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sacredsorceress · 9 months ago

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Scars / Logan Howlett

pairing: dofp!logan howlett x mutant!reader summary: every person has a soulmate. after settling in the future that he saved, logan starts to consider his next mission when a suspicious mark appears on him. word count: 3.2k a/n: good ol'fashioned soulmate AU. this is the first actual fic i've written in a long time so please have some grace. reblogs and replies are super appreciated! warnings: general mentions of logan's past, scars, self-doubt, alcoholism, reader smokes a cigar, mentions of razors, scars, wounds, two uses of y/n

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It had been a week since Logan woke up in his healed timeline.

For most people, the change would have been dramatic. But Logan was far unlike most people. The initial dreamlike state he was in when he first walked through the mansion- seeing the ghosts he had once known returned to the flesh, unscathed- quickly subsided. Logan had always been a man thrown onto a new path- how he lived life constantly changing to best fit his interests. Now, with his newfound peace he found the most complicated mission of all: what to do with the life he was now free to live?

Even before the sentinels, the battles, the wars- he had always been a man on the run. He was solo, strategic, concise. For a man who was gifted with infinite regeneration, he had solely concerned himself with staying alive. He ate for sustenance, sought shelter for safety, and nursed a bottle to find enough peace of mind to sleep at night.

The professor had once told him that for a person to reach self-actualization they first had to have all of their needs met. Logan had scoffed at the time, assuring the professor that he knew himself just fine. But now, with his problems so solved that they had ceased to ever exist, he wondered if maybe the professor was right.

Who was he? Where did he go from here?

The answer was found in the form of a scar on his hand.

"Well, everything seems to be just fine."

Logan scoffed at the blue man in front of him

"Well it's not." Logan said. "Check again."

Two days after he had come back, a large, circular scar had appeared on the palms of each of his hands. When they hadn't disappeared after two minutes, he rushed to the bathroom and nicked himself with his razor, watching as the wound healed with only blood dripping down his scruff as a remanent of it. Thirty minutes after that he found himself in the lab with Hank, Jean, and the Professor hypothesizing his miraculous marks.

"Logan, the tests came back clear." Jean assured him, leaning against the wall. "Maybe it's time to consider that it's something else."

Logan quirked his head towards her.

"I haven't had a scar in over two hundred years," he reminded her, his voice laced with irony. "I get not one, but two and you... what? Think it's a coincidence?"

Before Jean had a chance at rebuttal, the professor moved to face Logan.

"That's not what Jean's inferring, Logan." Charles reminded him. "We're simply asking that you consider other options. Less... dire options. It could, after all, be a good thing."

"Yeah?" Logan scoffed. "Like what?"

A silence hung in the air.

When Logan had first come to them with news of his scar, the thought had been on all three of their minds. Still, there were a plethora of things that could have caused that. Though, when the tests came back clear and his skin continued to heal from all sorts of abrasions, it felt as if there was only one answer for his seemingly magical scars.

However, none of them were keen on sharing this diagnosis with Logan. One wondered whether he'd handle the idea of his body failing him over fated love.

Hank was the first to speak up.

"Like a soulmate."

Oh that was rich, Logan thought.

Logan wasn't unfamiliar with the idea of soulmates.

Around the time that two fated lovers were destined to meet, there would be a sign for each of them. In some cases they were eyes changing colors, feeling the other's pain, finding their names everywhere they looked. In other cases they were new birthmarks, tattoos, scars.

In some way, the two were inextricably connected.

In his long life he had seen others experience it dozens if not hundreds of times. When the first thirty years of his life rolled around with no one, Logan accepted that he was one of the outliers. He considered it for the best and by now, with everything that he had gone through, the concept of soulmates almost seemed like an old wives' tale.

Logan glanced at their faces. When he realized they were serious, a deep laugh escaped from his gut. There was a lack of light in his eyes that admitted his insincerity.

"So I disappear for a few decades and you all start believing in fairytales?" Logan pulled the needles from his arm, the heart rate monitor going flat as he did. "What a bunch of bullshit."

Jean laid her hand against his chest, urging him back into the seat.

"Logan." She soothed him. "This is a good thing. Scott and I-"

Oh this was real rich.

"Scott and you are... what, huh?" Logan urged. "Soulmates?"

Logan scoffed, swiping Jean's hand from his chest.

"Bet you're so happy with your 'soulmate' and that's why you lead me on, huh? That it? You're happy?" He taunted, a dark laugh escaping him once more. "Spare me-"

"Logan, that's enough!"

The professor's voice echoed against the linoleum walls of the lab, reverberating off of the medical equipment throughout.

"If you want to wallow in your own self-deprivation, be my guest, but spare the rest of us your grief." Charles continued. "I think it would be best if you go back to your quarters and consider the future the universe has offered you."

The energy in the air was thick.

Jean and Hank avoided Logan’s eye contact while the professor’s nearly burned a whole through him.

Accepting defeat, Logan threw his hands up in the air and pushed himself out of his metal chair.

“Fine.”

Soulmates. Logan thought. Who would believe in a thing like that?

"It's a pleasure to see you again."

