#but also that is a completely different person

[the-kira-kami]

This is what it feels like when I see people complain about how Princess Peach is portrayed in the Mario movie. Who is still very stereotypically feminine in my opinion, it's just that she also gets to be a badass and not just a helpless damsel in distress.

Or people who complain about the fact that Amy's character has been developed beyond "girl who has a crush on Sonic" and she does her own thing (particularly in the IDW comics cause if I remember correctly she leads the Restoration group or something).

And then for Julie-Su from the Sonic the Hedgehog Archie Comics... I don't like Ken Penders (the guy who created Julie-Su, let's just say he has a lot of issues and should get therapy), but I adore Julie-Su. She's a badass and she is a lot more tomboy leaning than Amy or Princess Peach. And Julie-Su also got an unfair amount of hate, to the point where people were calling her a Mary Sue which is dumb because she does not fit the Mary Sue trope. She has flaws. She has trauma. She has, from what I have seen, for the most part realistic reactions to situations (this may vary depending on the writer for a particular Sonic comic). Also her sister hates her guts. Mary Sue means someone who's completely flawless, can do no wrong, everyone loves her, etc., etc.

Even Rivet from Ratchet & Clank got caught in the crossfire (though thankfully not as bad I think). People complain about her personality being "female Ratchet." Hello??? Did we even play the same game?? Like first of all, Rivet is Ratchet's dimensional counterpart, so of course they're gonna be similar. She's also supposed to be a sort of "what-if Ratchet", which Insomniac literally explained (more than once I think too). Secondly, Rivet is not a carbon copy of Ratchet. They are extremely similar, but they say and do things that set them apart. For example, I don't think Ratchet would call whatever bad guy he was fighting at the moment a doofus (he'd probably pick a different insult), but Rivet sure as fuck has though. Rivet also has trauma associated with robots because Kit was the reason she lost her arm and is distrustful of them in general as a result. (Also probably because of Emperor Nefarious' own actions by taking over the galaxy and ruling it with an iron fist). Ratchet, and this may just be because he doesn't have that same trauma, doesn't distrust robots as a whole. He might distrust specific robots like Dr. Nefarious but that's usually because said robot is a supervillain (like in Nef's case).

These misogynists don't want female characters with autonomy and personality, they want cardboard cutouts that don't do anything at all except be male MC's (main character) love interest and get kidnapped so said male MC can rescue them.

As someone in and around their 30’s it has been INSANE to see feminism in popular media descend through

Women can wear pants and play sports and that’s equality. Women don’t just belong inside the house. This woman has a career

This woman can be a mechanic just like a man could. She’s probably still a lesbian, though, which is basically the closest to a man a woman can *be*, and explains everything. But she’s still a person!

If a woman superhero CHOOSES to wear stilettos to fight crime, that’s girl power! This comic character written and designed by men wears a bikini and has a waist size of 12 inches because it makes her FEEL POWERFUL! Girls don’t HAVE to dress boyish to be strong! She can make you a sandwich AND be a feminist! Girl power!

What, are you saying women HAVE to do boy things to be taken seriously? Who are you to tell a woman what to do? Maybe some women NEED to get their hair and nails done twice a month to feel powerful! Maybe a lot of women WANT to be stay-at-home moms!

What I don’t think you understand is that women have an inherent feminine spirituality which guides them towards maternal and nurturing paths. Women need to honour their divine female aura to keep their. Their fuckin. Their chakras together or some shit. You should put quartz up your hooha and huff wheatgrass. Leaving manual labour and science and technology to men is natural and good for you spiritually

Uh she can’t do that, that’s a blue job, she’s a pink job girly. Food? Yeah, she’s having #girl dinner, which is a handful of almonds. Time for our 15 step skincare routine, which is empowering. Hashtag #girlboss. Ew no, touching dirt? She’s just a girl. You can’t expect a girl to do that. Haha #girl logic

[worflesbian]

the worfzia pregnancy plotline is horrendous primarily bc it was tacked on just before jadzia's death in an attempt to make it sadder, equating the worth of a woman's life to her potential to have children, but like even if they hadn't killed her off right after it would still have sucked bc it's so obviously written as the obvious next step after heterosexual marriage and not like, a life-changing decision for two people to make. first of all, worf has already had a child and it went horrendously, his relationship with alexander is rocky and he feels immense guilt about not being there for him in his formative years, and you're telling me him and jadzia had a brief chat about having kids and he was cool with it? once again no one seems to have a looser grasp of worf's storyline than the people who allegedly wrote it. the disparity between his limited experience of parenting and jadzia's several lifetimes worth is also interesting but of course that doesn't come up either. secondly, jadzia's family have almost never been mentioned before, i've seen people theorize that the joining process caused a rift between them as it wouldve been hard to cope with her becoming an almost completely different person - would jadzia's relationship to her own parents not have been pertinent to bring up as she decides to become a parent herself? how does she feel about becoming a mother in this lifetime, now that there's a war on, when presumably all the previous times have been under much stabler circumstances? would anyone bring that up as a concern, what kind of world that child might be born into? how would she react to that? thirdly, julian says that back before she and worf got married he and jadzia discussed this and he told her a trill-klingon pregnancy would be almost impossible, yet she seems determined to make it happen anyway - this is the most in-character part of the whole episode for her imo, because it's very like jadzia to disregard the odds and fight for what she wants, but also, she's literally the science officer, and while biology isn't her number one field it would've at least been interesting for her to bring up her own research on the subject to counter julian's warning.

there's just so much missing from that episode, it feels like a plotline ripped out of some generic soap and pasted onto the characters we know and love, flattening all the things that make them who they are into the vague shape of a random straight couple

[gublernatural]

for pop star!reader, bringing him to the grammys perchance? i think it would be silly <3

i love this so im skipping ahead to post-situationship into full blown relationship stage with them <3 my fave duo (also reader is def inspired by my girl t swizzle at award shows and im not sorry about it.)

"you're sure?" you asked one more time, just before the car doors were to open. spencer, whose face was almost as red as the dress you were wearing, sent you an eager nod.

he was torn; stuck between being excited to be by your side, but terrified to be in such a public space. there were days where he was still in awe that he has been able to meet, fall in love with, and now date such a strong, hard-working lady, but days like today he is reminded how much the whole world has come to love his lover.

"then, let's go," you smiled at him, ushering him to step out of the car. he obliged, then reached his hand towards you, helping you out. "thank you," you smiled at him, quickly, and then guided him to the building’s entrance. you waved at your supporters as you walked, still marveling at the impact you’ve been able to make.

you two ended up being split, spencer dragged away to your designated table and you to the red carpet. you took photos and completed interviews as quickly as you could without being impolite. you couldn’t help but feel like you were longing to be back with spencer. despite all of the fun you were able to have, everything just felt better when he was around.

“there you are,” you smiled as you finally made your way to your seat. “how was the carpet?” he asked, sliding your chair out for you. you shrugged in response, turning your attention to the first performer to take the stage.

spencer spent most of the show watching you with starstruck eyes. it was evident, even to those watching from home, how deeply in love spencer truly was with you. there was a literal sparkle in eye as you danced along to each performer, completely and totally enjoying yourself. this was the happiest you'd been in a while. you felt pretty, were at a celebration, and had your favorite person in the world by your side. spencer being in a fancy suit that matched your dress and having his hair professionally done had nothing to do with it, of course.

"this was is yours, right?" spencer whispered into your ear as his arm slipped around your waist. he held you close in anticipation as they introduced your category: best new artist.

this was the biggest moment of your career thus far. sure, awards weren't everything to you, but being recognized for the work you'd put out in somewhere as important as the grammy's would feel so good. you nodded, anxiously, trying to use spencer's proximity to ground you. you hoped the camera that cut to you while you were being named amongst your competitors could see the nerves that were coursing through your veins.

"and the winner is," victoria monet, last year's winner, announced. the world around you turn to static as your name was called into the mic. spencer was up before you were, cheering. tears welled in your eyes, overcome with pride and gratefulness. you hugged spencer and your producer, before heading up to the stage.

"um," you hesitated into the mic after hugging victoria, "i did not think i was going to win this," you laughed. the crowd laughed as well. beyonce was laughing at you. taylor swift was laughing at you. spencer reid was laughing at you. this was the best moment of your life.

"everyone in this category is so amazing and i wish we could split this award eight different ways. thank you to anyone and everyone who has listened to my music and supported me so far. i would not be here if it weren't for you." the first tear slipped from your face and you quickly brought your empty tear up to wipe it.

"thank you to everyone who inspired me and my music, and anyone who laid a hand in creating it with me. my mind is so blank and i can't remember all of your names," everyone laughed again. "and thank you to those i love," your eyes slipped to your table in the crowd. the camera cut to spencer, who had the biggest smile on his face anyone had ever seen. "i wouldn't be here without you guys. thank you and i cannot wait to make more music for you." you ended with a gracious wave to the crowd and cameras, before dashing back to your table.

you threw yourself in spencer's arms again. his cheek smushed against your shoulder as he mumbled, "i'm so proud of you!" you didn't answer, but he felt your smile get impossibly wider against him. after your brief moment of affection, you settled back into his side, excited to see sabrina carpenter's performance.

[aialsposts]

Absolutely LOVING the use of Mabel’s slang and Ford’s slight hesitation but willingness to adapt because like. Those kids talked like old timers in the show (likely just from being around one for a while)

so you KNOW they came back when in high school with Dipper saying stuff like “I’m about to absolutely crash out on Robbie this time. MABELLL?? WHERE’S YOUR GRAPPLING HOOK-“

And Mabel saying stuff like

“Slay the house down mama!!” And “you better WALK that DUCK” and even Dipper is like,,

“So from what I gather this is… a way of her saying essentially you’re doing really well and your outfit is so good it could…kill her??? I think??”

And it’s also a lot of Ford finally caving and begging for a presentation from Dipper about their generation’s Slang. Mabel has to be Dipper’s project partner; while he initially didn’t want to drag her into this, unfortunately he hit a wall in his research where he fully couldn’t see the connection, and Mabel was completely overexcited to oblige.

First half of the presentation:

Very well put together slides, including graphics here and there introducing a timeline for when said slang started taking off, Dipper’s theories as to *why* certain slang rose more popularly/had longer “staying power”, and even some older slang from Ford’s generation that roughly translates to something modern. “I’m gonna crash out on ___” roughly equals “you’re cruising for a bruising, pal”

While the other half was essentially:

*disorganized bright colors and really hard to read print over graphics that don’t really technically go with what’s being talked about?? From what Ford can gather??*

The first presentation is an absolute disaster, but after finally setting aside their differences to create a better, much more comprehensive presentation, it ends up with Dipper learning a lot more lingo, too (for better or worse, you decide lmao), and having Mabel do more of the sort of explaining to Dipper (he did the graphics and visuals this time, it hurt his SOUL to see his sister’s side of the presentation BDJSVDJ) and Mabel helped Dipper grapple with the connotations of lingo a little more. For some reason the worse it sounds it seems to mean?? Something better?? It confuses him just as much as it does Ford, and Ford really starts to see ‘tism signs in Dipper as he slowly realizes how much Dipper is just like him growing up (like. Dude’s REALLY trying to understand “slay” “yass” “queen” and he gets that down and Mabel’s like “alright, beginner level over, now, what does, “slay the house down boots mama!” Mean?”

Even adding her extravagant gestures to the slang, which, to his credit, surprised Dipper because normally body language helps but like. Mabel body language and “what the culture’s feeling” aren’t exactly the same thing. He couldn’t, for the LIFE of him, figure out whether or not the gestures were actually included— as in, used by anyone other than just Mabel— and he was in fact wrong because it turns out the gestures ARE important, but there’s also varying LEVELS of importance.

Like the more emphasis (more ‘cartoony’/fluid/exaggerated the movement, the more the person REALLY fucking means it, no matter how little or how much emphasis they put into their voice (kinda going against his autism’s way of learning because like. Tones are?? So important I thought??? Why does this not apply here??)

