#Interconnected Worldview

[delicatelysublimeforester]

Earth Month and Indigenous Resurgence: Reclaiming Our Place in the Circle of Life

[serpentface]

Do psychotropic drugs and/or ritual play a role in any of the blightseed cultures? A pretty broad question, lol

Yeah that’s a very broad question, the answer is about as much as it tends to play roles in real history. Alcohol is pretty ubiquitous (outside of cultures that abstain from intoxicants) and used for a variety of purposes, opioids are commonly used in some parts for pain relief or recreational purposes, stimulants (usually in mild, natural forms) are used to provide extra energy, and hallucinogens are most commonly used as part of a larger religious framework (rather than for recreational purposes). Any more elaborate answer kinda has to be case by case in a certain culture or part of the setting.

I'll just take this as an opportunity to talk about the one established sect that pretty much REVOLVES around psychoactive use. This is the Scholarly Order of the Root, which is a sort of mystery religion + elite community of scholars who currently occupy the Ur-Tree and its forest in the far southern Lowlands (southeast of Imperial Wardin, on the same land mass).

The Ur-Tree is the obligatory Huge Fucking Fantasy Tree (and its surrounding forest). It’s a mass of vegetation about a mile tall and almost as old as Plant Life Itself, its upper branches are primeval plants, which become more modern the nearer they get to the ground (and each 'level' holds tiny ecosystems, some containing descendants of LONG-extinct arthropods/other small animals). Its lowest branches and the surrounding forest are contemporary plant life, and all is connected and protected by an incomparably MASSIVE fungal mycelium network (which is itself a living god).

A lot of the Scholars' more secretive practices revolve around experimentation with substance use with the goal of expanding the Mind and transcending the body to fully connect to the Dreamlands, and they have a supply chain of traders and mercenaries called Rootrunners who traffic substances into the Lowlands. Most of their psychoactive use is in a very intentional capacity and not just like, for fun, but a LOT of them are just straight up addicted to cocaine (in the form of alchemically refined bruljenum, which is used for practical purposes of its stimulant effect during long hours of work).

All known psychoactives are desirable for experimentation (particularly hallucinogens), with each having properties that either allow expansion of the Mind, transcendence of the body, or outright divine communion. Their effects are logged in great detail and interpreted to form the basis of the Scholars' understanding of the natural world and reality itself.

The most important substance is Ur-Root, which is root matter from subterranean levels of the Ur-Tree that have both their own intrinsic psychoactive substances and a very, very high concentration of living god mycelium. The tree root contains DMT and the mycelium has its own wholly unique effects (being an actual living god). They alchemically refine it into a purer, more potent form, and use it to expand beyond the body and directly commune with the Giants, a group of entities they have identified as the only true gods.

An Ur-Root trip starts off with minor visual distortion, which turns into shifting fractals that slowly obscure the vision. Eventually the senses are entirely taken over by a 'tunnel' of rapidly shifting fractals and geometries. In a complete trip, the experiencer gets a sense that they have been pushed through a membrane and entered another realm, finding themselves in a distinct experiential Space.

At this point they may encounter entities which communicate to them in a language impossible to describe but wholly understood. These beings are understood to be the Giants, or at least aspects of the Giants that mortals are capable of comprehending (they often take familiar tutelary forms of the Mantis or the Snake, or appear resembling the same type of sophont that the experiencer is, all composed of ever-shifting geometries). The experiencer often feels a sense of unconditional and endless love from these beings, though the Giants may be more hostile and may appear in the form of the Trickster (usually a cultural figure regarded as malicious, be it an animal or otherwise) in a bad trip.

(^Up until this point, this has mostly just been a DMT 'breakthrough' experience ft. 'machine elves' and the like).

They are then removed from this space and returned to something that feels like the real world, but is nearly unrecognizable. They have a sense of rapidly moving through time, and will usually see 'the spires' towards the beginning, which just so happen to look like this:

(source + some context via Implication- the spires are exactly what this art is depicting)

The experiencer continues to move across an unfathomable amount of time, occasionally 'seeing' other such flashes of unfamiliar landscapes and creatures, and yet also being devoid of all their senses, the 'seeing' is pure, unfiltered experience. There is a sense of interconnectedness with all life, and that one has become the forest (or even Life) itself. The sense of time is wildly distorted, the trip lasts only about 5 minutes but feels like an eternity and is understood as literal hundreds of millions of years.

The experiencer has usually lost any remaining sense of Self and individual consciousness during this phase (in which case this time distortion is usually a neutral or even peaceful experience), but some retain a fraction of their identity, and find themselves trapped and conscious while experiencing what feels like eternity (which can be LIFE-CHANGINGLY distressing, even after the fact).

(^This latter part of the trip is the effects of the Ur-Tree fungus).

The trip ends with a sense of rushing through the ground and back up into one's body, at which point they will abruptly return to their senses and consciousness. The details are then immediately retrieved via interview and recorded in immense detail. The whole experience is understood as having been full comprehension of the Dreamlands, communion with the Giants, and then a tour through the act of creation.

