Latest Posts by mintszn - Page 2

my man 💋

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

Yor hugging Anya is everything to me

Pt.2 of some behind the scenes photos from Wednesday🫶🏻

I made this callout meme for me and me specifically

🖤💘

Some behind the scenes photos from Wednesday🫶🏻

“Tyler’s the monster, you shouldn’t like him”

Boo freaking hoo

Tyler <3

All i've seen is people saying they can fix tyler, baby i don't need to fix nothing, i want to make him worse 😫

Idc y’all better put ur whole fanussys in to the Wednesday show fanfic y’all write

hii can u please do wednesday and enid matching icons? thank u sm <3

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader

contents/warnings: single mom reader, bau!reader, brief mentions of typical cm violence, mutual pining, coworkers to lovers (no arc completion)

based off this post

You’ve been held at gunpoint. You’ve been beaten, battered, and bruised within an inch of your life. You’ve been threatened, harassed, and abused. Yet there’s no fear as debilitating as what you’re feeling now, when you look around the crowded room and can’t find your toddler anywhere. 

She knows not to run off. As much as you withhold from her about your career, her tiny ears unprepared for the horrors you face, you’ve told her a thousand different ways not to leave your side. And she’d been doing so good, her little pudgy fist clasped in the fabric of your dress until midway through your conversation with Emily. You’d reached down to feel her pigtails after she’d dropped your dress, content that she was still there even if she wasn’t holding onto you anymore. And yet, here you are, childless and panicking.

You start ducking into open rooms, figuring that she wouldn’t have shut the door after her if she was wandering into them. She’s nowhere to be seen, though, you don’t catch a glimpse of her black-ribboned hair or her blue-dotted dress.

Your shoes hit the scratchy carpet with urgency, and you feel many-a-head turning to face you. You don’t feel like explaining, though, not when your little girl is loose in a government building.

Government buildings are no place for children. Too many people have guns, and, though they won’t be turned upon her, she’s more than likely to be morbidly curious about one left lying around and end up worse than seriously injured. Or she could get into an elevator and lose herself among the maze of floors and desks. Or she could walk straight out the front door into traffic. Or she could lock herself in a bathroom stall. Or she could stumble upon photos she shouldn’t be seeing, crime scenes and corpses strewn about less child-friendly areas of the place.

Or, you find out, as you head for Hotch’s door, intent on pleading with the man’s parental instinct to aid you in your search, she could be dancing with your boss.

She could be on her tip-toes, ruffled socks bunched up around her ankles and mary-janes toeing Aaron’s sleek black work shoes. She could be stretched all the way to his waist, her arms hung above her head as she grips one of his thick fingers in all of her tiny ones. She could be grinning up at him, baby teeth on full display as her hair bounces to the beat of the song he’s making up. You’ve never heard him hum before, nor have you seen that fond of a glint in his eyes, but he’s beaming down at her, a happy little tune flitting through the air from his throat. He’s jutting one foot out after the other, tie swaying against his chest as he gives your daughter the dance of her, admittedly short, lifetime.

Neither of them have noticed you hovering just outside the crack in the door, and she looks down just in time for one of her shoes to slip from his own. Her weight goes with it, but he holds steady to her hands, pulling her upright until she can latch her foot onto his again.

“Woah!” She gushes, giggling with exhilaration. 

“Woah,” He parrots, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” She nods, a slight lisp invading her words from her pacifier habits, “You’re strong, Uncle Aaron.”

“Well I have to be,” He muses, and though he’s no longer humming, the song lives on as he continues moving their feet in sync, “Just in case someone needs protecting.”

“I think mommy needs protecting sometimes,” Your daughter decides, and your cheeks grow hot at the mere mention of yourself, “She runned into my backpack yesterday and tripped!”

He doesn’t correct her poor grammar, nor does he point out that she was probably the one to put her backpack in a less-than-ideal place. All he does is raise his eyebrows amusedly, nodding at her statement.

“Well, maybe you could start protecting her.”

“How?” She stares up at him skeptically, unsure why the man is insinuating that a three year old can be so heroic.

“I think you should put your backpack somewhere where she won’t trip over it,” There it is, the parental voice of reason, “Maybe on a chair? Or the couch?”

