#choker se

[gigifujijifu]

I enjoyed spending time with the voidsent again for All Saints' Wake this year ♥

Main post is on bsky.

[congregatiodepropagandafide]

the 1975 dolazi u Kragujevac na leto na Arsenal fest. to je to, to je objava dana. tumblr nikad aktivniji, estetičarke pometene

[hog-guy]

i understand the need to form community with ppl who like otome games (given the disdain for Girl's Stuff, but otome in particular). but the idea of trying to tie down an exact definition is inane. what is this

[malkaviian]

esto me hace pensar, pero probablemente apollo y blade estaban bien vestidos de chiquitos, tenían mini trajecitos para eventos Importantes™ y todo dskjfnkjnsj apollo probablemente siguió así hasta que se fue, pero a blade le agarró la rebeldía adolescente (de la que nunca salió), que se intensificó cuando se hizo demonio, y ya no le pudieron poner un puto traje nunca más

[sugawhaaa]

ATEEZ'S HANDS

☆--------And how they use them on you

Warnings!! SMUT

Pairing:: ot8!ateez x fem/gn reader

Ateez h/c masterlist:: 💋

Hongjoongs hands aren't very big so how can he use them to assert some kind of dominance? Ah, perfect, torture the fuck out of you. His hands are like a torture device to you, gently grazing his fingertips along endogenous zones and inching right around your intimate parts but not quite making the commitment.

Also putting his fingers in your mouth 🥴 he wouldn't be too forceful with it but it's the principle of the matter.

Beautiful ass hands. Sleek, slender, ugh 😩 his touch is so so so gentle, feather-light. He'd use his hands similar to Hongjoong, hovering around those spots that make you squeal but never fully committing. When his fingers finally get inside he abuses that "come hither" motion so much 🥴

He loves to trace your lips with his thumb before kissing you and when he's flirting with you. Gang I'm tweaking out. He also loves to give you princess treatment which his gentle hands become handy, gently holding your ankle when helping you take off your heels, giving you back messages that may or may not turn sexual 🥰

We all know this man's hands are fine as hell so this might be a little short bc I don't like to repeat what everyone says but EVERYONE SAYS EVERYTHING because he's so fine. Just fingering. Fingering, fingering, fingering, with this man 😫 his fingers hit so deep and scoop up your pleasure so perfectly. Also stuffing his fingers in your mouth when he fucks you from behind, basically choking you out.

Pining your wrists 🥰 just holding you down in general when you're misbehaving. You're wiggling away in pleasure, he'll grab your thighs and pull you right back. Also when you're in a situation where the two of you have to be quiet he aggressively holds his hand over your mouth, like you cannot breathe 😁

...we do not talk about this enough as a society. I'm gonna be using the first photo for most of the inspo 😁 yeosang is hella strong all the way through his arms to his hands so fingering with him is hard go live through. A lot of squirting...a lot. Also, a lot of people don't picture Yeosang like this, but groping>>> your thighs, ass, tits, whatever makes you feel best. He loves to massage the plush skin between his fingers so deeply.

And he also abuses the "Come hither" motion as well, though he is more of a thrusting person. Like I said earlier he's so strong in his arms so doing things like holding you up in his arms and intertwining your fingers with his is a yes 😍 when he's being a lil subbie he grips everything like his life depends on it. Clawing the bedsheets, grabbing your wrist, pulling his or your hair...

Woo here we go 🥴 we have another torture device up in here. Tracing your jawline with his fingertips, gently inching to your neck before wrapping his fingers around your throat. He isn't always aggressive when he grabs your neck. Sometimes he's cutting off your blood circulation and other times he's very gentle, just holding his hand there to remind you who is in charge.

Another groper up in here, but ass. Lifting you up closer to him by your ass or just spreading your cheeks out before fingering you. Most of the time though he's very gentle with his hands, its his beefy arms you have to fear...

Lord have mercy. The third photo is an actual photo of his hands. Just imagine his hands sliding up your arm to meet your hand while he fucks you from behind, groaning and growling all kinds of dirty words into your ear. Another groper, like the groping trio, he loves anything meaty (you can't convince me this man wouldn't love sex with a chubby girl) tits, ass, thighs, anything thar jiggles is now in his fists.

He's an aggressive ass fingerer as well. He'd get right up in there and pound his fingers into you until you fold in half. Also another choker, except he's only ever aggressive or doesn't do it at all, all or nothing per se. He likes to put his fingers in your mouth as well, especially when fucking you from behind.

Deep breaths...based on the fourth photo he's one of those guys to hold your lower abdomen as he fingers you, maybe even applying a little weight to make you squirm and kick your feet. He's all about fingering, flicking your clit, "come hither" motion, pounding, squriting everything you can imagine. He likes to finger you from behind too, maybe having a little collar to lift your head back as he fingers you.

He likes to tease those sweet spots and hold your throat as well. When he's got you tied up in something he loves to yank on it, twisting the ropes or chains between his fingers and around his hands.

Groping...100%. I can see him hitting it from the back and bringing his hands around front to grope your tits 🥴 and bring his hand down a bit to finger your clit while he fucks you. He likes to hold your jaw up as well, helping you tilt your head back onto his shoulder...

Hand-holding during sex is a big thing for him too, holding your hand beside your head against the pillow while he pounds into you. Also tracing his fingers on your lips too, especially before actually diving into the fun...

[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."

[theradiostarr]

⠀ ‧₊˚✩彡 how they have their way with you ♡

featuring: dazai, chuuya, fyodor

summary: what these bsd boys are like in bed <3

warnings/content: typical kinks (praise, degradation, asphyxiation, overstimulation, orgasm control, pet play?? kind of?? etc.), manipulation on fyodor’s part, gender neutral reader

DAZAI is selfless. you’re his reason for living, his belladonna. he’s calculating and precise, committing every twitch you make, every sound that leaves your saccharine lips to memory. a specific touch makes you squirm underneath him? he’s about to abuse that knowledge until you’re 1. screaming his name in overstimulation or 2. crying and whining for more.

he’s slow. whispering sweet degrading praises into your ear as he nibbles your neck. painting your collarbone with a myriad of purples and blues. he’d giggle at your astounded expression in the morning, claiming he simply couldn’t let such a pretty canvas go untouched.

petnames!! he has a silver tongue, weaving sweet phrases into every dirty sentence. we all know he loves “belladonna” but how about “lovely”, “my dove”, “pretty/handsome”, “sweetheart”

(he’ll also throw in some degrading, using words like my gorgeous slut or lovely whore to really push you over the edge)

he’s touchy. his hands wander your body with such delicate determination it makes you shiver. if your bodies have space to breathe what is the point? he wants to smother you, breathe in your humanity.

speaking of breathing, this man has a thing for asphyxiation and orgasm control. he is talented at torture, after all. he’ll bring you to the edge over and over again, hand wrapped deliciously around your throat where he knows it will send you to heaven.

he will also humiliate you- this man never shuts up. he’d love to watch you ride him until your legs are shaking pathetically, his hands gripping your hips as a hum leaves his throat.

“ah, you’re such a sight, bella. how does it feel? i bet i could make you cum with my words alone, such a pretty thing. don’t stop now, dove, the nights only just beginning~”

CHUUYA is a gentleman. he’d have the whole thing orchestrated to your every need to make sure you feel comfortable and safe. i’m talking flowers, wine (is it really chuuya without an expensive bottle of wine?), and hands that held you with such care it would make you giddy. he’s already lost so much, he couldn’t bare losing you as well.

he’d take his time. sometimes it would feel cruel just how long he’d take appreciating every part of your body, kissing down your nape, gripping your hips, licking a stripe down your chest, opening you up slowly just to hear all the lovely sounds you’d make. he’d prefer to be on top, catering to your every need, but if you want to ride him- like hell he’s saying no. to see his love bouncing on his cock, milking their own pleasure? he could watch you for hours. and when you come undone, he’ll be right there to catch you.

he loves seeing you in his choker, nothing else on your naked body. he gets off on the visual reminder that you are his. he would also rush to buy you many matching lingerie sets to pair it with- he is a man of taste after all. and how can he not when you look so ravishing?

and oh, the praise. he wants you to know how good you’re doing, how good you make him feel. he isn’t scared to be vocal, cursing at how well you take him, how every thrust makes your body jerk beneath him.

but he is a man with a short temper. he’d never dare raise a hand to you, but if you know the right things to say, boy you can get him going.

if you’re feeling bold, tug on his choker, grab his hair, bite his lip. he’ll scoff with a smirk, rolling his hips into yours, testing you to keep talking.

“oh yeah? i wonder how long you can keep talking, doll. you take me so well, let’s see how much more you can take before you’re sobbing on my cock.”

FYODOR is cruel. if you’re expecting this man to be sweet and accomodating, think again. i personally don’t think he’d have any interest in sex, he’d view the act as impure and a waste of time. however, if you amuse him, that’s a different story.

if he’s intrigued by you; your expressions, your mannerisms, your tone of voice, then it’s only fair he will want to see more. this man doesn’t think with his dick, much like dazai, he will uncover your weaknesses and exploit them.

he will restrict your movement, wringing noises out of you he can only akin to a masterpiece. holding your hands above your head he will force you to sing a melody rivalling his violin.

you are like a pet to him, he will stroke your hair softly before gripping it firmly. reminding you of your place. he’d smile deviously as his fingers pump in and out of you, reaching places you didn’t even know existed.

textbook manipulation. he’ll use sweet words to gaslight you and then fuck you hard into your sheets until all you can remember is him. you are like a bird inside a cage and unlike the clown Nikolai, you have no desire to be freed.

but be careful, the second you begin to bore him, or when he no longer needs you, he will discard you like the rest of his pawns. and really, did you truly believe he cared about you?

he will not be there when you wake up, but you will keep going back to him because that’s how he’s trained you.

“i taught you better than that, myshka. what happens to bad pets when they don’t do as they’re told? hm? on your knees, i think you need a reminder, darling….”

[prophecyofwinter]

Se Rĩna Qilōni Iprattan Se Jēdar | II

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary | Saera Targaryen daughter of Jaehaerys I ran away from Westeros to escape her fate. 45 years later her daughter Y/N Targaryen, with invitation from King Viserys, wishes to go back.

Tags | Slowburn, TargCest, Smut, Standard ASOIAF content, Aemond and Reader are First Cousins Once Removed, tags to be added.

Authors Note!: I am so sorry for not updating in a while! Finals season happened back in May and I haven’t been wanting to do much since. I am back now tho! I will be releasing chapter three tomorrow at 11am EST!

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Masterlist

Chapter II | Bastards and Brothers

You were set to arrive in the port of King’s Landing in just a few hours. To be back on solid ground would be a gift from the gods themselves. Sleep escaped you, only being able to catch up in small intervals. The bed was itchy and bumpy, the blankets while silk didn’t add much comfort and they slipped and slid all night long.

A bang knocked at your cabin door, startling you before you realized it was Vaegon making sure you were awake.

“Fuck off! I can barely sleep and you are not helping!” you screamed at him through the closed door.

“We will dock in a few hours, get ready! Do you need help getting ready sister?” Vaegon said very boldly, you could hear the smile on his face.

You cringed at the idea of Vaegon helping you with anything of that sort, you swear he has some kind of sick fancy for you. Perhaps he’s more Targaryen than you in some ways.

“You can jump off the ship and see how deep the water is…” you said under your normal tone, turning over in your bed to hopefully get a few moments longer.

“What was that?”

“Leave!!”

——————

An hour passed by and you had given up on sleeping and committed to getting up for the day. This was one of the biggest days of your life, that being said, you were taking it pretty slow.

Taking your time with your hair and makeup, making sure it was enough to look your best but not to make it look like too much. Your mother had taught you how ladies in King’s Landing did their make up. Having grown up around Prostitutes and other people of that sort, how you had done your makeup made you feel naked.

For your hair you managed to put together delicate braids and wrap them into a bun in the back of your hair, allowing the rest of your hair to be free and rest as it pleased.

Once you had gotten to your clothes you ran into a small problem. You couldn’t get into your dresses without assistance, your mother had been the one to tie your corsets and must have forgotten to tell you how to do it yourself.

You were stuck with lots of pretty dresses but no way to put them on. Your eyes dragged across the room and fell on the chest with your dresses from Essos. Ones that flowed freely with nice and airy fabric, the dresses that made you most comfortable.

You couldn’t call anyone in to assist you and most certainly not Vaegon. Ugh. All the people on the ship were men, you had no other woman to assist you.

Your first appearance couldn’t be in an undone untied dress…

Opening the dark wooden chest you dug in search for a certain dress. There it is!

You pulled out a deep red dress made of airy semi-sheer fabric. The top started with a choker that split into two pieces of cloth that covered your breasts but leaving an opening in the middle for cleavage. An intricately designed gold belt holds it together leaving the rest of the dress to flow freely as it pleases. Golden arm bands added on as accessories of course.

While you are sure this dress wouldn’t go over as well as the other dress you had. There was no way you could put on the westerosi dress by yourself!

Once you have gotten yourself fully ready, you hear shouts from above from the crewmates indicating you will arrive any moment now. You take a few moments to look yourself over, straighten the skirt of your dress out, and check for any imperfections in your makeup.

With a final huff you open your cabin door and attempt to exit but are interrupted by your brother standing directly in front of the door, making you shriek and jump back.

“What is wrong with you!” You spit angrily at Vaegon. You could deal with this behavior in Volantis where he was constantly busy with training and hardly ever around. Now he’s gonna be able to breathe over your shoulder at all times and sniff your hair or whatever the fuck he does.

“I have to escort you sister, you never know who may lurk about.” He says with no reaction to your piercing shout. He steps out of the way to allow you to move ahead of him as he trails behind you.

Silence hangs for a few moments as the two of you walk throughout the ship to get to the deck. Vaegon brakes the silence abruptly with his invasive question-statements.

“I thought Mother told you not to wear those clothes anymore.”

“It seems I am wearing them anyway.” You replied blankly and walked at a slightly faster pace.

“If you needed help with the corsets I am more than obliged to-“ before Vaegon could finish you stopped in your tracks and whipped your body around to face him with a sharp finger.

“There will be none of that! I am to be legitimized and wed! I will not allow you to ruin any of this for me, you keep that tongue to yourself or I will ship you back to Volantis without it.” You growled through gritted teeth.

Without giving him a second thought you turn right back around and all but run to get up to the deck without your brother.

—————

Aemond began his day as normal, waking far earlier than any sane man. Had an easy breakfast of bread with berry preserves, assorted cooked meats, and a cup of wine. However mentally, his mind couldn’t fit another thought less it breaks out of his skull.

“You’re having me what?!” Aemond said with his mouth agape with shock.

“I didn’t have a choice in the matter, Aemond! The letters were already sent and replied to by the time I found out!” Alicent attempted to calm Aemond but he shook himself out of her grasp.

“You would have me wed a bastard from Volantis? What, just because one Targaryen left to become a whore?” Aemond couldn’t believe that his father somehow managed to condemn him even further.

“I would have never orchestrated this. But, everything is set and there is nothing to be done. This is your duty now Aemond.”

Aemond barely had time to prepare himself for basically the first day of the rest of his life. He never knew how he would marry, or even if he would marry at all. His meekness as a boy never allowed him to interact with girls his age. His disfigurement made it so potential marriages wouldn’t even be considered because he scared the daughters.

Against his morals but, a blind marriage to this woman that hadn’t the faintest idea of him maybe was his only option.

Alicent knew a thing or two about Y/N from being around Targaryens for most of her life.. She did tell him of her beauty, as beautiful as her mother. That her mother denied any and all propositions made toward her daughter, certainly a virginal girl.

Her father is unknown, as it goes for most bastards. However, her father seems to be present in her life despite his lack of physically being there. Between the wealth of her mother and father, the girl doesn’t want for anything.

Still, it goes against all he’s been told his whole life… Her being a pure-blooded Valyrian may help him forget who she is socially but only in the moment. Legitimized or not.

At the same time he couldn’t help but worry what she’d think of him. He could imagine the look of disgust turning into fear into disappointment. When he beds her on their wedding night, would she even look at him?

—————

You have to wait for the boat to fully settle into the dock and it is the longest minutes of your whole life. You can see the clearing of guards with their silver armor shining from the sun above. A carriage behind them, no doubt holding Prince Aemond inside. If you had lost it mentally maybe you’d jump off the ship, but for now you must go the proper way off.

Unfortunately, Vaegon has found his way to the deck of the ship. Taking his place behind you, you knew it was him based on the clanking of armor and the feeling of eyes burning into your back.

“I’ve heard Prince Aemond is a rather good swordsman. Even better than you brother. Though… that’s not much of a competition.” You laugh to get under his skin.

Vaegon had constantly worked for years on his swordsmanship. Never seeing much of real battles himself but practice is practice.

As children he would pretend to be a mighty knight with a wooden sword. Occasionally the brothel worker your mom had to look over you two would pretend to be a princess that needed to be saved. Of course you were the only princess he wanted to save… you cringed and shivered at the thought.

“You are very funny sister. Maybe I shall duel him and blind his second eye hm?” Vaegon leaned closer to you to whisper into your ear.

You only clenched your fists and held your head higher, the ship being fully docked and ready for you to step down. But you couldn’t let him get the last word in.

“Cunt”

———

🏷️ : @toodlesxcuddles @blackgirlmagicforever

[eastlaketea]

Chained Choker

TBSE-W, TBSE-Q, Midlanders only; Replaces Abyssos Choker.

