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[clearsuitninja]

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[anantaru]

cw. fem! reader, virgin neuvillette & touch starved neuvillette

neuvillette whines when his body uncontrollably surges forward into your searing cunt, and as you grind your warmth on top of him once more, he nears the end of the tight rope amplifying his massive pleasure— shiny beads of sweat battered above his brow bone as you ride him with fluid motions as to not overwhelm the handsome man, his face shining in rose-light, and every desperate wince and utter he displayed revealing his irresistible divinity.

the immortal fragrance of his ambrosial trace perfumes the air as his body began to smell just like you, in fact, your scent was the only one to ever invade his own and it's absolutely intoxicating, especially because neuvillette doesn't even realize just how big he was and how difficult it can be to keep yourself calm while having your guts full of his fat cock— and not to forget, it's his inexperience that made you wince and aroused when being split in two, eagerly lapping up the crystalline tears on his warm cheeks when he groans out from overstimulation, your warm pussy dragging his painfully hard erection in and out when he roughly grabs at your hips, in fact, gripping so damn tight that you were flinching from the mild pain.

but it's a nice feeling, enough that it caused you to moan his name and rock your hips harder, it's blistering, nowhere near done when he suddenly bucks his hips up, faster, although whining out when your walls clamp around him at once, manifesting an ache to soothe the knot of discomfort in his stomach, or his twitching erection that made him drool from each side of his mouth due to this newfound pleasure that he experienced for the first time in his long life.

grunting from the sheer force of your thrusts, neuvillette strengthens the hold on your hips to fuck up into you the exact same time you did the same, shooting down a cold spark on each crevice of your spine as he cherishes the embrace of your warm walls and that you were so willing to grace him with your presence— graciously painting him with your slick arousal all the way to his shaft that oozed out from your hole when you fucked him raw, wanting him to memorize just how good it felt to be milked by a warm, wet cunt.

neuvillette was too far gone, you can clearly see and feel it, he was drowning within the bounds of his own dirty moans and the lewd squelches of your pussy imprinting your arousal all over his shaft, your bodies against each other blemished by the act of sex that you're forcing your tongue into his mouth to calm him down, at least somehow, remorselessly picking up the pace and crashing down again, up and down up and down, his heated noises all silenced by your greedy tongue lapping against his wet muscle— neuvillette's brain dissolving when your walls repeatedly twitch and try to swallow all of him, twist and milk him tight with your soft pussy felling like a riding compression, all the more sweetening the moment the more you speed up.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[reidmarieprentiss]

Ghost of You

Summary: Instead of Maeve, you, Spencer's girlfriend, are shot while Spencer is watching. Except, like Emily, no one confirmed your death.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, hurt, fluff, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: death, guns, shooting, light smut (18+), grieving and mourning, lying and deceiving, loss, funeral, mistrust, illusions to vomiting, spencer getting drunk, happy ending

Word count: 14.3k

a/n: again ,, i'm sorry i don't know what's wrong with me ,, i live and breathe angst like i need it to survive

main masterlist

The room was oppressively silent, filled with the tense breaths of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit team members who were either physically present or listening intently over the comms. The stark white walls of the abandoned warehouse where you were held captive only amplified the gravity of the situation. 

Spencer Reid stood, his body rigid, his eyes locked on you—his partner, his love, tied down to a chair in the center of the room. His jaw was clenched, every muscle taut with barely contained fury and fear. Diane Turner, the woman responsible, paced before him with a demeanor that was chilling in its calmness.

“All you have to do is kiss me, Spencer. Just one kiss to prove you don’t love her, and she walks free,” Diane's voice was soft, almost coaxing, as she gestured nonchalantly with the handgun she held.

Spencer’s response was a strangled mix of defiance and desperation. “I can’t do that. I won’t.” His voice was firm, unwavering despite the tremor of fear that threatened to undermine his resolve.

Diane’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk as she turned her attention back to you. “Well, then I suppose we have a problem,” she said as she stepped closer, the gun now pointed directly at you.

The team listened and watched, helpless. Hotch’s hand hovered over his weapon, his mind racing through any possible solutions. JJ’s face was pale, her fingers gripping the edge of the tactical table. Rossi murmured a prayer under his breath, while Garcia, back at Quantico, had her hands clasped tightly, her eyes closed as she hoped for a miracle.

The moment stretched, a torturous eternity compressed into seconds. Then, Diane’s finger tightened on the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening, a brutal punctuation that shattered the tense silence.

Your body slumped as the impact threw you backward, the chair skidding across the concrete floor. Spencer’s cry was guttural, filled with a raw pain that echoed through the room and the comms, reaching every member of the team.

As chaos erupted, with team members rushing into the warehouse, Hotch was the first to reach you. His experienced eyes quickly assessed the scene. Feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingers, he locked eyes with you as you barely managed to open yours.

“Let them think,” you whispered hoarsely, the effort to speak clearly costing you.

Understanding immediately, Hotch nodded subtly. As he called the medics over, he helped to obscure their view, ensuring that your whispered directive remained between the two of you. The medics, following his lead without question, prepared the stretcher and body bag with efficient, silent agreement to the unspoken plan.

As you were zipped up, hidden from view, the last thing you saw was Spencer, his face a mask of agony, being held back by Rossi, who whispered words meant to comfort but which couldn't touch the depth of Spencer's despair.

—

As the echoes of the gunshot faded, the stark reality of what had transpired settled heavily upon the entire BAU team. Inside the cramped FBI surveillance van parked discreetly a block away, the air was thick with grief and stifling silence. Each member of the team was caught in the throes of their own personal hell.

Emily Prentiss felt a crack in her usually impenetrable armor. Her hands, hidden from view, trembled slightly as she replayed the scene over in her mind, wishing there had been something more they could have done to prevent this tragic outcome. Rossi, who had seen too much loss in his years, wore a somber expression, his eyes dark with the weight of unspoken thoughts, perhaps reminiscing about losses past and the cruel repetitiveness of their job.

JJ, standing beside a silently crumbling Spencer, placed a gentle hand on his back, her touch light but filled with a world of empathy. Her eyes, usually so bright and confident, mirrored the horror and sadness that had momentarily overtaken her usual resilience. She knew all too well the pain of loss, yet knowing did nothing to soften the blow.

Penelope Garcia was a statue of despair; her colorful attire and vibrant demeanor dimmed by the shadow of your apparent demise. The screens before her that usually flickered with data and leads now only reminded her of the loss, the dreadful permanence of the moment your chair had fallen back, the moment that had seemingly snuffed out a light amongst them.

Derek Morgan, whose strength often served as a pillar for the team, stood rigid, his body tensed as if ready to spring into action, to undo what had been done. His jaw was set, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and profound sorrow. He felt a protective rage for the family he’d built here within the BAU, a family that had now been irrevocably scarred.

As the team returned to Quantico, each member was engulfed in their own silent reflection. The bullpen, usually abuzz with activity and light-hearted banter, was subdued, a somber shadow of its former self. Spencer's desk, a mess of papers and books, remained untouched, a stark reminder of the vibrancy of your relationship with him, now painfully absent.

In the days that followed, the team tried to navigate their grief while maintaining the facade of normalcy. Meetings were quieter, coffee breaks more solitary, and the weight of your absence was a constant, unspoken presence. Even as they delved into new cases, your memory lingered, a ghost in the machine, driving them forward but also holding them back, a reminder of the stakes at play in their line of work.

—

In the silence of the apartment he once shared with you, Spencer found himself enveloped in the echoes of a life that now felt like a distant memory. Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the loneliness settled around him like a dense fog, suffocating and cold. The apartment, once filled with the warmth of your presence, now served as a mausoleum of all the dreams and plans that would never come to fruition.

Spencer would wander through the rooms, his fingers trailing along the surfaces, half expecting to feel the electric touch of your hand in his. Your clothes still hung in the closet, and on particularly difficult nights, he found solace in the faint scent that lingered on your shirts. Pulling one out, he’d clutch it to his chest, sinking onto the bed as sobs wracked his body, the fabric dampening with his tears.

Books you had left on the nightstand, bookmarks still nestled between the pages where you had last stopped, became his new companions. He read every word you had read, traced the lines you might have touched, hoping to glean some part of your thoughts, your essence, from the text. It was a ritual that brought him a painful comfort, a way to feel close to you, to imagine that you were still there discussing the plot twists and character arcs with him.

Even your coffee habits became a part of his mourning. Spencer, who had always preferred tea, found himself brewing coffee each morning. He winced at the bitter taste, nothing like the soothing herbal blends he favored, but it was your taste, and that was what mattered. Each sip was a reminder of the mornings spent in shared silence, a newspaper between you and a mug in your hands, and he cherished these imagined moments as he sat alone at the kitchen table.

At work, Spencer's grief manifested in a quiet protectiveness over anything that had been yours. Your desk, an unassuming space cluttered with case files and trinkets, became sacred ground. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching your things, rearranging the chaos that was so distinctly you. When others offered to clean it or pack it up, he refused, his voice low but firm. It was a line he could not allow anyone to cross, not yet.

Despite the pull to isolate himself in the apartment surrounded by your belongings, Spencer knew he needed to be around people, around the living reminders of normalcy and duty. The BAU was a place of shared purpose, and being there, immersed in the work, allowed him moments of respite from his grief. Yet, even surrounded by his colleagues, the solitude he felt was profound, as if a vital part of him had been hollowed out, leaving him forever incomplete.

—

The arrangements for the funeral were meticulously crafted, cloaked in secrecy and necessity, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on Hotch as he orchestrated the somber affair. It was kept small, intimate, with only the BAU team in attendance. Hotch explained that your family was holding a separate, private celebration of life, a half-truth designed to protect the delicate fabric of the operation and to keep your true fate concealed.

Your family, forewarned by you of the possible outcomes of your dangerous gambit against a formidable foe, had been bracing for this day. You had instructed them with clear, calm precision: should news of your death reach them, they were to detach, to grieve privately and avoid any direct contact with your professional life. If Spencer—or any other team member—reached out, they were to embody the role of the bereaved, too shattered by grief to speak of you. This directive was to hold for three years, after which, if silence remained unbroken, they could assume you were truly gone.

At the funeral, the air was thick with a palpable sorrow, the team huddled together under the gray expanse of the sky, their expressions somber, eyes glistening. Spencer summoned a strength he didn't know he still possessed to deliver a eulogy that touched the very core of all who listened.

Standing before the small gathering, beside the casket that symbolically held you, Spencer's voice was steady, imbued with a deep melancholy. He spoke of your zest for life, your laughter that could light up a room, and your profound impact on his own life. He wove in lines from your favorite poets and authors, their words a tender tribute to your love for life, literature, and him.

"I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," he concluded, his voice breaking slightly, the finality of the statement hanging heavy in the air.

—

In the small, cramped space of the Kansas precinct, the air hung heavy with the kind of solemnity that often accompanies a tragedy. Spencer was set up at a makeshift workstation, papers and photographs from the case splayed across the table in a meticulous arrangement, his focus as sharp as ever. But even the most disciplined mind couldn't fully shield itself from the emotional tremors of personal loss.

JJ noticed the victim's boyfriend first, his face etched with grief and confusion, a mirror to the very emotions Spencer had been wrestling with since your apparent death. Her instinct was protective, maternal almost; she stepped forward, intending to steer the man away, to spare Spencer the inevitable surge of his own raw, unresolved grief. But Spencer saw the boyfriend and saw a reflection of his own torment.

He stood up, his movements a bit too stiff, the mask of the professional profiler firmly in place but his eyes betraying a deep, abiding sorrow. "I can talk to him," Spencer offered quietly, his voice firm despite the tremble he couldn't quite suppress. JJ exchanged a worried glance with Hotch, who observed silently from the corner. They were hesitant, aware of Spencer's vulnerabilities but also of his uncanny ability to compartmentalize his pain.

Sitting across from the boyfriend, Spencer's empathy was palpable. His voice was gentle yet carried the weight of his own grief. "I—I lost my girlfriend too, she was... taken, in front of me. I'm so sorry for your loss," he shared, the words costing him more than he expected.

The man's response was choked, the kind of raw emotion that comes from this kind of grief. "I can’t even imagine—I feel like I can’t breathe every time I think about it."

Spencer nodded, his professional demeanor flickering. "I understand. But it's not your fault, you couldn't stop this man."

"What if I could though? I could have been there, I could have done something," the man insisted, his voice tinged with desperation and guilt.

That sentiment struck a chord too close to Spencer's own heartaches. He was there, he watched, unable to save you, powerless and shattered. His response was visceral, a burst of emotion too powerful to contain. "It’s not always that easy, okay? It’s not my fault!" His voice rose sharply, his hands slamming down on the table with a force that startled both himself and the man sitting opposite him.

Hotch, who had been watching the interaction with growing concern, recognized the signs of Spencer's unraveling. Without hesitation, he stepped in, his presence commanding and reassuring. He gently but firmly guided Spencer away, leading him out of the precinct as Spencer’s façade crumbled, revealing the raw, unfiltered pain beneath.

Outside, under the less scrutinous eyes of the public, Spencer sobbed, his body racked with the kind of sobs that shake the very foundation of a person. Hotch, strong and steady, offered his shoulder, a silent pillar of support in the storm of Spencer's grief.

As he held Spencer, Aaron felt a profound sense of guilt and responsibility. He knew the reasons behind your decision, understood them intellectually, but the emotional fallout, the raw pain Spencer displayed, was a stark reminder of the human costs of such decisions. In that moment, Hotch vowed silently to do whatever it took to support Spencer, to help him find a path through the thicket of his grief. 

—

Spencer took it upon himself to dig deeper into the remnants of your digital life. The walls of your shared apartment closed in around him, every corner filled with memories, every drawer a repository of a life paused mid-breath. He should have been resting, healing, using the time Hotch had given him to mourn and gather strength. Instead, he was driven by a relentless need to understand, to unearth the reasons behind the tragedy that had unraveled both his world and yours.

Sitting at the dining table cluttered with your personal effects—emails printed out, texts transcribed, voicemails played back into the empty room—Spencer's initial hesitation about invading your privacy had dissolved into a desperate need for answers. With each new piece of information, the narrative of your last days became clearer, and with it, his anger and guilt intensified.

Why didn't she tell me about the threats? Spencer's mind raced as he sifted through the digital breadcrumbs you'd left behind, each one a stark reminder of the danger you had faced alone. He felt betrayed, not by your love, but by your silence. The team was a family; they protected their own. The idea that you had borne this burden alone, without leaning on him, on them, gnawed at him relentlessly.

Then, among the tangle of threatening messages and cryptic warnings, one email stood out starkly. It was meticulously detailed, outlining a chilling ultimatum: your life for the safety of everyone else you cared about. His hands trembled as he read it, the implications of those words slicing through the fog of his grief. Had you planned to sacrifice yourself from the start? Was this why you had kept silent?

The realization hit him like a physical blow. His blood ran cold as the pieces fell into place. You hadn't just been taken from him; you had walked into the maw of danger with eyes wide open, hoping to shield him, to shield all of them from further harm.

But who were they? This shadowy group that had orchestrated such terror, that had driven you to such an unthinkable decision? The question echoed in the increasingly claustrophobic apartment, bouncing off the walls lined with books you’d both loved, past the pictures of happier times.

Spencer knew he couldn't do this alone, not anymore. Despite your choice to keep the threats from him, he realized that to honor your sacrifice, he needed the team. They were stronger together, and this was bigger than any one of them—bigger than his grief, his anger, his betrayal. It was about justice, not just for you, but for the sanctity of the life you had all built together.

Determined, Spencer gathered all the evidence, his resolve hardening. He would bring this to the team, to Hotch. They would find them. They would end this, once and for all. And perhaps, in doing so, he would find a way to forgive you, to forgive himself, and maybe find a path back from the precipice of his own consuming grief.

—

As the investigation intensified, the entire BAU team, honed by years of profiling complex criminal minds, began to uncover a series of subtle discrepancies and cryptic messages scattered across the case files and your personal communications. These inconsistencies didn't fit the expected pattern, weaving a complex web of suspicion that permeated the office atmosphere.

"Have you noticed these anomalies in the communication logs?" Spencer asked during one of their briefings, his eyes dark with both determination and unspoken grief.

"Yes, and these tips coming in—they don't add up," Emily replied, looking over the scattered papers and digital messages displayed on the screen.

Hotch watched the exchange closely, his mind racing with the implications of their findings. He was caught in a precarious balancing act—eager to dismantle the network behind the threats while protecting his team from the explosive truth about your staged death.

"We need to tread carefully," Hotch interjected, his voice steady but laced with caution. "This isn't just about following leads. We need to consider the broader implications."

Spencer, fueled by a relentless drive to seek justice for your loss, responded with a hint of frustration, "I know, but we can't just slow down. They're still out there, and who knows what they're planning next?"

Hotch paused, the weight of his secret knowledge pressing down on him. "Spencer, I understand your urgency, but we must ensure we're not walking into a trap. It's not just about finding them; it's about making sure we're ready for what comes next."

The team nodded, though Spencer's expression showed his internal struggle to balance his raw desire for justice with the strategic caution Hotch advised.

As they delved deeper, connecting the dots between the obscure threats, the mysterious inconsistencies in your case, and the shadowy group behind it all, Hotch's role became increasingly complex. He had to guide and sometimes redirect their efforts, always careful not to reveal too much too soon, especially to Spencer, whose emotional state remained fragile.

"We'll get them," Hotch assured the team, his voice firm yet heavy with the gravity of their task. "And we'll do it the right way, as a team, ready for all consequences."

The challenge loomed large, demanding everything they had to stay united and prepared for the potential revelations ahead. Hotch's leadership was crucial, walking the tightrope between maintaining secrecy and steering towards disclosure and resolution, all while safeguarding the team's integrity and emotional well-being.

—

As the seasons shifted to Fall, the relentless march of time brought both frustration and a forced return to routine for the BAU team. Despite the lack of significant breakthroughs in unraveling the conspiracy that had seemingly claimed your life, Spencer and the team remained vigilant, their resolve undiminished but tempered by the demands of their ongoing cases. The initial fervor had quieted into a persistent, underlying current of determination.

Unknown to the rest of the team, including Hotch, you were far from idle. In a twist laden with risk and secrecy, you had enlisted Emily Prentiss in a clandestine investigation. Emily, with her own history of deception for survival, was a perfect confidante and co-conspirator. Together, you delved into the shadows, tracking the elusive threads that connected your apparent demise to a larger, more sinister plot.

"We need to be careful," Emily cautioned during one of your late-night meetings in a nondescript safe house. "If the rest of the team finds out, especially Spencer, it could jeopardize everything."

"I know," you replied, your voice full of determination and regret. "But we can't let them continue to threaten the team. Spencer... he wouldn't understand, not yet."

Your efforts were meticulous and calculated, driven by the dual goals of protecting the team and dismantling the network that had forced you into hiding. The data you collected was encrypted and stored securely, only accessible to you and Emily. You traced financial transactions, monitored communications, and connected dots that were invisible to those not initiated into your secretive endeavor.

As the leaves began to fall and the chill of autumn set in, you and Emily had started to piece together a comprehensive picture of the criminal syndicate. It was broader and more complex than anyone had suspected, with tendrils reaching into unexpected places. The stakes were high, and the danger to the team was real and imminent.

"Once we have enough evidence, we'll bring it to Hotch," you decided, knowing that the moment of revelation was fast approaching. "We have to be thorough. This has to end, Emily."

Emily nodded, her expression grim but resolute. "We'll get them, and then you can finally go back home. To Spencer."

The thought of reuniting with Spencer and the team brought a bittersweet pang to your heart. You longed for the day you could return to the life you had been forced to leave behind, to reveal the truth and hopefully mend the fractures your disappearance had caused. But until that day, secrecy was your shield and patience your weapon.

—

On a brisk October morning, the Manhattan streets were bustling with the usual blend of haste and routine. Hidden beneath a wig, colored contacts, and a prosthetic nose, you moved with calculated caution, tailing a key member of the criminal network that had turned your life upside down. Despite the disguise, certain features—a constellation of moles, the unique curve of your jaw—remained tellingly distinctive to anyone who knew you well. You were acutely aware of the risks, especially since Hotch had mentioned that the BAU team was in the city for a case. Yet, the opportunity to close in on one of the circle's members was too critical to pass up.

Meanwhile, Spencer, his morning routine altered by a mundane decision to grab coffee, found himself halted mid-step. Across the crowded street, a familiar pattern of moles on the skin of a seemingly random passerby caught his eye. His heart raced, his mind refusing to accept the ghostly possibility. Shaken to his core, he didn't head to the precinct as planned but instead found himself running back to the hotel, driven by a surge of hope and confusion.

Bursting through the hotel corridor, Spencer reached Emily's door, pounding on it with a desperation that bordered on panic. Emily, alarmed by the urgency, quickly opened the door.

"Spencer? Are you okay?" she asked, her concern deepening as she took in his pale, distraught appearance.

"I saw Y/N," Spencer managed to get out, his voice trembling.

Emily's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing as she struggled to maintain the facade. "No, you didn't, Spencer. That's impossible," she insisted, her voice steady but her insides churning.

"No!" Spencer's voice rose, too loud for the early hour, his agitation palpable. "It was her, I saw her moles."

"Spencer... we buried her. You were there," Emily tried to anchor him back to reality, her words heavy with shared grief.

At her words, Spencer's composure shattered completely. Tears streamed down his face as the weight of his grief, mingled with the surreal hope of what he thought he'd seen, overwhelmed him. Emily, her heart breaking for him, pulled him into her room and embraced him tightly, trying to offer comfort.

Inside, Emily felt like she was teetering on a precipice, the deceit weighing heavily on her conscience. Holding Spencer as he sobbed, she felt the acute sting of guilt—like the worst person, dead or alive, for keeping such a monumental secret from someone who was more like a brother to her. 

—

In the dimly lit motel room, the tension was palpable as you recounted the latest development in your covert mission to Emily. The stark, functional space was a far cry from the comforts of home, echoing the stark reality of the path you had chosen.

"I got him, that's four down," you stated, your voice devoid of emotion, focusing solely on the task at hand. "Em, he's gone," you announced, your tone cold, almost detached, as if to shield yourself from the gravity of your actions.

"Gone? Like, gone gone?" Emily's voice was tinged with caution, her words measured, probing the depths of what 'gone' really meant in this clandestine war you were waging.

"Gone," you reaffirmed, the finality in your voice leaving no room for ambiguity.

