Idc Y’all Better Put Ur Whole Fanussys In To The Wednesday Show Fanfic Y’all Write

THEM IN EACH OTHERS COLORS <3

Night Hunters

Jake Sully x Daughter!Reader

NOTE : This takes place before Kiri and Tuktirey, so the reader is Jake's youngest child and only daughter.

ENJOY AND HAPPY NEW YEAR LOVES

Giggles erupted from you as you padded through the forest, rapidly ducking underneath leaves and hopping over mushrooms. Your movements were fluid--just like your mother taught you--as you briefly glanced back for your pursuer. However, when you failed to see him, you skidded to a stop.

Panting, you twisted around, looking over your shoulders. Though the hour was late, the forest was far from inactive. Creatures, that were currently not within your eyesight, chirped around you. A gust of wind blew your hair, causing you to whip around, once again. However, your soaring heart slowed when you caught sight of a group of fan lizards. You followed them with your gaze, watching as they soared higher and higher into the air.

The glow from their bioluminescent wings lit the surrounding area, giving everything they glided past a temporary glow. As they flew deeper into the forest, the glow from one of the lizards suddenly illuminated a pair of yellow eyes. Upon seeing their glow, you gasped as your heart jumped, releasing a scream before turning around and taking off at a sprint.

As you ran, you heard bigger, heavier footsteps behind you, further fueling your adrenaline rush. Giggles poured out of your mouth as you pushed yourself to run faster, desperately weaving between trees and hopping over bushes.

Grunting, you pushed your legs to move faster. You didn't dare look back, knowing that the action would only slow you down.

When you felt yourself gain a bit of distance, you ducked underneath an oversized leaf, allowing it to conceal your presence. Releasing a breath, you gently sat down and pressed your back against the plant. Reaching behind you, you grabbed your queue and brought it over your shoulder. You, then, took a piece from the rest of your hair, absentmindedly playing with it between your fingers as you waited.

Thank goodness Mommy let me wear my hair out today, you thought to yourself.

You'd been begging your mother to style your hair in the same hairstyle that she wore on special occasions--where most of her hair was down, except for the front portion, which would be pulled behind her head and held with a flower. You knew that, if you had beads in, the noise from them might give you away.

For a long moment, you didn't hear any movement around you. That quickly changed, however, when you saw a familiar silhouette come into view. The soft, nocturnal glow from the forest illuminated the area around the figure, making its shape show more prominently through the leaf. You covered your mouth as the tall figure stalked closer to your hiding place. As the figure turned, still searching, its queue whipped around behind it.

Pressing your hand tighter to your mouth, you shook with anticipatory giggles. However, when one slipped out, you sucked in a breath as your eyes widened.

The figure whipped around, now facing you. Then, at an agonizingly slow pace, it lowered itself to its knees before beginning to crawl. You held your breath as you pressed your back against the plant. It drew closer, stalking forward like a predator scoping out its prey.

Before long, it was right in front of you. The leaf was the only boundary between you and your predatory pursuer. Your heart pumped within your chest, echoing inside your ears as a pair of hands made their way around each side of the leaf.

Unable to hold yourself anymore, you squealed, giggling loudly as the hands crawled towards you, moving in a motion that resembled two spiders. As the "spiders" closed in, you pulled your feet in, tucking them closer to you. However, the spiders anticipated this movement and grabbed your ankles before you could pull them out of reach.

"No!" you squealed, giggling as you tried to free your feet.

"Oh, Y/N . . . ?" the figure finally spoke, making you giggle louder, "Where, oh where, has my babygirl gone?"

With one quick pull, you were yanked from under the leaf. The quick force caused you to fall onto your back. You covered your face, shielding your eyes from the awaiting gaze of the vicious predator that had been stalking you. However, once you came to a stop, the hands released your ankles.

Though your vision was blocked, you could feel a large body hovering over you. The feeling of a couple of loose strands of hair brushed over your hands. Then, large hands gripped your wrists and forced them away from your eyes. Immediately, you were face-to-face with the mischievous, awaiting gaze of your father.

Tilting his head, a playful smile pulled at his lips. "There she is," he growled.

Letting out a scream, you sat up and tried to run, once again. However, Jake didn't let you escape this time. After quickly grabbing your waist, he scooped you up.

"Oh no you don't," he said, laying you back down on the ground.

Desperate giggles fell from your lips as you squirmed, looking up at your father. He chuckled as he grabbed your fighting arms and held them in place.

With a subtle shake of his head, he rasped, "You're mine now."

He, then, lowered his head to your stomach and blew an enormous raspberry onto your skin. Squeezing your eyes closed, you shrieked with giggles, squirming desperately at the ticklish sensation.

After a moment, Jake raised his head, wanting to get a look at your face. Upon seeing your joyous expression, he broke into a smile before beginning to laugh himself. Then, he lowered his head again, placing his lips back on your belly. This time, he blew a shorter raspberry before shaking his head back and forth, making playful growling noises into your skin. You threw your head back, hollering with childish laughter, once again.

Then, without warning, he raising your arms before alternating between your hollows and neck, blowing short raspberries into your skin. Your laughter spiked, increasing an octave as the sensation became nearly unbearable.

