#8 percepts of death

[here-there-were-dragons]

i have to wonder what super hardcore militant vegans think should be done about obligate carnivore animals, because in all my painfully-rapidly-approaching-30-years i've literally never actually seen anyone give a clear consistent much less halfway feasible answer on that

[kaurwreck]

this post reminded me of you hehe /pos

okay, but real; sometimes I find a pool of resources, make a cup of tea, and then lose 8 hours.

[mrs-weasley-reid]

TEN'S A GOOD NUMBER

Aaron Hotchner x psychiatrist!reader

Sypnosis: After Aaron's traumatizing encounter with Peter Lewis, he's sent to you, but who knew a profiler is the worst patient you'll ever have? Warning: enemies to lovers— ish(?) angst. a dash of fluff. light mentions of death and trauma. a few curses. went ballistic— it's lengthy, so pace yourself. A/N: loosely follows Mr. Scratch timeline for three seasons.

Monday, May 4, 8:34 AM

Aaron Hotchner sits across from you.

He studies you in every detail like he's about to take an exam, and you're the topic.

The weight of your scribbles—light, almost featherlike. Ink leaves a soft trail of words, a map of your thoughts, your perception of him.

The speed of your hand. Swift and elegant. Each movement portrays a scene in a movie. As if they're telling a quiet story, your story he is yet to unravel.

The way you deprive him of eye contact.

What are you hiding?

Why can't you look him in the eye?

The occasional nod to remind him that you're listening—not like anything's coming out from his end.

In conclusion, just about everything you do, really.

To Aaron, you're a cheat sheet. His way back to the field, to work—the part of his life that cannot be halted despite the need for a break.

"Your hand is heavier," Aaron vaguely goads.

You silently stare at him, waiting for the rest of his thoughts to spill out of his mouth.

"Usually, you write like you're afraid to puncture the paper, but just right now, your strikes are deeper. Your grip on your pen is also tighter. Am I annoying you?"

Creative.

You think to yourself as he rakes his eyes down the canvas of your face, blank and land of nothing but mirroring eyes.

Although you prefer Aaron's comment about your new lipstick and how it makes your skin glow—something about your prospect of finding a lover—fifteen minutes into your session. You didn't peg him as a man who knows his lipstick shades, but you stand corrected as he says coral with the utmost confidence for a man who wears his tie like a choker.

Aaron does it all the time. Every five minutes, he says one thing he's noticed about you and then proceeds to zip his mouth, denying you details about him like you're some hired criminal paid to torture the King's hidden fortune out of him.

And as per your entertainment, you'd do something out of your character to throw him off. If you can laugh at his gullibility, you would.

His goal is to intimidate you. Pressure you. Make you tick like every other serial killer he's encountered. Because he'd really rather be across an unsub than you. Aaron would rather be the one to ask questions and not you. In his eyes, you're no better than a small-town detective ignorantly interrogating a serial killer for a cheap gas station robbery, unaware of the skeletons in his closet.

At this moment, Aaron ponders why he agreed to meet with you once a week only to sit in almost absolute silence for about an hour, then go about his day like he hadn't just wasted minutes of his—and your—life.

It's always the same.

He arrives, flaunts his profiling skills for an accumulated total of twelve minutes, and then sits across you like a rock for the remaining forty minutes.

Aaron could've talked more, but...

He despises you.

Well, not you, per se. He despises the profession, and you just happen to choose it as your career. Nonetheless, Aaron generalizes and includes you on his list.

He finds it unnecessary and a waste of one's valuable time. Presenting a series of well-thought-out facts that he's sure Spencer Reid will enjoy. A list of reasons why talking to a psychiatrist isn't as helpful as people perceive it to be.

Aaron spits the words 'family' and 'friends' for the sake of ease and comfort as if he doesn't flinch at the words 'your father' and his face hasn't been frozen into a permanent stern. Because why talk to someone who doesn't know you when there are people who know you best? He lies through his teeth. He lies to himself.

Then, there's you.

You don't know him enough to trust his lies.

"Profiling me won't get you cleared," you state out of the blue. "This is our seventh session, and you haven't said anything." You add, finally lifting your gaze.

Aaron feels taken aback. He'd never encountered a shrink with such pride at their job—they managed to infuriate him. You infuriate him.

Now that you've granted him the wish—your eyes meeting his—it's having an effect on him instead. One that he wishes he didn't feel creep under his skin, stimulating the anxiety he's worked hard to ignore.

Still, Aaron squares his shoulder, "Nothing is wrong with me," He claims like he's not feeling the pit of his stomach churn with every word. "I'm only here for the formalities." He says.

"Ahh," You deadpan, pulling your eyes down on your clipboard. Hushed scribbles echo in the room. "Is that what you told, Dr. Briar? Or Dr. McCormick? Stiles doesn't seem to remember you at all—"

"They deemed me fit to go back to work, which you don't seem to realize." Aaron cuts you off. He doesn't notice the slight lilt of his voice. How a vein peeked on his forehead as he furrows his brows.

You have an effect on him, and Aaron's in strong denial.

"How?" You lean a bit, propping against your lap. It's the first time he's ever let himself tear out of his 'I don't break' shell. You consider it a crumb of a breakthrough and a laughable stain on your pride.

Challenging his stability—you raise your brows—makes him tick.

A faux frown draws on your face—patronizing, "Did you play a staring contest, and they lost against you?" You notice the little twitch of his eye masked as a blink.

It's a little unprofessional to provoke your patient, but you do, anyway.

This one's been particularly adamant about manipulating you into permitting him back to work like you were born yesterday. You think it hilarious how smug he's been for the past six sessions. It is as if you didn't spend almost half of your life devoted to the study of behavior. Like you hadn't figured out his plans from the get-go.

Profilers. They catch a criminal out of idea of sorts, and they think they can read everyone. It makes you want to laugh while pointing at him.

Aaron stares at you with his usual stoic expression, intimidating eyes filled with unforeseen horrors, and a straight mouth that's no use in your four walls.

He decides then that he hates you with a passion.

You feel a vibration on your wrist, "Would you look at that? Your time's up, Hotchner." You withdraw, straightening your back as you scribble yet another word Aaron is curious to know.

If he only knew you're not really writing anything new about the nature of his mental state or anything legible at all, you imagine Aaron exploding like a stack of case files blown by harsh wind.

But can he blame you when he's given you nothing to write?

"Agent Hotchner," He corrects with gritted teeth. Aaron's jaw clenches as he pierces his gaze through you. His hands intertwined with each other as if he's preventing himself from clawing at you.

You smile at him, "In this room, you're just Aaron Hotchner. A patient. A case." You know the specific word will piss him off, much less the motherly tone you paired it with.

A tactic. Unlike him, you don't need a team of agents to get a rise out of a culprit. The bare idea of you, a stranger who has access to his life on a piece of paper, is enough a stimuli to get an individual aiming at your neck.

"So, between you and me, I think you should start talking if you ever want to fly to wherever city your team wanders in. The longer you take, the less progress we make, and the less progress you make, the more possible that the bureau will assign a new psychiatrist for you." You say nonchalantly, letting his anger lead him right into your trap.

The words float like small fire specks of dust, both dazzling and dangerous to the eyes. Getting assigned to a new psychiatrist is like getting an easy case directly handed to Aaron. However, it also means he'll have to restart his psych evaluation process, and he knows firsthand how time-consuming that is.

"But, then again, who knows? Maybe the next fella will let you slide like the others did. Or you'll have to attend a series of sessions again for a lengthy psych evaluation. I've got friends too, you know? They might do me a favor and make your life more… difficult." You're bluffing. In no way, shape, or form will you jeopardize his health, even if Aaron's the most stubborn patient you have ever met in your lifetime.

His nose flares as he stands up. You know that he's done and murdered you in his mind at the way he's glaring at you with invisible daggers, but you play it well and act blameless.

Aaron marches out of your office with blazing hatred. You watch as he dulls every vicinity he's stepped into like death taking a stroll. A part of you is apologetic to his colleagues. They'll be having one hell of a day.

Retreating back inside your office, you plop on your chair behind your desk as a heavy sigh escapes your lips.

You stare at Aaron Hotchner's patient chart.

"What am I going to do with you?" You ask rhetorically in the air.

Aaron Hotchner is—for you at least—a special case. A case so intricate you had to be careful how you'd tread the water, wary of its fragile ripples.

When Aaron's chart landed on your desk, you immediately knew that he'd be toilsome. He'd make it his goal to skip the talk and jump back onto another case. The same routine he did with his old therapists and psychologist, anyone that was able to write a note and say he's fine when he's really not—never have been for a long time.

You already had enough patients on your plate, but you just couldn't say no to your favorite Italian patient; you only had one. You're the best bureau-mandated psychiatrist. His words, not yours.

Then, again, you never fail to mentally brag about how easily you read Aaron just from his chart, his image, and the first step he took to get inside your office. You read him like an open toddler's book, a piece of cake.

During the first session, you learn how badly Aaron's last case had affected him. The intonation of his voice. The way he'd shake his hand, your hand. His scorn. His fiddling fingers.

It's amazing how he's managed to divert his anger towards you instead of the man who traumatized him.

Melodic ringing snaps you out of your trance.

Aaron Hotchner might just get what he wants.

Sunday, May 10, 11:51 PM

A sniffle tickles your nose as you lay flat on the carpet floor of your apartment.

Your face stings from tear stains, and you muse how horrid you must look after your makeup runs dry. Your chunky heels were still on. In a minute or two, you expect one of your feet to cramp.

The day has been hostile towards you.

The mind, which used to be an oasis of positive thoughts, has gone draught. Sleep begins to blur your vision, and you don't hesitate to let it take over.

Until a bombarding knock jolts you up.

"I'm here! I'm here! Calm down!" You shout as you swing the door open. A familiar man stands in front of you with a dour face. Your eyebrows narrow tightly, "Mr. Hotchner—"

"What did you write?!" Aaron badgers as he storms inside your apartment like he owns the place. He pivots on the balls of his feet once he's reached your living room, glowering at you with scalding fury. "I was relieved to know that you released me from your care and looked forward to my clearance. So, tell me why a random therapist called me this morning to confirm an appointment I didn't even know I had. What did you write on my report that I have to go through this again for the second time? Is dealing with your sick games not enough? I'm fine. I know I'm fine. I'm straight in the head to go back in the field. I aced the psych evaluation questions. Your sessions are the problem. You're the problem." His ears, face, and neck are burning red. If he's a cartoon character, you imagine he'd be steaming with smoke by now.

Quite surprised; you're standing speechless. You're watching Aaron like he's a crazy old hag yapping about the Revolutionary War and how she hates not having the power to shoot every redcoat for the sake of rage.

You head towards your sofa, taking a seat.

Aaron examines you in confusion, furrowing his brows.

After a moment, you look at him expectantly. "Don't be shy, Mr. Hotchner. By any means—" you nod towards the armchair across you, glancing back and forth between him and the empty space "—continue with your thoughts. You already started. Might as well let it all out."

He only clenches his hands inside his pockets as he bores holes into your head.

What a sad little man.

You scoff in your mind.

You lean against the back of the sofa, tilting your head to meet dagger-like brown eyes aiming at you. "No? Suit yourself, then." You shrug, feeling the soft cushions under your palms.

"Let me remind you that I'm a federal agent, and I can make your life a living hell if I want to." He threatens, glaring at you as if the twitch of his eye is enough to make you combust into thin air.

But all you see is a child on a tantrum, deprived of getting what he wants.

"Answer my question. What. Did. You. Write?" He growls.

Silence coats the two of you.

His heavy breathing fills the deafening air. Your nonchalance fuels his hatred more than ever and the sentiment is beginning to emit from both ends. It takes a lot out of you to think of multiple ways to sprinkle some salty sense onto him without stinging his wounds.

One thing you learned well enough in time is how good Aaron is when pushing someone's buttons. A perk of his prosecutor days and seasoned by his bureau career.

He's just troubled.

He's just in denial of his own pain.

You chant the words in your head—uncertain of its purpose. Detachment ironically detaches from your senses like old velcro.

"You're not the first agent in my office, Mr. Hotchner. And frankly, you should be thanking me for taking you in. Unlike your old therapists, I actually read through your chart and took the time to understand you to the best of my ability. I cared—" Shocked as he is, your eyes subtly widen.

Before you can continue Aaron speaks over you, "I do not care about your pity. What I wanted was for you to do your damn job and clear me back to work. But that's just little to no pay for a shrink, isn't it? You need messed up people to stay messed up so they can continue knocking on your door." A clear hint of a demeaning smirk flashes across his face.

The sheer irreverence makes you dizzy. The calm snaps, banishing kindness and composure out the window. And rage knocks on your door.

"That's the problem. You don't care. You don't care about yourself." Your tone is sharp—stern.

You knew. You knew from the moment his file thudded on your wooden desk. The moment SSA David Rossi charmed his way to get your favor. You know that Aaron Hotchner does what he believes is right. Not because the unit chief title has gotten in his head. No. Not the slightest. But because he only cares about his values and people.

And you're neither.

It's not you to hold grudges. So, you had it down and set before you accepted Rossi's request. You had it tattooed in your mind that no matter how sharp-tongued and insensitive the man before you might be, he's still just a man under the weight of the world's greatest horrors.

You cannot break. You're not allowed to break.

Pieces of you shatter at the realization that some patients under your care inevitably slip away from your fingers. How your promised oath to do no harm did nothing—not enough to stop the monsters that haunt the world. Not enough to stop you, Aaron's psychiatrist, from dumping your own frustration onto him the same way he's currently doing to you.

But you're not Aaron's psychiatrist today. You're not anything today. You're not on the clock. And no one except Aaron—to your demise—will ever witness such an ugly sight. If ever he shuts up about his dilemma, that is.

"I did my job exactly as I should." You declare, licking the bottom of your lips. Damned the Hippocratic Oath. You wonder if the healing gods will forgive you.

You really shouldn't say the words that are about to leave your mouth, but you've been taking whatever hostility he's got for the last two months; the capacity has reached its limit. A little bit of harshness wouldn't hurt, would it?

"When are you going to admit that the reason you can't sleep at night is not because of all the serial killers you claim I prevent you from catching?" You finally stand. You are a few inches shorter, yet you have never felt taller than you do right now.

You grit your teeth as you move closer to Aaron, almost a breath away, tiptoeing. "When will you admit that the mighty SSA Aaron Hotchner, unit chief, doesn't blink, not once, because he's afraid he'd become the very thing he promised to put away." You raise your brows, challenging him.

Aaron's face morphs into bewilderment and perturbation. His brows are sewn shut. His jawline pops out as he grinds his teeth.

Resentment. Fury. Vexation. Chagrin.

All Aaron felt was anger.

Antagonized.

A walking tower of pure acrimony, finger-pointing towards the innocent.

"Don't you dare compare me to those— I'm anything but." He towers over you, losing his words through the stream of lividity flooding all over his senses.

"Do you really believe that?"

Aaron studies your face. It's different. It's raw and maimed. A squeeze of guilt whispers, but he shoves it quickly.

