#the dysfunction is palpable

[weedpicnic]

Using Twitter to make sure the hot girl who thinks I’m hot knows I’m really weird before she gets too attached to the idea that I’m not

[on-a-lucky-tide]

i am here thinking again. what could be the moment that price catches nikolai off-guard for once? surely even the smoothest men can be caught lacking, eh?

Nik has an allergic reaction to viagra and gives Price a small fright.

cw: allergic reaction, erectile dysfunction

"Nik, ah, Nik, stop."

Price shoved Nik's shoulders and tried to shuffle up the bed from beneath him. Something wasn't bloody right. Nik was mute, none of the usual guttural moans, or slurred Russian filth, delirious with pleasure. Nik was vocal. It was part of the fun and it got Price goin' like little else.

Hell, this was the first time they had fucked in months due to a range of different reasons, from clashing missions to meetings to Nik's schedule, and Price was expecting Nik to be ravenous. Instead, he seemed to be struggling; his brow creased, his eyes foggy.

Nik slumped to the side, propped on his elbow, his big chest heaving. "John, is there... was something wrong?"

"Yeah, you, I'm worried... Nik, look at me, oi, look at me." Price grabbed Nik's chin and lifted his head from where it was tilted forward. "Bloody 'ell, you don't look right. Think it was the resta--? Nik? Nik!"

Nik stumbled from the bed, almost tripping over the tangle of blankets and pillows wrapped around his legs. He just about made it to the toilet before the expensive three course meal and the few glasses of Macallan they'd knocked back after became a wasted investment.

Price walked into the en suite after him, rubbing a warm palm over his back. "Ay, you're alrigh', deep breaths between." As Nik's body continued to seize and tense, Price looked the rest of him over. There were hives on the back of the hands grasping the toilet bowl and his skin was cold to the touch, clammy, not the flushed heat it should have been from sex. "Nik, 'm gonna call the infirmary."

"Nyet!" Nik near shouted into the toilet bowl, reaching out to grab Price just behind the knee before he could walk away. "Nyet, John... It will pass."

"Don't be a muppet. They'll give you a look over and make sure you don't need A&E." Price grabbed one of his travel mugs and filled it with water from the tap. Nik took it from him in a shaking hand and managed several gulps before slumping back against the wall, throwing the toilet seat down as he went. His chin fell to his chest, one forearm slanted across a raised knee.

"This... This is self-inflicted," Nik said. "I am already embarrassed enough."

Price squinted, sitting slowly on the toilet lid, nudging the flush down with his elbow. "Start talkin'. This ain't like you. And if I don't think you're bein' honest, I'm callin' Janie."

"She is the doctor who signed you off for your ACL surgery."

"The very same."

"I would be in trouble."

"Yeah, loads. Stop delaying."

Nik sighed, pressing his fingers into his eyes before his palm flattened to his chest. Price could see the flush of shame up his neck, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the floor rather than look up as he spoke. "I have an allergy to sildenafil."

Price wracked his brains and then huffed an incredulous laugh. "Viagra, Nik, I..."

When Nik turned his face away, swallowing, Price wanted to kick himself with steel toe-capped size twelves for being an arsehole of a partner.

"Ay, ay, don't... I'm sorry, that was... I was just... Why the fuck are you takin' viagra?"

Nik's jaw twitched from where his teeth were clenched, and he wiped one big hand down his face. The shame rolling off of him was palpable. "I am having... problems."

"Are they... Are we talkin' life-threatening problems?"

"Nyet. I simply cannot... it will not... you know," Nik waved his hand vaguely, "I... I was screened for some things. They said perhaps it is nerve damage from some shrapnel in my back, or perhaps it is all in my head, but I am... too ashamed to pursue more."

Price slipped from the toilet to sit at Nik's side against the wall, gently sliding his hand into the one dangling over his knee. Nik always spoke openly about sex, about their relationship, chuckling when Price squirmed and blushed like a prude. To watch him fumble and close up made Price's heart ache. "Why'd ya not tell me?"

Nik huffed dismissively, still looking away. "Da, how to say to your handsome, vigorous partner that you are unable to satisfy him in bed? That your body is... useless. That you are less than a man."

"Oh yeah, so the obvious solution is to take viagra, which you are violently allergic to. Absolute banger of a solution, Nik. Top marks," Price squeezed his hand, "and all this B.S. about bein' less than a man? Wind it in. It's bollocks."

"Zatknis, John..."

"Yer a smart man, Nik. But sometimes yer a..."

"...Muppet."

"Yeah, one of those," Price growled. "Yer seein' Janie in the mornin'. Not just for the allergy, for the lot."

"John, I cannot, it--"

"It could be a lot of things. Some of them more dangerous than others. Mine was stress."

Nik looked up quickly. "You have...?"

"Oh yeah. Mine stopped workin' fer about seven months five years ago. Coincided with a few large scale international fuck ups, a crammed schedule, an injury and some physio. Couldn't get it up fer the hottest piece of arse on Grindr, even if ya paid me."

"I did not know..."

"Course you didn't, we weren't exactly bumpin' uglies back then, were we?"

Nik smiled. "You have such a way with words..."

"Mhm." Price stroked his thumb over the back of Nik's hand, studying his face carefully. "You solid? No tight throat? You can breathe? There's an epipen in the first aid kit in the hallway."

"I am fine. This... It was similar when I tested it, but without the--" he gestured at the toilet, "my breathing is fine. I would... like to go to bed."

"Course." Price climbed to his feet, grunting at the clashing sensation of clicking knees and a numb arse, before helping Nik do the same. "Brush yer bloody teeth so I can kiss you."

Nik huffed softly. "Da."

When they climbed back into bed, Price kissed Nik gently, and then gathered him to his chest. Nik rested his ear over Price's heart and Price stroked his fingers through his hair. There was no fuckin' way he was sleeping that night. He'd stay awake and watch Nik sleep, listening to his slow breathing, checking the pulse at his neck. In the morning, he would let Janie eviscerate him for being so laissez faire with his health.

Then, and only then, they were gonna have a long chat about honesty, openness and trust. Cause knowing that Nik would rather poison himself than 'fail' Price in any way - regardless of how legitimate Nik felt that belief was - left Price with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

[slutoru1207]

Nowhere to Run pt 2

GIF by red-rift

Mohawk Mark x Reader

The silence stretches between you and Mohawk Mark like a tense wire, but it's broken by the sound of his stomach growling loudly. It’s the kind of growl that could be heard by a mile away, echoing over the barren landscape like a dying animal’s last plea for food.

Mark winces, then shoots you a sideways glance. "Not my fault," he mutters defensively, as if you were somehow responsible for his digestive issues. "You wouldn’t believe how much energy it takes to look this good all the time."

You snort despite yourself, arms crossed tightly as you eye the horizon. "Yeah, I’m sure it takes a lot of energy to look like you just woke up in a dumpster after a bender."

"Hey," Mark says, raising an eyebrow. "I’ll have you know that I’m the pinnacle of rugged charm. These things take time. This?" He gestures to himself dramatically, "This is perfection in motion."

"Uh huh," you deadpan, scanning the wasteland for anything that could pass as a food source or even a way out of here. "If perfection means looking like you fought a rockslide and lost, then yeah. You’re totally perfect."

Mark chuckles, but the sound is short-lived as another growl erupts from his stomach, sounding almost ashamed.

"Okay, okay, you win," he says, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "But seriously, if we're gonna make it out of here, we need to find food. And I'm pretty sure you're not gonna find a McDonald's in this hellhole."

You squint at the desolate landscape, considering your options. "Well, unless you're planning to make some weird version of a rock salad, I don't think we're getting anything here. You're gonna have to survive on whatever wild survival instincts you have."

Mark gives a small sigh, muttering, "Great. Just what I need—survival training with you." But then he smirks. "I mean, I'm sure you'll be useful. You probably know how to catch a rabbit or something."

"Yeah, sure. And I'm sure you know how to make fire with your charming personality."

"I could," he counters, turning to face you fully now, his eyes gleaming with the same cocky confidence, "but I’m gonna need a good campfire companion to keep me entertained. You up for the challenge?"

"God help me," you mutter under your breath. "I’d rather deal with a mutant bear at this point."

The moment passes in a stretch of silence, and you both just stand there in the middle of nowhere. The tension between you is palpable, yet there's something oddly comfortable in the banter, as if this dysfunctional, sarcastic dynamic could be the only thing holding your sanity together in this vast, lonely wasteland.

Mark finally shakes his head and groans. "Look, we need to figure this out. And unless you’re secretly a survival expert, we’re gonna have to work together. But only because I’m feeling generous."

You snort. "Yeah, that’s definitely the reason."

"Yeah," he says, cracking his neck, "So, what’s the plan, huh? You got anything in that head of yours?"

You hesitate, narrowing your eyes at the horizon. "I don't know, you got any ideas besides annoying the hell out of me?"

His smirk returns. "Well, I was thinking we could wait for a dragon to fly by and swoop us out of here. Or... we could, y'know, just walk."

You blink at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious or just completely insane. "Oh sure, that’ll totally work."

Mark shrugs, still with that damned smirk on his face. "Hey, no harm in dreaming, right?"

You’re about to retort when your stomach rumbles, an embarrassing reminder that you haven’t eaten in hours either. You glance over at Mark, who’s still looking at you with a faintly amused expression.

"Alright, fine," you mutter. "We’ll walk. But if we end up eating dirt for dinner, I’m blaming you."

"Deal," Mark says, offering you an exaggerated bow. "Lead the way, oh wise survival expert."

You roll your eyes but can't suppress a small smile as you start walking, knowing this journey’s going to be anything but boring.

[ctrlzirl]

— ★ tomorrow

↳ summary: “I wasted all those yesterdays, and now,—“ His words trailed off with a sigh, his eyes red-rimmed from hours of tears shed in the hospital, his gaze blurry as it searched for her face, “—What if I am completely out of tomorrows?”

↳ warnings: hospitals, mentions of gunshot wounds, pain, regret, not proof-read. No use of “y/n”

↳ author’s note: This is fluff, I promise the end is really sweet! This is also inspired by different, random, pinterest quotes my friends sent me. Enjoy!

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

No one enjoyed hospitals. The colors lacked vibrancy, the sounds became repetitive after a few minutes, the antiseptic smell was overpowering, the food tasted bland, and the anxious wait for news about a loved one was excruciating.

Unfortunately, the team was all too familiar with hospital waiting rooms, and even more unfortunate was their familiarity with being patients themselves.

Thankfully, the Federal Employees' Compensation Act provided some relief. Without it, they couldn't even begin to fathom the astronomical medical bills they'd be facing.

Tonight, however, finding themselves stuck in the uncomfortable chairs of the hospital waiting room had not been part of their plans.

The young genius's head throbbed relentlessly, a sensation he'd endured for weeks. The unimaginable pressure around his entire head, compounded with the bright light reflecting off the hospital's shiny white walls, the incessant beeping and the sounds of loved ones crying doing nothing other than intensify his discomfort.

The nurse they had bombarded with questions upon arrival had emerged not long ago to thankfully inform them that everything was alright. The surgery had gone well, and she was now in recovery. Soon enough, if they wished, they could stop by her new temporary room and visit her.

By now, most of the team had returned to the office. Hotch had been called back to work to tackle the pending files on their desks. Fortunately, he had allowed Rossi and Reid to remain behind. Ostensibly, their task was to update the team on her condition, but both of them understood that even if that hadn’t been necessary, there was no force on earth that could have budged Spencer from his spot, where he had been stationed for the last however many hours.

Spencer could feel David's gaze piercing through him. He wanted to snap at him, but he knew his current behavior had undoubtedly attracted more attention than just the older agent's. Clutching at his head, tugging on strands of hair intermittently, his leg bouncing up and down, with eyes tightly shut—his agitation was palpable.

“Kid, they said she’s alright. You need to relax.”

It was true, they had been told that, but it did little to reassure him. His mind raced through various worst-case scenarios. Her wound could become infected, or there might be undetected damage to internal organs. He fretted over potential complications like inflammation of the peritoneum, the formation of blood clots, or even damage to blood vessels leading to reduced blood flow to vital organs, potentially resulting in organ dysfunction or failure.

“The survival rate might seem high, but statistically speaking, complications can arise, even with the best medical care.”

“Spencer—“

“For instance, studies have shown that gunshot wounds to the abdomen carry a significant risk of infection, with rates as high as 20%. And there’s the possibility of peritonitis, which occurs in approximately 10% of cases.”

“Kid—“

“Organ damage is also a concern, particularly with injuries to vital organs like the liver or intestines. Even with the most advanced treatments—“

“Reid!”

For the first time since he sat down, his leg ceased its relentless movement. His hand, which had been tugging at the ends of his hair, relaxed and dropped to his lap, along with the hand he had been waving in the air to explain the statistics. His eyes unclenched, the worry in his brow disappearing as the rest of his facial muscles relaxed.

“What is going on, Spencer?”

The genius's eyes met the older agent's worried gaze with deliberate blinks, adjusting to the harsh fluorescent lights overhead while tuning out the cacophony of noise that surrounded them. “I just— I”

“I never told her and I— I don’t— “ His breathing was uneven, his words tumbling out faster than his mind could keep pace, his mouth struggling to articulate as his chest constricted with anxiety.

A gentle weight settled on his shoulder, its warmth grounding him as it gave a light shake, bringing him back to the present moment and prompting him to pause and take a breath.

“Rossi I- I devoted half my time since meeting her to loving her, only to spend the other half hiding it from her.”

With a sigh, the formerly retired agent settled down next to the much younger agent, his hands staying on the genius's shoulder as he shifted slightly to find a comfortable position.

Reid's gaze lingered on Rossi's face for a moment before he averted it, focusing instead on the bustling activity in the hallway where nurses and doctors hurried back and forth attending to patients.

“Every moment we shared, every laugh, every smile she graced me with, even in her unconscious gestures—“ His gaze returned to the hallway momentarily before lowering to where his hands rested on his knees. With a quick, almost imperceptible shake of his head, he cleared his throat. “Every time I looked at her, the words swelled in my throat. I longed to tell her how much she truly means to me, the happiness and peace she effortlessly brings into my world.”

“To tell her that I love her. That I have for a while now.”

David’s mouth opened, but before he could utter a word, Spencer's pointer finger shot up in the air, silencing any impending speech. It hovered there for a brief moment before his whole palm opened, effectively halting whatever words David had intended to say and then dropping back down to his lap.

“Every single time, I held back. I stopped myself from reaching out to her, from letting my true feelings spill out, from whispering all the things I desperately wished she knew.” His words cracked along with his voice as he, for the first time, admitted aloud feelings he had hidden for so long. “And with my heart pounding in my ears, I always just watched her, silently promising myself, ‘Tomorrow. I’ll tell her tomorrow.’”

“I wasted all those yesterdays, and now,—“ His words trailed off with a sigh that escaped his lips, his eyes red-rimmed from hours of tears shed in the hospital, his gaze blurry as it searched for the older man’s face, “—What if I am completely out of tomorrows?”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of Spencer's admission hanging between them until the ringing of a phone shattered the stillness. With a sigh, Rossi reached into his pocket, retrieving the vibrating phone and glancing at the contact name.

“She’ll be okay, kid.”

With one final, reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, the older man rose to his feet, his knee cracking audibly as he turned to leave. Despite his efforts at reassurance, Spencer's profound anxiety remained largely unchanged.

He felt utterly helpless, his mind desperately grasping for solutions, for the comforting embrace of statistical analysis with its reassuring numbers. But instead, there was only silence. For the first time in his life, his mind was empty, devoid of answers, devoid of the usual cacophony of thoughts and calculations.

He couldn't recall the moment the nurse returned to inform him that he could visit her, nor did he remember following the nurse into the room and settling down beside her bed.

He cast restless glances around the room, his eyes darting from one piece of medical equipment to another, then flitting to the walls and ceiling. His gaze moved incessantly, pausing only briefly before moving on, taking in every detail. Except for her.

Alone in the quiet with her, he couldn't bring himself to meet her frame. To look at her now would make everything feel too real, and his heart was already heavy with pain.

His body felt like it was betraying him. Breathing became labored, thoughts fragmented, and the pain in his heart seemed insurmountable.

He wanted to tell someone— no, he wanted to tell her, but he knew she wouldn’t have a solution like she always did. So he sat there, his hands nervously tugging at strands of hair, eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming cacophony of beeping machines surrounding them.

His heart weighed heavily in his chest, burdened by the weight of pain, regret, and fear. It was a sensation he never wanted to experience again, a darkness that threatened to engulf him entirely.

Throughout the night, nurses came and went. Some spoke to him, gave him updates on her condition but he didn’t listen. He tried, he just couldn’t understand it.

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, he reluctantly turned his gaze toward her bed. His eyes lingered on her hand, once so delicate and warm in his, now adorned with tubes and wires connecting her to different machines.

With a heavy sigh, his eyes remained fixed on her hand as he leaned forward, feeling the strain in his back from hours of immobility. With gentle care, he reached out and clasped her hand in his, his thumb tracing soothing circles over the back of it, mindful of the wires and tubes.

He remained still for a moment, relishing the warmth of her hand in his before allowing his gaze to travel up her arm, eyes tracing the patterns of the thin, cream-colored blanket that draped over her midsection when they got there. Then, his gaze shifted to her other arm, positioned protectively over her stomach where the wound lay, as if guarding it from further harm.

He studied the blue hospital gown draped over her body, its hue accentuating the sickly paleness of her skin. He traced every curve, every wrinkle, every wire, everything until his eyes finally met her bruised face.

She looked so peaceful and beautiful, devoid of worry. The furrows that typically marked her brow now absent, her closed eyes darting beneath her lids.

Tears welled in his eyes, the overwhelming emotions washing over him as he gazed upon her form. There was no smile, no gentle words escaping her lips, just a faintly parted mouth and serene countenance.

“Please wake up.” he whispered, his voice raspy from not being used in hours. “Please.” The desperation in his voice was evident in the way it cracked, in the way his chest tightened, in the way his throat constricted.

But she didn’t. Not for two weeks.

The medics reassured the team that she was showing positive signs and was going to be fine. They explained that in cases of severe internal bleeding within the abdominal cavity, it was common for patients to take longer to regain consciousness. "Sometimes, this can lead to hypovolemic shock and reduced blood flow to vital organs, including the brain," said the doctor they were currently questioning, one arm cradling a notepad against his chest while the other gestured towards her on the hospital bed, "which contributes to the prolonged unconsciousness she's experiencing."

Once the team's questions were answered, the doctor turned towards the door, his pen moving rapidly across the notepad as he scribbled something down. Upon reaching the door, he paused, pivoting back to face them. "While I can't predict the exact timeline for her awakening, I want to reassure you that we're doing everything we can to support her recovery." Tucking his pen back into his chest pocket, he scanned the room, meeting each person's gaze before lingering on on the genius’.

"Every individual responds differently to trauma and surgery, and it's not uncommon for patients to take some time to regain consciousness," he said, his tone gentle and reassuring, his kind smile directed at Spencer. "However, I want to emphasize that she's showing positive signs of progress, and her body is responding well to treatment. She should be waking up soon." With a final nod in the genius’ direction, he opened the door and disappeared into the flow of medical staff and patients outside her room.

The doctor's reassuring words and comforting demeanor provided Spencer with a small sense of relief.