This is done as part of the initiatory practice into the inner mystery-religion of the scholars, and as needed for study by high scholar-priests. It is not taken lightly, both as it is absolute communion with the gods and reality, and in that it can be a very, very difficult experience. People who have gone through this often walk away with a permanently shifted perspective, often in a positive and/or comforting way- a sense of interconnectedness with all life, a peace with the concept of death, seeing less of a point in individual ego and the concept of Self, and comfort in the sense of divine love they (may have) experienced. This heavily influences the philosophy of the Scholars and has had effects by proxy in the religious worldviews of the region.

Details of this experience are closely guarded, and initiates are given absolutely no prior knowledge and expectations for their trip. This is seen as a necessity- their naivety will allow for a true, unfiltered experience, and can be used to gauge whether they should or should not be accepted. Those that have a distinctly bad trip upon initiation may be assumed to have been 'rejected' by the giants and thus denied full priesthood, though this largely depends on How they interpret their distressing trip- those who identify this as a test and harsh lesson in a journey to enlightenment may be accepted (as this is how fully initiated scholar-priests interpret and handle their bad trips).

This inner priesthood is only a small fraction of the Scholarly Order, and its greater function is as a hub of education and repository of knowledge, and Scholar-trained doctors can provide some of the best medical care available in the setting ('best medical care in this setting' only means so much but it's pretty solid, relatively speaking). Only a chosen few Scholars ever get to commune with the Ur-Root, and most of the divine secrets revealed in the process are kept hidden (though they indirectly influence the politics and worldview of the entire order).

[demigirlboss2girlrotboogaloo]

I hate people talking about how artists should be compensated for their work being used in training neural networks because like, okay, let's say we make that a thing. You have to pay a royalty if you use someone's work in your training set.

You've just made copyright law but worse!

All this does is, just like all copyright law, let trillion dollar corporations get away with basically anything cause they can afford to buy anything they could possibly want or need to, and since they're technically compensating the artists what moral critique are you gonna throw at them? Except now, independent research efforts become impossible. Finding high quality training data for personal hobbyist efforts becomes impossible. You don't stop AI from becoming a problem, you just make it a problem that we have no recourse for fighting back against. Right now, Google and Microsoft are getting their shit stomped in by randos with commodity gaming hardware going "haha LLaMa go brrt", and there is absolutely nothing they can do to stop it. That's why we have shit like that stupid open letter to stop AI research, signed by Elongated Muskrat et al., and why people like Sam Altman, CEO of OpenAI, which Microsoft wears like a skinsuit, and nothing about which is open in any way shape or form, are calling for intense and restrictive legislation surrounding AI. Because they know they can afford the royalties. They can afford the lawyers. They can afford the fines. We can't. Nvidia can plagiarize art for promotional materials. Disney can put straight up stolen artwork in their Star Wars books. But if a small-time homelabber just trying to build an LLM that can turn any text into biblical scripture, or an image generation model that inserts anime girl Danny DeVito into images, gets hit with a cease and desist, or cops at the door? They aren't going to be able to afford to risk trying to fight that. When you call for regulations on AI, when you call for people to stop making these "evil plagiarism machines", you are not demanding that corporations stop exploiting labour, because if you were you'd be calling for a full-blown dismantling of capitalism as a whole. What you are demanding is that hobbyists and independent researchers be driven underground to the annals of the dark web, and the only legal options for AI of any quality become those owned and controlled entirely by trillion dollar corporations that made their fortunes selling your data to begin with.

[psalmsofpsychosis]

The pros of reading a good book is knowledge, any kind of knowledge.

The cons of reading a good book is that i've been sitting in the corner of my bed crying for three days because a book about the structure of narrative has me questioning how i fundamentally experience my sexuality and also how the structure of 20/21th century psychology revolves around body over the mind rather than the other way around

[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

[hibou088]

On having a savior complex

What follows is based on this video.

There are truths we do not want to see. Not because they are too complex, but because they are too honest. The very few "real" feminists (Celibate, WGTOW, Blackpilled, etc.) hope that women will wake up, that women have to realize their position in the world. But while you are doing that, you are suffering. But this pain isn't the fault of their malice; it is caused by your own refusal to accept their refusal to see. That is the trap. You think you are helping women as a whole by wanting to help them when in reality, you are simply hoping for their awakening to validate your own. You suffer because you still believe that your freedom is dependent on theirs, that women are all interconnected...

As long as you need women to see what you see, you are still attached to their validation. You see clearly and you do not understand why the majority of women prefer quiet submission. But the real question is this : why does it cause you so much pain ? Why do you even care in the first place ? You care because you are experiencing a form of reversed attachment : you are waiting for women to validate your awareness. You want them to finally acknowledge the obviousness of what you see. But what you need to understand is that their awakening is not in your hands. The more you insist, the more they resist because you become a threat to their illusory and flawed perception of the world. The more you try to save them, the more you become the aggressor in their eyes.

You are not there to save the world, you are there to save yourself. Don't try to make women understand, try to stand tall, without spectators. The problem lies in your own intolerance of being misunderstood. The real question is not : why don't they see ? The real question is : why do you keep trying ? Those who see clearly become suspect. Those who do not want to see never attack head-on; they accuse your morality, your assumptions, your ethics, your ego... They tell you that you are controlling, that you are arrogant... It is why women accuse you of being prude, of being a lesbian, of wanting to destroy their heterosexual relationship, of trying to divide women and blah blah blah...