“I think you should do it.” She blazes past his suggestion, typical for a child who doesn’t understand responsibility for their actions. He seems to notice the cliche as well, chuckling mirthfully, “Alright. If I see any backpacks on the floor, I’ll save her from them. Deal?”

“Deal.” She grins toothily, squealing as he lifts her straight into his arms from only his grip on her hands.

Her legs curl effortlessly around his waist and you worry about her shoes staining his shirt, but you’d seen a grape juice stain on his tie only days before, and you remember that your kid isn’t the only one crawling all over Aaron. You rush down the stairs when they begin heading for the door, posing as if you’d just began your ascent by the time they swing the hinges open.

“There you are,” You try acting relieved, though the panic you’d felt only moments prior is long gone, replaced by sticky-sweet adoration, “What, did Hotch lure you away with candy?”

“Just my natural charm,” He defends, squeezing her where she’s curled around his hip, “And a dance move or two.”

“A dance move,” Morgan repeats teasingly from the other end of the room, a few downcast smirks shot from the rest of your teammates, “I don’t recall you ever teaching me any of those, boss man.”

“You’re too big to stand on my toes.” Aaron laments with a goofy smile towards your daughter, who giggles at the thought of her big, strong Uncle Derek balancing on Hotch’s feet.

“Well if we don’t visit Auntie Penelope soon,” You accept the arm that your daughter throws out to you at the mention of her bubbly godmother, taking her from Hotch’s strong arms, “I’m going to be given a very long lecture, and you’ll be given one less cookie than usual.”

“Only five?” She gasps in real, palpable terror, fingers clenching in the fabric of your dress once more, “Let’s go!”

The bullpen shares a chuckle at her dramatics, and Reid steps aside from where he’s aiming to ask Hotch a question at the base of the stairs. You’re crossing your own desk, intent on ducking into Penelope’s lair for a chat, when Hotch’s voice rings out across the room, urgent and strong.

“Y/N!” He doesn’t often use your first name, and that’s what gets your attention the most. You turn towards him, bewildered and hesitant to take another step.

“Backpack,” He points down at the floor where you’re about to step blindly, a tinkerbell-themed bag discarded in the middle of the walkway. You eye your daughter rather unimpressed, but her attention is focused solely on Hotch, who’s already engaged with Reid.

“Pick it up,” You groan, holding your daughter’s waist and angling her towards the floor. She giggles jovially at the headrush she receives from being held nearly upside-down, and her little arms reach eagerly for her belongings.

Once she secures the backpack and deposits it on your desk rather than in your path, you tuck her back against your hip. She’s got her chin hooked over your shoulder, out of your eyesight, which means that you don’t catch the thumbs-up that she throws towards Hotch. You don’t happen to notice the wink that he throws her back while Reid’s head is ducked towards a paper he’d brought along, another one of his rare smiles aimed at her as he holds up his end of the bargain.

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 ♡

sapnap please keep the hat off i beg

QUACKNAP

Ohh more headcannons please 🙏 For a road trip with karlnap 😊

omg yes yes tysm for the request ily

the most played song on your road-trip is

you guessed it

road-trip

gotta support the friends, you know?

sapnap drives the first leg of the trip

karl is on snack duty and buys a 12 pack case of monsters for the trip

they don’t last very long

idk why but i see you guys buying those car ride activities for kids

also playing the alphabet game

tweeting all kinds of random things and confusing the fans

at one point you fall asleep on karl’s shoulder (for some reason you were both in backseat) and sapnap took a picture of the two of you and posted it on twitter

everyone lost their marbles tbh

also when the a.c. is on you would 10000% steal one of their sweaters

when karl’s driving, you would be in the front seat while sap took a nap in the back seat

ugh holding hands with whoever is driving <3

karl would make you guys stop at every tourist trap

playing with saps hair while he drives >>>

it’s not a peaceful drive at all when you’re driving

karl and sapnap start yelling like little kids when you pass a drive through

after what feels like 20 minutes of them begging to stop (even though you don’t really have time for it) you pull into the parking lot

if you were nervous ordering then one of the boys would

idk why i’m thinking karl would be in the backseat so let’s go with that

anyways

karl would roll down his window and order for you guys

or sapnap would just lean over you and order depending on whatever is easiest

they r so sweet

you would make them play the quiet game when they get to loud

they r actually children fun fact

it would be so much fun tho and even if you had no destination in mind it would be the best trip ever

sapnap you are so hot jesus christ

Hot take (?)

