#@existential-crisis-professional

[glitterxdeath]

he is so roman holiday by nicki minaj coded

[carpediembitchess]

its so odd how we inherently fear the unknown

when we're little kids, we fear consequences of cursing. somewhat when we grow up too, we feel a tug at the bottom of our guts when we curse. whether we oscillate towards faith or reason, we fear consequences of things deemed as wrong. we're taught to fear consequences, largely because the consequences are unknown. it comforts me to know things, that my knowledge has expanded, it puts me at ease. yet i wonder, what in the unknown makes me fear it so much? is it because we already presume the unknown is bad, or because not fearing it would ruin something potentially good? is it our inability to change our destiny, as some may say, that makes us so dependant on hope? does that remain as that little voice in our head that we fancy calling our conscience telling us that horrible deeds lead to horrible consequences? i too fear the unknown, but i believe our inability to comprehend the rationale behind that fear is far worse. how bad could the unknown possibly be?

[terriblespy]

man I wasn’t on this webbed site for like a couple weeks and now there’s these fucking new buttons. what the hell man

[brown-little-robin]

.

[jukeboxhound]

THE BAILIFF IN DOMESTIC VIOLENCE RESTRAINING ORDER COURT THIS MORNING TRIED TO FLIRT WITH ME

[rosecarlsonmemoirs]

Chapter 8: The Fantasy Weekend

David leaned back in his chair, swirling his third whiskey of the evening as the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the dimly lit restaurant. Harper sat across from him, her manicured hands fidgeting with the edge of the menu. The candlelight flickered against her dewy skin, her carefully sculpted features glowing like something out of a movie. “Do you even know what foie gras…

[justmefeelingtherain]

Oh, the pit od despair. How I missed you.

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival part 9

Jazz has an itty bitty teeny weeny severe mental breakdown.

Credit once more to @keferon for starting this au.

———————————————————————

Jazz never thought he’d find himself deeply empathizing with the xenomorph from Alien, but here he was.

Doing freak shit.

A lone lifeform trapped on a spaceship with no idea how their technology works, no means of escape and no way to sustain themselves. Skittering across the ceiling and one wrong move away from murdering someone on contact.

Plus, I pop out of my mecha like an actual motherfucking chest burster. So I’m sure that’ll go over GREAT.

The parallels were compounding into existential crisis territory.

It got way too fucking close handling that checkup with the medic. Trying to keep his cool felt like he was trapped in an hours long quick time event. Every question had to be snap judged for the safest possible answer. Completely make shit up and risk getting caught in the act, don’t give away any information and they’ll know you’re hiding something.

Jazz juggled that damn Catch 22 like a professional. Thank you.

Case in point, while one of his mechas arms was still non functional, Jazz managed to maneuver his actual arm inside the cabin to grope around for some water to chug. Without disconnecting from the mecha.

That particular stunt felt like splitting his brain in half with a splintery wedge. The water was absolutely necessary, but the pressure inside his skull rang like an air horn zip-tied open.

Right now the only coherent thought he could form was the overwhelming animal desire to find a dark hidden hole and crawl up inside it. Then repeat that motion by disconnecting from his mecha, finding the most secure hiding spot inside that, and passing out for oh just a quick little 24 to 36 hours.

The pilot paused. Down the hall, mechas- giant alien robots- had noticed his disappearance. Even through the language barrier, Jazz would recognize the opening lyrics to his personal theme song anywhere: “Oh fuck where’d he go?”

Hidden behind rows of pipes, Jazz counted his inhalations until the thuds of metal feet passed him by.

Was the alien invader from The Thing scared? If it had finished building its spaceship would the Thing really have tried to take over the world? Or was it just desperate to go home?

Jazz was panting. Or maybe hyperventilating. He made a conscious effort to pull air through his grit teeth at an even flow. Even though he couldn’t actively feel his human body, the dull droning dread pressed through the disconnect to whisper “You’re running out of time.”

He didn’t know how long he had left before his stupid flesh sack would start giving out, but he needed to be somewhere safe when it happened. He’d make it. He’d make it because he had to to make it. He was the best goddamn pilot in the entire program and that was for one reason and one reason alone: Failure Was Not A Motherfucking Option.

If his options were do it the hard way or not at all, then the hard way was what the world got.

Once the guards passed, Jazz slunk along the wall, reaching upside down to fry another security pad, only for the door to open automatically.

Risking it, Jazz peaked into the room and not seeing or hearing anyone, slipped inside.

Once the door slid shut behind him, Jazz lowered himself to the ground one handed, scanning the room more thoroughly.

More screens, inactive. A chair and a couch. Miscellaneous wall kibbling, a table, cabinets. Windows.

Jazz gasped.

Glowing clouds of light, layered like sheets stretching into infinity. Star clusters like paint splatters on black velvet.

White and amber. A haze of something pink.

Unconsciously, Jazz moved towards the window, until he could lightly tap his visor against the glass. His field of view consumed by galaxies.

Back when they first launched him into space, Jazz had come to terms with the let down that all he’d get to see was a black slate and maybe a couple dots. The space station didn’t have many windows to start with, and all his space walks took place when the sun was “out”, so Jazz never really got to see as much of the Milky Way as his inner child hoped.

Now, the child was quiet. Face pressed against the glass, Jazz felt his throat closing up.

At least I got this. Even if I’ve got a half life, I got to see the stars the way they were meant to be.

He hovered. Wanting to find a song to match this moment, but couldn’t find anything more fitting than his own breathing. The rush of blood in his ears was still loud, but a white noise that could substitute for silence.

Like a marble rolling off a table, Jazz felt his stomach drop a moment before his conscious mind could follow.

“It’s wonderful isn’t it?”

Jazz had his arm cocked back to turn the poor fuckers face into a plate but locked himself mid swing at the last second. The mech had lifted a tablet to protect himself, and the move was such a Bullied Nerd cliche it stopped Jazz cold.

Now that his heart rate was breaking highway speed limits again, the angry radio static that was his racing thoughts drowned out any coherent thoughts of what to say.

The mech peeked out from behind the tablet and wow. That’s a guy. That’s just a straight up dude. Prowl and Elita were bulky enough that Jazz could at least imagine where a pilot could sit. But this guy? He looked like the only thing he could throw out was his back. Jazz didn’t even know “elderly twink” was a look possible for a giant robot.