It is no longer the content of your words that is criticized, but your own legitimacy in speaking them. And those who lack the courage to think independently will elevate their weakness to nobility. And for their stance to remain noble, they must sanctify their inertia, victimization, their powerlessness, and condemn anything that resembles discernment or rational thinking. Because it forces them to face themselves, and they can't stand it. So they MUST always resort to "But we have been brainwashed for thousands of years" or "But sex is natural and you cannot deny women sexual gratification, it is not realistic ! I deserve sexual fulfillment !" or "OP is probably an undercover lesbian who wants to turn women gay!" or "You probably are frustrated because no man wants you !" They ask us to remain silent so as not to shatter their collective illusion. Their wounded ego has become the only truth.

That is the reason why even "blackpill feminism" is stupid IMO. Not the ones embodying it obviously, but the philosophy itself. You already know the truth, why would you get pissed at somebody not agreeing with you ? Why are you still frustrated when women do not want to change their worldview ? Why are you engaging in petty drama online ? Trying to convince anybody is stupid, especially when History proves us that women like being the underdogs. They love being in an inferior position, as long as a man is by their side.

The best example I have in mind is Madeleine Pelletier.

She was one of the first women to openly advocate radical ideas on equality and the emancipation of women through work and education. At the end of her life, her writings and career revealed a certain disenchantment and bitter insight into the condition of women and the relative failure of her struggles. She ultimately harshly criticized women, whom she deemed too submissive, too passive, and not sufficiently committed to their own liberation.

She lamented their lack of solidarity and their tendency to conform to traditional roles (still true now more than ever). Most women desperately want to become a man's property. Being placed under a conservatorship having a man doing all the thinking and hard work for them is the average woman's ultimate goal.

Madeleine felt abandoned by her former political and feminist allies (Duh 🙄) which reinforced her bitterness. But despite everything, she never renounced her ideas.

The truth is that the ONLY way to claim your freedom is to renounce validation by those who have chosen conformity and victimization. Your lucidity is not proven by convincing others; it is asserted by embodying it, without the need for approval and by having the courage to face rejection and incomprehension. Stop trying to save or convince anybody. Choose freedom and detachment. Choose Peace.

[hyperlexichypatia]

What some of y'all call "recovery" and "healing" is just... growing up.

The theme I keep coming back to, the theme I keep writing about over and over, is the inextricability of ableism (specifically neurobigotry) and ageism.

The pathologizing of youth. The infantilizing of disabled adults. The structuring and micromanaging of childhood leading to ever more opportunities for "deviancy" to be classified as "disordered." The "neurological" push to raise the age of majority. The constant framing of disabled parents and caregivers as "unfit" or "bad influences" on children. And on and on.

Ageism and neurobigotry are such an interconnected tangle loop mobius strip that people are using the "healing"/"recovery" framework for basic human maturation.

When you were little, you uncritically accepted the worldview of your parents and other adults in your life, but now that you're older and "recovered," you see it differently?

That's called growing up. You grew up.

When you had less information and experience informing your worldview, you saw things one way, and now that you've "healed," you see things differently?

That's called learning. You learned new information and changed your perspective accordingly.

Look, learning and change and growth and maturation are (or should be) lifelong processes with no endpoint, and one of the cultural factors making people so weird about "maturity" and age of majority issues is the assumption that a "Real Adult" is in their fixed final form. So people think "If I've changed and grown in the past 5 years, that means that 5-years-ago Me was Still A Child and should not have been allowed to make major life-altering decisions," and also think that once they reach An Endpoint, they can or should stop changing. And that's a problem.

But. But. Changes in one's relationship to oneself and one's family of origin are especially common during times of major transition. That's not pathological. That's not even abnormal. If you see the world differently than you did before a major life transition, that does not mean that you went from a diseased state to a nondiseased state ("recovery"), or from an injured state to an uninjured state ("healing"). Time passed. You got older. Everyone else got older. You changed. Other people changed. Your family changed. The social context in which you live changed. The pathology paradigm has no place in this phenomenon.

People are out here saying that "People should heal themselves before they have their own children," and then when asked, what they mean by "heal themselves" is "learn how to effectively communicate with children." That. That is a skill. Learning a skill is not "healing." Lack of a particular skill set is not a disorder you have to "recover" from. You just have to learn the skill.

But that's also why when we say "You don't have to recover from your disabilities, recovery isn't a moral obligation," people say things like "You want to use your disability as an excuse not to change and grow."

My good bitch, what does change and growth have to do with recovery?

And this isn't even a new observation, because people have talked about how parents of developmentally disabled children will credit "therapy" and "recovery" for their children's natural developmental trajectory (if your child gained a skill after a year of intensive therapy, that doesn't mean "the therapy worked," that means they got older and developed the maturation to acquire that skill). A lot of the rhetoric around early childhood education does the same thing (the reason your 6 year old can hold a pencil now and he couldn't last year is because his bones got stronger and his fine motor skills improved, not because his high-quality preschool made him ready to compete).

But this. This is adults doing it to themselves! And it's so very original-sin-coded. You are born Unhealthy, but through continual effort and right practice, you can Recover and Heal.

No! You just grew up!