Contributor Information: Tsar - TB SE; Smurf - Q port. Link

[not-sad-just-tired]

Mira la hora, toda contenta, en su reloj. Aun le queda algo de tiempo antes de tener que salir. Se mira en el espejo de su armario, de cuerpo entero, el vestido es corto, ceñido a sus curvas, con una ventana en el pecho que sirve de escote. Laurita se inclina un poco hacia delante para verlo bien Hmm... Se ve sexy, guapa, pero sabe lo viril que es @oinorinoyaiba y no quiere que lleguen tarde por hacerle perder los estribos cuando la vea. Una pena... quiza para otro día.

Se da la vuelta para que Idolina le quite el vestido y se pone otro, con un corte un poco más clasico. Este esta muy bien, tambien... ¿A ver, Idolina, traeme los botines? Se los pone, y se mira en el espejo. Hm... no.. ¿tacones rojos? Se los prueba. El vestido es negro, así que le da un toque de color. Sí, esto me gusta más... ¿Choker? A Miyabi le dijo que le gustaba, así que es perfecto para la ocasion. La pokemon se lo pone por detrás. Se echa dos soplos de perfume y vuelve a mirar la hora.

Justo a tiempo, preciosa. Felicita a Idolina. Recoge esto mientras yo estoy fuera, porfa Idolina mira a su alrededor. Efectivamente, su entrenadora ha dejado medio armario desparramado por la cama. Suelta un pesado suspiro y despide a la pelirroja, que va al salón a esperar a su bellissimo.

[windynwild-archive]

Sawyer Cho: Ball and Waterland

Apesar de não se importar com vestidos, Sawyer estava torcendo para encontrar um terno dentro da caixa e não foi desapontada. O terno rosa de três peças com a gravata prateada lhe serviu perfeitamente, combinado com os saltos brancos que não eram tão altos, exatamente como Sawyer gostava. Os brincos pequenos e prateados eram a única joia que veio com as roupas, em uma elegância discreta que a filha de Éolo apreciou. Sawyer decidiu fazer uma maquiagem também discreta, mas com brilho, e deu um corte no próprio cabelo para ficar ainda mais curtinho, como gostava.

Para Waterland, a semideusa optou por um calça cargo bege, um top preto e uma jaqueta preta e branca que ela adorava. Complementou o look com um par de tênis e um choker preto com um coração, para se manter no tema, é claro. Fez uma maquiagem natural e discreta e foi aproveitar o dia.

[gold-rhine]

Hello! How about praise, lingerie and cockwarming for heizou, dainsleif and beloved babygirl kaeya?

warnings nsfw

ngl i'm a visual person and a sucker for lingerie. all three of them would be fun to do in it, but tbh you leave me no choice. it's gotta be kaeya. my man might have no ass, but he has legs for days. thigh high stockings on *that*? absolutely obscene by itself. with his penchant for corsets, black leather and chains? borderline illegal. normally i prefer lace in lingerie, but i feel like it's not really kaeya's style.

a more structured leather look, not the boring straps on rings harness, but a pseudo-corset amalgamation of curved and angular shapes, with transparent mesh thrown in between. open back, the whole concoction hinges on the wide choker collar. narrow chains on the collar, over the shoulders, on the waist to loop over the hips, stockings transparent black with wide leather ribbons on top. there's probably a flimsy robe with the white fur trim over the whole thing, waiting to be thrown off. the overall look would be absolutely ridiculous and over the top on anyone else, except it looks incredible on kaeya. this whole thing is also exceptionally frustrating to actually deal with, as a metaphor to the disaster this man is himself, so much seemingly on display, but nothing is truly accessible and when you try to find how to open it up, its complicated and overlapping and you're not sure where are you even supposed to start. and kaeya is gonna be an insufferable tease and purposefully unhelpful too, all over you, arching in your hands, breathy delighted chuckle and whispering against your ear, dirty and aggravating. he wants to see what you'll do. do you have patience and self-control to actually figure out the clasps despite his provocations or do you just rip it open, betraying how much you can't wait to get to him? fascinating either way. (there's a secret third option to make him open it himself, but for that you need to know how to play your little incubus like a fiddle) in any case, some time later you should have him under you, spread and exposed, complicated leather pieces running askew, one stocking pulled down and the other having a tear, and he'll look ravished and exquisite at the same time, and it'll be worth it without doubt.

ngl my top thing to do to dain is actually lingerie, but you had to put kaeya in the same ask, so i'm gonna go praise for him i guess. i wouldn't say he's into service play per se, but he enjoys like. being given tasks that require self-control or endurance and then being praised when he completes them well, he's similar with diluc on that, but dain likes harder stuff and is much more experienced. so like, fuck his face without mercy, deepthroat, fingers buried in his light blond hair, pulling harshly, making him choke and gag helplessly, and then tell him he did good while he's trying to catch his breath on his knees in front of you, shaky hands wiping at the wet corners of his eyes

heizou - cockwarming, right in his office. the important thing is to make sure kujou sara is somewhere far on the assignment. otherwise, this exhibitionist little whore loves being seen sitting on your cock, not outright visible, but very fucking obvious from how he's squirming and trying to fuck himself, how ruffled and debauched he looks without you needing to even do anything, he'll get there himself with how he's writhing in your lap, pouting and begging you to finally fuck him. if someone scandalized actually manages to find sara and bring her to the office, heizou'll cover your exit like "you told me i can't wear collar that says "cockslut", you didn't say i couldn't BE one. how do you think 90% of my cases are being solved, huh??"

[somehow-a-writer]

Best Friends Brother {2P Italy X Reader}

With a sigh, you browse your closet for something to change into while going out with Flavio to the mall per his earlier, almost pleading, text. You chuckle thinking about how much begging he probably would've done if you didn't agree after a bit. You quickly change from your pajamas by grabbing a simple black tank top with a small butterfly design, black jeans with a chain, and a pair of Converse and adding a choker and some rings to complete your look before grabbing your bag and keys, and setting out to meet Flavio at the nearby mall. Since it was a nice day out and your meeting place wasn't all that far from where you lived, you decided to just walk over and enjoy the day.