Mystery Codger was staring at him. Jazz still had a fist raised.

Do something say something do something say something you fucked up you fucked up either kill him or start lying just do anything brain please.

“Could you help me find my glasses?”

Jazz faltered. “Wu- What?”

The mech uncurled from his brief defensive huddle. “My glasses? Spectacles? Ah, object-sight-improve-positive?”

The pistons in his arm faintly hissed as the tension released.

Maybe-

As if this was all normal, the mech gently set the tablet on the table, before squatting and squinting at the floor.

Maybe I just have actual brain damage.

Acting on mental autopilot, Jazz took the opening to behave like a normal person. Crouching and scanning the floor for giant alien robot spectacles.

“My name is Rung by the way. I actually don’t think we’ve met previously.” Rung said that last bit with an odd inflection Jazz didn’t have the brain power to think about.

“Jazz. We definitely haven’t met.” He couldn’t quite keep the exhaustion from making that last bit come out snippy.

Rung simply hummed and continued his search. For his part, Jazz was taking the moment to center himself, preparing the best mask he could on short notice.

How long could he keep faking it? Prowl had been with him since he woke up and he didn’t show any signs of needing to sleep. They had doctors. Prowl cared enough about his “health” to take him to one. If Jazz collapsed in front of anyone, they’d drag his sorry ass back to the medbay and it’d be game over. He couldn’t just ask for a place to crash or else he ran the risk of tipping them off he wasn’t one of them if they really didn’t sleep.

A faint tapping sound made him twitch in his stupor.

“Now where could the blasted thing have gone.” Rung was sat crossed legged on the ground.

With Jazz. Who’d vaguely crumbled into a kneeling ball under a table.

Jazz stared at Rung tapping his glasses against his chin. The orange mech made eye contact, and Jazz swore to god he caught him smile.

He reached out a hand, pointing, “Found ‘em.”

The smile came to fruition. Rung aha-ed and held his glasses before himself, inspecting them fondly.

“All that trouble for such a small problem. And all I needed was to ask for help.”

Jazz let himself sag slightly against the wall. Dully thudding the back of his head. “Okay. I’ll cop that was a good trick.”

“It did pull you out of your spiral didn’t it?” Rung said sounding way too smug. He pulled a cloth out from where-ever-the-fuck and cleaned his glasses with it.

He’d been seeing these mechs pull out and disappear objects all day like a bunch of Looney Toons characters. That kind of lapse in logic didn’t bode well for Jazz’s mental condition.

He let his eyes close, rationing his remaining focus.

“How’d you know that’d work?” He mumbled.

“You seemed afraid. You stalled out when you saw I was afraid.” Rung simply stated before he then asked rhetorically, “You’re a protector aren’t you?”

Jazz made a noncommittal sound. Lying was his first impulse, but he really didn’t feel like giving this guy more material to hook him with.

The mech laughed once anyways, “You are. Unorthodox too. I can see why you have such a hold over Prowl.”

That got his attention, “I do?”

“Oh yes.” He heard Rung shift into a more comfortable position on the floor. “Even if he can’t recognize the feeling anymore, I think you give him hope.”

Jazz wanted to laugh and he would if he had the energy.

Instead Jazz sighed. “I’m kinda at rock bottom right now man. And currently? Lil bit fresh outta hope myself.”

And ideas.

Jazz was of the opinion that any problem was solvable if you were willing to get crazy enough, but this was like trying to solve treading water a million miles from shore with only sharks for company. He either drown slowly or get torn apart the moment the sharks realized he was there.

“Hopeless mechs don’t stop to stare at the stars in wonder, Jazz.” When he opened his eyes, Jazz saw Rung staring him down like he was insulted. “To be hopeless is to let yourself die. Do you intend to die today?”

“No.” He challenged back, body minutely tensing.

“Are you willing to do absolutely anything to keep living?” Rung poked him in the chest.

“Yes.” He responded just as quickly, but there was a rasp to his voice. Something small and quiet. Not easily caught. Not easily killed.

“Even ask for help?” Rung quirked his head at him, shit eating grin growing by the second.

Jazz deflated, groaning loud enough for his mecha’s speakers to vibrate his bones.

“Look, I appreciate the therapy session doc, but asking for help is legitimately not an option for me right now.”

Rung leaned forward, resting his chin on a servo, “Alright then. List your current alternative options that you alone can accomplish, devoid of any assistance whatsoever.”

Jazz didn’t respond.

The silence continued to linger.

“Go on.” Rung gestured.

Cornered, Jazz could feel his horns pin back and a burning sensation in his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his visor even though it didn’t actually help.

“Where’s Prowl?”

Rung chuckled, victorious. The scrawny orange mech scooted out from under the table and stood, offering a servo to Jazz to do the same.

The brief rest left Jazz jelly limbed, which was evidently bad enough to translate to a faint tremble in his mecha. Despite that, Jazz didn’t take Rungs hand because there’s no way in hell that guy could support him if he fell. Elita’s threat over harming her crew was still fresh and shiny in his mind.

“You’ll find his office down that way.” Rung pointed out the direction. “Down the hall, turn left at the first junction, pass by two more doors, turn right at that junction and then keep walking until you reach the end of the hall. His office isn’t labeled but I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

Rung opened the door and then took a seat in the chair next to the couch. “I’d offer to have Prowl come to meet you here, but I have another appointment coming up shortly.”

Oh uh. He actually is a therapist.

Jazz laughed humorlessly, “Why not invite them to join the party? Make it a group session.”

Avoiding eye contact, Rung fiddled with a stylus, “Ah, that would not do I’m afraid. My next patient recently figured out how to “bite” people by quickly jabbing his helm forward and I’d rather that not be your first encounter with him.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Jazz simply nodded numbly.

He paused at the doorway, running the directions through his head again, before turning back slightly. “Hey Rung? Thanks.”

“It’s Rung, and you’re… welcome?” The mech trailed off, looking at Jazz with surprise as the door slid shut behind him.

Walking away, Jazz got about thirty feet before realizing he couldn’t turn his head too quickly or else he’d start seeing double. Feeling the countdown drop into double digits, Jazz hurried along Rungs path.

And nearly crashed into another mech.

