#people like to feel needed. they like to feel like they have a purpose

[dduane]

PETER MORWOOD oh my godddddd i was trying to remember who the fuck it was with the good foccacia recipe and i was like. "he is friends with diane duane on tumblr and is also an author. i scrolled for ages looking and then god sick of it, opened the ask, and it popped right in. anyway thought it'd make you laugh to know that i remember peter morwood primarily through his foccacia recipe and being your tumblr buddy than for his life's works

(chortle) I suspect he won't think that's a hanging offense. (And tbh, most of his stuff isn't in print in North America at the moment. But we're working on that.)

Meanwhile, since Himself is presently asleep upstairs after a late night, here's the link to the recipe we've been using (it's on the Washington Post's recipe site). They in turn adapted theirs from one of the focaccia recipes here at the Bread In 5 website, which comes from the people who wrote Artisan Pizza and Flatbread in Five Minutes a Day.

(In case it's paywalled, I'll cut-and-paste it under the cut...)

Ingredients

4 cups (500 grams) unbleached all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting

1 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons (390 milliliters) lukewarm water

6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided

1 tablespoon (11 grams) granulated sugar

1 1/2 teaspoons (4 to 5 grams) dried instant yeast (not rapid rise)

1 1/8 teaspoons (16 grams) fine salt

2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh rosemary (from 2 to 4 sprigs), divided

Coarse or flaky salt, for sprinkling

In a large (5- to 6-quart) bowl, use a wooden spoon to stir together the flour, water, 2 tablespoons of the oil, the sugar, yeast and fine salt until a rough dough forms. Transfer to a container with a lid, partially cover and let rest for about 2 hours on the counter. You can use the dough right away, or cover and refrigerate until needed; see Make ahead. (If you plan on refrigerating and have a lidded container large enough for mixing, you can assemble the dough in there and refrigerate it after the 2-hour rise on the counter. The dough is much easier to handle after being thoroughly chilled.)

Place a baking stone on the middle oven rack and preheat to 425 degrees. Pour 2 tablespoons of oil into a 9-inch cake pan and evenly coat the bottom of the pan.

Dust the surface of the refrigerated dough lightly with flour, then pull half of it off (about 1-pound/454-gram portion; the dusting makes this task easier, as the dough is sticky). Dust the half you are using with more flour and quickly shape it into a ball by stretching the surface of the dough around to the bottom on all four sides, rotating the ball a quarter-turn as you go.

Use your hands to flatten it into a 1/2-inch-thick round 6 to 7 inches in diameter. Place the dough top side down in the cake pan, moving it around a bit to coat with the oil. It will not fill to the edges of the pan. Turn the dough over, cover the pan with plastic wrap or a plate, and let the dough rest for 10 to 15 minutes.

Use your hands to gently push the dough to the edges of the cake pan. Sprinkle with half of the the rosemary and coarse or flaky salt, as needed.

Re-cover with plastic wrap or plate, and let the dough to rest and rise for 20 minutes.

Repeat with the second ball of dough, or store it to bake later.

Transfer the cake pan to the heated baking stone in the oven and bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until the focaccia crust is medium brown and feels dry and firm on the surface. The baking time will vary depending on the focaccia’s thickness. (If baking both loaves at once, switch them from left to right and rotate from front to back halfway through to ensure even baking.)

Use a rounded knife to loosen the loaf from the edges of the pan, then transfer the focaccia to a cutting board. Cut into wedges and serve warm, or allow to cool completely.

Disclosure: ...Noting here that not one of these I've made has ever reached the "allow to cool completely" stage. Something always seems to... happen to them first. (Like Peter. Or me. Or both of us at once.) :)

[scentedluminarysoul]

SOMETIMES IT'S ON PURPOSE OKAY I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S CALLED BUT SOMETIMES YOU REPEAT THE SAME WORD OR PHRASE ON PURPOSE IT'S A STYLISTIC CHOICE

Ahem. Also. You don't need to thesaurus every word. It's fine if you call a table a table multiple times

Honestly, writing has become so complicated and everyone's a critic and don't you DARE use the same word twice or start a sentence with "he" twice in a row!

Can we go back to actually caring about SUBSTANCE? About what it's trying to tell you?

I'm currently reading Agatha Christie's "And Then There Were None" from 1939. It's written so SIMPLY and yet it's so good and just effective in what it does.

Do you know how often it says "(character name) said:" and then just the dialogue? That's the vast majority of how her dialogues work. Simple, easy to understand, no confusion as to who's talking.

It's not fancy, and yet she's one of the best writers to have ever existed

I mean, look at this:

It's just a simple dialogue that keeps going like that.

One of the most repeated writing advices you read is "make your dialogue interesting", like give characters something to in between tags, etc.

But lads—this dialogue is interesting in and of itself. It's intriguing. Why would they also need to juggle chainsaws or low the lawn or whatever?

And the dialogue tag Christie uses most often is "said". Simply "said". Because it doesn't need more.

Here and there are a few hints as to how the characters are feeling ("angrily", "dryly", "after a minute or two"), but it's your job as a reader to UNDERSTAND and INTERPRET them, to THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE READING.

And I think that's the big problem nowadays: people don't want to think about it anymore. TikTok girlies brag about reading 3 books a day, but they don't UNDERSTAND them. That much is clear when you listen to them talk about books

And this is also what people mean that you should read when you want to become a writer. Because you can read all the writing tips ever online, but that will only make you go insane and insecure.

READ and you will see how they're applied. Or not. And even then the book is still good

And no book is perfect or even good from start to finish. There will be dull moments, or misses in even the best books

And you need to see those flaws in order to become a writer

I forgot about that myself.

The key to writing well isn't to use the best and most interesting words perfectly

It's to use the words you have effectively.

Sorry OP, didn't need to rant

But sometimes all these clever "writing tips to become a better writer" are really missing what's truly makes a good writer:

The heart

Of you only count how many times someone used the same word in a paragraph, instead of trying to understand what that paragraph is telling you, you don't care about the art of writing

Actually you CAN use the same word twice in the same paragraph. The same sentence even. If it's funny, if it's for emphasis, if it's harping on a theme, if you're sexy and you do whatever you want forever. Write on

[ssa-dado]

24 - Logos

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, SMUT Summary: A few weeks ago, Aaron had read a passage from Plato's Symposium - "And when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself... the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's sight, even for a moment." He hadn’t fully understood it. Not until he found himself sitting on your couch at 3 a.m. Warnings: + 18 MINORS DNI (I will ground you) alcohol consumption, some cuss words here and there, VERY GRAPHIC AND DESCRIPTIVE SEX because I'm a weirdo, it's basically porn with philosophy (not in the middle of it - of course - I'm not that weird), dirty talk, unprotected sex, piv, oral sex and a lot of pining. Hotch is a whore. Word Count: 18.9k Dado's Corner: I don’t know, I’m both proud and deeply insecure about posting this. It’s my first time writing smut. Ever. I have no idea if it’s good. No idea if it’s too much or too little - if I over-explained things or if I didn’t explain enough. It’s their first time actually sober, and they’re supposed to be a little cringe - uncertain, hesitant, not entirely sure what to do with each other or where they fit and that’s deliberate. I wanted it to feel real - flawed, messy, something that isn’t just perfect and seamless, but human. There’s good and bad, there’s laughter and uncertainty, there are tears of joy and tears of fear. And I just hope it feels like something.

masterlist ; mandatory first part because if you skip this, you'll be utterly lost and it's not my fault

In Stoic philosophy, logos represents the rational principle that governs the universe, uniting logic, physics, and ethics into a cohesive worldview. It is the divine reason permeating all existence, structuring nature according to order and necessity.

In Stoic logic, logos manifests as the foundation of rational thought, guiding human reasoning toward clarity and truth. Mastery of logic enables individuals to distinguish between valid judgments and deceptive impressions, ensuring alignment with reality.

In physics, logos is the active, organizing force (pneuma) that sustains and directs the cosmos. Everything unfolds according to its rational design, making the universe an interconnected, purposeful whole rather than a realm of randomness.

In ethics, living in accordance with logos means harmonizing one’s will with nature’s rational order. By cultivating wisdom, self-discipline, and virtue, individuals align their actions with universal reason, achieving tranquility and moral integrity in a world shaped by necessity and change.

Happiness is a complex concept - or at least, it became one once thinkers like Aristotle started overanalyzing it.

He distinguished between fleeting pleasure (hedonia) and deeper fulfillment (eudaimonia), and ever since, that debate has been stitched into the fabric of western culture.

Now, most people unknowingly follow this hierarchical model of happiness, never realizing it originated from a handful of bored, existentially troubled men desperately trying to intellectualize their own misery.

Maybe that’s why it’s considered completely normal to ask if someone is really happy - because centuries of philosophy decided that happiness alone isn’t enough – it had to be the right kind of happiness.

And yet, even you weren’t immune to that trap. Because standing there, dancing with Aaron, you admitted to yourself that you were, in fact, truly happy.

Not just for yourself, but for him - for the man who, for the first time since signing his divorce papers a few months ago finally looked light. Not weighed down. Not lost in some invisible battle in his mind. Just… happy.

And the moment felt so sweet, a microcosm where locking eyes with each other was ordinary conduct in such close proximity, where neither of you felt the need to temper that undeniable - if slightly terrifying - undercurrent of chemistry.

Just the understanding that this was safe, that this was allowed.

And somehow, that made it even sweeter.

Not just the warmth of it, not just the effortless way you fit into this tight space together, but the inescapable fact that your probably borderline-manipulative plan to drag him out of his self-imposed exile - had actually worked.

"Now you have to tell me how you managed to get not only Rossi but Hotch to join us tonight, sweet Teach - what kind of sorcery did you pull?" Penelope beamed, not even giving you a second to breathe after you’d opened the door to your apartment.

Ever since she got shot and still struggled with being alone in her house, the two of you had built this little ritual - getting ready together, spending a few hours just the two of you in your apartment before a night out.

A win-win, really, considering you also took your time settling into this place, figuring out how to make it feel like home. Penelope had even been the one to help you unpack your very last box, and now this little tradition had taken root.

She brought the wine, you experimented with vegan appetizers - some more successful than others - and the two of you would rant, gossip, and talk about everything and nothing. But, most importantly, Penelope took on the herculean mission of wrangling your ridiculously high-maintenance team into one place for a night out.

It was a diplomatic nightmare. The venue had to be quiet enough for Spencer but still have music good enough for Derek, serve whatever mocktail JJ was obsessed with that month, and somehow accommodate Emily’s inevitable last-minute curveballs - which, incidentally, was how Spencer found himself at a drag show for the first time.

Shockingly, he’d been asking to go back to that bar ever since.

You, meanwhile, were more like Penelope’s unpaid secretary. She desperately needed one, given the sheer level of effort it took to coordinate this mess.

"You asked, and I delivered," you said, shrugging. "Told Rossi that Hotch was coming, told Aaron that Rossi was coming too - he actually turned out to be much easier to persuade."

"I wonder why… oh, right," Penelope sing-songed, eyes gleaming. "Big Bossman has a soft spot for you, smiley little thing."

You rolled your eyes. "The fact that we’re friends doesn’t change that he is infuriatingly stubborn once he makes up his mind. So annoying."

"Nine years of ‘friendship’" Penelope quipped, stretching the word out suspiciously.

"Actually, it’s ten," you corrected, sipping your wine as you settled onto your kitchen stool.

Penelope gasped - full dramatic hand-to-chest gasp. "Oh my STARS and MOONS! Ten years?! And you didn’t tell me?! What did you do? What did he do? Just the two of you , alone somewhere private, existing in your natural secretive habitats like the little pretty, reserved, woodland creatures you two are… especially now that he’s divor-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Pen!" you cut her off before she could run that train straight off the rails. "How many times have I told you we're-"

But no. She didn’t let you finish.

"Oh, Teach!" she grinned, eyes sparkling enough to concern you. "I was just suggesting you two do something to celebrate… something you two love to do. You know, stay up all night bonding over files… bending over files…"

You choked.

Actually choked.

Wine went straight up your nose, burned your throat, and splattered all over you, going everywhere.

Your counter.

Your floor.

Your poor, innocent, pristine white pants.

Penelope screamed - but not in horror, in absolute, unhinged delight.

"OH MY GOD," she cackled, slapping a hand against your back like that would somehow help you breathe again. "I HAVE NEVER BROKEN YOU SO FAST."

You wheezed, still coughing. "Penelope-"

She wiped a fake tear from her eye, grinning. "Oh no, sweet pea. You absolutely just got - wait." She paused mid-celebration, tilting her head as if she had just made a discovery.

Then, in a tone far too calm for the amount of damage she was about to inflict - "Much like I imagine Aaron Hotchner could do."

A horrible, inhuman noise clawed its way out of your throat - your last dying breath, probably.

Penelope lost it. Full-body laughter, already snatching a towel but making zero effort to hide the criminal glint in her eyes.

"I’m just saying," she went on, barely containing herself, "you and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Repressed have this whole agonizingly slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they, tragic yearning thing going on, and you know I’m right."

You groaned, dabbing furiously at the stain. "There is nothing slow-burn about a decade-long friendship."

"Aha! So you admit it’s a burn!" Penelope beamed, pointing at you like she had just cracked a conspiracy wide open.

The more you dabbed, the worse it got - just like this conversation, apparently. "Oh, no, I never-”

"All I’m saying is," she steamrolled over you, completely unfazed, "the energy you two radiate is so thick I could slather it on a bagel. Toasted chemistry. Smothered in slow-burn spread. One time I saw him look at you like you personally hand-crafted happiness from scratch just for him. Like you reached into the fabric of the universe and said, ‘Here you go, Hotchner, a reason to believe in joy again.’"

You paused, glaring at her. "That is insane."

She ignored you, fully in the zone now. "And don’t even get me started on the way you look at him when he isn’t paying attention."

You looked at him completely normally. Totally neutral. A textbook, regulation-approved gaze.

Even Anderson looked at him with more fervor than you ever did - and as far as you knew, he wasn’t even into men.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. "And how exactly do I look at him, Penelope? Enlighten me."

She grinned - dangerously - and leaned in like she was about to drop the biggest bombshell of your life. "Like you already know what he looks like naked and are trying very, very hard not to think about it."

You froze.

For exactly half a second - which, unfortunately, was half a second too long.

Penelope’s entire face dropped. Eyes huge. Mouth hanging open. A moment of stunned silence. And then-

"OH. MY. GOD."

Your stomach plummeted. "Penelope, don’t-"

"OH MY GOD. YOU DID."

"Penelope," you tried again, desperately attempting to rein in the chaos - but, to your credit, you did at least try to keep your voice level.

"JESUS, MARY, AND EMILY PRENTISS, YOU TOTALLY DID THE HORIZONTAL TANGO WITH AARON HOTCHNER. YOU SNEAKY LITTLE MINX. HOW DARE YOU HIDE THIS FROM ME?!"

"Penelope, for the love of-" you started, but of course she chimed in again.

"WHEN?! WHERE?! HOW?! DETAILS, WOMAN!"

You exhaled through your nose, dragging a hand down your face because there was no getting out of this.

"Once," you muttered. "Nine years ago."

Silence.

Then, with the most scandalized expression you've ever witnessed on her face, she shrieked, "ONLY ONCE?!"

You threw your hands up. "Yes, only once! And never again."

"WHY ONLY ONCE?!" she shrieked, as if you had just admitted to committing the single greatest injustice known to mankind.

You exhaled, bracing yourself, hoping that a little honesty might finally get her to calm down. "Because, at the time… I might have had a bit of a crush on him. And we were coworkers. And it wasn’t exactly… ethic-"

"FUCK THE ETHICAL!" she screamed, thrilled by the sheer scandal of it all.

You should have seen that coming."Penelope!"

She flailed her arms so violently she nearly knocked over her wine glass, eyes wide "You had a crush on him?! ON HOTCH?! AND YOU ONLY DID IT ONCE?! Oh, I cannot with you right now. You are so infuriating sometimes! You have the emotional restraint of a saint, and I do not mean that as a compliment."

"We were both drunk, and it was a mistake. It happened, we moved on, and that was the end of it. We’re friends, and that’s all it’s ever going to be." you said, unwavering. " Honestly, I don’t even think about it anymore - sometimes, I even laugh about it."

Penelope squinted, gears visibly turning in that devious head of hers, already cooking up something absolutely unhinged. "Mmm-hmm. Okay. Fine. Sure. Let’s pretend I accept that. But-"

Oh no.

"-if it were to happen again, hypothetically speaking, do you think it would be even better now that he’s aged like a fine, expensive, top-shelf wine? And, and, anddd - follow-up question - on a purely objective, scientific level - how would you rate him? You know, visually?"

"Penelope!" you groaned, but unfortunately, your traitorous brain had already started answering the question.

Yes.

And no comment.

"Okay, okay, fine, no ratings," she huffed dramatically, rolling her eyes so hard you were surprised she didn't sprain something. "But-"

This was it. Your moment. Time to end this madness with a good old, firm, satisfying -"No."

But, of course, that would have been too good to be true.

She continued "-would you say he's more on the impressively sized side or-"

"Penelope, please." You were already suffering.

She waved you off like your dignity was a minor inconvenience to her scientific research. "Listen, I’m just saying," she went on, tone now fully deranged, "the man carries himself like he’s got something to be confident about. Big hands, big energy, big…"

You froze. "Do not finish that sentence."

"BIG, HUGE D-"

Time to draw the line.

You shot up so fast your chair went flying, rattling against the floor as you grabbed your phone.

Penelope screeched. "Wait - what are you doing?!"

You scrolled, thumb unwavering, and hit call. "Giving you a direct source."

Her soul left her body. "NO. NO, YOU WOULD NOT-"

You absolutely would.

And you did.

"Come on," you said, completely deadpan, as the dial tone rang. "It’s just Aaron."

Penelope malfunctioned. She glitched like a corrupted file. She stared at you, horrified, mouth moving but no sound coming out.

"He’s just 'Aaron' to you?" she whispered, her hands flailed before slamming onto the table as if physically stabilizing herself. "No last name? No title? Just oh, you know, my casual little ex-lover, Aaron? Just ‘hello, this is a man I have been biblically familiar with, Aaron?’ Just ‘we had sex nine years ago, and now he’s simply Aaron, like we’re old college roommates and not two people who have seen each other naked’"

…Hmm. Well. Yes?

To be fair, you’d never really thought about it before. It just… happened. One day, he was Hotch, then - sometime after that night - he was Aaron. And after that, you never really stopped.

No big discussion, no conscious decision - just a shift so seamless that you hadn’t even registered it until right now, in this very moment, with Penelope practically having a full-body breakdown in your kitchen.

Not important. Moving on.

Because, frankly, you had bigger concerns - like how you were about to experience instant, irreversible consequences for your actions, since the call, after one, two, three rings-

Connected.

"Hello?" His voice came through the line - slightly huffed, a little breathless, like he’d just moved across the room.

"You took a while to pick up," you said casually - a joke, a throwaway comment.

There was a pause. A beat.

And then, in that deadly flat, unbothered tone of his, he answered, "I was still in the shower."

You froze.

Penelope froze.