The atmosphere in the mansion was a stark contrast to the lab Charles had been in days before.

Now the school day had commenced: children skipping from class to class, students chatting with their friends in the hallway, teachers grabbing coffee between lessons. Amidst the organized chaos, Charles had arranged to meet you in the foyer: the replacement history teacher for Logan's class.

"You too, professor." You smiled, reaching out your hand. "I was so glad to hear from you."

Your hand hung in the air briefly, awaiting his return. Charles examined it for a moment- a twinkle in his eye- before taking it. His thumbs brushed against the newfound scars between your knuckles as he did.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you didn't always have these scars, did you, Y/n?" Charles asked.

You had not.

You had woken with them a few days before. Despite your powers rooted in chaos magic, it wasn't uncommon for blemishes or wounds to etch themselves into your skin. However, you often knew why. These marks, scars, were not faint, but instead quite profound. Three thick, healed over wounds patched together like a stitch on the back of each of your hands.

"No professor."

He closed his eyes, a soft smile gracing his lips. Though you knew he wished to ask more questions, the moment was broken by Logan.

"Ah, the man himself." Charles beamed. "Logan, I'd like you to meet Y/n. She'll be covering your class."

You had seen your fair share of news stories about the Wolverine. Who hadn't? Though the television had never prepared you for just how tall, or broad he was.

"It's nice to meet you, Logan."

"You too." He nodded, taking your hand.

His hand lingered in yours for a moment. Charles cleared his throat.

"We were just discussing the most peculiar scar on Y/n's hand." Charles said. "Appeared just a few days ago out of nowhere."

Charles nodded his head in the direction of your hand, leading Logan to squint. As if a light bulb had gone off over his head, Logan glanced between Charles and yourself and with your hand still in his, he turned it examine the back.

Three scars between your knuckles. Right where his own claws would be.

Though he liked to imagine himself as the patron of remaining suave, Logan's eyebrows shot up at the recognition. He traced his view from your hands, up your torso, to your face where you eyed him questioningly.

He thought back to the way that he woke up in the seventies, wrapped in the arms of another woman. If times had been different and Logan hadn't undergone all the so-called character development in the last forty years, he was sure that a face like yours would have gotten him in a lot of trouble. You were beautiful, and your demeanor highlighted your strength.

Your face radiated kindness, warmth and most of all, sincerity- a trait that was difficult to come by in a trade such as his.

But then Logan recalled that this wasn't the seventies and you weren't at some bar leading him on the entire night: your hand was in his and, according to everyone else, he was yours.

The idea almost couldn't register in Logan's brain.

"Interesting, isn't it, Logan?" Charles asked, breaking the silence. "Almost identical to where your claws are, hmm?"

Oh the professor thought he was quite funny.

Logan pulled his hand back from your grasp and shook his head.

"Not that easy, Charles." Logan commented before turning to you, a spiteful tone in his voice. "See you around, bub."

Before you had the chance to open your mouth, you watched as Logan stomped down the nearest hallway, his boots squeaking against the floorboards as he did. His fists clenched and released at his sides as he disappeared from view.

His reaction had come so far from left field that if it hadn't given you whiplash, it would have hurt your ego. Instead you turned back to the professor.

"Was it something I said?" You asked.

The professor shook his head, patting your hand gently.

"Logan's quite a complicated man." He assured you. "I'm sure you'll come to know that more than the rest of us. Now, to your classroom..."

Glancing over your shoulder to the void-like hallway that Logan went down, you considered the professor's words.

A storm had taken over the mansion by nightfall.

As you padded down the wood panelled hallways, the lightbulbs shook in their glass with each thunder clap- wind swatting at the window panes every few seconds. The pitter patter of the raindrops, although harsh, was comforting. It was almost as if the mansion had been engulfed by the storm, trapping everyone inside, while consequently making the outside world feel a thousand miles away.

When you found Logan's door, tucked in at the end of the hallway, you knocked.

"Yep."

The weight of the door fell against the palm of your hands as you pushed it open.

Logan's room was dark. The only light in the space had been from the embers of the cigar that hung in his mouth, cradled between his thumb and forefinger. Despite the darkness, you could make out his figure sitting at his desk chair by the window, feet kicked up on the sill.

Logan only gave you a quick glance over his shoulder before turning back to the view.

"What d'you want?"

His voice was thick and rough around the edges.

"I came for your textbooks." You replied, tiptoeing against his floorboards. "The professor said you'd have them."

The hand of his that held the cigar waved around. Minuscule ashes fell to the floor as your eyes remained trained on the light and the faint glow of the moon that illuminated the side of his face.

"Be my guest," he said. "Don’t have a clue where they are."

The professor had given you the lowdown when he saw your scars.

Charles told you that despite everything that you had learned- the history that you had known- the Wolverine you'd meet was not the same person. He was a man from a different time with far different, darker memories and enough baggage to weigh down dozens.

Amidst the silence, you cleared your throat.

"Must be hard to wake up in someone else's life."

By now you had reached his desk, your fingertips tracing the lines in the dark, lacquered wood.

You could smell him and the cigar from this distance- aftershave mixed with smoke.