"What did you write?" He asks once more, earning a scoff out of you.

You step back, staring straight into his glare. Crossed arms tight against your chest. Brows rest over your deadpan eyes.

"While SSA Aaron Hotchner is proficient at his skills and rather placid in physically and mentally challenging situations, I strongly recommend further evaluation in psychotherapy as his emotional capacity is at its limits. The stress accumulated from the job itself has given him little to no time to allow himself the indulgence to properly process certain impacts of the stimulus he encounters on the job. Will update after further observation. Is what I wrote… so far."

You pause.

"Aaron Hotchner is an insufferable, pompous idiot who's afraid of nothing but himself. He is incapable of stepping off his pedestal and refuses to cooperate while complaining about the consequences he himself caused. He has been through enormous trauma. It will be torture to try and help him cope properly. I do not want him in my care as he is a danger to his own progress, and I don't want any part of it. Is what I wanted to write."

Silence.

For him to reflect.

For you to breathe.

Aaron's frozen before you. A pale statue bleached under the moon's harsh reality. Words that used to be superficial insecurities float in the wind of truth, forming into a cage he's sentenced for life.

Your fuse still runs—a long time coming from two months of his deliberate disrespect. The silence annoys you, so you break it. "Excuse my hostility. No one's invaded my privacy and barged into my household at such an unreasonable hour before." The impassive smile on your lips can haunt anyone.

Maybe you've gone too far.

Maybe it's evil to say such blunt things to someone fragile.

But Aaron started the countdown. He lit the fuse. Now, you're exploding right before his eyes, reaping what he sowed. And he's forced to eat up all the debris.

His eyes twitch, scanning your face for any sign of bluff, any sign of fallacy. Any sign that he successfully pissed you off and your words were nothing but overwhelmed impulse.

"I—" he closes his mouth, then agape. Any sign. Aaron will take anything besides the forthright expression on your face. He inhales, "I'm sorry." The sound dies before it can roll off his tongue.

It's like watching a bully shrink into the tiniest man who's ever lived.

Okay, maybe you were a little bit brutal.

You gulp as guilt creeps along your veins, wishing that someone out there would just do you both a favor and snipe you out before the embarrassment settles.

Drawing in a gentle breath, you take another step back from Aaron with a delicate voice, "You're not starting a new evaluation, but you're not done either. I transferred you under someone else's care because of personal reasons. My life doesn't revolve around you, Mr. Hotchner. So, if you have nothing else to say, go home." Your eyes drift to the vast selection of objects in your living room to diffuse the growing pity you can't help but harbor.

Only then does Aaron discern his impulsivity. Internally arguing with himself as he allows himself to look at you. One thing he's never done since the moment he met you with screwed brows and unwavering bias. His gaze instantly softens like a thick fog around him finally dissipates. Like he's achieved a clearer vision.

The first thing he notices is the state of your face. The dry mascara that drew faded stripes down your cheeks. Your puffy eyes are now faint pink, but he recalls them being red when he arrived.

Then Aaron brings his attention to your black dress. It's a simple formal, mesh midi dress, but he admits how it elegantly fits you. But he doesn't say it aloud because there's only one reason why you'd wear such an article of depressing clothing.

As if your words and his own realizations aren't enough, he gets a glimpse of the clock on your wall that reads 12:03 AM.

His blood suddenly stops flowing—skin clammy and pale. Aaron's lightheaded from guilt and penitence.

Without another word, you lead him towards the door, swinging it open. The past 24 hours already drained you, and Aaron just about made it fifty times worse. All you wanted was to get a shuteye.

Aaron swallows the shame and makes his way out. Before he leaves, though, he turns to face you once more. Genuine curiosity pinches his brows.

"Why didn't you just clear me out like the others did if I was such a difficult case?" The word tastes bitter in his mouth. What used to be a desired flavor turned rotten on his palette.

He asks with utter softness, leaving you skeptical to respond.

"Same reason why you kept attending my sessions even though you clearly hated it." You slightly close the door, only leaving enough space for the two of you to see each other.

He looks at you like the answer's all over your face but written in some foreign language he's not familiar with. Aaron barely opens his mouth when you answer the question in his mind.

"You needed a place where you can just be."

The door shuts.

Friday, June 19, 11:02 PM

"I didn't know where to go."

You pore at Aaron Hotchner with nothing but a flimsy robe to prevent his imagination from going rampant—and dirty.

It's eleven in the evening. It's been one month since you last saw him. It's been a month since he barged into your apartment like an entitled brat. It's been a month since you let your emotions take over. It's been a month since the two of you revealed parts of yourselves either of you don't dare think of.

A month and no contact.

You didn't wonder; just hoped and prayed that Aaron finally finds it in him to let go of the emotional turmoil that's torturing the soul out of his body.

Sighing, you step aside and let him in, closing the door behind you like it's normal to stop by one's ex-psychiatrist's apartment in the middle of the night without prior notice and, most importantly, without meter to run the minutes he's inconveniencing you.

Aaron walks in, and the heavy humidity of arousal immediately hits him.

Oh.

Well...

If he had something to say, Aaron kept his mouth shut. He is at fault for driving straight to your place like he's your bestest friend. So, he doesn't mention it, ignoring the fact that you're barely clothed.

Besides, after your last interaction with him, Aaron's certain he didn't have any prerogative in how you'd like to spend your Friday evening.

"Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute." Your steps are light behind him—feet nimbly grazing the wooden floor.

He turns to face you but quickly averts his gaze to avoid the glistening sight of your thighs. "Thank you..." He does his best to sound normal, choking in between syllables.

Aaron begins to regret his decision. Though, not enough to leave your place.

You disappear in the corner of the hallway. Allowing Aaron to finally release the breath he didn't know he was holding.

With you out of sight, his mind deliberately wanders...

What were you doing?

Aaron shakes his head vigorously like a worm under a storm of salt. The thought is undiscovered—untouched territory, forbidden to be exact. Should he form such thoughts, he'll do it somewhere else or rather about someone else.

Just as he caters to the sudden dizziness caused by his action, a man, half-dressed, walks past him, cursing under his breath and buttoning his shirt. Aaron's eyes widen a little, keeping his stoic face.

Oh, that's what you were doing.

Ick—as Aaron would like to call your visitor—had brown and curly, unruly hair. He was tall and definitely had a face, which, Aaron assumes, is nothing like the one he envisioned you're attracted to.

Somehow not a pleasant discovery compared to what he attempted to imagine—you, alone.

Ick looks at Aaron with a scoff echoing out of his throat, "Oh, what a surprise! She's a slut." He states smugly.

"Or she just wants someone better." The words spill out without hesitation, fired on sight. Aaron doesn't know where the boldness came from as he leans against the seat with a cocky smirk on his face. Definitely no more perplexed than the uncertainty of anger boiling inside of him. He glares at the man either way.

The man scoffs again before leaving with a couple more insults that Aaron thinks he's lucky to whisper, or your visitor would've left your apartment in an ambulance.

Ick slams the door, shaking the vase on the accent chest by the entrance.

Where did that come from?

He's questionably not as big of a hater as he was before, but Aaron can't determine the motivation that made him act the way he just did with a person who has business with you, which he should have no interest in.

Moments later, you come back, fully clothed, in an oversized hoodie and a pair of wide-leg linen pants. Comfy and a 180 contrast on how you dress at work, plus the garments you had on minutes ago.

You make a beeline to your kitchen, "Water or scotch?" You holler out, opening cabinets with a creek on their hinges.

The question is rhetorical. You place a glass with brown liquid glinting under the warm ambient light on the coffee table in front of Aaron, then plop on the armchair across from him, catering your own glass.

He stares between you and the glass while you kiss yours, never breaking your gaze. You hum in delight, making a popping sound with your lips.

Aaron opens his mouth and then closes it, falling into a cycle like a fish underwater. How should he explain himself? How does one explain why they're bothering their ex-psychiatrist past working hours? After making a scene a month ago? He swallows the thick void in his throat.

"Don't talk, just drink. Sit here for an hour. Then, go home." You say, opening up a book that's been sitting on the table since he arrived.

Aaron feels a surge of relief. He reaches for the drink and lets the smoky taste trail down his throat without hesitation. He wouldn't have guessed you as a fan of scotch—or anything not clear or fruity. This is the first he's seen you without some sort of filter he can't read through, and the observation prints you under a new light.

The silence comforts him. The occasional scrape of paper against paper with each flip of a page provides him reassurance. The company he finds within your presence gives him solace.

You let him be. Asked no questions, reading in peace like he was just any other friend who needed company.

He does as you said. Indulging in the hour of tranquility and stillness. His nerves tame. And he forgets why he went to you in the first place.

Why did he go to you?

Of all people. Of all the friends he brags about. The family he cherishes. His feet dragged—drove him to you.

The onerous unit chief chose to wander to your front door, sipping scotch as he enjoyed the silence and absence of others' guilting worry and constant craving to make him feel better when all he wanted was peace and letting the ache pass in gradual acceptance.

By the end of the hour, you call him a cab with the instructions for him to pick up his car the next day.

Aaron slept effortlessly that night.

Saturday, October 24, 9:24 PM

Aaron expected some sort of rejection or for you to slam the door close, or worse, ignore him as soon as you see his face through the peephole.

One can only tolerate a couple of unannounced visits from an insufferable ex-patient, right? He's surprised you haven't called the cops on him.

He skims your face for any sign of irritation or annoyance as soon as you reveal yourself behind your door, standing next to it to give him way. Aaron saw nothing but impatience.

You knit your brows, slightly tilting your head at his frozen build outside the frame of your door. "Well? Are you stuck or something? Get in, Hotchner—" You turn before you can even finish talking, disappearing down the small entryway.

He turns deaf for a moment. Your voice rings in his ears as if a bomb had just popped the only working drum he had left.

Hotchner.

Agent.

Mister—

Just Hotchner.

One simple change, and the light above your head suddenly looks brighter.

Like he's found something good. Something he can say he knows. Something he can trust(?)

"Don't forget to take your shoes off and shut the door!" You holler from the living room—unfazed.

Aaron flinches, snapping out of his trance. He wonders where you'd gone to, furrowing his brows, and yet enters your apartment with the permission you'd given him. He closes the door, pivoting on the soles of his dress shoes as he tentatively takes them off per your instructions.

He emerges back in your peripheral while you stare at the screen on your laptop, blue-filtered glasses back on. Your fingers hammer on the keys, soft sighs slipping past your lips every once in a while.

You glance at Aaron when his figure stays at the corner of your eye, cupping a coffee mug between your hands. "There's fresh coffee if you'd like. Are you hungry? I don't usually eat dinner, so I have nothing ready to eat, but I can whip something up." You blow over the surface of caffeine, and steam wafts on the tip of your nose.

"No—" He shakes his head, scoffing in confusion, "I'm sorry—"

"Apology accepted," You muffle into the mug.

Aaron's brows connect tighter, and his forehead creases. He looks at you like he's under an illusion, a hypnotic dream he can't quite distinguish.

"Hold on," He hoists his hand up as if to pause a scene in the movie. "I'm very confused. What is going on? Why are you being… casual and nice?"

"You say it like I'm incapable of human decency." Your back makes contact with the cushion of your sofa, pulling your legs close to your chest while one hand holds the handle of your mug. You roll your eyes when Aaron only stares at you, "Are you uncomfortable? Do you want to leave?"

Aaron shakes his head.

"Problem solved, then?" Confusion is still fresh on his blank face. You mentally smack your forehead. "There are patients who lack temporal sense, but turning them away when they clearly need immediate tending to would be a form of negligence on my part. So, feel at home." You theatrically stretch your arms, offering every corner of your space as his own.

"But I'm not your patient anymore. I've been back on duty for weeks." Aaron informs. Although he finds a place for his go bag on your floor.

If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he's about to stay for a sleepover—coming to your apartment late at night.

You wrinkle your nose, "Okay?" You look around as if someone else is in the room with you two. "Is that why you went here? You wanted to brag?"

Three months.

Aaron's been back to his usual routine for the past three months. And it's been four since he drank scotch on the very couch you're comfortably in.

A chuckle.

The sound tickles your ears, filling you with unexpected pride.

"No," Aaron shakes his head as the chuckle resonates through his chest. "I… I don't really know why I came here, if I'm being honest." He swallows air.

You nod, setting your laptop back on your lap. "Like I said, you're free to feel at home. Scotch is in the third cupboard. Coffee's in the pot. I've got some stuff to take care of, so help yourself." Your eyes are already fixed on the screen, hands jumping from one key to the other.

With your permission, Aaron ventures into your kitchen. Neat. Clean. Cozy. He somehow imagines you cooking as a hobby.

He settles for coffee. Asking you from the kitchen island if you'd like a refill—which you took without a thought, hoisting your cup up—and taking out a couple of his files to get a head start on his paperwork. He wasn't allowed to bring them outside the bureau's building, but it didn't matter at the moment.

Your apartment becomes a haven.

Aaron, for the first time in years, feels comfortable to slouch. He had no collection of when and how, but turns out he'd changed into a quarter-zip and one of his pajamas tucked in his go bag through the hours.

The two of you silently took care of your own thing until 1 AM strikes, and a yawn pulls you back into the earth.

You turn your head towards the kitchen to find Aaron scribbling over your kitchen island. He's sipping coffee—a fresh batch he made not long ago.

Stretching, you make your way past him. After placing the mug into the sink, you lean against it, crossing your arms as you stare at him. "Ten."

"What's that?" Aaron halts on his seat, lifting his head to look at you.

"I'm granting you ten visits," You announce.

"And that means?.."

Your face deadpans, and he does well at stifling a smile. "You can come here whenever you want—need, but only for ten free visits. It doesn't matter if it's late, too early, or unreasonable. I'm allowing you to knock on my door whenever you need. Any more than that, you have to attend my sessions in my office, where I get paid."

"What's the catch?" Aaron entwines his eyebrows, straightening his back as he props on the edge of the counter.

"No catch. Just one condition," You shift your weight on your other leg, "Don't come empty-handed. Food, drink, things, a person, anything. Bring something." Your brows hang on your forehead, anticipating any type of response.

Aaron weighs his choices. Calculated every possible outcome and benefit. He meets your eyes again. Index and thumb rubbing the growing stubble on his chin.

"Ten's a good number," He says as he nods.

Wednesday, March 2, 7:31 PM

Eleven months pass by in the blink of an eye.

It's the seventh time Aaron showed up without warning, and by this point in whatever acquaintance you two had, you aren't fazed or surprised anymore.

The fourth time he knocked on your door, he was carrying a hefty price of whiskey. An odd reason for a psychiatrist and a former patient to bond with, but you had no qualms about sipping neat whiskey that night.

At first, he stayed for an hour. Then, an hour turned into three. One time, a case hit too deep, and three became seven, but that only happened once—all you remember was a Wednesday night.

"Are you okay?"

Gentle sighs escape shivering lips. Tears pooling deep inside sockets.

One sharp sniff breaks it all.

You sob under Aaron's worried eyes as your grip on the knob almost snaps it off the door.

