#(dearest pearl)

[liveasbutterflies]

We're at work.

My Dearest Nemesis (그놈은 흑염룡) 2025

[bebemoon]

my dearest world "seraphim lock" collar w/ soft metal heart padlock and chicken foot pearls .

[canaryy15]

I feel like Scott and Shelby's dynamic in ES2 was so good??? And so underrated??? I mean i've like never seen anyone talk about them and I LOVEE them

I need to rewatch season 2 still but,, Literally both criminals (at some point, I know Shelby isn't at first and Scott USED to be one BUT STILL) AND Scott finds enchanted and magic stuff, and Shelby literally IS MAGIC

You best believe Shelby is gonna be in Timejump, I mean i've got a page full of sketches of the two rn

[fishfetti]

you're growing tired of me you love me so hard, and i still can't sleep

[pearlsinmyhair]

.;. ✮⋆˙self ships

inspired by the lovely @messylustt. let’s do this~

spiderverse — pearl + hobie

little miss perfect meets punk rocker

now playing : magic by mannywellz

first impressions gone wrong, hesitation, he fell first, she fell harder, stolen rings even when they don’t fit, neck kisses, tracing a fingertip down the spine, mornings in bed without a care for the world, sharing headphones, thumbing through vinyl together, live music, leaning down to kiss her while she’s in the crowd, mumbled adoration, tugging forward by the belt or collar.

“ my muse ” “ luv ” “ baby ” — hobie.

spiderverse — pearl + miguel

soft soul meets heart of stone

now playing : melting by kali uchis

slooowwwburn, stubbornness, lips pressed to the back of hands, whispered ‘good mornings’ while it’s still dark outside, reminding each other to eat, dragging miguel to bed, hair twirled between fingers, slow passion, thunderstorms at night safe with each other, ‘did you get home?’ texts, cooking together, spanish whispered into the back of her neck, hands creeping under fabric to rest against warm bare skin.

“ sweetheart ” “ chaparrita ” “ angel ” — miguel.

[emperorpearl-ofthefarmlands]

Hello, Pearl!

-@elvenkingsmajor

Why hello there, Scott! How's it going?

Everything chill-y? ❄️

[kaiserkisser]

SKYLIA POOKIE HIIII ‼️‼️‼️‼️ MY LOVELY HOW ARE YOU???? I HOPE EVERYTHING IS GOING GREAT !!!

ahem anyways i went out yesterday!! (to dmart) and omw there were A LOT of clothing stores i forgot the word for them but every store had violet, purple and lilac colour sarees and dresses and what not and my mind immediately went to you i miss you so much 😕😕 and i wanted to say a lot of things but i forgot 😞💔 anyways iove you and im proud of you for working hard you're the best ❤️❤️ when we meet we're going to the amusement park and you cannot say no ❌ so take care pretty mwah

SHREEE POOKS HELLO BBY I WAS JST GONNA SEND U AN ASK COZ ITS BEEN TOOOOO LONG HEHEHE :3333 im... okay? like im okayyyy but. well. boards start in four days. so. uh. hahahahahaha. i cant do physics omg

BUT OTHERWISE IM OKAY!!!! what about u??????? if life isnt treating you well tell me and ill sucker punch it coz u deserve nothing but the best ‼️‼️‼️

DMART AHAHA NEVER THOUGHT ID HEAR ANYONE SAY THAT we have a dmart right beside and everytime me and my dad go there without my mom we bring terror back home 😂😂

OMGOMG WHAT IF I SAID I COULD HUG U RN OMFG ILYSM 🥹🩷 n its okie bby i also forget too much for it to be healthy- love u more pooks <333 n uno reverse i am SO proud of you for being here and trying ‼️‼️

[theinfinitedivides]

second My Dearest related post today but Only Skin from Ys and Divers from the eponymous album 🤝🏼 Ryang Eum longing for a man who will never love them in exactly the way they deserve

[vintersang]

"No one thinks you're strange!"

wicked sentence starters / accepting / @esmerclda

Everything has gone so terribly wrong.

The news of her sister, her little sister, freezing to death because of her second attack on the frozen fjord still rang in her head. It was as loud as the massive Notre-Dame Cathedral's grand bells, but sinister and endless. She has lost sleep long before she fled far, far from the scene of her crime. She had been charged with treason by Prince Hans, no doubt now the King of Arendelle since Arendelle seemingly had no heir from the royal bloodline now that Anna is dead and gone. In a strange moment of disbelief, Anna did appear to stop the prince's blade from slaying the monster in this story. Both Hans and Elsa were shocked, but Elsa assumed Anna managed to fight through her death with every ounce of her fighting spirit.

Unaware of the lies of Hans, the grief-stricken queen watched in shock and horror as her weak-looking sister sacrificed herself to save her from certain death. The spread of her curse, the icy strike to Anna's very heart, had finally spread to the rest of Anna. Snow suspended in the air as grief overtook Elsa, swallowing her up until there is nothing left in her. For a second time now, she had to feel the crash of being told about her sister's demise. The worst part is how she watched it happen right before her very eyes. With nothing to live for, Elsa fled for yet another time.

She has never been charged with treason, but the fear convinced her to run as far as possible. The people already know the truth, so Prince Hans would no doubt be the best ruler to take over since the people loved him as much as they loved her sister. Her parents were gone, so there is no one else from her family to pick up the mess she has caused. Elsa's fear and quick reflexes made her miss the miraculous event of her frozen sister beginning to unthaw. She longed to throw her arms over her sister, embrace her one last time, but Elsa needs to run. She desperately has to get far away before she begins a body count in her reign of danger and fear and endless winter.