As the days stretched on, nearing the two-week mark since her surgery, Spencer's exhaustion was becoming more evident. Dark circles underlined his eyes, his hair unkempt, and he felt the weight of fatigue settling into his bones. Sitting by her bedside day after day had taken its toll, leaving him feeling drained and with a sore backside.

It wasn’t until night, when he was alone with her again that he made a promise. “If you wake up tomorrow, I promise—“ He delicately released her hand, curling his fingers into a fist before extending his pinky finger to link with hers. “I pinky promise,” he whispered, a soft, trembling laugh escaping his lips as he recalled her insistence that a promise was only truly binding if sealed with a pinky. “If you wake up tomorrow, I’ll tell you everything.”

He had made up his mind days ago, swearing to himself that the moment she regained consciousness, he would lay everything bare. He hoped that verbalizing the promise would somehow penetrate her unconsciousness and draw her back to him.

As the night wore on and the room bathed in the soft glow of predawn, his senses awakened to a subtle movement near his head, his mind clouded with confusion as he remained still, trying to grasp his surroundings.

He found himself in a hazy state, unable to pinpoint the exact moment sleep had claimed him, yet the sensation of their linked pinkies lingered, his other hand placed gently on her leg, while his head rested on the bed.

It wasn’t until he felt his pinky being squeezed that Spencer’s senses sharpened, his back straightening with a crack as his eyes snapped into focus on her. The familiar furrow returned to her brow as she squeezed her eyes shut, her free hand instinctively reaching up to rub at her forehead.

His breath caught in his throat, his body frozen as he stared at her, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

“Spence?”

Her voice was raspy, her tone confused as her eyes opened and scanned the room. Without hesitation, he rose from his seat, hands releasing hers as he hurried to the table with the water bottles. He swiftly grabbed one, unscrewing the cap as he returned to her side.

She struggled to lift herself up on her elbows, her eyes tracking his movements, fixated on the open water bottle as he presented it to her. With a gentle nod from her, he brought the bottle closer, tipping it carefully as it reached her parched lips, his other hand positioned beneath her chin, ready to catch any droplets that might escape.

After consuming almost half of the bottle, she gently pushed it away from her lips, taking a moment to swallow the last gulp before lying back down.

He remained in a state of shock, his mind racing faster than it had in weeks, attempting to process the moment as he observed her shifting, striving to find a comfortable position.

“Spence?”

“You—” he began, his words trailing off as he struggled to articulate his thoughts. “You are awake.”

At his words, a gentle smile, the one he had longed to see for weeks, graced her lips. She nodded in acknowledgment as she looked at him. Without hesitation, he moved forward, enveloping her in a tight embrace, being careful not to hurt her. "You're awake," he whispered softly, his face nuzzling into her neck.

He knew he was supposed to call a nurse in —something the staff had reminded him of repeatedly— , but in that moment, he couldn’t bear to let her go. So, he held her tighter, his arms enveloping her as if protecting her from everything, his hand gently cradling the back of her head, thumb tracing soothing circles as he drew her closer.

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity before he released her from his embrace, his body reluctantly withdrawing from her warmth. His hands remained, tenderly cupping her face as he gazed into her eyes, memorizing every detail of her being.

"I have to tell you something," he whispered, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The familiar nerves and doubt flooded back, causing his heart to race so fast that he knew that if he had been the one hooked up to the machines, medics would have surely burst into the room thinking someone was having a heart attack.

He hesitated, his eyes lingering on her face, absorbing every detail illuminated by the gentle glow of the sun filtering into the room.

In his hesitation, his mind revisited every memory he shared with her. He recalled the moments he wanted to confess but held back, as well as his conversation with Rossi. Then, the memory of their pinky promise last night resurfaced, reminding him of his commitment. He couldn’t break a pinky promise.

“Spencer?”

“I love you.” There. He said it. His gaze lowered in fear of rejection, the nerves in his stomach growing, but he kept going, he had to. “I am so unimaginably in love with you.”

“Spencer—“

“No, I need—“ he paused, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, gazing still fixated downward as he cleared his throat from the imaginary knot that was beginning to form there. “I need you to know that every time you smile, every time you laugh, every time you talk to me, it’s like my whole world lights up.”

“And when you look at me, it’s like everything else fades away, and there’s just you.” With a deep inhale, he squeezed his eyes shut, colors swirling behind his eyelids from the pressure, before slowly exhaling and looking up to meet her gaze. “I can’t even scientifically explain how you make me feel. There is no book, or research article that explains what you make me feel.”

One of his hands left her face, gesturing through the air as he attempted to explain everything without the safety net of statistical knowledge. “Every time I’m near you, it’s like my heart speeds up so much that, scientifically speaking, I should be dead.” The quiet chuckle that escaped her lips reached his ears, easing the tight lines on his forehead as his lips formed into a gentle smile. “But it doesn’t matter, because being near you makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before.”

“Every little thing you do, it just… it makes me fall more and more in love with you.”

“God, I’ve loved you for so long.” His hand halted its relentless movement and lowered to push the hair out of his eyes before running down his face with a grunt of frustration.

"I've fought multiple inner battles trying to tell you how I feel, only to back down at the last minute, silently promising myself that I would do it the next day."

Her eyes softened at his words, her lips pulling into a sad smile as his remained parted, eyes teary as they left her gaze and focused on his lap. “And then you got shot and I—“ The memories of everything that happened in the last two weeks rushing back to him. "I thought I had run out of next days.”

Her hand, which had been holding his against her cheek, shifted gently, cupping his cheek and wiping away the tear that had managed to escape his eyes.

With a sigh, he looked up to meet her eyes again, his own free hand coming up to hold the hand she now had on his cheek. He leaned into her touch, his head resting against her hand as she rubbed soothing circles against the stubble that had appeared after weeks of not shaving. “I adore you.”

His face inched closer to hers, resting his forehead against hers. "I’m fine with whatever you want as long as I'm able to have you in my life," he whispered, his warm breath brushing against her skin. "I love you so, so much. Always." With that, their foreheads separated and his lips moved up to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead.

The room fell silent, his words hanging in the air as she processed them. After another second, Spencer moved, standing up and letting her know that he was going to go get a nurse before quickly disappearing.

The nurses flooded her room with warmth and care, each one exuding kindness as they attended to her needs, explaining her situation, answering questions, and expressing relief that she was recovering well.

Spencer stood patiently by the door, his shoulder leaning against the frame as he observed the nurses with gratitude, thanking them as they left after ensuring everything was in order.

As the last nurse made her way to the door, she slowed her footsteps, casting a reassuring smile at Spencer. “I told you she’d be alright, sweetheart,” she said with a gentle tone.

Marisa, the lovely old nurse, had not only been concerned about his best friend’s well-being but also his. The genius could confidently say that, had it not been for Marisa, he probably would’ve starved in that hospital chair.

She would often stop by during her morning shift, offering reassurance that she would be alright, often bending a few hospital rules to make Spencer more comfortable, providing him with the comfiest blankets, or allowing him to take showers in the bedroom’s bathroom so he wouldn’t have to leave her side.

She also insisted on him taking breaks to get some fresh air, eat proper meals, and change his clothes, assuring him that if anything happened, she would call him immediately.

With a comforting squeeze to his arm, the nurse left, closing the door gently behind her and leaving the two of them alone in the room.

As he settled back into the familiar chair, their eyes met once more, exchanging a silent understanding. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, relishing each other's presence. Eventually, Spencer broke the quietude. "I should call the team," he suggested softly.

He rose from the chair, his hand diving into his pocket to retrieve his phone. With his back turned to her, he scrolled through his contacts, his foot shifting slightly as he prepared to step away.

Before he could get far, his movements halted by the touch of her hand on his arm, he lowered his phone and turned back to her, meeting her gaze with curiosity. "Wait," she said softly. With a nod, he returned his phone to his pocket, yielding to her gentle tug until he found himself seated by her side on the bed.

A grunt of discomfort escaped her lips as she struggled to sit up, reaching out for his hand for support. Once she was upright, she shifted closer to him. “What are- oomf—“ before he could finish, his question was cut off by the sudden press of her lips against his, her hands gripping the back of his head.

His body momentarily stiffened, eyes widening in surprise as he tried to process what was happening. When it finally clicked, the initial shock turned into a gentle surrender as he closed his eyes, allowing himself to be swept away by the warmth of her lips against his.

With a soft exhale, his hand instinctively rose to caress her cheek, pulling her face even closer to his and deepening the kiss.

If he had ever believed his heart couldn’t beat any faster than when in her presence, he stood corrected. Now, he was certain he was experiencing a heart attack.

His lips moved against hers so perfectly, as if they had kissed a thousand times before, as if their souls recognized each other instantly.

It was perfect, not because it was flawless, but because it felt so real.

He never wanted to stop; her lips were addicting, but when his lungs screamed at him for air, he reluctantly pulled his lips away from hers, resting his forehead against hers as they caught their breath.

“I love you too, Spencer.”

His head jerked back, eyes wide open as he looked at her, scanning her expression, looking for any hint that she was lying, only to find honesty shining through her eyes.

With a laugh, she took his face back in her hands, pulling him closer and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “You have, and will always be the one my heart searches for in a world full of everyone else.”

With a toothy smile, he pulled her lips back to his, chuckling inwardly, as their lips met, acknowledging that if he thought he reached the peak before, he was mistaken again. His heart was racing faster than ever before. A heart attack of a different kind.

A heart attack that he’d gladly experience a million times more.

[homeofhousechickens]

Sugars necropsy results

"External examination revealed no evidence of trauma. Patient appears to have had some weight loss and is underweight. Integument appears to be in good overall condition, no evidence of external parasites, wounds, lesions, etc. . BCS approx. 3 / 9. Oral exam was within normal limits, no evidence of foreign material. Evaluation of cardiopulmonary organs was unremarkable.

Abdominal cavity evaluation revealed significant fibrin deposits over all organ tissues as well as notable adhesions. There was also a significant accumulation of brownish-yellow and slightly blood-tinged fluid present in the abdomen. Lung fields were clear, heart was in normal shape and size with no obvious areas of clotting or dysfunction. The trachea and esophagus were empty, with no evidence of aspiration or asphyxiation. There were no palpable or visible masses in the abdominal cavity or involvement of the nervous tissues.

Findings are most likely consistent with peritonitis and secondary infection as well as organ adhesions. There were no findings suggestive of Marek's disease."

In layman's terms Sugar passed away from reproductive disease. I would compare it to endometriosis in humans. Her gizzard was likely displaced due to those fibrin deposits causing that widespread organ adhesion. She will be the first hen from my project to pass away from this, unfortunately it is quite common in chickens in general and usually it causes problems with egg laying but for Sugar it started causing problems to her digestion and eventually led to a secondary infection in her abdomen.

There was nothing I could do, this diagnosis is an eventual death unlike Greenie's tumor it wouldn't be solved with hormonal treatment since the adhesions were already present. You can't really ethically give a bird surgery to scrape her organs and remove her oviduct in my opinion. I am sad but relieved it wasn't my fault and it wasn't Mareks.

That's 8 birds that have had no signs of Mareks since the potential exposure.

[ssa-dado]

6 - Synthesis

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: angst, fluff, slow burn

Summary: After an intense case, you and Hotch struggle with unresolved tensions from a previous argument. On the train back, Hotch overhears Peter comforting you about a recent tragedy, realizing he’s been blind to your pain. Later, Hotch unexpectedly shows up at your apartment, opening up and apologizing for his emotional distance, leading to a heartfelt moment of mutual vulnerability. That evening, you attend Peter’s welcome-back party, feeling lighter and reconnecting with the team. That's when Peter makes an unusual bet with you.

Warnings: death, grief, emotional abuse, domestic violence, family dysfunction.

Word Count: 7.6k

Dado's Corner: Phi posting two chapters in less than 12 hours? More likely than you think. I was supposed to wait until tomorrow, but I just couldn’t help myself. Thank you all so much for the love and support you’ve shown for the series so far! Each of you holds a special place in my cold little heart. Please don’t hate me after this - it hurts me, too - but hey, there’s some interrogation room Aaron to sweeten things up. I’m particularly proud of this cute, lovely chapter. It doesn’t make me want to jump out the window. Not even a little bit. Embrace the pain.

previous part ; masterlist

Gideon smiled knowingly, his eyes shifting between you and Hotch. “Thesis, antithesis, and synthesis,” he mused, almost as if he were speaking to himself but loud enough for you to hear. “Funny how life always seems to come back to that, doesn’t it?”

●

The observation room was dimly lit, casting long, uneven shadows over you and Peter as you stood behind the two-way mirror, your heartbeat seemed to echo in the quiet, barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent light. You watched Hotch on the other side, preparing to interrogate the suspect, he appeared calm as usual, wearing his mask of stoicism proudly on his face, but you could tell the tension was palpable.

The room beyond the glass was stark, the suspect sat at the metal table gleaming under the harsh light with a smug expression, arms casually draped over the back of his chair, utterly unbothered. Te view was borderline infuriating.

The hair on your arms stood up, not just from the cold, but from the overwhelming sense of helplessness that had settled over the case. You couldn’t shake the nagging thought that you were grasping at straws, the weight of the local police’s blunders pressing heavily on your chest. They had fumbled, and badly. Critical evidence had slipped through their fingers, lost or contaminated in the chaos. You didn’t even want to hear the whole story—you were too furious, your senses shutting down as the same detective who had once doubted your work stumbled through a pathetic apology. All you had now was Hotch. No physical proof, no solid evidence to tie this man to the crimes you knew he’d committed.

Your gaze flicked back to the suspect, his arrogance nauseating. He knew the game, knew the system, and worse, he knew how to manipulate it to his advantage. There was a clock ticking in your mind, every second precious, the sense of urgency suffocating. If Hotch couldn’t break him - if he couldn’t find a way past the layers of lies and smug indifference - you’d lose him. You couldn’t afford that, not now.

Peter’s jaw clenched as he observed the scene, his frustration evident. “This was a mistake,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “We warned them not to bring him in without something solid. Now we’re stuck trying to clean up their mess.”

You nodded, your mind still reeling from the argument with Hotch the night before, as if all of this mess wasn’t already enough for your nerves to handle. The tension between you two had lingered, unresolved and heavy, adding another layer to your frustration. You tried to shake it off, but it clung to you, making it even harder to focus. “Yeah, and now Hotch has to pull off a miracle,” you said, your voice tinged with both a tinge of annoyance and worry. “He’s got one shot to get this right.”

Peter turned his attention back to the interrogation room, his eyes narrowing as Hotch sat across from the suspect. “If anyone can do it, it’s him. I’ve seen Hotch work multiple times, and somehow he even looks sharper, more intense.”

Inside the room, Hotch began his interrogation with a measured calm, his eyes locked on the suspect, who lounged back in his chair, exuding a quiet confidence. Hotch started with the basics, the routine questions meant to establish rapport, but the suspect was playing his own game, answering with a smug smile and evasive nonchalance.

Hotch leaned back, crossing his arms as he observed the suspect’s every move, every twitch. “You’ve been careful,” Hotch said, his voice steady but probing. “I’ll give you that. You’ve covered your tracks well. But you slipped up, everyone makes mistakes, especially when they think they’re untouchable.”

The suspect smirked, feigning boredom. “You’re wasting your breath, Agent Hotchner. You and I both know you have nothing on me - no evidence, no witnesses. You’re grasping at straws.”

Hotch’s gaze remained unflinching, but you could see the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way he leaned in just slightly, narrowing the space between the two of them. “You’re right, we don’t have physical evidence, but we do have you, and that’s enough. Because here’s the thing - you’re not as smart as you think you are. You’ve made this personal, and personal is messy.”

The suspect chuckled, tapping his fingers lightly on the table as if this were a game to him. “Oh, please. I’ve seen every tactic in the book, and I’ve got an answer for all of them. You can’t intimidate me, Hotchner. I know my rights. You’ve got nothing.”

Hotch’s expression remained stoic, but there was a flash of determination in his eyes. “You think this is about intimidation? You’re missing the point. This isn’t about fear, it’s about you and the mistakes you’ve made. You’ve left a trail, little hints of who you really are. You think you’ve hidden them, but they’re there, buried in the details.”

The suspect’s confident facade faltered for just a second, but he quickly recovered, scoffing. “You’re reaching. This isn’t some TV show where the bad guy breaks down in a dramatic confession. I’m not saying a damn thing without my lawyer.”

Hotch’s demeanor shifted, a cold, calculating edge creeping into his voice. “Your lawyer? You think your lawyer’s going to save you? They’ll do their job, make sure you’re comfortable, make sure you feel safe. But at the end of the day, they’re not in here with you, they’re not the ones facing the consequences of your actions - you are. And you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

From the other side of the glass, you watched Hotch methodically chip away at the suspect’s arrogance. Each line of questioning was a carefully placed strike, designed to weaken his resolve, but the suspect wasn’t giving in easily. He deflected, twisted Hotch’s words, and tried to turn the conversation back on him.

“You think you’re so righteous, don’t you?” the suspect sneered, leaning forward with a glint of disdain in his eyes. “Sitting there, acting like you’ve got the moral high ground. You don’t know me, Agent Hotchner. You don’t know a damn thing about what I’ve been through, the people I’ve dealt with - you think you’re better than me?”

Hotch didn’t flinch even if the last words reminded him of the argument he had with you down at the lobby. “No, I don’t think I’m better than you, but I do know who you are. You’re the guy who blames everyone else when things go wrong, the guy who hides behind his intellect because he’s too scared to admit he’s just another coward trying to prove he’s not afraid. But guess what? That act doesn’t work on me.”

The suspect’s composure slipped, his anger flaring as Hotch hit a nerve. “You don’t get to judge me! You sit there like you’re some kind of saint, but you’re just as flawed as the rest of us. You have no right—”

Hotch cut him off sharply, his voice cold and unyielding. “You’re right. I’m not perfect. I’ve made my mistakes, and I own them. But I’m not the one hiding behind excuses, you are. You’re the one who thinks he can play God, decide who deserves to live or die based on your twisted sense of justice. But here’s the thing: you’re not in control, not anymore.”

From the observation room, you felt your chest tighten. Hotch was relentless, pushing the suspect further than you’d ever seen him push anyone before. It was as if he’d tapped into something raw and unforgiving, something that drove him to keep going, to tear down every last defense the suspect had.

Peter glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “I’ve never seen him go this hard. It’s like he’s on a mission.”

You nodded, the tension from last night’s argument still simmering inside you. You knew why Hotch was pushing himself like this: because of you, because of the unresolved words between you, and because he needed to prove something, maybe even to himself. “He’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants.”

Inside the room, the suspect’s attitude was crumbling. Hotch leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, laced with a quiet menace. “You think you’re untouchable, that you’ve covered all your bases. But I’ve spent years in courtrooms taking down men just like you, men who thought they were too smart to get caught. I know every trick, every lie, every pathetic attempt to weasel your way out of the truth.”

The suspect’s face tightened, his hands clenching into fists as he tried to maintain control. But Hotch was unrelenting, his gaze piercing through every layer of the man’s defenses. “You don’t want to admit it, but you’re scared, I can see it in your eyes. You’re terrified that the truth is going to come out, that all your carefully crafted lies are going to fall apart right in front of you - so, here’s your last chance. Tell me the truth. Tell me why you did it.”

