#‘who’s forcing you to use it’ MY HYPERFIXATION!!! ME!!!! I AM!!!!!

[mikeru6]

can the lotf hyperfixation end already i don’t like this place

[triptuckers]

keep the nightmares away - percy jackson

Request: nope Pairing:  Percy Jackson x reader Summary:  oh nooo what if there's only one bed........ (im a sucker for this trope and WILL use it whenever I can) Warnings:  mentions of wounds, swearing, nightmares Word count:  1.5K A/N:  yall know that audio from the rock "it's about drive it's about power we stay hungry we devour" that's me writing more fics in two days than I have in 6 months. I blame it on my percy jackson hyperfixation. enjoy!

you were so exhausted you could barely keep your eyes open. you'd been sent on another quest and had been chased down by monsters for gods know how many times already.

everyone was tired and just wanted to go to bed. but a prophecy had predicted there would be three demigods and a fourth companion on this quest, so it wasn't easy to leave the monsters behind.

'why did we have to be four?' you say softly as you force yourself to keep on walking. 'it would be way more quiet if there were only three of us.'

percy looks over his shoulder in front of you. 'I don't think quests are ever quiet.' he says with a smile.

'you know what I mean.' you say. 'are we there yet?'

'almost.' says annabeth, who is walking with grover in front of percy, holding the map and leading the way. 'it's just over the ridge.'

'thank the gods.' you mutter.

you know annabeth is going to state the facts rather than make something sound good. and sure enough, when you reach the top of the ridge you can see a dimly lit street in the distance.

you can see the motel you're headed for, a diner, and a gas station with a small store.

you're filled with relief of the thought of finally laying down and resting your feet. you could rewrap your wounds and maybe even take a shower if you're lucky and have the energy for it.

'come on, nearly there.' says percy, reaching out and gently tugging you along by your wrist.

if you weren't so tired you'd be reeling over the fact percy is holding your wrist so gently. but all you can think of is how soft the beds would be.

when you get to the motel you're too tired to speak. you let annabeth do all of the talking.

after a few minutes she returns with two keys.

'these are the only ones they had available.' she says, giving percy one.

'come on.' says percy. 'want me to rewrap your arm?'

you nod. a few hours ago, you got your arm sliced open and had to hastily wrap it. you're not very good at it, as the cut is on the back of your upper arm and you can't see it very well.

'grover and I will check the area quickly and then we can all get some rest.' says annabeth. 'regroup in my room at 8 am tomorrow?'

'sure.' says percy while you and grover nod.

you follow percy as he's searching for the room. eventually he stops and you nearly bump into him.

'sorry.' you mutter.

'it's alright.' says percy as he unlocks the door and lets you enter first.

you stop in the door opening, looking at the room.

'what's wrong?' says percy, looking over your shoulder. 'oh.'

yeah. oh. there's only one bed. not even a sofa.

you enter the room and percy shuts the door behind him. of course there's only one bed. and you're so exhausted. you can tell percy is tired as well. he's just better at hiding it.

'come on, let me take care of your arm.' says percy.

you head into the bathroom while percy rummages around his pack for the medical kit.

'sit on the counter.' he says as he enters the bathroom with the medical kit in his hands.

you do as he instructs and rest the back of your head against the mirror. you close your eyes but open them when percy lightly taps your knee.

'need you awake for this. you can sleep after.' he says softly.

you sigh. 'fine.'

'I know you're exhausted. I'll make it quick.'

'thanks, perce.'

percy ignores the way he feels when you call him that. he wonders if you know you're the only one that ever calls him that.

he washes his hands and then gently unwraps the old bandage around your arm. he carefully cleans the cut and starts on rewrapping it, making sure he's not hurting you.

when he's almost done, he feels a weight on his shoulder. he smiles to himself, letting you doze off on his shoulder. he's nearly done, anyway.

he secures the last bit of the bandage and then nudges you awake.

'sorry.' you say, blinking a few times.

'let's get you to the bed.' says percy, offering his hand so you can hop off the counter. 'you can take the first shift.'

you frown. 'first shift?'

'sleeping in the bed.'

'where will you sleep?'

'on the floor. I'll get the pillows off of the chair.'

you shake your head. 'percy, you're tired as well. you've fought just as much as I have. you'll only make it worse by sleeping on the floor. we can share.' you say.

sharing a bed as friends, that's cool right? not a big deal. at least that's what you tell yourself.

percy studies your face. he probably looks as tired as you do.

'it's big enough for the two of us.' you say, reaching down to take off your boots.

'alright.' says percy.

there's a knock on the door and both you and percy freeze. percy reaches inside of his pocket, ready to take out riptide.

'it's me.' says annabeth on the other side. 'all clear. get some rest.'

'thanks, goodnight annabeth.' says percy, visibly relaxing.

you walk over to the bed and lay down on the left side, leaving enough space for percy.

'if I find you on the floor when I wake up I'll make the rest of the quest even more miserable for you.' you mumble as you close your eyes. 'don't be a gentleman.'

'noted.' says percy with a smile, laying down on the other side of the bed, careful to leave more than enough space between the two of you.

it's cool, this is fine. laying next to you in a bed. nothing that could happen, you're just friends. right?

after a while, he can tell you're asleep by the slow breathing coming from your side of the bed.

he's keeping his distance, even if it means he nearly falls off of the bed. he's mind is spinning in circles about the fact you're laying right next to him.

but eventually, he falls asleep. after all, all four of you were utterly exhausted when you reached the motel earlier in the night.

it feels like way too soon when he's woken up again. he frowns, it's still dark outside. he shifts to get comfortable again. but then he feels something hard poke him in his ribs.

'oof.' he grunts softly, then rolls over to see if you're awake. why would you punch him in the middle of the night?

but when he sees you, he noticed your face is scrunched up in agony and you're mumbling something.

he frowns and watches you move around restlessly, nearly hitting him again.

but his frown disappears soon enough. he knows the feeling all too well.

you're having a nightmare.

a bad one, by the looks of it.

gently, he reaches out and pushes a strand of sweaty hair out of your face, then nudges your shoulder.

'hey, wake up.'

in response, you curl up even more so percy shakes you again, a little harder this time.

you wake up and immediately sit up, eyes wide in panic. your hand is scrambling for you belt, where you keep your knives.

'woah, hey, it's alright you're safe, you're with me.' says percy, holding your shoulders and forcing you to look at him.

his sea-green eyes are familiar and calm you down a little. you're breathing heavily and fully aware of percy holding on to your shoulders. you force yourself to push away from him, creating space between the two of you.

'I'm alright.' you say, closing your eyes and shaking your head slightly. you would not cry over something as stupid as a nightmare.

'want to talk about it?' says percy softly.

'no I'm fine.'

'talking mostly helps me.'

you sigh and start to fidget with your fingers. why does it feel so embarrassing? you're sure lots of demigods have nightmares, given what you go through on a daily basis.

'it was the gods.' you start. 'I'd failed some sort of quest and they let loose their powers on me. camp half-blood got destroyed. I couldn't find annabeth and grover. there was fire everywhere and you... fuck.'

'it's okay.' says percy softly, encouraging you to go on.

'I found you in the rubble of your cabin.' you whisper.

'shit, I'm sorry.'

'it's alright, I'm alright. you're here now.'

'you think you can try going back to sleep again?'

'yeah, I can try.'

the two of you lay down again, this time with a little less space between you.

'percy?' you say, slowly reaching out to him.

'yeah?'

'is it okay if I...?'

wordlessly, percy reaches out and pulls you against him, where you curl up against his side.

'thanks.' you say, feeling yourself relax again.

'I'll keep the nightmares away.' mumbles percy.

you smile to yourself, closing your eyes and letting percy's heartbeat lull you to sleep. you're confident nightmares wouldn't find you again. you're safe now.

A/N: If you want to request something, make sure to read my house rulesHere’s the list of characters I write for. Everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. Please don’t repost my work, as I spend much time and effort on it!! Thank you for reading! Much love, Marit/Max

[leriexoxo]

THIN LINE (enemies to lovers)

Pairing: Seungmin x Reader

Tags: enemies to lovers, smut, bathroom sex, locked in a cabin, unprotected sex, hate sex,

Word count: 3k

Summary: you’re forced to share a room AND a bed eith your arch nemesis over at the ski lodge but whats even worse? Your friends decide to play a prank and lock you both in all day… what happens when you both realize that there’s a thin line between love and hate?

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You honestly weren’t sure how you ended up here—again.

Wedged between Hyunjin and Han on the couch, trying to focus on the movie playing, while Kim Seungmin sat directly across from you, slouched in the armchair like he was specifically designed to ruin your night.

His arms were crossed, brows lifted in that smug, perpetually unimpressed way. He wasn’t even pretending to pay attention to the screen—his focus was locked on you, head tilted, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

“What?” you snapped, already on edge.

He smirked. “Nothing. Just wondering how someone so loud can be this boring.”

Jisung choked on his popcorn beside you. “Oh my god, again? You two are gonna combust one day and take the whole dorm with you.”

“Only if she stops being a walking red flag,” Seungmin replied, tone flat. “Not my fault she thinks sarcasm is a personality trait.”

“Says the guy who’s allergic to basic human decency,” you bit back, arms folding tightly across your chest.

Chan groaned from the kitchen. “Can we not have a bloodbath tonight?”

“Too late,” Felix muttered, giggling as he made himself at home on the floor, feet tucked under a blanket. “It’s the sexual tension for me.”

You turned your head slowly. “I will smother you with that blanket.”

But the worst part? The part you’d never admit out loud?

Seungmin’s smirk lingered a second too long. His eyes dropped to your lips before he rolled them and looked away. Barely. But you caught it.

And your stomach did that traitorous flip.

Because maybe you hated him. Maybe he got under your skin like no one else. Maybe every interaction felt like a battle you were determined to win.

But somewhere deep in the back of your mind, a horrifying, devastating thought was beginning to form:

You didn’t hate him at all.

You just really, really wanted to kiss him.

-

It all started in the group chat.

Which, in hindsight, made perfect sense—because the group chat was cursed.

Chan had dropped a message at 2:16 AM, which meant either he couldn’t sleep or was in the middle of one of his hyperfixation spirals. Probably both.

CHAN: okay but what if we all took a weekend off?? like an actual trip?

CHAN: no work. no practice. just chill.

FELIX: YES. cabin in the snow. hot cocoa. matching sweaters.

JISUNG: i want to sled into oncoming traffic (affectionately)

HYUNJIN: i’ll bring a fur coat and a single dramatic tear

SEUNGMIN: don’t invite y/n then

YOU: literally no one asked you, ratman

SEUNGMIN: yet here you are. typing back. like a fan.

CHAN: i swear to god

You should’ve exited the chat then and there.

But no. Somehow, in your never-ending quest to not be the person who ruins everyone’s plans, you agreed. And then it snowballed—rental links, carpool groups, a Google Doc, and of course, room pairings.

“I’m not sharing with Hyunjin again,” Jeongin had announced during lunch one day, shoveling spicy tteokbokki into his mouth. “He sleep-talks in five languages.”

“I do not,” Hyunjin gasped.

“You tried to summon a demon using a NutriBullet manual.”

“…Okay but it worked.”

Eventually, Chan declared himself room-assigner, Felix offered to help (which was suspicious), and you found yourself sitting on a beanbag in Changbin’s living room as the final list got passed around.

“Oh,” Jeongin said, eyes scanning it. “Y/N and Seungmin, huh?”

Your head snapped up. “I’m sorry—what?”

Seungmin, from the other side of the room, didn’t even look up from his phone. “Should’ve known I was being punished for something.”

“You’re being punished?” you echoed, scandalized. “I’m the one getting stuck with a grumpy possum.”

Felix was grinning like he’d just lit the match on a bonfire. “You two bicker like you’re married anyway. Might as well lean into it.”

“You just want drama,” you muttered.

“I live for it.”

Chan clapped his hands. “Too late now. The bookings are locked. It’s decided.”

You locked eyes with Seungmin then—silent challenge. He gave you a slow blink. And a smirk.

“Try not to cry when I steal all the blankets.”

“Try not to whine when I kick you in your sleep.”

He turned back to his phone. “Better bring a mouthguard.”

Your eye twitched.

And just like that, the countdown to doom began.

-

You knew the second Chan handed out room keys that something evil was afoot, with the way they all sniggered.

“Wait,” you said,.“Are you really making me do this?”

“It’s just one weekend,” Chan said innocently, like he hadn’t clearly rigged this entire shared cabin setup to cause emotional damage.

“I really don’t wanna share a room with him.”

Seungmin stood beside you, arms crossed, looking equally offended. “As if I’d want to sleep near your snoring. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Chan,” you hissed. “Please. I’ll sleep on the porch.”

“No you won’t,” Seungmin muttered. “The wolves deserve peace.”

“Seungmin.”

“Y/N.”

Chan, being the absolute menace he is, was already walking away, tossing you both a peace sign without looking back. “Enjoy the bonding, lovebirds.”

And that’s how you found yourself in Room 3 of a very cozy ski lodge, standing stiffly on opposite sides of a queen-sized bed while everyone else cracked beers and turned the living room into chaos central.

You and Seungmin just stared.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said eventually, dumping his bag by the dresser.

“Relax. I’m pretty sure your resting bitch face works as birth control.”

He scoffed. “Maybe I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Be my guest. I hope your back never recovers.”

But when night hit and the temperature dropped hard, the passive-aggression gave way to something worse—shivering silence.

You lay stiffly under the blanket, facing away from him, clutching the edge of your side like it was a lifeline. You could hear his breathing. Slow. Even. Too aware.

“Still awake?” you asked, voice low.

A beat.

“Unfortunately.”

“Why are you always such a dick to me?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then: “Why do you always let me get to you?”

You turned to face him. Moonlight poured in through the gap in the curtain, painting sharp lines over his features—sharp jaw, soft lips, eyes that burned like frost.

Your heart stuttered.

“I don’t.”

“You do,” he said simply. “Every time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to throw another dagger, but his next words shut you up.

