#wisdom and philosophy and ethics and such things

[thisplainsimplefeeling]

more people should watch star trek

[ssa-dado]

24 - Logos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow, that made it even sweeter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no. She didn’t let you finish.

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

You choked.

Actually choked.

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

Your counter.

Your floor.

Your poor, innocent, pristine white pants.

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

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

You wheezed, still coughing. "Penelope-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

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

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

"OH. MY. GOD."

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

"OH MY GOD. YOU DID."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

You should have seen that coming."Penelope!"

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

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

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

Oh no.

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

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

Yes.

And no comment.

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

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

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

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

"Penelope, please." You were already suffering.

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

You froze. "Do not finish that sentence."

"BIG, HUGE D-"

Time to draw the line.

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

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

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

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

You absolutely would.

And you did.

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

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

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

…Hmm. Well. Yes?

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

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

Not important. Moving on.

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

Connected.

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

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

There was a pause. A beat.

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

You froze.

Penelope froze.

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

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

Aaron in the shower.

Aaron, freshly out of the shower.

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

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

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

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

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

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

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

Dead silence.

Garcia looked like she had been struck by divine retribution.

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

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

Nothing.

Just the sound of sheer existential regret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just stared at her.

She just stared back.

Then, in perfect sync -

You both screamed, laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You still somehow winced thinking back about it.

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

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

She lifted her head just enough to nod. Begrudgingly.

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

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

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

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

You nearly choked, again. "Penelope!"

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

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

Penelope screamed.

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

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

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

"You need to calm down," you deadpanned.

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

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

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

You shrugged. "You survived."

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

You tilted your head. "Who?"

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

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

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

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

"Why not?!" she howled.

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

She narrowed her eyes, assessing, calculating.

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

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

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

"I-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"PENELOPE."

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

"We were disagreeing about the profile."

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

You let your head drop onto the counter.

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

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

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

Oh fucking hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"PENELOPE."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should have seen this coming.

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

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

Aaron didn’t even let him finish.

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

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

And then - Penelope smirked.

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

Yeah. You were doomed.

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

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

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

Didn’t even let you reach for it yourself.

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

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

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

You had never wanted to fight for your life more.

Not because of the closeness.

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

No.

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

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

You blinked.

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

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

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

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

Oh, he was such a loser.

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

Like this was all perfectly normal.

Like you hadn’t just caught him.

"Aaron." You bit back a smirk.

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

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

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

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

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

He knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. Okay.

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

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

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

"Best friends," you repeated.

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

A beat. A pause. Too long.

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

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

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

And then-

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

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

And God - that laugh.

It wrecked him.

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

He was so, so fucked.

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

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

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

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

It would consume him.

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

Unless he knew you wanted him too.

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

And that terrified him, because he was not sure.

Because you laughed like it was just funny.

Because you smiled like this was just a conversation.

Because you did not look wrecked.

Not like he felt.

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

Not ‘do you think I’m wrong’.

Not ‘do you disagree’.

But  - you think so too.

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

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

He was paying attention to everything.

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

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

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

That it didn’t mean anything.

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

You raised an eyebrow. “In what?”

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

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

It was dangerous, talking to you like this.

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

Especially when it came to him.

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

It was your job, afterall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he did what he had always done.

He lived with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He understood.

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

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

Just a few inches at first.

And then he did the same.

You moved again. Then so did he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow, that made it all the more devastating.

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

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

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

But then, you looked back up.

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

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

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

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

It was you who moved first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was it.

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

Gentle. Steady. Tender.

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

You didn’t pull away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Very.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wanted him. Now.

You were ready - to let it all go.

“Aaron,” you whispered, looking into him.

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

Your temple.

The side of your right eye.

The curve of your cheek.

Down to your jawline.

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

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

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

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

The moment.

How do you measure a moment like this?

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

And then, finally, he closed the distance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that was the point.

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

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

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

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

But damn, how it changed with every turn.

The same, yet entirely different.

The weight of then. The depth of now.

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

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

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

The cycle never ends.

But neither, it seemed, did you.

Competing with each other, as always.

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

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

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

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

Damn him and his competitiveness.

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

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

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

Damn him.

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

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

And so, blame the position.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No shit, Sherlock.

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

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

No shit, Sherlock, part two.

Was he worrying about you or himself?

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

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

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

Oh God, how considerate he was.

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

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

But words it was, then.

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

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

How responsible.

How tragic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you could talk.

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

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

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

Anyway, the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no, what a pity…

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

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

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

Mismatched underwear.

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

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

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

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

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

But plans didn’t seem to matter anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you refused to let a sound escape.

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

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

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

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

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

Attention that the insufferable man was withholding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. That smirk. Never a good sign.

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

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

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

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

From the knee.

Oh, come on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. What a whore.

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

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

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

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

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

Didn’t touch.

Just -

"You're a goddess."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hilarious.

"You have it," you murmured.

That was delicious.

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

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

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

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

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

And it probably did.

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

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

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

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

And oh, he heard you, loud and clear.

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

Fuck him.

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

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

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

What a whore.

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

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

How cruel of him.

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

“Please do,” he said.

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

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

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

"Stay open for me."

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

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

Some things never changed.

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

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

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

"Aaron, I'm so close."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t stop.

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

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

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

And then he kissed you.

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

Romanticism truly was dead.

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

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

Who were you to refuse?

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

And oh damn-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reaction was immediate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy fucking-

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

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

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

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

“God, you’re so tight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was no fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there it was.

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

Damn the stoics for being right.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, neither was your cu-

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried to respond, he really did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stilled.

Aaron’s face hardened. Rocher’s victims.

The ones he had been taunting you with.

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

Aaron’s eyes sharpened. "What?"

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

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

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

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

You were both there.

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

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

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

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

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

The answer was obvious before he even said it.

“…philosophy.”

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

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

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

Because it wasn’t just the age gap.

It wasn’t just the coincidence of numbers.

It was what made it undeniable.

A lawyer.

And a philosopher.

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

Almost like in the musicals.

Almost sweet.

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

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

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

[sxorpiomooon]

What the houses stand for in astrology

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1st house

- yourself, how you look, how you are perceived, the kind of people you attract the most, your facial features, how you carry yourself, what qualities of yours attract people, views on life.

This is the only house in astrology that is YOU all the other signs and houses represent something in particular but this represents entirely YOU

2nd house

- where your finances will come from, how your finances will come, your good preferences, your tongue, your mouth, your lips, your voice, how you speak and what you speak, what people think of your speech

3rd house

- your siblings, your connection with your siblings, what you think about them, what your neighbours think about you, what your neighbours are like, your communication (writing skills in particular), social life, early education

4th house

- your house, your family, how your house is like, what your house is like, what your family is like, your connection and bond with them, roots, foundation, also women at times

5th house

- your expression, how and why you express yourself, your way of expressing, how your thoughts work, your opinion on arts and creativity, your art, your children, how you are with kids, what kids you will have, romance, love, relationship, self expression, curiosity, memory, studies early education etc

6th house

- health, daily life, enemies, where your health problems come from, what kind of health problems, how you are like in your daily life, what kind of enemies do you have, how do they cause you harm, pets, system, the area that you work in, your surroundings

7th house

- business, partnerships, anything formal even communication, presentation, marriage, open enemies, sharing, what kind of partner you will have, where they might be from

8th house

- anything and everything hidden, stalking, cult, your deepest desires, you deepest secrets, your trauma, sex, shared finances, intimacy, property, contracts, religion.

