#pen pressure who? shading who?

[esteebarnes94]

Darby Fanart

Darby is a character from a joint story by @majormeilani (who owns this character) and their sister micechicken (who I won't tag as not to bother her). Anyways, I'll admit when I was on my old account I did come across their story Sunshine and thought it was really cool, so when I made this account I decided to practice my digital drawing skills on Darby!

Goes without saying, but no reposting, editing, claiming (the art, I mean, obviously the OC isn't mine), tracing, or using for any program, NFT, or AI.

Anyways yeah Darby is super cool I like her.

[mrs-weasley-reid]

TEN'S A GOOD NUMBER

Aaron Hotchner x psychiatrist!reader

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

Monday, May 4, 8:34 AM

Aaron Hotchner sits across from you.

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

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

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

The way you deprive him of eye contact.

What are you hiding?

Why can't you look him in the eye?

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

In conclusion, just about everything you do, really.

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

"Your hand is heavier," Aaron vaguely goads.

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

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

Creative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's always the same.

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

Aaron could've talked more, but...

He despises you.

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

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

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

Then, there's you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He decides then that he hates you with a passion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at Aaron Hotchner's patient chart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Melodic ringing snaps you out of your trance.

Aaron Hotchner might just get what he wants.

Sunday, May 10, 11:51 PM

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

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

The day has been hostile towards you.

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

Until a bombarding knock jolts you up.

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

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

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

You head towards your sofa, taking a seat.

Aaron examines you in confusion, furrowing his brows.

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

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

What a sad little man.

You scoff in your mind.

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

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

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

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

Silence coats the two of you.

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

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

He's just troubled.

He's just in denial of his own pain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you're neither.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resentment. Fury. Vexation. Chagrin.

All Aaron felt was anger.

Antagonized.

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

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

"Do you really believe that?"

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

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

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

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

You pause.

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

Silence.

For him to reflect.

For you to breathe.

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

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

Maybe you've gone too far.

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, maybe you were a little bit brutal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door shuts.

Friday, June 19, 11:02 PM

"I didn't know where to go."

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

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

A month and no contact.

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

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

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

Oh.

Well...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What were you doing?

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

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

Oh, that's what you were doing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where did that come from?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why did he go to you?

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

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

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

Aaron slept effortlessly that night.

Saturday, October 24, 9:24 PM

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

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

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

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

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

Hotchner.

Agent.

Mister—

Just Hotchner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Apology accepted," You muffle into the mug.

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

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

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

Aaron shakes his head.

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

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

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

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

Three months.

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

A chuckle.

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

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

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

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

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

Your apartment becomes a haven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And that means?.."

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, March 2, 7:31 PM

Eleven months pass by in the blink of an eye.

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

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

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

"Are you okay?"

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

One sharp sniff breaks it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fifty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.

You cried to the point of dehydration.

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

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

You didn't.

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

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

Nothing.

You only mold yourself into a ball.

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron doesn't know what to say.

But he knows what to feel.

He knows it well.

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

Then, it hits him like a wrecking ball.

How difficult of a patient was he before?

Has he ever made you cry before?

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

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

You became the only thing that gave him serenity.

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

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

And also guilty of developing feelings for you.

Saturday, August 13, 4:16 PM

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

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

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

So, you switched to Scrabble.

And Aaron is losing again.

Boy, were you so entertained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm still terrified." He blurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he does.

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

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

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

Silence.

"I'm sorry—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One visit left.

Thursday, May 5, 12:51 PM

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

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

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

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

It's a shitty feeling.

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

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

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

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

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

No one ever knocked.

Friday, November 18, 2:33 PM

"Aren't you curious?"

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

There's none.

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

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

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

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

Aaron never knocked that day.

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

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

It was hell.

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

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

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

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

It did.

Of course, it did.

And you loved every second of it.

Even if you realize it too late.

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

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

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

Worried.

Heartbroken.

Hurt.

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

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

Pause.

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, March 27, 6:12 PM

It's a nice Spring.

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

A year and a half.

You moved to a different place since then.

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you need anything, Mrs—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron Hotchner.

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

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

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

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

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

He looks refreshing and well-rested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you mad at me?"

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

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

"I told you I'm not mad."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Aaron Hotchner.

Just Aaron, he said.

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

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

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

It's tempting and nauseating.

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

"Ten."

Your eyebrows merge in confusion, "What?"

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

And he'd be right.

All you want at that moment is to say yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ten's a good number."

[sourpeachsayshi]

Praise kink with Nanami, please😭

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ minors / ageless blogs / blank blogs - do not interact.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tags: therapist!nanami; client!reader; guided; forbidden; doctor-patient relationship; size kink(?)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ notes: I went overboard with this one.

nanami's eyes darken, his glasses resting just below the bridge of his nose, irises blurring like the haze between night and day. he uncrosses then crosses his legs, desperately trying to adjust the bulge in his pants. his notebook is still resting comfortably on his lap, one of his hands fidgeting with the pen that he lightly taps against the paper, while the other traces the outline of his lip.

your legs are spread apart, your skirt flipped up, underwear pulled to the side. your shirt unbuttoned, exposing the lace fabric of your pretty, pretty bra. the sight of your cunt forms a knot in his throat, which he swallows while trying to forget the many nights he's jacked off picturing himself fucking you.

the one who came to him after leaving her horrible husband. who has struggled to find any sexual pleasure ever since, and who timidly admitted that she finds her underwear soaked after every session with dr. kento.

"I don't think," you sigh, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. "I don't think this will work..."

"but you look good," he reassures, noticing your lashes flutter at his words. "Wet. I can see it from here..."

your face burns with embarrassment, and you part your lips to say something though no words come out.

"just keep listening, okay? you're doing really well for me, I promise this will help," he lies through his teeth, his cheeks tinting a shade of crimson of him abusing his role. "your middle and index finger, use it to rub your clit, not too fast...nice and easy..."

you oblige, and that doesn't take him by surprise. you listen to his guidance, start massaging the nub of your clit gently. a few minutes pass, but he's busy paying attention to your reactions. the way your breath hitches and your chest hiccupping as you try to stifle a moan.

"don't hold it in," he coos, "give in to your natural reactions. it's okay, I'm right here. I'm watching you, helping you. you trust me, right?"

"yes, doctor," you whimper and he hums in response.

"feels good?"

"uh-huh"

"you sound lovely, like you're enjoying it..."

"mmph~"

"faster. add a little more pressure, that's right..." he continues, "how do you feel?"

"warm-" you add, breathless and needy which only fuels his desire. "I l-like it, I like how it feels..."

"This is excellent progress, I'm proud of you," he praises, a hint of a devious smile ticking the corner of his lip. "try putting a finger in, there you go..."

his eyes narrow as you sink your middle finger into your hole. you gasp in slight shock, taken aback that you actually enjoyed the tiny stretch. nanami nearly snaps the pen his half. knowing full well that the length and thickness of his fingers would do far, far better.

you pump in and out, so slowly like you're trying to figure out what pacing you prefer. "doctor kento," you moan, though you are not addressing him with anything specific except to simply call out his name.

his cock twitches.

he takes his glasses off, and folds it neatly between his pressed shirt. he closes his notebook, the page filled with mindless scribbles that he put together to distract himself from being aroused by you.

"when we discussed your sex life prior to your marriage, you mentioned you enjoyed receiving oral," he states.

you gaze up at him with doe eyes from underneath your lashes, finger fucking yourself tenderly as you shake your head in confirmation.

he gets up from his seat, takes a few steps closer as he carefully rolls up his sleeve. he kneels before you, the afternoon light sparkling against his golden hair. his face far too close to your cunt.

"a more manual approach might do you some good," he mumbles, his large palms reaching for your plush thighs.

the heat burns behind your ears and down your neck, your muscles in your lower belly start quivering with delight and anticipation.

"you're gorgeous, by the way," he admits, dropping his professional mask and allowing his inner thoughts to speak on his behalf. "it's a shame your ex couldn't appreciate that..."

he moves on hand to circle around your wrist and draws it away from your soaking cunt. he brings your shaking fingers to his lips to taste your essence before releasing you with a pop.

"so sweet," he purrs. he drops your wrist, his hands smoothing over your inner thigh and over the curve of your pelvis. when he looks up at you, you almost don't recognize the devilish expression on the face of such a gentleman. "you deserve to feel this good. may I?"

you melt into the pillow behind you, your heart pounding so hard against your chest it makes the room around you spin.

"we'll go for as long as you can handle. alright, sweetheart?"

"yes, doctor kento"

"good girl," he murmurs, the depth of his voice making you tremble in your seat. "such a good girl..."

your eyes roll to the back of your head, a cry leaving your lips that sounds like an ache when he brings his tongue to your sex and drags upward along the glittering slit.

no more secrets x

[dolliels]

MISSION REQUITED LOVE!

synopsis: in which you lay out a series of objectives in order to get jamil to like you back.

you fiddle with your hands, looking down at your knees, almost having a staring contest. that exam nearly put you to tears. what the fuck was that?! you studied for potionology… not… if using frog legs for a potion would make the frog family start grieving! what even was that question???

you feel a sudden brush on your shoulders and you look up to see a concerned face. what was his name? jaemeel? jade mile? you forgot, you rarely talked to the guy, but for some reason, his genuine expression of concern made you feel at ease.

“the exam screwed you over too, huh?” he said, chuckling lightly, almost at himself.

you nod, choking back your tears. “what was even that frog leg question?”

“no idea.”

hence was the start of your newfound friendship with jamil viper.

your first impression of the guy was that he was just your average, friendly joe who was trying to get by. you found out that he’s actually quite quick-witted, sharp mouthed and a great cook. his grades are pretty average, but you had your suspicions. he’d sometimes score lower than you in exams and he’s the one that helped you study!

however merciless jamil may seem, he was still pretty caring, just more silently. he’d sometimes pack an extra lunchbox everytime you complained about the lack of food, help out on assignments and tests and however busy he is (with kalim, mostly.) he’d always make some time stop by)

safe to say you’ve harbored a one-sided crush on him.

no matter how close you two were, you knew that you definitely weren’t his type at all. you were a handful at times (most of the time actually! you’re just too stubborn to admit it) and had a hard time fully functioning at school by yourself without some sort of support system. from how jam packed jamil’s schedule is on a day-to-day basis, you assumed he’d probably want to date someone independent, who can take care of themselves and kiss jamil on the forehead goodbye so he feels a little lighter starting his day.

so you devised a plan.

OBJECTIVE: get jamil to like you back

PLAN A : show you independent capabilities!

jamil is often complaining about how kalim can’t do anything on his own. that puts you into thought… neither can you! (lol) you get embarrassed thinking about the numerous assignments and exams jamil has helped you trudge through. your mind gets boggled when you think about it. you’re literally in the category of people jamil probably finds annoying and seeing how much jamil seems to dislike doing kalim’s bidding because he’s too simple minded to do it on his own, you decided that showing independence and that you’re capable on your own would be the most attractive to him.

so here you were, eye bags forming as you loosely write about the history of dwarves. this was a long and tedious assignment and due to your own negligence, you had to stay up to do it. usually at times like this, you’d call for jamil and ask for his help (sometimes even managing to snag a quick glance at his own work)

you felt your hand slowly lose grip of your pen as your head slowly started nodding off. dwarves are so terribly boring! your eyelids felt heavy and the last thing you saw was something about seven dwarves who housed some runaway princess…

“hey.”

“hey. wake up.”

you felt a tap on your shoulder as you lifted your head from your arms. as the blurriness in your eyes cleared, you started seeing a familiar figure… oh. it’s jamil.

jamil was seated right beside you. it was the late hours at the library, what was he even doing here?

as you turn your head to properly look at him, jamil’s eyes widen as he suppresses a grin.