Yes, realistically in small town Indiana in the 80s most people would be at least casually homophobic if not passionately homophobic.

But most people would also be at least casually, if not passionately racist.

And we only get two racist characters, Billy and Troy, both of whom are villainized.

We also only get two homophobic characters, Lonnie and Troy, both of whom are villainized.

The Duffers have made certain exceptions to their historical accuracy. Because if all of the characters were racist and homophobic, they wouldn't be likable to us and we wouldn't care about the story. It would also just be a depressing ass show to watch.

So for that reason, I don't think any of the main characters are going to be portrayed as homophobic for the sake of "accuracy".

And sure, maybe Mike and Will being openly in a relationship without facing constant harassment isn't "realistic". ...but neither is Lucas and Max?

It's a TV show.

CRYINGG

Headcanon:

After Mike and Will start dating, they go to prom together. Will comes to the Wheeler house to pick up Mike, and Karen insists on taking pictures.

And this is the first time since he was a toddler that Karen has photographed her son with a smile on his face. It makes her heart soar.

She pulls Mike into a long hug, and he laughs slightly, asking, 'Mom??" unaware of the fact that Karen is overjoyed at finally seeing her boy happy.

Then, she pulls Will into an even longer hug. And because Will has always noticed everything about Mike, including the fact that he only smiles in photos with Will, Will knows why Karen is emotional, and he hugs her back tightly.

BYLER FIC RECS PT 3

This is a list of byler fics that gave me so much comfort, made me cry or laugh, and helped me get through my recent horrible weeks.

Appreciation post to these gorgeously written works and to the authors who created them: thank you for gracing the fandom with your talent, I’m sending you all flowers and love 🌷🌸🌹💐🌻🌺💌💗💕💖💝💘

who am i (to ask for more) by bookinit

Bury Me in Metamorphoses (With Galatea, My Sweet) by hiscleric

i feel like i know you (but we never met) by andiwriteordie

eyecatcher by smoosnoom 

drag me down, my gilded sun (our orphic song) by hiscleric

home is where the heart is by smoosnoom

the terror of knowing what this world is about by andiwriteordie

i know, i know, i know by aude_sapere

tell me, is it really love? by agustplz

you know me better than i do by unidentifiedblackthorn

the boyfriend problem by RomeoWrites

the ouroboros and the choking rose by aceoflanterns

stare at pictures of you ‘til i’m blind by agustplz

We Will All Go Together When We Go by perexcri

i love how angry jonathan is with mike at all times in s4. he’s so real for that.

Maya....

i am sick of the black phone hashtag. I WANNA SEE COOL BEHIND THE SCENES PHOTOS. NOT SMUT OF THE GRABBER.

Hes SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL 🏃🏻💨💨💨💨💨

RAHHHHHHHHHHHH

I will never forgive y'all for some of ur theories

"What if the grabber had a son and that's why he kidnaps boys" or maybe he's just a fucking creep

You do you ig

i need a scene in season 5 where byler are back to back, mike with an axe and will with a gun. the camera spins around them as they move to find the source of weird sound. it may have not been real, and they may be going crazy, but at least they are together.

I'm a Will confesses first, but Mike kisses him first truther

I feel like steve would say “ and hit ‘em with the ol' razzle dazzle. ” cause he's a fucking dweeb.

Mike and Will BOTH get vecna’d in s5 but instead of showing them each their worst memories, they show them eachother’s worst memories, because he knows that’ll hurt them even more. Stuff like: 

Mike, seeing will sob and before starting to destroying castle byers

Will, seeing Mike jump off of the quarry

Mike, seeing Will all alone in the upside-down

Will, seeing Mike horribly depressed pre-s4

But it backfires on vecna because will and mike realize how much they’ve always needed eachother, how much they’re always going to need eachother.

robin: you’ve got to get out of here, Finney, for your own sake

finney: no….I’m not strong enough….

robin: okay, fine. do it for MY sake

finney: