#beth steel

[patgavin]

Former Bethlehem Steel site

Steelstacks, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania

[dailydccomics]

Black History Month variant covers by Ryan Benjamin

[hippydippydruid]

Hey yeah this is my silly little dnd podcast we’ve got some goofy little characters you know mostly just jokes in a nice story told throughout the season. Oh what that’s? Yeah that’s Beth May. Yeah no you’re about to have your heart ripped out of your chest and violently stomped on as she delivers the most heartbreaking character background and performance you have ever heard. Yeah no and you’re gonna enjoy it.

[secondstar-acorn]

you’re telling me tucker gets upset when trudy drinks coffee late in the day because it’ll keep her up and she needs to “recharge”?????? SHE’S A FUCKING ROBOT

[crossbackpoke-check]

tagged by ko @tofumilanesa for wip wednesday! big shout out to writevember for making me feel like i can actually call any of these works in progress… your guide to my emoji code under the cut

wip!

🪻🐈‍⬛ - the doc title is still just. YOWLING but i am like 7/8 of the way done with omega yamo fic and hopefully salem isn’t reading this so i can just drop it over a year later with no warning <3

🫃2️⃣ - DEWEY^2 P2!!!! she is almost done (i am lying) but she is so close i can almost taste it. sorry to my pwp that grew its own feelings baby

😇🤭 (🕒 -> 🕜) - rip i’m not telling you about this one until it’s posted but it IS complete aside from being ao3 formatted and the eight billion edits i inevitably do right before full-sending it

☁️💧 - cloud petey fic, which exists mostly as an embarrassingly large tag on a different blog and is condensing into a narrative about as well as water at 30° N/S. the time loop fic also falls under this description

eternally in progress (short list)

🌑🐕 - tyler borzoituzzi exists… there is an index of scenes/plot points… it plays like a movie in my head…

💯❕- fantastic! ‘verse

👁️👻 - stevie brandon seeing ghosts au, which has eight different (now nine i guess but you haven't seen the mustache adam post yet) plots. sorry

just. rotating like a microwave

🍎 - because they didn’t have a pomegranate emoji, this is what i used for the fic that feels like it should be a 50k connor bedard character study hanif abdurraqib/cathal kelly thesis about legends and mythmaking in sports and eating your young. yes i know pomegranates aren’t actually pomes and apples are but it’s fine

🦈 - the one cat da fuck they doing over there meme but about the sharks just like. in general. more on this at five

tagging @colap1nto, @songsandswords, @whitenikes, @gordiemeow, @acheronist, and anybody else who wants to share!!

[michelleelizabethtanner]

Martha and Snoop and IRL Beth and Rio

[pinkithai]

beth’s episode 3 radfact being that trudy was charged with battery is so good cause like yeah! she sure is! every night!

[forensicated]

Information about The Bill for use in fan fictions or anything similar. (aka: how I found out there's a character limit on Tumblr) This will be edited, please feel free to comment anything you want adding or editing.

Part 2

Nicknames for the police/officers:

The Old Bill, Bizzies (busybodies or 'too busy to help'), Feds, Bluebottles, Coppers, Bobbies, Rozzers, Peelers, The Filth, The Fuzz, Dibble (Officer Dibble from Top Cat), Pigs, Plod, Plonk (Person Of Limited Or No Knowledge), The Thin Blue Line, Bacon ("Can you smell bacon?") "The Babylon" (Jamican slang), Boys In Blue, Hawaii 5-O, Woody/Woodentops, The Scum, PoPo, The Law, Gammon.

In the earlier series, CID would refer to Uniform as Woodentops and Woodentops would refer to CID as Superstars.

Community Support Officers: CHIMPS (Completely Hopeless In Most Policing Situations), Hobby Bobby, Plastic Policeman,

Police Lingo, acronyms and abbreviations

ABE: Achieving Best Evidence - recording a victim of serious sexual assault on video for their first statement so it can be played in court to show how they were/the state they were in and try and limit the victim having to be there in person/cross examined etc.

ABH: Actual Bodily Harm

AMIP: Area Major Incident Pool (now Specialist Crime And Operations)

ANPR: Automatic Numberplate Recognition

AP: Agrieved Person - Victim

ARV: Armed Response Vehicle

ASBO: Antisocial Behaviour Order.

ASNT: Area Searched No Trace.

ASP: Baton

Big Red Key: The enforcer

BIU: Borough Intelligence Unit - this is where they could check facial recognition, check through CCTV and use the computers to check for suspects and find out peoples backgrounds.

BLO: Borough Liaison Officer

Blues and twos: Lights/Sirens on police cars

CAD: Computer Aided Dispatch

CIB: Complaints Investigation Bureau, later DPS (Directorate Of Professional Standards)

CID: Criminal Investigation Department

CIM: Critical Incident Manager - Inspector usually who oversees all the big jobs and makes decisions to keep things rolling smoothly rather than lots of chiefs making conflicting decisions.

Civvies (normal civilian clothes - ie a PC changing for an obbo)

CO19 (Used to be SO19 - armed officers. Smithy and Max used to be CO19 officers.) Apparently now MO19!

Code 11: Off Duty

CPS: Crown Prosecution Service

CPT: Child Protection Team

Crimint: Criminal Intelligence

CRIS: Crime Report Information System

CS Spray: Sprayed at criminal resisting arrest. Temporarily makes them unable to see properly and irritates their respiratory system. to enable them to be arrested. Sometimes now called PAVA spray.

CSE: Crime Scene Examiner (was SOCO- Scenes Of Crime Officer)

CSU: Community Support/Safety Unit Now joined with DVU and called SODAIT - Sexual Offences And Domestic Abuse Investigation Team

CLO: Community Liaison Officer

D&D: Drunk And Disorderly.

DVU: Domestic Violence unit. See CSU.

ETA: Expected Time Of Arrival "ETA, 5 minutes."

FATAC: Fatal Accident

Fence: Someone who buys and sells stolen goods

FED REP: Federation Representatives. Officers trained to support officers who are accused of crimes or otherwise want to take the service/bosses on.

FIU: Financial Investigation Unit

FLO: Family Liaison Officer (supports the family members/person who is going through a horrendous time. IE: Jim when Eva's daughter when missing and Smithy to Leanne Samuels when her daughter Carly was murdered)

FME: Force/Forensic Medical Examiner (Police doctor who reviews and treats criminals (and occasionally injured staff) who have gotten hurt, have complex medical issues or who need medication)

FPN: Fixed Penalty Notice - an on the spot fine.

GBH: Grievous Bodily Harm

Grass: informing on someone who has done a crime. Handling: someone who has accepted/bought stolen items either knowingly or unknowingly dependant on circumstances.

IBO: Used in later years instead of the CAD room, the Integrated Borough Operations handled non emergency telephone calls, CCTV viewing, contacting officers and similar. The CAD room was not needed as emergency calls were answered at Scotland Yard or Hendon and then sent to the relevant IBO Operator for the borough (which would be at Bow Central Communications Command) who would then send it to Sun Hill's IBO so all information can be relayed to the officers attending. Much like CAD, the IBO has a Sgt and PC's who would monitor the CCTV and IBO computers and assign officers to calls.

IC1-6 This is how the officers described skintones when searching for suspects/victims/witnesses.IC1 is White skinned european. IC2 is Dark Skinned European. IC3 is Afro Caribbean appearance, IC4 is Asian appearance (Indian Pakistani or Bangladeshi), IC5 is Chinese or Japanese appearance and IC6 is Arabian/Egyptian appearance.

Index: Vehicle registration - spelt out phonetically

India 99: Police helicopter.

IRB: Incident Report Book (Notebook) apparently now it's a force/work phone!