Genuinely once they’ve presented all the information, and Ford gets a better idea of it, they’re all ready to just end this information exchange,,, until Stan walks in and overhears Dipper say to Mabel, “I think we slayed this presentation”

To which the twins simultaneously face palm as they realize they have to do the presentation again,

and Ford gets The BIGGEST grin, because, you see, Ford’s ability to process information is largely dependent on setting, generally, the mystery shack is… not a place he’s overjoyed about being at, but with others around it can sort of quell that sick feeling he gets and such.

So while he *mostly* understood the presentation, he didn’t want to have the twins repeat themselves (especially after learning what “unc status” means) so when his brother, Stanley, has to endure the same chaos but WITHOUT the prior understanding Ford’s now working with, all he can do is pull the twins aside and whisper, “how about we add something to your presentation, I think it might help Stanley understand this one term better-“

After a few slides where Stanley hardly seems to be paying any attention, Mabel clears her throat, Dipper stifling his laughter as Mabel announces loud and clear that a “new term” “just dropped”. She points the clicker super professionally, and as the slides turn, it’s the most abhorrent neon slide to ever disgrace the earth. Glitter. Fairies. Graphics that actually DO work this time though, she made sure to give more accurate visuals.

Introducing: GRUNK STATUS!

“It’s like Unc status but even more archaic!” Mabel enthusiastically declares.

Dipper is giggling so hard he’s having a full out asthma attack on the floor, and Ford finally can’t contain his laughter either. Mabel starts to laugh along and Stanley looks absolutely miserable for a moment.

“Aw, c’mon they’re just kids,” Ford laughs.

“You put them up to this. I don’t know how to prove it but I KNOW you did this. That stupid fucking Pun has YOUR NAME written ALL OVER IT-“

*cough/mumbles something about it being Stanley’s name, legally, last he checked which IMMEDIATELY Started a fight, until Mabel slams her fist down.*

“Ahem. Gentlemen. The presentation isn’t OVER. Sheesh, talk about Crashing out,” Mabel says, SO calmly that both grunkles sink back in their seats a bit like kids in trouble for causing a ruckus at school. (Mabel and Dipper do a lil thumbs up bc hey, that was a great way to give an example of a Term, Mabel! Good job!)

“Ohh… I get it, Crashing Out means you’re cruising for a bruising!” Stanley declares (sort of under his breath). To which Ford replies, voice equally lowered, “wasn’t that a few slides back? They already said that,” as if he hadn’t had the EXACT same epiphany earlier on, and was merely able to contain it before sounding “even more unc” (he tries, but the grammar with the slang is slightly off sometimes).

This essentially causes another argument.

This third run of their presentation took them 2 hours to get through due to Stanley and Stanford’s arguing.

Their first two runs with only Ford took maybe 45 minutes max (not including their needing to fix said presentation).

The twins put up with Stan and Ford’s fighting because they realized it’s probably essentially exactly how they looked when they were bumping into each other the first time they were trying to create this presentation.

Some things never change.

Sibling Rivalry? Absolutely timeless.

I was thinking about how he did not have to include this photo of himself in TBOB and how it really looks like it had to be taken by someone else.

[maddragonfruit]

Shapeshifting in Sanders Sides is so interesting to think about, like, we know all of the sides can shapeshift, but I need to know what they can and can't do.

We know Remus, Virgil, Patton, Logan and Roman can all shapeshift into people that aren't Thomas, cause we've seen it. But can Janus do that? Or is it like a "You can shapeshift into the other sides on command thing. You don't get to look like a different person then Thomas." Thing?

Also, when Janus shapeshifts, I assume he shapeshifts into what he imagines them to look like in his mind. Or at least that's how I view him occasionally getting small outfit details wrong, he just didn't picture the side he was shifting into properly.

The sides can clearly shapeshift each other, as Patton, Roman and Logan all have been shown to do that.

Thomas can also do this, even when the side he's shapeshifting doesn't want to be shapeshifted. And I'm pretty sure the promise they all made at the end of "Making Some Changes" was just like saying they won't do it again, and not an demand they get consent or they can't shapeshift anyone.

Also, the sides can change each others clothes as well when they shapeshift, or even when they don't Such as when Remus shapeshifts into Joan, complete with outfit, or when Virgil changes Roman, Logan and Patton's Halloween costumes.

Also, Virgil and Logan have both been shown to have trouble with shapeshifting. Such as Virgil telling everyone to shapeshift him back when they were all shapeshifting in "Making some Changes" implying to me that he couldn't shapeshift back. And Logan asking how to change back after he had turned into a puppet in the puzzle episode.

Sorry, this was pretty rambly, I just wanted to talk about it cause it's really interesting to think about and wonder how it works. This didn't really have a point, just wanted to talk about it.

[synchodai]

What's the appeal of Gortash?

Look, I've seen this question floating around, and I understand, man, I do. I'm not going to try to convince the naysayers by going on about his traumatic backstory, greaseball charm, or his chemistry with the Dark Urge. No, this is BG3 — everyone has trauma and a hot bod.

I'll be speaking only for myself and for my own tastes here, and the reason why I'm personally obsessed with this man is because he is my favorite kind of antagonist: an ideological antagonist.

ideas as a weapon

The Chosen of the Dead Three are all threats, but they administer violence through markedly different ways. Military threat, bodily threat, ideological threat — the third one so mundane and subtle that sometimes it doesn't even register as violence.

Ketheric (and his army) is your collective antagonist which threatens society as a whole and whom the factions must band together to defeat. Orin (and her dopplegangers) is your personal antagonist which undermines the bonds and trust between companions. But Gortash's deal is challenging your perception and beliefs of how things should be. The lure of his Steel Watch is that people are willing to sacrifice personal freedoms for security — a balance you and your companions struggle with throughout the game yourselves.

There's a reason why he's the one who controls the Baldur's Mouth and why he's all anyone can talk about in this goddamn city. Mindflayers operate on ideas, and so does he, except his psionics is ideology.

Gortash is the reason why the cult is called the Absolute, because his is the philosophy of absolutism.

the absolute and absolutism

Absolutism (not to be confused with moral absolutism) is the political movement that rose in response to the decline of the monarchy as a ruling institution. In general, absolutists believed the ideal society was one of complete unity that followed a single, central power (usually in the form of an absolute monarchy).

Guess who also had that belief? Well, if we read Gort's political manifesto...

What is progress? Progress is the movement of society and culture towards a state of collective unity. Without unity, mortals, each with their own individual agenda, blunder against each other, causing friction, conflict, war. Unity - peace and prosperity - is achieved when the collective follows a single agenda, that of one superior person. Runaway egocentrism, that urge often miscalled 'free will', is the one true enemy of Unity. Free will must be eliminated. Control of the brain is the key. The Netherese tadpole is the perfect tool. Tadpoled, the brain is freed of egocentrism to follow the agenda of Unity. The tadpoled brain is a happy brain. There is no conflict, except against the enemies of Unity. And the brain is all you need - once freed from its agendas of 'free will', it can also be freed from the frailities of the mortal form. The brain can live forever in a steel body, or even better, control that body from afar. This is progress. This is the Ultimate State. - Lord Enver Gortash

Thomas Hobbes, daddy father of political philosophy, believed power should be concentrated in a being known as the "leviathan." Hobbes, of course, was using them term "leviathan" as a metaphor for an ideal government institution that holds all the power, but in Baldur's Gate 3's case, the leviathan manifests physically in the form of the Netherbrain and whoever gets to control it.

There are a lot of words people use to describe this political philosophy: authoritarianism, fascism, the Grand Design, pick your poison. Tyranny is a great catch-all word for it. The world of absolutism and the cult of the Absolute is where everyone is powerful and immortal with their mindflayer abilities and steel bodies, but ultimately subservient to the state. Basically, it's the sacrifice of 'free will' in exchange for power.

we are all in danger of agreeing with gortash

Throughout the game, we are constantly being challenged with how much of ourselves we are willing to surrender in exchange for power and a purpose. Gale loses his personality and ideals in exchange for godhood. Shadowheart loses her memory and the possibility of love to be the leader of Shar's church. Wyll gives his soul to Mizora to save Baldur's Gate. Astarion gives up his remaining humanity to become a Vampire Ascendant. Lae'zel, when siding with Vlaakith, ultimately gets gladly consumed by her, fuel for the Gith queen's rise to power. And Karlach values her freedom and right to be an individual so much that she's willing to die for it.

In some ways, there's something even revolutionary about Gortash's desire to supplant the gods and replace them with a mortal human being. After all, he doesn't want to give power to Bane. He wants the absolute authority to be himself (and the Dark Urge). If he succeeds, it'll be the ultimate underdog story of a slave who crawled through Hell and became a god through his own resourcesfulness.

See, sacrifice for the good of a collective purpose is not necessarily a bad thing. But to give away all your autonomy to an authority is to be consumed, and some people want to be consumed, to lose themselves to be part of something bigger. There's a reason why Tyranny falls under the domain of death — because tyranny and its many faces (facism, authoritarianism, etc.) demand death of the self.

And it IS supposed to be tempting, to shut off our brains and be possessed by someone more competent in a time where everything is scary and complicated. In times of crisis, society's historical inclination has been to reach for dictatorship and martial law. This is ultimately the appeal of gods and authoritarians. We want someone to make the right decisions for us because we fear failure and pain more than we value autonomy.

But if there's anything BG3 stands for as a game and makes it a cut above the rest, it's allowing players to make decisions — especially objectively wrong ones.

a single point of failure

The greatest irony of Enver Gortash as a character is that he's supposed to be this genius inventor but makes the most rookie mistake any technical designer can make — all his plans have a single point of failure. He engineered it to be that way. The Steel Watch has one (1) place where they all operate from. His office where you fight him is trapped to the nines but has one entrance and exit. All his key hostages are kept in one location. The godsdamned netherbrain becomes a single point of failure once the netherstones are reunited.

That is the game showing us why absolutism absolutely suuuuuuuucks as a political doctrine. Having all the power does not in fact make you impervious — if anything, it only magnifies the precarity of your situation. True security and safety is found in actually trusting others and spreading around the responsibility instead of betting it all on big netherbrain.

As a craftsman, I think Gortash himself realized this. The teachings of Tyranny and his political manifesto say one thing, but his actions and reality say another. He knows the he and the Dark Urge do not share a united vision, but he still offers them an equal alliance. Sharing equal power is not only necessary for checks and balances, it's also something that he personally misses.

Because at the end of the day, this megalomaniac who was so narcissistic to think that he should be making all the decisions for everyone else is just a human man. And it's not power or unity or perfection or security that motivates humanity, it's our social bonds. He is the way he is because something about his parents, just like everyone else. All of the Dead Three Chosen are like this. They do what they do because of they are afflicted with the all-too human condition known as "wanting community recognition."

To quote another fantasy franchise filled with evil people: "We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy."

conclusion

I like Gortash because I think he represents the shadow of this game's themes on the value of free will and equating vulnerability to true strength. The bigger they are, the easier to score a critical hit and all that. But spread out your power and trust in others, and suddenly everyone is covering everyone's weaknesses and if one falls, the structure still stands.

The reason I'm so obsessed with the Dead Three villains is because they're all walking contradictions. The Chosen of Necromancy brings his daughter back to life as a healthy and whole living being. The Chosen of Murder fails to murder the one person their god actually wants them to murder. And the Chosen of Tyranny is willing to share their power. These contradictions are where we find these glimpses of humanity — flawed and complex individuals instead of simple monsters that represent one evil.

Do you like political philosophy references and Enver Gortash? May I then interest you in my fic which is basically my manifesto on the Dead Three Chosen and their respective belief systems?

Now that I've said my personal piece about politics, please don't let that overshadow the fact that Enver Gortash does indeed have nice tits. I wholeheartedly agree that should be the pervading discourse about him.