“You’re the only one who talks to me like that. Like you don’t give a shit.”

Silence stretched between you. Thick. Heavy.

And then, he moved.

Slowly. Barely a shift, but enough that the back of his hand brushed yours under the blanket. Not a grab. Not a hold. Just a touch. A question.

And you didn’t pull away.

His voice dropped, barely a whisper. “Still cold?”

“A little.”

Another pause. Then, quietly—genuinely: “C’mere.”

You didn’t trust your voice. So you moved instead. Closer. Close enough to feel the heat of him, the brush of his hoodie, the scent of clean detergent and Seungmin, so familiar it made your stomach flip.

His arm slipped around your waist like he’d done it a hundred times. Natural. Easy. Like enemies didn’t hold each other like this.

His lips brushed your hairline.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” he murmured.

Your voice came out softer than you wanted. “Good. I still think you’re insufferable.”

But your face was tucked against his chest now. And his hand had found the dip of your spine. And the line between hate and want had never been thinner.

-

You woke to the sound of shuffling.

Then a thud.

Then Seungmin cursing under his breath.

You peeled open one eye, groaning as your body protested the movement. Your legs were tangled with his—still. His hoodie was bunched at your hips. And the bed was warm with his heat, the scent of him still lingering in the space between your skin and the sheets.

“What are you doing?” you croaked.

“The door’s locked,” he grumbled, jiggling the knob. “Like actually locked. I think they—”

He paused. Realization hit.

“Oh, those little shits.”

You sat up, squinting. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Felix?”

“Felix.”

Seungmin dragged a hand through his hair, muttering a string of curses that would’ve been funny if you weren’t currently trapped in a room with your supposed enemy, wearing his hoodie and little else, on a single bed that creaked every time one of you so much as breathed.

You rubbed your face. “They went out for the day, didn’t they.”

“Yup.” Seungmin leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes trailed down—barely a glance—but it made your breath hitch. “We’re stuck until they get back. At least.”

Silence stretched again. Familiar now. Tense.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself and tried not to notice how Seungmin’s shirt clung to his chest. Or how his jaw flexed when he chewed at the inside of his cheek. Or the faint pink tint of skin at his collarbone.

The same collarbone you’d fallen asleep pressed against.

“This is awkward,” you muttered.

“Not my fault you made it weird.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I made it weird?”

“Who was the one that curled up on me like I was a body pillow?”

“You invited me over!”

He stepped forward then, slow, deliberate. The air shifted.

“And you stayed,” he said, voice lower now.

Your heartbeat spiked.

He was standing in front of you, close enough to smell the fabric softener on his shirt and the faint trace of your shampoo on his hoodie. His gaze flicked to your mouth for the second time in 24 hours.

You swallowed hard.

“Why do you do that?” you asked.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, his hand reached out—slow, cautious—and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek on the way back, lingering half a second too long.

“You piss me off,” he said softly. “But you also make me—”

He stopped.

The air between you was molten.

Then—

You surged forward.

Or maybe he did. You didn’t know who broke first. You just knew your lips crashed together in a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth and heat and finally. He groaned against your mouth, hands gripping your waist like he’d been dying to touch you, and you didn’t hold back. You yanked at his shirt, tugging him closer until you were flat on your back and he was above you, weight pressing you into the mattress, tongue sliding against yours.

It was clumsy. Perfect. Raw.

All that built-up tension—the late-night fights, the stolen glances, the too-close arguments—it spilled out with every movement. His hands roamed, mouth dragging down your jaw, across your neck, nipping at your skin until you gasped his name.

“Seungmin—”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

His voice was breathless. “Still hate me?”

You pulled him back down by the collar, lips brushing his. “Ask me again when we’re done.”

His mouth crashed into yours like it was inevitable.

And maybe it was.

All those months of biting insults, jabs that felt more like flirtation, the way your eyes lingered when they shouldn’t—it had to go somewhere. And now it was unraveling at the seams.

Seungmin kissed you like he was mad about it. Hands greedy, mouth rough, tongue slipping between your lips as he gripped your thighs and pulled you into his lap. His hoodie rode up your legs as you straddled him, heat grinding against heat through barely-there layers.

His breath stuttered. “Fuck…”

You rolled your hips again, savoring the way his head fell back for just a second, jaw clenched.

“Still think I’m annoying?” you whispered against his throat, teeth grazing the skin there.

He grabbed your ass hard, pulling you flush against his cock. “God, yes. Most annoying girl I’ve ever wanted to fuck senseless.”

You moaned at the filth in his tone.

The shirt was the first thing to go. He tugged it over your head and tossed it without looking, eyes locked on your chest like he couldn’t decide where to start. Then his mouth was on your skin—hot, open kisses across your collarbone, down to your breasts. He sucked a bruise right under your sternum, like he wanted to leave a mark.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you’re pissed at me,” he mumbled against your skin.

You pushed him onto his back, climbing over him with a wicked smile. “Then you’re gonna love me right now.”

He watched as you peeled his shirt up, exposing firm lines of muscle, warm skin. Your palms skated across his chest, nails lightly dragging down until he hissed, head tipping back.

But the second his hands found your waist again, it shifted.

He flipped you—fast, all precision and quiet strength. Now you were beneath him, legs spread, heart hammering as he kissed you again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he was starting to feel it.

His hand slipped into your panties, fingers teasing your slick folds, lazy circles that had you arching into him.

“So wet already,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “Knew you liked fighting with me. You get off on it, don’t you?”

You whimpered. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

He shoved your panties down and off, then freed himself, cock hard and heavy between you, brushing your thigh as he lined up. His mouth hovered at your ear, warm breath skating down your neck.

“This isn’t gonna be sweet,” he whispered. “You don’t want sweet from me.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because the second he pushed into you, slow and steady, the breath left your lungs. He filled you so deep, your hands clawed at his back, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

“Jesus,” he groaned. “So tight—fuck, you feel insane.”

He set a pace that made your head spin—deep, rhythmic thrusts that sent shockwaves through your body. The bed creaked beneath you. The sound of skin on skin echoed through the tiny room. You didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not when his mouth found your breast again, not when his thumb slipped between you to rub tight circles over your clit.

Your body seized up, nails digging into his shoulders. “Seungmin—don’t stop—”

“Say it again.”

Your head lolled back. “Seungmin—”

He growled. “That’s right. That’s what I fucking wanted.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave, dragging a cry from your throat as your walls fluttered around him, pulsing. He didn’t stop—he couldn’t—driving into you with desperate force until he buried himself deep and groaned, spilling into you with a raw, guttural sound that made your thighs tremble.

He collapsed beside you, breathing hard, one arm slung across your waist.

A long beat of silence.

Then—

“…Still hate me?” he asked, voice rough, but there was a tiny smirk hiding in it.

You turned your head, breathless. “Hate you even more now.”

His thumb traced lazy patterns over your hip. “Good. Round two’s gonna be worse.

The aftermath hit like a fever dream.

Your chest still heaved, heartbeat finally slowing, limbs tangled with Seungmin’s under the wrinkled blankets. Your thighs were sticky, your hair a mess, and the room smelled like sex and trouble.

You blinked at the ceiling.

He was beside you, arm draped lazily over your stomach, breath warm against your shoulder. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you spoke.

“I literally hate you.”

His voice was hoarse and smug. “Liar.”

You rolled your eyes—tried to—but the second you shifted your legs, a wave of overstimulation made you whimper instead.

Seungmin chuckled, and you smacked his chest.

But he caught your wrist mid-air, holding it in place. “Shower?” he offered, with zero innocence in his tone.

You squinted at him. “If you think I’m letting you try anything in there—”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your cheek as he whispered, “You gonna stop me?”

Your stomach flipped.

⸻

The shower was supposed to be quick. Rinse and recover.

It was not.

You stood under the stream, head tilted back, when you felt it—his chest pressed to your back, hands sliding slowly around your waist. You opened your mouth to say something, but then his hand dipped between your thighs and you forgot how to breathe.

“You’re insufferable,” you gasped, grinding back into him anyway.

“Mmhm,” he hummed, lips pressing behind your ear. “But you’re still letting me fuck you in a shower.”

And god, he did.

The water was hot, but he was hotter. He lifted your leg onto the edge of the tub, slid into you again from behind—slower this time, deeper, his grip iron-tight on your hips as you moaned into the tiles. The steam made everything hazy, your bodies slick and desperate, and when his hand snaked around to your clit again, you shattered, nearly slipping if he hadn’t been holding you so close.

When he came, he bit your shoulder. Hard.

“Mine,” he whispered.

You didn’t argue.

⸻

Thirty minutes later, you were both semi-presentable, sitting on the edge of the bed trying not to look like you’d just gone three rounds and nearly flooded the lodge’s plumbing.

Then—

Click.

The door swung open.

“Finally!” Jeongin called, bounding in with two grocery bags. “Dude, you will not believe the gas station we found. They sell instant ramyeon shaped like Hyunjin’s face—wait…”

He stopped.

Chan walked in behind him, followed by Felix, Hyunjin, and Jisung. One by one, they froze.

There was silence. Too much silence.

Then Hyunjin’s eyes dropped to the rumpled bed, the haphazardly tossed towels, and finally—the fresh scratch marks down Seungmin’s neck.

“Oh.”

Jeongin blinked. “So the prank worked.”

Jisung howled.

Felix clapped a hand over his mouth, giggling like a traitor, and Chan just dragged a hand down his face.

Seungmin didn’t even flinch. He reached for his water bottle, took a long sip, and threw an arm around your shoulder like he owned the place.

You, still sore and red-faced, swatted him.

He leaned over, lips brushing your ear again.

“Wanna piss them off more?” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

Then you smiled.

“Oh, absolutely.”

⸻

And that’s how it ended: with the group flailing in disbelief, Seungmin smug as hell, and you? Wrapped in his hoodie again, pretending not to already miss the feel of his hands on your skin.

To think… you hated that man.

Until you didn’t

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Authors note: Hey guys, i’ll be posting new fucs every two days so follow me if you dont want to miss them, and feel free to request by sending me your prompts!

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[writing-the-stars]

Unspoken, Unheard

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader; Platonic!Morgan x Reader

Summary: In the midst of a high-stakes case, you face the terrifying task of being bait for a dangerous unsub. As the mission spirals out of control, the unacknowledged bond between you and Hotch is tested, forcing him to confront the risks of letting his heart lead in a world where vulnerability could mean losing everything.

Warnings: Angst (It's Who I Am), Emotional Distance (On Hotch's End. Go Figure), Canon-Typical Violence, Body Injury (Very Minor), No Use of Y/N or Physical Descriptors, Happy Ending. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 6.6k (This was a BEAST)

A/N: Happy New Year!!! This is my very first Criminal Minds fic EVER AND my first story of the new year!! I have been a fan of this show for such a looong time. So I'm really excited to be introducing this as a fandom I write for. I have been hyperfixating on Hotch for a while now (something about stoic, emotionally unavailable people really gets me). Anyway, this really was a labor of love and a passion project. Thank you all for reading! I truly hope you enjoy. Have a wonderful day!

Masterlist | Criminal Minds Masterlist

A sudden sharp, insistent knocking echoes through the quiet hotel room, jolting you from your restless sleep. Adrenaline surges through your veins, heart thrumming in your ears, as you instinctively reach for the weapon on your nightstand. Blinking against the fog of your interrupted sleep, your mind races, trying to make sense of what ripped you from your sleep.

You listen carefully, waiting to hear if there is anything that could give you context to your current situation. But the silence returns, as if it had never been broken. You approach the door cautiously, your fingers curling tightly around the handle of your gun. Pressing your eye to the peephole, you freeze when you see Hotch standing on the other side. Relief floods through you and you exhale shakily, but only for a moment as you come to the grim realization that there must be another victim. You set your weapon down, running a hand over your head as you prepare yourself for the bad news and a new case development.

But as you open the door, your rehearsed professionalism falters.

Hotch is far from the professional, composed self he presents to the world. His dark hair is unkempt, the gel that usually holds it perfectly in place seemingly forgotten. His v-neck shirt hangs loose around his clavicle, giving you a glimpse of his defined pectorals, and his pajama pants pool awkwardly at his feet, as if he didn’t pull them up all the way before reaching you. The typical mask of calm authority he wears is nowhere to be found as he stares at you with wide, haunted eyes, face pale and glistening with sweat.

There is clear tension in his posture, his breathing a little too shallow and his expression a little too tight. You’ve never seen your friend like this before. Something unnerved him and quite frankly it was starting to rattle you too. 

Hotch hadn’t really thought any of this through. The visceral image of your body disfigured and mutilated just like the victims of this case filled him with raw terror. He needed to see you.

He had to make sure you were safe. He needed to know that you were alive and still intact. To know that you will still look up at him with that wide-eyed gaze filled with so much trust and quiet adoration that it makes his guarded heart falter. To know that when a case is too heavy and you all are exhausted and frayed at the edges, you will still throw him one of those smiles— one that tells him you still believe in him, that you know he will get you all through it. That you are still his team. To know that he will still hear the warmth of your laughter around the bullpen, cutting through the darkest of days at the BAU because you just had that way about you. That quiet, effortless brightness that made the worst days bearable. And he knew it wasn't just the job you were good at; it was the way you kept everyone together.

Most of all, he needed to know that you would still be you. That this job hadn’t taken you away from him— that it hadn’t stolen one more thing he couldn’t bear to lose.

But as the seconds stretch on, the initial terror that gripped him so tightly begins to subside and his mind begins to regain control. The logical Hotch starts to take over, reminding him that everything is fine. That it was only a dream, an irrational fabrication, and he is not the kind of person to allow emotions to overrun his decisions. 

He’s being reckless and this moment of weakness could jeopardize the team, and everything he has worked so hard to build. He needs to turn and leave before this situation gets any more out of hand, but it’s too late. The lock clicks. The door swings open and there you are, alive and whole. His breath catches. He had feared the worst— no, not feared, he’d seen the worst in his nightmare— but you’re here, standing right in front of him. The sheer relief almost makes his knees buckle. 