Sensing your lack of breath, Jake let up, raising his head to watch you. He smiled fondly as your giggles slowly quieted down. Shaking his head, he chuckled before lowering his head to you again. Thinking he was going to blow another raspberry, you shrugged your shoulders, shrinking away from him as anticipatory giggles bubbled up again.

This made him laugh more. "No more tickles, baby," he said, placing a kiss on your forehead, "Just wanted to give you a kiss."

You let out a breath as he released you. However, since you were too tired to move from your position on the ground, you simply stayed put. As Jake leaned up, he positioned himself to sit down before turning back to you. When he saw you panting on the ground, he threw his head back in laughter.

"Aw, babygirl," he chuckled, reaching down and picking you up, "Too ticklish for your own good?"

You shook your head, leaning against him as he placed you on his lap.

"No?" he asked, chuckling as you shook your head again, "Well, you definitely have it worse than your brothers, that's for sure."

"Why should I suffer for that?" you exclaimed, making Jake place a hand on your head and laugh again.

The sudden sound of a low growl ceased both of your movements. Looking up, you quickly realized that the growl hadn't come from your father. Jake jumped up, pushing you behind him as he faced the direction of the growl. As he kept his left hand on your stomach, keeping you behind him, his right hand reached into his belt and pulled out his knife.

Fear spiked within you as a thanator slowly emerged from the bush. Gasping, you reached up and grabbed Jake's hand.

"Daddy," you whimpered, feeling your heart rate pickup.

""It's okay, babygirl," he replied.

Though he was now heavily distracted, he took the time to give your small hand a gentle squeeze. Peeking around his much taller body, you watched as the thanator let out a venomous hiss. Jake, who had not taken his eyes off of the carnivorous creature, narrowed his eyes before tilting his head. Then, he let out a hiss of his own, challenging the creature.

Shivers ran down your spine as you heard the chilling sound. You'd never heard him hiss in such a way.

Just as the creature began to stalk forward, a loud squawk was heard from above. You gasped as Jake's ikran suddenly flew in from above the trees. Crowing loudly, it landed in between Jake and the thanator before turning to hiss at the approaching creature.

You barely had time to register the moment before Jake scooped you up and hopped onto the creature's back. With you sitting in front of him, he secured the bond before giving it an order.

"Yah!" he yelled, signaling the creature to take off.

Sucking in a breath, you leaned back against your father's chest as the ikran took off in a vertical position, briefly missing the thanator's reaching claws as it jumped.

As the ikran took you through the trees, wind rushed past your ears. Heart pounding, you reached out and grabbed your father's wrist. After glancing down, he freed one of his hands and gripped your waist.

"I got you, sweetheart," he said, "It's okay."

Too stunned to respond, you simply nodded and allowed him to hold you to him.

At last, you surpassed the treetops and reached the night sky. Your jaw dropped as you took in the view. Below you, the forest's glow was still visible. Above you, stars gleamed through the dark blue blanket that coated the sky. Neighboring planets were also visible, filling the sky with their blue radiance.

Jake temporarily released you to level out the ikran before gripping you again.

Your father had never taken you on his ikran before, not that he'd ever intended to. Jake had planned for your first time to be after the final hunter exam, should you choose to become a hunter. However, in that moment, he knew that this exception was more than necessary. He couldn't have been more grateful for his ikran's aid in getting you out alive.

"Whew." He released a breath. "I shouldn't have had you out this late, anyway. Your mother's not gonna be too happy with me."

You looked up at him. "Please don't stop our night adventures, Daddy," you replied.

He glanced down at you before smiling gently. "Don't worry about that now, babygirl," he responded, "Just try to get some shut-eye, alright?"

After releasing a sigh, you nodded before leaning back against his chest. You felt him place a kiss on your head before rubbing your stomach. With one last look at the sky, and the glowing forest below you, you closed your eyes.

Taglist : @eywas-daughter @pturnersblog @bombshe77

To my fellow fanfiction readers,

When you're feeling alone, when you're sad, scared, lost, when you feel broken please try and remember this.

Your comfort character? Would absolutely adore you. They would think you were amazing, flaws and all. They would sit with you when you cried, they'd help you through every hardship.

They're here sweetheart, they're waiting for you, waiting for you to find the new story of your love, to revisit how you first met. They're so ready to fall in love with you all over again, and they will. Because they adore you. So please take care or yourself sweet one, they'd be so lost without you.

So what will it be tonight, friends to lovers? A/B/O? The one bed trope? Found family? Will you find eachother again after a time apart? Will it be smut or fluff? Love at first sight? Enemies to lovers? It's always exciting to start again isn't it? To rediscover how much you adore them.

I hope tomorrow is easier to live through than today, that you find that fic you're looking for, that safe place to land.

Remember your comfort character believes in you and so do I, the random girl on Tumblr, scrolling along with you, trying to make sure no one feels as alone as when they started. You are loved, matter, you are worth everything.

~💛❤True

𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

You're not sure you're ready to come back. Hotch has total faith in you. Or, your transition back into the team after your abduction doesn't go as smoothly as you'd hoped. 

6k words, fem!reader, bau!reader, some mutual pining, reader is suffering from effects of ptsd, allusions to kidnapping + torture, hurt/comfort, hotch has a soft spot for you (as do most of the team)

༺༻

Reid was abducted, once. 

You can remember the anxiety of it like a hand around your throat. It feels cruel to say that his abduction and torture had effected you more than if it had been a stranger, but you meet so many people, so many victims of cruelty, that the fear starts to blunt. 