With her flee from Arendelle, her winter spreads. Unaware of her sister being alive, Elsa does anything to get away from as much people as possible. She disguises herself, abandoning her dress made of ice for rags. She doesn't care about the very poor quality of her clothes because she had no fear of freezing to death, so she might look very sickly and without a single coin to call hers. She arrives in France, weary and too lost in her thoughts to admire any beautiful sights. She cannot think of anything but the events in Arendelle, replaying every single mistake she committed in the back of her head.

Arendelle and anywhere she goes will be hit with her unpredictable winter, no matter how much she pleads to any god that will listen to her.

What has she done?

This is all her fault—

Paris is already being engulfed in her winter, rudely interrupting the summer weather. It happens overnight, perhaps faster than that, shocking everyone but her. People around her are already whispering and sobbing for the guidance of someone named Claude Frollo to help them in this difficult time. Witchcraft has taken hold of Paris, threatening to snuff them all out. Elsa grips a half-empty matchstick box in both of her hands in a deadly tight grip, using them as a substitution for her dear gloves. A thick layer of frost covers the box, but she still holds onto it as devoutly as a rosary.

It helps her replace her teal gloves, yes. Selfishly, she uses the winter weather she caused in order to sell matchsticks for as cheap as possible. She would try to sell the whole box at a moment's notice, but she doesn't have multiple matchstick boxes to at her disposal. She uses any coin she gets to feed herself scraps, quickly adjusting to these meals. The only advantage of her winter is that sleeping outside allows her more room to use her limited money on food and water. She ran out of her last coin two days ago, so she turns to the majestic cathedral.

Elsa drops to her knees, still holding the box of matches close to her aching heart. Prayer has always been something she struggled with, even though her family had their own royal chapel within the castle grounds. She did believe in a higher power, but prayer never worked. She witnesses how others were able to pray with ease, feeling some form of connection to whoever they choose to worship. She tries so desperately to believe, hope for some kind of divine guidance, but she only feels like she is talking to herself in her head. No divine intervention or angels or anyone at all were able to save her parents from that storm at sea.

No one saved Anna, not when she needed saving the most.

No one will save her— Why would they want to save a monster? She should be slayed like the monster she was, not saved—

Until a green-eyed beauty appeared, candlelight framing behind her curvy figure.

She isn't holding a dagger nor a sword, only armed with words. Elsa slowly realized the stranger is speaking to her, not anyone else in this semi-crowded cathedral. It takes her a minute to register that she was muttering apologies for being strange, for allowing the curse of hers to corrupt everything she loves until it dies. She rises to her feet hastily, already wanting to get away from the alluring stranger and her honey-sweet words for both of their sake. In her haste, fatigue causes her to weakly sway onto the wall. Her feet are so sore after traveling so much for who knows how long, so she still struggles to keep on moving.

"What... What do you want?" Elsa's demand is weak, most likely not very audible, but her body language is cold as ice. A glare is upon her face in seconds, easily formed by her growing wariness. Notably, her snow-covered body upon her pallor skin is not showing an ounce of trembling. More and more people flock to the massive heart of Paris, seeking sanctuary and guidance. More voices join them, easily drowning out her soft-spoken voice.

"Leave me alone, please...please..." Elsa's icy composure does not show signs of easing up, but she has the instilled manners of her etiquette lessons. "I don't know who you are, but I am not interested in speaking to anyone. Will you please go away?" Elsa's lessons in French come in handy, though now she wished she pretended to not know an ounce of French. No matter how beautiful or kind this woman looked, Elsa did not appreciate being spied on by someone. Whether this woman was as popular as this important-sounding Claude Frollo did not matter to her, not when she is trying to avoid her past. She knows she is only causing more troubles the more she runs, but running away from her problems is all she knows how to do.

[bebemoon]

look for the name: WENDOVER

@missanthropicprinciple

pa33word "goddess myth" hanky hem knit angel print dress

aganovich medieval-inspired soft white cloth booties, s/s 2o17

{beauty} tati gabrielle @ nyfw 2o23, makeup by laurel charleston

the harmonist "sacred water" eau de parfum

my dearest world "angel" freshwater pearl collar w/ cross pearl pendant

[tillydouspart]

today is also my dearest friend's birthday so i drew the scarlet pearl for him!!!

[ssa-dado]

what if fleabag reader has to get a new vibrator 'cause her old one died on her or she's just getting one for her friend as a gag gift, and she runs into hotch in the process ? also i didn't know you could get them at pharmacies, but i guess that's a more realistic place for hotch to be (old back and everything).

For a Friend

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man and pre-relationship mutual pining Summary: You just wanted a new vibrator. Instead, you bump into Aaron Hotchner at 2 a.m., holding six modes of clitoral suction technology and a G-spot stimulator in a paper bag. Now he’s offering you a ride, a jacket, and possibly his number. You’re doing great. Warnings: Sexual themes & imagery (non-explicit but VERY suggestive), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch* with *pearl clutch pt.2* sex toys, objectification of the Hotchner body, reader calls Hotch out for not having an ass, grief (your last vibrator died) Word Count: 4.7k Dado's Corner: Thanks for the request, dearest!! Sorry it took me forever, I hope you enjoy itttt!!! Special thanks to @hotchology for the free psychological counseling

masterlist(s)

Experts say it’s healthy to walk at least seven minutes a day, so here you are - taking your medically-recommended stroll at 2:06 a.m., in the direction of a 24-hour pharmacy, because you care about your health.

Deeply.

You really care about your health especially now that your vibrator has officially died in your hand right in the middle of what was shaping up to be a perfectly respectable late-night fantasy involving you, a locked door, and the tall, emotionally unavailable federal agent with zero small talk skills you’ve been mentally undressing since the first time you saw him do a butterfly stroke at the Y.