“Hotch?” 

Your voice is soft but laced with concern, the sight of him so disheveled, so unguarded, sets off a ripple of panic in your chest, “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He stands there, staring at you as though he can’t believe you are standing in front of him. His mouth opens, but no words come out. His chest heaves with uneven breaths, and his eyes dart across your face, taking in every detail as though memorizing it.

“Hotch?” you repeat, your brows knitting together, “What’s wrong?”

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost hoarse, a shallow attempt at the calm, authoritative tone he usually uses. 

“I just… wanted to make sure you’re alright. We’ve been up late. Thought you might need to check in."

His words are careful, almost rehearsed, but you still hear the vulnerability he’s trying to mask. His eyes dart away from yours, down to the floor, and you can almost see him retreating into himself, as if he’s trying to hide from you. 

"Are you sure you’re okay?" you press a little, unable to ignore the worry curling in your chest. This isn’t just about the case. Something deeper is going on, and you aren’t going to disregard it. 

You step out a little into the hallway, bringing yourself closer to Hotch, trying to gauge if you’re reading him wrong. But this isn’t like him— Hotch wouldn’t show up at your door in the middle of the night without reason.

He looks as if he is barely holding himself together. You know him well enough to know when something is wrong, and in this moment, everything about him screams that he is on edge. It isn’t just exhaustion or stress— it’s something more that seems to be warring with him.

His lips press together in a tight line and you can see the muscles in his neck contract. "I’m fine," he says quickly, urgingly, as if he is trying to convince you and himself. 

The wall of his facade is fissuring and, for the first time since knowing Aaron Hotchner, you feel like he might finally let you in. You push a little harder, hoping that acknowledging the crack in his armor will finally shatter the whole illusion. 

“Hotch, you’re not fine,” you say softly, your voice almost a whisper, “Why don’t you come in for some coffee? I still have some of the good stuff Rossi bought me for Secret Santa.”

Hotch opens his mouth, but the words get tangled, and he immediately closes it again. His throat is tight, seemingly collapsing on itself. There are so many things he wants to say to you. Truths he wants to reveal, but he can’t. He can’t bring himself to venture into that unknown territory, to cross that line that’s already too blurry. There are too many things at stake, too many risks he can’t afford to take. He can not allow his feelings to complicate things any further. 

He takes a step back, and in doing so, you watch him fully retreat into himself, restructuring the wall you had come so close to tearing down. Perhaps you pushed too hard. 

He regains the professional composure you have grown accustomed to seeing. His usual authority slips into something sharp, more distant. "We’re on the job," he says, his voice harder, defensive, "There’s no time for that."

His words sting and you feel a pang of hurt as he continues to shut you out. But you remember who Hotch is. This isn’t about you. This is about him, about whatever had shaken him. Hotch has built walls higher than you can scale. Walls that even you—someone who knows him better than most—aren’t allowed to breach.

"Get some rest," he adds, the words flat and sterile, "We’ll need you ready tomorrow."

Your window for something more is closing, and you can’t bring yourself to stop it. You know what’s happening.

He’s scared. Scared of what? You don’t know, but you have a feeling that you’re the cause. Or at least a part of it.

“Good night, Hotch,” you resign, hoping to mask the disappointment of being kept at arm’s length. 

He gives you one last brief nod before he turns away, heading down the hallway with that same brisk, purposeful stride he always uses when he is trying to put distance between himself and whatever feelings are bothering him.

You stand there, the door half-open, watching him go. Your chest aches at the thought of what could have been. 

Closing the door softly and locking it behind you, you begin to process everything that unfolded. Questions pace your mind as you crawl back into bed. What just happened? What just really happened? The moment felt like a confession of sorts. An almost admission of something Hotch has been holding on to, but doesn’t want you to know. 

And maybe you just imagined it, but you feel like you saw a flicker of something in his eyes. An indication that the connection you have been feeling is not one-sided, a hint that you mean more to him than just a colleague, more than just a friend. You close your eyes, but the image of Hotch at your door stays with you, etched into the corners of your mind. An unanswered question you’re too afraid to ask. 

-*-

The local precinct hums with its usual activity— phones ringing, keyboards clicking, and the low murmur of officers exchanging updates on ongoing cases. Yet, the energy is tenser than the previous days of this case. 

Hotch’s behavior has been off all morning— sharply professional, overly focused on the case, and oddly reserved. It isn’t just his terse responses or the way he’s deliberately avoiding meeting your eyes— it’s the heaviness in the air every time you are in the same room. The warmth you usually share with him is gone and his quiet intensity has evolved into a coldness that has made you uncomfortable. 

An awkward distance has grown between the two of you and you can’t shake the feeling that it’s your fault. 

It hurts, but you try to brush it off. You know the job has a way of consuming him. You try to focus on the case, bury yourself in the details, but the weight of Hotch’s distance is becoming impossible to ignore. And you aren’t the only one to feel it. 

“Hey Sunshine,” Morgan approaches your work station, voice quieter than usual, “Everything good with you?” His tone carries a warmth that welcomingly contrasts with the chill you’ve been receiving from Hotch today. 

You look up at him, trying to mask your unease, but Morgan isn’t fooled. 

“You seem a little… off today,” he says, eyes scanning your face with that trademark perceptiveness, “What’s going on?”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, glancing over at Hotch across the room. He’s engrossed in the case files, his posture stiff, his face unreadable. But you feel the weight of his distance press heavy on your shoulders.

“Nothing,” you tell him, trying to diminish the effect Hotch’s behavior is having on you, “Just… tired. The case is taking a lot out of me.”

Morgan doesn’t buy it for a second. “Uh-huh. And you didn’t notice Hotch getting all icy on you today?”

You still. You didn’t want to admit it, but it’s true. All of his standoffish behavior is directed at you. The distance, the sharper words, he’s isolating himself from you. And it doesn’t take a profiler like Morgan to see it.

You glance back at Hotch before returning your gaze to Morgan. He’s known Hotch for a while. Longer than you. If there is anyone you can gain insight from, it would be him. Lowering your voice, you confide in your teammate, “I don’t know, Derek… it’s like… he’s pulling away. Like something’s changed. I don’t know what happened last night, but whatever it is, it’s different. I can’t shake the feeling that I did something wrong.”

“What happened last night?”

“He came to my room.”

“Hotch?” He asks astonished, surprised by the uncharacteristic behavior. 

“Yeah, he said he wanted to check in with me, but… I don’t know, Derek, something was off. It was like he was hiding something from me.” 

Morgan leans in closer, his expression softening with sincerity. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Hotch is going through something. I’ve been around him long enough to know when he’s bottling things up.” 

You appreciate the comfort in Morgan’s words, even if they don’t entirely ease your concern. You just wish Hotch would open up to you. Let you be there for him and carry some of the weight of his burdens. 

Morgan sighs, seeing the crease still planted in your brow. “Look, he’s been carrying a lot of weight on his shoulders for a while now,” he states, voice turning more serious, “This job— it changes him. Sometimes it makes him pull away from the people he cares about the most, even if he doesn’t mean to. But I’ll talk to him, alright? I’m not gonna let him shut you out.”

You smile up at him, feeling some of the weight lift off of your shoulders.

“Don’t worry about it right now,” he continues, voice morphing into a more professional tone, “We’ve got a case to finish, and we need to focus. But after all this is done, you and I are gonna have a talk, alright?”

You nod, giving him a small, grateful smile, “Thanks, Derek.”

Soon after, the reality of the case takes over again. An officer charges in with a disturbing update: a new victim has been discovered. The pattern is clear, the unsub is escalating. The cooling-off period, which had been a crucial factor in the previous profile,  has shrunk dramatically, and you all are running out of time to prevent another murder. The urgency in the room is palpable. The team crowds around the whiteboard and, after analyzing the victims and the unsub’s pattern, you all come to a grim conclusion. You need someone who looks like the previous victims to bait the unsub into a trap.

There is an oppressive silence as the team’s eyes flick to you. The weight of their saddened, knowing gazes is almost unbearable. The fact that you share similar features with the victims of this case had not gone unnoticed by you. In fact, it was one of the first things you noted about the unsub’s victimology. It had been an unsettling realization. One you’d been working through for days, trying to figure out how it would affect your role in the investigation. Now you know. 

The air is heavy with the unspoken implication. You had expected this. It’s part of the job. But nothing can prepare you for the moment when the possibility becomes real. Your gaze flicks to Hotch, but he isn’t looking at you. His eyes are fixed on the board, on the files, on anything but you. He was desperate. Looking for an out, for a solution that did not involve putting you in harm’s way. 

“Hotch,” Morgan says, cutting through the silence, “We need someone who looks like the unsub’s previous victims. We don’t have time to waste.” 

He glances at you, eyes softening, then back to Hotch, sensing the unspoken hesitation. Hotch’s expression darkens. He looks between Morgan and you, his mouth set in a tight line. You can see the internal battle in his eyes—he wants to object, to find another way—but the case can't wait.

“Alright,” Hotch concedes stiffly, his voice potraying none of the inner turmoil he’s feeling, “We’ll set up the trap. We don’t have time for anything else.”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, pushing away the surge of panic that’s threatening to take hold of you. You know it’s the best strategy. It’s what has to be done, and you will do it. But you don’t have to like it.

“You good with this?” Morgan asks, his tone far more personal than professional. He wants to make sure you’re okay, wants to be sure you aren’t being pushed into something you aren’t ready for.

You give a small nod, more for your own sake than his. “I’m good,” you lie, voice steady even though your insides feel anything but.

After your confirmation the team is immediately on, discussing the logistics of setting up the trap. Your gaze flickers to Hotch once more, and for a moment, you think you see something shift in his eyes— something that isn’t just professional concern. It almost looks like he wants to say something more, but he doesn't. He just turns back to the board, his silence louder than any words he could have spoken.

His mind races, unable to focus on the task at hand. His thoughts are consumed with you— the thought of you being so close to danger. He can’t stand it. The very idea that you will be bait— the possibility of you being exposed to the unsub, potentially hurt— makes his insides twist with dread. But he can’t show it. Not now. Not when the mission is the priority.

He focuses on the details, assigning roles, making decisions. But every time his eyes shift to you, his stomach tightens. Bait. It’s a professional term, a necessary risk. But to him, it feels like a betrayal—one he couldn’t afford to confront.

-*-

You stand near the edge of the scene, trying to focus on the instructions being relayed through your comms. The humid, night air clings to your skin— another layer pressing on the building panic in your chest. You watch as your team slips seamlessly into their positions with practiced precision. You all have done this before, it isn’t unfamiliar territory; however, it’s different when it’s your life on the line.  

You’re the one baiting the unsub, alone, vulnerable. There’s no guarantee of your safety, no script to follow that ensures a happy ending. You’re putting yourself directly in harm’s way, and that knowledge frightens you more than you’d like to admit. You try to steady your breathing, but your heartbeat is louder than your thoughts. This is the moment when everything could go wrong, and that thought sets fear, real visceral and terrifying fear, the kind you’ve been pushing down for hours, alight in your bones. 

You feel him come up behind you, his presence heavy, solid and grounding. You feel the weight of his eyes on you. The tension from before charging the air around you. Up until now, his focus has solely been on the operation. You know he is just as worried as you are, maybe even more so, but his stoicism doesn't allow him to show it. You wonder if his concern is more focused on the mission going well or on the risk this poses to you. Regardless, he is a comforting presence, one you feel safe to confide in. 

“Hotch,” you murmur, almost too quietly for him to hear, turning to face the man who has grown so dear to your heart. 

He looks at you, expression unreadable, but his quiet intensity soothes some of your panic. 

“Are you sure about this? I- I don’t know if I can do this,” your voice shakes, highlighting the fear you’ve been holding back all night.

Hotch struggles to give you an answer. You are looking at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and all he can think about is last night— the image of you mutilated, the fact he couldn’t save you. 

The overwhelming need to protect you surges through him again. He can’t—he can’t let this happen. But he is the leader of this team, it is his duty to see this mission through. To bring this case to a close. He can’t allow his personal feelings to change anything, to interfere with this job. 

He forces his voice to remain steady, professional, “It’s the only way.”

You concede with a nod of your head. You don’t argue. You never do. But Hotch studies you, sees the slight tightening around your eyes, the sharp rise in your chest. It makes his heart ache. He feels the weight of this moment. Knows this is a critical point— not just for the case, but for you. He sees how hard you’re fighting to hold yourself together, and for a split second, the professional facade cracks. He takes a step closer.

“You’re not alone in this,” Hotch says, his voice low but steady. He reaches for your arm, gently squeezing the flesh there. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’ve been trained for this. You can do this.”

His words settle over you, your heart rate slowing, and for the first time since this operation started, you can breathe again. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he repeats urgingly, his voice low, protective. It’s a promise. His hand lingers for a moment longer than necessary before he pulls back, the weight of his words lingering in the air between you two. Hotch’s presence, the way he’s always steady, always calm—it gives you the strength you need.

"Alright," you whisper, your voice steadier now, "Alright, let's do this."

As the team readies themselves, you remain in place, trying to keep yourself from fidgeting. Adrenaline courses through your veins, but it’s not just fear— it’s the anticipation. The waiting. You’ve been taught by Prentiss how to manage these moments, how to keep your emotions in check and your senses sharp. You channel every lesson she taught you— stay calm, stay focused, keep breathing. You’ve studied the unsub’s patterns, and every part of you is ready to play your role.

You survey the area, locating your team’s positions. Morgan, Hotch, and Prentiss are stationed inside as backup, Rossi and Reid near the exits, and the remaining local officers are stationed discreetly around the perimeter. You look towards the nightclub, the neon lights, the rhythmic thrum of music faintly audible even from outside. Static crackles in your ear, and you hear Hotch’s voice, calm and steady, “All units are in position.”

The signal to proceed.