IRV: Incident Response Vehicle

LIO: Local Intelligence Officer

LEO: Local Enforcement Officer

LOS: Lost or Stolen

Misper: Missing Person

MIT: Major Incident Team (Used to be Murder Investigation Team)

MP: Met Police Information Room (Scotland Yard)

NCPA: No Cause For Police Action

NCS: National Crime Squad

NFA: No Further Action

NOIP: Notice Of Intended Prosecution. You're not arrested but the police are coming to take you to court soon.

Nonce: Sexual Offender - most used for Paedophiles.

OBBO: Observation - Keeping watch on suspects

OP: Observation Point

PACE: Police And Criminal Evidence Act - The police are bound to act by all rules, objectives and codes of conduct of this act of parliament in every part of their work.

PANDA: Normal police car that's not used for pursuing other cars. That's generally left to the Area Car or an IRV.

Pimp - someone who takes money from a woman on the sex trade. Also known as living off immoral earnings.

PIT: Precision Immobilisation Technique Manoeuvre (usually they try using a stinger to burst the tiers of a car thats speeding away from the police but it's not always possible. Where the road is wide enough and no one will become endangered by it,advanced drivers who are TPAC trained can do a manoeuvre to the car they're chasing and put it into spin to stop it. It CANNOT be done to busses/trucks/motorcycles etc and it's advised to not do it to a car you fear may be carrying armed occupants but to be honest it's not a massively used thing in the UK.)

PNC: Police National Computer = Real time checks on criminal records, outstanding warrants, missing and wanted people, registration checks etc.

PolAc: Police Accident (Ie car crash or hitting a pedestrian etc when it's a police officer involved)

PR: Officers police radio.

Refs: Refreshments/break time

Ringer - A vehicle that has been made up of parts of other cars or identity changed. Sometimes called a Cut n Shut.

RJ: Restorative Justice - a criminal doing something instead of being cautioned/imprisoned - like painting over their graffiti with a new coat of paint.

RTA/C: Road Traffic Accident/Collision

Rule 43 (Now 45): Vulnerable Prisoners in a prison. Smithy endured bullying to avoid being put in this as it means segregation and would bring him more attention and also a lot of isolation. This is for prisoners who are sex offenders, mentally ill, have a target on their back for grassing or being a convicted police/prison officer etc.

RUI: Released Under Investigation - bailed but the case is still being investigated and can be rearrested at any moment. The police hate this but the government have got touchy over bailing people.

Section 59 - Anti Social Behaviour Vehicle Seizure - you've kept driving like a prat so they're taking your car.

Section 165 - Seizing a car for no insurance. Most likely to be crushed.

Shout: A call out/incident communicated over the radio.

Sierra Oscar: Sun Hill Station Call Sign

Snout: Registered informant who gets paid for giving info. NNo sometimes CHIS - Covert Human Intelligence Source or Informant.

SO10: Now Covert Operations - Undercover Policing - can be long term and go really deep undercover. Stevie used to be in this dept. Now includes Counter Terrorism.

SOCA: Serious And Organised Crime Agency

SOPO: Sex Offenders Prevention Order (useless essentially!)

SOR - Sex Offenders Register

Stretch: Prison sentence.

TIU: Telecoms Investigation/Intelligence Unit

TOA: Time Of Arrival "Show me TOA 13.23"

Tom: Prostitute

TPAC Tactical Pursuit And Containment - trained officers who bring vehicles to a stop - like boxing cars in etc.

Trojan Unit: Armed Police

TSG: Territorial Support Group

TWOC: Taking a car without owners consent

VIN: Vehicle Identification Number

VRN: Vehicle Registration Number

Phonetic Alphabet Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, India, Juliet, Kilo, Lima, Mike, November, Oscar, Papa, Quebeck, Romeo, Sierra, Tango, Uniform, Victor, Whiskey, Xray, Yankee, Zulu.

Areas Of Sun Hill/Canley Wharfs/Docks Jubilee Wharf, India Wharf, Limeharbour Dock, Sussex Wharf, Limeharbour Dock, Sussex Wharf, Old Jubilee Dock & Boatyard, Masters Wharf, Dockland Pier, Skippers Wharf

Council Estates Aldbourne, Bronte, Abelarde, Antrim Green, Canley, Farley, Parkmead, Jasmine Allen, Coal Lane, Cockcroft, Whitegate, Hardie, Larkmead, Tankeray, Copthorne, Netherlake,

[The earlier series had Riverdale Estate and one of the blocks was called Elizabeth Garret Anderson]

Other Stations Barton Street (Sierra Bravo) , Spicer Street, Putney Green, Stafford Row (Sierra Charlie), Tottenham (Echo Oscar) Diplomatic Protection (Delta Papa)

[Tower Wharf mentioned in series 2]

Industrial Estates

Cheetham Road Industrial Estate

Streets Trafford Way, Loftus Road, Leermont Road, Gatley Street, Purchase Road (Red light district), Brands Square, Jamaica Lane, Larkway Street, Godwick Street, Sun Hill Road, Shadwell Street, Harlow Street, Dunsford Street, Brown Square, Victoria Road, Dorral Road, Alforn Street, Mallan Street, Ashon Street, Brim Road, Rudcus Street, Cheetam Road, Cheetham Side, Jessop Street, Halpern Street, Tallow Street, Hoxton Road, Backhouse Street/Lane, Mournemouth Street/Avenue, Rudkin Road, Bagford Street, Brunell Avenue, Askill Road, Limefield Walk, Railton Street, Canley High Street, Ida Lane, Tubbs Lane, Claydon Street, Woodley Heath Road, Ballina Road, Starkwater Road, Calico Street, Tedder Street, Greenroad Way, Greaton Road, Mooreland Road, Ibbot Street, Rudleigh Road, Westway, Abbey Road, Broom Lane, Foundry Way, Humber Street, Muston Street, Valance Street

Prisons Longmarsh

Hospitals St Hughs

Schools

Cheetam Primary/Junior School, Shad Thames Infants School, Elcott Primary,

Canley Comprehensive, Harvey Wallace Comp, Deansgate Comprehensive, Cheetam Bank,

Pubs

Canley Arms, Askill Arms, Rose And Crown, The Green Archer, The Bears Head, The Elcott Arms, The Seven Bells, The White Swan, The Scales, The Grape And Bottle, The Dog And Gun, The Pikes Head, The Thames Tavern, The Pikes Head, The Tully Arms, The Boat Inn, The Tug, The Emma Hamilton, The Cock And Crown, The Sultan. Lord Banbury

Misc

North Canley Sports Center, Canley Fields, City Farm, St Ann's Church, Cheetham Community Support Center,

Earlier series

Miskin Manor High School (mentioned series 5)

Bob Cryer's youngest son attends Medway Comprehensive.

[murdersexgrl]

The type o Facebook groups are a gold mine for content

[succulent-pott]

I don't think you should be defending fictional abusers even if you do find them funny or pretty! Pretty people can be evil and horrible too! Also, just cause someone's 'ugly' doesn't mean they're evil????

[jolieeason]

October 2024 Wrap-Up

Here is what I read, posted, won, received, and bought in October. Let me know if you have read any of these books and what you thought of them. Books I Read: Books from indie authors/publishers: Books I bought: If the Duke Dares by Darcy Burke Vacancy by Linda Kage Playing High by Beth Pellino-Dudzic Tentacles and Teeth by Ariele Sieling The Moving House by Duncan Ralston The Magpie…

[spilladabalia]

A Certain Ratio - All Comes Down to This

[kiwriteswords]

I really loved your affectionate reader story. I love the idea of Aaron asking reader for affection. Could you write a story of him asking her for comfort?

Let me hand you my love [Aaron Hotchner x Affectionate!Fem!Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN: Loved writing this one! I did not continue the other story, so this could be read as a stand alone!