…It’s not like you always picture Aaron Hotchner.

You’re not that far gone.

You do have range.

You’ve gotten off to strangers.

To that chief of trauma doctor from Chicago Hope.

To the hot background guy from the Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas who had two lines and really great hair.

You are complex. You contain multitudes.

It’s just that Aaron Hotchner is… convenient. Reliable.

He’s easy.

Not easy-easy.

Cognitively easy. Low effort. High reward.

You don’t have to invent a man from scratch. Don’t have to mentally composite three mediocre exes and C-list celebrity actors into a half-decent fuck-doll when he already exists fully formed and fully clothed (barely.)

You don’t even have to think.

He’s basically a mental shortcut to climax, muscle memory with forearms, a comfort fantasy - like soup for the soul, if soup were six feet tall and weekly served wet at your local pool.

…And also dripping, practically naked.

All yours, at least visually.

You’ve memorized the way his thighs flex when he pushes off the wall, that split second of coiled power, the twitch of his calves, the ripple up to his glutes as he launches forward.

Perfect form. Perfect technique. Perfect… well.

Not a lot of meat back there.

Not exactly the kind of ass you’d grab with both hands and sink your teeth into.

No jiggle. No fluff.

Just… deeply respectable glutes.

Taut. Efficient. Compact.

An ass with more function than fat.

An ass that clocks in at the crack of dawn, files a huge pile of case reports, tackles a serial killer or two, then goes home and makes dinner for his kid.

An ass that probably says “thank you” when it finishes and then folds the towel neatly afterward.

Toned, athletic. Not juicy.

You wouldn’t bite it. (Lie.) You wouldn’t slap it.  (Another lie.)

(Because you’d absolutely slap it. If he walked past you up a flight of stairs in those tight trousers he insists on wearing - pleated, no less - you’d black out and wake up with a stinging palm, your handprint on him and a federal restraining order in the mail.)

You wouldn’t grope it. You’d shake its hand. A gentleman’s ass. Very in-character kind of ass.

…You’d still let it rail you against a doorframe, obviously.

You’re not an idiot. You have eyes.

And that’s how you know the way his back arches (yes, arches) when he does a lazy freestyle turn. That smooth, arrogant curve of his spine as he rotates, like the water exists solely to show him off.

You’d say he looks graceful, but that feels too innocent.

He’s obscene.

You know everything about his body. Everything except for one crucial part.

The only piece he hasn’t offered up for public consumption.

The mystery.

And yet… is it really?

Because thanks to the tight speedos he wears you’ve done more visual math in that pool cafeteria than you ever did in school.

Circumference. Vein definition. Drop. Girth. Angle. Hinge theory. Left or right lean.

You’ve factored in mass, blood flow, gravitational pull, and fabric stretch.

At this point, it’s not even fantasy, it’s field research. All you have to do is mentally rotate, enlarge by 37%, adjust for arousal, and boom - there it is.

You’ve seen that dick. You know that dick.

If it ever revealed itself in real life, you’d probably just nod.

Like, yes. Correct. That’s the dick I’ve been using. Thank you for confirming.

Your brain barely breaks a sweat.

Which is more than can be said for you, as you’re currently trying to act normal in front of a just-graduated baby pharmacist who definitely still gets ID’d at bars, while heading for the forbidden shelf.

The one that doesn’t technically exist, but everyone knows does.

You make the turn casually.

Like you’re browsing.

Like you’re not here to buy a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday only because for some reason, buying it here - in a pharmacy - makes it feel... medical.

Like a wellness thing. Like vitamins, floss, or calcium chews.

Like a very modern, battery-operated form of hormone regulation.

Not pleasure. No, no, no, God forbid.

This is for health, for stress relief. This is for preventing female rage and preserving the social fabric of your household.

Also, it’s very, very late - which is strategic.

No lines. No witnesses.

No grandmas behind you buying Werther’s Originals and silently judging your rotating G-spot stimulator with ergonomic grip.

You tell yourself that’s why you’re here at this hour.

Not because, despite all the feminist essays and body-positive podcasts, you still get flustered at the thought of being seen in public holding a brightly colored orgasm machine.

No. Absolutely not.

You’re here because you swore - never again.

Never again would you endure the trauma of your vibrator dying mid-session and having to switch to manual mode like it was the Middle Ages just to finish.

(And worst of all, it didn’t even work. You dried up. Mood ruined. You just laid there, staring at the ceiling for fifteen full minutes before sighing, getting dressed, and deciding - once again, ironically - to take matters into your own hands.)

You’re a modern woman.

Sexually free modern woman living in a free country that still accounts for death penalty for some of their states. Nothing is more free than this freedom.

You can vote.

You can buy a dual-stimulation, six-mode, energy-efficient G-spot massager - (at least according to the box, which proudly claims it uses fewer batteries than your last one. And you believe it. You trust boxes. You’re loyal like that.)

Right next to the hemorrhoid cream. In the middle of the night.

And you can replace a fallen comrade - RIP to the last one. Gone, but not forgotten - and now, here you are, holding its shiny successor the way you’ve seen people hold babies in movie posters. (Tender. Hopeful. A little overwhelmed.)

Nothing says freedom like that.

Stars. Stripes. Clitoral suction technology.

God bless America.

…Maybe not.

Because just as you take a step back, you collide – directly -with someone you didn’t even hear approach.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, right as a much deeper, much more male voice says the exact same thing.

A voice your brain knows very well.