His brows twists and he reflexively yanks you by the back of your head into his chest, bringing you out of your apartment and into the complex's hallway.

"What happened?" He carefully inquires while he rests his chin atop your head.

You're a mess in his arms. Uncontrollable whimpers muffled in his soaked chest.

Aaron suggested that you two step inside for more privacy and heat, but he didn't complain when you two stayed frozen in the end of winter evening.

When it stops. The suffocating ache. You lightly push yourself off him, wiping the leftover tears off your cheeks—half of it already dampened his shirt.

Fifty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.

You cried to the point of dehydration.

"Sorry," you mutter, eyes down. "We should go inside if we don't want to catch hypothermia." You sniffle.

"Oh, we don't want that," Aaron attempts to joke, closely observing whether you'd react to it.

You didn't.

He closes the door behind him, following your figure as you practically drag yourself to your unofficial designated spot on the sofa.

"I know I'm the last person you'd want to hear this from, but would you like to talk about it?" He bites his inner cheek.

Nothing.

You only mold yourself into a ball.

Aaron hesitates whether to stay or leave you alone. It's true that you said he's welcome anytime, but you're definitely in no condition to entertain his own problems when you can't even look him in the eye the way you would, no matter how insufferable he is.

But he can't just leave you by yourself either. Nothing is stopping him, but he's not cold-blooded enough.

"It's not easy," Aaron fractures out of his trance at the sound of your small voice. You look at him with a tight-lipped smile. "This job, I mean."

You inhale a sharp breath, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. "I can be hopeful, positive, supportive… Everything to prove that a better life is possible, but at the end of the day, it's not my choice." You wryly chuckle. "It's the patient's. It's your decision to want to feel better. To want to change. To want to live—" You choke, and the tears flow once more.

"It's not about me, but I can't help feeling like a failure." Sobs spill off your lips, gasping for air. "I was supposed to make everything better. I was supposed to heal everyone and save everyone from whatever monster was hurting them. She said she's never felt so much better. She said it's the first time she felt so peaceful for years, Hotchner. She said she was looking forward to our next session. But she just… I didn't—" You gulp—struggling. "I didn't catch it. I didn't catch her lie. And hours later, I get a call from her mother telling me she— she died." Your hands shakily clasp your mouth to push the sobs back, but you fail.

Aaron doesn't know what to say.

But he knows what to feel.

He knows it well.

The guilt. The shame of never living up to your own promise. The pain of losing someone you swore to keep safe.

Then, it hits him like a wrecking ball.

How difficult of a patient was he before?

Has he ever made you cry before?

It's a stretch that you'd ever shed a tear over his stubbornness, but Aaron hopes you never did.

Because he's never seen anyone care so much despite getting all the hate. Despite taking all the blame. You stood your ground and became other people's foundation. You became their comfort.

You became the only thing that gave him serenity.

With the little time he's known you—a total of 43 genuine friendly hours—Aaron can testify in heaven that they had mistakenly dropped you into the earth. And he's never felt blessed to have someone like you. Never felt lucky enough to find someone with who he could feel broken as much as he could but never needed to save face.

So, he's heartbroken for you. And guilty that more than half of the time you'd known him, he made your passion a miserable experience.

And also guilty of developing feelings for you.

Saturday, August 13, 4:16 PM

"I'm not playing favorites, but your tech analyst definitely deserves better than being cooped up in the bureau's building." You say, plopping on the sofa with a soft bounce and a squeak from the coil spring.

Aaron hands you a glass of bourbon while sipping his own. Eyes fixated on the board on your coffee table. "I have no other choice. It's the only way to keep her safe. Unless you're willing to adopt her, I don't want to hear it." He chuckles, connecting his brows at the sight of your winning streak.

You two are playing Scrabble. It was Monopoly twenty minutes ago, but along the lines, you learned how butt-hurt a six-foot and two-inch man can get. Not an enlightening experience. It would have been two stars if you had to rate it.

So, you switched to Scrabble.

And Aaron is losing again.

Boy, were you so entertained.

He just came back from a fairly short case from Los Angeles. The case is not heavy or mentally draining—according to Aaron, but Jack's at a two-day sleepover, and Aaron has no idea how to spend the rest of his day—turning down Derek Morgan's and David Rossi's invitation to grab a drink at O'Keefe's with you in mind.

Aaron leans on the back of his seat. You don't know when your reclining armchair became his designated seat, but you noticed how lax he is in it and didn't question it further.

Months and months of relaxing stillness in your home—only ever full of bizarre surprises and irresistible joy whenever Aaron knocks at your door. With no means of communication or ever seeing each other at either workplace, Aaron's visits are welcomed but never fully anticipated. Thrilling.

Spelling the word 'loser' on the board with triple points, you bite the tissue inside your lower lip. "Maybe you can play Scrabble with her. Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky and win." You grin smugly at him.

Aaron gapes at you with a mixture of disbelief and merriment. He looks down on the flat entertainment, then back to you as he blinks. "You're cheating." He declares, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

A hearty laugh Aaron's never heard before roars out of you, and it's melodic to his ears. The meringue light spills through the forgotten open blinds of your window, painting your face with a dreamy filter. Aaron feels dizzy at the sight.

Your smile is contagious, and out of nowhere, his heart starts to pick up as if he'd caught whatever illness your radiant lips had by only staring at it. The loose hair over your forehead frames your face differently—different good. Like you'd been glowing, and the watts in your core mysteriously increased, so you're as bright as the sun and as warm as its light.

"You're just a sore loser. Suck it up, Hotchner." You shake with mirth, casually running dainty fingers along the curve of your ear.

"Aaron," He blurts too fast, too soon—too late to take back.

With a nonchalant shrug, you rephrase, "Suck. It. Up. Aaron." Much more emphasis and friskiness.

You tease him more about his lack of greatness in board games compared to his undeniable talent in every case the BAU encountered. But Aaron's already dazed by your lips calling his name.

Without either of you realizing it, 4 PM became AM.

Talk about abusing one's privileges. Aaron's moderately good at that. You conclude he's simply a strutting opportunist.

After the longest winning streak you've ever had in your life, you and Aaron decided to take a much-needed break and fell into silent reading—or, in your case, grooming your schedule for the next five months.

Midnight strikes along the grumble of Aaron's stomach. You two were too quiet. It echoed all over your apartment. Both of you fell into an obstreperous fit of laughter for another hour, stopping for a minute in between only to laugh some more as soon as you met each other's eyes.

Now, it's four in the morning. You're busy munching on Chinese takeout from a 24-hour restaurant Aaron called in. He claims he has handsome privilege courtesy of the owner, which you mockingly laughed at, to his dismay.

"I'm still terrified." He blurts.

The case must've been very difficult, then. He lied yesterday. However, at this point in your friendship, you expect him to do so, even if it's obvious.

You'd long given up on coaxing Aaron to talk about the case that brought him to your office. Or any other cases that got him knocking on your door at the most unreasonable hour. You thought that the best you could offer him was the comfort that no matter how beaten up he looked, you'd ask no questions and let him sort his boggled mind until he was ready to talk about it.

Looks like tonight's the moment. It only took more than a year, so it is not a big deal—to either of you, at least.

He looks at you when you remain quiet, silently asking for your permission. You nod, and he continues, "What Peter Lewis did to me was terrorizing. I always wonder whether I'm making the right decision or sending my agents straight to their deaths. I second guess. I'm scared that a part of him is still in my head, driving me to make a fatal mistake." Aaron starts playing with his food, poking an orange chicken with his chopsticks.

The memory brings a tangy taste to his tongue, and Aaron can't help but cringe. It's the first time he's ever talked about Peter Lewis. Granted, Aaron spoke about the event numerous times but never about how it made him feel. Never how it broke him.

Is it weird to say you're a little proud of Aaron?

Of course, you don't tell him that. Not out loud. You know he knows you're proud of him. And that's enough said.

With a few audible chews—caused by a carrot bit stuck between your teeth—that somehow doesn't piss Aaron off, you swallow the food and draw your lips into a thin line. You place the chopsticks on the side, wiping the rim of your mouth.

You know he's watching you. Anticipatingly waiting for a response for anything other than the silence he's accustomed to.

"Breathe," You gently instruct, clear enough for him to hear but not too loud for Aaron to jump in shock.

And he does.

His shoulder blades rise and fall into a soft rhythm. Aaron was holding his breath, and you knew. Of course, you knew.

"Do you know the purpose of defense mechanisms?" You quiz him, earning a nod from Aaron, and yet no following answer. "You were already mad at me even before we met. And for what? Nothing concrete, I'm sure."

Aaron was about to object, but you raised your hand to stop him, "I'm not trying to attack you. All I'm saying is that rather than being in denial, you displaced your frustration on someone else less threatening—me."

Silence.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm not done, shush!" You close your fist to mute him, cutting him off.

Aaron subtly rolls his eyes. He started doing so on his fifth visit when Aaron brought Jack and a few video games.

He told you that Jack's heard about your interest in a couple of games and wanted to play with you, but you know damn well Aaron bought the game for himself. Nonetheless, you entertained them by teaming up with Jack and obliterating Aaron. He vowed never to play against you ever again, at least not to your face.

"I would never know the pain and suffering that you went through. And somehow, even with that fact, a part of your life was in the palm of my hand. You had no control, but I did. So, instead of understanding the why, you hated the wrong who. And it's okay."

You take a sip from your straw, and a bubbly sensation fills you. Your tongue glides over your lips as you lean against the counter. "In short, for a man who's been through a lot, you know how to cope." A shrug ends your sentence, grabbing another bite of chow mein on your plate.

"Yeah, right," Aaron scoffs. The sincerity in your voice sparks something in him. It's giddy and tempting. But he can't possibly show the smile that's itching to spread his lips.

But his nonchalance may have triggered something in you because Aaron doesn't expect your next move. His neck felt like a snapped glow stick after you manually turned his head to face you—grabbing him by the space between his neck and chin. Aaron widens his eyes in the process.

"Listen here, you stubborn poopy head." You start, forehead creasing.

Aaron badly wanted to poke fun at your poor, intimidating skills, but he realized you didn't need any pointers just by the glare in your eyes.

"Peter Lewis got to your head, but that doesn't mean you were weak to let him. Yes, you fought through the influence of the drug heroically. Yes, you saved your agents and, most importantly, yourself. But it's still okay to be scared. It's okay that you feel broken. Who says broken things aren't great?"

It might be the sleep deprivation that's hitting Aaron, but he's very much enjoying your little fuse. How your words meant nothing like how you sound.

"That silver watch of yours—" you glance at his wrist "—has been broken for years, but I bet if you pawn it, it'll be more valuable than me. Antiques are expensive because they have unique histories. They survived beaten up, scratched, damaged, but still as beautiful as ever."

You're rambling, explaining more than you need to. Felt obligated to drill in his mind that despite the bad things, Aaron remains good. You're uncertain—clueless—as to why you felt the need to prove his praiseworthy, almost as if you're trying to convince yourself rather than him.

"From my observation, you're a sharper profiler despite all the things you went through. A part of you suffered and died in that house and many houses before. Of course, you'll be broken. You're a human being, Aaron. Act like one for Pete's sake!"

"I don't know whether you're being nice or mean." He chuckles with a mischievous grin, marveling at the way your eyes narrow as you look at him.

"I liked you better when you didn't talk." You tut, rolling your eyes.

For a moment, your senses heighten, and the simple brush of his hand against the skin over your wrist, as he takes your hold off him, sends billions of electricity throughout your body.

Aaron smiles—genuinely. "Thank you," He says softly, clearing his throat. His hand is still tight around your wrist. "You simply could've slammed the door the first time I knocked, but you always let me in. I appreciate you tolerating me."

You laugh, retracting your hands off his skin before you melt in his grasp. "I did not let you in the first time. You barged in like I'm some fugitive." You fix your posture on the stool beneath you, looking away.

His chuckle wakes the butterflies in your stomach, and you shove them right back down by stuffing your mouth with food.

Your eyes catch a glimpse of the time, "Y-you better go home and change before your son wonders why his father smells like Chinese food for Sunday brunch. Jack's a big fan of good 'ole syrupy pancakes, there's a good one by the bureau's building. Better hurry up and pick him up." It's amazing how much you almost choked and stuttered as you spoke, hoping that Aaron wouldn't question the way your demeanor changed.

Aaron takes one last bite before towering next to you, "Let me clean up. It's the least I can do for imposing half of your weekend." He insists, swiping the styrofoam off your hands.

"Glad you got manners," You nod approvingly, earning another chuckle from him, making sure you gave him enough space to move around without brushing any part of your body, or you wouldn't know what the brewing feeling in your chest would make you do.

You mindlessly peer at Aaron's broad shoulders and dark hair that looks so soft you wonder if it'll melt with your touch. You blink, catching yourself mid-swoon.

After a few minutes, Aaron bids you goodbye and you wish him well, asking to relay a short message to Jack.

"I think you're only nice to me because of Jack," He jokes, pivoting on the heel of his shoes to get one last glimpse of you.

You give him a tight smile, raising your brows as you shrug.

One visit left.

Thursday, May 5, 12:51 PM

The news said Mr. Scratch escaped prison. Peter Lewis is out and about, no doubt, planning serious harm against Aaron. You turn the TV off. The image shrinks into a small diamond spark 'til it leaves a dark screen.

Ninety-eight beats per minute are your normal, but you surmise it's about a hundred and twelve at the moment as your mind anxiously ruminates your not-so-favorite-unofficial patient's well-being.

You glance at your phone, debating whether to give him a call, but even if you gain the guts to do so, you don't have his number. Who knew that refusing personal contacts would backfire? Aaron can knock anytime, you said. It doesn't matter whether he texts or calls before, you said.

Now, you have no means of contacting him, and you refuse to resort to his ways—going through his file like he went through yours.

It's a shitty feeling.

You keep your fingers as far away from your mouth as possible, afraid you'll bite your nails to its quick. If Aaron was with you, he'd say something annoyingly witty about how your anxiety's too easy to read, and you'd be bantering back a remark about his tells that not many notice but sure slightly pisses him off that you know him like the back of your hand.

Eyes dart in the direction of your entryway, waiting for any distinctive sound only Aaron makes whenever he closes the door like a teenager coming home past curfew.

"This is driving me crazy!" You ruffle your own hair, rubbing your face in frustration.

Tempted to wait outside your door for Aaron to arrive, in need of a company. A once-in-a-lifetime bone-crushing hug, given by yours truly. Or open up the 1997 Old Forester bourbon on top of your shelf that Aaron's been eyeing for a year.

You need to know if he's okay. You need to see that he's okay. Physically, mentally, and emotionally okay.

No one ever knocked.

Friday, November 18, 2:33 PM

"Aren't you curious?"

You look at Rossi, "About?" Your eyebrows pinch together. You backtrack the entire session in your mind, trying to remember if there is anything you are supposed to be curious about.

There's none.

Rossi turns to face you, a hand emerging out of his pocket. "You're not curious where he's been? I've known him for years, and I've never been more curious about his whereabouts 'til now." The hand waves around as each syllable flows, and slices the air every emphasis he makes like a conductor of his emotions.

