#inspiration and motivation are a fleeting thing

[weepinwriter]

Road to Heaven is an 18+ Dystopian fic which takes inspiration from popular media like the “Shatter Me” series and “Hunger Games”. It may contain distressing content like major injury to the characters, character deaths, blood, gore, body horror, amnesia and optional sexual content. More specific warnings will be given at the beginning of each chapter.

You are inmate No. 1441, incarcerated in Tartarus, the most notorious prison on the continent. You find yourself imprisoned for a crime that you do not remember committing, leaving you in a state of uncertainty about your own identity and purpose. The first memory you have is awakening to the sensation of a gun being shoved into your mouth.

Within the grim confines of Tartarus, you have been branded as the most dangerous criminal, feared yet hated by both fellow inmates and prison authorities alike. It becomes clear to you that in order to survive and unravel the enigma of your past, escape from this formidable penitentiary is imperative. However, achieving freedom will not be an easy feat, as you must navigate treacherous encounters with some of the most malevolent criminals known to humanity. In your quest for freedom, you find yourself entangled in complex relationships with three significant individuals. Firstly, your cellmate, whose icy demeanor suggests a deep-seated disdain for your very existence. Secondly, your best friend within the prison walls, whose seemingly excessive friendliness may harbor ulterior motives. Lastly, there is the warden, whose overtly amicable nature masks a peculiar familiarity with your past. As you navigate the perilous labyrinth of Tartarus, your ultimate objective is twofold: to survive amidst the most notorious criminals and uncover the truth about your forgotten past. In a world where danger lurks at every corner, you must tread carefully, for the path to redemption and self-discovery is riddled with uncertainty and perilous choices.

Fully customize your MC. Choose your pronouns, sexuality, appearance and more. Take control of your interactions with the characters and experience the world of Elysium City through a personalized scope.

Romance one of the 7 RO’s, and if you are charming enough, fall in love with any two of them. The four possible poly routes available are: The Cellmate and The Friend, The Warden and The Master, The Protector and The Master, The Cellmate and The Rebel

Struggle against the evil that wants you dead and uncover secrets about yourself

Accept your identity as an Esper and rediscover your powers, or completely reject them

Master your ability of Conscious Manipulation and perhaps learn a few things about yourself unexpectedly

Choose to make allies within Tartarus or antagonize them. Your choices have consequences

Lead a dying rebellion against the Hightable or join them as an equal

There are a total 7 romance options, each with their own personality and a story along with dark secrets for you to uncover

Survive

1. The Cellmate [f/m] | Enemies to Lovers

Subject Name : Twenty

A palpable enigma surrounds the inexplicable disdain they harbor towards you, leaving you to ponder if your past misdeeds have sowed the seeds of their ire. Your questions remain unanswered, rarely do they grace you with a response, and when they do, it arrives veiled in hateful glares and a tapestry of venomous words. The origins of their animosity remain shrouded in silence, with fellow inmates mirroring their reticence. Only when they are complaining about the prison's wretched conditions and the Warden's despotic rule do they momentarily shed their icy facade, revealing hints of vulnerability and human emotion. When they do smile, albeit rarely, it is a fleeting moment of breathtaking beauty. If only you could find the courage to tell them that.

[ Number 1579 is an S rank Arcane Tendency Esper with the Cryokinesis ability. They are under Libra’s Jurisdiction, and thus only follow orders coming directly from them. ]

Other Tropes : Emotional Scars, Nobody thinks it’ll actually work, Hate Sex

2. The Warden? [m] | ???

Subject Name : Nikita

There is an uncanny familiarity surrounding him, leaving you torn between the unsettling grip of dread and the elusive allure of desire. He claims to know you personally. Apparently the two of you were close friends before The Incident. Yet, when you press for details, he skillfully redirects the conversation before your emotions can catch up. "The past is but a fleeting shadow," he says, "no need to talk about something that can't be changed. Besides, you wouldn't remember anything." Evidently your memories had been erased. The question of who hangs heavy in the air, but his response remains enigmatic, offering only a mirthless smile.

[ Nikita is the Warden of Tartarus, the Reformation Asylum in Sector 10, 8th District. He is under Scorpio's jurisdiction. ]

Other Tropes : Slowburn, Betrayal, Puppy play

3. The Friend [f/m] | Friends to Lovers

Subject Name : Victor (m.) | Vanessa (f.)

A compassionate and devoted companion, V. shines as a beacon of light in the desolate depths of this grim abyss that became your world. From the moment you opened your eyes, they extended a helping hand, guiding you through the labyrinthine complexities of Tartarus and easing your transition into this unfamiliar realm. Unfazed by the venomous whispers that tarnish your reputation, they remain steadfastly by your side, unwavering in their loyalty. Their warm smiles and whimsical wordplay serve as a balm, mending your wounded spirit after every bitter clash with Twenty. How fortunate you are to be blessed with such an illuminating presence, brightening the shadows that consume your existence.

[ Number 1339 is an A rank Catalyst Tendency Esper with the Illusion Manipulation ability. They are under Scorpio’s Jurisdiction. ]

Other Tropes : Partners in crime, First Love, Good people get good sex, Slight yandere

4. The Count/Countless [f/m] | Forbidden Romance (relationship history can be friends with benefits)

Subject Name : Emir (m.) | Evara(f.)

A remarkable visionary and an exceptional entrepreneur, E. stands as an unrivaled figure in the illustrious realm of Elysium City. Holding the distinction of being the youngest Grandmaster in history and amassing unparalleled wealth, they reign as the CEO of the renowned Quinn Industries. E. is adorned with numerous titles within the esteemed echelons of society, serving as an icon of inspiration and a beacon of hope, while simultaneously arousing envy in the hearts of many. An arrogant and proud individual, their ugliness is conveniently covered by their astonishing fortune, combined with innate brilliance, seems almost mystical, as if destined for greatness from their very birth. Within Elysium City's grand social tapestry, few possess the persuasive prowess to sway the decisions of the Hightable itself, yet E. stands tall even among this select few. As an eligible bachelor, their daily inundation of love letters and marriage proposals is a testament to their allure. And yet, amidst all this splendor, it is you who has found a place of interest in their extraordinary life.

[ E. is a part of The Senate and thus does not fall under any District's jurisdiction. ]

Other Tropes : Belated love epiphany, Billionaire, Power play, Daddy/Mommy kink

5. The Master [f] | Forbidden Romance

Subject Name : Leo

In her calculated pursuit, you find yourself ensnared. Your allure captivates her discerning gaze, for you possess what she desires most. You are the coveted object of her desires. In this strategic game, you are but a pawn, a possession within her calculated grasp. Yet, curiously she maintains a measured distance. Her reason? She eloquently articulates, “Witnessing the growth of one's possession is a fascinating phenomenon.”

[ Leo is the Master of {DATA REDACTED}. They are the Ruler of the 5th District. ]

Other Tropes : Secret Identity, Second Chance, Blood play, Begging

6. The Protector [m] | Bodyguard Romance

Subject Name : Caesar

A battle-hardened soldier, Caesar bears the scars of a lifetime spent serving the FAE and the city. With an intimacy unparalleled, he has danced with mortality on numerous occasions, making death a companion rather than an adversary. Yet, behind that facade of strength, Caesar is a fractured soul, haunted by insecurities and a self-destructive nature. His journey, filled with shattered dreams and the weight of his daughter's aspirations, has brought him to the edge of despair. The immortality he once embraced now feels like a curse, a harbinger of misfortune that has become synonymous with his presence. In his eyes, he sees himself as not a protector but a bearer of ill fate. However, the stars, in an unexpected alignment, have granted him a final purpose: to protect you. Beneath the intimidating exterior lies a gentle giant, yet one plagued by a profound sense of self-loathing. He grapples with the belief that his very existence is a catalyst for tragedy, a vortex that draws calamity toward him and those he holds dear. Intrigued by this complex guardian, you see the duality within Caesar — an attentive and understanding individual burdened by the weight of his own perceived malevolence. As you navigate through the intricate layers of his psyche, perhaps you could help him ease his suffering, even by a little.

[ Caesar is a registered S rank Endura Tendency Esper with the Regeneration ability. He comes under Leo’s jurisdiction. ]

Other Tropes : Beauty and the Beast, Single parent, Stop calling me daddy

7. The Rebel [f/m] | Enemies to Lovers

Subject Name : Gael (m.) | Gwendolyn (f.)

You betrayed them. Or perhaps it's the other way around? You do not remember. The trust you once held dear has been shattered, and now you must face the price for your misguided beliefs. Like a fool enchanted by deceit, you must bear the weight of your choices. Remember this lesson, for betrayal's toll is a heavy one to pay. Proceed with caution, lest you become ensnared in the web of your own treachery.

[ There is no known information on this individual. Extreme caution is recommended. ]

Other Tropes : Amnesia, Revenge, Redemption, Breathe play

Links

[ DEMO ]

[ PINTEREST ]

[ THE DISTRICTS ]

[ THE HIGHTABLE ]

All asks and reposts are welcome 😁!

[letorip]

i heard your name

"i heard your name and i'll never be the same”

===+++===

pairing: cairo sweet x reader

summary: after a life of fleeting things, you come to tennessee, and find someone you don’t want to be “fleeting” anymore, though she may come with ulterior motives

warnings: rivalry, references to sex, hints at student-teacher relationships, reader is being used (duh)

word count: 4.8k

A/N: i really really hate the concept of miller's girl as a whole, but i can't deny that cairo sweet is a captivating character psychologically, and that jenna does an absolutely amazing job. inspired by lolita, pale fire by vladimir nabokov, and the movie hot summer nights.

