t take long for you to find out about the several lady’s maids you now had – more than back home – because they basically circled around you until you finally told them that you didn’t need them at the moment. One remained close behind you though.

When you were shown to your room, you were met with one that was far from small. You had a king size bed, a spacious bathroom with a walk-in shower, and a balcony that allowed you to look out into the distance at the skyline. You notice your knick knacks and personal items were scattered around the room on tables and shelves, and your clothes had already been unpacked and inside the closet.

They really don’t waste time here.

As beautiful as the room was, it couldn’t replace the one you had back home – the life you had back home.

Later that night after you bathed, you were about to call it a day and just crawl under the covers, but you decided against it. Luckily there was no one standing outside of your room or lurking in the hallway, but there was still a chance of you getting caught by one of the guards or by one of the Baron’s henchmen.

Even though you’ve been here many times, you have only gone to the places that were necessary: the throne room, restrooms, dining hall, and the room for meetings. As you walked you noticed that many of the rooms were either locked or empty. You did manage to find a room full of paintings and another resembling an armory that seemed to be for display only. 

Some of the items were tarnished, some looked extremely fragile, and some still had the blood on it from the time it was used. When you heard a pair of paced footsteps, you decided to make your way to the other side of the house to continue your exploration and to avoid being seen.

The other side gave you a completely different vibe, mainly because the corridors were barely lit. The main source of light came from the fireworks exploding outside, an applaud for Feyd. You started to wish you had brought a candle or anything that could grant you more light since the ceiling lights weren’t helping much. The farther you walked, you started to feel more and more uneasy. You felt like someone was watching you, which is ironic because this wasn’t the best lighting for seeing.

Feeling it was time to end the exploration, you turn around and start to head back but stop when you hear something. Or, at least you thought you heard something. It was dead silent except for the faint sounds of explosions. You were about to keep walking when you felt someone wrap their arm around and press a blade to your neck. The person’s scent is familiar though, reminding you of what you would smell every time you walked past Feyd.

Was he just casually hiding in the shadows?

“What are you doing here? How did you get past the guards?” you hear Feyd ask from behind you in his usual raspy voice, the rasp that you love but will never admit outloud.

You're relieved that it’s not a random person, but still a little fearful given the fact he could end your life at any second. The thought practically paralyzes you.

“I was just about to head back to my room,” your response is short.

“That doesn’t answer what I asked. No one’s allowed this way,” Feyd says as he circles around to stand in front of you with the edge of his blade still pressed to your neck. “Wait a minute, I’ve seen you around. Aren’t you that lord’s daughter, the one I’m so supposed to be marrying?”

You were about to just give him a simple nod, but then remember the blade pressed against your throat. “Yes.”

He waits a moment as he looks at you before moving his hand away and leaving it to hang by his side along with the blade. Despite being surrounded by darkness, his blade still manages to shine. You automatically take a step back.

“I could’ve killed you, why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, though his tone makes it clear he doesn’t care too much.

“To be fair you had a blade pressed to my neck,” you answer as Feyd’s dark eyes stare into yours. He doesn’t reply right away as he looks you up and down. His stare makes you feel exposed considering you’re only wearing a thin nightgown covered by a robe. Unconsciously, you begin to play with your fingers behind your back. Feyd notices your fidgeting though.

“Are you scared of me?” he suddenly asks, and you’re not sure how to reply. Everyone is scared of him, but is he genuinely asking or is he trying to get a kick out of this?

“No,” you choose to say, and he smirks.

He starts to slowly walk around you as he continues speaking. “No? Do I just make you nervous then? It has to be something because you’ve always avoided eye contact with me, and I know how you would distance yourself from me on purpose. In fact, this is the first conversation we’ve had. Come on now, we’re going to be married soon, we should be able to talk to each other,” he smirks.

Well, what the hell am I supposed to say to that?

“Isn’t that how you want people around you to feel? Everyone has their weakness, what’s yours?” you question as he continues to circle you.

He doesn’t hesitate to say, “I don’t have one.”

“Everyone has one,” you pause as you think then say, “what about the women you always have around? Everyone knows you’re a playboy, that sounds like a weakness to me.”

He stops in front of you to look down at you and into your eyes with the smirk still on his face. “That sounds like jealousy to me.” 

“It’s simply an observation,” you shrug. 

“You know, I usually don’t let the women I sleep with talk to me like this,” he says with a tilt of the head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that for you I guess I will make an exception, given the fact you’re my bride and all,” he says before he circles behind you again to press his body up against yours. He leans into your ear to whisper, “but just this time.”

You wish you could stop the goosebumps from appearing on your skin or the shiver that works its way through your body. You thought Feyd wouldn’t notice, but he must’ve because he leans back with a light chuckle. Right now all you want to do is slap him across the face for his arrogance and yourself for the way your body reacted to his words. 

“I won’t sleep with you just yet, my darling, but it will happen soon because it’s obvious you can’t wait,” Feyd says as he slowly backs away from you. You turn around wanting to say something else, but before you get the chance he says, “run along now, it’s getting late.”

He keeps that smug look on his face as you give him one last look before leaving. Your mind tells you to hate him, but your body says otherwise as a warm feeling travels through your core as you walk back to your room.

You also hate how every night after part of you expects Feyd to walk through your bedroom door. He didn’t come the night after your encounter in his corridor. He didn’t come the next night either or the night after that. You knew it was foolish waiting for a man that has his own sex slaves – a man that you’re supposed to detest.

It isn’t until the fourth day that Feyd arrives at your door; little did you know Feyd was having his own internal conflict. He hadn’t used any of his slaves since that night he caught you in his corridor, not feeling the need for them. He also was not a fan of his feelings toward you.

You were standing out on your balcony enjoying the night breeze when you heard a knock on your door. You knew it could only be one of your lady’s maids at this time, so you didn’t hesitate to tell the person outside the door to come in as you took a couple steps back into your room. In walked a lady’s maid that you have grown quite fond of over the past couple of days.

“There’s a visitor here for you, would you like me to send them in,” she asks.

You wanted to say no given the current time, but you nodded anyway and watched as she walked back out. Not even a few seconds later, Feyd replaces her spot covered in a black robe, a stark contrast to his pale skin, and closes the bedroom door behind him.

Your body stiffens, nearly stuck to the ground, as you quickly try to figure out your emotions in your head. Feyd takes his time walking towards you as he looks around your room, and this gives you enough time to pull yourself together. You step back out onto the balcony as he gets closer and closer, and he follows you out there.