He usually talks with his hand whenever he's emotionally troubled, attempting to make a point to himself, justifying that his feelings are reasonable.

David Rossi has been your patient for years; you can write any and everything about him into a best-selling book.

"You said it yourself, Dave," You shrugged with your arms. "You've known him for years. He and I saw each other a couple of times during our physician-patient interaction. Any interaction we had after is just the two of us drowning in silence."

Aaron never knocked that day.

He hasn't redeemed his last visit for the past five months. While it isn't the longest time he's never stopped by, you're bitter about it.

You couldn't sleep for a week after Peter Lewis escaped prison. You were afraid that Aaron's name would flash across any type of screen or mark a headline on every article and newspaper. You had to take anxiety medication to stop your body from trembling whenever the thought of him crossed your mind.

It was hell.

The utter hopelessness and lack of courage teared you apart. The strangeness. The nonexistence. You don't reckon a conversation with Aaron that involves you and him. Only you or him or whatever depressing topic comes up. You're not even sure if you had actual conversations. Always wallowing in silence while sipping either scotch or coffee.

But you two had a deal. No catch. Not even feelings. Developing one for Aaron did not cross your mind when you granted him the power to bother you at any running time.

All of it is to say you wish you had known Aaron's last visit was, in fact, the last.

Rossi squints, "You're telling me the quietness you shared didn't matter? That his company didn't benefit you the same way it did for him?" He stands tall, pleased with his words.

It did.

Of course, it did.

And you loved every second of it.

Even if you realize it too late.

But you won't say that to Rossi. Or to anyone ever.

A sigh drops your shoulders. You give him a blank stare, letting his question hover for a moment. "What do you want me to say?" You continue packing up your things on your desk, breaking eye contact.

If you knew David Rossi like the back of your hand, David Rossi knew you like every family of the victims he managed to save.

Worried.

Heartbroken.

Hurt.

Aaron never told Rossi about any interactions with you after he was released from your care. It's information Rossi's only ever heard a confirmation from you. But he knew it from the moment Aaron came to work after his first session with you and couldn't seem to get the specific idea of you out of his head.

"We're doing everything we can to catch Peter Lewis. Aaron will be back, I promise."

Pause.

You fight your every single sense to remain composed. Hearing Aaron's name instantly made you crumble. The sound of it hitting your chest with such force you had to bite the tissue behind your closed lip. You badly wanted—needed to cry and throw a tantrum.

The inner ends of your brows lift up as you nod, "Good for you... and for him. I'll see you in two weeks, Dave." You dismiss, walking around your desk to push him out of your office.

"Wait, wait! Just listen!" You retract your hands off his back and let him face you. "He's okay. He and Jack are safe somewhere I, unfortunately, don't know." He tries to meet your gaze—successful. "But! But that's a good thing. Not knowing where he is while in protective custody is good. Safe. I just thought you'd want to know."

You nod, "Certainly a good information, Dave. But not really necessary." Your tongue subtly swipes the bottom of your lips. "Aa—Agent Hotchner was a patient. Anything outside of that is not my business." Liar.

Rossi tucks his mouth into a thin line, nodding. "See you in two weeks, kid."

Tuesday, March 27, 6:12 PM

It's a nice Spring.

Your hair dances like the breeze is music as you trudge back to your apartment against the rush hour sidewalk traffic.

A year and a half.

You moved to a different place since then.

Moved on— from something that never existed, but really, your old complex just ran out of business.

You couldn't possibly move on, even if you wanted to.

"Good evening, Mrs. Willows," You smile at the old lady as she steps on the base of the stairs.

Mrs. Willows was old, close to ninety. And she's the best landlady you've ever met.

She smiles back, "Oh, just in time!" She waddles towards you, scraping the soles of her flats against the creaky floorboards.

"Did you need anything, Mrs—"

The old lady doesn't let you finish when she yanks you back up the stairs. Confusion fills you, but if you are being honest, you're more amazed by her speed. You didn't know it was possible for her to have that much energy.

"There's this handsome boy knocking at your door earlier. So, I let him in."

You dig your feet on one of the steps, halting her. "Mrs. Willows, you let a stranger in my house?" Your brows knit.

She looks at you, "Well, I figured it's one of your patients." She shrugs.

"I wasn't expecting any home visit today." You announce, peeking at the top of the stairs. "And I would've been home if there was…"

You excuse yourself, cautiously walking towards your door. The floor plan is different from your old apartment. But everything still felt the same.

The anxiety of a random stranger going through your place left you rushing to the living room. You don't exactly let any random patient inside your home. It's usually the profilers that seem to have a liking to you that lucked the privilege to visit your home at any given time.

"I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to set an appointment at the clinic—" you abruptly stop, blinking.

Aaron Hotchner.

He's sat on the armchair, only lifting his gaze after he'd closed the book you were reading before you decided to step out to run some errands.

He is wearing a navy blue quarter zip sweater and a white shirt, peeking from under. It's paired with loose-fitting gray casual pants. Like his closet had an upset stomach and threw up all over him.

The bags under his eyes are almost invisible. It used to be a tint of greenish purple. A proof of his late nights and stressful days. He's caught up with sleep for a while now.

His hair, a little longer than you're accustomed to, somehow made him look young and boyish. Probably why Mrs. Willows referred to him as a boy.

It's quite an image. Not one you'd expect to see upon opening your front door, but you mentally admit liking it.

He looks refreshing and well-rested.

"I heard you started your own practice?" He didn't mean to form it as a question, tongue-tied by nervousness. He flashes an awkward, subtle smile, dipping his hands into his pockets.

Your lashes flutter like butterflies gliding through the soft wind of Spring, except you're struggling to go against the breeze, winded by the city pollution.

"H-have you eaten?" You ask, snapping out of your trance as you head to the kitchen. Great. A question for a question. You're as nervous as he is, and you don't feel the need to hide it, though you aren't inclined to admit it.

He chuckles, and it still makes you melt after a year of trying to remember how it sounds, "That's your first question? Not 'What are you doing here?' or 'How did you find me?'" He follows you to the kitchen, it's a lot smaller than the one at your old place but you had a dinner table now, which still feels like an upgrade.

You turn and face him, leaning against the counter, "I'll just charge the entire team on their next visit. But I have a feeling David's the culprit." You blurt, earning raised brows from Aaron. "Oh? They didn't tell you? Your team unofficially designated me as their psychiatrist. I guess they also kept an important information from you." You twist on your feet to focus on the produce you carefully picked in hopes someone would join you for dinner.

But you didn't expect Aaron to be that person.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No!" You almost stumble as you spin back to face him. "I'm in no position to be mad. If a patient doesn't need my services, then I have no say." You lick the lower of your lip, biting it as soon as your tongue glides past. Heat pooling in the back of your eyes.

Aaron steps closer, "I didn't mean to—"

"I told you I'm not mad."

"You're really going to lie to an FBI profiler?"

"Former," You correct him, sniffing as you fight the tears from rolling down your cheeks. Your head's tilted up, almost facing the ceiling. Anger and frustration hammer into your chest.

He rolls his eyes, trying to catch yours. "Former, right." He parrots with a little more sarcasm. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you anything... I needed to make sure Jack's safe." He softly speaks, making sure you understand every syllable.

It's your turn to roll your eyes, blinking and letting a tear fall in the process. "You don't have to apologize for protecting your son. I'm not evil, Hotchner. I'll do the same thing for my family. I'm completely indifferent about your disappearance, and i-it's allergy season. I'm fine." You wipe the tear stain off your face.

"I missed hearing you say my name like it's a foul word." Aaron smiles so brightly you thought you were dead and some divine was just using his image to guide you across.

"Seriously? That's what you took from it?" You shake your head, turning your back to him once more. "I feel bad for Jack now that you're a full-time father."

Aaron laughs, and by definition. "Oh, he's had enough of me." His eyebrows jump on his forehead, drifting his eyes aside as if he's replaying every instance Jack's complained to him.

You laugh, too. A full hearty laugh that seems to source from the casualty between the two of you despite the irritation you felt.

It's still the same. The ease. The effortless flow and connection despite anxious nerves. It felt like talking to an old friend you've known longer than you are alive.

You nibble on your lips, "So? You're off protective custody, or do I have to call you Brad?" You quiz airily, back still facing him to hide any form of amusement that's forming on your facial features.

"Brad?" He scoffs, crossing his arms and knitting his brows. He sounds about offended as if you'd disrespected his entire bloodline.

"Yeah, you look like a Brad to me." You remember a story from the women in the BAU. One that they happily shared one evening at Rossi's before they all begged to be added to your list of patients once you start your private practice.

Aaron lets out another scoff. "No, I'm just Aaron. Aaron to everyone. Aaron to you." He grumbles something under his breath that you don't hear, but a clear indication of his disapproval regarding the name.

You stifle a giggle, "Well, just Aaron. Consider yourself lucky that I got a free slot. I would've been with a patient by now." You state.

"Am I really just a patient to you?" Aaron inquires from behind you. He attentively observes for any subtle movement or expression in your voice. There's a longing look in his eyes that you aren't aware of. A frown drops his lips as he adds, "I at least thought we were friends."

"Mm," You hum a chuckle, "More like my stalker. But sure, we'll go with yours... friends—"

He spins you by the waist, and you're not sure if your initial thought of dreaming is ending anytime soon as your body tenses under his hold.

A small yelp squeaks out of you, hands flying behind you on the counter as if to hold yourself up from your wobbly feet. And you're certain both of you can hear the loud pulse on your carotid.

"Hotchner, what the hell?!" You chastise, pulling back, but to no avail. Caged and pinned by his strength, and you're too baffled to react accordingly.

"I'd like to redeem my tenth visit." Aaron smiles from ear to ear. You never thought it possible for a stern-faced man to ever grin this wide. To ever be this bright and bubbly.

Aaron keeps the two of you that way for a few minutes. His face is a few inches from yours. You can hear him calculating in his head.

Only the busy street outside and one of your neighbor's loud TV fills the silence.

"Your pupils are dilated." Aaron grins mischievously. He further scans your face, the same way he did when he used to be your patient, reading you like it's his job to know every micro-movement and expression you make.

Your eyes widen, "Stop—" Your voice barely comes out, breath hitching halfway through your throat. "—profiling me." The space between you and his body feels suffocatingly good. It's making you dizzy.

"Usually, you're composed, but you can barely look me in the eyes." His hands remain on your hips, and every twitch of it makes you stiff like a statue. "Am I making you nervous?" He quips wittily.

Like a switch, your heart rate steadies, and his image becomes clear.

It's Aaron Hotchner.

Just Aaron, he said.

Warmth surges through your veins. You stare at the grin on his face.

Your head tilts, and you blink excruciatingly slow. "Are you trying to ask me out, Hotchner?" You mirror the trail of his eyes like a map.

Aaron beams like he'd won the lottery. Sending you impulsive thoughts such as kissing the smile off his face.

It's tempting and nauseating.

And if he doesn't stop, you just might.

"Ten."

Your eyebrows merge in confusion, "What?"

"Ten dates," He breathes as he looks you in the eye. "Let me take you out on ten dates. Then you can decide if I'm just one of your many stubborn patients or if I can be more. Let me make it up to you in ten dates. Please." He implores, hopeful, or rather knowing that you'd say yes.

And he'd be right.

All you want at that moment is to say yes.

But teasing him won't hurt, at least not you.

"And what's in it for me?" You try your best not to smile as you taunt him.

Aaron rolls his eyes, but his grin tugs the corner of his lips up. "You get unlimited access to me?"

"Wow, that's... very compelling." And you burst out laughing, folding on your stomach as you lean against his chest. You inhale, "Sorry, I expected better negotiation. Uh, any catch?" You say between chuckles.

He shakes his head, "Just one condition," He's chuckling now, too. Not immune from your contagious giggles. "I spend most of my days with you. Even if it's just sitting in silence. I want it to be with you." He lets go of one of your hips and tucks a strand behind your ear.

The giggles die down a bit, gazing at him with reverie. You nod after a few seconds, squeezing his arms. You lift yourself, tiptoeing, closing the gap.

You leave a quick, soft peck on his lips, smiling as you get back on your feet.

Aaron smiles, and you're as ecstatic as he is.

Another nod fills your chest with utter joy as you breathe in euphoria.

"Ten's a good number."

[konigbabe]

PERISH

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x gn!reader Word count: 1.6k Tags/warnings: no y/n; manga spoilers (post Shibuya timeline); canon-compliant; angst; death; emotional breakdown; hurt/no comfort; loss; grief Summary: For the first time in a long time, Satoru Gojo, the epitome of strength, breaks. Happy start of JJKS2 writing week.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

November 2018 8 minutes until Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

"Don’t worry, I’ll make it on time. I’m right behind the corner."

"We can wait," Yuji’s voice carries through the car, the static of the Bluetooth speaker occasionally cracking.

It feels like years have passed since you last saw him. Sealed away in the prison realm, Gojo’s state remains a mystery. There’s no telling how being locked in a place where time and space don’t exist can affect even the strongest minds.

That’s what worries you. What if he’ll break? What if he goes crazy on all of you? What if he explodes; wipes you all out with his technique? An endless sea of ‘what if’ swirls inside your mind as you take another turn, the mountains on your left with an ocean view on your right.

"Don’t," you reassure the youngster, "don’t wait any longer."

"You should be here, though," Megumi jumps into the conversation, "You’re closest to that idiot. He’ll want to see you."

His words draw a smile on your lips. It’s finally happening. The sleepless nights are coming to an end with the arrival of your lover.

"Then I’ll just opt for a dramatic entrance while you keep him busy," you respond before tightening your hands on the wheel. A familiar feeling washes over you; sudden knowledge of a new presence. Heart picking up, your eyes search the road for the source while the car’s speed slowly drops.

32 seconds; that’s how long it takes you to locate the source. A curse spirit manifestation stands in the middle of the road, blocking you. Its small hunched build stands a mere meter above the ground; four arms decorated by translucent fins hanging by its body, the prehnite skin glistening in the last rays of today’s sun, giving off a wet, moist appearance.

"Boys," you announce, stopping Yuji’s and Megumi’s bickering while still keeping up the cheerful, light voice in an attempt to not raise suspicions about your current predicament, "don’t wait any longer. Unseal Satoru and stop worrying ‘bout me. It’ll be fine."

Bringing the car to a slow halt, Yuji’s tone shifts into a more attentive one as your name seeps through the speaker before you hang up after one more reassurance.

As you step out of the vehicle, the curse's malevolence engulfs the air, almost tangible in its intensity. It clings to the atmosphere like a poisonous fog, penetrating your senses with a pungent sulfuric odor that threatens to overwhelm you.

Your hand slips inside your jacket to retrieve a carefully preserved seal, reserved for such precarious situations; just like this one.

"I’m sorry," with every footfall, the curse seems to shrink in size, yet its malicious nature grows stronger, the smell of sulfur almost suffocating, "but I’m in a hurry right now and you," pointing the parchment paper towards the spirit, "are in my way."