While you were getting ready and walking there, Flavio decided it would be a good idea to make Luciano tag along so he could get out of the house. Luciano wasn't taking too kindly to practically being drug outside when he planned to just have a relaxing day at home. "Giuro che se non mi lasci andare ti pugnalerò." Luciano said through clenched teeth, trying to get out of his brother's grip. "Aww non è divertente! Avanti, dov'è il tuo lato divertente? Inoltre, non vorremmo che la Bella aspettasse a lungo, vero?" Flavio glanced over at his brother, grinning as he knew that Luciano couldn't say no to (Y/N) despite not ever planning on admitting it. Admittedly, Luciano didn't truly give a flying fuck about you at first but after being best friends with his brother for so long, he grew more fond of you over time and came to befriend you as well. After a bit of contemplation, Luciano just sighed and gave in. "Bene. Andiamo." Flaviolet out a small, happy squeal as he dragged Luciano to the car and shoved him in before slipping into the driver's side. "Oh Dio, moriremo..."

Not long after you arrived in the food court, you received a text from Flavio. 'Hey (nickname)! Just got here, where are you hiding away??!' You giggle quietly as you send a reply, telling him about where you are in the food court, keeping an eye out for where your fabulous blonde friend is, still unaware of the fact there would be another to join you. Within a couple of short minutes, you hear an Italian voice shouting. "Ciao Bella!~" You look in the direction of the voice and break into a large small, jogging through the crowd towards your friend. "Hey, Flavio! Great timing, per usual! Hm? You didn't say Luciano would be joining us, how'd you manage that? Hi Luciano, it's been a bit, how have ya been?" Flavio just chuckles, shaking his head. "A magician never reveals his secrets, Cara (nickname)~." Luciano rolls his eyes at his brother's comments, before giving you a small smile. "Ciao Bella, I've been fine. How about yourself?" A faint blush creeps its way onto your cheeks along with a shy smile. "Little stressed but overall okay. Ya know, I think that was the first you've called me beautiful just in casual attire. I um...T-Thank you..." Luciano smirks, giving you a small nod in acknowledgment.

The three of you wander through various different stores, no matter if someone doesn't like the store another would be there to keep their spirits up. Flavio and Luciano tried multiple times to convince you they should be able to buy you something you wanted, however, you felt guilty in accepting their offer so you always politely refused. Upon wandering the halls of stores, you slipped into Hot Topic and started browsing various sections. Once they realized you had slipped away somewhere and had found you again, you were looking through one of the dresses hanging up for your size and the price, which was a tad difficult with how high it was hung. The pair noticed this and made a quiet agreement before heading towards you. Luciano stepped up behind you and flipped through the tags easier and faster. Being that extra few inches really helped. However, not expecting the sudden appearance, you squeaked and whipped around quickly with a small blush from the close proximity. "U-Um... L-Luciano...? I feel like I suddenly missed something now. Where-Where did you suddenly come from? The shadows??" You question, a little flustered over the suddenness. He chuckles, smirking down at you as he carefully unhooks the hanger with the dress you were looking at. "Maybe~. But that's beside the point now. Like it or not, you're getting at least one gift from us, Bella ~." He coos the last bit, patting your head before going off to another part of the store, presumably to find something else.

After a while of walking around, the boys held to what Luciano said despite your attempts to persuade them from it. Aside from a couple of small items, everything was pretty much a surprise within the large bags being carried. "Oh! Bella (nickname)! You should come over once we finish up for a small, private fashion show!" Flavio smiled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you walked. "A fashion show? I mean, you know I'm always down to hang out with you guys but fashion shows aren't really my thing." "Oh trust me, this one will be. Well if there's nothing else here to go to, let's go get this started!" Flavio excitedly said, looking at the others for their input. Luciano and you agreed that heading home was fine and soon enough, the three were on the way back to the car to return to the Vargas home for this mysterious fashion show.

After arriving home, Flavio left you and Luciano to chat in the living room while he 'got things ready'. In reality, he rushed to one of the spare rooms and separated the clothing items into one area, the items you knew about into one bag and the various other miscellaneous items into another bag. Flavio walked back with both bags and a smile that could rival the Cheshire Cat's, handing the bag of surprise items to Luciano for after and setting the other bag down, he clapped his hands together. "Alright Cara (nickname), I want you to go to the guest room and that's where the show will start, just come out when you're ready!" You got up and started walking towards the room, stopping in the living room doorway upon fully realizing what he said. "Wait. I'm the one showcasing everything!?" Flavio nodded, waving his hands in a shooing motion. "SÌ! Ora vai!" With a sigh and a blush already threatening its way to your face, you quickly scurry to the room, knowing there was no point in changing his mind. Closing the door behind you, you make your way towards the various clothes on the bed, getting changed into the first outfit.

Around at least an hour had passed by the time you were finally on the last one, it was the one Luciano had grabbed for you at Hot Topic. You slipped into it and realized it was much shorter and lower cut than you initially thought. not having leggings to pair with it, you walked out with a blush. Flavio had been complimenting and making various comments about the perfect pairings as well, Luciano on the other hand had been practically silent with an ever-growing and deepening blush. Once you came out in this one, Flavio squealed over how adorable he thought you looked, begging for a spin to see how it looked overall. You shyly nodded, keeping your eyes everywhere except the brothers while you slowly turned around. The dress looked amazing on you, you just weren't used to the cut on it. From ear to ear, Luciano had turned completely red and was trying to hide it behind his hand. Flavio could easily tell how the two felt about each other so as a bit of encouragement, he nudged his brother with a shit-eating grin. "Well? Doesn't the Bella Ragazza look absolutely magnifica?~" Luciano nods quickly, keeping his face covered as he looks at (Y/N), not trusting what might come out if he did try to speak. With a sheepish smile and a dark blush, you quickly scurry back to the guest room to change back into your earlier attire. Once he was sure you couldn't hear him, he mumbled into his hand, still trying to recover. "Fanculo, è così dannatamente meravigliosa." After a pause, he shoots an all-too-knowing look at Flavio. "Stavi tramando tutto questo fin dall'inizio, vero, pezzo di merda?" "E se lo fossi?" Flavio chuckled, tilting his head in curiosity. Before Luciano could say or do anything, however, you were already stepping into the living room with a confused look at the sudden tension. "Did I miss something...?"