It had a head like an old school security camera, a single yellow camera lense cycling down to a pinprick at his appearance. The chassis was crazy long and pointed. Out of habit, Jazz tried mapping out what the interior would look like. The pilot seat would need to be horizontal but it was pretty doable. The limbs were definitely on the skinny side but sharp and fast looking. Bonus points for what was definitely front mounted guns.

All in all, solid design. 7/10.

“Hey.” The mech rasped.

Oh fuck right, Alien.

“Sup.” Jazz replied eloquently.

The camera lense eye loosed, upgrading to a coin sized pupil and clearly looking him over.

“Empurata?” The mech said casually pointing to his legs and visor.

“Uh, sure.” Jazz shrugged.

“Same.” Nodded camera-head.

“Cool.”

The two of them awkwardly stood in the hall. Camera-head seemed content to block traffic and Jazz was mentally banging rocks together in hopes of getting a spark of intelligent thought.

“Can I peel off your visor with a knife?”

The mech held a dagger pinched between its crab claws and Jazz had to bite his tongue not to ask why it didn’t just use those.

Instead, the brain rocks came through.

“Rung lost his glasses.” Jazz threw up a thumb, gesturing over his shoulder. “Needs help. Now.”

Good job brain rocks.

“What? He does?” The mechs head popped up like some kind of fucked up goose, before shoving past Jazz, knocking him into the wall.

“HOLD ON DOC I’M COMING!”

The mech folded inside out into a mother fucking helicopter?! Charging down the hall in a whirlwind so strong Jazz could feel it through his mecha.

Jazz counted to five, and crawled back up into the safety of the ceiling pipes.

He blinks, and he’s staring down another hall. Left turn, two doors, right turn. . . Wait. Was that a right or left he just did? He’s upside down so everything should be reversed right?

He doesn’t remember blinking but the hall is at a different angle. New hall? Or did he just turn his head?

Jazz wants to press the heels of his palms into his eyes until everything holds still but he can’t. So he keeps moving. Keeps hiding.

And then he sees the most beautiful goddamn mech in the universe marching down the hall. Followed by half a dozen substantially less impressive mechs with guns drawn.

Stilling, Jazz remained hidden behind the pipes. Evidently alien robots had the same peripheral blindness to ceilings that human security guards did, as none of them noticed him.

Except for Prowl.

Through the gaps, Jazz watched as Prowl gave rapid fire orders to the armed soldiers behind him. Six mechs. Six guns. Three too many for Jazz to take in his current state. Prowl went silent and his wings twitched. Shivering, Jazz got the deeply uncanny sense he was being intimately observed.

The lights were ringing in a tinnitus B flat. He had the audio feed from his mecha dialed way too high but he couldn’t afford to miss any detail of what would happen next.

Whatever Prowl was said next, it must have been in his native language. Which Jazz found deeply unfair after all the work he’d put into learning Common.

The black and white mech turned to his cohort, waving them down the hall ahead of them. Prowl did not follow, wings still minutely shifting position. Once they were out of sight, Prowl turned on his heel back the way he came. Flicking a single piercing look to Jazz.

Silently. Shakily. Jazz skulked along the shadows after him.

He mental map was fucked. Every time he blinked, Jazz lost track of the most recent few seconds of his life. If Prowl wasn’t stopping every fifty feet to not-so-subtly check that Jazz was still following him, the human didn’t know where he’d end up.

Finally, Prowl reached a door at the end of a hall and entered without any delay. Jazz dropped, moving inside before the door could close again.

“Please don’t freak out.” Jazz cut him off before Prowl could set the tone of this conversation. The mech closed his mouth and after a moment’s consideration, assumed a tense but mostly neutral stance.

“I will not ‘freak out’.” Prowl looked like wanted to say more, but Jazz couldn’t afford that right now.

“Awesome! Because right now I’m freaking out and I won’t be able to keep it together if you start freaking out too.” He was pacing back and forth, not really seeing the mech beside him anymore.

“Jazz.” A servo caught his elbow, stopping him in place. “Where have you been?”

“Oh you know. Here. There. Ceiling mostly. Shockingly unrelated, but I think a talking helicopter wants to wear my face as a hat.” Jazz nodded way too enthusiastically in a manner he hoped translated into an appropriately manic “Please god help me.” grit toothed grin.

Prowl was momentarily speechless before physically shaking off the latest deluge of confusion, “That sounds like Whirl. You would not have encountered them had you stayed in the med bay like you were supposed to. Now I’m asking you again: What are you doing and why are you doing it?”

Audibly cracking, Jazz tried to answer honestly but found his voice locked up. He couldn’t, why couldn’t he..? Why was talking suddenly so fucking hard?

Meanwhile, Prowl just looked defeated. He rubbed that spot between his eyes, not yet letting him go.

“If you cannot provide a reasonable explanation for your sudden shift in behavior, I will have to assume the worst. You leave me no choice but to-“

“I’M REALLY SHORT.” Great. Fantastic. Incredible work brain. Take five.

Prowls optics flickered. Brow furrowing as he looked up at Jazz’s clearly taller mecha.

“That’s not- I mean-.” Jazz clasped his head in his hands, switching back to English. “{I- I- don’t know if this is even real.}”

Something was gripping his arms. Black and white appeared in his vision. “Jazz, please. I can’t help you if I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Common was easy to learn but right now it felt like Jazz was playing Scrabble with a bad hand.

“Prowl, where do you go when you- when you change-body-shape?” He had to stop to breath midway.

Please, please, please this is the last chance for anything to make sense.

But instead the mech slowly shook his head in disbelief, “Where do I..? Nowhere Jazz, it’s still me, I’m not ‘going’ anywhere. My alt form is not a different person.”

The mech gently pulled Jazz’s hands off his head from where he’d been stressing the damage from earlier. “I understand if you’ve never seen an alt mode before but your behavior, your questions, they’re not making any sense.”

Prowl stopped. Optics going wide as placed his servos on Jazz’s wrists. “Jazz are you Crashing?!”

“What? What is that what you call a mental breakdown? Cause yeah I’m having one of those.” He said a little too breathlessly.

“Sit-“ Prowl pulled him down to the floor. “Sit down. I’m calling for a medic.”

“No!” Desperately, Jazz grabbed onto Prowl who was helpless but to join him on the floor. The floodgates opened and Jazz couldn’t stop.