[talonabraxas]

Metatron's Cube: A Symbol of Cosmic Geometry and Modern Art Historical Origins The origins of Metatron's Cube can be traced back to ancient texts and beliefs. The name "Metatron" is derived from the Hebrew Bible, where Metatron is described as an angelic scribe and intermediary between God and humans. The cube itself is a two-dimensional representation of a three-dimensional shape known as a "Metatron's Cube" or "Metatron's Cube Octahedron." It is composed of 13 circles (nodes) interconnected by straight lines, forming a symmetrical and harmonious pattern. One of the earliest known references to Metatron's Cube is found in the Kabbalah, a Jewish mystical tradition. In the Kabbalah, it is believed that Metatron's Cube represents the structure of the universe and the divine blueprint of creation. Each of the 13 circles within the cube is associated with an archangel, and the lines connecting them symbolize the paths that these angels use to communicate with one another and with the divine. Mathematics and Sacred Geometry Metatron's Cube is not only a symbol of spirituality but also a masterpiece of sacred geometry. It embodies several mathematical principles, including the Fibonacci sequence and the Golden Ratio. The Fibonacci sequence is a series of numbers where each number is the sum of the two preceding ones (e.g., 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21...), and the Golden Ratio (approximately 1.61803398875) is a mathematical constant that appears in various aspects of nature and art. This geometric masterpiece is not limited to any single religion or culture. It transcends boundaries and is embraced by individuals from different spiritual backgrounds and worldviews. Metatron's Cube is a testament to the universal appeal of geometry and its ability to inspire awe and wonder.

[witchyintention]

🕯 “Blessed Be”: More Than Just a Witchy Goodbye

What it Means, Where it Comes From, and Why it Still Matters

“Blessed Be.” Two little words. Said at the end of spells, the close of emails, whispered in ritual circles, and splashed across every witchy graphic on Instagram. Some folks say it like a benediction. Some toss it out like a “good vibes only” sticker. Some say it’s Wiccan-only. Others? Just think it sounds pretty.

But what’s the truth? Where does Blessed Be actually come from? And why does it still hold so much power?

Let’s lift the veil.

✨ A Spell in a Greeting

At its heart, Blessed Be is not just a cute sign-off. It’s an invocation of goodwill, a magical micro-blessing. It's the spiritual version of looking someone in the eyes and saying:

“May you be blessed in all you do, may your path be lit, and your magic protected.”

When we say Blessed Be, we’re participating in an age-old tradition of sacred words being used to convey spiritual force. It's not just intention — it's a frequency.

And in the magical worldview, words have power. Names are spells. So are blessings. When spoken with clarity and purpose, Blessed Be is both a greeting and an energetic transfer. It's “I see the sacred in you” wrapped in velvet and sage smoke.

📜 The Real Origins of “Blessed Be”

Most modern witches first encounter Blessed Be through books, online communities, or Wicca-adjacent practices. It became widely known thanks to Gerald Gardner, the British civil servant who helped found modern Wicca in the 1950s.

But Gardner didn’t invent it. Neither did TikTok.

“Blessed be” is found in many spiritual and religious texts. Its earliest forms trace back to:

Medieval Catholic blessings: “Blessed be the name of the Lord” was a common phrase in Latin and English prayer.

Hebrew prayers and Psalms: “Blessed be He who…” was used in honor of divine presence.

Folk traditions across Europe: Blessings like “Be ye blessed,” “Bless this house,” or “Blessed be the hands that make this bread” were part of everyday life.

So when Gardner and later witches used the phrase, they weren’t pulling it from thin air. They were reclaiming and repurposing sacred language into a magical, earth-based context.

It also appears prominently in The Wiccan Rede, a poem and ethical guideline often cited by Wiccans:

“Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill: An it harm none, do what ye will. Blessed be.”

From there, it blossomed. It spread across covens, books, rituals, and eventually, social media. Now, it lives far beyond its original form — used by eclectic witches, green witches, chaos magicians, spirit workers, and solitary practitioners across the globe.

🔮 Original Ritual Use vs. Modern Witch Culture

In Traditional Wicca:

Blessed Be was spoken between initiated coven members as part of sacred rites.

It often followed ritual acts like the Fivefold Kiss, where one partner blesses another’s feet, knees, womb, lips, and breast, each with the words: “Blessed be thy feet that have brought thee in…”

The phrase held a coded sacredness, a sign of spiritual intimacy and mutual recognition.

Today:

It’s often used like a spiritual “hello” or “goodbye.”

Common in online posts, tarot readings, spell books, and witchy captions.

Said with reverence, casualness, joy, sass, or all of the above.

Used by witches from all paths, not just Wiccans.

And here’s the kicker: That doesn’t make it less sacred — just more alive.

⚠️ “Can Anyone Say It?” — Gatekeeping vs. Respect

Let’s be real. Some folks are protective of Blessed Be, saying it “belongs” to Wicca or formal tradition.

Here’s the thing: language is fluid, but intention is everything.

Can anyone say Blessed Be? Technically, yes.

Should anyone say it? Only if you’re going to say it with care.

Using it flippantly — like it’s just glittery fluff — disrespects its roots. But using it with intention, even if you're not Wiccan, honors the interconnected web of spiritual speech that has always crossed borders, traditions, and cultures.

The real key? Know what you’re saying. Mean it. Speak it with awareness.

🌍 Global Echoes: Blessings Across Traditions

The energy of Blessed Be isn’t exclusive to English-speaking witches.

You’ll find similar greetings and blessings in cultures around the world:

Namaste (Hinduism) – “The divine in me honors the divine in you.”

Ashe (Yoruba) – The spiritual force behind words and actions.

Shalom / Salaam – Peace, wholeness, and divine completeness.

Sláinte (Irish) – A toast to your health and well-being.

So mote it be – An affirmation of magical truth and manifestation.

Each culture has its own way of speaking power, of greeting not just the person but their spirit, their ancestors, their path. Blessed Be is just one thread in that sacred web.

🧹 When to Use “Blessed Be”

Here are some times when Blessed Be feels natural — and powerful:

At the end of a ritual or spellcasting circle

When writing in your grimoire or Book of Shadows

Signing off on a spiritual email, post, or newsletter

Greeting or parting from fellow witches

In prayer, chant, or spoken affirmations

Before bed, whispered to your guides or ancestors

And if you’re a writer, poet, content creator, or just deeply magical soul? Use it when you want to bless your words.

✨ Final Reflection: It's a Legacy

When you say Blessed Be, you join a legacy. One that spans from village folk healers to modern-day TikTok witches. From ancient altars to online rituals. From whispered devotions to shouted spells.

It’s not just a tagline. It’s a thread.

A spell.

A prayer.

A promise.

And every time you say it with awareness, you’re not just honoring tradition — you’re keeping it alive.

So next time you say it, say it like you mean it.

Say it like it’s holy. Say it like it’s magic.

Blessed Be. 🌙

[creature-wizard]

Thoughts on New Age’s therapeutic functions

Over the last few days, I’ve been thinking over how New Age practices have actual therapeutic value that ultimately contribute to more prosocial behavior and greater social cohesion. I figured I’d do a post on this, both to shed light on why New Age spirituality has such a powerful draw on people, and to highlight certain practices that could perhaps be adapted into a framework without the conspiratorial mythology and dangerous pseudoscience.

Full disclosure, I will be approaching this topic from the perspective of an atheistic-leaning agnostic who approaches magic and religion from a psychological and sociological point of view. I’m not here to try and convince you that gods and spirits absolutely don’t exist, but if you do believe they exist, you may find this challenging to your worldview.

So to begin, everyone’s psyches are essentially made up of different, yet interconnected parts. (I would recommend looking at this infographic for deeper, albeit somewhat simplified explanation. Note that post will be mainly be speaking of singlets.)

Let’s take a hypothetical person named Roxie. There’s a part of Roxie that wants to clean the house. There’s another part of Roxie that wants to play a video game. There’s part of Roxie that wants to destroy her enemies. There’s part of Roxie that wants everyone to be friends and live in harmony. There’s a part of Roxie that wants to surrender herself to a strong, powerful figure, and another part of her that wants to remain independent.

Our psyches are all made of different parts like this (though perhaps not all of the exact same parts), and our parts have their uses at different times and places. But it’s possible for some of us to become over-reliant on certain parts and use them in inappropriate times and places. For example, tradwives are taught to always use the part of themselves that wants to surrender to someone strong (usually referred to as their “feminine” or the “divine feminine”), which gets them stuck with extremely misogynist men.

Another example, which is more pertinent to the topic of this post, are people who become over-reliant on the part of themselves that wants to destroy their enemies. This makes them prone to paranoid thinking, essentially seeing enemies and threats everywhere. This in turn prompts them to behave in all kinds of ways that are detrimental to a healthy social life, and detrimental to a healthy society in general. This is basically the state that the kind of people who go around writing wildly hostile replies to absolutely milquetoast takes are in.

However, New Age’s practices and beliefs encourage people to get in touch with their prosocial parts and silence their hostile parts. For example, they are taught how to connect to spirit guides and various higher beings who have loving intentions and want the best for humanity. They are taught to practice discernment by asking themselves how information makes them feel – if it makes you feel afraid or discouraged, ignore it. If it makes you feel uplifted and encouraged, listen.

Now of course this is a terrible method for evaluating whether information is factual or not, which many people in this movement end up trying to do. “Aliens are going to arrive tomorrow and get rid of the world’s tyrants” might make me feel good, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. But it’s a very good method for connecting with and strengthening the parts of yourself with prosocial desires while training your mind to give less priority to your hostile parts and allowing them to weaken and fade.

Even the concept of starseeds is fundamentally a prosocial tool. Each starseed type represents a certain kind of positive role a person can play in society. When a person reads about starseed types and feels resonance with one or more of them, this is essentially a response from the parts of their brains that find these roles appealing. Starseed mythology validates their associated impulses by telling people that this the very thing they’re on Earth to do.

Past life regression hypnosis can also serve the same purpose, with those who undergo it often seeing themselves filling specific roles. When people undergo hypnosis and sees themselves as a priest or priestess, these are arguably images formed from the parts of themselves that want to fill the role of a teacher or guide. In this way, people become aware of the roles they want to fulfill, which empowers them to start doing something they actually enjoy.