Because not even an hour ago it was busy fabricating that same voice whispering “You’re taking me so well,” and - though you'd never admit this part - also: “Sweetheart.”

(Ew.)

Aaron Hotchner is now standing right there in front of you - real, breathing, and terrifyingly three-dimensional in a full three-piece suit – and is trying so hard not to look at the aggressively pink vibrator box clenched in your hand.

But he saw it. Oh, he saw it.

He’s a profiler. He’s trained to notice things.

(Or at least that’s what your late-night Google search said back when you first typed: “aaron hotchner fbi real???”)

(Which quickly devolved into a behavioral analysis rabbit hole run by people with usernames like @wifeofunitchief69 and @peter-rhea. All of them openly thirsting after him.)

(Especially this Peter guy - who you’re 85% sure is real, 15% convinced was a hallucination - kept posting photos a few years ago that looked… suspiciously intimate. Like “taken through the blinds” intimate. You don’t know how he got them. You don’t want to know. He hasn’t posted since.)

(Guess it was just a phase.)

Aaron’s locking eyes with you. Terrifying. Unfairly hazel, thanks to the pharmacy’s aggressive overhead lighting.

He’s focused on your face. Just your face.

(You are maybe a little flustered by this.)

(You bet all the serial killers he interrogates fall in love with him, too. You bet they get weird about it. Understandable, this man definitely knows how to hold eye contact.)

But you don’t buy it.

There is no way he didn’t read the full headline: “CLITORAL SUCTION + G-SPOT STIMULATION - NOW QUIETER!” (Ironically printed in all caps. For maximum discretion. Obviously.)

You are so incredibly fucked.

Unfortunately, only metaphorically.

Also, the silence is not helping. Not even a little.

…This feels like a crime.

(It’s not. Not technically. You can’t terminate a pregnancy in half the country, but you can buy a dual-motor vibrator next to the Tylenol. It’s somewhere in the Declaration of Independence - just after “life, liberty,” and right before “All men are created equal,” [*except slaves and women].”)

Still.

You are now committing an obscene act of self-service capitalism directly in front of a federal agent.

And some small, awful corner of your brain - the one with leftover shame and badly wired internalized misogyny, inherited from a cocktail of bad parenting and several seasons of Law & Order – fully believes this is the part where he arrests you.

Pushes you against the KY shelf.

Pins you with his full body weight.

Snaps cold real handcuffs around your wrists and whispers, “You have the right to remain silent…”

Which you clearly don’t.

Because your mouth opens before your brain can file an objection.

“…It’s for a gift.” WHY. WHY DID YOU SAY THAT. “…For my friend,” you add… as if that helps. (It doesn’t.)

He nods. Polite. Awkward.

…Too bad his ears are starting to match the exact pink of the vibrator.

Goddammit, he’s a prude.

One of those soft-spoken, morally burdened types who probably says “intercourse” and excuses himself when a condom commercial comes on.

Oh no.

What if this is his first time seeing one up close?

What if you just popped his sex toy cherry?

What if he goes home, locks the door, and has a slow, shameful jerk thinking about you in CVS with a 6-mode clitoral suction wand?

(…You wish.)

No. Worse. Because now he’s staring at you like he wants to ask, “What kind of friend buys a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday?”

But won’t.

And since you are a mature, well-educated, emotionally intelligent woman - and not, say, a liar desperately trying to salvage a crumbling cover story – you say:

“Her birthday’s tomorrow.”

(It’s not. It’s in three days. But the product needs testing. Obviously. You’re not going to spend that much money again unless you know it delivers. That’s not selfishness. That’s friendship. That’s quality control.)

“Well… technically today. Midnight and all,” you add, even smiling. So bright. So natural. So deeply suspicious.

“It’s alr-” he starts, finally working up the courage to glance down-

…Only to be slapped – hard - right between the shoulder blades by very enthusiastic, very just-graduated-and-finally-making-big-boy-money night-shift pharmacist who materializes out of nowhere behind him.

Ouch.

Now - to be fair - the pharmacist doesn’t see it. (You do. Unfortunately. In high-definition, too.)

Because Aaron Hotchner is currently holding a box of ThermaCare HeatWraps and naproxen sodium - both of which are for his back.

He jolts forward on impact, barely, and then freezes.

Just enough to make you worry that’s it, that’s the final blow. That he’s going to stay like that forever, just slightly curved, permanently bent.

Italic Hotchner.

“My man,” the pharmacist beams. “Everything alright?”

By the look on Aaron’s face, you can tell he has never seen this person before in his life. Never. Not once.

But Aaron nods - tight, polite, already calculating the minimum number of words required to exit the conversation without triggering a background check or losing his license to carry a firearm.

“Just wanted to say, I really admire you.” The pharmacist grins, still holding Aaron’s shoulder, “Not every guy’s open-minded enough to use toys in the bedroom with their girl.”

…Oh. Oh, fuck.

You should say something. Anything. Correct him. Laugh, even.

But you’re too distracted by the fact that Aaron isn’t saying a word either.

He’s just… frowning. Not full frown, just pulling his eyebrows closer together.

Which, in Hotchner language, could mean anything from “I’m flattered” or “You could’ve handled it differently” to “I’m about to shoot you.”

It’s impossible to tell. You’re not fluent yet. (You need more fieldwork. Preferably hands-on.)

“Damn, look at that,” the pharmacist chuckles, nodding at Aaron’s little arthritis starter pack.

Then turns. To you.

“Is this your fault?”

Ha.

Ha ha.

How adorable.

You wish. God, you wish.

You’d rail him into a herniated disc so bad he’d have to wear a brace for three months and think of you every time he reached for the cereal shelf.

But no.