Though it doesn't blur. You find it impossible to forget the people that you've failed, and failing a team mate? That had been excruciating. 

Only when you'd been taken yourself had you realised it wasn't a failure at all. 

You wish the others would understand that. 

"Are you feeling okay?" Prentiss asks as you sit down. 

You suppose you had gone down a bit hard. "Mm?" you hum in question, pulling a copy of the initial case file toward you. 

"You looked a little wobbly." 

"Long night?" Morgan asks.

There's both sympathy and mirth in his voice. If you did have a long night, it wouldn’t be from anything fun. He knows that. Everybody knows that. That's why they're treating you like glass. 

"I actually slept really well," you say softly, returning his smile with one that's entirely genuine. 

"That's good, considering," he says, bracing his forearm against the conference table. 

He's been your number one supporter since you came back. Probably because he feels very guilty about what happened. You'd been paired up at the time. 

"Actually, it's common for people who've been abducted to sleep incredibly well for a long period afterward. It's similar to the leisure sickness phenomena- Your body would have been in defence mode, and-" 

"Reid," Hotch says firmly, stepping into the room with his usual lowbrow. 

"Sorry." 

And the spiel begins. JJ lays out the details of the case she's triaged and the team gives their first input. The barest beginnings of a working theory. You try to contribute and find your tongue a leaden weight in your mouth. Ever since you got back, you've been useless. 

You can't do your job, but thank god you can sleep at night, right? 

You miss the start of his sentence, your focus latching onto Hotch's conclusive, "Wheels up in thirty." 

Your team are standing in seconds, trained in the art of quick departures. You used to be good at this part. You're a good agent, even when you're a mediocre profiler. 

"L/N?" 

You blink. "Mm?" you hum, meeting your unit chief's concerned look with a perfected blasé. 

You've come to a stand in front of the table, and everyone else has left. It's you and Hotch alone. 

"If you're not ready to go back into the field, that's okay." 

If you were Reid, or Prentiss, or especially Morgan, you'd get defensive here, and you would lie well, but you’re a bad liar and Hotch is a great detector for them, so you tell the truth. 

"I'm not sure that I'm ready, but I'd like to go. I won't be a burden. I can work effectively." 

"I know you won't be a burden." 

You tilt your head to one side and feel your hair shift over your thick sweater. You haven't felt like showing much skin, lately. Everybody has noticed, because they notice everything, and nobody has made you feel bad about it. In fact, your fellow agents have made numerous comments about the chilly weather. It's July. 

Hotch's eyes fall to your long sleeves for a split-second. 

"Do you think he's alive?" you ask.

"Sorry?" 

You nod your head toward the board, where the portrait of your kidnapping victim hangs in full colour. "Do you think he's alive?" 

"Unless there's evidence that would suggest otherwise, we shouldn't assume. You know that." 

"I know that that's the answer you're used to giving." 

His voice goes too soft, like he's talking to somebody in grief. "I think he is." 

You honestly can't stand it when he talks to you like this. You tilt your head a little further and see him the way he'd been that morning, his tenderness, his fear. He'd opened the door and suddenly you'd known you were safe. 

He hasn't looked at you right since he found you.

"I have all my best clothes in my go-bag," you offer. 

"Well, go get it. This might be a long one." 

—

The jet is a really nice jet. 

It's hard not to feel impressed by it. It's a vehicle that can take you from one crime scene to another, and it's a necessary expense, but it feels lavish. The clean smells, the comfort, the kitchenette. It has a full-sized toilet. 

"Missed this?" Morgan asks knowingly. 

You wheedle your way into one of the four seats surrounding the main table and smile when he drops down next to you. "Missed using you as my personal pillow, maybe," you tease. 

"Table hogs," Prentiss complains, sitting on the armrest of the couch in defeat. 

You laugh under your breath. Morgan pulls out his laptop and turns the screen so everyone can see Garcia, and as soon as the jet's taken off the second round of speculation begins. 

You regret sitting where you had quickly. You can feel Hotch's analysing gaze where he sits opposite. He doesn't believe you're ready to come back. 

You lick your lips.

"Why would she cut him open just to kill him straight afterward?" JJ asks. "I mean, if she didn't assault him?" 

"It's unlikely that she's a sadist," Reid infers. 

"Disembowelment is a pretty painful, horrific way to die. Maybe she realised that and killed him," Morgan suggests. 

"Remorse?" you murmur. "Could mean she's… younger. And revenge killers don't always see it through." 

"Why take another one if you can't commit to the first?" Prentiss asks. 

"Maybe that's why she took him. She wants time to work herself up," you mutter. 

You hide your hands under the table. It's hard to ignore the similarities with the current case and the one you're investigating. The unsub who'd taken you had been narcissistic and self-righteous, punishing the BAU for stopping her second murder — you'd predicted her next victim and moved him before she could take him. 

So her victimology had changed, and she'd stolen you. 

She couldn't commit to her first session of torture: hesitant cuts, loose ligatures. By your turn she'd improved, but her tentative resolve had remained and she'd run after three days. It's the worst thing she could've done, buying herself less than a week on the run and leaving you with no outside communication. 

You'd almost died of dehydration. 