“Nice view don’t you think?” he asks as he stands next to you, looking out into the distance.

“Did you really come here to ask me about the view?” you look up at him.

“Straight to the point, I like it,” he smirks.

“Straight to what point?” you act dumb and put some space in between the two of you.

“Why do you think I’m here?” he tilts his head down at you.

“Apparently to talk about the view,” you reply in a joking manner and look out into the distance to avoid his gaze. Out of the corner of your eye you can see his jaw tighten.

“You’re making this hard.”

“What?” you ask, still not looking at him. You want him to hear him say outloud what he wants.

Except he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he quickly closes the distance between the two of you as he places his lips on yours and his hands on your cheeks. The force he uses startles you and pushes you back a couple steps, but you recover and grab onto his wrists as you begin kissing him back.

You wonder for a second if you’re giving in too easily, but the feeling of Feyd’s grip on you tosses the idea out of your mind.

Feyd hated how needy and desperate he felt as his lips attacked  yours. The kiss was rough, but Feyd was trying to hold himself back from going too far. Normally he wouldn’t care about how rough or gentle he was with a woman because his slaves never complained — not like they had a choice — and some of them even came to him first to satisfy their own needs. This time though, it was him coming to you.

Feyd deepens the kiss, keeping his hold on your face firm, as he starts to push you back into your bedroom. Once your legs hit the bed, he unties the knot on your robe before slowly peeling it off your shoulders leaving you nothing but your nightgown and undergarments. He breaks the kiss to push you back, and you scoot your body into the center of the bed.

 The way he focuses on you as he stands at the bottom of the bed makes you feel like one of Feyd’s opponents in the arena. The thought sends warmth between your legs.

He takes off his own robe leaving him in only his underwear before he starts to crawl on the bed, trailing a hand up one of your ankles up to your thigh, until he’s hovering above you. Your breathing is shallow and your heart races in anticipation for what’s to come. The only other person you've had sex with was one of your close friends back on your home planet, and you enjoyed it, but that friend wasn’t Feyd. He wasn’t a murderous maniac known for his sexual relations like Feyd was. Another wave of electricity passes through your body.

Feyd dips his head down and starts placing kisses on your neck from your ear to your collarbone,  making a low whine escape your lips. All the while, the hand gripping your thigh inches farther north until it reaches your panties and begins to touch you through them. It doesn’t take too long for a wet spot to appear on the fabric, and it’s obvious that Feyd notices too, seeing as how you can feel a smirk form on his lips. You squeeze your legs together wanting more from him, but Feyd pushes your legs back open and bites the skin on your neck.

You draw in a breath as he whispers into your ear, “be patient.” His voice may be light, but you can hear the firmness behind it.

He moves his face away from your neck and takes his time as he moves his body lower and lower until his face is between your thighs. He pulls your underwear down your legs before tossing them to the side, and helps you dispose of your nightgown revealing your bare body to him. You start to wish that your bedroom lights were off as you look down to see Feyd’s dark eyes taking all of you in.

A smile spreads across his face once he notices you shying up. “There’s no hiding from me now.”

He says nothing else and dives right into you. His movements are rough yet gentle as he eats you out, resembling hunger. The way he flicks his tongue over you like a snake has your back arching while you let out a consistent string of moans. You tightly grab hold of the blanket beneath you with both hands as you move your hips into his mouth. You can’t help but roll your eyes from the speed of his tongue.

Feyd places one hand onto your stomach before moving it up to one of your breasts to grab hold of, while his other hand joins his lips between your thighs. He wastes no time slipping a finger into you as he moves his mouth up to suck harshly on your clit.

“Oh my god,” you say breathlessly. One of your hands lets go of the blanket to join Feyd’s on your breast.

The finger inside of you pumps into you at a measured pace before gradually getting faster. He decides to add another finger without letting up on his speed. You can tell that him pleasuring you gives him satisfaction, noticing the fact that he’s in his own world. Naturally, your body starts to move away from his mouth and your legs start to close as the pleasure becomes more intense.

Feyd releases his hold on your clit and lifts up his head to make eye contact with you. “I need you to stay still,” he tells you in more of a warning tone and pulls you back to his mouth before continuing, not waiting for you to answer.

Once you feel your orgasm nearing your moans get louder as they turn into whines. Feyd notices the way you become shaky and how you start writing around more so he moves his mouth away and pulls his fingers out of you. Your mouth falls open as you look down at him, the warmth previously building up in your stomach slowly starting to fade away. You’re about to say something when he looks into your eyes and shushes you.

He then moves his hand on your breast and places it on your stomach, gently adding pressure. You’re confused and you expect him to say something, but he doesn’t. 

Then suddenly you feel his fingers start to move inside you again, except this time at a different pace. He begins to quickly pump his fingers in and out of you, causing you to throw your head back as your back lifts off the bed. You feel yourself getting close to tumbling over the edge again, although this time it feels different. It’s unlike all the other times you have brought yourself to an orgasm.

Right as your orgasm hits you, you feel a gush of liquid squirt out of you. You cum with a loud cry, forgetting the fact that the doors to your balcony are still wide open. When the thought pops into your mind you don’t even care about anyone being able to hear you.

Feyd stops when you move your hands down to try and push him away. He looks down at his chest to see the mess you created and lets out a low laugh. As your body starts to relax, you look down to see Feyd standing at the bottom of the bed pulling down his underwear to reveal his hard length to you.

“Don’t worry, I’m not done with you yet,” he tells you as he positions himself between your legs.

He rubs the tip of his length up and down your slit spreading your arousal around. You let out a whine at his teasing and he says, “ready for another one, are we?”

He doesn’t stop right away, but when he finally glides into your soaked opening it pulls a moan out of both of you. He places his arms on either side of your head and leans down to connect his lips to yours. The kiss is rough and sloppy, and you tightly wrap your arms around his waist pulling him closer to you. You don’t even care if you seem desperate anymore.

You’re still sensitive from your previous orgasm, but Feyd doesn’t care as he ruthlessly pounds into you. Once he finds the spot inside of you that makes you gasp, he makes a mental note of it as he repeatedly thrusts into it.

It doesn’t take long for your next orgasm to build up, releasing it with a silent cry as you unintentionally dig your fingers into Feyd’s back causing him to groan in your ear in pleasure. He keeps his thrusts consistent as you begin to leak around his cock and onto the blanket beneath you. There’s no doubt you’ll have to change the bedding later. 

