Could you please write headcannons for how Olivia would support you through struggling with anxiety and depression? 🫶🏻
— how olivia benson would support you struggling with anxiety & depression (headcannons)
— olivia benson x female!reader
communication & reassurance
— olivia notices the small things first — the change in your tone, your withdrawn body language, or how your texts get shorter. she doesn’t push you to talk right away but gently lets you know she’s there.
— she’ll say things like, “you don’t have to explain it all to me now. i’m not going anywhere.”
— she never dismisses what you’re feeling. if you say you’re anxious about something small, she validates it rather than telling you to “calm down.”
emotional support
— olivia becomes your anchor in moments when your anxiety spikes — she’ll hold your hand, help guide your breathing, or just sit silently with you until you feel steady.
— she’s incredibly patient when depression makes you cancel plans or stay in bed all day. instead of guilt-tripping you, she’ll bring a cup of tea, curl up next to you, and suggest watching a comfort show together.
— if you ever cry without knowing exactly why, she never demands an explanation — she just wraps her arms around you and stays there as long as you need.
creating a safe space
— she helps you build a “calm corner” in your home — soft blankets, low lighting, maybe a few candles, and a playlist of your comfort songs. she makes sure it’s a space where you can breathe without judgment.
— olivia keeps mental health resources saved on her phone, but she never overwhelms you with advice — she waits until you’re ready to look at them together.
practical care
— on hard days, she quietly picks up the little things you can’t manage — laundry, grocery runs, even answering certain texts.
— if she’s at work late, she’ll send you check-in texts: “i’m proud of you for making it through today.” or “remember to eat something, okay? even if it’s small, i love you.”
gentle encouragement
— she celebrates your small victories — getting out of bed on a bad day, making a phone call you’ve been avoiding, or even just taking a shower. She makes sure you know those things count.
— she encourages you to keep a flexible routine without making it feel like a demand. if you can’t stick to it one day, she reassures you it’s not failure.
physical comfort
— lots of slow, grounding touches — running her fingers through your hair, rubbing circles on your back, squeezing your hand.
— she’ll hold you at night when your mind is restless, whispering gentle reminders like, “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”
long-term support
— she respects therapy and medication as valid tools and encourages you to explore them if you’re open to it. if you want, she’ll even wait outside the appointment so you don’t feel alone.
— olivia never makes your mental health a problem to “fix” — she treats it as a part of who you are, something you’ll face together.
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hi, I hope you’re doing well 🫶🏻 I was wondering if I could please request something where reader desperately wants relapse with sh but instead winds up talking to her father figure hotch or Rossi (or both)? No pressure if you don’t want to write it. I absolutely love your writing 🥰🥰 - @twwobsessed 💜
TW: mentions of self harm and negative thoughts
Some cases hit people harder than others, usually you were able to remain objective about the cases, put all those normal thoughts of sadness, despite, hatred for people to the back of your mind.
But your most recent case had you finding it hard to do that, it hit a little too close to home for you, and no one on the team knew that, you carried on going through it.
You saw the case through to the end, but it was hard, and you couldn’t stop thinking about it as you flicked through the book in your lap, pretending you were reading.
You didn’t really talk to anybody when you got back, instead of doing your paperwork like normal you went straight back home.
You went for a bath, made a cup of tea, tried reading a book but nothing was helping you relax.
You had resorted to pacing back and forth along your hallway, pinging the elastic band around your wrist, trying to resist the unbearable urge you had to scratch, to try get rid of this itch that seemed to be buried deep within your skin.
You knew scratching wouldn’t work, no matter how much you scratch you would never be able to get rid of that itch.
Your brain was running a million miles an hour with all the thoughts, feelings and urges you had worked through a long time ago.
But they came back.
It was like you could never escape, no matter how well you seemed to be doing they always came back, always haunting you.
Your own mind begging you to inflict pain on yourself.
You didn’t want to, you had been clean for nearly a year, you had fought this all by yourself, you had never told anybody about your struggles.
Everybody struggled, dealt things their own way and this is how you had been ever since you were a teenager, even when you went through the academy, even as you joined the BAU, where you had been for the past three years.
You kept it all to yourself.
It was destroying you.
It was going to destroy you and you knew that.
You didn’t want to do this anymore, you didn’t want to go back into that life, you didn’t want to slip into old habits.