[dandelionuprising]

I think a fundamental issue is that no direct comparison can be made between the treatments we use for different symptoms. Antidepressants are not adhd meds are not antipsychotics etc etc. I think a lot of movies that show severe mental illness and the effects of medicine, are actually depicting antipsychotics. Which are notorious for being sedating and taking away a lot of your experience, even as they may also take away some of the bad experiences. So as someone who is in the antipsychotics camp of mental health issues, I find that depiction very relatable.

I'm glad OP and others have had a good experience with their meds, but I think it's important to acknowledge that not everyone will have a good experience, and there won't necessarily be a med that will have the desired effect. And that people who don't have a good experience with medication don't necessarily have to keep trying, it's not necessarily the case that the right med is just around the corner. It's ok to be done with psychiatric medicine. It's ok to not want to risk it at all. Psychiatric medicine is far from being an exact science, and it's extremely hit and miss whether it helps. And for a bunch of people, it ends up doing more harm than good.

Depression or adhd or psychosis etc obviously have a basis in the physical realm, arising from biological as well as psychological and social factors, but we don't have a clear understanding of how exactly, and the medication we use to treat them don't pinpoint target the issue. Rather, they are psychoactive drugs with effects that sometimes, but not always, alleviate the distressing symptoms of various psychiatric disorders.

No one gets to define who the "real you" is. You're real with or without the influence of medication, you just have to decide which version you like being the most. I did like what adhd medication did for me personally, but I've also quit, because the withdrawal is intense in terms of making me completely unable to do anything, and I'm not very good at taking meds consistently, so it caused way more highs and lows in functionality than what I was comfortable with. Two of my partners take ADHD meds religiously, and for at least one of them, it's been life-saving. I also know a person who lost 5 years to adhd medication. It completely changed their personality from a quirky, loving nb pal, to functional but distant dude completely out of touch with "his"(?) emotions. They can barely remember those years, and the mother of their children broke up with them during those years because there was just zero emotional availability (they're back together now). Which is just to say that even a generally well loved and effective medication like central stimulants for adhd can have horrible side effects for some people.

Meanwhile antipsychotics are objectively a really heavy hitting form of medication that (more or less subtly) works by sedating your brain so you have less ability to have weird ass thoughts and experiences. I have found that for me, a baby dose way below the suggested amount for treating schizophrenia/psychosis helps me cope and feel better. But when I was on the lowest recommended dose to treat my diagnosis, I completely lost my spark. I slept 15+ hours a day and spent most of my time listlessly lying on the floor or sofa, staring at the ceiling. Several of my close friends have lost years of their life to antipsychotics. And it's really important to acknowledge these types of experiences, while also acknowledging that medicine can be great sometimes.

The two experiences can coexist. And it's important to acknowledge that these are heavy hitting drugs with a lot of potential consequences (all of them, but some more often than others), and to let everyone make their own decisions about what they want to try and what they want to keep taking. One person choosing not to medicate themselves is not an attack on another who chooses to do so, or vice versa.

90s movies: Psychopharmacology is as good as a lobotomy. If you take pills to treat your mental illness it will literally murder your imaginary friends and you will become a boring, lotus-eating conformist drone.

Me after taking my meds: drives the scenic route home to see if there are any geese on the pond and does a little dance in line at the grocery store and comes home to throw everything​ in my fridge into a stew pot because I can finally taste food again while singing songs at my birds in which I replace all the instances of "she" with "Cheese" and doing a Dolly Parton impression on the phone to my sister

[damedechance]

🎨by mahpiyaluta_ on IG

Feyre Archeron as she is described in my fic: darling.exe ✧･ﾟ Please show the artist, Mahpiya luta, some love for this outstanding piece! And if you are interested, there is a snippet and summary of darling.exe under the cut, which you can also read here: LINK ･ﾟ:*

please do not repost.

Pairing: Feysand Status: 5/5 complete Rated: E Summary: Feyre Archeron never considered herself to be particularly studious, but that all might have to change when she sets eyes on her new biology professor. Only, he looks strangely familiar. But it's just a coincidence. Isn't it? [Feysand OnlyFans AU]

» read on ao3 » listen to playlist

intro_to_biology_lec1.pptx

He looked familiar.

Feyre’s brow furrowed. She watched as Rhysand grabbed a stack of papers from the table, and pulled off a paperclip.

It was almost like she knew him from somewhere, but Feyre was certain she’d remember if she’d met him before. Even just having his eyes on her for that brief moment of time when he was chastising her was mesmerizing. She could still feel the warmth of his gaze, melting her from head to toe. It would have been impossible to forget him.

Except somehow she did. Because he was walking up the center aisle, handing out stacks of paper to the students at the ends of their rows, and she still couldn’t place him. 

Maybe I ran into him on campus, once, Feyre considered. A fleeting moment, borne out of her own haste. Still, she thought she would have remembered bumping into someone like him. 

And, god, if they had touched? She’d never have forgotten that. Already, she was trying to imagine how it might feel to have his hands on her.

Fuck, she was getting the weirdest sense of deja vu.

Feyre stared at Rhysand as he came closer and closer, the stacks of papers in his hands dwindling. Her face screwed up, as she tried to imagine him in different settings. Campus, the coffee shop, the art museum. None of them seemed right.

It wasn’t until he was one step away from reaching her row that Feyre remembered she was on the end. And that he’d be handing the stack of papers directly to her.

Eyes going wide, Feyre scrambled to flip her tablet over so that he wouldn’t see her sketches when he turned around from passing out the papers to the person below her.

She breathed out a sigh of relief when she succeeded, only to struggle on her next inhale when Rhysand turned towards her, a smirk on his face.

Feyre’s jaw dropped. Rhysand extended his arm.

Later, Feyre would insist that she’d reached out to grab the remaining papers like a normal person. Lucien would berate her, and Feyre would have to fight to defend her own honor. I reached for it, I swear!

Only, it would have been a lie.

Because Feyre had been aiming to reach for his face. Like an idiot.

And Professor Sterling, who was well within his rights to assume that a student would respect his personal space, clearly thought that she was ready to catch the papers because he just… dropped… them.

Feyre’s eyes shot down to the floor, staring uselessly at the papers.

“Fuck,” Rhysand breathed.

And that was the precise moment when Feyre placed exactly where she knew him from.

[jamethinks]

Here's the thing about Anya.

Her primary goal is to achieve world peace, a concept she has no understanding of but she is fervently dedicated. Some part it is due to her childish attitude and obsession with spies but there is another part.

Anya does not understand her own self-worth and self-identity outside of her role as a tool in achieving "world peace".

When Anya grew up her main purpose was always "for the sake of world peace". Everything she did was for that sake. It was almost as if her entire reason for existing was for world peace. But it also wasn't, because she was made by accident. This adds an extra dimension where she was seen as optional. This would obviously damage herself esteem and really force her to want to please the people around her because in their minds she was more of a hassle.

When Anya was finally adopted by Twilight she found out he had the same goal as the scientists that held her before. Also, more directly he is willing to discard of her if she is not up to the task. In a way, Twilight is no different than the scientists that had her before. Of course over time he eventually empathize with her and focus more on her comfort than functionality. He does not directly scold Anya to force her fulfill this role but her telepathy gives her that knowledge.

But you clearly see the impact of the scientist on Anya's sense of self and how Twilight does not do much to help (although to some extent it is not his fault).

Anya remains fairly optimistic about the whole thing and continues to aim to achieve her goal. But we also see where these ideas negatively effect her. It makes her clingy, desperate, it keeps her in a constant fear of rejection. even the most minor forms of rejection can completely shatter her because she for her any failure puts her one step closer back into the street.

This is one of the traits she actually shares with both Damian and Becky. I will focus on Damian to keep it short though. Damian is very preoccupied with being the best. He lives a very isolated life and has no relationship with his own family. For what ever reason, he accredits this to his father. Damian believes that the only to get his father's approval and therefore his (and the rest of his families') love is if he succeeds. There is also this additional pressure put on him because of his father's status which externalizes this pressure. The reason he likes Anya so much is because she does not apply that pressure. She does not expect to be great, she just wants to be his friend for her mission. There is also that transparency which makes him feel less tricked and hence safe.

The Prince kid also mirrors that same dilemma. He has a responsibility as the Prince to maintain a certain standard and reputation. His family needs him to be strong and noble but in the end he is just a kid. When he is confront by the Freddy he is scared out of his mind, worried that if he loses he will disappoint his family.

The problem with this however, is that it further surrounds Anya with people that think the same way she does. This only encourages this kind of thinking. Anya is constantly surrounded by people that echo the same negative sentiments she has about herself and self worth. For Damian (and Becky) it works because it gives her ground to relate to them and her seemingly carefree nature allows her to motivate them to let go of this attitude.

But who is encouraging Anya to relax? Who is encouraging Anya to let go of these insecurities?

Anya's identity and motivation is still defined through her father and to a less extent the scientist. she is still motivated by the idea of world peace. However, Anya herself does not know what that means or why she should be aiming for it. It is more of a concept to her than a tangible goal. Her only true goal is to not be returned. For that reason she will never push back against Loid, she will follow his guidance and never develop a personal goal.

Now here is where i think Freddy or some delinquent of some sort will come in use.

For Anya to gain a sense of identity, she needs to push back against her father. She needs to start doing things that prioritizes her own happiness over her father's aim for world peace. She needs someone that will push into her more natural self. Anya is naturally a girl of chaos and mischief. She is not like the others who well behaved and properly trained, nor is she personally interested in being that girl. The only reason Anya is interested in achieving this is for the sake of father. She does not understand the purpose of a lot of these things she is just afraid of being sent back to the orphanage.

I feel like Anya having someone who can encourage her to lean more into the rebel side and allow to actually challenge the things she has been told. Children are curious by nature and one aspect of that is the question of "why?". Constantly provoking the people around them to explain and justify the things they tell them. Anya should also be able to decide what she agrees with and what she disagrees with. She also suffer from natural consequences of her actions. And you will never have that if never challenge your parents or teachers.

Anya is surrounded by goodie two shoes. Although she is still in touch with that curious and defiant side but if there is no one else around to encourage it she will continue to conform and eventually that curious side of her will disappear. If she never gets someone who can remind her to be young and curious she will lose that part of herself. She needs Freddy. Fuck you.

[iwillstabyou]

TMAGP 31 - A Computer Nerd’s Breakdown Of The Error Logs

It’s round 3, bitches! (tumblr crashed twice when I was writing this so I’ve had to start again multiple times. I do in fact see the irony, considering the subject matter)

I was listening to TMAGP 31 and as a computer nerd, oh my god those error messages just HIT DIFFERENT. There are so many subtle details hiding in those lines that a typical non-computery person would probably miss, so I feel it is my duty to explain them and their possible implications. So that’s why I’ve decided to fully break down each part of the error report, complete with what they could potentially suggest — think of this as “the TMAGP theorist’s guide to deciphering Chester’s yapping”

So without further ado, let’s get this party started…

(NOTE: lines from the transcript are in red, ‘translations’ are in purple, jmj specific stuff is is green, explanations are in black)

Starting off with Category: fatal programmer error, notice it says programmer, not program. There is nothing wrong with the code - the user has truly fucked up. Uh oh, Colin has made a big mistake…

Also, clever double meaning here with the word fatal. Obviously we know it was fatal to Colin (RIP king 🥲), but error logs also typically have a criticality level describing if immediate action needs to be taken. There are 6 commonly used levels, with the most critical being, yep you guessed it, ‘fatal’ - this means that whatever Colin was doing was a critical threat to the system. In other words, Colin had figured out the problem and was dangerously close to fixing it so Freddie just went “oh shit, we need to deal with this guy quickly or we are in serious trouble.”