With another smirk he firmly grips your jaw and says, “I hope you can take a few more, my darling.”

[miguelhugger2099]

Not a Fanboy!Miguel who often liked the classics he grew up with—the ones his mom played every weekend.

Not a Fanboy!Miguel who liked the singers, men and women alike, who now were as old—if not, older—as his mom so he never got around to be going to concerts.

Not a Fanboy!Miguel that never kept up with recent celebrity drama or news. Oh, some current singer just won 6 Grammys? Good for her. Oh, this rapper held the top spot on the charts for weeks? Nice.

Not a Fanboy!Miguel who lives under a rock. But his brother doesn’t.

Fanboy!Gabriel who’s always been into music as his hobby. Ranging from in the States to Overseas. Old and new alike.

Fanboy!Gabriel who BEGS Miguel to take him to this concert of this girl group that came around.

Not a Fanboy!Miguel who’d rather die than drive and park around Nueva York for ONLY three hours.

Fanboy!Gabriel who makes a compromise that Miguel could come too! Even walk around Nueva York for some food.

Not a Fanboy!Miguel who can’t say no to his baby brother.

Not a Fanboy!Miguel who is absolutely exhausted after walking around the arena, Gabriel greeting and handing out freebies to other fans like him.

Not a Fanboy!Miguel who ends up at a coffee shop where Gabriel shoo’d him away to. Telling him to grab two cold drinks while he waits in line.

Not a Fanboy!Miguel who groans internally when he sees the line. Someone behind him groaning outwardly.

He turns his head to see some woman—you—, hat on top of your head and hoodie draped around you. Pieces of your hair fall on the side of your cheeks that frame your face. A mask covering the lower half of your face and you’re in sweats. Your eyes meet his.

For a moment you look panicked but you stay still.

Miguel looks back at the register, some old man being extra specific with his drink and food order. He then glances down at you again.

“Hopefully the next ones won’t be as stingy with what they want.” He comments. He notices the eye bags under your eyes.

He can tells you smiles by the ways your eyes creased. “Yeah. Hopefully.”

By the time it was his turn, he looks over his shoulder. “What did you want?”

You’re taken aback. “Oh, uh—“

“I’ll pay for it.” Miguel figures you’ve had a long day and felt that he could help.

He flusters you, your hands bringing down your mask to relay your order to the nice cashier girl. Miguel glances down your lips subconsciously, noticing the gloss over them.

It’s only for a few seconds and you pull it over your face again as quickly as possible. Miguel looks around the place. You were acting strange—was someone following you? Were you okay?

He waits beside you at the side of the counter and he bends down at your level. “Are you okay?”

You let out a gasp of surprise, jumping a bit back but smile and laugh nervously. “Ah, fine. Thanks for asking.”

“You sure? Is someone stalking you?”

You look at his eyes, scanning his face for something he’s not quite sure you’ll find. Miguel visibly sees you relax.

“No, no. I’m just on a tight schedule, is all.” You laugh more real this time.

Miguel stands up again. “I know the feeling.” The corner of his lips turn up.

His drinks gets called out first and he takes them both in his hands, taking a sip from one of them.

“You ordered…two?” You ask. Miguel nods.

“For my brother. We’re here for some concert thing he wanted to go to.” He shrugs. You hold your giggle back.

“I take it you’re not interested?” You ask with amusement. Miguel snorts.

“Hardly.” He takes another sip from his cup. “Hopefully I never have to walk around Nueva York again just for some girl group.”

You shrug. “Hopefully.” You agree with him, a smile heard just by your tone.

The conversation is cut short once your drink is called. Miguel finding the way you hum in delight to be amusing. You thank him for the drink, offering once more to pay for it back but he refuses.

Miguel doesn’t notice your manager approaching you, fussing over you and ushering you back into your van.

Not a Fanboy!Miguel who enters the arena with his brother. Gabriel had done every hack possible to make sure he got seats close enough.

Not a Fanboy!Miguel who sits with his arms crossed, yawning and leaning his head back to sleep.

But he couldn’t do that when Gabriel shakes him awake. It’s starting!

The giant screens zoom in on each of the members faces and Miguel nearly falls out of his seat when you show up last.

He notices your eyebags are gone. Completely disappeared with makeup. Glittering eyes with a cute puppy eyeliner and false eyelashes. Your hair in a style that stays still even while dancing. The same glossy lips that sing angelically.

Fanboy!Miguel who grips his seat, feelings his heart flutter when you wink at the camera, blowing kisses to the fans in his general direction.

[hoe4hotchner]

Chapter 11 - The unsub’s next move

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

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

Word count: 14.9k

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

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

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m trying,” you admitted.

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

“I’ll admit... I’m nervous.”

“Nervous about what, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

He was planning something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Action did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t going to be easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bagopucks]

Blurbs

Jack Hughes x Reader, platonic Luke

For @hughesmoyle

✄————————————

There were many plus sides to Luke joining the devils. Jack having a brother around, myself having someone else to talk to when I was mad at Jack, having someone sane in the apartment. The list was endless. The thing on the top though? Knowing Jack had a protector. Somebody who would lay down their life to avenge their own blood. Luke was quiet, but he could be mean given the appropriate situation. I’d seen it multiple times. Out at bars, when a guy got too close and Jack wasn’t around. Luke was there. He’d loom over me with a look in his eyes, and a few snide words for the perv who wouldn’t leave me alone.

Likewise, Luke had always been around for his brothers. The few times the boys got into it with other kids, Luke was always ready to throw his fists in the mix. Even when Quinn and Jack fought. Luke was ready to take one’s side. Though usually he ended up punching Quinn for calling Jack a meanie, and shoving Jack for calling Quinn an ass. Jack always went for the harsher words.

Luke was a protector, and as much as I trusted Jack’s team, there was nothing like a brother to have your back.

Except -apparently- in the moment Jack may have needed him most. I gasped the second he lunged at Aho. I’d seen Quinn fight. I’d seen Luke fight. Jack? Maybe in a playful manner. I already had his tooth to worry about, but I feared I’d have more to look after when he finished his scrum with Aho.

“Jack!” His name was the first word to leave my lips. I shot out of my seat, my hand grasping the arm of Kristen. Quiet gasps and ‘oh’s’ dropped from the lips of the women around me. The weight of the leather jacket on my shoulders never felt heavier until then. I flinched when Jack went down. My first assumption was that he’d lost the fight. Until he wrapped his arms around Aho’s legs and flipped him over. Was that even legal?