===+++===

You became aware of Cairo Sweet on a hot, sunny school day, one that almost seemed to mock your lack of enthusiasm for the new school in its beauty and the light breeze.

The high school was an ugly building, one that sat in limbo between southern charm and the studious American educational experience seen in the likes of pretentious New England. The decorator had clearly not known which one to pick, but no amount of fancy classrooms or bookshelves and Turkish rugs would make you forget you were in Tennessee of all places.

It would be just as unmemorable and brief as the last, and that’s exactly what you reminded yourself while you waited dreadfully early in the front office, in an uncomfortable yellow plastic chair that had one leg much shorter than the others.

The receptionist lady seemed nice enough, smiling at you all bright and wrinkly like old people did. “So sorry about the wait, dearie. Any minute now, she’ll be—”

“It’s no problem,” you shrugged. “I’m not really in a rush.”

The woman nodded, her eyes melting into little crows feet at the ends. There was a theory you had heard once, that the more wrinkles someone had, the more they had smiled in their life. It didn’t fit many of the crotchety old people you had met, who seemed to have frowns permanently stitched onto their leathery faces, but it definitely fit her. She glowed like a beacon, or twinkled like a chandelier of happiness.

“Are you excited about coming here?" She asked. "Starting the new semester has to be exciting!” The entire time the older woman kept sheepishly glancing over at the door, waiting someone to come in. Whoever was supposed to be guiding your tour was clearly very late.

You had long given up on hoping your mom would pick a spot and stay there. In two more months maybe, she would announce she 'wanted a change' again, and you wouldn't give this place a second thought when you left, just as you hadn't given the last places a second thought either. But you couldn't just say no.

You smiled back at her. "Yeah, kinda. This seems like a good school."

"Oh it's just splendid!" She assured you. "The kids love it here, it's just-" Before she could finish, the office door swung open, and a girl in crazy clothing bustled in, dropping her bag on the floor in the middle of the room and spinning to the receptionist.

“I’m so, so sorry!” She said, visibly dishevelled (though maybe that was just her nonsense outfit) and maybe sweating a bit. “I completely forgot I was supposed to do this!” She laughed. She seemed like one of those girls that were always drunk— not in a sad, alcoholic way, but like they were drunk on life (and maybe alcohol too).

“It’s alright, Winnie. They haven’t been waiting long.” Winnie spun around, noticing you where you sat, leaning your head back against the wall.

“Hi there, I’m Winnie,” she said, holding out her hand with a smile. You stood up and shook it in your own, smiling back. This would all be fleeting anyhow.

“Hi, yeah I heard. (Y/n)."

Winnie tilted her head, giving you a devilish smirk. She was absurdly energetic for it being so early. "Boy, aren’t you cute.”

“And aren’t you really forward,” you laughed.

She shrugged. “I think it’s more fun that way. You got a nickname?"

"Eh," you shrugged. You did, from your mom, but it wasn't worth mentioning when you wouldn't be here that long. "Not really."

"Nooo, you definitely should have one," she said, and you raised your eyebrows at her.

"I'm really good, I think," you said, grinning. "Not the most nickname—able name out there."

"Fine," she shrugged. "Suit yourself I guess. Now c’mon,” said Winnie, sticking her hand out to you. There was a certain glint in her eyes then. “I’m gonna show you every little place in this shitty little school.”

"Winnie, language!" The receptionist scolded her.

"Sorry," she winced.

Winnie dragged you around the halls like that, hand in hand and pointing into classrooms; she waved to the people that she passed. It was decent sized school, with a big cafeteria and gym, but not much else unique to boast except for the few sports fields outside. Your last school didn't have that, but it had been northern Alaska, so it made sense. It was probably hard, what with the snow.

“Boris!” Winnie waved over at a man in a track suit, with a whistle around his neck that all gym teachers seemed to wear. He rolled his eyes, waving back at her. "That's Coach Fillmore," she explained.

“What’ve I told you about that, Winnie?” He asked.

Winnie slipped her red-heart sunglasses over her eyes, flashing him a smile. “Still your favourite though, right?”

“Yeah yeah.” And he turned his attention back to the football field, coffee in hand. Winnie spun back to you, with an almost infectious aura.

"So, why'd you move?" she asked, grabbing your hand again and tugging you back inside. The metal door slammed shut behind you with a loud thud.

"Witness Protection Program," you shrugged as she pulled you around the corner. “On the run from the cartel." She looked at you like you were crazy for a moment, eyes all wide, then you laughed and ruined it. "I'm kidding. Not actually."

"OOooooO, I like you. Cute and unserious. I thought you were going to be all square, but it turns out you can joke," said Winnie, shaking her head at you. "What's your locker number, again?"

You handed her the paper. "She wrote it on here."

Winnie took it from your hand, holding it up to the fluorescent lights and examining it like a slide under a microscope. "Ah, damn. You're on the opposite side of the school from me. Like literally, the exact opposite side. That's good though, right? Your first block is Calc?"

"Uh, no. It's uh..." you stopped, leaning against a wall and sliding your backpack off. You pulled your schedule from the top pocket. "Creative Writing, with Mr. Miller."

Winnie's eyes lit up, and she punched you on the arm. "No, fucking way?! That's my first block too!"

You shrugged. "I'd honestly rather do that than calculus right now, so."

Winnie laughed. "Yeah, you and any normal person." She stopped for a minute. "Are you okay if I go off and get some breakfast before class? Winnie hungee," she said, rubbing her stomach. "I also kind of ditched my friend, and I told her I'd find her."

You nodded. "Go ahead. I'm just gonna find my locker."

"Okay!" She said, giving you a small salute. "See you in class."

===+++===

You found your way well enough, and after fumbling with the big metal lock and struggling to put the code in, could actually open your yellow locker and throw the heavy bag you had been carrying inside.

You could see other kids walking up and opening theirs around you. Their doors had metal magnets and small whiteboards, stickers and posters. You hadn't brought stuff to decorate your locker in four years. Instead, your backpack had everything you carried in it, ready to go at the drop of a hat.

The creative writing classroom was down a hallway that split off near the gym, and luckily seemed less ugly than the rest of the school. The room smelled of pine and paper, which was probably a good sign, and bookshelves and glass jars littered the walls with a bunch of other random things setting the scenery for the big chalkboard and wooden desk in the middle.

Most of the other students were already there when you arrived through the double doors, including Winnie. She stood at one of the front desks talking to someone. When she saw you, she waved, eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree even from afar. In her past life, this girl would have been a golden retriever. You waved back then turned away, heading to one of the back desks that put you firmly away from the teacher's line of sight.

Mr. Miller seemed like an alright guy, or just enough of one. He didn't do any cheesy introductions of people, or make you do one of those stupid icebreakers that made you want to die, no— he was straight to the point, with just a splash of drama.

"Hello everyone! This semester my main goal is to make you write. And I mean really write." He paused for dramatic effect, as if he thought it was Dead Poet's Society. "This is not like your other English classes, where you put minimal effort into a 'meh' essay and turn it in, and you're happy with a B. No, I want you to feel something."

After that, you couldn't help but tune him out. He wasn't bad, no. But he was just boring and unremarkable, and anything a high school writing teacher from Tennessee would be, in the way he stuttered or played with the lid of his plastic coffee cup.

He spent most of the class prattling off the syllabus and giving out the first assignment, due in a couple of days. You weren't especially interested in writing as a whole, and even less interested in the prompt of 'write about you,' but you shoved the paper into your backpack and figured you'd give it a shot.

"Mr. Miller?" asked a voice from the front.

"Yes, Cairo?” Mr. Miller said, and you raised your head up, looking to where he was speaking. The hand belonged to a girl with dark hair, and you immediately recognised her as the one Winnie had been talking to before class. She was clearly very smart, with a small stack of books on her desk in front of her.

“Are we talking about ourselves literally, as in our achievements, or as in our emotions and how we feel?” she asked. Cairo looked pretty when she talked, though you dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. This was fleeting. It was important to remember that.

“It’s up to you, actually,” he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning back against his desk. “Whatever really lets me know you.” Boy, how cliche.

When class ended, Winnie bounded over to you with a smile, her school bag tucked under her arm like it had been earlier. “Sooo, how was your first class?”

“It was pretty good, no complaints,” you said, fumbling with your folder and shoving it back into your bag.

“So, listen, do you want to sit with me at lunch? Me and Cairo sit together and you can totally join us if you want,” said Winnie, still as bubbly as ever. She gestured towards the door, and you could see the girl from earlier looking through the books on the bookshelf that stood next to it.

You shook your head. “Sorry, I got invited by a group to sit with them and I already said I would.”

Winnie frowned, pouting cartoonishly with her lower lip drooping. “No worries. If ever again though, me and Cairo would be happy to have you."

You gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Maybe tomorrow."

You ate lunch that day leaning against a concrete wall underneath the football bleachers, with no one else around, a thick paperback in your one hand and a sandwich in the other, headphones over your ears.

===+++===

"Thank you all so much for your submissions," Mr. Miller said, a stack of essays sitting under his arms as he passed them back to the class. The weather of that Friday was much more relaxed, with a smattering of clouds covering up the sun, the way you liked it.

The past three days had been just as uneventful as the last, and you went home each night only to wake up the next morning and stay equally as unenthusiastic, and attempt to bury your face into the fabric of your pillow for another five minutes.

He cleared his throat. "I've decided to do something fun, and kind of crown a 'winner' for the week, if you will." He shrugged. "It's just someone I really was impressed with, and want to recognise so, uh, we'll do this after every writing piece."