9th house

- education, what you might like to pursue, if you'll go out for education, short term travel, your intelligence and knowledge, higher education, your wisdom, philosophy, learning.

10th house

- career, reputation, men, family men, authority figure, long term goals and desires, work ethic, structure.

11th house

- friends, internet, things you'll indulge in, society, groups, technology, gains and losses, hope, timing.

12th house

-your subconscious mind, your psyche, your dreams, your deepest dreams, long term travel or settlement, what your birth was like, spirituality, healing, afterlife, limiting beliefs.

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[dcdreamblog]

It baffled me for a while why you supported superpowered menaces such as the aliens Superman or Martian Manhunter, or the freak Batman, or the supposed 'goddess' Wonder Woman. Then I saw you were a Luthor hater. Sorry you're a brainwashed puppet of the masses and not a free thinker. The Infinity Inc project should have kept going, by the way.

Oh good, one of you people. I've been prepared for one of you people.

Alright buttercup let's quit the chitchat and get right to the root of things, shall we?

("President Luthor" was a very in depth historical account of the Luthor administration written by political analyst Ronald Troupe. It is the most recommended source on the subject and a book I both own and had to read for a historical ethics class) Luthor, and his supporters are operating somewhere between a deep Randian self delusion as to the nature of power and a very mundane and pitiful kind of bigotry. All mixed up together in a noxious concoction that's been poisoning society at large since the industrial age at the latest and probably far before Randian politics even had a name. Put in order to fully pry apart the Luthorite "philosophy" we need to take them on one at a time. So let's.

In simplest terms Lex Luthor is a bigot. And he's not even a principled bigot. He hates Superman, the Martian Manhunter, aliens and metahumans and magic users because they have power that he doesn't and have the ability to protect themselves from the dominion that he feels he is owed. He knows people are easier to control when they are kept divided from one another and that anger and hatred sells better whether he's selling weapons to Bialyan dictators or selling xenophobia to the American electorate.

Luthor, like so many heartless billionaires before him sees his own success as both anointing and justification. The final stop on the crazy train of the capitalist prosperity gospel. He's rich and successful and therefore is also a moral good because only good people, smart people, wise people are gifted with success and power.

I hate to tell you my friend but that is bunk on every level. Lex Luthor is a snake whose success comes from the kind of underhanded skullduggery that ALL success at that level comes from. He's lied, cheated and stolen everything he has ever gained and he's left broken bodies, homes, families and communities in his wake because he simply doesn't care who gets hurt because HIS prosperity is higher. Because he's a business leader, right? And employer? Because he just plain knows how to get shit done. And that? THAT is why superheroes piss him off so bad. Because every time he sees Superman lift up the rubble from a chemical explosion HE caused. He sees the court fees he'll have to pay when his safety violations are dragged in front of a court. He hates to see the Justice League standing as vanguard against existential threats because he calculates in his head how much he could be strong arming the United Nations to paying out for some kind of privatized security force.

Superheroes are too principled to be bribed, too powerful to be threatened, too connected to be divided and too unassailable to be undercut by the newspapers he keeps in his back pocket. He's afraid of them for the same reason McCarthy was afraid of them in the 50s. Because he knows for a FACT that eventually he will step out of line and they will come down on him like a bag of hammers simply because it is RIGHT. He despises Superman because Superman has power that Lex Luthor knows he would abuse. And so he must convince himself that ALL people would abuse them. Because for all his genius he doesn't have the two cents worth of wisdom needed to feel the yawning, flinty pit where his heart was supposed to grow in at some point. And the best part is even DECADES after the world got to see him for who and what he is, when he got impeached by the representatives of our republic for putting life on Earth at risk to make Superman look bad. TWICE. He still has yippy little terriers like you marching along at his heel. And he wouldn't spit on you if you burst into flames.

[shisasan]

Moving to Japan many years ago and being introduced more meticulously to its culture, history, and philosophy sparked a deep and lasting fascination that took root within me. Through extensive reading, research, observation, and reflection, it offered me valuable insights that, for some reason, blended organically with my own Balkan mentality. Japanese thought is like a quiet, endless ocean - vast and mysterious, yet full of deep truths for those curious to explore its depths. It’s not only that we can learn from it - it’s that we are drawn to it. The soul, restless and searching for meaning, finds itself captivated by its quiet elegance, by wisdom that is not shouted but whispered, like a secret offered in the stillness of the night. Herein lies its true beauty: it doesn’t force itself on you, it invites. It calls the spirit to explore the unknown, to face its own shadows, and in doing so, to find peace.

Here are a few philosophical principles that I find deeply compelling, each reflecting a unique idea or value within the expansive spectrum of Japanese aesthetics, ethics, and spirituality:

In the philosophy of "kensho" (見性), the gradual awakening to one's true self, there is a calm defiance against the rush of modern life. How easily we are deceived into thinking self-worth is built overnight, but Japanese thought insists on a far more patient, sometimes demanding journey - a slow, deliberate peeling away of the surface until only the real essence of the self remains. This is not comfort, but truth, and the search for truth is never without a bit of struggle. Yet in this struggle, in this slow awakening, there is beauty - one that cannot be grasped by those who seek only the fleeting joys of instant satisfaction.

Much like "bushidō" (武士道), the way of the warrior, this journey demands honor, integrity, and the kind of inner strength that does not waver, no matter how treacherous the path, a kind of inner strength that stands resolute in all circumstances. Bushidō embodies Gi (rectitude), Yū (courage), Jin (benevolence), Rei (respect), Makoto (honesty), Meiyo (honor), Chūgi (loyalty), and Jisei (self-control). It is not simply enduring hardship - it is about living with powerful intention, where loyalty, integrity, and courage form the foundation of a purposeful life. This spirit of Bushidō isn't about suffering but about a fierce dedication to living with honor and resilience, and within that struggle, one’s character is shaped. There is no arrogance in true confidence, only a hard-won resilience, the kind that grows in the cracks like a delicate flower breaking through stone.

Then comes "shibumi" (渋み) - that quiet, understated elegance that goes almost unnoticed, simplicity hiding a depth of complexity. True self-esteem, true understanding, doesn’t need to shout. It exists in the way a person holds themselves, moves through the world with calm, steady presence that speaks volumes without saying a word. This is confidence born not from pride but from humility, from understanding one’s place in the larger order of things, and finding peace in that awareness.

The beauty of "wabi-sabi" (侘寂) lies in its celebration of imperfection. It rejects the idea of flawless perfection and instead finds beauty in the cracks of imperfection and flaws. There is something both bittersweet and freeing in this acceptance - that we are all, in some way, broken, and it is through those very fractures that we find our true beauty. It’s a perspective that would resonate deeply with Dostoyevsky, who found humanity in the brokenness of his characters.

Perhaps the greatest gift of Japanese philosophy is the concept of "yūgen" (幽玄), that deep, elusive beauty lying just beyond reach, in the shadows and the unseen. Life is not meant to be fully understood, and some things are better left as mysteries. This unknowable depth gives life its meaning, its richness. The surface may seem dark, but beneath lies an entire world for those willing to look deeper, to feel with their soul, rather than just see with their eyes.

Finally, there is "fudōshin" (不動心) - the unshakable mind. To be calm, to be still, in the face of the storm - that is where true strength lies. It lies not in the victory and worldly achievements, triumph or success, but in the calm, steady enduring of life’s storms. This is the magnetic presence that draws others in, not through force or charm, but through the quiet power of someone who has faced the abyss and emerged, not untouched, but unbroken.