You take a deep breath, trying to control your shaking hands. You’re ready. You have to be ready. With one final glance around the perimeter, ensuring your team’s at your back, you steel yourself, stepping into the lion’s den. 

The pulsating beat of the music encapsulates you, the bass reverberating around your body. The flashing lights cast strobe-like shadows across the crowded room. It’s loud, chaotic, and full of life— but that only makes it more dangerous. The lights are meant to disorient and the noise to drown out your thoughts. You see how it is easy for the unsub to get away with his victims. 

You stand in the middle of it all, heart pounding in your chest as you pretend to enjoy the music, to be just another partygoer in the crowd. Prentiss’s voice crackles in your earpiece, barely audible over the music, “You need to relax. You look stiff.”

You nod to yourself, trying to ground yourself in the role. You watch the crowd around you, mimicking their movements. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Hotch standing across the club, blending into the shadows near the back of the bar, dark and brooding. He’s close— but not close enough. He can’t be. You can’t afford to look too conspicuous.

The rest of the indoors team is hiding in plain sight. Prentiss is near the restrooms and Morgan is in a corner booth. And Hotch is watching from the shadows. He’s waiting, calculating—but something in the way he’s watching you makes your heart rate spike.

You catch his eyes and everything feels different. The professional wall between you two starts to crumble. You feel yourself becoming looser under his watchful gaze and you dance. You dance for him, you dance as if you’re the only two people in the room. And Hotch can’t take his eyes off you. 

But then you feel it. A shift in the crowd. 

He’s not the tallest man in the room, but he has a presence that immediately commands attention. His gaze is cold, calculating, but there’s something oddly magnetic about him. He moves through the crowd with purpose, like he knows exactly what he’s looking for. His eyes flick over the people around him, assessing each one with the precision of a predator.

As he approaches you, you feel a rush of adrenaline, but you push it down. Emily’s training coming back to you. He stops in front of you, gaze flicking to your face, studying you for a beat longer than necessary.

He smiles— a dark, knowing smile. “I’ve been watching you,” he says, his voice a hair louder than the music, his tone carrying an eerie calm.

You force yourself to keep your composure. "Have you?" You raise an eyebrow, playing the part. The unsub takes a step closer, his eyes flickering down to your body, sizing you up. You know what he’s doing, know exactly how he’s visualizing your body and all the horrific things he’ll do it— just like the previous victims. It makes your skin crawl. 

“You’re not like the others,” he says, his voice lower, whispering in your ear, but thick with amusement. He’s toying with you.

You manage a small smile, “What makes you think that?” You tease, pretending to be at ease. 

His hand snakes up your body, eyes never leaving yours, “You’ve got a different look to you. You don’t belong here.”

The trail of his hand on your body sends a chill down your spine. He’s not being aggressive— yet —but the interaction feels like an invitation to a game. He’s testing the waters. 

“I belong where I want to belong,” you reply, lifting your chin up to appear more confident than you actually are.

He smiles, his eyes lighting up with something darker. “Maybe you do,” he says, voice quieter now, “Or maybe you're just pretending.”

You take a step back freeing yourself from his grasp, his imposing presence becoming overwhelming. The unsub’s smile falters just a fraction. A flicker of suspicion, quick but undeniable, passes over his face. 

You take a breath, keeping your face neutral, trying not to let anything slip. “We all pretend sometimes,” you answer smoothly, “What about you?”

For a moment, his eyes narrow, the two of you engaging in some kind of silent battle, each trying to read the other. He’s intrigued, but he hasn’t made up his mind about you yet.

“I’ve seen your type before,” the unsub says, taking a step closer to you, shortening the distance you previously implemented, “You’re always looking for something. People like you—”

You cut him off quickly, hoping to regain control of the situation. “People like me? And what exactly is that?”

He leans in a little closer, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “The ones who can’t find meaning in their lives, so they run to places like this thinking they can find answers. They never do.”

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as his eyes move over you again, this time lingering on your eyes, like he’s searching for something in you— something real. But you know what he’s doing. He’s trying to find a weakness. A slip.

The air between you two grows heavier, and despite everything you’ve been trained to do, despite the calm that you’re trying so hard to project, you feel the pressure building. Your heartbeat picks up, but you push it down. You can’t let him see you panic.

“Well, I guess that depends on what you’re looking for,” you say, your voice more uncertain than you want it to be. You quickly mask the hesitation with another smile, but this time it doesn’t feel as convincing.

His eyes flicker— just for a moment— across your face. Something about the way you said that, the slight nervousness that edged into your voice— it’s enough to make him pause.

For just a split second, he looks confused, as though something doesn’t add up. His eyes narrow, and you see the shift in his demeanor. The playful curiosity turns into something more calculating.

“You don’t talk like them,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His voice is softer now, more contemplative. 

You feel your stomach flip, but you don’t flinch. Not yet.

“You have a very... observant eye,” you reply, forcing the words out with more confidence than you feel. You quickly change the subject, hoping to redirect his attention. “Why don’t we go somewhere quieter? I can show you just how different I really am.”

The unsub hesitates, his brow furrowing as he watches you a little too closely. He’s not sure what it is yet, but he’s starting to doubt that you’re just another unsuspecting person in the club. The air between you thickens, the tension building.

The unsub steps back slightly, eyes scanning you again, this time with deeper suspicion. It’s like a switch has been flipped— he knows something is off. 

“Sure,” he sneers, grabbing your arm roughly and jerking you forward. The action pulls you into his chest as his free hand comes up, producing a blade. The cold metal feels heavy as it presses against your throat— the sharp edge digging into your skin. You freeze, pulse pounding as your fear of this operation plays out before you. One quick jerk and your whole life is over in the middle of a second-rate night club. “What is this? Some kind of trap?” He demands angrily, pressing the knife harder. You can feel the tip against your skin, its sharp edge threatening to break the surface. Every small breath you take makes the blade press in deeper, but you don’t flinch. 

Hotch’s voice rings clear through your earpiece, sharp and commanding, “Move in. Now.”

The team springs into action, bursting from their scattered positions, guns drawn, closing in quickly. Chaos erupts as the crowd disperses from the growing conflict— a cacophony of panic and fear echoing around you, mirroring the terror gripping you inside. The moment the unsub sees them, his eyes widen in recognition, but his grip on you doesn’t loosen. He pulls you in front of him like a shield, his body tight against yours, the knife still pressed to your neck. Panic flickers in his eyes, and he becomes more desperate, realizing the window of escape is shrinking. 

“Stay back!” He shouts, his voice shaking with rage and fear, “One move and it’s over. You hear me?” His grip on the knife is trembling now. He’s scared, unhinged, not thinking clearly. You swallow, trying to stay composed. You’ve been trained for this, but the simulation is nothing compared to the real immediacy of danger. 

“Stay calm,” Hotch instructs, his gaze locked on you. His voice is sharp, but there’s a layer of raw tension there. He’s not just worried about you as a team member; he’s invested. This isn’t just another case— it’s you. He won’t let anything happen to you.

The unsub’s grip on you is relentless, and the weight of the knife against your throat is a constant reminder of how quickly this can turn deadly.

“Why don’t we just talk about this?” You manage to say, your voice steady despite the panic raging inside, “I can help you. We can work this out.” But the unsub isn’t listening. His eyes gleam with madness as he presses the knife harder against your throat. 

“You think I’m stupid?” His voice is low, guttural, “You think this is going to end well for me? For you?”

The tension is unbearable and you know it’s only a matter of time before he makes a move, one way or the other.

“You don’t have to do this,” you try again, voice trembling but steady. His grip on the knife shifts slightly, and you catch a glimpse of hesitation in his eyes. It’s a split second, but it’s enough for you to seize the opportunity. You feel the unsub shift slightly, his weight moving in such a way that it opens up just enough space for you to act. You shift your body weight quickly, slamming your elbows into his ribs. The move is sharp and sudden, and you feel him stumble back, losing his balance for a split second. His hold on you loosens, just enough for you to wrench free from his grasp.

In that split second, everything changes. 

“Now!” Hotch’s voice explodes. Prentiss and Morgan surge forward, moving swiftly, but not close enough. In a final desperate attempt to regain control, the unsub brings the knife up, swinging it wildly toward you. Your heart stops and you freeze, only for a moment, before instinct takes over and you dodge to the side. The blade grazes your cheek, cutting a shallow line across your skin. The sting is instant, but you don’t focus on the pain. 

With the unsub distracted by your move, Prentiss is the first to close in. She grabs his wrist, wrenching the knife away, while Morgan rushes in, tackling him to the ground. As the remainder of the team rushes forward, the unsub struggles, but he is no match for your team

As soon as the unsub is secured, Hotch is there, rushing towards you. He places a hand on your shoulder, his fingers lightly gripping you as though he needs to make sure you’re real. 

“Are you alright?” His voice is softer than it’s been all day, but is still tight with concern. You take a shallow breath, trying to steady your heartbeat. “I’m fine,” you answer, though your voice betrays you, a slight tremor you can not control, “Just some scratches.” 

Your fingers graze over the thin line of blood from the knife remaining on your neck, before landing on the shallow wound on your cheek where you swipe away some of the trickling blood. It’s nothing permanent, but the sting is sharp. Hotch’s gaze flicks between the small wounds, and his jaw tightens. 

“You did great,” his voice is low, but laced with something more. There’s a protectiveness in his eyes now that goes beyond the usual command, beyond the professional distance. Your heart is still racing from the close call, but something in the way he looks at you, something unspoken, makes you pause. It’s more than just concern. 

-*-

The case is over. The unsub is in custody, and the adrenaline has worn off, but the weight of the last few days— the close calls, the near-misses— lingers heavily in the air.

The team is scattered around the bullpen, tired but relieved. Some are gathering their things, others are engaged in quiet conversation. But Hotch, who is usually the first to bury himself in case notes and paperwork, is standing near the window of his office, his back to the room, staring out at the city lights in silence.

You’ve just finished checking your emails, last light on in the bullpen, and are about to leave when you notice Hotch still standing there, a silhouette against the dimming light. The intensity of his brooding is almost palpable and you can’t help but feel drawn to him. You approach his office slowly, your footsteps light on the floor, knowing that there’s something unresolved between you— something that needs to be addressed, even if the words seem impossible to say.

When you get to his door, he doesn’t turn to face you right away, but you can tell by the way his posture stiffens that he’s aware of your presence. After a beat, he speaks without looking at you.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice is low, still carrying the edge of concern. There’s something in the way he asks that you’ve never heard before, a note of uncertainty beneath his usual command.

You stop a few feet away from him, feeling the familiar tension between you two. But this time, it's different— he's different. His usual reserve is slipping, and the emotional weight of the past days is leaving a crack in his armor.

“I’m fine,” you answer, and you mean it, even if there's more left unsaid. The cut on your cheek has been treated, and physically you’re fine.

His shoulders sag slightly, but he still doesn’t turn. He stands there for a long moment, lost in thought, before he finally speaks again, this time quieter, almost hesitant.

“I need you to know something,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Turning slowly, he faces you now, his eyes intense, but there's a vulnerability in them that you’ve never seen before. The walls are down. There’s no hiding it anymore— he’s exposing himself in a way that feels foreign to both of you.

“I...” he begins, but stops. He takes a breath, trying to steady himself. “I... don’t know what I would’ve done if I had lost you tonight. I can’t— I can’t keep pretending that it doesn’t hurt to see you in danger.”

The words hang between you two, heavy and unspoken, as he tries to gather himself. You swallow hard at his words, and your heart flutters in your chest. It’s the first time he’s said something this personal, this raw. You can feel your pulse quicken as you wait for him to continue.

“I know we can’t do this... but I need you to know,” he continues, voice thick with emotion. “I care about you. I care about you more than I’ve let on. More than I should.”

You take a breath, feeling your own emotions rising in your chest. You’ve known for a long time that something was there between the two of you. The tension, the quiet moments of connection. You’ve always felt it, even if you were too afraid to acknowledge it.

“I do too, Hotch. I have for a while.”

His eyes soften at your admission. There’s a tenderness in them that makes your breath catch. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance, and you feel the warmth of his presence envelop you.

He reaches out, his hand resting gently on your arm, as if afraid you might vanish if he touches you too hard. You don’t pull away. Instead, you lean into it, letting the moment settle between you. This is uncharted territory for both of you, but it feels right.

“I don’t know what happens now,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “but I need you to know... I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Not again.”

You nod, your heart full of so many things— relief, fear, and the growing certainty that this moment is the beginning of something neither of you can ignore anymore.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you reply, voice steady, meeting his gaze with an honesty you’ve both kept locked away for far too long.

He looks at you for a long moment, the weight of everything you’ve both experienced together in those few words. And then, ever so slowly, he leans forward, just a fraction, and the air between you shifts. It’s not a declaration, not yet— but it’s a beginning. A slow, careful bridge being built from everything you’ve been through.

And at long last, the walls he’s built for so long have finally come down.

If you want to be a part of my taglist, please submit an ask specifying series, fandom, or all and I will happily add you!

[clockwayswrites]

Cozytober Day 4: "Thank you for putting up with me."

masterpost

“Walls?” Danny prompted after another few sips. “Filtering?”

“Oh, sure. Stay upright for a moment,” Jason ordered.

He leaned forward enough to snag his work bag and rifle around for his tablet. Danny gamely stayed upright, but slumped back against Jason as soon as he could. To his credit, Jason juggled Danny, his own hot chocolate, and the table with ease.

Soon the wall’s specs were pulled up on the screen and Jason was chatting away about everything that worked and didn’t work with the current construction of the walls. There was no denying that Gotham had particular needs with freak weather changes, temperamental plants, and poisonous gases. But it was good to see Jason so excited about this start.

By the time that the mugs were long empty and Jason as running out of steam, Danny took a deep breath and it came easily. There were no more words or worries or frustrations clogging up his throat. There was just him. He closed his eyes and let out the breath slowly.

Jason stopped talking and pressed a light kiss to Danny’s temple. “Hey there.”

“Hey,” Danny said with a soft smile. “Sorry about the silent invasion. I know I didn’t exactly give you a heads up.”

