liyah369

Latest Posts by liyah369

Best thing I’ve ever seen or read on tumblr 😭😭😭

"you're killing it and I don't know how much more I can take"

bet y'all never guessed that the title was taken from a song by anthony amorim did you (pretending is peak zosan)

anyway. insane that i finished a comic project all the way through. im becoming more and more powerful by the day

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

support me through ko-fi

I am a Captain Marvel stan to my core. I love my woman Carol Danvers in literally all sources of Media including children's books (Yes. I've read Starforce on the Rise. Don't at me.) But something I wasn't expecting was to fall in love with a timeless Warrier who licks swords and is the absolute perfect definition of chaotic bisexual.

And holy crap am I in love. Brunnhilde is so complicated and so freaking amazing. I love getting in her head and seeing the world through her eyes. And the muscles. And the suits. God.

The suits.

Like, look at this woman.

She's my second favorite alcoholic girl-fail in the MCU. She's a horse girl, but I'll allow it just this once. I may have to get a tattoo for her on my other arm.

I just read a fic where Kamala realized Carol’s gay and what if everyone else doesn’t know?

Imagine…

Peter: She’s gay‽

Kamala: Yeah, I thought it was obvious with the way she glows, the hair, her outfits and her relationship with Valkyrie?

Cassie: You said she’s married to a man

Kamala: I said it was a marriage of convenience

Kate: Wait hold up, but Monica calls her Aunt Carol?

America: Please, it was so obvious.

Cassie: You had two moms, you don’t get a say in this

Monica: I’m gonna regret this but I only called her Aunt Carol because society wasn’t that open minded and we didn’t want backlash. And please, Carol lived with my mom and practically raised me for six years, it’s obvious.

Kate: So Carol’s your second mom?

Cassie: Y’know I thought you’d clock that Carol’s gay

Kate: Just because I’m with Yelena, doesn’t mean I know how I did it.

Carol whispering to Valkyrie: So should I tell them we’re dating?

Valkyrie: Maybe another day or if not, they’ll find Kamala’s fanfic about us

Carol: Her what?

WOW!!!!!!

My coloring for Izuku Midoriya [My Hero Academia manga, chapter 317]

Y’all know how MCU does What ifs?

I’m gonna need anime shows or mangas to start doing What Ifs.

What if Kakashi was a villain? Cause let’s be honest that guy had so many reasons to hate the hidden leaf (the village that drove his father to off himself). What if Megumi was a Zenin?

What if Gintoki joined the Shinsengumi?

What are some good What Ifs?

HAIKYUU REACTS TO THIRST TWEETS

Characters: Sugawara Koushi, Daich Sawamura, Kuroo Tetsuro, Kenma Kozume, Bokuto Kotaro, Akaashi Keiji, Oikawa Tooru, Hajime Iwaizumi, Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Warnings: cringey thirst tweets :)

1. Sugawara Koushi

Sugawara: I could also procrastinate and never do you? Good tweet tho *winks*

2. Daichi Sawamura

Daichi: *awkwardly laughs* well these tweets went from 0 to horny real quick. To answer, no.

3. Kuroo Tetsuro

Kuroo: well as a person who loves science experiments how could I say no- *camera cuts*

4. Kenma Kozume

Kenma: *stares at the tweet and then at the camera* why are we here again? Who told you that I lose?

5. Bokuto Kotaro

6. Akaashi Keiji

Bokuto: *looks down and holds his right boob and visibly confused* why would you want to show your face into this?

Akaashi: *deadpan* I would rather die than do that. Also, I don't have a wife.

7. Oikawa Tooru

Oikawa: kinky. Lucky for you I like to hit *winks*

8. Iwaizumi Hajime

*camera cuts*

Iwaizumi: *flexes his biceps* I get that a lot from oikawa- *camera cuts*

9. Ushijima Wakatoshi

Ushijima: *looks at the camera with no expression* get some help.

Chemistry ;)

Kuroo: Do you wanna hear a chemistry joke?

Y/N:

Kuroo: ...Is that...a no?

Y/N: I'm sorry. Were you expecting...a reaction?

Kuroo,*wiping a tear from his eye*: I love you.

modern social media should stop offering "sync with your phone contacts to follow them" options and start offering "block all your phone contacts so they never see your account" options

Them 🫶🏽

Shipppppppps

Does anyone else just know ships meant to be when the two are two oppsite colors. Reblog with more oppsite color ships.