"Phew, okay. Don't ever tell Hotch that," Emily sighed, a mix of relief and concern flickering across her face as she paced the cramped confines of the room. Her hands settled on her hips, a gesture that spoke of her inner turmoil. "How many does that leave?"

"Three. I’m so close I can taste it," you replied, a fierce determination lighting your eyes. The end was in sight, but with each step forward, the lines of morality blurred further.

"Y/N... I want them put away, gone, whatever, as much as you, but I need you to think about what you’re doing. Please, let us arrest them," Emily implored, her voice heavy with the responsibility of her role both as your confidante and as an FBI agent.

"I didn’t kill anyone, Emily," you snapped back, frustration and fatigue bleeding into your words. "He’s gone, he can’t hurt us anymore. He's not dead."

"I don’t even want to know," she murmured, her voice low, resigned to the complexities of the situation. Emily knew better than to press further; the less she knew about the specifics, the better she could maintain her role within the BAU and support you from a distance. "Okay, who’s next? What’s the next move?"

The conversation shifted back to strategy, both of you aware that each decision, each action taken, drew you deeper into a web from which there might be no untangling. The mission to dismantle the network that had terrorized your life and threatened your loved ones was nearing its critical phase, and with Emily's reluctant support, you prepared to face what came next, each step forward shadowed by the potential costs of the choices you were making.

—

In the bustling heart of the BAU, the sudden exclamation from Penelope Garcia broke through the usual hum of focused activity, drawing everyone's attention toward her tech-laden sanctuary. Her screens flickered with streams of data, her fingers danced across the keyboard, and her eyes were locked onto a particular piece of information that had just surfaced.

"Hotch! I got something," Penelope called out, her voice a mixture of excitement and urgency, beckoning the team leader to her side.

Hotch, his expression instantly shifting to one of focused concern, made his way quickly to Garcia's station, the rest of the team's eyes following him. They gathered around, curious and anxious about the potential breakthrough.

Penelope pointed to a specific line highlighted on her screen. "This right here, this was one of Diane's contacts," she explained, her voice steady despite the rapid pace of her discovery. "He was seen here in DC."

The revelation sent a ripple of alertness through the room. This contact could be a significant link in unraveling the network behind the threats and possibly lead them closer to understanding the full scope of the conspiracy that had ensnared you.

"Good work, Garcia," Hotch commended, his eyes scanning the information displayed. "Do we have any current visuals or known associates in the area?"

Penelope quickly typed away, pulling up additional data. "Working on it now, sir," she replied, her concentration absolute as she sifted through security feeds and intelligence reports.

As Garcia continued her search, Hotch turned to the rest of the team. "This could be a major lead. I want everyone on this—start pulling together all we know about Diane’s operations and any other contacts that might connect back to this one. Spencer, I need you to help Garcia with the profiling aspects. We need to anticipate their next moves."

—

The operation at the abandoned military building, initiated by Garcia's crucial lead, was intense and fraught with danger. The structure, looming and dilapidated, its windows boarded and the facade scarred by the elements, was a fitting hideout for the remnants of the criminal network that had caused so much turmoil.

Derek Morgan, with his characteristic blend of bravado and precision, took point as the team approached the shadowed entrance. With a powerful kick, he sent the door crashing open, splinters flying, as he bellowed, "FBI! Hands where we can see them!"

The interior was chaos incarnate. The suspects, caught by surprise but desperate, reacted violently. Gunfire erupted almost immediately, echoing off the hollow walls, as the team took cover. Commands were shouted, and the sound of scrambling feet mixed with the sharp reports of gunfire. Despite the chaos, the BAU team's training and resolve shone through. They moved with practiced efficiency, their actions coordinated under Hotch's calm directives.

It wasn’t long before the situation was under control, with each member of the crime circle detained, their plans for escape foiled by the team's decisive intervention. However, amidst the takedown, Spencer Reid's actions stood out. His usual composure was replaced by a raw, almost visceral intensity. Observing from a distance, Hotch saw Spencer deliver a fierce blow to one of the suspects who had tried to fight back. It was uncharacteristic, a clear sign of the deep-seated anger and pain that Spencer had been harboring.

Hotch understood the cathartic nature of Spencer's reaction; he knew the young agent needed to vent the pent-up emotions that had been simmering ever since your supposed death. It was a moment of human frailty, one that Hotch knew he would address later in a private conversation to ensure it didn’t spiral into something more destructive.

As the dust settled and the suspects were secured, Hotch’s mind turned to the daunting task ahead. The team was unaware of the full scope of what you and he had orchestrated. The truth about your survival, hidden under layers of deceit and protective maneuvers, was going to surface, and Hotch was acutely aware that the revelation would not be received lightly. The trust they had in him, and potentially in you, would be tested.

He contemplated the right moment and the right words to use, knowing that the bond of the team, the very cohesion that made them effective, could be jeopardized by the forthcoming disclosure. Forgiveness, he knew, was not guaranteed, but necessary for healing. 

—

As Hotch and Emily prepared to meet with Spencer, the weight of what they were about to disclose hung heavily in the air. Choosing a neutral location, they rented a separate room in the motel you’d been staying in to ensure privacy for the sensitive conversation.

Upon Spencer's arrival, his knock was met with a quick response. "Spencer, come in," Hotch greeted, his voice betraying none of the apprehension he felt.

As Spencer entered the room, his eyes immediately found Emily seated casually on the bed. His mind raced through a myriad of possibilities, his initial confusion giving way to a fleeting, inappropriate guess at their intentions. However, as Emily gestured for him to take a seat, it became clear that the gravity of the situation was far from what his fleeting thoughts had entertained.

"Spencer, this is hard, but we have something we need to tell you," Emily began, her tone serious, cutting through any lingering misconceptions.

Hotch took over, his expression somber. "I need you to know, Spencer, that everything we did was for the protection of the team and all of our loved ones. And at the request of Y/N."

The mention of your name caused a visible reaction in Spencer. He stiffened, his face paling slightly as the name he'd mourned in silence was spoken aloud. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice tight with a mix of hope and rising anger.

"Y/N...she’s—she’s alive," Emily stated bluntly, her words deliberate.

"That's not funny," Spencer snapped, standing up quickly, his chair clattering to the floor. The suggestion seemed cruel, a twisted joke at his expense.

"Reid, it's not a joke," Hotch intervened firmly, stepping forward to emphasize the truth of their words. "She never died that day in the warehouse. She went into hiding."

Spencer's reaction was immediate and fierce. "You're telling me this now? After how long—how long have you both known about this?" His voice rose, a sharp edge of betrayal slicing through the thickening tension in the room.

"Spencer, please understand, we—" Emily tried to interject, her face a mask of sympathy and regret.

"No, don't 'Spencer, please' me, Emily!" Spencer cut her off, his voice laced with sarcasm and hurt. "You both lied to me. To all of us. How could you possibly justify that?"

Hotch met Spencer's gaze steadily, recognizing the pain and anger boiling over in the younger man. "It was Y/N's decision, to protect everyone. We were respecting her wishes, Spencer."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to accept that? That you all decided my mental and emotional torture was worth the cause?" Spencer's voice was cold, his usually warm eyes now sharp and accusing.

"We thought we were doing the right thing, Reid," Hotch replied, his voice even but firm. "I know it's hard, but she did it thinking of you, of all of us."

Spencer shook his head, his emotions a whirlwind of anger, relief, and unresolved grief. "Hard doesn’t even begin to cover it, Hotch. Not even close."

The room fell silent, the heavy truth settling around them like a shroud. His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tensed visibly as he stood towering over the small coffee table separating him from Emily and Hotch. His voice was sharp, laced with a bitter edge that neither of them had often heard before.

"This is some kind of sick test, right?" Spencer snapped, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You pull me in here, say something like that—"

"Spencer, please," Emily interjected, her voice steady but her eyes revealing the strain of the moment. "It's the truth. Y/N is alive. She's been in hiding. We couldn't tell you—"

"Couldn't tell me?" Spencer's laugh was hollow, humorless. "Or you chose not to tell me? Which one, Emily? Because last I checked, we're supposed to trust each other."

Hotch stood up, his presence a calming force in the room, though it did little to soothe Spencer's frayed nerves. "We did it to protect her and everyone else involved. It was Y/N's decision, and she specifically asked us to keep it from the team until it was absolutely safe. You of all people know the dangers that come with our line of work."

"That doesn't give you the right to lie to me, to us!" Spencer’s voice rose, a rare flash of anger crossing his normally composed demeanor. "To fake her death? Do you have any idea what that did to me? To all of us?"

"We understand it was hard, Spencer," Hotch said, his tone softening. "But we had no other choice. The threat was too great, and it still is. That's why we're telling you now—because we need you to understand and to help us finish this, the right way."

Spencer shook his head, his anger mingling with a resurgence of pain, the old wound torn open anew. "And you think just telling me this now makes it all okay? That it justifies everything?"

"It's not about justification," Emily added gently. "It's about trust, and yes, we're asking a lot of you. We're asking you to trust us now, after we've kept this from you. But we need you, Spencer. Y/N needs you."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Spencer's shoulders slumped slightly, the initial surge of anger giving way to a complex storm of relief, betrayal, and confusion. He sat back down slowly, his mind racing as he processed the enormity of what he'd just been told.

"I need to see her," Spencer said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "I need to hear this from her."

"And you will," Hotch assured him. “But right now, we just need to ensure it's completely safe—"

Hotch's assurance was cut short by Spencer's sharp retort, the anger and betrayal he felt boiling over. "No fucking buts," he seethed, each word dripping with venom.

"Spencer," Emily chided, taken aback not just by his tone but by the raw edge of his language.

"Emily," Spencer shot back mockingly, his patience frayed to its very ends. "Where is she? Take me now or accept my resignation from the BAU."

The room fell into a charged silence, Hotch and Emily exchanging a look that conveyed the gravity of Spencer's ultimatum. Hotch knew this was no idle threat; Spencer's entire demeanor screamed of a man pushed to his limits.

Understanding the stakes, Hotch pulled out his phone without breaking eye contact with Spencer. He quickly sent you a text, concise and to the point, indicating he was bringing Spencer to your location. Once the message was sent, he pocketed his phone and stood, gesturing toward the door with a nod.

"Come on then," Hotch said, his voice firm, as he led the way out of the room and down the breezeway.

The walk was tense, each step echoing hollowly in the corridor as Spencer followed, his mind racing with a tumult of emotions—anger, anticipation, confusion. What would he say? What would he do? The scenarios played out in his head in a relentless loop.

Finally, they arrived at your door. Hotch knocked, a formal, almost perfunctory sound against the heavy wood. Spencer held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, a mixture of dread and desperate hope coursing through him.

The door swung open slowly, revealing you standing there, alive, a sight that was both immensely relieving and incredibly infuriating to Spencer. For a moment, he could only stare, taking in the reality of you—so familiar yet so distant after everything that had transpired.

The moment was fraught with tension, a silent standoff as emotions swirled palpably in the air. Spencer's relief at seeing you alive was overshadowed by a barrage of questions and accusations, his previous affections now tangled with a sense of betrayal.

“Hi, Spence.”

The moment you spoke, a simple greeting barely above a whisper, the atmosphere thickened palpably. Spencer's gaze was intense as he took in your appearance, noting every change that the months of separation and stress had etched into your features. The person before him was both deeply familiar and unsettlingly altered. You looked worn, shadows beneath your eyes, and a tension in your posture that spoke volumes about the ordeal you had endured.

The sight of you, so changed yet still unmistakably you, ignited a complex torrent of emotions in Spencer. The pain of your loss, the relief of your presence, and the sharp sting of betrayal all collided in a devastating rush.

"Fuck you," he spat, the words harsh, laced with hurt and anger. Without another word, he turned sharply, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he stormed off, leaving the tension of the room to coil tighter in his wake.

Hotch, standing a few steps behind, remained silent, his expression grim. He understood the depth of Spencer's reaction, the relief and betrayal too potent to process in the heat of such a sudden reunion.

Emily, who had lingered by the doorway, gave you an apologetic look, her eyes conveying sympathy and concern. She knew the road to reconciliation, if it was even possible, would be long and fraught with emotional landmines.

As Spencer's retreating figure disappeared around the corner, the reality of the situation settled in. The revelation of your survival, meant to be a moment of shocking relief, had instead reopened wounds that had never fully healed.

—

Spencer's return to work was a study in silent turmoil. He moved through his days mechanically, engaging only when absolutely necessary and avoiding any unnecessary interaction, particularly with Hotch and Emily. The news of your survival and return had been a bombshell he was still struggling to process, and his feelings were a tangled mess of betrayal, anger, and an unwillingness to face the new reality that you were back, alive and in the same space as him.

When you officially returned to the BAU, the team's reactions were mixed. While betrayal hung heavy in the air, time and distance from the initial shock allowed some semblance of forgiveness to seep through the cracks of strained relationships. As you walked in, the emotions were palpable: hugs were exchanged, tears were shed, and in a moment of overwhelming emotion, Penelope, the heart of the team, slapped you, only to burst into tears and apologize profusely soon after. Despite the rocky reception, it was clear there was relief mingled with the hurt, a complex welcome back.

Observing your old desk, untouched and exactly as you left it, you couldn't help but express your surprise. "Wow, my desk hasn't been touched?" you remarked, a mix of nostalgia and sadness in your tone.

Derek chuckled sadly before responding, "Reid wouldn't let us move your things."

At Derek's words, Spencer, who had been passing by, couldn’t hold back his biting retort. "She was fucking dead, you can trash it all now for all I care," he spat venomously, his words laced with unresolved anger.

The harshness of his comment drew a heavy sigh from Hotch, who had been monitoring the team's dynamics closely. Knowing he needed to address Spencer's ongoing struggle, he called him into his office for a private conversation.

"Look, you don’t have to be okay with what happened, or forgive any of us," Hotch began, his voice steady yet empathetic, understanding the depth of Spencer's pain. "But you do have to be professional. We're a team, and we need to function as one, regardless of personal feelings."

Spencer, standing rigidly across from Hotch, his jaw set and his eyes cold, listened without responding. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the deceit, sorrow for the past, and a grudging acknowledgement of Hotch’s words. 

—

Your first week back at the BAU was a tightrope walk of navigating old connections and mending frayed bonds. By the end of it, you realized a conversation with Spencer was inevitable and necessary. The tension had been palpable, and his avoidance was a clear sign of unresolved issues between you two. With a tentative breath, you approached him, your voice carrying a mix of hesitation and resolve.

"Spencer… hi, I just have a quick question," you started, trying to keep your tone neutral.

"What?" His response was curt, clipped with an edge that made you flinch slightly, though you weren't entirely surprised.

"Um, well all of my things are still at the apartment. I guess I was wondering if I could come get them? Or I could have movers do it, I—I found an apartment," you explained, the words tumbling out more quickly than you intended.

Spencer's reaction was immediate, his stomach twisting painfully at the implication of your words. "You’re—you’re not going to live with me anymore?"

"I didn’t—I didn’t think you would want me to," you replied softly, the hesistence evident in your voice.

"Of course I want you to, I mean, Jesus Christ, I don't know. Maybe you're right, maybe I don’t," Spencer confessed, his emotions raw and conflicted.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself for the conversation that needed to happen. "I think we need to talk about more than living arrangements…"

"No shit, Y/N." Spencer's reply was deadpan, his frustration boiling over. "You can come home tonight, for a bit."

"Okay, okay. Of course. I'll see you at, let's say 7?" you proposed, hoping to set a definite time for what would undoubtedly be a difficult discussion.

"Yeah," he agreed, albeit tersely.

As Spencer turned to walk away, not wanting to extend the conversation any longer than necessary, Emily, who had overheard the exchange, called out to him. "Reid!" She jogged to catch up to him at the elevators, but he ignored her initial call.

"Spencer," she tried again, her tone pleading, "please."

"What, Prentiss?" he snapped, his use of her last name marking a clear sign of his irritation and distancing.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and—and I hope tonight goes well," Emily offered, her apology sincere, though it did little to soften Spencer's demeanor.

"Hey, maybe don’t fucking eavesdrop and focus on not being a shitty friend instead?" Spencer retorted sharply, his words cutting through the air like a knife. He didn't wait for her response, stepping into the elevator and disappearing from view, leaving Emily standing in the hallway, her expression one of regret and concern.

The elevator doors closed on Spencer, encapsulating him in his turmoil, a storm of anger, betrayal, and lingering affection swirling chaotically within him. Tonight’s conversation would be a turning point, one way or another.

—

At precisely seven in the evening, you stood outside the apartment that had once felt like a sanctuary, a place filled with love and shared secrets. Now, it held a different energy, charged with tension and unresolved conflicts. Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door, bracing yourself for the conversation ahead.

Spencer opened the door swiftly, his expression unreadable. He stepped aside to let you in, his movements precise, controlled. "Before you say it again, no, nothing has been touched," he stated right away, his tone a mixture of resignation and bitterness.

You nodded, taking in the familiar surroundings that now seemed somewhat foreign. "It looks nice, I missed being here," you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

"Yeah, well I missed you being alive, and now I miss when you didn't lie to me and fake your death!" Spencer retorted with mock enthusiasm, his words sharp, each one landing like a blow.

You couldn’t help but wince slightly at his tone, the raw edge in his voice a clear reflection of the pain he felt. "You got me there," you admitted with a sad chuckle, acknowledging his anger and the legitimacy of his feelings. "Can I explain why I did it?"

"You better," he responded tersely, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall, his posture defensive yet expectant.

With a heavy sigh, you began to unravel the story, the words heavy with the weight of the decisions you had made. "When the threats started coming in, they weren't just directed at me—they were aimed at everyone I care about, including you. The people we were up against... they made it clear they wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted. I couldn't risk your safety, or the team's."

You paused, the heaviness of the moment settling around you as you searched Spencer's face for any sign of softening, any hint that he might understand the depth of the desperation that had driven your actions. 

"They, um, they got to Sam,” you managed to say, your voice breaking into a sniffle. Sam had been your closest confidant, a spy much like Emily once was—a detail Spencer was unaware of, which fueled a fresh wave of anger within him. 

The revelation that there were still secrets kept from him, critical pieces of your life and decisions made without his knowledge, stirred a renewed turmoil in Spencer. His brow furrowed deeper, confusion and betrayal etching his features as he processed the new information.

You drew a deep breath, steadying yourself as you pieced together the narrative that had dictated your life for the past tumultuous months. "Sam was highly trained, I think they went for them first to show how serious they were. I knew if they started there, it wouldn’t be long before they got to my family, or you. And the thought of losing you was more than I could bear."

The words hung heavily in the air, laden with the gravity of the choices you had faced, each decision infused with a desperate instinct to protect.

"I thought by faking my death, by disappearing, it would draw their focus away from you, from everyone. It was supposed to be temporary, just until we could neutralize the threat," you explained further, your voice thick with emotion and regret. Each word was a plea for understanding, a bridge you hoped would span the chasm of hurt and betrayal that had opened between you and Spencer.

The room felt smaller, the air between you charged with tension and unspoken questions as you awaited his response, hoping for understanding, yet bracing for further backlash. 

"It was the hardest decision I've ever made," you continued, your voice faltering slightly. "Leaving you, lying to you... it went against everything I believed in. But I did it because I believed it was the only way to keep you safe. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now how much hurt it caused."

The room was thick with emotion, the air charged with the weight of revelations. Spencer pushed off from the wall, his movements slow as he approached you. The distance between you felt immense, filled with months of pain and separation.

Spencer's anger, simmering just beneath the surface, erupted as he struggled to reconcile your reasons with his own harrowing experience. 

"Let me get this straight…” he seethed, his words laced with a palpable bitterness. “You faked your death, let me believe I lost you because you couldn't stand the thought of losing me? That sounds a bit fucking selfish, now doesn't it?"

You tried to interject, to explain further, but Spencer was relentless, his pain turning his usual precise speech into a torrent of raw emotion. "Spen—"

“Why was watching you die supposed to be better for me?” he cut in sharply, not allowing you to get a word in edgewise.

“I—I,” you stuttered, floundering under the intensity of his gaze and the force of his anger.

“I—I, nothing. Because it wasn’t. I mourned, grieved, suffered. I watched. You. Die.” His words were punctuated, each sentence a hammer strike, his voice rising with each syllable, expressing the depth of his anguish.

Seeing Spencer in such raw, unguarded turmoil was a stark deviation from the composed, analytical person you knew. The pain etched across his features, the fury in his voice—it was all too much, a vivid portrayal of the deep scars your actions had left on him.

"I'm so sorry, bug," you murmured instinctively, using the affectionate nickname that had always been reserved for softer, happier times.

"Don't!" he exploded, his voice filling the space between you with a harsh, jarring intensity. His next word was softer, but no less intense, "don't," he repeated, the anger subsiding into a plea.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, it slipped out," you quickly apologized, realizing too late the mistake of using such a personal term in such a fraught moment.

Spencer stepped back, putting physical distance between you as if the space could help shield him from the emotional barrage. His next question was quieter, vulnerable, "Did you think about me? At all?"

The simplicity of the question, asked with such genuine uncertainty, twisted at your heart. "Spencer... every single day," you responded, your voice thick with emotion. "The thought of getting back to you was the only thing keeping me going."

"Don't you dare say that to me," he snapped, turning his back to you abruptly, a clear signal of his overwhelming feelings of hurt and betrayal. His body language closed off any further attempts at consolation or explanation.

You stood there, helpless, watching his shoulders tense as he wrestled with the revelations and his own feelings. The divide between what you had intended with your actions and how they had devastated him was now painfully clear. This conversation, necessary as it was, had unearthed a torrent of pain and resentment that wouldn't easily be soothed.

"Where do we go from here?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper, almost drowned out by the gravity of the moment.

Spencer paused in his pacing, a physical manifestation of his inner unrest, and faced you. "I don't know, I'm really, really fucking mad at you," he admitted bluntly, his voice a raw edge of honesty that cut through the tense air.

You nodded, accepting his anger as just and warranted. "I know," you replied softly.

"I’m mad at Hotch and Emily too, and it’s your fault," Spencer continued, his frustration spreading outward, casting a wider net of blame.

"Don't be mad at them, please. They were just helping me," you tried to explain, hoping to shield your friends from his anger.

"And lying to me! God, Y/N, I buried you, I gave a eulogy!" His voice rose, the pain evident in his exclamation, each word underscored by a memory of grief.

Your heart ached anew, the sorrow palpable. "Oh, Spencer, that must have been so hard," you murmured, your voice tinged with genuine remorse.