“Coming home to find you in my bed is never a bad thing,” Jason said. He leaned forward to set his things on the coffee table before taking Danny’s empty mug too. “Besides, I didn’t add you to my door code for you not to visit. You’re always welcome here, boo.”

“A dangerous offer,” Danny said.

“I know what I’m getting into,” Jason replied. He pressed another kiss to Danny’s forehead before he took the mugs to the kitchen.

Danny stretched slowly. “Lies. I am a man of mystery!”

“Danny,” Jason said, giving a dry look from over the kitchen island. “You spilled being a Meta two weeks into us knowing each other.”

“I’m not a Meta, it’s a medical condition, and besides, you were so worried about me getting randomly killed on the streets of Gotham. I had to do something to reassure you!” Danny made himself get off the couch. He grabbed Jason’s work bag and took it over to where it normally hung by the door. He fished the folder out of the front pocket—work Jason would insist on doing over the weekend—and took it to the desk that sat in front of one massive window bays.

“Not a man of mystery.”

“I could have secrets! I could have lots of secrets.”

“Yeah, and what’s one of them.”

“I,” Danny started as he made his way to Jason, “would kill for your hot chocolate.”

Jason laughed and wrapped his arms around Danny’s waist. “Not a secret, and please don’t. I would be forced to cover up the murder and then various members of my family would give me that disappointed look.”

“Your family always sounds so interesting.”

“You could meet them yourself at dinner tomorrow.”

Danny froze. Danny froze and he knew Jason felt it by the the way his brows drew together and his mouth twitched almost into a frown.

“I’m sorry—” Danny started at the same time as Jason tried to say, “Forget I said anything.”

They both closed their mouths with a snap.

Danny broke the silence with a sigh. “I just… soon, okay? I just want to be… better.”

“You don’t have to be better, Danny. They’d love you just like this.”

Danny shook his head. “I just… can’t. I know you want me to meet them, but I just can’t yet. I know it’s… I know that… just…”

Jason quieted Danny with a kiss. “It’s okay Danny, when you’re ready.”

“Thanks for putting up with me.”

“I’m not ‘putting up with you’, Danny,” Jason said. “Giving you room isn’t putting up with you. I like who you are. And I know you aren’t ready, but my family would too. We’re all fuck ups, we’ve got no room to judge anyone.”

Danny gave a little startled snort of laughter. “You’re all Waynes.”

“And the Waynes are fucked up. We’ve been in Gotham too long, fucked up is part of the DNA.”

“You’re adopted.”

“Semantics.”

--- AN: Danny, poking at Jason's hyperfixation to have some calming chatter.

Gods I've missed writing these two ;-;

[lovelettersfrommai]

Rooms I Don’t Enter

Summary: You and Bucky live through each other’s worst memories. 

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem! Reader (HYDRA Experiment) 

A/N: Marvel brain rot is taking over post Thunderbolts*. I need to see it again IMMEDIATELY. Reader has fire and ice powers, reminiscent of a certain anime character…No I will not elaborate as to my involvement in the implied fandom. Not proofread, we die like men.  Also this is my first time writing for Bucky! Exciting stuff guys.

Word Count: 1,616

Disclaimers: I do not own the rights to anything Marvel related, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot.

Warnings !: Mentions of being abducted, vague body horror, reader gets forced to hurt someone, mentions of human experimentation. Bucky has healed from his past, but reader has not, hurt/comfort, angst?

MASSIVE THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS.

As soon as Bucky entered the void, he felt ice. Oh no. He thought to himself. No, no, no, no, no. He couldn’t be back here again. 

The hard substance pressed against his back as he landed in the ravine, right after his fall from the train all those years ago. All the wind had knocked out from his lungs, and he sat up abruptly, just in time to watch HYDRA soldiers drag his body across the floor, arm gone. He felt nauseous at the sight of it, his own body desecrated. The worst part is that he knew this was just the beginning. 

He needs to get the hell out of here.

~

The grass beneath your combat boots was a jarring sensation. Your head whips around, bewildered. A park? Weren’t you just in New York? Where did everyone else go? You look around. There’s a playground, and many trees. Picnic tables and benches where parents usually sit and watch their children, but right now it’s empty. Just you. It’s then that you hear a familiar sound. The music of an ice cream truck driving your way. It’s nice, almost peaceful, even.

If this weren’t a moment that you had literal nightmares about. 

It hits you then how you remember this place. This is the neighborhood park that you went to as a child. The one that you were abducted from. You watch as your younger self squeals happily, alone in the park. You had been saving up for the next time the ice cream man came around. 

“All alone today, young lady?” The man asks. Oh god, no. The younger version of yourself nods. You grab her wrist in an attempt to stop her from getting any closer, but she screams and the trees that were once just trees reach out and grab you, the branches twisting around your arms and physically pulling you away. You can do nothing but watch as you get taken. 

~

Bucky makes an effort to get out of the room, clawing at the walls. He realized that the room isn’t as big as it seems. He calls out, looking for somebody, anybody, and starts to punch at the ice with his metal arm. 

That isn’t me anymore. He thinks to himself. This is. 

At the same time, you use your powers to burn the branches keeping you away from your younger self. Ice shoots from your hands as you use it to propel yourself forward faster, ending at the truck’s hood. Looking in the tinted glass, you swear, if you look closely enough you can see-

“Bucky!” You call out, voice shaky, and limbs tired from the effort of sustaining your powers. Bucky turns his head. He heard you. You take a deep breath then smash the glass of the windshield with your bare hands, jumping through it and straight into Bucky. 

~

The moment you tackle him, you’re transported into a new place. Bucky recognizes the place immediately. He sees Zola’s face and internally cringes, wanting to punch the man. He huffs. It wouldn’t do anything here. He’s not gonna let this undo all the work he’s put in to bettering his mental health. You both just need to get out. 

It’s then that Bucky hears the words. His spine straightens as a shiver rolls down it. He knows they can’t hurt him now. They’re powerless in his deprogrammed mind, and yet he can’t help the way fear grips his chest. You grab his hand, and he is immediately brought back to earth. You’ve always been such a grounding force for him, and he can’t help but want to kiss you senseless for the kindness you’ve always shown him. 

The both of you have a long history together. You didn’t always see each other when you both were still under HYDRA, but even in his altered state Bucky knew you. Maybe that’s why once he pulled Steve from the river, he went to get you next. Together, the both of you look for a way to get out of the lab. When your foot hits a loose tile on the lab floor, you know this is likely it. You wordlessly gesture at it to Bucky, who instantly gets the memo, smashing it with his metal arm. 

Once you crawl through the hole in the floor, the two of you fall to the ground, entering a completely different space. Your hands come up behind Bucky’s head, making sure it doesn’t get badly hurt as you tumble into a cool concrete floor. Bucky’s arms wrap around your torso, making sure he takes the brunt of the impact. Once you finally settle into the new space, you press your forehead to his briefly kissing his cheek as you let out a breath of relief.

~

“Where are we now?” You mutter. The place feels familiar but it’s a tad too dark to make anything out. 

“You know where we are. The question is who are we going to see?” He murmurs lowly. It hits you then. The cold concrete floors, the darkness, the distinctive smell of dampness and a buildup of mold and mildew. You’re back in the basement cells. The place HYDRA kept you in between missions and sessions of “experiments” in the lab. It’s after the realization hits you, that you, younger you,  is ushered into the room harshly. You’re older now. Still far too young, but now in your early 20’s. It hits you then what exactly this memory is. You push Bucky’s head away, not wanting him to see what happened, but he stubbornly watches. 

What he doesn’t expect is to see himself, moreso, the winter soldier. He’s suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. Did he hurt you? He thought most of his memories were recovered, so why couldn’t he remember this? More importantly, why didn’t you tell him? 

“Doll…What is this? What did I do?” He asks, hands darting out to grab your shoulders. He doesn’t mean to squeeze as hard as he does, but you see the sense of urgency and more importantly, the signs of panic that cross his features. You shake your head emphatically, hands coming up to rest on his elbows in reassurance. 

“It’s not what you did…It’s what I did.” One of the guards start to speak to the both of you in Russian. He goes on about testing your abilities on a real subject, and you watch as you scramble on the floor. 

“Th-the doctors said I was done with testing today…” she tries to say. One of the guards grab her face harshly. 

“I know. This is just for fun…consider it target practice.” He replies. Bucky can only watch with sadness as you try to refuse, knowing it couldn’t have ended well. Meanwhile, your eyes fill with tears, the memory still causing guilt to eat at your consciousness. He walks over to the memory version of you, kneeling beside her as she too moves onto her knees, fire and ice powers activating. He pushes a stray hair behind your ear before pressing his forehead against your head. 

“It’s okay. You had no choice. I’m sorry…” He mutters into her ear. It won’t change anything. Won’t make you feel any better about doing it in the future, but that doesn’t matter right now. 

You watch him for a moment before trying to find a way out. The door that the guards pushed you through. You push and pull at the knob, and when that doesn’t work, you start kicking desperately. Anything to escape the agonizing past screams of your current lover. It eventually gives. You turn around to get Bucky. With one last comforting kiss to past you’s head, he stands up straight and jogs over to you, grabbing your hand and pulling you through the door to the next room. 

~

Once the two of you get to the next room, you attempt to seek respite for just a moment. Your hands come up over your ears, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. Bucky has never seen you like this. If anything, you are usually the stronger one in the relationship, always pulling him from the dark place. Now, as he looks at you, he recognizes just how vulnerable you seem, your actions reminding him of a child who is just trying to shut out the rest of the world. He takes a deep breath before approaching you.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize. Bucky shakes his head and gently cups your cheek with his flesh hand. 

“Don’t apologize for doing what you had to do to survive.” It’s a phrase that you’ve said to him time and time again. When the nightmares turn him into an insomniac and the skeletons hidden in his closet come out in full force. 

“...I didn’t know how to tell you.” His metal fingers wrap around one of your wrists, pulling your hand away from your ears and back to your sides, repeating it with your other arm. 

“I understand. There’s probably nobody else in this world who would understand but me.” Through all the time that you’ve been together, Bucky knows you. The same way that you know him. He’s never had this sort of closeness in his life, and it was only because you stubbornly refused to give up on him. Just like Sam. Just like Steve. Whatever he has accomplished after leaving HYDRA was the combined effort of both of you. If you weren’t gonna give up on him, why would he ever give up on you?

You let him hold you for a while, before finally accepting his words. You prepare yourself for whatever it is that might come next. 

“Let’s go help our friends.” 

[magknightidv]

norton and his hunter counterpart trying to fight for reader’s attention pls pls

Right my first attempt back into writing.. life is still crumbling but im hyperfixated on idv rn, hopefully I'll live..

W

Pairing/s: Norton Campbell (Hunter and Surv) x GN! reader

Warnings: none, just silly

-------

This happens every damn time. Don't get me wrong, I love Norton. Both sides of him. The second we're all in a match together though, chaos ensues and its not because Fool's Gold is particularly ciolent around me; I say me because he definitely does not hesitate to chair his survivor counterpart.

No, no, it's worse than that. I feel bad for the other two survivors who got paired with me and Norton. The second that Fool's finds out that I am here, he generally turns into a guard dog of sorts. Not wanting me to work so he wanders around with me, other survivors know that once hes latched onto me, they can pretty much run free as long as they dont come into his sights. He's like my sweet guard dog who is still trying to kill my friends but won't go out of his way to do it right now because he deems himself too preoccupied with me.

We are walking around the sacred heart hospital when I notice a certain prospectors magnet dropped on the floor. Unluckily, Fools does not see it and gets caught in its pull. Norton must be around the corner and drags Fools to it, making him hit his head. Dazed, he stands with a hand holding his head. Before I could check on him, though, I'm lifted over Norton's shoulder making me yell out in minor panic.

"Ah! Norton put me down! He wasn't going to do anything to me, you're just causing more trouble for yourself!" He grunts at me and runs away from the dazed rocky version of himself. Quickly hopping over a wall and ducking down while also forcing me to crouch with him. At least my feet are on the ground now..

Before I could fully register what was happening, I was shoved forward slightly just out of Fools Gold's collapse area. Norton however not so lucky and took enough damage for it to be a full hit. He gives me a quick peck to the cheek and an ever speedier "I love you, be safe." Before sprinting off to begin a kite against Fools Gold.

The hunter himself hops the same ledge we just arrived to this spot over, he picks me up off the floor and dusts off my shoulders before mimicking his survivors counterpart's actions. "I love you. I'll make sure he doesn't disturb us anymore. Dont you dare try to save him whenni chair him. You know I won't hit you." He scowls before kissing my forehead and making a quick dash towards where Norton just was.

What an idiot.

"Are they gone...?" I turn back and see a frightened Frederick peaking past a corner. This makes me laugh and nod at the confused composer. "Good, I'm partially afraid of both of them, especially around you."

-♡-

Done! Not my best work but something silly and fun to imagine. Also if anyone would be willing to commission me for any art or fanfics in exchange for skins/items on idv let me know and we can see about sorting something out

[numberonetrashwitch]

Some observations about Baldurs Gate 3 that hit too close to home.

After another few runs i will probably just make an in-Depth Character Analysis for every character simply because they are good reflections of actual trauma-manifestations and how abuse can manifest in people. They are also so well written that it serves a narrative purpose to explore all the material that is out there about them. I am also personally cursed with actual medically-relevant levels of Empathy and Hyperfixation; so writing this helps me put a pin in it and move on.

But so far here are my highlights

(SPOILERS and obviously content warning bc these are deep)

before you ask; i have almost 300h in this game.

You have to convince Shadowheart to eat the Noblestalk. She actually stells you she rather get her memories back from Shar but when you hit the persuasion or intimidation (what the fuck) check to get her to eat it she'll tell you about her childhood friend. Not her name, not her parents but her best firend. Possibly because she has had a closer bond to that person after being abducted and indoctrinated. With her believing herself to be an orphan, she would've looked elsewhere for comfort and sought out her own family, this is why she falls hard and heavy for Shar and builds the backbone of her indoctrination. She is literally ripped out of her home & given a new identity to server her from all she has known. Religious indoctrination, Gaslighting, Abduction, being forced to let go of your personality are her main themes.