Somewhere, on the opposite side of your living room wall, your elderly neighbor Mrs. Lee - who had been subtly not subtly eavesdropping through the thin drywall of your apartment - probably froze.

You could feel Penelope vibrating beside you, gripping your arm so tightly she was cutting off circulation, meanwhile, your brain was running in circles, slamming against metaphorical walls, and screaming into the void because-

Aaron in the shower.

Aaron, freshly out of the shower.

Aaron, picking up the phone, standing there, probably half-naked, hair wet-

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You leaned back against the counter, schooling your expression into something completely unfazed. "Well, now I feel bad for interrupting."

"I doubt that," he said dryly. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. It’s just that Penelope had something very important to ask you," you said, glancing over at her with the most innocent, borderline sadistic smile you could muster.

"I - what - no, I don’t-" she sputtered, frantically shaking her head and waving her hands.

Aaron, still completely unaware of the impending disaster, said, "What is it, Penelope?"

Dead silence.

Garcia looked like she had been struck by divine retribution.

"Go on," you mouthed, biting back a grin. "Ask him."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing.

Just the sound of sheer existential regret.

"Garcia?" Aaron prompted, his tone patient, if slightly concerned.

"I - um - hi, sir Sir," she finally managed, voice several octaves higher than usual. "I - I just - well, you know - um. How was your shower?"

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming.

Aaron, completely unfazed, just answered like this was a normal human interaction,"It was fine."

"Good! That’s great!" Garcia blurted, nodding furiously at no one in particular. "Love a good shower! Love hygiene! So important! Huge fan of cleanliness! Showering - what a concept! Water? Incredible. Soap? Revolutionary. Scrubbing? Life-changing. Anyway, I have to go bye!"

And then she hung up so fast it was a miracle she didn’t break the phone.

You just stared at her.

She just stared back.

Then, in perfect sync -

You both screamed, laughing.

"You traitor!" Penelope wheezed, still half-laughing, half-mortified.

"You were the one who wanted answers!" you gasped, nearly crying from laughter.

"Not from him directly!" she shrieked, burying her face in her hands like that could somehow reverse time - but she was laughing anyway, because this was, undeniably, the funniest and most horrifying thing that had ever happened.

"Well, I just saved you the effort," you teased.

She ripped her hands away from her face, wild-eyed. "You made me ask our boss about his shower."

"You made me listen to your entire dissertation on whether or not he’s impressively sized - I feel like we’re even."

You still somehow winced thinking back about it.

She groaned, collapsing against the counter. "I will never recover from this."

"Oh, I’m sure you absolutely will," you said, reaching for the wine bottle. "Do you want more wine?"

She lifted her head just enough to nod. Begrudgingly.

You poured, sliding her glass across the counter. Then, with the kind of magnanimous generosity only wine-fueled chaos could inspire, you added, "And - because I am a good friend - I will allow you one question about that night. One. With a detail."

Penelope snapped upright faster than the speed of light, gasping. "Oh, this is the best day of my life."

You chuckled, shaking your head, sipping from your own glass too. "Make it count."

She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and then, she leaned in and whispered- "Was it at least good enough that you'd do it sober?"

You nearly choked, again. "Penelope!"

She lifted a hand. "No, no, no, this is a very fair, very respectable question."

Sure, a question that required another sip of wine to be answered, especially because at this point you literally had nothing more to lose. "Penelope, I would do it sober, wide awake, fully caffeinated, after eight hours of sleep, in a well-lit room, with a legally binding contract ensuring I’d remember every single second."

Penelope screamed.

"OH MY GOD," she wailed, collapsing onto the counter. "THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE NIGHT."

You took another sip, completely unfazed, as she flailed so hard she nearly launched herself off the stool.

"I NEED TO LIE DOWN," she gasped, gripping onto the counter for support. "I NEED TO CALL EMILY. JJ – OH SWEET LITTLE JJ – SHE’S IN NEW ORLEANS SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW”

"You need to calm down," you deadpanned.

She pointed at you, accusatory, still half-breathless from screaming. "You were gonna take this to the grave. You were gonna let me die not knowing this. ME. PENELOPE GARCIA. The person who has kept all of your secrets and asked for nothing in return except unfiltered chaos."

"I was absolutely going to take this to the grave," you confirmed, refilling your wine.

She let out a dramatic gasp. "YOU MONSTER."

You shrugged. "You survived."

She slammed a hand on the table. "You know who wouldn’t have survived?"

You tilted your head. "Who?"

She leaned in, eyes glinting. "Aaron Hotchner."

You made a low, strangled noise in the back of your throat.

"Oh, he absolutely wouldn’t have survived if he knew this just came out of your mouth," she continued, giddy, thriving off the absolute chaos she had unleashed. Then, dead serious - "Text him right now and tell him."

You slammed your wine down. "I am definetely not texting him that."

"Why not?!" she howled.

"Because I told you - I’m never doing that. Ever. I’m serious. If I could go back in time and relive that sober? Sure. But not. Now."

She narrowed her eyes, assessing, calculating.

"Okay, okay, alright then - next question." she said too fast, taking a sip like she was preparing for battle. "Do you think he’d do it sober?"

You opened your mouth - but nothing came out. Because you hadn’t actually thought about that before.

Penelope gasped so loudly that you were surprised the walls didn’t shake. "OH MY GOD, YOU DON’T KNOW."

"I-"

"OH MY GOD, WHAT IF HE THINKS ABOUT IT, WHAT IF HE REGRETS NOT DOING IT AGAIN."

"Penelope," you said slowly, carefully, " you know what? I have reached my limit. This conversation is getting put away. We are going to the bathroom, I am curling your hair, and we are talking about something else."

"You know, Teach," she mused, stretching luxuriously as she grabbed her wine glass. "You have a really weird way of showing love."

You took a slow sip of wine, watching her over the rim of your glass. “I agree - it’s because I hate you just as much as I love you, PG. Opposites aren’t really opposites, you know? They kind of fold into each other - love, hate… same fire, same burn. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.”

You were actually proud of this philosophical pearl of wisdom. Penelope? Not so much.

She cut you off immediately. "Oh my GOD, this explains so much. This is exactly why you and Hotch looked like you were about to fuck in the middle of the bullpen yesterday."

"PENELOPE."

She pointed at you, completely unbothered. "OH NO NO NO - I was sitting there, minding my own business, when suddenly you two were arguing about the profile like you were in some kind of battle for dominance, standing way too close, talking way too low, making way too much direct eye contact."

"We were disagreeing about the profile."

"YOU WERE HAVING A MENTAL THREESOME WITH THE PROFILE BETWEEN YOU."

You let your head drop onto the counter.

She kept going. "It was totally foreplay - and then, mid-argument, he even took you to his office."

You lifted your head just enough to glare at her. "We went to his office to continue the discussion in private."

"Sure..." she grinned, skipping toward the bathroom. "Fine, fine. But just so you know," she threw a look over her shoulder, "if Hotch ever does take you to his office for anything other than work, I expect a full report."

Oh fucking hell.

"I hope your curls come out uneven," you muttered, grabbing the curling iron.

"I hope you get stuck in an elevator with him," she shot back.

You narrowed your eyes. "I hope you trip in your heels tonight."

She grinned wider. "I hope Hotch sits across from you at the bar and just stares at your lips the whole time."

You scoffed. "I hope your mascara smudges so bad you look like a raccoon by the end of the night."

She perked up. "I hope you two sneak away to the bathrooms at the bar, and you have to keep quiet while he-"

"PENELOPE."

She continued, undeterred, "I hope he backs you up against the bar, leans down all serious like he’s about to tell you something important - and then just whispers the filthiest thing you’ve ever heard."

"I hope you break a heel on the way there and have to borrow one of Morgan’s sneakers."

"I hope he offers you his jacket and you realize it still smells like his cologne and suddenly you’re thinking about it again."

"I hope you stub your toe so hard you rethink everything."

"I hope he says your name in that low voice of his, and for a split second, you remember exactly what he sounded like nine years ago-"

"I hope you spill something on your dress and have to go home early."

She cackled, victorious. "I hope you wake up in his bed and don't regret a single thing."

And maybe, exactly because the two of you had this conversation, you shouldn’t have agreed to go to the bar together in a single car – hers.

You should have seen this coming.

Indeed, as you and Aaron made your way back to the bar, drinks in hand, you spotted Derek and Penelope approaching with a very specific look on their faces.

Derek clapped a hand on your shoulder and said, "Teach - Babygirl had too many drinks to drive, I’m bringing her back home, can-"

Aaron didn’t even let him finish.

"I’ll give the professor a ride," he said immediately, smooth, confident, like he had already made up his mind before Derek even spoke. "You go, Morgan. See you tomorrow morning."

You barely had time to process how utterly inevitable this was - how there was no escaping the tension that had been building up all night until the very moment you stepped out of his car and reached your apartment door.

And then - Penelope smirked.

The smuggest, most self-satisfied, most evil little smirk in existence. You hoped, deeply and sincerely, that this wasn’t her plan all along - but judging by the way she waved so innocently as Derek dragged her away, eyes twinkling like the devil himself-

Yeah. You were doomed.

You were doomed the second you and Aaron stepped out of the bar and, with zero effort, he pushed open the massive, heavy wooden door like it weighed nothing at all. Casual. Effortless. Like he hadn’t even thought about it.

Just naturally stepped aside, one hand braced firmly on the doorframe, the other resting lightly against the door, waiting – watching - as you walked past him.

You were even more doomed when you reached his car and - of course - he opened the passenger seat for you too.

Didn’t even let you reach for it yourself.

Just beat you to it with ease, pulling it open - but instead of walking away immediately, he lingered for half a second longer, his hand still resting on the handle, holding it just firmly enough so he could be the one to shut you in himself.

Like this wasn’t already a lost art. Like this was just how things were supposed to be.

To top it all off, he got in, and as he backed out of the parking spot, his arm reached behind your headrest, fingers resting exactly there, his body leaning in just slightly closer as he turned to glance over his shoulder.

You had never wanted to fight for your life more.

Not because of the closeness.

Not because of the way his short-sleeved polo shifted, muscles tensing subtly, biceps flexing just enough as he turned the wheel -

No.

It was because he chose this exact moment to mutter, in that low, distracted, completely serious voice, something about the structural failures of public infrastructure.

"Parking lots aren’t properly illuminated," he murmured, half to himself, half to you, as he pulled out of the space - leaning in just enough for you to be wrapped in the warmth of his woody cologne. "Streetlamps are too far apart - against regulation. Visibility’s compromised."

You blinked.

It was so incredibly Hotchner of him to be thinking about streetlamp regulations at a time like this that you nearly lost your mind.

But you couldn’t even react, because then he turned on the car radio. And instead of some normal, pre-set station, it booted right into his most recent activity.

Which meant - of course - it immediately picked up in the middle of whatever custom CD he had been listening to on the way to the bar.

You had exactly one second to register the unfamiliar tune before it clicked - this was from whatever Broadway musical he was currently obsessed with.

Oh, he was such a loser.

You turned your head toward him, but Aaron - unfazed, unbothered - simply reached forward and turned the volume down to a casual, background level.

Like this was all perfectly normal.

Like you hadn’t just caught him.

"Aaron." You bit back a smirk.

He kept his eyes firmly on the road, expression unreadable. "Hmm?"

"Which one is this?" you asked, already knowing the answer but needing him to say it out loud.

"Wicked," he muttered. Then, quickly -"I can change it."

"Oh no, no, don’t you dare, Hotchner." You chuckled, settling in. "Always wondered what your music taste sounds like."

He exhaled deeply. "It is not only this-" he started, trying, truly trying to make you understand the complexity of his other music tastes, to defend his honor, but – they just started singing. And he knew.

He knew.

You were never going to let him live this down. Better off saving his breath.

Hilarious, and the best part? He didn’t even know he was.

Halfway through, you tilted your head, listening. "So this whole song is about two girls absolutely hating each other because they’re complete opposites, but they’re forced to be roommates?"

"Pretty much, yes." His answer a little too quiet, and - though he tried to hide it - deeply embarrassed.

You grinned. "It kinda sounds like they have a crush on each other," you commented, trying your best not to notice how his fingers tapped the wheel, completely in rhythm with the song, while his face remained perfectly composed - extremely normal about something he so clearly wasn't at all.

"That’s the whole point," he said, deadpan, keeping it short.

"Oh “ You blinked. “Do they get together at the end?"

"Unfortunately not." He sounded so genuinely bitter about it that you nearly laughed. "They become best friends, though."

Though, judging by the way his gaze flicked toward you for half a second, he wasn’t entirely sure if you were still talking about the musical - or something else entirely.

Especially when you simply hummed, turning to look out the window. "Best friends."

"Yes. Best friends." His fingers tightened on the wheel.

And damn if you didn’t let the silence linger just a beat too long.

"They don’t get together because they’re completely different, so they’re not compatible?" you asked, your voice just a little too earnest.

"Not because of that," he started. "It’s because one of them becomes a political fugitive and is declared a national threat, while the other is essentially forced into being the corrupt government’s PR puppet."

Ah. Okay.

There was no possible way to explain it in a way that didn’t completely kill the mood - impossible, really. But he tried anyway.

"Although," he added, keeping his voice even, measured, like this was not something he had many thoughts on, "they do have a really dramatic goodbye, where they sing about how much they changed each other’s lives and how they’ll never be the same again."

He felt you turn toward him, and though he kept his eyes on the road, he felt it - that shift in your attention, God knows on what, though.

"Best friends," you repeated.

He gripped the wheel just a little too tight. "Best friends," he confirmed, again.

A beat. A pause. Too long.

"And you think it would have been better if they had been together?" Your question landed way too heavy, like you knew exactly how much weight it carried.

Like you knew exactly how his mind worked, how he had spent far too long thinking about this, not just in the context of some musical, but in general.

He exhaled, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, but his grip tightened again.

And then-

"Fuck yes," the words left his mouth way too fast.

So fast that he heard you laugh before he even saw you smile from the rereview mirror of the car.

And God - that laugh.

It wrecked him.

Not because it was loud or sudden, but because it was yours. Because it was real. Unguarded. Effortless. Because it was him that pulled it from you - and it was then, in that moment, that he knew.

He was so, so fucked.

Because this wasn’t new. This wasn’t some sudden realization, some reckless thought that had just wormed its way into his mind out of nowhere.

It had been there. For a long time. Ten whole years.

He had just never let himself look at it too closely.

Because if he did - if he let himself really think about it, about how he felt like he was burning alive every time you looked at him like that - it would be too much.

It would consume him.

And he could not, would not, risk this unless he was absolutely sure.

Unless he knew you wanted him too.

Unless he knew you burned for him the same way he was combusting for you in real time in this car.

And that terrified him, because he was not sure.

Because you laughed like it was just funny.

Because you smiled like this was just a conversation.

Because you did not look wrecked.

Not like he felt.

So instead, he cleared his throat, steadied his grip, and forced his voice into something casual, distant - yet still, somehow, not completely backing down. "You think they should have ended up together too, then?"

Not ‘do you think I’m wrong’.

Not ‘do you disagree’.

But  - you think so too.

Like some small, cowardly, pathetic part of him needed to hear you say it.

There was a pause - not a long one, not anything noticeable if he wasn’t paying attention. But he was.

He was paying attention to everything.

To the way your breath hitched just slightly, to the way your fingers twisted at the hem of your sleeve, to the way you turned your head to look at him.

“Obviously.” You gestured toward the radio. “You don’t harmonize so effortlessly with someone you’re just calling a ‘friend.’ That’s literally just denial with extra steps.”

He almost told you that harmonizing perfectly was the entire point of musical theater. That it was scripted, practiced, designed to fit together.

That it didn’t mean anything.

But he didn’t, because he knew what you meant. “So you believe in that?” he asked, voice steady, casual, like this was just another discussion.

You raised an eyebrow. “In what?”

His fingers tapped against the wheel, once, twice – thoughtful - before he finally spoke. "That some people are just... deluding themselves."

The shift was small, but he felt it. Your smile didn’t falter. Your posture didn’t change. But something in your expression - in your eyes specifically - shifted.

It was dangerous, talking to you like this.

Because you noticed too much. Because you understood more than most. Because you saw through things - through people - with a clarity that was often unnerving.

Especially when it came to him.

Especially when he wasn’t sure he was ready to be understood like that.

It was your job, afterall.

"Oh, absolutely," you said easily, your tone way too light for his liking. "People are the most oblivious to themselves. We exist in a perpetual state of contradiction - endlessly chasing clarity while fiercely protecting the illusions that comfort us. We reshape our own realities, bending them to fit the narratives we can live with, refusing to confront the truths that feel too heavy - even when they’re staring right at us."

And didn’t he know - hadn’t he always known - how precise you could be with words in moments like this? The moments where he wasn’t, the only moments where he wasn’t precise at all.

How effortlessly you could thread meaning into silence, weaving it into something he could either acknowledge or ignore.

How your gaze lingered just a fraction too long, like you were offering him a choice.

And he didn’t know whether to turn away from it - or step straight into it.

Because for once, he couldn’t read you and that terrified him.

He had spent his entire life seeing through people, understanding them before they even understood themselves.

Yet here he was, in the quiet of his car, in the space between you, not entirely sure who you were talking about.

And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

So he did what he had always done.

He lived with it.

With the sound of his heart thundering louder than the music - louder than your occasional singing along when something familiar played, or the rhythm of your voice alternating with his as you both filled the car with conversation about everything and nothing.

Each block closer to your apartment building felt like a loss, something slipping through his fingers before he even had the chance to hold onto it. He was already mourning the night before it was over.

And neither of you seemed to want it to end, given how relentlessly the talking continued, stretching time as far as it would allow.

It wasn’t until half an hour later that it even occurred to either of you that you were standing outside in the cold, leaning against the driver’s side door, your arms wrapped around yourself in a futile attempt to keep warm. He was still in the car, window rolled down, engine still running, caught between staying and leaving.

It made him ache, interrupting you mid-sentence to point it out. “You’re shivering,” he said quietly, apologetic, as though he were to blame for the biting chill in the air.

It made him ache even more when, instead of brushing it off or saying goodnight, you invited him upstairs, at how his jacket was discarded somewhere along the short path to your building’s entrance, now draped over your shoulders along with his arm, pulling you closer.

It was ridiculous how, even with two jackets on, the only thing keeping you from freezing was his arm.

What was even more ridiculous - hideous, really - was how he should have been the one freezing, left in nothing but short sleeves, yet somehow, standing there with you wrapped up in him, he’d never felt warmer in his life.

So warm that he didn’t even notice the chill of the night.

So warm, in fact, that he didn’t even need the blanket you handed him when you both settled into your living room, waiting for the heating to kick in. He let it drape over his lap out of politeness more than necessity, as if pretending to care about staying warm.

Now, you sat on opposite ends of your couch, shoes abandoned by the door, both of you leaning on the armrest closest to the other, legs angled toward one another, the space between you steadily narrowing. Distance itself felt like an insult, your arms resting along the back of the couch so you could still face each other, still hold onto the moment that neither of you wanted to let slip away.

And he didn’t dare lose sight of your eyes.