Swift and precise, your movements carry an aura of practiced precision. With little effort, you firmly press the seal upon the spirit's head, causing it to stumble momentarily before dissipating into thin air, vanquished by the power contained within the sigil.

Yet, the energy lingers.

Stronger than before. Stronger than a second ago. Its absent defense, non-existent attempt to fight or flee…it all makes sense now —

A powerful grip; a strong hand adorned with talons as keen as the finest blades dig into your shoulder as an inhuman force pushes you to the side.

As you're thrust aside, your vision catches a subtle glimmer of chrysolite, a hue that seeps into your perception; its scales are sturdy, each edge honed to a dangerous sharpness. Driven by instinct and the will to protect yourself, you reach out, your hand making contact with the curse spirit’s scaly hide.

The jagged edges of its scales cut into the delicate flesh of your fingers, leaving trails of crimson in their wake.

— it was a decoy.

Your body collides with the unforgiving side of the mountain, back meeting the rough and unyielding surface. A symphony of pain resonates within your bones, their structural integrity compromised as multiple cracks reverberate through your form.

Gasping for breath, your body instinctively seeks solace, but find none amidst the terrain. The curse doesn’t wait either. Swiftly moving forward, it lunges at you. Unforgiving. With a clear intent to strike. To kill.

During Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

There is no pain. The moment the curse’s hand breaches the barrier of your chest, you expect it. Expect some kind of visceral reaction. But there’s none — a gentle pinch, akin to a fleeting touch when the sharp claws first pierce through the protective layers of your breastplate. A slight discomfort upon the feeling of having a foreign object that’s found its place within the confines of your ribs. The barrier of your rib cage offers minimal resistance, yielding to the relentless advance that seeks to reach the very core of your being. The heart.

It all feels confusing.

"Kenjaku sends his regards," it whispers, the words slurred by the razor-sharp fangs that protrude from its mouth.

October 31, 2018 — 8:09 PM

"What’s the worst that can happen?"

Satoru saunters around the corner of the table, his presence punctuated by the audible slurping of juice from a small cartoon container. All while your palms rest on top of the said furniture, fingernails tapping at the surface.

The news has spread fast through the jujutsu community, faster than wildfire. Whispers of an unknown curtain cast around Shibuya an hour ago, trapping all non-sorcerers, innocent civilians, inside its insidious grasp with only one demand: Bring Satoru Gojo.

"Don’t say it like that, Satoru," you turn to face the man whose casual and dismissive demeanor only adds fuel to the worries setting inside your bones.

"They’re a bunch of curses," his hand finds its place on your hip bone while placing the empty container away, "Some special grades, yeah, but they’re weak compared to me. I’ll deal with them, save some people in the meantime, and bam," he snaps his fingers loudly, "We can go home. Get that sunset date you’ve been babbling about. Life is good," he finishes with a kiss on the crown of your head.

Life is good.

You watch the sun dip below the horizon behind the curse spirit’s back, indulging the sinister being in a halo glow.

Yeah. In the end, life was good.

2 hours and 48 minutes after Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

For a moment, he stands still. Unable to look down; frozen in time. The weight of it all seems to bear down upon his shoulders – now that Sukuna’s taken over Megumi’s body, Nanami’s and Yaga’s death, Suguru’s body being used as a vessel, the slow crumbling fall of the Jujutsu world – and now you; being gone.

Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer of the current time. Yet even his immense power proves futile as the people he loves keep dying on him…because of him.

A burden that threatens to crush him beneath its insurmountable gravity.

The air around him hangs heavy with sorrow, as if the very essence of grief has manifested itself in the atmosphere. A storm of emotions swirls within him; a combination of disbelief, anguish and a gnawing ache that gnashes at the core of his being.

He clenches his fists, fingers trembling with a mixture of sorrow and determination. In that agonizing moment, he finds the strength to finally lower his gaze, to confront the devastating truth that lies at his feet.

Everyone holds their breaths, the weight of his misery echoing in the silence as his eyes meet the lifeless visage of the one he holds dearest.

Of you.

Hand reaching out, his fingers graze the once-soft flesh of your hand; now cold and stiff. It serves as a confirmation of reality. There’s no getting you back, no way Shoko can nurture you back to health with her technique.

You’re gone.

And in that harrowing instant, the façade crumbles. The walls he built to contain his pain come crashing down, and Satoru Gojo, the epitome of strength, breaks.

Crumbling down on his knees, the vulnerability that spills forth from his broken form is raw and unrestrained. Only a handful of those closest to him stand behind to witness the symphony of torment that pierces the silence. Tears stream down his face, each drop carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words, moments you two could’ve spent together.

One hand covering his mouth to silence the guttural sounds, the other reaches out to you, tenderly cradling your lifeless head upon his lap. He clings to the fragile hope that if he could provide just enough warmth and love, you might return to him.

Yuji looks around the room, at the people who silently observe their friend fall apart. Taking a step towards the hunched man, a soft grasp stops him mid step; Kiyotaka shakes his head, pushing his glasses back in place as Shoko looks down. For the first time, she’s unable to figure out her classmate, her childhood friend, the man whose side she’s always stayed by.

"Gojo," Yuji doesn’t allow Kiyotaka to stop him. Believing in what’s right, he stands behind his teacher’s back.

Hand laying on the tense muscle of his shoulder, he doesn’t attempt to comfort Satoru with any words — no words in this universe would bring you back anyway. Instead, his hand just rests there. Unmoving. Gentle.

"Who did it," his words cause Shoko to look back up as Satoru, stone-faced and stoic, speaks in a firm, devoid voice. Imagines of unspeakable horror flashes in his mind as he stands up, towering over the wide-eyed Yuji.

"Tell me now," his eyes search Kiyotaka’s, voice filled with undeniable authority, "I’ll kill them, kill them all."

[tateshifts]

THEODORE NOTT ⋆｡˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚ dr headcanons

✮ . . . he is the most sarcastic person you will ever meet, i know this is common knowledge but almost everything he says is sarcasm. i’m a very gullable person so i can never tell the difference with him. to understand him you have to have wits

✮ . . . he grew up in an abusive home without a mother, but with mattheo. they have been through a lot together in their childhood so they’re bond has grown a ton over the years. they fight like brothers and act like brothers but one time when theo was drunk he said if mattheo was a girl he’d totally date him ??? urm concerning mate

✮ . . . when he was 8 he admitted to having a crush on narcissa and he picked out some flowers from the malfoy grounds. in reality he just confused his feelings towards her because he has mummy issues

✮ . . . he has never had a real girlfriend, he’s ‘dated’ girls before but has never made it official. he self sabotages a lot so his relationships never end up going anywhere. he’s very possessive and jealous and gets so overwhelmed by the affection that he just explodes and ruins the relationship in the end.

✮ . . . yes, theo’s tall but he’s not lanky like everyone says he is. he’s so athletic, he’s captain of the quidditch team. so he’s always working out and just doing everything to keep himself moving. it distracts him from his thoughts. he’s got a lot of muscle to him, he has reallyyy defined abs. AND HIS JAWLINE. so chiselled.

✮ . . . theo can read people so well, if, say enzo, takes a joke too far, then theo is the first one to notice if you’re hurt by it. he wouldn’t bring it up then and there he would wait to get you alone and reassure you.

✮ . . . mattheo is the only person that theo trusts with his life. he would tell mattheo anything in an instant, they both like to hang out in the astronomy tower after astronomy class and talk and smoke. they just catch up and talk about nonsense. theo is a very honest and open person so he’ll still tell us things he’s thinking about but mattheo is always and will be his number 1 person.

✮ . . . theo is not much of a drinker at parties, he smokes weed until he can’t roll anymore. he also uses it as a coping mechanism if he’s feeling shit. he gets in his own head sometimes about the death of his mother, it’s something that theo is still processing to this day.

✮ . . . tell me why theo is straight but kisses mattheo sober at parties 🤔🤔🤔

✮ . . . theo is not the person everyone describes him to be. he’s not this guy who pretends to have a high body count to fit in, he doesn’t stuff his face with food every chance he gets and he would never let anyone called him teddy. doesn’t matter who you are- he finds it cringe and ‘revolting’ (his words not mine). i think the slytherin boy react accounts on tiktok have ruined everyone’s perception of the slytherin boys. ✮ but i know this is just me and my experiences and my dr and it’s not the same for everyone, it’s just that i used to think he was like this and then i shifted and it was like a slap in the face lol

thanks for reading ❦｡･:*:･ﾟ. follows, likes & reblogs are appreciated x

[just-a-ghost00]

Who is your secret admirer? 👀

If you feel like someone’s been eying you and you would like to check if your intuition about them is right, then this reading is for you. There will be a part two covering whether you know them or not and what this person admires about you.

There will be three sections for each group :

1. Their physical traits

2. Their personality

3. Complementary info using key words based on the letters you get

Group 1 🌹

Their appearance - 10 of wands, The Sun, 9 of pentacles, 2 of swords, Queen of cups, The Fool, Strength, Death, Movement, with a special appearance of the 7 of swords

This person is a busy bee. They look really tired or like they’re constantly in a rush. This person tends to avoid your gaze. They are quite charming and cute, their body has a good balance. They are rather slender and slim. They look strong though. Like they lift weights or something. This person can be quite intense if they want to, especially because they are so athletic and well off financially. But they are super humble so even though they know they look good, they do their best not to brag about it. So this person tends to dress casually, they wear clothes that don’t always fit them or bring the best out of their looks. They wear sporty clothes often like some kind of camper’s bag or running shoes. Their eyes is a key feature of their looks. They’re sweet yet bold. A fair mix of flirty and shy. This person could be really versatile in how they look around you. They are the sexy cute type, the type of person that attracts people with their brains more than their body. Though they look like a snack in this case. This person could be a swimmer so their arms and torso/back could be something that stands out compared to the rest of their body. They look like they would give the best hugs ever. 🤩

Their personality - The Tower, 4 of cups, The Hierophant, The High Priestess, The Lovers, 8 of wands, The Sovereign, Dare to dream, Transmute

Let me tell you, this person is hot AF. There is a stark contrast between their looks and their personality. This person looks so innocent but deep down they are soooo horny and dominant. No wonder this person wouldn’t look you in the eyes : they were too busy looking at your chest. They love it to a fault! They fantasize about you a whole lot. When it comes to who they are on a more general basis, they are very confident. They are a leader. They are wise, they know their worth. This person is a loner and they have strong boundaries. They don’t lose their time with what they’re not interested in. Same goes for people. They only engage in conversations with people that can match their intensity or bring something to the table. If they deem you unworthy, they would have no problem cutting ties. This person is very clever. They are constantly thinking. They are also super intuitive. Like the Hierophant and the High Priestess combo is super connected. This person definitely believes in a higher power, no matter how they label it. With the lovers and the 8 of wands, this person is quick to fall in love and very passionate once they know where they stand with you. They enjoy the banter a lot. They’re a sapiosexual. Not only are they excited by your looks but they also love your sassy and witty nature. The Hierophant / High Priestess / Lovers combo makes me think that this person is engaged but would gladly have a sneaky link with you anytime. The Tower and 4 of cups combo tells me that they like to challenge perceptions of others but don’t like theirs to be challenged. Let me tell you this person was not mentally prepared to meet you. You have put their world upside down to say the least. They can’t control their desire but they try really hard to repress it.

Complementary info - G I E A T Z I C R Y D A P L U

Words I’m picking up on : gay, guy, crazy, day care, guitar, cry, play date, icy gaze, player, age, gap, duty, large, diaper, price, duality, cage, pirate, trail, page, trace, guard, place, Italy, palace, rule, party, lace, Gael, Gail, Gaelic, Zac, Celia, Alice, Alicia, Ciel, Dalia, Ali, Lyra, Lydia, Craig, Giulia, Caty, Zara, Algeria, cute, cutie, prize, prude, girly

Group 2 ❣️❣️

Their appearance - Two of wands, White Numen, 7 of cups, King of cups, four of pentacles, 9 of wands, Power, Fate, Get creative

Okay this can be quite specific but for some this person is a farmer or someone that creates with their hands in a more general sense. Their hands, arms and upper body area are key features of this person’s look. They look intimidating, a bit stern, guarded for sure. Like the type of person that shouldn’t be messed with. Everything about them is meaty and juicy, even the D / the C. Their sense of style is pretty flowy. They like oversized clothes. Things that are practical and that they wouldn’t mind getting dirty 😉😉 They have a daddy / mommy vibe to them. They look like they’ve been through a lot and they can’t be bothered. Like you can’t fool them. They look mature. We got some DILFs and MILFs here lmao If they’re a man they got the full beard and grey hair sticking out here and there, if they’re a woman they got the long lucious hair and flowy sundresses that enhances their beautiful clivage. I’m specifically picturing for women their beautiful fuppa born from the birthing of beautiful children. This person is very sensual. And their sensuality comes from years of experience and knowledge, of working on themselves and providing for their family. They look very trustworthy and clean. Very healthy. Those are the type of people that are active on a daily basis, either because of their job or because they indulge in a lot of outdoor activities. They could like running or gardening. We also have artists here. Painters, musicians, sculptors, writers even. They kind of have an other worldly appearance. Like a Greek god/goddess that would have decided to walk among the mortals.

Their personality - knight of cups, queen of cups, Hierophant, page of swords, king of swords, page of pentacles, Love, The Sage

This person is very sweet. They are understanding, kind, patient. They love everyone. They are very contemplative. They like to make their own mind when doing something for the first time or meeting new people. They aren't the kind to gossip or take gossip seriously. They value traditions and respect more than anything else. They were educated quite strictly but it has done this person good. If they're a man, they were taught how to treat women fairly and consider them as their equal. If they're a woman, they were taught to support and uplift other women. They have a lot of knowledge and like to learn. They like to be challenged and mentally stimulated. They enjoy psychology, reading, writing. They know how to set boundaries and be ruthless in certain situations but they're also empathetic, able to compromise and find solutions that are beneficial to everyone. They feel very feminine. They take after the feminine figures in their life, especially their mother. They are nurturing and protective. They like to value others but also inspire and be inspired. They aren't afraid of being vulnerable, of making mistakes or stepping into the unknown. They have a lot of love to give. They are very romantic, even idealistic and naive at times. This person coul be a teacher or a healer of some kind. They were taught never to judge nor to belittle, never to think of themselves as superior to anyone, never to deny anyone of their love, respect or help. They gladly share what they have, help people out, show the way when needed. They are a chosen leader. They don't aspire to be one but people end up following them because of their sincere and pure nature. They have a lot of charisma and natural charm that doesn't feel forceful. They're in tune with their emotions and understand others' well. I'm getting that for some of you, this person enjoys poetry and/or romance novels.