"Were you there?" he suddenly asked, a sharp turn in the conversation that caught you off guard.

"What?" you were taken aback, not fully grasping his meaning at first.

He fixed his gaze on you again, intensifying. "Were you at the funeral? Hiding somewhere? Did you have to listen?" he demanded, his inquiry sharp, seeking uncomfortable truths.

"No... I wasn’t there," you responded quietly, the truth laying bare another layer of separation between what he had experienced and what you had chosen.

Without another word, Spencer turned abruptly and stormed off towards his office, leaving you frozen in place, rooted by fear and regret. Moments later, he returned, holding a piece of paper — his eulogy, written for a ghost. "Allow me to share," he spoke cruelly, the words dripping with bitterness.

He thrust the paper into your hands, his eyes not leaving yours, challenging, daring you to read the words he had prepared to say over what he believed was your final resting place. The paper trembled in your grip, each word a testament to his grief and the depth of his betrayal.

“I mourned someone who was alive, who had decided that faking her death was better than trusting the people who loved her,” Spencer simmered, his voice sharp as a blade. 

You looked down at the eulogy, the words blurring as tears welled up in your eyes. “Spencer, I...”

“No,” he cut you off sharply, stepping back. “You chose this path. You chose silence and deception. How am I supposed to move past that? How are any of us? You can at the very least read what I felt, I hope it hurts.”

The room felt suffocatingly small as the reality of what had been broken between you settled in. Spencer’s words were a clear signal of the chasm that had formed, a divide possibly too wide to bridge. He had shared his pain in the most tangible way, leaving you to grapple with the enormity of the hurt you had caused.

As he turned back to his office, leaving you standing there with the eulogy in hand, the silence that followed was a painful reminder of all that had been lost and the long, uncertain road ahead if there was ever to be reconciliation.

—

When Great Trees Fall

Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance, fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of

dark, cold

caves.

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.

—

Reading Spencer's eulogy, filled with such heartfelt pain and profound love, shattered the last defenses around your heart. It was as though all the sorrow you'd held at bay came crashing down, overwhelming you with a grief so intense it felt physical. His words, "I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," echoed in your mind, each syllable a poignant reminder of what had been lost between you two. The emotional weight was nearly unbearable, leaving you feeling as if death, the one you had faked to protect him, was now clutching at your soul for real.

Once you managed to gather yourself, a semblance of composure clinging by a thread, you dragged your feet to Spencer's office. The door was open, and you paused at the frame, leaning heavily against it. When Spencer looked up and saw the raw anguish on your face, his heart constricted with conflicting emotions. On one hand, seeing you so broken stirred a vindictive satisfaction within him; on the other, it tore at him, hating to see the woman he loved in such profound despair.

"Did you read it all?" Spencer's voice was soft, cautious as he watched you struggle with your emotions.

You nodded, barely managing to keep the sobs at bay. Speaking was beyond your capability at that moment; even breathing felt like a chore.

Spencer observed you with a complexity of feelings churning inside him. "You loved Maya Angelou," he started, his voice trailing off a bit, "but you didn’t like that poem, it made you sad." 

You sniffled, wrapping your arms around yourself, a meager attempt to find some solace in the hold of your own embrace.

"Y/N…this isn’t forgiveness, but—" Spencer hesitated, his offer hanging in the air, "—do you need a hug?"

Your response was immediate and desperate, "Oh god, please," you sobbed out, rushing into his lap. The physical proximity to Spencer, once so normal and now so charged, brought a rush of comfort and more tears.

You curled into him, your arms around his shoulders, your face buried in his neck, and your body fitting into his lap as if molded to be there. Spencer, after a brief moment of hesitation, wrapped his arms around you as well. One hand gently stroked your hair while the other soothingly scratched your back. He couldn’t help but inhale deeply; you smelled different, tainted by the generic scents of motel life, yet underneath it all was your natural scent—a reminder of countless shared moments, grounding him even in the midst of turmoil.

In that embrace, a silent acknowledgment passed between you both. This wasn’t reconciliation, nor was it forgiveness, not yet. It was a moment of mutual need, a complex dance of grief, love, and countless unspoken words, each seeking solace in the simple presence of the other amidst the chaos of emotions unleashed by your return and the revelations that followed.

—

After the intensity of the emotions shared in that long, clinging hug, a tangible shift occurred between you and Spencer. As the wave of your sobs finally subsided, Spencer, with a gentle firmness, eased you from his lap. It was clear he needed some space, a moment to gather his own scattered emotions, and you understood immediately. The depth of what had transpired, the shared physical comfort, had been a momentary reprieve in the storm, not a resolution. With a heavy heart and tear-stained cheeks, you whispered a tearful goodbye, preparing to leave, feeling the ache of separation anew.

As you reached the door, Spencer's voice stopped you. It was hesitant, filled with a vulnerability you hadn't heard in a long time. "Don’t move into an apartment, I want to try," he said, his words tentative yet filled with a profound significance.

You turned around, gasping slightly at the implication of his words. There was hope there, a delicate thread of possibility that perhaps not all was lost between you two. His statement, simple yet heavy with meaning, suggested a willingness to mend the fractures, to rebuild from the debris of heartache and deception. You nodded, unable to form words, your heart swelling with a mix of relief and cautious optimism.

Feeling a sense of hope for the first time in over a year, you left Spencer’s apartment with a sense of hope. Spencer’s words echoed in your mind, a promise of potential reconciliation and healing. The journey ahead would undoubtedly be fraught with challenges, but the mere possibility of trying, of working through the layers of hurt and betrayal together, was a balm to your bruised heart.

—

The situation was precarious. The joy of knowing you were alive was shadowed by a chaos of emotions Spencer couldn't neatly categorize or understand, and in a moment of weakness, he turned to the one thing he had avoided for years—alcohol. The few bottles you had left behind became his solace for the evening, a poor substitute for dealing with the whirlwind inside him.

When his call came through in the middle of the night, your heart skipped a beat at the sound of the special ringtone you had set for him—a signal of the deep bond you still shared despite everything.

“Hello? Spencer? What's going on?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep and concern.

“Y/N!! What's up?” Spencer's voice was unusually buoyant, slurred with the unmistakable tinge of inebriation.

“I'm sleeping, bug. Are you drunk?” your words were tinged with worry, not just for his state of intoxication but for the underlying turmoil that must have driven him to it.

“Bug,” he giggled, a sound so out of character that it tugged at your heartstrings. “Why do you call me that? Do I look like a bug? You look like an angel, you almost were an angel.”

The mix of humor and pain in his voice was disconcerting. “Spencer…” you began, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters.

“Did you know I almost called my old dealer? I wanted to forget so bad, your death made me want to do drugs. Isn’t that crazy?” His tone was light, almost flippant, but the words struck a deep, alarming chord.

Hearing him so vulnerable and on the edge, you knew you had to act. “Spencer, bug, I'm going to come over, okay? Are you home?” you asked, already pulling on your clothes, preparing to head out.

Spencer laughed, a sound that was more unnerving than reassuring. “Duh, love!”

“I’ll be there in 15,” you assured him, your voice firm, trying to convey both your love and your resolve.

“Make sure you aren't wearing anything!” he called out just as you were about to hang up, his judgment clearly impaired.

Ignoring his inappropriate comment, you quickly gathered your things. The drive over was tense, your mind racing with worry about what state you'd find him in and how you could help steer him back from the brink. This was a Spencer you hadn't seen before—raw, unraveling, and dangerously close to old demons. 

—

As you stood outside Spencer's apartment, your concern heightened by the minute, you called out softly yet urgently, "Spencer! Open up, please!" It was late, and your voice was hushed to avoid waking the neighbors, but the silence from inside the apartment only fueled your worry.

When there was no response, you swiftly used your old key, the one you'd luckily thought to bring, anticipating a situation like this might arise. Pushing the door open, you stepped quickly inside, scanning the apartment for any sign of Spencer.

You found him in the bathroom, a heart-wrenching sight: curled over the toilet, visibly shaken and unwell. "Oh, baby," you murmured as you knelt beside him, "I'm here, do you need anything?"

"I need you," he sobbed through gags, his voice desperate and raw.

"I'm here, Spence. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," you reassured him, rubbing his back gently as he heaved, trying to soothe him with your presence and touch.

Once the worst of his nausea had passed, you helped Spencer to his feet and supported him as you both made your way to the bedroom—what had once been your shared space. You carefully propped him up with pillows and fetched him a glass of water.

"Drink," you instructed gently, raising the glass to his lips. He complied, taking large gulps of water, his actions still a bit clumsy from intoxication. "How much did you drink?"

"Your wine," he mumbled, leaning forward to rest his head against your chest, seeking comfort in your closeness.

"How many bottles?" you pressed, trying to assess just how much alcohol he had consumed.

"Two," he admitted, his voice muffled against you.

"Oh, Spencer…why?" you asked softly, concern and sadness threading through your words.

"I miss you...but you're right here." His words were a poignant reflection of his struggle to reconcile the you he had lost with the you who was now before him. "It’s like...I can't put together the you that's sitting here," he continued, taking a deep, shuddering breath, "and the you I watched die. How did you not die?"

You began to scratch his hair gently, a familiar gesture that always soothed him. "Let's not talk about that right now," you suggested with a soft smile, wanting to keep the mood light and focused on his immediate comfort.

He huffed a bit childishly, the alcohol still loosening his inhibitions. "Okay. Can you get naked then?" he asked, half-serious.

"Spencer!" you laughed, both amused and a bit shocked by his bluntness.

"What? It’s been a long time, a guy's got needs," he retorted, his tone playful yet earnest, clearly still under the influence. Your laughter filled the room, a light moment amidst the heavy emotional backdrop. 

Spencer's playful inquiries, despite his inebriated state, lightened the mood, and you couldn't help but respond with warmth and amusement. His words, though tinted with alcohol's bluntness, reminded you of the intimacy that had once defined your relationship. 

"Okay big boy, how’s this, I’ll spend the night, and you can ask me in the morning?" you suggested softly, your smile attempting to bridge the gap between comfort and the promise of discussing things more seriously once he was sober.

"Mmm, I like it when you call me big boy... Are you going to sleep in our bed?" Spencer's voice held a hint of hope, his earlier flirtatiousness blending with a genuine desire for closeness.

"Yeah, Spence, I can," you affirmed, committing to staying close, to help anchor him through the night's emotional turbulence.

"Naked?" he ventured again, half-teasing, half-serious.

"Spencer!" you laughed even harder, shaking your head at his persistence. 

Your laughter, mixed with gentle chiding, reminded both of you of the deeper connection that still lingered, resilient despite the trials. As the night settled around you, the decision to stay seemed to offer a tentative step towards reconciliation, a quiet acknowledgment of the unresolved feelings and the potential for healing that lay ahead.

—

Spencer lay awake for a few moments before you stirred, soaking in the reality of having you beside him once again. The complexity of the past year's events seemed to blur at the edges as he focused on the simple, profound comfort of your presence. As he gently brushed your hair away from your face, he was struck by a wave of affection and longing that had been suppressed under layers of grief and anger.

When you murmured his name, his heart swelled. "Good morning, my love," he whispered back, his voice low and filled with emotion.

Snuggling closer to him, you found solace in the warmth of his chest, a familiar haven that felt both nostalgic and right. "Morning, you feel so good," you mumbled, the words muffled against his skin, conveying more than just physical comfort—they hinted at the deep emotional connection that neither time nor circumstances had been able to erase.

"Yeah?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest, a soft rumble of contentment that you felt more than heard.

You nodded, pressing a little more firmly into him, affirming your shared comfort. "Best pillow in the world," you declared, your voice a sleepy murmur of contentment as you pressed a kiss above his heart. 

Your playful banter brought a lightheartedness that the room hadn't felt in a long time, lightening the weight of the past's shadows that had settled between you. Spencer’s heart lifted with every laugh and every teasing remark, feeling more like himself than he had in months.

“Thank you for coming over last night,” he said, his voice soft with genuine gratitude, feeling the echo of your kiss still warming his chest.

“Of course, bug. How are you feeling now?” you asked, your concern for his well-being shining through despite the jokes.

“Not great, definitely need some water, and a warm bath,” he admitted, rubbing his temples lightly.

“This isn’t another ploy to get me naked, is it?” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Spencer tensed for a moment, a flush of embarrassment coloring his face. “Oh god, I did that, didn’t I?”

“You did, but it’s okay. I’d say we’re even, but I’ll let you tease me for two years,” you replied, your smile broadening as you looked up at him, inviting a lightness back into the moment.

He sighed, half in exasperation, half in amusement. “Three years and you’re taking the trash out for the next month,” he countered, trying to maintain a semblance of negotiation despite the smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” you sat up abruptly, feigning shock but quickly breaking into laughter.

Spencer laughed too, a sound so warm and genuine it filled the room with an ease that had been missing. “I told you I want to try, I meant it.”

“So, I can live here again?” you asked, the question loaded with more than just the inquiry about moving back in; it was about rebuilding, about truly coming home.

“Do you want to?” Spencer asked, his voice tinged with a nervous hope, his eyes searching yours for an affirmation.

You leaned forward and kissed him, a soft, meaningful gesture that spoke volumes. Your hands caressed his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. His hands responded instinctively, pulling you closer, securing you atop him in a gesture that reaffirmed his need for your presence.

“Is that a yes?” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and inviting.

“Yes, now can we make up for lost time? I heard a man has needs,” you whispered back, your voice playful yet thick with emotion.

Spencer’s response was a low chuckle, his arms tightening around you as he rolled, reversing your positions with a gentle but firm maneuver that spoke of his longing and the desire to reclaim the time and intimacy lost. The morning light, the soft sheets, and the rediscovery of each other's touch warming the pit of your stomach.

“Is that a gun in your pajamas or are you just happy to see me?” you smirked, teasing him playfully.

“It’s the morning, but I’m happy to see you, all of me is,” Spencer replied with a low, seductive tone, leaning down to gently bite your lip in a playful yet intimate gesture.

You gasped, delighted by the escalation, and put your hands on Spencer’s ass, pulling him closer into you. Spencer's lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, his kisses light yet purposeful, tracing a path that sent shivers down your spine. 

"You know," he murmured against your skin, his hands deftly and gently lifting the bottom of your top to remove it fully, "I've thought about this, about you, about us, every day."

Your response was a breathless laugh, tinged with the weight of everything unsaid, everything you'd both been through. "And here I was thinking you might have forgotten me," you teased, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

Spencer chuckled, the sound warm and rich, vibrating against your skin. "Forget you? Impossible. And God, you’re just as beautiful as I remember." His hands continued their gentle exploration, reaffirming his familiarity with you as he groped your breasts, twisting your nipples between his fingers. Each touch was reverent, as if he was memorizing you all over again.

The air between you grew warmer as you twisted and groaned, the morning light casting dancing shadows across the room as you moved together. Spencer leaned down then taking your nipple between his teeth and tugging, just how you liked. Your back arched, pulling on his hair harder and making him groan. 

"Is this how you always greet people in the morning?" you whined, choking out the words as Spencer’s hands found the hem of your pants, pausing as if asking for permission without words.

"Only the ones I love," he replied seriously, looking into your eyes with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. With a slow nod from you, the fabric slipped away, forgotten on the floor.

As Spencer’s exploration continued, his fingers danced across the fabric of your underwear, tracing the edges with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity in his eyes.

"You make it hard to stay mad at you," Spencer whispered, his voice low and husky with emotion. His fingertips brushed lightly over the delicate fabric, sending a shiver through your body. His touch was gentle as he familiarized himself with your core, as if rediscovering something precious that he thought he'd lost forever.

You responded with a soft moan, encouraging him with a slight arch of your back, pressing closer into his touch. "Maybe we should focus on making up for lost time instead of remembering," you suggested, your breath catching as his fingers pressed on your clit through the fabric with more confidence, his touch growing bolder.

Spencer smiled against your skin, his breath warm on your neck. "I like the way you think," he murmured, his hands gliding around to the small of your back, his fingers deftly and carefully making their way under the elastic. The slight tension of anticipation was palpable, your breaths mingling, quick and shallow.

As the last barriers of fabric were gently removed, you felt so vulnerable “Spence, bug, baby…can you please–,” you cut off with a moan as Spencer rubbed direct circles on your clit now. “Take off your pants, please. Want to see you.”

Spencer responded immediately to the soft urgency in your voice, the intimacy of the moment enveloping you both. There was a pause in his movements, a brief moment where his eyes locked onto yours the intensity of his gaze was a silent promise, reassuring and raw.

"Of course," he whispered back, his voice slightly rough with emotion. With a nod, he pulled back just enough to comply with your request. The sound of fabric sliding over skin mixed with the quiet breaths that filled the room. Soon, Spencer laid back on top of you, the last remnants of clothing discarded, his vulnerability matching yours.

The sight of him, bare and unguarded, reignited a familiar warmth that spread through your chest, an ache of longing and love that had been tempered by time and trials. As he returned to you, the space between you charged with anticipation, your hands reached out, tracing the lines and contours of his body that you had memorized long ago but felt like you were discovering all over again.

Spencer's hand resumed its place at your core, slipping a finger inside of you, his touch sending shivers across your skin. His movements were perfectly calculated, exactly what you needed, he knew how to play your body like an instrument. As he curled his long finger inside you, it brushed that sweet spot deep inside your walls, causing a deep whine to spill from your parted lips.

"Spencer!" His name was a plea, an acknowledgment, your voice carried through the quiet room, a mix of delight and affection. 

Moved by the desire to reciprocate the overwhelming sensations, you reached down, intent on giving Spencer the same pleasure he was giving you. But Spencer, aware of his own limits after such a long separation, gently caught your hand as you grabbed his cock under the sheets.

"Oh, my love, darling, no. It will be over too soon if you do that, it’s been too long," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly with need and restraint. The sincerity in his plea, the raw admission of his vulnerability, made you pause, a giggle escaping you despite the intensity of the moment.

"That’s kind of sweet—OH," your words cut off abruptly as Spencer added another finger, allowing his palm to catch on your clit as he increased the pace, pounding into you. “Fuck! Fuck, oh my God, Spencer!” You cried, arching further than you thought possible.

Spencer's movements became faster if possible, trying to bring you to orgasm, not knowing if he’d last long enough once he was inside you. 

"That's the spot, darling?" His voice was a low hum, filled with both satisfaction and anticipation as he sensed your approaching climax.

Unable to form coherent words, you simply nodded, the overwhelming sensations rendering you speechless. His chuckle was low and resonant, adding another layer of intimacy to the moment. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, a thrilling contrast to the warmth of your shared skin.

"Are you going to finish for me, love?" His words were both a question and a gentle command, spoken softly yet with an undeniable intensity that urged you closer to the edge.

His presence, so close and so attuned to your needs, enveloped you in a sense of complete trust and surrender. As you approached the brink, the world narrowed down to the here and now—the feel of Spencer, the sound of his voice, and the gushing of your core around his fingers.

“Fuck! I love you!” you screamed

Spencer slowed his motions, letting you calm down from your high. The intensity in his eyes softened as he processed your heartfelt declaration. The room was thick with emotion, tangible and raw.

"You love me?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, vulnerability lacing his tone. It was clear he needed to hear your words again, to believe them fully in the context of everything that had happened.

"What?" You were still coming down from the intense high, your mind a bit hazy, but his question drew you back sharply to the moment.

"You said you love me, is that true? You mean it? Still?" His questions tumbled out, each one underscored by a yearning for reassurance.

"Spencer Walter Reid," you said, propping yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze more directly. The use of his full name was both a playful and earnest touch. "I love you right now more than I loved you yesterday, and I'll love you more tomorrow than I do today."

His expression flickered with relief and lingering doubt. "What about a year ago?"

"I love you a year's worth more," you responded firmly, your voice steady and sure. 

The simplicity and depth of your words seemed to reach him, a visible relaxation in his posture as if a weight he'd been carrying was lessening. There was a long pause, a silent communication as you both lay there, the emotional distance narrowing as understanding and love filled the gaps.

Spencer's response was a tender whisper, "I love you too," filled with relief and affection. He leaned up to kiss you deeply, a kiss that spoke of reunions, healing, and promises. It was a moment of pure connection, a reaffirmation of everything you meant to each other.

Breaking the kiss, you looked into his eyes, the playful sparkle returning to your own. "Spence?"

"Yes, love?" His reply was soft, the term of endearment slipping out naturally, a sweet note in the quiet of the room.

"Can we have sex now?" You mumbled out shyly, with a silly smile.

"Yes, love," he laughed, the sound rich and joyful, dispelling any remaining tension. 

As Spencer leaned in to kiss you once again, the connection deepened with a palpable intimacy that seemed to resonate through the room. Each kiss was a deliberate exploration, his hands moved with a familiar reverence, tracing the contours of your body with a gentleness that spoke of profound love and respect.

The softness of your skin under his fingertips felt like the finest silk, each touch igniting sparks that seemed to travel through every nerve, awakening a hunger that had been suppressed by the pain and separation of the past months. Your responses to his touches, the soft moans and gentle sighs, encouraged him further, each sound a melody that he had longed to hear.

Your hands were not passive; they roamed across his back, feeling the muscles tense and relax under your touch, a silent dialogue of push and pull that drew you ever closer. The warmth of his body against yours felt like a balm, soothing away the remnants of any lingering pain, the physical closeness helping to heal the emotional scars.

As the pace of your heartbeats quickened, so did the rhythm of your movements together. Each motion was synchronized, a dance refined by years of intimacy and renewed in this moment of reunion. The emotional intensity of the connection made every touch, every kiss, feel more profound, filling the room with an energy that was as nourishing as it was exhilarating.

Lying there with Spencer, wrapped in his arms as the early morning light began to fill the room, you felt a peace that had been elusive for too long. It was as if each ray of sunlight was blessing your reunion, affirming the rightness of your being together. In these quiet moments, tangled in sheets and each other's arms, the world outside didn't matter. What mattered was the love that had survived the greatest test, emerging not just intact but stronger, a testament to both your resilience and the depth of your bond.

—

“What happened to all of my coffee?” You teased, turning around with the mostly empty canister in hand.

Spencer's response to your playful accusation about the coffee was met with an equally light-hearted rebuttal. "Okay first, it's stale," he quipped, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes in mock indignation, holding up the nearly empty canister. "Then why didn't you throw it out?" you challenged, enjoying the back-and-forth that felt so natural, so reminiscent of easier times.

