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wlw-imagines · 14 days ago

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A Green Duffel - Emily Prentiss x Reader (Criminal Minds)

a/n: i've survived to day two of may fics - although not sure too many fics going into may will reach a word count as much as the JJ fic did, i may not survive that - but here is more criminal minds!!!!!

summary: you are the newest recruit to the BAU. You're quiet and reserved. Emily Prentiss clocks it immediately: the silence, the tension in your shoulders, the green duffel bag always at your side like a shield.

While the team warms up to you quickly, Emily finds herself drawn in, trying to connect. But every attempt is met with polite, muted smiles. She starts wondering if she’s doing something wrong.

Part of May Prompts: Day Two, a green duffel bag

You arrive on a Wednesday. No big announcement, no formal welcome. Just a nod from Hotch, a paper to sign, and a desk at the edge of the bullpen. Exactly as you wanted it. Your green duffel bag lands on the floor beside your chair with a soft thud. It’s scuffed, weathered, the kind of thing someone’s had for years. You keep one hand on the strap even as you sit.

“Hi,” you say to the agents around you, to no one in particular. Not cold. Just... quiet.

Emily watches from a few desks over. She’s halfway through her second coffee, watching the way your eyes track the room like you’re already mapping the exits. Like you’re waiting to be asked to leave before you’ve even started.

“Hey,” she tries, going for the casual tone. “What’s with the bag?” She nods towards your duffel sitting at your feet.

You glance at it. Then at her. “Just... my stuff.”

There’s a moment, an oppurtunity for this something to turn into a conversation, but then you pop in one headphone and look away. Emily doesn't push, doesn't pry, doesn't scoff. She just hums and lets her gaze linger on you a moment longer before pulling herself back to her work.

Later, you eat lunch alone. Headphones in. Not music, probably. Maybe just white noise or a podcast. Garcia tries to sit beside you, but she can see you are tense, it is subtle but sharp. She retreats with a gentle smile.

Emily still doesn’t push. Just watches.

That week, she holds the elevator when she sees you coming. Once, she places a second coffee cup beside yours on a slow morning. Doesn’t comment on whether you drink it.

She starts small. Sticky notes on your files.

“Nice work on the timeline.” “You caught that detail no one else did. Good eyes.”

You don’t respond at first. But you stop throwing the notes away.

By the next Friday, she sees you reading one of them twice before sliding it carefully into the pocket of your coat.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The case is brutal. A hostage situation in the middle of a residential neighborhood. There are too many eyes, too many variables. By the time the chaos shows any sign of clearing, the sun is dipping behind the skyline and you're kneeling in the dirt, your gun still raised, a young, trembling kid clinging to your arm.

You talk the older child down gently. Not with training, not really, but with something softer. Realer. You kneel to his eye level, your voice low and steady. You don’t promise it’ll be okay, you just stay with him until he lets go of the knife and starts to cry.

Later, back at the precinct, Emily passes by the makeshift kitchen where you’re washing blood off your hands. She leans in the doorway, arms crossed. Watching.

“You didn’t even flinch.”

You glance at her. Shrug. “I used to flinch too much. So I... I guess I just stopped.”

It’s not said with pride. Just fact.

Emily looks down at the scuffed tile floor. “I saw how you worked with that kid. It was... special."

You don’t respond, but something in your shoulders softens.

When you return to the BAU the next day, your green duffel is tucked right under your desk again. You never leave it in the locker room. Even when it’s just a paperwork day, even when you’re not on rotation. Always there. Like an anchor.

Emily notices. Of course she does.

She gestures toward it one afternoon, nonchalant. “That thing’s seen more desks than some of our interns.”

You smirk. “Probably smells worse, too.”

She smiles back. A real one this time.

“Still not gonna tell me what’s in it?”

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. Not defensive. Just... considering. Eventually you shrug, not answering but not really avoiding. “It’s just easier this way,” you say eventually. “Having it close.”

There’s a silence that follows. Not awkward but thoughtful.

Emily tilts her head. “Easier?”

You nod. “In case I need to go. In case I forget where I am. It’s dumb.”

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then she turns to go, tossing her words over her shoulder as she walks away:

“I don’t think it’s dumb.”

You glance down at the bag.

Neither do you, really.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You don’t show up that Friday. No message. No explanation.

Garcia assumes you took a personal day, but Emily knows better. You didn’t clear it with Hotch. You left no trace. Not even the green duffel bag sits under your desk, just the empty space where it usually lives, like something missing from a room you didn’t realize had changed.

By Saturday evening, Emily is pacing her apartment. She’s already texted once. 'Hey. Just checking in. You okay?' She didn’t want to overstep. She’s typing again now, something a little more direct, deletes it. Tries again. Repeats, 'Are you okay?' Deletes that too. In the end, she just stares at your contact name until her screen dims.

Garcia calls it a Y/N spiral. The kind where you vanish and come back like nothing happened, your emotions sealed off like rooms in a locked house. “I think she's just the kind of person who… forgets people care,” Garcia says softly, concern etched between every word.

Emily doesn’t answer. She’s already thinking about Monday.

And just like clockwork, you stroll into the BAU that morning, coffee in hand, hair still damp from a shower. No explanation, no apology. Your duffel bag is slung over your shoulder, same as always, dropped beneath your desk like a piece of punctuation at the end of a long sentence.

You look… fine. A little tired. A little more pale. But whole.

Emily waits until lunch to say something. She finds you alone by the vending machine, staring at the blinking lights like you’re trying to make a decision but forgot what it was.

“You can’t vanish like that,” she says gently, not accusing. Not angry. Just… exhausted with concern. “We care about you.”

You blink, like the words don’t make sense. “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

Emily breathes in through her nose, then out. “I noticed.”

Later that evening, when the office is quiet again and all conversation has died down, Emily returns to her desk and finds a note stuck to her monitor. A small post-it, your handwriting barely more than a whisper.

Thank you for noticing.

She holds the note between her fingers for a long time, smiling faintly like it’s something precious. And it is.

It’s not a conversation. It’s not a confession.

But it’s something.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s late again. It's always late around here. Most of the team has already gone home. Only you and Emily remain.

She finds you curled up on the couch in the break area, half-asleep, your duffel bag wedged between your knees like a shield. You look small in a way that doesn’t match the rest of you, all sharp edges and clipped responses during the day. Now, you're just… sleepy.

She doesn’t speak right away. She just sits across from you, watching the way your fingers absently tighten around the strap of the bag, like you’re afraid it might disappear if you let go.

Rubbing your eyes, you eventually murmur, “Didn’t feel like going home.”

Emily nods. “I’ve had days like that.”

You glance down at the duffel bag. The fabric is worn at the seams, a little frayed where the handles meet the zipper. It’s seen miles. Cities. Sleepless nights. Places you don’t talk about.

Emily’s voice is soft when she asks, “Can I ask what’s in it?”

You hesitate again, trying to test out the idea of opening up to this woman. But something in her tone, not demanding, not curious for curiosity’s sake, makes it feel safe.

“It’s… everything,” you say finally, like you are revealing the innermost part of you. “Clothes. A toothbrush. A blanket. Letters. Spare phone charger. There’s a book I’ve never finished. Some stuff from the academy.”

She tilts her head slightly. “You carry it with you all the time.”

You shrug, staring down at the scuffed floor. “It just… felt easier that way. I didn’t always have somewhere to land as an adult, or as a kid, so I kept everything important close. I guess I never really stopped.”

Emily doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt. You go on, voice quieter now.

“I bounced around a lot as a kid, got used to it, swore I never would when I grew up." You sniffled a little, "Guess I was too used to it. When I first started bouncing between field offices, it was just easier not to unpack. I’d stay in motels, sometimes friends' couches. And the bag-” You laugh softly, self-deprecating. “It was like my home. Everything I trusted fit in here.”

You glance up to find Emily watching you with something unreadable in her eyes. Not pity. Not judgment.

Understanding.

“It’s not dumb,” she says, voice gentle. “We all carry something.”

You smile, barely. “Yeah? What do you carry?”

For a moment, Emily doesn’t answer. Then she reaches forward, fingers brushing the worn canvas of your bag before her eyes meet yours. You took a deep breath in, she was close. You avert your eyes.

“More baggage than that could fit,” she murmurs. “And hope. That someday, you’d talk to me like this.”

You meet her gaze once more. It lingers this time.

And for once, you don’t pull away.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s quiet in the kitchenette. The kind of silence that hums under your skin, like the whole world is holding its breath. The coffee pot is still half full from hours ago, untouched and cold. You’re standing at the counter, back to the door, shoulders tight, trying not to cry.

But you are. Quietly. The kind of crying that sneaks up on you, you weren't expecting it. Your throat was tight, breath shallow, tears slipping down your cheeks without permission.

You press your hands against the edge of the counter. As if you could hold yourself together with just that.

Then, behind you comes the soft scuff of boots.

You don’t have to turn to know it’s Emily.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Doesn’t ask questions. Just steps into your orbit like she’s done a hundred times before, but this time, she stays.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, even though you’re clearly not. Even though your voice shakes and your shoulders do too.

Emily doesn’t call you out on the lie. She just says, “I’m here.”

And then, gently, like approaching a scared animal, she reaches for you. Her hand rests lightly on your back, just between your shoulder blades. Warm. Steady.

You go still.

For a moment, it’s too much. The kindness. The contact. The safety.