In Japanese philosophy, I’ve found a mirror to the human condition - beautiful, tragic, profound, and endlessly deep. It teaches us that self-esteem, like life, is not something to be attained in a moment, but something to be continuously sought, patiently, through humility and acceptance. There is no end to this journey, and in that endlessness lies its greatest beauty.

[theambitiouswoman]

Core Stoic Principles ✨

Stoicism is a universal approach to ethics, personal growth, and resilience. The core teachings of Stoicism focus on the development of our personal virtue, the practice of reason, and the pursuit of wisdom to live a fulfilling and peaceful life.

Understanding What is Within Our Control: Recognizing the difference between what we can control (our thoughts, emotions, and actions) and what we cannot (external events, the actions of others) is central to Stoic philosophy. Focusing on our internal states rather than external circumstances which can lead you to a more peaceful and productive life.

Living Virtuously: Living according to virtue is the only good. Wisdom, courage, justice, and temperance are central to leading a good life.

Practicing Mindfulness and Self Reflection: This involves reflecting on your thoughts, emotions, and actions to understand them better and align them with rational thinking.

Acceptance: Accepting things as they come, without distress, and understanding the natural flow of life can lead to inner peace. This acceptance is not passive resignation but an emotionally balanced way.

Emotional Regulation: Stoics believe in facing challenges head on with a calm and composed mindset, learning from experiences, and not being overwhelmed by our emotions.

Community: Stoicism teaches the importance of living in harmony with others and contributing to the common good. Focusing on the idea that we are part of a larger community and as a result we should be advocating for actions that benefit society as a whole.

[12thbiologist]

Introduction by N. K. Jemisin, from 10th anniversary Authority reprint

"To my own shame, I've become a jaded reader in recent years. By this, I mean that my enthusiasm and curiosity, my drive to experience new worlds, have all been damaged by a persistent disjunct between reality and the speculative fiction I most enjoy.

"Is it any wonder? Given the horrors of Trump's first regime, the looming threat of another, a global plague allowed to run rampant, and a billionaire backed culture war on the rest of us. I'm more jaded about everything now. Escapism at this juncture feels like a way to temporarily pretend that everything is fine. And while there's value in taking a break from Hell, it also feels dangerous. Like drinking to drown my sorrows. Nothing wrong with alcohol now and again, but nobody needs a steady diet of oblivion.

"What I've found myself seeking instead are philosophies of entropy and survival. That is, fiction that addresses multifaceted decay and the psychology needed to survive it. At this point, to mangle Audre Lorde, the master has handed his tools out freely after designing them to break at first usage, buying out the only shop that could fix them and the only newspaper that tried to report on the scam, and charging all customers a subscription fee. And these days, it's no longer just us marginalized folks who need our media to acknowledge the slow motion apocalypse we're all trapped in.

"Enter, The Southern Reach books. When I first read Annihilation during the run-up to the 2016 election, it was a welcome breath of fungal, fetid air. Other fiction of the time seemed determined to suggest there was no need for alarm. Things couldn't be so bad. Anything broken could be fixed.

"Could it though? As I watched my country embrace a stupid, incompetent, and blatantly criminal fascist while insisting his spiteful, privileged sycophants somehow had a point—Well, when you're already queasy, sweet smells make the feeling worse. It helped to read instead about the smells and sights and horrors and haunting beauty of Area X. It helped me to imagine that creeping transformative infection warping body and mind and environment and institution. Because that was the world I was living in. It helped to meet the 12th expedition's nameless women who were simultaneously individuals, with selfish motivations, and archetypes, trapped in their roles. The biologist, driven by the loss of her mate and the need to integrate into a new ecosystem. The psychologist, a human subjects ethics violation in human flesh. We are dropped into danger with these women, immediately forced to confront an existential threat with courage and perseverance. And this? This was what I needed from my fiction.

"The second book, Authority, was even more what I needed. As we watch Control slowly realize he's never been in control, and that things are a lot worse than his complacency allowed him to see—it just resonated so powerfully. His over reliance on procedure and the assumed wisdom of his predecessor. His dogged refusal to see the undying plant in his office as a sign of something wrong. There was nothing of 2014's politics overtly visible in the book. And yet, they were all over it like mold.

"I've read and written reviews of these books and it seems to me that there's a common misreading that applies. Namely, that they are "climate fiction," or "cli-fi." This clunky label fits superficially, in that climate change occurs during the course of the book.

"However, Area X, with it's inexplicable reality warping power, is a poor metaphor for human caused destruction. Or even for the surreality of climate denial- talk about reality warping. I think a better analytic is to view the books as postcolonial fiction. Per Caribbean Canadian writer Nalo Hopkinson, postcolonial stories take the adventurous repertoire of science fiction—such as traveling to a distant realm and taming the exotic flora, fauna, and people who live there—and from the experience of the colonizee, critique it, pervert it, fuck with it. The characters of The Southern Reach books are only obliquely marginalized. Their races, ethnicities, class distinctions, and other markers of identity are deliberately downplayed, down to the lack of personal names. But they are all women, which is atypical of pretty much any US government agency. Two of them, the Asian biologist and the half-Indigenous psychologist, are racialized. Biology and psychology and anthropology are often dismissed as "soft sciences," in large part because too many women thrive in them. Or because they've done too good a job of reconsidering racial/cultural/ethnic equity and updating practices and personnel to suit.

"As the 12th expedition proceeds into Area X, on the surface it seems they are reenacting a thousand science fiction novels: going forth as intrepid strangers into a strange land. But for any reader who's familiar with those classic narratives, Annihilation's version feels like a setup. Our marginalized protagonists lacking the privileges and power of stalwart square-jawed white men seem doomed from pretty much the moment they enter Area X.

"So, they are the colonizees in this situation and Area X is definitely fucking with them. But as the story proceeds, it becomes clear that they are themselves fucking with that classic adventure dynamic. The psychologist has wholly focused her skills on taming her fellow adventurers, and perhaps herself. The biologist is trying to solve a mystery of identity: something unquantifiable and scientifically immeasurable, more felt than known, and deeply personal. The anthropologist has no one to study, save her fellow expedition members, and only the surveyor seems wholly focused on Area X at all. Perhaps this is why she later tries to kill the biologist. We see the irony of this setup most clearly with Control in Authority. He is the stalwart square jawed man that traditional science fiction has primed us to expect, even hope for, because he'll have the power to solve the situation, right? But Control becomes the proof that no colonizee can ever tame Area X. At best, they might manage to tame themselves.

"By the end of book one, the 12th expedition becomes the first successful one by a colonizer's rubric, in that they manage to share new understandings of Area X with those outside it and in that at least one member of the team survives with her mind and form somewhat intact. The beginning of book two seems to confirm this, as the story shifts to explore the Kafkaesque bureaucracy of the Southern Reach itself. But the expedition members' choices have become the choices of the colonized. Survive or not? Internalize or not? Assimilate or not? They bring these choices to Control, who adds his own familiar, horrifying existential questions. When change seems inevitable and irreversible, can it be controlled to some degree? Can the self remain intact after the mind and body have been "Ship of Theseus"-ed into something unrecognizable?