Then we’ve got the next line, attempted host compromise (the Errno611 isn’t significant - error codes vary from system to system). When it comes to network terminology, a host is basically just any device on the network, so in full this line basically means “somebody’s tried to damage part of the network.” Importantly, “host” seems to suggest that the computers aren’t the source of this evil but merely a vessel for it. Freddie is just the mouthpiece for these supernatural forces - a bit like a non-sentient (as far as we know…) avatar. Whatever these forces are, they didn’t come from within/they weren’t created by Freddie.

(NOTE: I will come back to jmj=null in a bit)

The program traceback, Traceback <module> by extension BECHER, is rather interesting. A network extension is a way of providing network access to remote users (think along the lines of a VPN) by creating a personal direct ‘route’ to the network. Therefore if it’s the subject of an error report, it means there’s been an issue with data transmission along that path. So this bit means “there’s a problem with this specific network route that’s allocated to Colin.” However, the darker implication here is that Colin is an extension of Freddie. Although he wasn’t initially a part of all of this, he’s become tangled in the web (no pun intended) to the point that he and Freddie are inseparably intertwined. The OIAR employees may be able to quit their jobs, but they’ll still be a part of Freddie…

There isn’t much to say about Host=self.host in this context. It’s just convention when it comes to object oriented programming. Not important here.

Extension BECHER compromised isn’t just saying “there’s an issue here.” It’s saying “there’s an issue here that is a serious threat to network operation.” In other words, Freddie’s going “uh oh. Colin needs to be dealt with.”

The next bit is pretty self explanatory. I really don’t think I need to explain what <hardware damage_crowbar> means for you guys to understand. This bit made me laugh so hard. One thing that’s interesting though is that it gave it a DPHW, so Freddie processed this like it was an incident… Perhaps this fully confirms that the ‘thing’ controlling Freddie is of the same origin as the cases - it’s not something else entirely?

And now onto Administrator privilege revoked. This was the moment when I fully realised “oh no. Colin is fucked,” because any control that Colin may have had over the situation is now gone for good. Freddie’s basically just said “fuck you Colin. You’re not in charge anymore. I am.”

As you can probably guess, Unexpected data isolated/resolved just means that the crowbar’s been dealt with and the program can run as usual. Similarly, the Colin threat is fixed now he’s not an administrator i.e. he can no longer control the system. However, it then gets weird with Independent operation permissions revoked… It’s not saying Colin can’t use the network independently, it’s saying that Colin can’t be used independently of the network. Remember what I was saying earlier about Colin being a part of Freddie? Yeah, well now he purely is a part of Freddie. They’re turning our boy into data!

NOTE: I know in the audio it said everything was discarded but I’m going by the transcript. Idk why they’re different

You know it’s a bad sign when you hear Re config: self.host - Freddie’s evolving. The network is literally reconfiguring itself to now include Colin. And then Freddie goes through each of his alchemical elements one by one and fucking deletes them! How rude. You go and eat this man only to spit everything out!? I guess he’s feeling generous though, because he decides to keep the sulphur, which in alchemy, refers to the soul… If this isn’t just a coincidence, then that means Colin’s actual soul has been uploaded to Freddie. That could be really cool. And messed up. But mostly cool.

Starting with the final line, everyone knows what New administrator permissions assigned means, but we don’t know yet who they’ve been assigned to. Maybe it’s Gwen? Maybe it’s a new character? Maybe there is no system administrator anymore? It’s a mystery.

Now that’s out the way, let’s get on to the real juicy stuff…

The top few lines are pretty simple - it’s Freddie’s way of saying “Colin was a problem. We ate him. Now he’s not a problem anymore.” The next line, however, is a reminder that none of this is simple” - .jmj error not resolved. There it is again. The infamous jmj error. What does it mean? Jon? Martin? Jonah? Is that you???? Nobody knows. One thing we do know though is that jmj=null (from the start of the error log). Now when it comes to interpreting values, null is weird. It’s not zero, it’s not empty, it’s sort of nothing but it’s not nothing. It’s just null. It means no value, but it doesn’t mean that the variable doesn’t have a value (if that makes any sense to you guys???). Ooh I think I know how to explain it?? Imagine you’re Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute and you’re digitising some archived ID photos when you find one without a name. The recorded name in the database would be null - you can’t put anything in particular, but that doesn’t mean the person in the photo doesn’t have a name. I guess null means unknown or missing here. So basically, what jmj=null means is that the jmj is unknown and that is a problem because it can’t get ignored/it is important. So what it’s basically saying is that jmj is a mystery not only to us, but also to Freddie.

Take a look at Data integration cycle ongoing <0.02%> - Data integration is the process of combining data from multiple sources into a single source of truth. There are 4 stages: data ingestion, cleaning, transformation, and unification. Thanks to the whole Colin ordeal, I’m sure you are all quite familiar with these stages by now (and that, students, is what we call a case study!). The peculiar thing here though is that we’ve just witnessed most of the data integration cycle - surely it should be higher than 0.02%? Yes, that’s correct. It should be far higher than that. It makes no sense. UNLESS this isn’t about Colin. Most of Colin’s data has probably already integrated. This is something else entirely - something so much bigger and foreign than these computers were designed for (the only comparison I can think of is trying to run the sims 4 with all expansion packs on a 15 year old laptop. It really shouldn’t work, and it probably won’t, but it’s gonna try regardless). This seems to follow on nicely from the jmj=null comments above, because Freddie is clearly struggling to integrate something (hence System function margins down to 82%), and when you try to read data that hasn’t been fully integrated with the system, you end up with a lot of missing & unknown values. Sound familiar? Yep, that’s right - until more data is synchronised, many values will be null, like our good friend jmj. Why is it taking so long to integrate jmj? We don’t know. Perhaps its origins are so supernatural and otherworldly that it’s simply not tangible enough for Freddie to process it? That’s what I think at the moment, at least.

So yeah, that’s my line by line analysis done! Hope you found that helpful/interesting. This podcast is so well written I’m actually going insane! Jonny and Alex, you are the guys of all time! As I’ve already said, feel free to expand on any of this - I’d love to hear your theories

Signed, your friendly neighbourhood computer nerd who is very autistic about TMAGP :)

[kiwriteswords]

Blushing [Aaron Hotchner x Shy!Reader]*

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 7k|| AN: Here is the full version of this story I have been working on...since December? Smut is just so not something I feel confident with in my writing, but I did add a bit at the end here, so hopefully, my fellow smut-lovers will enjoy it! Also, this is likely filled with errors since I have come back to and abandoned this like 30 times. Tags/Warnings: female reader, mdni, smut, sexual tension, established relationship, hotch is a flirt, shy!reader, kinda fade to black smut, alcohol tw, reader is shy but like...only to an extent? idk she might not even be categorized as shy but that was the intent lol Summary: Hotch likes making you blush.

You thought Aaron Hotchner was supposed to be the serious one--the unreadable, stoic, always-in-control one. That's what you had signed up for when the teasing turned tangible, when subtle glances turned into late nights and when the soft-spoken tension finally broke, leaving you tangled in his sheets.

Tonight, you were at his apartment. It wasn’t unusual--things had been happening between you and Hotch for a while, nights spent together whenever cases allowed, secret moments exchanged between cases and jet rides.

But tonight was different. Not because of where you were, but because of how he was looking at you.

You stood in his kitchen, clad in one of his dress shirts draped loosely over your pajama shorts, the soft fabric brushing against your thighs with each movement. You scrolled through takeout options on your phone, the bright screen casting a glow against the dark granite countertop. The air was filled with the subtle scent of coffee left over from the morning, mingling with the faint, lingering spice of his cologne.

You felt him before you saw him--his presence warm behind you, his body just close enough to make your stomach flutter.

"What do you feel like eating?" you asked, your voice casual, scrolling through the options.

There was a beat of silence. Maybe he hadn’t heard you? 

Then--

"You."

Your fingers fumble, nearly dropping the phone, your pulse spiking like a live wire.

You turned sharply, eyes wide, because no way did you just hear that right--

Only to find Hotch, completely calm, watching you like he hadn’t just shattered your ability to function.

"Excuse me?" you finally managed.

His lips curved slightly, his voice smooth, measured, just the slightest bit flirtatious--

"You asked what I wanted."

You stared at him, your brain short-circuiting, because Hotch--the man known for his restraint, his control--had just completely unraveled you in two words.

And he knew it.

Oh, he absolutely knew it.

His gaze didn’t waver; just watched you as you scrambled for a response, his lips twitching in the smallest smirk when you failed spectacularly.

"I meant for dinner."

"So did I."

Your breath caught.

Because fuck, that was not fair.

That was not the way this was supposed to go.

You were supposed to be the one making him blush, the one teasing him until he snapped.

Not the other way around.

And then--to make it worse--he stepped closer, his hand coming up to trace the hem of the shirt you were wearing, his touch barely there yet sending electric shivers down your spine. His voice was low, smooth, devastating. "You look good in my clothes."

Your stomach flipped.

Your throat went dry.

Because fuck, this wasn’t fair.

Aaron Hotchner was not supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to be composed. Reserved. Contained. 

Not this.

Not smooth and utterly wrecking you with a few choice words.

And yet, here he was--watching you squirm, his touch slow, deliberate, entirely in control while you were the one standing there blushing like a damn rookie.

Sure, you would have never considered yourself the type of person who took on the contained, reserved, mysterious persona--but you were unraveling right before his eyes.  

And that?

That was the moment you realized--

You had never been in control of this game.

Aaron Hotchner had been playing you the entire time. And he had tricks up his sleeves. 

xoxoxo

The first few times Aaron Hotchner caught you off guard, you convinced yourself it was a one-time thing.

A fluke. A slip of restraint.

A rare moment where he let himself say what he was thinking instead of keeping it locked behind the walls he’d built for years.

But now?

Now, sitting in the BAU bullpen, surrounded by agents, the hum of paperwork being shuffled and keyboards clicking filling the air--

You realized you had been very, very wrong.

The office was alive with the usual post-case exhaustion, a strange mix of relief and tension still lingering in the air.

The team had only gotten back this morning--after a case that ran for days, a case that left you exhausted but wired, adrenaline still flickering beneath your skin.

Most of the team was wrapping up reports, lingering in the bullpen with coffee cups and sighs of relief that they finally had a few days to breathe.

And you?

You were sitting at your desk, typing up the final notes, trying to focus but finding it impossible.

Because you could feel him. It was this magnetic pull. This energy shift. 

Hotch was in his office, his blinds half-drawn, his body partially turned toward the window.

And he was watching you.

You knew, because every time you glanced up, you found him already looking.

Not in a way that anyone else would notice.

Not in a way that said, “hey, something’s happening here!” 

But in a way that sent a warm, twisting pulse through your stomach, in a way that made your fingers hover just slightly over your keyboard, in a way that made you forget what you were even supposed to be typing in the first place.

Damn it.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to refocus, fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, the words forming on the screen feeling far less important than the heat creeping up your neck.

And then--

"Agent, a word?"

Your stomach flipped.

Your brain must have shut off and lost track of time or the atmosphere because, for one moment, he was up at his desk looking at you with those eyes--now? Now, he was standing at his door, pulling you from your thoughts. Your scrambled, less than work-appropriate thoughts. 

Because fuck, that voice.

That low, even tone--just professional enough that no one else would think twice about it, but you?

You felt the weight of it.

You exhaled carefully, schooling your features before standing, aware of Morgan’s knowing smirk as you passed his desk.

"Getting called to the principal’s office?" he teased.

You shot him a pointed look, but it lacked any real bite, because truth be told, your brain was already spiraling.

Because Aaron Hotchner wanted to see you in his office.

That should not have been a big deal.

But God, it was.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, the usual scent of coffee and paper filling the space.

Hotch was behind his desk, one hand resting on a case file, the other rolling a pen slowly between his fingers. The faint sound of the air conditioning hummed in the background, a stark contrast to the palpable silence that fell between you.

"Close the blinds."

You blinked, confusion mingling with the sudden spike in your pulse. The blinds filtered the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across his stoic face, giving him an almost ethereal glow that didn't suit the gravity of the moment.