There was a beat of silence, a heavy pause as the suspect’s composure finally shattered. His shoulders slumped, his defiance giving way to resignation. He looked up at Hotch, defeated and angry, his voice breaking as he finally confessed, each word a bitter surrender. “Fine. Fine, you want the truth? I did it. I killed them. But you have no idea why. You don’t know what it’s like to be powerless.”

“No you’re right, I don’t.” Hotch sat back, a flicker of triumph in his eyes, though his expression remained guarded: he had what he needed. The confession was out, raw and unfiltered, pulled from the depths of the suspect’s desperation.

Peter let out a low whistle, still reeling from what he’d witnessed. “That was... intense. I’ve never seen Hotch like that, he’s kind of intimidating.”

You nodded in agreement, your gaze still fixed on Hotch as he calmly gathered his notes, preparing to leave the room. You could see the toll it had taken on him, the emotional weight he carried even as he walked out victorious, and as much as you wanted to celebrate the success, the confrontation from the night before still lingered, leaving you with the unsettling realization that this fight wasn’t just with the suspect - it was within Hotch himself.

When Hotch stepped out of the interrogation room, the tension in his posture seemed to ease, but only slightly. His face was set in its usual mask of calm control, yet there was a heaviness in his eyes, a flicker of something raw that he couldn’t quite hide. Peter clapped him on the back, a mix of admiration and relief in his expression. “Hell of a job, Hotch. You tore him apart. I’ve seen you work, but that was something else entirely.”

Hotch gave a tight nod, his jaw still clenched, but his gaze was already shifting past Peter, landing on you. His eyes were searching, almost like he was trying to gauge your reaction, seeking some unspoken acknowledgment from you. “Thanks,” he said, his voice measured but tinged with exhaustion. “It had to be done.”

You stood there with your arms crossed, leaning against the wall, trying to maintain a composed exterior, but inside, you were anything but calm. Watching Hotch in that room, ruthlessly tearing down the suspect’s defenses, stirred something deep within you. It was impressive, yes, but also unsettling. You had never seen him so relentless, so driven - and you knew exactly what was fueling his determination.

As Hotch’s gaze lingered on you, there was a silent understanding between you, a shared acknowledgment of the emotional battlefield you both were navigating. The words from your argument the night before still echoed in your mind, sharp and unresolved, like an open wound that hadn’t had the chance to heal. The case had forced you both to set your personal issues aside, but now, in the aftermath, they were still there, hovering between you like a shadow neither of you could ignore.

Peter glanced between the two of you, sensing the charged atmosphere but choosing not to comment. He knew better than to pry, but even he could tell that whatever was going on between you and Hotch went deeper than the usual tension of a difficult case. “We got what we needed,” Peter said, trying to break the silence. “That’s what matters. Now we can finally put this bastard away.”

Hotch nodded, but his eyes never left yours, and in that moment, it felt like the rest of the room had faded away. It was just the two of you, caught in a silent standoff where neither of you knew how to take the next step. You wanted to say something, anything that would bridge the gap that had formed between you, but the words caught in your throat, tangled with the emotions you’d been trying so hard to keep in check.

The triumph of the confession felt hollow against the weight of what was still left unsaid. You and Hotch had always been able to read each other, but now, standing on opposite sides of this unspoken rift, it was as if the connection you’d relied on had fractured. There was so much you wanted to ask him: why he’d pushed so hard, why he seemed so desperate to prove something today, and why he couldn’t let his guard down, even for a moment. But instead, you just nodded, swallowing back the questions that burned at the back of your throat. “You did what you had to do,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though it wavered slightly. “Good work, Hotch.”

Hotch’s gaze softened for a brief second, a flicker of regret or maybe gratitude crossing his features, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Thanks,” he replied, his voice lower, more personal than before. “We all did.”Peter’s presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone, but it didn’t ease the tension that thrummed between you and Hotch. As Hotch turned to leave, the weight of your argument still hung heavy, unresolved, and painful. You watched him go, the distance between you feeling wider than ever, despite being just a few feet apart.

And as you stood there, with Peter by your side and the echo of Hotch’s footsteps fading down the corridor, you realized that the hardest part of this case wasn’t just about catching a killer, it was about facing the fractures in your own relationships, the ones that no amount of profiling or interrogation could ever fix.

The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the tracks was a dull, constant noise that filled the otherwise quiet cabin. You sat alone, your head down and your pen moving steadily across the paper as you filled out your case report. It was a task you’d thrown yourself into, your way of avoiding the one thing you weren’t ready to confront: Hotch.

Hotch sat a few rows behind you, his back to you, mirroring your actions as he worked on his own report with a similar intensity. It was almost poetic how the two of you were so much alike: both of you throwing yourselves into your work to avoid the harder truths, and neither willing to make the first move toward reconciliation.

As you focused on your writing, you heard footsteps approach. You didn’t need to look up to know it was Peter; you’d recognized the casual confidence in his stride from a mile away. He slid into the seat beside you without asking, his presence a familiar and oddly comforting interruption.

Peter glanced at your half-filled report, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You never could sit still, could you?” he said, his voice soft but laced with a hint of fondness. “Always working, always thinking.”

You tried to muster a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just trying to get this done before we get back,” you said, your tone evasive. You knew why he’d come over, and you weren’t sure you were ready for the conversation you’d been avoiding since you’d seen him again.

Peter watched you for a moment, his expression shifting from casual to serious. He took a deep breath, glancing at the report before returning his gaze to you. “Y/N,” he began, his voice quieter now, “I’ve been wanting to tell you this since I got back, but I didn’t want to bring it up while we were in the middle of the case.”

You stiffened, knowing exactly what he was going to say but hoping he wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for your dad’s funeral,” Peter said, his voice heavy with regret. “I wanted to be, but I was stuck overseas. I hate that I wasn’t there.”

You clenched your jaw, staring down at the paper in front of you, your pen hovering uselessly above the page. The memories of that day flooded backstanding at the grave, the heavy weight of loss pressing down on your chest, and the overwhelming feeling of being completely and utterly alone. You’d been surrounded by people, but none of them had truly understood, none of them had been him.

“It’s fine, Pete,” you said, though your voice was shaky. “You were doing your job. Besides, it’s not like it would’ve changed anything.”

Peter shook his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. “No, it’s not okay. You were always there for me, even when we were just kids trying to figure out what the hell we were doing with our lives. And I couldn’t even show up when you needed me the most.”

Peter studied you, his eyes searching yours. He could see the cracks you were trying so desperately to hide, the way you were holding yourself together with sheer willpower. “I should have been there,” he insisted gently. “I know how much you went through with him… I remember everything you told me about him.”

A knot formed in your throat as you thought back to your childhood, your father’s relentless work ethic, his unyielding drive for perfection. He had been your hero in so many ways, but he’d also been your downfall. You’d inherited his toxic trait of overworking yourself, the constant need to be better, to be more. It was how you’d coped with the chaos at home, the screaming matches between your parents that had been your daily soundtrack. Your mother, exasperated and exhausted, would often switch languages mid-argument to keep you in the dark, to protect you - or maybe just to exclude you - from the mess they had created.

“I was just a kid, you know?” you said quietly, your voice tinged with bitterness. “All I wanted was to understand why they were always fighting. I started learning every language my mom switched to, Italian, Spanish, anything that would give me a clue, but instead of finding answers, I just… found more reasons to stay away.”

Peter’s eyes softened, a flicker of pain crossing his features as he listened. “You drowned yourself in books, in knowledge, just to escape,” he said, his voice low. “I remember you telling me that once, how you’d sit in those lecture halls at the university, absorbing everything because it was better than being home.”

Your childhood had been filled their voices rising in heated exchanges that always seemed to end in silence, your father retreating to his study to bury himself in more work, and your mother seeking solace in her books. To escape the turbulence at home, you’d thrown yourself into your studies with a fervor that bordered on obsession. You’d devoured literature, philosophy, psychology, anything that could distract you from the reality of your parents’ failing marriage, to gain a semblance of control in a world that often felt chaotic and out of reach.

You had become fluent in the languages they used to hide their pain from you, and in doing so, you became fluent in the art of distancing yourself from your own emotions. The habit of overworking, of pouring yourself into every task with unrelenting focus, was something you had learned from your father, a toxic legacy that you couldn’t quite shake, even now. It had been the source of countless arguments with your mother, who had begged you not to follow in his footsteps, to find balance, to live a life that wasn’t dictated by the demands of work. But it was easier said than done, and as the years went on, you found yourself mirroring his habits more than you cared to admit.

You nodded, swallowing hard against the emotion that threatened to choke you. “I kept pushing myself, kept chasing after something I couldn’t even name. My dad… he always told me that hard work was the only thing that mattered, he never slowed down, never stopped, and neither did I. Even when their marriage fell apart… even when he got sick. I just… I couldn’t stop.”

You hesitated, your eyes welling up with tears that you refused to let fall. “I didn’t even cry at his funeral, I just stood there, feeling nothing. And I haven’t been to visit his grave since.”

Peter gently reached out, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder, tightly hugging you. “It’s okay not to be okay, Y/N,” he murmured. “You don’t have to carry this all on your own. The least I can do is be the shoulder you can lean on.” Peter squeezed your shoulder gently, his eyes filled with compassion. “Your dad was tough, but he loved you, Y/N. And you don’t have to prove anything to him, not anymore. You’re allowed to grieve, to feel lost, to not have all the answers.”

You nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. “I know. But sometimes it’s hard to remember that.”

Hotch sat just behind you, his back facing yours, he had intended to keep to himself, to give you the space you needed, but the quiet murmurs of your conversation had carried over. He couldn’t help but overhear Peter’s words, and as he listened, a wave of guilt and realization washed over him.

Hotch had always prided himself on his ability to read people, to see through the masks they wore, but he hadn’t seen through yours. He hadn’t seen the pain you’d been hiding, the grief that had been eating away at you just beneath a slim surface. And suddenly, your words from the night before came crashing back: how he didn’t know you, how he’d never bothered to look beyond the professional facade you’d built.

His own mind flickered back to his childhood, the memories of his father’s anger, the violence that lurked behind every door. Hotch had spent years burying and hiding those scars, never letting anyone see how deeply they ran. He had kept it all locked away, just as you had, believing that the only way to survive was to keep moving, to never let the pain catch up.

For the first time, Hotch truly understood why you had lashed out at him. You had seen in him the very thing you feared in yourself: the relentless drive to work, to control, to avoid facing the hurt that lingered beneath. He realized now that you were so much more alike than he had ever imagined, both of you haunted by the ghosts of your pasts, both trying to outrun the pain that always seemed to catch up.

As Hotch stared out the window at the passing scenery, he felt a deep sense of remorse. He wished he had known, wished he had been able to offer you the support you so clearly needed. But all he could do now was hope that you would one day trust him enough to let him in, to share the burdens you had been carrying alone for far too long.

Peter’s voice broke the silence, pulling Hotch from his thoughts. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, you know that? But it’s okay to let someone else be strong for you, too.”

You nodded, wiping away the tears that had finally escaped. “Thanks, Pete. It’s just… it’s hard.”

“I know,” Peter said softly. “But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Hotch listened to the quiet exchange, the raw honesty between you and Peter striking a chord deep within him. He knew now that he couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine, that the walls he had built were enough to protect him or you. As the train sped toward Quantico, Hotch made a silent promise to himself: he would do better, he would be better. For you, and for himself.

Because in the end, you both deserved more than just the comfort of solitude. You deserved to be understood, to be seen, and to finally let go of the burdens you had carried for far too long.

Peter on the other hand had always been the kind of friend who could read you like a book, even when you tried to keep the pages closed. And after this emotional confrontation he knew he didn’t have to push further. He could see the exhaustion in your eyes, the way you were holding yourself together by the thinnest thread. So, he did what he always did best, he tried to lift your spirits, if only for a moment.

He leaned back in his seat, studying your expression with a knowing smile. “You know, Y/N, you don’t have to unload everything on me right now. You’re allowed to keep some things to yourself. You don’t owe anyone your pain.” His tone was light, but there was a deep, unspoken understanding beneath it. He knew you were struggling, and he wanted you to know that it was okay to take your time.

You gave him a small, tired smile, grateful for his patience. “I know, Pete. It’s just... hard to talk about. I’ve been so focused on work, it’s easier that way. It’s all I know.”

Peter nodded, his eyes softening with empathy. “I get it. But maybe it’s time to leave work behind, just for a little while. You don’t have to think about everything right now. Start small. Maybe try coming out of your room every once in a while?” He said it with a teasing grin, nudging your shoulder playfully, hoping to coax even the smallest laugh out of you.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head at his attempt to lighten the mood. “I know, I’ve been a bit of a hermit lately. I guess it’s easier to just shut myself away.”

Peter’s smile widened, and he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, lucky for you, your presence is strictly required at my welcome-back party tonight. The team’s putting it together, and you have no excuses not to come. I already told them you’d be there.”

You groaned, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “Seriously? Peter, I don’t know if I’m up for-”

He cut you off, holding up a hand. “Ah-ah, no excuses. We’ll be back by early afternoon, you’ll have plenty of time to rest, take a shower, and then you’re going to show up and have a good time, even if I have to drag you there myself.”

You rolled your eyes, but his enthusiasm was infectious. There was a warmth in his insistence, a reminder that you weren’t alone and that there was still joy to be found, even in the smallest of moments. “Fine, fine. I’ll be there. But only because you’re the most obnoxiously persistent person I know.”

Peter laughed, giving you a mock bow from his seat. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But seriously, Y/N, it’ll be good to see you outside of the office for once. We all miss you, and I promise, you’ll be glad you came.”

You nodded, feeling a small flicker of anticipation amidst the exhaustion. For the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to look forward to something that wasn’t work, something that didn’t involve endless reports or painful memories. It wasn’t a solution to all your problems, but it was a start—a chance to reconnect with the people who mattered, to take a breath and remember that there was more to life than the shadows that had been chasing you.

As you looked at Peter, his familiar smile reminding you of all the good things you’d shared over the years, you felt a small surge of hope. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The train ride back to Quantico had felt endless, but the weight of the unresolved emotions made the journey back to your apartment even more suffocating. Peter’s words lingered, tugging at wounds you hadn’t dared to touch, and Hotch’s distant presence weighed heavily on your mind. The familiar solitude of your apartment was supposed to be comforting, but tonight, it felt more like a reminder of all the things you’d been running from: your grief, your past, and the fragile, fraying connection with the person who had come to mean so much to you.

You dropped your bag onto the floor, letting it fall with a thud that echoed through the empty space. You leaned against the kitchen counter, feeling the cool surface against your palms as you tried to ground yourself. You wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. It was as if you’d locked them away, buried them beneath layers of duty and distraction.

But then there was a knock at your door, soft and tentative, almost like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they should be there. You hesitated, wiping at your eyes quickly as if to compose yourself, and moved to answer. You half-expected to find Peter, still worried about you after the train ride, or maybe even no one at all, just a mistake. But when you opened the door, it was Hotch who stood before you.

He looked different, more vulnerable and uncertain than you had ever seen him. His usually composed demeanor was frayed, and there was a rawness in his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and heavy burdens. He stood there awkwardly, clutching the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him upright, his face etched with a mixture of hesitation and determination.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you like a fragile thread, one wrong move away from snapping. Hotch looked down, swallowing hard as if searching for the right words. He wasn’t in his usual pristine suit but rather dressed in a simple shirt and jeans, his attire as out of place as the uncertainty written across his face.

“Hotch?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, tinged with both surprise and concern. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looked at you, as if he was struggling to find the right words, struggling to let down the walls he had spent a lifetime building. He stepped inside, and you quietly closed the door behind him, your heart pounding as you waited for him to speak. He took a few slow steps into the living room, glancing around as if trying to ground himself in the unfamiliar space.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice strained and brittle, every word heavy with unspoken pain. “I know this isn’t… I shouldn’t have just shown up like this, but I needed to talk to you. About… about what you said last night, and today on the train. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear your conversation with Peter.”

This wasn’t the composed, confident man you knew at work, this was Aaron, someone you never got to see, someone who was barely holding it together. “ You were right, Y/N. You were right about everything.”

You stood there, frozen, as his words hit you like a wave. You had never heard Hotch sound so vulnerable, so broken. He was always the strong one, the unshakable agent who never let his guard down, but tonight, he was just Aaron, and he was struggling.

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to keep things separate,” he began, his voice trembling. “I thought if I could just focus on the work, I could ignore everything else—everything that hurt, everything that felt out of my control. But I can’t keep doing that. It’s not who I am, and it’s not who I want to be anymore.”

Hotch’s hands shook as he tried to steady himself, his eyes brimming with emotions he had kept buried for so long. “My father... he was abusive. He was cruel in ways that I can’t even put into words. He’d tear me apart with his words, his fists, anything to remind me that I was never good enough. I grew up in a house that felt more like a battlefield than a home, where silence was never safe and every day was just another fight to survive.”

His voice cracked, and you could see the weight of those memories in his eyes: the fear, the shame, the endless need to be perfect because nothing less would ever be enough for a man who thrived on control. “I tried so hard to protect my mom, my brother, but I was just a kid. There were nights when I’d lie awake, praying he’d leave us alone, praying I’d be strong enough to make it stop. But it never did. And I swore that when I grew up, I’d never be like him. I’d never let anyone see that weakness.”

You listened, your own tears finally breaking free as his pain washed over you. You had never imagined Hotch’s past had been so brutal, so deeply scarred by violence and fear. He had always seemed so put together, so composed, but now, you could see just how much he had been hiding, how much he had been carrying all this time.

“I thought if I kept that part of myself locked away, I’d be able to move on. I thought… I thought if I became Hotch, the profiler, that it would erase all the things he said I’d never be. But it’s just made me more closed off, more afraid to let anyone in. And I’ve been doing it for so long, I don’t even know how to stop.”

He looked at you, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, and you could see the desperation there - the plea for understanding, for forgiveness, for something he couldn’t quite name. “I don’t know how to let people in, Y/N. I don’t know how to not be this… this guarded version of myself. But if I’m going to try, if I’m going to let anyone see me, I want it to be you. Because you were right when you said I don’t know you, but I want to. And you deserve to know me, too—the real me.”

The vulnerability in his voice shattered something inside you, and without thinking, you closed the distance between you and pulled him into a tight, desperate hug. Hotch tensed at first, unaccustomed to such unguarded intimacy, but then his arms wrapped around you, and you could feel him finally letting go. His head bowed against your shoulder, and his entire frame shook with the silent sobs he’d been holding back for too long.

You clung to him, your own tears mingling with his, and in that moment, it felt like the dam you’d both been holding back had finally broken. You were no longer the stoic agents who always had the answers, always kept it together. You were just two people, scarred and hurting, trying to find solace in the only way you knew how: by holding on to each other.

Hotch’s hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your hair as he held you closer, as if you were the lifeline he had been searching for. He whispered apologies between his tears, his voice cracking with the weight of his regrets. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you.”