"The professor tell you that?"

"Mhm."

The chair creaked as Logan flicked his hand towards the window, ushering you to come closer.

Watching your step in the dark, you maneuvered around the furniture and sat beside Logan on his desk- pushing loose papers to the side.

"He give you his whole spiel on soulmates too?" He asked, eyes trained on the rain outside.

Soulmates.

Now that was the last thing you expected to come from the Wolverine's mouth.

You'd heard of them more times than you could count. You once wondered whether every repetitive coincidence was a sign that your person was coming. But, when that never happened, you lost hope.

Who got to tell you who you belonged to anyway?

Leaning over, you gingerly took the cigar from his grasp and replaced it with your own fingers. Sitting back into the desk as lightening struck a tree in the distance, you took a puff.

"So that's what the scars on my hands were all about," You thought aloud.

The window fogged as you let the smoke leave from your mouth in a breathy sigh.

Logan tapped his fingers on his thighs, counting the seconds between a lightening strike and its consecutive rumble of thunder.

"Listen, I'm no prince charming if that's what you came here looking for."

Logan's chair creaked again as he leaned back in his seat. His arm draped against the desk as he met your gaze.

You chuckled and held out his cigar, offering it back to him.

"I came here looking for textbooks." You laughed. "You're the one who keeps talking about soulmates. I think you're more of a romantic than you let on.”

His fingers brushed against yours as he took the cigar back into his own hand. Another lightning strike met the ground in the distance, a clap of thunder following moments afterwards.

"You don't buy it?" Logan quirked his eyebrow. It was a teasing question, one he was curious to hear your answer to.

You shrugged.

"I don't think the universe gets to tell me who to love," you said. "If I fall in love with you it's because I love you, Logan. Not because some mark told me to. I just think of it as... a little shove in the right direction.”

The corner of his mouth quirked into a smile for the first time.

"A shove?"

"Like a... blind date." You finished. "Ever been on one of those?"

A congested laugh escaped him.

"Sweetheart, do I look like the type of guy to go on a blind date?"

You bit the inside of your cheek at the name.

Rolling your eyes, you swatted at his arm. You wouldn't admit how much it hurt your knuckles to do so. You'd have to make a mental note to remember his adamantium skeleton.

"Gosh, you're cocky!"

Logan shrugged, "You're the one who likes it apparently."

You felt yourself grow hot at his accusation.

Even though he had a mark signalling his future affection for you, you couldn't help but feel embarrassed by Logan's knowledge of yours. You felt like a child who's crush had just been exposed to the whole class. Was he noting ever glance that you gave him? The way you didn't move when his arm brushed against yours?

A brief pause hung in the air until another thunder clap reverberated against the walls.

"So what's your mark?" You asked.

Logan shoved the cigar into the corner of his mouth. The biting motion forced him to flex his jaw in a way that you would refuse to admit made you start to realize that maybe the universe was right.

And that maybe his cockiness was justified.

He laid out his hands for you. The room was still dark, making the ability to discern the details of his scar impossible. Taking Logan's hands in yours, you summoned your magic into your hands, watching as they glowed gold.

Logan had two large, circular scars imprinted into his palms. It was a clear indicator of your own magical power that surged from your hands.

It left a feeling you couldn't describe in your chest to know that someone else was marked for you. They were destined for you. To be with you. You had a future written together before the two of you had met. Even if he rejected you, there was a sign etched into his skin that bound the two of you together in some fateful way.

Gently, you traced your fingertips against the mark, feeling the warmth that radiated from his palms.

When your eyes flicked upwards, you noticed how close the two of you were now sitting. You could feel his warm breath against your lips as the lingering smell of the cigar drifted up your nose.

Although he wouldn’t admit it, Logan was enchanted by the energy radiating from you. Whether people hated or loved him, his ability got a lot of talk. In his mind though, he would never be a hero. He was just some guy who got lucky.

You, though? He didn’t need you to tell him that you were an Omega level mutant. Logan had heard about you from the professor: you could cast spells, read minds, reconfigure reality- to name a few. You didn't need a reason to fight for what's right, you just did. Again, and again, and again. Even here, now, you were picking up Logan's history class when he knew very well you could be on the other side of the world sipping pina coladas if you wanted.

What the hell was the universe thinking putting you with him?

Logan admired the reflection of the magic on your cheeks and the way your eyes stayed trained on his palms. Your touch was so gentle he could have sworn he was in a distant dream until your eyes met his.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment, gaze locked.

Then another clap of thunder shook the mansion.

You quickly leaned back, pulling your hands from Logan's touch.

"I should... I should go." You said, pushing yourself off of Logan's desk. "It's getting late and I have my first class in the morning."

Logan leaned back in his seat. He said nothing but eyes remained fixed on your form as you made your way towards the door.

Looking back at him with your hand on the knob you made a mental note to remember the image of him with his feet kicked back on the window as he smoked his cigar.

A soft smile remained.

"Good night, Logan."

When you didn't leave immediately, he nodded.

"Night, sweetheart."

Mustering up the courage to shoot him one last smile, you pulled open the door and stepped outside.