“Babes, you gotta relax. He’ll be fine!” Nicole called to me over the roar of the crowd. My heart raced. I could hear it in my ears.

“What if he gets hurt?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it. Just relax.” Kristen interjected. She wiggled her arm from my grasp and slipped her hand into my own, slowly pulling me back into my seat as Jack was separated from the Hurricane. So much for Luke and all his protective tendencies. I couldn’t see much of Jack, but the way he skated off, he looked fine. Then again, he didn’t look particularly in pain when he chipped his tooth either.

My knees bounced for the rest of the game. My heart raced. I felt hot, so I slipped my jacket off. Then I heard the final goal horn. The game was officially over. I grabbed my jacket and shot out of my seat, past a suite full of women. I assumed my jacket would be sign enough to get me back into the players only area. I truly hoped so. I took the stairwell instead of trying to weave through crowds on escalators. It was quite the sprint, but a workout I would benefit from. I was met with security by the first door, their eyes looked me over before one man smiled at me and let me through.

Then it was a matter of weaving through the halls, past the visiting locker room, past equipment rooms, past reporters- then I was stopped outside the locker room.

“Here for Jack?” One of the media managers asked. He worked with the arena staff.

“Yeah.” I breathed out, biting my lip.

“You know you’ll have to wait.” And I did, but a piece of me hoped I’d manage to get in first.

Instead, because of legally binding contracts, I was left pacing in the hall while the media filled the locker room and began asking millions of questions.

When reporters cleared out, and players began filing out of the room, the same manager waved me inside. I wrinkled my nose at the scent, but my distaste was replaced by concern when I spotted Jack and Luke seated side by side in their stalls, still half dressed. Jack was rubbing his wrist- not a great sign, but his smile was a good one.

“Jack.” Both boys looked up at me. I crossed the floor, careful not to step on the logo.

“Hey, babe. Thought we’d meet at the car?” Jack’s bubbly tone caught me off guard. I reached out to grab his face nonetheless, inspecting every inch. His brows rose in surprise, but he allowed me to turn his face in my hands and occasionally rub a blemish or red mark. Even the acne forming on his forehead from the sweaty helmet he wore. He needed a spa day.

“Smile wide for me.” I instructed, and much like a child, Jack gave me his best toothy grin. All but one. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“I don’t think so.” Jack shook his head, and I finally let him go. “You worried about me?” He teased.

“A little, all things considered.” Look stifled a laugh at the obvious allusion to his missing tooth.

“Hey,” Jack feigned offense.

“You just make me nervous sometimes, Is all.”

“What about me?” Luke chimed in, looking up at me expectantly.

“What about you?” I quipped in response, this time I laughed with Jack.

“You guys suck.” Luke muttered as he stood up.

“Says the one who didn’t protect his brother.” I argued.

“Did you see the same fight I did? I don’t think I needed to.” Luke sassed, earning a hard glare from both myself and Jack.

“Check that ‘tude bro.”

“Yeah, Lu. Check the ‘tude.” I agreed with Jack, earning an incredulous look from the youngest boy.

“Get outta here,” Luke finally cracked a smile, trying to shoo me off. “We have to change.”

“Whatever, Luke. I’m telling your dad you’re being mean.”

“I’m sure I’m the least of his worries.” I had begun walking toward the doors of the locker room until Luke spoke up again. I turned to look at him.

“You and Quinn have had far more fights. I don’t think Jim is gonna be too worried.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t risk our shot at an NHL trophy, did we?”

“Jack.” I whined, looking toward the middle Hughes, who was busy removing his shoulder pads and his shirt.

“Luke, quit giving her trouble.” Jack scolded.

“Quit giving her trouble.” Luke mocked.

“Shut up!”

“Thut up!” Jack paused the second the words fell from Luke’s lips.

I took slow backwards steps toward the locker room door. I heard Luke mumble a brief sorry before I slipped out of the locker room. The only sounds that followed me were that of a loud thud and Luke quietly mumbling an, ‘ow.’

[moltensmusings]

So I forgot to make another rambling post, we continued our Fairy Tail rewatch. We're part way through grand magic games and the fury I feel at how it was written knows no bounds. Time for a bulleted post.

Warning, I'm going to be angry and really tear into the arc:

The hatred the citizens have for fairy tail is so stupidly convoluted and done just to make the audience root for fairy tail. You're telling me the entire populace hates a guild for just kind of sucking in games and not being that great? When we had the arena hating Rebecca in one piece, it made sense because to the general public, she was from the family that slaughtered citizens and brought terror to the land. In fairy tail it was done to make us care.

Raventail had literally no reason to be competing, and everything surrounding them is contradictory and infuriating. First, it doesn't make sense for them to join a big spectacle of their goal was to get information from guild members. Why wouldn't they just kidnap laxus or one of the other characters to force them into revealing things? Also, them being a dark guild, which we are told aren't sanctioned guilds, and yet Jellal not being allowed to go after them "because of interguild conflict." No, mashima just wanted them to be there. It makes no logical sense for Jellal to be held back on the principle of not stirring guild conflict when Raventail isn't recognized as a guild. Ivan having a much more down low confrontation with Laxus and Makarov would've been so much better than us getting some dumb plotline about how "laxus beats them all because they're just weak" like we get in every single arc. They only exist to give fairy tail a rival to fight and the "cruel guild who doesn't care about it's members and only wants power" is already filled by Sabertooth. What purpose did they serve?

Why would mashima have Flare be sadistic and gleeful if she was only doing what she did to try and save herself? It makes literally no sense for her to act the way she did. It would be one thing if we got any indication in her scenes that her personality was an act put on for Ivan, but we see her laughing and jeering with her guild even when she's not the main focus so why would she be excited if she didn't actually want to do it?

I really hate how no other guild is allowed to be in anyway as strong as fairy tail once our main characters are introduced. It makes fights so insanely boring. We never get actually shown instances of characters getting stronger, the show tells us they did and we have to believe it.

Heaven forbid a woman be allowed to actually win in this show unless she's Erza Scarlet. No girl is allowed to just be a strong fighter in their own right. Lucy gets humiliated and abused constantly during the GMG for no reason other than making the audience hate enemies. Wendy isn't allowed to go into the Cheria fight and properly win or lose (don't even get me started on the forced in red herring of Cheria being evil). Cana can't have her own strength or abilities despite testing to be an S-Class wizard. Apparently none of the mermaid heel women are allowed to actually be strong wizards outside of Kagura because heaven forbid we get actually challenging match ups.