You shook your head, burying your face into his neck, your tears soaking through his t-shirt as you let out all the grief you’d kept buried: the loss of your father, the unresolved pain of your parents’ broken marriage, the way you had thrown yourself into work to keep from falling apart. You had been running for so long, hiding behind your accomplishments, just like him.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Aaron,” you whispered through your tears, the use of his first name slipping out naturally in this moment of raw honesty. “I had no idea. I was so angry, and I—”

He shook his head, his voice soft but firm as he whispered back, “You don’t have to apologize. You were right… about all of it. I needed to hear it. I needed to face it.”

The two of you stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped up in each other’s pain and understanding, the weight of your shared burdens finally feeling just a little bit lighter. There were no perfect words, no easy fixes, but in that embrace, you found something neither of you had expected—comfort, solace, and the beginning of a new kind of trust.

“It’s okay,” you whispered through your tears, clutching him tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

For the first time, it felt like you were truly seen, truly understood, and the relief of it was overwhelming. You didn’t have to pretend anymore, didn’t have to be strong or perfect or put together. You could just be, and he could just be, and that was enough.

Hotch pulled back slightly, your eyes finally met, both of you still teary but no longer hiding. There was a silent understanding there, a promise that from now on, things would be different. “No more walls. No more hiding.” He murmured, his voice shaky but filled with a quiet determination.

You nodded, and for the first time in a long time, you believed it. You didn’t know what the future would hold, but as you held each other in that quiet, tear-stained moment, you knew that you weren’t alone anymore. You had each other, and that was a start. It was messy, and it was painful, but it was real. And in that, you found hope - hope that maybe, together, you could begin to heal. You weren’t just partners in the professional sense anymore; you were something more—two people learning to let each other in, to lean on each other’s strength when your own wasn’t enough. And in that simple, fragile moment, you both knew that whatever came next, you wouldn’t have to face it alone, that your new friend would be right there at your side.

The evening had settled over the city, and the Irish pub next to your apartment block was buzzing with energy. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to feel a glimmer of lightness, excitement bubbling at the thought of spending time with Hotch, Peter, and the rest of your colleagues from the BAU. After everything that had happened, the weight of unresolved emotions had eased, if only slightly, and you found yourself looking forward to reconnecting with your team outside the pressures of the job.

Earlier that afternoon, you’d stopped by a bookstore, the small shop tucked between a row of cafes and boutique stores you often passed but rarely visited. As you browsed the shelves, your eyes fell on a book titled "Hegel for Dummies." It was a perfect, lighthearted gesture, a small symbol of your newfound friendship with Hotch, and a callback to the night you’d spent poring over Frank Lloyd Wright’s designs at the library. You thought that maybe, after his recent dive into architecture, he might take an interest in philosophy too, especially Hegel, one of your favorites. The book felt like a tiny olive branch, a way of letting him into your world a little more, just as he had let you into his the night before.

You imagined him reading it, piecing together Hegel’s ideas on thesis, antithesis, and synthesis, and maybe learning something about you in the process. And who knew? Maybe one day, if you were lucky, he’d hand you one of his favorite books, offering you another glimpse into the parts of himself he rarely showed.

When you walked into the pub, the warm light and chatter were an immediate comfort. You spotted your team at a long wooden table near the back, and to your surprise, you saw Gideon sitting there, crutches leaned against the wall, his leg injury having kept him out of the latest case. Rossi was beside him, the two of them looking as inseparable as ever, trading stories and laughs over pints of beer. It was a sight that immediately lifted your spirits.

“Look who finally made it!” Rossi called out, waving you over. “Come on, we saved you a seat.”

You grinned, making your way through the crowd. “Rossi, Gideon, you two didn’t tell me you’d be here.”

Gideon leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, you didn’t think we’d miss the party, did you? Besides, someone has to make sure Peter doesn’t get too full of himself.”

Peter shot you a wink, raising his glass in greeting. “They’re just here to bask in my glory, Y/N. But don’t let them fool you, they’ve been talking about you all night.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you took a seat between Gideon and Peter. “I’m sure they have. So, what did I miss?”

Before anyone could answer, Hotch walked in, his presence as commanding as ever, though there was a new softness in his eyes when he spotted you. You exchanged a smile, a silent acknowledgment of the night before, and of the steps you were both taking toward something new, something vulnerable.

“Hotch!” Rossi greeted, patting the empty seat beside him. “Come sit, we’re debating where Peter’s new desk should be. Since Y/N’s parked herself at his old one, we might need to reshuffle the whole bullpen.”

Hotch took his seat, glancing at you with a teasing smile. “I think she’s gotten too comfortable. I doubt she’s giving it up.”

Peter leaned in closer to you, his voice low and conspiratorial whispering into your ear “Wanna make a bet?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “See that woman behind Hotch’s shoulder? If she doesn’t come talk to him, you get to keep your desk.”

You eyed the woman briefly, noticing her casual yet elegant demeanor, but she seemed engrossed in her own conversation. Hotch was engaged in a discussion with Rossi, showing no sign of noticing her. You were confident this would be an easy win, especially given Hotch’s typically reserved nature. “Alright,” you said, turning back to Peter. “And what do you get if you win?”

Peter’s grin widened, the playful edge in his voice unmistakable. “A date. With you.”

The unexpected proposition caught you off guard, and for a moment, you felt your cheeks warm. You glanced at him, trying to gauge if he was serious, but his expression remained light, teasing. You brushed it off with a laugh, pretending he was just messing with you. “Okay, you’re on.”

But no sooner had you accepted the bet than the woman, as if she had somehow overheard your conversation, moved toward Hotch with an expression of surprise. You watched in stunned silence as she approached, her voice soft and familiar. “Aaron? What were the odds?”

Your heart sank as Hotch’s face lit up, a rare and genuine smile crossing his features, his cheeks flushed slightly, and there was a familiarity between them that made your chest tighten. You felt Peter nudge you, his voice breaking through the shock. “Looks like you owe me a date.”

You barely registered his words, too fixated on the interaction unfolding in front of you. Hotch returned to the table with the woman by his side, her presence seeming to fill the room in a way that made you feel suddenly small and out of place. Hotch’s voice cut through the noise, introducing her with a casualness that belied the weight of the moment. “Everyone, this is Haley.”

You barely managed to hold your composure, the pieces of this unexpected puzzle falling into place as you processed Hotch’s flushed expression and the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. This wasn’t just anyone, this was someone from his past, someone who clearly was very close and definitely had shared some sort of romantic history with him. The bitter thoughts stung more than you wanted to admit.

Before you could say anything, Gideon, ever the observant one, leaned over, catching sight of the corner of a book sticking out of your open purse. “Hegel for Dummies?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, amusement flickering in his voice as he picked it up to inspect.

You nodded, still too stunned to fully engage, your mind elsewhere. “Yeah. It’s… it’s just a little joke,” you managed, though the words felt hollow in the moment.

Gideon smiled knowingly, his eyes shifting between you and Hotch. “Thesis, antithesis, and synthesis,” he mused, almost as if he were speaking to himself but loud enough for you to hear. “Funny how life always seems to come back to that, doesn’t it?”

The words hung heavy in the air, and as you sat there, watching Hotch interact with Haley, you couldn’t help but feel the truth in them. Life was messy, a constant push and pull of opposing forces, and you were caught in the middle of it, trying to make sense of what it all meant.

[prythianpages]

The Family Reunion | Azriel

Azriel x Green Witch Reader | summary: Azriel accidentally welcomes your dysfunctional family into your home.

warning: I can't really think of any at the moment besides violence from a witch fight, basically you being protective over Az

a/n: There's not very much known about the witches in the ACOTAR universe so I'm just taking creative control here (: This can be read as a stand alone fic.

As Azriel sits in your living room, the familiar weight of concern settles in his chest. The past few days have felt like a quiet storm and the bond between you, has fallen eerily silent far too many times to go unnoticed. 

Of course, he’s already asked if you were alright but he sensed the lie as it brewed in your eyes before it slipped out of your lips. The shadows that remain at your side keep him updated on your whereabouts but besides a crow following you one day, there’s nothing else to report. He wonders if you’re upset with him.

Azriel tries to engross himself into the book–as it’s one you recommended to him– in his hand but his eyes keep drifting from the pages. He steals glances toward the closed door of your study. A vibrant green glow, your magic, spills from the edges of the door. He tries to pull on the bond but cannot find you on the other end. You shut him out. Again. 

Three knocks pull him out of his thoughts. Ignoring the skittering dance of his shadows and the way Pearl–your pet spider–retreats back to her corner, he opens the door. There’s no one on the other side. A perplexed furrow forms on his brow as he peeks into the hallway, dispatching his shadows to investigate further. They return with no insights, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake. 

“Hey Az?”

Azriel closes the door and locks it. He turns to see you stepping out from your study. You smile at him sheepishly, toying with your glowing hands. “Can I have some of your blood?” Your voice is surprisingly calm, despite the look in your eyes, and you must mistake his silence as apprehension because you’re adding: “Just a drop!”

He would’ve gladly granted your request but before he can even utter a word, a sudden shift in the air catches your attention. Your eyes widen, a touch of panic flickering within them. It’s a fleeting moment where control slips from your grasp, and in that heartbeat, your side of the bond bursts open.

His wings quiver as if struck by an invisible force. A torrent of emotions crashes over him like unrelenting waves on a storm sea, flooding and overwhelming his senses. Worry etches lines on his face at the raw intensity of your feelings. 

“Toad’s blood!”

In the blink of an eye, he’s standing in front of you, his hands cradling your face. The hazel depths of his eyes burn with concern but you avoid his gaze, your frantic eyes darting around the room as if looking for something–someone.

“y/n, my love,” Azriel implores softly, his heart pounding in his chest as he desperately tries to navigate through the sea of your emotions. “What’s wrong?”

Your eyes land on the door and a palpable tension fills the air. “You opened the door.”

Azriel’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Someone knocked.”

You swallow thickly. “How many?”

“What?”

Your voice is firmer this time. “How many knocks?”

“Three.”

You��re pulling out of his grasp abruptly. You run back to your study and a trail of perplexed worry etches further across Azriel’s face as he follows after you. With a furrowed brow, he observes your hurried actions. Windows are slammed and shut and locked in quick succession. He blinks and you’re running to your room next. “y/n, please talk to me! Tell me what’s wrong!”

You pause, if only for a brief moment, your eyes finally meeting his. “You just opened the door to a gateway of evil.”

“Evil??” Azriel’s wings flinch, the word carrying an unexpected weight. “What evil?”

“My mother.”

A sense of impending danger guides your every move and you’re sprinting past him. Over your shoulder, you urgently command, “Quick! Lock all the windows!”

Azriel responds without hesitation. He races back to your living room, determined to secure the window he opened earlier. As he does so, he sees a crow flying toward him. It’s familiar to both him and his shadows. The dark tendrils hasten to close the window beside him and the crow, unable to halt its trajectory, collides with the glass.

“I think that's all of it,” you say with a sigh of relief. However, it’s short lived as an overlooked detail dawns on you. The window in your kitchen.

Azriel, his shadows and you are already racing toward the kitchen but despite your efforts, you’re too slow to close it. Your sock clad feet glide across the floor and Azriel wraps an arm around your waist from behind, preventing you from falling. It tightens around you, drawing you snugly against him in a protective embrace, just as the crow flutters its wings menacingly and tauntingly above you. His eyes narrow at the bird and his shadows poise like a snake ready to strike. 

Shrouded in a swirling cloud of purple smoke, the crow undergoes a mystical transformation. Its plumage shifts and twists, feathers unraveling and converging as if guided by an unseen hand. A silhouette begins to take form amid the enchanting mist and as the last tendrils of purple dissipate, a beautiful older female stands before you.

“That is not the way to welcome your mother, Dearest.”

**

The last time you saw your mother was when Hybern became allies with Spring. She had asked you to join her coven, out of worry for you if you stayed in the court that was crumbling apart, but Feyre had already secured plans to bring you to Velaris. The City of Starlight was a safe haven for you…until the Hybern attack unveiled its secret. She’s been reaching out ever since–sending countless letters and when those did not work, she started sending ravens.

Though she delves in dark magic, you know your mother means well. She loves you and has been protective of you. Overly protective. Perhaps, you were being dramatic about it all but you weren’t ready for her to meet Azriel yet. You didn’t even get to finish the protective spell you were planning on casting upon him. All you needed was a drop of his blood to complete it…

“Mother,” you reluctantly greet.

She smirks at you. Every muscle of your body tenses and you place your hand over Azriel’s to let him know it's okay. Ever the perceptive one, your mother catches the subtle gesture. Her gaze falls upon the protective presence behind you. She narrows her eyes and points a perfectly manicured finger at him as if to say “I’ll deal with you later.”

With a wave of her other hand, a cage materializes out of thin air. You can barely make out the tiny green creature in it before your mother is thrusting it into your hands.

“Hold your father, will you? I need to go fetch your sisters.”

She says it so casually, it’s comical almost. You grimace as your gaze flickers to the small lizard. It nervously scurries within the small cage it is confined in and you’re tempted to drop it. 

Your father, a former high noble fae from Spring, had been cursed into a feeble gecko at the powerful hands of your mother. She did it shortly after she caught him trying to take your life at the mere age of two. He had plans to kill your mother next and take her heart for his own so now your mother loves to torment him by carrying him with her so that each remaining day of his life is as miserable as can be.

Verena, your mother, walks over to your door as if she owns the place. With an air of confident authority, she swings it open, revealing two females on the other side—your sisters, each birthed from a different father. One, with dark, flowing hair and sinister eyes, wears a smirk that mirrors Verena’s. Maeve. The other, with lighter hair, possesses kinder eyes, and delicate white feathery wings. Thea. She looks at you apologetically. 

You’re slipping out of Azriel’s grasps and joining your family in your living room. The cage falls from your grasp, rolling onto the ground. Binx dives out from the shadows, eyes alight as the cat spots the green creature within. A curious paw swats at it, its claws peeking through the thin gaps at the top of the cage but no one bats an eyelash at the terrified squeak.

A scowl settles onto your face. “Mother, Maeve, Thea. As quickly as you arrived, I want you all to leave,” you say, clapping your hands at them for emphasis. “I did not invite you here.”

“No,” your mother agrees with a nod but her eyes are fixed on something–rather someone behind you. “He did.”

**

Four pairs of eyes are on him and Azriel only cares about one. Yours. His knowledge over your family is limited. He knew your father was a piece of scum but he did not know he still lived. There’s a tightening in his chest and he knows it's coming from your side of the bond. He sends a wave of reassurance through it because if you’re okay, he’s okay. Even if your family is a little overwhelming.

Verena circles around him, her gaze sharp as the crow she morphs into. Azriel stands still, his shadows swirling defensively. When Verena extends toward the talon of his wings, the shadows snap at her, causing her to withdraw. A wicked grin appears on her face.  “A Shadowsinger,” she observes. “What is your name?”

“Azriel.”

Verena hums, stepping back, her eyes scanning every inch of him. There’s a devilish gleam in them when they settle upon his large, membranous wings. He instinctively tucks them back.

“By The Mother, you look absolutely ravishing,” purrs your dark-haired sister.

The lighter haired sister beside her smiles. “He is quite beautiful.”

“Maeve,” the darker haired sister introduces herself. Her dark brown eyes sparkle in amusement. She holds her hand out to him. “We haven’t yet had the pleasure. y/n has been hiding you for far too long.”

Azriel does not take her hand. Instead, he watches her with wary eyes and she laughs. As her eyes deepen in hue, mirroring the unsettling darkness akin to yours, an ominous glow envelops her hands. It resembles a delicate yet foreboding cloud of gray smoke that dances around her fingers. 

**

“Don’t touch him,” you growl, raising your own hand. A raging green fire roars from your fingertips as the darkness takes your eyes.

Maeve turns to hiss at you. Her cloud of smoke is steadfast as it continues its path to Azriel. Your mate. You hiss back but your mother rests a hand on your shoulders and out of the corner of your eye, you swear Thea sends a reassuring gesture your way.

“Oh, come on.” Maeve persists, her voice, both enchanting and seductive, beckons like a magnetic force. She steps closer to him, ignoring the heated glare you send her way.  She places a hand on his arm and you're shaking with rage as you recognize the haze that clouds Azriel's eyes. 

“You look hungry. Would you like a taste? What do you think, Shadowsinger?”

Smoke wraps around him, infiltrating his senses and charging the air around him with an alluring energy.  It smells like chamomile and lavender–a scent intricately tied to you, the enchanting witch he calls his own. You’re shoving away from your mother and prancing on your sister, the two of you tumbling to the ground. “Let him go!”

The room becomes a radiant spectacle, bathed in the ethereal clash of gray and green magic. The air is charged with the tension of their coexistence and you’re pinning your sister to the floor beneath you. “Why do you always have the thirst to take everything I have?”

“Because it’s fun,” Maeve hisses at you, her dark eyes a reflection of yours. “Besides, our family is in need of a new pet, don’t you think?”

“Girls, stop it this instant!”

“Can it be something cute this time? Like a puppy!”

“Thea, shut up!” You say brusquely as you look up.

Thea winces at your tone. Maeve takes the sliver of your distraction to push you off of her. The two of you hastily get to your feet and you hold your hands out ready to unleash the vibrant, verdant rage coursing through your veins at her. 

“I think y/n is ravishing this evening. Don’t you?”

Azriel’s voice is light, dreamy almost as he’s in a trance. He blinks and the tendrils of magic briefly cloud his vision before it clears. He steps away from Maeve’s cloud of smoke, repulsed by her magic and his eyes are searching for you.

His gaze, steady and filled with a profound warmth, captures yours and it feels like a gentle cascade of water extinguishing a flame. The vibrant green fire in your hands gracefully fades away, mirroring the softening of your eyes in the tender exchange. 

“And he’s not even lying,” Maeve frowns with a huff, her voice and eyes returning to normal. Disappointment is written all over her face. No one has been able to escape from her power of seduction before. “How dull.”

Your hand finds solace in Azriel’s and he locks his fingers with yours. You smile at him and he smiles back. You are the only enchantment he desires and your heart swells. You're so happy you could kiss him--

Thea, always one step ahead of everyone, gasps. “He’s your mate.”

Your mother’s eyes undergo a shadowed transformation of her own, reminiscent of a crow’s ominous gaze. Azriel feels a subtle unease but you remain composed. Gracefully, she approaches, her movements mirroring the fluid elegance of a bird. With a discerning sniff, she assesses the air around you both. Her keen eyes flicker to Azriel’s chest–where the emerald, the greatest token of your affection, securely rests beneath his leathers. His siphons awaken in response, pulsing with a powerful and protective luminescence.

“Your heart. Your precious, precious heart,” she whispers, her voice on the brink of tears.

There’s a drastic shift in her voice when she speaks again. It darkens with a mother’s fierce intensity and echoes through the room like a hissing serpent. “You’ve given it to him.”

Your mother outstretches her hand, toward Azriel, her gesture laden with an unmistakable agony. With a resolute urgency, you press your hand against Azriel’s chest, your other hand still wrapped around his. You can feel the pulse of his heart beneath the gem. It’s fast and erratic but gradually soothes under your touch. 

Given your family's history, you can't blame your mother for reacting this way. Maeve's father was a charming merchant, who enjoyed traveling through the sea, and was very aware of his heartthrob status. Your mother was not immune to his allure and though she did not love him, she was possessive over him. So when she caught him touching another female, she cut his hand off, forcing him to always think of her for the rest of his life. She keeps the hand she severed preserved in a jar at her house. 