"She's choosing from a specific group," Reid says. He holds up a photograph of the first victim. He'd been murdered in his bedroom, and the walls are plastered in playboy. Kill all men has been written across his forehead in red lipstick. "Our abductee, he was wearing a t-shirt featuring popular bikini model Miss Olympia. In a state of undress." 

“Is that specific?” Prentiss asks wryly.

"She's angry," you say. 

Hotch leans forward and clicks Garcia's call button. "Garcia?"  

"Sir." 

"Are there any prolific feminist groups in the area? Radicals?" 

They fall into conversation, a pulling and pushing of information. Something about online forums, flame wars, political arguments. 

It's not the strongest theory in the world but they can make it work. You should be making it work with them. 

The flight is an early morning longhaul to Idaho and you work the case the entire time you're in the air. There's an abundance of coffee that you reject because you're worried it'll rehash your on-again off-again migraine, and while your teammates are offering theories, intertwining details with bright eyes and bushy tails, you struggle to keep up. 

There's a lull before landing where everybody parts ways. JJ moves to sit with Prentiss where they talk in hushed but conspicuous giggles. You hear the words Will and dishes and back rub and decide to stop listening for your own sake. 

Morgan laughs, having heard what you just heard and liking it a far deal more, and stands. "Coffee?" he asks as you yawn.

You shake your head sluggishly. "Be quick, we'll be landing soon." 

"I know, sweetheart, I heard the same announcement as you." He takes your empty water glass with a supportive squint. "Let me get you another." 

"Thanks." 

You'd regretted your seat as soon as you'd taken it, the feeling of being boxed in having grown and grown over the course of the journey, and Morgan’s brief departure gives you some much needed space.

You squeeze your hands together until your knuckles ache. 

"L/N?" 

Hotch is looking at you. You know exactly what he sees. Someone who isn't ready to be back in the field. Someone who isn't being effective, as you'd promised. 

"You okay?" 

"Just warm,” you lie, pushing your hair away from your neck. 

You're a bad liar. He gets up to turn on the air conditioning anyway. 

You slouch down in your chair and pretend to nap for the rest of the flight. 

—

Crime scenes where people died smell bad. It's a fact. They smell like pee, the sharp stick of ammonia, and the metallic aftertaste of blood. You're trying hard not to fall into your own memories of the two. 

You need to move past what happened. The only way you're gonna be able to do that is to re-desensitise yourself, and that includes volunteering for the nasty stuff when Hotch tries to relegate you to questioning witnesses. 

"I'm not good at interviews," you'd said plainly. 

And he'd taken it for what it was and let you do what you usually do: you look for clues. If anybody could hear you think that you'd be ridiculed, but they can't. You enjoy yourself. 

Let's Scooby Doo this bitch. 

"Careful," Hotch says, holding a hand near your hip. You'd almost stepped into the largest puddle of blood still wet in the very middle. 

Right. He'd let you take the gross job but now you're being babysat. 

What did she do in this room? Why did she kill him here but abduct the second man? 

"If it weren't for the photos, I'd never link this victimology," you confess. 

The photos. The unsub had sent pictures of her abductee with Kill all men written across his forehead. In lipstick. 

What changed the MO? Why kill the first at home and steal the second? 

The political theory feels more plausible. 

"I think you would've." Hotch casts his gaze over the desk. "This is a messy one. Opportunistic but personal. Our unsub, she…" His voice turns to a mutter, as it tends to do when he hits a roadblock. "She wants attention, because the first murder didn't do what she'd hoped." 

"What is she hoping for?" 

He picks up a piece of coloured paper and holds it up to his chest so you can see it. It's a flyer for speed dating at a Café Martini, every Friday at 6PM. 

"Where was Paul last seen?" you ask. 

"Good question." 

He takes his phone from his pocket to call Garcia. 

You listen to their conversation for a while, his serious questions and her flirtatious answers. 

You look back to the floor and push the white toe of your tennis shoe into the rug until the rubber's red with blood. It's not good practice. You're now a walking biohazard. Why is the blood still wet? It should've sunk into the carpeting hours ago. How much did he bleed? 

When you'd been abducted your unsub hadn't been keen on torture. She'd made small, quick cuts over your upper arms, more to punish you than because she truly enjoyed it, and she'd hit something important by accident. 

The blood had pooled in the crook of your elbow. It had stayed wet for a long time. You remember trying to clean yourself up with your t-shirt, too drugged up to move right, and eventually the drugs had worn off and it had really, really hurt. 

This boy had been cut from hip to hip. 

"Maybe you should go sit in the car," Hotch says. 

"Why?" 

"I've been talking to you."

"I've been listening." 

"Don't lie." Hotch takes a step forward, black shoe close to your white. "Look at me." 

You look up, eyebrows raised as you try to blink yourself awake. His eye contact is something you've always struggled to hold, knowing he's learning a lot more from your expression than you are from his. You press the backs of your hands to your cheeks and find them hot with embarrassment. 

"I'm really sorry," you apologise, eyes aching. Not burning, just aching. Like a bruise. 

Hotch nods, expression impassive. "It's okay. Go sit in the car." 

He outranks you as an SSA, he's your boss for every intent and purpose. He's your friend, sometimes, and you've yet to see him make a bad call. You listen and go back out and down to the car. You've already broken your promise not to be a burden. 

Best to play along and play well. You don't want a desk job. You don't want to lose the team. 