There is a scene out there floating around in which you see Astarions pespective of the night when he bites Tav for the first time, in his meditations he is confronted with the rules Cazador put on him, including that he can't eat intelligent creatures, can't be away from Cazador unless allowed to, has to obey every command and that they are should know that they are property. Which in turn means that Astarion literally didn't just have any autonomy, he was objectified (and not just through seductive/sexual measures) and that is really the crux to understanding why he doesn't believe in kindness, but rather shows self-serving behavior in most cases. Since we know that Astarion was extremely young for an elf before he died and became immortal (literally stopping the aging /maturing process) it is also very telling that Cazador constantly calls him brat, boy or other very juvanile names, refering to them as a family... well it is also the story of a very controlling parent. Themes of (Bodily) autonomy, infantilization ( & puer aeternus, forever-child), slavery, depersonalisation, corruption of life and torture to break someone.

Gale isn't just a guy hung up on his Ex, but also a victim of abuse. In this case a power imbalance none of us can fathom; She is described as being a jealous goddess and rules over the domain of mysteries and magic. So with Gale being a Wizard, she is literally his boss. He admits that he was foolish enough to aspire to be an equal to her, but she is so jealous that she tells him he can't really be worthy as long as he takes breath. She could just take his powers away and be done with it, that would be more than enough punishment for a guy who literally made Mystra and her domain his life's purpose, but she rather makes him do it himself. Add to that, that she literally only tells him this after years of self-isolation (after he put down so many wards that he could've blown up a whole army as he says if you click the right dialogue) to really fuck him up well. He also talks about death pretty much constantly, not surprising giving your situation, but he will tell you that he will kill himself at several points in the game, for instance after he comes clear about his nethrese orb. Themes of romantic abuse, power-imbalance, toxic work enviorment, self-isolating behavior, suicidal ideation

Wyll ... well from the looks of it he is the most well adjusted of all the companions (my opinion) but he has something that i'd describe as the "eldest daughter"-syndrome, more commonly known as parentification. This pattern usually occurs within single-household parents and is commonly described as a parent looking to their child for emotional or practical support, rather than providing it to their kid. We meet Ulder and see that he talks over Wyll a lot, not listening but expecting him to follow the standard he sets for him. That is also why Wyll repeats his fathers words like gospel (because this is what, in his mind, fullfills the expectations bestowed upon him) and why he loves fairytales / bard tales so much (because they are an ecapist view of the job he set out to do) Ulder literally exiled his teenage son because Wyll did the only thing he could to save an entire city, by sacrificing himself. Thats a lot to expect from a 17 year old - even more so, he doesn't stop with the heroics. He expects himself, as a human who hasn't even reached the age of 30 to hold up to mystical creatures such as Astarion or Karlach, or even Gale who is a accomplished Wizard. Themes of parentification, escapism, self-harming through putting himself in danger, chronic-self-sacrifice

In plain words; Gortash, Karlach's Idol sold her to a Devil. But add to that that she must have been pretty young when she was sold (late teens to early twenties possibly) and being that if you play as a Tiefling, you face a lot of predjudice she was likely forced into that position as well. Starstruck she was, with a juvenile naitivy that Gortash used. Appropriately, as he is the chosen of Bane the god of "tyrannical oppression, terror, and hate, known across Faerûn as the face of pure evil through malevolent despotism" (Source: Forgotten-Realms Wiki / Bane) So she pretty much was raised in a toxic enviorment, which forced her to become a killing-machine, first figuretively, then with the extraction of her heart, literally. Themes of slavery, oppression, misuse of trust, being taken advantage by a more powerful/older(?) person, being drafted.

Jaheira - to be honest, you need to know the lore of the previous baldurs gate games or just listen to her dialouge, ask her all the questions. She is a war-veteran against Bhaal, the good of ritual murder, and has a long history of fighting to achieve some sort of balance of power. She lost her husband and several close people all to this, or any other war, but due to her wisdom and strength people look to her for guidance. Themes of: Survivors Guilt.

Halsin - he is really closed off at first but then just casually hits you with "i was captured in the underdark and spent 3 years chained to a bedroom wall by a pair of drows who used me as they pleased". He is reprimanded by some of his druids for leaving the grove as soon as opportunity struck, just to get back and leave the next day, and if you talk to him about his position in the grove he is actually very forthcomming. He actively holds himself back; indulging in simple hobbies because he knows what lies within his heart. He is afraid of himself and his potential (canonnically he can't control his wildshape, which is very weird for an ARCH-druid) Themes of: impostor syndrome, avoidant-based self-harm, sexual opression, loss of control, emotional regulation.

Lae'zel is a very tragic case, and one that closely resembles the stories of Shadowheart and Karlach. Her entire existence is based upon a matriachial war society allowing her to live if she proves she can be of use and that in a culture which only values brutality, dominance & service. All of that culimating in her finding out that her oh-so-beloved Queen is actually just an imposter, and that everything she has lived for up to that point is merely political propaganda created to make her, and the rest of her entire species, willing pawns in a war that has no longer bearing on their survival alone, but is fought to justify Vlaakith's (the reigning monarchs) personal ambitions. Not only is she forced to reconcile that she is turned into the thing that controlled her kind for hundreds of years, that the only cure she knows of would kill her and then on top of that, that her hopes and dreams were lies and that she is now the Nr 1 enemy of the person she has served with all her being. themes of: oppression, propaganda, casual violence, objectification, child-warfare, eternal warfare

Minthara in short, her story is about being shamed for growing up in the same scenario that Lae'zel grew up in. Lolth, the god of the Lolth-sworn drows is a crazy queen who values scheming & backstabbing so much and is so volatile that you can't know what to expect of your deeds (and i mean it; there were people who were appraised by her for scheming against her, but also those who were killed. It's almost random.) She considers Lolth to be cruel and abandoned her for the Absolute, only to then be used and abused the same way Lae'zel has. Not with promises, but erasing her memory and exposing her perceived weakness. Themes of: casual violence, violent culture, her own ambition colliding with her desire to be safe, being a pawn in a larger game.

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Spencer Reid x Read fic. Reid and Reader are friends, like best friends. Reader is always offering Reid donuts and listening to his fun facts and info dumps. It's one of those, they both like each other, but also are convinced the other doesn't like them.

Spencer is taking care of a slightly drunk reader whose grandmother called and asked why they're not engaged when they're younger sibling is married and expecting a child. At some point Spencer makes his ever classic comment about how it's safer to kiss and drunk reader, before being able to think, kisses Spencer. I hope that made sense.

OOPS I DID EXACTLY THAT

Safer to Kiss (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Word Count: 2899

Warnings: Mentions of food, drinking alcohol, mild cursing, outdated expectations of women, and lots of pining

A/N: Hi I wrote this in 2 hours and was extremely entertained, please enjoy and if you send me a fic request I'll probably do it bc this is my hyperfixation hobby right now and very much keeping the demons at bay xD @bxm-1012 thank you for dropping by my inbox! I am VERY tempted to make a part 2 of this, I hope you enjoy! c:

-----

The whole expiration date thing that women faced was, in your humble opinion, complete and utter bullshit. Here you were, slowly approaching thirty (definitely still told people you were twenty-five, when, in fact, you were actually twenty-eight), and the biological clock was ticking. No, you didn’t want kids. Not right now, anyway. Not when you were only two years into your career as a profiler for the FBI’s prestigious Behavioral Analysis Unit. Not when you still had tons of things to check off your bucket list - go to Europe, visit an independent bookstore in every state, pilot a helicopter. 

And you didn’t buy into that whole ‘once a woman hits thirty, her stock plummets’ crap. Not usually, anyway. 

But Nan’s phone calls always left you questioning your existence. 

Back home in Ohio, your little sister, Kendra, had just announced her pregnancy. Three years younger than you (ironically, the age you told everyone you were), and married to a power plant manager, Kendra was living the dream of a woman from the 1950s. You tried your best not to look down on it, to wish for more for her - but Kendra was happy. She’d always wanted to be a mother, and you couldn’t imagine anyone better suited for the role. There was nothing wrong with wanting to be a wife and a mother, to devoting one’s life to it. You reminded yourself of that every time you spoke to Kendra. You especially reminded yourself of it every time you spoke to Nan. 

That sympathetic tone your grandmother used when she said, “Oh, Button, you’ll find someone eventually, and you’ll be just as happy as Kenny” was like nails on a chalkboard. You resisted the urge to gag into your speakerphone and simultaneously rip your grandmother a new one. You wanted so badly to explain to her that you were perfectly fulfilled with your life. 

You helped lock up bad guys on a weekly basis, you wanted to remind Nan. Your brain was one of few that had been chosen for a task force that caught criminals based on their behavior. It was amazing, working for the BAU, bouncing ideas off of your colleagues, finding a family within this small group of people that spent more than forty hours a week together. 

Nan didn’t see it that way. She wanted you to be just like Kendra. She wanted you to have that white picket fence in the suburbs, with a broad-shouldered husband and two little tykes running at your feet. Domestic bliss just wasn’t in the cards for you, you’d decided. And that was okay.

You were still reeling from your conversation with Nan the night before when you walked in to work on Monday morning. It was Derek who caught the raging RBF first. “Woah, pretty girl. Pump. Your. Brakes.” He said, halting you just as you entered the BAU’s bullpen, holding a hand up to stop you. 

“Good morning to you, too, Derek,” You flashed him a phony grin, and he rolled his eyes. 

“And you’re grumpy this morning… why, exactly?” Derek asked, turning to walk beside you, essentially escorting you to your desk. 

“Because I’m allowed to be?” You proffered, shrugging your shoulders, not really wanting to talk about it with him. You loved Derek - hell, you loved all your coworkers - but he was not the person you wanted to go to with these thoughts. You didn’t really want to talk to anyone about it, actually. You just wanted to ride the cranky train until it came to a complete stop. 

Emily was returning from the kitchenette with a fresh mug of coffee and decided that the conversation concerned her as well. “What’s going on?” she asked. 

“Y/L/N’s wearing her cranky pants this morning,” Derek filled her in. 

“Oh, those so don’t match your blouse, Y/N,” Emily teased, winking at you with a smirk before looking at Derek. “Cut her some slack. No one likes Mondays.” Derek held up his palms defensively. “Alright, alright. Forgive me for being a concerned citizen.” 

“It’s appreciated,” You told Derek genuinely before setting your bag down at your desk. “But unnecessary.” 

It wasn’t until later in the morning, around ten, that anyone bothered you about your obvious bad mood again. This time it was Spencer, the one person you couldn’t possibly be annoyed with. He rolled on his desk chair around the partition that separated your workspaces, holding his hand out expectantly, like he usually did this time of day. 

Without speaking, you opened the bottom drawer of your desk and pulled out the white bag of mini powdered donuts that you always kept in stock. They were your guilty pleasure snack, and one of the first things you and Spencer bonded over when you started at the BAU two years ago. That, and the fact that you were the closest agents in age, was how you got along so well so quickly. Over several cases, varying in degrees of intensity, you and Spencer became really great friends. Best friends, actually. 

There wasn’t anyone else in your life that you trusted more than Spencer Reid. 

You opened the bag of powdered donuts and shook one haphazardly into Spencer’s palm, then grabbed one for yourself. Silently, you cheers-ed your donuts together, and ate them simultaneously, making weird-but-comfortable eye contact as you did. 

“Derek says you’re in a bad mood today,” Spencer pointed out with a teasing smirk on his face. A smirk, and white sugar blanketing his upper lip.

“Derek’s full of shit,” you grinned after swallowing your snack, the smile on your face totally facetious. “I’m extremely happy.” 

“I can tell,” Spencer snickered as you set the powdered donuts back in your snack drawer, closing it with a clank. You watched as he brought both of his legs up into his desk chair, crossing them like a kindergartner. 

The action made your stomach flutter. You’d felt strongly about Spencer for a really long time, probably a year and half, if you had to try and pinpoint it. But there was no use in going down that road with him. For one thing, he was your best friend, and you didn’t want to risk flushing the best relationship in your life down the toilet. For another thing, you knew it was one hundred percent impossible that he could feel the same way. 

“What’d you do this weekend?” Spencer asked, and you could tell by the question that he was trying to discover the source of your poor attitude. 

“Stayed home, caught up on chores,” You said, crossing your knees and leaning back in your seat, your expression telling him that you knew exactly what he was doing. As much fun as playing mind games with Spencer was, you decided to throw him a bone. “Spoke to my grandmother on the phone last night.” 

Spencer nodded understandingly. “Say no more,” he said with a chuckle. “She gave you the whole ‘when are you going to get married’ spiel again?” 

You nodded. “Unfortunately. I usually don’t let it bother me, but for some reason it’s just, like, lurking in the back of my mind today.” You shrugged your shoulders and exhaled through your nose. “What about you?” You asked. 

“What about me?” Spencer arched a brow, and you rolled your eyes playfully. 

“What’d you do this weekend?” 

“Oh,” Spencer began, pursing his lips for a moment, like he was hesitant to tell you. “I actually went on a date.” 

Your stomach flipped. “Oh yeah?” You choked out, forcing a smile. “Who with?” 

“That girl, Lisa, from the coffee shop, the one you told me wouldn’t stop ‘ogling my boy band hair’,” Spencer held up air quotes when he repeated your words from memory.

You recalled the cute barista from the coffee shop just down the highway from Quantico, a popular morning stop for agents on their way to work. You tried to stop the jealousy from turning your blood into fire. “How was it?” You asked, trying to resist the urge to sit on the edge of your seat, trying not to hang on his every word. 

Spencer shrugged his shoulders. “It was okay. She was very nice, but there just wasn’t…” he trailed off, gesticulating as the words failed to come to that supercomputer brain of his. 