It was in that exact moment that a memory surfaced—some weeks ago, sitting alone in his living room, reading Symposium, a book he only picked up because he had seen you so engrossed in it on the jet. Because he had wanted to understand what had captured your mind so entirely.

And everything that followed - a whole night of texting, deep conversations neither of you ever brought up again, like always.

His eyes had analyzed the book twice, dissected its structure, its meaning. And yet, only now, in the absence of it but in your presence, did he finally understand that one passage.

"And when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself… the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's sight, even for a moment."

He understood.

Because he couldn’t look away from you - not now, not ever.

The world outside was so quiet that every word exchanged between you felt magnified, as though the universe itself had leaned in to listen. And when even your whispers felt too loud, you shifted closer, scooching toward him on the couch.

Just a few inches at first.

And then he did the same.

You moved again. Then so did he.

And suddenly, your crossed leg was draped over his, the fabric of your tights brushing against his jeans as naturally as if it had always been there. His left hand settled somewhere near your knee - hesitant, not gripping, but resting. Shy.

The ticking clock on the wall was the only tether to the concept of time, because what he’d assumed to be ten, maybe fifteen minutes revealed itself to be a full hour.

3 A.M. And neither of you seemed to care.

By then, his hand had already found the courage to rest between your thighs, still safely on your knee. Though it didn’t take long before his thumb began moving on its own, tracing slow, idle patterns over the thin fabric of your tights.

He didn’t say anything about the way your foot brushed his calf, or how his name on your lips sounded softer in the early hours. Or at how all of this mutual care betrayed his mind, cracking open a small window to what it could have been.

Yet somehow, it felt far more like a glimpse of what it could be.

“Aaron,” your said, soft enough that it sounded more like a thought than a spoken word.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a statement. It was just his name. Him.

And somehow, that made it all the more devastating.

You hesitated, your eyes dropping to where his hand rested on your knee. He followed your gaze, and in that moment, even though he’d memorized every fleck of color in your irises, their absence felt like a loss.

So dull that his thumb stilled its movements across your knee under your inspection, as if the simple acknowledgment of the two of you now might shatter everything.

He braced himself for a shift - for the game you always played, where lines were drawn, and walls went back up. Where the closeness between you was something fleeting, fleeting enough to pretend it never existed.

But then, you looked back up.

And instead of retreat, instead of scolding or teasing or anything he expected, there was something else entirely. “I really don’t want this night to end.”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard you right, but the look in your eyes left no room for doubt. You weren’t just talking about the night… and neither was he.

But he didn’t know how to give you the honesty you deserved without completely unraveling, not until his thumb resumed its gentle movements on your knee - more to selfishly steady himself than anything else.

“Neither do I,” he admitted finally, even if each second was daring him to say more, to close the space between you entirely. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet.

It was you who moved first.

Plato said that ‘At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”

Maybe he was right, because as your hand slid down his arm, it felt like a verse being written. The way your fingertips barely grazed the surface of his skin, tracing the map of his veins with a tenderness you hadn’t realized you possessed, pretending the warmth under your fingertips didn’t make your stomach tremble, until finally, your touch lingered on his knuckles.

A pause, hesitant. Then, almost instinctively, you laced your fingers with his. It felt... inevitable. Natural in a way that terrified you.

“Didn’t expect you to be this warm,” you murmured, your voice light, almost teasing, though you couldn’t hide the way it trembled.

You finally found the courage to meet his eyes. Hazel. Searching. Devastating.

And you weren’t afraid of what you saw, you already knew. What terrified you was that, with one touch, you might have unraveled something too fragile to survive.

His gaze fell to your joined hands, his thumb gliding softly over the back of yours, speaking in the ineffable language of touch.

“I didn’t expect to feel this… right,” he said, the words so quiet they felt more like a confession than a statement.

The smallest smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned in just a little more. “Aaron…”

And that was it.

Whatever restraint he’d been holding onto slipped away entirely. Before he could overthink it, his hand came to rest against your cheek, his calloused palm cradling the softness of your face.

Gentle. Steady. Tender.

The contrast was almost startling, culminating in the soft whimper that escaped your lips as the cold metal of his watch grazed your neck. And so, apologetically, his thumb began to move, tracing gentle patterns along your cheek, as though committing every curve, every subtle shift, to memory.

You didn’t pull away.

Instead, your hand slid to his wrist, holding him there, your thumb tracing the same delicate patterns along his inner wrist, matching his movements with the same ease that echoed in the way you ordinarily mirrored each other’s posture, each other’s language.

His gaze flickered to your lips. “You have no idea how hard it is to stop myself here,” he just said, now without a hint of regret, not when your eyes searched his with the same intensity he felt pulling at his chest.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, the words so soft they barely reached him, but he heard them as clearly as if you’d shouted.

His breath came shallow now, his gaze searching yours, as though looking for any sign of hesitation.

But there was none. Only the quiet, unspoken truth reflected back at him.

And so his other hand found your waist, pulling you closer - so close that, without thinking, you moved to straddle him, your knees settled on either side of his hips.

“I-” he stammered, as he looked at you wide-eyed tilting his head back slightly, before shaking his head, a breathless chuckle escaping him.

“Sorry,” you blurted, heat rushing to your face as you realized just how intimate the position you’d claimed truly was – the cruelty of not having even thought about it once before moving, how it was the only way to still communicate with his eyes.

“No,” he said quickly, almost shy, but the way his thumbs brushed your sides betrayed how much he didn’t want you to move. “Don’t apologize. I just wasn’t expecting it...” he trailed off, though you didn’t miss how his gaze flickered to your lips more than once.

“…Are you comfortable?” he asked softly, his eyes wandering across your face.

It wasn’t just a question; it was a moment stretched taut, as if he was buying himself time, wanting to keep this moment balanced on the edge of the razor for just a little longer.

On this space of tenderness, where care outweighed desire, where everything still hung in the balance, where there was still time to hold back, to savor the precipice, waiting for one of you to risk it.

You nodded. “Very.”

The smallest, warmest smile flickered across his lips. “I’m happy you are,” he murmured.

How could he be even so sweet? How could he, in the middle of this - when your body was pressed so close to his - still be so considerate, so cautious, so Aaron?

How could his hands, now steady on your waist, have only settled there after he’d murmured a careful, overly-polite, “May I?”, the formality of it, juxtaposed with the intensity of his touch, was enough to make you giggle.

“Please don’t smile at me like that when you’re this close,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rasp, his gaze fixed on your lips.

You couldn’t help but grin wider. “Why not?” your fingers brushing lightly against his jaw.

“Because,” he began, his lips twitching up, “it makes me forget how to think.”

Crazy, really. The idea that Aaron Hotchner, the most precise and methodical man you’d ever met, could forget how to think. Thinking was practically the core of his being, wasn’t it?

Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am.

Because if forgetting how to think meant losing himself, then you were the cause. You had undone him.

Shaken the core of a man who had carved his entire existence around reason – or at least, tried to fool everyone into thinking so. And now, here he was - disarmed by nothing more than a smile, a touch, and the mere proximity of your lips.

If existence is rooted in thought, and Aaron’s thoughts were consumed entirely by you, did that mean his existence was yours to hold? Did that mean, right now, he existed only because you allowed him to? Couldn’t be that.

Still, how dizzying it was to consider how quickly you’d become his undoing – yet, perhaps what was even more terrifying was the way he seemed to welcome it.

“You’re not wrong,” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady, like a confession meant just for you. His dark eyes searched yours, their intensity almost overwhelming. “You do undo me.”

Your breath caught. “How did you even manage-”

But he didn’t let you finish. His forehead pressed softly against yours, his nose brushing yours in the faintest of touches.

And so your eyes closed together, as if the nearness alone was too much to bear, especially when his lips hovered so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath.

How paradoxical it was that you both desperately craved each other’s mouths, yet now, in this unbearable closeness, neither of you could summon the courage to take the last step.

How you continued lingering in the tension, your breaths mingling, your bodies pressed so close that those strong hands of his, still firmly on your waist, urged you even further onto him.

Neither of you wanted to bear the responsibility of what came next. What was about to happen. What was meant to happen. It wasn’t a game anymore. You were done waiting.

You wanted him. Now.

You were ready - to let it all go.

“Aaron,” you whispered, looking into him.

And as always, he seemed to be the only one who understood you, he began to trail kisses across your face, soft, slowly, taking his time.

Your temple.

The side of your right eye.

The curve of your cheek.

Down to your jawline.

Then, he traced his way back up, planting one final kiss at the very edge of your mouth.

When he pulled back, intoxicated, his eyes found yours - wet, shining, unguarded, just like his.

“Please, ask me to stop,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his eyes already glistening with unshed tears.

“Aaron, I can’t,” you murmured, the words trembling on your lips as your breath mingled with his, the space between you growing thinner with every passing second.

The moment.

How do you measure a moment like this?

One tick of the clock. Two tears slipping free from both of you. Three uneven heartbeats, each louder than the last.

And then, finally, he closed the distance.

You should have probably expected that your first kiss would taste like salt, the tears trailing down your faces mingling somewhere in between and masking the real sweetness of it. How the flavor of each other’s mouths was obscured, just as you’d both hidden your true feelings for so long.

It was so cruel in its irony, yet somehow, it fit so perfectly that neither of you could bring yourselves to care.

Because his lips were too soft against yours for your own good, the gentleness of his hand gripping the nape of your neck pulling you closer, while the other rested against your tear-streaked cheek, damp from both the lingering press of his lips moments before and your tears.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t to retreat - it was to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, even as his own streamed freely, unchecked.

And as much as you wanted to keep going, to lose yourself in the solace of his mouth, something greater pulled you both in.

Without hesitation, you collapsed into each other’s arms, clutching tightly as though the world around you was slipping away, tears soaking into the other’s shoulders.

Was it penance? For realizing too late how simple this could have been? For all the wasted years, the missed chances, and the pain endured in silence?

Or was it just acceptance -that only now were you both ready to bear the weight of this, to hold each other completely, to disappear into one another?

Maybe that was the point.

Because in that embrace, unplanned and unbidden, came a feeling so familiar it ached.

That same resonance in your chest, the same connection of that first time you ever held him like this, nine years ago in your old apartment, when his walls cracked just enough to let you in.

And so the memory bleeds into the present, and it’s almost unbearable how much has stayed the same, and yet, how utterly everything has changed.

That stupid Hegel wasn’t wrong: the synthesis always becomes a new thesis, a cycle repeating itself. The moment was reborn, again and again, every time.

But damn, how it changed with every turn.

The same, yet entirely different.

The weight of then. The depth of now.

It was all there, in that fleeting, aching embrace. Not just holding on to each other, but to every version of yourselves that had come before - and every one still waiting in the future.

Even as the moment began to fade, as you pulled back - both drawn by the undeniable hunger to find each other’s mouths again - the synthesis was already shifting, reshaping into something new.

Another storm, another struggle, another antithesis loomed ahead, but always, always, the cycle reached for a new synthesis. And Hegel, damn him, was right again.

The cycle never ends.

But neither, it seemed, did you.

Competing with each other, as always.

Neither of you willing to back down, both so eager to claim the other that it became impossible to tell who started the second kiss, it just… happened.

This time, there was no softness, no hesitation - just urgency. Your hands tangled in the back of his hair, pulling him closer, keeping him right where you wanted him, while his hands gripped your lower back.

The moment your lips parted, offering him the faintest invitation, he deepened the kiss without even thinking it twice. His tongue slid against yours with so much hunger you were intoxicated, only for you to interrupt with a sharp bite to his bottom lip.

He growled at the challenge, he had to one-up you, returning the favor by sinking his teeth into your jawline, as if to stake his claim all over again, a sound so low and primal it seemed to vibrate straight into your skin, making you gasp and tighten your hold on him even more, eager to hear it again.

Damn him and his competitiveness.

You couldn’t help but meet it head-on, your hands roaming over the taut muscles of his back, feeling every shift, every flex as he moved against you.

He broke away briefly, not to stop, but to catch his breath as his lips found new territory. From your mouth to your jaw, and then down to your neck, your head tilting back reflexively, granting him even more access.

He smiled against your skin, insufferable even now, and when his lips returned to yours, that grin only widened. You kissed him again and again, but since his stupid smile kept getting in the way, you ended up kissing his teeth more than once.

Damn him.

And yet, you found yourself smiling like a fool, because how could you not? There was no way you could be making him feel this way, yet here you were - both of you lost in it, pushing and pulling, both refusing to surrender.

The more you had of each other, the more you wanted, never satisfied, never close enough, as though the only way to end this ache was to somehow crawl into each other’s skin.

And so, blame the position.

Blame the dress you’d chosen tonight, skimming your thighs, leaving so little to the imagination as it rode up with every shift against him.

Blame the way your kisses had shifted, growing hungrier, messier, more tongue than lips, more heavy breathing than words.

Or blame his new-found obsession to place wet kisses on the spot just behind your ear just to hear you gasp, while he had the audacity to hum into your neck, utterly satisfied with himself, like he was savoring your every reaction to the exquisite work of his mouth.

Blame his body, the way he pressed against you, his hands sliding from your waist to your hips, then lower, settling on your ass with a grip that didn’t make the things any easier.

Blame the way his growing bulge rubbed against you through the rough fabric of his jeans, the friction hitting exactly where the ache was blooming, pulling shudders from deep inside you.

Blame all of it - the kisses, the position, the maddening press of his body against yours - because it only made you more desperate.

The carnal realization of just how badly you wanted him, left you unable to stop. Your hips moved instinctively, grinding against his hardness, the rhythm of your kisses syncing with the desperate roll of your bodies.

Thank God his jeans were dark, because you were sure by now your arousal was leaving its mark on him, soaking into the fabric, leaving evidence of just how far gone you were – and if he noticed, if he felt it, the way his grip tightened on your waist told you he didn’t care.

If anything, it spurred him on, pulling you closer, holding you tighter, neither of you could stop moving.

The worst part? You didn’t want to. Not even a little.

What was even worse than this? The fact that Aaron, ever the master of timing, felt the need to comment on the obvious.

“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asked breathless, lips flushed and slightly swollen from yours.

No shit, Sherlock.

You didn’t hesitate. “Aaron, do I look like I don’t know exactly what I’m doing?”

That even managed to earn a chuckle from him – speaking of victories - “Just… wanted to make sure you’re alright with this pace. We’re not exactly taking it slow, you know?!” he rasped, as his hands slid up and down the sides of your hips.

No shit, Sherlock, part two.

Was he worrying about you or himself?

You tilted your head, searching his face, the faint crease in his brow, the way his eyes softened as soon as they were met with yours. “Aaron,” you cupped his cheek. “Do you want to take it slow instead?”

Shit. What if you’d misread him? What if this hesitation wasn’t about concern for you but second thoughts about the entire thing? You hated yourself. How could you even think that-

“Not really,” he admitted, his lips curving into the most kissable smile. “I just… don’t want you to regret this. I’d wait forever if you asked me to, but right now…” His words faltered, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Right now, I don’t think I can. But only if you want it too.”

Oh God, how considerate he was.

Oh God, how much you never trusted anyone as him, how safe did he make you feel, how it almost brought tears to your eyes because you’d forgotten what it felt like to be looked at, cared for, wanted like this.

Oh God, how much you didn’t want to respond with words, to just take his hand, guide it between your legs, and let him feel exactly how much you needed him.

But words it was, then.

“I do, Aaron,” you said, taking his hands in yours. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything. I want this. I want you. But…” Your lips curled up. “Not on my couch. Could we maybe hold out until the bedroom?”

Ah, yes. Turning 30 had officially made you someone who prioritized the longevity of their furniture over their sex life.

How responsible.

How tragic.

And yet, neither of you moved. It took a second - or two, or three - for both of you to gather the energy to even try standing after spending what felt like an eternity tangled up on your poor, overworked second-hand couch…

…a poor overworked second-hand. Hm. Now there was a pattern.

You hated yourself a little for how evil the thought was. Poor couch, poor him.

Not that it wasn’t true. But still - evil.

Still nearly as evil as the absolute disaster you’d made of his hair with your hands while you were making out. A fitting match for the flush on his face and the state of his half-untucked polo, which you’d been yanking at so fervently it was a miracle it hadn’t come off entirely.

Speaking of things you couldn’t stop noticing, the sight before you now was definitely a huge… huge walk with him to your bedroom. Because surely your hallway hadn’t been this long before.

Or maybe he was thinking the same thing, because just as you reached the doorway to your bedroom, he turned you, your back pressing against the wall before you even had time to push the door open.

You didn’t expect him to be this passionate – and desperate, when his mouth was back on yours, claiming you in a kiss so hot and wet it that the wetness surely wasn’t exactly isolated to your mouth at all.

You gasped, caught completely off guard, and that was apparently all the invitation he needed to slip his tongue deeper into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and it was so good that you barely managed to catch your breath, let alone remember the damn bedroom door.

“Aaron-” you managed between breathless kisses, barely stringing the words together.

As if you could talk.

As if you could pretend to hold any moral high ground here when your leg was already wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. And oh, he was there - all of him. Thick, hard, and pressing against you.

He groaned into your mouth as his hands slid lower, gripping a handful of your ass, “I know,” he muttered, his voice rasping against your skin. “I know. The door.”

Oh, but why did his voice have to sound like that - so low, so wrecked… so unfair.

Anyway, the door.

Not that it mattered, apparently, because he didn’t move. His lips found your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there, as his hands kneaded the flesh of your ass like he couldn’t get enough.

“You’re not exactly working on it,” you managed to gasp, and oh, you were so proud of yourself for having the strength to bicker with him even now, even like this.

Of course, Aaron, being Aaron, couldn’t resist biting back.

You felt the curve of his lips against your neck, he chuckled as his teeth grazed the hollow of your throat. “Well,” he murmured, returning to nip at your earlobe. “What about you?”

The man was infuriating. And hot. And so completely overwhelming you could barely think straight.

“I’m very busy right now,” you managed to counter, though what you really meant was that your back was far too occupied arching into him, practically begging for more.

At least he somehow found the self-control to pull back after what you could most graciously describe as an obscene amount of very enthusiastic dry humping. You were both so doomed. His hands steadied you just long enough for him to fumble for the doorknob.

And then the second you crossed the threshold, all bets were off.

His lips - no, his mouth - were on yours again, the kiss so heated it was more teeth and tongue than finesse. Probably because it hit you both at the same time - the realization of just how painfully simple it would be to strip the other bare.

His polo? A quick tug away from being tossed aside. Your dress? One little zipper stood between it and the floor. No barriers. No obstacles. That was all it would take.

And it was as if he read your mind because without a word, his hands found your waist and spun you around, pulling you back against him.

You barely had time to gasp before his head dipped to your neck, as his fingers found the zipper of your dress way too easily without even having to look. Just before he moved it, he paused. “I might’ve left a mark.”

Oh no, what a pity…

“Make it two,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your hand slid into his hair, pressing his head right where you wanted it.

And because Aaron apparently took instructions very well when they suited him, he bit down, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver, the sharpness of it immediately soothed by the warm drag of his tongue.

The sound you made was embarrassing - breathless and high-pitched – that only seemed to spur him on, since in less than a second, the dress was pooling at your feet, leaving you bare save for your tights and underwear.

Mismatched underwear.

A good lace bra - at least there was that - with the most comfortable white cotton grandma pants you could have pulled from the depths of a multipack that were, by how the things have been going now, almost certainly transparent. Perfect.

Not that any of this was supposed to happen, of course.

You hadn’t exactly planned on getting laid by your… what even was he? Your best friend? Your boss?

An objectively gorgeous man with dark eyes that burned into you, whose voice could make your knees completely weak? The person you’d been quietly, stubbornly, and stupidly in sexual tension hell with for a decade?

He was all of that. He was none of that. He was Aaron, and whatever Aaron Hotchner was to you, you hadn’t planned on getting laid tonight. Or this morning. Or whatever ungodly hour it was now.

But plans didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Not when his hands were sliding over your body like you were something he’d wanted for so long that touching you now felt like the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Not when his lips found yours again, claiming them in a way that made you wonder how either of you had ever survived without tasting each other.

And certainly not when the moment your back hit the mattress of your bed, his full weight pressing into you fully, how your legs opened instinctively, welcoming him, pulling him closer, your body arching into him like it was chasing something only he could soothe.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, scanning your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he said softly, his voice rough but sincere.

“God, you’re so clothed,” you shot back without thinking, your quick wit betraying you yet again, unsure whether to curse yourself for ruining the moment or to thank your sarcasm for always wanting to keep things… balanced.

But instead of appreciating your humor or giving you the satisfaction of stripping him, the insufferable man had the audacity to bypass your comment entirely.

With a swift motion, his hand reached behind you, unclasped your bra, and tossed it somewhere into the abyss of the room without so much as a second glance.

You blinked, momentarily stunned, a flush creeping up your neck at the brazenness of it. “I was referring to you, Hotchner.”

“Eventually,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours before capturing them again in a kiss that effectively cut off any protest you might’ve had. Clever man.

And so he started his descent, a study in patience, still hopelessly romantic about it, as if the situation weren’t already infuriating. Because even though you knew for sure he could feel the way your nipples had hardened against him, he still took his time.

Kissing his way down your throat, spending far too long mapping out the curve of your collarbone with his mouth, fingers just hovering - like he wasn’t already touching you everywhere.

And then, finally, his hands moved. Possessively. His palms covered your breasts, kneading them in a way that sent sparks ricocheting through you, his lips pressing a single, scorching kiss right in the middle of your sternum.

That did it. That had your thighs clenching on instinct, a desperate attempt to manage the growing fire low in your belly.

But you refused to let a sound escape.

Oh no. You weren’t about to give him that satisfaction. Especially not when he got to enjoy the full view of you laid out beneath him while you were left with only the delicious flex of his biceps.

Biceps, which, while spectacular, were not the bare expanse of his back. Not the firm ridges of muscle you knew were under that godforsaken polo, the one thing keeping things uneven between you.

He seemed to catch on to the game you were playing, though, because without warning, his mouth closed over one of your nipples, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peak so perfectly that it had your breath catching in your throat.

At the same time, his fingers found the other, pinching, rolling, teasing - the combination so damn lethal when paired with the languid flicks of his tongue, sending shocks straight to your clit.

Still, you bit your lip, stubbornly holding back the sounds he so clearly wanted to pull from you, even if the ache between your thighs was unbearable now - a dull, insistent throb that begged, no, pleaded for attention.

Attention that the insufferable man was withholding.

Or, unlike you, he simply didn’t want to rush… damn him. He was making it impossible to keep up the charade.

Because every flick of that damned talented mouth of his - now moving onto your other breast - every brush of his fingers, every sound he made against your skin that revealed just how hungry he was of your flesh, was undoubtedly designed to unravel you, piece by piece.

Every piece, that is, except for your poor, neglected, throbbing clit.

And of course, he was enjoying every second of it. Smug bastard.

“You know,” he murmured against your skin, his lips still grazing your nipple, “sounds are appreciated.” …Oh, fuck him.

“So is nudity,” you managed to snap, though your voice trembled, betraying just how close you were to falling apart.

He stilled. Lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze. And then he smirked.

Ah. That smirk. Never a good sign.

Especially not when paired with the way his hands started working your tights down - so slowit was almost unbearable. Always careful, always considerate Aaron. But God, right now, you wanted him ripping them off you.

His gaze swept over you, his eyes instantly darkened as they dettled on the on the damp patch at the center of your underwear.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, rougher, as his thumb grazed over the edge of the fabric.

Before you could process how pleased he was with himself, he spread your legs further, settling himself between them. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, pinning you down, and he started trailing kisses along your inner thigh.

From the knee.

Oh, come on.

Still, you hissed at the contact, at the way his mouth devoured your thighs like he was savoring every inch of them.

Like this, this was what he lived for. Worshipping you.

And the way his lips moved, how drunk he looked as he worked his way upward, kissing, sucking, biting - just enough to make you twitch, the way his breath shook when he exhaled against your thigh - it only made it worse.

The closer he got, the more impossible it became to hold back the sounds slipping from your lips.

And then - one last kiss, right there, where your thigh met your core.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he murmured, and before you could even think about responding, his tongue flicked out, tasting the arousal that had trailed up to where his mouth lingered.

Oh. What a whore.

“You’re such a who-” you began, but the words barely escaped before he bit down lightly on your clothed clit, sharp enough to send a jolt through your entire body and rip a strangled cry from your throat.

Your reaction must have been exactly what he wanted, because his fingers replaced his teeth immediately, pressing against you through the thin, damp fabric.

“Oh, there you are,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down the length of your slit. “For a second, I thought I wasn’t doing it right.”

You scoffed, or at least you tried to. The sound barely made it past your lips before breaking into another sharp, breathless cry as his fingers rode back up, pressing against your clit in slow circles, the cotton barrier dulling the sensation just enough to drive you insane.

One, two, three strokes - then you stopped counting, too caught up in the feeling of him until he finally tossed the fabric aside, making you feel the cool air against the wet heat of your core, but he didn’t move.

Didn’t touch.

Just -

"You're a goddess."

He stared for so long that you started to wonder if he was waiting for you to say please, some kind of power play. 

Your lips curled slightly as you lifted your chin. "If you think I’m going to beg you now, Hotchner, I’m absolutely not.

Apparently, you had never been more wrong in your life.

Because his head snapped up so fast it was almost comical - except for the way his entire face flushed. Not just with arousal - well, yes, definitely with arousal - but with something else.

The way his mouth parted slightly before he swallowed, his throat bobbing, his gaze flicking away for half a second like he had to collect himself, undoubtedly made you think-

"I was actually…" he cleared his throat, "asking for permission."

Oh. Oh. Apparently, someone couldn’t hide being a bottom for more than a few minutes.

Aaron ‘Attitude’ Hotchner? Gone. Reduced to sheepish glances and waiting for permission like a damn Victorian gentleman the second he actually looked at your cunt.

Hilarious.

"You have it," you murmured.

That was delicious.

And because he was so whipped, he didn’t just dive in immediately. No. Of course not. He had to come all the way back up first, had to kiss you before anything else.

And then he was gone. Gone from your mouth, gone from your chest, gone from anywhere but exactly where you wanted him most.

The very first swipe of his tongue across your folds obliterated any coherent thought, reduced your world to this - to the wet heat of his mouth, to the steady press of his hands holding you open, to the obscene sounds of him devouring you.

There was nothing but him, the way his tongue curled against you, the way his lips closed around your clit with just the right amount of pressure, the way his name tumbled from your lips and melted into the deep, guttural moan he let out as he first tasted you.

And honestly, you couldn’t decide what was hotter - the way his sounds came in perfect harmony with your own cries, or the fact that he was so vocal while eating you out, like it brought him just as much pleasure as it did you.

And it probably did.

Because he lapped at your dripping cunt like a man starved, frantic, desperate, moving with such a hunger that made your fingers dig into his hair, gripping tight like you could somehow hold on to reality through him.

But he didn’t want space. Didn’t need it. If anything, he leaned in further, groaning low against your soaked, swollen cunt, letting you drip down his chin as if he loved the way your arousal was entirely coating his flushed face.

Loved being drenched in you. Loved ruining himself on you.

“Aaron-” your voice broke, your hips jerking up into him, needy. “God, your tongue is unreal.”

And oh, he heard you, loud and clear.

Because his immediate response? Teeth. A quick, sharp graze of his teeth against your clit, followed by a suction so deep, so overwhelming, it ripped a scream straight from your throat.

Fuck him.

“Your-your mouth is unreal,” you stammered, correcting yourself, because apparently, he wasn’t letting you off the hook without acknowledging his full range of talents.

Smiling against your skin - as if it wasn’t blatantly obvious that he had a praise kink, too.

“Sorry,” he said with a kiss to your inner thigh as his thumb kept working on your clit. “I just thought you were a thorough one, Professor.”

What a whore.

“Oh, fuck you for calling me ‘Professor’ like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it,” you shot back.

 “Oh, it does,” he admitted with no shame whatsoever. “I just wish you could feel how much.” His gaze flicked down, daring you to follow it - to the thick, aching bulge straining against his pants, so hard it had to hurt, so obvious it made you clench around nothing.

How cruel of him.

“Keep talking to me like that, Aaron, and I’ll crush your head with my thighs,” you warned, voice shaking, hands fisting into the sheets because he was still teasing, still circling with his thumb instead of putting his damn mouth back where you needed it most.

“Please do,” he said.

And then he gave you exactly what you wanted. His tongue plunged into you, pushing past the unbearable emptiness, giving you something to clench around, something to grind against, something to drown in.

And because he was, apparently, crafted to be the most infuriatingly perfect thing to ever exist - his nose pressed against your clit with every movement, sending white-hot jolts of pleasure through you so intense your legs tried to snap shut around his head.

He was faster. Stronger. Hands tightening against your thighs, keeping them spread as he pressed you further, pinning you down so he could devour you properly. And when your thighs twitched again, reflexive, desperate-

"Stay open for me."

That awful, awful sound. That little flick of his tongue against his teeth, a wordless tsk of disapproval - he did it every time, every single time, and it should have pissed you off but instead, shot straight through you, coiling low in your belly, leaving you breathless, made you arch into his mouth, made you-

"Still, please," he growled, more desperate now, fingers tightening like the control freak he so obviously was. Apparently, the man simply could not function if his so-called work space wasn’t perfectly in order.

Some things never changed.

“You’re such a hypocrite, it was-” Your breath caught on another roll of his tongue, hips jerking up against his face. “It was you who begged me to-”

"Mm," he hummed against you like he was thinking about it, his mouth hot and slick as he pressed deeper, let his tongue flatten. "And?"

…And then his lips closed around you, sucking just right, and you broke. You felt it coiling, tighter, tighter, low deep in your stomach.

"Aaron, I'm so close."

"I got you," he murmured, suddenly warm, suddenly gentle - because despite all the arrogance, the smug little smirks, he was nothing but a softie. All bark, no bite. Well… except for the other kinds of bites. "Don’t worry. Let go."

Then his tongue flicked - once, twice… and you were gone.

Shattered apart, trembling beneath his mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking, desperate. The pleasure hit sharp and fast, so intense it almost hurt, your muscles locking up as wave after wave crashed through you.

But he didn’t stop. Not until you’d come on his face just one more time.

So his tongue was back on you before you could even recover, dragging you higher, keeping you there, refusing to let you go. His mouth was relentless, but his fingers - God, his fingers.

How many times had you daydreamed about them? How many nights had you imagined the way they’d feel sinking inside you, stretching you open, fucking you deep and slow until you couldn’t think?

A reasonable number of times. That’s what you told yourself.

So it only made sense that you were impatient now, desperate to feel them inside you instead of just ghosting along your soaked folds, teasing, tracing, dipping in just enough to have you thinking, finally -

Only for him to pull away again, just as fast.

“Need some help finding it, Hotchner?” you bit out breathlessly, your voice dripping with sarcasm despite the whimper it ended on. “Don’t be embarrassed. I can guide you if-”

Before you could finish, one thick finger thrust deep inside you, cutting off your words with a strangled moan.

“I think I’ve got it,” he said smugly… oh, he definitely did.

The stretch of just one finger had you reeling, but then he added a second without hesitation, the fullness making you gasp. Two of his fingers felt like three of yours, stretching you perfectly, pressing against spots you didn’t even know existed.

“Fuck, Aaron,” you moaned, gripping the sheets as he started to move faster, stroking that perfect spot again and again until your vision blurred.

“You like that?” he asked, his voice so low and rough that made your toes curl, unable to respond if not with a whimper.

“Yeah, you do,” he murmured, his lips brushing your thigh as his fingers curled deeper, pressed just right, dragging a broken moan from your lips, his own voice dark with approval. "God, you’re so wet."

Your cheeks burned because well, wasn’t he right?!

The evidence of it was everywhere - slicking his fingers, his hand, his face, and the way he said it, so casually, like he was just stating a fact, only made the heat in your belly coil tighter.

"Damn, you’re so fucking good," you gasped between shattered breaths.

“Mm, so is this cunt,” he shot back between licks, groaning as he felt you flutter around his fingers.

What a dirty, dirty mouth. And damn, if he did he put it to use.

It didn’t take long. Barely a few more thrusts of his fingers into your slick, throbbing cunt, barely a few more drags of his tongue against your clit - before he had you unraveling completely.

Your body seized, back arching clean off the bed, a sharp, helpless cry ripping from your throat as you came so hard you almost sobbed.

He didn’t stop.

His fingers kept fucking into you, curling just right, stroking deep, drawing out every last shudder, every last desperate moan. His tongue never left your clit, flicking, sucking, keeping you there, forcing you to take every wave, every aftershock, dragging you through it until your thighs trembled around his head, until you were whimpering, pleading, too overstimulated to handle another second.

Only then did he finally pull away, lips gliding up your body, dragging sticky, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, your breasts, until his weight was pressing you into the mattress again, until you were surrounded by him, the scent of sex thick in the air, his mouth still hot and wet against your skin.

"God, you’re a fucking vision when you come," he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing over your jaw as his hand slid up to cradle your face.

And then he kissed you.

Deep, filthy, his tongue sweeping into your mouth without hesitation, letting you taste yourself on him, letting you feel the slick mess he’d made of you, the evidence of how thoroughly he had devoured you.

Romanticism truly was dead.

“Still too clothed,” you whispered, voice low, teasing, as your fingers trailed from his jaw down to his chest, nails scratching lightly over the fabric of his polo, feeling the heat of him beneath it. Annoyingly in the way.

“You’re very welcome to change that now,” he huffed, smirking, giving you another quick, teasing kiss, the barest brush of his lips over yours.

Who were you to refuse?

Your hands moved swiftly, gripping the hem of his shirt and tugging it up, over his head, before tossing it somewhere behind you - who cared where? That would be his problem in a few hours anyways.

And oh damn-

If you thought the polo highlighted his frame, without it he looked absolutely massive. His chest, his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin - it was almost unfair how goodlooking he was.

You leaned in to kiss him, letting your fingers roam all over him - probably lingering a little too long on those broad, perfect shoulders. Honestly, you were doing your best not to bite them.

Mostly. A little nip didn’t count, right? Surely it was allowed. To test. It wasn’t your fault they looked like they could carry the weight of the world - and you - without breaking a sweat. But of course, he couldn’t know that. He couldn’t know that his shoulders alone were making you go feral.

So you distracted him the best way you knew how - your lips pressing against his neck, soft at first, teasing, before nipping lightly at his pulse point, teeth scraping just enough to earn you a sharp inhale.

Still, even as your lips worked to keep him occupied, your thoughts betrayed you.

You were sure you’d implode the moment you saw his back - the way those muscles would shift and flex. Just the thought of it had your pulse racing. Thankfully, he was still facing you, so you had a little more time to live. But not much, considering the way your mind still found a way to betray you.

Because now all you could picture was his weight on top of you, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down with no way out. Now all you could feel was the phantom stretch of him, the way he’d fill-

Right. His jeans. Still in the way. Still ruining your life.

You swallowed hard, forcing your hands to move lower, fumbling with his belt and zipper. If your hands trembled, you’d blame it on how hard you were trying not to stare at the thick bulge beneath the denim. Trying being the keyword, because at this point - you weren’t better than a man.

His jeans hit the floor, leaving him in just his boxers, making it quite difficult to ignore the outline of him anymore - thick, hard, already straining against the fabric, the damp spot at the tip teasing at just how ready he was.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you glanced up, silently asking if you could take things further. He gave a small nod, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and that was all the encouragement you needed.

Your hands turned momentarily shy as you hooked your fingers into the band, slowly tugging them down. He sprang free, thick and hard, flushed at the tip, already glistening with slick arousal, and God, you swore your mouth went dry and then wet all in the span of a heartbeat.

You couldn’t stop yourself from murmuring, “God,” as your fingers wrapped around him, thumb brushing over the swollen, leaking head, smearing the wetness there, spreading it over the burning skin.

The reaction was immediate.

His head tipped back, his grip on your hips tightening, trying hard not to just rut into your fist like some desperate, touch-starved needy thing. But he was trembling , his self-control fraying one slow stroke at a time as you worked him over, your fingers squeezing around the slick head before dragging back down his length.

"Fuck," he muttered, the sound wrecking you, shooting straight between your legs.

“You’re so-” you started, but the words failed you. What could you even say? You were too distracted by the weight of him in your hand, the way he twitched against your palm and the way the thick vein along his shaft throbbed with every stroke of your hand.

All you knew was that you wanted him in your mouth. Wanted to drag your tongue along that vein, wanted to feel the heavy weight of him on your tongue, wanted to take him down until tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The need burned in your gut, tight and relentless, but still, it wasn’t enough. Because as much as your mouth ached for him, the fire between your thighs was worse. So much worse.

“Aaron,” you breathed, voice shaking as you looked up at him, your fingers still wrapped around his cock, still stroking him, enjoying the way his chest rose and fell with every movement of your hand.

His eyes - dark, heavy-lidded - met yours, his breath coming uneven, jagged, as he rasped, desperate, "Take whatever you want."

“I want you.”

Aaron groaned, his lips twitching into something that might have been a smile if he wasn’t so wrecked with desire. “Come here,” he murmured, as he leaned down and kissed you. And God, what a kiss.

Before you knew it, he had you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, his broad shoulders framing your view of him. He settled himself between your legs, his mouth moving to your jaw, then down to your neck, at the point there was no doubt in a few hours you’d wear a turtleneck to work.

Still, he paused, hovering just above you, his lips brushing against yours as he asked one more time, “Are you sure?”

At this point, if you weren’t aching for him, you might’ve had the patience to be sarcastic. Something like, No, actually, I’m not sure. Let’s both get dressed again and see if that helps.

“Aaron, I’m literally begging you,” you said, exasperated, though you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes – if he just wanted you to beg him he could have simply asked. You would have never said it out loud but at least he could have tried…

“Just making sure,” he said so softly his voice seemed even deeper than it already was, but his hand slid between your legs, fingers gliding through your folds, and the way he groaned when he felt how wet you were made you shudder.

“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, almost to himself, as if confirming what he already knew.

You didn’t think it was possible to be more turned on, but apparently, Aaron Hotchner could always prove you wrong.

And ever the hopeless romantic - because apparently, he was so much of a kisser - he kissed you again. It wasn’t fair, honestly, how good he was at this, how much intention he poured into every press of his lips , every flick of his tongue, every sharp little pull at your bottom lip that had your hips rolling up against him. It was infuriating.

"I’m on the pill," you gasped between kisses, cutting straight to the point because at this rate, you were about two seconds away from losing your mind.

"Good," he murmured, his lips ghosting over yours again. "That’s good."

Of course it’s good, Aaron. As if you were trying to create another insufferable Hotchner. One man who could argue his way out of anything was already more than enough for the world.

He shifted, aligning himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against you, dragging through your slick folds with just the slightest roll of his hips. The stretch, even in just the promise of it, had you gasping into his mouth.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, his forehead pressing against yours, still searching for any sign of hesitation. Classic Aaron.

And because he was Aaron, of course he kissed you again, stealing what little breath you had left as he began to push inside.

Holy fucking-

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he filling you inch by inch, his cock sinking in with a slow, thick glide that made your head tilt back into the pillow, your mouth falling open as sounds escaped your lips - a moan, then a gasp, and a whimper.

When he bottomed out, buried to the hilt, so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach, you swore you might break, and you loved every second of it. How the hell did he even feel this good?

"Jesus Christ," he gritted out, breath hot against your jaw.

He paused, his cock throbbing inside you as he let you adjust, his lips ghosting over your jawline with kisses so soft they felt almost reverent, as though the slight ache of the stretch was something he needed to apologize for.

“God, you’re so tight.”

You involuntarily clenched down around him in response, "Fucking Christ," he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment. “You’re going to kill me.”

And fuck, if the second he started moving you weren’t utterly determined to hear every name of every deity from his long-lost religion tumble from his lips, as long as it meant he kept thrusting so deep inside you – making your breath catch from the mere drag of him pulling his entire length out before pushing it back in.

“Fuck Aaron, you feel so good,” you gasped, your hands tightening on his biceps.

And damn him, because he loved it - loved your praise so much that a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, even as his breath came uneven, ragged. “Fuck, you look so beautiful from here,”

He leaned in, his hips still moving, his lips brushing against yours just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath, to taste the promise of his kiss. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, making your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him deeper.

The shift in angle made his next thrust hit you in a way that tore a cry from your lips. He must’ve felt it - the way your body tightened around him, the way your nails sank into the strong muscles of his back, leaving red lines in their wake - because his pace quickened, each thrust better than the last.

And damn it if he didn’t fuck you so good.

“Right there,” you gasped, arching your back as the head of his cock hit that spot “Oh, Aaron-”

“God, I love how you say my name,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to yours as he planted a kiss on your temple between thrusts.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampening the dark, thick strands of his hair that clung to his face, his brows furrowed all concentrated, his cheeks flushed, jaw tight, and God, if he wasn’t the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

How stupid, how utterly reckless, it was to feel yourself falling for him all over again. And not just falling - but plummeting, freefalling into the abyss of him. Exactly now, exactly like this - when he was buried so deep inside you that it felt like he was carving himself into your soul.

How shallow, how ridiculous, to let your pupils blow wide with hunger, to let your chest ache with something too tender, too raw, while your body burned for him like this.

Because it wasn’t just the way his hips buckled into yours, wasn’t just the rhythm of his thrusts, wasn’t just the stretch and fullness that made you gasp. No, it was the way his name tumbled from your lips like it was the only word you knew, and the way he rasped your name back, hoarse and desperate, like it was his prayer.

The wet slap of his hips meeting yours, the creak of the bed beneath you - it was way too loud for the early hours, you knew that. Too wild, too shameless, probably waking every neighbor you had, giving them the privilege of hearing his name tumble from your lips and yours from his.

But how could you care? How could you even think about anything beyond him, especially when he shifted suddenly, leaning back and lifting your legs over his shoulders?

“Like this,” he muttered, his voice rough and breathless. His hands gripped your thighs, steady, holding you in place as he adjusted himself, his cock driving deeper - God, how was it even possible to feel this full?

His next thrust stole the breath from your lungs, and the one after that made your vision blur, leaving you gripping the sheets, then the bedframe, his arms - anything you could reach.

“I got you,” he rasped, his tone softer now, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was absolutely wrecking you, you might’ve laughed at how he said it. So casual, so reassuring, like he wasn’t currently fucking you out of your mind.

And then, just to make sure you were well and truly destroyed, Aaron leaned down and pressed a kiss to your trembling leg. A kiss. Soft and lingering, like he wasn’t simultaneously driving into you with enough force to make you think about it for days. A true gentleman, really. Absolutely chivalrous.

“Oh, fuck you,” you managed to gasp, your voice shaking as your nails dug into his arms.

He smirked, his hips snapping forward harder, making your back arch off the bed.

“I believe I already am,” he shot back smoothly, and damn him - despite the situation, or maybe because of it - you laughed.

The sound made him pause for a fraction of a second, his brow quirking as his lips twitched into something softer, something that could almost be called tender if he wasn’t currently wrecking you.

He leaned in, clearly intending to kiss you - except you were still laughing, leaving him kissing your teeth instead of your lips.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice filled with faux exasperation, as if it weren’t entirely his fault. But the way he looked at you, his eyes soft and sweet despite the hunger blazing behind them, made it clear he wasn’t serious at all.

“I really hate you,” you managed to say, still laughing, the words breathless and shaky.

“Liar,” he countered smoothly, his lips curving into a grin of his own before he kissed you properly this time, slow and deep, stealing the air from your lungs. “You’ve never hated me at all.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the next thrust silenced you, sending a bolt of pleasure straight to your core, leaving you gasping instead of speaking.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his voice thick, his eyes locked on yours as he watched you fall apart beneath him. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

Bastard. Oh, how he’d pay for this. Just… not now. Not when the heat in your stomach was building too quickly, you could already feel your toes curling, your legs trembling where they rested on his shoulders.

“Aaron-” His name spilled from your lips in a broken cry, your hands clutching at him desperately, your body trembling beneath him.

“I know,” he rasped, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and uneven as it fanned over your lips. “You’re close. I can feel it. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight.”

And then, just to destroy you completely, he spat on his fingers. The sound alone sent a shiver through you, but watching him, seeing the way he reached down and slid his slick finger to your clit, circling it, left you utterly wrecked.

That alone was so unfairly hot you were surprised you didn’t come on the spot just from seeing it.

“God,” he groaned, his hips keeping the same rhythm as his fingers worked you over, the combination of his cock driving into you and his fingers basically breaking you apart. “I’m close too. Come for me. I want to feel it - I need to feel you.”

And there was no stopping it. The pressure snapped all at once, a tidal wave of pleasure crashing over you, leaving you shaking and gasping for air. Your body clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, your nails digging into his back as your orgasm ripped through you.

“Aaron,” you cried out, his name falling from your lips in a broken, desperate plea as your cunt clenched around him so tightly that it pulled a guttural groan from his chest.

His movements stuttered, his rhythm faltering as he buried himself deep one last time, his head tipping back, lips shaping into your name.

You felt him spill inside you, the hot rush of him filling you, the heat prolonging the throbbing waves of your own climax, as your body convulsed with the lingering echoes of pleasure. It was too much. Too raw. Too perfect. The kind of climax that left you completely destroyed, your mouth falling open as you tried and failed to even catch your breath.

Your limbs felt boneless, your heart was about to burst out of your chest, a haze in your head. Wow.

Aaron’s thrusts slowed, his movements becoming languid as he guided you both through the final waves of pleasure, his hips rocking into you softly.

When he finally stilled, he stayed inside you, his body collapsing onto yours, every muscle undone, spent, his breath hot against your neck. His skin was slick with sweat, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and fuck, you never wanted him to move.

A slow, lazy kiss landed on your shoulder, his lips lingering there for a second before he murmured, "Are you okay?"

Really?

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, as your fingers threaded through his beautiful damp hair. “Okay?” you echoed, still struggling to breathe, still feeling the aftershocks of him inside you. “Aaron, I think you might’ve just killed me.”

He huffed out something that could’ve been a laugh if he had the energy, and just because he was perfectly positioned - completely wrecked, head buried against your shoulder, practically melting into you - you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

It felt almost paternalistic, sure, the kind of kiss that came with the smug satisfaction of having him completely undone over you, like he might fall apart if he even tried to move. The salt of his sweat clung to your lips, a stark contrast to the bitter taste of the tears you’d swallowed earlier. It felt better - so much better.

Aaron sighed against your skin, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but was too exhausted to bother, he pulled out, leaving you wincing at the sudden emptiness.

He sat back on his heels, his gaze dropping to the mess he’d made of you, and for a moment, you swore he looked almost proud. But, of course, because Aaron fucking Hotchner couldn’t let you have five uninterrupted minutes of post-orgasmic bliss without switching into Mr. Practical, he tilted his head and said, “You should probably clean yourself up.”

You blinked at him, deadpan. “Wow. Romance is truly alive and well.”

He grinned just enough to make you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. “Where do you keep your towels?” he asked.

“Wow,” you muttered, flopping back onto the bed. “Absolutely fantastic. I give you my soul, and in return, you turn into a housekeeper.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple before standing and stretching.

And, of course, because the universe hated you, he looked absurdly good doing it. Broad shoulders, sweat-slicked skin, and the faint red lines your nails had left down his back. God, his back. Huge. Muscular. You really wanted to-

“Dramatic?” you scoffed, snapping yourself out of the borderline feral train of thought. “I just had the best orgasm of my life, and now you’re asking me about towels. What’s next, changing my bedsheets?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, that infuriating smirk still tugging at his lips. “Best?” he echoed, his tone dripping with mock surprise. “Did I hear you correctly?”

You groaned, “God, you’re unbearable.”

“No, no,” he continued, turning back toward you, his smirk widening into something dangerously close to smug. “Say it again. Best orgasm of your life? Because I recall giving you three - you might need to pluralize that.”

Oh, how cocky he was. You grabbed the nearest pillow and chucked it at him, unfortunately the man also had perfect reflects. “So, where are these towels?”

“In the bathroom,” you muttered, gesturing vaguely in its direction. “Third drawer on the left. Please, by all means, go do your very important post-coital housekeeping.”

He chuckled as he made his way to the bathroom, and you watched him go, biting your lip as your gaze drifted lower. Because of course you looked. How could you not? The way his muscles moved as he walked, the strong lines of his back leading down to that quite flat yet perfectly sculpted-

“Stop staring,” he called over his shoulder without even looking back.

You scowled, sitting up and grabbing the other pillow to hurl at the bathroom doorway. “I wasn’t staring!”

He was no fun.

“You know,” you called after him, unable to help yourself, “it’s a shame you’re so good in bed, because you are the single most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“Funny,” he shot back from the bathroom, his voice echoing slightly. “You didn’t seem too annoyed about it five minutes ago.”

Not that you had been even a little annoyed when you woke up right into his arms - despite the fact that you distinctly remembered falling asleep holding him.

“How much time do we have?” you murmured, your words muffled as your head stayed nestled against his chest.

“You’ve got 1 hour... I got half” he chuckled, then continued “I need to head home and get changed.”

But his arms instinctively tightened around you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let you go just yet. Like he could pretend, just for a little longer, that there was still time.

“How amazing would Agent Hotchner be if he just called to say we had the weekend off?” you said, tracing patterns of his flexed bicep tighetened around you.

He chuckled softly, the vibration of it rumbling beneath your cheek. “I doubt Agent Hotchner even has the strength to get up and take his phone from his jacket.”

“Well, since I’m feeling so generous, I could go and hand it to him,” you offered with faux magnanimity, but before you could move, his hand slid to the back of your head, pressing you back into him, while the other hand gripped your waist.

“Stay,” he said too softly for your own good.

You smiled against him. “I could stay longer if we didn’t have to go to work, you know...”

He chuckled again, this time shaking his head in amusement. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

Your head lifted slightly, an eyebrow raised. “Sweetheart?”

And there it was.

Fuck.

Was this the time to tell you? That if he’d been smitten before, now he was utterly undone? That despite making a living solving puzzles, he couldn’t think of a single scenario in which he wasn’t yours?

It was logic, wasn’t it? A proposition is true if it’s reflected in reality.

And this was his truth: he was yours. Irrevocably, undeniably yours.

There wouldn’t be a more evident fact - not until the marks you’d left on his neck and chest faded away. But even then? He would still belong to you.

Damn the stoics for being right.

“Sorry,” he said, as though the endearment had slipped past his guard.

Before he could say more, you tilted your head up and kissed him, catching him completely off guard. His startled expression was so genuine that you couldn’t help yourself - you kissed him again, determined to wipe it off his face.

His lips curled into a smile against yours, and when you finally pulled back true to form, he couldn’t resist deflecting. “If you’re trying to charm me into giving the day off, I’ll save you the trouble - it’s not going to work. Even if you keep kissing me.”

You laughed and leaned up to give him another kiss. But this time, you didn’t stop there. You moved down, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. “I just want to make sure you understand the opportunity you’re blowing here,” you murmured into his skin, your lips ghosting over his pulse.

“The reports aren’t going to fill themselves,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

Oh, neither was your cu-

“You sure about that?” you teased, nibbling gently at his collarbone as your hand trailed lower, brushing over where something was definetely starting to grow in between his boxers, making him hiss.

“What’s the matter?” you asked innocently, your hand now resting over his hardening cock, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric.

“Maybe it’s the fact that you’re devouring my neck at seven in the morning,” he managed.

“Devouring? Not yet.” Your lips descended again, this time grazing over his collarbones, the faint scrape of your teeth dragging along his skin. When you bit lightly at his chest, his sharp inhale was all the reward you needed. “But don’t worry, I plan to.”

His mouth opened like he was about to fire back, but before he could, your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers.

You stroked him slowly, dragging your thumb over the slick head, smearing the precum as if you had all the time in the world. “So,” you started lightly, as he cussed at your touch, “what are you going to do with the hour we have left?”

He tried to respond, he really did.

“I-” His breath hitched when your tongue darted out to trace just above his lower stomach.

“Well?” you pressed, lifting your head to look at him, your grin so sweet it could’ve killed him. “Breakfast? A shower? Or, you know, something else?”

“Breakfast sounds…” He barely managed to get the words out before his voice broke entirely, his body jerking slightly when your tongue flicked out to tease the tip of his cock.

“…like a good idea,” he finished weakly, though you weren’t convinced he even knew what he was saying at this point… better like this anyways.

“Good,” you hummed, dragging wet kisses along his length, while your hand kept moving, stroking him slowly, savoring the way his cock twitched in your hand. “So, Aaron, what do you feel like having for breakfast?”

His head fell back against the pillow, a low groan escaping him as his fingers tangled in your hair. “God,” he rasped, the word dragged out of him so pitifully it was almost tragic.

You grinned against his skin, looking up at him. “I’m pretty sure that’s not in my fridge,” you replied deadpan.

“Sweetheart…” He was absolutely desperate as your kisses moved lower, your tongue tracing a path along the underside of his cock.

“Hmm?” you hummed innocently, as if you didn’t notice the way his grip tightened in your hair or the slight tremble in his thighs.

He didn’t answer - but his phone did instead.

The sharp buzzing from the pocket of his discarded jacket in the living room shattered the moment.

Both of you jerked back, adrenaline ripping through the haze, already halfway off the bed before you even thought about it.

It was clumsy, both of you scrambling, bumping into each other as you stumbled toward the sound, breathless for entirely different reasons now.

Aaron got to it first, answering with the efficiency of a man who had switched back to work mode in an instant.

The call clicked on, and a voice - male, urgent - filled the room. "…The two bodies. The man died from a gunshot to the head, though he was stabbed multiple times post-mortem. The woman died from stab wounds."

You stilled.

Aaron’s face hardened. Rocher’s victims.

The ones he had been taunting you with.

"Agent Hotchner, there’s one thing…" the agent on the other end hesitated.

Aaron’s eyes sharpened. "What?"

"These bodies were killed exactly fifteen days ago," he said.

Aaron froze, you felt it at the same time he did - fifteen days ago.

You and Aaron had been interrogating Rocher exactly fifteen days ago.

He hadn’t killed them himself. He couldn’t have.

You were both there.

Your eyes met his, and for a split second, neither of you spoke.

“He had a partner,” Aaron said, his arm sliding around you instinctively, pulling you closer before you even realized you were starting to breathe too fast.

“Did you manage to identify the victims?” he asked.

“Yes - the man’s name is Michael Fowler, 34, a lawyer, junior associate at Madison & Green. The woman is Renee Hudson, 22, student at Columbia University, enrolled in the faculty of…”

You didn’t even know why you tensed so much.

The answer was obvious before he even said it.

“…philosophy.”

The call ended, but the silence left behind was louder than the voice on the line had been.

And in that silence, you could hear everything - the inevitability of it, tangled with the sound of the tears slipping down both of your faces.

And when your gaze flicked to Aaron, when his arm instinctively pulled you closer, you knew - without a word, without a glance – you’ve been both staring at the exact same spot on the wall.

Because it wasn’t just the age gap.

It wasn’t just the coincidence of numbers.

It was what made it undeniable.

A lawyer.

And a philosopher.

And the way your broken voices found each other in the quiet, harmonizing each other’s names in perfect, unintentional sync, just a few rushed heartbeats later.

Almost like in the musicals.

Almost sweet.

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

I sincerely apologize - but the cockblocking was absolutely necessary. Otherwise, they'd never keep their hands to themselves. Honestly, with a job like this, interruptions are basically a given. If I had a nickel for every time these two got cockblocked by a phone call, I’d have two nickels - which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happeend twice.

Ahem... so, uh, let me know what you think... of this. All of this. I need your feedback because I am currently gnawing at the edges of my enclosure

[lesbianherald]

Based Jayce take tbh….also I’m gonna confess this on anon but one of my most pretentious takes when it comes to fandom is that everything would be way easier to enjoy if ppl understood story structure a little more. Like Jayce’s arc is a negative arc. He sucked on purpose! If you had bad feelings about him that was intentional and okay (I do think Jayce hate was overblown but I also get why it existed. Like the audience was just picking up on the feelings the show was putting down). But he was definitely Like That for a reason! Usually in good writing, characters are tools for the narrative first you know…you don’t need to justify his actions to like Jayce because he’s fictional and he’s not a real person youre stanning. But also fandom is for fun so I know this take is pretentious but also it’s my truth. My story structure….my characters who are intentionally challenging my theme….my character arc….

NO NO BUT YOU ARE COOKING ON EVERY LEVEL !!!!

(Note: This randomly turned into a very hasty analysis of the shots used in the bridge scene? Because I got on a tangent about how we interpret visual storytelling as well and oops!)

Story structure is so overlooked. The role characters are supposed to play in an overarching narrative is overlooked. So much gets ignored in the way information is presented both in the story structure and visually that sometimes it frightens me and it makes me really bummed! And it's nobody's fault! Most of us live in a society that devalues art and literacy on purpose!

I don't think it's pretentious to wish people better understood the building blocks of the story or at least understood how to take in general arcs. And I think if they did as a whole most fandom spaces would be a lot more interesting and have a lot less bizarre takes/infighting.

I also think that - where arcane's writing can get weird and murky - the visual language will cover it. (Almost to an extreme.)

It makes me think of one of my favorite scenes in the whole show and how misinterpreted it gets and how quick people are to defend jayce here despite how much it is playing on the themes of the show and how clearly he is painted as in the wrong both by the writing and the shots ok fuck -

I think all the time about the imbalance of power represented by that insane low angle on Jayce. You know what fuck it. I'm going to go get it. Fuck. This is about to become a whole thing. Okay.

If I brought an angle like this into a classroom setting, I would be laughed at for it being too obvious. But its one of my favorites because its so visceral. In fact, I've shown this to a lot of friends - the reaction to this shot is usually an audible "Woah!" or even nervous laughter! Because clearly! He's supposed to be intimidating here. This is supposed to be like. Oh. He is not who he used to be. Oh. Oh no. Its so co clearly a representation of power and corruption you may as well stamp it on his forehead.

He's not only Jayce here, he's a representation of piltover as a whole - in its physical and political positions over Zaun. In a position of power over someone he's close with, who just verbally told someone he would "understand." Now we are seeing that he very likely wont. (He will! But right now, we are supposed to be with Viktor in this scene. We are supposed to become convinced he won't right with him!)

Note that the angle we get for Viktor is way less extreme. Way more eye level. And less centered. I could go on about this too. But oooh boy. Like! Clearly we are supposed to be more with him in terms of who we find rational. Clearly he's the voice of reason here. We are level with him. He is at a safe distance. We are seeing how he is looking up at jayce without looking down at him.

In this shot, he is someone we as an audience are level with, who is gathering information, making a decision. He is remaining more measured than I think the audience is supposed to be given the angle we're getting on jayce.

The only time we do get the "reverse" of that Jayce shot on Viktor is when he is quite literally standing out of the frame almost immediately. Whose furious with the position Jayce is putting him in. This is Right after Jayce says, "They're dangerous." He's gathered the information he needs. He sees Jayce for what he is. Somebody he cannot trust. And he refuses to be put in this lower position.

Jayce is not supposed to be the one we are rooting for here. He is the person we are supposed to be disappointed in. We are supposed to question him here. This isn't only dramatically spelled out in the narrative but also in the shot choicesss!

And then we have the apology -

That's why i always question why people are like. Okay but he apologized. When the apology is framed like this! We don't even get to see viktor's face because the damage is done!! JAYCE ISNT EVEN LOOKING AT HIM !!!! It doesn't matter. We don't even get full access to Jayce here! What's at the center of this shot is the barricade that Jayce has ordered!!! This makes the apology, and "I've had a lot on my plate" purposefully look ridiculous in the context of the Narrative here! It's not enough!

Viktor is DYING. And jayce is standing here all prim and proper, with the Talis symbol very visible in that fuckass suit, saying he's had a lot on his plate. We're very clearly not supposed to look at this and go awww! baby boy <3. If this apology was a meaningful moment for either of them that changed either of their minds - it would not be framed like thisssss. These words are empty in the context of it all. Jayce may be genuinely sorry, but he's accidentally revealed way too much about how he views Viktor's people. Even if he didn't mean to. Even if he didn't realize how deeply his biases ran.

And then we have Viktor lying. Viktor knowing he has to go about this alone. And this is the shot. This is the moment of fracture. Viktor looking back at him in disgust with Jayce's barricade in the background. HES ALONE!! JAYCE HAS FAILED HIM !!! This is so critical in understanding Viktor's entire everything moving forward, and it's so so critical for Jayce as well.

People talk a lot about that moment where jayce has his hand on Viktor's lower back because yaoi but that screencap is so hard to get because that moment is almost immediately interrupted by a protestor from zaun throwing a Molotov cocktail in their direction! And the touch, that reluctant familiarity, despite the conflict, gets broken.

Something that I think gets overlooked is Jayce's face after the (Molotov?) gets thrown by a protestor. ITS ANOTHER LOW ANGLE LIKE!!! Once again. Highlighting the power he has here.

We see Jayce in season 1 act 1 really highlighted with a lot of high angles. A lot of doe-eyed wonder. He looks young. Sweet. This is not the same jayce and it is very very clear in the way he is shot. This is the point !!!!!.

There are a lot of scenes i see misinterpreted but this is the big one. And its one of my favorite scenes. Because he's so wrong here! And he doesn't really fully grasp how much so yet.

I love jayce. I love my complex man. Because here's the thing. He needed this low to reach the character highs he does later. Jayce being as loving and determined to make things right as he is in season 2 wouldn't be nearly as compelling or tragic or exciting were he not like this in season 1. It's brutal to watch him get punished by the narrative! But it's also narratively satisfying!

Anyways anon i agree wholeheartedly sorry i made it into a whole thing.

[marshemillow]

Okay but you do realize the danger in saying, "This is an addiction because I feel good when I have it and I feel bad when I don't have it." right? Do you understand that that's a slippery slope invented by conservative purity culture to make people feel bad for fulfilling needs they can't fulfill in other ways?

Are there people who spend 22 hours a day watching porn even when the rest of their life is going well? Sure, of course there are, but the vast majority of people who claim to struggle with porn addiction don't actually watch more porn than the average person; They just feel worse about it. Pathologizing normal, healthy expressions of sexuality is how these high control groups get and keep members.

It's the same with "food addiction"; Yes, binge eating disorder is a real thing, but a lot of people who think they're addicted to food are actually eating way less than they should be, and their cravings are really just normal feelings of starvation. People go on extreme diets, binge because their body is screaming at them to stop starving themselves, and then they feel bad for binging like it was just lack of willpower that made them cave and they think it's their fault for not being strong enough to be "healthy."

My whole point is that this attitude comes from people believing that addiction is a moral failing, and also acting like anything that makes you feel better is an addiction by default when it's probably just a normal coping mechanism for needs you can't fulfill normally like loneliness. Yes, there are people who are addicted to phones, just like there are people with Pica who can't help but eat drywall, but the consensus right now is that there is insufficient evidence to prove that phones are addictive. Even if you could find thousands of people who were addicted to eating drywall, that's still not enough to prove that society at large needs to be worried about becoming addicted to drywall.

Honestly, genuine question; Why did you bother replying to me if you couldn't even be bothered to read everything I said? Did you just see a couple key words and assume you knew what I was saying? Do you know how frustrating it is to feel like people are misunderstanding you on purpose?

If you're actually addicted to social media, then I would say you deserve compassion and treatment for that, but don't act like these movements to label everything as an "addiction" are perfectly innocent. Even on an actually unhealthy level, taking people's phones away doesn't solve the root cause, and it does nothing good to make people feel bad for their coping mechanisms, even if it really is an addiction.

I wish it was easier to talk about mobile phone addiction without sounding like a boomer

[zzencat]

how you can be the light for your person when things are dark ⏳

🍀🌴THE RITUAL: Clear your mind. Time is now patient and still. Close your eyes, inhale deeply, fill your chest up to the fullest, feel the soft air brush up against the ridges of your nose. Breathe out.

When they get too lost, will you lead them back? These may seem like small struggles, but it has a huge impact on your person’s character and how they hold themselves back. (Some piles purposely do not have an “extras” section.)

Choose wisely. Applicable to future lover or spouse.

————————————

1 | “slow down” - chase atlantic

you’ll need to be that person that provides a sense of security for them. You’ll remind them why they do the things that they do and who they’re doing it for, what their purpose is in all of this

You’ll be someone who is extremely reliable, someone they can count on; to do this, you’ll need to be secured yourself, grounded, and discliplined, along with your own goals to chase in this lifetime. i also see you reaching out first to see why they’re struggling.

i also see you reaching out first because this person might show these negative signs subtly or through the bad qualities of leadership (i.e: if they’re a boss who doesn’t usually get mad at employees, but they suddenly do out of stress and having too much work.) your person doesn't want to appear weak and will push their feelings aside to move on. you’ll help them keep in check, just make sure to balance yourself as well. avoid going to extremes like being too hard on yourself or them.

you’re very nurturing and definitely CAN end up helping others more than yourself, so pls make sure to keep yourself in check. your person also needs to know that you’re okay.

i also think your person tends to be one who is assertive or one who could be in a position of command or higher power/authority than others, so they could be burnt out or frustrated

you’ll buy things for them (i.e: walking by a bakery and buying something for your person) or do acts of service. You might even take them out to eat or check up on their health, take them shopping. overall, spending your time with this person and making it known that you’ll be patient and that you’re someone they can open up to, if needed. also lots of earth energy in this pile or connection

as long as you make it clear that you are there for your person, they’ll feel safe and will appreciate it more than you know. (this also gives very heavy secretary vibes- ayyy shout out to the kdrama “what’s wrong with secretary Kim” hahaha)

your person might be discouraged because they start projects or gain things in areas that don’t really benefit them in the long run or won’t have anything to do with their future or alignment. your person is generally a fun, passionate person---it’s their spontaneity, zest for life, easy amusement for things that don’t matter that will get them down. remind them of their purpose and what they strive to be, the people they hope to inspire, and the hearts they want to move. tell them to slow down, to take it easy, and to not to take more pressure than they need.

———————————————

2 | “whips and chains excite me” (??)

one of you in the relationship needs to take care of their health more, hydrate often, and maybe declutter your living spaces a bit. i see that brushing these off could build up into something whack af over time. once on of you declutters your space or finds somewhere comfortable, yet clean and inspiring, it’ll help you declutter your mind as well.

i think your person is a bit of a loner or they’re not one to share their thoughts to anybody, no matter how innovative or creative they are, so communication is definitely important here. encourage them to come out of their shell more or talk to you. you’d be suprised how easy it is, despite a bit of hesitance and depending on how much trust in built in this relationship.

there’s a lotttttt of talking involved. you gotta take this person outside more!!! get them involved with life and all that it has to offer (pressure ‘em to go outside if needed- there is MEGA introvert energy here and it needs to be balanced out)

your person might deal with a lot of indeciveness, procrastination, confusion, and overthinking. they’re very open minded, weird (hopefully in a good way), unconventional, captivating, and naive. there’s a good sense of justice and fairness here. be creative with them and hype them up!! get to know them, be empathetic, EMOTIONALLY SUPPORTIVE, and hear em out.

extra bits n pieces: "stop living in the dark,” “get back into the real world,” def prominent air sign placements, BIG thinker, computer science, nerd, rihanna “s&m” lyrics, unconventional mind, might have adhd or some form of distracted thinking (but in a genius kind of way)

lil teddy note: i’ve never gotten so many major arcana cards in a spread (yo person is a totally different, complex kind of gem)

——————————————

3 | *splashes bucket of water on you*

your person might have prominent fire sign placements and they don’t know where to direct this energy and passion. They’ll need a bit of water energies around them to get them to chill out. they might struggle with ego, but that’s bc they’re scared and everything is unknown to them. it’s almost like this is their soul’s first life and they’re learning to navigate things. i think they can also be a bit too much, like too energetic, excited, or banter-y, maybe too competitive and wanting to win.

this is an odd suggestion but you may have to teach your person to get along with their friends or family (??) they could have difficulties getting along with them so you’ll have to show them how to be a friend. you’ll definitely show them how to express their love, feelings, and be vulnerable. it’s a bit hard, but a lot of these issues are because they have hella unused energy and they’re just excited to use it.

they want to love and be loved, but they don’t know how or where to start. your person also sounds very extroverted or an extrovert who’s very obviously hiding it because their passionate personalities haven’t been received well while growing up.

i also think your person is stubborn, strong willed, and determined. Definitely a guard/protector sort of person. they might be good at sports or physical activities. they seem very self assured but they might be hesitant in making some decisions bc they’ve always been pretty bad at timing (ie: like a corny joke at a bad time, but in a naive and innocent manner). they really have a knack for making their presence known unintentionally.

pile 3, i think yall have the ability to adapt to your person’s quirks, even if you might be shy of them at first. but you’ll help each other become comfortable with each other’s little traits. especially if there are aspects you don’t like of yourself or them with the same issue, you’ll help each other grow to love em and naturally accept yourselves as you are. I don’t think I need to advise you much; like water, you’ll shape and shift into what you’ll naturally become to support your partner. It’s really cute I like this energy

extra bits n pieces: charming, charismatic assholes, fun to be around, attention on them wherever they go, jock and shy nerd vibes, just misunderstood, puppy vibes

[thedissonantverses]

This is absolutely me being petty and feel free to ignore but as it concerns THE Scout Lace Harding and this fandom’s raging misogyny I’m gonna indulge:

Harding’s character was ruined in DATV is a take you could have sure. It’s not a good take but ya know. Oh you want reasons? Okay!

“Why couldn’t it have been Dagna?”

Because the literal entire point is that Harding didn’t have magic and that magic is returning to the dwarves on a broader scale. Dagna wasn’t relevant and that’s okay it’s cool there is more than one dwarf with magic out there. It’s expanding the universe. Again, in my opinion which feel free to take or leave, this is a good thing. It would have been cool to have Dagna but again I’m really glad Veilguard didn’t shove every unnecessary character they could to cameo and focused on telling a good story. Veilguard is purposely setting up a future where the dwarves have magic again.

“Harding’s character is different!”

Yes. It has been ten years. And she was a secondary character in Inquisition with barely a background because she wasn’t relevant. When you did interact with her you were doing so as one of the most powerful people on the continent. Now she’s a fully realized character and on much more equal footing with the team. Again, this is a good thing. Her story in Veilguard is wonderful and while I am incredibly biased toward her, her romance is a delight.

“She isn’t empathetic enough towards Solas.”

Ah here it is. Here’s the actual reason I made this post. Cause see there are people centering Solas’ feelings and character at every turn. Harding has EVERY fucking reason to be mad at Solas. I’d go so far as to say she can hate him but she doesn’t. He lied to everyone they knew and his original plan was to kill them all and tear down the Veil immediately. He’s responsible for the Inquisitor being forced to even be the Inquisitor and this includes needing to amputate their hand because his magic is the reason they are dying.

Yet Harding still gives more grace and empathy to Solas than just about anyone would in her shoes and yet people are still pissed at her for…telling him off? He killed her friend. He’s the reason her people don’t have magic. He’s the reason their empire fell too. What were you expecting????? People aren’t just mad they’re actually livid over this. They hate her and the writers.

It just comes off like you’re centering a man’s feelings over a woman’s because she has a spine and isn’t falling to her knees thanking him for wanting to destroy her world. Her entire arc is dealing with generational trauma and her story matters a lot to both the dwarves and Thedas as a whole. It is incredibly poignant and beautiful and it was so nice to explore the dwarven part of the lore through a woman who represents so much of what Thedas has become.

Once again it’s any excuse to hate Veilguard. Any excuse at all.

[ineffable-doll]

Tips on adding tags to fics

I wrote a guide last year about writing fanfic summaries (check it out here) and thought it might be useful to do a follow-up on tags! (Please note that this is AO3-specific and focuses entirely on the Additional Tags section. And also that all of this is just my opinion.)

I see folks often lament that they don’t know what tags to add to their fics; I think the biggest struggle comes from folks not knowing what purposes tags serve. So, let’s discuss that!

Convey Tone

The first thing tags are used for is to tell the audience what tone to expect from the fic. Is it a lighthearted comedy with some sweet moments? Tag it with Fluff, Humor, and Comedy. Is it a dark, slow, depressing tale that ends poorly? Try Heavy Angst, Sad, Bad Ending.

When looking for a fic to read, people want to know what the vibe is so they can find the fic that matches what they’re in the mood for. The summary is useful for this, too, but the tags are where you can really confirm: Yes, this is a fic with Light Angst, Humor, and Happy Ending.

In short: use tags as tone indicators. Not all fics cleanly fit one tone or the other, so overlap tags accordingly. It’s normal to have some contradiction; that’s the nature of storytelling.

Some common tone indicator tags:

Fluff

Tooth-Rotting Fluff

Domestic Fluff

Romantic Fluff

Light-Hearted

Crack

Crack Taken Seriously

Hurt/Comfort

Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Comfort No Hurt

Hurt No Comfort

Humor

Some Humor

No Plot/Plotless

Light Angst

Angst

Heavy Angst

Angst With a Happy Ending

Eventual Happy Ending

Sad Ending

Bad Ending

Happy Ending

Hopeful Ending

Ambiguous/Open Ending

…and more!

2. Content Warnings

Next, tags are a great place to add content warnings for your fic. Notes can go into more detail or be used for chapter-level warnings, but putting the broad categories of your content warnings in the tags is a good idea so those who wish to avoid certain types of content can do so, and those specifically seeking out heavy content can find what they’re looking for.

AO3 has the Archive Warnings function to help with this, but tags can elaborate on or specify warnings that don’t fit the Archive Warning categories.

Not everyone likes content warnings or sees the point of adding them, or they feel that they ruin the surprise element of storytelling. I won’t make a detailed argument here, but consider content warnings a sign of respect for your audience and their wellbeing. Triggers are very real things rooted in trauma and the least you can do is give someone a heads up that what you wrote could negatively affect them. Plus, as mentioned, sometimes darker content is exactly the thing someone wants, and a warning can actually be another way to attract a reader.

A very very short list of content warning tags to consider (and here’s your own heads up for mentions of upsetting topics in this list):

Death

Grief/Mourning

Violence

Canon-Typical Violence

Torture

Blood

Abuse

Alcohol

Drugs

Rape/Non-con Elements

Mentions of Rape/Non-con

Consent Issues

Mental Health Issues (there are lots of more specific tags for this category)

Panic Attacks

Ableist Language

…and more!

(There is definitely more that could be said regarding content warnings for Explicit fics, but I don’t read or write those, so you’ll need to look elsewhere for that.)

3. Searchable/Fandom-Specific

One of the most useful aspects of tags is being able to search the entire Archive via tags and/or filter content by tags (both to include and exclude – familiarize yourself with AO3’s Filter system if you haven’t already). So, you’ll want to include tags that folks are searching by. Tone indicator tags are used this way, but so are fandom-specific, character-specific, and relationship-specific tags.

If you have no idea where to start, look up the fandom/character/relationship you are writing for and filter AO3 by that. Then, spend some time looking at tags and filtering by different ones. See what comes up. Reading fic is always the best way to learn how to tag them, and that’s especially the case here. Maybe you’ll end up creating a new fandom tag!

While fandom-specific tags are not necessary, they can help make your fic easier to find, especially in large fandoms. Note that fandom-specific tags will usually have the fandom listed in parentheses at the end.

It’s difficult to make a list of tags for this sort of thing, but here’s some common structures I’ve seen over the years:

[Character Name] Needs a Hug

Asexual/Aromantic/Demisexual (etc.) [Character Name]

Oblivious [Character Name]

Dramatic [Character Name]

Sweet [Character Name]

Angry [Character Name]

Disabled [Character Name]

Autistic [Character Name]

Agender/Nonbinary/Trans [Character Name]

[Character Name] Has Anxiety/ADHD/Tourette’s etc.

Ambiguous [Character Name] and [Character Name] Relationship

Queerplatonic [Character Name] / [Character Name]

They/Them Pronouns for [Character Name]

Teacher/Superhero/Artist/other profession [Character Name]

[Character Name]-centric

Touch-Starved [Character Name]

[Character Name] is Bad at Feelings

[Character Name] Has Self-Esteem Issues

…and more!

Another category is tags for specific scenes, missing scenes, story arcs, episodes/chapters/parts, and so on, such as:

The Night at Crowley’s Flat (Good Omens)

Cloud Recesses Study Arc (Modao Zushi)

Post-Mogami Arc (Mob Psycho 100)

And there are plenty more that are so fandom-specific that they don’t fit an exact category:

Alternate Universe – No System (Scum Villain)

Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens)

Xianle Trio (Tian Guan Ci Fu)

4. BONUS Topic – Canon Divergence and Alternate Universes

One of the most fun parts of fanfic is toying with canon, so here’s a list of tags that can convey your fic’s relationship to the canon story. These are for fics that maintain a strong relationship with or resemblance to canon.

Pre-Canon

During Canon

Post-Canon

Canon Compliant

Not Canon Compliant

Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence

Alternate Canon

Fix-It

Not a Fix-It

Fix-It of Sorts

Some fandoms have specific tags regarding canon compliance with only parts of the given media – usually the case for franchises or works with big gaps between installments.

Not Canon Compliant With [Media Name] [Season/Episode Number]

Next are Alternate Universes (AUs), which are so divergent from canon to the point of not even being in the same world. There are more types of AU than I could dare list here, and several are also fandom-specific, but here’s some generic sorts that come to mind:

Modern Setting

Human

High School

College/University

Roommates/Housemates

Soulmates

Superheroes/Superpowers

Fairy Tale

Urban Fantasy

Science Fiction & Fantasy

Meet-Cute (can also be Alternative Universe – Different First Meeting)

Meet-Ugly

…and more!

5. BONUS BONUS Topic – Romance

Lots of fics on AO3 are written for romantic ships, and there are a LOT of tags to categorize different types and stages of these ships. These tags are useful to establish reader expectations (and again, for filtering). Some common examples:

Pre-Slash

Pre-Relationship

Developing Relationship

Established Relationship

Love Confessions

Love Realization

Drunken Confessions

Mutual Pining

Not Actually Unrequited Love

Getting Together

Getting Back Together

Moving In Together

Falling in Love

Marriage

[Friends/Enemies/Strangers/Rivals/etc.] to Lovers (can also have three stages, such as Strangers to Friends to Lovers or Lovers to Enemies to Friends)

Flirting

Slow Burn

Denial of Feelings

…and more!

There are also tags to specify what physical affection the characters engage in:

Holding Hands

Cuddling & Snuggling

Hugs

Kissing

Making Out

Almost Kiss

First Kiss

Second Kiss

Literal Sleeping Together

Non-Sexual Intimacy

No Smut

Explicit Sexual Content

Implied/Referenced Sex

…and more!

Aaaand a few non-romantic ones to toss around, for fun:

Best Friends

Platonic Relationships

Friendship

No Romantic Relationships (goes under the Relationships section, not Additional Tags)

Found Family

Friendship/Love

Ambiguous Relationships

Queerplatonic Relationships

Family

Parenthood

Love

Siblings

Developing Friendships

Parent/Child Relationship

…and more!

This guide got out of hand, and I still didn’t cover everything I could have, but I hope this was a helpful overview and makes tagging a little easier for you going forward! Here’s AO3’s tagging page for more info. Feel free to drop your own tips in a reblog/comment or ask questions if there’s something you want me to elaborate on. <3

[jtownraindancer]

Full text below the cut, just in case:

Is Somebody Doing Something?!

Yes. Let me break it down for you.

Jay Kuo Feb 03, 2025

This weekend’s head-spinning headlines were enough to spike blood pressure nationwide. Mass purges of prosecutors and agents at the FBI. A shutdown of an entire agency at USAID. Even a tech bro putsch at Treasury and the Office of Personnel Management, giving an unelected billionaire access and possible control over our entire federal workforce HR and some $6 trillion paid annually by our federal payment system.

The most common question I saw across social media and in the comments was understandable: Is somebody doing something about this?

The short and important answer is yes. And we need to understand a few things to help bring things into focus.

First, the timing of all of this was intentional. It all went down on a Friday night, when there would be less ability among affected employees to communicate and resist; decreased national press attention; and closed congressional offices, courthouses and law offices. They wanted us to panic for several days and make us feel like we were rudderless and without clear options.

But today is the first business day after last Friday’s bombshells, and I can report confidently that the anti-Trump/Musk response is well underway.

It’s helpful to think of the response as falling into four distinct yet sometimes overlapping categories, each with increasing urgency. These responses include the personal, the political, the legal and the popular.

Once we place a response into one of these categories, it’s far easier to assess whether it is serving its intended purpose. This level of disciplined reasoning will also help us all prevent the common error of expecting, for example, personal responses to create legal results, or political responses to generate popular ones. These are all very different beasts, each important in its own right, but usually led by very different actors.

The personal responses

The front line defenders of our democracy at this moment are the civil servants whose roles and responsibilities are being upended or whose jobs are on the chopping block under the new administration. How they respond matters a great deal for a number of reasons, both moral and practical.

From a moral standpoint, standing up to authoritarianism, while risking persecution or even violence from the MAGA mob, takes courage. One person’s courage is sometimes all it takes for many to find their own.

From a practical standpoint, stopping an illegal move initially buys valuable time for the press to be alerted, for union leaders and politicians to organize and respond, and for lawyers to be called in. Personal resistance is the first fistful of sand thrown into the gears of a takeover machine. In the past three days alone, we have witnessed some heroic personal responses.

James Dennehy at the FBI

Nine high-ranking career FBI officials had already been forced out, spreading fear and uncertainty in the ranks of the Bureau. Then on Friday the Justice Department, through its acting AG Emil Bove, who was once also Trump’s personal attorney, ordered the FBI to collect names of anyone who even so much as helped investigate the January 6 attack on the Capitol, a sign of a purge that would include some 6,000 rank-and-file agents.

A top ranking FBI official, James Dennehy, who heads up the largest FBI office in the country based in New York, refused to remain silent. He vowed in a defiant email to his staff to “dig in” while praising the interim leadership of the Bureau. Dennehy wrote, “Today, we find ourselves in the middle of a battle of our own, as good people are being walked out of the F.B.I. and others are being targeted because they did their jobs in accordance with the law and F.B.I. policy.” Dennehy compared the current situation to when he had to dig a small foxhole five feet deep as a Marine in the 1990s and hunker down for safety.

“It sucked,” he wrote. “But it worked.”

David Lebryk at Treasury

The first person to refuse Elon Musk’s team’s outrageous and illegal requests at Treasury was David Lebryk. He was the acting Treasury Secretary until Trump’s selection, Scott Bessent, was recently appointed and confirmed.

As a career civil servant, Lebryk oversaw the Fiscal Service, a little-known but mission critical office that handles more than one billion payments from the federal government every year, disbursing over $5.4 trillion. After Lebryk’s refusal to grant Musk’s team access, he was placed on administrative leave. Only then did Lebryk announce his retirement after 35 years of service.

Lebryk did not comply, meaning those 35 years’ of knowledge about how to read, sort and control payments was not immediately available to Musk’s team. More sand in the gears.

“The fiscal service performs some of the most vital functions in government,” Lebryk wrote to his colleagues in his farewell email. “Our work may be unknown to most of the public, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t exceptionally important.”

Director and Dep. Director for Security, John Vorhees and Brian McGill at USAID

When Elon Musk’s so-called “Department of Government Efficiency” (DOGE) demanded access to classified materials in restricted areas from the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID), two officials said, “Not on my watch.”

Director of Security John Vorhees and Deputy Director for Security Brian McGill at USAID understood that granting such access could expose classified information to individuals lacking the security clearances to view them. In refusing DOGE access, both officials acted to protect our nation’s secrets. For that they were both placed on leave Saturday night, joining a growing list of suspensions and layoffs at that agency.

The Trump White House’s official response to press inquiries came from DOGE spokesperson Katie Miller (the wife of Stephen Miller…) who reposted an AP article on Twitter with the comment, “No classified material was accessed without proper security clearances.” For starters, that of course misses the point. Merely granting access to classified materials would have been a serious breach of security. Further, we shouldn’t take this administration’s word on anything, especially given Trump’s own mishandling and theft of classified documents.

The political responses

Before I get into some of the responses of Democratic politicians to the many nightmares that unfolded over the weekend, I’d like to reset some common incorrect assumptions and expectations.

A party that is out of power in a democracy typically doesn’t have the power to do very much. In the Senate, for example, Democrats alone can’t prevent a quorum and can’t stop most legislation from passing. They can’t block nominees without help from less extreme GOP senators. And the number of procedural blocks they can put up are limited. At best these can stall, but ultimately not stop, things like cabinet confirmations.

The job of politicians from the party that is out of power is to make the political argument for why their party should be returned to power. That means highlighting the misdeeds, mistakes and malfeasance of the other party. It means providing clear statements about the rules, norms and processes that were violated so that the press can report on them from experts whose job it is to understand legislation and limits on power.

Note also that politicians normally do not themselves file lawsuits unless they were personally injured in some way. And even then there are many reasons why lawsuits are best left to other litigants, such as unions, state attorneys general or nonprofits, who have the resources and time to bring complex suits with seasoned lawyers.

Some political responses may help lead to other types of responses, but that is not their primary end. The primary goal of a political response is to make the political case. And that’s it.

So it will help us and our cause to stop rolling our eyes when, say, a politician writes a stern letter to a Trump official demanding that the administration cease its illegal activity. That is actually what our senators and representatives are supposed to do. That is how they set the record and inform the press and through them the larger public. As discussed above, politicians don’t bring lawsuits. They usually don’t lead street protests. And the more experienced among them don’t waste political capital on performative stunts that don’t actually fix anything.

That said, those letters and statements, which help establish the public record, are a vital resource. They are cited in lawsuits, often as evidence that the administration was on notice of its illegal actions. They point investigative journalists toward more reporting. And they are an important expenditure of political capital, signaling the priorities of our representatives.

With that in mind, let’s look at some examples out of the many political responses we have already seen. And as a bonus, I’ll include some ratcheted up action by two U.S. senators addressing the travesty of the USAID office.

Sen. Wyden on the Treasury takeover

Shortly after news broke that private teams of software engineers had forcefully commandeered access to the federal payment system at the Treasury Department, Sen. Ron Wyden (D-OR) wrote to newly confirmed Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent. In that letter, Wyden blasted the move as “politically motivated meddling” that “risks severe damage to our country and the economy."

Wyden was alarmed that “officials associated with Musk may have intended to access these payment systems to illegally withhold payments to any number of programs.” Wyden also raised the alarm over the current financial strain on the federal government, which is now relying on some accounting maneuvers to meet its obligations after reaching the debt limit.

He also noted Musk’s business dealings in China, which has a history of cyberattacks on U.S. government systems. Wyden warned that Musk’s Chinese business ties could create conflicts of interest and present a national security risk, particularly if Musk were granted access to these sensitive systems.

When a staffer or a lawyer reads such a demand letter, a few things jump out. Bessent is now on notice that the system could be severely injured by Musk’s access; that it would be illegal to withhold any payments; that the debt limit and the need for the GOP to raise it is on Wyden’s mind; and that there’s a huge security risk because of China. Those are things the public should understand, too. And they should know these things were communicated directly to the Trump White House, especially if they wind up coming true.

Sens. Coons and Murphy on USAID

Over the weekend, Musk and the White House went to war with USAID, the agency that provides billions in aid to stricken parts of the world. It’s the only thing keeping hundreds of thousands from starving in places like Somalia. And it’s keeping the promise of democracy alive in nations like Hungary—which is probably why Musk hates it so much.

Sen. Chris Coons (D-DE) used his position to give interviews and to raise the alarm over what the administration was up to. “All the signals of how the senior staff have been put on administrative leave, many of the field staff and headquarters staff have been put on a gag order,” said Coons on Saturday. Coons is a member of both the foreign relations and appropriations Senate committees. “It seems more like the early stages of shutting down than it does of reviewing it or merely retitling it,” Coons added.

Also going to bat for USAID was Sen. Chris Murphy (D-CT), who warned over social media,

Trump isn’t satisfied just to close programs and fire staff. He is now planning to ELIMINATE THE ENTIRE AGENCY. Maybe this weekend. That would be illegal. He cannot unilaterally close a federal agency. Another assault on the Constitution.

Trump may indeed have been planning to issue an Executive Order as early as today purporting to disband USAID. Indeed, Musk claimed in a Twitter Spaces talk late Sunday night that Trump had agreed that USAID should be shut down and that the two had gone over in great detail how that would be accomplished.

But as Sen. Murphy indicated, such a unilateral move would be illegal. As of this morning, employees at USAID headquarters have been told not to report to work. But that doesn’t mean USAID is dissolved. In fact, as a legal analysis in Just Security out on Saturday noted, Congress established USAID as its own agency, and therefore under current law only Congress can abolish it.

The enabling Act for USAID in fact is unequivocal:

Unless abolished pursuant to the reorganization plan submitted under section 6601 of this title, and except as provided in section 6562 of this title, there is within the Executive branch of Government the United States Agency for International Development as an entity described in section 104 of title 5. (emphasis added)

As Trump/Musk move to dissolve the agency, expect legal challenges from the nonprofits and organizations directly affected by the loss in funding and operational support.

Sen. Blumenthal and the FBI purges

Senior Democratic leaders have not remained silent as a purge of top FBI officials has unfolded. Sen. Richard Blumenthal (D-CT), who sits on the Judiciary Committee and directly questioned FBI Director Kash Patel, released an official statement about the firings:

“This reported mass purging of professional law enforcement is surreal and sickening. Less than twenty-four hours after President Trump’s nominee to run the Federal Bureau of Investigation testified to me that there would be no political retribution against agents, apparently dozens – maybe even hundreds – of federal law enforcement officials may be fired. I am appalled by this vile retaliation against agents who sought to hold accountable people who stabbed cops with flagpoles and crushed officers until they broke bones. The silence from my Republican colleagues is disgusting and deafening.”

Again, using a lawyer’s ear on this, the words “mass purging,” “professional,” “political retribution,” “retaliation” and “hold accountable” jump out. That is not only the political case that Blumenthal intends to make to the electorate (and wants others to echo and amplify), but also a signal that the firings as he understands them violate rules protecting civil servants from this kind of politicized firing.

He also took to social media with a stark warning about firing any agents who even happened to work on January 6 cases:

FBI agents working on the Trump criminal cases were almost all ASSIGNED—they weren’t volunteers. This political retribution is deeply destructive, telling agents they can be punished for following proper directives. It’s fatal to discipline, morale, & recruiting.

Sens. Kim and Schatz

As I was editing this, I saw two interesting developments with other U.S. Senators. Andy Kim (D-NJ) went to USAID office—his very first government job—and stood outside its doors, drawing press attention while indicating that employees had been blocked from entering the building. “This is a blatant, illegal action by the Trump administration that is trying to overturn something that is codified in federal law,” Sen. Kim said.

And Brian Schatz (D-HI) has announced he is putting a blanket hold on all of Trump’s State Department nominees until USAID is back up and running. At a press conference, Schatz blasted the administration, saying, “If you want to change an agency, introduce a bill and pass a law. You cannot wave away an agency that you don't like or that you disagree with by executive order, or by literally storming into the building and taking over the servers. That is not how the American system of government works.”

As former GOP strategist Rick Wilson of the Lincoln Project remarked, “This is the way.”

UPDATE: Over the course of the week, many members of Congress attended rallies held in front of government buildings including the Treasury Department and USAID demanding that DOGE members have their access to sensitive and private information be terminated.

Here come the lawsuits

We already have seen several legal actions against DOGE, with four cases alleging that the entity has violated transparency, conflict of interest and other relevant federal laws. These suits are seeking to kneecap DOGE from even being allowed to operate.

We have also seen lawsuits brought by blue state attorneys general (led by Leticia James of New York) and by nonprofits seeking an injunction against the federal government-wide pause on financing and grants. That entire effort by the Trump White House to freeze funds met with such pushback that the original memo implementing the freeze was rescinded, and a federal judge, who reviewed Press Secretary Karoline’s Leavitt’s misleading post on social media claiming that the freeze was still in effect, expanded the injunction beyond the memo to include the entire administration.

That is important, because Musk is currently threatening to halt payments that Congress has already authorized through his control of the federal payment system, deciding on his own that something is “fraud” or “waste.” But Musk doesn’t have that power, and he certainly doesn’t have it in light of the judge’s injunction. If he defies it, as he has shown a willingness to do in the past, he could be held in contempt of court.

On Sunday, the New York Times reported that the FBI agents affected by the purge and the inquiries into whether they even participated in any investigations of January 6 defendants have retained legal counsel to protect their rights as government employees. Their lawyers sent a letter to Acting Director Bove, warning, “If you proceed with terminations and/or public exposure of terminated employees’ identities, we stand ready to vindicate their rights through all available legal means.”

Musk’s team’s takeover of the OPM, USAID and Treasury has also triggered numerous apparent violations of law including the illegal exposure of personal private information and illegal access to classified documents by persons unauthorized to view them. Employees whose privacy rights were violated would have standing to sue, and it seems highly likely that such cases are coming quite soon. One lawsuit, filed by whistleblowers against Musk’s team for failure to conduct a privacy impact assessment before a new server mass emailed federal workers, already landed in the federal courts last week.

I’ll have more to say on the actual suits once they are filed. Again, because the attacks on our system and the violations of law occurred late on a Friday, we wouldn’t expect lawsuits to be ready to move forward until, at the earliest, the following business day—which is today.

UPDATES: Lawsuits filed this week by labor unions and other parties against the Treasury and its Secretary, the Office of Personnel Management, and the Department of Labor have all seen some form of judicial intervention. In the case of the Treasury, a federal court that had indicated it was leaning toward granting a temporary restraining order issued an order, agreed to by the parties, limiting access of DOGE members who were now working as Treasury employees to “read only” access and preventing the unauthorized distribution of sensitive material outside of the Department. This is an ongoing matter.

The popular response

Grassroots organizing groups are swinging into action. I want to highlight just a few examples from the groups Indivisible and MoveOn, which held an online collective action call late Sunday night with over 50,000 people registered to attend.

These groups are organizing direct pressure campaigns upon the Senate as well as protests outside of the federal buildings taken over by Musk and his engineers, who as Wired reported include several young men barely out of high school who have worked at Musk’s other companies or for his billionaire pal, Peter Thiel.

Specifically, Indivisible and MoveOn have called for daily protests outside of OPM each morning. They have also organized a protest set for Tuesday evening at Treasury demanding Musk and his team be ejected.

As a side note, the first organized protests against ICE and its policies, involving thousands of people in Los Angeles, Dallas, and many other cities across the country took place over the weekend.

It’s too early to tell whether protests against the Trump administration will continue to grow in strength or what effect they may have on the situation on the ground. There is some concern that Trump will use any sign of civil unrest as an excuse to invoke the Insurrection Act and turn U.S. military forces against peaceful protestors. But the threat of possible overreach by Trump should not and likely will not deter protestors, and if Trump chooses to escalate in this fashion he may lose further public support.