Grabbing your keys, you pulled on one of your hoodies and went to your car, heading to the person you knew would most likely still be up at this time.
You didn’t have your phone so you couldn’t call saying you were outside, so you settled for just knocking on the door until you finally heard somebody coming over.
Lowering your hand, you watched as the door was swung open, showing the worried and confused face of your coworker.
“(Y/N) what’s wrong?” Rossi asked.
You took a shaky breath, running a hand down your face.
“I.. I.. I need help…” you whispered.
“Come here, come on.”
Rossi held his hand out for you and you took it, letting him pull you in for a hug as he closed his front door.
Tears fell from your eyes, and you quietly sobbed, gripping the back of his shirt tightly.
“I.. I can’t do this anymore…”
Rossi held the back of your head, running a hand up and down your back.
“I need you to tell me what happened…” he whispered.
“I can’t.. I don’t… I can’t.. I can’t do this alone anymore…”
Rossi pulled away, placing a hand on your shoulder to lead you to the couch, gently sitting you down.
“Wait right here.”
He rushed away to get you a glass of water, and he came back, handing it out to you and you set it on the table.
Rossi also get down a box of tissues for you, and he finally sat down, taking one of your hands in his.
“I need you to talk to me (Y/N)…” he whispered.
You sniffled a little bit, running a hand down your face as you took a deep breath.
“This case.. I.. it brought back memories…”
Rossi slowly nodded his head.
“I.. I lived the same way as the victims…”
“(Y/N) the unsub chose his victims because he believed they could never recover, he believed they were sick, and they needed help to die. You know this. He targeted people who used forms of self harm as a method to get through every day life.”
You sniffled a little bit, slowly nodded your head.
“I know… that’s why I.. I.. I couldn’t help you…”
“You said you were called away on an urgent matter.”
You shook your head.
“I lied…”
“We would have known.”
You left out a weak laugh, burying your face in your arms tapping the back of your head a few times.
“I got so used to lying that I… I learned how to tell the perfect lie…”
“(Y/N) did you do something? Did something happen?” Rossi asked.
“No.. no that’s.. that uh.. why I came here…”
Rossi slowly nodded his head and you sat up, carefully rolling the sleeves of your hoodies up.
Rossi reached out, hesitating before he gently took one of your arms.
He ran he thumb along the rigid scars that were embedded deep in your skin.
He could tell they were old, and he didn’t need to ask in order to figure out what they were caused by.
“How long were you doing this to yourself?”
“Years…”
He nodded, pulling your sleeve down for you, and he did the same to your other arm, letting you go ahead and hide them once again.
Rossi held his arms around for you.
You shuffled over, letting him hold you, resting your head on his shoulder.
“I need you to tell me everything (Y/N), okay? You can’t leave anything out.”
You nodded in agreement.
You told Rossi everything, from how and when it started, to when you managed to stop and everything in between.
Rossi didn’t speak, he quietly listened to you, and when you stopped talking that’s when he spoke up.
“Was it something in the case that trigged this emotions for you?” He asked.
You nodded again.
“Going through their lives, seeing how they all had the same trauma, the same feelings of wanting to just disappear.. knowing I had the same thoughts.. it.. it made me realise that could have been me…”
“What makes you think that?”
“Rossi he was the third therapist in my list in case I couldn’t get to the other two…”
You felt his grip tighten around you, and he ran his hand up and down your arm.
“I got the second one on the list…”
Rossi slowly nodded his head.
“I.. I can’t do this alone Rossi…”
“You’re not alone (Y/N), you’re never alone. You know this. You have a whole team, a whole family behind you, willing to support you if you asked them.”
You shook your head.
“No.. no I.. I don’t.. don’t tell them…”
“Alright, I don’t have to tell the team anything. But I need you to promise me something.”
You sniffled a little, nodding your head.
“You keep coming here, to me, if you get these feelings again. You never harm yourself again, can you promise me that?”
You nodded again.
“Good, now, I just so happened to be getting ready to cook. Your favourite in fact, would you like to help me?”
You sat up, looking at him as you wiped the tears from under your eyes.
“Do you get that funky cheese I like?”
This made Rossi chuckle a little bit.
“Yes, I got the mozzarella, and I got everything you need to make your own mozzarella sticks since you seem to enjoy them so much.”