How is it that we supposedly have Lacrima watching the game and judges/guards keeping an eye on things and yet apparently no one notices Raventail cheating? And when someone does notice them he just ignores it? What is even the point of any set up and world building if we throw it out the window just to make conflict work in your story. Mashima forcibly sets up a "Fairy tail vs the world" concept for GMG and it's so stupid and badly done that I don't even get mad at the other characters. I get mad at Mashima.

I'm chosing to ignore the random fanservice fight because it was pointless and so many characters were weirdly written just to put them in skimpy outfits. If I have to think about Asuka being thrown in during the swimsuit one I think I'll go insane. Also just made me disgusted at all the grown men leering at girls they watched grow up. Such as Makarov who consistently calls guild members his children.

Bacchus deciding he wants to force Lisanna and Mirajane to sleep with him if he wins because heaven forbid we get an antagonistic dude who is written as hatable without making him a creep. Heaven forbid women have agency.

Why was Lucy the one to go back in time when we have Levy narrating? I thought Celesital Wizards couldn't go through the gates they make, or at the very least that time gates took so much energy they killed the ones that use them. Even if it wasn't levy I would've preferred a different character coming back through time to warn everyone.

Mashima flopping between Natsu not caring about naked lucy/people to Natsu suddenly wanting to see her naked within the same arc, baffles me.

The way Mashima writes Mavis makes me so uncomfortable. Another grown women with a petite body he infantalizes. This woman was in her 20s when she died and he treats her like a child.

Erza vs 100 monsters is the one good scene in this arc.

TL;DR- I actually thought I'd enjoy this arc because I loved it as a teenager. But I'm so unbelievably angry at everything happening that I actually am having a horrible time.

[skinskisurf]

[athletictaipan]

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Daniel Greenfield

Some were shocked to learn that Israel’s successful ‘Pagergeddon’ operation had been the work of a female intelligence operative under thirty. But they shouldn’t have been.

Israel’s digital intelligence capabilities rely on the work of young women operating in arenas like Unit 8200 which monitors enemy communications, plants surveillance devices and puts together intel data to form a bigger picture, and Unit 414, the unarmed observers on the front line, many of whose members were killed and a number captured during the Hamas invasion on Oct 7.

Women from 8200 and 414 had sounded early warning alerts about Hamas training drills and movements that went unheard before Oct 7. And Unit 414 had lost 27 of its own on Oct 7.

Unit 8200, which is 55% female, had taken some of the blame for the failures on Oct 7. The assault on Hezbollah provided a unique opportunity for Israel’s women to strike back.

‘Pagergeddon’ went viral on social media but it was only a piece of a bigger puzzle. The Israelis had deconstructed the lessons of Oct 7 and turned them against the Islamic terrorists. Hamas and its Iranian masterminds had wrecked Israeli battlefield communications in the initial attack. Israeli military units were slow to respond, aerial units were unable to strike and hours passed before the military leadership understood the scope of the terrorist assault on the homeland.

The first thing Israel came after were Hezbollah’s communications. ‘Pagergeddon’ was a crucial last step that began with Israel infiltrating Hezbollah’s landlines and then its other communications. When Hezbollah leaders fell back on the pagers and handheld radios, also favored by Hamas, that had been rigged to explode, communications were fatally scrambled.

Hezbollah leaders were forced to begin meeting in person and retreating to bunkers which made it all too easy to take them out. With a broken leadership and communications structure, Hezbollah lacked the ability to decisively move its forces and quickly respond. Within a week, its protectors at the UN and the White House were frantically urging a ‘ceasefire’.

Destroying communications and the chain of command is standard military doctrine, and Israel’s successful implementation of it within such a short time and against one of the world’s largest Islamic terrorist groups will be studied in military academies for generations, but there was also something feminine about breaking apart Hezbollah’s social bonds before a bombing campaign.

While misleading photos and videos of female IDF soldiers carrying rifles circulate on social media, the burden of front line combat is largely handled by men. The killing and capture of unarmed Israeli female observers from Unit 414 remains a deep moral failure. The true role of Israeli women is to act as the invisible heart and soul of the country’s national defense.

When Iron Dome and other interceptor systems take down incoming attacks, the odds are very good that the country’s female air defense controllers are alert and responding. And the extent to which Hezbollah’s communications were penetrated and turned against the terror group owes much to nameless female ‘keyboard warriors’ who exposed the enemy’s weaknesses.

Hezbollah was uniquely vulnerable to these tactics because it was in the awkward stage between terror group and terror state, too big to hide in tunnels, too small to have an effective air defense system, and too dumb to realize that tens of thousands of rockets were still no match for what a first rate air force could do to all its infrastructure and weaponry.

[bullet-prooflove]

Bronco: Travis Wheatley x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989

Travis Wheatley falls in love when he sees you riding Bronco.

The Montana Rider’s Association are bringing back the women’s event for the first time since the forties and the prize, it rivals anything he’s seen in Dallas.

The aim of the game is to stay on the horse for eight seconds, no matter how much it may fight you. It’s messy, violent and adrenaline inducing.

“She needs the money.” Rip tells him as the two of them watch you from behind the fence that circles around the arena. “She’s just coming out of a messy divorce, she let the bastard have everything just so she could keep the horse. He told her he’d have it put down if he ever got his hands on it.”

The horse is called Artemis, she’s a white Arabian with a sleek coat and a glossy mane. They’re known as a light breed, excelling in both strength and agility, great for barrel racing. He’d fawned all over  her when he’d first laid eyes on her. She was a gorgeous creature, spirited, well cared for. The two of you are a match made in heaven.

“He sounds like a nasty son of a bitch.” Travis says as he sips from his bottle of beer, his breath catching as the Bronco tosses you. Those three seconds it takes you to move are the longest of his life but then you get back up on your feet, a little dirty, a little battered and you go again.

You’re the ballsiest damn woman he’s ever met.

“Malcom Beck.” Rip tells him and the name triggers something inside of Travis. He’s heard the rumours, cruel to his horses and to his wife, which was why she was always travelling the country competing in barrel rolling competitions. “He blackballed her from all the other stables, which is why we’re housing Artemis here. It’s not enough that he took everything, he needs to make her life difficult too.”

“She leave him?” Travis asks, his gaze straying down to his watch as he counts the seconds because your back on that Bronco and this time you’re staying put.