"Niente~ Now come sit and you can have the rest of your gifts!~" Flavio ushered you towards the couch, patting the spot between the two of them. With a nod, you walk over, sitting between the two of them, and noticing Luciano's blush was still fairly prominent. "Luciano, are you feeling alright? You're quite red..." Leaning a bit closer, you gently place your inner wrist on his forehead. "Mmm... No temperature, that's good." Luciano only blushed darker again, stumbling over his words some as he quickly handed you the bag. "I-I'm alright! Non preoccuparti per me. Qui!" You tilt your head a little at his sudden change of attitude but nod, taking the bag. "If you're sure. Thank you as well." You pull out a variety of different items; jewelry, anime merchandise, a couple of boxes of pocky, and a few new pins for your collection. You smiled so wide, your cheeks hurt by the need, bouncing a little in excitement and small squeals over practically every item. You lunged at Flavio in a bone-crushing hug first before doing the same to Luciano, both returning your hug. "You both are absolutely amazing! Too impossibly sweet for words and just incredibly wonderful!!~ I still feel guilty you guys spent money on me but I'm extremely grateful for you guys! I love you two so much." You teared up a bit at the end, overwhelmed by happiness and how much these two truly mean to you. They quickly hug you, gently wiping any tears threatening to spill. "Thank you (nickname), we're the truly grateful ones to have you in our lives~ I'm glad you enjoyed everything! Thank you for being you, care (Y/N)." Flavio smiles, petting your head. Luciano leaves a soft kiss on your forehead, rubbing your back. "Anything for you, principessa. You're the true blessing so seeing you happy is always worth it, no matter what." You smile shyly, blushing as you hold them close, whispering a small thank you.

After recovering from the joyous outburst and tears, Flavio heads to the kitchen to get started on supper. Staying with Luciano on the couch as you chat, you grab a box of pocky and open it. Placing one in your mouth, you tilt the box toward Luciano in an offering manner. He pauses before smirking and leaning closer, taking the other end in his mouth. 'Does he mean he wants to play the pocky game??' You think to yourself, a blush already forming as you take a hesitant bite, Luciano doing the same. After a bit of back and forth, it's finally your turn but that would also lead to kissing him. You finally take that last bite, planning on pulling away quickly after, Luciano bets you to that aspect, however, cupping your cheek and holding you close. It was soft but all the feelings were easily passed between the two. Slowly you broke apart, gently resting your foreheads against each other with loving smiles. "Ti amo~." "I love you too~." Flavio smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "Took you guys long enough to finally admit it. Nice to officially have you as a sorella, (nickname)!" Luciano grabbed a knife from his jacket, casually throwing it so it'd land a few inches from Flavio. "Stupido fratello, non sai quando non interrompere?!" "No, non lo so. Arrivederci!" Flavio laughed, heading back to resume cooking. You giggle, placing a hand on his chest and kissing his cheek. "You're so cute. But, again, please do try not to murder him. I know we're both quite attached to the little shit that is known as Flavio." Luciano chuckles, resting his head on your shoulder. "Potrò essere carino ma tu sei assolutamente tutto, amore mio~."

~Translations - all done using google translate, many apologies if any are incorrect. Please feel free to correct me on any translations!~

Giuro che se non mi lasci andare ti pugnalerò. - I swear if you don't let go, I will stab you.

Aww non è divertente! Avanti, dov'è il tuo lato divertente? Inoltre, non vorremmo che la Bella aspettasse a lungo, vero? - Aww that's no fun! Come on, where's your fun side? Besides, we wouldn't want Beauty to wait long, would we?

Bene. Andiamo - Fine. Let's go

Oh Dio, moriremo... - Oh god, we're gonna die...

Ciao Bella - hello beautiful

Cara - dear

SÌ! Ora vai! - yes! Now go!

Bella Ragazza - beautiful girl

Magnifica - magnificent

Fanculo, è così dannatamente meravigliosa. - Fuck me, she's so damn gorgeous.

Stavi tramando tutto questo fin dall'inizio, vero, pezzo di merda? - You were plotting this from the beginning weren't you, you shithead?

E se lo fossi? - And if I was?

Niente - nothing

Non preoccuparti per me. Qui! - Don't worry about me. Here!

Principessa - princess

Ti amo - I love you

Sorella - sister

Stupido fratello, non sai quando non interrompere?! - Stupid brother, don't you know when to not interrupt?!

no, non lo so - no, I don't

Ciao - hello

Arrivederci - goodbye

Potrò essere carino ma tu sei assolutamente tutto, amore mio - I may be cute but you're absolutely everything, my love

[fluffytimearts]

How about you draw Fluffy in an outfit that she wouldn't have picked herself but doesn't mind wearing for a one off occasion?

This outfit. Sparkly (what I call) baby pink/pastel pink dress, red sparkly kitten pumps. Stockings and gloves and fabric choker. She doesn't mind it nor does she hate it per se... she would wear it only once before it gets abandoned in the closet. It makes her feel like either one those 70s space cartoon girls /neg in this case or one of those politicians wife you know has no fashion sense --

[earthflaxmachina]

The Metahistory of David and Aurèle

Requested by an instagram user.

They're only from 2022 but they have a funny contextual origin lol. once again I wont be including every single image of them cuz most of them are on derekdemetripoo.