“No no no no, please god no. They’re gonna find out. I need to to tell you. I need to tell you myself. Just, please I’m begging you don’t do it. Give me a chance. Just give me a chance to explain, I don’t want to wake up on a table, please Prowler.”

For his part, Prowl was handling the situation as well as to be expected. He didn’t try to leave again but did get into a more comfortable kneeling position next to the panicking mecha.

“Alright. Alright, I won’t leave. Speak.”

Jazz tried tapping an alternating rhythm on the floor, giving himself literally anything else to focus on. He swallowed back bile and his thrashing fight or flight instincts.

“I’m not-“ Jazz grit his teeth. Telling the truth felt like trying to pop a dislocation back into place. Actually no. Jazz had done that before and it had felt infinitely less unnatural than what he was trying to do now.

Prowl was patient. Bless his heart, motor, whatever he’s got in there. Remaining silent beside him.

The pilot forced himself to take complete breaths, “l. Am not. The same. As you.” One, one two, one two, one two, Jazz counted in time.

“I noticed.” Prowl stated flatly, then softening his expression, “You hadn’t realized you were an alien until now, didn’t you?”

Jazz laughed a little too hysterically, “No, no I Fraggin’ did not. Please don’t freak out.”

“Jazz, you are hardly the first alien species I’ve ever encountered. At least you actually look like a person.”

The pilot got very, very quiet.

“Prowl, what do you think of organics.” Resolutely, Jazz stared down the floor panels, refusing to look anywhere else.

Momentarily, Prowl opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. He shifted to kneel in front of Jazz. Sharp optics darting across his frame. Lightly, Jazz could feel him trace something along his undamaged shoulder. He shivered against his will.

“Jazz.” Prowl got down to where he had to look at him. He spoke so, so softly, “Were you created by organics?”

Well, when a mommy human and a daddy human love each other very much…

“You could say that.” Jazz rasped instead.

He hadn’t even moved, but the energy in the air just went burning cold. Prowl went from soft to deathly serious so fast Jazz visibly flinched.

“Listen to me. You do not have to go back. You do not ever have to go back. I swear on everything I stand for I will not let another one of those things anywhere near you again.” Unintentionally, Prowl was crowding into his space.

Despite himself, Jazz just kept drawing himself in smaller and smaller as Prowl closed in.

“No no no no you don’t get it, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I am!” He started quiet and steadily grew in volume.

Prowl wasn’t getting it. Instead, raising his voice to match, “No you are wrong! You have a choice now! You aren’t just your function and you aren’t just something they made to die!”

He grabbed Prowl by the shoulders, shaking him, “I DID CHOSE THIS. I KNOW I’M GONNA DIE, BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M FUCKING TALKING ABOUT.”

“Then what ARE you talking about?!” He shouted back.

“I’M ONE OF THEM.” His microphone peaked, and his voice broke.

The quiet hurt. Anything that wasn’t numb hurt. He gulped down air and couldn’t keep more than one eyelid up at a time.

Prowl ground his jaw tightly, practically steaming from reeling back a sense of calm by force, “You are not shorter than me. You are not thinking straight. And You. Are not. An organic.”

Jazz only semi involuntarily rolled his eyes.

“Fuck it.”

He disconnected, and everything hit at once.

Vision went and came back out of focus and way too close. His ears were ringing too badly to hear the sound of his mecha’s chest plates opening, though he knew that they were.

Every fiber of muscle in his body was torn and screaming, he’d throw up later if he had the strength. Jazz did not so much stand as he did lift off the pilot seat and then buckle forward. The hard shell of his pilot suit saved his knee from getting gouged by the corner of the platform he was slipping off of.

That’s fine. He’d land on the steps.

Except, his mecha had been leaning forward hadn’t it?

Like a rag doll, over the edge he went. A huge and blurry and black shape rushing to meet him.

———————————————————————

Is Jazz capable of telling the truth when it’s to save his life? No.

Will he do it out of spite just to prove someone wrong? Yes.

Also, secret props to @somerandomcockroach for showing how fun Rung is to write.

Bonus bit, Prowl finally let his EM field loose far enough for Jazz to notice! It was bad.

-SSTP

[astrolook]

Chiron: Because Therapy Wasn’t Expensive Enough Already

Chiron, aka the “Wounded Healer,” is that one astrology placement that drags your soul through the mud but lowkey turns you into a wise sage (or a really expensive therapist’s client). Whatever house Chiron lands in is where life hands you lemons—except you’re not making lemonade; you’re writing a memoir about your suffering. BUT, this wound isn’t here to destroy you. It’s here to shape you into a master healer in that area of life.

Chiron in the 1st House (Identity Crisis Central)

Feels like everyone sees the “wrong” version of you.

Might attract partners who project their insecurities onto you.

Struggles with confidence—undervaluing yourself until one day you wake up and realize, Oh wait, I AM that person.

You feel like you need to prove your existence. The glow-up happens when you realize you don’t have to be anything other than yourself.

Chiron in the 2nd House (Money Trauma & Self-Worth Rollercoaster)

Might attract people who challenge your self-worth (ouch) or partners who make you question your financial stability.

Feels like no matter what, you never have “enough.” But once you stop equating your worth to a paycheck, financial stability finds you.

The wound? Feeling like you need to earn love or success. The healing? Realizing you’re valuable just as you are.

Chiron in the 3rd House (The Overthinker’s Special)

Struggles with communication—either you overshare or feel unheard.

Dating involves writing mental essays before sending a text.

Feels like your voice doesn’t matter. You might avoid speaking up in professional settings, but your words are actually your power.

Gaining self-worth? Learning to trust your own thoughts. Your ideas do matter, and you don’t need external validation to prove it.

Chiron in the 4th House (Home? Never Heard of Her.)

Deep-rooted family wounds make intimacy feel like both a dream and a nightmare.

Might attract partners who feel like “home” but in a trauma-repeating way.

Emotional baggage seeps into your work. You crave security but might self-sabotage when things feel “too good.”

You heal when you build the emotional foundation you never had—on your own terms.

Chiron in the 5th House (Creative Genius with a Side of Imposter Syndrome)

Love life feels like an emotional battleground.

Fear of not being “good enough” in romance. Attracts partners who mirror this insecurity.