"What?" you managed to stutter out, your hands unconsciously tightening at your sides.

Hotch lifted his gaze slowly, and fuck, the weight of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

"The blinds," he repeated, calmly, smoothly, like he wasn’t already unraveling you from across the room. "You don’t want an audience, do you?"

Your pulse spiked.

Because Jesus Christ.

What did that mean?

What did that mean?

Your pulse spiked, adrenaline coursing through you as if you were on the edge of a precipice. The office felt smaller suddenly, the walls inching closer, filled with the scent of leather from his chair and the faintest hint of his cologne--a sharp, clean smell that was all too familiar.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly against your side, your throat suddenly dry, because this was not the Hotch you were used to.

This wasn’t the man who delivered briefings with an unreadable expression.

This wasn’t the Unit Chief who kept his emotions locked down so tight that you sometimes wondered if he ever let himself feel anything at all.

This was someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.

Someone who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And fuck, you weren’t ready.

"I--" You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat spreading through you, the fact that your hands were trembling slightly as you reached for the cord and tilted the blinds shut.

When you turned back, Hotch was still watching you.

But this time?

This time, his head was tilted slightly, his gaze slow, assessing, his fingers tapping against his desk in an almost lazy rhythm.

"You’re blushing." It was less of an observation and more of a fact. 

Your breath hitched.

"I am not." You moved to go sit at the chair in front of his desk, but your legs felt wobbly. Your palms sweaty. 

Hotch hummed--low, thoughtful, like he knew you were lying, like he was entirely too pleased with himself.

"I don’t know," he mused, leaning back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping slower against the wood. "I think you are."

Your stomach twisted.

Because what the hell was happening right now?

"Did you need something?" you asked, forcing your voice to stay steady, but fuck, it was so much more complicated than it should have been.

Hotch just watched you for a second longer, his expression unreadable--except, this time?

This time, you felt the shift before he even spoke.

"Yes." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, like this was some mild inconvenience to him, and God, that only made it worse.

Then--

"Come here," he instructed, his voice not commanding but inviting, which was somehow more unnerving.

You blinked, startled, your fingers pausing against the back of the chair you had barely pulled out.

"What?"

Hotch didn’t repeat himself.

Didn’t clarify.

Didn’t explain.

He just sat there, calmly watching you, like he had all the time in the world, like this was nothing unusual at all.

And fuck, something about that made your pulse kick up.

"Aaron--"

"Come here," he repeated, smoother this time, his tone velvet over steel. Your stomach flipped, heat curling low in your spine at the way he said it--smooth, even, just a little too controlled.

Like he already knew you were going to listen.

You exhaled, cautious, unsure, but you stepped forward anyway, the room suddenly too quiet as you stopped just in front of his desk.

Hotch didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, assessing, his gaze dragging over you, the air between you thick with something you couldn’t name.

And then--

He reached out.

His fingers hooked into your belt loop, pulling you forward, slow, unhurried, until your thighs pressed against the edge of his desk. The touch was light, but it might as well have been a chain for all the escape it afforded you.

Your breath hitched.

"Aaron."

"I’ve been thinking about kissing you all morning." 

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You stared at him, pulse hammering in your throat, because Jesus Christ, what?

"You--" You swallowed, brain short-circuiting, your fingers gripping the desk for support. "We’re at work."

Hotch hummed, unbothered, his thumb skimming lightly over your waistband, just the slightest touch, but God, it burned. "And?"

"And--" You exhaled shakily, completely thrown, because what the hell was happening right now? "And the door isn’t locked," you finally managed.

Hotch’s lips curved, his gaze flicking up to yours, something dark and knowing glinting behind his eyes. "Would you like me to lock it?"

Your stomach dropped.

Your breath came uneven, your fingers gripping the desk tighter, because fuck, you were losing this so fast.

"Aaron," you hissed, voice quieter now, because you could feel your face burning, and God, you could not afford to be flustered right now.

Hotch just watched you, so damn pleased with himself, his fingers still resting against your hip, his throat bobbing slightly as his gaze flickered to your lips. "See, you are blushing." 

Your heart nearly stopped. "I am not."

"You are." His voice dipped, smooth and devastatingly confident. "And it’s because you like it."

You gaped at him.

Because holy shit, when did he start talking to you like this?

When did he become so damn sure of himself, so deliberate, so utterly` unbothered by the fact that you were two seconds away from completely losing it in his office?

"You’re impossible," you muttered, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened slightly, keeping you right there, pressed against his desk.

"You love it." Your entire body locked up. Your breath caught.

And before you could even process that, before you could think of something--anything--to say back, there was a knock at the door.

Your stomach plummeted.

The moment snapped like a rubber band, Hotch’s hand releasing you instantly, his expression falling back into something neutral, completely composed, like nothing had just happened. As if he was able to use some sort of remote and hit the pause button on whatever version of himself he became around you these days. 

Like he hadn’t just spent the last minute ruining your ability to function.

You took a step back just as he called--

"Come in."

The door opened, Morgan stepping in with a file, his brows raising slightly at the sight of you still standing in front of Hotch’s desk. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," you rushed, your voice a little too high, stepping away before Morgan could get any funny ideas.

And Hotch?

Hotch just hummed, flipping open a case file, unbothered, completely unaffected, like he hadn’t just wrecked you. "We were just finishing up."

Morgan shot you a look, but you ignored it, too focused on trying to steady your breathing, on forcing the heat in your cheeks to fade.

And the last thing you saw before stepping out--

Was Hotch’s smirk, just barely hidden behind his coffee cup.

And fuck, you were so, so screwed.

xoxoxo

You’d kissed him before.

You’d slept with him before.

You’d spent nights wrapped up in him, tangled in sheets, learning the feel of his hands, the weight of his body, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath in the dark.

But this?

This was something else.

This was Aaron Hotchner in daylight, in his office, in the middle of a workday--fully dressed, fully composed, and still completely ruining you.

And the worst part?

He knew it.

He liked it.

And now, it seemed, he had absolutely no plans to stop.

After leaving his office, you spent the next few hours actively avoiding him.

Not obviously--you weren’t that obvious--but strategically.

You kept busy, buried yourself in reports, made coffee runs just to stay occupied.

But it didn’t matter.

Because Hotch wasn’t doing anything.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t following you around, wasn’t pushing further, wasn’t going out of his way to tease you again.

No, he was just existing.

Existing in the same space as you, taking up too much room in your mind, leaving you hypersensitive to every moment he was near.

Like now.

Now, standing in the elevator, the doors about to close, your mind was blissfully Hotch-free--

Until, at the last second, he stepped in. The doors slid shut with a soft whoosh, sealing you inside the small, confined space. The air shifted, becoming charged as he pressed the button for his floor. The soft glow of the elevator buttons cast a dim, amber light across his features, sharpening the angles of his face. He slid a glance toward you--subtle, casual, nothing outright provocative--but your body reacted anyway.

He exhaled, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh that you felt more than heard, and shook his head slightly. “I’m surprised you’re not avoiding me anymore.”

Your stomach flipped, pulse quickening, because so he noticed. You kept your expression neutral. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

Hotch made a low hum, unconvinced. “You were.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’d say you lasted a solid three hours.”

Your throat went dry. Because Jesus Christ, was he keeping track?

Your fingers curled into your palms, but before you could fire back, the elevator jolted to a stop. Hotch barely reacted, shifting his weight slightly, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other pressing against the wall behind you.

You tried to focus on anything but the fact that he was close. Too close. His body just inches from yours, the weight of his presence too heavy to ignore. The faint smell of his aftershave mixed with the sterile scent of the elevator, enveloping you in a cocoon of unwelcome intimacy.

You swallowed. “You like this.”

He tilted his head slightly, his brows raising in a way that was almost amused. “Like what?”

You huffed, your arms crossing. “Making me flustered.”

The moment stretched, his gaze flickering over your face, assessing, calculating, like he was debating whether or not to humor you. And then, slowly--

He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, his voice low, quiet, meant just for you. “I like watching you realize you’re not as in control of this as you thought.”

Your stomach twisted, heat licking up your spine, your breath hitching before you could stop it. And fuck, he heard it.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and his fingers brushed your hip, just the slightest touch--barely anything at all--but God, it was enough. Enough to make your pulse spike, enough to make your body sway slightly toward him, enough to make you forget how to breathe for a full second.

And then--

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open. Hotch straightened, unbothered, stepping out like nothing had happened at all. Like he hadn’t just left you wrecked against the back wall of an elevator.

You let out a slow breath, your fingers tightening into fists, because Jesus Christ, this was your life now. Hotch, already walking down the hall, turned back just briefly, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips before he disappeared into the bullpen.

And you? You were so damn screwed.

xoxoxo

You were still recovering from the elevator incident when it happened again.

It was later that evening, most of the team having already packed up for the night, the bullpen quieter than usual.

You had planned to finish one last report before heading home, but apparently, Hotch had other plans.

Because he showed up at your desk, leaned down, and murmured--

“Come over.”

You blinked, your pen pausing mid-word, your brain completely blanking for a full second.

You turned, staring at him, because surely he wasn’t just asking you to come over like it was nothing.

“I--” You swallowed. “Tonight?”

His lips twitched. “Unless you had other plans.”

Your pulse skipped.

Because technically, no.

You didn’t have other plans.

But fuck, this was still new.

Navigating this whole blending your lives thing, figuring out what it meant to go from stolen nights to actually knowing each other on a different level.

Still, even though your brain was short-circuiting, your body was already answering for you.

You nodded, clearing your throat. “Okay.”

Hotch hummed, satisfied. “Good.”

Then, just because he could, he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.

“You might want to finish that report before you get to my place.”

Your stomach flipped.

Your breath caught.

Because Goddamn him, he was doing it again.

And before you could even process what he meant, he was already walking away, leaving you to sit there, completely undone, pulse racing, trying to figure out what the hell you had just agreed to.

xoxox

By the time you showed up at his apartment, you had spent far too much time overthinking everything.

But as soon as he opened the door--standing there casual but effortless, his tie long discarded, his sleeves rolled up, his expression unreadable--

You knew.

You were in trouble.

So before he could get ahead of you, before he could smirk and tease and say something that left you breathless--

You stepped forward, pushing your palm against his chest, making him back up just slightly, your voice quiet but firm. “You like this.”

Hotch arched a brow. “We’ve already established that.”

You shook your head. “No.” Your fingers tightened slightly against his shirt, your breath uneven, because God, you weren’t used to feeling this way.

You had thought he would be the restrained one.

The one holding back.

But he was not holding back at all.

You exhaled. “You like seeing what you do to me.”

The moment stretched too long.

Too thick.

Then--

Hotch’s lips curved, his hands settling firmly on your waist, his touch warm and steady. “Of course I do.” His hands holding you like they were meant to. 

Your breath faltered.

And when he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dark and so damn sure of himself, he sealed your fate entirely. “I love watching you fall apart for me.”

And God help you, you knew then...

Aaron Hotchner was going to be the death of you.

xoxox

The team had known for a few weeks now.

After the initial teasing, the sideways glances. 

The endless smirks from Morgan. The numerous questions from Spencer. The poking for details from Penelope and JJ. The knowing eyebrow raises from Rossi. Emily was honestly the only one who remained… reasonably quiet. 

Things had finally settled into a new normal.

No one made a big deal about it anymore.

No awkward comments. No pointed jokes. No Hey, you two gonna behave? remarks at briefings.

It was just a fact now.

You and Aaron were together.

So, really, tonight should have been easy.

A casual night out after wrapping a case, a chance to unwind, a chance to drink, laugh, and just exist outside of work.

And it was easy. For about ten minutes.

The local bar was a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the undercurrent of music that was just loud enough to make you lean in to hear the person next to you. The dim lighting cast everyone in a soft glow, the neon signs flashing intermittently, reflecting off the polished surfaces.