Then, slowly, you turn toward her. And it happens without decision. Your head dips, your arms slip around her like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like your body’s known all along what to do when it finally felt safe enough.

You sink into her like she’s gravity.

Emily wraps her arms around you without hesitation, holding you tightly, not to fix anything, not to pry it open, just to be there. Just to anchor you.

You bury your face in her shoulder, the fabric of her shirt already damp where your tears soak through. Your voice is muffled when you finally speak.

“That’s why I’m scared,” you whisper.

Emily strokes a hand slowly down your back, soothing, like she knows exactly what to say without words. “I know.”

You pull back just enough to look at her. Your eyes are glassy, lashes wet. “If I let this in… if I let you in… it could- What if it ruins me?”

Her thumb brushes under your eye, catching a tear. Her smile is small, achingly soft.

“Then we’ll be ruined together,” she says.

You laugh, barely. It’s a breath more than a sound. But it’s real. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re carrying the weight of everything alone.

You lean your forehead against hers. Just for a moment.

Neither of you speak.

You don’t need to.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The morning feels different.

Soft sun through the office windows. A warmth that doesn’t quite reach your desk, but still… it’s something.

Emily’s already at her desk when you walk in. She glances up out of habit, expecting the same routine. The green duffel bag, slung across your shoulder like armour.

But it’s not there.

She blinks. Straightens. Her eyes linger on the space where it should be, and then, slowly, lift to meet yours.

You don’t flinch. Don’t look away.

“I left it at home,” you say, voice quiet, with a small shrug. “Didn’t feel like I needed it today.”

There is a moment of silence.

Then, something warm flickers in Emily's expression, not quite a smile, but close. A small inhale, like she’s breathing in the moment. “I’m proud of you,” she says softly.

You shrug again, slightly more bashfully. But there’s a glint in your eyes, just for her. “It’s just a bag.”

Emily gives a small shake of her head. “No. It’s not.”

You nod. You know she’s right.

You sit down across from her and pull something out of your coat pocket. Folded carefully in your palm, a soft green bracelet, threadbare but strong. A braid of fabric, faded with time. From the bag. From the beginning.

You hold it out to her.

“For you.”

Emily’s brow furrows. “What is it?”

“It’s from the lining of the bag,” you say. “I, um, tore it out last night.” You smile, shy. “Something for you to carry. In case I forget you’re here.”

She takes it without hesitation, fingers brushing yours as she loops it around her wrist. Her thumb lingers at the knot, securing it tightly.

“I won’t let you forget,” she murmurs.

There’s something reverent in the way she looks at it. At you.

Across the bullpen, Garcia peeks around the corner and sees the two of you. She opens her mouth, then pauses. Smiles to herself. Retreats, quietly.

The day passes differently. Lighter.

You still keep your headphones on, but one ear is open now. You laugh at something Morgan says, even roll your eyes affectionately when Reid gets too lost in his own tangent. You still keep to yourself, mostly, but not entirely.

At lunch, Emily passes you a coffee. No words. You take it with a soft thanks, your fingers brushing again.

Later, when you both end up walking down the hallway together, you don’t move away when your arms touch.

It’s not a grand gesture.

Just a small step. But steps add up.

You leave together that night, not because you planned to, but because neither of you considered otherwise.

In the elevator, she glances at the bracelet again. You catch her looking, and for once, you don’t look away.

“You’re not scared?” she asks.

You shrug. “I’m still scared.”

Emily’s hand brushes yours. “Then we’ll be scared together.”

You don’t say anything.

But this time, you let your hand stay.

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slushfaerie · 3 months ago

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༘⋆ CRUMBS — prelude.

childhood friend!art donaldson x reader

word count & warnings – 1k. sfw. notes – inspired by an old friendship & the way it can feel when you make eye contact with someone you haven't met, but it feels like your heart recognizes.

it's the first day of high school and you're finishing your PB&J as you hustle up the stairs and slip through the door to Mr. Hu's classroom. Geometry right after lunch was diabolical – something you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy.

Mr. Hu's class was open seating, the room filled with the sound of comfortable, easy chatter. you opt for the fourth seat from the front, nearer to the wall without windows. you didn't want to give your mind too many chances to wander off. it would probably run away if it could.

the snap of gum popping rings out in the room amidst the din of your classmates following Mr. Hu’s beginning-of-semester spiel. you hear a snicker and something murmured you can't quite make out. another bubble pops as the semester's syllabi get passed down each of the narrow rows. you turn to pass the stack to the person behind you, taking the opportunity to get a glance at the source of the noise.

Arthur Donaldson - or "just Art. please." as you'd learned from roll call - takes that exact moment to glance in your direction. a little smile creeps up the side of his face as he chews his gum, listening to whatever was being said by the person beside him. a beanie on his head unsuccessfully attempts to tame unruly curls spilling out of it. you turn away swiftly, feeling an uninvited warmth kiss your cheeks.

was that crooked smile was meant for you? you'll never know.

but something about that dimple on his cheek and the way he lights up the back corner of the room kind of makes you wish it was.

your neighborhood was textbook suburbia: a smattering of young families still with a semblance of that spark of hope in their eyes balancing out the sleepier majority, mostly nosy retirees-turned busybodies and gossips.

and Art Donaldson's grandmother, the sweet lady she was, fell into the latter category.

Mrs. Donaldson had moved in with Art and his parents when he was just a sniffly little mess of golden curls. sat under an umbrella one fated summer at the community recreation center where Art picked up a tennis racket for the first time. overly enthusiastic cheers for every point he scored were met with a dimpled smile and wave from her grandson.

now, Art was in high school. still playing tennis. and still a mess of golden curls.

high school was a different beast, consolidating the town’s two junior highs and throwing all of the students into one big pot of teenage hormones and anticipatory stress for the future.

you and Art weren't new neighbors, funny enough. you'd become neighbors in the 6th grade, when your family moved across town and left behind the first place you'd called home.

Art could hazily recall the night his folks had told him a kid his age was moving into the neighborhood - they both happened to be home between business trips. admittedly, he wasn't too invested in the development at the time. was too busy thinking about his backhand or the show he was watching on TV.

"Arthur, are you even listening?" his Mother had asked, moving to grab the remote and turn the TV off herself. he never did get to see how that episode ended.

and that was the first impression you'd made on him.

beyond that, for years you'd remained siloed in the routine established by your family as long as you could remember.

you’d be dropped off by your parents on their way into work and driven home after school ended. as you sat in your Dad’s car, you’d often drive by other kids walking to the closer school nearby. but your parents decided they couldn’t have their baby walking to school. that's too dangerous.

while Art had attended Westshore for junior high, your parents had opted to keep you at Shoreside, where the kids you'd known from your younger years had all gone.

you didn't argue too much. it was easier that way.

keeping your head down and in the comfortable monotony of routine meant that you hadn't managed to see Art before. you'd remember a face like that, you think.

but he had seen you.

Art had been helping his Grandmother care for her rose bushes - the way he did every Sunday morning after she’d take him to church with her - when he'd witnessed what seemed to be one of the few instances you'd be allowed out on your own.

on your own, accompanied by your family's dog, more exactly. he saw the way you walked your dog around the block, letting her choose the route you traversed like her own adventure.

and before he knew it, Art found himself beginning to hope he'd see you every time he helped his grandmother or ventured out into the neighborhood.

he’d see how you’d sometimes end your walks sitting with your dog on the grassy hill at the far end of the park nestled in the heart of your neighborhood, just visible from his front yard. you’d look up at the trees or the sky and look like you were thinking too hard about something. occasionally, you'd bring a book with you.

sometimes he’d see a flash of your laugh in the front seat of your Dad’s car driving by on your way home from school. it was like you were in your own orbit, in your own world – a world he had the privilege of occasionally getting a little glimpse of.

even if Art didn't want to think too hard about it, something about the way you looked at him had his heart doing a funny dance.

Art had tried to play it cool, even pretending to care so fucking much about what Mitchell had just said to him. but he couldn't help the grin on his face.

because there you were, four seats in front and one row over to the left, turning to pass the stack of papers back. you’d held his gaze for a breath that felt like it got stuck in his chest before turning to face back front. a few stray crumbs of something on your face.

you'd finally seen him too.

thanks for reading 🤍🪽let me know what you thought if you feel moved to do so.

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #art donaldson x you #challengers #challengers fic #challengers x reader #slush writes ౨ৎ⋆˚#this is a prelude to a bigger expanded concept in my head #there may be more parts in the future #or i may never write again #duality of sof #crumbs au

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mitternacht · 3 months ago

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Hi I spend way too much time thinking about Fuuta Kajiyama and really wanted an excuse to throw out a full breakdown of his character and why I think he’s so well written.

The long and short of it is that Fuuta’s character was built to represent social isolation and the effects it has on the psyche. And the direction his character has taken in T3 was always going to be the natural progression of his character, especially based on his T1 verdict and the consequences of that, it did not come out of nowhere and is not a questionable writing decision.

(The rest under the cut for really long winded meta and dissection of Fuuta’s character and how we got here)

To start, I want to talk about Fuuta’s life before Milgram.

He’s a 20 year old university student, with no strong ties to family and no real group of friends or social circle to speak of. Already, he’s very isolated and has shown that he’s quite directionless. He doesn’t have any dreams or aspirations, because he thinks things like that are “childish” and “worthless”. He’s also never felt a real sense of protection or authority from the adult figures in his life, based on the way he talks about his parents. I’m inclined to believe they weren’t really present while he was growing up as well based on what we know of them, which caused further isolation and left him devoid of a sense of purpose. (Getting slightly ahead of myself here, but guess which type of people are most susceptible to falling into cults?)