“Um…” you manage, shaking your head. “We’re not-”

Fucking. Sexually intimate.

Connected in any capacity beyond weekly pool glances and intrusive masturbation thoughts.

(And it’s not like he seems like the type to just have a casual “friend.” No, he seems like the kind of man who'd call a hookup a regrettable lapse in judgment and then spend six months punishing himself for it.)

And so, in doubt? You flee.

A timeless tactic.

You did the same thing when your therapist asked, “Why do you think you’re so attracted to older men?” and you suddenly remembered - oh no! You didn’t lock the café.

“I think I’m just gonna…” you gesture - vague, noncommittal, something in the direction of the register - and after a short, awkwardly graceful round of people-pleasing Olympics with the vibrator-pink-faced pharmacist-

(something between “Sorry if I misunderstood, I’ve been here since 6 p.m. and I’m on my third energy drink,” and “It’s okay, no really, it’s my fault” [for what? unclear])-

You’re outside.

Alive.

Vibrator in a paper bag and…

…It’s pouring.

Not only do you not have a significant other to kiss in the rain like a scene from one of those movies you only watch when you’re actively trying to remember how alone you truly are, but your car is enjoying an extended, all-inclusive, paid-for-by-you vacation at the mechanic.

Great.

“Miss.”

You physically jolt. Because:

1. That voice.

And

2. Miss?! Hello???

Aaron is standing just behind you, yet again.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.” You are soaked. And flustered. And holding a fucking vibrator in a paper bag while the hottest man in federal law enforcement addresses you like a schoolgirl who dropped her books in a rainstorm. “Yes. Alright.”

He looks at you with that stupidly concerned face - the one where his brows pull just slightly together.

It lasts a second.

Feels like a week.

“You’ve been standing here for a few minutes…”

…Apparently, the old man’s been watching you contemplate your entire existence under the sad little pharmacy awning while he casually stocked up on meds for his fucked-up joints.

How romantic.

“Oh… I was-” Nope. Nope, you were not anything. You have no explanation.

“Do you need a ride?” he asks.

Oh. Fuck. “Don’t worry,” you blurt. “I live close by.”

Feminism is a beautiful thing.

Except right now.

Right now, feminism is cockblocking you.

Aaron hums - hums?! - already pulling his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and it’s… it’s the smallest iPhone you’ve ever seen.

Probably an iPhone 4, but in his hand - his massive hand - it looks like he’s stolen it from a dollhouse.

He swipes the screen (with his very thick thumb), squints just enough to tell you he’s absolutely in denial about needing reading glasses, then turns the phone toward you:

“99% chance of hard rain until 7 a.m.”

…Unfortunately, you’re far too distracted by his hands to verify the evidence. Especially that thumb, still hovering near the screen like it’s not the most erotic thing you’ve seen all week.

(And speaking of data - there is a study. Something about men with very large hands also having very large-)

Without hesitation, Aaron just shrugs off his suit jacket. “Put it over your head,” then he hands it to you. “Don’t want you to get wet...”

Too late.

Not only because you're touching his very warm, very expensive, very tailored, very smells-so-much-like-him jacket, but because he didn’t even flinch.

Not at the acid rain.

Not at the dry-cleaning bill.

Not at the fact that he doesn’t have an umbrella for himself.

Not even at the fact that he’s now just standing there in a white shirt.

A white shirt. In the rain.

(You pray that he’s not wearing an undershirt.)

(You pray this turns into an unofficial Aaron Hotchner Wet T-Shirt Contest…Wet shirt. Wet dress shirt.)

“…You’re the one holding the electronics,” he adds, tilting his head toward the bag.

Ah. There it is. Thank you, Aaron, for making it weird. Again.

He sort of redeems himself by opening the door of his very shiny, very hot-dad black car like it’s the 1950s. (You hate how much you love it.)

…He even closes the door for you.

There are a few immediate observations that need to be made about Aaron Hotchner’s car:

•           It smells divine. Like clean leather, big paycheck, small emotional availability and a touch of lavender, too.

•           It’s spotless. Not a crumb. Not a fingerprint. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere.

•           There are superhero comics tucked into the seat pocket. Jack’s, obviously. Unless… they’re his. Which would be - God. A brooding man with a soft spot for two-dimensional justice and emotionally stunted men in capes. Fatherhood and projection, hand in hand. Amazing.

But what really grabs your attention is the seating.

Full black leather.

Sleek. Cold enough to sting if your thighs were bare. Soft enough to leave marks if you were sitting on his lap instead.

Easy to wipe down. Easy to grip.

A car designed to be fucked in.

The hottest thing inside it, though? Probably the fact that it takes a few soft Are you alrights and Do you need anythings before Aaron finally starts the engine.

And it’s… quiet. Disturbingly quiet. No coughing. No sputtering. No “please God start” noises.

Just… starts.

“It’s such a cool car,” you blurt.

Fifty percent because you mean it.

Fifty percent because the silence is killing you and that’s literally the first thing your brain offered up as a conversation starter. You’re not even sure what you’re complimenting. Just that it has… technology.

You’re genuinely impressed. There’s literally a screen. A touchscreen. With sensors. A built-in navigator.

Meanwhile, your car still has a cassette slot, three loose aux cables, a suspicious stain that doesn’t want to come off, and a radio that only plays static unless you hit it twice.

“It’s a good car,” he replies, completely unbothered. Literally just a man stating a fact. About his vehicle. And yet, your brain shuts off.

You’re hot under the collar because Aaron Hotchner said something true… in a nice voice.

That’s it. That’s the bar.

And to make it worse, he doesn’t follow it up. No “Do you drive much?” No “What year is yours?”