"This is not to say that climate focused readings are irrelevant to The Southern Reach series. I mean that climate issues are also colonization issues. In that, the worst effects of climate change fall hardest upon the most marginalized. We observe the breakdown of the 12th expedition, an invasive species to this new biome, even as we observe the breakdown of recognizable life within Area X. New configurations of life emerge from this collapse of old structures. Hybridizations, commensalisms, wholesale assimilations. Even our bureaucracies, as evidenced in Authority, form a kind of natural order that can be deconstructed and readapated. Control fails to contain Area X because of another key understanding that the colonized eventually develop: you cannot fight that with which you have become complicit. The best you can do is realize what's happening and hope its not too late by the time you do. Never fear, Area X reassures. Colonization and its associated harms, terrifying and painful as they might be, are not the end—however much traditional science fiction stories might suggest otherwise. Survival is possible if one is lucky, brave, and clever, but it might require a transformation far more nuanced and complex than mere death. And this is a reassurance. Speculative fiction has historically framed colonization as a contest with winners and losers, but its never been that simple. Human beings are syncretic, some element of who and what we were will always remain in what we become. Entropy cannot be stopped but new energy can be added to the system. And those who are caught up in the transformation can claim a degree of that power for themselves. And, ultimately, syncretism means that we are carried forwards regardless, if only in part. Still better than nothing.

"As I write these words, multiple genocides are in progress. I feel no certainty for the future. Half my nation is so enthralled to it's own bigoted fantasies that I neither expect nor particularly want the United States to survive. I do not fear the singularity, sentient AI, or any technological boogeyman. I fear the confluence of greed and shortsightedness and spite that human rights and human consciouses cannot survive intact.

"But new systems emerge, inevitably. After a climate extinction or a natural disaster, ecologies adapt, new entities eventually fill old empty niches, power changes hands, and stories can be deconstructed. Even when the situation is most terrifying, least stable, there will always be those who embrace the change, and perhaps gain new strength from it. It's a bittersweet understanding, but the change is upon us. We're all in Area X, now. If we are lucky, clever, and courageous, we might still recognize ourselves when its all said and done."

-N. K. Jemisin, Authority

[emmkayyy03]

🎾 Jupiter vs. Venus: The Duel of Gurus. 🏅

In the infinite drama of the cosmos, two larger-than-life forces play the role of celestial teachers: Jupiter (Brihaspati) and Venus (Shukracharya). These two aren’t just gurus—they’re the ultimate life coaches, each with their unique vibes. Jupiter is the philosopher who hands you a map to enlightenment, while Venus is the savvy mentor who teaches you how to conquer the world and look fabulous doing it.

But wait—there’s more to Shukracharya than just luxury and indulgence. He wasn’t only the guru of the asuras; he was a healer extraordinaire, the cosmic doctor who literally brought the dead back to life with the Sanjeevani mantra. So, while Jupiter gives you the wisdom to transcend, Venus might just save your skin (and soul) when things go south.

Let’s dig deeper into this ultimate cosmic clash of the titans and see how their wisdom, morals, and approach to life shape their disciples.

🎓 Knowledge: Universal Truths vs. Practical Skills

Jupiter’s Wisdom: Jupiter’s knowledge is like a sacred text—ancient, profound, and illuminating. As the guru of the devas, he specializes in timeless wisdom that transcends the material world. He’s your go-to for unlocking the mysteries of dharma (duty), moksha (liberation), and the universe’s ultimate purpose. Think philosophy, ethics, and everything that makes you go, “Wow, life is deeper than I thought.”

Venus’s Knowledge: Venus is the practical genius who hands you a toolkit for mastering life’s complexities. From diplomacy to healing, Shukracharya doesn’t just teach you how to survive—he teaches you how to thrive. His lessons are rooted in the art of living: navigating relationships, enjoying material pleasures, and even harnessing the secrets of immortality. He’s the cosmic mix of a life coach and a healer, ensuring you’re prepared for anything life throws your way.

⚖️ Morals: Righteousness vs. Pragmatism

Jupiter’s Morality: Jupiter is all about the straight and narrow. He champions dharma and universal harmony, even if it means personal sacrifice. He’s the teacher who insists that doing the right thing is non-negotiable, no matter how tough it gets. With Jupiter, it’s always about the bigger picture.

Venus’s Morality: Venus operates in the real world, where things aren’t always black and white. His moral compass is more flexible, designed to help you navigate life’s gray areas. Shukracharya understands that sometimes bending the rules is necessary for survival—and that’s okay. His pragmatism is his strength, making him relatable and incredibly effective.

💎 The Hedonist vs. The Ascetic

Venus: The Sensual Healer Venus doesn’t shy away from the material world; he embraces it. He teaches that beauty, luxury, and pleasure aren’t distractions—they’re part of the human experience. But Venus is more than a connoisseur of indulgence; as a healer, he shows how to channel these desires into personal growth. His mastery of the Sanjeevani mantra highlights his deep understanding of life and death, proving that he’s not just about the good times—he’s about second chances too.

Jupiter: The Ascetic Sage Jupiter is the spiritual minimalist, urging you to detach from desires and focus on higher truths. He’s the guru who reminds you that fleeting pleasures pale in comparison to eternal peace. While Venus heals your body and mind, Jupiter seeks to heal your soul by guiding you beyond the illusions of the material world.

🌌 Life’s Approach: Harmony vs. Mastery

Jupiter’s Path: Jupiter leads with faith, devotion, and the pursuit of inner peace. His approach is about finding harmony within yourself and with the universe. His teachings encourage gratitude and humility, aligning your actions with the greater cosmic order.

Venus’s Path: Venus believes in mastering the art of life. Whether it’s relationships, success, or overcoming obstacles, Shukracharya equips you to excel in the material realm. His lessons emphasize empowerment and resilience, reminding you that even in chaos, there’s beauty—and power.

If Jupiter is the grand monastery, steeped in philosophy and higher learning, Venus is the opulent palace ballroom, alive with music, dance, and earthly pleasures. Jupiter’s domain is the university lecture hall, a sanctuary of timeless wisdom, while Venus presides over the art gallery, where beauty and creativity are celebrated. Jupiter governs the sanctum of a temple, a space for introspection and spiritual growth, whereas Venus sparkles in the marketplace, where life’s sensual joys and connections unfold. Each represents a world of its own: Jupiter uplifts the soul, and Venus enchants the senses

The Verdict 💫

So, here’s the cosmic tea: Jupiter and Venus aren’t competing; they’re balancing forces. Jupiter offers the wisdom to transcend life, while Venus gives you the skills to embrace and heal within it. Jupiter is the sage who helps you unlock eternal truths, and Venus is the healer and mentor who ensures you enjoy the ride and survive the bumps along the way.

Are you drawn to Jupiter’s lofty ideals or Venus’s grounded guidance? Let me know—Team Jupiter or Team Venus? ✨

[mindfulstudyquest]

“ vindica te tibi „ – and what we should learn from an old stoic like Seneca

if you have ever studied latin or philosophy, you will certainly have stumbled upon Seneca, a very problematic dude who, however, occasionally said the right things.