In the car, things feel better. It smells like new and you take some time to breathe it in with slow, deep breaths. The pine tree air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror is still soft and wet to touch. You rub it between two fingers, pensive, until Hotch appears from the house. He looks severe and solemn as usual when he opens the car door and climbs inside. 

"Tell me if you can't do this," he says. He never beats around the bush. You wish that he would. 

"I don't know." 

"I need a yes or no." 

You're screaming at yourself to say yes. Hotch stalls with his hand poised at the ignition, waiting for your answer before he turns the key. If you say no, I can't do this, he'll take you back to the room. You know he won't hold it against you because he'd tried to persuade you to take more time off, as much as you needed. 

Being alone reminds you too much of your abduction. You hate how you can't stop thinking about it. At work, at home. What if this is it? This is the only thing you're going to think of for the rest of your life. 

Unless you can get some new memories. 

"I can do this." 

"I know that. Do you know that?" he asks firmly. 

You lean your head back against the headrest and turn your face to look at him fully. You hadn't been expecting any praise, any softness. You're fucking up on a time-sensitive case — he should be reprimanding you. He should send you packing to Virginia. 

"I'm sorry," you say softly.

"For what?" he asks. His eyebrows pinch up at the starts, his lips curve into a frown. 

It's startling to see so much emotion on his face on the job; Aaron Hotchner has a switch. He comes to work and he turns off everything that doesn't help the case. Only on rare occasions do you get to see him as a friend — his laughter over group dinner dates, his gentle smiles when he'd kept you company in the hospital. 

"For being- For being disorganised," you explain choppily. It is not the right word. 

He turns the key and reverses out of the parking space before speaking. "You are an asset to this team. If you can't be an asset right now, that's fine. If you need to go home-" 

"I don't need to go home." 

He doesn't seem offended at being interrupted. "Your wellbeing is more important than your effectiveness as a profiler. But you can't get in the way." 

"I won't." 

"I know you won't. Just…" He pulls his phone out of his pocket, dials a number. He's not looking at you when he finishes, "Calm down. Stay present. We need you with us." 

You turn your face to the window so he can't see your smile. He hasn't been this nice to you since your birthday. 

—

The thirty six hour mark comes to pass quickly and you find yourselves no closer to a positive ID on the unsub or their location. Any leads you follow dry up, witnesses won't cooperate, nobody has slept properly (besides yourself), and the boy's parents are hysterical. Hysterical and an irritant. 

You can hear them arguing with Hotch and the police chief in the other room. 

"You look amazing," JJ says tiredly. You can't tell if her annoyance is genuine or not. 

"Did you sleep?" you ask. 

JJ looks amazing herself despite what she might say, all perfect skin and lovely blonde hair like a moving sheet of silver-gold. You revere her pretty thin sweater with poorly hidden envy as she yawns and stretches against her straight-backed chair. 

"I slept. Bed was about as comfy as this chair," she says ruefully. 

"Ninety percent of all abduction victims are killed within the first thirty-six hours," Hotch says as he enters the room, in what Morgan would call his drill sergeant's drawl. "Every hour past that point, the percentage increases." 

Everybody in the room knows that statistic. His passive aggressive reminder serves to electrify a dozing Reid and a slumped Prentiss, both of which sit up in their chairs and pretend to be busier than they are as he makes his way into the room.

"Actually," Reid whispers to you, voice rough with fatigue, "the math isn't that simple." 

"Do you want to explain it to me?" you whisper back. 

You can't admit to really truly listening to Reid's explanation. You want him to feel heard even when you don't have the capacity for it, so you nod and hum as he explains, heads bent together as the rest of the team trade new theories. He talks surprisingly quickly for all his fatigue, and before you've realised it he's talking about something new. 

"Reid," you intrerupt gently, "can I ask you a question?" 

"Go ahead." 

You look up. Everyone seems too busy to be listening to you. You take what semblance of privacy you can and push your chair an inch closer. 

"Do you think I've been an efficient agent these last two days?" 

He juts his head forward. "You've been distracted. Tired, unfocused. But your insight on the unsub's age and what you said about her propensity for regret are both incomparable parts of the profile." 

"But easily something someone else would've suggested?" 

"Not necessarily." He smiles at you, a mirthful quirk. "Psychologically, the effect that working a case so close to your own trauma," — you bite your tongue in surprise — "would render the average person prone with memory. It also gives you a thought pattern that not everybody else would have." 

"You have it." 

"Let's focus on the behaviour pattern," Hotch says. 

You'd agreed to run point today. Or rather, Hotch had said, "L/N, you'll run point," and you hadn't argued. After all, yesterday had been telling on how much you can handle. Crime scenes are a no go. 

Not that there's any crime scene left to analyse. Your team have spent hours and hours trying to draw blood from stone. The case hadn't felt so impossible on the jet, and now… 

"I'm benched," you murmur. 

"You're not benched," Morgan says, which is irksome because you'd been talking to Reid. "If you were benched you'd be back in Virginia typing up my paperwork." 

"She doesn't care about the crime scene, she doesn't care about the crime itself. There's nothing in it for her besides making a statement. So why take a hostage with no ransom, no instruction? Why tell us you have a hostage and cut communication?" 

You rub your eyes at Reid's questions and find you have no theories to offer. You have nothing. 