Nothing. Just those three words and then silence.

He's the worst small talker you've ever met and now you have no idea how to keep this going.

You consider asking him about… tires. Or gas mileage. Or how long it took him to sell his soul to become this repressed.

Pathetic.

You’re even more pathetic when he does that thing. The hot thing. The driving thing.

Where he turns around to check behind him - one hand on the back of your seat, other on the wheel - torso twisting, shirt clinging, full neck exposure.

Basically porn.

You try so hard not to spontaneously combust.

Not just because you’re pressed into his personal space, or because his white dress shirt is completely see-through now after all that rain and you can see where his spine ends, or because he’s absolutely not wearing an undershirt and is one unexpected pothole away from full nipple contact.

No. It’s the tongue.

The tiny flick. Just a flash. Quick. Absent. Almost innocent.

His tongue darts out - just a little - as he focuses, like it helps him steer straighter. Nothing but a reflex. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You, however, are acutely aware-

Just as aware as you are of the fact that the two of you are sitting in near silence. Almost comfortable.

If not for the small detail that you’re horny and holding a vibrator in a paper bag. The only sound is the rain-

And the soft, awkward half-comment he lets slip when you tell him your address:

“Oh. You were right. It is really… close.”

No shit, Sherlock.

If you had even an ounce of courage, this would be the most satisfying “told you so” of your life - because not even four minutes in, he’s already pulling into the cracked little square that overlooks your apartment complex.

“Where’s the entrance?” he asks, squinting at the very charming, definitely-not-a-fire-hazard 1970s architecture. “It’s barely lit here.”

He’s right, though.

There’s a little pedestrian alley that leads to your stairwell, and it’s lit by what is essentially half a lightbulb and probably one moth if you’re lucky.

“I can’t leave you here,” he says, already switching off the engine.

“It’s fine, don’t worry, I’ve done it alone a thousand times.”

You get The Look™.

The full Dad Look™.

Eyebrows lowered. Mouth set. Silent moral judgment loading. Which, naturally, makes you blurt out something helpful:

“I swear. Even at 3 a.m. When I was blackout drunk.”

He looks horrified.

Which is… great. Exactly the vibe you were going for on this totally unromantic, emotionally neutral, post-pharmacy ride home.

“Well, you’re not walking alone all the way there today,” then he proceeds to open the driver’s door before you can even object.

“Wait- really, you don’t have to-”

“Stay here,” he cuts in, already halfway out before you can finish.

Then suddenly, he’s at your door. Umbrella overhead.

Like some man from a black-and-white movie who has no idea you’re holding a vibrator in your bag and have a sink full of crusted risotto waiting at home.

Chivalry.

That’s what it should be called. But that word feels too… medieval. Too knight-in-shining-armor. Too “written by robed men who thought ankles were sinful and menstruation was the devil’s piss.”

No.

From him, this isn’t chivalry. It’s something else.

Not performance. Not politeness.

Just… kindness.

Offensively tender, nonverbal, soak-himself-in-the-rain kind of kindness.

And so the two of you walk under the same umbrella together, arms brushing every other step.

You try to create distance. He scoots closer.

Adjusts the umbrella to keep you dry.

Prioritizes your dry head over his own sopping suit.

Kind of romantic.

You could kiss him here.

Right now.

Under this umbrella. In the rain. In front of your depressing 70s concrete box of an apartment.

You could just… do it.

Lean in. Shut him up. See what that mouth actually feels like.

If it weren’t for the very inconvenient fact that you are juuuuuust a bit terrified of rejection.

Terrified in the “ha-ha I’ll never date again if someone even slightly hesitates when I flirt” way.

In the “I’ll replay the rejection in the shower for the next ten years, write five alternate endings, and mentally workshop comebacks well into menopause” kind of way.

In the “what if he says no and then I have to move to Vermont” way.

Also, you are currently holding a vibrator in a paper bag. So. There’s that.

Still, Temptation is real.

Even because Aaron is still mid-monologue about street lighting standards. Turning his head every few steps. Gesturing with one hand like a man who has read far too many municipal codes for someone this hot.

The idea of shutting him up for good with a kiss is honestly starting to sound like a public service.

“It’s barely visible here,” he mutters, scanning the alley. “No signage. No reflective paint. Anyone could-”

“Trip?” you offer.

“Worse.” He deadpans, then turns toward you, “Are you humoring me?”

“A little,” you shrug (he’s pathetic.)

He stops. Looks at you. “I’m being serious.”

…Ah, the dad voice. Firm. Slightly patronizing. Delicious.

“I know,” you smile. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

By the time he’s done glaring, you’re already at your building entrance, heart stupidly tight.

Saved. Almost.

“Well… this is me.” You pull out your keys to prove to him you’ve got your shit together. “Um… thanks for the ride. And the walk, of course.” (What is this, Pride & Prejudice?) “I think I’m good from here.”

You say it lightly, casual, because if you don’t end it now, you’re 100% sure he’ll keep going.

He’ll follow you to your door.

To your kitchen. To your hallway. Maybe even your bedroom.

Not for sex. God, no.

Just to make sure you’re safely tucked in.

That your bedroom window locks properly.

That the shadow outside was just a tree and not a threat (more likely, the stray cat you and two old ladies keep over-feeding.)

He’d stand there - in the doorway, quiet, stiff, arms crossed - and wait until you hit REM sleep before silently excusing himself.

The worst part? He’d make it feel horribly sweet.

And the much, much worse part? To do that, he’d have to walk through the disaster zone you call home.

The crusty risotto bowls still soaking in the sink. Three wine glasses, none of which match. A fork in a mug.