“ vindica te tibi „ is my all-time-favorite latin quote, it litterally means “ vindicate yourself for yourself „, but we can translate it better with “ take control of yourself „. in order to deeply understand this statement, let's take a look at stoic philosophy.

stoicism [ from latin stōicus and ancient greek Στωϊκός ( stōïkós ) ]: it’s a philosophy designed to make us more resilient, happier, more virtuous and more wise and – as a result – better people, better parents and better professionals. it is a philosophical and spiritual current with a rational (human rationality is the basis of everything), pantheistic (everything is God, God is everywere, the whole universe is God), deterministic (nothing happens by chance but everything is regulated by precise logical laws), and dogmatic (all that is, as being, is real and concrete) imprint, with a strong ethical and tendentially optimistic orientation. stoicism was founded in Athens around 300 bc by Zeno of Citium and later it was introduced to rome by Panaetius of Rhodes in the 2nd century bc. stoicism is a tool in the pursuit of self-mastery, perseverance, and wisdom: something one uses to live a great life, rather than some esoteric field of academic inquiry. [ sources wikipedia and dailystoic ]

Seneca was a stoic philosopher who lived in rome in the 1st century ad, and he wrote this quote in a letter addressed to Lucilus, a friend of his much younger than him, interested in philosophy and politics.

in this letter ( the first of his epistolary ) he deals with the theme of time and the brevity of life, a subject that he would often return to in many of his works. basically Seneca claims that life isn't actually that short, as the majority of people complain, we're just very good at waste our time beign slaves of something, instead of using it wisley. there are many ways people waste their time, he calls them " the busy ones ", those people who spend their energies on useless business and relationships, which lead neither to their personal growth nor to an economic, social or psychological advantage, just because they're used to it.

Seneca is saying that we are so used to wasting time, doing certain things just because we have been taught to do so, that we don't realize that we could do much more for ourselves and for our enviroment if we only knew how to use our time correctly.

" vindica te tibi " means that you have to take control of your time, because no one can give it back to you. your future depends on the investment in yourself and in your time, your future and who you are as a person is up to you. take control of yourself.

[crystalandbow]

YOUR STRENGTHS v/s WEAKNESS

Pick a pile↓

Welcome back to crystalandbow 🤍 I hope y'all are doing great! Today let us dive into your greatest strengths and weaknesses. Pick a pile intuitively and check the corresponding message!

This is a general reading, only take what resonates :)

What pile are you choosing? Do let me know!

PILE 1 -

Everything In Time

Strength: I think your biggest strength is resilience in the face of adversity. Despite experiencing setbacks and betrayals, you possess the ability to rise above them. You refuse to let past failures define you instead you use them as lessons to fuel your growth and determination. Your strength lies in emerging stronger on the other side. You understand that setbacks are temporary and believe in your power to shape your own destiny, no matter the odds against you. you know when to disconnect. You guard yourself well & you always try to protect your peace and the moment you feel something is fishy you try to leave the situation asap. You cut off people if they don't vibe with you anymore. "Moving on" is a word that I picked up on, it could suggest that you are always trying to move on, (in a sense of growing) like leave behind things that don't serve / match with you anymore.

Weakness: you have a tendency to be overwhelmed by worry and anxiety. You may struggle to manage your fears, allowing them to cloud your judgment and hinder your ability to move forward. You might need to work on finding healthier coping mechanisms and strategies for dealing with stress and uncertainty. You might also tend to give up soon? Or even have trouble falling asleep because of those constant thoughts. Also mental instability/ lack of "peace"maybe?

PILE 2-

Better Is Coming

Strength: omg the way you just carry yourself 😭 your fierce eyes, your personna, your hair everything about you screams professionalism. you possess the intellectual prowess, communication skills, and ethical integrity necessary to navigate challenges successfully and lead others with confidence and wisdom. You believe in the principles of justice and fairness and make decisions from your brain rather than the heart. Your leadership can be characterized by discipline.the way you express yourself with honesty and precision helps you earn trust and credibility from those around you. Great speakers/diplomats/ presenters also good for politics honestly.

Weakness: fear of change or fear of the unknown. You have a deep seated fear or resistance towards change and transformation. You might find yourself clinging to the familiar/known, even if it no longer serves you well, out of a sense of discomfort or uncertainty about what lies ahead.confront your fears and resistance towards change, allow yourself to embrace the natural cycles of life and trust in the process of transformation instead of viewing it as something to be afraid of or to avoid, see it as a catalyst for personal growth and evolution. You will unlock something special

PILE 3-

Choose What Chooses You

Strength: you have the ability to draw upon the wisdom of the past, whether through religious or spiritual teachings, cultural customs, or personal philosophies. you are a natural leader and mentor, capable of guiding others on their spiritual or moral journey. You offer support, wisdom, and guidance to those who seek it or you like to gain wisdom, inspiration and guidance from your role models and teachers. You listen to your intuition and have a sense of profound understanding of spiritual truths, which serve as a source of inspiration and guidance in your life. Your ability to tap into this higher knowledge empowers you to lead others with wisdom and compassion, offering support and guidance along their spiritual journey.

Weakness: Impulsivity and haste in your actions and decision-making process! You may feel a strong urge to rush into situations without fully considering the consequences, driven by a desire for quick results or a need to assert your dominance. This impulsiveness can lead to a lack of foresight, where you fail to assess potential risks or take into account the feelings and perspectives of others involved. Your eagerness to charge forward with single-minded determination may blind you to important details or alternative viewpoints.You may find yourself easily triggered by perceived obstacles or challenges.

PILE 4-

Enjoy The Now

Strength: a boundless enthusiasm and passion for exploring new ideas, projects, and opportunities! You are absolutely unafraid to step outside of your comfort zone and pursue your dreams with determination and zest.You have the drive and confidence to take bold action and seize opportunities as they arise. Your willingness to follow your instincts and trust in your creative intuition enables you to break through barriers and overcome obstacles on your path to success. You have a natural talent for innovation and originality/ thinking outside the box.

trust in your abilities to manifest your desires and achieve your goals!

Weakness: imbalance in nurturing and caring for oneself versus others! While it's essential to attend to practical matters and provide for your needs, neglecting your emotional or spiritual well-being can lead to feelings of emptiness or dissatisfaction. It is important for you to cultivate a more balanced approach to life that honors both practical concerns and deeper emotional fulfillment. Practice mindfulness & / or self-reflection to identify areas where you may be overly fixated on material possessions or security, and explore ways to nurture your emotional and spiritual well-being. Seek out for opportunities for growth and personal development. By adapting a more holistic sense of abundance and security, you can overcome these limitations that lead you to feel unfulfilled despite the goodness around you.

[srbachchan]

DAY 5925

Jalsa, Mumbai May 8/9, 2024 Wed/Thu 9:10 AM

🪔 ,

Belated birthday greetings to Ef Sunanda Yadav from Kolkata .. for May 08 .. 🙏🏻🚩❤️

Change .. the inevitable feature in the life of the Universe and for us that inhabit it .. it has remained a mystery, despite the thousands of intellectual minds and researchers in the fields of science and more in philosophy - darshan shaastra .. दर्शन शास्त्र ..

"दर्शनशास्त्र (Darśanaśāstra) वह ज्ञान है जो परम् सत्य और सिद्धान्तों, और उनके कारणों की विवेचना करता है। दर्शन यथार्थ की परख के लिये एक दृष्टिकोण है। दार्शनिक चिन्तन मूलतः जीवन की अर्थवत्ता की खोज का पर्याय है। वस्तुतः दर्शनशास्त्र स्वत्व, तथा समाज और मानव चिंतन तथा संज्ञान की प्रक्रिया के सामान्य नियमों का विज्ञान है।"

to gain knowledge of the permanent truth, principles of life .. to get a view of the reasons and meanings of so much that is unknown .. the search .. the construct of the way social norms be conducted , the routines and rules of it all .. and more ..

Still a territory that never stops evolving, yet unable to resolve ..

"Darshan Shastra, a profound philosophy, delves into the nature of truth and falsehood. Rooted in ancient Indian wisdom, it scrutinizes the complexities of deception, perception, and reality. Darshan Shastra underscores the interplay between subjective perception and objective truth, exploring the dynamics of dharma (duty) and adharma (immorality). It illuminates the ethical implications of falsehood, advocating for integrity and transparency in thought and action. Through intricate analyses of human cognition and societal norms, it offers insights into the consequences of deceit and the pursuit of truth. Darshan Shastra serves as a guiding beacon, inspiring seekers to navigate the labyrinth of lies towards enlightenment."

And during its intriguing features that we encounter each moment, the debate and argument continue .. some convincing, some evasive, some just glanced by and driven away ..

The boiling point that is now bubbling with the heat of 'change' is the nature of change in each generation .. the past gone, the present, and the future to be .. and its reflections on the conduct of our living .. our existence, our conduct towards 'all things bright and beautiful' ..

For the professionals like us to adapt or to ignore .. what to make what to access what to exhibit , what to give for maximum benefit and gain and deliverance in its quotient of the investment and return, to put it crudely ..

And there are no firm responses ..

Flow with the tide .. or create your own waves for the tides to follow ..

That phase of creation at this stage has long passed for me .. better to flow .. be a part of .. not too dependent on result, but dependent on the involvement of the flow - whichever direction it takes ..

At least you become a part of it .. time, energy, to be procured for created creation, takes an eternity, at this stage .. limitations of life years , the brilliance of youthful exuberance, the screams of vivacity and enthusiasm - all forgone now , and no time to reinvent it - so -

FLOW ..

I flow , you flow , we all flow for flow !!

😀

😀

🤣

With my love for all the Ef .. ❤️

Amitabh Bachchan

[omegaphilosophia]

The Philosophy of Happiness

The philosophy of happiness explores the nature, sources, and significance of happiness in human life. It examines what constitutes true happiness, how it can be achieved, and its role in ethical and meaningful living. Philosophers have approached happiness from various perspectives, including ethical, psychological, and existential viewpoints, leading to diverse understandings of what it means to live a happy life.

Key Themes in the Philosophy of Happiness:

Definitions and Concepts of Happiness:

Eudaimonia (Flourishing): In ancient Greek philosophy, particularly in the works of Aristotle, happiness is often equated with "eudaimonia," which is best translated as flourishing or well-being. Eudaimonia is achieved through living virtuously and fulfilling one's potential, rather than through the pursuit of pleasure alone.

Hedonism: Hedonism defines happiness as the pursuit of pleasure and the avoidance of pain. This view, associated with philosophers like Epicurus, suggests that a happy life is one in which pleasure is maximized and suffering minimized. However, Epicurus emphasized simple pleasures and the avoidance of excess.

Ethical Theories and Happiness:

Utilitarianism: Utilitarian philosophers like Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill argue that the right action is the one that maximizes happiness for the greatest number of people. In this context, happiness is often understood as the presence of pleasure and the absence of pain.

Virtue Ethics: Aristotle’s virtue ethics posits that happiness is achieved by living a life of virtue. Virtuous actions, in accordance with reason, lead to a state of eudaimonia, where individuals live in harmony with their true nature and purpose.

Deontological Ethics: While not focused solely on happiness, deontological ethics, as developed by Immanuel Kant, suggests that true happiness comes from fulfilling one’s moral duties. Kant argues that happiness is not the primary goal of moral action, but living morally can lead to a form of happiness tied to a sense of duty and integrity.

Happiness and the Good Life:

The Role of Reason: In many philosophical traditions, particularly in the works of Plato and Aristotle, happiness is linked to the exercise of reason. A life guided by rational thought and the pursuit of wisdom is seen as the highest form of happiness.

The Balance of Pleasure and Virtue: Philosophers like Aristotle and the Stoics argue that happiness is not merely about pleasure but involves a balance of pleasure with virtue. Happiness is seen as a byproduct of living a virtuous life, rather than an end in itself.

Subjective and Objective Views of Happiness:

Subjective Well-Being: Modern discussions of happiness often focus on subjective well-being, which is the individual's self-assessment of their life satisfaction and emotional state. This perspective emphasizes personal experience and the psychological aspects of happiness.

Objective Well-Being: In contrast, some philosophers argue that happiness should be understood in objective terms, based on factors like health, relationships, and personal achievements. From this view, happiness is not just about how one feels but also about living a life that meets certain standards of well-being.

Happiness in Different Philosophical Traditions:

Stoicism: Stoic philosophers like Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius argue that happiness comes from accepting the things we cannot change and living in accordance with nature. Happiness, in this view, is achieved through self-discipline, rationality, and emotional resilience.

Epicureanism: Epicurus taught that happiness is found in simple pleasures, friendship, and the absence of pain (ataraxia). He distinguished between necessary and unnecessary desires, advocating for a minimalist lifestyle that avoids unnecessary suffering.

Buddhism: In Buddhist philosophy, happiness is understood as a state of inner peace and enlightenment, achieved by overcoming desire and attachment. The Four Noble Truths outline the path to end suffering, which is seen as the key to true happiness.

Existential Perspectives on Happiness:

Sartre and Existential Freedom: Existentialist philosophers like Jean-Paul Sartre argue that happiness is not a predefined state but something that individuals must create for themselves through their choices. Happiness is linked to the authentic exercise of freedom and the responsibility to define one’s own existence.

Camus and the Absurd: Albert Camus, another existentialist, explores the idea that life is inherently absurd and that the search for meaning or happiness can seem futile. However, he argues that one can still find happiness in embracing the absurd and living fully in the face of it.

The Pursuit of Happiness in Modern Thought:

Positive Psychology: In contemporary philosophy and psychology, the study of happiness has expanded with the development of positive psychology. This field focuses on understanding and fostering the factors that contribute to human flourishing, such as positive emotions, relationships, meaning, and accomplishments.

Happiness and Society: Modern philosophers and social theorists explore the relationship between happiness and social conditions, including wealth, inequality, and political systems. Debates continue on how society can be organized to promote the well-being and happiness of its members.

Critiques and Challenges:

Hedonic Treadmill: One critique of the pursuit of happiness is the "hedonic treadmill" effect, where people quickly return to a baseline level of happiness despite changes in their circumstances. This challenges the idea that lasting happiness can be achieved through external factors alone.

The Paradox of Happiness: Some philosophers and psychologists argue that the direct pursuit of happiness can be self-defeating. Focusing too much on becoming happy may lead to anxiety or disappointment, while happiness often arises as a byproduct of other activities, such as meaningful work or relationships.

The philosophy of happiness offers a rich and varied exploration of what it means to live well. It challenges individuals to consider the sources of true happiness, the role of virtue and reason in the good life, and the balance between personal pleasure and ethical living. Whether seen as a subjective state, an objective condition, or a byproduct of living authentically, happiness remains a central concern in philosophical inquiry, reflecting the enduring human quest for fulfillment and well-being.

[short-wooloo]

Star Wars saga full of Jewish references and themes. Did you know Yoda was Jewish?

Like so many of you, I am anxiously awaiting the release of Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens.

A long time ago in a galaxy far away…1977 actually…we were introduced to this most amazing epic, and appreciation has only grown over the ensuing years. The characters have become embedded in American culture.

For most fans, Star Wars is great entertainment, and it is definitely that…and much more.