Extra info - S E L I M A T A I I T U I R A

Words I picked up on : Selim, Selima, Rituals, trials, meat, Islam, rate, mates, teams, salute, émirats (French for emirates), emails, Italie (Italy), sutra, tiramisu, restau ( short for restaurant in French), amitié (French for friendship), Mauri (people from Mauritania), militaire (French for military), Mistral, Australia, Lisa, Asia, Israel, serial, laser, taser, Semirat, Rasul (Arabic for Prophet/messenger), Sami, Sam, Salima, Salim, Salem, Salam, Ismail, Smail, Islem, Tiamat, Tiamut, Mali

Group 3 👑♥️

Their looks - queen of pentacles, 6 of swords, 10 of wands, ace of pentacles, Death, The Lovers, Get Curious, The Sovereign

They look athletic and agile, a bit like a monkey. I thought of pirates for this group. I'm kinda picturing Monkey D. Luffy. This person could be a One Piece fan. They may have some similarities with this character. For those of you that don't know who this is, here's a GIF of the character to kinda get an idea (it's the guy in red).

Their limbs could be super stretchy lmao They just appear very trustworthy but also a bit reckless. But more than that, they look like they've been through a lot of stuff. Despite that, they're still pretty optimistic and want to believe in humanity. Just like the character, I guess. They look like the world's weight relies on their shoulders. They could have dark hair and eyes. They also look really young and unique. Their style can be a bit surprising. Like maybe they wear stuff that's not considered typical for people like them. They like rather flowy clothes that make them feel at ease. They also like contrast. They experiment a lot with their clothing style. So they can switch from one extreme to the other depending on their mood. It's like everything suits them. There's always something regal about them. They have a long neck or the way they stand and carry themselves makes them look like they come from a noble family. They always walk or talk slowly, they have an intense gaze. Key features of this person could be arms and eyes. They have this mischievous glint in their eyes, one that says "life is fun and if you don't think like that then I'm gonna make sure you do when you're with me". Honestly they're mostly a goofball and people might not take them very seriously based on their looks.

Their personality - 4 of pentacles, king of pentacles, Death, 2 of swords, Wheel of fortune, King of cups, The Pillar, Compassion

This person is deep. What they show is nothing compared to who they are. They are so mature and wise people would be shocked once they know them. They hide a lot of their scars, their doubts, their wealth and abundance. They don't trust people easily. They have to make sure you're worthy first. But once they trust you they give you their all. They have a happy go lucky personality with the people they trust the most. But they are ruthless with the ones they don't like. They have a strong moral compass and support their loved ones whole heartedly. This really matches Luffy's energy. If they feel like someone was unfairly treated, they would do anything in their power to get retribution for them. They may have a savior complex. They think rationally and take everything seriously, even the little things. They are dedicated to their work and their loved ones. They are an example for people around them. They like to take under their wing people that have been hurt, left behind or misjudged because they know what it feels like to be rejected or misunderstood. Their mind can get a bit negative sometimes. They tend to be harsh on themselves but extremely kind toward others.

Extra info - M U R R A K E A A Z E Y O N B

Words I picked up on : bronze, key, year, Amazon, bear, aroma, Kobe, Azurro, Manabu, bee, Roza, Zakary, Zakarya, Ryuk, Ruben, Roy, Akon, Marzo(March), May, Bron, Ryan, Marny, Zayn, karma, Roma, mabrouk (Arabic for blessed/lucky/prosperous), amaze, amen (either the Latin expression to end prayers), aman (Kabyle for water), Mary, Mauro, Amano, Arman, Armen, Korea, Zara, armor, amore, Kenya, Keny, Mokran, Yen, Ben, zen, yakuza, Kurama, Yan

[visenyaism]

definitive dark sister wielder power ranking

9. i’m a simple person with simple tastes. i make a list and jaehaerys WILL be ranked last on it. nasty hands should never have touched the girl sword not even for a month. he couldn’t handle it

8. whichever gay son he gave it to instead of alyssa. fuck you old man

7. daemon targaryen (canon) crazy ass bad at planning suicide rusher

6. aemon the dragonknight. busy dickriding for his evil brother for literally no reason and incredibly easy to trick

5. baela if fire and blood was good. she’s got a lot to process

4. daemon targaryen (if able to obtain HRT and an adderall prescription)

3. 13 year-old Maegor Targaryen. His mommy would never let him lose a fight.

2. brynden kissinger rivers. why can’t you beat this skinny nerd with no depth perception in a fight? because he had you killed three weeks ago and used your death to destabilize relations between the brackens and the tullies do keep up.

1. wire mother herself

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type AU.

Soap is the long forgotten god of death.

Ghost is his first follower in a very long time.

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

————

At first, Soap had been seen as kind and benevolent. The one to end someone’s suffering and help them along to the afterlife. However, as more wars began to break out, his perception changed into that of a bloodthirsty warmonger. The type that you sacrifice the blood of innocents to for luck in your upcoming battles.

Soap had simply ignored the brutish offerings. But then they spread. Like a plague, soon everyone was murdering their chosen victims in his temples in the hopes that it would bring them even more fortune.

Realizing that his presence was just causing more and more to die, he let himself fade away. He was reduced to nothing more than a comforting feeling people felt before they died. Over time, the so-called offerings stopped. Scared of what would happen should he return, he continued to fade.

A god is only as strong as their followers believe them to be. With no followers, no offerings, they are nothing. While mortal weaponry may hurt a god, may even get them to bleed, it cannot kill them. A god can only truly die when they are no longer remembered.

Soap is waiting for the day that he is truly forgotten and can pass on when he gets a feeling. One he has not had in an age. Though his worshippers have abandoned him, his temples and statues remained, though now significantly worse for wear. And someone just provided an offering of a single slice of bread on one of his statues.

A meager offering, sure, but it’s enough to get his attention. He has almost no power nor any energy left, but he sees a soldier sitting next to the statue as he ate his meal.

Meanwhile, Ghost hadn’t the faintest clue what god he just gave an offering to, but he felt a little better afterwards and so just hoped they weren’t evil. He took note of the statue’s appearance and when his troop was encamped near a town, he snuck away to a local library to see if there were any books he could find about it.

He was not apart of the army willingly, but he owed them a life debt and they had decided that it would only be repaid upon his death. Just a glorified prisoner, he was kept at the general’s side as his favorite weapon. Sneaking away was difficult, but definitely doable. The few times he was caught, he made enough of a disturbance that it was easier for everyone involved to let him do his thing.

They did not need to worry about him running away. If he was able, he’d have run the second he was given the chance. However, he was stuck. As long as he owed a debt, he could not leave.

The statue, at the very least, gave him something to do.

He was intrigued. He did not recognize the features at all, and his research confirmed that it was not a well known deity. It takes a long time of asking the right people and finding the right books to uncover the story of the forgotten god.

Having read everything — from loving poems about the being helping sickly children find comfort in their last moments to angry anecdotes about desperate townspeople sacrificing themselves in the hope that the god would show them mercy — he decides to give the god the benefit of the doubt.

He figures the world is shitty enough, why not find some good that had been tucked away? Ghost himself was seen more as a weapon than a person and couldn’t help but sympathize. He was never one for gods or worship, more likely to curse the heavens than ever sacrifice something of his, but he almost felt bad for the being. So, the next day, from one bloodthirsty monster to another, he gives the forgotten god more offerings.

It’s still not much, just an apple and a ring the general wouldn’t notice missing, but he sets them there anyways. He damn near jumps out of his fucking skin when the feeling of an accepted offering floods through him. He stares at what would have originally been the face of the statue, but nothing happens. The trees behind him continue to sing their song in the faint breeze, with the sounds of a lively woods never fading.

There is no outside sound, no out of place movement, no indication that he hadn’t just imagined the feeling. A leaf falling from one of the branches and landing on the pedestal, where the offerings were now gone, snapped him out of his staring contest. He muttered out a gruff thanks and sat down to eat, ignoring the feeling of being watched.

[ishgard]

Presenting: An Absurdly, Stupidly Long and Wordy Warrior of Light-based Questionnaire, or as my bestie dubbed it:

30 WoL Think Thonkers

Less an ask prompt, more of a daily prompt, (though you can use it as an ask prompt if you prefer!) Answer the questions however you want: straight-forward, with stories or screens, or a mix of all.

Get any of your little brainworms out. Wax poetic, ramble off into several digressions, challenge yourself to answer in the least amount of words possible, whatever you're vibing with! (If you want to tag them #wolthinkthonkers feel free!)

This is very Warrior of Light and MSQ based. It's set from a Post-Endwalker mindframe, so there are some minor/vaguely worded spoilers.

----------------------- WARM-UP QUESTIONS

I. Where is your Warrior of Light from? What was their home like growing up and what set them out on their journey?

2. What city-state did your WoL start in? How did they feel about it then, and how do they feel about it now? (ie, did their experiences sour their perception, or make them appreciate it more?)

3. How do they feel about being Hydaelyn's chosen? (Feel free to break it down from ARR's "Champion of Eorzea" all the way to "The Savior of Etheirys" as much as you like. Have those feelings changed, or just grown more complex?)

4. What do they do in their down time? Do they have any hobbies outside of Primal-slaying and world-saving? Are these lifelong hobbies or recent interests?

5. How do they feel now that "it's all over" (the story of Hydaelyn and Zodiark)? What do they plan to do next? Or is their story finished - and if you're retiring them, what does retirement look like for them? Do you have someone else taking the stage going forward?

6. Who was their Azem? What were they like, and were they different from your WoL? Who were their family, friends? Or, if you don't care for the Azem angle or went in your own direction for their past self, how so? How does your WoL feel about their Ancient identity?

----------------------- CHANGES

7. Have they gone through any physical changes? What scars have they collected, and how do they feel about them? Did they sprout horns or other features as a result of spells or pacts gone wrong? How did light corruption impact them? Or have they walked away miraculously unscathed? Are they more peculiar for how eerily unmarred they are?

8. What is one of their biggest regrets? Has it had an effect on how they act moving forward, for better or worse?

9. The Warrior of Light has been through quite a lot, but what is a moment, big or small, that bolstered and renewed their spirit? Was it a cup of hot cocoa or a lovingly crafted sandwich? Did someone give them a few words or a gesture at just the right time that meant the world to them? (Of course, this can be a canon event or headcanon!)

10. What does home look like for them now? Do they still return to the home where they started, and if so has it changed at all? Or have they found or forged a new home? Who do they live with, if anyone? What sort of things do they keep in their personal space?

11. Despite everything, is it still you? Has the core of who they are as a person remained true through everything, or have they been changed by what they've experienced and learned, for better or worse?

13. Is there a canon moment you've drastically (or not-so-drastically) rewritten? A character death, or something that just really did not fit your WoL's character. Or just some alterations and personal touches you've added? Has that had any long-term changes on the wider story?

----------------------- STORY

12. Which canon moments shaped your Warrior of Light and impacted them the most?

14. Do you have any headcanons for what happened post-Ultima Thule? What kind of injuries did they suffer, or did they walk it off like a boss? Did they take a lengthy vacation, did you shove a time skip in there before 6.1 hit? Or was it quickly off to the next adventure?

15. What were their thoughts and feelings on the events of Myths of the Realm? How did they regard the Twelve prior, and how did the revelations impact them? Was meeting their patron particularly special to them, or not really?

16. What were their thoughts and feelings delving into Pandaemonium? How did they feel working alongside Themis and Lahabrea, after all their history? What did they think about how things ended?

17. Taking a step away from "canon", do you have any wholly unique side quests and adventures your Warrior of Light has gotten caught up in? Did they chase down ghosts of their own past, get married, open a bakery, or fix an ancient blood curse on their family line? Have they reunited with loved ones or buried old hatchets? If there's some unique story behind your character, how does it show up and how did it play out?

----------------------- COMBAT & ABILITIES

18. How do they feel about the work they do? As the Warrior of Light they're tasked with quite a lot of violence, is it something that comes naturally to them or do they resist it? Are they merciless, do they try to spare as many lives as they can, or do they fall somewhere in between?

19. While many fights are dramatic or have high stakes, are there any especially memorable or difficult fights they encountered? Outside scripted battles, were there conflicts that you thought felt better if they were tweaked for narrative or lore-based reasons, ie their first time fighting a primal? Or perhaps a more meta "You the player had a hard time so it translated into headcanon for them".

20. Are there any unique abilities that they possess outside of what's in-game? Are they actually a dragon, or do they see visions of the future? Or, is there a special way that their Echo manifests?

21. Jobs! What job is your character and why is that the route they chose? Is your WoL a Jack-of-all-Trades, or just have one (or a few) specialties? Did they start with one job and change to another? Have you 'homebrewed' their job at all, adding any unique twists or details to it?

----------------------- RELATIONSHIPS & THE WORLD

22. What are their feelings on the Scions? Who are some of their closest allies and dearest friends? Are they more of a loner, or closer to people outside the Scions? Have they kindled any romances or partnerships?

23. How do they feel about getting pulled into politics? Are they adept at navigating political intricacies, or does it go over their head? Do they appreciate getting asked to do more than punch their enemies, or would they really rather just punch their enemies? Are there any areas they like to be particularly involved in?

24. How do they feel about Hydaelyn? What was their perception of the Mothercrystal in the beginning, and how did that change by the end, if at all?

25. Do they have any particular enemies that stand out to them? Someone who inspired a lasting grudge? Our beloved and beloathed antagonists give us plenty of reasons to despise them, but are there any that particularly rubbed your WoL the wrong way? On the other hand, are there villains they can't help but sympathize with, even if it's at odds with the narrative or their allies?

26. What are their thoughts on the Ancients, their way of life, and the world they lived in? Did they sympathize at all with the Ascians, or did learning the truth not influence them in that way?

27. How well known are they? Does everyone know their name as the Warrior of Light, or have they managed to maintain some level of anonymity? Do they prefer it that way, and do they have any struggles resulting from it? (Getting stopped on street corners VS awkwardly avoiding questions.)

----------------------- WHAT'S NEXT

28. What's something they look forward to? Exploring the stars, more of a place we've already been, or somewhere we haven't? Or do they look forward to retirement, starting a business with their craft of choice, or any other little old thing?

29. How do they feel heading into Dawntrail? Excited? Exhausted? What do they think of the promises of adventure to come, and their role to play? If you're using a new character, do you have any idea how they'll end up on this path, and where is their headspace starting out?

30. What are they going to be doing while waiting for the ship to Tural?

[wantondoe]

Daddy, where do babies come?

Alastor x wife reader

Warnings: Well, look at the caption, there's your warning. (Sex education, sexual themes, some cursing) Enjoy!

It was one of those leisurely Saturday mornings when Alastor and his small family was having a breakfast. The curtains let in soft strings of light that fell on his beautiful wife and their lovely 8-year-old daughter.

You were sitting next to your dear daughter, pouring her a cup of orange juice while inquiring about her dreams. You looked stunning in your silky pyjama dress and a lacy robe, hair messy, cheeks rosy-

Alastor mentally smacked himself as his thoughts took an improper turn. He was happily humming and flipping pancakes while the coffee machine buzzed under the jazz song playing from the radio. He never thought he'd live like this, enjoying the company of his own family. How did he get to marry a woman like you and on top of that, be blessed with a daughter like her-

"Dad, where do babies come from?"