“The women she could put up with but then he tried to stop her competing, tried to take the horse.” Rip shakes his head, his palm rubbing across his grizzled chin. “It was the only thing that gave her any joy in that piece of shit marriage.”

You make eight seconds, and then you do it again and again and again until Lloyd calls you off because both you and the Bronco are both tired. Travis greets you at the gate with a beer and you press the cool glass against your flushed cheeks before you pop the cap off.

You have that look in your eyes, the same bright, exhilarated look that he gets when he’s competing. There’s a wildness in you right now, your husband he tried to tame it, stifle it but Travis he wants to run with it, all the way out into the mountains and however far it goes.

“You wanna get into some trouble tonight?” He asks you, his shoulder bumping against yours as you both sit down on the grass outside the arena. “No strings, just a mutual thing between two people who haven’t felt tenderness in a while.”

It’s quiet now, Rip and Lloyd are seeing to the Bronco whilst the others are camping up in the pastures with one of the herds. There’s a peacefulness to it, a stillness you never get tired of. You could live forever up here in the valley, soaking in the tranquillity of it.

“I don’t believe for a single second it’s been that long for you cowboy.” You say, leaning back in the grass. Travis follows suit, his arm propping up his head as he studies you.

The warmth of his body rolls over your skin, the hem of his t-shirt creeping up to reveal a slither of firm, tan muscle. It’s been a long time since you wanted a man, since you craved the unyielding thrust of his cock deep inside you.

“It’s been over a year.” He tells you, picking a daisy and using it to trail up along the inside of your forearm. It’s a euphoric sensation, the gentle trace of petals over your flesh sending a thrill of anticipation chasing through every single one of your synapses.

“I ain’t got nobody back home waiting for me and from what I hear you don’t either.” He murmurs, the daisy slipping from his fingers as his thumb chases along the line of your jaw. “Why shouldn’t we take a little pleasure in one another, enjoy ourselves.”

There’s an ache in you, a fierce heat that licks through your veins likes a wildfire as his nose trails along the length of yours, his lips ghosting lightly over your mouth. That kiss, it’s full of everything you’ve been missing, passion, sensuality and above all promise, promise that it’s not just about him tonight, it’s about you.

“Oh honey,” He whispers against your lips. “The two of us are going to have some fun.”

Love Travis? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[world-of-aus]

All I'll Ever Need

Pairing: Bull Rider!Bucky x Reader

Warnings: None.

Author's Note: I've been in my cowboy, bullrider funk and I needed this out! I hope you all enjoy this piece, as always happy reading! Now back to my dark cave, I go.

It’s a high live event tonight, the grounds large enough for not only the main attraction bull riding, but the other rodeo sports being held this evening. You work your way through the crowd, the boy on your hip wiggling around in hopes to get higher to spot his father over the large crowd. You hike the brown haired, grey-eyed boy higher on your hip, the excitement coursing through his tiny body as you cross the arena grounds. Natasha and Wanda had texted you minutes prior after having parked the truck that they had just barely managed to secure the four of you good seats in the stands overlooking the ground.

Squeezing your way through the masses your feet meet the stands wooden stairs, you climb them carefully till your standing on the landing looking left then right as you look for your group. “Look!” Your attention is directed by the six-year-old over to the farthest corner on the right, Wanda and Natasha waving at the two of you wildly with their hats, Bucky standing tall behind them on the iron gates.

Grant snatches the hat that matches his dad’s off his head, waving it around just as wildly as his aunts. A sharp whistle pierces the air the boy’s eyes snapping past the awaiting women to the matching pair of cerulean blue waiting for him, how he hadn’t seen his father yet surprises you, but the boy becomes a bucking bronco in your hold till you’re releasing him from your grip. His form slips from your body as he runs through the stands to where his father awaits perched.

You chase after him, excusing yourself past the other patrons already in their seats. Natasha waits for the tiny brunette who is feet ahead of you with open arms, his body falling into his aunts hold as she hoists him high, his hat surpassing the both of them as he lets out a squeal of joy. He reaches for his father next, who takes him in even stronger arms squeezing his son to his broad chest.

You nearly falter in your steps at the sight, your heart racing, body warming at the sight before you. The bond the two shared was unlike any other you had experienced. Bucky Barnes had a hard time believing he could be the father his son needed when his mother just up and left two months into Grants first year of life, but he had proven himself wrong time and time again. There’s amazement in Grants eyes and love in Buckys as he explains to his son all about the ongoing events.

You close the distance saddling up next to Natasha as you hear Bucky’s promise to Grant to take him riding for the first time this week that he had off. “I’m all your’s bud, whaddya say? Uncle Steve and Sam can help too, aunt Wanda and Natasha can bring your favorite snacks.”

“Can y/n come too daddy, can she!” Bucky’s eyes find yours, pink lips curling into a breathtaking smile. “Of course she can bud,” he replies eyes never leaving yours, “that’s of course if she wants, think she might need a break from us boys bud, you’ve get her chasing you all day.”

Your lips curl in return, “I haven’t missed one of his firsts yet Barnes, don’t plan on doing so anytime soon. You can count me in, besides there’s no one I love to chase more.” A squeal of joy erupts from the smaller long-haired brunette and you’re just barely moving forward to catch his form as he jumps at you, his hat knocking yours clean off your head. Small but mighty arms wrap around your neck, his round cheeks smushing against yours as he thanks you profusely, promising you bouts of fun. Bouts of fun that you knew no matter what would be delivered. You’d spend the rest of your days with the Barnes boys if life itself allowed it.

The world melts away in the hug, your focus solely on the boy in your arms as you squeeze him just as tightly to you. “You going to show your dad how it’s done, how the real cowboys ride?” you question in a teasing tone as you pull back to look at the boy. The excitement he lets out draws a laugh from your group, “he’s going to be a hell of a lot better than I am that’s for sure.” Bucky chuckles, your eyes find his, “If he is, it’s only because he has a pretty awesome father to thank, give yourself credit B, you’re doing an amazing job with little man here.”

You don’t think you’ll ever tire catching the moments Bucky goes bashful under your gaze, the only sign that the man before you could feel the same, well as for what your friend's turned family all say. The brunette goes to reply but Steve is calling for him over his shoulder; his turn was coming around. You wave at the bearded dirty-blonde, grant following suit the hat coming too as he waves it around. You move forward into Bucky’s space to say your goodbye’s, grants arms going around his father as he gives him a tight squeeze. When the two pull away you fall in next, your arm that isn’t holding grant going around Bucky’s back, “you better be safe out there B,” you murmur into his ear, “you’ve got a little one that’s going to be watching your every move.” His chuckle rumbles deep within his chest, fingers curling tighter into your skin as he squeezes you much like his son, “is he the only one that’s going to be watching me ride tonight?”