He’d pass your roommate mid-makeout with a “friend” who’s definitely not wearing pants and is probably sitting on your throw blanket.

He’d see the takeout containers on the counter.

The mystery stain on the wall you keep forgetting to Google.

The chair you keep meaning to fix but now just refer to as “decorative.”

He’d see you. As you are.

And you can’t be the reason this man actively re-dyes his greys by Wednesday. You’d love to be. You really would.

But not like this.

Also, you’re just really tired and you’ve got… things to test.

And, if you’re honest, some things are better when they stay in your head. Untouched. Untried. Safely fantasized.

So you smile.

“I’ll be fine.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue.

But doesn’t leave, either.

Instead, he pulls something from his coat pocket.

His business card.

“Text me when you’re inside,” he says, dead serious.

You blink at it.

The paper is thick. Embossed.

Feels like you’re holding a warrant.

“Oh wow,” you murmur, trying not to smile. “This is the smoothest way I’ve ever gotten someone’s number.”

He straightens slightly. “It’s my work phone.” Still serious, but fumbling.

(He’s so bad at this. It’s almost adorable.)

You nod, suppressing the second smile in a row. “Of course.”

He looks at you for a moment - too long, maybe, or maybe it’s just your perception that’s a bit fucked up - and says, “Goodnight, miss.”

You pause.

“It’s-” You tell him your name.

He nods. Revises. And repeats it. A little too careful. A little too gentle.

You might actually pass out.

Not just from the emotional whiplash, but also because your apartment has too many goddamn stairs and your legs were not built for this level of cardio or romantic tension.

You stumble inside, safe. Unmurdered. Emotionally unstable. Immediately grab your phone and text the number printed in the most intimidating Arial you’ve ever seen.

made it still alive didn’t get murdered not even a little bit

He replies almost instantly.

(Almost, because he’s an old man with disproportionately large thumbs and the texting accuracy of someone whose phone autocorrects “fine” to “filing.”)

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): This is a work number. Please be mindful. – A.H.

…He signs his own texts. Oh fucking hell.

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): But I’m glad to hear it. Goodnight, miss. – A.H.

You type back:

goodnight... agent??

Three dots appear. Pause. Then-

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): 👍 – A.H.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[emperorpearl-ofthefarmlands]

Childhood story!

When I was a child my older cousin, Wizard Gem, and I would play pretend fantasy scenarios!

We even made our own two original characters, they were sisters! Hers was the royal alchemist while mine was a brave knight :)

I was a bit obsessed with the whole "true love" fairy tale trope at the time, almost all books I read were about it. Id always make up different partners, mostly royals, for me to rescue and fall in love with

I tried giving her a partner many times til she sat me down and explained how it made her uncomfortable

We then had a long talk where she helped me understand not every story needs to end in romance, how not every princess or prince will fall in love with who rescues them and how knights often just save people in need cause its their job! Also how not only girls needed rescue, you dont need to be a damsel to be in distress

She used me and Sausage as an example. How he would often get in trouble and need one of us to help him. How it often was me. I was his knight, but we were just family. She went on to say that they could also be friends, or simply strangers! Maybe someone just needs help and a hero will save them without expecting anything in return.

I walked out of her room that night with a huge shift on my world view. Pretty sure I wasnt even on double digits yet, but I understood most of what she said. She was very patient with me too, and said that some things would make more sense once I grew up. She was right.

I think about that a lot. I'm so very greatful for her. I thought I'd share that story with you all today!

I appreciate my family a lot, right now Gem in particular, she really taught me a lot, most core life leasons I got were from her. She always guided me through the right path even with all her own struggles.

She's a wonderful woman, a wonderful wizard, and a wonderful cousin&sister. Thank you, Gem ♡

[nekonaps0]

TWST boys drunk around their girlfriend pt1

✦Characters: dorm leaders

✦part2 part3

Riddle Rosehearts

Drunk Riddle is hilariously dramatic and clingy. The moment the alcohol kicks in, all of his strict rules fly out the window. He’ll blush like a tomato and demand affection in the most formal but ridiculous ways:

“Dearest… my precious rose… I insist you allow me to hold your hand for exactly ten minutes—no, fifteen!”

Expect declarations of love shouted across the room and drunken scoldings of others for not treating their partners with as much devotion as he treats you.

Leona Kingscholar

Drunk Leona gets lazy-affectionate and jealous. He’ll pull you into his lap, bury his face in your neck, and refuse to let go.

“You smell good… don’t move. There where I wanna be.”

He mumbles sleepy praises and suddenly becomes very territorial, glaring at anyone who comes too close. He won’t admit it, but alcohol makes him more vulnerable. If you catch him in that state, you might hear soft confessions like:

“…Thought about you all damn week. You don’t leave my head… So annoying”

Azul Ashengrotto

Drunk Azul is embarrassingly flirty and self-deprecating. Alcohol melts his insecurities and leaves him rambling about how he doesn’t deserve you.

“I must’ve made a deal with fate to have you, my pearl of the sea…”

If you reassure him, he might cling to you, murmuring:

“I don’t get why you chose me… but I’m not letting you go. Ever.”

Also expect him to try and impress you by reciting business figures.

Kalim Al-Asim

Drunk Kalim is like a puppy on sugar. He’s all sunshine and dizzy, twirling you around, hugging everyone (especially you), and loudly telling the room how much he adores his girlfriend.

“Isn’t she the cutest thing you’ve EVER SEEN?! I’m so lucky!! Let’s get married! Right now! Jamil, you can officiate!!”

He’ll try to climb on a table to sing a love song to you, and Jamil will be suffering in the background, silently begging you to rein him in.