You stood up, sorrowing up your sleeves as you followed him to the kitchen and he got everything you needed to make your favourite snacks.
Rossi noted the elastic band around your wrist, and he said nothing about it.
“Thank you for trusting me.” He said quietly.
You smiled a little at him.
“Thank you for always being there for me…”
Rossi smiled, placing his hand on your shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.
“I’m always here for you kiddo.”
You nodded your head, going back to making your snacks while he began cooking the actual meal itself
Hiii I absolutely love your blog and writing. Walk me home was such a good fic 🥹
I don’t know if you’re taking requests, but if you are, would you consider writing something where Hotch is soft and supportive of fem reader who needs to let all her emotions out and be comforted? Maybe a touch of anxiety and depression, or high-masking autism, where reader always feels the need to appear perfect, and no one ever sees how much she’s struggling? But sometimes it’s just too much?
I’m going through a lot mentally right now, which I won’t bore you with the details of, but I’m craving comfort and you write the most amazing comfort fics so I figured I’d ask. No pressure. Lots of love 🫶🏻🥰
Hi Honey! I'm so so sorry you're going through all of that. I hope this can be of any help to you. I'm more than willing to write one with more physical comfort if you like, you only say the word and your wish is my command! :D
Reprieve. (Aaron Hotchner x Autistic!Reader) about 2k words.
You have been abnormally distracted today, bordering on rattled. Your legs have been aggressively bouncing up and down, luckily hidden by the enclosed cubby of your desk. The bullpen is busy, like always, people are clattering dishes around in the sink, having just taken a late lunch together in the kitchenette. There are manila folders breezing past your head, no doubt held in the steady hands of diligent agents, profilers, even. It’s amazing in a room full of people trained to notice the tiniest shifts in behavior, nobody has realized you’re practically shaking with annoyance behind your desk. Your anxiety and impatience have been building since last night.
It’s nothing, really. You just had to break your routine for a case, and you hardly had time to rush home for a few hours of sleep before you were needed back in the office this morning. You always do laundry on sunday nights, that way, all your favorite comfiest clothes and pajamas are ready for the week. You didn’t get to do that this week, and now you’ve had to wear clothes you reserve for emergencies. Your socks are too short and scratching at your ankles, your shirt is refusing to stay tucked in your pants, and the feeling of the fibers tugging themselves free, rubbing at your back is driving you up the wall.
Even the whirring sound of the air conditioning vent above your desk is starting to irritate you, normally, this would be completely bearable but today it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back, and you feel your nails grazing up and down your pant legs begin to hurt as your agitation only grows. You know you’re going to look like you’ve come face to face with a mountain lion if you keep this up, but the soothing sensation of the fabric against your nails is the only feeling helping you right now.
Just as you close your eyes, trying to take some deep breaths and recenter your mind, Derek begins playing his favorite game. It’s called desk-top drum solo and normally it makes you giggle as he passionately jams out with nothing but two pens and a few stacks of paperwork to assist him. Today, it makes you see red as your eyes fly open to see the smug grin on his face as he kicks off his distressing rendition of ‘enter sandman’ you’re up and out of your seat before you know it, snatching the pens from his hands and throwing them at his pen cup. He looks at you bewildered, brows drawn together as you angrily pant, stalking off to the bathroom to try to fix your wardrobe issues.
“What’s up with them?” You hear Derek asking Spencer as you skulk further from them, you miss Spencer's answer as you throw the bathroom door open, untucking your shirt for a moment’s reprieve from the pulling and bunching of it under your slacks. You huff, bending down to try to fix your socks but nothing short of removing them will stop the scratchy burning feeling of a thousand tiny fibers pricking at your feet. You lean against the cool wall for a moment, before you move back towards the door to lock it and turn out the light. Maybe, if you can just sit here, in the dark and quiet for a few minutes, you’ll be able to deal with everyone’s antics and the fact that every square inch of the bureau building ticks, creaks or beeps at you all day.
You go and sit on the lid of the toilet, trying gently this time to soothe yourself by running your nails over your thighs, and for a moment you think you might be able to take another three hours of this place. You’re quickly brought back to reality when the bathroom door handle jiggles, and then three swift hard knocks fall against the wood of the door. You exit the stall, trying to put your most personable smile over your strained face as you unlock and open the door.