The pinch you deliver to Bucky’s back has the broad-shouldered brunette pulling back that same chuckle bubbling out of his chest this time. “don’t be a smart-ass B, I’m being serious be safe out there.” His hand finds yours fingers curling with your own, lips meeting your intertwined fingers, “riding bulls is in my blood sweetheart you know I’ll be careful.”

“James Buchanan Barnes I’m being serious.”

His grin is heart melting as he pulls you and Grant back in, squeezing the two of you before placing a kiss to the side of your head. “I promise, I’m coming out of those gates to you.” His words stall your heart, but you tell yourself he’s not coming for you, he’s coming for the son you hold, his boy, his whole world. You let him go with Grant yelling for his dad to be careful, Bucky sends him a wave over his shoulder as he moves over to the gates Steve and Sam wait for him by. You take your seat between Natasha and Wanda settling Grant on your legs as you let him watch the current rider burst through the farthest Gate. Grant is lost in the show, his eyes bright as he watches the rider hold strong to the bull.

“Don’t know how much more proof you need.” Your eyes flit over to the blonde sitting next to you, “proof?” you question. A smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, “yeah, proof to see that that man by those gates is just as taken with you as you are with him.” You snort eyes gliding over to said man that stands at the farthest bucking chute awaiting his turn. There’s a snorting angry bull just below him, but his eyes are on you, your retort gets stuck on your tongue. Steve’s passing him his protective headgear an exchange for the hat he wore on his head. He sends you a final wink before placing the helmet on and falling over the bull who only bucks harder with his added weight.

Your heart races away in your chest as you watch him get into position, one hand going just above his head as the other laces its way around the rope tied to the bull. A buzzer goes off somewhere in the air, the gate slams open the bull racing out. Grants high on his feet as he watches his dad, fingers curled around the railing as he watches. You didn’t even notice the boy crawl off your lap your own breath caught in your throat as you watch that bull buck for his life to get Bucky off of him. Just 8 seconds you think as you push to your feet standing behind grant, just 8 seconds, hold on, hold on, hold on....

The air is electric as the buzzer goes off, patrons flying from seats to cheer Bucky on just as he falls from the bull, the clowns running in to get him out. Grant can hardly wait to get to his father once he’s getting out of the main arena. He’s grabbing your hand pulling, barely giving you a chance to tell the girls where you’re going, though they already know.

You follow the brown-haired boy as he tugs your through the stands, getting you two down on the ground before racing his way to where he knows he’ll find his dad and uncles. The crowd on the dirt ground clears, Grant seeing Bucky ways ahead laughing with his uncles. His hand falls away from yours the boy barreling with all his might towards the three men his fathers names falling from his lips to grab his attention. The three men turn to the barreling boy, Bucky moving forward to meet his boy halfway.

You slow your steps watching the two reunite Bucky lifting Grant in the air as he pulls his son in. Natasha and Wanda catch up to you, linking their arms with yours as they pull you forward. Steve and Sam move also, your group, your family moving closer as you close the distance. Hugs are shared as you finally greet Sam and Steve, “good to see you sweetheart!” Steve greets as he pulls you in for a hug

You pinch Steve in the ribs as if you hadn’t seen him earlier in the morning when you went to help Bucky with a still sleeping Grant. “You saw me this morning Steve,” you laugh, “it’s good to see you too though.”

“Move it over Rogers, favorite coming through,” Sam says as he pulls the bearded blonde coming in for a hug of his own. A wet kiss is pressed to your cheek, “Sammy,” you breathe squeezing the man just as tight, “always so good to see you!” Sam's grinning, "see," he tells the group, "favorite." Wanda moves in when you pull away her lips finding Sam's, "everyone knows Grant is y/n's favorite," she laughs as she pulls away, "but you're mine." Your group coo's at the two, Steve holding Nat under his arm, Sam holding Wanda, "Grant's not the only Barnes that y/n favors," Natasha grins.

You want to roll your eyes at her attempt, but the strong arm falling over your shoulder has you biting your tongue. You look over at the bearded brunette who's already looking right back at you, holding the bright boy who holds your heart, "good thing she's our favorite too." You could out yourself now to the man holding you protectively under his arm but you bite your tongue instead leaning further into his touch. His lips find the side of your head, "we should go catch the rest of the rides," Steve mentions, "we've gotta go check the trailers locked though," Bucky answers.

"Why don't you and y/n go check," Natasha offers, already moving forward to grab Grant, "we'll stop at the concessions first, save y’all a seat." They leave you no space for argument as Natasha urges your group to go, "see you in a bit," she calls over her shoulder, "take all the time you need!"

You inwardly groan at their antics, Bucky chuckles pulling you with him, "C'mon sweetheart, let's go check that trailer." You let him whisk you along the arena grounds, the feeling of being under his arm all consuming, it felt right, it felt like the two of you belonged, though there was never a moment in the years that you've know Bucky that being with him didn't feel right.

Then why couldn't it have been you?

Why her?

"You know," Bucky starts suddenly as he turns you towards the lot that holds the trailers, "you really are our favorite." You glance up at him smile on your lips as you continue to walk further into the lot, "that so B?"

He nods, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smile, "how could you not be," he answers, "know you almost my whole life, you've stuck with me through it all even those moments you didn't need to, seen me at my worst and never thought to hell with this and walked away from me because nothing was tying you to me. If anything you grabbed my hand held tight and dragged me from the fire and Grant, god with Grant - I - I could never express how grateful I am for you, you took up a responsibility you didn't ask for, helped me raise a boy that wasn't yours. You never gave up on us."

You're glad you've come up to his trailer because his words have you halting in your step, your body stopping his from going any further. You turn to face him, "And I would do it all over if I had to," you respond with conviction, "you, Grant, you both mean the world to me. There's nothing you could ask of me that I wouldn't do for you. For either of you. You've been my best friend for years, stood with me as well when I needed you." He shakes his head the two of you knowing that statement isn't all true especially when Dolores had been in the picture, but you couldn't bring yourself to blame him, not now, not then. He was in love, and he thought she was too. He thought she was the one, you all did.