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, canon-typical themes, touch-starved Aaron Hotchner, non-bau!reader, affectionate reader, mentions of Hotch's abusive father, Jack is mentioned, Haley is mentioned, Beth is mentioned, 5+1 trope, physical touch love language

Summary:  Aaron Hotchner is beginning to see why your love language is physical touch. 5 times Aaron Hotchner asks you for affection, and the one time you ask him.

I.

Aaron Hotchner had always prided himself on his composure. He was a man of steel—unyielding in the face of danger, stoic even when chaos reigned around him. But lately, he’d begun to realize there was something soothing about letting his guard down, something he'd been missing out on for far too long. Physical touch, a simple concept yet so integral, had slowly woven its way into his life, thanks to you.

You, a journalist with a keen sense of the world and a heart full of warmth, had unknowingly begun to chip away at his fortress of solitude. Physical affection was your language, a means to express what words sometimes could not. Whether it was a gentle squeeze of his hand, a soft kiss goodbye in the morning, or the way your fingers would brush his when you passed him a cup of coffee, each touch reverberated through him like the soft hum of a melody long forgotten.

This evening was different; Hotch felt an unfamiliar, gnawing ache as he drove home after a particularly grueling case. The images from the day were harsher than usual, the weight of each decision heavier. As he turned the key in his apartment door, the silence of the room felt suffocating rather than peaceful. He needed something he’d never consciously admitted he needed before—comfort.

You were there, sitting on the sofa, papers sprawled around you as you scribbled notes for your latest article. The lamp cast a soft glow around you, creating an aura that seemed both inviting and serene. Hearing the door, you looked up, your expression shifting from concentration to concern in a heartbeat.

“Hey,” you greeted, your voice a soothing balm. “Rough day?”

Hotch only nodded, locking the door behind him before joining you on the sofa. The space between you was minimal, but to him, it felt like miles. He watched as you set your pen down, turning your full attention to him, your eyes filled with unspoken questions.

There was a palpable hesitation in the air. Hotch had never been one to reach out first, to seek solace or admit a need for anything beyond the basics. But as he sat there, the remnants of the day’s burdens clinging to him, he realized how much he yearned for that simple, healing connection. The warmth of your hand, the comfort of your presence—it was a silent call to which his heart responded before his mind could.

“You know,” Hotch began, his voice rough around the edges, “I think I’m starting to understand why you...” He paused, searching for the right words, “why you value touch so much.”

You shifted closer, reducing the cold space between you. “It’s healing,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand on his knee. “Sometimes, words aren’t enough.”

Hotch let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He looked down at your hand, a lifeline thrown in the still waters of his turmoil. “Could you—” His voice faltered, unaccustomed as he was to asking for more. “Would you just hold me for a bit?”

The corners of your lips turned up in a gentle smile, eyes sparkling with warmth and understanding. Without a word, you shifted, opening your arms to him. Hotch moved closer, allowing himself to be pulled into an embrace. He rested his head against your shoulder, feeling the tension begin to seep out of his muscles as your hands gently rubbed his back.

In the quiet of the room, with the hum of the city life buzzing faintly beyond the walls, Aaron Hotchner, the steadfast leader of the BAU, realized how profound the gesture was. Here in your arms, he wasn’t just the unit chief or a federal agent; he was just Aaron, a man learning the language of love through the touch of someone who spoke it fluently. And as he relaxed into the embrace, allowing the comfort to wash over him, he understood that it was okay to ask for this—to need this.

The simplicity of the moment, the profound impact of your touch, reshaped the contours of his world, teaching him that even the strongest of us need a haven, a safe place to rest. And perhaps, for Aaron Hotchner, that place had been here all along, in the arms of the person who had taught him the true strength found in vulnerability.

II.

It had been weeks since Aaron Hotchner first admitted the comfort he found in your touch. Each day, the memory of that evening lingered in his mind like a soft echo, a reminder of the unfamiliar territory he had begun to explore. He knew he needed to cross it again; the day’s events had been a brutal reminder of his job's relentless demands. Yet, as he stood outside the door to your apartment, his hand paused in mid-air, a familiar sense of reticence taking hold.

Hotch had never been one to rely on others for emotional support—not with Haley, and certainly not with Beth. With Haley, their closeness had been a given, an expectation filled more out of duty than desire. With Beth, it was casual, simple, lacking the deep intertwining of lives that true intimacy brought. But with you, it was different. Every moment shared, every touch, felt like a deliberate step into a world where vulnerability was not a weakness but a shared strength.

As he finally turned the key and stepped inside, the warm glow of the living room offered a stark contrast to the darkness of his thoughts. You were curled up on the couch, a book in hand, the very picture of relaxation. But your eyes lifted the moment you sensed his presence, shifting with an intuitive spark from contentment to concern.

“Hey,” you said, your voice pulling him further into the safety of the room. “Everything okay?”

Hotch hesitated, his feet rooted just beyond the threshold as he met your gaze. “Can we talk?”

The simplicity of the question masked the turmoil beneath. You set your book aside, patting the couch next to you. As he sat, the familiar, comfortable distance between you now felt like a chasm. He needed to bridge it, yet the words—and the admission they required—weighed heavily on him.

“I’m not very good at this,” Hotch started, his voice a mix of resolve and reluctance. He paused, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “Asking for... support. For something as simple as a hug. It’s not how I was... how I’ve been.”

You listened, your body turned towards him, your eyes soft and encouraging. The room was filled with the soft ticking of the clock, marking the seconds as he gathered his thoughts.

“I’ve always thought I needed to handle things on my own,” he continued, his gaze drifting to the window, to the world outside that demanded so much of him. “With Haley, with Beth... it was different. I never felt I could ask for that…I never felt like I needed that with them. It was always about fulfilling expectations, about maintaining a facade.”

Turning back to look at you, he saw the understanding in your eyes, and it gave him the courage to continue. “But with you, I feel...” Hotch struggled for the right words, “I feel that it’s okay to ask. To need.”

The admission hung in the air between you, a confession of his evolving heart.

“You can always ask me, Aaron,” you said gently, reaching out to take his hand. “I want to be here for you, in whatever way you need.”

Feeling the warmth of your hand in his, Hotch felt the last barriers within him begin to crumble. “Would you just...be here?” he asked, the words less difficult this time, more a relief than a burden.

Without a word, you opened your arms, and he moved closer, letting his head rest against your shoulder. As your arms wrapped around him, a sense of peace settled over him. Here, in the quiet of your embrace, the world's demands faded into the background. It was just him, just Aaron, learning to be human, learning to accept the touch, the love, that he had never known he needed so desperately.

As you both sat there, the struggles of the day slowly dissipating into the warmth between you, Hotch realized this was not just about seeking comfort. It was about building a new normal, one where he could be strong not just for others, but for himself, by acknowledging the simple human need to be held, to be loved.

III. 

The weight of his past was something Aaron Hotchner carried with him like a silent shadow, shaping the man he became—a man of law, of order, a protector. Growing up with a father whose temper was as swift as it was brutal had taught him early on that vulnerability was a liability, and that physical touch, rather than a comfort, could be a precursor to pain. It was a lesson ingrained so deeply that even now, as he walked alongside you after a long day, he found himself grappling with an old, familiar sense of shame.

He watched you laugh at something light and trivial, the sound as free and open as the park around you. Your hand brushed against his occasionally, a simple touch, yet each contact sparked a silent battle within him. He needed more than those fleeting connections; he needed the grounding, comforting weight of your touch to anchor him away from the tumultuous sea of his memories. But asking for it, needing it, felt like a betrayal of the stoic image he had cultivated for so long.