The Star Wars series is eclectic. It combines many religious, philosophical and historic themes taken from a wide array of religions, including Zoroastrianism, Taoism, Stoicism, Nihilism, Christianity and also Judaism. A student of any of these religions will find something of their own faith somewhere in Star Wars.

College level classes have been taught on the mythology and symbolism that are so much a part of Star Wars. There is even a book entitled “Star Wars and Philosophy: More Powerful than You Can Possibly Imagine” which is a compilation written by various college professors.

Most prominently, the conflict between “light” and “dark” sides of the Force comes almost directly from Zoroastrianism and their intertwining connection certainly is a reflection of the yin and yang of Taoism. And there is much more.  The strong ethical element to Star Wars bears a direct connection to various ideals of Buddhism and Stoicism.

The virtues the Jedi shares with the Stoic sages are patience, commitment, seriousness, calm, caution, benevolence, and, of course, wisdom. Given all these virtues, Yoda is what the ancient Stoics described as the sage, the ideal person who has perfected reason and achieved complete wisdom. Speaking of Yoda, students of Hebrew will recognize several choices of names in the films as having Hebrew roots. Yoda most obviously comes from the Hebrew word Yodea, meaning one with knowledge.

Both Judaism and Christianity are reflected in Star Wars, philosophically and historically. Particularly concerning the depiction of the eternal conflict between good and evil, students of Judaism will recognize the yetzer ha-tov vs. the yetzer ha-ra, the opposing human inclinations present in every person. There may even be a connection to the Dead Sea Scrolls, one of which is entitled “The War of the Sons of Light Against the Sons of Darkness.”

The struggle between good and evil in Star Wars seems closer to the Christian concept where good and evil are competing and independent powers battling over the domain of creation. Judaism, of course, sees everything as emanating from a single Creator. This includes evil that has no independent will of its own to oppose God, but is also under God’s domain, as is portrayed in the Book of Job.

Judaism teaches that the source of Light and Darkness are One and the same, as it says in the prayer book: “Blessed art You, Eternal One, our God, Ruler of the Universe, Who forms light and creates darkness, Who makes peace and creates all things.” The source for this line of liturgy can be found in the Hebrew Bible, Isaiah 45:7: “Who forms light and creates darkness, Who makes peace and creates evil; I am the Eternal One, Who makes all these.”

The ever-present and overarching theme of Star Wars is that of the Force that endows these films with their undeniable spiritual orientation. The Force is what gives a Jedi his power. It’s an energy field created by all living things. It binds the galaxy together.

Call it what you like; it sounds like God to me.

The expression “May the Force be with you” is emblematic of the Star Wars legacy. This line is invoked by at least one character in each of the Star Wars movies. To those familiar with the Catholic Mass, these words seem to directly reflect Dominus vobiscum, the Latin phrase meaning “The Lord be with you” – the ancient salutation and blessing traditionally used by the clergy in the Roman Catholic Mass, and several other Christian denominations.

In other ways, the Force has taken on Christian overtones. In “The Phantom Menace,” Anakin Skywalker (Darth Vader as a boy) is supposedly the result of a virgin birth.

And there are suggestions of Messianism as well. The idea of a foretold “Chosen One” who would restore balance to the Force is a theme running throughout the Star Wars films.

I do not believe that George Lucas set out to create a science fiction universe intended specifically to reflect Jewish history. Nevertheless, the allusions are apparent to Jews.  Darth Vader and company are Nazis and Storm Troopers – the embodiment of all that is evil and destructive.

Since it is Chanukah, I should add that the heroes of Star Wars, the members of a “rebel alliance,” are the few against the many. They could be the Maccabees in outer space, the small band of determined fighters who struggled against the overwhelming power of the Greek Syrians, or they could be the partisans and defenders of the Warsaw Ghetto who did all that they could to resist the Nazis.

This brief essay actually is only scratching the surface. Stars Wars is so much more than science fiction. On so many levels, it is a serious endeavor dealing with universal human concerns that are confronted by all of the world’s religions. Its universalistic moral themes, as much as its originality and cinematic genius, are what endows Star Wars with timeless value.

[mycosmicsage]

Responding to Anonymous Ask: my big three are sag sun , pisces moon, sag rising. looking forward to hearing your opinion on my placements lol, thanks🫶🏼

I wanted to keep your personal data safe! But I did go ahead and get your orbs and everything so I can do a deeper dive for you so let's take a look!

Sagittarius sun in the 12th house- To have such an important planet in this house is one that can lead into many different aspects. This house is ruled by Neptune and Pisces, which traditionally are dreamer planets. It's an area that increases empathetic attitudes, and intuition. However, one of the main aspects of these two (Neptune and Pisces) is that they can get lost in themselves and forget who they are, and what they were doing. To have Sagittarius here (a planet ruled by Jupiter the planet of deep faith and philosophy), entrenched with this can lead to a great world of exploring the depths of spirituality as a whole, and expanding your horizons beyond the physical. Sagittarius is an adventurer, and Neptune and Pisces open that path for them. However, with this comes a place of feeling that you are not connecting with yourself on a whole either. Maybe you understand what you're seeing, but it's hard to put that into words for other people and it gets lost in translation. It can lead to isolation, and snuff the flame of Sagittarius out. It's important to check in with people, and to try to manage the big sized chunks that you have discovered into bite sized pieces.

Strengths: Deep spiritual and emotional aptitude, Vibrancy Weaknesses: Difficulty connecting with others, prone to isolation

Pisces Moon in the Second House- The second house is our values and the things that matter to us (physical matter that is), it also denotes work ethic and can influence how you communicate those needs to others. To have the planet of inner emotions in Pisces here may lean you more towards emotionally feeling out your way through life. Pisces is naturally a caretaker of in depth emotions, they sway on the currents to find where they are going next in life. So to get the materials and sense of security you seek- you feel it out. Moony comes and goes, based on emotions. It can indicate a strong feeling of needing to feel generous, and wanting to give to the world as well.

Strengths: Emotional flexibility, generous aptitude towards life Weaknesses: Prone to having emotional quandaries, prone to being misled

Finally, Sagittarius Rising- To others on the outside, you seem vibrant, and life-like. You want to scour the world and see everything it has to offer you, and the challenges that come your way are easily met, and sorted through with a wisdom that only you seem to possess. All fire signs tend to have a natural charisma about them all in different manners, Aries has the charisma of a shiny faced kid getting giddy over the littlest things, Leo the charisma of a natural born leader, yours is found in almost a mystical sense of people can't help but to listen because you carry an old soul. However, with this like Leo there is a tendency to become engulfed by the ego, it's not hard to notice when people are just seeming to follow you and wanting to live the life you're trying to achieve. It's important to stand back once in a while and ground yourself, remembering that you are just a person in this world like everyone else.

Strengths: Wise to the ways of the world, passionate about new horizons Weaknesses: Prone to ego, may have feelings of burnout if certain passions aren't realized

Aspects

Sagittarius Sun Square Pisces Moon- Typically signs in a square aren't very understanding of one another. But perhaps it's that these two understand each other too well that leads to disharmony, considering where they are placed in the houses. As I said the Sagittarius sun can have a hard time regrounding themselves, and connecting with society after having mental revelations. Something Pisces knows intimately. However, Pisces, a planet dedicated in your chart to feeling their way through the world can't connect with the Sagittarius sun, because the sun doesn't know how to properly talk or know how they are feeling. This can lead to those feelings of isolation intensifying. Both of these signs want more from the world, more from what lies beyond the material- but they aren't connecting. Then you have Pisces in the second house looking over the actual material world, and feels lost because the drive that would normally help guide it in the sun- is missing. I would ensure that you are taking the time to connect your feelings to any new findings you come across, and take a deep breath. As I said with the ascendant, you are just a person like everyone else. Make sure that you are taking the time to speak with people who care about you and really connect on a deeper level to help manage any isolation that you may come across.