"I could have been better to you, after all you've done for me, for us."

You're shaking your head in return, your hand coming up to rest against his stubbled cheek. An act you've done before that feels so different now. "You were what I needed when I needed you to be B, I was in no position to ask more of you. All I knew was that when the time came I wanted to return that favor, I wanted to be what you needed." It falls silent between the two of you, eyes locked on one another in a gaze that you aren't sure you'd ever say Bucky Barnes would look at you with.

Strong warm hands come up to cup your cheeks, your breath is stolen in a moment. "Sweetheart - you're all I ever needed, I just didn't think I deserved someone like you, but the more time I spend with you, the more time I see you with Grant - I want to be that someone, I don't want to waste anymore time just being your friend."

You've lost count of how often Bucky has left you speechless, so you do what you've only ever dreamed of doing. Curling your fingers into the lapels of his shirt, you tug him closer, your lips finding his in an all-consuming kiss.

You didn't want to waste any more time either.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Hi there!

I was wondering if you could do a yandere RoR with the reader being the daughter of either Acnologia (Fairy tail) or Whitebeard (One piece). The reader being the kindest person there is, but have a wicked temper.

Like when they fight their opponent (a rather cruel god) and they try to attack their family and they lose it and unleash their power and rage on them.

And that gains the attention of the gods and humans.

Gods: Thor, Poesidon Buddha, Loki, Hercules and Hermes

Humans: Lu bu, Jack the Ripper, Raiden, Sasaki Kojiro and Leonidas

-The strongest man in the world, one of the strongest and mightiest of pirates, who commanded a massive crew full of powerful individuals, calling them his family, his sons and daughters, was an opponent none wanted to cross unless if they had to.

-Of all the children he laid claim over, there was only one who was biologically his, his daughter, Y/N. She was tall, beautiful, and just as powerful as her old man.

-Normally level-headed and a good leader, Y/N was a force to be reckoned with in her own right, earning her respect and power young, but she did have one little weakness- her temper.

-You weren’t known for losing your temper often, but when you did…. There was usually a lot of property damage, usually a couple of deaths, and lots of people crying, begging for forgiveness.

-However, you had a pretty good lid on your temper, only losing it for a few small things here and there, so your crew, your family, had learned quickly to avoid those triggers, and if someone else caused you to pop off, they would be safe, as they all knew to stay a safe distance back, away from the carnage.

-You lived a life full of adventure and fun, and died doing what you loved, sailing, being pulled to Valhalla, as you were deemed someone worthy of coming.

-You enjoyed your time in Valhalla, being able to meet new people, make new friends, and battle strong opponents, and while you did miss your family dearly, you knew they would yell at you for lingering on them rather than sailing forward like your dad always taught you to do.

-You weren’t like a lot of the other women in Valhalla, you were crass, talked back, could drink almost anyone under the table, and you loved to fight, you had no issues getting hurt if it meant you were going to get a good brawl out of it.

-This is what led Brunnhilde into seeking you out to fight in Ragnarok, fighting alongside with other champions of humanity for it’s very survival against the gods.

-You knew that gods existed, being in Valhalla for so long, and while there were many good ones, ones you could call friends, there were ones who were cruising for a bruising and you had been feeling a little antsy here as of late, mainly because you weren’t getting the challenge you so desperately wanted.

-Your opponent was cocky, seeing a woman, despite her not looking dainty and delicate, but he was arrogant, immediately thinking that this was going to be an easy fight.

-People were cheering loudly for you, those you had befriended and those who knew of your power, many of them knowing full well who was actually going to win the fight.

-Your opponent laughed obnoxiously when he heard your dad’s name, “Whitebeard?! What kind of stupid name is that?!”

-Many people groaned in the audience, immediately handing over their losing bets to their friends; it’s not that they were betting against you, but they were betting on how quickly this fight was going to end.

-He was not prepared for you to come flying across the arena at him and throw a harsh right hook across his face, sending him flying back into the brick wall behind you.

-You glared darkly, a murderous aura surrounding you as you cracked your knuckles, stalking towards him, “Nobody talks about my daddy like that.”

-You won your match in a little under two minutes, not even using your weapon with your Valkyrie partner, you did it with your bare hands.

-While you assure her that you were fine, Brunnhilde dragged you to the infirmary to get your knuckles wrapped up, as you had busted them open pretty bad during the beat down.

-A knock came to the door of the room you were in with two nurses, one working on each hand, and your eyes lit up as a man walked in and you beamed, “(Love)!”

-Couldn’t help but chuckle, seeing you getting patched up, walking in but not bothering the nurses, “Have to say Y/N, it was pretty hot watching you go feral for once.” You pouted lightly up at him, showing your softer side, “Nobody gets to talk about my papa like that!” he chuckled, as he knew that was a fact, that’s how he met you, seeing some cocky upstarts insulting your father which led to a one on however many there were with you walking away the clear victor with no major wounds. He asked you out right after that for a drink, which you accepted and the two of you have been nearly attached at the hip. He respected you heavily, you were not to be underestimated and he demanded respect for you if he felt like you weren’t getting it. Keeps PDA to a minimum but behind closed doors he’s a total cuddle bug. Once you were free from the nurses he picked you up like you were a delicate maiden, making your face blaze brightly. He thought you were adorable when you got so shy, but now that you won your fight, he was treating you to a drink- you earned it!

            -Leonidas, Lu Bu, Thor, Poseidon, Hermes, and Raiden

-Knew not to coddle you, but you could see the worry in his eyes, even if he didn’t say anything, sitting nearby, “How’s the hands?” you grinned, flashing him a wink, “They ache so good- bastard got what he deserved.” He chuckled warmly, finding your humor comforting. He knew that you were going to win, but he was still nervous watching you fight, not wanting you to get hurt as you were important to him. You knew of his worry but said nothing out of respect to him, something he did appreciate. Your hands were stiff from the bandages, leaving you not able to use them really easily, but (Love) was happy to help, letting you sit on his lap, holding your mug of ale for you, enjoying your after fight feast he prepared for the two of you. He praised your fighting skills, showing what you were able to do without a weapon but also while overcome with fuming rage. He knew of your triggers that would set you off, unintentionally setting a few off himself, but now knew better. Adored you, showers you with love and praise and just makes you feel so happy and dainty, but at the same time knows full well you will throw hands with anyone if they were to disrespect you, your father, or (Love).

            -Buddha, Hercules, Loki, Jack, and Kojiro