“you- pff- have ink on your face.”

huh?

you look at your pen, then your hand. oh, the pen’s ink must have leaked (or exploded) when you dozed off on it due to the pressure.

the drowsiness left you as you suddenly felt yourself wide awake, face turning an embarrassing bright shade of red.

“what are you doing here? it’s late.” jamil asked, as he looked at the table with all your notes.

“mmph. history of dwarves. essay.” is all you managed to spur out.

“isn’t this due tomorrow? you had, like, 2 weeks to work on it.”

“i know. i was lazy. my bad, i guess.” you shrug as you put your broken pen away.

“why didn’t you ask me for help? you usually do.”

“i dunno. didn’t want to bother you, i guess.”

jamil frowns. “you do know that i don’t mind, right? this happens with kalim all the time.”

he wipes off some of the ink on the side of your face. you can’t see it, but from the smear of ink on Jamil’s thumb, you could probably take a guess that it didn’t help at all.

“go wash your face, and i’ll help you with the essay.”

plan A was definitely a failure…

PLAN B: show your helpfulness!

jamil is a great cook. just the thought of his meals makes your drool. you know that he overworks himself trying to prepare food for kalim, as well as you if he ever has the time to spare for it.

wouldn’t jamil find it attractive if someone could help him cook meals?

unfortunately for you, you’re not as good as you’d hope to be.

it’s not like you’re completely bad, no. as long as you follow instructions, the food turns out fine. the problem is that it’s a carbon copy of someone else’s recipe, so it’s not that special. another issue is that you use the recipe as your complete and total guide, since you don’t know how to work anything without it. so if you were in the kitchen helping jamil, you would need him to i trust your every move and… that isn’t really helpful, is it?

so you decided to try practicing your cooking skills without the guidance of a recipe!

you’ve asked riddle to generously lend you the kitchen (you hope there’s no silly rule about kitchen destruction) as it is already pretty run down from how often trey uses it, so you assumed that no one would notice the small nicks and cracks you might make if there are some already.

to your horror, maybe everyone might notice?

the kitchen was a mess, with sugar and salt flying everywhere (you got confused— why are they both white?), runny egg yolks dripping from the side of the counter (you dropped them after your hands got slimey from the other eggs) and a pitch black face, from the ashy burnt meat that exploded as soon as you opened the lid. now you’re stuck with a wonky oven that won’t stop beeping and you don’t know the cause for it.

“y/n?”

you turn around. did trey or riddle get here? from the whole chaos you weren’t able to discern whose voice was calling your name.

oh. it’s jamil.

“what are you doing here???” you ask, completely forgetting the mess you’re in right now.

“I was just dropping off some beans… because trey asked for a box… what are you doing here?”

“I’m… cooking?”

“i thought you were moderately decent at cooking. this is the type of mess kalim would cause.”

you sigh. “i wanted to try something different.”

“you should’ve called me up. we could’ve made it together when i had the time.”

“i wanted to try it myself..!”

jamil rolled up his sleeves. “here. let me help.”

you frantically shake your hands.

“n-no. it’s fine! it’s my own mess anyway, i should be the one to deal with it…”

“it’s fine. i really don’t mind.”

you disappointedly cross out plan b when you get back home.

PLAN C: make jamil feel special!

you know that jamil is overworked. he’s following kalim by the tail everytime while both managing school and his own personal time. and now he’s stuck with dealing you too. sometimes you’d feel really bad because you knew he’s exhausted, but he’d always insist and that he “doesn’t mind”

jamil is kind. even if he has a sharp tongue and tends to keep to himself. he’s wary, but he’s kind. you want to give back to his kindness.

but how…?

“hey jamil!” you yelp in a sea of students. jamil can easily distinguish your voice and swipes his head to look for you. once his eyes land on you, he slowly trudges through the students, meeting you up close.

“you need anything?” he asks, as you look back at him with excited eyes.

“close your eyes.”

“why?”

“just do it.”

“why.”

“oh my god stop being so wary close your damn eyes.”

jamil closes his eyes.

he feels something stick to his forehead.

“what are you doing.”

no answer.

“what are you doing?”

no answer again.

he slowly opens his eyes to see that you’re gone. actually, he knows you’re hiding behind a wall but he’s just gonna pretend you’re not there.

a sticky note is on his forehead. he takes it off to see what it reads.

“you’re working very hard!!! remember to take breaks and drink plenty of water!!! ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ”

jamil smiles.

within the rest of the afternoon, jamil saw these sticky notes everywhere, with forms of encouragements placed in areas that somehow only jamil would manage to catch. sneaky.

however, one of them stood out the most to him

OBJECTIVE: get jamil to like me back!!

PLAN A: show my independence!

(note: just be smart and work on projects early…)

PLAN B: be helpful!!!!!!

(note: NEVER cook without a recipe ever again)

PLAN C: be nice to jamil! make him feel special!

odd. he’s pretty sure that’s not supposed to be here.

he puts the list in his pockets and walks away. he’s gonna pretend he’s never seen the list. he quite likes the attention, and enjoys watching you struggle to impress him, even though you’ve won his affections long ago.

plan c success(?) you can’t find your list anywhere though. oh well.

[wonderwolffs]

Only Have Eyes For You

A/N: Toto only has eyes for you… short and sweet but pure fluff 🥰

Proudly, you’ve stood by Toto’s side for the last three years, a whirlwind romance from girlfriend to fiancée and most recently his wife: Mrs. Wolff. He knew from the minute he laid eyes on you that you were the one.

You couldn’t help but beam with pride every time something or someone, written or verbal made reference to your last name, or being struck in awe by the rock on your finger daily, everything reminding you of the man you were grateful to share your life with. Not just together but as a family unit, being there for his elder children, Benedict and Rosa, whenever they needed you. It was perfect.

Both having high pressured jobs, attending races together was tricky but the ones where you could be in his company for a full weekend, were the best ones, especially on home soil: Austria.

Not loosing sight of each other day after day, entering the paddock, cuddled close and everyone knew you both were the ‘it’ couple, a term you’d gladly accept. Planting kisses to your temple, your head resting on his shoulder, reaching the garage.

“Laters, baby” uttered as a whisper leaving both of your lips, heading your separate ways as Toto and the rest of team prepared for the race. Fifty Shades certainly wasn’t either of your favourites, but the phrase held meaning.

You occupied Toto’s office for a couple of hours until a few minutes before the race, always punctual giving yourself time to head back and set sorted before ‘lights out’. Sitting in the VIP enclosure, sat right across from your man, a mere few feet away is a view you’d never tire of - a very good excuse to admire him from a far, arms crossed, shirt sleeves rolled up showcasing his toned forearms with a few buttons undone while he concentrated on a various screens in-front of him and in your mind, you’d take him right then and there but of course imagination was different from reality and you quickly cleared your throat to pause those wild thoughts for a wee while longer.

Mercedes finished mid way in the points, which was a positive result given an unfortunate start to the season. Toto wrapped his arms around your waist “Just a few press interviews and that’s me finished for the day, darling”.

You smile and look up to him in response “Take all the time you need”.

As he leaves for his final duties, it gave you the perfect moment to tackle your cunning plan. A few weeks prior, you’d enlisted the help of Rosa, Toto’s PA to make sure you had everything you needed. Counting each item, you headed upstairs and into the bathroom. Undressing yourself, then into the appropriate attire. Timing it just right as you see Toto set up for his final interview, it’s go time.

You exit the garage and walk by the media pen, all heads turning when they see you head to toe in Dirndls - traditional Austrian clothes, for women. Toto couldn’t believe it when he looked up as you patiently waited for him beside the team signage - it took everything it his power not to run to you then and there, rather composing himself to complete the final question… quickly.

“So, tell us Toto what does it mean to be here in Austria? Not only is it home for you but we see your wife is here too, which must be lovely”

“It means everything and now I can go home and unwind, maybe even celebrate. As for my brilliant wife, when she’s with me, it’s like my good luck charm and today proved that as we’re in the best form yet”. He says with a light chuckle. “If you’ll excuse me, that’s who I’m going to see right now”.

[ripdragonbeans]

Look At Me /modern!Aegon x Reader

My fic for the HOTD Big Bang! You can follow all the fics @hotd-bigbang

Lovely mood board, banner, and dividers by the beautiful @ewanmitchellcrumbs and my beautiful betaa were @asa-do-your-thing and @khaleesihel

WARNINGS: angst, smut, p in v, she/her pronouns, voyeurism???, oral (f and m receiving), physical violence (reader has some anger [not towards Aegon])

"God fucking dammit," you muttered as you reached out to open the unlocked door to your shared apartment with Aegon.

An unlocked door meant one thing: Aegon brought another girl back for a quick, thoughtless fuck. After countless years of suffering this, starting in your freshman year, one would think it would be easy to ignore without a thought. This night, however, was not the ideal night to handle Aegon’s shenanigans. Work had you tiresomely stretched out, often staying up all night to meet deadlines: an old habit you optimistically thought would cease after college. On top of that, lately it felt unbearing, that the universe seemed to have dismissed you, seizing every opportunity to strip you from an ounce of joy or serenity.

The small yet infuriating incidents from spilling coffee all over yourself or dropping a burger over your work attire, pens running out of ink at times you desperately needed them, your computer randomly restarting for an update, it was everything bundling and boiling up to breaking point… And it felt like tonight was that night.

Taking a deep breath, mentally trying to prepare yourself for the incessant and unfortunate familiar banging of the walls, alongside the mindless moans and grunts, you turned the handle and stepped into the room.

Nothing. There was nothing.

Worry pierced through your head. The door was unlocked so Aegon had to be here, right? You paced across the hall, keeping your steps as silent as possible when you arrived at Aegon's door. Pressing your ear against the door, hoping to idly eavesdrop into a conversation, yet all you could gather was silence from the other side.

"Aegon?" You enquired through the wooden shield of the door. "Aegon, are you in there?" Now ardently knocking on the door a little harder than you should. "Aegon, please! Please tell me -"

The door swung open to reveal a pissed off woman clad only in a matching set of lace underwear.

"Who the fuck is this, Aegon?" She looked you up and down with distaste

Aegon gave a little chuckle. "Don't worry, Sara, that's just my roommate."

You peered past her to see Aegon laying on his bed with only grey sweatpants on. He had a lazy smile on his face and gave you a knowing wink. Blush crept up your neck to your cheeks and you had hoped Aegon hadn’t caught a glimpse at your bashful state. Yet despite the mild distance between you two, you could see him scan your face. His smile grew when he noticed the pink shade across your cheeks. He rather enjoyed making you envious, basking in your natural reactions. All you needed was a little more pressure from him to admit the truth.

Or at least that's what he believed.

"You didn't tell me you had one," she glanced over you once again, "but I guess it's nothing to worry about."

"My roomie is no one, babe, I promise," he said as he gave her a flirtatious wink, a habit he seemed to share with the entire female campus.

"Hmmm…good." She slammed the door leaving you stunned and to some honest degree, honesty, irritated.

No one. He said you were no one, his harsh words echoing in your restless mind.

A tight sensation began to burden your chest, and hot tears threatened to fall, yet you shoved it all down, swallowing the large gulp painfully caught your throat, just like you always did. Consuming the raw heartbreak, you gather yourself and the mental walls, you hid yourself behind in defense, slowly making your return to the living room.

If you went to your room it was a given that you would hear everything that was a realistic and harsh possibility, yet you found your feet moving towards the familiar space. A few minutes passed until you heard a faint moan echoing from the direction of Aegon’s room and the light banging of the bed against the wall. Sighing in defeat, you place your noise canceling headphones on and searching up YouTube to mindlessly watch some video essay explaining this new ARG, Welcome Home. You found that submerging your senses to the very unnerving voice of Wally Darling was a great way to tune out the other background noises..