You were seated in a large booth, a round of drinks on the table, the air filled with the residual adrenaline of the case just closed. Hotch was beside you, his presence both a comfort and a source of tension. His arm was casually draped over the back of the booth, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

And it was nothing.

It should have been nothing.

But you knew better now.

You knew what he was doing.

And when you glanced at him, eyes narrowed slightly, he didn’t even look at you.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t acknowledge what he was doing at all.

Which, of course, made it so much worse.

You were mid-conversation with JJ when you felt it--

You felt his fingers lightly touch your arm as he reached for his drink, a simple gesture to anyone watching, but to you, it was a direct challenge. His touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary, his fingertips tracing a path down to your wrist, barely noticeable under the hum of the bar.

You caught your breath, the sound drowned out by a burst of laughter from Morgan. Hotch’s touch was feather-light, yet it ignited a fire that you felt all the way to your toes. You glanced at him, his expression unreadable in the low light, his eyes a shade darker than usual.

He was watching you, a slight tilt to his head, assessing your reaction. You knew this game, the push and pull of it, and you hated how well he played it. The warmth from his hand seeped through the fabric of your sleeve, spreading slowly up your arm.

His thumb brushed casually against your pulse point, a touch so light it might have been accidental. But nothing with Hotch was ever accidental. Your heart hammered against your ribs, betraying your calm exterior.

Under the table, his knee pressed more firmly against yours, a silent acknowledgment of the tension crackling between you. It was a bold move, given the company, and it sent a clear message: he wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared.

You took a sip of your drink, the cold liquid doing little to cool your flushed skin. The ice clinked against the glass, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his touch. You tried to focus on the story Rossi was telling, the familiar timbre of his voice usually so soothing, but tonight it was just background noise to the silent conversation happening between you and Hotch.

As Rossi's story reached its finish, the team's laughter filled the air, but you barely heard it. Hotch’s fingers were still on your wrist, his presence enveloping you, pulling you into an undertow of desire that you weren’t sure you wanted to resist.

Just kept listening to the conversation, completely unbothered, completely compossed, while you sat there actively trying not to combust.

Finally, as the laughter died down and the team’s attention shifted to the next round of drinks, Hotch leaned closer. His breath was warm against your ear, his voice a low rumble that only you could hear.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” he murmured, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

Your stomach flipped.

Because Goddamn him, he knew exactly why.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay level.

"Just listening."

Hotch hummed, his fingers brushing over your thigh, absently, unhurried, like he wasn’t doing anything at all.

"You always get this quiet when you’re distracted?"

Your throat went dry.

"I’m not distracted."

That time, he did smirk.

Just the tiniest curve of his lips, still out of sight from everyone else, still completely subtle, but God, you felt it.

"No?" His fingers pressed just slightly, his voice dropping lower. "Then why are you gripping your glass so tight?"

You hated that he was right.

Your fingers were wrapped tightly around the glass in your hand, your grip white-knuckled, your body burning alive.

And Hotch, fully aware of it, just sat back, composed as ever, taking a slow sip of his drink.

Like he hadn’t just wrecked you in public without anyone noticing.

By the time the team was wrapping up, you were fully over it.

Your face was warm, your heart was pounding, and Hotch was still sitting casual as ever, like this hadn’t been a test of endurance.

And maybe you could have left it alone. Perhaps you could have brushed it off.

But then--

As everyone stood to leave, Hotch leaned in one last time, his hand settling lightly against your lower back, his lips brushing just barely against your ear.

"If I didn’t know better," his voice was smooth, dangerous, "I’d say you like it when I do this to you."

That did it.

Your face burned, your body tensing, and before you could stop yourself, you whipped around, voice low and warning.

"Aaron Hotchner, if you don’t stop--"

Hotch blinked at you, mild, unreadable, the picture of innocence.

"Stop what?"

You glared. "You know what."

And then--

Then, the bastard smirked againl.

"No, I don’t think I do."

And fuck, you knew then. You had completely, utterly lost.

The car ride home was silent, the air thick, the tension tangible.

And Hotch knew it.

You knew he knew it, because he was smirking the whole damn way back to his apartment.

Finally, when you couldn’t take it anymore, you turned toward him, voice exasperated.

"What was that?"

Hotch didn’t even look at you, "What was what?"

"Don’t play innocent, Aaron."

He exhaled, amused, shaking his head slightly. “I was just enjoying a night out.”

You stared at him, jaw tightening. “You were trying to make me lose my mind.”

Hotch made a low hum, thoughtful, "If I had been trying, you wouldn’t have lasted as long as you did."

Your brain short-circuited.

Your body locked up.

Because Jesus Christ, he was serious.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling into your lap, because if you responded now, you were going to lose even harder.

Hotch, of course, knew this.

Which was why--when he pulled into the parking garage and put the car in park--he finally glanced over at you, his gaze slow, dark, knowing.

"Come inside," he said simply.

And fuck, that was all he had to say.

xoxoxo

You had barely gotten through the door before you felt it--the weight of his presence, the air charged, his demeanor too casual, too confident, like he already knew how this was going to end.

You should have walked away. Should have seen it coming.

But you had walked right into it.

You had let him pour you a drink, let him pull you onto the couch beside him, let yourself breathe in the warmth of him, the sheer gravity of him.

And then--

The first move.

He had leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing the exposed skin of your shoulder.

Nothing obvious. Nothing that would call attention to itself

But enough to make your breath catch--to make your body react before your brain could catch up.

And Hotch? He had noticed immediately.

His lips curled slightly, his voice lower than before, “You tense up every time I touch you.”

Your stomach flipped.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I do not.”

Hotch exhaled a quiet, amused sound, shaking his head. “You do.”

His fingers brushed lower, skimming along your forearm now, his touch light, unhurried, deliberate, “And you don’t even realize it.”

Your breath hitched, your body betraying you instantly because Jesus Christ, this man was dangerous.

“You’re fighting it.” Hotch shifted, his voice smooth, devastatingly confident.

Your throat went dry.

You hated how right he was.

But you couldn’t let him win.

Not yet.

So you exhaled sharply, tilting your chin up, “And what exactly am I fighting?” Giving him your best unbothered expression.

Hotch smirked.

And then--

He leaned in.

His lips ghosted just along your jaw, his breath warm, deliberate, controlled, and when he finally spoke--

It wasn’t fair.

“You want me to ruin you.”

Your entire body locked up.

Your pulse spiked so hard it nearly made you dizzy.

Because fuck, that was it, wasn’t it?

That was exactly what this was.

You had spent weeks trying to endure him, trying to pretend you could keep up with him--

But now, you realized--

You didn’t want to keep up.

You wanted to lose. You wanted to fall apart for him.

And Hotch knew it.

It happened so fast.

One second, you were holding onto your last shred of restraint, trying desperately to pretend like you weren’t completely and utterly wrecked by him.

And the next--

You snapped.

You turned on the couch, grabbing the collar of his shirt, pulling him toward you with zero hesitation.

Hotch barely had time to react before your lips crashed into his, your hands fisting into the fabric, pulling, needing, demanding.

And fuck, he gave in instantly.

A sharp inhale against your mouth, a low sound deep in his throat, his hands gripping your waist, grounding, steadying as he pulled you closer.

You shifted, straddling him without a second thought, your fingers tangling into his hair, and God, the way he groaned against your lips, the way his grip tightened around you--

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

This was everything you had been holding back, everything he had been pushing you toward--

And now, neither of you were pretending anymore.

You pulled back just slightly, breathless, your body burning, alive, completely consumed by him.

And Hotch?

He tilted his head up toward you, his gaze dark, heavy, knowing, his breath warm against your lips.

“I told you.”

Your chest heaved, your hands still gripping his shirt, and God, he looked so satisfied.

So pleased with himself.

So infuriatingly smug.

And that?

That just made you kiss him again.

And this time--

You weren’t holding back at all. Hotch’s hands tightened, fingers digging just slightly into your waist, his breath warm against your lips as he murmured--

“I knew you’d break eventually.”

Your pulse spiked, your body thrumming with heat, your entire world tipping off its axis--

Because fuck, he was right.

And you hated that he was right.

You gritted your teeth, your breath uneven, your nails curling into the fabric of his shirt as you yanked him closer, your voice low, warning, desperate.

“Shut up, Aaron.”

Hotch chuckled--low, dark, impossibly knowing--his fingers tracing slow circles along the bare skin beneath your shirt.

“Make me.”

You did.

Your lips crashed into his, teeth and heat and hands grasping at anything solid, your body pressing into him, needing more, needing all of him.

And fuck, he let you take what you wanted--

For about five seconds. Until, he took over.

Hotch shifted, his grip tightening, his body twisting, and before you could even register it, you were suddenly on your back against the couch, breathless, pinned beneath him.

You gasped, your fingers fisting into his shirt, because fuck, when had he learned to move like that?

Hotch smirked, his breath brushing the curve of your jaw, his voice low and completely unfair.

“Now that’s better.”

Your stomach flipped, a breathless sound catching in your throat as his hands skimmed up your sides, slow, controlled, deliberate.

And then, his lips brushed over your pulse.

Just a whisper of contact, not enough, never enough, but God, your body arched instinctively, your breath catching, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Hotch hummed against your skin, pleased, “You’re so easy to unravel.”

Your breath stuttered, your mind blanking, because Jesus Christ, he was doing it again.

And the worst part?

You loved it.

You hated how much you loved it.

Hated how effortlessly he could reduce you to this--

To breathless gasps and frantic fingers, to helpless tension, to something desperate and completely undone beneath him.

Hotch, of course, knew it.

Which was why, after another slow, deliberate brush of his lips against your throat, he murmured, “Tell me what you want.”

Your stomach twisted, your body shaking beneath his, because fuck, he was making you say it.

You swallowed, your fingers trembling against his shoulders. “You.”

Hotch hummed, “Say it again,” pleased but not satisfied, his lips dragging along your collarbone, his hands smoothing down your sides, taking his time, making you burn.

You hated him (you didn’t).

You hated how much you loved this (you did love it).

You hated the way he was completely in control of you without even trying (you’d let him control everything).

You hated how badly you wanted him to never stop (you hoped he didn’t).

“Aaron,” you gasped, half a plea, half a demand, your fingers tugging at his belt, desperate, impatient.

And the walk to his bedroom was a blur.

Your back hit the wall, his lips crashing into yours, hands grasping, pulling, anchoring, never letting go.

Your shirt hit the floor, his hands skimming every inch of you, learning, memorizing, his breath hot and desperate against your skin.

And God, he wasn’t just toying anymore.

This was real.

By the time you made it to the bed, you were burning alive, your fingers desperate to strip away everything between you, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

Hotch hovered over you, watching you, his hands framing your face, steadying you, his breath ragged, uneven, barely controlled.

Your breath shook, your fingers brushing over his jaw, his cheek, memorizing the moment.

And then--

You smiled, soft, cheeky and completely breathless, “You’re flustered, Hotchner.”

Hotch exhaled sharply, his jaw tensing, his fingers curling against your skin.

And then, with a low, rough sound--

He kissed you like he was never going to stop.

You gasped against his mouth, your own hands grasping at his shirt, fisting into the fabric, yanking him impossibly closer.

His voice, low, rough, almost teasing, broke through the haze, “So impatient.”

You bit his lip in retaliation.

Hotch groaned, deep, guttural, wrecked, and fuck, that sound sent heat surging through you so fast you nearly melted into the mattress. 

He dragged his lips slowly down your jaw, his breath warm against your throat, his hands firm on your waist as he pinned you in place.

“You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, voice low, dark, unbearably smooth, “how long I’ve wanted you like this today.”

“Then stop holding back.”

His jaw tightened.

And then, with zero hesitation--

He didn’t.

The rest of the clothes hit the floor in a blur of movement, hands grasping, mouths searching, heat building with every breath.