I need someone to write a Assassination Classroom fanfic that’s almost exactly like the show/manga but with more Karmagisa

Okay but I just found out Nicholas Galitzine didn’t read the rwrb book? At least until after the filming was done?

He totally relied on the script because that’s his process?

YOU ARE TELLING ME HE PLAYED HENRY THAT PERFECTLY WITHOUT READING THE GODDAMN BOOK????

Oscars. All of them. To Nick. Immediately.

because shut the actual fuck up. THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HIM. just the whole domesticity of this scene. first time at kagamis apartment, the entire team inside eating after their win, and just the two of them ALONE ON THE FUCKING BALCONY telling each other how much they care for one another

plus kagamis FUCKING BLUSHHHH

🥹🥹🫠🫠

husbands

i wish you guys lived inside my head the fics in here go crazy

You gotta write for funsies sometimes. Everything doesn’t have to be groundbreaking. Like. Who cares if it’s a little silly it is made out of love

Reblog if reading someone else’s fanfiction has helped you get through a hard day

Rewatched the movie again. So the first chance Henry got to be close to Alex, he smells him??? And compliments the perfurme???

This is sooooo good 🫶🏽🫠

Could you please do gentle kisses with bucky? I was listening to "like real people do" by hoizer, thinking about a bucky fic and my heart melted

I love this so much and I want you to know I listened purely to Hozier while I wrote this and had to physically stop myself from making this a whole spicy one shot ooops But I hope you love it <3

Warnings: It gets a lil spicy kinda at the end but it's all fluff and love and a makeout sesh so yeah <3

It was his favorite part when he saw you - when your lips would dance with his. 

Bucky had been seeing you for only a few months, but you were like home to him. Scratch that - you were home. All of your terrible jokes. Your rants about the books you read or the musicians you listened to. When you got all dolled up just for him. When you went anywhere together and you just had to hold his hand - not that he was complaining. Your laughter. The way you treated him like a real person, not a tool or some broken man. The look you got in your eyes when you looked at him compared to everyone else. 

Everything about you was home. 

But when your lips touched his, he felt invincible. Like nothing in the world could touch him. No missions. No memories of Hydra. Nothing but you completely enveloping him in the love he never thought he deserved. 

He loved all of the different ways your lips would move in tandem with his - the urgent and needy, the quick pecks on your way out the door, the teasing ways you nip at his lips. His favorite though, was the slow and passionate. 

You would gently grip the hair at the base of his neck, tilting his head to the perfect angle for your tongue to tangle with his. The slow way you'd lightly drag your teeth across his top lip, pulling a moan from his throat. And when he'd nip your lip back, it would pull a smile out of you but you'd refuse to stop. The only way he could describe it was like a dance. A dance that only the two of you knew how to perform. 

God he loved every bit of it, it was like his own personal drug and he was addicted. 

Your lips were always so soft and warm and they always tasted a little bit like raspberries - thanks to your chapstick. No matter how long you sat and kissed him like that, he knew could never get enough. 

And don't even get him started on when he'd move his hands from your back to your thighs, pulling you on top of him and squeezing the muscle there. The little groan you always let out was music to his ears. 

You would only ever pull back when you absolutely couldn't breathe anymore and even then it was only for a moment. A split second where you slide you thumbs along the line of his jaw or across his swollen bottom lip. It was when he got to see that look in your eyes. The one that told him you were going to shower him in affection and love for the rest of the night without interruption. He would get to swim in everything that was you. 

He would think of little noises that he knew would flood the room once there was nothing between the two of you. When he got to drag his lips across every inch of your skin, worshiping you the way you deserved. When your legs would wrap around his hips to pull him closer because you just couldn't get enough of him. 

Then you'd go right back to it, giving his lips their dance partner once again. You'd go back to making him melt at your touch. Making him dizzy in the head with only thoughts of you. Bringing him to his knees for you. 

He'd let you kiss him like that for the rest of his life if he could. He would stay here, in your living room, on your couch, with you in his lap forever if the world let him. 

Come join me for a drabble weekend!

😂😂😂😂😂😂

Peter: You like the Mandalorian?

Y/N: Yeah, I think they’re easier to peel than oranges.

Michael Scott CREATES all the love on the office. That is what the show is about. It is the most slow-burn realistic redemption arc for a whole office of people that don’t deserve it. It’s the power of ordinary love to transform brought into the most unlikely of places by one very extraordinary and ridiculous person.