"You're quiet today," you observed, slowing your pace to match his troubled stride. "What's on your mind?"

Hotch hesitated, his instinct to retreat warring with the growing trust he placed in you. He took a deep breath, the cool air of the early evening filling his lungs, as he prepared to voice the thoughts that rarely saw the light of day.

"It's... difficult for me," he started, his voice rough with unspoken emotions. "Growing up, I never saw... My father, he wasn’t a man who showed affection. He believed men needed to be strong, unyielding. And I learned to see touch as something to be wary of, not something to seek comfort in."

You stopped walking, turning to face him fully. The empathy in your eyes was palpable, a silent encouragement for him to continue.

"And I find myself struggling with that legacy. Feeling as if needing touch, needing your comfort, is a form of weakness. Sometimes, it feels like... like I’m failing some archaic test of manhood just by admitting I need that connection," he admitted the words tasting foreign on his tongue. He thought briefly to Jack--would he ever want Jack to feel this shame for needing affection?

You reached out slowly, deliberately, taking his hand in yours, your grip firm and reassuring. "Aaron, it's okay to need touch, to seek out comfort. It doesn’t make you less of anything. It makes you human," you said gently. "I need it too. I need your touch just as much as you might need mine. It’s okay for us to find safety in each other."

Hotch looked down at your interlocked fingers, the simple act of holding hands suddenly imbued with deeper meaning. He felt the tension begin to ebb, the shame receding under the warmth of your acceptance.

"Could we... Could you just hold my hand? Like this, for a while?" he asked, his voice more steady than he felt. It was a small request, yet it felt monumental.

"Of course," you smiled, squeezing his hand lightly. And so you both resumed walking, hands clasped tightly, a silent pact between you. With each step, Hotch felt a little more of the barriers within him dissolve, his past receding into the background.

This touch, so different from the crushing grips of his father, was healing. It was a reminder that he had the power to redefine what strength meant to him. Strength wasn’t just enduring in solitude; it was also in reaching out, in admitting need, in allowing himself to trust in the safety you offered.

As the park's paths wound before them, lined with the soft glow of streetlamps, Aaron Hotchner walked with a lighter heart, knowing that with each step, he was moving not just away from his past, but towards a future where he could be whole, where he could embrace vulnerability as courageously as he faced down any other challenge. And all it took was the simple, healing touch of holding hands.

IV. 

The clock on the hotel room wall ticked past midnight, its sound unnervingly loud in the otherwise silent room. Aaron Hotchner sat on the edge of the bed, his phone in his hand, the weight of the unresolved case pressing down on him like a physical burden. The room felt cold, impersonal, a stark contrast to the warmth and comfort of home—of you. With each passing hour, the sense of losing control, of failing to bring the case to a close, gnawed at him, amplifying his isolation.

He stared at the phone, debating. Calling you felt like an admission of his own helplessness, a crack in his armor he was seldom comfortable revealing. But tonight, the distance felt more than geographical; it was an emotional chasm he was desperate to bridge.

Finally, with a resigned sigh, he dialed your number, listening to the ring that seemed to echo around the sparse room. When your voice finally came through, it was like a lifeline thrown across the miles.

"Hey, Aaron," you greeted, your voice sleepy yet filled with warmth. "Is everything alright?"

Hotch hesitated, the familiar reluctance to expose his vulnerabilities warring with his need to hear your reassuring words. "I’m not sure," he admitted, his voice low. "It’s been a tough day. We’re... we’re not making the progress I hoped for, and it feels like we’re running out of time."

He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, "I just... I wish you were here. I could really use the comfort of just lying beside you right now."

There was a soft sigh on the other end of the line, not of frustration, but of shared sorrow. "I wish I could be there too," you said softly. "To just lie there with you, to make it feel a little less heavy."

Hotch closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine that simple scene: the two of you together, the weight of the day's failures temporarily lifted. "It’s strange," he continued, his voice a mix of wonder and resignation. "I used to think I had to face everything alone. But now, it’s moments like this, just imagining being with you, that seem to help the most."

"And that’s okay, Aaron," you reassured him. "It’s okay to need someone, to miss this. I’m here, even if it’s just like this—over the phone. Tell me, what would we be doing if I were right here with you?"

Hotch let out a half-hearted chuckle, the scenario playing out vividly in his mind. "We’d be in bed; I’d be holding you close. Maybe we’d talk about anything but the case just to distract me. Or maybe we’d just lie in silence, just feeling you there would be enough."

"Then let's do that, just over the phone," you suggested gently. "Close your eyes, Aaron. I’m right there with you, okay? I’m holding your hand, lying right beside you. We don’t need to talk about anything else unless you want to."

Hotch did as you suggested, lying back against the pillows, phone pressed to his ear, eyes closed. He listened to your breathing, steady and calm, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions inside him. Gradually, his breathing slowed to match yours, the tension starting to ebb away.

"We’re going to figure this out," you whispered after a long silence, your voice firm yet tender. "You’re not alone in this, Aaron. Remember that."

"I know," Hotch replied, a sense of peace finally beginning to settle over him. "Thank you, for being here like this."

"Always, Aaron. Whenever you need me," you assured him, and though the miles remained between them, Aaron Hotchner felt a little less alone, bolstered by the simple, profound connection of your voice in the darkness, a reminder of the strength found not just in presence, but in the promise of unwavering support.

V.

The moment the breakthrough in the case was confirmed, a wave of relief washed over Aaron Hotchner. It wasn’t just any case; it was one that had stretched the resources and emotional resilience of his team to their limits. Now, standing in the quiet hum of the BAU offices, surrounded by the bustling energy of his colleagues celebrating their hard-won victory, only one thought dominated his mind: sharing this moment with you.

As he stepped away from the crowd, pulling out his phone, his heart raced with a blend of triumph and anticipation. He could already imagine how your face would light up, the way your eyes would sparkle with shared joy. Dialing your number, he found himself smiling, a rarity that felt both foreign and exhilarating.

The phone barely rang twice before you answered. "Hey, Aaron, what's up?" your voice came through, always a balm to his often stormy existence.

"We did it," Hotch burst out, unable to contain the enthusiasm in his voice. "We solved it, finally. And it’s... it’s a big relief."

"Really? That's amazing, Aaron!" you exclaimed, your excitement palpable even through the digital divide. "I wish I could see your smile right now."

Hotch laughed, a sound of pure joy. "I wish you could, too," he confessed. "And I... I really wish I could hug you right now. Celebrate this moment with you."

"Me too," you sighed. "I’d give anything to give you a big hug and a kiss. You deserve it after all the hard work and long hours."

The image of that—of returning home to you, of your arms open and welcoming—solidified his next decision. "Wait for me," Hotch said impulsively. "I’m coming home now. I can’t think of a better way to end this day than being with you."

"Really? You’re on your way?" your voice lifted in surprise and delight.

"Yes, I just... I need to be with you," Hotch admitted, feeling a warmth spread through him at the thought of seeing you soon.

"Drive safe, Aaron. I’ll be here, waiting," you promised, a smile in your voice.

The drive home felt different this time. Each mile closer to you, Hotch felt a growing sense of anticipation, a lightness he hadn’t experienced in years. When he finally pulled into the driveway, his pulse quickened. He barely took the time to lock the car before heading to your door.

The moment you opened it, the look on your face was everything he had imagined. Joy, love, pride—all reflected in your eyes. You didn’t speak; you simply stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace that spoke volumes. Hotch returned the hug with equal fervor, burying his face in your hair, inhaling the comforting scent that was uniquely you.

After a long moment, you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands framing his face. "Congratulations, Aaron," you whispered before pressing a soft, celebratory kiss to his lips.

The kiss, sweet and affirming, was a perfect punctuation to the day’s victory. "Thank you," Hotch murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "For everything."