Alastor's heart skipped a beat and he felt as if time stopped for a while. He smiled with a panicked expression as he turned the stove off and turned on his heels. He gazed down at his innocent-looking daughter who looked back at him with wide eyes. "You said what now?"

You on the other hand, were holding in a laughter, your lips curling in a small smirk as you combed the daughter's hair with your fingers. Alastor gave you that "Don't you dare to enjoy this" -look.

"Daddy how does the baby get in the mamma's belly and come out of there?" the daughter kept inquiring. "Dad? Dad, why do you look so surprised?"

"Yeah, why?" you asked with a mischievous smile. Alastor gave you another death stare.

"Well sweetie, that's uh..." Alastor seemed to have lost his usual witty way of navigating conversations as he fidgeted around the kitchen before finally placing the pancakes on the dining table and sitting down next to their daughter. Their daughter was now sitting between her parents, gazing at mom and dad.

"Yes dad? Do you know how babies are made?"

"Uh... Of course darling! It's kind of complicated though..." Alastor struggled to find the right words. He looked over at you, hoping you'd say something.

Alastor was an amazing dad, but at moments like this, you were the one who got the job done. You knew how to explain things of... this nature. But as you opened your mouth, the phone rang. You took the opportunity, sneaking your way to the cellphone before Alastor could protest.

Now Alastor was left alone with his rather curious daughter. He was all flustered as he looked back at the daughter again, hoping she wouldn't ask about the same question again.

"Dad? Can you answer my question?" she pleaded. He couldn't resist those heart-melting doe-eyes.

Sighing, Alastor tried to come up with an answer. How could he come up with an honest but simple answer? "Well, darling. You see, when a man and a woman love each other, they make... love", he gulped. He felt his blush deepen with every word. Now he would just pray that there wouldn't be any further questions-

"So how does one make love?" she asked innocently. "Dad!" she snapped as Alastor kept quiet, trying to hide his flustered face.

"Yeah! Darling, so..." Alastor kept looking around, hoping that you'd appear in the kitchen to help him with give their child "the talk".

"Dad you're blushing!" she giggled. "That's what you always do when mommy kisses you!" she pointed out.

Alastor cursed in his mind. Why did their daughter have to be so perceptive?! "So, they make love... The man... You see, both men and women have special body parts that they use to make love", he spoke quickly.

"But what places are those?" she blinked her large doe-eyes. "Dad... I don't understand", she pouted.

Their daughter looked way too adorable pouting like that. He couldn't help but smile fondly. "Baby", he took her in his lap. "Making love is something adults do. You don't need to know more about that."

"But dad!" she insisted. "I want to understand where I came from..."

Alastor's heart melted as he witnessed their daughter have an existential crisis, her light eyebrows furrowing slightly.

"Baby, don't you worry your pretty little head. Alright. So the man had a body part that he.... Um, inserts his special part inside the woman's special part."

He felt so dirty even saying things like that aloud, he didn't want to violate their daughter's innocence. He observed their daughter's face for any signs of disturbance or discomfort. Instead, her face lit up.

"So dad, you have a special place! I want you to show me!"

Dammit, he cursed in his mind. This was a hundred times worse than that one time Angel Dust had suggested a blowjob to him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "A-alright, so... Daddy had his special place here", he pointed at his crotch. "Understand?"

She nodded. "Pee-pee."

"Uhm", he blushed once again. "Yes, that's right, baby. Mommy on the other hand had a different kind of place... Over here", he pointed between her legs. "Do you understand?"

Her already large eyes widened further. "So they do the dirty thing!"

"T-that's correct, baby", he nodded. "But it's something only adults do!"

"Is love making the same thing as sex?"

It was Alastor's turn to widen his eyes. Where did she even hear that word from? "Yes, d-darling-"

"So you and mom had sex?"

"Well yes-"

"I was born the dirty way?" tears were forming in her eyes.

"No no no!" he rushed to comfort their daughter. "No! Baby, you're not dirty at all!"

Her cries turned into sobs as she slowly calmed down. "You're right, I'm not dirty... YOU ARE!"

Alastor almost choked on his own spit. This mere conversation was giving him grey hair. He was about to place a comforting hand on their daughter's back as she suddenly jumped off his lap, running to the living room.

"DAD IS A SEX MONSTER!" she yelled as she ran around the living room as fast as her tiny legs allowed. "I'm being chased by a sex monster!"

"Get back here darling!"

You raised a brow as you noticed the scene in front of you. "Sorry Charlie I have to hang up now! I can tell my husband's ego is deeply wounded bye!" you spoke quickly before hanging up.

Their daughter was throwing pillows at Alastor while yelling: "YOU SHALL NEVER CATCH ME, YOU DIRTY SEX MONSTER!"

"No no no!" Alastor kept repeating. "Baby just listen to me-"

Your daughter ran behind your legs, hiding from Alastor who dragged his defeated ass over to his wife. Alastor gave you an unimpressed pout before kneeling. "Baby? Are you scared?" he asked while you petted his hair as an apology.

You should've seen this coming. Alastor just wasn't good at explaining some things. Perhaps you shouldn't have teased him like this.

"Daddy... Sex is scary", their daughter muttered, slowly walking towards Alastor, who hugged her dearly.

"Oh baby", Alastor whispered, hugging their little fawn, "you don't need to think about sex for a long time. It's alright. I'm sorry that I scared you."

You smiled at the sight of the two. They were too adorable together! You carried your daughter on the sofa and sat her between you and Alastor.

"Baby, what else do you say to daddy?" you asked.

"I-I'm sorry daddy... You're not a sex monster..." she whispered.

"It's okay baby, I love you", he smiled, petting her soft hair.

"I love you too daddy, and mom too!" she smiled happily.

Alastor let out a deep sigh. This whole parenting thing sure was a heck of a ride! But he couldn't be happier now. There he was, with his family. They had navigated yet another difficult situation together.

"Now who wants some pancakes?" Alastor asked, his usual charm returning.

"Oh, me me me!" their daughter jumped up from the sofa.

"That's my fawn", he chuckled.

They made their way back to the kitchen. Now they could finally just enjoy their well-earned breakfast.

"Dad, what's a rimjob?"

Alastor be like:

[monstersdownthepath]

Homebrew Horror: Beetle Knights

(art is of the Dung Beetle Knight, from Kingdom Death: Monster, from which this creature draws inspiration)

Also known in some circles as the Liegeon, Fauxladins, and most commonly Chevaliars, Beetle Knights are enormous insects which have, aided by magic-rich diets, evolved over countless years to fall into an incredibly strange niche in which they serve as guardians and allies to more intelligent creatures in order to hunt greater prey. That their human shape allows them to avoid scrutiny from true monster hunters is, itself, a benefit.

On their own, Beetle Knights are relatively dim creatures guided almost entirely by supernaturally potent instincts. They spend the majority of their lives wandering the world, following the roads and paths set by the races of man and elf from settlement to settlement as they slay and devour monsters and bandits they encounter, giving off the illusion of a reclusive, wandering knight keeping the roads safe. Their humanoid but elaborate appearance causes unquestioning townsfolk to mistake them for mercenaries, kingdom guards, and especially adventurers, which is their true goal; to be directed at a threat which requires a heavier hand than most civilians are capable of mustering, for it is these greater beasts on which the Beetle Knights prefer to feed.

Though fully capable of hunting down their own food in the wild, Beetle Knights have grown to enjoy the safety and comfort offered by living alongside humans, especially when it becomes time to reproduce. During breeding season, Beetle Knights require an enormous amount of food both for them and their young and thus must hunt greater prey with more magical energy within. To do so, the parents couple only briefly before going their separate ways and proceeding to infiltrate (or get accidentally brought into) existing adventuring groups as mysterious and stoic hirelings, secreting powerful mind-bending pheromones which cause these parties to behave more recklessly and require little prompting to go hunting dangerous prey. These pheromones also have an unusual effect on the mind of any nearby humanoid, causing them to rationalize or fully ignore their 'new hires' more inhuman traits, going so far as to interpret their chittering vocalizations (which already sound distressingly close to human speech) as motivating--if terse--speeches to drive them ever forward towards their goal. Most 'hosts' to a Beetle Knight rarely realize just what they've been traveling with the last few weeks until they part ways, the effects of the pheromones fade, and the adventuring party realizes that their 'hireling' didn't actually take any coin or gems in payment.

The only payment they require is food. Beetle Knights feed readily on almost anything they slay, using any lulls in adventuring to gorge themselves at every opportunity. Their inordinately powerful jaws can crush iron, to say nothing of bone, and their wandering habits leave them little room to be picky. They will even consume the equipment of their fallen foes and the iron alloys found in destroyed Constructs, ferrous metals recycled by their magic digestive system to reinforce their carapaces and mix with the resinous secretions they use to form their weapons and nests. Unattended magic items are consumed ravenously, the magic extracted from these items and used to fuel the growth of their young; their habit of eating overlooked loot is what normally brings them into conflict with their 'host' parties, which rarely ends well for the human adventurers.

Beetle Knights grow to be anywhere from 6 to 8 feet tall, and weigh around 300 pounds. Individual Knights can live upwards to 10 years, but most die much sooner through combat.

Beetle Knight CR 8 Neutral Medium Magical Beast Init +1 Senses: Darkvision 80ft, Scent, low-light vision, Perception +12 Aura: Pheromones (60ft, DC 19) ------ Defenses ------

AC: 24; touch 15; flat-footed 24 (+1 Dex, +10 natural, +4 deflection) HP: 100 (10d10+40) Fort +11 Ref +8 Will +6 Defensive Abilities: Ferocity, Chitin Plate; DR: 5/Magic and piercing; Immune: disease, poison, charms and compulsions. ------ Offense ------ Speed: 30ft, climb 20ft, fly 20ft (poor) Melee: +1 Resin Longsword +16/+11 (1d8+6/19-20), bite +15 (1d8+5), slam +10 (1d6+2); OR bite +15 (1d8+5), two slams +15 (1d6+5 plus grab) Special Attacks: Crushing Jaws, Pounce, Rend (2 slams, 1d6+7) ----- Statistics ----- Str 20, Dex 13, Con 18, Int 3, Wis 16, Cha 6 Base Atk +10; CMB +15 (+19 when Repositioning or Disarming); CMD 26 (30 vs Reposition and Disarming) Feats: Dirty Fighting, Improved Disarm, Improved Reposition, Greater Disarm, Greater Reposition Skills: Climb +17, Disguise +4, Fly +12, Perception +13; Racial Modifiers: +10 to Disguise checks to appear as a humanoid knight Languages: Common plus one local language (cannot speak). SQ: Resin Equipment, Pheromones ------ Ecology ------ Environment: Any temperate land Organization: Single, pair, or adventuring party (1~2 plus 3~4 travelers between 1st and 10th level) Treasure: Standard (+1 Longsword, magic and mundane items kept as a snack, monster parts, other treasure)

------

Combat: Beetle Knights fight with a startling amount of tactical knowhow. If fighting alongside a party, they attempt to maneuver opponents to allow any allies present to flank and move enemies into the line of fire of allies with reposition maneuvers. They will also work to prevent enemies from drawing too close to more fragile allies, and disarm enemies with dangerous weapons. If alone, it will attempt to disarm enemies whose weapons pierce its DR first, then focus on one enemy at a time until each are dead or have fled.

Morale: When part of a party, Beetle Knights fight fiercely and without fear of death, instinctually assured that their allies will at least attempt to keep them alive (whether or not this is truly the case). If alone, Beetle Knights flee when brought below 30 HP. In either case, the Knights will play dead at 0 HP or below and drag themselves to a safe location to recover.

------ Special Abilities ------

Chitin Plate (Ex/Su): The extremely tough shell of a Beetle Knight is woven with iron and hardened by consumed magical power. It is part of its body and thus does not impede its movement and cannot be sundered or broken. If it is struck with a targeted Dispel Magic (dispel check DC 21) or enters an Antimagic Field or similar, it loses its deflection bonus to its AC and its Damage Reduction for 1d4+1 rounds (or until it leaves the Antimagic Field).

Crushing Mandibles (Ex): A Beetle Knight's complex jaws can rip apart almost anything. Its bite attack is always treated as a primary natural attack, and ignores the first 5 points of hardness and/or Damage Reduction of any object or creature it encounters.

Pheromones (Su): A Beetle Knight produces a subtle mist of magical pheromones that it fans in every direction with subtle movement of its wings. Creatures breathing in these pheromones must make a DC 19 Fortitude save; those who fail see the Knight as a human (or whatever humanoid creature is most common to this area), parse its vocalizations as intelligible speech relevant to the current situation, and rationalize or ignore any strange behavior or blatantly inhuman actions it takes. It does not need to make Disguise checks to hide its nature against creatures under the effects of its pheromones. These effects last for 24 hours, unless a creature (typically its adventuring party) has spent a continuous 24 hours around the beetle, at which point the pheromones do not leave their system until one week has passed. A creatures who succeed their saving throw against the pheromones must make a new save each minute they spend in the aura.

Resin Equipment (Ex/Su): A Beetle Knight can weave digested magic and metal into its own resinous secretions, creating weaponry. With 2 hours of work, the Knight can create a resinous version of any simple melee weapon. With 6 hours of work, it can instead create a longsword or greatsword. The Knights prefer one-handed weapons, allowing them to deliver secondary slam attacks, and they are considered proficient with any resin weapon they make.

Any weapon created by a Beetle Knight is treated as a steel version of that weapon with a +1 enchantment bonus. Unless magically compelled to do so, they will only ever make weapons for themselves, and will consume damaged or broken ones to remake them. Beetles tend to only have enough resin to make three weapons a week.

------

Champion Beetles are Knights who, by consuming large quantities of magical foods from prosperous host parties and having been resurrected via magic at least once, undergo a second metamorphosis which takes a two weeks to finish, emerging from a gilded cocoon as a golden warrior with greater abilities than their common kin. Champion Beetles gain between 4 and 6 additional racial Hit Dice and typically favor taking feats which allow them greater proficiency with more combat maneuvers, usually Dirty Trick, Trip, or Sunder. In addition, they gain the following abilities:

Resistance 10 to one element, Resistance 5 to two other elements, typically the most common forms of elemental damage they've encountered on their journeys.

Increased DR from 5 to 10/Magic and Piercing.

+2 to their natural AC and +2 to their deflection bonus.

Their Resin Weapons gain an additional +1 enhancement bonus.

Increase each of their mental ability scores by 2.

Fast Healing 1.

Champion Beetles can live upwards to 40 years. There is a 10% chance that the larvae of Champion Beetles hatch with the Advanced simple template and 1d3 of the above abilities selected at random.

[sugar-crash]

🏎️Turbo (Wreck-It Ralph) x (gn) Reader🏁

(Beginning Relationship Pt. I Edition!)

(It took me fucking forever to find a picture from the movie of Turbo [far too cowardly to use fanart]. Which, as we all know, is fitting.)

- To go into deeper detail on this, your time dating Turbo when he was all high and mighty was… Eventful to say the very least.

- We don’t know much about how Turbo pre-RoadBlasters disaster besides the most obvious points: passionate, sore winner, an even sorer loser, hot-headed, and finally the cherry on this red-white cake; Spite.