“Hi Der- oh. Hotch? I’m sorry I was almost finished in here. I shouldn't be another minute.” Your boss was easily the last person you were expecting to be knocking on the bathroom door, but you in honesty forgot this was a space other people also may need to use. You take a moment to note the concern in his eyes as he takes in your appearance in the pitch black bathroom.
“Y/N, is everything okay?” Hotch’s voice sounds a lot gentler than his normal baritone as he studies your tousled appearance.
“I, um, yeah. It’s nothing, I just missed out on some sleep last night. I’m okay, really. I was just taking a minute.” Hotch pushes the door further open, stepping inside with you and turning on the light. You tuck your hands in your pockets, trying to give him a reassuring smile but you must be falling short because his brows only draw closer as he turns your answer over in his mind.
“Y/N. You really don’t have to do that with me. You don’t have to wear this, this mask over what you’re really feeling. Believe me, I’ve done it enough myself to know the damage it causes, it takes a toll. You can be honest with me. This clearly isn’t nothing if you had to run off in the middle of your tactical report to lock yourself in a dark bathroom. So, what’s wrong?” Damn him. Damn his piercing look that’s always able to cut through your layers of skin and bone, right to your core. Damn him for seeing right through you. You thought you did a pretty good job of masking your true dismay. But hearing one of your long-time heroes and close friends admit to having to do the same does make you feel less alone, less frustrated that you had to do it in the first place.
“I’m having… a day.” You let the corners of your mouth rest for once, not trying to pull at them like a puppet on strings. Hotch nods.
“You’re having a day. That’s okay.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to explain but none of my clothes fit right, because I wasn’t able to do my laundry, so I’m wearing my emergency clothes and they’re scratching me and I don’t know if it’s because I’m tired or because…” You push down the urge to tell Hotch the truth about how you recognise this sensory nightmare of a day you’re having. He can connect the dots himself without a doubt, but saying it would only make him label you that way. “I don’t know.” You look at your shoes, unable to face the judgment or confusion you know you’d find on his face.
“I’ll be right back.” He’s out the bathroom door before you can ask what he’s doing. You look at yourself in the mirror, wondering why he’s being so nice to you, seeing the bags under your eyes are twice as prominent as usual and you’re less used to your neutral face staring back at you than you’d like to admit. Hotch is back in a flash, knocking once before pushing the door open.
“I know the feeling you’re talking about, I’ve made it a habit ever since I started buying my own clothes to only buy ones that feel… friendly, no scratching, no tags against your neck. I even have my tailor make sure they fit me just right. So, these might not fit you perfectly, but at least you can stop feeling every single thread trying to tear your skin?” Hotch says, neatly rummaging through his go-bag he placed unceremoniously over the sink until he finds a dress shirt, socks, some pants and a quarter-zip. He holds them out to you, offering you his own clothes in favor of your own.
You struggle to believe that he really understands your predicament as well as he claims to, but when you place a hand on the clothes and another underneath, taking the pile, you feel that the material is so soft and delicate, just right. Your fingers brush against Hotch’s as you search his eyes for any sign of resentment or curiosity, the two reactions you’re most used to when you try to explain your particular needs. You find neither, actually you find him looking at you like your admission may have brought him some solace of his own, knowing you’re in the same shaky boat he struggles to keep afloat himself. He’s delighted to be able to help you balance your own.
“Thank you, Hotch. Really, thank you so much.” You continue studying his face, never having noticed just how warm you feel under his gaze.
“Not a problem, I’ll let you change.” He takes his go-bag, carrying it over his shoulder out of the bathroom.
You’re frozen for a moment, but eventually you move to lock the bathroom door once more, beginning to take off your god-forsaken clothes. You can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when you feel the cool air against your burning skin. You take Hotch’s button-up, putting it on before realizing his sleeves are swallowing your hands whole, no problem, you roll them up. Luckily, you’ve always preferred your shirts with thicker cuffs, so the pressure around your wrists of the layered cotton feels delightful compared to your too-tight shirt of your own. The pants quickly present themselves as an issue, your feet swimming in a pile of fabric, you hike the pants further up your hips before tucking the excess fabric back up inside of each leg, your hands rub together when you revel in just how nice it feels to have your legs loosely covered with the breezy fabric. You put on the socks once again marveling at how nicely the elastic hugs you instead of strangling your ankles.