As you both stepped back inside, hand in hand, Aaron Hotchner felt a profound gratitude not just for the case solved, but for the personal victories he was beginning to achieve. Tonight was not just a celebration of a job well done, but of new beginnings, of barriers broken, and of the indescribable comfort found in the arms of the one he loved.

+I

The room was cloaked in darkness, only the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains provided any illumination. It was deep into the night when Aaron Hotchner was jolted awake, not by a sound but by a palpable shift in the atmosphere. Beside him, he could feel you stirring restlessly, your breaths quick and uneven.

Turning towards you, Hotch could just make out your silhouette in the dim light. Your movements were tense, a stark contrast to the usual peacefulness of your sleep. "Hey," he whispered softly, reaching out to gently touch your arm. "Are you okay?"

You turned to face him, and even in the weak light, Hotch could see the distress etched across your features. "I... I had a nightmare," you admitted, your voice shaky. "It was nothing, really, but it felt so real."

Hotch’s instincts as both a partner and a profiler kicked in. He knew the power nightmares held, the way they could claw their way into one's peace of mind. "You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to," he assured you, his tone soothing. "Just tell me what you need."

You moved closer to him, seeking his warmth. "Could you... just hold me? Maybe... just your touch, it helps," you requested, a hint of vulnerability in your voice that pulled at his heart.

Without hesitation, Hotch opened his arms, and you nestled against him, your head resting on his chest. His hand began to stroke your hair gently, the other arm wrapped securely around you, grounding you to the here and now. "I’ve got you," he murmured into the darkness.

The rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear and the steady, reassuring pressure of his hands brought a slow but sure calm. Hotch felt you relax incrementally, your breathing eventually deepening as the remnants of the dream faded under the safety of his touch.

He lay there, awake, holding you, feeling a profound sense of protectiveness and love. In his career, he had often been the one to offer a safe harbor to others in their moments of need. But with you, it was deeper, more personal. It was a shared journey of giving and receiving comfort, of building a sanctuary not just for you but for himself as well.

As the night slowly gave way to the early hints of dawn, Hotch felt you stir slightly in his arms. "Better?" he asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace that had settled over you.

"Yeah, much better," you replied, your voice still soft but steadier now. "Thank you, Aaron, for being here."

"Always," Hotch responded, a quiet conviction in his voice. He knew the challenges that lay ahead, in both his professional and personal life, but in this moment, he felt a clarity and a determination to face them all, as long as he had you by his side. With each other's support, there was nothing they couldn't face, no nightmare too daunting to overcome. And as the first light of morning crept through the window, it underscored a silent promise exchanged in the quiet comfort of their embrace—a promise of always, of home, of never having to face the dark alone.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

@person-005

@iyskgd

[annabelle--cane]

OKAY. the magnus fucking institute, manchester.

worm tracks all over the archives' floor?? hello??? this institute burnt down in '99 and archives verse jane prentiss attacked in 2016, but. that can't NOT be connected, right?

redcanary said there were no papers left, but sam and alice found some! completely rotten, but they are there. why are most of the papers gone but not all?

from her reaction to the institute being brought up in magp 02 and 05, it seems like alice didn't know about sam's history with the place before and he filled her in some time recently.

"I want to know what was happening, why they chose us… why they didn’t choose me. Maybe find the bit where everything started to go wrong." say more right now mr khalid. I saw your scores on that spreadsheet, I know you got the best grades in unethical child psych experiments. don't give up hope yet! I'm sure you still have plenty of time to become one with some kind of eldritch abomination!

beth eyre as [error]. okay, I know she was a voice in archives, but for the time being I am assuming this is not statement giver lucia wright from mag 130 with the steel chair. in the archives verse institute, the trapdoor in the archivist's office lead to the tunnels, but this institute isn't connected to old millbank prison. nevertheless, there was still a Person trapped under there. probably been there for the last 25 years. an old archivist, maybe? they're immortal, she could have just been chilling down there like the alexandrian archivist. but she also was deliberately locked in. she needed the key to get out. oops! we dug down too deep and released the Creature from below the earth!

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twelve

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: None! Familiar faces return to Velaris and Y/n finally gets a chance to explore the city...

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

I’ve been dreaming again. Dreaming of him. 

Thanatos. With his milky pale skin the color of bleached bones. Bold brush strokes of black ink mark his clothes and paint his hair and his marble eyes. I should feel unsettled when looking into the face of death. But I don’t. I’m the only one who gets to see him like this. The only one who gets to see his true face and I don’t know why. He doesn’t understand it either, and it frustrates him to no end. 

He’s almost as curious as I am. Almost. 

He came to the cabin again today, carrying that black lit candle between his spindly fingers like he believed in the Mother and was prepared to pray and sing to her like the rest of us. He says he likes to hear me during the service, tiny and informal as it is, but really I think he’s here because it irks me, and because I’m some tapestry he can’t seem to unravel.

He asked me again whether I’d call upon the Mother for him. He says he has a question that needs answering, and once he has his answer, he’ll be able to tell me how we can defeat Koschei. If it’s even possible. 

But I don’t believe that male for a second. He’d sooner carve the world to bits and devour the scraps before helping us like the coyote he is.

Rest assured I will never agree to his bargain. It will take more than that to turn Bethsevah Mordeigh.  

Although he said something strange that night, when the candles had dripped and left their waxy marks on the altar. 

“You were made to ruin me, Beth,” he said, “And I will let you do it a thousand—a million—times over.” 

He spoke in a dozen different voices, but I can’t deny I liked how the sounds came together and became his own. 

You jerked awake with your hand still cradling the book against your chest. 

Bethsevah Mordeigh. 

You had a name. 

You had a name! 

You burst out of your room. 

“Az! Az! I’ve got something.” You beat your fist against his bedroom door. “Az!” There was silence. 

The kitchen was empty, dirty dishes scrubbing themselves clean in the sink. A glance at the clock above the oven told you you’d slept in a great deal.

You took the steps two at a time, sprinting down the hallway towards the west wing. The training arena took up most of the second floor stocked with enough weapons to outfit a small army. Wood and stone knobs stuck out from the wall at extreme angles as part of the climbing gym. The ceiling dipped up and down like draped fabric. On any other day you would have seen Valkyries with rippling arms and backs making their way up to the green flag pinned directly above the room’s center point, bodies straining against the pull of gravity. But not today. 

Two of the three mats spaced across the room were occupied and you heard the beat of Illyrian wings before you even opened the double doors. 

Feyre and Nesta stood against the side wall bracketed by racks of steel swords, glistening throwing knives, and an Illyrian bow as long as you were tall. 

Feyre licked her lips, greedily tracing Rhysand’s powerful form as he went toe to toe with Azriel. You couldn’t help but stare as well as they leapt around the ring in a blur of wings and shadow. You’d never seen Azriel shirtless but… well… it was a sight you could get used to. 

It was a dance — a dangerous, deadly dance — and although the language of violence wasn’t one you were familiar with, you could read the display well enough to know that Azriel would win this round. 

Sweat glistened on his skin, slipping down the curves of his back where leathery black wings fused with his shoulder blades. Tattoos wrapped around his shoulders and across his chest, pulsing with a life of their own as Azriel cleanly side stepped one of Rhysand’s kicks. There was the faintest crease in the High Lord’s brow to let you know he was getting tired. 

But Azriel was just getting started. And now that he knew you were watching? He wanted to make it worth your while.  

Rhys gritted his teeth, launching out with a strike quicker than lightning. Someway, somehow, Azriel was faster. He dipped to the side, Rhys’s knuckle just kissing his cheekbones and came up for a counterstrike, slamming his fist so hard into his brother’s cheek that he staggered back. 