- His passion for various things bleeds into the other things in his life, giving a drive that goes beyond the racing track, with the relationship he gains with you being one of those things with a lot of time and patience.

- Victory kisses at the end of the day are a must, even when listening to his frustrated woes from certain players playing game wrong, saying things like “I’M FATTEST RAT IN THE RACE! WHY SHOULD I SUFFER WHEN THESE MOTION DEAF TERMITES DECIDE TO PUT A COUPLE OF COINS IN MY GAME???” ….Yeah <3

- I think in many ways that if you get his trust so much to the point where you guys start dating, he just kinda expects you to listen to his aggravated rants and not do the same for you— Which takes a lot of time to rectify, in his mind he doesn’t think you “have it as bad” as him, as ignorant as that is.

- Yeah he doesn’t exactly get a trophy for “best lover”, that’s for sure.

- And his stubborn behavior doesn’t make that any better, takes him a while to get certain things drilled into his brain when he finally realizes what you’re saying isn’t “nagging”.

- Don’t get him wrong, I genuinely think he has the capability to care for someone else over himself, it just takes a whole lot of work for him to consciously realize that.

- PDA isn’t really much of a thing for Turbo (except for his “well earned” victory kisses) , he has a reputation to uphold as one of the most popular game characters in the arcade, though behind closed doors he basically demands the attention you give him at first.

- If you don’t like being ordered around and tell him as such, it takes a series of fights to realize being bossy in a romantic relationship (or any in general) isn’t exactly the best thing. The obvious in these situations isn’t to him, he has a very one track mind (pun intended) and doesn’t like change when it effects him.

- Which is very understandable, human even, I think that many of us, if we had a choice, would keep things just the way we like it. But— Life itself is all about change, conflict, differing opinions, etc. And while it is aggravating to no end, it’s something a person has to come to terms with.

- Someone like Turbo struggles with that concept, why can’t he act the way he finds more natural?? This stone set mindset drives many way, even the people from his game— Even you at times.

- He loves you to death, with the way he sticks close to you after hours, the way he gets a momentary soft look at you when he thinks you aren’t looking is perceptible to people who pay attention.

- Much like his latter self, King Candy, he has the tendency to hide things from you— Not in a way that maintains a noble or joyous persona, but in a way that tries to hide his softness for you, the desire to clutch you close and never let go.

- The feelings your mere existence gives him scares him, not that he would ever admit that, not even to himself.

- He hates that at times his feelings depend on how you feel, and trying to understand it only stirs the pot, touches of comfort are met with a scoff and some variation of “I’m not some fragile lamb you can comfort.” Though at that point his reactions aren’t nearly as explosive as they used to be.

- Over time I believe that with your help he is able to maintain more composure— Thinking before acting, which is something he is desperate need for.

- Your relationship is very hit and miss at times, but what is love without conflict? BORING, that’s what I say at least.

- Who he is as a whole is both a blessing and a curse, really makes a person think in a “What goes on in that asshole’s head? And how the fuck did he get with someone?”

- The time you have with him before RoadBlasters was installed was special, not perfect in the slightest, but you guy had your moments that one can look at later on with a sense of melancholy.

(Abyiv-ahzapj! *SVBK MHYA UVPZL*)

[bouquetface]

Vedic Astro Notes 4

accuracy is influenced by entire chart.

this post doesn’t take into consideration all aspects, signs & depositor placements. all that is needed for personal accuracy. this is a general post.

4th House Ruler in 11th House:

Your family specifically the mother adds to your gains. They help grant your wishes.

Indicator of gaining through home related activities - ex: real estate.

4th Ruler is 8 away indicating the mother or home goes through a death/rebirth transformation. You could move very far or your parents could have divorced. These are just examples, your exact situation depends on entire chart.

If Jupiter is the ruler, you gain through homes and teaching. You can teach the people about the home or in the home. You can become an advisor. Your parents wisdom will help you gain. ex: they are business owners, watching them work later inspires you to begin your own business.

4th House Ruler in 9th House:

You can have a religious family. Yet, you can desire to explore other cultures, religions, countries, etc.

Teachers could have felt like parental figures to you.

You can live far from the birthplace. This doesn't always mean in a different country, you can simply be in a different city. You can leave your mother for education or life experience.

If Saturn is the ruler, you could have been at a distance from your mother.

Saturn can delay your education unless aspecting planets like jupiter or mercury. Saturn is putting restrictions in this area: tuition costs could make it difficult to continue. personal matters could take your focus away from education. education can become extremely difficult when you try to get higher education.

8th House Ruler in 10th House:

Generally, this shows mixed perception of your reputation. You can receive sudden rises in career. However, depending on entire chart this can be sudden downfalls in reputation.

Your work can involve research. You have to dig deeper for the truth. This can manifest in many ways - ex: marketing field - you must research to understand how certain demographics will react to certain products. OR science field - you research using the scientific method. Or law/crime field - you investigate.

If Mars is the ruler, you can have a physically active career. You could be a police offer, in the army. You could work for the government. You are an authority figure in your career.

Rahu conjunct Saturn in 7th

Rahu alone in 7th can give a unique/non expected partner. When conjunct saturn, it can give a spouse that is a lot older than the norm. This is because rahu amplifies the sign & planet it touches. This is not the only possible manifestation of this placement.

Rahu here still makes it likely the spouse could be from foreign lands or different culture.

Rahu conjunct Saturn in my experience is an indicator for a delayed marriage or marrying someone a lot older. Rahu brings taboo.

Accuracy will depend on full chart.

Planets 2 away from Venus

A common method in vedic is to check 2 away from your venus to see the MAIN thing you gain through marriage.

ex: Venus in 2nd H, Mercury is in 4th H. After marriage, you gain a home/land, a communicative & busy home life. You could desire education - going back to school, reading more, researching new hobby. This is the MAIN thing you gained not the only thing, likely it is the most significant gain for you.

ex: Venus in 6th H, Moon in 8th H. After marriage, you can gain a private home/family lifestyle. You are likely to have children soon after marriage. This is the MAIN thing you gained not the only, likely it is the most significant gain for you.

ex: Venus in 4th, Saturn in 6th. After marriage, you gain new responsibilities. And I know this doesn't sound fun, however, it is not a bad thing. Possible reasons for the increased work can be: you get pets, you want to save for a new home or renovate your home. Check sign for more insight.

ex: Venus in 8th, Jupiter in 10th. After marriage, you gain a lot. You could find good career opportunities and advancement. You can gain status and feel more confident about your reputation.

4th H ruler in 4th H

This suggests someone is confident and secure in their personal life and home life.

You can have loyalty to your home and family. You can have a good connection and interest in your ethnic background/family roots.

If mercury is the ruler, you can have communicative and busy home and family life. You can have educators/teachers in the home/family.

Sun conjunct Jupiter in 12th House

You may meet the husband in foreign lands. Your children could be born in foreign lands.

Your husband is likely to religious. They can be educated and/or educate you on their religion, culture or career. If sun is the lowest degree, it controls the conjunction which can make the spouse a bit arrogant due to their intelligence&education. They can be self righteous about their religion too.

At some point in life, you can be separated from your family - specifically the father. This can be due to a move and/or fights.

Sun conjunct Moon

You can become a determined person. The house and sign will show what you are determined on and how you get it.

You are independent and spiritual/religious with this placement.

If sun is the lowest degree, sun is controlling the conjunction. This indicates you are stoic, you struggle to express emotions, you are more introverted. You can have alone type hobbies like yoga, working out alone, reading, walks, etc.

Venus in Dhanishta Nakshatra

In a woman's chart, venus is you as a wife. In a man's chart, venus is your wife.

The wife will love music. She may even play an instrument. She may enjoy attending concerts.

Whether you are the wife or husband, you can make more money and are happiest when you are helping the spouse. The wife can help you in making wealth. I’ve seen this in the d9 chart’s of couples who work with each other later in life. ex: opening a cafe together.

For full accuracy one would have to check the pada and the ENTIRE chart. This is general info.

[mistfallengw2]

Hey, a sylvari ask game!🌱

1. Are they a Dreamer or Soundless? What's their relationship with the Pale Mother and Ventari's teachings? If the first, have they ever thought about leaving the Dream behind? If the latter, why did they make that choice?

2. How much do they remember from the Dream? Did they have any particular experience in it before awakening?

3. Do they have a Wyld Hunt? Did they complete it?

4. How was their awakening? Did something particular happen? What's their first memory?

5. Are they from the first batch of Secondborn or did they awaken at some later point? What's their opinion on the Firstborn?

6. What did they do after leaving the Grove? Did they feel a particular call or did they just roam and explore Tyria? Would they still feel at home if they went back?

7. What was their first experience with other races? How did it impact them?

8. Do they fit well into sylvari society or are they more at home with other races? How do they feel about fellow sylvari? Do they have any particular sympathy or antipathy for other races?

9. Do they have a job/occupation? Why did they pick that? Did they ever change it? Are they happy with it or are they aiming for something else?

10. What are their hobbies and pastimes? Do they have any natural talent or particularly strong interest? Was it something they knew from the Dream or did they develop it once awakened?

11. Have they ever changed their own appearance? Was it intentional or due to external factors? Did it affect their glow as well? How long did it take? Would they ever change back?

12. What do they usually wear? Do they prefer regular clothes or growing "clothes" out of their bodies?

13. How do they feel about death? Does it make them curious or scared? Do they wish to understand it or do they simply accept it?

14. What do they think of the Nightmare Court? Would they ever join it? What would make them do so? / What made them join them? Would they ever leave it?

15. What are their feelings on their race being minions of the Jungle Dragon? What's their attitude towards those who turned? How do they feel about the shift in perception of their people from other races?

16. Where were they when the call of Mordremoth struck? Did they hear and follow it, or did they resist it?

17. If they were to turn into Mordrem, what would they look like? Would they manage to turn back? / When they turned into Mordrem, how did their appearance change? Did they manage to fully turn back?

18. [Free space for 3 pieces of trivia about your sylvari!]

[budd-ie]

The way it has JUST dawned on me exactly why Mu Qing is so smug all the time about Xie Lian. The truth is that any time someone does something good for others, it ALWAYS comes back to bite them. Nobody is grateful, nobody is thankful, and most of the time you get physically hurt even trying. Mu Qing’s conclusion about this is “there is literally no point in being a nice person because it will only get you hurt.” He sees this pattern and he knows he’s right, and he especially sees it with Xie Lian. Think about how fucking smug Fu Yao is in the sinners pit when he finds out about “General Hua” and Xie Lian’s “death.” This is just another instance of Xie Lian’s efforts for good only ever going to waste and him getting beat to death and back for thinking he can still save the common people. What’s his problem? Won’t this idiot ever learn his lesson? When he sees the dilapidated shrine and sad excuse for a living arrangement Mu Qing looks joyous. What joy could he possibly find in another man’s suffering? It’s because it proves that trying to play good guy gets you nowhere. Mu Qing left all those years ago to focus on himself and it got him to a top martial god spot in heaven. He’s clearly right about this! This proves it!

It’s so obvious he’s right. If you want to get anywhere in life, you have to stop worrying about being “good” or “kind” because it will never bring you good returns. That’s true….so why can’t Xie Lian understand that? If every single time he gets kicked down for trying to do something nice, why bother getting up and trying again? What is he trying to accomplish?

The difference is that Xie Lian is kind not for the returns but because it is innate to him. It’s not that he never thought about himself in the past, it’s just that he’s never had a second thought about people deserving kindness in the world. Getting shot down never breaks his spirit like it breaks Mu Qing’s. Mu Qing can’t fucking stand that. He can’t stand that Xie Lian is so genuinely selfless, that he was wrong about his perception of him all those years ago. He can’t stand that Xie Lian is still trying to help him even though he knows he won’t appreciate it. If he really was only doing it for merit and to feel good about himself then everything would be fine! But now he has to grapple with the fact that he’s looking at a really, genuinely, good person and he’s just another person who shot him down. He realizes he’s looking at someone who’s stronger than him, physically and emotionally, better than him morally, despite all his talk about how they’re not that different when really they’re leagues away.

(Some book 8 spoilers below)

It messed with the flow of the paragraph so I didn’t mention it earlier, but in that second paragraph, Mu Qing’s mindset sounds a lot like Jun Wu. Jun Wu is trying to prove to Xie Lian that his path of kindness and selflessness is stupid and that when people knock him down he can choose the other (lesser) path. I always say That Mu Qing is like a foil to Xie Lian (I think this is that explanation) but if Jun Wu and Xie Lian are connected in this way then it’s almost reasonable to bring Mu Qing along too. And it makes sense that he doesn’t shine as bright in this point of view between the three of them, just like he always has. There’s something here but it was a wake up in the middle of the night with a cold sweat and a revelation kind of thing so it’s not really fleshed out at all. We’ll deal with it later.

[exkowrites]

That Distant Shore

This game is in the start of development. It is not currently planned out and is a test for me to learn twine. I can not promise when or if there will be a finished product. This game will be free and remain free if finished. Everything is subject to change.

Features!

Choose your first, middle, and last name.

Select from the three pronoun presets, or customize your own.

Customize your hair, eyes, skin, and facial details.

Trans, nonbinry, and intersex options.

Three gender selectable RO's and one nonbinary.

The Demo: (updated 8/6/24)

The story:

You and your siblings are displaced after your parent's death and the loss of your home. You suffer from a strange family ‘curse’ where each member will die one by one. Your flaws will be your undoing... Your dead parents, Adelina and Theodore loved you and your siblings.  So, what happened to all of you?

The characters:

Theodore -last name-

Your deceased father.

Adelina -last name-

Your deceased mother.

Victoria -last name-

Your prima donna sister. She doesn't like you. Can you change her perceptions or will you prove her right?

Alexander -last name-

Your kindhearted brother who took custody over you and your sister after your parents death.

Matteo/Madelyn Abbott (RO, gender selectable) "the bully"

Brash and abrasive. Despite being the principals child they refuse any special treatment and in fact take great joy over annoying their mother. They don't like you, maybe you used to be friends maybe you were strangers. Whatever your history, can you persuade them that you are not who they think you are?

Oliver/Olivia Campbell (RO, gender selectable) "the neighbor"

Typical golden retriever type. They are sweet but loud. You used to be neighbors, you two basically grew up together. O has noticed you drift since the accident. They wish they still lived by you so they could help more, but at least you'll see each other at school! Will you let them in?

Dylan Levine (RO, gender selectable) "the new kid"

A bit mysterious being new to the town. Dylan is your new classmate and is determined to learn about you and all the rumors surrounding you. You don't yet know what to think about them. Will they push you away when they find out about your so called curse, or will they stick around?

Jordan McKinley (RO, nonbinary) "the weird kid"

Jordan is known for being a bit... eccentric. They are kind and love making new friends, but your school has deemed them an outcast, not unlike yourself. Perhaps you two can bond over your loneliness?

My current plans:

Finish writing the prologue

Add/make any changes to the character customization

Publish complete prologue