From behind the class with your head propped up on your palm, you saw Cairo tensing at his words. It had become clear even through disinterested observation that she cared way more about the class than literally anyone else— maybe even Mr. Miller. She raised her hand first, offered feedback on anyone made to read aloud, and always stayed after. She was probably itching for the recognition and you figured she deserved it too.

Which was why it shocked the hell out of you when Mr. Miller walked right up to his desk, put his hands in his pockets, cleared his throat like he thought it was a drum-roll moment, and announced, "this week I was incredibly impressed with (Y/n)'s writing."

There was no way. You froze, not entirely sure he was talking to you. Maybe he had just mispronounced someone else's name indistinguishably close to yours. Cairo's head whipped around, face equally as in shock. There was no way. Winnie was smiling at you, other kids were staring, and you wanted to die.

"Uh...thanks."

From the other side of the room, Winnie whooped for you, clapping a little, in an awkward way. Someone else let out a cough. Mr. Miller shook his head, and said, "No, thank you. Your writing was really impressive. It made me feel, in a way that was refreshing from some other things I've read."

Cairo whipped back around to gape at him for a moment and then back to you. Then, back to Mr. Miller as he continued. "I don't have much in terms of prizes, but there is a bowl of candy over there, and you can take one if you'd like."

You nodded, standing up and making your way over to the clear bowl. Why the hell not. Writing had never been something you thought you were fantastic at— you had never shared it with anyone since there had been no one to share it with. Your fingers went in, and out you pulled a grape lollipop, retreating back to your seat and popping it in your mouth.

From the front, you felt Cairo glancing at you from over her shoulder, but tried to ignore the raising hairs on the back of your neck with her focus on you. “Okay,” said Mr. Miller. “Turn to your textbooks.”

===+++===

The grape lollipop was still in your mouth at lunchtime, leaning against the concrete wall and feeling the hot Tennessee breeze ruffle against your soft shirt, moving it gently against your skin. It was quiet out, and you had your headphones over one ear, leaving the other one to listen to the trees and the wind.

That's how you heard the footsteps from around the corner, even through your music. You looked up from where your eyes had been tracing the cracks of the concrete and watching the ants walk by into their nearby hill, and there she was.

Cairo Sweet had found you.

She stood a bit down the way, on the path, with her arms crossed right over her chest. Her eyes were just as dark as before, and they bore into yours with a strange carnal desire. It sent a shiver down your spine.

"Uh, hi?" you managed. She didn’t even acknowledge it.

"So, how long are you going to keep lying to Winnie for?" Cairo asked, her voice as smooth as butter on your ears. It was a question that caught you completely off guard in its sincerity.

"Uh— I'm not— I haven't been lying," you stammered. Cairo wasn't convinced; her eyebrows lifted a little, creasing her forehead in disbelief. She took a step, one agonisingly after the other, closing the distance between you two until she stood directly beneath you, staring up through her lashes in a near haunting way. Subconsciously you took a small step back.

"I have a question," she whispered, like it was right in your ears. You could feel your blood rushing to them quickly, and it felt as if everything was happening in an almost sinful daze, slow and burning.

"Yeah?" you murmured back, fighting against the lollipop to speak. It made it harder to swallow.

"Can you smell my perfume?" Cairo asked, and your brain hung off every word that spilled from her lips.

"Yes," You clumsily nodded, eyes shooting down to her perfect mouth as it moved, then up to the freckled apples of her cheeks. You knew you were breathing loudly. "It's lavender, and—"

"—Good," she praised, barely audible in her sickly soft whisper. You nodded again, head feeling heavy. God, this girl. "Good," Cairo said again. You didn't know what to say.

"I want to read your essay," she continued, scanning the bleachers for a moment and then eyes shifting back to you in full force. She had you right where she wanted you. Under her thumb.

"Uhhhh, why?" you trailed off, confused as all hell and letting out an awkward laugh to cover.

"It's good, isn't it?" She asked, challenging you with her stare and a smirk, as if to say she knew exactly what she was doing to you chemically. "I haven't found many I want to read."

"Essays?" You mumbled.

"Good ones," she corrected you, whispering it slowly. Your gaze lowered to her lips again, her lower one caught between her teeth. Her own eyes flew to the lollipop, the stick hanging between you both.

Your breathing hitched when her hand came up, lightly grabbing the end and oh so gently pulling it from your mouth, some of your saliva carrying with it. She twirled it, never breaking eye contact with you as she placed the purple crystalline sugar on her tongue, closing her mouth around it for a moment. Cairo smiled, then pulled it from her lips and placed it back in yours.

You blinked slowly, unsure of what this was but finding it all too addicting to know how to stop it. At the sound of voices in the distance, the spell was broken, and Cairo looked back over her shoulder. You cleared your throat, realising the situation you were in.

"What're you trying to do?" You asked. It wasn't a gentle question, but it wasn't a harsh one either. Part of you wanted her to whisper back something cheesy and romantic. Or maybe you wanted something salacious to come from her all-too-plush lips, and the moment to end with hers on yours.

But instead she just blinked at you. It was like the question had taken her power away; she faltered completely. She frowned, almost frustrated by you asking, and she didn't have an answer. "Just let me know about the essay? I'd really like to read it."

Before you could reply, she turned around and walked away, as if going back to a drawing board far off in the distance. You watched her go, turning the lollipop over in your mouth.

===+++===

I should like to think that when I am older, the places I have been will make me cry. They will not meld together, in one long train; I will not move from car to car, blazing past what it may contain and never stopping to look out the window.

I will slide into a booth or take out a folding chair if I must, and watch the world go by. I will sit atop the mountains or amongst the grains of sand on a beach, and watch my eyes begin to water in the light of the setting sun.

Your eyes scanned over the essay in your hands, flipping through it and looking at all of Mr. Miller's notes. There were only four, and two of them were 'Wow!'. Even knowing he was impressed, you were at a loss for how this could be considered impressive. It was just words on a paper. Not difficult to write them, or copy them down. You were just talking, but on a page.

My mother seems to think I can’t hear her crying through the walls at night, wishing she were different. Her tears keep me up, and I trip and drown in the puddles of her despair, falling through the surface and into the depths hidden beneath, whenever I leave my room. I love her, and she always manages to convince herself I do not. She loves me, I always must convince myself she does.

It was this paragraph that made you hesitate, standing behind your locker door and rereading it over and over in your mind. There was no way you could show this to someone- and especially not Cairo.

And right there, like Cairo was conjured up by your mind, she was walking right past you, bag over her shoulder and book under her arm. You looked at her pass, the voice in the back of your mind whispering the word fleeting into your ear. It had been a week since your uncomfortable conversation (if you could even call it that) from underneath the bleachers, and she was acting weird.

She was almost avoiding you, and it was rather noticeable. Not to anyone else, who were unaware you knew each other existed, but to you, you knew. When Winnie said good morning and Cairo happened to be there, she would glance away, fully aware of you staring at her like a big idiot.

You found your way into the classroom, and Mr. Miller was writing something on the board in big white letters. It said 'MEANING,' and 'SYMBOL' in a smaller script underneath. He turned back when he was done, smiling over at Cairo and stuffing his hands into his pockets.

She always was the class favourite, and it made sense. Even if your writing was enchantingly fantastic, or some other amazing bullshit word Mr. Miller would write in blue pen that made you doubt he could actually read, Cairo was the one who actually tried. "I want everyone," he said, clearing his throat with a grunt, "to find a partner and sit down with them. This is going to be a partner activity."

You froze. Shit. These things sucked when you were the new kid who knew no one. You glanced over at Winnie, hopeful you'd find a partner in her, but she was madly gesturing towards Cairo to get her attention, and it made you smile a bit at the look on her face— until you saw who Cairo was staring at. You. Your smile went away in an instant.

Her brown eyes were staring at you again, sharp and intense. Then she picked up her bag, tucked the books she brought with her under her arm, and made due on her plan to pick you. You sent your glance away, as if to pretend you couldn't tell she was coming for you. And yet when her books landed on the table with a soft thud, you couldn't ignore her anymore.

"Care to partner up?" She asked, pulling the chair back to sit down before you could even answer. From the other side of the room, you could see Winnie staring at you, looking confused as all hell.

"Uh, sure," you managed. Was she just going to pretend you two hadn't shared whatever that was? It seemed to be the case, and it seemed she knew you were uncomfortable. Cairo Sweet almost seemed to relish in doing that to people.

"So, how'd you enjoy your first week here?" She asked, pulling out a notebook and flipping to a fresh page. She leaned forward, crossing one leg over her other.

You shrugged carefully. "It was good. Boring, but good."

Cairo nodded. "This is a really boring town, so that makes sense."

"Yeah..." you trailed off. She made putting sentences together incredibly hard for you.

Mr. Miller's assignment was boring beyond belief, but Cairo sat up straight the entire time he gave out directions, eyebrows lowering a bit or head tilting after every clarification, like she was making a mental reminder to remember that later. You attempted to ignore her, looking over to the bookshelf on your other side out of boredom.

They were all leather bound, in alternating shades of brown and green, and some hardcovers in sheathes intermixed. Finnegan's Wake and Scienza Nuova, Being and Time and Infinite Jest, you recognised and had read them all. Day-long car rides would do that to you, and it was within reading you found a particular solace from your mom screaming along to the radio.

"(Y/n), are you listening?" Cairo whispered over at you, pulling your gaze back towards her. You nodded, even though you weren't. Her leaning in seemed to fill your nose with her smell. It was lavender, and it was overpowering.

She raised her eyebrows at you like she knew you were lying again. "Really? What're we doing, then?"

You blinked. Shit. "Uh...I don't know, sorry," you apologised, feeling somewhat sheepish. Cairo gave you a judging look, and you were starting to feel like maybe she was regretting choosing you as her partner. She sighed.

"It's fine. Do you want to maybe come over on Friday? We can work on the paper," she said, playing with her pencil. You frowned.

"I thought Winnie said there was a party on Friday."

Now Cairo looked confused. "Are you going to that?"

"I thought you were?" You questioned, trailing off. She laughed at that, like it was a funny suggestion.

"No, it's not really my scene. Winnie's the partier," she grinned. "A party animal, even."

You nodded, feeling yourself relax a little bit. "That makes sense. You're probably writing or reading instead or something."

She seemed intrigued. "Is that what you think of me? A nerd?"

"Uh..." there was a certain heat flowing towards your cheeks, and it felt like the room was a million degrees. "A little, yeah."

"Wooow!—" Her voice rose in a mocking offence.

"—No, I don't— That's not!— I—"

"You think I'm a geek."

"Yeah, only because you're always reading and stuff, so," you argued, raising your hands up. She laughed.

"So if you read, that makes you a nerd?"

"That's obviously not what I'm saying, but the normal kids just go home and watch a show or something," you shrugged. A beat of silence passed between you, and you groaned, realising your mistake and dragging your hands down your face.

"'Normal', huh?" She asked. You sent her a glare, only to find her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she smiled at you, taking great fun in making you red. Then, within an instant, as if it had been flipped like a switch, the weightless look in her eyes shifted to something far darker.

"You know," she said, and you found your heart catching in your throat. "I don't only read in my free time. I find other things to do." She was back at a whisper, leaning in towards your ear. Each enunciation reverberated in your ear drums and filled your brain with sinful ideation.

"I actually like to do things over and over. Creature of habit, really," she continued and your eyebrows rose. The classroom felt even more humid than it had before, and some sweat was already forming on your forehead. Mr. Miller stood behind his desk, and you felt hyperaware of how he kept glancing towards the both of you, his arms crossed and a deep frown on his face at the almost voyeuristic display.

The bell rang, and just as if nothing had happened, Cairo stood up, gathered her things, and walked off like she had under the bleachers.

"Wait-" You were left frozen there, watching her go out the door and down the hall. It took another ten seconds of sitting there for the spell she had cast on you again to be broken, but when it did, you shot up.

Clumsily you threw your notebook into your backpack, slinging it over your shoulder and taking off as quickly as you could. You wouldn't let Cairo flee.

She was near her locker, where you found her a few halls down. From over her shoulder, Winnie saw you coming, and sent you a friendly wave. Cairo followed her eyes, turning towards you and eyes widening. She was clearly surprised, crossing her arms over her chest as you walked right up to her and stopped.

"I have a question," you said.

"Ask away," said Cairo.

You nodded, thinking for a moment. "Why'd you pick me as your partner in this?"

She scoffed at this, uncrossing her arms and rolling her eyes like you were missing something obvious. It hadn't mattered how loud the passing crowd around you was. You heard her loud and clear, and it filled you with a sense of warmth that you hadn't felt since "fleeting" was just another word in the dictionary and not a mantra.

"Because, I think you're special," she said, only to you in the crowd of passing kids. You couldn't see Mr. Miller watching you both intently from the far wall, one arm crossed over the other.

===+++===

okay so this may or may not be a series i'm starting, but i at least know there is a part two that's already halfway done. part of what took me so long and why i've been gone for like a month has just been me agonising over every damn word. so. enjoy this bad boy ig? not that much happens in this part, but i promise the next part will be kind of crazy.

[olympiantea]

You must think I'm such a ditz. Here I am talking away, and you don't have a clue who I am!

My name is Cyrena. In another world, I'm known as the goddess of inspiration. Some simply refer to me as the Muse. I am the spark behind all of your amazing ideas. I live for the moment my patrons' eyes light up, and they realize they can do anything they put their minds to.

Look around you. We can find inspiration anywhere; though some may need to dig a little deeper within themselves to find it. Inspiration is not some fleeting thing. It is the ever-present heart of all creation, and endless possibilities are just waiting to be discovered. Sometimes, in the most unexpected of places.

Whether you are an artist struggling to unlock your potential, a ruler solving a complex problem, or simply an individual hoping to find some beauty in life; I'm here to encourage and motivate you. I invite you to explore the beauty of art, contemplate the depth of thought, and the wonders of storytelling. Call on me. I will guide you through the realm of imagination. Let me help you turn your visions into reality. Your dreams are your canvas. Ask questions. Observe. Engage. Share your thoughts as we work to rekindle your spirit and remind yourself that you are an amazing and capable being.

My duty is a work of heart. Some may find me to be vapid and shallow, but I beg to differ. I am an observer. I am an empath. You couldn't possibly lie to me... your heartbeat will give you away. Yes, I love gossip and parties, and I may seem a flighty and little self-absorbed at times, but I promise that I only have good intentions.

Alas in this world, I am taking on a slightly different role. I am here to serve as a persona for a not so traditional college student who is in her final semester. She plucked me from my world to tell you all a story. To answer a question, really. Can we use modern digital storytelling, specifically a gossip blog, to reimagine the tale of the Trojan War, and engage a contemporary audience while still preserving the essence of the myth?

It's essentially Greek mythology meets Gossip Girl... except I'm not hiding my identity. I'm here to collect your details and spill all the tea.

Xoxo,

Cyrena

[cupidvision]

manifest discipline > motivation

why should i manifest discipline over motivation?

motivation is an emotion, and emotions come and go. discipline is a mindset, discipline keeps you self accountable and in check. discipline doesn’t care if other things are happening, it makes sure you follow through with your routine. motivation feels amazing, but it can be very fleeting.

if you wait to be motivated, then your waiting for the perfect time and there is no such thing as “the perfect time” in manifesting

there is only doing in manifesting. you don’t wait to for when you feel inspired, or driven, you just do it. when you wait on something or someone, you hold yourself back. why wait though ? why wait for tomorrow, when you can do it now? stop saying “i’ll do it later” “i’ll do it when i feel ready” your already putting pressure on yourself to feel ready, but when you want something, do you sit there and wait for it or do you manifest it?

thinking of the baby steps can be daunting but it’s going to be the most impactful in your journey

yes, the end goal is amazing, yes the result is the final destination, but all the things you learned through this process is what your really going to carry on in your life. this isn’t for manifesting per say, but for life in general. appreciate the hardships, and learn to love yourself for making it through that lesson, as well as learning it

i love you all so much, and i hope this helped and opened your mind! don’t let anything limit your access to the universe ⭐️

banners by @cafekitsune

[pastanest]

Spencer Reid x she/her!reader

A/N: returned from me depressive episode for a professor reid fic BARK BARK ANG ANG ANG GO MY TEETH ON THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE daddy issues? gottem! 🤠 pls lmk if you guys think a part two’s needed for this one bc I’m honestly torn??

warnings: age gap baby we out here fr (but it’s all wholesome bc Spencer isn’t a creep x)

Someday

Graduating from university was a bittersweet experience for you. On the one hand, you achieved exactly what you set out to, exceeding your own expectations in your capabilities as a student and working towards your dream career; you had dedicated years of your life to your course and earned a sense of pride in yourself that you had only previously hoped for; you had made friends you hoped to keep in touch with for the rest of your life, but even if you didn’t, they were established pillars to you, memories you would never lose, wrapped up in the campus of your university. On the other hand, one lingering thought was enough to sour the joy you felt. One isolated thought, as you celebrated with your friends with graduation caps flying overhead and cheers erupting all around you. Because while everyone was lost in the celebration, you were distracted from it, pulled by a gravity that others appeared to be immune to. Through the crowds, you locked eyes with a man who had made the last year of your course the most important of all. The smile on your face softened, and his matched yours, the same thought floating from your gaze to his: this was to be the last time the two of you could ever hope to cross paths. You were no longer part of the campus, instead, you were to be on your way to your dream career, while he stayed put, watching you fly away like a dove against a perfect landscape.

To you, Doctor Spencer Reid had singlehandedly revived the joy and drive you felt when, by the last year of your university course, those aspects of you had begun to dwindle. He was the best professor you had ever had, becoming your favourite from his first guest lecture. It had been so profoundly impactful to you that when he waved off the other students in the hall as they left, you stayed behind to personally thank him. You divulged the length of your course, how strenuous the workload had begun to feel, but how his passion for profiling had given you a second wind. To Spencer, you were the first spark of light he’d seen since getting out of prison; you looked at him like he was something special, something good, and while he couldn’t thank you for that without becoming far too emotionally intimate with you, you became the reason he sought out a permanent position at your university. If he could make the difference in one person’s life, encourage someone into the career he loved while trying his best to prepare them for the hardships he hadn’t been ready for prior to joining the BAU, perhaps that could play a part in him redeeming himself. Viewing himself as worthy of the way you had looked at him, the day you had met.

Truthfully, Spencer’s intentions with you had been nothing but sincere. He knew you were an attractive young woman, but that was an observation he would make had he only passed you in the street in a fleeting moment; it neither added nor subtracted to his motivations, his existing desire to teach, to help, to inspire - if he dared wish he was capable of such a thing. When you returned to your campus after a weekend barricaded in your dorm, studying in a heap of your own making, to find Doctor Spencer Reid had taken over the majority of lecture slots on your course, to say you were overjoyed would have been an understatement. The grin you gave him when you entered the lecture hall, and the smile he returned, felt like the world’s most wholesome secret; both of you aware you’d played a part in each other’s being there that neither of you understood the scale of. 