SO much creative talent, but that little voice in your head says, “Who do you think you are?”

You people deserve joy and self-expression. Stop dimming your light to fit in.

Chiron in the 6th House (Burnout + Perfectionism = Yikes)

Over-giver energy. Attracts partners who lean on you emotionally but struggle to give back.

Might feel like work defines you. Learning that productivity doesn’t equal self-worth is the ultimate aha moment for you.

Stop trying to be “useful” to be loved. You’re enough even when you’re resting.

Chiron in the 7th House (Relationships: The Crash Course in Healing)

Oh, boy! Romantic wounds galore.

Attracts partners who reflect past traumas until you finally break the cycle.

Collaboration struggles—feeling unseen in partnerships. The key? Finding your own voice.

You should learn that love doesn’t have to hurt to be real.

Chiron in the 8th House (Shadow Work or Bust)

Deep fears of betrayal, abandonment, or being “too much” in love.

Might attract emotionally unavailable partners.

Feels like financial security is always just out of reach. But once you embrace your power? Financial transformation happens.

Your intensity is your gift, not your curse.

Chiron in the 9th House (Existential Crisis, Anyone?)

Might feel disconnected from people who don’t “get” your way of thinking.

Feels like you don’t know enough. The truth? You’re more than capable—you just need to trust yourself.

Stop waiting for permission to follow your own path.

Chiron in the 10th House (Career Struggles & Public Image Woes)

Feels like you have to “prove” your worth in love.

Might attract partners who challenge your status or career.

Fear of failure. Struggles with stepping into authority, but the world needs your leadership.

You’re not an imposter—you belong at the top.

Chiron in the 11th House (The Outsider Complex)

Struggles to feel like they truly belong.

Friends or partners might make you question your value in social spaces.

Feels like success is tied to being “accepted.” The truth? Your uniqueness is what makes you irreplaceable.

Lesson? Stop trying to fit in when you were meant to stand out.

Chiron in the 12th House (Spiritual Wounds & Hidden Pain)

Tends to self-sacrifice in love.

Attracts people who take more than they give—until you learn to set boundaries.

Feels drawn to healing professions or creative outlets but struggles with self-doubt. The key? Learning to trust your intuition.

You are not here to be invisible. Your depth is your superpower.

🔥 Chiron is messy, but it’s also where you level up. Once you embrace the wounds, they stop running the show—and you become the healer you were meant to be.

🔥 Where’s your Chiron, and how has it shown up in your life? Let’s talk about it in the comments!

Curious about what the stars say about your life, love, and destiny? DM me for a birth chart reading, and let’s unlock your cosmic blueprint! 🔮✨

Karmic Paths & Soul Purpose: A Complete Guide to the North Nodes & South Nodes in Astrology (13-page report) - $5

Get my full PDF guide for just $5! Payment via PayPal. Once payment is confirmed, I will send you the PDF. It covers North Node & South Node in signs & houses, who you were in your past life, your career, family, love and your relationships in detail. Message me to grab your copy! 🌟

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[benoitblanc]

dana scully character of all time. she's five foot two. her two day jobs are cutting up dead people and professional ghostbuster. she's got daddy issues. she owns a fluffy little dog. she's held multiple different government officials hostage multiple times. she kissed her boss on the mouth. she accuses said boss of trying to kill her like once a year with literally no foundation. she's catholic but her favorite movie is the exorcist. she shot her best friend. she was abducted by aliens and still refuses to believe in them. she dresses like an underpaid arts teacher. she met god in a parking garage. out of the two times the man she's been blisteringly in love with for years confessed his feelings to her, the first time she got so overwhelmed she started crying and the second time she thought he was high on painkillers. she can't park a car. she once had an existential crisis, got a tattoo, and slept with a serial killer. she wears socks on the beach. she might be immortal

[aventurineswife]

Hiii! I'm a relatively new reader who has fallen in love with your fics lol, could I request for some crack and funny moments with the astral express crew? (reader is a member of the express btw)

“Welcome Aboard the Disaster Express!”

Summary: Life aboard the Astral Express is full of breathtaking cosmic adventures… and absolute nonsense. As a member of the crew, you’ve long accepted that professionalism is a distant dream, and chaos is the true conductor of this train. Whether it’s March antagonizing Dan Heng, Trailblazer being an unhinged cryptid, or Sunday delivering existential monologues at 9 AM, you’ve learned to just go with the flow. At least it’s never boring.

Tags: Astral Express x Reader, Astral Express Crew Shenanigans, Crack & Humor, Found Family Vibes, Platonic Relationships, Mild Existential Crisis Courtesy (of Sunday), Dan Heng Is So Done, Trailblazer: Chaos Personified, Welt Deserves a Raise, March 7th vs. Dan Heng.

Warnings: Mild swearing, Unhinged behavior from Trailblazer (as expected), Existential rambling from Sunday, Dan Heng contemplating violence (he won’t actually do it… probably), Welt is tired. Just generally.

A/N: Awww thank you!! 🤭💖

The moment you wake up, you already know today is going to be a mess.

For one, Trailblazer is missing. Again. And if past experiences have taught you anything, it’s that their absence usually means trouble.

For two, March is running down the hall at full speed, her camera in one hand and a look of pure chaos in her eyes.

“For the love of Aeons—someone stop them!” Welt’s voice rings out, exasperated yet resigned.

You don’t even get a chance to ask what's happening before March practically tackles you, using your shoulder as a shield while snapping a picture of something—or someone—behind you.

“I got it!” she cheers, pumping a fist in victory.

You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting an eldritch horror, only to find Dan Heng standing there, looking deeply unamused. His spear is in hand, though it’s not aimed at anyone—yet.

“March,” he says in a calm, yet menacing tone, “delete that.”

“Nope,” she chirps.

“March.”

“It’s for science.”

“I will destroy that camera.”

“I have backups,” she grins.

You decide it’s best to take two steps away from the brewing conflict.

Before Dan Heng can contemplate murder, Sunday walks in, radiating his usual composed, otherworldly aura—until he sees the scene before him and sighs. His halo flickers slightly, as if even it is tired.

“Another morning of senseless conflict,” he mutters. “Truly, the cycle of strife knows no end.”

You blink at him. “It’s literally just March annoying Dan Heng again.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “but is this not a reflection of our broader struggles? A reminder that conflict is inherent even in our found families?”