As much as you loved Aegon, you could never not be annoyed by this grotesque habit of his. Every other week was a new girl to fuck and mess about with, with no care nor implications in the world. None of them ever meant anything to him, you knew that much. No, you could tell. His lilac eyes never lit up when he saw them, his warm smile never reached his eyes, and he never talked about them willingly. The only times he would mention them was whenever he remembered to give you a heads up that he'd have one of them over for the night. You figured if he was inviting them over they'd be decent people, respectable enough to acknowledge your presence. You had hoped they'd be decent because Aegon deserved at least that. Whenever they'd show up you would do your best to be polite and welcoming in a weirdly humourous way, one time you’d even blurted to some poor victim of his hookup "hey you're here to suck my roommate", only to be disregarded and treated like utter shit. It was as though you didn't exist.

More so, you despised the way he acted when one of them came over, putting on some macho facade. Aegon would become old Aegon. The Aegon you initially met, the one who wore the mask of a guy who didn't give a fuck about anyone or anything. He was snarky and cocky, with the only priority of having the highest known body count. Yet you knew better, you saw through that careless exterior. After being paired together on assignment you two started hanging out. About a month or two after the project was assigned, he opened up. He played the part of the college frat fuckboy flawlessly, yet you could see right through that. You did your best to be someone he could trust; you knew there was more to him. Soon enough, your assignment partner became your best friend, your go to person, a person you'd do anything for. And that's how you ended up sharing an apartment with Aegon.

But there was something else.

There was a tug drawing you to him. Whenever you were away from Aegon there was a palpable ache in your heart. Whenever a sorority girl stayed the night your heart shattered, only to be slowly put together the next day by your very own hands. At the time you didn't want to admit it to yourself but eventually you had to.

It wasn't terrible at first. You lived a domestic life with your best friend with no worry in the world. Until he started bringing friends home. Just the occasional random girl moaning in his room once a month or so but now it was every other week. You hate to admit it but it hurt. It hurt so fucking much. You wished it was you in that room but you wouldn't tell him. It would ruin your friendship.

You loved Aegon, not just as a friend but as something more. The only problem was that you loved Aegon so much that you'd want him to be happy, even if it meant seeing him being with other girls. Yet you could never see yourself with someone else, only with him.

After watching every single reaction video to Welcome Home, Sara finally left Aegon's room wearing one of his shirts.

"See you next time, roomie," she said as she gave you a mocking smile before exiting the apartment.

You rolled your eyes as you started to pick up your laptop to move to your room when you heard him enter.

"Done with your fucking for the night?" You refused to look at him.

"Yeah," he leaned against the wall. "Unless you wanna be my round two."

"I'm not interested in sloppy seconds, Aeg. Next time just give me a heads-up, yeah? I don't like coming home to your moans."

"Oh, you know you love coming home to my moans," he teased. He loved riling you up like this.

"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night. Unlike me, who has to endure your headboard slamming against the wall," you bit out.

Aegon was taken aback by your sudden hostility and couldn’t fathom a response. Taking his silence as confirmation that he didn't care, you finished gathering your stuff and headed to your room. But as you passed Aegon, he abruptly stepped in front of you, halting you in your tracks.

"Hey, you're not seriously mad at me, are you?" His brows furrowed worriedly. "It's been a few months of this and now you're getting upset about it?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I've been annoyed with this the whole time." You sighed and rubbed your tiresome eyes. "It wasn't too bad at first, I could ignore it fine but then it kept happening more and more often than favored. Each girl was more terrible to me than the last. And you never do shit about it, you never defend me. You seemed perfectly happy to let these one night stands walk all over your best friend, it seems." You glared at him, "You said I was nothing, Aegon.. I understand you put on this whole facade to get laid but that… that was cold, Aeg… Even for you. You're back to your old habits and it makes me want to run. Anyway," you took a deep breath, wanting this conversation to end, "I'm going to bed, I’m too tired for this right now… Night, Aegon."

He called your name and adamantly tried to follow you. You knew Aegon didn't like it when you were upset with him. You hoped he would try harder to get to you and say you were right and that he needs to look at himself again.

When you turned around to hear his side he shut down. Instead of saying anything he just blankingly stared at you. You could see his poor attempt to gather the courage to talk, yet no words fell from his soft lips. For the first time in weeks you two looked at each other, really looked at each other. The friendship between you has always been strong but you've been feeling it deteriorate, eating away slowly and slowly. You were hoping to see the bit of your best friend in those eyes, yet all you saw was regret.

When you turned to your door you found yourself saying more. "I'm tired, Aegon. I'm tired of this." You put your hand on the doorknob. "I miss you." You entered your room and locked yourself in before he could say anything.

You crawled into your bed and curled up, hugging your knees. Once again your chest tightened and tears gathered in the corner of your eyes. Only this time, you let them fall.

It's been weeks since Aegon invited someone to spend the night and it kind of pissed you off. You lost your cool one night and suddenly he just stops. It felt as though he was babying you, which was the part that was pissing you off. The other part of you felt relieved, hoping everything could go back the way it was before. You wanted goofy, vulnerable Aegon, not the one who was around a few weeks ago.

However, it didn't last. Just when you thought it was over, you came home to find Aegon's face buried between some random girl's legs. She still had her clothes on, as though Aegon couldn't wait to taste her. It was only her blouse unbuttoned and skirt that was bunched up and her legs spread that immediately clued you in to what was happening. Her head was thrown back, eyes were shut, and a silent scream left her body as Aegon brought her to the edge.

Anger bubbled inside you, threatening to pour over. The girl turned her head and smirked at you as though she knew you were there the entire time. She took her time slipping off the counter, fixing her hair into something slightly more put together. Once she painstakingly straightened herself up she fully turned to you and flashed the biggest smile.

"Oh, hey, roomie." It was Sara. "I didn't think I'd see you again. Aegon hasn't hit me up in a month so I thought he was fucking you." She laughed. "Sorry, I'm a little tle out of breath. He really knows what to do, not that you'd know anything about that, right?" She gave you a teasing wink.

All you could do was stare at her.

"I'm just joking, roomie. I know he'd never fuck you. Anyway, I figured I'd pay him a visit just be sure. Glad to see I was wrong."

She finished buttoning her top and smoothed down her skirt as Aegon got up. Sara quickly turned and pulled him into a mockingly deep kiss. You rolled your eyes when you spotted Aegon flexing his hands trying not to touch her. You walked in on him eating her out. His attempt to not touch her in front of you was an insult. You looked back at his face and saw his eyes glued on you while Sara tried to stick her tongue in his mouth. You've never seen him so uncomfortable with someone else like this. He looked almost apologetic yet he did nothing to move away from her. Sara finally pulled away, but not before grabbing one of Aegon's hands to run over her chest.

Sara turned back to you. "Same time next week? Maybe we'll try it in your bed, roomie. Gotta keep it exciting."

She gave you a demeaning wink before bending down to pick up her purse, obviously giving you a view of her ass. You looked over at Aegon, fuming, but only saw him trying, and failing, not to gawk at her backside. As though he felt your stare, his eyes shot to you and immediately looked ashamed. Sara was taking her sweet time getting up and gathering her things, steadily coaxing your anger with little comments here and there about how much she looks forward to next time, what they should try out, and what she wanted to do again. But it was her last comment that made you explode.

"You should move in with me, Aeg. You'll get sick of her sooner or later. You know I'm better for you anyway. She's no one worth remembering and obviously does nothing for -"

"Get. The. Fuck. Out," you growled.

Sara slowly turned to you and pursed her lips in mock sympathy. "Aw, is the little roomie jealous? Don't worry, I'm sure you'll find someone desperate enough to fuck you."

Red flooded your vision as everything became blurry. You didn't have control over your actions anymore. You launched yourself at Sara with your hands curved into claws. She had no time to move before you tackled her down and dragged your nails across her face. As she screamed you pulled her hair to force her to look you in the eye.

There weren't any deep scratches on her but you drew blood. Sick pride washed over you when you looked at her. A mix of eyeliner, tears, and the slightest tint of blood splotted across her face.

"You can dismiss my existence and waltz around like you own the place but let me make something clear," you whispered. "You will never call me desperate, you will never call me being worthless, and you will never force me out of my home. This is my place, not yours. It never was and it never will be."

You took a deep breath before pulling her back up. Sara was standing with your hand still gripping her hair.

You made sure your next words burned.

"You will never have a place in Aegon's heart. I know you think I believed your smug confidence and the terribly misplaced belief that you were his but you were wrong. Not for one second have I ever believed that Aegon would actually love you. You want me to be nothing to him but that will never happen. You can't sleep your way to Aegon, you only think you can. The truth is that you know nothing about him. But I do. I'm the one who has Aegon's heart, not you."

Sara whimpered when you tugged on her hair.

"Now," you breathed, "you're gonna get the fuck out of here and never come back. Do you understand?"

Sara broke her terrified stare from you to a pleading one to Aegon. "Aegon, you know I'm better for you. She's nothing compared to me. You said it yourself, she's nothing."

Aegon didn't try to comfort her. He looked straight at her without any trace of emotion.

"I think it's time for you to leave, Sara."

"Seriously?!"

"You were a mistake. Every girl was."

You lips pressed into a tight smile as you dragged Sara, still by her hair, to the door. "If I see you here again," you growled, "I will do more than simply scratch your face." You threw her out with your final words and slammed the door shut.

Tension engulfed the room. It was as though The red in your eyes slowly faded away until your head cleared up. All you could do was stand there. You didn't realize how fast your heart has been beating, how hard you've been breathing, until you came back to reality. What you just did felt like a dream. There was no thinking involved, only instinct and anger.

Aegon coughed, breaking the silence. "Hey, so, um," he scratched the back of his neck. "I guess -"

"Don't." You turned to face him. "I'm going to take a shower, grab some whiskey, and crash in my bed. Maybe we'll talk later. Or maybe we can just forget this happened," you let out a mirthless laugh, "and you can go back to fucking someone new every week."

"Wait, hold up, we need to -"

You held a hand up. "Stop, Aegon, please. I said a lot of things in the heat of the moment. Don't worry about me."

It's been two weeks since you kicked Sara out, which meant that it's been two weeks since you blew up in front of him. Everything you said was true, whether or not Aegon wanted to believe it. If he was too much of a coward to admit anything then so be it. But since then he's been almost non-existent. He was never in the apartment when you were and if he was he kept his door closed. As much as you wanted to check in on him you also wanted to hold your ground. What he did was stupid and hurt like hell.

After working an exhausting ten hour shift, you dragged yourself into the apartment. The lights were off but you could see a figure sitting on the couch and hear a dull thump from something hitting the table. You creeped closer to get a close look at them.

It was Aegon.

He was wallowing in his own self pity, drinking as much as he could. There were two empty bottles of beer on the table. A third half-empty bottle was in his hand. Wearing worn out black sweatpants and a ratty hoodie, Aegon took a swig before muttering some curses to himself. As you got closer to him you could smell the alcohol.

"What a fucking idiot," he laughed. Aegon took another swig of whatever bottle he had in his hand and promptly slammed it down.

You wanted to keep your mouth shut. You knew it would be better to walk away but it's been so long since you've talked that your resolve broke.

"You better not be talking about me," you said when you slipped into a spot next to him.

"Fucking hell," he flinched, spilling the contents of his drink. "Great, now it's on the fucking floor. Thanks." He threw a pillow on top of the mess figuring it would be better than nothing.

The two of you sat there in taut silence. Aegon didn't even reach for another drink. You were simply sitting in the quiet darkness together. You were about to break it when he spoke up first.

"I fucked up."

You let out a cold laugh. "Yeah, you really did."

He turned to look at you. Even in the dark you could see his eyes were a bit bloodshot. "I'm fucking trying, okay?" He rubbed his face. "No, you know what, forget it." Forgetting the bottle was empty, he picked it up to drink. He muttered a curse before setting it back down.

He got up to leave but you grabbed his hand before he could go any further. It was as though time was frozen. The second you took it everything became still. Aegon's hand was limp but you gave it a small squeeze encouraging him to stay.