"I could never throw anything of yours away," Spencer replied, his tone shifting to something more sincere, the levity fading into a genuine expression of his feelings.

"Spence, that is so sweet, baby," you said, walking over to him and cupping his cheek in your hand, touched by his sentimentality. "But I hope you threw away my lettuce, I know it wilted and I know you hate it."

He scoffed, a playful look returning to his eyes. "I do not hate lettuce, it just has no flavor!"

"You put it in salads and put dressings on it!" you countered, emphasizing the normal use of lettuce in a way that made him chuckle.

"Well, if you make it, I’ll eat it," he conceded, his tone softening as he looked at you, appreciating the lightness of your banter.

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a more seductive whisper, trailing a nail down his chest suggestively. "As long as I can eat you," you teased, watching his reaction closely.

Spencer groaned and laughed simultaneously, a sound that was music to your ears. "I forgot how insatiable you are," he admitted, his eyes alight with amusement and something more—anticipation.

"Oh baby, you have no idea what's coming your way," you continued, your tone playful yet promising as you caught his nipple with your nail, eliciting a sharp gasp from him. "You didn't think you could get that haircut, put on this muscle, and I wouldn’t want to jump your bones?" 

—

Walking into work hand in hand with Spencer, you both presented a united front that hadn’t been seen in a long time. The sight was indeed refreshing and brought a hopeful buzz to the team, who had been through so much uncertainty regarding the two of you.

Derek leaned back in his chair as you passed by. “Pretty boy, you forgive little miss?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, a hint of his usual teasing tone laced with genuine curiosity about the status of your relationship.

Spencer, without missing a beat and squeezing your hand slightly, replied with false seriousness, “No, just leading her on,” his eyes twinkling with mischief as he played along with Derek’s banter.

“Oh perfect,” Emily laughed from her desk nearby, relief evident in her voice. She caught your eye, giving you a small, hopeful smile, her own guilt and desire for forgiveness palpable. Her comment, though light-hearted, carried an undercurrent of hope that Spencer’s playful demeanor might be a good sign for their own reconciliation.

Spencer's smirk grew wider at Emily's response, and he gave a playful nod, “Yeah, she doesnt know though, can you keep a secret?”

"I think you know I can," Emily had said, her laugh echoing.

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

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[etrnvl]

❝ MY QUiRK ❞

° . ˚ ⵌ ٠ ᭡ Quirk: Air manipulation

Yuki's quirk allows him to manipulate and control air currents. He can create powerful gusts of wind, form protective barriers, and even fly by riding the air currents. His control over air pressure also enables him to create vacuum zones or compress air to launch high-speed projectiles

୨୧ Applications ★ ̟ !!

Wind Manipulation: How It Works: Yuki can sense and control air currents around him. By focusing his energy and using specific gestures, he can direct the flow of wind to create gusts, breezes, or even powerful blasts.

Flight: How It Works: Yuki harnesses the wind beneath his wings or around his body to lift himself off the ground. He can adjust the intensity and direction of the wind to maneuver through the air with precision.

Air Shield: How It Works: Yuki can create a barrier of swirling air around himself or others by focusing his energy and manipulating the air currents to form a protective shield.

Weather Influence: How It Works: Yuki can subtly alter weather patterns by influencing the movement of air masses. This requires a deep connection with the natural elements and a calm, focused mind.

Sound Amplification: How It Works: By fine-tuning the airwaves, Aero can enhance or dampen sounds. This involves precise control over the density and movement of air

Healing Winds: How It Works: Aero can channel soothing, gentle breezes that have a calming and healing effect. This requires a peaceful state of mind and a nurturing intent.

Air Cushion: How It Works: Aero can create cushions of air to catch falling individuals or lift heavy objects by concentrating on the air pressure and density in a specific area.

Stealth Movement: How It Works: By manipulating air currents around his body, Aero can move silently and remain undetected. This involves minimizing air resistance and sound waves.

୨୧ Strengths ★ ̟ !!

High Mobility: Exceptional speed and agility in the air.

Versatile Defense: Can create barriers and shields to protect against attacks.

Stealth: Ability to move silently and remain undetected by manipulating air currents.

Enhanced Senses: Heightened awareness of changes in the environment.

Weather Control: Minor influence over weather.

Sound Manipulation: Can amplify or mute sounds by controlling airwaves.

Environmental Adaptability: Thrives in various natural environments, especially open spaces.

Rescue Abilities: Can create air cushions to save falling individuals or lift debris.

୨୧ Weaknesses ★ ̟ !!

Energy Drain: Extensive use of his powers can quickly deplete Yuki's energy, leaving him vulnerable and exhausted.

Emotional Instability: His powers can be influenced by his emotional state, leading to unpredictable outcomes if he is stressed or upset.

Weather Sensitivity: Extreme weather conditions, such as heavy storms or intense heat, can disrupt Yuki's control over his abilities.

Dependency on Natural Elements: Yuki's abilities are stronger in natural environments and may weaken in artificial or polluted areas.

Concentration Requirement: Using his powers effectively requires a high level of focus

୨୧ Add me on tiktok @/lluavrse

[curiousquirks]

Day 14 | Dabi x F!Reader (18+)

Sex Pollen | Begging

Content Warnings: Sex Pollen, Quirk Misuse, AFAB Reader, Dubious Consent/Somewhat Non-Con, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Unsafe Sex, Oral (Female Receiving), Pet Names Used (Sweetheart), Dabi burning fingers digging into your skin, Overstimulation, Bullshitted my way through a quirk for plot

Word Count: 3,094

Summary:

You were important to the Meta Liberation and finally got brought into the Paranormal Liberation Front. This brought you face to face with Dabi, who grabbed your attention. You intrigued him as well and with the help of your quirk, he’d be yours in no time.

Reader has a quirk: Small colorful flowers in your hair that produce a puff of odorless power that make the target have an amplified sexual desire towards the user. The more the target views the user in such a way without aid of the quirk the stronger the desire gets.

The day’s tasks stretched on more than it needed to, and yet things kept happening adding to Dabi’s growing frustrations. Making it worse currently was being dragged into a meeting. Again. Normally he wouldn’t even bother but it’s like Skeptic always knew how to include things that piqued his interests. He’d have to give him credit for that at least. Once he got the information he needed, Dabi had no issues getting up and leaving in the middle of the Paranormal Liberation’s briefing. He’d already been tuning out most of the discussion for the past few minutes anyways.

“Dabi, don’t you want to hear about—” Mr. Compress began, looking up towards him from his tablet. 

“Not interested.” Dabi interrupted, swinging open the door and only pausing when he saw you standing outside the door. Small colorful flowers were animated and littered throughout your hair. He eyed you curiously as he let his foot hold the door open. “What do we have here?”

He heard ReDestro clear his throat from the table behind him. “You can come in now.” Skeptic had called towards you, and your eyes lingered on Dabi’s for only a moment more before you had made your way into the room. 

Dabi’s eyes lingered on you as you passed him, everyone going back to what they were apparently originally talking about. You were a member of the Liberation Army who they valued and would be a vital member of the Paranormal Liberation Front. Dabi kept that in the back of his mind as he continued on his way out. He’d find out more about you later, especially since he wanted to know more about why you were so valuable but he couldn’t care enough to know now.

A few days passed, Dabi having spent his spare time working on personal projects that you hadn’t crossed his mind. That was until he saw you across the way one day in the villa. His mind lingered on you for a while that day, being genuinely surprised when you popped up on the same side of the villa again. You were walking towards him, and kept this intense eye contact with him. It piqued his interest, it made him want to know more about you. Nowadays that was a hard thing to do.

You smiled as you got closer, making a beeline towards him. He made no motion to stop walking, so you instead decided to just walk beside him. “Fancy seeing you again, especially since it seems hard for people to get ahold of you.” You said, glancing towards him. 

“Skeptic tell you that?” He asked, not really wanting an answer. “I know that’s not true because he sure as hell knows how to bother me.” 

“Everyone says that you aren’t really in many meetings, seem to be doing your own thing.” You said. “I can admire focusing on your own thing, it must be important.” Your interest was focused intensely on him.  He noticed.

“If you’re trying to get information from me to give back to the Liberation, I’m pretty sure those freaks know enough.” He said, turning a corner. 

“I was just trying to get to know you.” You explained, letting your quirk subtly activate. A small puff of odorless powder floating into the air from the flowers in your hair.  “Your whole mysterious aloof personality made me curious.” 

“Cut your losses and leave me alone, sweetheart. I’m not about to tell you anything.” He said, part of his mind not really meaning it. 

“I’m sure you have something that you want to share with me.” You teased, knowing it wouldn’t take long for him to take the bait. 

He thought your perfume smelled really nice. The scent was light, not too strong. He slowed his steps to be more in sync with yours. “Why should I do that?” He asked. “Why are you suddenly so interested in me? They certainly took their time dragging you into the fold, despite how long we’ve been set up here.”

“I could be more direct but where’s the fun in that.” You said, taking note of where you were in the villa. It was working. “I’m not doing this for any nefarious reasons, you just caught my eye.”

“Considering that doesn’t happen with me, unless someone wants something, I find that excuse to be bullshit.” He said, feeling his body heating up. He tried brushing it off. “Knock it off and stop beating around the bush.”

“I’m serious, Dabi.” You explained, lying through your teeth. His name falling from your lips was really getting him going. “You caught my eye.”

You were really pissing him off. The back and forth banter was a turn on, but your lying was doing nothing but angering him. He hadn’t noticed that you had been guiding him through the villa at all, until you were both steps away from the main meeting room. He paused and took a second to process that he hadn’t been paying attention to much aside from you until now. The confusion was apparent on his face and you were stifling a laugh. 

“Why are we over here?” He asked, something he actually wanted answered. 

“I was following you.” You lied, moving your way towards the door. You pressed an ear up to the door for a moment. “It doesn’t sound like anyone’s in there–”

He pushed your body up against the door, pinning your arms against your back. His body was warm against yours, his breath fanning against your ear. “What’s your fucking game?” He asked. Your quirk activated again, small puffs of that powder releasing into the air from your flowers. Dabi coughed and tightened his grips on your arms. “What the fuck was that?”

“You’ll find out soon.” You teased, rubbing your ass against his crotch. His cock twitched excitedly in his pants, steam started lifting from his skin as his body started heating up more. “Do you get it now?”

“You’re one fucked up bitch.” He spat, yanking you from the door before shoving you into the room. “All this shit with your quirk just to convince someone to fuck you.” 

“You wanted to, I’m just speeding up the process instead of waiting.” You explained as he shoved you over to the long meeting table. “Not that it matters now.”

“You fucking talk too much.” He said, bending you over the table. His breathing was rough, he was used to his body feeling warm but this was different. He started shedding layers of clothes, tossing them to the side. “Lying to me, leading me over here so you can get fucked in the meeting room huh? Probably some sick fucking fantasy of yours.”

“You hate being in here so much I thought you might want to take your frustrations out on me here.” You said, wiggling your ass at him. 

He didn’t bother taking his pants off, just down enough to free his cock. You had already gotten rid of anything that would obstruct his access to your dripping pussy. You braced yourself just in time before he roughly pushed his cock into you. A moan was ripped from your throat as he wasted no time slamming his hips into yours. Your warm walls were squeezing him and enveloping him in intoxicating bliss. He just couldn’t get enough of your pussy.

He selfishly chased after his own high, not that you minded because you knew he was far from done. His fingers gripped into your hips, blistering heat burning into your flesh as he neared his climax. His cum was so warm as it shot inside of your welcoming pussy, your walls clenching and squeezing every drop out of his cock. 

He pulled out of you, expecting the intense high to leave him. He braced himself against the table next to you, his breathing uneven as he tried to keep ahold of his sanity. “What the fuck is your quirk?” He slowly asked, looking over at you in time to see another odorless powder puff out in front of his face. “What–”

He groaned, his cock twitching violently as he felt an intense desire course through his body. He looked down at his cock in time to see some of your juices dripped off of his cock. His mind was consumed with only you, he’d barely seen anything of your skin but the way your pussy felt wrapped around him was enough to fuel his body. Steam was actively rising from his skin, his body heating up as his thoughts raced.

You were long ahead of him, being the only sane one in the room after all. You pushed yourself from the table, observing him struggling beside you. It made you so wet knowing how much men lost themselves with lust wanting to fuck you. They’d do anything to sink their cocks into you. You took a few steps away from the table, removing the rest of your clothing. This is when Dabi finally paid attention to your movement. His eyes narrowed, intensely watching your movements especially when your hands cupped your breasts. 

“Come here.” You commanded, breathlessly. 

He shoved himself roughly away from the table, moving towards you. You didn’t let him get too  close before you had tripped him, pushing him onto the ground. He grunted as he landed, glaring at you. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asked, moving to push himself off the ground.

You hovered over him, crouching and pushing him back onto the ground. “I had to force you down here because you weren’t about to do it if I asked.” You explained, grinding yourself against his cock. “I wanted to be in control for a minute.” 

“If you wanted to do all the work all you had to do was ask, sweetheart.” He said, thrusting his hips up as you continued grinding against him. “Stop fucking around, you’re the one who wanted this.”

“I think you want it more than me.” You teased, deliberately going slower in your movements. Your wet folds dragging agonizingly slowly across his throbbing cock. His hands found your hips, digging into your skin again. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game.” He said, strong heat burning into your skin. You hissed in pain as you stilled your movements. Your quirk activated again, puffs of smoke filling the air which had Dabi using his strength to flip you over. He hovered over you, leaning really close to your face. “Didn’t really think this through did you?”

Your face was flushed, and your chest was rising and falling rapidly. Your eyes were half-lidded as your lust consumed you. He wasted no more time, pushing his cock into you again. His hips slamming into yours, your body clinging to his. Curses were muttered under his breath as he buried himself as far he could into your pussy with every thrust. The heat consuming your body and how good his cock felt left you nearly breathless. 

“You fuck me so good, your cock is so–mmgn big.” You moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist. He had an animalistic pace, rutting himself against you. “Fucking fill me with cum, fill me–yeeess, oh...”

Dabi couldn’t even form words right now, just grunts and groans as your walls sucked him with every thrust. Your voice dragged him closer and closer to the edge, the need to fill up your pussy with so much cum that it spilled out was burning in every fiber of his being. He need to keep going, he was going to spend every waking moment fucking you, bruising every inch of your skin with his fingers as he bend you in every position. It was your own fault though right? Your quirk caused this, you asked for it. You wanted it.

He slammed his hips into you again, his burning hot cum shooting inside of you again. He choked out a groan, his hips staggering thrusts against you as he rode out yet another orgasm. You kept your legs wrapped tightly around him, not wanting him to move. You clenched your walls around his cock, hearing Dabi groan above you. You did again.

“Still desperate for more of my cock, slut?” He asked, getting inches from your face. 

“I think you’re still desperate for my pussy.” You shot back, clenching your walls around his cock. “You can’t get enough of it can you?”

“Smartass little brat aren’t you? Your fucking quirk is…” He trailed off, his cock twitching inside of your intoxicating pussy. He was trying to keep his thoughts straight but it was easier than actually done. Another puff of your quirk activated.

“You’re right, this is my fault. My quirk got you in this state.” You conceded. “Want me to ride you? Give you a little show while you let me take care of you.”

You unwrapped your legs from around his waist, he took the initiative to pull you close to him and roll himself over to lay onto his back. You laughed at the sudden movement, moaning as you adjusted yourself on his lap. His cock was twitching inside of you still, his hips thrusting up into you driving his cock further inside of you. You whined, bracing your hands onto his chest. 

You finally met his wishes by lifting your hips up to start riding him. Your breasts bounced as your body grinded down against him, his attention entirely on you. You whined, locking eyes with him beneath you. He couldn’t handle not being in control, dragging your body towards him as he started thrusting his hips roughly up against you. His cock drilled deep inside of you, hitting your sweet spot in a new angle.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, just like that.” You whined, your body tensing up. “I’m gonna come–-oh please, please, please, please…”

“You like that?” He groaned in your ear. “That’s right fucking beg for it.”

“I wanna come, I wanna come all over your cock.” You moaned, your thighs starting to shake. “Your cock is so deep, you’re fucking me sooo good.” You were so close. “Let me come, please, please–.”

Your orgasm got delayed as his interrupted, more spurts of his hot cum coated inside your pussy. You whined, that tight coil in your core slowly loosening. You felt his arms let go of you, allowing you to sit up. You glared down at him, bracing your hands on his abdomen.

“Don’t look at me like that, you deserve it.” He said, placing an arm over his face. “Selfish bitch.”

“I’m selfish?” You shot back, offended. “You don’t even know how my quirk works! You got to come three times and you couldn’t even let me come one time?”

“Forced me to have sex and now you’re gonna get hung up on me not letting you get off? You did this to yourself.” He said, panting as his body was still heavily affected by your quirk. “Fuck, how long does this shit last.”

“Depends on your attraction, asshole.” You explained, lifting yourself up off of his cock. “So actually you did this to yourself.”

You got most of the way up before you felt his hands on your legs. He dragged your lower body towards his face.. “What are you doing?” You asked as you looked down at him. “Don’t tell me you suddenly feel like giving back because–”

He answers by shoving his head between your legs. The sensation of his insanely warm tongue against your folds had your legs buckling. You collapsed forward, forcing both of you onto the ground. His hands held you in place as his tongue pressed against you like he was trying to make up for mistakes he didn’t even make. You gasped and whimpered as his tongue devoured you. 

You knew you wouldn’t last long. Your juices mixed with his cum were leaking out of your pussy, coating his chin as he lapped at your swollen clit. His tongue against you making wet noises echo through the room almost as loud as your moans.

Your fingers found his hair, gripping it tightly as you grinded against his mouth. “So good–soo good…” You moaned, your eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head. His fingers were digging into your ass now, forcing your body as close to him as possible. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” 

You heard a muffled groan from him, which almost had your vision turning white. You couldn’t think straight, nothing other than pure euphoric pleasure and how good his tongue felt. There was sweat coating your body, just another fluid you were going to be covered in by the end of this. Another string of curses left your mouth, along with promises of anything if you could come.

“I’m so close–so close.” You whimpered, rocking your hips against him as you felt that coil tighten again.

It only took a few more flicks of his tongue before your orgasm slammed into you. You cried out, your hips tightening around his face as you almost collapsed forward. You don’t get much breathing room before Dabi’s tongue starts its assault on your clit again. A noise gets choked out as you squeeze against him. Your body twitches as jolts of pleasure and pain from the stimulation run through your body. You feel his fingers dig into your skin, that searing pain from the heat radiating off of him burns into your skin.

“Stop stop—fuck e-enough!” You cried out, falling on deaf ears as he continued torturing you.

Your body tenses up, whines leave your lips as your fingers dig into his hair. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes, the sensations clouding your every thought. You’re a whimpering mess as every flick of his tongue has you reeling with gasps and cries.

“Please, please stop. Please I c–can’t handle it.” You whined, trying desperately to pull your hips away from his mouth. “Fuck, Dabi STOP!”

You keep leaning forward, curling in on yourself. It gets hard to breathe as your gasps from the pain and pleasure coursing through you consume every thought. You only feel relief after you feel your body falling forward as he finally lets you go. As you catch your breath, collapse against the ground do you finally feel the intense pain from his fingerprints burned into your hips.

Dabi sits up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He looks over his shoulder at you. “You have until I get up and come over there to recover. I didn’t say I’m finished with you yet.” He warned.

[rishas-pepero]

✦.˚ // just a simple note, this whole fanfiction was made by ChatGPT. Yes. ChatGPT. I was immensely bored so i thought of making a story that includes Fyodor using ChatGPT and it was to good not to post so.. 🤷‍♀️

( sadly no smut today so suffer. But maybe in the next part it will *wink wink*)

contents: just argument and shit

warnings: harsh words ( not really tbh ) Basically not that much of NSFW

The room felt smaller than it was, suffocating under the weight of unspoken frustrations that had finally surfaced. The argument had become a spectacle of words, sharp and relentless, though their substance had long lost meaning. It wasn’t about reason anymore, just the clash of pride, the rawness of emotion.

Fyodor’s eyes darkened as he stared at you, his voice a mixture of bitter accusation and cold curiosity.

"You’re always like this," he began, the words deliberate, almost cruel in their precision. "What are you? A monster, perhaps? Trying to disappear, to blend into this world already teeming with monsters, as though you could mask what lies beneath?" His tone had the icy chill of indifference, but beneath it was something more—a thread of frustration unraveling.

A hint of sadness flickered in her eyes, the brief glint of emotion catching in the dim light, as if her very soul was trying to speak where her voice could not. The weight of her silence pressed down on the room, thicker than the argument that had raged just moments ago. It was a silence that did not merely quiet the air—it suffocated it, drawing out the tension like a slow, inevitable pull. Her expression, though unreadable, carried a sadness that reverberated through the space, more cutting than the sharpest insult could ever be.

Each breath seemed to stretch the distance between them, amplifying the quiet, until the room itself felt too large for the two of them. His words, which had just moments ago filled the space with anger and accusation, now seemed to crumble in the face of her quiet sorrow. The walls, once echoing with the force of their voices, now seemed to press inward, shrinking under the pressure of her unspoken pain.

She didn’t need to say anything. The glint in her eyes, the way she held herself, her stillness—it was enough. Her silence screamed louder than any retort, drowning out the noise of his earlier outburst. In that quiet moment, the weight of her sadness became palpable, as though the room itself could feel it, pressing down on him until he had no choice but to fall into the stillness with her.

"i wasn't born the monster i turned to be."

Fyodor’s eyes studied her closely, his gaze as steady as it was intense. The silence in the room grew, each breath a heavy gasp, and the tension twisted until it felt as though the air itself was compressing.

There was something in her words, a flicker of vulnerability in that sadness that caught his attention. The usual steel in his eyes softened, if only for a moment, replaced by a look of deep, perhaps even unexpected, curiosity.

"Then what forced your hand?" he asked finally, his voice lowered. "What event cast you into the role of the monster you now play?"

Her eyes, still heavy with sadness, flickered at his words, as though the weight of his question pulled at something deeper within her. She held his gaze, refusing to look away, but the silence between them thickened. The sharpness of his inquiry cut through her like a knife, demanding an answer she wasn’t sure she could give.

“What forced my hand?” she repeated, her voice low, almost a whisper. The question lingered on her tongue, heavy with memories she hadn’t revisited in years. “Perhaps it wasn’t an event,” she continued, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if seeing through him. “Maybe it was a series of small betrayals, each one pushing me further away from the person I once was. Or perhaps… it was simply time. Time that wore down every bit of innocence I had left, until there was nothing to cling to but the monster.”

Her words trailed off, and the room seemed to shrink again, the weight of her confession pulling everything inward. She shifted, crossing her arms, as though trying to shield herself from the vulnerability she had just laid bare. Her eyes flickered with something darker now, a mixture of defiance and regret.

“And what about you, Fyodor?” she asked, her voice steady but filled with a quiet challenge. “Are you any different? Or have you simply become so accustomed to your own role that you’ve forgotten how it all began?”

The tension hung in the air between them, thick and unresolved. For a moment, the two stood there, caught in the heavy silence, waiting for the next storm to break.

Fyodor's eyes darkened, mirroring her defiant gaze. Her words had touched a nerve, a spot of self-awareness he'd rather keep hidden. He stepped closer, his steps slow and deliberate, until they were face to face.

"You're a bit too perceptive for your own good." His voice was like frost, cold and smooth. "Perhaps I've become accustomed to my role, as you put it. But don't mistake it for forgetfulness."

His eyes narrowed, his gaze dissecting her. “You say you were pushed into your role. I say I chose mine."

She held her ground, refusing to back down even as his presence loomed over her. A faint smile tugged at her lips, though there was no warmth behind it.

"Chose it, did you?" Her voice was steady, yet laced with a hint of mockery. "Then I wonder, is that what you tell yourself every time you feel the weight of it?"

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes never leaving his. "Because from where I stand, it seems like we're both wearing chains. The only difference is, you’re proud of yours."

Fyodor's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile as he leaned in, his breath barely brushing her skin.

"Proud?" he repeated, his tone low and edged with amusement. "No, not proud. Just... aware."

He straightened, his eyes cold and calculating. "You see chains. I see leverage. And unlike you, I don't waste time resenting them. I use them."

His gaze pierced through her, voice soft but laced with venom. "Perhaps that’s the real difference between us."

Fyodor's smile deepened, though it never reached his eyes. In one swift, deliberate movement, he stepped closer, his presence almost suffocating. His fingers, cool and steady, tilted her chin upwards, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Perhaps that's the real difference between us," he repeated softly, his thumb brushing her jawline. His eyes, sharp and unrelenting, held hers captive, as if searching for a crack in her composure.

"While you struggle against your chains," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "I hold the key to mine."

She didn’t flinch under his touch, her breath steady despite the closeness. Her eyes remained locked on his, defiant as ever, though her voice softened, taking on a dangerous edge.

“Hold the key, do you?” she murmured, her chin still resting against his fingers. “Then tell me, Fyodor—why does someone with so much control need to prove it?”

She leaned in slightly, her lips almost brushing against his ear as she whispered, “Maybe you’re not as free as you think.”

Fyodor's grip on her chin tightened ever so slightly, his breath warm against her ear as he responded, his voice a low, chilling whisper.

“Proving control is not about freedom,” he said, his words sharp and deliberate. “It’s about reminding myself that I am the one holding the reins.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze again, his eyes glittering with a cold fire. “As for freedom—perhaps it’s not about how free you are, but what you’re willing to sacrifice for that freedom.”

Fyodor's eyes traveled slowly from her gaze to her lips, the intensity of his stare betraying his struggle to maintain control. He paused, his breath shallow, as if weighing the gravity of the moment. The silence between them deepened, filled with a charged anticipation that seemed to stretch time itself.

His thumb brushed lightly along her jawline, the touch almost absent-minded as his focus remained on her lips. The seconds ticked by in a taut, unspoken tension, his gaze flickering between her eyes and her mouth. The air grew thick, each breath a shared caress that seemed to amplify the space between them.

Finally, unable to bear the pull of the moment any longer, Fyodor closed the distance with a deliberate, slow motion. His lips brushed against hers, soft yet insistent, as he deepened the kiss with a hunger that belied his earlier composure. It was a kiss that spoke of hidden desires and suppressed passions, a connection that transcended words and left the world outside their shared intensity.

[cloudss-space]

Things we'll both forget by tomorrow.

( killer chat ) ronin x afab!reader ... hurt / comfort ... mainly angst with some fluff ...

trigger warning:

mention of self harm

mention of parent neglect and abuse

gore

gender dysphoria

You have always been your own person, no matter how hurtful other people's words were. Keeping to yourself, barely talking. Friends were just another thing that dragged you down. As much as you wanted to be yourself, you couldn’t.

There was no escaping in this life.

There is no way back unless you would like to cut your open, slowly opening up your skin, layer by layer. To cut open up your muscles, sink your hands in and put your guts onto a platter as that would be the only way anyone would fully pay attention to you in a way that meant something more.

But they’re the ones opening you up. They’re the ones destroying you.

There is a moment – a heartbeat – where the body hesitates, where the mind screams for it to stop, but then it gives. Warmth gushes out in a viscous, treacherous tide, engulfing trembling hands and cascading onto the floor. The air is filled with the distinct, coppery tang of blood and the faint, sickly sweet stench of opened flesh.

The pain is white-hot, a blinding explosion that burns through nerves. It's not the worst part. The worst is the emptiness that follows, the hollow, cavernous absence where everything once was. The intestines uncoil in slick, writhing loops, sliding out like some obscene serpent escaping its lair. In the harsh light, they glisten with residual life, their coils twitching as if confused by their sudden freedom.

There's a sick fascination in watching yourself unravel. Hands claw at the mess, trying to shove it all back in, but it's futile. The body has betrayed you, spilling its secrets onto the cold, unyielding ground. The void is growing. It is a black hole, sucking away warmth and pulling you into its gaping maw.

The agony recedes, a distant background hum to the surreal theatre of your own destruction. Fingers slick with blood claw at raw, shredded muscle, the edges quivering as if begging for mercy. Mercy isn't coming. The body is unmade. The cage is cracked open to reveal the delicate, brutal machinery within.

As the world fades and the crimson tide flows freely, there's a strange peace in the unravelling. There is a grotesque kind of freedom in being reduced to the core, laid bare, stripped of every pretence. You are flesh and blood, a heap of organs and sinew. In that moment, you are alive. Alive and terrifying.

Everyone would stare, pointing everything out, piece by piece. How the clothing would shape your body, how your hair would fall down and shape your frame, how your voice would sound. Everyone would comment.

Everyone.

Every glance in the mirror is a battle. The reflection stares back defiantly, flesh refusing to mould to the truth screaming within. The chest is both soft and unyielding, an anchor that suffocates and feels foreign. Each breath tightens against the weight, binding and unbinding like ropes cutting into skin. It's not just discomfort; it's an assault, a gnawing predator clawing from the inside out.

The voice betrays the body – a higher pitch carves wounds into confidence. The words spoken feel like foreign echoes, each syllable cutting through with jagged reminders that something fundamental is out of alignment. The jawline, the soft curves of hips, the delicate hands – they mock silently, flesh warring with the mind's blueprint.

There is no doubt about it.

Showers are torture chambers. Water cascading over the body is not a source of relief. It feels more like acid. Closing your eyes is futile; the silhouette beneath is a grotesque betrayal, shadows amplifying the alien landscape. Binding brings reprieve, but not without pain. The suffocating embrace of compression mirrors the relentless desire to be free of this skin entirely.

And then there's the bleeding. That visceral, crimson reminder of biology's cruelty and its unyielding grip is undeniable. The body weeps in cycles, oozing life as a stark reminder that it belongs to another narrative, a woman's tale. It is visceral; it is war.

Each step outside is a gauntlet of stares and assumptions. You see them all. "Ma'am," "she," words that cut like knives, their edges jagged with societal expectations. The world tries to force this square peg into a round hole, grinding down the edges until nothing of the original form remains.

We do not seek death, but rebirth. We carve ourselves from the sinew and bone of what is there, uncovering a truth that already exists. Until then, every moment is a scream that echoes silently in the chambers of the mind.

-

The blade is cold, and that's exactly what you want. The chill bites harder than flesh ever could, sharper than the mocking echoes of mirrors and misgendered words. Skin stretches beneath the edge, taut and resisting, but it gives – just like it always does. A thin line of crimson blooms, bold and defiant against pale flesh. It's control in chaos, a bold and determined effort to reimagine the body, to etch the truth into this unfamiliar form.

You can assure others, it's not self-harm; it's a reconstruction. The body feels like a cage. The ribs are iron bars, and the softness is a padded prison. The blade slices through barriers, unearthing something truer beneath. Each line is a defiant protest against biology, against the suffocating curves and the too-delicate features that betray the man trapped within.

The blood pools in the small rivers, warm and sticky. It doesn't hurt – not like everything else does. It's a release, a reminder that this body can be altered, even if only in tiny, defiant ways. The noise quiets for a moment. The screaming dysphoria, the relentless pounding of a voice that says, "This isn't me," fades into the rhythm of pain and relief.

The chest is the absolute worst. Sometimes you feel the overwhelming urge to take a knife and cut it all away. Those soft mounds are a cruel joke. They are a grotesque ornamentation that feels stitched onto a body that was meant to be flat, strong, angular. The fantasy lingers, peeling away layers and hollowing out this traitorous flesh. It simply doesn't happen. It's not going to happen. Not yet.

The scars, thin and silver, are a language the world doesn't understand. They speak of survival, of war waged in silence, of a relentless fight to reshape what refuses to conform. They are not beautiful or poetic. They're raw, jagged, imperfect – that's what the battle itself is like.

And when the blade is set down, the sting lingers. No doubt about it. It's a whisper of pain that overpowers the dysphoria, silencing it for a while. It's a reminder that while the body may not belong, you have control over it—and you can take it back.

-

You didn’t know what to do. Should you fight against it or please them? Should you actually care about those words out of their mouths? But if you were to change, people would keep pointing it out. Saying that it isn’t enough because it never is enough. No matter what path you might pick, both were wrong. You were meant to be your own person. Live for your own, think for your own. But no matter how hard you fought, it would always feel like you were suffocating. They say the cells in your skin regrow. That the feeling of these hands and blades are no more to your body, but forever you shall feel that these hands are pinning you down, torturing you for the girl you’re supposed to be.

You should go down your own path, figure things out yourself no matter what the fuck happens in life. Who was there for you truly? No one it seemed. Not even your own parents.

Their love is conditional and suffocating, wrapped up in the expectations they impose on you. It comes with terms scrawled in invisible ink, and they'll reveal them when you deviate from the script they've written for you. They don't see you as a person. You're just a reflection of their hopes, plans and image.

They sit across from you, their faces stiff with forced patience, their words like needles dipped in sugar. "We just want what's best for you," they say, as though what's best is to deny the truth burning inside you. Their voices drip with concern, but it's not for you. It's for themselves, for how this will look to the neighbours, to the church, to their friends.

The air between you becomes a battlefield, thick with unspoken accusations. "We raised you better than this," they hissed, unaware that "this" is not rebellion, but survival. They weaponise memories, digging up photographs of a childhood that never quite fit, trying to anchor you to a past that feels like it belongs to someone else.

They ask questions quickly and directly, each one a challenge disguised as curiosity. "Why are you doing this to us?" as if your existence is a personal attack. "What did we do wrong?" They think their love and parenting can make you something other than who you are. They're wrong.

When they raise their voices, it's a crescendo of fear and control. They yell, not to be understood, but to drown you out. Their words are as damaging as physical abuse, leaving scars that last long after the shouting stops. "This is just a phase," they say, clinging to denial like a lifeline, refusing to accept the permanence of your truth.

And when silence falls, it's worse. No doubt about it. The cold, heavy quiet is a void where love used to be. They stop saying your name – not your chosen one, not even your dead one – just nothing. They think erasing you entirely will fix what they can't comprehend, but they're wrong. They avoid your gaze at family dinners, pull away from your touch, and hug you like a stranger.

They don't see you at all. They see what they've lost – the idea of you, the illusion of the child they thought they had. They see your authenticity as an act of betrayal, a shattering of their dreams. But to you, it's a fight for survival. It's a battle to exist in a world where even those who are supposed to love you unconditionally become your adversaries.

-

You never got that care until it was too late. The damage was done and there was no going back. Neglect is not loud. It doesn't scream or slam doors. It's quiet, suffocating, like a room slowly filling with smoke. It insidiously creeps in, unnoticed at first – a missed dinner, an unanswered question, a smile that doesn't reach their eyes. But for you, it's more than just absence. It's deliberate. It's a punishment for daring to exist outside their narrow expectations.

They don't yell anymore. They don't call you by the wrong name or argue over pronouns. They just don't call you anything at all. They stop asking questions about your life, your dreams and your struggles. Your voice is ignored, drowned out by their carefully crafted silence. It's a deliberate act, a way of pretending you don't exist.

Dinner is a ritual of avoidance. Plates clatter onto the table and they sit across from you, eyes fixed on their phones or the television, ignoring you completely. Scream, cry, disappear – it won't make a difference. They've built a bubble to shut you out, and it won't shatter. It's the little things that hurt the most, full stop. They forget your birthday or get your favourite food wrong – not out of malice, but indifference. Your achievements are met with a half-hearted nod while your siblings are showered with praise. They skip your school plays, your sports games, your life.

Neglect is not an active war; it is a quiet surrender. They let the weeds grow in the garden of your relationship, letting them choke out the flowers until nothing beautiful remains. When you try to talk, to bridge the gap, they meet you with nothing but blank stares and polite nods. You know what that means. This is your fault. They leave your chosen name out of holiday cards and take your photo off the mantelpiece. Family gatherings are an exercise in invisibility, where no one acknowledges the effort it took just to show up, to exist in a space where you're treated like a ghost.

Their neglect is theft. It is a robbery of love, support and a childhood where you were supposed to feel safe. You feel like an afterthought, a loose thread they can't be bothered to snip. The silence is a clear sign that they don't care about you. It shows they don't see you as anything more than a mistake they can't fix.

And yet, you persist despite their neglect. You create love where they refuse to give it, build a family with friends who see you, hear you, and hold you. You become your own parent, nurturing the parts of yourself they abandoned. You grow into someone stronger than they ever allowed you to be.

It was time for a change. A good change.

The town greets you with a quiet that feels almost alien. The streets are narrow and lined with quaint, mismatched houses that lean into each other like old friends. The air smells of damp earth and woodsmoke. This is a far cry from the sterile emptiness of the places you've lived before. This quiet is unsettling. You're used to the hum of a world that doesn't care if you exist. Here, the world notices.

At first, the small town feels like a stage, every set of eyes a spotlight, every neighbor’s glance a question. You tell yourself they’re just curious; newcomers are rare here. But some part of you flinches, expecting judgment, rejection, the cold dismissal you’ve known all your life. When the old sweet lady from the house next door waves and offers you a pie, your instinct is to refuse, to close the door and retreat. But something stops you. Her smile isn’t sharp or forced. It’s warm, genuine—a kindness you don’t know how to hold.

Your new home may be small and unpolished, but it's yours. The walls creak with age and the floors groan underfoot, but they are not hostile. They know you've been waiting for this moment. They're your quiet sanctuary, and no one can tell you to leave. You unpack slowly, piece by piece, each item a testament to your survival. You bring home thrift-store dishes, second-hand furniture, and a threadbare blanket that's been with you longer than most people.

The town moves at a different rhythm. Get used to it. People linger at the market, chatting about the weather and crops as if time is irrelevant. The mechanic on Main Street is where you seem to spend a lot of your time. The work you needed on your car seemed to annoy the man. In his eyes, you cared so little about it as you seemed to be paying him a visit almost weekly.

There's loneliness here, but it's different. This is not the aching void of neglect, the desperate hunger for someone to notice you. It's quiet, calm, and serene, like the echo of an empty room that you can fill on your own terms. For the first time, you feel like you have space to breathe, to figure out who you are without anyone else's shadow looming over you.

-

Who would have thought that mechanic man a few months later would be his boyfriend?

It's a shock at first, like stepping into sunlight after years in the dark. The warmth is unwelcome, unnatural, and your first instinct is to reject it. When he reaches out—a simple gesture, a hand brushing yours—it's a test, a trap, something fragile that could shatter if you breathe too hard. You don't know how to respond, so you freeze. The words Ronin says – gentle, kind – feel like they're meant for someone else. You're amazing, he tells you, and your stomach knots, your chest tightens, because amazing doesn't live here. Amazing is for people who were loved, who were cherished, who didn't have to fight every second to believe they deserved to exist.

But he didn't stop. Ronin's patience is infinite, his love unwavering, like a lighthouse guiding you back to shore. He notices the things no one else ever did. He sees the way your hands tremble when you're nervous. He hears the way your voice softens when you talk about something you care about. He notices you, not the mask you wear, not the fractured pieces you try to hide.

When he hugs you for the first time, it's like stepping into a fire that doesn't burn. It's overwhelming, almost unbearable, the weight of his arms around you, the warmth seeping into places that have been cold for so long. You don't know what to do with your hands, your body, your heart, but he doesn't care. He holds you anyway, like you're something precious, something worth holding.

And then there are the little things. He remembers your favourite drink, your favourite song, the way you like your toast. He texts you out of the blue, just to say they were thinking of you. His eyes light up when you walk into the room, as if your presence is enough to make his day better. It's not just the grand gestures – it's the consistency. He shows up, time and time again, even when you try to push him away. Even when you're convinced he'll leave, just like everyone else. And he doesn't. He stays.

At first, it feels like a lie, like something too good to be real. You wait for the catch, the condition, the moment he'll take it all back. But it doesn't come. Instead, he keeps loving you, patiently, relentlessly, until the cracks in your heart start to seal. Until you start to believe that you are worthy of this.

One day, you catch yourself smiling—a real, unguarded smile. Ronin’s love is no longer foreign to you. It feels like home.

You don’t know about his other life. The life he lives outside you and fixing cars. Maybe it could be for the best, for you to only see the soft side he’s trying to only show to you, not the side where he is getting his hands dirty.

Sure, he might be lying to you a bit, but that doesn’t seem to matter. This is their relationship, and one where he doesn’t feel like spilling his guts out for you.

-

It's there, a quiet weight between you, unspoken but always present. It's there, a storm on the horizon, in every conversation, every laugh, every time their hand finds yours. You tell yourself it's not the right time, that the words will come when they're meant to. But the longer you wait, the harder they are to say. So say them.

You watch him closely, looking for clues in Ronin’s speech and their gaze. He’d still hold your hand like this if he knew, wouldn't he? Ronin’s laughter will still sound warm, open and unguarded. You're building a life with him brick by careful brick. You know it's strong, but you're also aware that it could crumble with a single word.

Every shared moment is tainted with guilt. He kisses you softly and confidently, as if he knows you completely. Ronin asks about your past, and you deflect the question with practiced ease. You've perfected the art of dodging the truth with half-smiles and vague answers, but it's exhausting.

Sometimes, you catch yourself wondering what it would feel like to let the truth spill out. And you know what? You're going to do it. You want to see his face as the words hit home, to see his reaction, to finally stop carrying this secret alone. But then you think about what might follow – confusion, anger, rejection – and you know you have the power to lock the words in your throat again. You trust Ronin. You do. But trust is fragile. You can't bear the thought of watching something beautiful shatter because of who you are. You can't accept that something you can't change is the reason.

The longer you wait, the heavier it gets. It's as simple as that. Every "I love you" is bittersweet, and every shared laugh is a reminder of what he doesn't know. It's like carrying a secret that grows louder with each passing day, its weight pressing against your chest until it's hard to breathe.

You know the truth will have to come out eventually. You can't build a future with someone while hiding such a vital part of yourself. But for now, you keep it tucked away, holding onto the hope that when the time comes, he'll see you for everything you are – and love you just the same.

Long awaited, after a year of dating, they were going to have their first “big date.” The excitement starts long before the date itself. You want to look perfect – well, not perfect, but like yourself at your very best, the version of you that makes Ronin's eyes light up when they see you. You know what you look like, and you know you look good. The mirror becomes your confidant, your critic, until finally, you decide this is it.

-

The car purrs beneath you, a steady rhythm that mirrors the thrum of excitement building in your chest. The playlist is already cranked up. The band's greatest hits blasting through the speakers set the mood for the night ahead. The highway stretches out before you, a ribbon of asphalt glowing under the dim orange haze of streetlights. The sun is setting, painting the sky in streaks of pink and orange that slowly fade into deep blue. The air is thick with the promise of a night you'll never forget. Every mile brings you closer to something electric.

As you get closer, you can feel the world shifting around you. Billboards announce the concert in bold letters, flashing the band's name like a beacon, and the traffic thickens with cars full of people who are heading to the same place, their windows rolled down, music spilling into the night. Everyone is in on the secret. There is a collective anticipation hanging in the air.

Snacks and drinks are passed around, chips crinkling and soda cans hissing open, as laughter and chatter fill the space. From time to time, someone checks the tickets again, as if they might magically disappear. The conversation shifts between excitement for the show and speculation about the setlist. As you approach the venue, you feel a surge of adrenaline. The parking lot is a chaotic symphony of headlights and tailgates, people milling around in band T-shirts, sharing pre-show drinks, or snapping photos with the glowing marquee in the background. You roll down your window and hear the bass thumping inside the venue. You know what's waiting just beyond the gates.

The car slows to a crawl, inching towards a parking spot as everyone inside is impatient for this journey to end. By now, your stomach is a mix of nerves and excitement, your heartbeat syncing with the music still playing in the car. As soon as you park, you gather your things—tickets, wallets, phones—and get out into the night air, cool against your skin but buzzing with energy.

The walk to the entrance is like stepping into another world, surrounded by people who are just as excited as you are. The conversations merge into a jubilant cacophony, the crowd growing denser with each step. As you hand over your ticket and hear the rip of it being torn, you know that the last shred of the ordinary world has faded away.

You're here. The night is yours.

-

The energy hits you two long before they see the stage. You can feel it in the air, growing louder with every step closer to the venue. It's a mix of anticipation, excitement, and the buzz of hundreds—maybe thousands—of voices blending into one chaotic symphony. The line outside is alive with chatter, people shifting on their feet, some laughing, some scrolling through their phones, others clutching tickets like they're holding onto a piece of magic. As soon as they step inside, the world changes. The air is thicker, warmer, pulsing with the bass-heavy thrum of the opening act or the steady beat of the sound check. The smell of spilled beer and sweat mingles with the faint metallic tang of stage lights heating the air. It's not unpleasant – it's raw, electric, a scent that belongs here.

The crowd is a living organism. Bodies are packed close, swaying and shifting as one. There's an undeniable intimacy to it. Strangers brushing shoulders, sharing knowing smiles, united by a love for the music that's about to flood the space. The floor is vibrating beneath your feet, and the sound that will soon take over is about to explode out of it. As the lights dim, the air changes again. A collective roar erupts, rattling your chest and making your ears ring. Phones are thrown into the air, a sea of tiny lights capturing the moment, and the energy surges as the first notes hit. It's loud – louder than you think – like the music is trying to climb inside you, take root in your bones. But you’re safe, Ronin is near.

You lose yourself in it. The drums are a heartbeat, the bass a current running through your veins, the melody lifting you until the world outside the venue doesn't exist. You shout the lyrics, your voice blending with the crowd's, and for a moment, you are part of something infinite.

Time bends. Songs blur together, the setlist unfolding like a dream you don't want to wake up from. The lead singer leans into the crowd, their voice raw with emotion, and they are looking right at you, like the words were meant for you and Ronin alone.

By the end, your legs ache, your throat is raw, and your ears are ringing. You're a bit tipsy from alcohol, but none of it matters. The final notes hang in the air, the crowd erupts one last time, and the stage lights dim for good. You leave the venue together to your hotel in a cab, glowing, the music still reverberating in your chest, the night air cool against your sweat-damp skin.

The cab ride is over in a flash; the city lights flash by in smears of neon, and you and Ronin are filled with a dreamlike sense of wonder. You laugh at the world around you and the rhythm of your heartbeat syncs with the vibrations of the cab against the road. Your tipsy thoughts are light and disconnected, floating like bubbles on a sea of joy. The driver's voice is muffled, offering directions, but you can't help but focus on the warmth spreading through your body – the drink, the laughter, the buzz from the night – and the growing anticipation of reaching your destination. The streets stretch on forever, and it doesn't matter. You're just along for the ride.

When the cab finally pulls up in front of the hotel, you take in your surroundings with a quick, decisive blink. The streetlights are harsh against your suddenly sensitive eyes. The building looms ahead, its sign glowing faintly in the night, and you feel a small thrill of arrival. You and Ronin fumble for the door handle, and as you step out onto the pavement, your legs are a little wobbly beneath you, like they've forgotten how to walk in a straight line, with Ronin's help, possibly. But you're not worried. You're here now.

You laugh at yourself, swaying slightly as you give the driver a generous tip. The exchange feels like a slow-motion moment, but you know it's just a transaction. Ronin helps by closing the door and stands for a second, taking in the cool night air, the city stretching out around you, and that small sense of exhilaration that comes with being just tipsy enough to feel free.

The lobby is warm and quiet when you step inside. The air conditioning hums softly, and the scent of polished wood fills your senses. Your shoes and his click on the tile as you stride purposefully to the elevator, each step steady and confident. You catch your reflection in the mirrored walls, laughing at how disheveled you look, the gleam of your smile still lingering despite the tipsy haze, Ronin joining you.

The elevator dings as it reaches your floor, and you stride out, your hips swaying just a bit as you walk down the hallway. Your keycard slides into the door with a satisfying click, and Ronin finally pushes it open. The room awaits you, a soft haven.

You two collapse onto the bed together with a contented sigh, pulling the covers up around you both. The night is still young, but your tipsy energy is starting to melt into the comfort of the hotel room, the sounds of the city outside distant now.

-

Your body feels warm and light, the edges of the world softened by the haze of a few drinks. Laughter still lingers in the air, a testament to the shared jokes and silly confessions. Your cheeks ache slightly from smiling too much. The room is dimly lit, with only the soft glow of a lamp or the flickering light of a TV playing something neither of you is paying attention to.

Ronin's arm wraps around you, a steady anchor in the pleasantly dizzy swirl of the night. His body is solid against yours, radiating warmth that feels impossibly soothing. You nuzzle closer, your face pressing into his chest or neck, catching the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the warmth of their skin. It's grounding, comforting – a reminder that you're safe, here, with them.

Your limbs tangle naturally, like puzzle pieces finding their place. Ronin's fingers trace lazy patterns on your back or arm, sending soft shivers through your body with each touch. You sigh contentedly, your breath syncing with his, a rhythm that feels intimate and timeless.

Your words come easily now, flowing freely, even if they don't entirely make sense. You say things you might not have said otherwise – how good they make you feel, how much you love their laugh, or the way their eyes crinkle when they smile. They laugh softly in response, their lips brushing your forehead or your cheek. It is the lightest kiss, but it lingers like the taste of your favourite drink. There was one thing you said, one thing that slipped out a little too well.

-

The room was spinning, but not in a bad way. It was the kind of drunk where every sensation felt both muted and overwhelming all at once. You were curled up together under the blankets, your face buried against his chest, his arms firmly wrapped around you. His body was warm, his breathing soft, and his hand stroked your back absentmindedly. It was too much and not enough at the same time.

His touch is gentle, as it always is. He touches you, brushing his fingertips against your arm and resting his palm against your side. It's not intrusive, not overbearing – it's just there. A silent gesture of love and closeness. But tonight, it feels different. Tonight, his touch ignites a fire in your skin, not with warmth but with an unbearable itch and an indescribable discomfort. You take control by focusing on the steadiness of his hand and the softness of his movements as you try to breathe through it. But you already feel the fear, it's there, tight in your chest, growing with every passing second. You know he doesn't mean it. You know his touch is meant to comfort and reassure you, but your mind is racing with the thought of what might happen next.

He's going to shift his hand. What if it lingers a moment too long on a part of you you've spent years trying not to acknowledge? His fingers will graze the edge of your dysphoria and tear it open like a wound.

But the thought festers. It gnaws at the edges of your mind, a sharp, persistent reminder of the dissonance between what is and what should be. You try to ignore it, bury it under layers of resolve, but it keeps clawing its way back, demanding attention.

And then it happens. Something tears. A careless movement, a too-familiar glance, a touch where you can't bear it. It's like a seam ripping apart, exposing everything you've been trying so desperately to keep hidden. The flood of awareness is immediate and overwhelming, each sensation amplified until it feels unbearable.

You're raw now, bleeding from the inside out, and every thought is a serrated edge. The dysphoria is all-consuming, like a wound that refuses to heal. Each moment is another twist of the knife. It doesn't just hurt. It corrodes, eating away at the fragile sense of self you've built, leaving you hollow and aching.

The thought is unstoppable now that it's taken hold. You try to push it away, to focus on him, but it's too late. You can think of nothing else. The very parts of yourself you've spent so long avoiding are demanding your attention. You cannot hide from them any longer.

Your breathing quickens, your chest tightens as the panic grows. You feel trapped, not by him, but by yourself and this body that doesn't feel like yours. You know he'll see it the way you do. Or worse, that he won't.

You want to scream, to claw it away, to find some way to make it stop. And you will. You can only do one thing: endure. You have to believe that the wound will scar over and fade, leaving behind something you can live with. It has to feel like you. It persists, intensifies, and infiltrates every thought and action, transforming even the most mundane into an arduous challenge. There is no relief. Every touch, every glance, every reminder of a body that feels wrong is an unbearable pressure, like your skin is too tight, your bones too fragile.

The wound of dysphoria is not just emotional – it is physical. It is a gnawing discomfort that sinks into your very cells, echoing through the hollowness of your chest. It's the weight of your chest, the curve of your hips, the soft place where your body just doesn't match the person inside – and you know it.

Each moment you can't look away from the exposed, open wound feels like a personal betrayal. There's no doubt about it. You want to hide. You want to retreat from your own reflection. You want to crawl into yourself and never come out. But it's impossible. The wound is out in the open now, raw and bleeding, and it will not be ignored.

But the worst part is that you can't stop thinking about it. Once exposed, the wound has a grip on your mind. It tightens every time you try to turn away. The more you think about it, the more real it becomes. It's not just a feeling – it's a fact. You can't ignore it.

You feel broken, disconnected, as though something inside you has been torn open and can never be fixed. You try to hold on to pieces of yourself, but they slip through your fingers like sand. Nothing feels solid, nothing feels like it should. There's only the endless ache of knowing that you are not who you want to be – at least, not yet.

You have to live with it, endure the pain and wait for the day when this wound – this dysphoria – will finally fade, or at least become something you can live with. But for now, it's all-consuming. You are left with nothing but the rawness of who you are and who you want to become.

Ronin notices before you can even blink. Your shoulders are stiff and tense, as if you're bracing for something – as if you're preparing for a blow that never comes. Your eyes do not meet his, darting around as if searching for an escape or any kind of distraction to pull you out of the heavy, suffocating space between you.

His hand brushes yours, light and tentative, and you wish he hadn't. His touch is so gentle, but it only makes the wound that much more raw. You flinch, just slightly, but he notices. He knows something has shifted in the air and in you.

You try to play it off, but your smile is forced as you pull your arm back, and your eyes show your true feelings. He sees right through it – it's a mask. He sees the tension in your face and the way you're holding yourself, like you're trying to keep it all inside.

Ronin tilts his head, searching your face with a mixture of concern and quiet understanding. "Hey," he says firmly, reaching out to gently tilt your chin, encouraging you to look at him. "What's going on?"

You try to pull away, but he holds your gaze. His fingers, warm and insistent, stay. His gaze is steady and patient, giving you space without pulling away, as if he already knows something's wrong but is waiting for you to say it.

Your breath catches in your chest, and you know exactly what you want to do. The fear of letting him in, of showing him what's happening beneath the surface, is there, but you know you can handle it. But the way he's looking at you, not judging but simply seeing, breaks down the barriers. You must tell him. You need to tell him, but the words feel like they'll suffocate you.

"Don't," you say firmly, your voice thick with emotion. "Don't touch me like that." "Not right now."

His expression softens, and he withdraws his hand just enough to give you room. He doesn't take it personally. His eyes show no offence, only a desire to understand. His silence weighs heavily, and the air is thick with a quiet question. Tell me what's wrong. Tell me what happened.

You swallow, fighting back against the lump in your throat. Your chest tightens with the effort to keep the flood of emotions contained, but you know it's impossible. You can't hide it anymore.

"It's just me," you say firmly, your voice steady. "I don't feel right." "I don't feel like myself, and I refuse to let it stop."

The words may sound small and fragile, but they are the truth. And just saying them out loud, finally giving voice to the dysphoria you've been carrying in silence, is liberating. It's a weight lifting – just a little, but enough to make you breathe easier.

Ronin doesn't pull away or look at you with pity or confusion. He pulls you closer and wraps his arms around you, holding you in a comforting embrace. His touch is steady and reassuring.

"You don't have to explain everything right now," he whispers, his voice low and soothing. "I'm here, darlin."

You allow yourself to lean into him, the comfort of his presence grounding you as you begin to untangle the knots in your heart, one by one. His embrace doesn't heal the wound, but it softens the edges and makes it easier to bear.

In that moment, you realise that you don't have to carry the dysphoria in silence anymore, even though it may never fully disappear. The fear that has been holding you back – the fear of rejection, of being too much – begins to lose its grip. You are not alone. You don't hide anymore.

-

The room is blurry, the edges soft and warped from the alcohol coursing through your veins, but the nervous knot in your stomach is sharper than ever. You're sitting on the bed, his warm body next to yours, your thoughts tangled in a way that makes it hard to focus. The steady rhythm of his breathing and the comfort of being near him should make you feel safe. Instead, it's like something is clawing inside you, desperate to get out.

You've been holding it in for too long, but tonight, the alcohol has loosened something in your chest. Your hands tremble as you push your hair out of your face with a decisive moment. You've been thinking about it all night, and now you can't stop it. It's like a flood, and you're just trying to keep up.

The room is tilting. Everything is soft and blurry as the alcohol churns in your veins, loosening the tight hold you usually have on everything inside. Your thoughts are in and out of focus, sliding over one another like tangled threads. Your mind is outside your body, watching. You know this, yet it doesn't stop you. The words are already on your tongue, pushed forward by the buzz and the haze of the drinks you've had. But more than that, it's like the truth is too loud to ignore.

And then, without thinking, without realising the weight of the moment, it comes out, slurred and messy but loud enough to hang in the air between you.

"I'm trans," you say, the words spilling out like a confession, as if the alcohol has stripped away the layers of fear that normally hold you back.

His eyes widen, and a slight shock passes over his face. This is not disgust, nor confusion. It's clear he's surprised. He didn't expect to hear it, but he's trying to catch up with what you just said. There is a beat of silence. You can feel the room still, and for a second, time stops. You've crossed a line. You're waiting for the world to shift beneath your feet.

You try to laugh it off, but it comes out too loud, too forced. "Shit," you say, your words clear and confident. "I didn't mean to say it like that… I just didn't know how to say it at all."

You're not sure if you're speaking to him or to yourself, but you know the panic is already creeping up your spine. You want to take it back, to hide the part of you that just spilled out into the room, but you know the alcohol is still there, blurring everything, and it feels like everything is suddenly too big, too much to handle.

Ronin is staring at you. You think for a moment he'll say something to pull you back, to make the world stop spinning so fast. Instead, he tilts his head and looks at you, his eyes softening.

You're still reeling from your own confession, the heat of your words hanging in the air between you, when suddenly, his laugh catches in your ear, low and self-conscious. You recognise that laugh. It signals he's nervous and trying to cover it up with humour, like he's built a wall in an instant.

His fingers drum on your shoulder a bit, and he shifts his weight, slurring just slightly as his eyes meet yours. "Shit, I need to tell you something too," he states, his gaze leaving yours abruptly. The moment is palpable, the air thick with anticipation. The alcohol makes everything feel sharper and more raw, more real than you're used to.

You blink, still feeling that strange buzz of adrenaline and relief from your own confession. "What?" "I'd like to know exactly what you mean." The words are out before you can stop them, and you're already bracing for whatever he's about to say, but you're not prepared for how it hits.

Ronin’s voice is quieter now, as if he's sharing a secret with the room, but the words come out in a rush of bold honesty. "I'm trans too," he states, his words tumbling over each other in the way only alcohol can encourage. Despite the alcohol, his words still feel heavy in your chest.

The air between you is thick with the weight of your confessions, but instead of suffocating, it feels like something is loosening. The tension that's held you both captive for so long is finally unravelling. You're both drunk, tangled in your vulnerability, but there's a comfort in it – an unexpected warmth that grows as you both sit in the mess of it all. You know you can handle it.

Ronin's hand runs over your hair, slow and gentle, smoothing out the sharp edges of this chaotic night. And for the first time, you know you're not carrying everything alone. You feel the weight you've been holding—those invisible burdens of fear, confusion, shame—being shared. You are not alone in this.

"I'm here," he states, his voice firm but calm, and the universe shifts just enough for you to exhale, to release that constant knot in your stomach that's been tightening for so long. You don't need to explain it all right now. You don't need to fix everything. There's space for you both to exist in this messy, imperfect truth without judgment or the crushing expectation of having it all figured out.

For the first time, you feel a sense of relief. It's not because the dysphoria or the uncertainty is gone. It's because someone else understands. Someone else is holding your truth, too. And that alone makes the world feel a little less heavy, a little less frightening.

You sink deeper into him, the sound of his breathing reassuring you, the warmth of his body against yours a testament that you don't have to do this alone. "We're okay," you say firmly, more to yourself than to him, but he hears it, and his hand tightens around you, like he's telling you without words that he feels the same.

It's messy. It's imperfect, and that's okay. In this moment, in this drunken, chaotic, beautiful mess, it's enough. You are comforted not by answers or certainty, but by the simple truth that you are no longer alone. And for the first time, that is enough.

-

For a moment, the world slows down, and you take a breath. The weight that's been crushing your chest, the invisible hands pulling at your skin, is released. It's brief, but it's enough to make you feel light for the first time in what feels like forever. The constant, gnawing feeling of dysphoria takes a brief pause. For a second, there is peace.

It's a soft, almost tender feeling. You've stepped out of your own body. You're not trapped inside the skin that's never felt like yours. The reflection in the mirror is not an alien thing. It does not make you recoil. It's a moment of clarity, a breath, a heartbeat, where your body aligns with the person you are inside. Your mind settles, the storm of self-loathing quiets, and you are left with a sense of calm. You almost forget what it feels like to be consumed by that constant hunger for something more, something that feels real.

But even as you embrace that moment of calm, you know it's just that – a moment. It's only a brief reprieve before the discomfort resurfaces. The dysphoria is always there, waiting for the quiet to end. It's there, creeping back in, hungry and relentless, like a shadow that stretches long after the sun has set.

The peace doesn't last. It never does. For that one breath, that small second of release, you almost forget. It's like slipping into a dream where everything is right and your body belongs to you. The dream fades, and the sharpness returns. The hunger is still there, deep inside, gnawing and devouring. It reminds you that this brief, perfect calm was never meant to last.

This brief healing and fleeting moment of peace is a cruel dance. You know it's only temporary, a fragile thing that can't stand up to the weight of the world pressing down. But just for a moment, the hunger isn't as loud. And that's enough to keep you going, even as the shadows stretch back across the room, pulling you back into the depths of what you can't escape.

[oliviabutsmart]

Physics Friday #14: Sound (Part 2/2)

Preamble: Let's get straight into it

Education Level: Primary School (Y5/6)

Topic: Sonic Physics (Mechanics)

The previous part 1 of my sound post is here.

Pitch and Frequency

Pitch and frequency are related to eachother, the only difference being that frequency is a physical interpretation of sound and pitch is our own mental interpretation of it.

But what exactly is frequency?

Go back to last time's example of a tick sound occurring at regular intervals ... because this sound is repeating, we can describe it's behaviour by measuring mathematical properites:

How much time passes in-between each tick (Period)

How many ticks occur every second (Frequency)

These two ideas are related to eachother, in fact Frequency is 1/Period. If you have a tick every half-second, then you can say the tick occurs twice every second.

We measure sound in Hertz, which is effectively a measure of ticks per second.

Most sounds, however, don't work this way, with repeated ticks. They act as proper waves. With zones of high pressure (peaks), and low pressure (troughs). This is where we have to introduce another variable into our equation:

The physical difference separating each peak (Wavelength)

Since these waves travel forward in the air, a detector (like our ears) will pick up the peaks and troughs as they reach our ear. We can measure frequency or period by recording the speed at which our peaks reach our ear.

But we also can relate frequency to wavelength. After all, the further apart the waves are separated, the more time it'll take for a peak to reach us after the previous one.

We quantify this relationship using c = fλ. Where c is the speed of the wave, f is the frequency, and λ is the wavelength.

Notice that we can also say cT = λ, where T is the period. This demonstrates that the physical wavelength is proportional to the amount of time between each peak.

So where does pitch come in?

As mentioned in part 1, if we continue to decrease the time between each tick, or increase the frequency, at some point we'll begin to hear a sound.

This is our brain playing a trick on us. It's like frames-per-second but for our ears. Below some fps threshold, we can see the individual pictures of a video, but above the threshold, it looks like a continuous film. Notice that fps is also another form of frequency.

When we reach this level, our brain can't distinguish between each tick and sees it as one sound. We begin to hear our first sound.

At this point, frequency becomes tied to pitch. The more rapid the ticking becomes, the higher of a pitch we hear. This is a choice that our brain makes - it's purely psychological.

Mixing different pitches

Combining different pitches allows us to create a foundation for music. In western music, our source of harmonics comes from Pythagoras, who kinda fucked it up by not using irrational numbers.

An octave is defined as a higher sound that has twice the frequency of the lower sound i.e. a ratio of 2:1. One octave above middle C (at about 262 Hz) gives us C5 (at about 524 Hz).

We can create further subdivisions like a perfect fifth, where frequencies form a 3:2 ratio. Or a perfect fourth, which has a ratio of 4:3.

Volume, Intensity, and the Inverse Square Law

Volume is directly related to the amplitude of a sound wave. Effectively, how strongly is the air being compressed at each peak?

Again, volume is just another psychological interpretation of a physical phenomena. Similar to how our eyes see brightness.

Amplitude isn't just interpreted as volume, it is also the power that the sound waves carry. Smaller amplitudes correspond to less energy contained within the moving particles.

We measure intensity logarithmically, because that's what our ears here. Effectively a wave sounds twice as loud only if the wave is 100 times as amplified. It's a similar effect to pitch, where we multiply frequencies instead of adding them.

That's where the decibel scale comes in. 1 dB = a 10x increase in the sound's power output. The decibel scale is used generally for a lot of measurements of wave/power intensity. However it just so happens that our ears behave in very similar ways.

Image credit: soundear.com

Notice that louder sounds are more likely to damage our ear. That's because when loud sounds reach our ear, it causes the inner components to vibrate. This vibration amplitude generally is proportional to the amplitude of the waves.

Too loud of a sound means that our eardrums are vibrating with too great of a physical movement. This can create tears in tissue that damage our ears' sensitivity to sound.

Sound looses power over distance

If you stand far away enough from a sound source, it sounds fainter, eventually becoming unhearable.

This is because of the inverse square law. As sound spreads out over distance, it has to emanate in the form of a sphere, going outward in every direction, in order to maintain consistency of direction.

The same amount of power gets spread thinner and thinner over the bubble that it creates. The surface area of a sphere increases to the square of it's radius.

Image Credit: Wikipedia

Thus we get a decrease in volume over time.

What the Actual Fuck is Timbre, and how do you pronounce it? (also Texture too)

Unfortunately I still don't know how to pronounce it.

Timbre is defined as the quality and the colour of the sound we hear. It also includes the texture of the sound. It's sort of the catch-all for every other phenomena of sound.

Timbre is a bit more complex of a phenomena. In that, it combines basically everything else we know about how we hear sound. So I'll go one by one and explain each component of what makes Timbre Timbre.

Interference

Wave interference is an important property that needs to be understood before we actually talk about timbre. Sound waves often can overlap eachother in physical space, normally caused by multiple sound sources being produced at different locations.

These sound sources often will create new shapes in their waveform, via interference.

Constructive interference is when the high-pressure zones of two sound waves combine to produce an even-higher-pressure zone of wave. Effectively pressure gradient add onto eachother.

Destructive interference is when a high-pressure zone overlaps with a low-pressure zone, causing the pressure to average out to baseline, or something close to the baseline.

Image Credit: Arbor Scientific (Youtube)

We can look at multiple waves acting continuously over a medium to see how their amplitudes will add up together using interference. This is the origin of more unique wave patterns.

The shape of a wave

Sound waves can come in different varieties. While the most basic shape is the sine wave. We can add different intensities, frequencies and phases of sine waves to produce more complex patterns.