There’s a moment of silence before Trailblazer suddenly emerges from inside a supply cabinet, looking completely unbothered despite the fact that they were very much not supposed to be in there.

“Good morning,” they greet, as if they weren’t just casually hiding in a cupboard like a cryptid.

Welt, who just arrived, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why were you in there?”

“Dunno. Seemed like a good place to take a nap.”

“I—” Welt visibly restrains himself from asking more questions. “You know what? No. I don’t want to know.”

You give Trailblazer a look. “You’re an enigma.”

They smirk. “I try.”

Himeko enters with a steaming cup of coffee, looking far too elegant for someone who has to deal with this daily nonsense. “I see everyone’s already in top form this morning.”

Dan Heng sighs, still eyeing March with suspicion. “If by ‘top form,’ you mean ‘already causing unnecessary chaos,’ then yes.”

Sunday hums, thoughtful. “Perhaps the chaos itself is what keeps us together. Without it, would we still be the same?”

“…No offense,” you say, “but do you ever just say things without making them sound like the intro to an existential crisis?”

Sunday’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Trailblazer leans over to you. “I think that’s his way of saying no.”

March, still holding her camera hostage, grins. “C’mon, guys, let’s take a group picture! This moment is totally capture-worthy!”

Dan Heng deadpans. “So you can delete photos.”

March winks. “Not happening.”

As Welt sighs, Himeko sips her coffee, Trailblazer plots their next act of mischief, and Sunday ponders the metaphysics of chaos, you realize something:

Maybe the Astral Express is absolute nonsense.

But hey, at least it’s your nonsense.

And that makes all the difference.

[therealsubobscura]

I love that Julian's a hot mess during relatively low stakes events- Elizabeth Lense not recognizing him and subsequently getting wasted, having an existential crisis over turning 30 (!!!). But during high stress situations, he's all cool, calm professionalism. He might go home and cuddle kukalaka and listen to sad playlists on a doom loop afterwards, but damn that man is good in a true crisis.

[shojizbae]

Too Sweet

Spencer Reid x reader

It was no secret to the team that you had a sweet tooth. Anytime you walked past an ice cream shop, your eyes lit up with unbridled joy. After a hard case, you always came into the bullpen with a box of sweets. Donuts if you solved a case under five days, Hush Puppies if there was a fallen family, or maybe some Snickerdoodles if there was arson. They were always the same pink bakery boxes with a cellophane window.

Today was no different.

"Good morning!" you signed songed as you skipped into the bullpen and too the right to the kitchen.

"What treats have you cooked up today mama?" Derek rubs his hands as he closes in on the kitchenette

"Oooh, sweets!" Emily smiles and skips over to the counter

"They're macarons."

"Ugh, those nasty almond cookies." JJ giggles as she snoops around the box

"No those are macaroons." I correct and hold a raspberry-pink macron at her. She bites it playfully out of my hand and laughs with me. She wipes the extra creme out of the corner of her lip and thanks me.

"Woah those are delicious." she goes back to her office.

"What diabetes are you giving us today." Hotch tosses a file on the counter as he walks by.

"Pistachio, raspberry, or lemon?" I smack Emily's greedy hand away as he goes back for a fourth and fifth.

"Pistachio." He leans back to look in the box "Those look professional."

"That's what happens when you have an existential crisis and take a baking course while completing your doctorate and feel like no man would ever want to marry a woman with more degrees than 'wifely skills'." You rattle mindlessly

"Well, that was our daily depressing moment of (Y/n)!" Derek chides like a sports announcer.

"Where's Reid?"

"An that's our daily 'first Spencer question' being the tally!" Emily holds a ghost microphone up.

"C'mon,"I put my hands on the counter and leans my hips forward, "I'm not as obsessed as you think I am."

"Oh, just only a little." Emily placates. The two return to their desks to grind through the many stacks of folders. I picked up the box and reorganized the disheveled cookies. I sauntered over to his hunched back. Dr. Reid, my work husband, was mangled over his desk scratching down details of a past case on a legal pad. I sit on the right side of his corner-shaped desk.

"Good Morning Spencer," I chide. He jumps slightly with the high timbre of my voice.

"Uh good morning Agent (L/n)," He clears his throat a few times.

"I made macrons," I held up the box "Would you like one? I made some with lemon, pistachio, and raspberry. Take your pick." I brandish the box once again.

"That's alright I haven't had any real breakfast yet."

"op how about some fake breakfast?" I pick up a light yellow circle and shake it twice in my hand.

"No that's really ok," but before he can protest I force half the cookie past his lips and all that he can mutter out is a disgruntled, mouth-filled groan.

"Did that taste real to you?" He sassily holds up a finger as he chews and swallows.

"That was rude." He states but takes the second half of the treat from my hand and finishes it off. A bit of the filling slings to his lips and I slide my thumb over it

"You've got a little something-" My speech is caught when his brown eyes meet mine. He looks nice below me. His eyelashes are thick but his eye bags drown out his cool amber eyes.

"Sorry," I clear my throat and lean back on the desk. "Would you like some more?"

"Yeah, can I have the pistachio one?" He rolls around on his chair. He takes a bite of the cream-filled delectable. "Woah you have a real knack for this. It's like all the ingredients want to be together. It just takes you to make things right." He gives me that dorky smile and I lose all sense of restraint. I dive in and hold his chin while I kiss him. I pull back with the fear that I stepped out of bounds.

"Come here." He tentatively holds my jaw and his kiss is much nicer than mine. He releases me and I scan between each of his eyes. "You had a little something."

[rosecarlsonmemoirs]

Chapter 7: A Perfect Plan

Harper leaned back in her chair, her freshly manicured nails gliding over the keyboard as she searched for hotels in Los Angeles. The light from her laptop illuminated the smug smile on her face. Everything was falling into place. David was her ticket to the life she deserved. He was charming, handsome, and broken in a way that made her feel indispensable. Men like him were easy to guide if you…

[spicyschemmenti]

LEGAL MISHAPS ➫ casey novak

pairing: casey novak x bumbling idiot!fem!reader

synopsis: you spend the entire day being a walking disaster, and it's a good thing casey is there for your moral support

warnings: casey suffering from second hand embarassment, reader has implied existential crisis over moving, reader is basically a klutz which casey somehow finds herself growing fond of, pre-relationship/mutual pining??

word count: 1.6k

author's note: lmk if any wants to be tagged whenever i update this (mini series??)