So, what does he have to cling to? What does he have to keep him going? We all have a deep innate need for human connection and community, so where can he get that?

Online, of course.

So, he turns to the internet. He finds a community of people who enjoy the same things he does that he can connect with, and this serves as a lifeline for him. Now, he’s also been shown to have a strong sense of justice, which is perhaps one of the only other defining characteristics he can claim for himself and one of the only things he believes in. He feels a sense of empowerment and pride when he’s “carrying out justice” in his eyes, and it gives him a sense of purpose and duty that he’s lacking elsewhere in his life. It also brings him validation from his community, who further enable him and fan the flames, so to speak. He’s part of a group, he’s part of something for the first time in his life, and he has no way of stopping at this point. And then, it goes too far.

(I don’t feel like I should need to say this, but for the sake of posterity, yes, what Fuuta did was very, very bad and should never be condoned or excused. But again, it’s a very real problem and is caused by social isolation which is very common in today’s world and is worth having a discussion about. Fuuta’s character is an excellent showcase of how easily this can lead people to do terrible things by turning to online validation and praise for their sole source of connection with others.)

Now Fuuta is a person that doesn’t know how to deal with heavy negative emotions. He’s not very mentally strong, and being so isolated for most of his life with no real sense of purpose has left him with not a lot of ways to properly process or cope. When we first meet him in Milgram, he’s leaning very heavily on denial. He’s convinced himself that he did nothing wrong, and can’t even entertain the thought that his actions had killed someone. He’s also the type of person that can’t stand showing any signs of weakness. He acts big, and angry, and tough, because that’s the easiest way to deflect from any other “weak” emotions he may be feeling.

But, the side effect of this inability to process his negative emotions and acting out like this, is that he can’t make any real connections with the other prisoners in Milgram. (I’m not counting minigram as canon in this breakdown as an fyi, I’m basing this solely on interactions from timelines and voice dramas)

He’s lost the only community he had, completely cut off from it, and is experiencing the social isolation that drove him to this in the first place all over again. He sees the older prisoners as unreliable and not anyone he can lean on in this situation, and at this point doesn’t seem to have any particular feelings about the other prisoners. He mentions looking out for Haruka in particular, but (as much as it pains me to say this since I do love the 0103 dynamic) it’s unlikely that this was a significant enough connection to keep him from feeling socially isolated in Milgram. He states that he’s not looking to make friends with the other prisoners, but that was likely just big talk and hiding the fact that he couldn’t make that connection with anyone.

With all of these negative emotions he can’t process or cope with, the fear and uncertainty of his environment, the loss of community he once had, and without anybody or anything to rely on for guidance or protection, it’s already a recipe for a shattered mental state.

Now let’s throw a guilty verdict, some horrible physical trauma, voices that you can’t escape, heavy sleep deprivation and paranoid hypervigilance into the mix!

(I also want to point out… Fuuta’s second voice drama is titled “Baptism of Fire”. Yes, it’s a turn of phrase involving fire because that’s Fuuta’s motif, but knowing what we do now this was completely intentional foreshadowing)

The attack Fuuta sustained from Kotoko would be traumatic for anyone, and I feel that the effect this attack had on him is frequently dismissed because he wasn’t on the brink of death like Mahiru was. In Shidou’s T2 voice drama, he lists Fuuta’s injuries as: an orbital floor fracture, traumatic retinal detachment, bruising, lacerations, and a partial fracture of the thorax. This is going to cause some very severe chronic pain for him, particularly in his head and chest, especially considering they don’t have access to proper treatment and from what Fuuta has said they likely don’t have access to any sort of painkillers either. Even the act of just breathing is going to exacerbate his pain, and there’s just nothing that can be done for it. Speaking as someone with chronic pain myself, it definitely has a severe impact on your mental state and ability to do quite literally anything.

Regarding the “voices and eyes” of the audience, Fuuta has always been a special case, because out of the characters that have mentioned the voices in particular he has been the most severely and negatively affected by them. He states that he can’t sleep because he feels that he’s being watched, and he’s mentioned several times how badly the voices affect him and how badly he wants them to stop. And this sleep deprivation just aggravates quite literally everything else that he’s currently dealing with, physically and mentally, making everything worse by tenfold.

The fact that he even admits to being scared and shows weakness to Es, considering the fact that he has an innate need to hide any sort of weakness, should be very telling. We are also told so many times during T2 that Fuuta is at his breaking point and is a complete mess.

Although it’s not directly stated in canon, Fuuta very heavily showcases symptoms of psychosis that have seemed to become progressively worse through and after T2. (I made a post about this not too long ago, trying not to repeat too much here but I broke this down a little more in that other post)

And what’s a common symptom of psychosis? Religious delusion.

To start with, Fuuta's character even before entering Milgram is a prime example of someone who is extremely susceptible to falling in with a cult. Someone who is socially isolated, craves human connection and belonging, and who is searching for a sense of purpose/duty. You add onto that his murder and the need for someone to forgive him for it, the desperation for something to cling to, the worsening symptoms of psychosis and need for something to cure his pain? How in the world was he supposed to do anything but turn to religious delusion? If he hadn’t, it’s very likely the only other possible option he saw for himself was to end his life, which he mentions doing in Backdraft (and passively in his T2 voice drama).

There was a glimmer of hope when Fuuta mentions that he was grateful to Kazui and Shidou in the aftermath of Kotoko attacking him and what they did to help him, but it’s likely that he saw himself not able to continue relying on them considering Shidou had been so busy with Mahiru and Kazui may not have continued to be as present as Fuuta would have preferred. Which is heartbreaking, considering Fuuta seems to so desperately need an authority/protective adult figure to look up to. Mind you, 20 is not that old and especially if he never had that growing up, it’s natural to still want that at this age.

I would like to reiterate again that Amane did not “brainwash” nor “indoctrinate” Fuuta, she just ended up being the outlet for the only thing Fuuta has become convinced will save him. And now they’re stuck in a very sad cycle of enabling each other through their trauma.

All in all, looking at the pieces of Fuuta’s character I feel that this was always the plan, even from the beginning of T1. We were conditioned from the start to view Fuuta as guilty: by making his character theme red, by introducing him as foul mouthed, angry, arrogant, and unapologetic, and even from Jackalope’s comments in Es’ voice drama. We were conditioned to dislike him from the start, and since that guilty verdict in T1 was made Fuuta’s fate was sealed and this was always going to be the natural progression of his character. It was a slow build up, but was very well thought out and didn’t come out of nowhere.

This is the fulfillment of what happens when you put a socially isolated person through extreme stress and trauma with nothing to hold on to, and again is an excellent showcase of what it can look like to fall in with a cult even with no religious background. And how it’s even easier with individuals who have pre-existing mental illnesses/disorders.

We’ve come full circle and I’m very interested to see where his character goes from here.

#fuuta kajiyama #milgram #me: I’m too tired to work on fics #also me: writes 2k words of Fuuta meta #if I see one more bad Fuuta take I may explode #mostly about posts I’ve seen on Twitter but some of you… should do more research on how trauma and stress affects the brain before posting #there have been a concerning amount of ableist posts I’ve seen #getting through t3 as a fuuta fan is a challenge god gives only his strongest soldiers #and I may not be one of them #anyways! love Fuuta or else #I will love him through his weird little freak phase even if nobody else will #if this has typos or weird grammar please pretend you do not see I’m too lazy to re-read and edit this

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johannestevans · 22 days ago

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Monstrous May 2025 is very nearly upon us!

Are you taking part?

The Monstrous May Challenge is for artists, writers, other creators, and anybody else motivated by monsters to create works that feature monstrous romance and monsterfucking!

KISS A MONSTER TODAY.

More info about the challenge, as well as banners in the style of the above for each individual prompt, is available here.

You can also browse all the prompts for previous years, back to the first prompt list with banners in 2022.

#monstrous may #MonstrousMay #art prompt #writing prompts #art challenge #original fiction #musings

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flowersforthemachines · 2 months ago

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Rook Joins the Book Club - Mod

As one of the many people sad that Rook wasn't included in the Book Club, I set out to fix it by editing the codex entries in the game :)

There are 6 versions of the mod available, one for each faction. Here is a showcase of the Warden version:

The rest of the entries can be found under the cut.

Crow Rook:

Lord of Fortune Rook:

Shadow Dragon Rook:

Veil Jumper Rook:

Mourn Watcher Rook (typo in the word "possession" is fixed in the latest version of the mod):

#flowers mods #this mod is *technically* almost 2 months old #but it recently came to my attention that people may not know *I* made it. in part bc I used to have a different username on nexus #and you know. it's nice to have all of my mods on my blog ^_^#if you think about it this was also my first time writing in Bellara's POV...#most of these entries were a big struggle actually. writing them general enough to fit most Rooks but still being entertaining #while also avoiding the use of pronouns was quite a challenge #but I'm happy with how those came out in the end ^_^#rook datv #dragon age rook #rook laidir #rook aldwir #rook thorne #rook mercar #rook de riva #rook ingellvar #mourn watch #mourn watcher rook #grey warden rook #lord of fortune rook #veil jumper rook #veil jumpers #shadow dragon rook #antivan crow rook #flowers.txt #datv modding #veilguard modding

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amidnightjen · 2 years ago

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“A toothbrush?” Hen repeats, eyebrows high and tone extremely dubious.