Overall this combination feels like a spiritual cosmonaut. Someone who understands the deeper workings of the world, and is intrigued and brought forward into this life to help others, and to grow their mind. (Looking over the other parts of your chart you have some cool things going on there too!)

~

Hope you enjoyed your reading!

[alfreddelicata]

Key Roman Philosophers and Their Wisdom

The Roman school of philosophers wrote on ethics, government, and human behavior, providing direct advice regarding civic responsibility and character. They stressed the use of reason, virtue, and moral responsibility. Below is a profile of Roman philosophers and their key teachings.

Marcus Tullius Cicero, a celebrated statesman and orator, connected Greek ideas like Stoicism to Roman public life. He saw natural law and moral duty as the foundation of civic rules and personal actions. For Cicero, justice wasn't an abstract concept but about how people interact, communicate, and reason together. His thoughts shaped Western legal/political thought, guiding civic responsibility discussions that continue to date.

Lucius Annaeus Seneca was a Stoic thinker and royal advisor. He believed virtue came from self-control and restraint. In his letters and essays, he argued true wealth stemmed from strength of character - not money or things that can vanish - and emphasized qualities like integrity, wisdom, and self-control, which last. Seneca saw suffering as a way to build toughness and moral sharpness. His practical wisdom about managing emotions and embracing self-discipline resonates with many today.

Epictetus, once enslaved and later а leading Stoic teacher, wrote that people can't control what happens to them. In his book Enchiridion, he argues freedom comes from focusing on what a person can change and letting go of what they can't. He states that clear boundaries should exist between what one can and cannot influence. His teachings also offer a blueprint for mental resilience.

Marcus Aurelius, an emperor and later a thinker, composed his reflective manuscript "Meditations." He understood that great leadership starts with personal virtue and accepting what comes one's way. Duty and reason, he says, guide both public decisions and personal life, even in tough times. His words offer lasting, simple advice on humble leadership and personal grit, blending reflection with practical wisdom.

Lucretius - а philosopher and poet - was committed to understanding the world. His poem De Rerum Natura introduced readers to atomistic theory, stating that everything in the universe is made of tiny, indivisible particles. Lucretius believed understanding nature's workings could free people from baseless fears about gods and death. Inner peace, he says, grows from rational thinking and living in harmony with nature.

Plotinus built on Plato's ideas to develop the foundation of Neoplatonism. He believed the universe was born from а single, indescribable source called "the One," with the soul's deeper purpose being to reconnect with this divine origin. He also believed people can reach spiritual awakening and inner transformation by living rationally and ethically. Plotinus' ideas bridged philosophy and spirituality, showing how meditation and personal growth could help tap into а deeper connection with existence.

Another thinker, Gaius Musonius Rufus, was dubbed Roman Socrates. He focused on practical ethics and believed hard work and simplicity built personal character and bonds. Self-control, fairness, and humility were his core teachings. He embodied these teachings, which continue to offer timeless lessons about building а meaningful life.

Marcus Porcius Cato the Younger, a firm politician and Stoic philosopher, valued pure integrity over political games, even amid corruption. His life showed a deep commitment to ethics and traditional Roman values, urging people to hold onto morals through discipline and strength. Cato, a vocal opponent of Caesar, was against his actions and motives.

Publius Syrus, formerly enslaved but later a maxim writer, turned life's complex lessons into memorable truths. His lessons highlighted caution, restraint, and practical wisdom for everyday problems. Although not a trained philosopher, he showed simple thinking and actions lead to a good life, making wisdom reachable to anyone.

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Hi, I looked through your recent posts about north and south to try and see if you had posted about your specific topic but couldn’t find it and didn’t want to risk serious spoilers. I’d love to know what exactly you’re writing on and what your perspective/research question is so I can keep that in mind while reading and ask some informed/related questions.

Hi!! I'm really sorry it took me this long to answer.

One way of explaining it would be this:

It is often jokingly said that North and South is "Pride and Prejudice for Socialists" and "Pride and Prejudice and Labor Disputes", which is a funny joke, but of course not entirely accurate -Gaskell is by no means writing Austen pastiche, and definitely a whole lot of people lured in by this description are shocked and put off by the novel when they find it doesn't have the lightness, satire and quick wit of P&P.

Gaskell is often presented within the "authors to read next" once one has finished Austen, and that is on first approach, a rather strange thing, because they are very different in pretty significant ways. Where Austen writes satire and comedy, Gaskell writes heartfelt, sometimes sentimental drama. Rarely someone dies in an Austen; rarely no one dies in a Gaskell. Courtship is central to Austen; parent-child relationships are central to Gaskell. Austen writes contemporary pieces; most of Gaskell's work is historical. Austen writes mainly from the gentry space, Gaskell from the professional middle-class space. Even when they coincide in the confidentiality of their prose, Austen is more like the friend with the latest gossip, and Gaskell more like an old aunt telling old-life stories by the fire. And yet, there is something to the connection. They certainly feel closer to each other as storytellers than, for example, how Gaskell's work compares to Dickens or Charlotte Brontë, which were authors she personally knew and interacted with.

My intuition is that the similarity or connection people see is through the ethical world their works seem to inhabit. Austen has been described as an Aristotelian more than once; Aristotelian philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre dedicated most of a chapter in his After Virtue (a well known text to anyone who has studied ethics in a philosophy school or as part of a philosophy degree) to argue that she is one of the last representatives of the Aristotelian tradition of the virtues. In very summarized summary, through an ideal image of the accomplished gentleman or the accomplished lady, Austen draws the picture of virtues as habits that make a person better and make that person more fully human. Honesty, generosity, patience, prudence, justice, wisdom, are not theoretical imperatives but lived modes of being in Austen. In that sense one can say that Austen is ethical. She focuses on personal character and growth.

Gaskell has that line in the background, but seems most interested in community dynamics as mediated by friendship, and to friendship Aristotle dedicates two full books (chapters) of his ten-book Nicomachean Ethics; friendship is central and essential to the Aristotelian understanding not only of ethics but of politics (and ethics and politics are to him a continuum strongly connected by justice). Again, too long to explain and I don't want to bore anyone XD but for Aristotle a flourishing human community is one where the citizens are friends -that is, people that strive to better themselves and promote the common good by associating with each other to pursue these goals. Aristotle also has an extended notion of friendship; what we call "friendships of convenience" and think of as false friendships, he thinks are legitimate if partial forms of friendship, structured around pleasure or utility.

My original goal was to present this Austen-Gaskell continuity and defend the idea that Gaskell's work represents an Aristotelian understanding of ethics-politics through the way it draws communties and relationships within those communities, and the sketched solutions she presents to community problems. I wanted to maybe make a comparison between the more detailed perspective of N&S, and then discuss the idealized community in Cranford, the community in crisis in My Lady Ludlow, and the vicious community in Lois the Witch. Alas, my advisor, a reasonable person, said I'd have enough with just N&S and deep down I know he's right XD

Hope that explains it (?) and please feel free to reach out again!

I have been asked about it before here, and I told it a different way there.