But one thing is already clear: Resistance to Trump and Musk will take many forms, all of which can involve some level of participation from the public. We can amplify stories of the personal heroes who stood up to the illegal orders. We can support our Democratic leaders even as we urge them to take stronger stances. We can donate to the nonprofits who are litigating constitutional rights on our behalf. And we can take direct, peaceful action through organized groups like Indivisible and MoveOn.

As the saying goes, we can all be the someone who is doing something.

Quietly losing my mind over the fact that Elon Musk has straight up orchestrated a coup of our executive branch and like....I don't even know what, if any, system we have in place to fix this. Like... He's just taken control of the money and locked out the actual appointed officials. What the fuck.

[youssefguedira]

the thing is abt the joenicky wouldn't have stopped searching take is that like. they're not Better Than andy / quynh and they don't necessarily love each other More. i find it interesting to examine the idea that THEY think they couldn't have stopped but ultimately because it's not them i think they'd have no way of understanding andy's position + circumstance would've made them stop in the end. again like in my tag rant i think they're both too concerned with the greater good. they would not place each other over that. in the end.

[yourlowkeyidiot3]

The day people will realise Inho's taunting Gihun in the end for "playing hero" is hypocritical cause he was the one who pushed Gihun to go that far by purposely sabotaging all his previous plans of stopping the games (he indirectly sabotages his plan with Junho's team by paying Captain Park to make sure they never find the island, and he then sabotages his plan to convince the players to leaves after red light green light by voting O. Which would then also make him indirectly responsible for the Os outnumbering the Xs in all the other votes) is the day I'll finally rest.

What Gihun did wasn't right. But Inho's the one who sabotaged all his previous plans which would then, cause him to come up with the "revolution" plan. I think we need a friendly reminder that, Inho is actually,,, actively sabotaging Gihun because he wants him to give up hope so he could break him emotionally. He wants him to fail, because failure just makes him more desperate. And the more desperate he is, the more likely he is to make morally ambiguous choices. Which would make breaking his spirit easier, he knows that, and he's taking advantage of it. Also I think we have forgotten that generally speaking...Inho as a character is genuinely..a bit of a hypocrite. He says the games are fair. How are they fair when those people have no idea what they are getting themselves into? He changed the voting system..for what? To make it seem "fair"? To make it seem like the players are responsible for what they choose their fates? Cause while yea majority of them voted to stay, but a lot of them also voted to leave. How is it fair when the one who voted to leave are still being forced to play even tho they didn't chosed that? How is it fair in the frist place when the people those games recruit, are poor people in debt with shitty lives who are also being threatened or have family they need to take care of?

I could talk more about this but I feel like I've said enough.

Tl;dr: Inho is kinda a hypocrite and y'all blame Gihun too much

[princessrazzledazzle]

My Random Twisted Wonderland Headcanons

Riddle: Doesn’t only love strawberries because of the taste, but also because they’re sorta shaped like little red hearts and it reminds him of love. The love his parents never gave him, but he dreams of all the time, the love of his close friends, and romantic love. He’s secretly a hopeless romantic.

Trey: The reason he has glasses is because he used to stare into the light thing they have above you on the dentist chair on purpose.

Cater: Was into animation memes and musicals at one point. Still watches them from time to time, especially if ones trending.

Ace: Loves car racing games, whether it be a random free mobile game, arcade game, even on roblox. Used to want to be a race car driver when grew up.

Deuce: Would eat autozone seafood boil, then get collared by Riddle for one, being stupid enough to consume food from autozone of all places, and two, stinking up the entire dorm for 3 hours straight.

Leona: Likes being scratched behind the ears when he’s feeling sad or sleepy, only Ruggie knows about this though as one time he did it just to tease him when they were younger, and REFUSES to let Leona live it down. Leona lets Ruggie scratch his ears in exchange for never telling another soul about it.

Ruggie: Once stole and drank an entire can of whip cream in one sitting and got really sick to the point he was throwing up for days. He vows to do it again someday.

Jack: Secretly loves plushies and would openly collect them if wasn’t so invested in being a “tough guy”. He has a few as gifts from his family members and he cherishes them, he even sleeps with them sometimes.

Azul: Had a itty bitty crush on Ariel when he was little, he used to read picture books of the benevolent Sea Witch just to look at the illustrations of Ariel.

Jade: Likes to debone animals for fun, whether it’s a land animal, sea animal, big, or small, he’s gonna catch it and he WILL debone it. He’s slightly ashamed of this hobby however.

Floyd: Slightly jealous of Jade because he’s seen as the “sane” twin, and even though most people avoid both of them like the plague, he can tell they feel more at ease with Jade and it makes him sad. He tries to control himself and act “normal” every once in a while, but he can’t help but to be a weirdo, he doesn’t know how to mask himself like his twin does.

Kalim: Had a pet viper that he found in his back yard one day and decided to keep because it reminded him of Jamil. He would even dress it up to look like Jamil and everything and swore it could talk, claiming it sounded just like Jamil. The snake ran away btw.

Jamil: Hates most cartoons because Kalim used to and still does force him to binge watch them with him. When they were little, Kalim used to cry if he didn’t, so now he has slight ptsd.

Vil: Accidentally gave himself a weak stomach due to his strict diet of only healthy stuff, and can barely eat a ice cream cone or a cheeseburger without getting bad stomach aches.

Rook: Was one of those people that had two costumes for halloween so they could go around the neighborhood twice and get more candy. He went as Neige first then Vil every year till he got enrolled in Night Raven.

Epel: Collects horse figures, not mlp just regular horses, He keeps them in a box where no one can find them because they’re “unmanly”. He doesn’t really play with the horses, but he does have names and personalities for them.

Idia: Likes magical girl animes, but too afraid to admit it to anyone, even online. He knows that if he does he’ll get called a gooner, he kinda is and he doesn’t need even more people thinking that about him as half of NRC already does. He genuinely likes those animes and loves all the cool weapons and transformation scenes, though he finds them a little repetitive.

Ortho: Is really into pokémon because he wanted to watch anime just like his big brother as something to bond over. Occasionally he’ll beg Idia to somehow install pokémon go into his programming, Idia always says no.

Malleus: Likes having his horns petted and wishes he could have them pet more often. The only people who would were his mother, grandmother, Silver when he was little, and Lilia. Lilia is the only one who still pets him from time to time, mostly when he’s had a bad day or falling asleep.

Lilia: Really into those mlg memes, the doritos and mountain dew shit, and will randomly yell “OOH BABY A TRIPLE” or “MOM GET THE CAMERA” to spook people. He thinks it’s hilarious.

Silver: A really good singer, but only Lilia, Malleus, and Sebek know because they caught him a few times on accident. Silver is incredibly embarrassed of it and made them swear to never tell anyone else.

Sebek: Has a secret passion for art, he’s not very good at it and most of his drawings look pretty goofy as if a first grader drew them, but he’s proud of them, Despite that, he never let anyone go near his sketchbook, especially his liege, claiming it’s just a book about how great Malleus is.

[final-sarcastination]

Incredibly self-righteous response, that by structure of argumentation illustrates that you're not actually curious to receive a serious response to your question about the differentiation between Jews and zionists in antizionist circles, but that you are just aiming to "demask" what you already assumed are antisemites. Despite the dishonesty of your intention in your question, I'll walk you through it.

The meme itself is ridiculous - statements like "everyone does this and nobody does this" are automatically an incorrect statement and, and pertaining this statement in particular -nobody wants to support Jews- it's factually untrue. Speaking in the case of Germany, but also many other western countries, there are plenty of initiatives, civil and otherwise, supporting jewish communities, speaking out for their protection, and also initiatives of government-linked institutions in support of Israel. Now, this is where it gets tricky, because by way of (legal) definitions, at least in Germany, the differentiation between antisemitism and the opposition of zionist and Israeli political interests has been blended, and that on purpose. For example, to gain German citizenship, you have to agree in the citizenship test with zionist talking points, presented and labeled as support and protection of Jewish life.

It might feel to you like nobody wants to support Jews, it's valid to have such a feeling, especially being influenced by zionist rhetoric that continually re-iterates that everyone's out to harm Jewish people. Historic persecution of Jews, especially through particular groups, but also political and religious movements using them as scapegoats throughout history has created profound trauma, generational trauma, for Jewish people. I'm not trying to discredit the impact of that. But zionists prey on that trauma, and the still very real threat to Jewish communities and individuals today from certain political movements or ideologically motivated groups of people, which does in fact need to be addressed, to gain support for their hateful and divisive ideology. Zionism is an ideology, not a religion or an ethnic group or a cultural heritage. Zionists want Jewish people to feel isolated from the rest of the world to make them feel unsafe and hopeless and so that they will turn to zionism in the belief that is what will protect them. Zionists want to minimise the visibility of the support of Jewish citizens that does exist in the public, the "silent majority", to support this narrative. And memes like the one you made do exactly that! Erase the fact that support of Jewish people in the public exists. By creating memes like this, you are looking to divide, and looking to make Jews feel isolated. Instead of curiously inquiring the reason for these responses - people recognising this meme as zionist propaganda - you are looking to find "proof" that antizionists are in fact, secretly, antisemites.

The critical difference between Jews and Zionists is that Jews are an ethnic, religious and cultural group, and Zionists are people who believe in the ideology of zionism. Many, if not most, zionists are Jews. A Jewish person cannot change being a Jewish person, but they can change what ideology they believe in. But by blurring those definitions, by presenting zionism as a quality of Judaism, they purposely create the Illusion that being against zionist ideology means you're against Jewish people for being Jewish, which they cannot change, meaning they aren't accepted due to qualities they can change, meaning it is hopeless to gain support from those who oppose them, and minimising the responsibility Jewish people have to reflect on their own behaviour (like everyone else is responsible for), if they can just deflect to "oh you hate me cause I'm a Jew".

To illustrate that dynamic, I wanna tell you a story I personally witnessed a few years ago. At a music festival, a guy came up to a young pretty woman working as a barmade at the cocktail bar. He kept talking to her while she was working, distracting her from the customers, getting into her personal space over the side of the counter. She listened to him, and obviously, the whole line waiting for their drinks heard what he was saying and watched what he was doing as well. He volunteered the fact that he was Jewish, without prompting for it, and complained people constantly attack him for being a Jew, he ranted about several instances he claimed to have experienced just this weekend. He came really close to her and was holding up the line. The barmaid politely told him she has to work, to give her physical space, trying not to offend him. He ignored all that and kept talking, hitting on her as well. She politely said she has a boyfriend. The people standing around the bar grew more and more annoyed at his behaviour (holding up the line, not respecting the boundaries the barmaid was trying to set, and also whining about how much of a victim is in life) but nobody said anything. At some point a man who had been standing next to the bar with his friends for over an hour called out to him saying "Hey, please leave her alone and leave, stop holding up the line" and he said "she's chatting with me, don't get involved" and he said "she told you several times she doesn't have time to chat". The Jewish guy started to aggressively discuss with him, insulting him, and then said "you're an antisemite, you just can't stand me cause I'm a jew!" And the other guy shouted back "I don't care that you're a Jew, I can't stand you cause you're an asshole!"

To come back in circle, Jews are people who are responsible for their behaviour and their ideology just like everyone else. You can't act like an asshole and then claim the reason people oppose you is your ethnicity or religion. By putting the label "jewish" on what really is "zionism" Jewish and non-Jewish people are purposely confused to protect zionists behind the label of protection of Jewish life, and also to make Jewish people feel isolated and unsupported by non-jewish public. It is also used to suppress public opposition of zionism under the guise of protecting Jewish life.

Protecting Jewish life is of high importance, as Jewish people deserve to live in peace and freedom just as every other ethnic or social group (just as much, meaning not at the expense or detriment of other groups). Jewish zionists also have the power to change what they believe in and how they act and they are responsible for their beliefs and their behaviour, and are to be held responsible for them. At the same time, antisemitism, meaning the opposition of Jewish people based on their religion or ethnicity, is a very real issue that needs to be addressed as well, but it needs to be clearly separated from the opposition of the IDEOLOGY of zionism.

So the reason why I responded to your meme by mentioning zionists is not because I believe that Jews are by definition zionists or that the terms are interchangeable, it's because "nobody wants to support Jews" is a false statement used by zionists as propaganda to make Jews feel unsafe and isolated and push them towards zionism, and also because it's a tactic for zionists to claim their lack of support in leftist circles is not due to their ideology and behaviour, but due to them being Jewish. And we don't fall for this. You're the one who is demasked for spreading zionist propaganda.

everyone wants to punch nazis but nobody wants to help the people nazis want to slaughter.

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

Could you share some headcannons about South or Mochi, please?

No one ever talks about them unless it's to trash them 😔

Here are my ones for Mochi!

Refuses to fight girls and actively tried to avoid Senju during fights they were both in.

When he's grocery shopping he normally gets asked by people to reach things on the higher shelves, he always gets them what they need.

Has an arm wrestling club with Draken and Pah in the good timeline

Corn is actually a comfort food for him, he ate it a lot growing up

Would love to have a dog (also has a fondness for cats)

He frequently steps into fights that he feels are unfair like a group teaming up on one person (as long as they're not a target for his gang).

When he gets bored he looks for someone to fight

Loves festivals, especially the games at them

As a partner he's incredibly gentle, carefully holding your hand and placing soft kisses on you. He's very aware of his strength and careful with it.

Similarly to Pah and Mikey, Izana once fell asleep on Mochi

Doesn't like that he isn't a fast runner (mainly because Shion and the Haitani brother's sometimes tease him over it)

He didn't like his life in bonten much, it wasn't what he thought it would be like

In the good timeline, after he joined toman and realised Angry was scared of him, he tried to be friendlier towards him (usually by bringing him a drink to meetings)

He's very good with the kids in the future timeline, they love climbing all over him and how happy he is to play with them.

Very good at ball sports 

Growing up, his father was a police officer who often wasn't home and worked overtime. His mother was always kind to him and they were very close but she died when he was a kid, he ran away after that. 

One time he managed to catch a balloon a kid accidentally let go off before it got too high, he felt like a hero that day.

And here are my ones for South!

He's dressed up at least once as the phantom of the opera for Halloween. 

South can't swim and is actually kind of scared of deep bodies of water

He generally thought Takemichi was very strong because of the way Kakucho spoke about him and his reputation. Was very disappointed to find out everyone was talking about a different kind of strong.

Enjoys hugs a lot

Kept accidentally mixing up the Haitani brother's names when he first met them. 

One of his favourite things to do with his partner is to pick them up. Likes the feeling of being responsible for them, he especially likes it when they cling to him. 

He used to line up all his plushies to watch him play piano 

He's super soft towards his grandparents, he may be mean to others but will always help them out around the house and stuff if they need it.

All his plushies have names 

His grandparents call him Minami 

He frequently travels back to Brazil to visit the graves of his mother and Dino.

Doesn't understand the concept of a water fight, will start punching 

Anytime someone suggests an activity he will suggest karaoke 

Isn't used to hugs, doesn't know what to do with them 

Is surprisingly patient when it comes to teaching the piano

Gets along well with Senju in the good timeline, they match each other's energies well.

Does not have an inside voice

Has never used a helmet while riding his bike before

Very strong handshakes

Doesn't have a favourite song, he has a few favourites instead that he can't choose between 

Will purposely pick fights with random strangers just because he enjoys it. Will find any excuse to do this

As a partner he's very excitable, loves to hold his partners hand and just go walking about with them, showing them his favourite places and seeing theirs.

Really likes fireworks

Although he can insult people in multiple languages, he prefers to use a language the person will understand. Wants people to know when he's threatening them

Once stole Mikey's taiyaki to try and make him fight, it was the best fight he's ever had (Draken told him to never do it again)

Has a very high tolerance to alcohol, it's hard to get him drunk

[jadeazora]

Rose didn't even need to be a villain. He had noble intentions in trying to help Galar and even requested Leon's help, presumably to try and mitigate as much damage as possible. But tho the problem he feared was lifetimes away, he, for some reason, couldn't wait the single day Leon had requested, and kicked off the apocalypse early, throwing the region into a panic. It all just felt so forced and unnecessary to me, and had he waited, he could have had two Champions trying to help him corral Eternatus.

Are Sordward and Shielbert obnoxious and more comedic characters? Yes. Are they also more actually villainous than Rose? Also yes. While Rose had good intentions, these guys were just pissed that Sonia had uncovered the truth about the Darkest Day and that the brothers they were descended from weren't actually the heroes at all, but the Wolves were the true heroes, and were causing problems on purpose, even trying to force a Legendary to go out of control in the middle of a town, which could have gotten people seriously hurt or killed, just to make it look bad. Their actions are on a smaller scale compared to what Eternatus could do, but with their motives, they feel more like proper villains.

[eldest-moonlit]

I've never found that place at all in my life, and I'm no longer looking outside of my already existing circle of close friends and acquaintances. As a neurodivergent woman on the autism spectrum, I've taken so many blows from neurotypical society and neurotypical people that I've lost track. I've been ghosted and blocked by a lot of people, the majority of them men, when they seemed to be the ones interested in me, only to abandon me without warning the moment I started to become myself or if I ever brought up my own needs. One of those instances left me sobbing into my blankets as I was sitting in my bed, trying to be quiet so that my parents wouldn't notice that I was in emotional pain. I've faced a lack of understanding, and/or a lack of effort to understand me, from most neurotypical people in my life, with the only exceptions being my parents and one of my three close friends. I've had far too many neurotypical people accuse me constantly of making excuses for myself when in reality I'm trying to explain my neurodivergence and how it affects the way I perceive the world in the best way that I can. There is a high possibility that I was gaslit for years, by my own peers in middle and high school, into invalidating my concerns and fears over living with epilepsy, when I purposely don't drive because I've missed taking my medication before and had a seizure 24 hours later because of that. If I have a seizure while driving, then I would be at a much higher risk of being either seriously injured or outright killed in a resulting car accident. Unfortunately, the only neurotypical people I've met in life who actually understand that, or at least try to, are one of my closest friends, my parents, my neurologist, and my therapist. Anyone else I've met who understands, or at least tries to, are also on the autism spectrum or neurodivergent in a different way, which includes my other two closest friends.

As a result of all the blows, my trust in neurotypical people is, to an extent, permanently damaged and will remain so. I may be in therapy now, but I feel that even if I go through years of it, I will always be very suspicious and wary of any neurotypical person I come across, of their true intentions and colors. I've learned to avoid hope as well. For me, the pain of crushed hopes is far worse than pain that comes from avoiding hope. I have my request that people not immediately follow me for good reason: in the words of TV Tropes, I'm a Broken Bird who finds stronger bonds and kinships with others on the spectrum, who Does Not Like Men because of just how many times I've been hurt by men in the past, and has the coping mechanisms I do to Never Be Hurt Again. But I'm not getting my hopes up. I already struggle to survive in a neurotypical society that loves to hurt and disadvantage neurodivergent people, so I don't expect it to adjust to my needs while I will have to constantly adjust my needs to fit in. And even if there is someone for me out there, I don't bother to hope. I've been lied to far too many times by men already, and during a time in my life where survival in neurotypical society has only gotten more difficult for me. I have a feeling that for the rest of my life, I will be struggling to survive in society with only my needs, my interests, my methods of survival, and autistic traits keeping my head above water.