On the other hand, Thea's father was a peregryn warrior who loved studying the stars in his free time. He was probably the best male out of all three...if he hadn't picked his loyalty for his court over your mother. Surprisingly, your mother left him alone and unharmed but she made a good example of him to you all because even the kindest of men were not to be trusted.

But Azriel is different. 

His sweetness, care and love create a warmth that gently embraces your heart. You’ve spent a lifetime shielding your heart as your mother taught you but with Azriel, it feels different. He is your mate. Your other half, crafted by The Mother and Cauldron itself. In his presence, you find a haven where vulnerability is not a weakness but a welcomed connection. 

“I love him.”

Wheeling with a snarl, she fixes her sharp gaze back onto you. Her hand tenses midair and her talons peak out before dropping it back to her side. She leans so close you can feel her breath tickle yours.  Her gaze travels down to the obsidian necklace you keep on at all times for protection and she feels her throat tighten when she sees the new charm attached to it. It’s an initial. A for Azriel.

“You stupid, foolish girl. What have you done? Have I taught you nothing?”

Azriel growls and his shadows tense as they await their master’s next order. Your hand tightens against him and you send a wave of reassurance through the bond. This was exactly what you had been hoping to avoid. The last male you introduced to your mother was turned into a frog and you hadn’t put up a fight as the male had fallen under Maeve’s spell. But this time, you were willing to fight and defend what was yours. 

“I think it's quite brave,” a dreamy voice cuts in through the tension. “A true testament to love.”

“Shut up, Thea.” Maeve snaps. “No one asked for your opinion.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time you ask for a reading!”

“Azriel.” Your mother’s voice is sharp, demanding attention. “You hold something extremely dear to me now. If I find you to be careless with it–if you so much as hurt y/n in any shape or form…I will hunt you down, rip your heart out and eat it for breakfast.”

“She’s not joking,” Maeve decides to chime in. “She ate Thea’s lover for dinner once.”

“Must you always jump at the opportunity to remind me?” Thea retorts with a look of pained disgust on her face and you almost feel bad for her. She did love that male terribly, as undeserving as he was.

“I don’t know why it’s such a big deal, my dearest,” your mother says in a perplexed tone. She rolls her eyes at the scoff she received in response. “He was a human.”

“He was the love of my life!”

“And others too.” Maeve cuts in, lips curled into a lopsided smirk as she gazes at her nails. “Mother did you a favor there.”

“This,” you say to Azriel, lifting your chin toward your family. Your mother and sisters continue to bicker back and forth while Binx zooms after the rolling cage imprisoning your father. You sigh deeply and Azriel now understands why you were on edge all week, why you had shut him out.

 “This is my family.”

As if on cue, your family turns to him. Binx rests a paw on the rolling cage, halting its movement. Even the green gecko inside seems to peer curiously at the Shadowsinger, its tiny eyes glinting in the dim light.

 Your mother, a formidable figure with an air of ancient wisdom, focuses her attention to Azriel. The expression on her face is a complex blend of skepticism and concern. Her dark eyes narrow as if probing his very soul–a look that has sent many to mad chaos and the room seems to hold its breath as Azriel meets her gaze. 

You step in between them both. “Mother, must you always do this?”

“It’s okay. I have nothing to hide,” Azriel reassures you as he holds your mother’s gaze, unwavering and resolute. “I would never dream of hurting y/n. I love her.”

“He speaks the truth, mother. He’d kill for her, I’ve seen–ow!”

Your mother’s keen eyes linger on him. Despite Thea’s words, she wants to see for herself. The room feels suspended in time as she carries on with probing into his very soul. She’s peering into the depths of his heart, seeping into its cracks and searching for any hint of insincerity. The tension in the room starts to dissipate as she must sense something she agrees with. Slowly, her lips gradually curve in a smile–a genuine one. 

“I like this one,” your mother says as she turns to you. “I shall spare you the part of my visit where I ask you to come back home with me as I now know it will be pointless. So let’s have dinner, hmm? All this excitement has me famished.”

Your mother clasps her hands together, springing the room into action. Binx resumes messing around with your father and Maeve makes her way to your kitchen, your mother following after her.

“I did not agree to you staying for dinner!” You call after them, shooting Azriel an apologetic look.

“She was going to agree anyway.” 

Azriel turns to your sister–the closest to a normal relative you seem to have. Her blue eyes, flecked with silver hold a spark of otherworldly wisdom as she regards him. 

“You can see the future?”

She tilts her head, a cascade of blonde curls falling over her shoulder. Her lips curl into a knowing smile and her peregryn wings flutter. “Only what the stars tell me,” she replies cryptically. “Would you like me to read your cards?”

Azriel contemplates for a moment. He turns toward the kitchen and his eyes find you. You’re engaged in a lively debate about the perfect amount of herbs, claiming that only a pinch of thyme is needed while Maeve stubbornly shakes her head.

“Out of my kitchen! Go seduce a pig for all I care before I hex you with an angry nest of bees!” 

His love for you deepens with every passing second and he nearly startles when he feels a flutter in his chest. It’s you. You echo the sentiment very loud and clear through your end of the bond.

“No.”

“Why not?” She teases, though she already knows the answer.

“Because right now, I have everything I could ever want.”

**

Once your family departs, relief washes over you, and you finally feel able to breathe freely. Leaning against the door, you release a sigh, allowing your eyes to flutter shut momentarily. When you reopen them, your gaze lands on Azriel in the living room. He's seated, head tilted back, eyes closed, weariness evident. Moving towards him, you saunter over, and without a word, he instinctively pulls you onto his lap, his eyes still shut in a shared moment of exhaustion and solace.

Your hands tenderly cradle his face, bathed in the soft glow of your green magic. You massage his temples, your fingertips tracing away the remnants of the headache your mother’s earlier probing had left behind. A contented sigh escapes him at your soothing touch. 

“Thank you,” he breathes and his hands find their place at your hips.

You press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “I should be the one thanking you.”

He opens his eyes and there’s a subtle perplexity among them. “How come?”

“Because they’re chaotic,” you answer and tipping your chin down sheepishly, you continue, “I’m sorry for shutting you out. I was doing my best to keep them from coming but I should’ve just told you instead. I was trying to protect you from all of this–”

A scarred finger props your chin up, urging you to look back up at him. The hand that remains at your hip tightens with a comforting reassurance. You find yourself lost in the depths of his beautiful hazel eyes and like always, they anchor you like a tranquil forest bathed in sunlight.

“You don’t have to protect me from this. I accept it–all of you. I love you,” he murmurs. The corner of his lips tug up into a small smile. “Though I do find you unbearingly adorable when you’re protective.”

“Adorable?” You can’t help but laugh. Others would beg to differ. You're sure your eyes have given Cassian nightmares.

“Especially when it’s all for me,” he nearly purrs, pressing kisses to the corner of your eyes. The very eyes he adores, even when they transform into inky pools of black.

He kisses the nape of your neck and your breath hitches. “Did you mean it?”

Azriel hums against your neck. “Mean what?”

“What you said to Thea earlier,” you say, mindlessly confessing that you had been listening to his short conversation with your sister. 

You feel him smile against you. “Of course I did. Whatever the future may bring, as long as I have you, that's enough for me. You’re my everything.”

When he pulls away to look at you, you’re beaming at him. His nose brushes against yours and your hands cup his face again, eyes flickering to his lips before you guide them to yours in a slow yet passionate kiss. You slide your tongue along the softness of his bottom lip, reveling in his honeyed taste and he parts his mouth for you, a small sound of pleasure slipping between your lips.

You kiss him and kiss him until the future seems like a distant thought, overshadowed by the perfection of the present.

a/n: I was driving to an appointment when I randomly thought of how chaotic reader's family is and wanted to introduce them formally in case I want to incorporate them in future imagines. This takes place shortly before the one where you get kidnapped.

Also, I'm currently watching the Witcher and I couldn't help myself and use this scene to help me write the part where Maeve tries to seduce Az.

tagging: @fxckmiup

[series masterlist]

[queenshelby]

Daughter Dearest (Part 13)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (47) x Step! Daughter (21)

Warning: Infidelity, Smut, Dysfunctional Family

Please comment and engage!

“Well, we already did it and it's already complicated," you said, clutching the fabric of your jacket as if it could ground you.

Cillian ran a hand through his hair, a friction of tension spreading across his features as he weighed your words, indecision etched in the lines of his brow.

“Y/N, we just can’t let it happen again.” He took a half step back, body rigid like he was fighting against an invisible tide.

“But what if I want it? What if you want it too?” you asked, your heart racing at the direct challenge. "Do you want me?" you challanged and Cillian’s breath hitched, the question hanging between you like smoke in the air, thick and suffocating.

“What do you think?” His voice was low, almost a growl as he stepped closer, a primal energy crackling around you as the distance between you narrowed.

You took a breath, feeling a mix of bravado and vulnerability swirling in your chest. “I think you want me as much as I want you,” you admitted, locking your gaze onto his, a daring resolve hardening in your chest.

A flicker of something wild ignited in Cillian’s eyes as he stared at you, the tension crackling like static electricity in the air before he looked around, spotting the Hilton a few hundred metres down the street, a façade of safety and anonymity.

Cillian’s gaze darted to towards the luxurious hotel, barely illuminated by the street lamps as the distant hum of city life swirled around you.

You noticed him looking into that direction and felt your heart skip a beat. He turned his gaze back to you, a heated spark igniting in those depths you had come to admire.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, causing your heart racing at the intensity in his voice. The question hung in the air, charged with unspoken desires and the weight of potential consequences.

“More than I’ve ever been,” you replied a steady conviction filling your voice as the anticipation crackled like lightning between you both.

Cillian’s gaze held yours for a lingering moment, absorbing your words as if measuring the weight of your resolve against the depths of his own yearning.

With a deep breath, he nodded, a silent agreement passing between you, and together you turned toward the hotel, the evening air thick with anticipation.

The walk down the street felt surreal, palpable energy coursing between you as you approached the hotel’s entrance. The world around you blurred, the sound of bustling city life fading into the background, leaving just the two of you and that electric tension coursing through the air.

As you stepped into the warm, cozy lobby of the hotel, the soft glow of ambient lighting enveloped you both.

"I will check us in," Cillian said, pulling his wallet from his pocket as he approached the front desk, indicating for you to keep your distance. You knew that, for his career's sake, he couldn't be seen like this and you decided to seek out the lavatory while he handled the check-in process.

The tension in the air hung heavy around you as you walked away, your heart thrumming with both anticipation and a hint of nerves.

When you came back to the lobby, you saw Cillian waiting by the elevators, nervously fidgeting with the edges of a small piece of paper he had taken from the reception desk. His fingers toyed with the keycard as he caught your gaze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.

“Everything okay?” you asked, his voice steady but edged with tension.

“Yes ,” he replied, drawing in a steadying breath as the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.

You stepped inside, the small space suddenly feeling very intimate, cocooning you both with a weight that pressed against your chests, causing your hearts to thrum in sync as the doors slid shut behind you.

Cillian pressed the button for the eleventh floor, his body angled slightly to you and the air between you thickened with unspoken anticipation.

“You sure about this?” he murmured again, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes darting to the glowing panel as the elevator asc ended with a soft hum. The seconds stretched taut between you, the familiar rhythm of your heart echoing like a drum in your chest.

“Yes," you reiterated, your voice steady, a resonant echo of the certainty that surged within you. His eyes flickered to yours, searching for any hint of hesitation as, finally, you arrived.

The elevator shuddered to a stop with a soft ding, the doors gliding open to reveal a dimly lit hallway lined with plush carpeting and muted artwork. You stepped out first, the anticipation coiling tighter in your chest as you felt Cillian's presence right behind you, his steady breaths a comforting reminder of what lay ahead. The hallway stretched out before you, each step feeling weighty with anticipation. Cillian walked beside you, the silence between you both vibrating with energy, each shared breath interwoven with unspoken thoughts.

He paused at the door to room 1112, digging into his pocket for the keycard, the faint click of the lock echoing in the quiet hallway. He turned to you, a momentary flicker of uncertainty painting his expression as the door swung open. The room was quiet, bathed in soft, warm hues, the muted lighting inviting yet charged with the electric tension that hummed between you both.

Cillian hesitated on the threshold , his hand lingering on the doorframe as he glanced over at you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

The moment stretched out, thick with tension as Cillian seemed to measure the gravity of the space before you. You took a step forward, past him, and into the room, letting the warmth envelop you like a soft blanket, pushing through the initial hesitation. The room felt surreal, the air thick with anticipation.

Cillian entered behind you, closing the door softly, cutting off the outside world. The soft click of the door latch echoed in the hushed space, leaving an almost palpable silence hanging in the room.

You turned to face him and, as his gaze met yours, the tension ratcheted up, electric impulses flickering like firecrackers in the charged atmosphere around you.

"God, I want you so fucking badly," he muttered, his voice husky, greedy with desire.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt a shiver zigzag down your spine, heat pooling low in your core. The admission gave you a vulnerability that ignited a fire within you, a fierceness born of passion and forbidden desire.

"Then have me," you whispered, a challenge hanging in the air and, by that point, Cillian did not have to be told twice.

 Reaching for your face, his thumb traced the outline of your lips, temptation igniting a hunger blazing in the depths of his eyes as there was no turning back now.

With a growl that resonated deep in your chest, Cillian closed the gap between you, his lips brushing against yours in a searing blaze that set every nerve on fire. The kiss there deepened instantly, hands roaming freely, trailing over the curves of your body, lips parting in invitation as the fire spread through you both.

He was such a good kisser , but, this time, the fact didn’t surprise you.

His fingertips wandered up your body, gently cupping your neck, a silken ache trailing throughout your veins like wildfire.

The hunger was almost carnal – it seemed like he wanted you as if there was no tomorrow. As if he had been starving, and you were the first drop of water he had seen in days.

Cillian's touch grew insistent, trailing down your arms until he found the bottom of your shirt, slipping underneath the fabric and skating over your skin.

His fingertips brushed against the bare expanse of your stomach, sending ripples of heat storming through you, igniting a passion only fueled further by the illicit nature of the encounter.

Your t-shirt came off next, followed immediately by your bra, both discarded on the floor in a crumpled heap, as Cillian pushed you back against the wall, savoring the sight of you.

" You are so fucking beautiful, do you know that?"he murmured with lust deep in his voice, eyes alight with hunger as he trailed hot, wet kisses down your neck and shoulders.

"You did tell me before," you giggled as his fingers moved to your jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them and sinking to the floor as you quickly stepped out of them.

He was moving fast and your breath hitched as he hooked his thumbs into your panties and pulled them down, helping you in stepping out of them.

You stood naked before him, your chest rising and falling in time with Cillian's deep, measured breaths.

His gaze dropped to your bare skin, taking in every curve, every angle - and admiration flashed in his eyes as he dropped to his knees before you.

He took one of your thighs with his hand, guiding you as he adjusted your body to his mouth as you leaned back against the wall. One hand trailed up the inside of your thigh, your body trembling with every touch, while your other rested on his shoulder. 

Then, his tongue came into contact with you - and you let out a gasp. 

"Oh my god ," you breathed, your hands knotting themselves in Cillian's hair as you pushed yourself closer to him as his tongue ran through your slit. 

"Cillian, fuck, yes...right there,"  you moaned, savoring every second of the sensation as Cillian's tongue continued to swirl around your clit, his grip on your thigh tightening at your reaction.

The sound of his name, whispered through gritted teeth, seemed to spur him on, and the deliberate strokes of his tongue became more intense.

He slid a finger inside of you - a feeling so deliciously wicked that you couldn't believe you were allowing this to happen, right here in a hotel room with your stepfather, yet it was exactly what made this whole encounter feel even filthier.

"You taste so fucking perfect ," Cillian moaned, nuzzling his nose into your pelvis, causing you to submit to his decadent actions.

He buried his face in you, his tongue tracing every inch of your most sensitive places, bringing your body to a swift climax. Your thighs started to tremble, your respirations becoming shallow, and you couldn't help but let out a guttural moan.

"Oh fuck," your voice broke, becoming incoherent as he kept on working his tongue, sending waves of pleasure rocketing through every inch of your body.

Your instinctive response was to try and pull him closer against you, your hands clenching and unclenching as uncontrollable, involuntary muscle spasms rippled through your body.

"Cillian!" you cried out, your voice hollow despite your best efforts to smother it. "I-I'm going to -" You broke off, unable to form the words as Cillian worked his magic between your legs.

"Cum for me," he growled, pressing his tongue harder and faster on your clit as he thrust the finger deeper inside you.

The sensation was so intense that you couldn’t help but obey him. With a sharp cry, the climax ripped through your body—waves of pure pleasure that drowned out reality as you arched your back, each muscle taut as you held on to him.

Cillian didn’t falter in the slightest, giving you his full attention as you rode the pleasure, his hands solid against your trembling thighs. When you finally came down from the high, your legs gave out and you slid down along the wall to land in a sated heap on the plush carpet.

Cillian stayed where he was, continuing to exaggerate his responses for your benefit. One of his hands trailed possessively up your inner thigh, his fingers grazing the moisture that was still seeping from your pussy.

"That was quick," he chuckled as he swiftly pulled his t-shirt over his head, tossing it aside to join the rest of your clothes on the floor.

You were momentarily distracted by the gorgeous sight of him - his pale freckled skin and slender body. But it was the look in his eyes that drew you back, the sheer hunger and lust that was making your stomach flutter.

"It was quick, but this is because you are so good at that," you gasped as he unbuckled his belt, unhooked his jeans and shoved them down, removing them completely in just one smooth motion.

"I clearly am," he smirked, his eyes gleaming with amusement, looking down on the very wet patch you left on the floor, which was something that caused you to blush. "I mean, you positively drenched the floor," he said proudly, and you felt embarrassed, but there was also another emotion brewing inside of you—adrenaline, fueled by the scandalous nature of this rendezvous. It licked at the edges of desire, pushing the embarrassment aside, freeing you from the constraints of propriety.

"Sorry," you  stammered, and just as the words left your lips, Cillian's mouth found yours once more, forcing you to close your eyes and surrender to the temptation. His hands roamed over your skin again, strong fingers trailing over your breasts, the familiar tactile memory of him provoking a response as powerful now as it had the night before in your stepfather's house.

"Don't apologise," he growled, nipping at your lower lip, the tender gesture sending shockwaves down your sensitive nerves. "I fucking love knowing that I can make you lose control."

"I need you to fuck me, Cillian," you whispered against his lips, urgency driving your words, hips rising off the carpet in silent invitation. "Please!" 

A shudder went through Cillian at the sound of those bold words. For a moment, his eyes met yours, hooded with desire, and he nodded.

"Let's take this to the bed then. I am too old to do it on the floor," he mused as he pulled away, offering you his hand to pull you back to your feet.

You didn't need to be asked twice. Wrapping your fingers around his, you allowed him to help you up. Immediately, you tangled your hand with his, leading him towards the now inviting bed across the room. The anticipation was heavy in the air, and it was only growing thicker with each step you took towards the bed.

By this point, Cillian was only wearing his CK briefs, his hardness straining against the material, drawing your gaze immediately.

When you reached the bed, you reached for his boxer briefs, and Cillian didn't resist as you slipped them down over his slim hips.

The sight of him was breathtaking, his cock hard and ready, dripping with precum, and without much thought behind your actions, you got on your knees between his legs.

Cillian's eyes started to glaze over just by watching you inspect him – but it was when you wrapped your lips around his tip that he truly started losing control.

A strangled moan left his lips as you swirled your tongue around its head, teasing him with the lightest of touches before sliding his entire cock deep into your mouth.

You set the pace, teasing Cillian with your lips, watching with satisfaction as he threw his head back with a guttural sound, hips thrusting slightly to meet each of your downward glides. He swore under his breath as your hands started circling his balls, firm enough so that he would feel the sensation but not enough to bring him pain.

With every stroke, you felt him swell more and taste him more fully against your tongue as precum trickled out. You were still in charge, and it was intoxicating.

Your hands reached around to hold onto his firm, muscular ass, pulling him further into your mouth, making him moan loudly above you.

He tried to remain silent as not to arouse suspicion, but your ministrations made him increasingly unable to stop himself from moaning obscenities and whispering filthy words into the room.

You continued to swallow him down, half of him disappearing between your lips as you latched onto the base with a suction that kept him rooted until he begged for you to stop.

"I need to be inside you before I lose my fucking mind," Cillian grit, pulling away slowly, while his eyes remained fixed on your lips wrapped tightly around his shaft.

You pulled back slightly, releasing him with a slick, wet sound and stared up at him through your eyelashes, savoring the lingering taste of him on your tongue, feeling empowered by the sight he presented.

"Then make love to me," you purred without hesitation and Cillian didn't need to be told twice.

Wrapping his arm around you, he gently pulled you back onto the bed and followed you there, pressing the whole length of his body against yours. With a low growl, he captured your lips once more, his kiss fierce and dominant as he pinned you to the bed with his weight.

You parted your lips eagerly, inviting him deeper as your tongues danced together, each stroke sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your veins.

The taste of him was intoxicating, making you drunk with lust and longing, a primal need rising up inside you like a tidal wave.

Cillian shuddered against you, his hands roamed across your sensitive skin, leaving hot trails of desire in their wake. His fingers skimmed your breasts, teasing your nipples in the barest touch before sliding lower, tracing the curve of your hips before slipping between your legs.

Your breath caught as his fingers found your opening, slick and ready for him.

He slowly circled your clit with his thumb while slowly pushing a finger inside of you before pulling it again and aligning  his cock's head with your entrance.

He rubbed himself against you, his gaze locked on yours, and you bit your lip in anticipation.

A sudden, sharp stab of guilt jabbed at you for betraying your family in such a way, but that brief flicker was quickly snuffed out by the all-consuming passion that radiated between you both.

He thrust inside you, filling you up to the hilt, both of you moaning in euphoria at the sensation.

Your body stretched around him, welcoming the intrusion, and as you wrapped your legs around his waist and arched your back, inviting him in deeper, you could see him lose all control.

Every thrust was deliberate, measured, each stroke like his masterpiece; he took his time, hitting every spot that made you moan louder. The headboard slammed against the wall with every powerful thrust, the sound echoing in your ears like the sweetest symphony.

Cillian reached down between you two, finding your clit, rubbing small circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.

The dual sensation sent your body into overdrive, your back arched off the bed as your fingers clawed at his back.

"Ah, fuck, Y/N," he moaned, desperation thick in his voice. "You feel so fucking good." His voice dripped with lust, sending another wave of shameless shivers down your body.

The filthier he talked, the more you could feel your orgasm building—slowly at first, a rolling wave barely discernible beneath the surface, then quickly cresting into a tsunami that threatened to drown you both.

"Cillian!" You screamed his name, the sound bouncing off the walls as his name became a litany, your voice weaving together with your gasps and moans as the pressure built inside. Your voice grew increasingly hoarse, cracking under the strain of your rapidly growing pleasure but as much as you wanted to be quiet, to not draw any undue attention to the room that held your secret, you couldn't help but give yourself over to the sounds of pure rapture that bubbled out of you of their own accord.

He plunged deeper inside of you, bottoming out with each powerful thrust.

Neither of you could believe how incredible it felt to be so connected.

“Oh my god, Cillian. Right there, don’t stop!” You screamed, your words punctuated by sharp intakes of breath.

You raked your nails down his back and he hissed in pleasure, the sensation of your touch only adding to the unbearably intense experience. The slick sound of skin against skin accompanied each thrust as you both 

lost yourself completely, a shared knowing shimmering between you both. Your breaths were ragged, escaping in short pants as you sat up to meet each thrust..

“Harder,” you gasped, in a voice that barely recognized itself, demanding more from the man whose body now claimed all of your wants.

"Okay, then turn around," he  panted, tearing his lips away from your skin from one too many kisses, craving to conquer another side of you.

You complied easily, gracefully flipping yourself over in one swift move, knees sinking into the soft mattress, butt raised in the perfect angle for him to claim you again. Your hands wrapped around the headboard, preparing yourself for what was about to ensue.

A low growl escaped Cillian’s throat as he took in the new view of you, naked and vulnerable, on all fours  .

His fingers gripped onto your hips, tugging you closer, and your breath hitched as you felt his hot, hard length brush against your eager opening.

"Fuck, Y/N, you’re so fucking wet," he grit out, driving his hips forward and burying himself deep inside your warm, welcoming depths.

You gasped, eyes screwing shut at the surge of pleasure as his cock filled you up in delicious ways. He started off thrusting slowly, every motion deliberate and measured.

You could feel him touching every inch of your insides, and the sensation was so fucking perfect that it almost hurt.

"Holy sh-shit!" You cried out, head spinning as your thoughts dissipated, obliterated by a newfound focus on his body's perfect rhythm.

Each slow thrust brought a fresh wave of pleasure vibrating through your every nerve. It was an intoxicating sensation, and one that you wanted more of - wanted to push yourself to chase that moment, wanted Cillian to do it too.

"Please," you whispered, the word cracking as you begged, your lips trembling. "Please, Cillian. Don't stop."

And he took your plea to heart, increasing his pace - the slow, steady rhythm now replaced with hard, quick thrusts that left you dizzy. Each forceful entry hit exactly where it should, sending blissful shockwaves rippling in their wake. You could feel him everywhere - inside you, around you, until you couldn't take it anymore.

You climaxed first, screaming his name as you contracted around him, pouring yourself over his hand, his fingers massaging your clit. 

The roll of his hips showed you he was close behind, and with one final, violent push, he let loose, his hot seed filling you to the brim.

As he collapsed onto you, panting and spent, your bodies melded together in an increasingly frantic dance, a desperate attempt to keep the world from falling apart.

But eventually there was only silence, and the dim light streaming in from the window casting long shadows on the walls.

Cillian pulled out gently, leaving you feeling empty and wanting more.

"Damn Y/N, that felt amazing," Cillian murmured as he wrapped you in his arms from behind as you leaned back against him, leaving sticky trails of sweat and semen blending between your skin.

Your chest heaved as you tried to regain your breath, your mind reeling from the intensity of your actions.

"God, I needed this," you  breathed, voice thick with emotion and satisfaction, as his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer.

Cillian's fingers snuck under your arms, cupping your breasts gently, and he pressed a kiss to your neck, the heat of it almost stinging your feverish skin.

"So did I," he confessed, his voice wavering with unspoken emotions that echoed your own. His lips found the sensitive area of your shoulder and he peppered soft, lingering kisses. "But we really can't stay here tonight," he went on , breaking the spell. 

You didn't respond, keeping your eyes fixed on the window across the room, watching the hazy silhouette of the city sprawled out in front of you.

"I know," you whispered, still staring outside, your thoughts churning.

"Y/N," he began again, hesitantly.

With a sigh, you eventually pulled away from him and got out of bed, feeling exposed and vulnerable after being so intimate with this man, your very own stepfather.

"I know, I know," you repeated, wrapping one of the hotel's plush bathrobes around yourself and tying it tightly around your waist.

Cillian followed suit and grabbed his own robe, watching you silently.

"Look, I-" he started, but you cut him off.

"No, you look," you said firmly, turning to face him. "I am moving to New York in six weeks and that will be it, so let's just enjoy  every moment together."

Your participation in this horizontal tango, this act of adult carnal passion, had been building for months now -- ever since you had first crossed paths with your stepfather again, Cillian, on that fateful night. The chemistry between the two of you was undeniable; you couldn't ignore it any longer and instead found yourself helplessly caught up in the allure of his seductive smile and piercing blue eyes.

"You seriously want to keep this up for six weeks?"  Cillian asked, eyes narrowing with a mixture of skepticism laced with a hint of hope.

"Yes," you affirmed emphatically, trying to maintain a sense of resolve as you stepped towards him, closing the distance between them. "I don't think I'll be able to keep my hands off you while I am there, seeing you almost every day, but once there is some distance between us, maybe it  will be easier to let this go."

Cillian stared at you for a second, conflict dancing in his eyes as he took in your words. "It seems sensible, considering the circumstances," he finally agreed. "But six weeks is a long time, Y/N and I," he began before running over his thoughts. "It's just," he stammered. "It's so fucking wrong, Y/N. I mean, you're my stepdaughter for fuck's sake. I-I don't think I can handle the guilt."

You didn't respond, his words striking a chord deep within you. You knew what he was saying was true, yet you couldn't help but desire him in all the ways you never thought possible.

"Then say no and stay away from me," you challenged, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside of you. 

Cillian stepped forward, eyes darting from your face to your lips, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers down your spine. 

"You know I can't," he whispered hoarsely, his hand sliding up your arm to brush your cheek with his calloused fingertips.  "Fuck, you have no idea what  you do to me."

His eyes burned with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat, and you couldn't help but lean into him, your lips meeting his in a soft, lingering kiss. 

"I think I have some idea ," you replied, your words barely above a whisper, laced with a husky purr.

Cillian groaned at your words, his arms tightening around your waist as he deepened the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you violently. The passion between you was all-consuming, a tempest of fire and desire that threatened to consume you both.

You felt his cock growing hard again against your stomach, pressing against you as he ground his hips into yours, and you whimpered, a low, needy sound that echoed between you.

"One more time before you go, after which I will be making full use of the room, even on my own," you chuckled  with a sly grin, reaching down to grab his growing length.

Cillian let out a choked gasp when you took him in your hand, fingers stroking up and down his shaft with a sensual slowness that left him squirming for more. God, you were going to drive him mad with lust before the night was through.

"Alright, but not before I get another taste of that sweet little pussy of yours," he groaned, gripping your hips and making you drop back on to the bed.

"But you just came inside me ," you protested, cheeks flushed.

"And your point is?" he  answered, moving inbetween your legs, spreading them wider, as he bent down, and pressed an open mouthed kiss on the inside of your thigh...

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[elenamillefiori]

one thing that makes me particularly hopeful about june's transition in beyond canon is that in all likelihood we are going to get TWO distinct storylines out of it: one for meat june and one for candy june.

the last update had laid down the foundations of candy june's transition by putting on fragrant display her unwillingness to face her actual life as an adult who has to decide for herself who to be and what to do, as someone who has a personhood rather than a role to play and responsibilities rather than a quest to follow. she is so attached to the comfortable oppression of sburb that not only has she let it alienate her from everybody who was dear to her, she even reacts with palpable RELIEF (bordering on the villainous) at harry giving her an excuse to get back in the game, even if it's because he's decided he would rather fuck off into a hellhole adventure rather than have to deal with her.

meat june, on the other hand... is a corpse. this obviously puts her in a way different position, but it's ironically one that has a much clearer path to her coming out. despite being 20 years younger, this june has reached the logical endpoint of her candy counterpart's hyper-identification with the sburb narrative and has been consumed by it, getting killed in the progress of fulfilling her predestined role. her only hope for coming back to life is as a sprite in the new session, a literal sburb game piece; being thrust into this new state of being could very well be the triggering event for a serious, much-needed identity crisis. in addition, there's the matter of what she's been up to as a corpse: we don't have much explicit information about what the furthest ring/afterlife's like these days but presumably it now contains the noir city where catnapped and the hyperbolic helltier chamber take place in (the sprites who were left in the incipisphere are there, vriska reaches it through a pinhole in calliope's black hole, jasprose's fenestrated walls are connected to it...) so that also offers another avenue for meat june's personal journey to develop, especially given the connection between the problem sleuth characters living there and the vision of the table-and-chair from when ace dick played the game of life in death's bubble.

part of the reason i hope it turns out this way is that candy june's transition seems like it's shaping up to be a delicious mess, a story about a deeply traumatised trans woman cracking out of her egg right as her dysfunctional coping mechanisms have turned her own family and friends against her and are threatening to push her into a villainous role as dirk's counterpart, nominally benevolent yet just as destructively attached to the narrative, but it's also one that given the state of media discourse and the fandom would VERY easily be read in VERY bad faith ("oh snap john is transitioning but she's EVIL that will surely show all those trannies june truthers classic hussie trolling"), so showing off a more sympathetic transition narrative right alongside it could give the team enough cover to explore it fully.

anyway this is how grimdorks can still win (candy june and rose bond over being shunned and over their shared attachment to The Narrative so they get together; this development weirds THE FUCK out of the other characters and also generates absolutely radioactive wasteland levels of discourse from the worst people you can imagine)

[slowburningechoes]

hi so uh what is your favorite robert sean leonard role

omg i’ve been trying to prepare myself for this day… but i’m still going to ramble for sure! thank you for this ask!!!

i love so many of his roles for different reasons, so i’ll try to rank them, then elaborate on why they are where they are…

1. neil (dead poet’s society): like many of us, this is how i was introduced to RSL. his performance as neil was so moving to me — even at 14. i related to this character in many ways (and still do) and truly felt seen for the first time in my life. i was (and woud continue to) live my life trying to please my father and had deep fear of his judgement and rejection. his joy and his pain as neil is palpable every single time, even if it’s been 10+ years of numerous rewatches. this is one of his most well-known roles for that reason… but that’s not why it’s my #1. neil is just so special to me, i cannot even begin to describe the feelings i have towards him. but, i can tell you it’s enough that i plan to get an outline tattoo of neil as puck this summer!

2. wilson (house, md): ok another kin character of mine!! but that’s not (the only reason) why. wilson as a character is really like the only RSL role we see fleshed out for YEARS! not a film, not one episode or at max one season, but 8 YEARS!!! the opportunity to have so much of wilson when we have very little of RSL long-term is so special. wilson is also so dynamic both internally and in his relationship with house. we see the good parts of wilson — his humor, his dedication, his love. but we see the low moments, too — his infidelity, his depression/grief, his pain. wilson is a wonderfully rounded out character and makes every episode that much better!

3. luke forte (the gilded age): as julian schlossberg said during his interview, rev. luke forte is truly just bobby. everything genuine and warm and loving about RSL is tied up in luke. it was “one of the easiest things [he’s] ever done” because of that. everything i adore about him shows up in this role, so i’ll be a luke lover forever and ever!!! plus — he plays opposite his irl lifelong friend, which makes it even sweeter.

4. alfred (safe passage): underrated af!!! i really enjoy the family dysfunction in this film in general — from a psych perspective ofc. alfred, being the oldest, takes on a parental role and always has to have it together. but there is so much passion and rage and feeling brewing underneath (which we get to see)! i just love seeing RSL embody this dynamic role. plus, his milf of a girlfriend is a psychologist so… self insert.

5. barry (boys next door): bobby just blows this role out of the water. i did a bit more of an in-depth blurb about barry before, but in summary — the depiction of debilitating ptsd was very accurate to my personal and clinical experience. can’t speak much to it accurately depicting schizophrenia, but the dynamics between barry and the boys, jack, and his father are all so incredibly moving. plus love the long hair!!!!

…

need a separate ranking just for his roles where he’s a jerk, have to go:

1. claudio (much ado about nothing): he’s just so pretty and princely. plus, shakespeare?! cmon!!!

2. tom (last days of disco): 1998 RSL? …seductive dancing? duhhh!!! (i still cannot believe I mentioned this character in my note to him… what is wrong with me?!)

3. jon (tape): bossy, smug, lowkey sexual tension with both of the other characters?! count me in.

[starlightsuffered]

we need a new fic pls🙏🏼 (only if u can)

One More Night

Info - Slytherin and Gryffindor, some intoxication, mentions of sex, toxic couple, polar opposites, song fic, one night stand, lust, mention of drugs, a little bit dub con language, blood purist regulus, dry humping

One hand gripped the curls at the nape of my neck, the other pulled hard on my tie. I was gasping into the kiss. It took so much to get this desire to build in me normally, but just a makeout with her started an inferno inside me.

“I should go,” I breathed.

“Then go,” she said with an almost cruel tone. I let out a needy pant. She smirked as she felt the wild racing of my heart when she pressed her bosom against my chest,

“Y/n,” I said the hallowed name through nips and laps of her lips.

I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t pull myself away. I tried to remember the guilt I felt every time just after we’d stopped touching. It seemed less palpable. I couldn’t picture it. It was just like every other fucking time.

I used to be a good student, a prefect, quidditch captain. I was respectable and nonchalant to a point it bothered others. Now I was like an addict. I didn’t think of anything but her body and allure.

“Is your-“ she cut off the question by grinding her crotch against me. I knew she wore no panties and the dress was so thin I could practically feel her slick.

I imagined slipping my cock into her velvety wet folds. A full body shiver overwhelmed me. My hands were on her ass. I was barely resisting anymore. My body couldn’t tell her no.

“Is your lipstick laced with something?” I finally got out the weak query. I wished she’d say yes. I wish I had some fucking excuse for how many times I went back to her. I wish I could blame enchantment for my all consuming desire for her.

“No,” she said in a smug voice that made my dick even harder. She completely knew the affect she had on me. She loved it. And though I shouldn’t, I loved it too.

Dysfunctional didn’t begin to cover us. Gryffindor and Slytherin was only the beginning. She was muggle born and would ruin my reputation. She was a party girl, who dabbled in dangerous wizarding drugs and had no care for her own well being. I was the stoic head boy who never went to parties and had each step of my future planned out. I could have never planned for her.

One party, I’d gone to one bloody Slytherin party. She’d been let in due to the illicit items she carried on her. She hadn’t even knows who I was. She didn’t know how I’d stared all night. She didn’t know my hands, my skin, my breath, my cock, all longed to be hers. It was like metal trying to resist a magnet and I’d broken eventually.

I’d felt stupid the morning after. No protection. No safety spell. It had all been raw and electric and so pleasurable I’d felt as though I could pass out. I’d been stupid enough to tell her I was a prefect and I’d be telling the headmaster what sort of things she brought to parties. We’d been nearly at each others throats, moments away from hexing one another. Somehow it’d turned into me bouncing her on my cock as she bit into my shoulder so hard it bled.

“You coming to mine?” She asked. She had the audacity to question me as she reached into my pants and fondled my aching cock. It was probably purple with need at the moment. Only she made it that way. She made me feel like a cheap whore with how fast I began to harden for her.

“No,” I breathed. It was the right thing to do. I was going to do the right thing this time.

“Alright then,” she said instantly. She stepped back and I felt my skin had been stripped away. I was left breathless, raw, sensitive, and vulnerable.

She stood there looking like a wet dream. Her hair was tousled, lips swollen where I’d bit them. Dark marks were blooming on her honey sweet skin where I’d sucked. Her dress was hitched up. I noticed a dribble of arousal making its way down her thigh. I could have exploded in my pants.