Of course there there are flaws. The specific roles that New Agers learn about are not always as useful as they might seem – in fact, they’re sometimes dangerous. Many of the “cosmic truths” an aspiring teacher will go on to spread are just far right conspiracy theories. New Age’s mythology about reptilian aliens is a hodgepodge of antisemitic canards including but not limited to blood libel, economic manipulation, and media manipulation. Their mythology about aliens is largely based on pseudohistory created by white people who could not accept that people of color were capable of building architecture considered impressive by European standards. It all comes from what the New Agers would term a fear-based consciousness.

Meanwhile, the aspiring healer will likely learn alternative healing techniques that are not as useful as they might seem. Fortunately, most alternative healing practices favored by New Agers are fairly harmless in and of themselves (one cannot overdose and poison oneself with reiki, for example). But when coupled with a belief that these treatments should be used in place of conventional medicine (which is often driven by anti-pharma conspiracy theories), or when the practitioner charges so much money that people are compelled to choose between evidence-based medicine and alternative medicine and choose the latter, things can become deadly. Scientific studies have never found evidence to suggest that any alternative medical approach is more effective than current evidence-based treatments, even if people do anecdotally report feeling better or report the occasional miracle.

Furthermore, believing that the images they see under hypnosis are genuine memories of real past lives reinforces belief in conspiracy theories and pseudohistory. They also create a false sense of expertise and entitlement, such as a white person who believes they had a past life as a Native American ritual specialist believing they have authority to speak on matters of Native spirituality and history, and believing they have the right to conduct closed practices.

Yet all of these problems come from the belief system the practices are used in, not from the practices themselves. Outside of the belief system, the practices are a simple yet effective way to identify positive social roles we are likely to find satisfying. Without the conspiratorial, pseudohistorical, and pseudoscientific framework, one can identify more useful ways to fulfill these roles and seek out appropriate education.

I believe New Agers are onto something when they say that we have forgotten who we truly are. But I don’t think it has anything to do with some sort of transcendent divine nature or past lives. I think that through trauma and upbringing in societies that encourage fear and selfishness, we have been raised to forget that we are born to love, cherish, and help each other. I think we’ve also been raised to forget that we don’t need anyone’s permission to follow our hearts.

I think they’re even almost onto something when they say that our governments and economies are ruled by something that feeds on blood and fear. But that something isn’t extradimensional space lizards. It is the systems of government and economics themselves – they was created through fear and bloodshed, and they requires fear and bloodshed to continue existing. But there are no secret places where dark rituals are performed or where bodily fluids are extracted for consumption; only boardrooms where executives discuss moving production factories someplace with fewer safety regulations and politicians discuss manufacturing consent so that the populace will support the invasion of whichever country they wish to extract resources from this time. It is not reptilians that possess these people, but a fear-based belief that their safety and the safety of all they care about relies on these systems.

I fully believe that if things are going to get better, we must get better at loving each other and recognize that wanting to help each other is a natural and normal thing, and we should use whatever tools we have at our disposal to that end. But we must also recognize that the narratives and myths New Age spirituality has relied on this far are products of fear-based consciousness themselves, and cannot truly serve humanity in its progress.

[delicatelysublimeforester]

Honoring Earth Month: A Call to Reconnect with Mother Nature

[reality-detective]

Wake Up! Everything You Believe Is a Carefully Crafted Lie by a Hidden Elite That Owns Your Governments, Banks, and Minds!

The world is under the control of a hidden, powerful elite that has manipulated humanity for thousands of years. Governments, banks, corporations, and even religions are all part of a massive, interconnected system designed to keep the masses in line. You are living in a controlled simulation where every move is calculated, every narrative crafted, and every dissent crushed.

Ancient Rome never fell; it just changed its face. The Vatican is the continuation of the Roman Empire, pulling the strings of global power from the shadows. The Pope is not a religious leader but the CEO of the world’s largest covert operation. Global leaders bow to Rome; every major decision made in Europe, America, and beyond has its roots in this ancient power structure. The so-called “democracies” are just fronts, and the real rulers operate far from the public eye.

The financial system is a tool of enslavement, but its grip is weakening. Central banks, the Federal Reserve, the World Bank, and the IMF have long kept nations in debt and citizens in economic chains. However, their reign is about to end. The Global Economic Security and Reformation Act (GESARA) is poised to trigger the biggest wealth transfer in history, redistributing stolen wealth back to the people.

This is a total overhaul designed to dismantle the corrupt systems that have enslaved humanity for centuries. Trillions of dollars hoarded by the elite will be seized and returned to the people, restoring economic power where it belongs.

This act will expose the financial fraud perpetuated by these institutions, wiping out debts and releasing new technologies that have been suppressed to keep the populace in poverty. The days of the financial overlords are numbered, and GESARA is the catalyst that will break their chains for good, restoring wealth and freedom to the masses.

Education and media are the propaganda arms of this hidden empire. From kindergarten to university, you are fed lies designed to shape your worldview to fit the agenda of the elite. Critical thinking is discouraged because an informed population is a threat. The news you watch, the books you read, and the information you consume are all curated to keep you ignorant, divided, and powerless.

Governments are puppets. Elections are rigged shows to give you the illusion of choice. Presidents, prime ministers, and kings answer to the same hidden masters. Policies, wars, economic collapses—they’re all orchestrated from behind closed doors by a small group of individuals who have no allegiance to any nation but only to their own interests. They decide who wins, who loses, and how the game is played.