I won't go into how this combination works because that's better left for a Fourier series topic. Just know that pretty much any sound can be broken down into a series of sine waves.

These patterns have a different texture, as they combine multiple different monotone sounds. Take a listen to a sawtooth wave vs a sine wave:

Warning: the sawtooth wave will sound a lot louder than the sine wave.

This gives us a different sound texture.

Resonance

When you play a musical instrument at a particular frequency, the instrument is often resonating.

Say you produce sound within an enclosed box. Producing it at one end. Eventually the sound will reach the end of the box and bounce back from reflection (as we'll see later).

The sound will bounce back and forth, combining itself with the previous waves to produce more and more complex waveforms.

But there is a particular frequency, at which, the waves will perfectly interfere with eachother to produce what's known as a standing wave.

A standing wave will oscillate, but it will appear as if it's not moving forward. Of course, power is still moving throughout the wave, as we'll still be able to hear something.

This standing wave can only occur at a particular frequency, one in which the wave perfectly interferes with it's reflection within the box.

A standing wave (black) that is produced by two sine waves (blue and red) moving in opposite directions Image source: Wikipedia

This frequency is called the resonant frequency of the box. This frequency depends on several factors like the speed of the wave, the material inside the box, the shape of the box, and the length of the box.

The resonant frequency can be activated by our voices, as our voices or just blowing air is already a combination of different sound frequencies. The non-resonant frequencies will eventually loose all of their power as they destructively interfere, leaving only the resonant frequency, which gets amplified by what we put in

For example, you can fill a glass bottle halfway with some water, blow in it, and it will produce a particular sound. Fill it with more water, and the pitch increases - i.e. by adding the water we increase the resonant frequency.

All instruments have one or more resonant frequencies based on their material and shape (I say multiple because some instruments can me modelled as multiple boxes. Like a violin will have the inside of the wood, the wood itself, the strings, etc.).

Instruments also allow us to alter the resonant frequency by playing it differently (like putting a finger over your recorder's hole (phrasing)).

These differences in how we obtain resonance can also affect the quality of the sound.

Overtones

Resonance is not just generated with a single resonant frequency, we can create resonance with higher multiples of the the same fundamental frequency.

This is because in our box model, multiplying the fundamental frequency will allow us to create a standing wave, just with a shorter wavelength:

The A's stand for antinodes, which vibrate in the standing wave with the maximum amplitude. The N's stand for nodes, which do not move at all.

Image Credit: Macquarie University

Direct multiples of the fundamental frequency are called harmonics. Instruments can also produce other frequencies not directly harmonic depending on the structure of the 'box' they utilise.

These additional frequencies, ones which come often in fractional multiples of the fundamental are called partials. Both partials and harmonics represent the overtones of an instrument.

Overtones are what give sound additional character, as they allow instruments to not just resonate at the note they play, but at other combined frequencies. In some instruments, the overtones dominate over the fundamental - creating instruments that can play at much higher pitches.

Envelopes and Beats

Say we add two sine waves together (red and blue), each with slightly different frequencies, what we get is this:

Image Credit: HyperPhysics Concepts

We can see that the brown wave has a singular oscillation frequency, but also it's amplitude continuously scales with reference to this hidden envelope frequency, called the beat frequency (dotted line).

This difference between the actual wave's real frequency and the wave's overall frequency envelope. Is another source of timbre.

Notes, and the way we play them will often generate unique and different envelopes depending on how they are played. For example a staccato quarter-note will have a different envelope to a softly played quarter-note.

Other properties of Sound

Reflection

Different mediums mean different speeds of sounds e.g. molecules in wood (solid) are harder to move than molecules in air (gas).

These different speeds create several effects. Including the reflection of waves. Often waves require a bit of power in order to physically overcome the resistances to vibration of a particular medium.

Often this leads to sound waves bouncing back off harder-to-traverse surfaces.

Say that a sound wave travels through the air and reaches a wooden wall. The atoms vibrating in the air will hit against the wooden wall, transferring only some of their energy to the resistant wood.

The wood atoms on the border of the wall will bounce back, as expected. But this time they will transfer energy back into the air at a much greater magnitude due to newton's third law.

Thus while some of the sound wave ends up going deeper into the wood, the wood will push back and cause the air to vibrate in the opposite direction, creating a reflected wave.

Image credit: Penn State

We characterise the amount of power being reflected versus transmitted versus absorbed using portions:

A + R + T = 1

A = Power absorbed into the material (e.g. warms up the material)

R = Power reflected back

T = Power transmitted into the new medium

This is both an explainer as to why rooms are both very good, and very bad at keeping sound inside them. It really depends on the rigidity and shape of the material they are bordered by.

Refraction

Just like light, sound waves can also refract. Refraction is actually a lot simpler to understand once you already realise that waves will both reflect and transmit across medium changes.

Refraction is just combining the results of incomplete reflection (i.e. transmission) with some angle.

I won't go into refraction in too much detail, as it's worth a different topic. But effectively we experience snell's law but modified for sound.

Diffraction

Sound waves, like all waves propagate spherically (or circularly in 2D).

When travelling around corners, sound can often appear louder than if you were further away, looking at the source more directly.

This is because spherical waves will often 'curve' around corners. This is better described by light diffraction. Which is something for another time.

Conclusion

In conclusion, that's how sound works, mostly. This is a topic that is a little less closer to my expertise. Mainly because it delves into more musically-inclined phenomena that I am less familiar with. But I'm sure I did a good job.

Unfortunately, it seems like the plague of the long post is not yet over. Perhaps I need to get into a lot more specific topics to make things better for me and you (the reader).

Anyways, my exams are done. I am done. I do not have to do school anymore. Until I remember to have to get ready for my honours year (a.k.a. a mini-masters degree tacked on after your bachelor's degree).

Until next time, feel free to gib feedback. It's always appreciated. Follow if you wanna see this stuff weekly.

Cya next week where I will probably try another astronomy topic, or something like that.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Umair Irfan at Vox:

It’s gearing up to be another scorching year.

Countries like Brazil, Thailand, Japan, Kenya, Nigeria, Australia, and Spain already experienced record warm temperatures this year, and in the past few days, heat has killed dozens in India and Mexico. Now states like California, Nevada, Arizona, and Texas are getting ready to roast as a massive heat wave settles in. It’s likely to push temperatures well into triple digits. And summer hasn't even officially started yet. It’s an alarming echo of 2023, which was the hottest year on record, but this year could be hotter still. Though the Pacific Ocean is shifting into its La Niña phase, which typically brings cooler global weather, the extraordinary warmth over the past year is still baked in. Scientists say these record highs align with their expectations for climate change, and warn that more scorchers are coming. There’s more to heat waves like this than high temperatures, though. The forces behind them are complex and changing. They’re a public health threat that can exacerbate inequality, cause infrastructure to collapse, and amplify other problems stemming from warming. But with global average temperatures continuing to rise, more records will fall.

Heat waves, explained

Extreme heat might not seem as dramatic as hurricanes or floods, but the National Weather Service has deemed it the deadliest weather phenomenon in the US over the past 30 years, on average. What counts as a heat wave is typically defined relative to local weather conditions, with sustained temperatures in the 90th to 95th percentile of the average in a given area. So the threshold for a heat wave in Tucson is higher than the threshold in Seattle. During the summer in the Northern Hemisphere, the northern half of the planet is tilted toward the sun, which increases daylight hours and warms the hemisphere. The impact of this additional exposure to solar radiation is cumulative, which is why temperatures generally peak weeks after the longest day of the year. Amid the increase in temperatures in the summer, meteorology can push those numbers to extremes.

Heat waves typically begin with a high-pressure system (also known as an anticyclone), where atmospheric pressure above an area builds up. That creates a sinking column of air that compresses, heats up, and oftentimes dries out. The sinking air can act as a cap or heat dome, trapping the latent heat already absorbed by the landscape. The high-pressure system also pushes out cooler, fast-moving air currents and squeezes clouds away, which gives the sun an unobstructed line of sight to the ground. The ground — soil, sand, concrete, and asphalt — then bakes in the sunlight, and in the long days and short nights of summer, heat energy quickly accumulates and temperatures rise. Heat waves are especially common in areas that are already arid, like the desert Southwest, and at high altitudes where high-pressure systems readily form. Moisture in the ground can blunt the effects of heat, the way evaporating sweat can cool the body. But when there’s little water in the ground, in waterways, and in vegetation, there isn’t as much to soak up the heat besides the air itself.

[...] But extreme heat can also build up in places that have a lot of moisture. In fact, for every degree Celsius the air warms (1.8 degrees Fahrenheit), it can absorb about 7 percent more water, which can create a dangerous combination of heat and humidity (more on that below).

Urban areas further exacerbate this warming. As roads, parking lots, and buildings cover natural landscapes, cities like Los Angeles and Dallas end up absorbing more heat than their surroundings and can become as much as 20°F warmer. This is a phenomenon known as the urban heat island effect. Heat waves typically last around five days but can linger longer if the high-pressure system is locked in place. “In some cases, you actually can get these kinds of patterns getting stuck, and that can lead to heat waves lasting much longer,” said Karen McKinnon, an assistant professor of environment and sustainability at the University of California Los Angeles. Eventually, the high-pressure system will start to weaken, allowing in cooler air and precipitation that can bring the heat wave to an end. However, as the warm season continues, more high-pressure systems can settle in and restart the heating process.

[...] Climate change caused by greenhouse gases from burning fossil fuels is poised to make heat waves longer, more intense, and more frequent. It takes time for the dust to settle on the heat waves of a given moment, to allow scientists to evaluate just how much humans have contributed to the problem.

[...] That heat isn’t distributed evenly, however. Nighttime temperatures are rising faster than daytime temperatures. “In general, since records began in 1895, summer overnight low temperatures are warming at a rate nearly twice as fast as afternoon high temperatures for the U.S. and the 10 warmest summer minimum temperatures have all occurred since 2002,” according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. This can seriously impair how people cope with high heat. The effects of warming can vary by latitude, too. Polar regions are warming up to three times as fast as the planetary average, fueling heat waves in the Arctic. In fact, cooler parts of the planet are heating up faster than places closer to the equator, so people living in temperate climates may experience some of the biggest increases in extreme heat events. Already hot parts of the world also get hotter, pushing them beyond the realm of habitability at certain times of the year. And as human-generated greenhouse gas emissions continue to flood the atmosphere — atmospheric carbon dioxide concentrations recently peaked at 420 parts per million — heat waves are projected to become more frequent and more extreme.

[...]

The timing of heat waves is changing: Periods of extreme heat that occur early in the season tend to have greater public health impacts. That’s because people are less acclimated to heat in the spring and early summer. Cooling infrastructure may not be in place, and people may not be taking heat precautions like staying hydrated and avoiding the sun. That’s why early-season heat waves in the US, as we have seen across the country this year, are so troubling. As climate change makes heat waves more common, it also increases the frequency of early- and late-season extreme temperatures, lengthening the hot season. The worst effects of heat aren’t always in the hottest places: While absolute temperatures may rise higher in already warm areas like the southwestern US, heat waves can have their deadliest impacts in cooler regions, where high temperatures are less common. Warmer areas often already have air conditioning in homes and offices, while regions that usually don’t get as warm have less cooling infrastructure and fewer places to find relief. The people in these regions are also less acclimated to high temperatures and may not recognize warning signs of heat-induced health problems.

Some people are far more vulnerable to extreme heat: Elderly people and very young children face some of the highest risks from extreme heat. People with certain health conditions, like high blood pressure and breathing difficulties, also face greater harm. But even otherwise healthy people can suffer from heat waves if they are exposed for long durations, such as those working outdoors in agriculture and construction. Heat waves exacerbate structural inequalities: While cities can warm up faster than their surroundings, poorer neighborhoods — which are disproportionately home to people of color — tend to get hotter. These neighborhoods often have less tree cover and green spaces, and more paved surfaces that soak up heat. At the same time, lower-income residents may have a harder time affording crucial cooling. The pattern of heat inequality plays out on an international scale, too, with lower-income countries already facing higher health and economic costs from heat waves.

The tools used to cope with heat are also stressed by it: Power plants, which provide electricity for everything from fridges to air conditioners, themselves need to be cooled, and they become less efficient as the weather warms. Power lines have lower capacities under extreme heat, and hardware like transformers experience more failures. If enough stress builds up, the power grid can collapse just when people need cooling the most. Power disruptions then ripple through other infrastructure, like water sanitation, fuel pumps, and public transit. We’re running out of time to act: All this means that heat waves are going to become an increasingly impactful and costly fact of life across the world — from the direct impacts on health to stresses on infrastructure. But since humans share a significant portion of the blame for extreme heat waves, there are also actions people can take to mitigate them. Increasing energy efficiency can relieve stress on the power grid, and adding power sources that don’t require active cooling like wind and solar can boost capacity without adding greenhouse gas emissions.

Vox has a good article on why we are seeing longer and more severe heat waves around the world: climate change effects are part of the reason for the increased duration and severity of heat waves globally.

[jomindraws]

More Jomari IPA chart, here is melonic or melonized sounds, which the Jomari can produce with their melon. Not unlike dolphins and other cetaceans (although not nearly as large and developed), the Jomari can create clicks through their melon organ.

The palatal flap on the back of the nasal cavity (red circle), will compress against the hard palate. As it does so, air directed to the nose while it is pressed or tapped will vibrate cartilage to produce a sound, amplified at the small melon in the Jomari nose bridge (green circle). Receiving sound vibrations are then "heard", or "received" in the case it is being used for echolocation, by the dish-like structure on their head (yellow circle).

[selfixsworld]

I´m bored...

so i´ll give some ideas for quirks for BNHA DRs or OC:

Script Template: @/mx.levias on TikTok — linktree (NOT MY SCRIPT)

SKYFORCE:

Powers MASTERLIST

Quirk Inspired By: Airbenders (Avtar: Legend of Aang)

¦ ⌈Quirk Type⌉ ⩵ Emitter

APPLICATIONS:

Air Manipulation

Aerokinetic Constructs

Aerokinetic Immunity

Aerokinetic Senses using air/wind:

Aerokinetic Hearing by amplifying air molecule vibrations.

Aerokinetic Touch by reading the air and feel any disturbances.

Aerokinetic Smell by detecting a smell that goes in the air.

Aerokinetically Enhanced Jump by reducing air resistance and/or using pressurized air to boost jump ceiling

Aerokinetically Enhanced Speed by reducing air resistance and/or using pressurized air for jet propulsion.Aero-Telekinesis by controlling the air around objects.Aerokinetic Flight

Aerokinetic Surfing

Aerokinetically Enhanced Strength by using air pressure to lift heavy objects and land harder strikes.

Air Walking

Repel projectiles by controlling air currents.

Air Attacks

Air Breath

Air Detection

Air/Wind GenerationHurricane Creation

Tornado Creation

Jet Propulsion via compressed air pressure.

Purification of the air by removing hazardous molecules.

Rot Inducement by oxidizing the target's area.

Sound Manipulation- air is a medium for sound to travel.

Unrestricted Movement

Special Moves:

⌈Tempest Fury⌋: The user generates a powerful storm in a localized area, complete with raging winds, lightning, and torrential rain. This storm can disorient and overpower opponents while giving the user an environmental advantage.

⌈Whirlwind Cage⌋: The user creates a swirling vortex of wind that traps enemies inside, restricting their movement and draining their stamina as the vortex spins at high velocity.

⌈Silent Gale⌋: The user manipulates air around their body to create an aura of silence, muffling sound and making them invisible to auditory detection. Perfect for stealth operations or sneak attacks.

⌈Skywarden’s Embrace⌋: The user manipulates air currents to form a defensive barrier around themself or an ally, blocking incoming projectiles and dispersing energy-based attacks. The air barrier can also provide temporary flight capabilities.

⌈Zephyr Step⌋: By manipulating air currents beneath their feet, the user becomes momentarily weightless, allowing for near-instantaneous movement and swift dodges, making them difficult to track in combat.

Backlash:

Sound Sensitivity: With enhanced air-based hearing, the user may become overwhelmed by loud noises or sudden sounds, making it difficult to focus in chaotic environments.

Unpredictable Currents: If the user loses focus, their manipulated air currents may become unpredictable, resulting in friendly fire or unintended consequences during battle.

Physical Strain: Constantly manipulating air currents can lead to joint pain or muscle strain, particularly in the arms and legs, as the user’s body adjusts to the physical demands of their quirk.

Pressure Backlash: Manipulating air pressure can cause harmful feedback effects. If the pressure is released incorrectly, it can result in injuries to the user or create a shockwave that harms nearby allies.

[univvrse]

we're in all the magazines (chapter 5)

chapter title: because i wanna be your boyfriend

hawks x dabi

There were four members of the band 'Puncture'; each with deeply buried secrets. Dabi, Hawks, Shigaraki and Mr Compress.

Each about to find out things about eachother that will change their relationship as band mates forever.

previous can be found on my masterlist

on my ao3 if you'd prefer

1.1k words

Everything was amplified. This was the first thing Dabi noticed when he stepped onto the stage. The lights he had grown accustomed to became suns. He could feel the crowd’s excitement, their anticipation. Every sound and movement became one and separated all at once. There was no question of “what if something goes wrong” plaguing his mind. He was impossibly present, and yet still untethered.

When the music began, Dabi’s instincts took over. He didn’t even have to think. Their opening number was Poison Heart, a song Dabi could’ve sung from his grave. It was one of the first songs he’d performed with his band, far before Keigo joined. There were no words to describe how Dabi felt in the moment. He wasn’t emotional, it was more like he was part of the music.

Their audience tonight was louder than all the ones before them added together and multiplied by ten, but the members of Puncture hardly registered them. Everything besides the music had faded out, leaving them in a world fabricated by their own cacophony.

Keigo’s eyes strayed to Dabi more times than he would willingly admit. There was something addictive about the way he held himself, the way he moved, the way he manoeuvred himself in such a perfect manner, anyone who saw him must think every action of his was meticulously rehearsed, pre-planned. What was so gorgeous about him was that almost nothing was.

Dabi grew progressively wilder, damn-near prowling across the stage, shooting suggestive looks to members of the crowd, drinking in their desperate screams. His chest vibrated, the cries fuelling him. It felt as though he’d unlocked a bottomless pit of energy. He found a perfect balance between shouting and singing. A sort of melodic screaming.

Each song went by perfectly. Not even Tomura could possibly have had any complaints. They were all perfectly in time with each other, instruments were tuned to perfection, Dabi’s voice was perfectly suited to every song.

“Okay! We have one last song to perform for you guys!” Dabi’s voice seemed to ricochet through the room. He waited for the cheering to die down, “I think you guys are gonna like this one!” he looked over to Keigo, tapping his mic and cocking his head. Keigo stared back through half-lidded eyes, nodding when he realised it was a silent gesture to ask if he was ready to back the song.

“One two three four!”

Puncture began to play. Dabi lips split into a heinous smirk as he sang, “Hey, little girl,” the members had collectively agreed to perform this song with more hardcore sound than how it’s originally played, “I wanna be your boyfriend.” Dabi shrugged off the leather jacket he’d been wearing, allowing it to drop to the floor, “Sweet little girl,” the singer turned to his guitarist, “I wanna be your boyfriend.”

Keigo’s eyes widened and trained in on Dabi, staring unapologetically. Gaze still honed on Dabi, he lowered his mouth to his own mic and joined, “Do you love me babe?” Dabi traipsed towards Keigo, one hand gripping his microphone, while the other reached to outstretched fists protruding from the sea of fans before them, “What do you say?” Dabi jumped back, pumping his own fist in the air, “DO YOU LOVE ME BABE?” screams erupted at the rapid switch in energy. It was all Keigo could do not to throw his prized guitar to the floor and join Dabi, “WHAT CAN I SAY”

Keigo turned from his mic to fully face Dabi. They decided he would only sing backing for the verses, that way he could better focus on his guitar. Dabi continued to drift towards the blonde, still pausing after every few steps to stomp, jump or headbang at any parts he felt needed a physical boost. Keigo was shamelessly staring, too drugged out to care who saw his eyes travel from Dabi’s face down to where his bullet-belt met his wife-beater top. With every exaggerated movement, the top would ride up, proudly showcasing a v-line and a happy trail. Keigo wondered what that’d look like at eye level, Dabi towering above him, head thrown back, white-knuckling blonde locks and letting out sounds the devil himself would cover his ears upon heari-

Keigo was yanked from his fantasy by a touch to his jaw. Lightning seemed to dance over the affected skin. He had never been more grateful to the guitar in his for arms keeping his hands so busy. He thanked whatever God was above that they had opted for the more rowdy sound with this song, hoping it masked his shakiness as something actually intentional.

Another touch, this one slow and unmistakable, tracing from his jaw to his collarbone. Keigo whipped around to see Dabi standing behind him, slightly off to the right. The boys couldn’t pull their eyes from each other. It felt like there was a current between them, some sort of electric buzz that amplified the energy they created together. Keigo’s guitar grew impossibly louder, and Dabi’s voice strengthened. Dabi winked at Keigo and spun to face the audience, “I WANNA BE YOUR BOYFRIEND.”

Keigo stepped forward, pretended to forget he had a microphone of his own, and leant into Dabi’s mic instead, attempting to match his energy for their shared verse, “DO YOU LOVE ME BABE? WHAT DO YOU SAY?” he strummed his guitar vigorously enough to break the skin of his fingertips, “DO YOU LOVE ME BABE?” Dabi was now staring intently at Keigo, their faces separated by nothing but a mere few inches of air and the cold metal of the microphone.

Blood trickled from Keigo’s fingers, dirtying the strings he expertly played. He could hardly feel it. Up close, he could finally study Dabi’s face, his pupils blown, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead, he looked positively insane. There was a sort of insatiable look of hunger behind his eyes that made Keigo’s head spin. He needed Dabi in every way imaginable. He sang with the intensity of a man sentenced to death who had been told he would be spared if his performance shook the world, as if his life hung in the quality of this performance. Keigo couldn’t bear it. It took every inch of willpower in him not to close the torturous gap between them.

The song was nearing its end. Dabi had resumed his crazed jumping, punching at the air above him, still by Keigo’s side, “HEY LITTLE GIRL, I WANNA BE YOUR BOYFRIEND” he moved impossibly closer to Keigo, “SWEET LITTLE GIRL, I WANNA BE YOUR BOYFRIEEEEND” he ended the song with his renowned scream, staring provocatively at Keigo.

Fuck willpower.