That was unnecessary. Rhys snapped his jaw back into place.

Azriel grinned. Fatherhood suits you. But I can’t let you get soft.

There was a roll of violet eyes. Sure. That’s why you’re trying so hard right now.

Rhys snatched Azriel’s leg out of the air, rolling onto the ground in a move that sent the Shadowsinger twisting in a graceful arch that had your breath catching in your throat. He broke free of Rhysand’s hold, leaping onto his feet like gravity didn’t apply. 

You met his eyes, heady and dark, and could have sworn he winked. But it may have just been a trick of the light. 

You ducked your head, hurrying across the room towards Feyre and Nesta and hoping they wouldn’t comment on the flush creeping up your neck.

“Fey—” you began urgently.

The High Lady held up a hand and you fell silent. There was a sheen to her eyes that let you know she was honing in on Rhysand’s moves with more than just her eyes. 

Nesta smirked at you as you blushed. You struggled to keep your gaze from drifting back to the powerful display, even as you caught glimpses of Azriel’s tan body out of the corner of your eye. Rippling, bold, strong. 

“Don’t worry about staring,” Nesta said with a wicked glimmer. “The boys admire us. We admire them. It’s an even exchange.” 

One mat over Cassian was sparing with a new female you’d never seen before. Illyrian, but there was something wrong with her wings. They were held strong and proud above the ground, but they dragged in places where Cassian had control over every minor movement. If you concentrated closely enough, you could make out the thin, shiny scars that had snipped the tendon closest to the apex of her wings, just by the arch of her claws. 

Your stomach dropped with horror.

Her wings had been clipped. 

She held her own against the Lord of Bloodshed. Cassian might have had the advantage of experience and his longer limbs, but she moved with a daring determination. She dodged every blow by the narrowest margin, conserving her energy so when she was able to slip close and find her opening, she slammed her elbow up and into his nose with a sickening crack that echoed throughout the room. 

You winced, hands flying up to your face at the same time that Cassian’s did. 

“FUCK!” He roared. 

“Whooo! THAT’S MY WIFE!” A gorgeous, curvy blond hung off one of the ring posts, legs propped up on the tensioned ropes. 

There was only one member of their family that had ever been described as sunlight incarnate. That had to be Mor. Which meant the striking female currently giving Cassian hell on the mat was Emerie.

Emerie blushed, stealing a heavy look for long enough for Cassian to snap his nose back into place. He ducked down and swept her legs out from beneath her, wrestling her to the ground in a tangle of leather and wings. But Nesta didn’t let him have the advantage for too long. 

Cassian choked on the teasing words he’d prepared for Emerie when Nesta sent him a particularly candid image of herself in a strip of black fabric. 

For later tonight. She whispered down the bond.

Damn it Nes.

Emerie smashed her forehead into his already swollen nose, then her knee surged up with enough strength to crack ribs. She braced her foot against his chest and flipped him over her head and onto his back, wrapping her powerful legs around his neck and pinning him to the ground with his arm forced back in his socket. Finally he tapped out. 

“Poor Illyrian baby,” Nesta crooned as Emerie pulled Cassian to his feet. Despite the blood that dripped from his nose, he was glowing with pride at Emerie. “Better luck next time.”

Mor grasped Emerie by the front of her training gear and yanked her close for a long kiss that left the Illyrian stumbling back with red lipstick smeared over her lips and a dark blush across her caramel cheeks. 

Nesta yelped when Cassian wrapped his arm around her waist, lifting her off the ground with one arm like she weighed nothing.

“We could try that move tonight. Your legs, my face? But this time I won’t tap out.” Cassian winked and Nesta leveled a sultry glare in his direction, eyes lingering on the sheen of his muscular chest with unabashed heat. 

“Get a room,” Mor called out and Emerie threw a towel in his direction. It landed over his shoulder with comical perfection. 

“Says the pair that had to disappear to another continent after their wedding ceremony.” 

Mor flung an obscene gesture his way and Cassian returned it with equal fervor. “Says the pair that made Azriel run for the hills when he was left to chaperone.” 

“Hey! That’s on Rhysand. He never should have left us with a chaperone at all.” Nesta cut in. 

“You rang.” Rhysand appeared sweaty and spent behind Mor’s shoulder and slung his arm around her. The bruises on his cheeks were turning darker by the second.

Azriel hovered on the edges of the crowd, glancing at Mor and then at you. He was mildly disappointed that you’d been too busy watching Cass and Emerie to see him win at the end of the fight.  

“Gross, get off of me.” Mor shoved her cousin away. 

Rhysand’s shoulders shook with laughter. He smiled at you, eyes gleaming with happiness. It had been so long since he’d last seen his cousin. 

“Mor.” He gestured to you, “Meet Y/n—” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I think I just realized I don’t know your last name.” 

“Halwynn.” You offered up your mother’s last name. Even though you technically didn’t have any right to it as a bastard, it’s the name you’d gone by your whole life.

“Meet Y/n Halwynn,” Rhysand finished. 

“The resident intellect,” Mor said, caramel-brown eyes shining. “Well thank the Mother, you showed up when you did.” She looped her arm around yours easily and you caught a whiff of the perfume she’d dotted against her collarbones — amber and vanilla. A ruby the size of your thumb hung from a gold chain, following the dramatic dip in the front of her scarlet dress that left little to the imagination. You thought she might just be the most gorgeous female you’d ever seen. 

“We’d be absolutely lost without you. I hope the Library is up to your standards, although let’s be honest, it probably isn’t.”

You agreed a little too quickly. 

“Bethsevah Mordeigh.” Rhysand turned the name over in his mind, testing its familiarity and coming up empty. “Any takers?” 

You all stood around Rhysand’s desk, the book propped open beside bottles of jet-black ink, eagle-feather pens, and neat stacks of parchment paper.

Everyone shook their heads. 

“Fair enough.” He looked disappointed, but not surprised. “We’re only separated by a few thousand years, give or take.”

You paced in front of the windowsill, nervously picking at your fingernails until they were under threat of bleeding. Azriel noticed and one of his shadows gently wrapped around your wrists and pulled your hands apart. You looked at him gratefully and stuck your hands in your pockets.

“The oldest text I’ve seen dates back twelve-thousand years,” Feyre offered. “I’ve also asked Gwyn and Clotho to begin searching.”

“What about the Day Court?” Azriel looked at you.

“I can ask Helion to search the archives. But I’ll warn you, records dating back that far are few and far apart. And priestesses back then were less keen on recording the movements of their members. But we might get lucky with some of her descendants if they ever joined the order. Work our way backwards through history.”

Mor shot Rhysand a look. “Why ask me to come back here now? I could have been of better use searching for this information on the Continent.”

“Now is not the time for you to be traversing foreign lands. Not with Koschei at risk of being let loose.” 

You shook your head. “And it wouldn’t matter. Bethsevah wouldn’t have been born on the Continent. If she ever went, it would have only been to trap Koschei. Our best bet is to search for information about her down south.”

The others stared at you in confusion. You blinked as if the answer was obvious. “Organized religion surrounding the Mother emerged in Southern Prythian and her priestesses didn’t spread out to Hybern or the Continent until the Insynthian Age.”

“Your point being?” Nesta folded her arms over her chest. When it came to the specifics of Prythian history, she and Feyre were about as useful as a glass rod in a lightning storm. 

“The bit about the candles is a very, very old ceremony. People would write their prayers in blood and have a priestess burn them on a candle made with a strand of their hair woven into the wick. If Bethsevah was a priestess performing this ritual, she would have been an early member of the order. Before the Insynthian Age.” 

“That would narrow things down significantly.” Rhysand nodded in approval. “I’ll reach out to Lucien, see if he’ll be able to find anything out for us.”