Vil Schoenheit

Drunk Vil is honest. His inhibitions drop, and so do the carefully maintained walls around his feelings. You’ll hear real, raw vulnerability, how tired he is of perfection, how afraid he is of losing you.

“You love me even when I’m not… beautiful, right?”

He’ll rest his head on your shoulder and let you take care of him for once. If you compliment him genuinely, he’ll tear up (and immediately scold himself for ruining his makeup).

Idia Shroud

Drunk Idia is chaotic. He suddenly wants to karaoke, take selfies with you. And he won’t shut up.

“BABE! did you know that you’re like, statistically, 1000% cuter than any anime waifu in existence? I ran the math. It’s SCIENCE!”

He’ll cling to you like a lifeline and keep rambling nonsense, but it’s adorable. If you kiss him, he might short circuit and pass out.

Malleus Draconia

Drunk Malleus is dangerously charming and deeply sentimental. His speech gets more poetic, and he becomes incredibly soft and gentle with you.

“You, my starlight… have illuminated centuries of solitude. Touch me… remind me that this warmth is not a dream.”

He’ll stare at you like you hung the moon, and may confess feelings he hasn’t yet voiced sober, like wanting a future together. You’re his tether to humanity in that moment. If you call him cute, expect a very confused but pleased Draconia:

“…Cute? But I’m a terrifying dragon… Am I not?��

..............................................................................................................................

thank you for reading <3

[sluturu]

hi there! this is my first smut request, and I like your writing, so could you pls you put me down as 🎀 anon??

so as of lateeeee, dom!Nanami talking absolute filth to his girls pussy while he eats her out has made my head spin for the last couple of days…

would you please indulge me?!

nanami talking dirty while eating you out

cw. oral (f. receiving), cunnilingus, teasing dom!nanamin — MINORS DNI 18+

note. hiiii ofc, hello 🎀 nonnie ♡ i hope this satisfies you! i don’t takes requests, but i really liked the idea of this bc o_o that’s so hot, so here we are. (not proofread & it’s really short, sorry!)

“shhhh, sweetheart,” he whispers, breath fanning against your overstimulated heat. “how can i hear what your pretty lil cunt has to say when you’re being so loud?”

you whine despite his soft command. you crave the feeling of his lips, his vicious tongue, yet he deprives you, almost like he wants you to beg for it. 

“ken, pl-please–” you cry, feeling his stare and the tickle of his pants. “fuck, please.”

“hmm? you’re a needy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles, fingers coming to toy with your swollen pearl. “tell me, my love, what is it you’re begging for?”

he rubs at your clit with such gentle intensity, as if he knows exactly how to drive you crazy. “need you,” you reply, weakly. 

he just laughs, dragging his fingers through your sticky, sodden folds. “so fucking filthy,” he says, staring at the webs of arousal the connect you to him. normally, the undivided attention would make you cringe and attempt to hide yourself, but it’s nanami. the heat from his gaze does nothing but soak you further. “making such a mess, sweetheart…”

you silently scream as he plunges two fingers into you, curling them immediately. “this is what this pussy needed, huh? just needed some filling?”

it’s not enough, you fear you could never, ever get enough of the loving man between your thighs. you don’t want to be greedy, but you just can’t help it. 

“your… your mouth… please. need your mouth, too.”

he smiles, “my spoiled girl,” he says before wrapping his lips around your clit, moaning at the taste. “tastes soo good, my love,” his words muffled against you, vibrating you to your core. 

you tangle your fingers into his hair, rocking yourself against his face in attempts to get more. it’s futile, though. he never fails to remind you that he’s in control here, so when you try to get more, he just slows his fingers down and pulls his face away from you. 

“silly girl, you should know better than that.” he caresses your thigh with his free hand. “‘m starting to think you’re letting your pussy do all the thinking, honey. have you turned off the brain in that pretty little head?”

you nod, dumbly, blinded by feral need. you tug loosely at the blond strands and pray he lets you off the hook this one time. you hope he can see you’ve never wanted anything more than his addictive mouth and thick fingers. though he just might see it as you being an attention starved slut, but you don’t really care much.

“ken, give it to me. please, i need you.” you say in a half pant, half sob, arching your back off the plush bed. “‘m sorry, please.” 

he’s not sure what you have to apologize for; but he finds it strangely endearing that you would say anything for him to get you off.

and you love the man before you because he’s never denied you. yes, he’s made you work for it, but at the end of the day, nanami kento would do anything for his pretty, dearest wife.

but nanami can have a bit of a foul mouth when it comes to you and your pretty cunt. 

“so fuckin’ sloppy,” he mutters while diving into your heat. his fingers resume their previous pace, quick in precise. “c’mon, tell kento  how it feels, sweetheart.”

his words are muffled, but you hear him loud and clear. you moan out his name and tug at his roots, thanking him profusely. 

he curls his fingers into your spongy g-spot, mouth wrapped tightly around your clit like a suction cup. his tongue flicks so skillfully like eating you out is what he was born to do. it makes your skin glisten with sweat, your head spin and it makes that all too familiar knot form in the pit of your stomach. 

he spews countless stifled praises and comments about how nasty you are for him all the way until he has you hurtling towards your orgasm. your sobbing when that white hot pleasure courses through you and has your entire body going taut. he rides you out, finger fucking and licking you till you’re writhing and attempting to close your thighs around his head. 

“k-kento–” you cry when he uses both of his hands to pin your legs wide open. 

“such a dirty girl, look at the mess you made,” he says while coming up for air, face drenched with your sheen. “guess ‘m gonna have to keep going till you’re all clean, hmm?”

© all works belong to SLUTURU 2025. do not copy or repost.