Edit: I was going to title this a "Brief" metahistory but it's actually almost as long as Paz's so it's not so brief actually.

HONOURABLE MENTION 1 - LIFE: 5th August 2021

Figure 1. Death and Life | Figure 2. Death and Life bio, both 5/8/21

This has no relation to David or Aurele per se, but it should be mentioned the similar themes of opposites and yin and yang. Plus none of this is on derekdemetripoo so I might as well archive it. This was after Devil's Adequate era during early office era. Death had a sibling that was supposed to contrast with him. Hence, Life. I mostly wanted to do something with the reflected wound infliction trope. Later on she would become Devil.

HONOURABLE MENTION 2 - DEVIL: 4th September 2021

Figure 3. Devil first appearance (4/9/21) | Figure 4. Death and Devil (5th September 2021)

I reconceptualized Life to be a bigger contrast, hence the dark grey skin opposed to Death's light gray skin. Also: red vs blue. Still twins by now. More Devil art:

Figure 5. Death and Devil bio (8/9/21) | Figure 6. Death and Devil smoking lead (9/9/21) | Figure 7. Death and Devil commenting on Harlow's picture (13/9/21)

Figure 8. Devil reading (29/9/21) | Figure 9. Genderbend Devil (20/1/22) | Figure 10. Devil's origin (20/1/22)

In Figure 6, they're meant to be sitting on something, but nothing's there so it looks weird. Also they were aroace (see: the flag), but now I don't think much on Derek's (Death) sexuality. The girl with the crop-top in Figure 7 was originally an adopt named Kehlani, but I don't have much use for her anymore so I'm trying to resell her on toyhouse.

Figure 9, as bad as it looks, Death is supposed to be in shock. Even though Death has the ability to shapeshift, he probably didn't do it as much or to the same degree that Devil did. As implied by Figure 10 (a rewrite of Devil's origins), Devil has a bit of an identity problem because he wasn't born as his own person, but rather a clone of Death, so he probably shapeshifted pretty liberally to make up for his lack of individuality. Pretty interesting concept, too bad it's not canon anymore. By Figure 9, we had already made it into early TBOD development. This would be the end of Devil. The only relevance he bears now is his shared tail shape with Aurele.

AURELE'S CONCEPTION: 11th September 2022 (hashtag never forget)

Figure 11. What would eventually become the basis of the au (11/9/22)

Almost exactly 2 years ago I drew this doodle of Aarum with short hair. The idea was to draw him and Derek with swapped hairstyles (Aarum short and Derek long) but I gave up on Derek because he looks ugly w long hair. This was also supposed to be a roleswap au, so that's why Aarum has a weird choker instead of his scar. In the end since I gave up on drawing swapped Derek it just looks like Aarum wearing a choker, which is ooc. lol

AURELE'S CREATION: 19th October 2022

Figure 12. Aurele's first ref (19/10/22)

So this was when I decided to actually start cooking up the swap au. You can tell at this time Aurele was more like Aarum instead of a separate identity. The part about emotions doesn't really make sense because if he were what Derek is, he wouldn't have any to begin with, but maybe he chose to turn them on.

The pet panther thing does carry on to modern Aurele. Here is name is "Aurélien" and it was later that I gave him the nickname Aurele for short. Whether or not his name is still Aurélien I don't really care, I'm gonna keep calling him Aurele.

DAVID'S CREATION: 20th October 2022 (my birthday!!!!)

Figure 13. David's first concept | Figure 14. David's first bio, both 20/10/22

On my 17th birthday, I created David!!!! So he shares his conceptual birthday with me, but his canonical one with Derek. To this day I still love the David I drew with his bio, it's so insanely sexy even though it was the first time I'd properly drawn him. Very proud of that. He has never looked as good I'm afraid.

Now the swap au was complete. Back then I gave David the same surname was Derek because they're the same, duh. I later changed it to Demos to separate them as different characters. Since this was an au there was no kind of canon within it, whatever I happened to draw of it had little relevance or weight. Also, the infamous gay sex angst:

Figure 15. First sex on main (14th November 2022)

I still chuckle about how serious I was when I posted this. Needless to say it's not canon at all. It honestly reads better as David x Aarum than David and Aurele.

AURELE REBRAND: 10th December 2022

Figure 16. Aurele redesign (10/12/22) | Figure 17. Aurele and Derek (14/12/22)

Now came the era of true Aurele. He was no longer an Aarum copy but his own, chaotic person. Ultimately this is a way more interesting take on the swap au because if you had that much power you'd turn out different too. Also taking into account the sheer lack of social interaction that comes with it, making him more dense than Aarum is.

Figure 18. Derek and Aurele again (11th March 2023)

From time to time I would draw Derek and Aurele together as a funny hypothetical situation. It was never canon.

SIDEBAR: DAVID'S INTERESTS PT 1

Figure 19. David and The Muppets (1/02/23)

It was around this time that I got hyperfixated on The Muppets so I made it one of David's interests. Weirdly enough, he had the kermit tie when I first drew him (before my Muppets fixation), so that interest was already there, but it was an arbitrary decision. I only amplified it after it became a hyperfixation. By the way, I have his tie irl. I don't have that exact watch, but a close one. I hid it somewhere in my room because the ticking was driving me insane, I think it's still somewhere there.

THE WHITE HOLE THEORY: 27th November 2023 onwards

Figure 20. First concept of the White Hole theory (27/11/23)

The caption on the original instagram post:

"essentially this theory suggests dereks universe was actually created by aurele destroying his (inspired by an existing take on the big bang) bc he wanted to give david all his power to see what he could do w it. which was basically a reset but w david (now derek) in power and having forgotten everything. aurele was still sprinkled around in the new universe, thats what aarum is. he is as much aurele as derek is david. which is to say, sort of, in essence!. so yeas. i guess u could say. love endures 😊❤️! i also like this theory bc it implies derek isnt alone in that aurele was like him before the restart. but they cant ever meet in their true /essences/. only with one being sort of a reincarnation of themself this isnt to say both universes are exactly the same, bc theyre not. for one, derek's universe is actually a multiverse. bc derek created the multiverse (youll see why in the book), whereas aureles was just one this is not canon lol im just having fun, call it dubiously canon...."