"We need to talk about this. I know I've been avoiding it but you've been avoiding it, too. Hell, you've been avoiding me, Aeg."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before sitting back down.

"What do you want to talk about? How you went fucking ballistic? How you basically confessed your love for me?"

"Yes. All of that."

He nodded his head, asking you to go on.

"You changed so much, Aeg, and I didn't know what to do. When we first moved in you were my goofy best friend. You know, the one I tell everything to. Then one day it's like back at university before we met. You starting bringing in girl after girl to fuck and it just drove me up a wall. What the fuck happened?"

"What happened was my dad dying." He picked up an unopened bottle of beer and took a swig.

Your eyes widened at the confession. "Your dad died so you thought fucking someone new would help?"

"No - I mean yes, but it was more than that."

"It was more than that? I know you didn't give a shit about any of them."

He yanked his hand away. "Maybe not, but they have a shit about me!" He exploded.

"Excuse me?" You dangerously whispered. That has got to be utter bullshit, you thought.

"Sure, it may have only been to fuck me but it was something!"

"Just because they fuck you doesn't mean they care!" You jumped up. "They didn't fucking care but I did!" You pressed a finger to his chest. "I always have and I always will. Don't you fucking get it? I've been here since the beginning and you try to blame me for your dumb ass actions?"

Aegon grabbed your hand and pulled you close. "If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have to distract myself."

"Distract yourself? Did the death of your dad really fuck you up that bad? I know he didn't give a shit and you didn't either. Don't pretend to be so beat up over it." You tried to pull away but he held you tight.

"It fucked me up because it made me realize that I can somehow be better than my dad by caring about people."

You laughed. "And you care about every single girl you've fucked. Absolutely believable, Aeg."

He let go of you, almost pushing you away.

He dropped his head before speaking. "You said you cared. If you cared you would've been able to see the change."

You were gentle with your next words, "I can't read your mind. Just because I know you so well doesn't mean I can figure out every emotion you have."

Silence.

"Aeg, just tell me what's going on, please."

Still refusing to look at you, he dropped back to the couch. "I fell in love with you, that's what happened. I don't know when but I did. For some godforsaken reason my dad dying set off everything. All I could do was ignore it and I did that by taking someone to bed almost every night." He brought the bottle up to his lips but didn't drink anything.

You sat down next to him.

You didn't want to believe him.

"I know you've been drinking all night. You're just saying things."

He scoffed and chugged the rest of the beer. "Just because I've been drinking all night doesn't mean I don't know what I'm saying."

"Okay, fine. Let's assume everything you've told me is true. You may love me but nothing more than a friend, right?"

"No, that's not true."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

He locked eyes with you. "I wanted to push you."

"Push me? What did you need to push me for?" You questioned. "Besides, I think you pushed me pretty good when I attacked Sara."

"I pushed you too hard, I know that now. I did it because I wanted to get you closer to me. I wanted you jealous."

"First off, that's a fucking stupid plan. Second, I'm already close to you. Or at least was," you murmured the last part.

Aegon rubbed his eyes in frustration. "You don't get it. You're so fucking smart but you don't get it!"

"What don't I get?" You challenged.

"You don't get that I wanted you to make the first move!" He settled down before continuing. "I see the way you look at me. I see your reactions. I know you want more. But for once I needed you to make the first move. If you wanted me it had to be on your terms." He took a deep breath. "And you're right. I didn't give a shit about the girls I fucked. The only one I give a shit about is you. But when you didn't do anything I did what I know best. I didn't want to distract myself from my dad's death. Again, something you were right about. I was distracting myself from you."

You searched his eyes for any trace of dishonesty but didn't find any. "If you had said something I would've said yes." You reached out for his hand. "What you did was stupid but…I get it. Kinda. You were scared."

"Yeah, I was scared."

You scooted close to him. "Then take the leap." You were gentle with your words.

Aegon pulled you in and lowered his head to yours. "I don't want to fuck it up." His lips brushed against yours.

"So don't." You pressed your forehead against his.

For a few moments that's how you stayed. It was just you and Aegon. When you separated you gave him a soft smile. His eyes darted to your lips and you took your chance. You softly brushed your lips against his before giving him a true kiss.

Your eyes fluttered close. His lips were soft and joined you in tandem. It wasn't rough. The kiss was pure love. Emotions poured into the kiss. He pulled you on top of his lap before deepening the kiss. You smiled against him as you moved your hands up his arms and to his hair.

More. You wanted more.

You nipped at his bottom lip and he gladly opened up. When you slid your tongue in he snaked one arm around you right while the other ran up your sides. His arousal was beginning to prod against you and it spurred you on even more. You slowly rocked your hips against him.

"Fuck," he pulled away and buried his face in your neck. He kissed his way up and nipped at your ear. "You are so much better than the others."

"Don't talk about them. Look at me," you commanded.

Aegon looked up at you with big eyes.

"Take me to your room and I'll show you exactly what you missed out on."

He pushed you off his lap only to grab your wrist and practically run to his room. But before he could open the door you pulled him back and trapped him with one arm against the wall. You gave him a mischievous smile before dragging your hand down his body and to his hard cock. He tried to suppress a groan when you began palming him over his pants.

"Let it out, babe. I want to hear every sound you make."

You took pity on him when you could feel his cock getting harder. When you pulled your hand away he couldn't help but groan at the loss of contact.

"This is what happens when you play with me," you smirked.

Releasing him from the wall you let him take you into his room. Immediately you grabbed him by his hoodie to pull him down to you to crash your lips against his. Gone were the soft kisses. Now it was pure passion and lust.

You moved one hand to grab his and the other to place on his chest. As soon as you pushed him to the edge of the bed you took a step back.

"Strip for me," you commanded.

Aegon was quick to rid himself of his hoodie and sweatpants. When he went to pull down his underwear you stopped him.

"Let me do this." You came up to him and lowered yourself to your knees as you slid his briefs down.

His cock was at full attention, red and angry. You licked your lips and cupped his balls, slowly massaging them. He threw his head back.

"No, no. Look at me. I want you to watch me take you in."

All he could do was bring his head back and nod.

You moved your hand from his balls to his cock and slowly worked him. Leaning in to the tip you gave him small kitten licks. Once you got him breathing heavier you took all of him in your mouth. Never did you look away from him. You slowly began bobbing your head back and forth, loving the feel of him in you. When you decided to push him a little more with a hum around the cock he twitched. You hummed once again and brought your hand to his balls.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck, I'm gonna cum," he breathed.

As soon as he said that you released him with an obscene pop. Aegon whined when he left your warm mouth.

"Don't worry, there's more. Now, lay back. No touching."

He nodded his head.

"I need to hear you say it."

He gulped. "I promise I won't touch myself."

"Good boy," you smiled.

You ran your hands over your tits before reaching down to brush yourself over your clothes. You brought your hands up to slowly take off your top. Once again you ran your hands over your tits, this time playing with your nipples through your bra.You looked over at Aegon to see him grasping the sheets and slowly rolling his hips into nothing.

"Are you so desperate that you have to hump the air? Aw, poor baby," you taunted. You reached down to the top of your pants and pulled it down. "This is a better view, isn't it?"

You walked to the bed and sat on your haunches between his legs.

"Be a dear and take off my bra for me."

Aegon sat up and ran his hands over your breasts and stopped to play with your hardened peaks before unclasping the bra and throwing it across the room.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," you chided. "That wasn't nice. I guess I have to punish you now. Lay flat on your back." You could feel yourself get wetter telling him what to do.

He did as he was told, shaking with anticipation.

You climbed up his body to his face and slowly lowered yourself down.

"I want you to make me cum. You deserve to have a mess on your face."

He didn't need to be told twice. He pushed your panties to the side and licked a strip up your folds. He moaned and grabbed your thighs to keep you steady. He left open kisses all over your pussy. A coil began to tighten in your stomach.

"Fuck, babe. You're so good at eating my pussy. Do I taste good?"

You heard a muffled yes and smiled to yourself.

He moved from your folds to your clit. You rolled your hips against his face as he sucked and licked your bud. Every swipe of his tongue had you throwing your head back in bliss. It was almost too much but he didn't stop. He was bringing you closer and closer to the edge. Aegon moved away from your clit only to replace it with his thumb. He rubbed lazy circles as he dipped his tongue into your dripping cunt. He sped up his fucking and pressed on your clit sending you over the edge. The coil in your stomach released as you made a mess on his face.

You moved off his face. "What a good boy," you praised. "I think it's time for a reward."

You lowered yourself down his body. Wrapping a hand around his cock you worked him up to full hardness again. You gave him a few licks before taking the head in you mouth and sucking just a tiny bit. It was enough to make him moan and buck his hips up ever so slightly.

Letting go of him you chuckled when you moved to straddle him and lined up his cock with your pussy.

"Are you ready for me to ride you?"

"Yes, yes please."

"Good."

You slipped off your panties and let the drop next to the bed before sinking down on his cock. The stretch had you moaning, feeling every inch of him inside you completely. The way he filled you couldn't be described coherently. You began to move your hips slowly, taunting him. Aegon whimpered as he fought the urge to grab your waist

You leaned down to whisper in his ear. "You can touch me," you tell him. "I want you to touch me."

That was all he needed to let go of the sheets and attack your body with his hands. He ran over every single curve trying to commit them to memory. You swore you saw his mouth water when he reached up to play with your tits. You leaned down to give him better access. Immediately he took a nipple in his mouth and swirled his tongue around it.

You could feel that coil tighten again. Your hips rocked against him when he brought one hand to your clit. You had no choice but to sit up again and bounce on his cock.

"Holy fuck yes! Please, please, please, Aegon! Gods, you're so good at fucking me!"

He let out a deep groan as he pushed his hips up even higher. "You're tightening around me - oh, gods - you're gonna make me cum inside you," he moaned. His hands moved to your hips helping you ride him but he was getting sloppy.

"Do it." You were clenching around him tighter than you ever thought was possible.

"Do it, Aegon. Cum for me."

The thrusts became desperate and wild. You and Aegon let out a scream as you came together. You felt him empty himself inside you. His cock twitched weakly as you tried to control your collapse on him. He wrapped his arms around you.

"Can we stay like this?" He asked, his cock still inside you.

"Yes, of course." You turned your head and kissed his cheek. "I want this. I want you, Aegon."

"I know."

A few minutes passed before you moved off of him. You felt empty without him inside you but you got up anyway and kneeled on the floor so you head was by his. You ran a hand through his hair and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"Let me clean you up, babe," you whispered.

"Okay." He reached over to cup your face and traced a small circle on your cheek.

You got up to go to the bathroom to clean yourself up then returned with a wet towel. Giving him a small smile, you ran the towel over his body. You were extra careful around his lower regions knowing he was still sensitive. When you finished cleaning him you slipped yourself into his arms.

"Look at me, Aegon." You said. "You're not gonna fuck this up."

"I don't want to hurt you." His eyes filled with worry.

"We are not going to fuck it up," you paused. "I love you, too. Always have and always will."

[eeechooo]

She Gets Me

Fandom : Lockwood & Co

Pairing : Reader x George Karim

Request : @thestrangerblog

George has a pen pal (Reader) with whom he feels a deep connection, sharing similar interests and ways of thinking. They decide to finally meet in person for a casual picnic. As George gets ready in his usual casual clothes, Lockwood and Holly question his outfit, suggesting he should dress to impress. George firmly replies, "That’s how I am. Take it or leave it."

You’d been counting down the days. After months of exchanging letters filled with theories about ghostly phenomena, discussions on obscure historical facts, and shared frustrations about the peacock types in your respective fields, you were finally going to meet George in person. The picnic was your idea—a casual, no-pressure setting where you could both be yourselves. You had carefully chosen a spot in the park, a place with a mix of sun and shade, where the two of you could talk for hours without interruption.

Meanwhile, at 35 Portland Row, George was in his room, staring at his open wardrobe. He rifled through his clothes, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Should he go for something a bit more polished? Maybe a shirt without holes? No, he decided, shaking his head. He pulled out his favourite band T-shirt, one that had seen countless adventures and cases. It was soft, comfortable, and familiar—much like how he hoped the meeting with you would feel. He paired it with his trusty worn jeans, the ones that fit just right.

As he glanced at himself in the mirror, he ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to tame it but ultimately giving up. It sprang back to its usual dishevelled state. George nodded to himself, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. This was him, and he wanted you to meet the real George.

Downstairs, Lockwood and Holly were waiting, their curiosity barely contained. Lockwood, with his usual impeccable style, crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow as George descended the stairs.

‘You’re going like this?’ Lockwood asked, his tone a mix of disbelief and amusement.

George paused on the last step, looking down at his outfit, then back up at Lockwood. ‘Yeah, why not?’ he replied, shrugging. ‘It’s a picnic, not a gala.’

Holly, always the picture of grace and fashion, tilted her head and scanned George’s attire critically. ‘A picnic, George? Don’t you want to make a good impression?’

George rolled his eyes, feeling a mix of irritation and amusement. ‘I’m meeting someone who already knows me, Holly. They’ve read my letters, they know my thoughts. If they don’t like me for who I am, then what’s the point?’

Lockwood and Holly exchanged a glance. Lockwood’s stern expression softened slightly. ‘Just make sure you bring back some good stories,’ he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Holly sighed but smiled warmly. ‘Fine, but at least comb your hair a bit more.’

George laughed, running his fingers through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to neaten it. ‘Happy now?’ he asked with a grin.

‘Close enough,’ Holly replied with a chuckle.

As George walked out the door, he felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. He was about to meet someone who had become a significant part of his life through letters. Someone who understood his passions and frustrations. He hoped the reality would match the connection they had built on paper. Who understood him.

You arrived at the park a little early, your heart racing with anticipation. You chose a spot under a large oak tree, spreading out the picnic blanket and arranging the food with meticulous care. The sun bathed everything in a warm glow, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves above, creating a peaceful atmosphere.

As you adjusted the layout, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nerves. You wondered if George would be the same in person as he was in his letters—thoughtful, engaging, and deeply passionate about the supernatural.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. You looked up and saw George, exactly as you had imagined him: dishevelled hair, casual clothes, and a warm, genuine smile.

‘Hey,’ he greeted, his voice as familiar as his written words.

‘George!’ you exclaimed, standing up to meet him. ‘It’s so great to finally meet you in person.’

He smiled back, a bit shyly. ‘You too.’

You both settled down on the blanket, and the initial awkwardness quickly dissolved as you began to talk. The conversation flowed naturally, just like in your letters. You discussed the latest happenings in your agencies, shared your most recent discoveries, and vented about the superficial people you had to deal with in your line of work.

‘I can’t stand those types at Rotwell,’ you said, rolling your eyes. ‘You know, the ones who think a charming smile and a nice suit make them experts.’

George laughed heartily, nodding in agreement. ‘Tell me about it. They’re more interested in networking than actual research. It’s infuriating. Holly used to work with them, the lunatic.’

You felt a deep sense of camaraderie. Here was someone who truly understood your frustrations and shared your passion for uncovering the truth about the supernatural. That's exactly what you needed and wanted.

As the afternoon wore on, George began to talk about his latest project—a discovery he had made about the origins of a particularly aggressive Type Two. His eyes lit up with excitement as he described the breakthrough, his hands animatedly sketching out the details on a napkin.

‘And the best part?’ he said, leaning in closer. ‘It ties back to an old Persian legend my grandmother used to tell me. I’ve been researching it for months, and I finally made the connection.’

You listened intently, captivated by his enthusiasm and depth of knowledge. It was clear how much he loved what he did, and it made you appreciate him even more.

As the conversation shifted, George started talking about his passion for cooking, particularly Persian dishes. He recounted stories of his grandmother’s recipes, describing the rich, aromatic flavours with a reverence that made your mouth water. You remembered him writing about it, but now you could smell the faint scent of saffron on him, making it real.

‘You’ll have to try my tahdig sometime,’ he said with a grin. ‘It’s a crispy rice dish, and I’ve perfected the recipe over the years.’

You smiled, feeling a warm connection with him. ‘I’d love that. It sounds delicious.’

The sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the park. You both fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the peacefulness of the moment. The fading light painted a serene picture around you, enhancing the sense of intimacy between you—a shared understanding and mutual respect that went beyond words.

George glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. ‘This has been really great,’ he said quietly.

You nodded, feeling a rush of warmth. ‘It really has.’

As the sky turned shades of orange and pink, you knew that this meeting was just the beginning. There was so much more to explore together—more conversations, more shared moments, and perhaps even more Persian dishes to taste.

Back at 35 Portland Row, Lockwood and Holly were waiting eagerly for George’s return. They sat in the cosy library, Holly flipping through a book while Lockwood sipped on a cup of tea, both stealing glances at the clock every few minutes.

Finally, they heard the door open and George’s footsteps approaching. Lockwood set down his cup, his expression curious yet guarded. Holly closed her book gently, her eyes bright with anticipation.

‘Well?’ Lockwood prompted as George entered the room, a contented smile playing on his lips.

George grinned, the glow of satisfaction evident in his eyes. ‘It was amazing,’ he began, his voice filled with excitement. ‘We talked for hours. She’s exactly as I imagined—smart, funny, and so easy to talk to. We just clicked.’

Lockwood raised an eyebrow, his demeanour cautious. ‘And did you discuss any sensitive matters?’

George’s smile faltered slightly. He knew exactly what Lockwood was referring to—Joplin, the painful reminder of the dangers of revealing too much to those outside the agency. Too much, about the Problem, about him.

‘Nothing too sensitive,’ George assured him quickly, his tone earnest. ‘Just general discussions about work, our interests... you know.’

Holly’s eyes softened with understanding as she exchanged a glance with Lockwood. They both knew how cautious they had to be, especially after what happened with Pamela. Lockwood leaned forward in his chair, his expression serious yet supportive.

‘We’re glad to hear it went well,’ Lockwood said genuinely, reaching out to give George a pat on the back.

‘Yeah,’ Holly agreed, her voice gentle. ‘Sounds like you found someone who appreciates the real you.’

George nodded, feeling a sense of contentment settle over him. ‘I think I have,’ he replied softly, grateful for their concern yet eager to protect this new connection he had forged.

He knew he had to tread carefully, to not let his guard down completely. But in that moment, surrounded by his trusted friends who had become like family, George felt a rare sense of hope—that maybe, just maybe, this time things could be different.

After the first picnic with George, you returned home feeling a mixture of exhilaration and contentment. As you stepped into your shared apartment, your roommate greeted you with a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling mischievously over the rim of her teacup.

‘Well, well, well,’ she teased playfully. ‘How was your date?’

You chuckled, setting down your bag and joining her at the kitchen table. ‘It wasn’t a date,’ you clarified with a grin. ‘Just a picnic. But it was amazing. George is exactly as I imagined him—smart, funny, and so easy to talk to.’

Your roommate raised an eyebrow knowingly. ‘Sounds like a date to me,’ she quipped, taking another sip of her tea.

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. ‘Okay, maybe it felt a little bit like a date,’ you admitted, feeling a blush creep into your cheeks.

She leaned forward, curiosity evident in her expression. ‘So, are you going to see him again?’

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. ‘I hope so. We really clicked.’

She grinned, setting her teacup down with a satisfied nod. ‘I’m happy for you. It’s about time you met someone who gets you.’

You felt a rush of warmth at her words. It was comforting to have someone who understood you so well, who supported your happiness without hesitation.

‘Yeah,’ you replied softly, gratitude filling your voice. ‘Me too.’

As you recounted the highlights of the picnic—George’s stories, his passion for the supernatural, and even his talent for cooking—your roommate listened attentively, sharing in your excitement and offering words of encouragement.

By the end of the conversation, you couldn't help but feel even more certain about the connection you had with George. And as you settled into bed that night, thoughts of future picnics and conversations danced through your mind, filling you with anticipation for what was to come.

Days turned into weeks, and George found himself eagerly anticipating each interaction with you. Whether it was meeting for coffee after work or exchanging late-night messages about the latest supernatural phenomena, every moment spent together deepened your connection.

Lockwood and Holly watched with cautious optimism as George navigated this new friendship. They could see how much George valued you, how your presence brought a new lightness to his demeanour. And while they remained vigilant, they couldn’t deny the genuine joy they saw in George’s eyes. After a month of bright eyes from their coworker and best friend with your name always on his lips, Lucy, Lockwood, and Holly decided that, perhaps, they could trust you.

As weeks passed, the bond between you and George continued to grow stronger. Every meeting brought new conversations, shared laughter, and a deepening understanding of each other's passions and quirks. Lockwood, Lucy, and Holly observed with cautious optimism, seeing how much joy you brought into George's life and how well you fit there, with him.

One evening, George received a rather unexpected invitation from Lockwood. ‘How about dinner at 35 Portland Row tomorrow night?’ Lockwood suggested "casually". ‘I thought it would be nice for all of us to spend some time together.’

George, surprised yet pleased, agreed. He relayed the invitation to you, and you gladly accepted, feeling both nervous and excited at the prospect of spending more time with George outside of your usual hangouts.

The next evening, you arrived at 35 Portland Row, the unfamiliar house exuding an air of mystery and warmth. You opted for a casual outfit—a comfortable jumper and jeans—but as soon as you stepped inside, Holly and Lucy greeted you with laughter.

‘Oh, you look absolutely adorable!’ Holly exclaimed, her eyes twinkling without an ounce of malice.

Lucy smiled warmly. ‘It's nice to see someone not dressed to impress for once.’

You chuckled, feeling immediately at ease with their playful banter. Lockwood appeared from the study, a gracious smile on his face as he welcomed you.

‘Welcome, please make yourself at home,’ Lockwood said, gesturing towards the dining room where the table was set for dinner.

The evening flowed smoothly as everyone settled in. Lockwood proved to be a gracious host, regaling you with stories of their recent cases and engaging you in lively discussions about supernatural phenomena. You found yourself drawn into the conversation, sharing your own insights and experiences, feeling a sense of belonging among George's friends.

During dinner, you found yourself seated next to George. He smiled warmly at you, his eyes reflecting the same joy and comfort you felt. As you talked, you realised how much you shared in common—not just your interests in the supernatural, but your values and perspectives on life itself.

‘I'm glad you're here,’ George whispered to you softly as you savoured his exquisite cooking.

‘Me too,’ you replied with a genuine smile, feeling a warmth spreading through your heart.

Lockwood and Lucy watched the interaction with subtle approval, exchanging knowing glances. After dinner, as you helped clear the table, Lockwood approached George discreetly.

‘I trust your judgment, George,’ Lockwood murmured, his voice low but earnest. ‘Both in your work and in your... friendships.’

George met Lockwood's gaze, a sense of gratitude and responsibility settling over him. ‘Thank you, Lockwood,’ he replied quietly. ‘I appreciate that.’

Lockwood nodded, his expression serious yet supportive. ‘You've both earned it,’ he added before returning to help Holly and Lucy with the dishes.

As you said your goodbyes later that evening, you felt a renewed sense of connection with George and his friends. And as you walked away from 35 Portland Row, you knew that you were becoming a part of something special, something that felt like home.

I AM SO LATE LMAODOSO HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY!!! I hope it was good, my laptop has been annoying the whole time I couldn't really get IN you know.