You pulled him flush against you, your hands everywhere, your nails skimming down his back, pulling him closer, desperate to have him right where you needed him.

Hotch groaned against your lips, his breath uneven, wrecked, completely lost in you.

And God, you had never seen him like this.

Never seen him completely, utterly undone.

Never heard his voice this raw, never felt his hands this desperate, this needing.

And fuck, you wanted all of it.

Wanted him to ruin you.

Wanted to ruin him right back.

Your lips dragged down his neck, tasting, taunting, savoring, and when he groaned, his hands gripping your hips harder, you smirked against his skin.

“You always so composed, Hotchner?” you murmured, your voice breathless, wrecked.

Hotch huffed a laugh, shaking his head as his hands slid lower, his breath ragged and completely destroyed.

“Not with you.”

And God help you, that was the moment you knew--

This wasn’t just about giving in.

This wasn’t just about breaking tension.

This was something else entirely.

And now, there was no stopping it.

His hands were everywhere.

Rough. Desperate. Needing.

And God help you, you weren’t any better.

The heat between you was consuming, spiraling into something neither of you could stop even if you wanted to.

Hotch wasn’t gentle now.

Wasn’t careful.

He was fully, completely undone.

And fuck, you wanted him like this.

You wanted all of him.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing firm, anchoring, pulling you flush against him, bare skin meeting bare skin, and Jesus Christ, he was solid.

Strong. Unyielding. Overwhelming.

Your lips crashed together again, the kiss messy, starved, like you’d been waiting for this your whole damn life.

Hotch groaned against your mouth, low and wrecked, his hands sliding up your spine, fingertips pressing into your skin like he never wanted to let go.

Your stomach tightened, your breath shaky, your body already burning alive beneath him.

And when he moved lower, when his lips ghosted down your neck, his breath hot against your skin--

You gasped, your fingers tangling into his hair, your entire body shuddering as his lips brushed lower, then lower still.

Tasting. Exploring. Claiming.

You arched beneath him, your body seeking, aching, and fuck, Hotch noticed instantly.

He chuckled against your skin, his voice dark, knowing, completely unfair.

“So eager.”

Your breath hitched, your nails digging into his back, because, God help you, he was taunting now.

And he knew it.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging, and when he groaned, his grip on you tightened right back.

“If you don’t stop talking,” you whispered, your voice shaky, breathless, “I will make you.”

Hotch huffed a laugh, his lips dragging along your collarbone, slow, deliberate, completely in control.

“I’d like to see you try.”

You did.

You flipped him over, your hands pinning him down, your breath ragged, your lips crashing into his like you were determined to make him unravel this time.

His breath stuttered, his hands gripping your waist, his body tensing beneath yours, his control cracking at the seams.

And God help you, it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Hotch’s hands skated along your sides, his touch slow, reverent, exploring, like he was memorizing the feel of you beneath his fingertips.

You shivered, your breath coming in soft, uneven pants, your pulse skipping every time his fingers traced over newly exposed skin.

And fuck, he was taking his time.

His lips dragged along your collarbone, warm and open, his breath heavy, steady, consuming.

His fingers gripped your waist, grounding you, his body solid against yours, heat radiating between you in a way that made your stomach twist. It wasn’t long until you were back beneath him, bodies pressed so close together. 

And God help you, it wasn’t enough.

You wanted more.

Needed more.

So you arched beneath him, your body pressing up into his, your fingers skimming down his back, gripping, seeking, pulling.

He groaned, low and wrecked, his breath catching, his fingers tightening against your hips. He lifted his head, his gaze dark, heavy, completely unreadable.

And fuck, he just looked at you.

Just stare.

Like he was taking you apart with his eyes alone.

Like he was seeing you for the first time and still somehow knowing exactly how to touch you. Like you hadn’t already been under him, over him, and all around him before. 

His voice, low, thick, almost strained, "Are you sure?"

Your stomach flipped, your breath hitching, because fuck, how could he even ask?

You let out a soft, shaky exhale, your fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him down, closer, needing him right where you wanted him.

"I need you to stop asking questions and just--"

Your words were cut off as his lips crashed into yours, swallowing whatever remark you were about to make, leaving nothing but heat and wanting and absolute, complete surrender.

His hands slid lower, his touch burning and slow, his body pressing into you, against you, against every part of you that had been waiting for this, aching for this.

And God help you, you let him. You gave in completely.

You let him take you apart, piece by piece, breath by breath, kiss by kiss--until there was nothing left but him.

Much later, long after the tension had snapped, after the air had settled, after the last remnants of desperation had faded into something warmer, slower, softer--

You found yourself laying against him, your body tangled with his, your skin still thrumming from the aftershocks.

Hotch’s arms were wrapped around you, his fingers trailing lazy, absentminded circles along your spine.

And for the first time--

Neither of you spoke.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Because every word had already been spoken in the way his hands had held you, in the way your body had moved against his, in the way neither of you had let go even once.

Your fingers traced along his ribs, your breath steadying, your body finally settling into his.

And then, barely above a whisper--

He murmured against your skin, soft, quiet, so damn real, "You’re dangerous."

You huffed a breathless laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest. "Me?"

His arms tightened slightly, his lips brushing your temple, his voice gravelly and warm.

"I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you." Your stomach flipped, your chest aching, because that wasn’t teasing anymore.

That was something else entirely.

And now, there was no going back.

That was real.

That was something else entirely.

And God help you, you felt it everywhere.

His hand rested against the small of your back, fingers splayed wide, thumb absently brushing over your skin--a slow, reverent kind of touch, the kind that felt more like grounding than claiming.

You swallowed, your fingers tracing light, thoughtless shapes over his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, still just slightly uneven.

You should say something.

You should respond, should acknowledge what he just said, should do anything but lay here drowning in the weight of it.

But all you could do was stare at him, at the way his jaw was still tense, at the way his throat bobbed slightly, like he was bracing for whatever you were going to say next.

Like maybe he wasn’t sure if he should have said it at all.

So you did the only thing you could think to do. 

You reached up and cupped his face, fingers tracing along the sharp line of his jaw, your thumb brushing just under his cheekbone, slow and deliberate.

Hotch exhaled, heavy, measured, but he didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull back.

Just watched you; waiting.

Your voice came soft, quiet, barely above a whisper, "You mean that?"

His brow twitched, like maybe he expected you to brush it off, to tease, to challenge, to do anything other than meet his honesty with honesty.

But you didn’t.

Because you couldn’t.

Not with him.

Not now.

His fingers curled just slightly against your back, like he needed something to hold onto, and when he finally spoke--

"Yes,” his voice was low, careful, unwavering.

The breath pushed out of you, your fingers tightening just slightly where they rested against his face, your body warming from the inside out.

Because fuck, there it was.

No hesitation.

No second-guessing.

Just truth.

And that?

That was more dangerous than any teasing remark he could have thrown your way.

You swallowed, unsure if you were steady enough to speak, but knowing you had to anyway.

"I’ve never wanted someone like this either."

His jaw tensed beneath your fingers, his throat bobbing again, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.

Like he was committing every word to memory.

Like he was afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever fragile moment had settled between you.

But then--

Your fingers slid lower, tracing along the column of his throat, across his collarbone, down over the scars and stress and everything that made him who he was.

And you whispered, "I think I might be in trouble."

Hotch huffed a breathless laugh, shaking his head, his lips twitching just slightly, but his fingers tightened against you, his voice lower, quieter, something dangerously close to soft.

"Yeah?"

You nodded, your own smile breaking through, "yeah,” your forehead falling against his as you exhaled.

And then, before he could say anything else--

Before either of you could ruin the moment with too much thinking, too much overanalyzing, too much wondering what the hell you were supposed to do now that you’d both admitted this out loud.

You kissed him.

Slow. Steady. Intentional.

Not desperate, not rushed, not frantic--

Just this.

Just you and him.

Just something that neither of you were pretending wasn’t real anymore.

And fuck, if that wasn’t the most dangerous thing of all.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry

[h8aaz]

— facts about demonknife!reader .ᐟ

⛤ she has the inscriptions from the knife going down her spine. sam first saw it when he was bathing her, her back being turned to him so he could wash her. his fingertips immediately reached out to skim over the indented and scarred skin, completely mesmerized by it. her legs also have light handprints all over from being held so much; the sizes different depending on the hand. when her and sam have sex, he loves running his hands on her spine during doggy style, but also loves placing them on his own large prints on her legs in any other position.

⛤ she takes extra time to deep clean the boys' knives because they wouldn't clean her properly and she doesn't want the other knives to get the same treatment she did.

⛤ she's a physical touch girlie!! she loves holding hands or someone's arm, or even just latching onto their clothing. she constantly needs to invade someone's personal space to feel safe wherever she goes because she's afraid of nearly everything; i mean, did you see her when she was turned? she sobbed the whole way back to the motel. bonus points if she can do all of these with sam because she really only trusts him.

⛤ speaking of trust, it took her forever to warm up to dean. simply because he yelled at sam over their new situation when she was crying. plus, he was really standoffish with her and constantly talked about ways they could turn her back.

⛤ she never liked the names her and sam looked up because they just didn't feel right. but one day sam called her dem, explaining that it was short for demon as he had thought of names and nicknames for her for a while. although the hates the monstrosities she's named after, she accepts the shortened version fully as it sounded perfect coming from sammy's mouth. despite the new found name, dean still calls her the knife or sam's girlfriend, with castiel simply calling her 'the girl' or 'the woman' (they eventually warm up to her name over time).

⛤ she also LOVES cas because she HATES demons. it was her purpose to be against them, alright? but she loves the concept of angels, even though they're huge dicks. the two of them are the self-proclaimed #1 and #2 demon haters. plus they're always learning new things together so they're def besties.

⛤ she likes playing games on sam's laptop because she loves pressing and tapping the buttons on the keyboard.

"can you make her stop? its getting late and we have to be on the road early in the morning." dean groaned to sam from his bed.

"she likes the sound the keyboard makes." sam defended as he sat next to her at the table.

her character died and the game over screen popped up. "no! one more round, please, sammy? just one!" she begged with puppy-dog eyes, giving sam a run for his money with how much cuter they were than his, which is extremely tough to top.

he couldn't help but smile at her. "okay, just one more but then we gotta go to bed, alright?"

she nodded her head frantically, practically jumping in her seat to restart the level.

"try and make it quick, honey. dean's upset." he whispered into her ear before kissing her temple, dean groaning again in the background at the click clack of the keyboard, covering his head with pillows to drown out the sound.

one (sam) could argue that she just loves the sound, but it's really the anger that fills dean up when she annoys him.

⛤ sam, unfortunately, had to talk her into wearing a bra as she began to wear tight clothing after developing her own style—which consisted of his old clothes being fitted to her body. he curses himself for the choice nearly everyday but it makes seeing her chest when they're alone all the more special.

⛤ hates being compared to ruby and is deathly afraid of somehow turning out like her. she used to love ruby endlessly until she was given to sam by her, becoming attached to him because of it. sam has to remind her that she's not ruby and never will be because she couldn't be more different from her. what happened between him and ruby is nothing compared to what he and demonknife!reader have now, he loves her so much and will always remind her of that (while they trash talk ruby).

⛤ has bad anger issues when it comes to hunts with demons involved. she gets this pure, white-hot rage in her veins when she sees one. when she attacks, it's the most vicious thing the winchesters have ever seen, and they've seen plenty in their line of work. she can easily punch through a demon's vessel when her vision gets clouded by her hatred, lights flashing when she kills the black-eyed creatures. afterwards, she'll go back to being the sweetest little thing ever. her innocent looks and soft spoken voice contradicting the amount of blood completely covering her, sticking to her skin and clothing like she stepped into a giant blood bath.

GABS YAPS .ᐟ . . . handprints concept is from @sunsbaby's gun!reader!! i hope y'all liked this + lmk what yall think would be other fun facts about her!! likes, comments, + reblogs are very appreciated!!

tags!: @j2archives @dulcescorderitas @deansbeer @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @bluemerakis @legalmente-loca @immodestly-marina @daylighted @titsout4jackles

dem's masterlist!

dividers were made by me!!

[thranduel]

reminder that mike and will never, ever had an argument until mike started dating el.

the only times they’ve actually gotten angry and upset at each other is because they weren’t paying enough attention to each other.

in 3x03, will was upset mike was so focused on el and excluding him, and when he revealed how he felt, mike got upset too because he never wanted to make will feel that way.

in 4x02, will was once again upset mike was so focused on el and excluding him. then we find out that mike was observing will and got upset because he was quiet, rolling his eyes and moping. they started arguing and admitted another reason they were both upset at each other was because neither of them contacted each other enough when they were apart. notice how this all goes back to mike and el’s relationship though and this wouldn’t have been an issue if they didn’t start dating?

BOTH times mike and will have argued, it’s always somehow about the negative effects of mike and el’s relationship and how it causes mike to completely change, become distracted and not be his true self. they had no issues with their own relationship before that (crazy contrast because mike and el’s arguments on the other hand are always about their own relationship + lying to each other).

it’s also important to note that mike and el excluding all their friends is not cute and romantic, it’s actually a sign their relationship is just unhealthy, and i absolutely hate seeing people defend their immature behaviour just because “they’re kids”. their friends are kids too. their friends have been through a lot too. lucas and max are the same age and started dating and never excluded their friends. they were able to balance their relationships. so no, there’s no excuse (and keep in mind this wasn’t just a tiny plot point in season 3 - if that was the case, fine. but it continued in season 4 when they excluded will at the roller rink. there was no growth!). mike and el ignoring people is selfish, immature and unhealthy, because anyone in a healthy relationship should be able to understand that you don’t just drop all your friends rudely to obsess over your partner and try to over-compensate with cheesy typical romantic things like making out and holding hands - they’re trying so hard to prove it to themselves and to others that they’re “so in love”, but their relationship lacks all the healthy things a relationship should have. if you can’t even be honest with each other and have genuine heart-to-heart conversations, i won’t take your relationship seriously lol. even THEIR OWN FRIENDS get annoyed with them and roll their eyes.

another crazy detail is that mike has had arguments with will AND el, but the only person he immediately apologises to and has a genuine, honest heart-to-heart conversation with is WILL. not el. in season 3, he rode his bike in a storm so he could immediately check on will and apologise. he didn’t do this with el. and in season 4, when he attempted to apologise to el, it resulted in the biggest fight between them where they both made other feel so much worse. when he apologised to will, they both ended up making each other feel better and they felt even closer than before.

the major difference between byler and m*leven has been on our screens since the very beginning. we can see which characters understand each other better and work so much better together romantically, but of course, no one takes it seriously with byler since they’re two boys and they just can’t comprehend the idea of them being more than friends because it makes them uncomfortable. if will was a girl though, i can guarantee you everyone would have very different opinions 🤷🏻‍♀️

[xfhsfh]

Here lemme put my conspiracy theory tinfoil hat for a second but I do believe that there is a real downgrade in writing competency, (at least in the movie industry which is the one I know about).

You see writing is an art yes, but also very much a craft, and you can't get good at writing unless you write a lot. That's how you get better. That's how you turn theory of writing into "feeling" of writing. How you don't just apply narratives schemes and structures, but can tell by reading and writing what a story lacks, what a story needs and how to get there. How to turn an idea into a story worth reading, or watching.

The same way that a cook can tell what a meal needs just by watching the consitency of a sauce, or by tasting and knowing what spices to add, how much salt to put without even measuring it.

And you get to that point by working on your craft. There are no cutting corners, even if you're talented or clever or know every classics by heart. At one point if you want to get good at writing you just have to write, again and again, the same way that a cook needs to make tens and tens of dishes to understand how all the ingredients work together.

And I won't say that it was easy to live off writing 20 or 30 years ago but it was definitely easier.

You could still make ends meet as a rookie writer 20 years ago or more. You could still have access to outlets that would pay you for your craft, even if it was a local newspaper or a short story magazine.

But those outlets have more or less disappeared. And the standards of quality for writing an article are completely at odds with writing a good or effective article. Now you have to write something that have to follow the guidelines that the advertisers requires because they want your article to be a jumping pad towards their products. What you have to do is to disguise the ad well enough so that the unsuspecting reader won't realise they're being advertised to...

Also given that most writing teams or newspaper offices have largely reduced in numbers and that teleworking is a thing now, you are way less likely to actually meet experienced writers that you can observe, talk with, share with. Or just writers with different life experience.

And I'm not saying that to say that contemporary writers should emulate older ones, but there is a virtue in watching how a seasonned writer of 20, 30 plus experience work. Just by virtue of comparing their craft to yours it adds a tremendous value to your work ethic, even if the result is you considering that their methods of working are stupid.

Being able to meet and work with different people of the same craft is a key element of an industry ecosystem. Because transmission of knowledge and actually working on your craft are the two legs on which an industry can carry on.

But I won't surprise a lot of people by pointing out the fact that durong those two decades, fragmenting work forces, and slashing salaries has been the norm in the entertainement industry (and so many other industries).

The liberals that managed to access position of power and decision-making don't give a fuck about work ethic. I'm pretty sure that the simple evocation of the word make them laugh.

(Here I'm talking about liberals as economic liberals, not the political left of the US, alright?)

Given that the profile of those people is usually people coming out of business schools, finance, communication or advertising, the idea of creating a healthy creative ecosystem for the industry at large is completely alien to that kind of person because the rules and experience lived by someone coming from the business sector is fondamentally different from someone coming from the entertainement industry.

To say it in short they don't understand what makes a good writing, they don't care about what makes a good writer, they don't even necesserally care about hiring a good writer because they don't see writing (or many artistic jobs) as an art, or a craft, but as a service they can pay for, to obtain a product they can in term sell.

It's basically the same logic used by the corporations that cut a forest to the ground to sell the wood. The appeal of a forest come from centuries of slow growing, of thousands of intertwined elements, all linked to each other and moving together in complex ways. When you cut a tree down you down just cut a tree but you severe all the links it has created with all the elements of the ecosystem around it. And a workforce works basically the same way. No worker is an island, no industry works sollely on its core principles, the complexity of an intertwined ecosystem exists also in the humans societies.

Basically they don't care about the health of a work force because they can't see it, it is alien to them. So they fire and burn-out experienced writers/workers because their salaries cost too much and that's how they were taught to do, to reduce the bottom line. They exploit rookie workers because they know they can get away with it and that's how they were taught to do. What's a 20 something working their first dream job going to do? Sue you?

They don't care about the ecosystem, they don't care about the forest, they just want the wood.

So we arrive at a point where the forest has been cut to the ground and when you want to see a tree it's a frail one, connected to nothing but ashes and dirt. And it will take decades, centuries before we can see a forest somewhat ressembling the one that was there before.

So we arrive at a point where you can go see a multi-million dollars movie, a blockbuster, with crude storytelling, appalling writing and dialogues consisting of tired clichés and repetitions. Because it is written by inexperienced writers, because they live at a time where working on honning your craft as a writer is more difficult than ever.

Even for those who actually want to find good writters and make great art it is way more difficult because the industry has been broken.

An industry that cannot retain it's skilled and experienced workers and that exploit the rookie ones to the bone is bound to decrease in quality and craftmanship, and that's the least of its offence because this decrease is written with broken lives.

And it's not only relevant for the movie industry either, enshitification affect a variety of industries, even the highly skilled industries like high-tech or the luxury industry. It is well know that the fabric that the luxury clothes are made from has decreased in quality, that some ancient manufacturing process have just disappeared for a lack of transmission of knowledge, or because it was too long, too costly, too difficult...

It fucking sucks

the exponential decline of the "mass market kids movie" needs to be put under a microscope. there was a point where you could rely on even the mediocre filler movies at least making sense on a basic directional emotional level, now you can't even reliably get that from pixar. i don't know why any scene happens in elemental, it is so fucked up, it feels almost postmodern

[anonyanonymouse]

I feel like I've been struggling to word anything more than usual lately, so bear with me, but I really hope fans can lower their expectations enough before the next update drops. We've had YEARS to build theories and ideas for how book 7 could end, and I'm just worried that everyone will go into it with a checklist of things they want to happen and be really upset when everything doesn't go like they thought it would

TWST can do a very job at throwing out what everyone expects to happen next and doing something totally different, and I'm just worried that it will actually completely ruin some people's experience if Lilia doesn't wake Silver up from a sleep curse or if we don't finally get a Silver Vanrouge line (as much as I do personally want that!!!!)

Now that we're closer to the wire and we have more context before going into the big ending for book 7, we're also getting a lot more fan theories that contradict each other and contradict old theories. The writers would never be able to fit in all these expectations at this point lol!!!

I think it will be a good ending as long as it's funny and sweet and I can take a lot of meaning and interest out of it, no matter how the writers choose to go about it. To be honest, I'm probably overthinking it lol I know it's really been a lot of fun to imagine how they're going to close out the most complicated family drama they could have ever thrown us!!!

[coyle-and-co]

Do you have any headcanons about Franco?

i wrote a whole thing and tumblr shit the bed and didn’t save them omg

second times the charm! but yes i do have some franco headcanons i never stop thinking about him ever

HATES the taste of anything sour/bitter, can’t stand food that isn’t sweet. Trying to get him to eat anything with vegetables in it is a down hill battle at best, if you blend them up and into food he’ll still find away to pick them out

Medical time! Franco’s probably got bilateral exophthalmos which is why both his eyes wig out of his skull like that, and why he has a misalignment in his left eye, however that’ll probably also be because of the shotgun recoil he took to the face when he was 10

He has Hydrocephalus, which causes his head to be so large! how he’s up right i have no idea, but he’s also got pretty chronic headaches and eye strain because of it

Intelligent, yeah it’s fun to think he’s a bit stupid, but he’s probably amazing with numbers due to being a drug lord

As we know he can speak Italian, but he’s probably also fluent in French (growing up in new orleans), and Spanish due to being “stationed” in Cuba for a while, he probably uses this to piss off Coyle

Speaking of Coyle, Franco obviously dislikes him for being a cop, but he probably sees some of Salvatore in Coyle, since he’s a disciplinary figure who’s a big macho man. Everything Franco isn’t at his core

Even if people think his baby thing is weird, he’s well respected for how lethal his aim with Lupara is, if Franco sees you better say your prayers because you’re gonna meet whoever you believe in soon!

Despite this, i do think he’s probably got mild vision and hearing issues, that’s why he is so quick to shoot, kill first ask questions later

Strong as hell, this guy can one tap barricades down and swing grown men over his arm like they’re a stuff animal, even without Lupara he’s probably good with hand to hand combat and could rip a dudes jaw off if he really wanted to

His Hydrocephalus also causes pretty bad mood swings, which is why his attitude is so flippant (thank you @wendigoruble for this factoid!)

Sometimes you can genuinely have a completely normal conversation with him, like no mobster related shit and no baby talk, and oddly it’s eerie as hell because he’s not supposed to do that 😭

Short, i don’t care if the wiki says he’s 5’9-5’10, he’s at MAX maybe 5’5, personally my version is 5ft on a good day

Rejection sensitive as hell, if you tell him no he’ll loose his mind completely and throw the biggest tantrum, even over small things

Can’t handle certain textures because of his teeth rotting, and can’t have metal cutlery because it hurts, mainly eats with plastic utensils except for a metal knife for cutting things

Collection of the same suit all in different colors, with matching bow ties and pacifiers

He would wear jewelry in my mind, gold rings and chains, but never anything too flashy because he thinks it’s gaudy. He might be dramatic but he’s got some class

Closeted bisexual disaster, i speak no further on this

That’s pretty much all i have!!! there are nsfw ones but since this was asked on main they’d have to wait, HAHA

but hope these suffice! <3