That's about it. It basically still holds up to modern development. Now there was some weight to this au, in that it might not even be an au! it might be the u! but before the u even existed. Fun!

Figure 21. Aurele painting (26/8/24)

DAVID LORE UPDATE: 4th June 2024

Figure 22. David facts (4/6/24)

Felt it was somewhat relevant to include this. A bit more about David's origins however his birth year here is 1935 instead of 1937, so he would've been 34 when he died. Maybe it was a mistake, or maybe it was a lore change. Not sure. I think I like 32 better.

SIDEBAR: DAVID'S INTERESTS PART 2

Figure 23. David and Aarum (15th May 2024) | Figure 24. First appearance of David's art (11th August 2024)

I had already been entertaining the idea of David being interested in animation (like me~~~~) and I eventually made it canon (Figure 23). From that interest, he'd also know how to draw and maybe even animate (Figure 24), his art style was inspired by Hanna-Barbera cartoons & The Beatles cartoon, both of which were around when he was alive.

From Figure 24, I began to think of another plot point in David's afterlife, from the patreon:

"if u didnt catch the august request dump, davids fake imaginary girlfriend is charlotte and i think after he died aurele would offer to make her real but it wouldnt work out bc of the ethical concerns."

Figure 25. David and Charlotte (22/8/24)

Everything after December 2023 is pretty streamline, so there's no need to really talk about those individually. There is actually a bit of plot in David & Aurele's life, but I never wrote it or drew it or even talked about it. I just thunk it. I will probably get into that in the future. Now I'm really sleepy after writing all this.

Figure 26. David and Aurele by David (21/8/24)

Hope you enjoyed, goodbye.

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 48, vol. 18, 29 novembre 1896, Paris. 1. (1.) Capote Mercédès à 7 fr. 45. — (2.) Col en castor à 53 fr. 95; Manchon assorti à 12 fr. 95. — (3.) Eventail à 4 fr. 95 et Capote Antonia pour théâtre à 5 fr. 85. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

No. 1. (1) Capote Mercédès à 7 fr. 45. — La forme très gracieuse est en velours avec fond doré. Devant antennes en plumes de paon. Cache-peigne de roses de velours dont la nuance est au choix entre: rose, rubis, crème, paille, thé, mauve et violet. Le velours est dans les teintes suivantes: noir, tabac, rouge, émeraude, vert foncé, ciel, rose, marine, crème, vert Nil, héliotrope, violet et rubis. Le fond est doré ou en jais.

No. 1. (1) Mercedes capote at 7.45 fr. — The very graceful shape is in velvet with a golden background. Front peacock feather antennae. Velvet rose comb cover with a choice of shade: pink, ruby, cream, straw, tea, mauve and violet. The velvet is in the following shades: black, tobacco, red, emerald, dark green, sky, pink, navy, cream, Nile green, heliotrope, violet and ruby. The background is gold or jet.

—

(2) Col haute nouveauté en castor Colombie loutre très foncé, entouré d’une large bande en mouflon gris clair moucheté noir. Dos forme pèlerine légèrement ondulée se termine en pointe devant. Col Médicis, pouvant se rabattre à volonté, en castor doublé à l’intérieur en mouflon. Hauteur devant à partir du pied du col 0m40 et dos 0m30. Prix 53 fr. 95. Manchon assorti en castor 12 fr. 95. Pour le col envoyer le tour de cou.

(2) New high collar in very dark Colombian otter beaver, surrounded by a wide band in light gray mouflon with black speckles. Slightly wavy pilgrim-shaped back ends in a point at the front. Medici collar, which can be folded down as desired, in beaver lined inside in mouflon. Height in front from the base of the collar 0.4 m and back 0.3 m. Price 53.95 fr. Matching beaver sleeve 12.95 fr. For the collar send the choker.

—

No. 2. Capote Antonia pour théâtre et cérémonie â 5 fr. 85. — La forme gracieuse et distinguée est en velours; avec fond doré. Devant draperie de velours retenue par deux coulants eu perles. Sur le côté piquet de plumes frisées. Derrière nœud formé par deS coques de velours assorti. Les plumes et les coulants sont noirs ou blancs. Le fond est doré ou en jais. Nuances du velours au choix: ciel, rose, émeraude, vert foncé, tabac, loutre, saphir, turquoise, grenat, or, marine, mauve, violet, héliotrope, rubis, mousse, noir et crème. Corsage garni de mousseline de soie, de forme blouse, froncé devant, dos uni. Manche garnie dentelle. Matèriaux: 5 mètres soie, 2m50 plissé mousseline de soie.

No. 2. Antonia capote for theater and ceremony â 5.85 fr. — The graceful and distinguished form is in velvet; with golden background. Front velvet drapery held by two pearl slides. Curled feathers on the side. Behind bow formed by matching velvet shells. The feathers and runners are black or white. The background is gold or jet. Velvet shades to choose from: sky, pink, emerald, dark green, tobacco, otter, sapphire, turquoise, garnet, gold, navy, mauve, violet, heliotrope, ruby, moss, black and cream. Bodice trimmed with silk chiffon, blouse shape, gathered front, plain back. Lace trimmed sleeve. Materials: 5 meters silk, 2.5 m pleated silk chiffon.

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Eventail Louis XV à 4 fr. 95. — Monture os ou laquée avec incrustation or et satin orné de peinture fine. Hauteur totale de l’éventail: 0m24. Nuances au choix: Rose, ciel, crème, blanc, rouge et nil.

Louis XV fan at 4.95 fr. — Bone or lacquered frame with gold and satin inlay decorated with fine painting. Total height of the fan: 0.24 m. Shades to choose from: Pink, sky, cream, white, red and nil.