MASTERLIST

The morning had barely started, and you were already having a disaster of a day. You were running late again. Your suit jacket was buttoned wrong, your hair was doing its best impression of "controlled chaos," and worst of all, you had managed to spill half your overpriced coffee all over the stack of files you needed for court.

You stared at the soggy, caffeine-drenched papers in your hands, horrified, as the ink from your notes bled together like some kind of tragic abstract art piece.

"Oh no, no, no—this is bad, this is so bad—" You muttered under your breath, trying to fan the pages dry as you half-walked, half-jogged through the courthouse hallway. You were so focused on your panic that you didn’t notice Casey standing outside the courtroom, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that screamed, of course this is happening.

"Let me guess," Casey drawled, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. "You spilled coffee on your briefs again?"

You groaned dramatically. "I prefer to think of it as... making them extra seasoned.”

Casey sighed, long-suffering but amused. She held out her hand, and you reluctantly handed over the damp stack of papers, bracing for whatever level of judgment was about to hit you. But instead of teasing you mercilessly like she definitely had every right to, Casey reached into her own folder and pulled out a pristine, perfectly organized set of your case files.

You blinked. "Wait. Are those..?"

"Copies of your documents? Yeah." Casey smirked as she shoved them into your hands. "Because I knew you'd do something like this. Again."

You gaped at her. "You preemptively fixed my mess? Casey, that’s—"

"Proof that you're a walking disaster?" She grinned. "Yeah, I know."

Your face heated, and you tried to play it cool, but let’s be real, you were failing miserably. "You, uh… you do this a lot, don’t you?"

Casey didn’t even try to deny it. Instead, she reached up and—without hesitation—fixed the buttons of your jacket, smoothing the fabric as she went. "Yeah," she murmured, flicking a bit of lint off your shoulder. "Because if I don’t, I have to watch you walk into court looking like you lost a fight with a filing cabinet. And frankly? That’s painful for both of us."

You swallowed hard, staring at her because who gave her the right to be this effortlessly attractive while bullying you?

"Uh. Thanks," you managed, voice slightly hoarse.

"Anytime," Casey said smoothly, adjusting her own blazer like she hadn’t just sent your brain into overdrive. Then she jerked her head toward the doors. "Now come on. Let’s go win this case before you manage to set yourself on fire or something."

You groaned but followed her in. Because, let’s be honest, she wasn’t wrong.

You were barely five minutes into the trial before you made your first catastrophic mistake.

Casey had just finished her opening argument—polished, professional, effortlessly commanding the room. Then it was your turn. You adjusted your jacket, smoothed out your (miraculously dry) papers, and stepped forward with as much confidence as you could muster.

"Thank you, Your Honor," you began, your voice strong. Then, for some godforsaken reason, your brain shut off mid-sentence and decided to improvise. "Listen, dude..."

A silence fell over the courtroom so heavy you could feel Casey’s soul leave her body beside you.

The judge, an older man with a permanent scowl, slowly removed his glasses, blinking at you like he couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

"I'm sorry," you backpedaled, heat crawling up your neck. "I meant—uh, I meant Your Honor. Not dude. I would never call you dude. That was just—uh, force of habit? My bad. I deeply respect you, sir. Your Honor. Your Honor, sir."

Casey subtly pinched the bridge of her nose. The prosecutor coughed to cover what was definitely a laugh.

The judge just sighed. "Move on, counselor."

You nodded rapidly, trying to pretend that didn’t just happen. But of course, that was only the beginning.

—

About halfway through the trial, things were going surprisingly well. You'd gotten back on track, made some solid arguments, and had only tripped over your own words twice. Casey even seemed vaguely impressed. You started feeling a little cocky.

And then the defendant—the woman on trial for murder, mind you—got up to testify.

She was… well. Objectively speaking, kind of attractive. Sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes, that whole "dangerous and knows it" vibe. Not that it mattered because she was a literal murderer, but your brain, like the absolute traitor it was, decided to acknowledge it anyway.

So of course, when you leaned over to Casey to whisper something strategic, what actually came out was:

"Damn, she's hot."

Casey whipped her head toward you so fast you almost got whiplash by association. "Excuse me?"

You froze. "What?"

"Did you just call the murder suspect—"

"No!" you whisper-hissed. "I mean—technically, yes—but not in, like, a real way—"

Casey stared at you like you were the dumbest person alive. "Shut up and focus," she muttered, clearly trying not to laugh but also visibly questioning every life choice that led to working with you.

—

By the end of the trial, though, you redeemed yourself.

You annihilated the defendant on cross-examination, tearing her story apart so thoroughly she actually got visibly pissed, which made her look so much guiltier. You had the jury eating out of the palm of your hand. Even Casey was looking at you with something dangerously close to admiration.

And then, as you stepped back toward your seat, basking in the high of your total courtroom dominance—

You tripped.

Over nothing.

Face-first, straight to the ground. Papers went flying. Someone in the gallery gasped. The prosecutor actually choked.

And Casey?

Casey covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking, her eyes twinkling as she leaned down and whispered, "Damn, that was hot."

You groaned into the floor. "I hate you."

She just grinned, reaching down to offer you a hand. "Come on, dude," she teased. "Get up before the judge holds you in contempt of gravity."

Back in your office, you barely had time to close the door behind you before you started your inevitable downward spiral of animated regret.

"Oh my god, Casey," you groaned, running a hand through your hair as you paced dramatically. "That was horrifying. Mortifying. My soul left my body at least twice. I called the judge dude, I made some seriously questionable commentary about a murderer, and then I wiped out in front of the entire courtroom. I am a disgrace to the legal profession. They’re gonna disbar me for sheer incompetence. I can't believe I'm your boss!"

"Breathe," Casey interrupted, leaning against your desk with a smirk. "You won the case. That’s what actually matters. Besides…" She folded her arms, eyes dancing with amusement. "It was entertaining."

You gasped, clutching your chest in fake betrayal. "Entertaining?!"

"Very," she confirmed, grinning.

You groaned again, flopping into your chair like the weight of your own chaos had physically defeated you. "I seriously don’t know how you still have any patience left for me."