From then, the two of you became as friendly as two adults in your positions as a professor and student could, within the bounds of what was appropriate. You would share smiles at the beginning end of every lecture, he would praise your constant ability to hand essays in early, you would retort by praising his continual skill at holding your attention in the topics he delivered and thus being the reason you felt inspired to hand in said essays early. Outside of the lecture hall, you would smile at each other across campus in the event you crossed paths. While it was true that it did seem the two of you were more aware of each other’s presences than you perhaps should be - like a sixth sense for the arrival of the other, looking around until your eyes or his found the other, knowing you would be somewhere close by, somehow - it was not something either of you acknowledged. The tether was as invisible as it was deliberately ignored.

Naturally, your friends would often joke that you were no more than a silly girl with a crush, but even they knew that was not the case. There was nothing immature about the way you felt, or the way you handled it. Yes, it was inappropriate of you to feel as giddy as you did before each of his lectures, daydream of him in between said lectures, and spend far too long swooning at the memory of the one occasion in which his fingertips brushed yours when you handed him an essay you’d completed early, but you were sensible enough to keep those things to yourself. The alternative timeline you dreamt of, where the two of you had met in different circumstances and thus been allowed to pursue whatever it was in the societal norm of two consenting adults, where you shared walks in the park hand in hand, cooked dinner together, discussed baby names - that was entirely fictional and safe in your own head. While you acknowledged they were inappropriate, you allowed yourself to enjoy the pleasant feelings, knowing you could never act on them, and that the time you had together was counting to a definitive end. That is what made the feelings harmless; you knew they couldn’t last.

In Spencer’s mind, things were quite different. He thought he had a knowledge on love and its many forms, though his own experiences were limited, his eidetic memory was painfully keen to remind him of the tales of unrequited love he had read and applied to himself throughout his life. He remembers well, what it was like to be a boy and feel like a particular girl in his class was the center of his solar system, but he had been laboring under the misapprehension that such feelings were restricted to when he had been a boy. Of course, Spencer repressed every trace of feeling he felt for you with an efficiency like you would not believe; not only because love had burned him in the past, but because he knew, as you did, this couldn’t develop or last in any conceivable way. It was doomed. A tragedy already written. He had accepted that as you had, and for the most part, he lived in a peaceful sense of denial about any feelings existing between the two of you. It was only in isolated moments, his resolve crumbled. Every single time you had smiled at him, something had fluttered in his stomach, a palpable skip of his heart was felt in his chest; physical symptoms such as that, he couldn’t deny. He was a man of science, who existed to deny every detail of you that enamored him, until your fingertips brushed his when you passed him another essay you’d completed early, and suddenly the universe around him fell back into place. Every star flickered in the sky above him, an eclipse over his heart that allowed a momentary lapse of judgment, just a microsecond in which he was defenseless to the montage of you that played in his mind of an entirely hypothetical future that could never be. 

That day, and that last shared gaze, you knew you had no choice. You were powerless to the pull of him, and you pushed through the crowds at the same time as he was already turning to you, knowing you were on your way before you’d even decided it for yourself. 

“Professor Reid.” You greeted him, as professionally as ever, and his smile widened into a chuckle, your own smile growing at the sound. 

“(Y/N).” He nodded at you in a polite gesture of respect. “Congratulations. You earned every second of today’s celebrations.”

You felt your cheeks warm, and you avoided Spencer’s eyes shyly, glancing at the grass beneath your shoes and his. 

“Thank you, Professor, I…I just wanted to thank you, again, for everything. I can’t wait to brag to every profiler I meet that I was lectured by THE Doctor Spencer Reid!” You couldn’t resist teasing him just a little, even in the midst of your sincere gratitude.

That earned another quiet laugh from Spencer, as you’d predicted it would.

“I’m hardly deserving of being your bragging right, or subject to your gratitude. You got yourself here, I was just lucky enough to be a part of it. I hope to see your name appearing in solved cases before long.” He beamed at you.

“I’ll make sure they only ever put my name in with credits to you in brackets right next to it.” You joked, rolling your eyes playfully at Spencer’s implication of you being on your way to cracking criminal cases in no time. 

“I’ll keep an eye out for that, too, then.” He amended, his smile softening at the same rate yours did with the subtext of his words sinking in: he’d be watching out for you and your successes, wishing you the best all the way. 

“Don’t go retiring early now, I’m counting on seeing you in the field someday!” You raised an eyebrow at Spencer, and the slightest hint of a smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry, I’ve got my reasons for sticking around for a while.” He nodded to you, then looked over your shoulder and nodded at your friends. “I think your presence is being requested elsewhere.”

Glancing back over your shoulder, following his gaze, you saw your friends waving you over, and you sighed. If only you could freeze the world around you. But, there was a countdown with every moment spent in Spencer’s company, as there had always been.

“Yeah.” You breathed, turning to face him again. “See…your name someday, I guess.” Your eyebrows furrowed, unsure of what the correct terminology for a goodbye such as that was.

But Spencer snickered, so whatever words you’d chosen were the right ones.

“Yes. See your name, someday.”

With that, you headed back over to your friends, casting one last look over your shoulder to find Spencer still watching after you with a softness in his eyes that you’d not seen before, because usually he had enough time to compose himself before you caught him. You waved at him like it was just another instance of crossing paths on campus, and he returned it, before your shared gaze was swallowed by the crowds, and you were whisked away by your friends.

They say time flies when you’re having fun, but you would be the first to argue that time also flies when you are going through rigorous training and extreme stress almost everyday for over a year. There were moments of fun during it, of course, but for the most part, the mental and physical strain was an endurance test that you were far too stubborn to allow to get the best of you. Nobody ever gave you the impression that the FBI academy was an easy avenue, and your favorite professor had warned you of the most challenging aspects of the training in advance. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of him during the most difficult points of the past year; the advice he’d bestowed upon you had proven to be infinitely valuable already, and whenever you happened to mention him to others, the expressions of shock and awe you’d receive were testament to the fact he very much had been worthy of being your bragging right - if you could see him once more just to say “I told you so”, you’d take the chance in a heartbeat.

You hadn’t expected to be effectively scouted as quickly as you were, following university. Originally, you had your heart set on some local police work, hoping to climb the rankings and edge your way towards the FBI that way, to have some experience in the field to assist you going forward. Fate had been on your side when you were given the opportunity to showcase your skills on a particularly challenging case that the local police force you worked with were not equipped to handle. A couple of FBI agents had been sent to assist with the case, and by the end of it, the two of them gave you a recommendation to the academy. 

In the year that’s passed since, you have done everything in your power to prove yourself to be exceptional, and now, you are taking the elevator to the floor dedicated to the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Everything you have been working towards has built up to this moment, and while it is only an introduction to the team, you were the only one amongst your peers to be offered this opportunity. There are no vacancies on the team, as far as you’re aware, so they aren’t urgently in need of anyone, meaning you are likely being recommended to shadow them, which could lead to a permanent role if you play your cards right. Once that is secured, all of your hard work will have paid off, the years of your life you have thrown into this will have been worth every second, every tear, every drop of sweat. 

The elevator dings, and you take a deep breath. The second the doors open, you step out of them, only to be greeted by a dark haired woman who has an intimidating stance until she sees you, and then she’s smiling, holding her hand out for you to shake.

“(Y/N), I assume? Great to meet you, I’m Emily Prentiss, the Unit Chief.” She introduces herself, and your eyes very nearly fall right out of your head as you nod, shaking her hand.

“Oh, wow, it’s amazing to meet you! My whole class has heard so much about you!” It’s an exclamation you try your best to deliver as calmly as you can, but you are substantially awestruck.

“That’s very sweet of you,” Emily’s smile warms as she lets go of your hand. “-I’ve been hearing a lot of good things about you, too - your training coordinator’s been singing your praises.” She expresses, gesturing for you to walk with her.

You scoff, feeling a little bashful, but still proud of how far you’ve come. 

“He’s not been annoyingly insistent about passing me off to you guys, has he?” You joke with a cringing expression, causing Emily to laugh as she holds the glass doors to the bullpen open for you, shaking her head.

“No, no, not at all! I actually requested you come up here; given how well you’re doing, and this is where you’ve stated your goal is, I figured it’d be good for you to learn what you can while the team’s in a stable position.” She explains, and you nod along, keeping your eyes fixed on her as she talks, wanting to take in her every word.

You know what she’s trying to say; you’d been right that the team don’t necessarily need you right now, but that’s a good thing - it means you’re safe to learn at your own pace, without any pressure of being expected to take on the role right away, you’re just here to learn. 

“That’s reassuring, thank you.” You smile at Emily, and she returns it. 

Walking through the bullpen, Emily takes the time to introduce you to the different members of the team, and you use that as an opportunity to profile what you can about them. Emily has evidently always been a natural leader, but she’s not quite comfortable in her position yet. Luke is the epitome of the golden retriever personality, Tara is total badass but still a sweetheart, Rossi seems to be the father figure of the group but begrudgingly, JJ is a very protective mother figure despite being around the same age as a few members of the team, and Penelope is the sweetest woman to ever exist - not too difficult to suss them out. 

“It’s such an honor to meet all of you!” You’re gushing unabashedly, but you can’t help it; the thought of working with these people is literally a dream come true for you.

“She says that, and she hasn’t even met our genius yet!” Luke laughs, waving the file in his hands before setting it down on a very neatly organized desk. But, something on that folder catches your eye.

It couldn’t be. It absolutely couldn’t be.

“Sorry, can I see that?” Your heart is already pounding.

Frowning in confusion, Luke passes you the folder he’d just set down, and you take it with clammy, shaking hands. Your eyes scan over the printed text at the top of the brown folder, not opening it to view the contents within, because the front was enough to make your stomach flip.

See your name, someday.

The team of profilers that surround you are exchanging glances, and it doesn’t take them long - considering their unique skill set - to come to a conclusion.

“Have you…heard of Spencer?” JJ poses the question to you as gently and vaguely as she can, and you nod unsteadily.

Do you-? In the alternative timeline you entertain inside your own head, you are happily married to that man with three kids and a house with a wraparound porch. Do you know him?

It takes a few seconds for you to regulate yourself enough to look up from the folder and place it back on the desk that you now recognise has to be Spencer’s. Clearing your throat, you laugh at yourself awkwardly.

“Yeah, uh, he was actually a professor at my university, just over a year ago.” You elaborate, feeling like you almost have no choice, given the way your own reaction outed yourself.

In the adrenaline rush that hasn’t left you since being sent to the BAU floor, you’d failed to connect the dots in your own mind, or maybe you didn’t want to get your hopes up in believing that he’s still part of this specific team. That today, he happened to be in the office, not away on a case, or lecturing somewhere, or literally anywhere other than right where you were due to be today.

The team exchange glances again, a silent conversation, but this time it’s one of understanding rather than confusion. All at once, they’re starting to smile at you.

It isn’t your business, so they don’t go into detail, only divulging to you that Spencer hasn’t been himself lately because his mother has been unwell and that it shouldn’t be fatal, but because that’s the only family he really has, he’s been worrying himself exponentially. Regularly stepping out of whatever room the team are in to call the hospital, or talk to his mother directly, and barely talking to the team about it whenever they ask about it. The reason they tell you this is because, knowing Spencer as well as they do, your presence can most definitely serve as the perfect pick-me-up to his presently busy and anxious mind - so, you and the team quickly form a plan.

Twenty minutes or so later, Spencer steps back into the bullpen with a forlorn expression; the vision of a man with every ounce of life pulled from him, drained beyond belief. He barely acknowledges Emily or JJ - the rest of the team being in Penelope’s office, watching via the security cameras and her monitors - instead moving past them, towards his desk.

“How is she, Spence?” JJ asks softly, patting his back in an effort to reassure him.

“Mom refused to pass the phone to the doctors and couldn’t even tell me if she’d taken her antibiotics for today.” He all but collapses into his chair, eyes closing in a pained blink.

Phone calls with his mother have often been difficult, but when she’s sick, her schizophrenia and consequential lack of trust makes them especially so; convinced the government are listening, she won’t relay what medicine she’s taken or when, and without confirmation from a doctor, Spencer has no way of knowing whether his mother is actually recovering from any other sickness that ails her. 

“I’m so sorry, Spencer.” Emily sighs, looking at him with sympathetic eyes, and Spencer can only nod his thanks.

Opening his eyes, he looks for something - anything - to distract himself. His gaze lands on the folder on his desk, and he picks it up absentmindedly. It’s then, Emily and JJ take their cue to leave, pretending they have a very good reason to head into Emily’s office and close the door behind them; pretending they aren’t discretely peeking through the closed blinds.

Vision not entirely focussed, Spencer flips the folder over with a sigh, barely glancing over the front of it, until something sparks to life in the mess of his mind. He pauses, frowns, and looks back over the front of the folder. His chest feels tight. 

“Folder contents to be provided to: Agent (Y/N) (Y/L/N) - (with credits to Doctor Spencer Reid).”

Spencer stands from his desk like he’s been electrocuted, looking around the now empty bullpen and immediately realizing that his team, his beloved friends, his family have helped plan something just for him, and his heart is already racing. 

His lips part to call your name, but no sound comes. It doesn’t need to; his heart has been singing it in a secret mantra, everyday since he last saw you. Summoning you, but taking its sweet time. 

On the other side of the bullpen, you rise from where you’d been hiding under one of the other desks, out of Spencer’s line of sight, now appearing before him. Your gaze locks with his from across the room, a desk’s distance separating you, but it doesn’t obstruct the tether even remotely. Nothing ever has.

Spencer watches as time slows to reveal a smile spreading across your face, one that is so beautifully familiar he has to catch his breath before remembering his own smile. Every detail  of you, he recognises. The color of your eyes, your lips, your hair - each and every one, his favorite shades to ever exist. He notices every minuscule detail of you that has changed in the time that has passed, and immediately finds himself listing praise after praise towards each and every one, in the confines of the mind you have enchanted to emptiness. While his conscious mind has continued to deny the power you hold over him, his subconscious mind has been plagued by dreams of the way he’d hold your hand, the kisses he’d leave on your cheeks, should you ever be so gracious as to bestow the honor upon him. He was foolish to even try and convince himself that your beauty was a passing observation; should he ever dare think such a blasphemous thought again, he’ll request a psych eval on himself. 

“Hi.” He breathes, too lost for words to say anything else.

“Hi, Professor.” You answer, the sound of your voice that of his favorite song returning to him after far too long. 

“You aren’t required to call me that now, you realize.” Spencer clarifies, an almost imperceptibly playful tone laced into his words.

“Should I call you Doctor Reid, then?” You offer, raising your eyebrow at him, as though challenging him.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but he’s walking towards you, closing every inch of space he can’t allow to exist for another second, until only the desk separates you. 

“Just Spencer, would be preferable.” His own voice is softer than he’s ever heard it.

“In that case, I look forward to working with you, Spencer.” You beam, placing deliberate emphasis on his name and holding your hand out to him.

Every thought he has ever had about every germ that has ever existed, erases itself from his mind. He doesn’t hesitate.

“Likewise. It would seem my list of reasons to delay retirement has just grown exponentially.” Spencer’s hand reaches for yours, shaking it so gently - his hand very nearly swallowing yours and not letting go for anything - crossing the only barrier and turning the tether into something tangible, for the very first time. The spark that previously only existed between your eyes, bursts to life in a warmth that blossoms between your hands now, but not just there. It lingers everywhere. It’s in your cheeks, already aching from how hard you’ve been smiling at each other, and it’s in your chests, your hearts fighting with equal strength to forego your ribcages and fly away; a pair of doves into a perfect landscape.

[robfinancialtip]

🏋️‍♂️🍽️Joseph Julian Soria shares his basic approach to training, which dates back to his active youth and a brief period of being overweight. He focuses on his former eating and exercise discipline and his present efforts to maintain it. He hilariously recounts how rapidly things can spiral out of control when discipline is lost, resulting in unforeseen effects such as eating oneself into a "food coma."

🏅🎬His transition from athlete to actor is examined, exposing how a college theater class influenced his career path. He discusses his competitive mentality and dealing with professional lows, highlighting the value of self-belief and self-awareness. JJ embraces discomfort, learning from past experiences, and her eagerness for future prospects. He encourages listeners to embrace their brilliance and not limit themselves from reaching their full potential.

💪👫His girlfriend's observation of possible body dysmorphia. Despite not being physically where he wants to be, he emphasizes the significance of attaining inner serenity. JJ addresses his addiction to difficulties, which extends beyond fitness and into other facets of his life, including relationships and performing. He recounts personal experiences about battling difficult circumstances and getting inspiration from motivational speakers such as Eric Thomas.

🎭🌟JJ Soria has received praise for his explosive performances, most notably as Private First Class Hector Cruz in the hit Lifetime series Army Wives and Pete Ramos in The Oath. His depiction of the major antagonist, MC Wyatt, in the Sundance Film Festival-premiered film Filly Brown, which stars Gina Rodriguez, demonstrated his range and talent. Soria's performances in films as disparate as All She Can (2011), High School (2010), and Fast to Furious (2009) have constantly been compelling. Notably, his major role in the independent film Mission Park (later renamed Line of Duty) cemented his place in the business. To learn more about JJ Soria's outstanding body of work, see his IMDB page or follow him on Instagram. He currently captivates fans as Erik Morales in the smash Netflix original series Gentefied.

🌱🌟Throughout with resilience, self-awareness, and self-improvement, JJ emerges from his experiences, both inspiring and a reminder of the necessity of facing adversity and believing in oneself. The discussion focuses on the fleeting nature of life and the importance of grabbing opportunities to grow and succeed. He provides insight into his attitude and path, with motivating undertones that encourage listeners to follow their goals with tenacity and self-confidence.

[through-rosey-glasses]

PWHL Teams and Which Taylor Swift Era They are in

My sister and I were talking about how Minnesota Frost is clearly in their Tortured Poets Department Era, and that inspired the rest of this post. This is just a fun little thing I did, please don't take it too seriously or personally.

(Also for swifties, I used the old versions of album covers as it refers to that era. Red TV is totally different than Red ya know.)

Minnesota Frost:

Currently in their The Tortured Poets Department Era. Basically messy despite being on top of the world. The album came out after the raging success of Taylor Swift in her Era's tour and winning her fourth album of the year at the grammy's. This new album brings out snappy lines targeted at fans and revelations at how Taylor Swift didn't live up to the ideal many fans had of her. In Minnesota we had the recent firing of the favored general manager and drafting of a controversial player. You can't convince me that Ken Klee wasn't blasting But Daddy I Love Him, as he made all his messy decisions.

Boston Fleet:

Speak Now was a Taylor Swift era filled with spite and determination. The whole album was written by Taylor Swift alone, partially because her ex and some critics accusing her of not being a proficient writer on her own. After losing the Walter Cup, the Boston Fleet have the confidence that they can make it far and the determination to be better. (I also think spite comes naturally to Boston, not like they need a motivation or something.) This era is very youthful but honest, and I think that energy would be great to see in Boston next season. Someone blast better than revenge.

Montreal Victoire:

A personal favorite of mine, the Red Era of Taylor Swift had it all. Heartbreak, style, chaos, parties, love. This era was also risky and complex, Taylor Swift blended country and pop, bringing critical acclaim and a wider fanbase. Montreal has had a fun, but chaotic summer. Their draft picks are a fair mix of old and new. (With that wild Kessel pick) Their name and logo got rave reviews. People see the the good foundation the team has and are waiting in anticipation for what's to come.

Toronto Sceptres:

Reputation is a come back era, and Toronto has something to prove. Following a devastating injury to a star player, the team wasn't the same during the playoffs. This season they are going to have to show that they are still that team. Reputation is a fan favorite album and I have found Toronto to have the strongest fanbase. (They sell out most often and have the largest social media presence.) The team knows they are good and they have the support, they just need to rebuild.

Ottawa Charge:

Folklore is an era of surprising change. During Covid and following the cut short run of Lover, Folklore was an unannounced reinvention of Taylor Swift. It wasn't an intentional change, but one forced by the way of the world. Ottawa needs to find its grove and step into its own again. I haven't heard much from Ottawa on anything really, and I hope its because they got some cool alt indie surprise on its way.

New York Sirens:

Listen I am not only picking 1989 because it has a cool New York aesthetic. This is the era of leaning in and giving it your all. When Red didn't win album of the year, Taylor Swift decided to move to New York and reinvent herself. New York was last in ranking last season, but got first in draft. They have been working off season with insane draft picks and that somehow it worked out trade with Boston. New York has the star power, the New York city life, and the rebranding to help turn them into something new.

[wianes]

Unveiling Griffith's Motivations

A considerable time had passed before I decided to embark on this series, though I must admit that I was undeniably eager for this moment. With this post, I begin the series in which I will delve into my understanding of my favorite character. I will primarily follow a chronological progression with the manga, though minor deviations may occur. I hope that my interpretation will resonate with someone and that others might appreciate this kind of perspective.

Let's go!

A Short Introduction

Griffith and Guts, the central figures in Berserk, are both defined by their intense obsessions—Griffith with realizing his dreams and Guts with mastering his sword. Even so, Griffith’s motivations remain enigmatic, inviting varied interpretations. Visual narratives showcase the castle image as a vivid embodiment of aspirations. This metaphor, beyond its architectural significance, can represent various goals—from personal elevation to creating a world of harmony and collective well-being. Nonetheless, precisely defining Griffith’s vision is challenging. Is he aiming to establish a sovereign nation, rule a kingdom, or create a metaphorical fortress in the clouds? Furthermore, it is unclear where Griffith might choose to say "stop." Be that as it may, reducing his vision to just a stone edifice on a hill seems to oversimplify it. This interpretation fails to capture the full depth of his character. The elusive nature of Griffith’s dream, its origins, and, more importantly, its ultimate scope, add layers of complexity. His vision likely retains its enigmatic quality from the past and remains unclear even today. Its full nature might only become apparent when it ultimately reaches its culmination. This encourages a deeper exploration of the symbolism and meaning of castles within the narrative, highlighting the intricate relationship between Griffith's dreams and their greater ramifications.

Speculations about Griffith’s background add depth to his journey, highlighting its narrative significance.

Griffith vol. 10

The statement lucidly juxtaposes the shadow and the light. The darkness symbolizes a decrepit alley filled with brothels, inns, and taverns—a place where safety is questionable, particularly at night, when the joy of carefree indulgence wanes. In sharp contrast, a castle resplendent with light stands atop a mountain amidst the clouds, where the sun shines perpetually. This vivid distinction between shadow and light symbolizes the clash between harsh reality and an idealized, euphoric realm. "It was the brightest thing I had ever seen"—the pinnacle of his aspirations, the highest summit he could hope to ascend.

Next to the castle lies a realm where sunlight scarcely reaches, offering only fleeting respite. The character remains caught between hope and despair. Castles, with their impressive and resplendent presence, epitomize achievement—distant, majestic, and shrouded in mystery. For someone of a lower social class, they may seem unattainable—as if an aspiration is forever out of reach. In metaphysical terms, such castles embody the ultimate achievement of spiritual perfection or greatness. Yet, for those born into humble circumstances, viewing such aspirations as unattainable might be an erroneous notion. Perceived distance should not overshadow true greatness, should it?

In a 2000 interview, Miura confessed that, as a child, he grew up in an environment of domestic violence inflicted by his parent. In this context, Miura's reflection on Griffith’s character suggests that he may have similarly endured a tumultuous and abusive environment. According to another interview, Miura noted that Griffith’s inspiration came from friends who had suffered through a loveless infancy.

With this in mind, it is worth emphasizing that young Griffith bears a resemblance to another character in Berserk, Rosine. Both were peculiar children who amassed treasures or junk and spent their days roaming the streets. Despite their youthful appearance, they skillfully concealed their troubled minds behind smiles, dreaming of a better world through fantasies. Similar to many unfortunate children in Berserk, both Griffith and Rosine left their family homes early in life. Remarkably, both characters acquired a Behelit; Griffith possessed the rare and unique red one. It seems clear that Miura deliberately employs a psychological model here.

The author also examined the characters as trauma survivors, exploring their efforts to either gain control over or eliminate abusive factors. This suggests that these individuals might seek stability, authority, or mastery to overcome the powerlessness and instability they experienced. They may also attempt to dismantle or destroy the sources of their past suffering. This analysis reveals various responses to trauma, including efforts to control their environment or to eradicate the symbolic sources of their mental devastation.

In my personal interpretation, the castle draws a parallel with Guts' relentless obsession with swinging the sword.

This comparison convinces me that the boy grappled with profound internal struggles, and his dream signifies an indescribable desire to shield himself from both external threats and internal fears. Symbolically, the castle stands as a bastion; "it was the brightest thing I had ever seen"—this reflects how the psyche defends against anxiety and suppressed emotions, showcasing a method of adaptation. Though not tainted or spoiled, it represents one of the unconscious tools employed to cope.

The central issue lies not in Griffith's perceived deprivation, but rather in his background as a slum-dweller in a strict feudal society. In this context, he lacks the resources and opportunities to rise to a leadership or top warrior status. Despite his ambitions, Griffith faces significant barriers due to his socioeconomic status, which limits his access to essential resources, education, and influential connections.

"Only those who work deserve the bread." It is somewhat ironic that this proverb does not entirely fit the world from which it originates. In the external realm, imperfection predominates, and it is often the case that even those who do not labor for their bread—or those who slumber—possess more than those who toil. In the material world, everything belongs to the possessor; they labor under the indifferent gaze of the law, whether they possess a magic ring like Nureddin or Aladdin, or wield the world’s treasures, irrespective of how they were acquired.

The situation, however, differs considerably in the spiritual realm. Here, a divine order prevails, which does not treat the deserving and the undeserving equally. The sun does not shine impartially on the good and the bad. The principle asserts that only those who work receive sustenance, only those who face fear attain peace, and only those who enter this realm gain true understanding. Throughout the series, the narrative unfolds against a backdrop of degeneration, abominations, and atrocities, fostering a sense of foreboding. For a child, growing up in such a harsh reality is excruciating. There are only "small victories" and "small battles we fought," "sparkling spoils that turn into mere junk when playtime is over," and "the back alleys of brothels and taverns where the sun never shines." His metaphorical visions are undoubtedly esoteric, intricate, and perplexing. They resemble a labyrinth without an exit, where every path is a dead end, making it easy to lose one's way.

The boy runs with his arms extended, almost as if preparing to take flight.

Miura portrays Griffith uniquely compared to other characters, imbuing him with a sense of mystery, symbolism, and elusive qualities. He envelops himself in an aura of extrasensory mystique, surrounding himself with symbols, images, and cryptic elements. Griffith's story resonates like a legendary saga, similar to figures like Christ. Their origins, early lives, and remarkable gifts shrouded in mystery heighten their historical importance—almost as if these gifts were granted by God.

In Casca's memories, we see glimpses of Griffith's early years, during which he leads adults and exhibits outstanding warrior skills. Yet, these glimpses raise more questions than they answer. The portrayal remains intriguing and enigmatic, complicating our understanding, respect, and sympathy due to the absence of concrete details. Griffith’s enigmatic nature persists, with his objectives revolving around a castle. Observing his engagement in "playing war," one infers a deeper motive. This conduct does not mean he perceives life as a mere game, nor does it imply that Griffith is only a puppeteer controlling others. Instead, I believe this form of wordplay serves to illustrate that his actions are a facade—an artificial portrayal of his true self that lacks authenticity. His involvement is not trivial; rather, it appears somewhat superficial, marked by elaborate attire, political maneuvering, manipulations, grandiose rhetoric, and social roles, all contributing to a veneer.

Symbolic contrasts convey subtle hints of Griffith’s darker side, though it is never explicitly depicted. His character remains shrouded in mystery and ambiguity, leaving us to ponder the true essence of his dreams and ambitions.