Laws are tools of oppression, not justice. The legal system is designed to protect the elite and keep you in line. Roman law still influences modern legal codes, and its principles are used to maintain control over the masses. The courtrooms are theaters where the outcome is predetermined, and the real power lies in the unseen hands that pull the strings.

Corporations are not independent entities—they are branches of the same control network. They push products, policies, and narratives that serve their masters’ agenda. From the food you eat to the technology you use, everything is designed to monitor, influence, and control you. You are not a customer; you are a data point, a resource to be exploited.

The world is not what it seems. Every institution you trust, every leader you admire, every belief you hold has been carefully constructed to keep you obedient and blind to the truth. You are not free; you are a pawn in a game that was rigged long before you were born.

The only way out is to see the truth: that the world is run by a small, powerful group that considers itself above the rest of humanity. They are the masters, and we are the slaves. This is the reality they don’t want you to see. Wake up, or remain a willing participant in your own enslavement.

Escape the Matrix 🤔

[antlered-vixen]

I read your reply to that who empty nester Fëanor and I love how you brought up the Haladin, Caranthir may have not have convinced Haleth, Fëanor probably wouldn't too but like he'd probably respect Haleth after all the shit she went through, plus her sick response to Thingol after he begrudgingly gave the Haladin land.

The Haladin kept to themselves and I love that for them but I feel like Fëanor would unironically really like them.

If Fëanor had lived long enough for the arrival of the aftercomers and then some, then I must also imagine Morgoth's assaults and the various battles of Beleriand would have gone differently as well, and perhaps Haleth would not have such a pressing reason to wish to seek safety further south. It's very hard to develop these kinds of complex what-ifs off the top of my head, because the Silmarillion is a wickedly interconnected little ecosystem of events, haha. That said. I want to imagine Fëanor really getting along with Haleth and whatnot, after he gets over his secondborn distrust, but the unpleasant truth is he would also have to get over his sexism. Because Noldorin society is, honestly, very sexist, as much as we like to talk about healthy and soft Tolkien masculinity (??). From the way Fëanor speaks to Nerdanel about wife loyalty, to the way Curufin talks about Aredhel's "taking" or Turgon tries to control her movements, to the way Idril's comfort or possible leadership is often overlooked, to the subtle masculinism in Fëanor's various versions of speeches, I think Fëanor would have a lot to grapple with before he could accept a hard-arse female leader with an all-female guard, Amazon-style. (And I say that even though he is my beloved terrible blorbo). Now, would he be able to adjust his gendered worldviews? Probably, if circumstance so permitted. We have every reason to think he is very intelligent, capable of innovation and flexible thinking, and would put fighting Morgoth above all else. Plus, yes, he would be naturally inclined to end up admiring and getting along with hard-arses of any variety, so ultimately I do like to imagine he'd take to the Haladin!

[novlr]

what is a good way to introduce side characters into a story without being overly descriptive

Interesting characters are essential to telling a great story. While your main characters are the stars of the show, side characters play a crucial role in adding depth, complexity, and realism to your narrative. However, introducing these supporting players can be a challenge, especially if you want to avoid the dreaded info dump. Let’s explore some effective ways to introduce side characters without overwhelming your readers with too much information at once.

The importance of side characters

Before we dive into the techniques for introducing side characters, let’s take a moment to appreciate their significance. Side characters serve many purposes in a story, from providing comic relief to offering a fresh perspective on the main plot. They can also act as foils for your protagonists, highlighting their strengths and weaknesses through contrast. Additionally, well-developed side characters can make your fictional world feel more authentic and lived-in, as if it exists beyond the confines of the main storyline.

Introduce side characters gradually

One of the most effective ways to introduce side characters without info dumping is to do so gradually. Instead of bombarding your readers with a character’s entire life story in one go, reveal details about them over time. Start with a brief description of their appearance, mannerisms, or role in the story, and then sprinkle in additional information as the narrative progresses. This approach allows readers to get to know the character organically, just as they would in real life.

Show, don’t tell

While it’s almost cliché now, another key strategy for introducing side characters is to show, rather than tell, who they are. Instead of simply listing a character’s attributes or history, demonstrate who they are through their actions, dialogue, and interactions with other characters. This allows readers to draw their own conclusions about the character based on what they observe, rather than being told what to think.

Use dialogue to reveal character

Dialogue is another powerful tool for introducing side characters without info dumping. Through conversations with other characters, side characters can reveal their personalities, motivations, and backstories in a natural and organic way. This allows you to convey important information without resorting to lengthy exposition or narration. For example, a side character might mention a past experience or share an opinion that sheds light on their worldview. By weaving these details into the dialogue, you can create a more nuanced and believable portrayal of the character.

Connect side characters to the main plot

To make side characters feel integral to your story, it’s important to connect them to the main plot in meaningful ways. Rather than having them exist in a vacuum, show how their actions and decisions impact the central narrative. This not only makes the side characters more relevant but also helps to create a more cohesive and interconnected story. For instance, a side character’s seemingly minor decision could inadvertently set off a chain of events that alters the course of the main plot. By establishing these connections, you give readers a reason to care about the side characters and their roles in the story.