“A toothbrush,” Eddie confirms.

“Your girlfriend broke up with you because of a toothbrush?” Ravi clarifies, he’s not the only one seeking that clarification either, Eddie can tell he beat Chim to the question only because he didn’t have his mouth full.

“Yes,” Eddie confirms (again), sounding a little more disgruntled this time about it.

Chim finally swallows his mouthful to ask, “Is this like a metaphor?”

Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know.” And he doesn’t, that’s the thing. He’s got no damn idea why a toothbrush (of all things) had Marisol breaking things off before they’d even really gotten started.

“I’m going to need more than this,” Hen says. “What kind of toothbrush?”

Exasperated, all Eddie can say is, “I don’t know - a toothbrush.”

“I mean,” Chim says thoughtfully, “did she not like the colour? Were the bristles too hard? Maybe it wasn’t about the toothbrush but the toothpaste on the brush - do you have weird toothpaste taste?”

That earns Chim a confused look from everyone but he just shrugs which Eddie finds fair because he honestly doesn’t know. “I don’t have weird toothpaste,” Eddie defends.

“I like your toothpaste,” Buck announces, dropping down into the chair beside Eddie. “Why are we talking about Eddie’s toothpaste?”

“We’re talking about Eddie’s toothbrush,” Hen clarifies and even as she does, she looks like she can’t believe that’s a sentence she’s found herself saying.

“Eddie’s toothbrush?” Buck repeats, sounding just as confused as when he thought they were talking about toothpaste.

“Not my toothbrush,” Eddie groans. “It wasn’t even mine!”

“Wait,” and this comes from Bobby who looks as though he can’t believe he’s joining in this conversation, “Marisol broke up with you because of Christopher’s toothbrush?”

“Marisol broke up with you?” Buck says, “Sorry man.”

Eddie waves off Buck’s words, he’s not all that broken up about it honestly, just genuinely stuck on how a toothbrush could possibly be reason enough to break up with someone. “No it wasn’t Chris’ toothbrush, Jesus.”

“I’m so confused,” Buck said.

“Me too,” added Ravi.

But Hen, Hen had a look on her face and there was a note in her voice he couldn’t identify as she asked, “Whose toothbrush was it?”

“Buck’s.”

And Eddie has no idea why that is suddenly explanation enough for everyone.

Well except Buck.

#may writing challenge #911 fanfic #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #firefam #henrietta wilson #chimney han #ravi panikkar #bobby nash #implied buddie #implied pre-relationship buddie

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htchnr · 12 days ago

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꩜ DAY 4 ,, "sound of silence". ᰔ the prompt list!

𑣲 pairing ,, Benjamin 'Dex' Poindexter.

Dex's eyes move across the crowd of your work event-- a company anniversary party-- with unease. the static in his head is loud, crackling with each person he lays his eyes on.

he soon finds you again though, standing by the bar as you grab drinks for the two of you. you're getting a fruity cocktail, Dex is getting sparkling water. alcohol doesn't mix well with his medication.

he watches you turn around, finding his eyes across the crowd with a wide smile. you're holding both drinks as you're weaving through the talking groups, making your way to him.

you grin as you reach him, handing him his drink. " phew, i didn't actually think this many people would show for this. " you huff, taking a sip of your own drink. Dex nods along, mirroring you as he sips on his drink.

he freezes up slightly as your fingers weave through his, giving his a reassuring squeeze. and like a drug, the static quiets. his eyes are still flitting across the crowd, but his thoughts, they're gentle.

he glances down at you, a soft, but stiff smile on his lips. " i'll say hello to my boss and his boss, and then we can go if you'd like. " you roll your shoulder, " cause uhg, i'd love nothing more than the quiet of our apartment right now. "

Dex hums, barely audible through the chatter and music. you squeeze his hand once more, before slowly making your way to your boss.

Dex takes a deep breath, downing the rest of his drink. he can do that, keep an eye on you, and then fulfil your shared need for peace.

「 authors note,, not much inspo for this one, but it's something! 」

#benjamin poindexter x you #ben poindexter x you #ben poindexter x reader #benjamin poindexter x reader #bullseye x you #bullseye x reader #wilson bethel #daredevil season three #daredevil born again #<{🌸may writing challenge}>#<{🪩©2025 htchnr}>#<{🏷️ben poindexter}>

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stormy-writer · 1 year ago

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I have writer's block :((

For every note this gets, like, comment, reblog, anything, I will write another word. Please, I beg you, make me write.

This will end on May 1st <<333

Edit: just logged back onto Tumblr for the first time in a while... I'm scared.

Edit 2: school is too hard, this'll end when summer starts and all this bullshit is over

Edit 3: ... It's time... I've been putting this off long enough... 419 words of a rewrite that I abandoned far too long ago. Pray for me.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing challenge #make me write #may 1st #writers block #i'm in danger

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diyasgarden · 1 month ago

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Hiii moodboard request for vampire ATP 🫶

interview with the vampire, but it’s art, tashi, and patrick 🫀

#i may write this actually #unsure who i would make daniel tho #maybe reader? if it was a reader insert #hm we shall see #challengers #patrick zweig #art donaldson #tashi duncan #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson x reader #tashi duncan x reader

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prisiidon · 1 year ago

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✨ Zora May 2024 ✨ 6th year let's gO 🐬

Guidelines: Tag as #Zora May! Not everyday, no specific order, just pick some prompts you like! For: art/writing, canon zora and zora ocs~ Past prompts can be used, and you can merge prompts too 🐟 I’ll also rb entries!

Design a Zora Masterpost

Entries: tumblr entries | twitter entries | old twitter entries Previous events: 2023 | 2020-2021 | 2019 | 2018

#zora may #legend of zelda #totk #tears of the kingdom #botw #breath of the wild #tloz #loz #twilight princess #art challenge #art #writing #pri posts

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come-what-may-challenge · 15 days ago

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Everyone can be a creator! We'll post a "Maybe This or Maybe That" prompt every other day. Create anything inspired by either of the prompts (or both!) and post on Tumblr using the hashtags #come what may creators challenge #cwmcc2025 or post in the collection on AO3! See our pinned FAQ post for the link! Who can join? Any creator of any kind that doesn't use AI! (It's so much more than a writing or art challenge! Think: playlists, mood boards, gifs, photography, nature walks, cooking & more!) What fandoms? Any and all fandoms are welcome to join us! (Including original works!)

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wlw-imagines · 15 days ago

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old bruises - JJ x Reader (Criminal Minds)

requested: Reader is Derek's best friend from when he was a little kid (from Chicago) and she joins his team, her and JJ get closer and reader is kidnapped and tortured by an unsub and the team is sent a live fed of said torture and JJ loses it(?) The team find r, barely clinging to life. (JJ being there when r wakes in the hospital.) - anon

a/n: an almost 8k whopper - i got carried away

cw: torture-ish (verbal rather than physical !)

summary: Y/N, Derek Morgan’s childhood best friend from Chicago, is a new recruit of the BAU. She’s smart, intuitive, and tough - shaped by the same streets that made Morgan who he is. From the beginning, JJ and Y/N gravitate toward each other. The tension builds between them over weeks. Then everything falls apart.

Part of the May Prompts: Day One, an old bruise

It was a good day when you transferred to the BAU. It had been what you were dreaming of for a very long time - ever since Derek had come home with stories of his new co-workers, of the work he did, of the lives he saved (and occasionally, on darker nights where he needed you the most, he talked about the lives they lost too).

You could still remember how Derek had paraded you around the BAU like a proud older brother, hand on your shoulder, introducing you to everyone. The only times he’d let you out of his sight were to take a phone call from your old boss - and to pee.

Now, he stood planted in the middle of the bullpen like your personal bodyguard, arms crossed, jaw set with protective pride. He wasn’t playing around.

“Any of you hurt her,” Derek said, eyes narrowing on his teammates, specifically Emily Prentiss, “and I will bury you. Smiling.”

Emily raised a perfectly arched brow and slowly lifted both hands in mock surrender, “Jeez, okay,” she muttered. “To be fair, I don’t think it’s me you have to worry about.”

Derek frowned, brow furrowing at her cryptic tone. “What-?”

JJ cut in quickly, her voice a little too casual, trying to wedge in a question before you returned. Something had been gnawing at her all morning, and even though she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer, she found herself needing it.

“Have you two…” JJ paused, trying to sound offhand but failing entirely. “Ever… y’know, been-”

“God, no,” Derek scoffed immediately, shaking his head with a grin. His focus shifted to JJ, though he was still casting protective glances in Emily’s direction, just in case. “She’s like my little sister. We go way back. First grade. It started with a shared cookie… and ended with her trying to fight all the bullies.”

JJ’s shoulders eased, just slightly. The tension she didn’t know she was holding loosened at the edges.

Emily, ever observant, filed the entire exchange away with an amused smile, eyes flicking between JJ and the bullpen entrance.

Just as JJ’s lips started to tug into something softer, you strolled back in, still tucking your phone into your back pocket. “Is he telling you all about my heroic youth?” you grinned, swinging an arm around Derek’s broad back. It didn’t quite reach over his shoulder, but he leaned down to help you make it work.

“She’s a fighter,” Derek said fondly, ruffling your hair. “Been saving people since she was seven.”

“Oh, there must be some stories,” JJ said, eyes lighting up in a way she tried to pass off as casual curiosity.

“That particular time involved a Scooby-Doo action figure,” Derek said, voice lowering like he was about to tell a campfire tale, “and three marbles.”

You opened your mouth to elaborate, but Hotch’s voice cut through the moment, sharp and direct from across the room. “We’ve got a case.”

You sighed, mock-dramatic. “Fine. Guess you guys’ll have to wait to see my heroics in action.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Less Scooby-Doo action figures in this line of work than you’d think…”

You grinned, falling into step beside JJ as the team gathered.

“Oh yeah?” you tossed back over your shoulder. “What about marbles?”

JJ just smiled, tight-lipped, a little brighter than before.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You don’t notice JJ standing there at first - you were too hunched over a printout, squinting at a string of timestamps that no longer make any damn sense. The uncapped highlighter in your hand hovers mid-air, unmoving for at least ten minutes.

“You’re going to burn a hole through that page.”

The voice startles you. You jump slightly and glance up, eyes tired and blinking into focus. JJ’s standing across your desk, arms folded, watching you with a soft, amused expression.

“Sorry,” you mumble, giving her a sheepish smile. “Didn’t hear you come over.”

“That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?” she replies, tilting her head. “You didn’t hear anything. Not even your stomach growling.”

You blink, then glance at the clock. Realize you haven’t eaten since... what, 6 a.m.? Maybe not even then.

JJ steps closer, resting her hand lightly on the desk’s edge. “Come on. Lunch. My treat.”

You wave her off, already turning back to the file. “I’m good. I just want to figure out-”

“You’ll figure it out faster with food in you.” Her voice is gentle, but there’s a steel edge tucked into it. “Don’t argue. I can be stubborn too.”

There’s something flickering behind her eyes, humour, maybe. Or something quieter. Concern, soft and steady. You study her for a moment, then sigh, letting your pen clatter onto the desk. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I forgot how to read.”

The café down the street is quiet this time of day. Warm enough outside to justify a little table by the window. JJ orders a salad and tea. You order grilled cheese and soup, and your body practically sighs with relief when the food arrives.

“You always push yourself this hard?” she asks, stabbing her fork through several layers of lettuce.

“Comes with the territory,” you answer, lifting your spoon. “Chicago trains you early.”

JJ hums in response. “So does Quantico. You’re allowed to take a breath, you know.”

You glance at her over the rim of your mug. “And you’re always this nice?”

She shrugs, smiling faintly. The kind of smile that feels like it’s just for you. “Only with the people I like.”

The air shifts between you. Not awkward, but quieter, more aware. You look down at your bowl, then back at her, slower this time.

“You don’t have to keep checking in on me,” you say, softly. “I can handle myself.”

“I know.” JJ’s gaze holds yours. Steady. Sure. “But maybe I just wanted to have lunch with you.”

That stuns you more than you expect. You cover it with a sip of water, hiding the way your throat tightens slightly.

The two of you don’t talk about work again. Not until you’re almost back at the BAU, at least. But JJ notices your steps are just a little lighter. And you notice she walks a little slower than usual, like she doesn’t mind dragging the moment out just a bit longer.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

A case had just finished. You’re both exhausted. You are very aware that both of your suits are wrinkled, you have bags under your eyes. The elevator lurches slightly and JJ sways. You steady her with a light hand at her elbow, bringing your bodies closer togther under the guise of helping.

JJ doesn’t step away. Your bodies remain close. Not touching - but almost. Enough to feel the heat between you.

JJ clears her throat and lets a small smile pull at her lips, “Thanks.”

“Always.” you reply simply, connecting your gaze with JJ’s, a genuine look passing between you.

Your vaguely aware of the elevator ding as the doors drag open to your floor. Neither of you move for a second. You don’t want to step out and break this fragile thing between the two of you.

Eventually you do.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You’re sitting side by side, the silence of late hours settling soft around the bullpen. JJ’s got a stack of paperwork in her lap, a coffee on the go next to her, eyes scanning steadily. You’re leaned back in your chair, head tipped against the wall, eyes half-closed, one earbud tucked in and music playing low.

Without a word, you lift the spare bud and offer it to her.

JJ takes it.

A slow song hums between you. Nothing overtly romantic, just gentle. Steady. The kind of song that wraps around the edges of silence without needing to fill it.

Your head tilts slightly, shoulder brushing hers. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t tense. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment longer than necessary, long enough to feel the moment, and not just let it pass.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

JJ slides into the backseat beside you, the city lights begin blurring past outside as Emily pulls out of the car park, already distracted and in conversation with Derek, their voices a low murmur. JJ passes you a thermos, still warm in your hands. Your fingers brush in the exchange, neither of you pulls away immediately.

“Thought you could use something hot,” JJ says, voice low, a little rough with exhaustion.

Your brain short-circuits for half a second. Your eyes flick to hers, catching the line of her jaw, the way she’s half-turned toward you. A teasing quip sits on your tongue but you swallow it back. Instead, you offer a quiet smile. “I think you’re the only one who ever remembers my coffee order.” You look down at your coffee cup.

JJ shrugs, casual on the surface. But her voice is softer now when she says, “I remember a lot of things about you.”

You turn to her, slowly. She’s already looking out the window like she didn’t just say something that shifted the air between you. Like her heart isn’t thudding under her ribs in a rhythm she hopes you can’t hear.

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

The silence settles between you again but it’s not the same. It’s warmer. Tighter. Felt.

Later, JJ’s the one driving. Work is done for the day. You’re in the passenger seat, slouched down, hair tied back messily, eyes heavy from too little sleep and too much adrenaline. Post-case silence stretches, familiar and sacred.

And then, out of nowhere, “By the way,” JJ says, her voice cutting gently through the quiet, “you did good today.”

You let out a soft grumble, your head tipping back against the headrest. Your fingers twist together in your lap. “I kept second-guessing everything.”

“And still figured out what we missed,” JJ says, firm. “You see things differently. That’s... good. We need that.”

You glance over at her, voice low. “Thanks for having my back in there.” JJ keeps her eyes on the road. But her hand flexes slightly on the wheel. Her voice is steady when she replies.

“Of course.”

And that’s it. Simple. Sure.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

“Got it chasing a guy through a broken window,” you say, flexing your hand as you unwrap the gauze. “You should’ve seen the glass.” You mime the size of the glass that had been embedded in your own skin.

JJ doesn’t smile, not quite. Her eyes flick to the cut trailing along your forearm, sharp against your skin. She steps closer, instinctively reaching out, her fingers brushing gently over the edge of the wound.

“You should be more careful,” she murmurs, voice soft but threaded with something heavier. Her hand lingers on your shoulder, grounding, warm. The contact draws your gaze to hers, your breath catching just slightly in your throat.

For a moment, everything around you, the hum of voices, the scrape of chairs, the shuffle of papers - it all dims.

“I guess careful isn’t really in the job description, huh?” you say, voice lower now, like it’s meant just for her.

JJ’s lips curve into something faint but real. She doesn’t move her hand.

“No,” she says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to try.”

And you don’t say anything because there’s too much in your chest, too much you’d spill if you did. Instead, you nod, just once.

And she stays a second longer than she needs to.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The bullpen is emptying, slowly. Agents dragging their feet, stretching out aching shoulders, trading low murmurs as they collect files and jackets. The latest case, a string of missing persons scattered across D.C, has kept them all running on fumes.

You sit cross-legged in your chair, a pen tapping rhythmically against your lower lip, eyes scanning the case file for the third time tonight. There’s something there. A thread you haven’t pulled yet. It hums at the edges of your mind. It’s taunting, familiar.

JJ leans against the edge of your desk, arms folded, her posture casual but her gaze sharp. There’s concern in it, softened at the edges, masked by fondness, but unmistakably there. “You’re still here?”

You glance up at her with a tired, crooked smile. “Someone’s gotta make sure we’re not missing the forest for the trees.”

JJ raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure Hotch would say the forest can wait until tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, eyes flicking back to the page, “but something’s not lining up. Give me a few more minutes.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Just watches you quietly, tracking the furrow in your brow, the tension in your jaw, the way your determination has always sat just a little too heavy on your shoulders. “You push yourself too hard,” she says, not quite scolding.

You don’t look up. “And you care too much.”

“Not possible.”

There’s a pause, barely a second but it stretches. You lift your gaze, and for a flicker of a moment, it’s all right there. Everything unsaid. Everything hovering on the edge of maybe.

“Go home, JJ.” Your voice is quiet. “I’ll be right behind you.”

She hesitates. Wants to argue. To stay. To insist you come with her. But she knows that look in your eyes too well, halfway to a breakthrough, halfway to letting someone in.

So instead, she nods.

“Don’t stay too late,” she says, voice soft. Then, more tentative, “Text me when you get home?”

You smile, distracted but sincere. “Promise.”

JJ lingers by the door. Just for a second longer. Just long enough to turn back once more. But you’re already bent over the file again, completely absorbed.

She leaves.

And the silence settles in.

Overhead, the lights hum. One flickers.

You turn another page.

In the end, you don’t text her. Not because you’re one to break a promise or anything. It’s just that you never make it home.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

JJ’s the first to arrive the next morning.

It’s habit, mostly. A quiet building. A few minutes of stillness before the day starts. But something is off the moment she pulls into the parking garage.

Your car is still there, in the same place it always is.

At first, she tells herself it’s nothing. Maybe you came in early. You’re always like that, last to leave, first to arrive. Dedicated to a fault. It’s possible.

But when she steps off the elevator into the bullpen, the lights are still off. The air feels untouched. No fresh coffee. No rustle of papers. Just the low hum of the building, waiting.

JJ flicks on a lamp and glances at your desk. It is still messy. Still lived in. Still yours.

She checks her phone. Nothing. No messages. No text. Not even the ‘made it home’ she was promised.

Her stomach tightens.

Hotch arrives next. Then Rossi, trading tired greetings. Derek follows a few minutes later, coffee in hand, smile halfway to forming, until JJ turns to him.

“Have you heard from Y/N?” Derek blinks. His face shifts almost immediately.

“She was still here when I left,” he says, frowning now, all trace of ease gone. “Said she wanted to go over the local files again.” He shakes his head. “So like her. Can’t let anything go. Too damn stubborn for her own good.”

JJ doesn’t smile. “She told me she’d text me when she got home.”

Derek pauses, then meets her eyes more carefully this time. But he doesn’t say anything.

They check the security logs. Your badge never swiped out. Your jacket is still draped over the back of your chair. The elevator cam shows you at around midnight - shoulders tense, files in hand, rushing out of the building.

But you never got into your car.

Garcia’s called in from home. She’s already pulling ATM camera footage, hospital intakes, traffic cams, anything. JJ stands frozen at your desk, eyes locked on the half-full mug you left behind. It went cold a long time ago. Like everything else in the room.

“I should’ve stayed,” she says quietly.

No one responds.

Because now they all feel it - the pull of dread sinking into their chests.

You didn’t leave. You’re not coming back. You’re missing.

And the worst part?

Whatever you saw in those files... no one else saw it.

Within seconds, the team is moving. Files spread. Names divided. Leads checked and re-checked. They won't stop until they find you.

But JJ's still standing by your desk, fingers hovering above your coffee mug like touching it might anchor her. Her jaw clenches. She's not going to let this be the last place you were seen.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s been sixteen hours since this nightmare began.

The clock ticks past midnight. The bullpen buzzes with low voices and clacking keys, but no one’s pretending they’re close to anything. They’re exactly where they were this morning, maybe even worse.

JJ’s nerves are threadbare. Her shoulders are locked, muscles screaming from tension. She’s lost count of how many times someone’s told her to go home. If one more person tries again, she might scream. Or cry. Or both.

She paces now, tightly, arms crossed, phone clutched in her hand like she’s waiting for it to ring. She knows it won’t. At least not with the name she aches to see.

Across the room, Derek leans forward on a table, fingers steepled beneath his chin. JJ hasn’t seen him this on edge in years. His knee bounces restlessly. His jaw is tight enough to crack. He’s going through the same hell she is. Of course he is. He loves you. And JJ understands that, more than she ever admitted out loud.

A sudden shout slices through the static hum of tension.

“Guys, we’ve been sent a link!”

The bullpen shifts all at once. Chairs scrape. People stand. Every agent in the room joins together toward the screen. JJ doesn’t remember moving, just that she’s suddenly at the front, heart hammering.

The monitor flickers. Static. Then, a feed stabilizes. Low-res. Cold. A basement.

The camera’s mounted high in the corner, angled down. The walls are cement, grey and sterile. There’s a metal pole in the background, some pipes overhead. No windows. No light but a single bulb swaying slightly overhead.

You’re tied to a chair in the middle of it.

JJ’s stomach plummets. Her breath catches sharp in her chest.

You’re slouched, unmoving. Your face is bruised, one eye swelling shut. Blood is crusted at your temple. Your arms are behind the chair, shoulders tense, wrists bound so tightly the skin looks torn.

You aren’t moving. Not much. Please let that mean you’re conserving energy. Please. Not anything else.

Then, offscreen, a man’s voice, calm and measured. Too calm.

“Do you know why this is happening, Y/N?” You don’t answer. Don’t move. JJ sees your throat twitch, just a swallow. Her heart leaps at the tiny sign of life.

“I'm protecting you really. From them. They left you. Didn’t they?” JJ’s jaw locks. She watches you, not the screen, like she can will you to react, to hold on. She memorizes every inch of you, every twitch and flinch.

Your jaw clenches. Barely.

She sees it.

“Even her. The blonde one. JJ. She’s not coming for you. Not really.” JJ stands stock-still. Her arms are wrapped around herself now, tight and unforgiving. Her nails dig into the soft skin of her sides. Her throat burns. But her eyes don’t move. “She said all the right things, didn’t she? Nice things. But where is she now?”

And then-

You lift your head. Barely. Your voice is raw and cracked, but it cuts through like a blade. “You talk too much.”

JJ exhales sharply. Her lips twitch for just a second, like her heart’s trying to smile through the ache. But it doesn’t last. The unsub appears then, just a blur of movement as he storms into frame and strikes you hard across the face. You reel sideways, nearly tipping the chair. Another blow, this time a kick to the ribs. You groan, body curling in on itself.

JJ flinches violently. Her feet shift like she might run through the screen.

Across the room, Derek turns. His hands clench into fists, and he slams one onto the nearest desk. The unsub keeps speaking, voice dripping with cruelty. “You think you’re strong. But you’re alone. You’ve always been alone.”

JJ’s hands are trembling now. She forces them into fists, holds them tight at her sides to stop it. Hotch steps up beside her, his voice low. “JJ… maybe you shouldn’t-”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.

Hotch nods, backing off. He knows that voice. A voice formed, not of duty, but of love. He knows it, even if JJ hasn’t voiced it.

The unsub walks back into frame. He leans close behind you. JJ leans forward too, unconsciously mirroring the motion, like she can block him with her body.

“She won’t save you.”

JJ shakes her head softly, whispering like you can hear her. “No. I’ve got you. You just need to hold on.”

The unsub’s voice drops lower, colder. “Derek left you too, didn’t he?” Derek storms back toward the screen, face pale and drawn. JJ can see him processing, hating himself. But she doesn’t take her eyes off you.

“Your best friend. Your brother. Morgan. He got out. Left the streets behind… left you behind.” Your fingers twitch against the ropes. JJ notices. Her breath hitches. “He joined the BAU. Made something of himself. What did he do when you showed up?” He knelt down, face close to yours, voice dangerously soft, “He tried to send you back. Didn’t want you there. Not really.”

You shift again. This time, it’s not fear. It’s anger. JJ can feel it through the screen, like a current building in your body. The words hit somewhere you weren’t ready for. That makes them dangerous.

You’re burning.

JJ’s eyes flick to Hotch. “He’s targeting her worst fears. Isolation. Abandonment.” Hotch nods grimly.

“That’s how he breaks them.”

“Not her,” JJ replies, steady now. “Not this time.”

The unsub circles again. Leans down one more time, venom thick in his words. “And why don’t we return to that girl of yours. JJ? She’s just being polite. That’s what she does, right? The soft voice. The smile. Pretends to care. But she doesn’t. You’re a liability to them.” His voice raised in anger, “To her.”

You raise your head. It’s slight, but purposeful. Blood streaks your chin. Your eyes are red, swollen. But they’re clear. Defiant.

“You don’t know her.”

The unsub goes still.

JJ goes still too, her chest aching. You defended her. Even now. Even here.

“She left you.” The Unsub shouted, enunciating each word.

JJ’s voice cracks, but she says it again, louder this time. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Hotch doesn’t reply. He just walks away. Derek remains beside her. He reaches out, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. His voice is thick.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it.” A pause. “You love her.”

JJ’s eyes are locked on the screen. Her heart’s already there.

“I never said it. I should have.”

Derek squeezes her shoulder gently.

“You will.”

A sharp voice cuts in from the back.

“We might have found something!”

JJ turns slightly, still holding the screen in her periphery. Her pulse pounds louder than the noise around her.

She’s not moving. Not yet. Not until she’s bringing you home.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

JJ can hardly remember the moments leading up to the cabin. The drive was a blur of flashing sirens, shouting over comms, the sound of her own pulse thundering in her ears. She must have convinced Hotch she was okay to go. Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe he’d just seen the look in her eyes and known there was no stopping her.

Maybe he forgot to stop her.

She doesn’t care. She’s here now. And nothing, nothing, is going to keep her from getting to you. From telling you the things she should have said a long time ago.

The morning is still barely formed. A little after 5AM, the sky is a muted navy, just beginning to pale at the edges. The forest is thick with shadows, trees black against the dawn. The agents’ breath fogs in the cool air. The beams of swinging flashlights cut through the dark.

JJ is running. Branches scrape against her coat, twigs snap underfoot, but she doesn’t feel any of it. The cabin is ahead. She sees it between the trees - a squat, rotting structure. It looks like nothing. But she knows.

Derek is beside her. Wordless. Focused. Ready.

Someone shouts, “Go! Go!” and a boot hits the door. It crashes inward.

They flood inside, guns drawn, eyes scanning.

JJ sees him. Before her brain even catches up, before her body knows what to feel. The man who took you. He stands in the center of the room like he’s been waiting. Like this was the plan all along. And he smiles.

He really smiles. It’s the kind of grin that turns her stomach.

Then, slowly, he reaches his hands behind his back.

“Drop the weapon! Hands where I can see them!” JJ yells, her voice cracking at the edges. There’s a tremor in it, rage, fear, desperation, and maybe that’s why he pauses. Just for a second. Long enough.