😭😭😭😭😭😭

BLACK PANTHER: WAKANDA FOREVER (2022) dir. Ryan Coogler

THIS WOULD BE SOOOOOO GOOD!

“The umbrella academy” but it has the side interview scenes like “The Office”

7x06 - Epilogue

cross my heart

Aaron Hotchner (Criminal Minds) x Female Reader

Contains: reader and hotch are seeing each other and the secret isn’t kept for long thanks to reid’s inability to keep any of his thoughts to himself (this is entirely pg in a totally out of character moment for myself)

A/N: i’ve been watching this show for weeks on end and we’re back into things with a massive heart-hard-on for hotch.

Whilst Spencer Reid knew that this particular topic could well and truly wait another 30 minutes till they were all gathered at the office, the nagging part of his brain that couldn’t let go of the topic had also brought him straight to the front door of his Unit Chief.

He’d actually resigned himself to waiting until he got to work, but in the excitement of running over things a million times in his brain he’d seemingly forgotten that part and flown autopilot right to Hotch’s home. Regardless, his knuckles wrapped against the door before clutching the strap of his satchel.

Hotch look confused when he opened the door, he also looked remarkably casual for a man who was meant to be at work within the hour. He was still just in his undershirt as he leaned against the open door trying to figure out to what he owed this pleasure.

“Good morning, Reid.”

Weiterlesen

Steve: I sleep with a gun under my pillow.

Natasha: I sleep with a knife.

Y/n: Both of you are pathetic.

Steve: Oh yeah? What do you sleep with?

Y/n: Bucky.

this is so good 😭😭

hi!! i love your fics, they keep me sane ❤️

i was thinking of a fic with aaron where it’s friends to lovers at the BAU & aaron being the profiler he is he notices something off when y/n starts pulling away after he meets beth (season 7/8/9)

then it’s raining & he drops y/n off at home after a long night of drinking their sorrows & she blurts out “because i’m in love with you, you idiot”

could be a love triangle or “i drop that bitch bc he’s also in love” type thing

p.s. plz don’t break my heart with aaron not loving us back

kk bye love you

🥹 that's so sweet thank you so much. i kinda switched this up a bit, and hehe i won't break your heart about him not loving us back but i can't promise it'll be a happy ending <3

history left unfinished

cw; angst!!! small mention of alcohol

the pattering rain was the perfect excuse to stay silent. it's been twenty minutes, and neither of you had spoken a word to each other.

it was loud- the repeated tapping smacked against the surface of aaron's car, making conversation impractical. so maybe that's why you suddenly gained the confidence to ask the question you've been holding in for months now, or it could've been the alcohol flowing through your body. nonetheless, you'd chalk it up to fate if he ended up hearing you or not.

"do you love her?" you didn't dare meet aaron's eyes, refusing to fall into their soft, warm comfort. instead, you watched the rain droplets as they raced each other down the glass of the window.

aaron glanced in your direction, "what'd you say?"

"are you in love with her?" you asked, your mind recalling the events from the past few hours.

the way his face lit up as she joined the team at the bar, the way his eyes would crinkle at the edges as he smiled at her as she spoke, the way his hand always involuntarily ended up in hers.

you've always pictured it differently. you've always pictured yourself in her place.

it was difficult not to, given the history you and aaron shared. the long, meaningful talks about anything and everything, the constant shared fear of the other's safety while in the field, spending your weekends only with him and jack, the one kiss you had shared.

but that's all it was now, history. thanks to her. your routine changed when beth entered into aaron's life, and you became a bystander in his.

it took him a while to respond, your eyes eventually finding his in the darkness. "i love her, yes." aaron said, almost cautiously.

"but are you in love with her?"

"don't." he shook his head, something in his voice you couldn't quite place.

"you're breaking my heart, you've been breaking it." your voice cracked as you felt yourself begin to tremble in your seat. "and it was never officially yours to begin with."

the car slowed to a stop as aaron parked outside your apartment building, also giving him the opportunity to focus solely on you. but the contradicting thing was, he couldn't answer you, silence overpowered him.

"i've loved you for so long." your words left you in a breath, your shoulders dropping from the weight of your confession. "i've wanted you to choose me for so long. i've waited."

aaron had noticed, the distance you've intentionally set forth between the two of you. the truth was, he did. he loved you back with every inch of him. but that was just it- he loved you. and it scared him. you knew the parts of him he kept hidden away, the parts that minimal people ever get to see. the more you saw, the closer the two of you became, the more you would realize how broken he was.

being with beth was easier, if it didn't work out, it wouldn't hurt nearly as much. and just maybe, keeping you at arm's reach, rather than in his arms, it would prevent you from slipping through his fingers entirely. panic began to slowly creep through him though, because he realized if he didn't answer adequately, you would.

but you took his silence as an answer within itself, opening the passenger door and hastily getting out of his car, slamming it behind you.

aaron was quick to follow, throwing his seatbelt off and hurrying after you. "wait!"

"it's fine." you insisted, squinting back at him as rain plummeted your face. thankfully, your tears blended in. "go be with her. it's fine. i'm so happy for you."

"you don't understand." he insisted, the crackling of thunder following his words.

"i understand fine." just like the sky, you wanted to scream. "let me let you go, please."

aaron's face softened a tad, his words leaving him in a sigh. "i don't want you to."

"don't make this even harder." you pleaded as he hesitantly stepped closer. "you said you love her, that's not fair."

aaron reached out for you, taking both your hands into his. "but-"

"no." you pulled your hands away. "whatever..." you took a moment, searching for the correct term. you heart ached, mourning the possibility- the what could have been. in the long run, this had to be the easiest solution. but you also pondered- how could it be?

despite your doubts, it was like a floodgate had been broken, and you finished your statement. "this is. or was. it's over. it has to be over."

aaron knew what he should've done. he should've grabbed your face and kissed you like his life depended on it. he should've admitted that you had claimed his heart and mind as yours forever ago, you utterly and completely consumed both. he should've told you that he's never been so deeply infatuated with someone, that it scared him.

but he just stood there. frozen. even after you had walked away.

hahahahahahahahahahaha

Emily: I identify as a threat. My pronouns are try/me.

Tara: We need to get through this door, Rossi hand me your credit card.

Rossi: Here.

Tara, pocketing it: Great, Morgan, kick the door down.

pov: your instagram but you're dating Aaron Hotchner

Liked by mommyjareau, doctorreid and 218 others

y/n.l/n: Aaron, after a day of hard work

view all 23 comments

mommyjareau: this feels too personal to be seeing

aarhotch: I specifically told you not to post this. → y/n.l/n: punishment time? → d.morgan: y'all know we can read this, right??

badass_em: Strauss? → y/n.l/n lmaooo you're wrong for that

Liked by davidrossiofficial, babygirlpg, and 271 others

y/n.l/n: like father, like son

view all 58 comments

aarhotch: if I get home and he thinks we're keeping all those puppies, I'm not going to be happy → jessbrooks: let him keep the puppies, Aaron → y/n.l/n: yeah, let him keep the puppies, Aaron.

Liked by badass_em, d.morgan and 284 others

y/n.l/n: BAU babies

view all 43 comments

doctorreid: What are we doing @/greennaway.elle ? → greenaway.elle: I have no idea → y/n.l/n: whatever it is, you both look incredibly cute

Liked by mommyjareau, davidrossiofficial and 294 others

y/n.l/n: Jack on the slopes

view all 52 comments

jessbrooks: It was all he could talk about last week, how's he liking it? → y/n.l/n: he's LOVING it, absolutely tearing it up, and Aaron thinks he's going pro

babygirlpg: oh my gosh he is just the cutest

Liked by doctorreid, ablake and 312 others

y/n.l/n: the boys ™

view all 45 comments

badass_em: dad and son → davidrossiofficial: how old do you think I am?

Liked by teelewis, sean_hotchner and 326 others

y/n.l/n: Aaron 'I don't want a dog' Hotchner

view all 42 comments

babygirlpg: she's a ball of fluff!! → y/n.l/n: she's literally the cutest thing in the world, especially when she chases Jack around the yard

aarhotch: I didn't want a dog, you and Jack are too persuasive together → y/n.l/n: so why does she get to sleep in our bed each night? → aarhotch: I don't want her to be lonely on the floor

Liked by mommyjareau, babygirlpg and 331 others 

y/n.l/n: life with a personal chef

view all 39 comments

davidrossiofficial: with my pasta recipe? how was it? → y/n.l/n: good, but not as good as you make it → aarhotch: you're a liar and a sweet talker → y/n.l/n: i'm trying to score some pasta, dude

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 ♡