I love how george is just being like yes I'm gonna meet her and it's either she likes me or she can go home

I'm trying to get back to writing, the exams killed me but it's okay I'll fight back SO IF YOU WANT TO MAKE ANY REQUEST IT'S OPEN

Taglist :

@cielooci @neewtmas @35-portlandxrow

[the5thcellar]

it's a theory but I believe that the mirror scene takes place AFTER the lady whistledown reveal as a metaphor for "baring it all" - they're finally revealing their true selves to each other. it's the final stage of their bildungsroman. pen's arc reveals the complexity of individualism and womanhood - especially in the patriarchal society of the regency era. her character is largely at odds with what society expects a woman to be - and in fact her actions are coded as 'masculine' - she reads, she writes, she WORKS. meanwhile colin's arc is a gendered parallel of how he's coping with the expectations of what being a 'man' means. his actions are therefore coded as 'feminine' - the yearning, the petty jealousy, the desire for emotional intimacy. at the same time, he's learning that penelope has different shades to her and is not some hapless innocent - she is a wallflower forged in diamond and steel, not a wilting waif who wastes away under pressure.

in a sense I think she inspires HIM to be who he truly wants to be in the end.

they're both learning how to come to terms with their roles in the world - shaking off the yoke of societal expectations while finding a kindred spirit in each other.

"let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments; love is not love which alters when it alteration finds / or bends with the remover to remove"

[letsgetrowdy43]

My sweet boy ☆—

Request: 🐞Warren gets his first girlfriend and Honey gets emotional cause her baby is growing up.

Picture this!! Warren x Black Cat character

Au Masterlist!!

Growing up Warren was always a shy boy. He was popular in the sense that he was extremely talented in his sport, the one that his father and uncles were also stars in, and the one that had news outlets buzzing about him and the generational talent they claimed him to be. But no news article or tabloid would ever capture just how humble and timid he was.

So when Warren Hughes eventually brought home a girl, everyone within the Hughes' family and friends was shocked.

The girl in question was Marissa, who happened to be so far away from Warren's usual world, but she was perfect for him. She held little to no knowledge about the hockey world, which was something Warren almost preferred, no pressure, no expectation, just her poetry books and detective fiction. Her mother was a professor at UBC, head of the English facility, specializing in nineteenth-century literature, leading Marissa to her love of Poe's work. And she, well she was just some literature junkie who craved a fiction-like love. which she received from one of the purest hearts in her lifetime.

Marissa had always been the pinnacle of his desires, he'd be lying if he said that he hadn't pined after her for the better half of middle school and high school. Something about her awkwardly blunt demeanour, and warm smile made him forget his name, made him forget the entire English language in fact.

Warren asked her out in their shared bio class, his face a very cute shade of pink as he stuttered about wanting to take her out for coffee. Her eyes went wide at his invitation, she was weird, she was deliberately known as the weird girl in their graduating class so to Marissa she was either living a dream or he was trying to set her up for some sick joke.

If you had told her within the next month she would've fallen absolutely head over heels for him, she would've said that you were lying, but it was true. Warren Hughes, the infamous hockey himbo, was the easiest person to fall in love with. In the span of the first month, she had met his family, kissed him at the fair, and somehow convinced him to try reading classics.

He prom-proposed to her in April of that year, nothing spectacular just a bouquet of tulips and a few shared kisses as they drove around the coast of Vancouver in her mom's car. Warren was her passenger Princess, and she was the keeper of his heart, it was perfect in the ways that they were total opposites but so right for each other all at the same time. It was like from pen to paper, and then to real life, a portrayal of the purest fictional love.

Honey loved Marissa, she was always respectful, and a pleasant guest in the house, but most importantly she had brought a little more love into Warren's life. It had been his draft year, and just like most boys who have the spotlight turned on them, Warren was seemingly losing a sense of his being within the media and the articles. But Marissa changed that, and Honey quite literally loved her for that.

The woman stood in the living room, tears in her eyes as she fixed her son's tie, “it's almost as if you do this for every game day,” she teased as her hands flattened out the collar of his dress shirt. “I said I could do it, just want it to be perfect,” he mumbled as she smiled, her hands cupping her son's face as she scrunched up his face. "for my health, please stop growing," she said, voice growing weaker as the tears started, Quinn and Hayden came into the room, all dressed up and ready for the picture portion of the night.

"When did Marissa's family say that they would be here?" Quinn asked as Honey found her at her husband's side, trying to dry her tears as she watched her once baby fix his styled hair. He looked down at his phone, "They should be here any minute," he shrugged before a quiet knock on the door made him freeze, cheeks blazing red as the anxiety of prom night kicked in.

Honey opened the door with a beaming smile, "perfect timing!" she said pulling Marissa's mother into a hug as she ushered the young girl's family into the house.

Marissa looked beautiful, there were far better words to put just how good she looked, but Warren couldn't think of a single one. She wore a pale yellow dress, lace and tool decorating the skirt and shaping her hips, showing just enough cleavage to seem modest but still teasing what she had. Her hair fell so perfectly just above her shoulder, bangs styled the usual way but were accentuated with the metal headband she wore, little stars forming a crown on her head as she smiled at her boyfriend whose face lit up like a candle.

"Hi," she whispered from the other side of the door frame, Warren's body blocking her from entering the house, stuck in an anxious trance that made her stomach roll with nerves, "you okay?" He shook his head, riding himself off the dazed expression and smiling shyly, "You look perfect," he mumbled making her smirk. "Don't look so bad yourself handsome," she said with some more confidence, raising up on her tiptoes to press and gloss-covered kiss to his cheek, making his face blush a much deeper red.

He took her by the hand and led her into the living room where the two families waited for them. A gasp left Honey's lips as she saw them both, tears in her eyes as she watched Warren spin the girl around, his cheeks rosy and face broken out into a grin as his girlfriend hugged herself closer to his side. The two of them grew anxious under their families' stares as both dads tried to hurry up the picture taking process and getting 'the show on the road, so they could be early for the grand march portion of the night.

"Quinn," Honey whispered through her smile, "look how happy our baby is, let him have a moment," she said quietly before pressing a kiss to her husband's cheek. "Remember when we were that young," he grinned thinking back to their prom when Honey spent months being mad at him. Even though they weren't together at the time, he'd promised to take her to prom if neither of them were in relationships, the time came and he never asked, just assuming they were going together. She spent weeks mad that he had forgotten about her, until the night before when he asked what time she wanted to be picked up. "Yeah when you forgot to ask me to prom," she laughed as his lips formed a straight line. "I wasn't the brightest," he shrugged making his wife laugh, thinking about the very couple-looking prom photos that hung in her living room for years, constant teasing from their sibling about how in love they looked even with the lack of established relationship.

They took photos out by the trees in their front yards, tiny pink petals blossoming on the branches as each family took photos with their respective child and then the two of them taking photos together. Honey held it together for all of her photos and broke the moment Warren dipped Marissa as she placed a kiss on his cheek for a photo.

Her hand covered her mouth to muffle her cries as she leaned against Quinn, "thought you said you weren't gonna cry, only during the grad ceremony," the man mused as she nudged Quinn's side. "Shut up, our baby is grown and in love, I hate it," she sniffed, "remember when took him home from the hospital and our moms were gushing over how much he looked like you? I miss him being that small," she whispered as Quinn laughed and wrapped his arm around her, hugging her into his side as she wiped the tears. "I do too, but now he's a whole person, and we helped shape him into that person" he grinned as Warren shook Marissa's father's hand, and was pulled into a hug by her mother, "and I'd say we did a pretty good job."

Warren placed a kiss on Marissa's cheek as she went to talk to her family and Warren went to his. "Is it okay if I drive my truck to the school, therefore we don't have to rely on you guys to pick us up?" Honey nodded and looked at Quinn. "You're not drinking if you drive?" "Of course not," he shrugged, "We don't know if we are even going to the grad party but if we do and I drive I won't drink, and if I want to I will call one of you," Quinn smiled and nodded as he squeezed his son's shoulder. "Deal, now go have fun," he approved with a grin as Warren ran into the house to grab his keys.

Quinn grinned at Honey, "I'd say we did an amazing job," he bragged causing Honey to cry even more. "Please stop talking Q," she groaned as she led the way to their car, saying their goodbyes to Marissa's family as they got into the van. They watched as Warren opened the passenger side door for the young girl who blushed at his actions, got into his car and drove off in the direction of the school.

Honey couldn't stop the growing, it was inevitable, but she could join along for the ride, watching as her son turned from one of the sweetest boys into a caring man.

-

-

-

[chubs-deuce]

Hola. Me gusta como dibujas y quería preguntarte, ¿qué pinceles usas? Y porque los elegiste.

Quiero publicar mi propio arte, pero no me decido si usar pinceles muy definidos o con textura.

Tuve que usar un traductor para leer este mensaje, ¡lo siento mucho si entendí mal algo! Lamentablemente no hablo español, así que mi respuesta necesitaría pasar por un traductor de cualquier manera ^^" Mantendré el resto de la publicación en inglés para que sea más accesible para blogs internacionales, ¡espero que te parezca bien!

----

I mainly use the Clip Studio Paint standard brushes, though I technically have a bunch of custom ones too haha

These are the 3 brushes I use most!

the Design Pencil tool from CSP for sketches and outlines (reason: the softer texture feels nice to sketch with, since mistakes fade easier into the background - important for my lineart since I just adapt and clean up my sketches for that - and I like the way it layers, I can block out some monochromatic colors or simple shading with it very easily, which I tend to do a lot when I'm going for more of a composition concept sketch!)

A rough, round custom brush for blocking out flat colors (reason: the slight texturing makes it blend into the more transparent edges of my textured lineart better)

The Guache Brush tool from CSP for shading (reason: I mostly do my shading using layers on multiply mode using a darker and a lighter color - this brush blends them using pen pressure very smoothly and I like the subtle texture it adds to my drawings! I also sometimes use this brush to block out rough shapes in the background because it blends with other colors easily, keeping the shapes more vague)

overall whether or not you use textured or simpler brushes depends a lot on what feels the most comfortable for you, so experimenting is important!

There's many many artists who work best with the standard, untextured round brush you can find in every art program, others (like me) prefer to play around with textures for their workflow :D

I hope this bit of insight helped even just a little, thank you for the ask!!!

[activatebutterflyshield]

Results of being an almost completely self-taught artist

Pros:

None of the weird categorization of ‘male’ and ‘female’ body types, everyone is human shaped

Able to apply the ‘fuck around, find out’ method of figuring out mistakes instead of trying to fit a formula

No-one can tell you not to draw dragons so guess what I drew for like four years

Weird hybrid of an artstyle courtesy of too much manga and not enough color

I decided to screw digital art early on so now I’ve got perhaps three 1-inch binders worth of art just hanging around my room, so whenever I go to look through it I go, oh yeah I did that, I’m actually good at this

A bonus obsession with really good stationery

Cons:

Color theory? Nah, draw in nothing but black & white and red & blue lineart. Wait is that color theory

Lighting? Shading? … don’t ask

Perspective? Ehhhhhhhhhhhh

What the hell is digital art, more specifically, guess who can’t stand to use a stylus

I had this weird pseudo-callus on my ring finger from holding pencils and pens too hard, it would form, hurt, recover, and repeat until I taught myself to put the pressure on my nail instead. Guess who has a screwed up nail now

[bloodied-dagger]

some song recs based off lyrics

@rainbowangel110 has asked, so I shall deliver

did I spend entirely way too much time on this? Yes. Was it worth it? Probably not. Did I have to add the lyrics I related to the most for every single song? No, but rainbow specifically mentioned the lyric posting and it's fun soooooo (anyways it's 4:30 AM over here so. if you see any mistakes, no you didn't. I'll edit this in the morning so it won't have any)

Complete list without the commentary is at the bottom. List is in a Song Title - Artist format

Alternative

“Alternative” is being very loosely used here, there will be other genres mixed in here. Also, there is no particular order for this bit

I Will Wait - Mumford & Sons This is probably the most country song you'll ever get out of me, right next to the Nickleback song I've got in there

'Cause I will wait I will wait for you And I will wait I will wait for you

BREATHING UNDERWATER - Hot Milk This is very alt-rock emo of me, sorry rainbow

I tried breathing underwater to drown out the doubt Cracked under the pressure and nearly bled out You said you'd always save me - so where are you now? Feels like I'm failing, I'm dancing while drowning alone

Bells - The Unlikely Candidates Honestly I don't really care about the lyrics for this one, I just think I should throw something a bit more mellow after that last one and it's a good song so

And where we go, nobody knows Those bells are ringing, ringing loud Oh lord, we're going down - six underground Those bells are ringing, ringing loud

Razzmatazz - I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME Once again I throw a song in for the vibes and not the lyrics. Sue me

And now, well Some things just cannot be fixed With sparkled tongues and politics In a fascist little paradox, we all become anonymous

Rule #11 - My Dream, My Addiction - Fish in a Birdcage Okay, last one I'm adding for the vibes- for now

I, I've never seen a storm this fierce I, am feelin' rather small in here As the walls start to compress Shifting, squirming, restlessness

For You - Loveless Alright now here's a song I'm adding for the lyrics. It's also more on the rock song but it's not that heavy I don't think (maybe minus the bridge where it goes all heavy metal baseline for 8 or so bars)

Wasted my time Why would I ever waste another line on you, you? Crossing the line Why would I ever tell another lie for you, you?