Now, Logan didn't know how much he believed in soulmates, but he could be inclined to consider that it was one good wingman.

Leaning back in his seat, Logan sighed and closed his eyes, letting himself drown out his worries with the sound of the rain.

a/n: my inbox is open for more requests! thank you for the request @welcometochilis585

#wolverine #logan howlett #logan #logan howlett x reader #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine fluff #wolverine fanfiction #xmen #xmen fanfiction #deadpool and wolverine

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five-one-two-station · 7 months ago

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At this point I am convinced some people are watching this show solely via the subtitle files, because that's the only thing that explains drastically misunderstanding everything that's not spelled out in dialogue to this extent.

Honestly some of the most embarrassing mass failure of media literacy I've ever seen. It's not even complicated stuff, it's basic text comprehension and story fluency.

- No, Caitlyn's "I know!" is not anger at being called out; she's saying she is very, very painfully aware of what she's done wrong. Watch it again.

- No she didn't take the guards away or go to the cell to have sex with Vi. TF?!?

It was Vi who initiated; Caitlyn was surprised she did.

She pulled the guards away to help Vi if/when she chose to do what she knows her well enough to know she probably would. Vi makes her choice - Caitlyn doesn't "let" her, she just supports it, because it's Vi's choice to make.

Vi has no idea she's done this until after, it doesn't affect her "agency" at all. That's not what any of those words mean!

- She did this as a direct acknowledgement of and response to Vi's previous criticisms.

You are supposed to be able to make the very, very minimal leap of imagination required to understand what the show is telling you here; that she is genuinely sorry, genuinely committed to getting her shit together, and that she has heard and received every word that Vi has told her.

The reason this gesture is so important is that it demonstrates she's now going out on a limb to put herself, her resources, and her privilege to work for the greater good.

And the reason Vi reacts the way she does is that she understands all of this immediately.

You should not need the show to sit you down and spell this out to you step by step Barney the Dinosaur style.

- She works very hard and sacrifices quite a lot to try to do right by people after fucking up so badly before, but not before very explicitly acknowledging that she can't undo the harm she's already done. And this isn't even an inference thing, she actually even says this bit out loud twice, and you still somehow missed it.

- For $5, what do you think the show was suggesting by having Sevika take up her seat, her final costume have no Enforcer uniform elements, and having her allude to an ongoing struggle. Come on, guess.

I am loathe to call people stupid just because some tv show stuff sailed over their heads, but... y'all are legitimately testing that. This is not exactly The Holy Mountain or something, it is very straightforward storytelling.

And just... I mean why would you be this loud about anything without making sure you didn't have it ass backways first?!? In public!?!? 💀

You guys, you have to watch shows to know what is happening in them.

#arcane #arcane spoilers #caitlyn #caitvi #caitlyn kiramman #vi arcane

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heavenlybodies333 · 20 days ago

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First Impressions Are a Bitch -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

The moment you stepped into the BAU you felt eyes. They didn’t linger too long. You were used to being in the orbit of the most elite profilers in the country, after all—growing up with Aaron Hotchner for a father meant you learned early how to ignore the low hum of being constantly assessed.

Everything still feels eerily in order—except you. Four years away at Columbia had changed you. You were older now. Smarter. Less eager to please and more eager to challenge.

“Just a quick debrief,” he said earlier, as he led you into the BAU conference room. “Ten minutes, tops.”

Ten minutes, your ass. You’ve been sitting here for almost forty. “Paperwork. Then we’ll go,” Hotch tells you. The edge in his voice warns not to argue. You roll your eyes and sigh loudly on purpose.

“Fine.”

You push yourself to your feet and wander toward the murder board out of boredom.

You sat perched on the conference table now, bored as hell, flipping a pen between your fingers while your dad spoke to his team. You caught pieces—victimology, escalation pattern, geographic profile. Nothing you hadn’t heard a hundred times before over breakfast growing up. Still, you leaned back, letting your eyes wander over the crime scene photos on the board. Then something struck you.

All four victims—different backgrounds, different cities, different times—but their hands. They were posed identically.

Not randomly. Deliberately. You stood up, walking toward the board with your arms crossed, the gears turning.

You tilted your head. “These hand placements… that's the domestic violence signal, isn’t it? All four victims—same thing. The fingertips pressed into the opposite palm, hidden, subtle.”

Rossi, who’d been gathering his things, paused. His gaze followed yours to the board.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, stepping closer. “You’re right. That changes everything. It’s not just random targeting—this is symbolic. Personal.” He gave you smile—part impressed, part stunned—and disappeared out the door to find your father.

“Wait, wait, wait,” a voice cut in behind you, dry and irritatingly patronizing. “That’s a huge leap. You can’t just infer intent from coincidence.”

You turned, already annoyed before you fully faced him. Dr. Spencer Reid. Of course. He’d been recruited while you were away at college. Standing with arms crossed, brows furrowed like you’d just offended a stack of peer-reviewed journals.

You turn slowly, already annoyed. “Excuse me?”

“Correlation does not equal causation. Just because their hands are similar doesn’t mean the unsub has a domestic abuse background. That’s textbook confirmation bias. It’s a rookie assumption.”