“Goodbye then Regulus,” she purred. Her eyes were dark with promise of the most erotic pleasures.

“One more night,” I said weakly. I went to her, to my forbidden fruit. I wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d devoured it all again.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming

[estellan0vella]

Love In Print│Bang Chan

Chapter Twenty Seven: Epilogue SS: 0 (ignore time stamps and dates) Word Count: 4.9K Content Warnings:

Previous Masterlist

The bridal suite is a chaotic blend of nerves, laughter, and love. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, golden glow over Ayame as she stands in front of the full-length mirror.

Her wedding gown is a masterpiece: an off-shoulder design with sheer, shimmering long sleeves that glint like morning dew. The bodice fits her like a glove, accentuating her frame before flowing into a cascading skirt of satin and tulle, the delicate overlay catching every glimmer of sunlight.

Minho, Hyunjin, Seungmin, and Soojin orbit her like a dysfunctional but devoted bridal squad, each playing their part in this final moment before the ceremony. Soojin holds a glass of champagne like it's a lifeline, her eyes misty as she hands it to Ayame.

"You look fucking unreal," Soojin says, her voice thick with emotion. "Like a literal goddess. Chan is going to lose his goddamn mind."

Ayame takes the glass with a soft smile, tilting her head slightly as Hyunjin fusses with her veil, muttering something about symmetry and perfection.

"He better," Ayame quips, her tone light but her nerves palpable. "I didn't spend hours squeezing into this for him to not cry like a little bitch."

Hyunjin gasps dramatically, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Oh, he's going to cry. Men like Chan don't stand a chance against this kind of slay."

Minho, perched against the windowsill with his own glass of champagne, raises it in salute. "Maknae, fair warning: when I walk you down that aisle, I'm going to cry. But not the cute kind. I'm talking snotty, hiccuping, embarrassing crying. People will think it's my wedding."

Ayame rolls her eyes, though a genuine smile breaks through. "Oppa, if you ruin my moment, I swear I'll have Seungmin escort you out."

Seungmin smirks from his spot on the couch, legs crossed and utterly unbothered. "Ruin it? Minho's dramatic sobbing is basically a family tradition at this point. Wouldn't be a Lim-Ayame-Lee-Minho production without it."

Ayame laughs softly, the sound laced with tension. Then she catches sight of her phone on the vanity. For a moment, she hesitates, her fingers hovering over the device before she picks it up, her face tightening with resolve.

The room quiets as Ayame dials, holding the phone to her ear. The line rings once, twice and then connects.

"Who is this?" Lim Ailiseu's sharp voice cuts through the line. "I don't have this number saved."

Ayame's chest tightens, but she doesn't respond. Her lips press into a thin line, and after a moment, she quietly ends the call. She places the phone down with a deliberate motion and downs her champagne in one swift go.

"Well, there we go," she mutters, her voice bitter and low.

The room feels heavy with the weight of her unspoken pain. Soojin, always quick to diffuse tension, stands abruptly. "I'll... I'll go get Chan," she says, her voice tentative.

Soojin exits the suite, leaving Minho, Hyunjin, and Seungmin to exchange glances. Minho moves to refill Ayame's glass. "You know what fixes shitty mothers?" he says, pouring generously. "More champagne."

Hyunjin wraps an arm around Ayame's shoulders. "I'd throw hands, but I don't want to ruin my manicure. Just say the word, though."

Seungmin nods solemnly. "We're all ready to fight her. Physically, emotionally, spiritually."

Ayame snorts, the sound half-laugh, half-sob. "Thanks, oppas. Really."

Meanwhile, in the groom's suite, laughter echoes as Felix pins Chan's boutonniere to his lapel. Jisung, Changbin, Jeongin, and Jess are in various stages of chaos, but the room falls silent when Soojin bursts in, her face flushed.

"Ayame called her mother," she blurts out, her voice tinged with anger. "And it turns out that charming woman deleted Ayame's number."

The silence grows heavier. Chan's jaw tightens, and without a word, he strides toward the door. Jess's eyes narrow as she mutters, "I told you I should've hit her months ago. Felix, you should've let me."

Chan doesn't stop, his pace purposeful as he heads for the bridal suite. When he steps inside, his gaze softens immediately upon seeing Ayame sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands gripping her empty champagne flute. Minho, Hyunjin, and Seungmin take one look at Chan and wisely shuffle out, though Minho pauses in the doorway to whisper, "Don't fuck this up"

Ayame looks up, her eyes meeting Chan's. Her expression is vulnerable, her usual fire dimmed. "I don't even know why..." She shakes her head, her voice breaking slightly. "I don't know why I even called her."

Chan crouches down in front of her, taking her hands in his. His thumbs trace soothing circles over her knuckles as he speaks. "Because she's your mother," he says gently. "And no matter how shitty she is, you hoped for more. That's normal, Ayame."

She lets out a bitter laugh, her eyes glassy. "Expect disappointment, right?"

"Not from me," Chan says firmly, his gaze steady. "Never from me."

Her lips twitch, a small, wry smile breaking through. "The Bang Chan guarantee."

"Damn right," he replies, standing and helping her to her feet. "Now, I've got to get back to my suite and finish getting ready. But I need to know, are you okay?"

Ayame nods, her smile softening. "Minho's got a bottle of champagne with my name on it. By the time I walk down the aisle, I'll probably be stumbling."

Chan chuckles, pulling her into a brief but tender embrace. He presses a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment. "Just make sure you make it down the aisle to me."

"I will," Ayame whispers, watching as he heads for the door. Her voice is soft but steady as she calls after him. "I promise."

The Australian summer sun is blazing, casting a golden glow over the beach, the sand glittering beneath the perfectly arranged white and blue wedding decor. The soft, salty breeze ruffles the petals of blue hydrangeas and white roses that line the aisle, and the scent of the ocean mingles with the flowers, filling the air with a serene, intoxicating fragrance.

Ayame stands at the start of the aisle, her pulse quickening with every soft crash of the waves against the shore. Minho is beside her, adjusting his tie in a dramatic fashion, his expression a mixture of smugness and nervous excitement.

He turns to her with a smirk, offering his arm. "So, you ready? If you want to bail, I've got a car parked behind the dunes. We can just roll out."

Ayame exhales deeply, a mix of nerves and anticipation clouding her chest, but a smile tugs at her lips. "Thanks, oppa, but I think I'm ready. At least for the ceremony."

Minho's face softens for a brief moment, his eyes scanning her with genuine affection. "You look fucking beautiful, Ayame. I swear, if I didn't already know you were mine, I'd be considering my options right now."

She rolls her eyes, but her grin widens. "Don't you dare. You're supposed to be walking me down the aisle, not trying to steal the show."

Minho laughs, his hand squeezing hers reassuringly. "Let's get this over with, then." He leads her forward, his usual playful demeanour replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness, as though he's fully aware of the weight of this moment.

As the soft, haunting chords of Flightless Bird, American Mouth begin to drift through the air, Minho quirks an eyebrow at Ayame, unable to resist. "Seriously? This song? It sounds like a fucking breakup anthem."

Ayame nudges him lightly with her shoulder, her lips curling in a teasing smile. "It's a good song, oppa. Just trust me."

"Fine, fine," Minho mutters, shaking his head. "But if anyone starts fucking sparkling, I swear I'm out."

Their steps echo on the wooden platform as they walk toward the guests, all eyes turning in sync. The gasps that ripple through the crowd are audible even over the music. Ayame is a vision in her gown, each step making the delicate fabric shimmer like water under the sun.

The sheer sleeves float around her arms, barely brushing her skin, while the satin skirt glides with the soft breeze, catching the sunlight in a thousand tiny glimmers. Her veil trails behind her like a dream, as though it belongs to another world.

Jess, seated in the front row with Felix beside her, can't hide the tears welling in her eyes. She's dabbing at them furiously with a handkerchief, whispering something to Felix that makes him grin in that way he always does when he's about to burst into laughter. Nari, sitting a few rows back, is openly sobbing, her handkerchief practically soaked through. Her face is red, but her smile is pure pride.

Ayame's eyes are locked on Chan, who is standing at the end of the aisle. He looks impossibly handsome in a crisp navy suit, a soft white tie draped over his collar.

His groomsmen, Jisung, Felix, Changbin, and Jeongin, are a sharp contrast in dark suits and matching ties, but none can match Chan's radiance. His eyes are fixed on Ayame, a mixture of awe and love so intense it's almost palpable. Jisung, standing closest as best man, leans in and whispers something to Chan that makes him crack a smile.

Minho and Ayame finally reach the altar, and Minho releases her arm, stepping back with a sly grin. He turns to Chan, his voice low but laced with a kind of ferocity that only Minho could pull off. "You hurt her, and I swear to fucking god, I'll take your fingers, your toes, your dick, and your balls. In that order."

Chan doesn't flinch, his gaze unwavering, but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Understood."

Minho gives a satisfied nod, stepping back with a slap on Chan's shoulder that's half reassuring, half threatening. He joins the bridal party to the side, casting one last protective glance at Ayame.

Ayame takes a deep breath, her heart pounding as she steps closer to Chan. The noise around her fades, and all she can focus on is the warmth radiating from him. The moment feels surreal, like it's both speeding by and slowing down all at once. She stands before him, her chest tightening, but her smile never wavers.

Chan's voice is barely a whisper as he looks her over, his eyes soft but full of awe. "You look..." He swallows hard, struggling to find the right words. "Perfect. You're perfect."

Ayame's lips twitch into a small, teasing smile, and she leans in just slightly, her voice warm and playful. "And you don't look too bad yourself, Mr. Perfect."

Chan chuckles softly, his hands moving to cup her face, his thumb gently tracing the curve of her jaw. "I think we both know you're the perfect one here, though."

She laughs, the sound light but full of emotion. "You're lucky you're the one standing here," she says, her voice soft, but the edge of nerves is gone now. The confidence that she feels in his presence melts all the tension away.

He smiles, his thumb brushing over her lower lip before he leans in, whispering against her ear, "I'm not going anywhere, Ayame. I'm here for you. Always."

The officiant stands before them, his voice a calm, measured contrast to the palpable energy of the crowd, the wind, the ocean. Ayame and Chan stand close, hands clasped tightly. Their fingers feel like they're buzzing, the heat from each other's touch almost sparking. They share a nervous glance, both of them trying to hold it together, but failing miserably.

"Chan, Ayame," the officiant begins, his voice carrying effortlessly across the beach, "Repeat after me: I, Chan, take you, Ayame, to be my lawfully wedded wife..."

"I, Chan, take you, Ayame, to be my lawfully wedded wife..." Chan's voice is thick with emotion, the words nearly stuck in his throat.

Ayame feels the lump in her chest grow, but she forces herself to stay composed, her voice steady as she repeats, "I, Ayame, take you, Chan, to be my lawfully wedded husband..."

The officiant gives a small nod, then turns to Ayame. "To have and to hold, from this day forward..."

"To have and to hold, from this day forward..." Chan's thumb brushes against her knuckles, and Ayame feels a warmth spread through her chest, the anxious jitters melting away under his touch.

"For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health..."

"For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health..." Ayame whispers, her eyes locked on Chan's. The words come so easily now, like they've always been there, waiting to be said.

She's lost in him, lost in the certainty of this moment. The past, her mother's cruelty, her doubts, the arguments, the stress, feels like a distant memory. All that matters is Chan, and this perfect moment.

The officiant smiles at them, his tone warm, almost conspiratorial. "Now, please, exchange the rings."

Jisung, practically vibrating with excitement, hands Chan the ring. Chan's hands tremble slightly, but he steadies himself as he slides the ring onto Ayame's finger. It fits perfectly like it was made just for her. His heart races as he looks up at her, his eyes full of awe.

Ayame takes the ring from Minho, her hands shaking, but she's steady now. She slides it onto Chan's finger, and for just a second, the world goes completely still. It's like time is holding its breath, waiting for something monumental to happen. 

"You may now kiss the bride," the officiant declares, his voice breaking through the moment like the final, joyful punctuation.

Chan doesn't wait. His hands are on her waist, pulling her to him in a single motion, his lips crashing down onto hers. The kiss is soft, tentative at first, as though they're still testing this new reality. But then it deepens, their mouths moving together in a rhythm that feels familiar and new all at once. The kiss is slow and sweet, full of promise, but there's an intensity there too. A fire they've only just begun to stoke.

The crowd erupts into applause, but in that moment, it's just them. Just Ayame and Chan, caught in the whirlwind of their own love, the world spinning around them as if nothing else could possibly matter.

Minho, standing just off to the side, has turned into an emotional wreck. His shoulders are shaking as he tries to hide his tears, sniffling loudly into his sleeve. Jess squeezes his hand, tears streaking down her face, her expression a mix of joy and disbelief. Hyunjin has his phone out, snapping picture after picture, clearly capturing every second of the day. 

"I'm going to need more tissues," Nari mutters under her breath, voice trembling as she dabs at her eyes, her face flushed from the tears.

Jess lets out a loud, half-laugh, half-snort, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "It's a wedding, Nari, not a funeral."

Ayame pulls away from the kiss reluctantly, her lips still tingling from the contact. Chan grins at her, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Bang Ayame," he says, his voice playful, "The motto of my life."

Ayame throws her head back, bursting into laughter, shaking her head in disbelief. "Stop it! You're supposed to be serious, it's our fucking wedding, not some goddamn porn movie."

"I'm serious," Chan insists, his grin widening. 

"Stop!" Ayame laughs again, but she can't help herself. "You're ridiculous. Can't believe you went there."

Jisung, who's been standing nearby, absolutely cackles at the comment. "Hell yeah! That's perfect! I can already picture the tagline: 'Bang Chan, banging Bang Ayame!'" He throws his head back in laughter, his voice carrying over the crowd.

Chan's aunt, who's been seated at the front, gasps loudly, clutching her pearls in scandalized horror. Her face is a mixture of shock and disapproval, eyes wide. "Good heavens! What kind of language is that?!"

Ayame rolls her eyes, already exasperated. "Oh, for fuck's sake, not again," she mutters, turning to Chan. "Why did we even invite her?"

Chan snorts, shaking his head. "I don't fucking know. After all these years, and she's still clutching those damn pearls like she hasn't heard me make some disgusting joke before."

Ayame groans, rubbing her temples. "Seriously, we're all grown adults. Let's stop pretending that we don't know exactly what happens in honeymoon suites."

"Except Auntie," Jisung adds, leaning toward Felix with a grin that's as wicked as it is mischievous. "She's living in denial, and it's fucking hilarious."

Chan, still chuckling, wraps his arm around Ayame's waist and pulls her in closer. He presses a soft kiss on her cheek. "We're married now. You ready for all the fun that's coming our way?"

Ayame raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a wicked grin. "Don't even think about it," she warns, but there's a playful glint in her eye. "I'm in for whatever comes next. But you better be prepared for the chaos."

And with that, they turn to face their guests, the laughter, the love, the life ahead of them stretching out like an endless summer. It's only the beginning.

The moonlight spills across the beach, casting a silvery glow that makes the whole world feel dreamlike. The waves lap lazily at the shore, their rhythmic sound punctuating the stillness of the night.

Ayame and Chan walk hand in hand, their bare feet leaving impressions in the soft sand, the warm summer air swirling around them. Ayame's white dress flutters in the breeze, clinging just slightly to her hips, while Chan's half-unbuttoned shirt is whipped against his chest, giving her fleeting glimpses of the muscles underneath.

It's perfect. Quiet, intimate, the kind of moment that feels suspended in time. Everything around them, the salty tang of the ocean, the hum of distant voices from the wedding reception, fades into a soft blur. All that matters is the feeling of his hand in hers, the steady beat of their hearts in sync.

"You're so fucking lucky to have grown up here," Ayame murmurs, gazing out at the dark expanse of the sea, her voice soft but threaded with a touch of envy. "Look at this place. It's like something out of a postcard."

Chan chuckles beside her, squeezing her hand. "Yeah, it's beautiful, but it wasn't always easy. Growing up here, with the ocean in front of you, it made everything feel... heavier, you know? Like, whenever I fucked up or felt like shit, I'd just dream of running back here. It was my escape."

Ayame glances up at him, her expression softening. "Would you have run back if things didn't work out with me?" she asks, her voice almost hesitant.

Chan halts, bringing her to a stop as well, his face turning serious. He looks at her, eyes full of something unspoken, something deeper than the waves crashing behind them. "Not a fucking chance," he says, voice steady and full of conviction. "You're my home now, Ayame. No running from this."

Ayame feels a warmth spread through her chest, the words settling into her heart like a perfect fit. She smiles, cheeks warming under his gaze. "Well, aren't you just the biggest romantic?" she teases, nudging him with her shoulder.

Chan grins, the corner of his mouth lifting into that signature mischievous smile. "Shh, don't spread that around. I've got a reputation to uphold."

Ayame laughs softly, and then, with a sudden spark of energy, she tugs on his hand. "Come on, Mr. Bang. Let's see if you can keep up with your wife."

"Wife," Chan repeats, the word tasting like heaven on his tongue. "I like the sound of that."

Ayame grins, and before he can say another word, she pulls him toward the waterline, her bare feet sinking into the sand as she moves. The cool ocean breeze rushes past them, and her dress flutters around her legs as she picks up the pace. Chan, still trying to catch up, yells after her. "Hold up, hold up! These pants cost more than my fucking phone, Ayame!"

Ayame raises an eyebrow, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Live a little. Stop being such a fucking coward."

"I'm not a coward!" Chan protests, though the way he digs his heels into the sand as she drags him further into the surf says otherwise. "I'm practical! These trousers don't just-"

But before he can finish, Ayame laughs and lets go of his hand, bolting into the surf herself. She laughs wildly as the water splashes up around her waist, the cool waves nipping at her skin. She spins in the water, her dress clinging to her legs, the ocean's reflection in her eyes.

"Come on, Bang Christopher Chan!" she shouts, her voice daring him to chase her. "Your wife commands you!"

"God help me," Chan mutters under his breath, eyes gleaming with amusement. He watches her for a second, the way her dress sticks to her curves, the way her laugh echoes across the quiet night, and then, with a half-shrug and a shake of his head, he sprints toward her.

The cool waves crash around his legs as he charges after her, his expensive trousers now soaked. "No way I'm going out like this," he calls, his voice teasing but full of admiration as he reaches her. "Your dress is gonna be see-through in a second."

Ayame smirks, taking another step closer to him, her fingers trailing slowly up the soaked fabric of his shirt. "Are you complaining?" 

"Not at all," Chan murmurs, his breath catching as her touch sends a jolt through him. His hands find their way to her hips, pulling her in closer. "Just warning you."

But before he can get another word out, Ayame suddenly lunges at him, tackling him into the surf. The cold water slams over them, and for a second, the world is a blur of bubbles and the taste of salt on their lips. They both go under, disoriented but laughing like mad. When they surface, Ayame grabs his face and kisses him, the kiss wild and uncoordinated, but exactly what they both need. Wet, messy, and perfect.

They break apart, gasping for air, their laughter mingling with the sound of the waves.

"Why the fuck did I marry you?" Chan says, his voice mock-exasperated but his eyes full of warmth.

Ayame, still grinning, brushes wet strands of hair out of her face. "Because I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you," she teases, her eyes flashing with that familiar mischief. "You're welcome."