You pulled a sheef of paper out from your pockets and Helion’s pen. You scribbled down a note to him about what you’d discovered and within five minutes the words were racing south to the Day Court. 

“How on earth do you know this?” Mor asked incredulously, looking at you with a mixture of awe and bewilderment.

“I’m a Librarian.” She looked unimpressed by that statement. “I had a religious phase.” You smoothed your thumb over your necklace, feeling for your mother’s seal — a flowering heather and fountain pen crossed over in an “x”. 

“A religious phase?”  

“Yes.” 

She clicked her tongue, red lips turning up in a smirk. “You Day Court fae are certainly something.” 

You blushed. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything else.” You went to grab the book, but Mor’s hand slapped down first, pinning it to the table and you with a stare. 

“Nope. Work is for tomorrow,” Mor declared, eyes glittering with fondness. “Today, I want to see my city with my family.” 

You tapped the book through your robes, counting the rhythmic swings against your hip like a metronome. One. Two. One. Two. One-

Cassian leaned down to whisper, “You’re doing great,” before waving to a male with ash-blonde hair standing beside an apple cart. 

Pink ladies, honeycrisps, and ambrosias were piled high into luscious clouds. Two gestures and a flick of a coin through the air later and Cassian was shoving a small, flimsy basket in your hand. Roasted apples covered in burnt sugar and drizzled with caramel seeped into the wax paper. 

One. Two. One. Two. 

It was still too early for most of the Night Court, but the hustle and bustle in the Palace of Bone and Salt was unperturbed. Now was the time for the owners of small shops to haggle for prices without interfering with common business. The apple cart you just left had a new customer already — a wispy female with candy-floss hair lugging a basket on wheels capable of carrying three bushels for the bakery two streets over.

“Would you like some?” You held the food up to Azriel, but he only stumbled over a crack cobblestone street before shaking his head no. 

He was being awfully quiet today. Quieter than usual. 

Maybe he’s sick? You thought to yourself. He hadn’t eaten lunch either, but maybe that was just because he disliked the sandwiches you’d made. Or maybe it was because of a certain blond-haired female who kept giving him side glances with questions eating at her from the inside out.

“Come on,” you encouraged, nudging his shoulder. “You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” 

Azriel looked at the apple slice you held out for him like it was a personal torture.

Cassian grinned and slung his arm over your shoulders, peeling you away from Azriel’s side to his relief. The weight was a comfort coming from him and you felt that thrill in your stomach whenever any member of the Inner Circle touched you. 

“Azriel won’t starve. I promise, Y/n.” 

Nyx thought he might starve. He was a growing boy, and had a stomach to match. He tapped your elbow and you wordlessly passed over the basket to him, but not before snatching a piece for yourself. The sugar crackled, then melted over your tongue, the sharpness from the apple cutting through caramel in a burst of tartness. 

“How is Helion doing by the way?” Mor dropped the question casually. “Rhys says you know him well.” 

You blinked at her. What did she care about Helion? “I’ve worked on a few projects for him before this one. And he’s doing as well as he can be, I suppose. Things aren’t exactly perfect in the Day Court right now.”

“Ah, Helion,” Mor breathed out, almost wistfully, “He was one of the few good males I ever slept with.” 

You choked on your food, sputtering and coughing for long enough that Cassian started to slap your back. You felt your bones shake with each blow.

So… Mor had slept with your father… figures.

Feyre looked at you with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you said meekly. You shoved more food in your mouth before anyone could ask any further questions.

Azriel felt that familiar pool of jealousy bubble in his stomach at the mention of Helion. You kept rubbing that necklace of yours, Helion’s seal displayed prominently like he’d personally stamped you as his. 

He allowed himself to get close enough to brush against your shoulder and a few of his shadows creeped onto your body, weaving themselves into your hair. You looked up at him and smiled. 

“You’re in a good mood today.” Azriel’s hazel eyes were brighter in the morning light, flecks of green poking through the amber. “You’re smiling.” 

And what didn’t you have to be smiling about? You were finally exploring Velaris. Mor, Cassian, and Nyx had touched you, albeit through the fabric of your robes, and you hadn’t been overwhelmed. And you’d finally been able to take knowledge from the book.

 It had been a pinch of information as potent as saltwater. You had gotten a name, and names held power. 

Azriel’s eyes glimmered with quiet delight. 

“I’m just happy,” you said. “I think things are getting better, with—” You glanced down at where your arms swung side by side and you reached out a finger, allowing it to gently brush against the scars at the top of his left hand. You curled your fingers around his for the briefest moment before letting go. “And… you know.” You shrugged. 

Azriel stopped walking abruptly and everyone turned to stare at him. The Shadowsinger was strung taughter than an Illyrian bow. 

Mor raised her brow in open appraisal. There was a flash of something like shock in her eyes and then she was buried in Emerie’s hair, whispering something into the female’s rounded ears that had her dark carved eyebrows flying up to her hairline.

“Az?” Rhys asked cheekily, “Everything alright?”

Cassian chuckled and even Nesta smirked.

Last year he was giving Elain and Gwyn the bedroom eyes, and now he short-circuits because Y/n brushes her hand against his? I don’t believe what I’m seeing, Cass.

Some females like their males a little pathetic and lovesick. 

You would know. 

Cassian chuckled, looping his arm around her waist and burying his lips in her hair. He twirled the face framing pieces between his fingers like he always did, and Nesta tried not to think about how she’d first started leaving them out after meeting the Lord of Bloodshed. It would seem she had once been a pathetic and lovesick fool herself.

I love it when you tease, Nes. 

Maybe she still was. Nesta couldn’t help but lean into his touch. 

They do make a good couple. She admitted and Cassian was in agreement.

Feyre was thinking the same thing as you twisted towards him, hand still outstretched like there was a string tying your fingers to his. You couldn’t help but want to drift towards him as surely as gravity makes rain fall to the earth. 

Does she know? Mor grasped Rhysand’s arm, eyes wide and staring. Does she know they’re mates? 

Not yet. 

Mor groaned. Are you fucking kidding me?

I wish I was.

Damn you, Azriel.

Azriel shook his head and forced his body to move forward. The world had stopped when you touched him, and it was only just starting to pick up again. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. 

Nyx munched on his apple slice, staring at you both curiously before following after his mother and father.

“Did you hear something?” You stayed by his side, no longer interested in the aromas fluttering in the air from the bakery, the soup shop with its stone vats bubbling in the back, the smokehouse with its slabs of bacon crackling on grease. “From your shadows?”

“No. Why did you think that?”

“You had a look in your eye, like you weren’t quite there for a second. My mother used to say that I looked like that sometimes when using my powers. Like for a moment I was untethered from the earth and at risk of floating away.” 

Azriel saved that piece of information, storing it away in his mind next to the knowledge that you had always wanted a dustbear for a pet because they were such simple, mindless creatures and you never felt overcome in their presence. 

“I do feel that way at times.” He waited until your little troupe passed by the spice shops. The particles in the air always made Cassian sneeze. “But not now.” 

Everyone dipped into a paisley blue building, the bell ringing with a soft clang to announce their presence. 

“Right now I feel… settled.” 

You grinned at him brighter than the sun, moon, and stars combined. “Good.” 

You followed after the others, and while your back was turned, Mor took her opportunity. She clawed the back of Azriel’s leathers, hauling him down the alleyway before anyone could notice. 

Azriel’s eyes blew open in surprise when Mor shoved him up against the wall hard enough for a rain of petals to fall over their heads from the second floor balcony. It would have been romantic if it weren’t for the incredulous look in Mor’s eyes and the fact that Azriel was still caught up in your smile and the feeling of your skin against his. Gods he wished you were the one pressing him against this wall. He couldn’t stop thinking about that hug in Rhysand’s office. He wanted to feel the softness of your body against him once more. 