Someone else moves. A tackle. The weapon clatters to the floor. The unsub goes down hard. There’s shouting, metallic clinks of cuffs.

But JJ’s already gone.

She shoves past him, to the stairs leading down into the cold basement. She barely even sees him now.

She sees you.

And nothing else matters.

You’re suspended against the far wall, arms strung up above you, your weight sagging against the restraints. You’re bloodied, bruised, barely conscious. JJ stops cold for half a second, her heart threatening to split in two.

Then she’s moving, running.

She reaches up, fingers scrambling to undo the ropes, breath shaking. Your body is limp against her, toes just barely brushing the floor. She catches you as the restraints fall away, cradles you in her arms, lowering you gently.

“See? See, you're okay, right?” she’s saying, her voice breaking as she shifts to support your head, brushing hair away from your forehead with trembling fingers. “Y/N, come on, baby. Show me you're okay. Please.”

For a second, there’s nothing. Her blood runs cold.

Then, you groan. A wheezy, painful sound, but it’s you.

“Told you,” you rasp, barely audible, “being careful… not in the job description.”

JJ lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sob. Her hands slide down to cup your face, her thumbs brushing over the dirt and blood.

“You’re an idiot,” she murmurs back, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your temple, lingering. “You don’t get to be brave. Not like this. You just need to come home.”

Your voice is a whisper now, but it still reaches her.

“I am... home. Here. With you.”

JJ’s throat tightens. She blinks rapidly, pulling you in closer.

“We’re going to get you help. Medics are on the way. Just... just stay with me, okay? Eyes on me. Right here.”

Your eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open.

“And you?” you ask, voice thin. “You’ll… stay?”

She presses her forehead to yours, voice fierce and tender all at once.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Behind her, Derek’s voice breaks through, hushed and full of relief.

“She’s alive?”

JJ doesn’t turn around. She keeps her eyes on you, one hand clutching yours, the other smoothing over your hair.

“She’s okay.”

And maybe it’s not true yet.

But she’s here. And she’ll make it true.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The room is quiet, too quiet, except for the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. It’s sterile, cold in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.

You’re lying in the hospital bed, broken, bruised, but safe. For now. There's a fresh IV taped to the inside of your arm, the skin around it is still raw. Sterile sheets are tucked tight around you, and the scratch of gauze across your temple itches every time you shift.

You stare at the ceiling. Blank. Somewhere between exhausted and numb. Everything hurts, but it’s far away, like your body belongs to someone else.

A chair creaks softly beside you.

JJ sits there, still in her field clothes. Her bulletproof vest unzipped, dirt streaked across her cheek, hair pulled hastily back into a low ponytail. Her elbows rest on her knees, hands clasped tightly between them like she’s praying, though her eyes never close. Her coat lies on the floor nearby, twigs and leaves still clinging to the fabric.

She hasn’t left since they brought you in.

“You’re still here,” you croak out, voice raw and gravelly.

JJ’s head snaps up like she'd been holding her breath, and the second her eyes meet yours, her lips curve into a small, tired smile. “Told you I wouldn’t leave.”

You try to smile, too. It barely twitches at the corners of your mouth. Your throat works as you swallow. “You didn’t have to stay,” you rasp, gaze drifting toward the window. “I know it’s late. Or early. Or whatever…”

Your brow furrows. You’ve lost track of time. Of everything.

JJ sits back a little, expression unwavering. “You think I could sleep not knowing if you were okay?”

You blink, surprised, once more, by the steel in her voice.

“Everyone’s told me to go home,” she adds. “Hotch, the nurses… hell, even Derek. Don’t you start on me now.” Her tone softens just slightly, but the weight remains. “I thought you’d have my back.”

You let out a quiet exhale. You turn your head to look at her, slowly, stiffly, everything aching.

“Of course I do.” But there’s something behind your eyes. Something distant. JJ sees it instantly. You turn away, staring at the wall now, brows drawing together.

“Talk to me,” JJ says, voice still gentle, but more sure now. A command wrapped in concern.

Your lips part. It takes effort to speak. “He said a lot of things, you know,” you murmur. “About Derek. About… you.”

The air seems to shift. Heavy again.

Your eyes lock on hers, tentative but searching.

“He said I don’t belong. That I’m a liability.”

JJ goes still. Her jaw sets, shoulders tensing just slightly.

Then she leans forward again, eyes blazing, not with anger, but with fierce, protective conviction. “Then he’s just as much a liar as he is a monster.”

You hesitate. “You sure? ‘Cause I’m not exactly textbook BAU…”

JJ’s face softens just slightly, but there’s conviction in her voice. “Textbook agents don’t survive what you did,” she says, her voice growing more intense with every word. “You held on. You stayed strong. You fought. That doesn’t make you a liability. That makes you a warrior.”

She catches herself, breathing in deep, reining in the emotion that’s starting to creep into her tone.

“You being here doesn’t weaken us. It makes us stronger. You make us stronger.” Her fingers curl slightly against yours. “You make me stronger.”

Your breath catches. You blink rapidly, trying to laugh, but it gets caught halfway in your throat.

JJ notices, and her hand moves up to brush lightly against your cheek, carefully avoiding the bruises. Her touch is soft. Grounding.

“Hey,” she murmurs, “you don’t have to be tough right now. You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

Your eyes flutter shut for a second. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“I just wanted to see you alive.”

The words hang in the air between you.

Then, JJ swallows. Her grip tightens just slightly.

“To tell you-” she starts, but breaks off, breath catching. “You scared me,” she says, finally. “And I don’t scare easy.”

You swallow hard. “That’s… that’s what you wanted to tell me?”

She huffs out a breath, part bitter laugh, part confession. “No.” Her gaze drops to where your hands are entwined, then lifts back to your face. “I watched that footage,” she says softly. “You tied up. Hurt. Bloody. And I didn’t blink. Not once. Because if I blinked, I might miss something. Anything. A sign that you were still fighting.”

You flinch, a trace of guilt shadowing your face. “You shouldn’t have watched that,” you whisper.

“I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t leave you alone.” Another long silence stretches between you. Heavier than the last. But this one isn’t from fear. It’s full of everything else. The words you both haven’t said.

You clear your throat softly. “I was scared too.”

JJ lets out a breath. It is long and slow, as though your honesty cracked something in her.

Her thumb strokes over your knuckles. She’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“I’ve loved you,” she says, voice hushed. “For a little while now. I didn’t say anything because... God, I don’t even know. Timing? Fear?” A bitter laugh. “Maybe I thought you already knew.”

“I think I did,” you whisper. Your eyes are glassy, but your voice is steady. “I just… didn’t let myself believe it.”

The tension between you slowly begins to melt. Not completely. But enough.

Outside the room, a familiar figure leans quietly against the doorframe. Derek Morgan watches with his arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face. Then, slowly, he breaks into a small proud smile.

He shakes his head with a quiet exhale.“About damn time.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You wince as you limp down the corridor toward the bullpen, each step sending a dull throb through your body. Every inch of movement takes effort. You're immensely grateful for the elevator. Just the thought of climbing stairs makes your stomach turn. Even pressing the right button felt like a battle. But you push forward, jaw clenched, focusing on anything but the pain.

You're barely halfway down the hall when a familiar figure slips beside you. JJ. Two coffees in hand, and an expression of gentle exasperation mixed with something much softer, something closer to awe.

She gives you a once-over. “Where does it hurt?”

You smirk faintly. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

JJ’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. “You shouldn’t be in.”

“I was going crazy sitting at home,” you reply with a shrug, or what passes for one. “Besides, I missed the paperwork. Thought I’d come back for all the fun.”

JJ raises an eyebrow and presses one of the coffee cups into your hand. “You’re lucky I brought you this.” She gives you a sidelong look. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Completely.” Then you pause. “Okay, well... not completely, but-”

“You should’ve stayed home.”

“JJ, I’m fine,” you insist, even as your steps falter slightly. “Just a few bruises.”

“You do remember I saw you, right?” Her voice dips, softer now. “I know what he did.”

“Just old bruises,” you say quickly.

“Oh, and a few dozen stitches, huh? No big deal.” She rises to your sarcasm but doesn’t give in.

You grin through the ache. “Exactly.”

JJ sighs. “You’re an idiot.”

“Doesn’t that just make you fall for me even more?”

“Hmm, no. Surprisingly, idiocy isn’t a selling point.”

“Oh come on,” you tease, trying to keep the air light, “normally this roguish charm works pretty well on the ladies.”

Her expression changes then. One that is sharper, more serious. She stops walking. “I saw what you went through,” she says, voice low. “I went through it with you. And I don’t need to recover from that by laughing it off. I need you to be honest with me.” Her eyes meet yours, unwavering. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Not now. Not ever.”

You hesitate. For a second, your shoulders drop, and the performance slips.

“Noted,” you murmur. “So the whole ‘I’m fine, tough as ever’ act is never going to work on you?”

Derek appears at your side and snorts. “You’re about as fine as a cracked sidewalk, Y/N. Sit down before you fall down.” He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, already guiding you toward your desk chair.

“I’ll sit when you admit I was always faster than you.” You grin, trying to straighten up, to prove you’re okay, slipping back into the old bravado.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “You were fast, whatever. Still dumb as hell trying to play hero over here, Frankenstein.”

“Oh, I get it,” you add, nodding at his joke, gesturing to the various stitches, “very clever—but just so you know, it’s Frankenstein’s monster—”

“Miss Know-It-All,” he groans, rolling his eyes. “We both know I copied all your English homework in school. Don’t start showing off now.”

You gasp with mock outrage. “Wow. I get tortured and this is the thanks I get?”

As he guides you into the chair, shaking his head with a chuckle, you smile.

Or try to.

The second you're sitting and his back is turned (he’s off to find some funny casework he’s been writing up and wants to show you) your expression crumples. Just a little. You exhale slowly, one hand drifting unconsciously to your side, fingers grazing the worst of your healing wounds.

JJ notices instantly, she’s been at your side the whole time, hovering lovingly. Her smile fades as she watches you.

“So, about that whole honesty thing…”

You don’t meet her eyes. “God, I know, JJ. It’s just… I hate being weak.”

JJ steps closer, perching on the corner of the desk nearest to you. There’s no judgment in her face. Just warmth. Understanding.

“You’re not weak,” she says firmly. “You got hurt. And instead of giving yourself time to heal, you’re pretending you’re okay because you’re scared of slowing down.”

“If I slow down,” you admit quietly, “I feel it. And if I feel it, I…” Your voice catches. “I remember too much.”

JJ doesn’t flinch. She just nods, like she’s known this all along.

“Then let me help you carry it,” she says, her hand finding yours again, anchoring you. You swallow thickly, emotion rising like a tide. Your eyes flick to hers, glassy now.

“I don’t want to be alone,” you whisper, squeezing her hand lightly.

“You’re not,” JJ says, steady as a vow.

She moves to the chair beside you and gently takes the coffee from your hand, slipping her arm around your shoulders with practiced care. You don’t resist. You let yourself lean into her, just a little, just enough.

“Come on,” she says. “You can heal at my place. No more pretending.”

“You sure?”

JJ smiles, this time soft and certain. “I’ve been sure. About this. About you. For weeks.”

Together, you stand (slowly) and start walking out of the bullpen (even slower). The world outside is still too bright, too loud... but for now, this is enough. You. Her. Moving slowly. Quietly. Together.

As you near the door, you glance back over your shoulder with a tired grin. Derek calls out your name, knowing, under his own bravado, that you’re still piecing yourself together.

“Don’t think this gets you out of paperwork forever, tough girl,” he warns with a wink.

“Just long enough to make you miss me,” you call back.

“Yeah, yeah. Next time, come back a little less mashed up, would you?” Derek mutters.

JJ’s breath hitches. She squeezes your side lightly.

He continues, softer now, “You gotta take care of yourself.” A pause, a glance at the woman next to you. “And let others take care of you, too.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sunlight spills into the kitchen, soft and hazy. The world feels like it’s still waking up. Outside, birds call faintly, and somewhere nearby, coffee mugs clink gently.

JJ stands at the stove in a worn hoodie and leggings, hair pulled back in a messy bun. She moves quietly, instinctively, with one hand cradling a mug of coffee, the other flipping something in a pan.

Behind her, there was the shuffle of bare feet. She doesn’t need to turn around. “You’re up early.”

Your voice is still thick with sleep, a rasp clinging to the edges. “Didn’t mean to be. Your bed’s too comfortable.” You wrap your arms around her and press a kiss to her shoulder. “Too quiet, though.”

JJ turns to look at you, wrapped in the blanket the two of you slept with, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Your hair is a mess. Your eyes are still a little puffy. You look soft. Real.

She smiles. “I was going to bring you breakfast. You’re supposed to be milking this for all it’s worth.”

“I’m not so great at the whole ‘let someone take care of me’ thing,” you admit, easing away from her and settling into a chair, your body still aching. Less than before but always there.

JJ follows, plate in hand. “Lucky for you, I’m great at ignoring that.”

You chuckle as she slides the plate in front of you, scrambled eggs, toast, sliced fruit. Simple. But it feels like more than that.

“You didn’t have to do all this.” Your shoulders tense, caught between gratitude and guilt.

“I know,” she says softly. “I wanted to.” And with that, the guilt dissolves, “You take care of everyone else,” she adds. “Let me do it for you. Just for a while.”

You look down at the plate, blinking a little too fast. Your voice, when it comes, is barely above a whisper.

“It’s just... he said I was forgettable. That I’d disappear, and no one would even notice.”

JJ doesn’t speak right away. She steps around the counter, slipping her arms gently around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder, mirroring how you’d held her earlier.

“I noticed,” she says. “Every minute you were gone. I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t breathe.”

You lean back against her. Let your eyes flutter shut. “And while I’m being honest,” you murmur, “I was afraid I’d never see you again. That I’d never get this. Just… a quiet morning. With you.”

JJ presses a kiss to your ear. “You’re not going anywhere,” she whispers. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” She leans forward, kissing your cheek. “And I do,” she adds, warm and certain. “I have lots to say about it.”

A quiet beat.

“JJ?”

She moves to sit beside you, her hand trailing to rest gently on your thigh. She touches you often, grounding you, and you're grateful for it.

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad I have you.”

JJ’s smile softens. “I’m glad I have you too.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The sun is low now, casting warm amber light across the yard, painting long shadows that sway with the breeze. The air is soft, still holding onto the last of the day’s warmth. You and JJ sit side by side on the porch steps, her thigh pressed gently against yours. The silence between you is companionable, comfortable in a way it wasn’t just a week ago. You’ve settled in what is close to a domestic life over the past week. Her hand rests near yours on the step, not quite touching, but close enough to count.

You’ve taken time to heal, together. Just the two of you. No work involved.

The back gate creaks open.

“Well damn,” a familiar voice calls, all swagger and affection. “So you are alive.”

Derek Morgan’s grin is unmistakable as he strolls in, flanked by the rest of the BAU. Garcia’s bright hair catches the light, Rossi’s hands are caught in his pockets, and Spencer lingers just behind, his smile small but sincere.

Your head jerks toward them, breath catching. You laugh, a sound halfway between a choke and a sigh of relief. JJ squeezes your shoulder and rises, giving you a knowing look before slipping quietly inside, letting the team filter past her into the house. She doesn’t need to say anything. She knows you need this moment.

Derek takes his time walking up to you. There’s mischief in his eyes, sure, but it’s softened around the edges. Protective. Grateful. His hands are in his pockets, but his posture is open and grounded.

“Took you long enough,” you say, smirking through the emotion building behind your ribs.

“Traffic was hell,” he shoots back. “Also had to emotionally prepare for how bad you probably smell, cooped up, recovering.”

You roll your eyes, but Derek’s smile falters as he gets a better look at you, really sees you. You're not quite the same. There’s still pain in your eyes, exhaustion in the lines of your face. But there’s colour in your skin again. Strength, even in your stillness. A light that wasn’t there before.

He closes the last few feet and pulls you into a hug. Not a tentative one. Not the kind people give when they’re worried you’ll break. A real one. Fierce. Familiar.

You melt into it, letting your arms wrap tight around him, clinging a second longer than you mean to.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low now.

You pull back just enough to look at him. He shakes his head, smiling, “I should be asking you that.”

You snort, eyes scanning him again. “I’m good. Better now.” You pause, hesitate, before deciding you have to tell him and tell him now, “JJ and I…” You pause. “We’re… something.”

Derek grins. “Oh, I knew that a long time ago.” He nudges your side. “Neither one of you subtle types could hide it if you tried. Big brother instincts don’t lie.” He softens, “She’s brought you back to being you over this past week. I never thought that was just a friendship.”

You laugh, eyes glinting. “Rumor has it you had a pool going. You were targeting Em.”

“Please.” He waves it off. “Look at you... traumatized, stubborn, full of backtalk. It’s like we never left Chicago.”

“Don’t forget emotionally repressed and slightly feral.”

“Mmm. Only slightly?” He tilts his head toward the house, then back to you. “She takes good care of you, though. Right?”

You nod, gaze softening. “Always did. Even when I didn’t know how to let her.”

Derek’s smile fades into something more heartfelt. His brow furrows slightly, like he’s holding back the weight of everything that could’ve been lost.

“You scared the hell outta all of us,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightens, but you meet his gaze. “I was scared too. I thought... I thought I’d disappear, and no one would notice.”

His expression hardens, gentle but fierce. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

“We’re family. We don’t let each other go out like that. You didn’t disappear. You lit up a goddamn flare. JJ nearly burned the world down getting to you.”

That breaks something open inside you, and you laugh, wiping quickly at your eyes.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “She’s like that.”

Derek pulls you back into a brief hug, one hand ruffling your hair before he releases you. “You deserve this. Her. All of it. You always did.”

You smile, the kind that sticks. The kind that means something.

“You’re gonna make me cry again, man.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t go soft on me now,” he teases. “You still owe me a drink when you’re done milking the whole ‘recovering hostage’ angle.”

From inside the house, JJ’s voice rings out: “Wine? Both of you?”

The sound of laughter follows, Garcia’s high and bright, Spencer’s soft and amused, Rossi muttering something about finally opening the good bottle.

“I’m in,” Derek calls back. “We both are.”

He throws an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close as you both head toward the door. You lean into him for a step longer than needed but he doesn’t mind. He just squeezes your shoulder.

“You got your people now, sweetheart,” he says, nodding toward the house. “Don’t forget that.”

Your hand brushes the doorway as you step inside. Warmth, light, voices. A second chance waiting on the other side.

You smile, real and certain. “I won’t ever forget.”

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