Keigo’s hands left his guitar and moved to Dabi’s face, intertwining his bloody fingers with black hair, surging his face forwards to meet the singer’s lips with his own. The crowd went wild, filling the room with cheers and wolf whistles. Dabi didn’t even take a second to react, immediately leaning into the kiss, grabbing roughly at Keigo’s face, mic still in one hand. His tongue slid from his mouth to prod at Keigo’s lips, which parted obediently.

[audio-luddite]

Myth-information

Like that word? I just thought of it.

I was meditating on the Frank Doris document linked in my previous post. The guy has gobs of experience, but that is tempered by his clinging to myths and misunderstandings to reach conclusions. There always has to be a conclusion.

I heard an effect it must be due to this thing. Or not.

So he likes planar speakers cuz they are low mass and such. Well if they truly were that they would have really good high frequency response and you know they don't. All current units have woofers and tweeter drivers as you do not have a practical true full range planar driver. There are two types of planar speakers. One is the magnetic like the Magneplanar. The other are various flavors of electrostatics. Skipping details he likes the sound (as do I) because they are low mass and fast (which they are not). But the truth is they are very inefficient and non-linear and not that low mass compared to a simple cone driver. The motors of cone drivers are much more efficient for a given mass of moving parts.

All planars either electrostatic or magnetic are non-linear. The forces applied to the diaphragm is from an electrostatic charge on grids or magnetic field which accelerates a thin sheet. BUT practical considerations require the diaphragm to be under significant tension which increases the restoring force the more the sheet moves from rest. A linear signal input gives you a not linear displacement. Effectively it is a signal compression. I know this as I have built them. But they still sound good.

Why do they sound acceptable and even very good? Well they have a large radiating area which couples well to the air in the room. An 8" speaker cone has 50 squinches of area. A modest planar speaker can have 10 times that. My electrostatics had 1500 squinches of area. That coupling is actually an impedance matching effect so the sound is put into the air very efficiently once it has got past all the mechanical limitations. It appears as impact and such. That goodness compensates for most of the inherent badness.

Big horn speakers share this impedance matching effect. The area of the horn outlet is the effective area of the speaker. In big Khorns you are talking square feet of area. But they have phase issues and horns distort, sorry.

There is no ideal speaker solution. Any method can be made to fool your brain. All have flaws.

Interconnect wires can effect sound. Not for the reasons noted in the marketing materials. I had a high end rather long shielded cable to link my front end to my amps back when I placed them right beside my speakers. (Audioquest brand) As they were shielded they were capacitors. Those very long runs dulled the high frequencies. I no longer need that length. I made a set of short cables by braiding four wires just long enough to reach between my preamp and my amplifier. It made a big difference. I cut the fancy cables to the same length and guess what they now sounded identical. Simple and cheap is fine.

All the bumf about speaker cables is bragging about how much money you can spend. Skin effect, time smearing, and all that does have an effect in radio frequencies but none at all in audio frequencies. The only factors that matter are inductance, resistance, and capacitance. All wires have those. Note that some very expensive audio electronics both produce and respond to radio frequencies due to design flaws. Don't buy that stuff. Just a simple heavy gauge wire is all you need.

Remember that the 20 odd feet of fancy speaker cables connects to maybe a hundred feet of fine voice coil wire and 60 odd feet of inductor wire inside your speaker box. The entire loop counts and adds together.

Insert rant here about fancy power cables. If they help, your equipment has a problem in the power supply. All that might change is your grounding condition and perhaps invalidating your fire insurance.

Oh and the eternal conflict between tubes and transistors. Yes that is a thing. They sound different while measuring the same. Does that prove that measurements are meaningless? No just they measure what they can measure. Skilled designers can make either sound like the other. But each tribe has its fan base and those people must be served. My tube amp is different here and there, but overall more similar to my transistor franken-amp than not. The differences are very small. And it is fun to explore.

Anyone who truly understands this stuff just rolls their eyes when the golden ears start to preach. I almost understand this stuff.

[vincentkeehl]

Four Lessons from Baphometrix’s “Clip-To-Zero” Production Method

(or why loudness only matters as much as it does)

Baphometrix’s CTZ (clip-to-zero method) encompasses just about everything I wanted to know about loudness when I first started producing. I don’t adhere to it religiously, but the lessons it’s taught me about dynamics in digital mixing are priceless. Baphy clearly delineates how mixing choices affect overall loudness in a way I’ve never found anywhere else. After years of asking about loudness on forums and being repeatedly told by old heads to more-or-less not worry about it, CTZ was like fresh air. I highly recommend Baphometrix’s long and hyper-detailed video series to anyone seeking in- depth lectures on how to push a digital mix louder. For anyone seeking something more concise, I will share with you my favorite bits. But first, let’s understand what CTZ is with respect to traditional methods of mixing.

CTZ represents a hard break from conventional mixing. Conventional mixing methods largely arose from the limitations of analog technology. Analog compressors, amplifiers, and mixers are known for having a wonderful “color” to them. This is a gift and a curse. It’s a gift, because the gear itself is able to impart a special warmth or tonality to the mix that purely digital workstations can only mimic at best. Analog heads love their gear for a reason. It’s also a curse, though, because this warmth is technically just noise and distortion. Analog equipment can’t be pushed very hard before the processing becomes obvious, or even ugly. Also, the signal coming into an analog mixer needs to be kept lower than it would in a digital interface. This is because a hot signal can often distort an analog channel, even if doesn’t actually clip! So to get the most out of analog dynamics processing, the conventional wisdom came to be that compressors, limiters, and the like should be applied gently, carefully, and incrementally. And even when working digitally, this approach still works wonders for the people who practice it. When you watch an engineer work this way, it’s like they begin with a mellow mix and massage it upwards into a loud and clear form, sculpting and adding color as they go.

CTZ on the other hand, is a mixing discipline for the digital age. Rather than the “color” or “warmth” sought by other mixing methods, CTZ prioritizes loudness and fidelity. It maintains the track’s cleanliness and transparency, while keeping the mix as flush against 0db as it can. This of course comes with some caveats. Firstly, it assumes that you are working completely in-the-box. It needs you to commit to sterile, digital compression. It depends on you being able to create as many tracks, sends, and groups as you want. Secondly, while it can be used on any genre, it was developed specifically for bassy EDM tracks. When DJs at live venues mix an EDM set, they don’t always perfectly gain stage the songs within it for equal loudness. This means that a dance track which sounds perfectly fine on your home speakers might end up sounding quieter and weaker than the other songs in the mix, if it happens to get thrown in the wrong way. Because of this potential variance, it’s advantageous for the EDM producers to err on the loud side when mixing their music, to ensure that it sounds powerful and exciting when the DJ plays it. This is the core focus of CTZ.

Because it departs so far from accepted mixing traditions, CTZ is often criticized to an unfair extent. Yes, it’s a little out there and it fetishizes loudness, but it also kicks ass as what it was built to. As someone who’s studied and sees the value in both worlds, I feel compelled to advocate for CTZ. Here are four things CTZ taught me that sources on conventional mixing did not.

1. I Can’t Believe The Oscilloscope is Actually Useful

When you achieve loudness by slamming the master bus through a brick-wall limiter (as was common at the height of the loudness wars), you get a big fat loud-ass rectangular waveform. But at what cost? If you look up the first CD remasters of Michael Jackson’s pre-CD music, you’d probably be appalled at the distortion. It was ugly. When older engineers would tell me about the loudness wars, I assumed they were being hysterical. This was because I was younger than them, and had missed the worst period of what they were talking about. After all, the digital remasters I was listening to sounded fine! But in time, I found out that yes, the very first wave of CD remasters really were that crazy. It’s as if the engineers of that time were huffing paint or something. They thought all that distortion was worth it for a fat, sausage waveform.

The oscilloscope allows us to sort out this conflict between loudness and fidelity, navigating through the best of both worlds. Mixing may be done with the ears, but the oscilloscope gives the eyes important clues about about how well we’re filling the mix out. It allows us to empirically test how our mixing decisions affect the fatness of the mix’s waveform. By watching the oscilloscope as you shape elements and mix them in, you can see how your choices are contributing to the overall volume while aurally confirming that it still sounds right. That means you can visually see that you are building that sausage waveform organically, minimizing the amount of squashing the final limiter has to do.

2. Hard Clipping is Cool as Hell

When I was a total beginner, I would hear a lot about clipping. Specifically, I would hear that it was bad and you shouldn’t let it happen. And to be fair, this is good advice to give to a beginner. Clipping could cause them to mess up their recordings or gain stage in a crazy or unworkable way. The idea is that when you clip, you distort. And that’s true! But what they don’t tell you is that any kind of dynamics processing causes distortion. It turns out, a little controlled clipping on an element here or there is often the perfect way to boost it without having to hear the compression. Compared to typical compressing or limiting, a hard clipper provides exceptionally clean output gain, acting only upon the the loudest peaks and keeping attack/release pumping to the bare minimum. Normal compression is still good for imparting musicality and shaping the envelopes of sounds, of course. But if you’ve already done that to an element and still need a way to push it hotter without changing its vibe, try a hard clipper! For tonal elements like guitar and piano, you’ll be surprised how far you can push it before you notice the distortion.

3. You Can Get Away with More Sidechain Compression and Ducking than You Think

One core idea of CTZ is “checkerboarding.” The idea of checkerboarding is to reduce the amount of work your final bus limiter or master limiter has to do by minimizing how much the elements overlap. You try to keep each piece clearly defined and separate, like tiles on a checkerboard. This will keep the dynamic peaks of the mix more balanced and manageable, so we can turn the mix up way more at the end. We already kind of do this when we use EQ to give elements their own little space, partitioning them by their spectral makeup. Another way to do this is by making sure big elements don’t occur at the same time, such as arranging a song to have kick drums only on every quarter-note and big bass notes only on every other eighth-note. But if you’re already past the arranging and EQ, another way to checkerboard your elements is with sidechain compression and ducking.

Imagine I didn’t have the foresight to arrange my kick and bass in the way that I described earlier. Imagine I put the bass on every eight note. Now in the mix, the bass and the kick will overlap, forming needlessly tall transients that run too hot into the final limiter. But I can separate these elements a bit by sidechaining the bass to the kick, so that it “ducks” out of the way of the kick transient as much as possible. If you set the compressor attack to hard-zero and play around with the other parameters, you’ll be surprised how much you can duck things without creating the “pumping” effect that sidechain compression is known for. It’s a great tool for precisely tucking a transient element into a steady one without relying on glue compression, which would squash them together in a less controlled, more obvious way. If you’re willing to create an intricate scheme of bus groups, ducking your steady elements around your transient ones, you can squeeze a lot of extra juice out of your mix without much impact on how it sounds. Often, when my mix is too dynamic, I will go through and duck all my major elements in this way, just short of making it noticeable. When I come back to the master bus, I find that with the overlap of elements controlled, the peaks are much milder and I have way more headroom to turn the mix up.

4. The Kick Drum Envelope Should Look Like a Dorito

Getting the kick drum right is hard. Sometimes it sounds nice and punchy when you start mixing, but by the end you’re only hearing the transient and missing the body. Or maybe you have the opposite problem— it sounds big and heavy at the beginning, but by the end you’re only hearing the body and missing the punch. Why do kick drums go off the rails at the end like that? I’ll tell you: Having the kick decay too suddenly or having the transient too high ends up overemphasizing the transient. That leaves it sounding clicky and abrupt. Having the kick decay too late or having the transient too low ends up overemphasizing the body. That makes it sound flat and weak. The sweet spot between these two decay patterns? A line drive.

In order to have the kick drum both punch through the mix and have a strong body, a good rule of thumb is to make sure the waveform looks like a Dorito. By this I mean, the initial transient should be the highest amplitude, and the body should follow a straight line from that amplitude to silence. No matter how long the decay is, try to keep it shorter than the period in between kicks, and make sure it’s shaped like a triangle. This can be accomplished by only using Dorito kicks in the first place, or forcing your kicks to conform to this shape with dynamics processing. Like all heuristics, there are exceptions to this. But for typical dance music, this will ensure that your kick drum stays punchy and dominant, while using up as little headroom as possible. And you know what extra headroom means? We can crank the volume higher later on.

The Valid Criticisms of CTZ, and Why the Loudness Wars are Over

Critics of this particular method and the general pursuit of loudness are right about one thing: the loudness war is over. Direct competition of music recordings on the basis of loudness is a holdover from a previous era. Let’s talk about that era. For a brief period at the zenith of CD’s and mp3 files, there was a special set of circumstances that gave audio engineers both the ability and the motive to push tracks to incredible loudnesses, often at the expense of quality and fidelity. The ability to do so came from the introduction of computers to analog studios. By incorporating DAWs and computer plug-ins in their workflow, music makers were no longer bound by the limitation of analog production. They gained access to digital gain and digital compression— harder and cleaner methods of increasing loudness than they had ever imagined possible.

The motive to crank it came from the forms of popular music at the time. CD players and iPods did not normalize the music played by its perceived loudness. If they normalized the levels at all, it was by the average volumes of the tracks. Volume is related to loudness, but differs in that it only represent the electric signal needed to produce the sound— not how loud it feels to our ears! This meant that in those days, the loudness of a finished track was entirely up to the people who made it. There was no platform to turn the music up or down for the end listener, nor any penalty for a track for being too loud. Songs and albums were exactly as loud to the listener as the engineers printed them to be. And as you probably already know, listeners are generally biased to favor louder versions of the same sound.

It’s common sense when you think about it. If you’re a pop, rock, or hip-hop musician at this time in history, your audience is rapidly switching between your CDs and their other CDs in the disc player. They’re shuffling your raw mp3 files together with all the other ones in their iPod. Wouldn’t you want your track to feel bigger and stronger than the others? Wouldn’t you want it to stand out?

One (one) good thing about the streaming services which replaced those disc players and iPods, such as Spotify and YouTube, is that they normalize audio based on loudness. They do this by weighting the volume of a track against the distribution of its signal across the frequency spectrum, giving more weight to the frequencies we are more sensitive to. This ensures that almost everything, respective of genre and tone, sits around the same level. Today, we still have the ability to to crank audio to crazy- high levels. But because loudness normalization has become standard, pushing the loudness of a track past the target loudness platforms normalize for no longer makes it sound any louder to the end user. The incentive to crank it is no longer there.

But even now that loudness normalization is ubiquitous, it’s still important understand and have control over loudness. Even platforms who normalize this way still have optimal loudness ranges, within which tracks are sufficiently loud without being affected much by the normalization. The target for streaming is around -16 Lufs to -12Lufs. Plus, in other audio media such as audiobooks and certain podcast platforms, hard loudness requirements are common. So it’s definitely still important to know how to increase the loudness of your mix in a controlled, precise way. You may even need to cool your mix down, reversing CTZ thought to precisely add dynamics rather than compress them out.

It’s for these reasons that I wanted to synthesize CTZ with conventional mixing, yielding four simple heuristics for managing loudness within a digital mix. But always remember, loudness is a perceptual quality to our ears— not a number on a meter. LUFS and waveforms, as useful as they are, are merely tools to help us understand what we’re hearing. Ultimately, the best way to sound loud is to produce and work with material that sounds loud in the first place. Beyond that, it comes down to processing. So whichever side of the CTZ debate you’re on, these four distillations are fantastic tools to get the loudness and dynamics of your mix exactly where you want them.

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How is seasoned dryer vent cleaning carried out?

Dryer vent cleansing is most important for holding defense and potency in your property or commercial enterprise please talk over with for more details. Professional dryer vent cleansing guarantees that lint, debris, and obstructions are removed to curb hearth risks and enhance your dryer's functionality. Here’s how mavens handle the process.

Inspection and Assessment of the Dryer Vent

Before starting the cleaning task, specialists conduct an intensive inspection of the dryer vent formula.

Identifying Blockages and Issues

Experts use specialized resources, along with video inspection cameras, to detect blockages or break inside the vent. They investigate regardless of whether lint, debris, or maybe chicken nests are current.

Evaluating Airflow Efficiency

Professionals degree the airflow to check how restricted the vent is. Poor airflow ordinarily signs the want for an immediate cleaning to steer clear of negative aspects and amplify drying effectivity.

Preparation for the Cleaning Process

Once the inspection is accomplished, the cleansing technique is in moderation all set to ensure that effective outcomes.

Turning Off and Disconnecting the Dryer

The dryer is became off and disconnected from the vigor source. This makes it possible for protected get right of entry to to the vent and guarantees no unintended operation all the way through the cleansing job.

Setting Up Tools and Equipment

Professionals use really good resources, along with top-powered vacuums, rotary brushes, and flexible rods, to clear the vents conveniently. Safety measures also are installed region to take care of the encircling region.

Dryer Vent Cleaning Techniques

The cleansing task consists of distinctive steps to safely take away lint and debris from the vent technique.

Vacuuming the Vent Interior

A prime-powered vacuum is used to extract unfastened lint and particles from the vent. The vacuum guarantees that the initial layer of obstruction is removed before greater in depth cleaning begins.

Rotary Brush Cleaning

Rotary brushes are inserted into the vent to wash away cussed lint and buildup from the walls of the duct. The rotating action effectually loosens compacted material, ensuring a deeper fresh.

Using Compressed Air Tools

For vents with major blockages or arduous-to-achieve regions, compressed air equipment may well be used. These methods blast air due to the vent to dislodge and https://jsbin.com/pasiseyujo take away final debris.

Cleaning the Exterior Vent and Components

Dryer vent cleaning isn’t restricted to simply the interior ductwork. The exterior materials additionally require consciousness.

Clearing the Exterior Vent Cover

The outside vent quilt is continuously clogged with lint and dust. Professionals remove and clear the quilt to be sure unrestricted airflow.

Inspecting the Vent Termination Point

The factor in which the vent terminates outdoors the constructing is inspected and wiped clean. This guarantees that airflow stays consistent and that no obstructions are left in the back of.

Special Considerations for Complex Systems

Some dryer vent platforms are greater complicated, requiring additional ways to ascertain a finished refreshing.

Cleaning Long or Curved Vent Systems

For homes or firms with longer or more frustrating vent programs

[charlesmwa]

How Can  Customers Maximize the Longevity of Their Audio Gear?

Audio gear, whether it's for professional use or personal enjoyment, is an investment. From studio monitors and headphones to amplifiers and speakers, these tools enhance our music experience and creative output. But like any piece of technology, audio gear requires proper care to maintain its quality and performance over time. In this blog, we’ll explore actionable tips to help you maximize the lifespan of your equipment, saving you money and ensuring you get the most out of your investment.

Keep It Clean

Dust and dirt can wreak havoc on audio equipment. Over time, debris can accumulate in knobs, jacks, and other components, leading to reduced performance or even damage. Here are a few cleaning tips:

Use a soft, dry microfiber cloth to wipe down surfaces regularly.

For hard-to-reach areas, consider using compressed air to remove dust.

Avoid using harsh cleaning agents, as they can damage delicate components.

Making cleaning a regular part of your maintenance routine can prevent long-term issues and keep your gear looking and performing like new.

Store Your Gear Properly

Improper storage can lead to wear and tear or even accidental damage. To protect your audio gear:

Store equipment in a cool, dry place away from direct sunlight.

Use protective cases or covers to shield your gear from dust and physical damage.

Avoid stacking heavy items on top of fragile components like mixers or turntables.

Proper storage not only prolongs the life of your equipment but also ensures it’s ready to use whenever you need it.

Avoid Overloading

Every piece of audio gear has its limits. Overloading your speakers, amplifiers, or headphones can cause irreparable damage. To prevent this:

Check the recommended power ratings for your gear and ensure they’re compatible with your setup.

Avoid cranking the volume to maximum for extended periods.

Use limiters or protectors to prevent sudden power surges.

Respecting your gear’s limits ensures consistent performance and reduces the risk of damage.

Cable Management Matters

Messy cables aren’t just an eyesore—they’re a safety hazard. Tangles can lead to damaged connections or broken wires. To keep your cables in good shape:

Use cable organizers or Velcro ties to keep everything neat.

Avoid bending or twisting cables excessively.

Unplug cables when not in use to reduce wear on connectors.

Taking care of your cables not only extends their lifespan but also improves the overall functionality of your setup.

Protect Against Moisture

Moisture is the enemy of electronics. Even small amounts of humidity can cause corrosion or short circuits. To protect your gear:

Keep equipment in dry environments, especially during storage.

Use dehumidifiers in areas with high humidity.

If your gear gets wet, power it off immediately and let it dry completely before using it again.

By keeping moisture at bay, you can avoid costly repairs or replacements.

Regular Maintenance

Even the most durable audio gear benefits from regular maintenance. Some steps include:

Checking for loose connections or worn-out parts.

Updating firmware for devices that support it.

Consulting a professional for periodic inspections or repairs.

Routine maintenance ensures your equipment stays in peak condition and can help identify potential issues before they become major problems.

Handle With Care

It might seem obvious, but handling your gear gently is one of the simplest ways to extend its lifespan. Always:

Use both hands when carrying heavy equipment.

Avoid dropping or jarring your gear.

Follow the manufacturer’s instructions for setup and usage.

Gentle handling minimizes wear and tear and ensures your gear stays functional for years.

Use Quality Accessories

Cheap or poorly made accessories can cause more harm than good. Investing in high-quality cables, adapters, and stands can make a big difference. These items:

Provide better performance and reliability.

Reduce the risk of damage to your equipment.

Last longer, saving you money in the long run.

Purchasing accessories from professional or reputable audio shops ensures you’re getting products designed to work seamlessly with your gear.

Monitor Environmental Conditions

Extreme temperatures and vibrations can negatively impact your audio gear. To create a safe environment:

Avoid placing equipment near heat sources like radiators or direct sunlight.

Keep gear away from areas with heavy foot traffic to reduce vibrations.

Use shock-absorbing mounts or pads for sensitive equipment.

Maintaining a stable environment helps preserve the internal components of your gear.

Educate Yourself

Understanding your gear and how it works can go a long way in extending its lifespan. Read the user manuals, watch tutorials, and stay informed about best practices. The more you know, the better equipped you’ll be to take care of your equipment.

Conclusion

Maximizing the longevity of your audio gear isn’t just about protecting your investment—it’s about ensuring consistent performance and reliability. By following these tips, you can keep your setup in top shape and avoid unnecessary expenses. And remember, purchasing your equipment from professional audio shops like VIP PRO AUDIO gives you access to expert advice and quality products that stand the test of time. Take care of your gear, and it will take care of you, delivering exceptional sound for years to come!