From the shore, a voice cuts through the moment, and it's Minho, standing there with his hands on his hips like some pissed-off parent. "What the fuck are you two doing out there?" he yells, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "Changbin's about to lose his shit because you haven't cut the damn cake yet! Hyunjin had to suck him off just to stop him from face-planting into it!"

Ayame bursts out laughing, nearly doubling over in the water. Chan groans, running a hand through his wet hair. "Jesus Christ," he mutters. "I'm gonna ban Minho from every future event."

"Good fucking luck with that," Ayame laughs, swimming toward the shore. Chan follows, his soaked trousers clinging to his legs, but he's smiling, the irritation gone from his face.

As they approach the shore, Minho's still standing there, arms crossed, glaring at them like a disappointed father. "Look at you two," he scoffs. "You're fucking dripping wet! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get saltwater out of clothes? It's a nightmare, you know that?"

Ayame leans against Chan, water dripping off her dress, and grins up at Minho. "Calm down, Minho. We're here now. Let's go cut the cake before Changbin kills someone."

"And before Hyunjin gets lockjaw," Chan adds, a wicked grin playing at the corner of his mouth.

---------------------

The reception is still in full swing by the time Chan, Ayame, and Minho return, the former two are completely drenched from their impromptu dip in the ocean. Chan's aunt, standing near the snack table with a glass of wine in hand, spots them approach. Her eyes immediately widen as she takes in the sight of Ayame's now-transparent white dress clinging to every curve, making it impossible to ignore the outline of her body. 

Chan grins wickedly. "Yeah, don't mind us, just living our best lives," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he lets a strand of wet hair fall into his eyes.

Minho, already several steps ahead, shakes his head, muttering under his breath. "For the love of fuck, you two. You're lucky I didn't have to beat Changbin's ass for nearly eating the cake without you two here to cut the fucker. Jesus Christ."

But just as Ayame takes another step toward the reception, the unthinkable happens. Chan's aunt, staring directly at her drenched form, faints. It's as if the mere sight of Ayame in a clingy, wet dress has short-circuited her brain. She crumples to the ground, her arms flailing helplessly. The wine glass in her hand drops, spilling red wine across the sand, but no one even notices.

Ayame stares down at her, wide-eyed, her jaw practically on the floor. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Seriously?"

Chan snorts, clearly fighting back laughter. "You've got to be kidding me. Really?"

The guests, still holding their breath, stare in stunned silence. Jess immediately rushes over, looking at Felix with wide, urgent eyes. "Felix, take her somewhere else. Get her the hell out of here. Fan her, or something. We can't deal with this shit right now and no one wants to"

Felix, who's been standing off to the side with a drink in hand, sighs dramatically. "God, this family is cursed with bad timing." He walks over, kneeling next to Auntie Bang and checking her pulse with exaggerated care. "She's fine. Just fainted. You know, just the usual, she'll be up in a second, and she'll probably have a fucking heart attack from the shock." He glances at Soojin, who's already approaching with a fan. "We need a stress test for my fucking heart after this family reunion."

Soojin, rolling her eyes, follows Felix over to where Auntie Bang is now sitting, looking as though she's just witnessed a fucking exorcism. "Jesus, this woman is dramatic," she mutters, fanning the woman's face with a bored expression.

Ayame, now standing next to Chan, feels awkward. She can't help but chuckle nervously. "I've literally never caused anyone to faint before. This is a new one for me."

"Well, you have now," Chan grins, wrapping an arm around her waist, dripping wet and unbothered. "Guess you'll have to apologize when she wakes up or, you know, when she dies of shock seeing you in that dress. Sorry, it's a sacrifice we all have to make."

Ayame snorts, and before she can respond, Changbin, ever the opportunist, suddenly shouts from across the beach. His voice rings out like a sugar-high toddler at the most inappropriate moment. "Cake! The two of you doing the fucking cake! GET OVER HERE!"

Ayame's face lights up, and she bolts toward the cake table. "Thank god," she mutters, already heading toward the centrepiece of the evening. She's had enough of fainting relatives and unnecessary drama.

As she and Chan make their way over, Hyunjin, who's standing nearby with a drink in hand, calls out with a dramatic sigh. "Thank fuck you two are back. My jaw is killing me from all the fucking blowjobs. Changbin made me give him three while you two were off frolicking in the fucking ocean. That man is a fucking monster, Ayame."

Ayame blinks, trying not to choke on her own laughter. "Jesus, Hyunjin," she says, her eyes wide. "You brave soldier. A fucking champ. You deserve a goddamn medal for surviving that."

Hyunjin grins like he's been through a war. "Yeah, medal for 'Best Boyfriend Ever.' I'm a fucking saint."

Jisung, who's been snickering quietly off to the side, chimes in with a wink. "Oh, Ayame, nice thong. Can totally see it through your dress. Looks cute."

Ayame flips him off without hesitation, not even breaking stride. "Fuck off, Jisung. You're lucky I'm in a good mood."

But before anyone else can speak, Chan's aunt, who's just now regaining consciousness, lets out a high-pitched gasp that rings through the air. Without warning, she faints again, dramatically collapsing back into her chair like a ragdoll.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Chan exclaims, throwing his hands up in frustration. "She's like a fucking fainting goat. One sight of my wife, and bam! Out like a light."

Felix sighs deeply, rubbing a hand over his face. "How the hell did I end up with all this responsibility? You two are pure chaos."

Everyone cracks up at the sight of Felix, his face a picture of resignation, as he starts fanning Auntie Bang's face again. He's muttering under his breath, probably cursing every relative he's ever had. "I need a vacation from this fucking circus," he grumbles.

Ayame shakes her head, feeling equal parts exasperated and entertained. "Alright, alright," she says, finally moving toward the cake table, eager to shift focus away from the ongoing family drama. "Let's do this."

She hands Changbin a piece of cake, grinning like a devil. But then, in a moment of pure spite and love, she turns to Chan and, without warning, slathers a huge glob of frosting across his face.

Chan freezes, blinking as frosting slides down his nose, his eyes going wide for just a second. Then, he lets out a low chuckle, and his mouth curls into a grin. "That's it. You're going to fucking regret that, sweetheart."

Ayame tilts her head, her voice laced with playful confidence. "Not worried. You love me anyway."

"True," he murmurs, pulling her close, frosting-covered face and all. "But just you wait. I'm getting you back for that shit, and it's going to be fucking glorious."

The cake-cutting ceremony is officially chaos. Frosting flies in every direction, laughter rings out, and guests cheer, some still trying to revive Auntie Bang while others cheer the newlyweds on. Jisung is taking pictures, Minho is shaking his head in disbelief, and Felix looks like he's considering running for the hills.

This is it. Married life. Beautiful. Insane. Perfectly fucking imperfect.

Taglist: @fackeraccount @ot8girlfie @nightmarenyxx @reimaybeidk

@ismelllikechlorine247 @drewsandsebastianswife @my-neurodivergent-world @rhonnie23 @hanji-coffee

@skzleeknowcore

@idiotmaterial @yoongiismylove2018

The taglist for my next story is open!

[flyingwargle]

bokuaka fanfic recommendations!

i am uncharacteristically nervous about posting this haha i read a lot of fanfic and always enjoy looking at other people's recommendations, so i thought, why not share some of my favorites?

all these recs are sfw!

oneshots!

banana bread by leuralo_1 gen. 2.1k words. bokuto pov. bokuto and his roommates have too many bananas and akaashi takes the train overnight to make banana bread with it. that's it, that's the fic. it's so cute, i'm begging you to read it.

spending all, spending all my time (loving you) by hyeyu gen. 3.4k words. bokuto pov. akaashi is a dimension traveler and gets nailed in the head by bokuto's serve, so he stays until he fixes his dimension travel device. one of my first bokuaka fics that i read, very cute and the pining is palpable.

in the same room, at the same time by quel_nightmare teen. 21.5k. alternating pov. marriage proposal fic! i read this all in one sitting and my heart was ready to burst by the end. very cute, i won't spoil anything other than that <3

astronomy in reverse (it was me who was discovered) by flumes teen. 22.1k. akaashi pov. a non-linear narrative about akaashi pining over bokuto from high school to the future. very poetic and lyrical, with the boys discovering their feelings for each other in the end. i also read this all in one sitting.

longfics!

background check by ghostystarr gen. 2 chapters, 8k words. msby4 changes bokuto's lockscreen picture for fun since he doesn't lock his phone, but the game changes when he changes it to a picture of akaashi. a very fun and cute fic with the msby4 gang helping their bro out.

truth is such a violent force by inaminute teen. 8 chapters, 41k. it starts with akaashi's 1st year at fukurodani and explores his dysfunctional family, growing relationship with bokuto, and deals with homophobia. i love the fukurodani boys in this, and how supportive they are of one another. there's also a sequel that is just as heart-wrenching as this one! (both have happy endings, don't worry)

flightless owl by volleydorkscentral teen. 31 chapters, 57.6k words. bokuto gravely injures his leg and has to sit the rest of his third year out. this fic focuses on his recovery, his relationship with akaashi developing, and overcoming the pain of his injury. has a happy ending, as well!

the way you look at me by mocaw teen. 36 chapters, 79.2k words. bokuto sees train guy every night on his commute after practice until he decides to take the first step and introduce himself. this fic is the reason why i ship bokuaka. it's slowburn, deals with anxiety and ptsd, developing relationships, and is just beautifully written (i am also extremely biased because this shaped my undergrad years). please read it, i'm begging you.

the death of our hands by bershlate teen. 25 chapters, 109k words. this longfic explores akaashi's ocd, his dysfunctional family, and an amazing oc older brother, along with his relationship with bokuto. i read this recently and finished it in a few days because of how gripping the story is <3

i'll let you shatter me with your pain by kuromantic teen. 23 chapters, 160.4k words. akaashi is an empath and when he brushes against bokuto, he gets the biggest shock of emotions of his life. this fic is very heavy, dealing with abuse, malnutrition, trauma, and homophobia. it has a happy ending, and our boys do get together <3

i'll reblog this from time to time to add more recs as i keep reading! of course, feel free to check out my own bokuaka fics >:3 i might post more?? for other pairings and general recs?? and for genshin too since i have a lot there haha okay enjoy bye!

[that-left-turn]

I'm worried that Melissa could be getting the butt of the blame for the audience being able to detect issues and tension behind the scenes. After tboc aired, at every single opportunity, she would say that she loves working with norman and she really wants to work with norman. At the same time - and I could be misinterpreting - she seemed nervous to say anything out of turn, and when she did express herself, the tension in the room was palpable. She didn't seem relaxed. She seemed extremely happy a year ago, but at NYCC and Paley, she seemed more guarded than I've maybe ever seen her. It makes me suspect that she could feel her job is on the line. And now there is a power dichotomy with norman that she didn't have when working on the flagship.

So, while I want to speak up about the male EPs disrespecting her, speaking over her, speaking for her, etc., I'm worried that amc or whoever's in charge could see that and just decide that the solution is to remove her from promo or from the show entirely. They already started seeming to try to push s3 being 'daryl dixon', as if she'll be less important than in tboc.

Could that be the 'solution' they've come up with to stop us talking about the issues with how they treat her? They probably think it would be cheaper and easier than trying to find a new showrunner and EPs who will manage norman.

I understand why your thoughts would go there because it's not unheard of a woman taking the fall for a problem someone else created. (Anyone remember how Ashley Judd got dragged through the mud for years as "mentally ill," "clearly on drugs" and "difficult to work with," until the Weinstein scandal broke?) It sure sounded like Zabel tried to set up a scapegoat for himself with his little 'joke,' but the situation here is not so easily obfuscated because the main problem is that the show has bad ROI. The BTS tension is just a byproduct of that dysfunction and ousting Melissa won't result in more profits. They tried that with S1 already. It wasn't a hit.

AMC knows the writing is bad. They know the show doesn't resonate and they also know that the positive engagement comes from Melissa/Carol. She's not the obstacle to making money. They know S2 leaked, which made the ratings unreliable and they're also aware why Carol/Caryl fans didn't like the season.

The subtitle was never going to stay for S3 because the story of how Carol found Daryl is over. That's not new. The show is branded as DarDix because it's about Daryl (supposedly... the French arc was actually about Laurent and I guess S3 regurgitates that with the missing girl). Carol is the sidekick with less screentime and importance. That's also nothing new.

If no one voices support for Melissa, or says anything about the power imbalance, the disrespect towards all women, the poor storylines, etc., guess what will happen to Melissa's job? It will be on the line, because if no one is heard caring about her presence or Carol's story, the studio will just assume they can do without the expense of paying Melissa. (She doesn't exactly come cheap and they're overpaying Norman a small fortune, along with the production cost in an expensive location. All for a failing show.)

In other words, Melissa needs the audience to speak up about what you like and what you don't. She can't criticize the other EPs, in public or behind closed doors, for fear of her job and her professional reputation. That's how misogyny works. Melissa is an intelligent woman, but she has very limited agency in this situation. She's told you as much herself in saying that she's light on her notes and that she's the new kid who observes the others, etc. That's her letting you guys know what's what.

[justkidneying]

Hypothermia and Other Cold-Related Injuries

I made a post about heat injuries and heatstroke here, so I thought it fitting to make a cold injury post. We're gonna talk about trench foot, frostbite, panniculitis, and everyone's favorite: hypothermia.

Trench Foot

This results from prolonged cooling (not freezing) of a wet foot. It can be seen with people who decided to hike in the snow with wet socks on (always bring an extra pair!!). The skin will appear white, mottled, and have diminished feeling. The foot may be pulseless. After rewarming, the patient will experience extreme pain and edema (swelling) of the foot.

Trench foot can lead to permanent lack of sensation, sweating, cold sensitivity, or gangrene (the tissue starts rotting off cause it's dead). Treatment includes elevating the feet, loosely dressing it, and debridement if necessary (cutting the dead shit off).

Frostbite

This happens when skin temperature goes below freezing. Fingers are most commonly affected, and they'll be numb (i assume we've all had cold hands before??). The problem is after we thaw them. So there's this big cascade of bullshit that leads to vasoconstriction, platelet aggregation (they start sticking together), and leukocyte sludging (deadass what it's called, sounds nasty right lol). This leads to thrombosis, which leads to ischemia (no blood to tissues), which leads to necrosis and dry gangrene.

Treatment should be initiated rapidly. Rapid rewarming should be started once there is no risk of re-freezing (so don't pour hot water on your hands if you're still outside - literally seen this happen - fucking idiots). The frozen part should be immersed in water that's about 37-39­°C until it is pliable and red. Give the patient opioids, as this hurts like a motherfucker. Treatment has more steps depending on how much of their hand starts rotting, but it's actually kinda controversial what to do, so I won't go into it here.

Panniculitis

This is kinda an odd one, but I think it's interesting. It's due to long-term exposure to above-freezing temperatures that results in necrosis (dying) of subcutaneous fat. It's more common on thighs, and commonly affects horse riders (yk when its like cold as fuck in the barn and your jeans aren't doing shit for your legs). The main complication is cosmetic, as it causes dimples where the fat is missing. Kinda looks like cellulite.

Hypothermia

Our favorite cold injury! You have primary (caused by cold environment) and secondary (caused by illness, burns, or other condition that changes the set temperature point/impairs thermogenesis).

When we get cold, our muscle tone increases, we shiver, we piss, and our vessels constrict. When we get REALLY cold, our nervous system is affected. This leads to impaired judgement, amnesia, ataxia (trouble walking), diminished consciousness, poor reflexes, fixed/dilated pupils, etc. This is why people who die of hypothermia take their clothes off: they aren't thinking straight (among other reasons - look it up). This is also why someone isn't dead until they are WARM AND DEAD. People can appear dead, they can have no palpable pulse, and still be alive.

When you're hypothermic, your heart is fragile. You can send someone into arrythmia if you jostle them too much. That's also why you should only do CPR if the person is actually in cardiac arrest. They may also have pseudo rigor mortis, coagulopathy, platelet dysfunction, etc.

Stage 1: 35-32°C. They should be moved to a warm place and given dry clothing. Don't let them get in a hot bath -> causes vasodilation or convective cooling. Give them warm, sweet drinks (they need sugar), and make them move around if it's possible.

Stage 2: 32-28°C. They will be consciously impaired, so no drinking -> give warm IV fluids instead. Make sure they're in a warm place, and use heaters, warm packs, warm blankets, etc. Move them minimally to avoid arrhythmias. It's best to have full-body insulation, have them lie down, and immoblization.

Stage 3: <28°C. They will be unconscious, but have a pulse (NO CPR). You may need to manage the airway. This person needs serious help, and it's best for them to be transferred to a ECMO or CPB center due to the high risk of cardiac arrest.

Stage 4: <28°C. Unconscious with no pulse, and no forward blood flow (blood is not moving in the direction it should be thru the circulation). They need CPR (finally). You can give them up to 3 doses of epi, and defibrillate if needed. The airway needs to be managed, and they need transport to an ECMO/CPB center. External and minimally invasive rewarming is recommended during transport -> external rewarming alone or limb rewarming alone may cause afterdrop -> make sure trunk is rewarmed. Do not apply heat to the head.

For medications, it's controversial. Sedative and pain meds can stop shivering and pain, BUT they also may cause vasodilation (this is bad). So, in this case, the risk of benefit may outweigh the risk of harm (yes you read that right, think about it!). The use of vasopressors is also contested to raise BP.

When should we stop? When the serum potassium is greater than 12 mmol/L. This is actually an important biomarker in cold related cardiac arrest. Extreme hyperkalemia (normal is 3.6-5.2) is a pretty reliable marker of death in hypothermia patients. More indications of death: if someone is rewarmed to more than 32°C, and there is still no forward blood flow, obvious mortal injury (decomposing, decapitated, dependent lividity, etc.), or frozen solid.

Conclusion

Don't be a fucking idiot. Wear proper clothes, check the temperature clock, and don't stay outside too long. Don't sleep in a car in the middle of winter (please god find somewhere to go - a lot of towns open community centers as shelters when sub-zero temperatures happen). If you have tingling or numbness, go to the doctor or find help. Be smart and safe -> don't lose your fingers, your toes, or your life.

[clonerightsenthusiast]

putting aside their disastrous history on Team B.E.S.T. putting aside how palpable tango's third-wheeling already is. the bdubs/etho/tango trio has the potential to be the most dysfunctional alliance the life series has ever seen.

tango and etho are both the type (in the life series) to attach themselves to a strong personality and follow their lead. usually skizz, although let's also not forget etho was a red banner. and with this trio, that role almost by default goes to bdubs.

except a) for all his bluster, bdubs is not an effective leader. he does not factor others into his plans. and we love him for it. and b) tango and etho, as much as they love him, have absolutely no respect for his leadership.

to put it this way: as much as they loved making fun of him, if skizz said "jump", they would make an effort. if bdubs says "jump", they'll spend so much time squabbling over how high would be best just to troll him they'll all forget what they were doing in the first place.

which leaves three options: decisions in this group are either gonna be made a) by committee (most likely meaning etho and bdubs come to an agreement and tango goes along for lack of other options), b) individually, or c) by whoever yells the loudest and/or is most stubborn about doing the thing they want to do.

it's going to be a trainwreck. and I for one cannot wait to watch the three stooges drive this train off a cliff.