“It was like a donut without powdered sugar on it?” You suggested with a small chuckle.

“Yeah,” Spencer agreed, nodding, meeting your eyes and smiling, mildly amused. “Exactly.” 

Spencer went back to his desk a few minutes later, and the rest of the day went on. It was quiet, especially for a day at the BAU. There were, weirdly enough, no open cases right now, so you spent the day catching up on paperwork, which there was always plenty of. 

You caught the elevator about ten minutes after five with Spencer in tow, and you held the door open for him. It was just the two of you as you made the descent from the sixth floor, and Spencer leaned against the back wall. “Plans tonight?” He asked. 

“Not really, no,” You said, shaking your head. “Why, you want to do something?” You asked. 

Spencer nodded. “There’s this landscape and nature photography exhibit at one of the galleries downtown,” he said. “Might be fun. There’s this artist, Milton Harvell, who takes photos of renowned locations around the world but zooms in on an obscure detail and gives the framed photograph to the person who correctly guesses the location.” 

You smiled slowly at that. You loved it when Spencer went off on one of his tangents. You found it completely adorable. “It’s actually quite fascinating,” Spencer went on, an amused tone lining his voice, making it sound lighter. “Kind of like a Where’s Waldo, but in reverse. There was this one photograph he took of the Louvre in Paris, but he zoomed in really tightly on a young boy enjoying an ice cream cone. He even went so far as to edit the photograph to make it look like it was a different time of day. The four thousand and eighth person to view the photograph was the person who guessed the correct location.” Spencer’s head bobbed and he was smiling like an idiot. 

God, you were down bad. 

“Was the four thousand and eighth person… you?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him scrupulously and allowing a teasing grin to cross your face. 

“The photo’s hanging in my living room,” he confirmed. 

You laughed softly. “Will there be alcohol at this function?” You asked him, and he nodded. 

That was all you needed to hear. 

— — —

You and Spencer went straight to the art gallery from work, sharing a cab rather than bothering with your cars. You immediately bought a glass of red wine, and began to follow him around the gallery. You weren’t an art aficionado, not by any means, but you enjoyed looking at beautiful things, and you especially enjoyed spending time with Spencer that wasn’t hunched over a dead body or trying to map out a killer’s comfort zone. It was a rare occurrence, so you tried to soak it all up as much as possible. 

Plus, your Nan’s words were still lingering in the back of your head. It’ll happen for you someday, Button. Men just don’t find you strong, career types attractive. Maybe you should soften up your look a little. 

You downed your first glass of wine within ten minutes, and caught one of the catering staff passing out champagne almost instantaneously after. The champagne fizzled down your throat as you strolled with Spencer through the art gallery, listening intently as he went on about each piece, rattling off whatever contextual knowledge he had. But you were a little bit biased; you could listen to him list different types of soil and find it interesting. 

After the glass of champagne came another glass of champagne, and by the time you made it to the main exhibit Spencer wanted to see, your cheeks were flushed. It wasn’t that you couldn’t hold your alcohol; rather, it just made you a little bit silly. Your inhibitions were lowered, just like it would affect anyone. But with your arm looped through Spencer’s and your Nan’s nagging message still in the back of your mind, you were perhaps a little more loose than usual. 

As Spencer examined the exhibit, you tapped your foot, unable to keep still, and scanned the open space. Your eyes landed on another patron of the gallery, a conventionally handsome man about your age, and you found yourself unlooping your arm from Spencer’s, subconsciously not wanting to appear taken. 

“Are you gonna go talk to that guy?” Spencer asked, and you snapped your eyes back to his. “Because you can, if you want to. Don’t let me stop you.” 

It was almost like he was daring you to. Spencer’s jaw seemed tense as you examined his expression, the way his gorgeous brown eyes darted from the man and back to you. “You don’t mind?” You asked, arching a brow, almost like a challenge.

Spencer shook his head, his lips pursed. “Not at all. I’ll wait here for you?” 

You nodded, and turned towards the man. There wasn’t any harm in getting a guy’s number, right? Your feelings for Spencer were a lost cause, anyway. Plus, as Nan liked to point out, you weren’t getting any younger. 

The man’s eyes locked on yours and he seemed to understand that you were about to speak with him. He met you halfway, and you shook his hand. “Malcolm Greene,” he introduced himself, and you spouted off your own name in return. “You’re not here with that guy?” He asked, jerking his chin over to Spencer. Your eyes followed Malcolm’s, and you saw Spencer with his body turned towards the photography exhibit, but his head turned to the side, as if he were keeping an eye on you with his peripheral vision. 

“Yeah, I am,” you said, and Malcolm’s head inclined to the side. “I am. I’m here with that guy,” you panicked, suddenly realizing in that moment that you weren’t interested in speaking with Malcolm. No, you had absolutely no interest in spending your time with any other man but Spencer Reid. “I just, uh…” Your cheeks flushed, and you stifled an awkward laugh, anxiously trying to come up with some excuse. “I came over here to tell you that your shoe was united.” 

Your eyes followed Malcolm’s down to his shoes, which were loafers. Laceless loafers. Malcolm’s mouth opened as if to point this out to you, but you managed to stammer words out first. “Ok, well, have a great night, goodbye!” You turned on your heel and marched back over to Spencer, your cheeks red as you reached out for his arm. 

Spencer furrowed his brows down at you as your arm gripped his. “I need another glass of wine,” you confessed. 

Twenty minutes later, after two more glasses of wine and a very watchful eye out for Malcolm, you and Spencer left the art gallery. You were awfully giggly on the cab ride back to your place, cracking puns and humming along to the radio intermittently. Spencer seemed to be amused, but more so concerned with getting you home in one piece. 

As he walked you up the stairs to the door of your apartment building, he was teasing you about your conversation with Malcolm, which you still hadn’t told him completely about. “I still can’t believe you didn’t get his number. You were talking with him for exactly two minutes and twelve seconds. What, in that short of an amount of time, could have turned you off to him so quickly?” He pondered aloud, a playfully mocking tone lining his voice. 

“Listen, I shook his hand! I had my fun!” You exclaimed, bursting into laughter as you leaned against the handrail of the stairs that led up to the door. “Good, clean fun!” 

“You know, the number of pathogens that are passed during a handshake is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss someone,” Spencer rattled off, and your eyes snapped to meet his. 

You don’t know what took you over. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way the street lamps reflected in the irises of his eyes, or how you stood just a few inches away from him. Maybe it was his stupid tweed blazer, how he looked like a tenured art history professor despite barely being thirty years old. Maybe it was the way he smelled like pine and printer ink, a combination you wouldn’t have ever thought was attractive. 

But when Spencer said that, you stood up on your toes and kissed him. It was slow and innocent at first, until it passed the border into lingering, and Spencer’s hands found your hips, pulling your body closer to his. There was a cool night breeze that filtered through the space between your bodies, and by the time you pulled your lips away from Spencer’s, and slowly opened your eyes, you were completely red in the face and breathless. 

No, that certainly wasn’t the safest choice you could have made.

——

read part 2 here

[x-prettyboy-x]

Everyone but You

Hello. Im hyperfixated on the 100 rightnow and wanted to write a really quick thing for Murphy. PSA: I am half way through season 3‼️ Do not spoil things😭 if hes out of character, oops.

Pairing: John Murphy x F!Reader

Contents: Pretty much reader losing her fucking mind after Murphy comes back and the sickness starts to spread.

Warnings: Mentions of blood and violence, so on.

Wc; 1.1k

Masterlist

@ghastly-artist 🫶🏻

You hated most of the people in this camp. Not all. At least Finn and Clarke had a small lick of common sense, even if Clarke started the mob that almost got Murphy killed for something he didnt do, at least she tried to fix it. It was the least she could do.

You didnt agree with Murphys banishment. You understood why, you'd tried to talk him down when he went after Charlotte, truly you did. But he was so blinded by rage he wouldn't listen to even you. But banishing him? With the grounders everywhere and picking your group off one by one? No. You didnt agree. But there was nothing you could do.

You spent days searching the woods for a trace of him, just hoping to catch a glimpse of his face at least. But you never did. And you forced yourself to come to terms with the fact he was probably dead. And it was everyone at that camps fault. Bellamy and Clarkes fault.

Everyone at camp looked at you sideways. Not that it was new, they always did. They treated you like Murphys pet, and now that Murphy was gone, you were the only one left for them to treat like a criminal.

Thats why you spent most of your time outside the walls, always going back by nightfall. Almost always, anyway. Tonight wasnt one of those nights. So when you went back to camp well after nightfall, you were beyond confused to see the camp in a panic, people bleeding from their eyes, others their nose.

Clarke was yelling for everyone who was sick to get inside the dropship, to quarantine. "Everyone who's had contact with Murphy, get inside! This virus is spreading through contact, and its spreading fast."

You didnt care about anything she said after Murphys name was mentioned, you were already walking up to the door. But Clarke wasnt moving.

"You cant go in there. We dont know what this virus is. It could be deadly." She thinks shes being nice, caring. The oh so perfect leader. She wasnt. She was just pissing you off.

"Get out of my way, Clarke. You sent him away. I'll be damned if you keep me away from him too. Move."

"I cant do that."

"Clarke either get the fuck out of my way or I will make you move." She finally moved.

You pushed past her and stepped inside, quickly scanning the room and your heart dropped when you finally spotted Murphy. Face covered in blood, clearly beaten, laid on his back and coughing up blood. The others were being tended to. Not Murphy. Of course not.

You ran over and kneeled down beside him, moving his hair out of his face and rolling your eyes when he pushed your hands away, "dont touch me."

"Murphy, hey. You need to get on your side, please."

"Im serious, dont touch me! You'll get sick. Everyone here could bleed out and die for all I care, everyone but you." He was struggling to speak, struggling to breathe, his words coming out between coughs and gasps.

"John.. if you're sick, and it kills you? I'd follow right after you anyway, you know that. Just like I did on the Ark. Now please.. let me get you on your side."

He sighed and stopped fighting, letting you roll him onto his side and spit up the blood that just wouldn't stop coming.

You knew Murphy on the Ark. Before his dad got floated, Before he set the fire. You may or may not have helped him to set said fire. Sure, you got locked up too. But at least you both got sent to the ground together. The Ark wasnt worth being on without him there, would've gotten yourself floated.

You grabbed a wet cloth from the bowl sitting near by, using it to try and clean some of the dry blood from his face so you could see the damage, apologizing quietly everytime he winced. "What happened?"

He slowly sat up and leaned back against the wall, shaking his head "Grounders. They found me and locked me up in their camp. Tortured me for days, until they forgot to lock my cage and I ran off. But apparently.. it wasnt an accident. Ive become a weapon according to Clarke."

"I looked for you for days, John. Please dont think I agreed with them. I begged Clarke and Bellamy for days to change their minds. No one would listen to me either." You sighed, continuing to clean the blood on his hands and his arms.

"Yeah, I know."

You stayed by his side until the virus came and went, losing a few people from the camp in that time. But not Murphy, and that's all that mattered.

But now, you stood in Bellamys tent with Clark by his side, Murphys hands tied behind them.

"Hes dangerous, you know that. He cant stay here." The first words out of Clarke's mouth. Of course.

"Dangerous? Tell me princess, who was it tending to his wounds and giving him water? Cause it damn sure wasnt you. I helped him while you ran around and helped everyone else. And he got up and helped everyone else too once he got better. He is not a threat. If you send him out there again, he will die. The only reason he isn't dead now is because he was made into a fucking weapon. Which never would've happened if you had just kept your mouth shut instead of accusing him of a crime he didnt commit!"

"Thats enough!" Bellamy sighed, slamming his hands on the table in front of him. "Murphy stays. But he is your responsibility. If he so much as looks at someone wrong in this camp, you're both gone."

"Fine."

-

"Murphy. You cant just sit here all day, you have to eat. And you need to let me clean your wounds before they get infected." You set a bowl of water down by the makeshift bed that you two shared, ringing out the cloth and trying to clean the gash on his arm, but he pulled away.

"Im fine. You've been treating me like a child for days. Im not gonna die in the next five minutes."

You scoffed and put the cloth back in the bowl, sending a glare towards him "Murphy, Im serious. Now isn't the time for you to be-"

Murphy grabbed your wrist and pulled you onto the bed with, pinning your hands above your head underneath him.

"For the 100th time, I'm fine. Let me take care of you for a change, yeah?" You loved that smug look. Always cocky and so sure of himself.

You were already pulling your hands free to sit up and pull your top off "Dont have to tell me twice."

[everythingisamazing]

I am currently hyperfixating on Jayce as a character and it suddenly clicked for me how the same trait attracts him to both Mel and Viktor. I mean, there is this post, about how Jayce is into higher beings but in all sincerity, it is actually something much simpler: (I do recommend you read my first analysis of Jayce being misunderstood by viewers here, but I will try to summarize it) Basically, Jayce starts out with a clear dream, that temporarily gets taken away and leads to him hitting rock bottom in S1 Ep1. He then spends a large portion of the show trying to please opposing forces in order to make said dream happen, while getting dragged further and further away from it and simultaneously having to deal with constantly rising stakes. Seriously, keep this in mind and look at some of his scenes - in the majority of them, the pressure on him is insane and he actually manages to hold it together kind of well. I always go back to this moment (timestamped, watch until 2:27) in the trial scene, and image that this must be what it is like in Jayces head all the freaking time. So when Viktor says to him "If you want to change the world, don't ask for permission." you can imagine how inspiring that is to someone, who can never shut down the noise from everyone around him and who essentially has to people please his way to the top, because if he doesn't, his dream, his house and later, everything around him, will fall apart. (Side note: I think Viktors death is not only his breaking point, because he is losing someone very important, but ALSO because all these year long efforts of trying to be, what Jayce would never have chosen for himself if not for the fear of failure, came to nothing in that same moment.) This is why, Jayce saying to Mel "You will never be a passenger.", in their final conversation is a really well chosen line, because it not only reveals how he sees her, but actually tells you a lot about who Jayce is. Seriously, this scene used to be kind of "meh" to me, but watching it with a better understanding of Jayces character, actually makes it so good: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pph3-E9_4Kc Both Viktor and Mel, at least in Jayces eyes, have the strength to follow their own ideals and their own path. I think that is why he is, for the most part, very understanding of the consequences that their actions produce. I have to show some respect for Meljay here, because while there certainly is an element of manipulation at play in the beginning, I do feel that she genuinely helps Jayce on the path he is on in S1 - like he would never have made it that far without her. The reason he ultimately choses Viktor, is because Viktor is inextricably bound (hah) to Jayces own dream, which he kept having to sacrifice along the way and only found the resolve to fight his way back to, after falling down the ravine in S2. Now, I of course had to think about what all this means for Mage Viktors involvement in Jayces fate - like, was he ever free to chose his own path to begin with? But I think the show answers that question in the final scene, when Viktor tells Jayce to leave, but he reaffirms his choice to stay with him.