You blink. “I didn’t realize I was talking to someone who’s never been wrong in his life.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Statistically, I’m wrong 8.7% of the time. But I prefer logic over emotionally driven guesses.”

“Oh my god,” you scoff turning, finally facing him. His mouth was already half open to speak, but you beat him to it.

“I mean, if we’re going to start off by insulting each other’s intelligence, at least let me get my turn.”

He looked stunned by your bluntness, blinking a few more times as he surveyed you. And then… you saw it. The moment it clicked. The slight parting of his lips, the tightening around his eyes as his gaze bounced from your features to the door your father had just exited through.

“You’re Hotch’s daughter,” he said, voice flat.

You gave a single, dry laugh. “Jesus Christ, this guy.”

His eyebrows climbed. “No offense, but I didn’t expect—”

“Oh, don’t say it. Don’t even finish that sentence,” you warn. “Do you have a PhD in mansplaining, or do they just hand those out with the degrees at Caltech?”

You stand your ground, arms folded across your chest, eyes narrowed like you’re sizing him up. You are.

He clears his throat, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying to decide whether to smile or keep frowning. “That’s not what I meant,” he mutters, voice slightly lower now. “I just didn’t think Hotch had kids who—”

“Had opinions?” you cut in again, voice razor-sharp.

“—talk like you,” he finishes carefully, eyes glinting with something unreadable.

You arch an eyebrow. “If you mean talk like I wasn’t raised in a Quantico textbook, you’re right. I was raised in a house, like a normal human.”

Spencer exhales through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he’s in pain. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You’re inferring psychological trauma from a gesture.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “Didn’t realize profiling also meant talking down to every woman who noticed something before you did,” you muttered, walking past him to grab your phone from the table.

“Wait—I didn’t mean—” he started, following you.

You turned back toward him with an eye roll. “No, no, go ahead, Doc. Tell me again why I'm wrong, so you can walk it back in five minutes when my theory turns out to be right.”

He looked…frustrated. You couldn’t tell if it was with himself or you. Maybe both.

“And for the record,” you added, pausing in the doorway, “I’ve read your thesis on eidetic memory and its correlations to trauma. It was good. A little masturbatory, but good.”

His face wears shock so well, goddamn him. After a beat, he clears his throat awkwardly and extends a hand. “Dr. Spencer Reid.”

You glance at his hand but don’t take it.

“I think we’re past handshakes.”

Your dad rounded the corner, oblivious. “We’re heading out. Ready?”

You turned, swallowing your racing pulse. “Yep. Let’s go.” But as you walked out of the break room, you glanced back. Spencer was still watching you.

You don’t speak to him again until two days later.

You didn’t plan on seeing him again, but apparently, fate has a sick sense of humor.

Your dad is too buried in casework to drive you home, so he sends Spencer instead—without asking you.

He shows up in that old Volvo like a goddamn librarian who got lost on the way to the archive.

You stand outside the BAU parking lot with your arms crossed.

“Seriously?” you ask as he pulls up.

“Apparently, I’m your ride.”

You open the door with a groan and slide into the passenger seat. The tension between you is immediate and electric.

The car ride is mostly silent—except for the soft hum of NPR.

You glance at him. “Let me guess. You listen to public radio for fun.”

“It’s informative,” he replies without missing a beat.

“You know,” you say, leaning your head against the window, “you really don’t have to talk down to every woman who disagrees with you.”

“I don’t—”

“You do. And I’m not intimidated by your IQ, so maybe try not treating me like a child.”

The tension only gets worse after that.

You keep running into him—at the office, on the phone when he calls your dad, and finally one night when you’re curled up with a book in your dad’s living room. You couldn’t stop thinking about him. You wanted to wipe that smug look off his face.

Preferably with your thighs.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”

He was so off-limits.

Not just because he was older. Not just because he was your dad’s literal subordinate.

But because he’d made you feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time: noticed. Challenged. Seen. Infuriated.

And the worst part? You couldn’t stop replaying it.

Well be careful what you wish for because a few seconds later he walks in, apparently dropping something off for work.

You look up. He freezes.

You're in short shorts and a loose sweater that dips off one shoulder. His eyes flicker there before snapping back up to your face.

“You can put it on the table,” you say, not bothering to move.

He sets the file down slowly, then clears his throat. “Tell your dad I dropped off the case notes.”

You smile. “Will do.”

He turns to go.

Then pauses.

Turns back.

“About the hand positioning,” he says quietly, “you were right.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That must’ve hurt.”

“It did,” he admits. “But I still think you’re incredibly stubborn.”

“Guess it runs in the family.”

There’s a silence thick enough to drown in.

You speak first.

“You always this annoying or is it just around me?”

He steps closer, just slightly.

“I think you bring it out in me.”

His eyes drop to your lips before flicking back up.

You smirk. “Careful, Dr. Reid. You almost sound like you’re flirting.”

He stares at you a second longer. Then turns and leaves without another word.

You should’ve ignored it. You should’ve walked away. But he’d left you with the notes and you weren’t anything but curious. Naturally, you looked. And it looks like Dr. Spence didn’t realize he’d slipped in his own journal accidentally.