Apologies - acloudyskye You must be something else if you thought we were getting out of this list without a skye song in here. This one isn't going to be everyone's cup of tea bc it's electronic but I like it so

I often think about their lives A fault in me I can't deny And in the end I won't even think So, apologies for all these things

Broken Zipper - Group Project You know I had to put a gp song on here somewhere. This one's def a more feel good song, also one I use to call myself out on with when I'm getting pissed about the little things Although it is a love song about crushing on your best friends sister or something? Whatever

You spend one week's worth of pay on your night out Wrote in pen and ran out of white out Lost your shades and it's much too bright out But who the fuck cares when you're breathing fine right now?

Could've Been Me - The Struts This song has made me cry, and that's an achievement when it's as upbeat of a song as it is

I wanna live better days Don't want to look back and say "It could've been me It could've been me"

Playing Dead - VIOLÀ Came because the song is an emo banger, stayed because I related to it a little while later. This one's also very rock, but I have to have a few in here

But if this is the last time I say sorry Then I'll take it back, 'cause I don't mean it You are the cancer in my body I'm done playing dead 'cause I still feel it

Through the Ghost - Shinedown No idea what living "through the ghost" means but it sounds poetic as hell

Speak of the devil, Look who just walked into the room The guilty invaded notion Of someone I once knew

Reason for Living - Morgan Page This song is actually for the beat saber soundtrack, and so is the next one. Naturally, it's on the more electronic/dance side of things but some of the lyrics are Big Mood™ so

'Cause I don't even sleep no more these days No such thing as staying up too late And nobody's at home waiting for me I'm staying up on a feeling - it's the reason for living

Heavy Weight (feat. Beat Saber) - Lindsey Stirling The fact that beat saber can get lindsey-fucking-stirling on a song is kind of crazy to me. Like. What

Heavy weight Feel it in my past mistakes But I think I've carried them For way too long

Inertia - AJR The shortest songname - artistname on this whole list, probably because it's competition is an artist who's name is abbreviated to IDKHBTFM. Anyway, when this came out I fucking Felt It hearing these words for the first time, and they still hit me the same way (maybe even more effectively than before)

An object in motion Don't ask where I'm going 'Cause where I am going is right where I am (Oh man!)

Alma Mater - Group Project This song reminds me of good times. Maybe not better times, but good ones that're long gone now.

I said "Hey, Why we always end up staying out late, Staying out late?"

It's a love song but I'm 100% not focused on that at all /gen

(Sad, yet) Impactful

Little commentary, songs in order of how impactful each of them are in my opinion (top = least, bottom = most) Also a good portion of these are probably heartbreak songs or smth but I'm pretending they're not like an aromantic would

Cellphone - Promoting Sounds & Nate Kest

It's getting late, I sipped too much Look at me strange, I'll be too blunt I'm easy to hate; I'm hard to love But you love me anyway - or is it lust?

I Won't Beg for You - Chri$tian Gate$

'Cause I won't beg for you, my dear These knees have bled, pulled out my hair Didn't know you tried to burn us down Even when we tried to work it out

Call Me - Shinedown

I finally put it all together But nothing really lasts forever I had to make a choice that was not mine I had to say goodbye for the last time

By The Way - Theory of a Deadman I usually listen to the "(Acoustic) [Bonus Track]" version of this song when I'm sad. figured that was worth mentioning so it isn't out of place (a hard rock song in the middle of a slower song list)

By the way You left without saying goodbye to me Now that you're gone, away All I can think about is you and me, you and me

Rayleigh Scattering - acloudyskye

And if it gets better It's taking forever And what's with this weather? It's not getting better

Before You Go - Lewis Capaldi

So Before you go Was there something I could've said to make it all feel better? If only I had known you had a storm to weather

Landing In London - 3 Doors Down

And when the night comes in around me And I don't think I'll make it through I'll use your light to guide my way 'Cause all I think about is you

Ashes of Eden - Breaking Benjamin

Are you with me after all? Why can't I hear you? Are you with me through it all? Then why can't I feel you?

To Build a Home - Grace Page

And I built a home For me, for you Until it disappeared From me, from you And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust...

Better Than Me - Bohnes

'Cause I Know that you Deserve better than me Better than me, yeah

My Body Is a Cage - Peter Gabriel This one's only here because of that full orchestra impact moment honestly

I'm standing on a stage Of fear and self doubt It's a hollow play But they'll clap anyway

No Time To Die - Billie Eilish

I should've known That I'd leave alone Just goes to show That the blood you bleed is just the blood you owe

My Immortal - Effervescent

These wounds won't seem to heal This pain is just too real There's just too much that time cannot erase

Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol

If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me And just forget the world?

Somewhere Out There - acloudyskye

It's over Oh, and under Under we go So far below

Full list, no commentary:

Alternative

I Will Wait - Mumford & Sons

BREATHING UNDERWATER - Hot Milk

Bells - The Unlikely Candidates

Razzmatazz - I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

Rule #11 - My Dream, My Addiction - Fish in a Birdcage

For You - Loveless

Apologies - acloudyskye

Broken Zipper - Group Project

Could've been me - The Struts

Playing Dead - VIOLÀ

Through the Ghost - Shinedown

Reason for Living - Morgan Page

Heavy Weight (feat. Beat Saber) - Lindsey Stirling

Inertia - AJR

Alma Mater - Group Project

Impactful

Cellphone - Promoting Sounds & Nate Kest

I Won't Beg For You - Chri$tian Gate$

Call Me - Shinedown

By The Way (Acoustic) [Bonus Track] - Theory of a Deadman

Rayleigh Scattering - acloudyskye

Before you go - Lewis Capaldi

Landing in London - 3 Doors Down

Ashes of Eden - Breaking Benjamin

To Build a Home - Grace Page

Better Than me - Bhones

My Body Is a Cage - Gabe Peters

No Time to Die - Billie Eilish

My Immortal - Effervescent

Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol

Somewhere Out There - acloudyskye

[bullet-prooflove]

A Perfect Moment: Neron 'Creeper' Vargas x Reader

Tagging: @anime-weeb-4-life @est1887 @mysoulisasunflower @drabbles-mc

Neron had never expected you to walk into his life. He didn’t expect a lot of things. His existence had taught him that expectations were a waste of time, that they could be dashed within a single moment. At least that was his experience.

He’s been a junkie; he’s been an addict. He’s done with all that now. Still there are times when he craves a drink or a fix, his fingers twitching when there’s a moment of quiet. He knows it’s best to keep himself occupied, which is why he carries around a sketch book, it’s A6, a tiny little thing that resides in his back pocket along with a black fineliner. He used to draw comics back in L.A. before the drugs took hold, stupid little things that he’d experienced in his daily life. The homeless man that he sat down with in The Valley, the hooker on the street corner smoking a cigarette and waiting for a john. He’d recreate them in his own style, the bold black and the stark white bringing them to life on a page.

He's picked it up again since he’s got sober this time around. It’s this third go but he’s determined it’ll stick; things are different now than they were before. He knows he can turn to Riz if he’s having one of those nights, if the cravings start to take hold, if the pressures too much. He knows Bishop will put him to work, keep him busy. That Coco will talk shit out with him if he needs it. The others. They’re there too, each in their own way. His support network is bigger now, more robust. He’s more resilient these days, he’s done the work, had the counselling, he knows what his triggers are. He knows that that temporary high doesn’t solve the bigger problem, that it’s a false economy.

It's the periods of silence that get him, it’s why he plays music all the time in the van. When his mind is unoccupied, it wanders so he gets out his little sketch book and he draws. He likes the way the pen feels on the page, the drag of it, the way the shades fill in the space. He could spend hours like this, locked over it, creating the things he sees in his head. He has thousands of them in his apartment, all neatly set aside in storage boxes.

When he sees you standing next to Hank outside the community centre, your skin covered in that beautiful expressive ink something happens. He’s not sure what it is, it’s like a switch flicks inside of him and suddenly his world is blossoming in colour. It’s overstimulating in a way, too rich and too saturated, he wants to switch it off, but he finds he can’t. Although it’s a real feeling, he’s never experienced it before. He’s not sure how to combat it, if it actually needs combating.  

He watches you through the window of the van. You’re poetry in motion, a flurry of hands and impression as you step up against the blank wall and gesture to the open space. Hank looks back down at the A4 sketchbook in his hands before nodding and jotting something down.

It takes Neron a second to realise who you are. He’s never met you before, but he’s heard about you, he thinks you must have crossed paths a hundred times, but this is the first time he’s actually laid eyes on you. He’s heard your voice through an open door down a corridor, he knows the timbre of it, the lilt of your accent.  He remembers thinking it was beautiful, it makes him think of steel cutting through silk.

You’re one of the tattoo artists Hank qualified with, you have a shop a few doors down by Felipe Reyes. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s been past it, it always catches his attention. There’s such vividness in the colours you’ve used to decorate the storefront, it’s eye catching and subtle at the same time, like you he thinks. He doesn’t realise he’s stepping out of the van until his boots hit the ground, it’s almost a compulsion. His feet are moving on their own accord towards you and Hank. He’s not usually so brazen, underneath his bravo he’s shy, especially when it’s about something he cares about. That thought surprises him because formally he hasn’t even met you yet, but he’s decided he cares.  He cares about what you think, about who you are, he wants to get to know you. He’s not sure where that comes from.

You greet him a smile as he approaches and fuck if it doesn’t feel like there’s a fucking sunbeam blossoming in his chest. It’s like that moment you step out of your house and into the sunshine or the first time you see a rainbow on a rainy day.

“Neron.” He introduces himself when he takes your hand.

He notices that your fingertips are stained with paint, Hues of red, orange and yellow licking up your skin. They’re warm colours, he feels their heat as they brush over his flesh.

When you say your name, he smiles because it’s perfect. It flows off his tongue as he repeats it, like it was always meant to roll from his lips. Hank must sense something because he excuses himself, the left side of his mouth twitching up.

Neron finds himself sitting on the wall that lines the community centre, alongside of you, hips nudging as you both study the blank canvas in front of you. You describe your plans for the mural, show him the designs that the kids have been working on, explain how you plan to incorporate them. He admires your creativity, your drive to complete something that will show what San Padre’s all about in the aftermath of the poverty caused by the Galindo Agra Park project falling through.

He notices you squinting a little as you study the whitewashed wall because the way the lights refracting off it, so he hands you, his sunglasses. And fuck if they don’t look like they’ve belonged on you all along. As he sits there under the sun, talking creative shit he feels at peace.