"Work the problem," you mumble to yourself. "Work the problem. Where would she go?" 

She cut that boy from hip to hip. She killed him quickly after rather than leave him in pain, but she disembowelled him for the statement it would make. For the… mess? 

You feel off-kilter enough to stand. You weave through people and hesitate in front of Hotch where he's reading over the timeline, waiting for his face to turn before you talk. 

"Hotch," you say tentatively, "what if she's like… an arsonist? Disemboweling is messy. The blood was still wet when we got here two days later, and it ruined the floor." 

He thinks for a second. "Her escalation from a private mess to a public one would make sense."

"We thought the pathway from murder to taking a hostage was a step backwards, but what if it's not about the murder at all, it's about the blood?"

"It's common for arsonists to suffer paternal violence," Reid chimes in. "Could explain the unsub targeting men with outward misogynistic attitudes." 

You turn to find the whole team looking at you, a familiar drive on each of their faces. 

They rebuild the profile. Reid fiddles with what you've said, they specify, they redirect. 

Your moment of clarity dissolves quickly but you try to help as they move on to possible locations. If the unsub wants to make a scene, light a metaphorical fire, there are plenty of places she can do it this weekend. 

Surprise surprise, Garcia confirms a 'men's rights' rally happening in around two hours, and suddenly everybody's in motion. Hotch lists instructions and the team disperses. You've done it all a hundred times before, Hotch quadruple that, Rossi octuple.

"L/N," Hotch says. 

You lift your face to his. 

He's really quite close. 

"Do you want to stay here?"

You take note of his wording. Do you want to stay here? 

His phone is already in his hand. You don't wanna waste anymore of his time. You're pretty useless during movements anyways. 

"Is that okay?" you ask. 

He doesn't say yes or no, his head doesn't give the slightest nod or shake. His eyebrows remain in their usual pushed down position. "Expand the profile. Make sure we haven't missed anything." In case the unsub isn't where you think. 

And then he leaves. 

You take your seat at a now hastily vacated table and spend an hour on the laptop with Garcia. She's mostly at the beck and call of the rest of the team, but it's nice to listen to her clicking away. 

She hangs up when the team are about to storm the rally venue and things get difficult. 

You'd passed all your psych evaluations to return. You can be an effective agent. You can work. 

You know all of this. 

It won't stick. 

You don't have a clue how long you spend staring at the table when your phone starts to ring. "Morgan?" you ask, pressing the screen to your cheek. 

"Hey, sweetheart, we got her. And Paul, safe and sound. You ready to go home?" 

"Uh," you say, trying to understand what he's said. "I'm not sure." Your migraine is coming back. 

When a person gets dehydrated your head starts to pound. It's like a heartbeat, a pulsing ache at the base of your skull and your temples. 

You know that it's all in your head, but ever since you got back you've been victim to what feels like a hundred headaches. 

Your head hurts, and you look at the floor and suddenly the floor isn't the dull blue carpeting of the police station, but the plywood of your unsub's warehouse. 

"Are you there?" 

"Morgan, I don't feel well," you say. Your mouth is full of cotton. 

"What?" 

You cast your gaze around the room. 

You leave your phone on the table, unsure if you've hung up, and make your way out of the conference room they've delegated to the BAU. You're in two minds. You know where you are, and who you are, but you feel like you're back there. The walls look like the police station walls but the floor looks like the base plywood of the warehouse. 

I'm just thirsty, you think. When you'd been kidnapped you'd become dehydrated somewhere between the fourth and fifth day, and that had come with some minor auditory and visual hallucinations. Dark spots in your peripherals shaped mildly like people, murmurings that could've been the cicadas. Right now, there's a low pitched ringing in your ears. I'm dehydrated. I'm fine. I need a drink, and I'll be okay. 

You don't have the facilities to smile at the people you pass, easing your way through officers and into an empty break room. There's nobody here. 

You round the table in the middle of the room and move to the cabinets and the sink basin. You take a mug into shaking hands and turn the faucet on. 

The water is frigid and soon your fingers are like ice. You part them in the stream, watching the water worm down your palms and wet the cuffs of your sleeves. 

"Agent L/N, is everything okay?" 

You turn with a smile, ready to assuage any fears, but it's her. 

It's obviously not her. It's not her, but she looks like her. Same face, same hair. You turn back to sink and fill your mug. 

"Agent L/N?" 

"Please," you say quietly. 

"Agent L/N?" 

"Detective, would you excuse us?" 

His voice. Your shoulders relax just enough to ease the ache in your neck. You hear the woman depart, but you're disorientated enough to ask, "Is she still here?" 

"She's not here." 

“She looked-“ like her. You press your wet hands to the bottom of the sink. It's silver and covered in scratches, a thousand scratches that glow white with the fluorescents. "I don't think I should be here," you mumble. 

"I think you're overwhelmed." 

"I am." You cringe at the numbness spreading up your arms. "I don't know how to make it go away." 

Hotch isn't just your boss. He's a father. He was a husband. He knows how to comfort somebody and he's proven that to you already, but you're still surprised when he pulls your hands out of the sink. He holds both in one palm while he turns off the faucet, and then he tears off a wad of paper towels and starts to dry your fingers. 

"You're not in any danger here," he says, turning your hands palm up. "There are a wall of people out there who would stand in front of you. Nothing is going to happen to you." 

Despite his careful reassurances you're curling in on yourself, trying to hide. You don't want to be here. You're not sure where you want to be. You have the self-awareness to know you're being awful, that this is embarrassing, and you've put Hotch in a position he likely doesn't want to be in, too.  

You blink at his chest. "Where's your suit jacket?" you ask. Your voice sounds far away in one ear and too loud in the other. 

"I left it in the car," he says lightly. "We just got back from the rally. You were waiting for us here." 

"I didn't go." 

"No. You haven't been at your best." 

"I'm trying." 

"I know," he says softly, thumbs rubbing over your warming fingers. "I know you are. You're doing really well. Why don't we sit down?" 

You let him lead you backward into a hard-backed chair. He doesn't sit with you, but he doesn't let go of your hands. They're limp in his and smaller, colder. 

You think he might be the only thing keeping you here. 

"I've never been that scared before. I've had a… gun to my head and… it wasn't even her-" You choke on it. "Her. She hurt me and it wasn't even the worst part." 

He frowns down at you. "What was the worst part?" 

You let your fingers unfurl across his open palm. He pulls your hands to his chest, sandwiches them between his own hands and his crisp white shirt. His tie feels silky soft. 

"I didn't want to be alone. I," — you close your eyes and press your chin to your chest, hiding, always hiding — "knew I wasn't going to last long by myself. I could see that bottle of water on the table and I couldn't reach it and I just kept waiting for somebody to open the door and pass it to me, and I was so scared that nobody was ever going to do that.

"I close my eyes and- and I see it. I see the wood flooring, and I see the table. I can't remember anything that she said to me anymore, but I remember thinking you weren't ever coming to get me." 

You can see the way the light from a crack in the corrugated roof had lit the water bottle up like a lamp. You barely have to think about it and the image of it is there. Your mouth had ached.

You can see him if you try a little harder. The door flying open. Hotch in his vest with his hair falling onto his forehead, a gun in one hand and a flashlight held high in the other. His broad, quick sweep, and then the way he'd leapt for you. His voice, shouting, screaming instructions. You can feel his hand behind your head, his fingers pushed roughly into your hair. 

"You're okay," he'd said. 

You trust him with your life. You've never had cause to doubt him. But you hadn't believed him then, and you're not sure you do now. 

His expression changes slowly. He moves both of your hands into one of his own and squeezes them reassuringly as he cups your cheek. It's a quick touch, a half-second of contact. 

"You made a mistake, in that case," he says, hand moving from your cheek to the hill of your shoulder. 

You tamp down a wince. "Yeah." He's being generous. You'd made hundreds of mistakes. Every opportunity to save yourself wasted. 

"Your mistake," he says, holding your eye, his voice gritty with severity, "was thinking I wouldn't find you.”

He turns to a blur the longer you stare at him, panicked tears welling up with nowhere to go. You tip your head forward so he can't see them, and he steps closer in turn, ushering your face into his abdomen. 

His hand falls to your trembling back. 

"That was your only error. You did everything else right." 

Your tears come thick and fast. Hotch doesn't baulk. 

—

You agree to take some more time off. 

Realistically, you can't be an effective agent or a reliable member of the team whilst smothered in memories as you are. You don't take it personally when Hotch insists, as he takes great care to explain to you what's happening. 

This isn't a punishment. You need more time. 

You're a safety risk. Not that your consultation isn't valuable, it is, you're still a good profiler — an amazing profiler, if your team are to be believed — but you're in the aftershocks of a traumatic event. 

A wound can't heal if it's being picked at. 

"He said that?" you ask quietly, bed sheets upto your chin. 

Hotch's voice rings scratchy with tiredness down the line, "He said you can have all of the blue ones." 

"He's generous. He gets that from his dad." 

"He's much kinder than I am." You hear a small voice on the other end, and then a muffled, "Yeah, g-man, I'll tell her. I'll tell her right now. Okay. Y/N?" 

"Yeah, still here." 

"Jack says," he recounts, parent tone in play that tells you his son is nearby, "that you can have all the blue and all of the green band-aids, if you need them." 

You stare up at the white plaster ceiling of your apartment, a tiny smile playing on your lips. 

"Tell him I said thank you. I'm sure they'll make me all better in no time." 

He tells Jack what you've said. You hear his lovely voice saying something too quiet. "What was that?" Hotch asks him. 

"I said," Jack says, voice close to the receiver, "she just needs a kiss because they always make me feel better." 

"I've been getting lots of kisses!" you promise him, turning to look at your nightstand. 

Propped up proudly is a picture of you and your team in that restaurant in Las Vegas, where Reid hadn't been able to use his chopsticks, and where Hotch had laughed so loudly you'd felt your heart skip twice. It's surrounded by a sea of 'Get Well Soon' cards, and backdropped by a small bouquet of sweetpeas. 

Tell me when they wilt, Reid had said. And I'll get you another bunch. It's been proven that flowers have a long term positive effect on moods. People who received flowers regularly reported less agitation, less depression, and an overall sense of satisfaction. 

Beside the sweetpeas, in pride of place, is a handmade card from none other than Jack himself, though the message inside was penned by an older hand. 

"I'm well looked after," you say, smiling softly. 

"You're well loved," Hotch adds. 

That, too. 

༺༻

again, im not that used to writing hotch so despite my character study he may feel a little ooc that's my bad, hard to show him pining bc he's such a professional at work. thanks so much for reading!! if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging i promise it means so much to me ♡

Them 💗🖤

hi honey! I'm watching criminal minds and I'm very sleepy and I've been thinking about hotch and I thought I'd send something in

Would you be interested in writing something where the reader grows progressively more tired through a case (Maybe sleep deprived or from all-nighters) and because reader is so tired she progressively more touchy because she has no filter? Like she keeps resting her head on Aaron's shoulder and touching his back as she walks by him. And like this isn't usual for reader but Aaron doesn't mind because he thinks it's cute and is love with reader.

sleepless

cw; fluff!!!!!!!!!!!

you've gained an immunity to coffee. you must've, or the department's supply was straight decaf.

you attempted to pour another cup, it being your fourth, fifth? helping of the day. at this point, the days were colliding together; it was hard to tell where one ended and the next began. you, all of you, hadn't slept in at least thirty-five hours, and while everyone was seemingly managing their lack of sleep, you were close to delirious. you could barely hold yourself upright; a small yelp escaped you as a hot droplet scorched your skin, a swig of coffee missing your mug altogether.

abandoning your drink, you redirected yourself back to the department's conference room, where aaron and the rest of the team had been throwing ideas around for the past three hours. the past three, long hours.

aaron. you'd so much rather prefer to be tangled up in bed with him, sleeping comfortably in his arms. you'd be embedded into his side, a leg thrown across his waist, clutching onto him as if he were about to slip through your fingertips. maybe he would even be shirtless, allowing you to feel his muscles flex around you as he held you in his sleep, strong and secure. his skin was soft, much softer than anything you've ever encountered. that was much more tempting than discussing who-had-done-what and why-they-decided-to-do-it.

instead of opting to settle into your empty, waiting chair- it wasn't nearly as inviting- you stood behind aaron's chair. you draped your arms around his shoulders, hands falling in front of his chest, your face only a few inches away from the crook of his neck.

aaron froze slightly at the initial touch, but relaxed in his chair as he recognized it was you. he was still exhibiting a stiffness in his composure, as you were in front of your colleagues and officers could enter the room unannounced at any moment, but he didn't have the heart to push you away, especially not when his heart belonged to you. and besides, he wouldn't deprive himself the contact. he's missed you, despite the fact you hadn't been a few feet away all day.

he peeked back as much as he could manage, his eyebrows taking form in their signature furrow as he made an observation. he also immediately took note of your exhausted state, surprised that he hadn't already done so sooner.

"no coffee?"

"hm? oh, i must've forgotten." you murmured, taking a breath. your next words escaped you in a yawn, "you smell good."

aaron's ears immediately flushed at your words, and derek nearly snorted out a laugh, he had managed to cover his mouth just in time.

you were aware enough to know derek was making fun of you on some account as you heard his snicker, giving him the stink eye. "what?"

"nothing." derek's mouth formed in a line to prevent himself from smiling, skimming through the file placed in front of him. "nothing at all."

as everyone fell back into conversation, you could feel yourself beginning to nod off. you had been mindlessly tracing patterns along aaron's chest, and the repeated movements were enough to lull you to sleep, finding a relaxed, comforting ease within it, his dress shirt soft against your fingertips.

"aaron?" you whispered, loud enough only for him.

"yes?"

"i was thinking about you shirtless earlier."

aaron's jaw tightened, eyes quickly darting around the table to make sure no one heard you but him. "oh, were you?"

"yeah." you sighed out happily, the image coming easily to mind. "you're so pretty, you know that? i could look at you forever."

his lips pulled into a small smile, barely a laugh escaping him. "thank you sweetheart, i could say the same to you."

"no, don't say that just because i said that, you're only saying that because i said that." you whined gently, tiredness finally claiming your mind. you laid your head more so on his shoulder, the angle was awkward and strained your neck, but you were too tired to care. "let me compliment you. just you."

just as he was about to answer, spencer inquired for aaron's input, causing your conversation to cease. while aaron answered, you couldn't help but admire him; his prominent jawline, his long, dark, beautiful eyelashes, and his voice was like silk to your ears. soft, captivating and familiar.

sudden movement caused you to startle, knocking you back into the real world. the team had all begun packing up papers, exiting the room before you could put together what had just happened. not that you could to begin with, you had been oblivious to the entirety of the discussion.

"sweetheart." aaron stood up slowly, in attempt to prevent you from losing balance against his chair and reaching for you once he was on his feet. "i think it's about time you finally got some rest."

"no, 'm fine." a yawn betrayed your words, clutching onto the sleeve of his suit jacket. "i don't wanna leave you."

"get some sleep, for me, please. can you do that for me?"

"yeah, of course i can." you caved right away, easily persuaded as it was him, your words slurring a bit in sleepiness, "i can, just for you."

"thank you darling," he laughed softly, taking off his jacket to drape it over your shoulders.

"aaron? did i tell you that i love you today?" you asked as he guided you out, clumsily tripping over your own feet.

"every day sweetheart, you let me know every day.” there was a gentle look in his eyes, a hand on the small of your back. “now c'mon, i'll drive you to the hotel."

Maya....

this parallel is my lifeline, actually

Screaming.

I’ve been dragged into the steddie fandom and there is no crawling back out…