You weren’t going to snoop. You really weren’t.

But the second you saw your name scribbled in Spencer Reid’s handwriting—small, neat, and underlined—you couldn’t help it.

Oh if only you’d minded your business. Instead, you skimmed. Then you stopped. Then you read the entire fucking thing.

Subject 18A – Observation Log: Behavioral Notes

Interpersonal behavior suggests innate confidence, possibly learned early via proximity to figures of authority. Uses sarcasm as a primary defense mechanism. Not submissive—challenges hierarchy intentionally. Habitual eye contact, even in conflict. Prone to intellectual baiting.

Unclear whether this is intentional seduction or simply a naturally provocative disposition.

Triggers observed: condescension, dismissal, over-explaining. Response includes lip twitch, physical proximity, and reactive statements.

Hypothesis: She likes to be challenged. She likes resistance. She likes to be overpowered—verbally. Wonder if it extends to other contexts.

Need to stop thinking about this.

Your hand is shaking.

You read that last line again. And again. The slanted scrawl is messier than the rest, like he wrote it fast—like he was already spiraling when he put the pen down.

Need to stop thinking about this.

Your thighs clench. You shouldn't be aroused by this. You shouldn’t.

But now… now you can’t stop thinking about him thinking about you. Not professionally. Not even academically. But… physically. Fantasizing about what you’d let him do.

You’re still standing there—practically vibrating with heat—when the door clicks behind you.

“I thought I left that in my—” Spencer’s voice dies in his throat.

Your back stiffens, but you don’t turn. You hear him step inside. The door closes behind him.

“I…” You swallow. “You wrote about me.”

He doesn’t respond. You turn your head slightly, enough to see him in your periphery. He looks furious. Embarrassed. Breathless.

“I was working through a theory,” he said through clenched teeth. “It wasn’t meant for you to see.”

“No,” you murmured, walking around the corner toward him. “But you wrote it anyway. You thought about it.”

“You’re Hotch’s daughter.”

You laughed under your breath. “That line gets so old.”

“I’m serious,” Spencer snapped, though his voice was barely above a whisper now. His eyes locked with yours, and you could practically feel the war behind them. “This isn’t a game. You reading that was a violation of privacy.”

“Oh, give me a break,” you said, stepping closer, your arms still crossed. “You accidentally left it in a file you handed me in my father’s house. That’s not a violation. You wanted me to see that.”

His jaw ticked. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then enlighten me,” you breathed.

You didn’t mean to step so close. Or maybe you did.

Either way, now you were a breath away from him. The tension coiled between you like a live wire. Your dad was upstairs, probably on the phone with Strauss. But none of that mattered in this moment.

“You think I want to think about you?” he said, quietly. “You think I enjoy imagining the kinds of things I’ve written down, only to wake up disgusted with myself?”

You tilted your head. “You don’t seem very disgusted right now.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I read the whole thing, you know,” you said, a little softer now. “The part where you weren’t sure if I was trying to seduce you… or just naturally provocative.”

His gaze snapped to yours, the heat in it unmistakable now. “And?” he asked tightly. “What’s your conclusion?”

You smiled, slow and unhurried. “I think you’re smarter than that. You already knew the answer.”

Spencer took a shaky breath, looking at the ceiling like it could anchor him.

“You’re off-limits,” he said, like he was trying to remind himself more than you.

You reached up and brushed a piece of hair behind your ear, deliberately slow. His eyes followed the movement like it was a crime scene detail.

“You wrote that I like being overpowered verbally,” you whispered, the faintest smirk tugging at your lips. “Ever wonder if it does extend to other contexts?”

His breath hitched.

“That’s what you wrote,” you added. “So go ahead, Dr. Reid. Test your theory.”

You didn’t have time to prepare for what happened next. His hands were on you—fast, firm, and desperate—pulling you in by the hips until your bodies collided. His mouth crashed into yours like a dam breaking. Everything was raw. Pent-up. Starved.

You moaned into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his curls, tugging hard enough to make him groan. He tasted like coffee and fury and something forbidden.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he rasped, voice hoarse and raw, his forehead pressed to yours.

“No,” you agreed, your hand already sliding down his chest, nails dragging lightly over his shirt. “But you are.”

His hands were still on your hips, trembling slightly. “Fuck.”

“You can stop,” you whispered, fingers ghosting over his belt. “Right now. Tell me to stop, and I will.”

His head dropped to your shoulder with a groan. You slid down to your knees without waiting for a response.

“Jesus Christ—” he muttered, his hands automatically finding the counter behind him, gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.

You made quick work of his belt and zipper, eyes never leaving his face. His chest was rising and falling fast, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt.

You reached into his briefs and freed him, and he hissed through his teeth the moment you wrapped your hand around him.

“You okay, Doctor?” you teased, voice soft and mocking as you stroked him once, slowly. His eyes fluttered shut.

“This is so—fuck—wrong,” he breathed, already unraveling.

You licked a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, watching his knees buckle slightly. His hand flew to your hair but didn’t pull—just held, like he didn’t trust himself to move.