It’s a perfect moment one he treasures for the rest of his life.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[wordsmithwhumpsandfluff]

Concussed Oliver (part 2)

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The air in the waiting room felt tense.

Keiko was there before the girls had even gotten Oliver there. About twenty minutes after that, Jordan had the mind to call Isaac and tell him what had happened. The blonde was there in a flash, looking distraught.

None of them were saying anything. Eliana had an arm around Jordan’s shoulders, her lips pressed to the black-haired girl’s temple. Birdie had no fidget toy, so she’d started cracking her neck and picking at the skin on her hands to the point where she’d broke skin and was bleeding a bit, and Spirit had to find a pen for Birdie to click so she’s stop picking her hands.

Keiko was holding Amberlynn’s hand while Amberlynn just stared off at nothing. And Isaac just wouldn’t stop bouncing his foot while his heart raced.

“Oliver Brown?” a doctor said, coming into the waiting room. Eagerly, all of them stood and looked at the man.

“He’s fine,” the doctor said, and all of them sagged in relief. “Tests prove that it’s a mild concussion. He’s resting now. Have you contacted his family?”

“I called his parents,” Keiko answered. “They didn’t pick up, but I left voicemails and texts.”

“Can we see him?” Isaac asked, a bit of impatience in his voice.

The doctor opened a small sympathetic smile. “I can take you to his room now.”

— — —

There was a weird smell in the air when Oliver woke up. It smelled like bleach, and Oliver hated that scent. It just wasn’t pleasant.

There was a pulsing pain in his head, but not as bad as he remembered it being earlier. Still, his head felt like it was spinning.

When he squinted his eyes open a bit, getting the world into focus, Oliver first noticed that the room was dim but not pitch black. He then noticed that he wasn’t alone.

There was a small sofa in the corner of his room, and a chair beside it. Amberlynn and Keiko were curled up on the chair, and somehow, Eliana, Jordan and Birdie were all squished together on the couch. All of them were sleeping.

Spirit was sitting on the floor, on her phone. And Isaac was on a wheely chair by his bedside, asleep with his arms and head on the bed and holding Oliver’s hand in his.

Blinking a few times, he squeezed Isaac’s hand a bit. The little pressure made the blonde stir and lift his head a bit, blinking sleepily before he realized Oliver was looking at him. Suddenly, the blonde’s eyes widened and he whispered, “Olive?”

Oliver squeezed his hand again, smiling tiredly a bit. “Hi,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse and sore.

Isaac smiled back, looking relieved, and squeezed Oliver’s hand back.

“Hey, Oliver,” Spirit said from where she was sitting, having heard Isaac and Oliver whispering and realizing he was awake. She stood from where she was sitting and went to the opposite side of the bed from where Isaac was. “You gave us quite the goddamn scare.”

Oliver’s smile faltered slightly. “I’m sor—”

He was cut off by Spirit hugging him.

“How long was I out?” Oliver asked when Spirit pulled away, looking between her and the blonde.

“Since, like, five-thirty in the morning,” Spirit said with a shrug. "It’s almost 1pm. That’s why everyone’s asleep.”

“How the hell did you bump your head?” Isaac asked, shaking his head. “You guys were having a sleepover, and none of the girls knew how you rattled your damn brain. So, what happened?”

Oliver said nothing for a second. Then, his cheeks turned five shades redder, looking embarrassed. “I. . . I was dancing to the music that was playing while I took my shower, and I slipped and hit my head on the wall. I didn’t say anything ‘cause. . . yeah.”

Spirit raised a brow. “You were embarrassed about that? Oliver, Isaac is the moron who stood on a cafeteria table in middle school and screamed ‘food fight’, only to get no reaction from anyone. Slipping in the shower is nowhere near as embarrassing as that.”

Isaac shot a glare at Spirit. “Are you ever gonna let that go?”

“Never.”

Oliver chuckled a bit, only to wince when the bit of laughter made his head throb a bit.

“I’ll go find your parents and tell them you’re awake,” Spirit said to Oliver, and the boy’s eyes widened.

“My parents are here?!Why?!”

Isaac scoffed. “Because you busted your head. Duh.”

Spirit squeezed Oliver’s shoulder before walking to the door and leaving. With everyone else in the room still sleeping, it really felt like it was just Oliver and Isaac.

“You feeling alright right now?” Isaac asked. He was still holding Oliver’s hand.

“Yeah,” Oliver sighed, sinking back against his pillow. “My head hurts like hell and I’m wearing a paper gown instead of pants, but I’m fine.”

Isaac wheeled his chair to the side a bit so he was closer to Oliver’s head. Still holding Oliver’s hand with one hand, Isaac used his other to brush Oliver’s hair away from his face. He chuckled, looking at the wall. “Dancing in the shower,” he chuckled. “You’re in the hospital because you danced in the fucking shower!” Isaac began to laugh quietly, shoulders shaking.

Oliver flushed a bit, still slightly embarrassed, but then he also began to laugh quietly.

When their little quiet fit of laughter was over, Isaac squeezed Oliver’s hand again. “Next time, maybe take a bath,” he whispered.

Oliver squeezed back. “Yeah, I think I will. I don’t wanna ruin another sleepover by having to be driven to the hospital in the middle of the night.”

Isaac’s humorous look became slightly softer, and he bent down, hugging Oliver and not letting go. “I’m happy you’re fine.”

Oliver sighed, pressing his temple to Isaac’s. Then he chuckled and whispered, “Hell yeah, I’m fine. There’s no way dancing to fucking Grouplove was gonna be how I go out.”

[attyrocious]

its no big deal! hoping its useful though because my main program nowadays is clip studio paint and they went full capitalism on us with paid subscription (i bought the 1 payment license long longs ago). anyway i was a broke art student who could only afford one brush and so uses only one brush the entire time for everything and that kinda stayed the habit even on digital art.

momo poster (honorable mention momo storybook is very good supplementary from the same creator) - clean kinda untextured ex-GF of a brush. unfortunately the pressure sensitivity doesnt translate well between android and PC versions of CSP. its so cute that its heart shaped tho

2. blockaded chalk brush - current brush GF. its all the joys of charcoal/soft pastel drawing without the asthma and messy hands. layers exactly how swiping charcoal across paper does so i tend to use it nowadays when im greyscale -> color painting.

3. smooth liner - not sure if this is part of it bc its not a painting brush but.. line art/cel-shading brush. because it looks like how a scanned version of my ink dip pen on rough watercolor paper looks like

[saraunailyqistfarees]

"LOVE BITE",4'6"x3'2" By Laurie Lipton

Laurie Lipton, an artist from Los Angeles, creates intricate, large-scale drawings solely using pencil and charcoal. Her work delves into the darker aspects of human nature, exploring unthinkable images lurking in the subconscious, including her personal experiences as a woman.

Terry Gilliam, who was interviewed in the Love Bite documentary Love Bite: Laurie Lipton and Her Disturbing Black & White, said, "What she’s dealing with is what everybody has inside them in one form or another, and probably most people are frightened to recognize it. You put it down in the basement and keep the trap door shut." This observation leads to the notion that women, due to societal norms, often suppress their emotions and experiences. Throughout history, societal expectations have pressured women to embody nurturing and self-sacrificing roles. Additionally, women frequently face the suppression of their voices, fearing consequences when expressing genuine emotions or opinions.

"Laurie Lipton's "Love Bite,” a detailed charcoal drawing measuring 4'6"x3'2", captivates with its intricate features—hair strands, wrinkles, nails, veins, and texture. The close-up of a woman's face reveals wide-open eyes with an intense gaze against a white background, adorned with swirling hair patterns and dark, dramatic shading. In a compelling twist, the woman, appearing ready to bite into an apple, cradles a baby instead. While the artwork has drawn comparisons to Francisco Goya’s “Saturn Devouring His Son,” the two pieces convey distinct messages."

"Love Bite" delves into the emotional and psychological complexity of womanhood. The title holds metaphorical significance, suggesting emotional scars left by love, symbolizing the highs, lows, and complexities of deep emotional connections. The woman's intense gaze reflects a profound engagement with her emotions.

Her direct gaze and overall composition convey agency and inner strength, yet the white background and tangled elements hint at vulnerability, blending fragility and power. The artwork explores a woman navigating the feminine experience, scrutinizing how women negotiate the emotional landscape. The strength in the woman's gaze resonates with the depth of her emotional experiences.

Despite its impact, some find the drawing unsettling. James Scott, the documentary director, shares that he refrains from displaying "Love Bite" due to audience discomfort, highlighting the drawing's powerful effect when portraying a woman as the subject.

“I’m isolated. I’m in my head. I’m on this piece of paper. And what goes in between me and the paper... everything comes into my play, my entire life.”

Lipton challenges the stereotype prescribing that women must suppress their emotions, utilizing art as a medium to express herself and cope with trauma. This statement suggests a personal connection, as she embeds aspects of herself into each drawing. Despite her artistic intent, negative comments expressing discomfort with the drawing's disturbing nature reveal societal reluctance to embrace unconventional forms of expression. This reaction is disheartening, considering Lipton's drawings serve as a means for her to communicate and process her emotions."

One of the platforms where we can see negative comments on the art is:

"LOVE BITE",4'6"x3'2", charcoal&pencil on... - Arts, Artists, Artwork | Facebook

“My father gave me radiograph pens when I was about nine or ten. And I used to take my little book into school with me and just draw. There’s a very hurt child in all my work. very alone, very confused, and out of it. And she is still in me.”

When Lipton was 5, she experienced a deeply disturbing incident that was to colour her whole life—or perhaps one should say to remove the colour from her whole life. Lipton was the victim of a horrific kidnapping. The man who kidnapped her just recently escaped from an insane asylum, and before her, he had molested two other children.

Lipton states, "It's just one crazy incident. One accident between this man and me That changed my entire life and perception because suddenly reality shifted. It jet-propelled me to the outside. My mother turned into something else. My life turned into something else. People were dangerous. Stuff was incomprehensible. Before then, I was fearless. I was fearless. And it made me an artist.

“I know this sounds very bizarre, but I’m grateful for it. I'm not grateful for the fact that this little girl suffered. I suffered. Little Laurie suffered. I’m very grateful. It’s odd, isn’t it? You never know. You never know what kind of gift comes out of suffering. You never know.”

This incident led Laurie Lipton to develop a distinctive style of macabre black-and-white drawings, defining her prolific body of work. For Lipton, black and white symbolizes the color of ghosts, old TV shows, and memories like family photographs—an embodiment of the past, longing, and thought.

The artist stands out with surrealistic images and symbols that entertain the life-and-death cycle by emphasizing death themes. These themes emerged after her mother's passing. The consequences of the woman's actions in the drawing hint at the overarching theme of death.

In essence, the artwork portrays a woman undergoing and absorbing horrific experiences, ultimately shaping her into a person of strength. The heart-shaped earring and nails symbolize the center of emotion, suggesting a universal connection to every woman who has faced challenges, consumed difficulties, and emerged stronger.

“I’m very grateful. It’s odd, isn’t it? You never know. You never know what kind of gift comes out of suffering. You never know.”

-Laurie Lipton

SOURCES

BATUR ÇAY, Meral. “Sürreali̇st Ressam Lauri̇e li̇pton’un resi̇mleri̇ndeki̇ Semboller.” İnönü Üniversitesi Kültür ve Sanat Dergisi, vol. 7, no. 2, 2021, pp. 238–248, https://doi.org/10.22252/ijca.1029513.

Chaplin, Tara M. “Gender and Emotion Expression: A Developmental Contextual Perspective.” Emotion Review : Journal of the International Society for Research on Emotion, U.S. National Library of Medicine, Jan. 2015, www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4469291/#R15.

Scott, James, director. Love Bite: Laurie Lipton and Her Disturbing Black & White Drawings. Vimeo, https://vimeo.com/356729842. Accessed 29 Nov. 2023.