Casey tilted her head, pretending to think about it. "Good question," she mused. "I guess you just keep me on my toes. Gotta admit, work would be way less interesting without you around to self-destruct every five minutes."

You shot her a half-hearted glare, but it didn’t last long. Especially when she shifted gears entirely and casually asked, "So, you got any plans this weekend?"

You blinked. "Huh?"

"Weekend," she repeated, giving you a pointed look. "Two days where you ideally don’t embarrass yourself in a courtroom?"

"Oh! Uh—yeah, kinda," you admitted, leaning back in your chair. "Since this DA job is new, I just moved closer to the office, and now my apartment’s basically a mountain of unopened boxes. So, my entire weekend plan consists of unpacking and maybe finally figuring out where the hell I put my coffee maker."

Casey raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a nightmare."

You flashed her a lopsided grin. "Eh. What can go wrong?"

And then, as if the universe itself had a personal vendetta against you, you somehow managed to poke yourself in the eye while gesturing.

"OH, COME ON!" you yelped, immediately clutching your face as Casey burst into full-blown laughter.

"Unbelievable," she said, shaking her head, though she was clearly enjoying herself far too much. "You are a danger to yourself. How have you survived this long?"

"Honestly?" You winced, blinking rapidly. "Pure luck and stubbornness."

Casey sighed, but there was something way too fond in the way she was looking at you. Then, completely effortlessly, she announced, "Alright. I’ll swing by on Saturday and help you unpack."

You froze. "Wait, what?"

"Saturday," she repeated, like this was just some normal, casual thing and not a mind-blowing turn of events. "I’m coming over. Because if I don’t, you’re probably going to end up trapped under a pile of boxes, and I refuse to be the one to explain that to the paramedics."

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. "You’re willingly offering to spend your day off helping me move in?"

"Yeah." She shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. "And because, let’s be honest! you’ll probably make an even bigger mess if left unsupervised."

You stared at her, trying to process. Trying not to overthink the fact that she wanted to spend her weekend with you. That she was offering, just like that.

"…Casey Novak," you said finally, voice full of exaggerated emotion. "Are we about to become best friends?"

She rolled her eyes, fighting back a smile. "Don’t push it."

You grinned, heart doing something suspiciously warm in your chest.

This weekend was going to be interesting.

[nordickies]

How would the Nordics feel around their people? Do they feel at home with them or do they feel some kind of distance because of their immortality?

Ahh, you guys are asking me such intriguing questions. Thank you!!

Obviously, their inherent biological difference would make them feel somehow out of place among humans. Like there's some feeling or essence about the human experience they can't quite grasp or feel themselves even if they wished they could - and some of them take this feeling easier than others. As I have stated in some previous posts, Nations would probably have complicated relationships regarding "humanity" - if they're not mimicking "human life," then they're at least completely dependent on it. It would create some interesting dilemmas, though. Do Nations yearn to be like humans but their physical reality is limiting that somehow? Or do they want to live for a greater purpose, thinking they're above humanity's weaknesses, seeking something more spiritual? Or, alternatively, could they even view themselves as beneath humans, willing to subject their own individuality and desires to the greater interest of society? I think it'd be natural if Nations' placement on this invisible scale varies and fluctuates throughout their existence, their opinion changing with their personal experiences.

But just because they're physically distinct from humans (aging slower, having an extended lifespan, healing faster, etc.), wouldn't their needs still be similar to humans? From their basic needs (food, water, shelter, safety, etc.) to higher-level psychological and self-fulfillment needs. Because they're surrounded by humans all their lives, you'd assume their worldviews and beliefs develop like that of humans, too (unless they create some kind of counterculture). But even then, they'd not be removed from humanity's influences. For example what about Nations' wishes and desires; are those human-like? Do they seek to find meaningful relations, such as belongingness to a community and feeling loved? Do they have a desire to reproduce or continue their legacy through other ways? Do they seek knowledge or wealth, have power and influence, fulfill their passions, seek personal pleasures? All of this pondering just so say that the differences between Nations and humans are perhaps not all that different on a fundamental level? They work towards the same goals, just through different experiences and possibilities.

So, I think whether they feel more belonging with their people or other Nations depends pretty much on the situation. If it's about working towards a common goal or participating in some cultural moment, then yeah, Nations do feel like they're at home with their own people. But if they're having an existential crisis about their role in society, then perhaps they feel at odds with humans and seek comfort from their fellow Nation-people.

I do have ideas about the Nordics, of course! Like cute moments they'd have with their people. For example, I love the idea of Norway being considered some sort of patron of sports, being the face of campaigns encouraging people of all ages to move and be active. Him attending children's sports competitions, giving out the medals (and the children thinking it's the greatest honor) and Nor just being there to cheer the kids on is adorable. Or Iceland being rather informal, sometimes forgetting he should be a bit more professional as the representative of his country. He'll curse freely in Icelandic interviews, not being shy about pointing out the more annoying parts of his job. But it comes down to his culture and country being more tight-knit, people knowing each other, and celebrities/politicians being rather ordinary to the locals. So, why wouldn't they treat their personification the same? But it must be a shocker to foreign press if they catch him being this unprofessional. Or Denmark having specific cafes, bars, libraries, etc., which he visits frequently, having quick chats with the regulars. I think he'd have the sort of wit and approachability that would make him get along especially well with elderly people? Which is quite wholesome to me. He's just a delightful guy to be around, he'd bring a good energy wherever he goes. Or imagine Sweden being asked to read books to children with his low but calm voice; maybe it has become some sort of tradition, something many generations have experienced at this point.

I think, in general, the Nordics like being around their people, and they take pride in their work. Due to their job as representatives nowadays, it borderlines demands them to interact with their people. Which they certainly enjoy more than being some sort of fancy untouchable artifacts or secrets only the select elite knows about. But obviously they do get those somber moments, realizations that there is an invisible barrier between them and the humans. I could see people opening up about their worries, especially regarding the future, almost as a cry for help (even though Nations themselves can't really do much about those things, except listen and try to restore hope). Or people opening up and telling their heartbreaking life stories, reminding Nations how fragile and unpredictable human lives can be compared to their own. This all is part of the Nation's experience, I suppose. After all, it's the humans that Nations exist for, right?