You moved slowly at first, savoring every reaction. Sucking harder with every strained noise he tried to swallow. His control—so absolute in every other part of his life—was fraying. You were undoing him in real time.

“Oh my god,” he groaned, his head tipping back. “You—fuck—you’re…”

He never finished the thought. You hummed around him, and his hips twitched forward just slightly, a low, broken sound escaping him before he could stop it.

And outside, the front door clicked open.

“Sweetheart?” your dad’s voice called from the hallway.

You both froze.

“Shit—” he whispered, pulling back, fast but gentle, tucking himself away with trembling hands while you wiped your mouth and scrambled upright.

Your dad’s voice rang out, muffled by the hall.

Spencer jumped up, grabbing his bag, running a hand through his hair to fix what couldn’t be fixed.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, your mouth still tasting like him.

“Act natural,” you whispered, grinning like sin.

“Hotch’ll kill me,” Spencer muttered.

You stood, leaned in, and whispered in his ear, “Only if you give him a reason to.”

Hotch’s voice cut through the electric silence as he walked around the corner. “I didn’t expect you to still be here, Reid.”

You both turned like you’d been caught with your hands in the cookie jar—or rather, your hands down each other’s pants. You were standing a little too close, the air between you charged enough to short-circuit every wire in the house. Spencer stepped back so fast you thought he might trip.

Hotch raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Instead, he crossed the room, briefcase slung over one shoulder, tie slightly loosened from the day. You offered a quick, guilty smile and stepped toward him just as he opened his arms. You melted into the familiar embrace, the kind of hug that still made you feel like his little girl, even after everything.

“Thanks for dropping off the files,” he said over your shoulder, looking at Spencer.

Spencer straightened, clearing his throat. “Of course. I was just—”

He pulls back, glancing between the two of you.

“You looked into the files, huh?” he says to you, noticing the folder in your hand. “Can’t help yourself.”

You smile. “Guilty.”

“I was thinking we could order something in,” he said casually. “Unless you’re in the mood to cook.”

You shrugged. “Takeout sounds good. Thai?”

His lips twitch like he wants to smile too, but he’s still trying to figure out why Spencer looks like he’s about to pass out. His eyes drift to Reid again. “You hungry?”

Spencer blinked. “What?”

“I said, do you want to stay for dinner?”

Spencer’s eyes met yours—briefly, sharply—and you could see his brain short-circuit behind them.

“Oh—I, uh, I should probably head out,” he said too fast. “We’ll be back in early tomorrow and I still need to—uh—review some geographic patterns on the Kansas case. But thank you. Really.”

You tried not to smirk. He couldn’t even look you in the eye now.

“Suit yourself,” Hotch said, turning back to the kitchen like he hadn’t just unknowingly invited a man to dinner who had written the words she likes to be overpowered in his personal journal about his daughter.

Spencer moved toward the door, quickly and silently. You followed, just enough to stop him as he reached for the handle.

You whispered, “Coward.”

He glanced at you, startled—then aroused, and somehow furious with himself for both.

“I’m not a coward,” he muttered.

“No?” You tilted your head. “Then why are you running away?”

He hesitated, visibly torn. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his hand hovered over the doorknob.

“My restraint isn’t cowardice,” he said finally, voice low and sharp like a promise. “It’s the only thing keeping me from making a very serious mistake.”

You stepped closer, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Then maybe make it.”

“Good night,” he said, almost like it pained him. And as Spencer made his swift exit, he glanced back one last time—like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Neither could you. But god, you hoped it happened again.

a/n: btw my loves, ALL of my fics that have Hotch’s daughter!reader are not connected unless specified. They all are the same reader idea but not connected in a storyline💋

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

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teaboot · 5 months ago

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Got any tips for taking standardized tests? I would like to follow the patterns like a trained rat

Read the entire test before you start. This will give you an idea of what you’re in for, but in reading tests or literature exams, a lot of questions are answered by later questions. For example, “what is the setting of the story?” may later be followed by, “what may we infer from the protagonist’s description of 1880’s urban Westminster?”.

Strategize. If you’re a slow worker, maybe do the questions worth the most points first. If you’re not confident in your knowledge, maybe answer all the easier questions first, then leave the hardest for last.

In multiple choice questions, read the options before the question. Let them inform your assessment of the question itself.

In math, if none of the multiple choice options match your calculated answer, go with whatever is closest.

If you truly cannot figure out a multiple choice answer, start by eliminating the worst options and work backwards.

If all multiple choice options seem equally absurd, choose C. Assuming it gives you four options (average in my experience) this mathematically gives you AT LEAST a 25% chance of being right- slightly more, too, as C is statistically the correct answer slightly more frequently on average. Don't quote me on that though- the important thing is to “randomly” pick the same letter every time this happens, so at least 1 out of 4 works out.

Don't leave anything blank. Even if your odds of being right are one in a hundred, thats still better than zero.

For written answers, include the question in the answer. If the question is, “How are the blue curtains symbolic of the protagonist’s emotional state?”, rearrange the question as you present your argument. “The blue curtains serve as a symbol of the protagonist’s emotional state by…(supported argument here)”. Helps you structure your argument and looks tidier to the reader, but also if the person doing the grades is just skimming shit they may just see that you kinda get the idea and give you benefit of the doubt when marking.