You definitely don’t look nearly as professional as you’d normally like, but you’re so cozy and comfortable now as you slip Hotch’s quarter-zip over your head, covering the all-too-big dress shirt that cascades over the pants. You let the sleeves of the quarter zip conceal your hands as you they stim by your sides. You pop your shoes back on, feeling a hundred times better. You’re barely able to mask your glee as you unlock the bathroom door, grabbing your own clothes and pulling the bathroom door open once again, peering out into the bullpen. You’re surprised to find it mostly empty, the prying eyes of all your desk-buddies nowhere in sight. You catch sight of Hotch descending the stairs from his office.
“Y/N! Up here.” He gestures to his own office, waiting so he can walk side by side back up the stairs with you. “I kindly suggested they go get themselves coffee and doughnuts. Here, let me take those.” Hotch grabs your clothes from you, placing them on the side table by his couch where you now notice very familiar paperwork and pens have made their home on said couch. “I brought your work up here, figured this was a far more quiet, calming environment than the hectic swarm of badly-perfumed agents and fluorescent lights down in the bullpen.” You look at him with what can only be called barely contained adoration, noticing he wasn’t expecting you to answer him as he looks at you a moment longer before rounding his own desk and taking a seat.
He knows. He just knew you’d be feeling a bit nonverbal since your morning took such an aggravating turn earlier. He picks up his pen, scribbling away at his own folders. You feel a genuine smile overtaking your face as your cheeks flush pink, and you take a seat on his couch, picking one of your favorite pens from the pile on the coffee table and getting back to work. You hope he understands the immense weight of your gratitude hanging in the air as you’re able to be freely yourself in his quiet office, doing your work peacefully under the dim lamplight. Of course he understands, you think to yourself. He’s Hotch.
This is absolute perfection, the best, cannot praise it enough. I’ve been struggling a bit with my recent autism diagnosis and allowing myself to unmask and admit I’m struggling and this just encapsulates it all so well 🥹 I love you for writing this (and for just being you) 🫶🏻🫶🏻
i'm done putting these under the cut you all just have to deal with it LOL
Jed Bartlet is, above all, a boomer and relishes in doing everything in his constitutional power to make CJ's job harder. He loves calling Abbey a Karen once Charlie explains what it means to him.
He refuses to text and instead walks around SCREAMING into his speech-to-text all sorts of highly confidential or sensitive material such as military plans, drafts of speeches, and staff gossip. danny wins a Pulitzer for his reporting on the later.
I just feel like he'd really enjoy Game of Thrones, but like to a weird degree. mandatory staff viewing parties, etc.
2022 Jed has beef with Oprah, I know this for certain
Unsurprisingly, Jed is the biggest troll known to mankind. One of his favorite pastimes is looking up Onion headlines and trying to make them into reality down to the "POTUS shakes hands with gator in last ditch attempt to win Florida".
Toby accidentally spoils the wordle of the day for Jed, so he outright bans Toby's favorite Keurig cup (cinnabon coffee) from the west wing as retribution
I feel like Jed would really love John & Hank Green's Crash Course education youtube series and would bring them on board in an official admin capacity with funding, etc.
a 2022 POTUS means he would've been teaching in the time of RateMyProfessor. Republicans dug up his old reviews to try to get dirt on him but were shocked that he had the highest "hot looks" rating out of the entire university
a 2022 POTUS also means he was in his twenties during the late 70s, early 80s so we've got some glorious Big Hair Jed photos that Charlie and Josh used to build a shrine in the bullpen men's restroom
As usual, Josh creates a nationwide scandal and there's widespread calls for his removal from the administration. Jed manages to break into the POTUS twitter account (Sam regularly changes the passwords to prevent precisely this from happening) and tweets out: "No." it trends for four days straight
Sam and CJ have been trying to promote the POTUS tiktok account to pick up more youth votes. Jed refuses to cooperate unless he can pick the filter so he ends up giving his administration's version of fireside chats like this:
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My current aesthetic is Secretary of State Elizabeth McCord verbally sparring with her political opponents and then them looking at her in grudging respect.
This whole ordeal has reminded me about the importance of civic duty. It’s reaffirmed my faith in the process, you know? We got this enormous thing done, Henry, and I feel a responsibility to make sure it doesn’t get undone.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
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