“You idiot!” Mor slapped him across the face and it shocked him back to the present. “Why didn’t you tell me you found your mate?” She hissed. 

Azriel looked frantically back to the street, half expecting you to be standing there with your inquisitive eyes. It was still a jolt to his system whenever anyone used that word: mate. Equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. It was such a fragile word, and the others tossed it around so dangerously. 

“I didn’t—” Azriel stammered. Mor and Emerie’s arrival this morning had been unexpected for everyone except Rhysand and Feyre. “There wasn’t time.” “So?! You should’ve made time.” Mor stepped away, letting the Shadowsinger back down onto his feet. He had the good sense to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck while Mor tossed her waist length hair over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed pink, tanned and freckled from her time on the Continent. 

Azriel felt that familiar coil of guilt building in his stomach and he tried to remember the apology he’d been preparing for this exact moment when he and Mor would be alone. 

He cleared his throat and bowed his head to the ground in a picture of reverent apology. “Mor, about what I said—”

She crashed into him again, arms looping around his neck and squeezing him so tightly he felt his ribs crack. And she was… laughing?

“You have a mate!” She giggled through happy tears, bouncing on her feet. Her heels clicked against the granite tiles. “My best friend finally has a mate!”

She kept repeating it over and over again, like she couldn’t quite believe it herself. 

“Mor, please. Keep it down.” They were attracting attention and Azriel wordlessly summoned his shadows to hide them from view.

Mor finally let him go, covering her mouth with her hands. “I’m sorry I just—” She squealed. 

Azriel let out a long, heavy sigh. This was closer to the reaction he should have had when Mor and Emerie announced their engagement. Instead he’d gone cold and silent. 

He should have known Mor preferred females, and maybe he had known all along that Mor could never love him the way he’d once loved her. But he’d done what he always did when it came to love and ran forward with a blindfold on, hoping his aim was true but never bothering to check. 

Mor furrowed her brows. “Are you upset by this? Why do you look like that?”

“What?” Azriel hissed like the question physically hurt him. “No. No! I’m not upset, I’m—” He clenched his fists and said in a small voice, “I think I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.” He took a deep breath and winced, “And I’m thinking that you must have felt similarly when you got together with Emerie, and that I royally fucked up by reacting the way that I did.” 

He could picture it clear as day — Mor’s radiant smile slipping off her face, left hand dropping behind her back to hide the glittering ruby, the tears that gathered in her eyes when all Azriel did was remain stiff as stone before dropping off the balcony at her engagement party. 

Mor hesitated then tucked her honey-gold waves behind her ears like she did whenever she was uncomfortable. “I should have told you sooner.” Azriel knew she was referring to more than just her relationship with Emerie. “I knew you loved me and I let you believe for so long that there might be a chance I could return those feelings. But I was scared because… because I wanted to know there would always be someone waiting for me if…” She pressed her hands over her stomach. The nails may have disappeared from her body without a trace, but they’d been hammered elsewhere in her soul and she hadn’t managed to take them out just yet. “It was wrong of me to use you like that. To keep you waiting for so long.”

Azriel rubbed her shoulders. “I think you gave me more than a few hints that it wouldn’t work out. Chief among them, Cassian.” Mor’s gaze dropped to her feet, but all Azriel did was press a gentle kiss to the crown of her forehead. “I still love you, Mor, and I always will. It’s just a different kind of love now. I’m happy for you and Emerie. Truly.” 

“Yeah?” She looked up hopefully. 

Azriel nodded. He pulled Mor close, wrapping his wings around her to block out the sounds of bartering happening in the square. They stayed like that for a long while, until the shadows on the wall had dropped another inch. 

Mor sniffled and pushed him away. “Ok, enough of this now.” She carefully brushed away at the corner of her eyes, “You’re ruining my makeup.” 

Azriel’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, and Mor noted how it seemed to come easier to him now.   

The whole day you’d felt that something was amiss, but it wasn’t until a flustered artisan carrying bolts of spider silk fabric crashed into you that you realized what it was.

You stumbled into Azriel’s sturdy arms, feeling the strength and power beneath his leathers as he propped you up against his side. 

“So sorry, miss. Please forgive me.” The artisan blubbered. His cat eyes glowed a pale orange as they flickered over you from head to toe, “Can’t see with this.” He lifted the bolt. There was something about his gaze that unsettled you, like he was searching for something. Like he was hungry. Or scared.

“It’s alright.” You adjusted your clothes, tucked the book behind your back so it was pressed up against Azriel’s hip. 

That look in his eyes disappeared and he huffed in relief before continuing down the cobblestone streets, too much in a hurry to notice the Shadowsinger glaring at him.

“Are you ok?” He let you find your footing, keeping his hand at the small of your back. 

You stared at the male’s retreating form. “He didn’t… he didn’t bow to you. To any of you.” You blinked at Feyre and Rhysand.

She wore no crown, no jewelry except the ring on her finger and the diamonds in her  ears, but the male must have known he was in the presence of his High Lady. And there was no mistaking Rhysand and his brothers.

“Like Azriel said when you first arrived here, we take the casual approach.” Feyre said, and as if to make the point, Nyx shoved his hands in his pockets, tilting his head to the side in a manner so like Rhys that Azriel and Cassian burst out laughing. Rhys looked down fondly and brushed back his hair. 

Feyre drifted to your side, watching with amusement as Nyx disappeared into the forest of color that was the Palace of Thread and Jewels. Every inch of fabric was too precious to be wasted, and so the weavers collected the scraps and tied them together, end to end, until they became one long chain. They hung from the entrances of shops, from the arches criss-crossing overhead, and from hand-painted signs. They wrapped around doorways and caught on the shoulders of passerbys, whispering of the time and effort spent crafting them.

Nyx weaved in and out of these strands, chased by Cassian and Azriel as they pretended to be tricked by the little boy’s lithe footsteps. You gasped as he turned invisible, then reappeared four inches to his left, jabbing at Azriel’s side before disappearing again.

“He can wrap light around himself as much as he can weave darkness,” Feyre explained, staying close to your side, “I think he might have gotten some remnant of the Day Court’s power from me. It made him an absolute nightmare for about three years when he couldn’t control it. Can you imagine having a toddler waddling around and wreaking havoc that you can’t even see?”

Nesta let out a sharp breath of laughter. “I think that’s an experience unique to you, Fey.”

You had to agree. You’d never turned invisible as a child, although you had to admit it would have been a very useful power to inherit from your father.

“Gotcha! You little rascal!” Cassian said triumphantly. 

You heard Nyx shriek with laughter. Cassian and Azriel both had one arm raised above their heads and with a little shake the boy came back into view, dangling upside down from his ankles.  

“Don’t break the boy, Cass.” 

“I won’t break him, Rhys. Gotta let him grow old enough to beat all those bastards at Windhaven, don’t I?” 

Rhys and Feyre’s smiles slipped ever so slightly. 

Nyx was lowered to the ground. He kept his arms out and balanced on his hands for a brief moment before walking over onto his feet with a flourish. 

“Gwyn taught me that last week. She’s part river nymph. Very flexible.” He brushed invisible dirt from his shirt and continued on, leading the way towards the Sidra like he owned the place — which in some respects he did.

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Author's Note:

Just another little chapter with more slowburn antics between Y/n and Azriel! And! Mor and Emerie are here! I am slowly but surely collecting characters like pokemon cards because you know I want to have my favorites in Velaris when shit starts to go down...

[scariest-marlowe]

"charged with battery" "nerves of steel" IM ONTO YOU BETH MAY IM SO FUCKING ONTO YOU