I mean, in an ideal world all classes are taught for COMPREHENSION, as the lessons they teach have value beyond academic achievement and will serve you in many unexpected ways throughout your life beyond the academic, but seeing how standardized testing and AI cheats are flushing everything down the toilet as-is I’d be happy to see some more real and honest good old-fashion grifting tbh

#Ignore that 9 is fucking numbered this stupid fucking apple phone Jesus fucking Christ i cant edit for SHIT #also it’s been an all-nighter so im cranky #blegh

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corvus-frugilegus · 6 months ago

Text

The real tragedy of the Dellamortes is how inevitable Illario's betrayal was.

Caterina's refusal to really see either of her grandsons for who they are sets all three of them on this path. Lucanis's mother was Caterina's favourite, she was probably the person Caterina had in mind to succeed her. That loss, the loss of so much of Caterina's legacy had to have been devastating. She'd built so much and it was all torn away in a single conflict. All she has left in the wake of it is two young boys and this tenacity that will not allow her to give up on what she's built.

So she puts it all on Lucanis. The son of her favourite (bonus angst if he looks like his mother). She's unable to see this sweet boy who loves wyverns and just had his life ripped apart for who he is. She just see's her legacy. The daughter she lost. She puts it all into him, he's pushed into the role of favourite.

Lucanis responds to this by shoving down the parts of himself she doesn't want to see- his gentle heart, his love of wyverns, the little boy who needs to be loved. If he's good enough, strong enough, the perfect crow, the perfect granson- then and only then will she love him, will he be safe.

And then you have Illario! There isn't as much to go on in the text about his family or what he was like as a boy but there's a few things we can pretty confidently infer. Like Lucanis, Illario violently loses everything he has at a very young age. All he has left are the other two Dellamorte's.

But he isn't the child of Caterina's favourite. She isn't automatically putting all of her legacy on his shoulders the way she does Lucanis. He still gets the training, and what we do see in the wigmaker job and the wake and even in the codex entires in the game is that Illario does become a comptent and capable crow. He has a level of skill that I suspect is broadly expected of house Dellamorte, he was trained by the first talon herself. But the Illario we meet as an adult has this laissez-faire affect and presents himself as a seducer and a bit of a peakcock. He also very overtly refers to himself as Dellamorte-the-lesser and at the end of the wigmaker job when they're discussing the title of first talon you can feel the resentment below the surface.

For Illario it's not about the power and the prestige that comes from the title of first talon. It's not even about having the title itself. It's about FINALLY earning Caterina's love and respect. Things he undoubtly never felt as a boy.

How could he? When he's a child the only two people he has left in the world have this special bond that he never gets to be a part of. His only caretaker has a clear favourite and she shows it. He's lived his whole life in Lucanis's shadow, and a shadow that Lucanis never wanted to cast! Which if anything just adds insult to injury for Illario.

Lucanis has everything Illario wants and he doesn't even want it.

I imagine as a boy Illario tries SO HARD to win her love, her favour, he'll do anything to feel like he's loved and wanted and valued. And when after YEARS it doesn't work even though Lucanis clearly doesn't want the role he's been forced into? Illario gets resentful, he gets angry, he starts acting up. He becomes the suave peacock, the grandson who fucks up sometimes- probably not because he's bad at being a crow but because at least Caterina's ire is attention. It's a scrap of love.

Illario and Lucanis love each other. They're brothers. Illario resents Lucanis for being loved and favoured. Lucanis wants nothing more than to give it all to Illario. Illario doesn't want that he wants Caterina to love him on his own merit. At the same time (pre-inner demons) Lucanis will never actually give the title up because it means he's loved, he's valued, he matters.

The title of first talon has been synonymous with emotional safety and love for these two for their entire lives, and it's twisted them up so badly.

The real irony of it all is that this whole time Illario is so much more like the person Caterina wants Lucanis to be. Her heir, the Dellamorte best suited to be the next first talon has been right there infront of her all along, but she's so caught up in grief and legacy she misses it. She never really see's either of her grandsons for who they are.

I actually suspect that when it all comes to light, even though she's furious with him, Caterina finally starts to see what she's been overlooking in Illario all along. And Lucanis who's started to heal... well I think she's starting to see him too, and the truth of who he is is something she'll struggle to face.

When the day finally comes that Lucanis tells her he doesn't want the job, when him and Illario both accept that their lives have meaning outside of Caterina's opinion of them, is the day that the Dellamorte's can maybe start to really see each other.

#The Dellamortes giving up being the first house after everything and no longer sacrificing their wellbeing for legacy is my ultimate fantasy #lucanis dellamorte #illario dellamorte #Caterina Dellamorte #house dellamorte #dragon age the veilguard #datv #datv meta #THE THEMES AND THE LAYERS #it will never be as simple as lucanis handing illario the title #tldr illario is actually the heir she wants and she just didn't see it because of griiiiief #ripping my hair out #let lucanis have a wyvern tooth dagger and make the people he loves churros when they're sad

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