Include a subplot

You can develop your side characters by writing them into a subplot. By giving them their own storylines that intersect with the main plot, you create opportunities to explore their motivations, challenges, and growth. These subplots can also serve to heighten the stakes of the main narrative, as the actions of side characters may have unintended consequences that ripple throughout the story. By carefully crafting these subplots, you can add depth and complexity to your side characters without overwhelming the reader.

Summing up

Introducing side characters without info dumping is a skill that takes practice and finesse. By revealing details gradually, showing rather than telling, using dialogue effectively, and connecting side characters to the main plot, you can create a rich and immersive fictional world that feels authentic and engaging.

Remember, side characters are more than just background noise; they are an essential part of any great story. By giving them the attention and development they deserve, you’ll take your writing to the next level and keep your readers coming back for more.

[maxdibert]

I can't believe that other anon was like "well, other characters had to struggle with ONE of the things Snape went through, so why couldn't he be a better person?" Like... That's proving the point. It proves that they KNOW Snape had more disadvantages than everyone else, because they give one example for each bad thing in Snape's life.

They can't find a single example of a character who shares all of Snape's issues, because there is no one like that in the Harry Potter universe. Therefore, there is no fair comparison.

It is intellectually dishonest to dissect Severus Snape’s struggles into isolated incidents and compare each one separately to another character’s experience in order to argue that he should have “been better.” This rhetorical strategy betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of how trauma, class, and systemic oppression work. Severus' hardships were not a collection of independent misfortunes but an interconnected web of structural disadvantages that shaped his entire existence. By acknowledging that no single character in the HP universe shares all of his burdens.

To understand why Severus' life trajectory is not reducible to a mere matter of personal choice, one must first recognize the nature of systemic oppression and its cumulative effect on an individual. Severus was born into poverty, a condition that in itself is not just an economic state but a social marker that dictates one's access to opportunities, safety, and dignity. The series, though often reluctant to engage meaningfully with issues of class, still reflects the way wizarding society stratifies individuals based on birthright, blood purity, and wealth. Severus was not just a poor child; he was a poor half-blood in a society where blood purity determined social capital. The intersection of these disadvantages meant that he had to fight twice as hard to attain even a fraction of the respect afforded to his wealthier and purer-blooded peers.

Class oppression does not exist in a vacuum. Severus also endured neglect and domestic abuse, further stripping him of a stable foundation from which to develop emotional resilience. Children who grow up in environments where they are constantly unsafe do not develop in the same way as those with secure attachments. They are more likely to struggle with emotional regulation, have difficulty trusting others, and develop a worldview shaped by survival rather than aspiration. To suggest that Snape should have simply been “stronger” or “better” is to ignore well-documented psychological research on the long-term effects of abuse and deprivation. It is also deeply hypocritical to demand moral perfection from someone who was never granted the privileges that make moral development easier.

The argument that other characters in the series experienced one or another of Snape’s struggles and emerged “better” fundamentally ignores the role of cumulative trauma. Comparing individual hardships in isolation, rather than as part of an intersecting system of oppression, is an intellectually lazy attempt to dismiss class and trauma as real, systemic barriers to personal growth. For example, it is true that Harry was abused, but he was also given unconditional love and support the moment he entered Hogwarts. He was rich, famous, and consistently surrounded by people who validated his existence. Hermione was a Muggle-born who faced discrimination, but she was also raised in a supportive, middle-class household that instilled in her confidence and resilience. Draco was a victim of his parents’ ideology, but he was still wealthy and privileged enough to escape many of the material consequences of his mistakes. None of these characters faced the compounded oppression that Snape did.

The expectation that those who suffer should still emerge morally superior to their oppressors is not only unrealistic but also reveals a deeply classist bias. It implies that people who struggle under systemic burdens are still personally at fault for not overcoming them in ways that make us comfortable. This is a convenient belief for those who have never truly experienced structural disadvantage—it allows them to pretend that the world is a meritocracy where those who suffer do so only because they lack the will to rise above their circumstances. This mindset ignores the reality that not everyone is afforded the same resources, emotional support, or second chances.

Ultimately, the insistence that Severuse should have “been better” despite the overwhelming disadvantages he faced is a refusal to engage with the realities of systemic oppression. It is a way of placing the burden of responsibility entirely on the individual while ignoring the structures that shape them. It is not a coincidence that no other character in the series bears the same weight of intersecting traumas—because very few people in any society are subjected to such compounded hardship. The real question should not be why Snape didn’t turn out “better,” but why we demand that he should have in the first place.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Pictured: Arthur Rafton-Canning (1864-1952), "Blackfoot Teepees," Glacier National Park, 1933

* * * *

"The Native American notion of All My Relations views all of reality and life as related and interconnected. Every aspect of life is seen as part of one intrinsic family. In the Blackfoot tribe, when people meet, they don’t say 'How are you' but 'Tza Nee Da Bee Wah?' which means, 'How are the connections?' If the connections are in place, we must be all right. If the connections are not in place, then we need to tend them first. Inherent in the Native American view is that our well-being is based on how everything goes together. There can be no lasting individual health unless there is a working harmony among all living things. The practice that grows from this worldview is the need to discover, name, and repair the connections that exist between all things. This is considered sacred and necessary work."

~ Mark Nepo

[Thanks Ian Sanders]