[greenunoreversecard]

Request: Lucifer with a quiet and reserved GN!reader who is his kid and Charlie's younger sibling? Additionally, Reader enjoys writing and making music and is generally pretty creative

A/N: I am so so so fucking sorry this took so long. There was a buttfuck amount of shit and this slipped my mind. Hope it's ok and I hope you get an award for patience. Also i wrote this at the public library.

Lucifer and Charlie with an Introvert Relative

First off: there two fucking adore you

They're both very big personalities, as well. Charlie with her hotel and charisma, and Luci with his duck rants.

So it's a nice for them to have you actually listen to them. Like, the amount of times that they've both trailed off because they think no one cares or is listening and you just go "No, keep going. I was listening. Tell me more"

It warms their hearts every time knowing that despite you being closed off, you still care.

And you bet your ass that if you want you can also rant about hyperfixations (both of them are so neurodivergent)

Also, Charlie has forced asked you to help with murals and blueprints! She definitely employs your help.

also, Luci 100% helps you publish novels or start an art business. Uses his statue to get his way.

Depending on where you primarily live either or will drag you out of hyper focus to eat and drink.

Luci might not be as consistent because he himself locks himself away and hyperfocuses on duck designs trying to forget his failures in life

and Charlie is a bit stressed but she always makes sure to send messages during her meal times and breaks (despite how inconsistent they may be) and she also might send Razzle or Vaggie to get you if she can't.

Charlie also adapted a story to a small play format and had the residents perform it as a bonding exercise

Also, if you suck at emotions then Charlie is dragging you to groups with her

Luci is def happy your creative and a dreamer, but not as outgoing as your sister. Not that her ideas are bad, they aren't, (quiet the contrary) he's just scared she'll get hurt and is glad he doesn't have to worry as much about you getting hurt.

Overall both love you, and your mediums, and your quiet calmness that they both need every so often.

Because To be honest their lives can be chaotic, so it's nice to have you to calm down the steam and sit in the moment with.

[sunspots-pegasus]

id genuinely like to know, is SSD (stuffed service dog) a genuinely hurtful term? ive been told by pinterest users it is (despite having lots of reasons to call my SSD an SSD) in very nasty ways so i never listen but id love to be educated by someone who isnt calling me ableist or telling me to end my life over it :)

reasons i call Ares an SSD under the cut:

-i am a 17 year old male, and the term ESSA is mainly associated with 10-12 year old girls that mainly roleplay with their plushies. while i do this from time to time i mainly use him as a tool, not a toy (i know there ARE adult individuals who have ESSAS and they are valid too! i call ares an ESSA as well! i just personally enjoy the disconnection from the term ESSA which doesnt feel as serious)

-i am highly interested in service dogs as a whole and am currently attending school to learn how to train them (calling ares an SSD fuels my hyperfixation)

-ares is a genuine piece of equipment given to me by my psychiatrist and therapist of 2 years, and he is so important that when my high school did not allow me to bring him into class in 11th-12th grade, she gave me a medical excuse that forced them to allow me. he is a piece of medical equipment (her words)

-no i am not mocking service dog owners or calling my ares a service dog, i use the term to elevate his status from ESSA. he is not a stuffed service dog because he is a service dog. he is a stuffed service dog because he is a STUFFED DOG that serves me. difference.

-i genuinely need a service animal but as you probably know they are insanely expensive. calling ares an SSD instead of an ESSA kind of soothes that pain

i am not using the term SSD to be offensive or "be different", i use the term SSD for myself

[daftdrac]

Alright hello new person in the Vigcup tag everybody wooo. uhm i am. not new to this fandom this show or this ship but i have a knack for being almost entirely inactive on tumblr all of the time, ever, so im just now getting into this i,,, have ideas about them,, i have. thoughts. that won't leave :3

#1 is the insane about of obsession/yandere/whatever you call it fics, which i heavily agree with yes make those i love them but especially,, because its KINDA CANON?? like we know Viggo noticed the relationship between Hiccup and Astrid because when he gets the chance, he teases him about it to get into his head and shit. but no one talks about how he was VERY okay and even enthusiastic about Astrid dying in the Scurge of Odin/Buffalord episode. He waltzes in after netting the last surviving dragon that produces the curse to this very very deadly plague and when he sees Astrid is the one who got sick he goes "I do apologize that you wont be able to use it to save your little friend," ("little friend" is 100% implying 'girlfriend'). He was very obviously upset when Hiccup used his own logic against him ("are we both leaving empty-handed?") and he was forced to agree to a deal that allowed Hiccup to save Astrid,, he was DEFINITELY trying to eliminate specifically her, consciously or not ,,, i think he sees her as a threat tbh #2 im rewatching (pirating because fuck paying for netflix) rtte at the moment (I literally paused an episode to write this after having a conversation with one of my friends over text about how,, fucking gay rtte honestly is??) and im on S3E12, "Last Auction Heroes" rn and its driving me insane . first of all because of how much Viggo there is in this episode (< cough simp cough) and SECOND of all because of how much snotlout is in this episode (i love him sm but he gives me such bad second hand embarrassment that i dont know how to manage i hate being autistic wtf is this) and then THIRDD of all because i know theres Vigcup tension galore in this episode- as there always is but like especially because they're actually face to face in this one

sorry for the rant-y post i,, hyperfixation ,,,, heulp

[bookie-bookdust]

HELLO THERE:

You can call me Bookie, Bookdust, a simp - I don't care. I am happy to brain rot about many things, but the little demon in my head makes me hyperfixate over Hogwarts Legacy, metalcore/alt/emo music, and writing. Feel free to reach out to me and say hi! My inbox is open.

Ravenclaw - INFJ - Gemini sun, Cancer moon, Libra rising - Tired

I'm an adult and share NSFW content. That being said, I write a variety of teen to explicit-rated stories/posts. You should always assume my characters are 18+ unless stated otherwise. I'm also on tiktok at bookdust_

FAN FICTION (the literature🧐):

Where you can read my deranged writing:

ao3 - I am most active here. This is also where I post all of my chapter fics and one shots.

Wattpad - I'll post all chapter fics and some of my one shots here. I hate WP, and I don't have the patience for it.

That's it lol. If you find my garbage anywhere else, let me know because then I'd have to go break some legs.

✨Chapter Fics:

Sebastian Sallow Fucking Sucks (SSFS) - Taking place after Sebastian calls MC ignorant following an emotional and tumultuous night at the Yule Ball--and Merlin, she is fucking pissed // Definite canon divergence, extremely morally gray chaos couple, unhinged female lead, merciless flirting, forced proximity, goofy humor, hurt/comfort, a lot of angst, and dark magic being addictive. // ao3 - wattpad

✨One Shots:

How to Defuse a Ravenclaw - Seb finds himself violating his newest rule - do not think about fucking the Ravenclaw // porn with plot // ao3 - wattpad - tumblr

Secret for One - In which using some anti-cheating ink reveals what you and Seb were up to (kissing – the answer is kissing) // teen-rated cute and secretly conniving // ao3 - tumblr

Pass the Ring, Not the Potatoes - Seb gets the flu on Christmas Eve, the night he plans to propose, and starts...hallucinating // holiday explicit comedy // ao3

Little Sis - Anne Sallow POV where Dark Seb attempts to use the relic to heal her // Horror // ao3

When You Were His - Sebastian had this dream—he never told you—of you resting your head on his shoulder in the rain // quick sad read // tumblr - ao3

A Fucking Proper Hogwarts Welcome - The famed DADA duel of how they met // humorous one shot // ao3 - tumblr

✨My FMC:

Lucia Compari

Backstory/Facts

More here eventuallyyyy

✨Game Screenshots/Edits:

Screenshots ⬅️

✨Other fanfic related material:

Resources for FREE images, character creators, and software for your edits, book covers, and banners

Shitty Sebastian headcanons

Shitty Ominis headcanons

Stupid things Sebastian would do to get you to talk to him after a fight

Stupid things Ominis would do to get you talk to him after a fight.

Sebastian Sallow Fucking Sucks Playlist

HL characters breaking you out of detention (unhinged edition)

Where HL characters would work (unhinged modern au)

MY CREATOR POLICIES:

You do NOT have my permission to repost my writing, photos, art, and other creations without my permission especially to other websites, for your own personal use, for cover art, banners, etc.

I'm very strict on AI. You do NOT have my permission to feed my work into any form of AI software for any reason whatsoever.

I am a bookbinder myself, and you're welcome to bind my stories for personal use. I'd love to see pictures if you have pleaseeee!!! BUT keep in mind that selling books, typesets, etc is strictly prohibited for ALL fanfiction. Respect it if you want to keep fanfiction safe.

If you have any questions, my DMs are open! If you're ever unsure, you should always reach out and ask. I will answer lol. I don't get out much hahahaha.

OTHER STUPID SHIT:

Seb and MC are my OTP. I know it's boring, but if you're judging me for pixels idk what to tell ya, babe.

I do love Ominis, but Sebastian just rots my brain.

Poppy is a sweet baby angel who will smack anyone as needed. And I will smack anyone on behalf of Amit.

I have a tendency to write Anne as semi-antagonistic (swear I don't mean to idk why it keeps happening).

I love the morally gray zone of dark magic and how it affects characters. I tend to write it as an addiction.

I don't like Draco Malfoy lol.

WE NEED MORE RAVENCLAW REPRESENTATION!!!!

My female characters are gonna be messy. Always. They don't jog for fun. They have constant bedhead. Poor impulse control. Love to torture themselves. I'm on the complex female character bus, and I will run over all pedestrians.

I don't tolerate rudeness, bullying, misogyny, racism, or homo/transphobia. I will find you and eat your bones if you try shit. (I'll actually just ignore and block you, but you never know). Also fuck JK Rowling lol.

If you read all of this, then you've earned a tiny shard of my soul in thanks, friend. Here's to more delusion and fanfiction.

Thanks for stopping bye! 🥰

[taldigi]

I uh went back to that dadske post and was going add a few more tags for flavor or context but I wrote toooo much so I'll just post as a text post instead. Yes, this is my hyperfixation and yes!! I do want to make my blorbo sad and miserable as all hell but I also need him to be loved relentlessly and made whole by his friends.

anyway Yuuko got her hair from her mother- and Yosk lets his hair return back to black because the wife hated him dying it. you can only handle so many years of being addressed as a disappointment before latching onto the fist person to express otherwise. (3 for 3! Get Saki'd, idiot!) then working too hard to do ANYTHING please that person (even though they might not really be the best person and are using you)

Go on boy, ditch your weird friends and your hobbies and things that make you happy and settle for the stable but soulless option of being a manager at a job you hate! (I am a firm believer in a "Manager of Junes Yosuke NOT good enrichment" after all.) Cause all thats embarrassing. dont you want me to be proud of you? The only person who's ever loooved you for you? (which is fundamentally untrue but when has depression or manipulation ever been rational?)

n/e/way one nasty divorce later and he's moving back to inaba for the cheaper rent for a place a that can actually fit him and a kid- and to be closer to his parents- hoping that maybe they would able to help out with the kid. Besides, he has an assured position at the Inaba junes. (the prodigal prince returns... return of the king... of junes)

BUT Surprise his friends are still there and Yu is too!! and yeah they're mad cause he basically evaporated but guess what? Yoosk isn't Yoosk anymore cause he's been drained of all his Yosuke colors.

"I spent years in a bad relationship and all I got was this lousy t-shirt... and a bad haircut and the total eclipse of my personality by the creature who steals my face when I perform customer service!”

I need Chie to try and fall into her usual banter and be met with... that and for her to grab Yu by the shoulders and shake him “Hes BROKEN FIXITFIXITFIXIT" and Yu having no direct answer because how can he help someone who's totally closed off?

Well, he can start through small things and reminders and food and Yuuko, which is proof that he's still there somewhere? After all, she's named after him.

I also need.... not JUST souyo but also the whole IT. Teddie and his niece bonding, Yosuke crying in some kind of relief and/or happiness when Kanji helps him dye his hair back again, Naoto helping him keep custody (so hard for a guy!!!) and Chie finally getting her usual banter back (thank god!) only for Yuuko to step up and kick Chie and forcing Yoosk to admit that what he and Chie have isn't antagonism (via explaining it to her)

Rise: *gentle gasp when she sees Yuuko* Tiny Yosuke. Yukiko, slamming her hand on the table and wheezing loudly: YOU'RE RIGHT.. SHE IS A TINY YOSUKE!!!!!!!!!!!!! and then they gift her strawberry hairpins which she loves and it embarrasses him because oh god thats right-

Yu having to confront Yuuko's energy and be like "aw shit Nanako was easy in comparison" and Yosuke looking him dead in the eyes "I'm giving everything in order for her not to turn out like Nanako" which sounds bad at first (cause it's foot in mouth disease Yosuke still) but...

"What happened to 'partner', Yosuke?" "I don't think I deserve that, after disappearing and everything, huh?" & then Yu being too damn happy and giddy when it finally slips out.

anyway, I apologize for nothing. ur the one who read thru the Indulgent asf au/story concept. throws self out window and books it down the street.