The Selfish and Selfless Essence of Griffith’s Vision

Griffith consistently maintained a clarity about his idealistic goals and pursued them methodically and rationally. His visionary dream has been revolutionary over time. His profound disdain for the social hierarchies and his curiosity about his own potential drive his intense desire to reshape the world. From a young age, he fostered inclusivity among his followers, transcending barriers of race, gender, age, previous lifestyle, social class, and origin. Griffith welcomed individuals based on their unique skills, nurturing and rewarding their contributions. He aimed to create a realm where the weak would not be exploited by the higher, wealthier classes. Despite his humble beginnings in the alleys, he actively challenges entrenched feudal hierarchies. His leadership style instills appreciation, safety, and solidarity among his supporters, setting a progressive precedent. Wherever he goes, he leaves a sense of connection and meaning through his dream.

While Griffith’s fantasy includes elements of egoism, it also embodies selflessness through its commitment to serving others. The manga unmistakably portrays Griffith’s sense of responsibility and genuine suffering—attributes that I will explore further. What defines him as a leader is a consistent pattern evident from the outset: people join his cause voluntarily, he refrains from initiating aggression, and he resorts to harm or killing only when absolutely necessary.

Griffith does not make decisions solely based on his own ambitions; he also considers the collective unconscious desires of his followers. This symbiotic relationship between a leader and his followers shapes his vision, aligning it with broader societal aspirations of leadership, ambition, and the attainment of greatness. Griffith stands out not only as an exceptional leader but also as a figure who, in an almost supernatural manner, influences those around him.

Conversely, Griffith’s willingness to risk his life for this dream stems not only from selflessness but also from seeing his followers as integral to his vision—he views them as essential to his kingdom, akin to loyal subjects. Thus, Griffith personifies the collective will of his followers, embodying their shared hopes and dreams. His ascent to power and the pursuit of his vision mirror broader societal struggles and ideals, resonating with themes of ambition and leadership.

Griffith’s dream of establishing a kingdom was not solely his own; his soldiers also believed in its promise. Thus, his kingdom encompasses not only his vision but also the aspirations of those who support and benefit from it. The parallel between Griffith’s personal dream and the collective desire of his followers reflects his role in representing humanity’s aspirations and fulfilling them as if they were his own.

The Symbolic-Psychological Layer of Griffith’s Vision

Castles and fortifications universally symbolize an inner refuge—the heart's sanctum, where the soul connects with God or the Absolute. Psalm 59:16 depicts God as a fortress, providing protection and sanctuary in times of distress. Psalm 60:9 questions, "Who will bring me into the strong city?" Theoleptus of Philadelphia urges individuals to strive toward entering the innermost castle of the soul, the dwelling of Christ. Meister Eckhart’s sermons describe this inner castle as so pure and singular that even the Triune God cannot penetrate it.

The Bhagavad Gita (5:13) employs the metaphor of "castle with nine gates" to describe the yogi's body. This imagery illustrates how the body is closed off from worldly distractions to safeguard inner spiritual focus. Similarly, the Taoist treatise The Secret of the Golden Flower advises fortifying and defending the Primeval Castle, where the spirit (hsing) resides.

These castles often appear in tales and dreams, either towering on hills or hidden within forest clearings, renowned for their formidable and elusive nature. They symbolize a sense of security and protection far superior to ordinary dwellings. Such castles represent isolation and seclusion, making their contents both coveted and elusive. Artistic representations depict Heavenly Jerusalem as a castle atop a mountain peak, symbolizing spiritual elevation. The Pharaohs’ funerary temples, known as "castles of millions of years," were constructed next to their tombs to endure forever. These temples symbolize the connection between human splendor and divine destiny.

Historically, these fortifications are believed to house mystical and intangible forces. They often appear in enchanted forests and sacred mountains, only to vanish like mirages before valiant knights. These castles may shelter sleeping maidens awaiting a lover's arrival or heroic figures welcoming noble adventurers. The dark castle symbolizes failure and unfulfilled desires, akin to Hell—a structure devoid of life except for the solitary soul wandering its shadowy corridors. Conversely, the white castle symbolizes accomplishment and the fulfillment of destiny. Mystics describe other spiritual castles as resting places along the path of sanctification, culminating in the castle of illumination atop a mountaintop merging with the sky, where the soul unites eternally with God, basking in His unblemished presence.

Griffith’s tendency to emotionally withdraw to manage his guilt and seek transcendence is par for the course, aligning well with his complex and ambitious nature depicted throughout the manga. Ironically, these very deficiencies contribute to his prowess in realizing his otherworldly ambitions. On a deeper level, the castle also symbolizes heroic quests and inner challenges where Griffith confronts and integrates his inner conflicts, facilitating psychological growth and integration. Castles, blending strength with vulnerability and security with isolation, embody the Jungian concept of integrating opposing elements within the psyche.

They also represent the inner architecture of spiritual growth, symbolizing the pursuit of higher consciousness and self-realization. Ultimately, the series suggests the existence of another realm where the coexistence of good and evil, light and darkness, resonates deeply throughout Griffith’s journey.

The Existential-Philosophical Foundation of His Dream

Griffith's motivations are undeniably multifaceted. Driven both by fear and internal conflict on the one hand, and a quest for personal fulfillment on the other, his ambitions extend to benefiting those around him. This dual nature showcases a character of significant complexity, reflecting the profound intricacies of his desires. In essence, more layers need exploration and unveiling.

“Martyrdom for a merciless God. What a waste. On the battlefield, the life of a common soldier isn’t even worth a single piece of silver. In today’s world, most people’s lives are subject to the whims of a handful of nobility and royalty. Of course, even a king himself can’t live exactly as he pleases. We are all at the mercy of a great tide, fate, or whatever you wish to call it… And we all disappear in the end. Our lives are spent… Never knowing who we were. In life, unrelated to one's social standing or class as determined by man, there are some people who, by nature, are keys that set the world in motion. They are the true elite, as dictated by the golden rule of the universe.”

The boy articulated the pointlessness of life and the world, yet displayed remarkable determination. He aims to create a universal meaning amidst the encroaching reality. Griffith embodies a strong existential mindset, grappling with deep questions: Where is the world headed? Why does everything appear meaningless? What forces dictate the current state of existence rather than an alternative? Similarly, he delves deeply into introspective inquiries about his own identity, nature, and purpose.

His character reveals another dimension of his motivations: his quest centers on profound questions he seeks to resolve. This aspect is essential to Griffith’s character. He articulates that, once he has secured his own kingdom, he aims to unravel the arcane mysteries of existence, understand the nature of gods, discern the laws governing the universe, grasp the essence of reality, and explore their relevance to his identity. Griffith is determined to comprehend his place, his role, and the scope of his potential within this vast and intricate framework.

Understanding the nature of the world is vital for discovering the truth. It is senseless to seek your inner self without first understanding the nature of the world around you and the broader context in which those truths exist.

This scene illustrates Griffith's perpetual state of uncertainty and spiritual exploration. His doubt is profound and genuine, free from superficiality or intellectual pretense. The opening statement clearly expresses his values and motivations: a disdain for established social structures and a fundamental belief in his ability to overcome them. There is a deep disillusionment with God and skepticism regarding human agency, including that of kings. This sense of human effort and struggle reflects a profound empathy for the downtrodden. This theme recurs for Griffith, particularly when he shares his thoughts with Guts, suggesting that he is articulating these reflections for the first time. It is apparent that Griffith regularly ponders these issues and has previously entertained comparable thoughts.

To conquer the castle, Griffith employs arguments of an existential, philosophical, social, and theoretical nature, alongside those driven by egoistic motives. This becomes particularly clear in future revelations, where it will be evident that feelings of shame, responsibility, and guilt (the ethical layer) drive Griffith forward, intertwining aspects of self-interest and selflessness even more.

In essence: “Castle in the sky” + ruling his own kingdom/establishing a new era/new way of organizing the world (his and collective human desire) + answers to fundamental questions before his own death, such as: What is my place in the world? Who am I? What am I capable of? What am I destined for? = His motivations, his dream.

Contemplating the enduring mystery and ambiguity surrounding Griffith provides profound understanding.

Even someone born into modest beginnings shouldn't uphold their self-worth and view greatness as distant and unattainable. They should avoid misconceptions that undermine the true essence of greatness. Ultimately, I see him as resembling a grand historical figure or an ancient hero—one who gazed at the stellar spheres, sensing an unseen force (the destiny) guiding him toward realms beyond understanding. Yet, simultaneously, a peculiar blend of coincidences, unusual circumstances, and unforeseen collisions shapes his path. Alternatively, he finds himself ensnared in a situation he did not anticipate, leading to an unexpected outcome.

As meticulous planning defines Griffith's path to achieving his goals. Solid arguments from various fields support and justify each step, thereby creating a cohesive and logical entirety. This approach not only solidifies his sense of destiny but also guides his character toward a specific point, laying the groundwork for future progress. The narrative demonstrates that these events unfold as though predetermined, veritably, even before his birth. His path unfolds from particular circumstances that have persistently molded his life, creating an unavoidable trajectory, as if the circumstances were inherently meant to guide him along this destined course, offering no alternatives.

I contend that this interpretation appropriately validates my comprehension of Griffith's character motivations. By integrating various arguments and clues provided by the author, we gain a more nuanced perspective on Griffith's complex nature. The "castle" represents more than just a destination; it signifies a transformative journey toward self-discovery and understanding the world and its laws. This journey represents a higher purpose, elevating him beyond mundane desires to connect with something greater—the collective and its inhabitants. Undoubtedly, it bears a dark undercurrent, rooted in his ambition to reach the pinnacle, a calling to rule and command as though it were celestial law, and a quest for querencia, a form of "all-healing" security.

Within the grand tapestry of his orphic odyssey, the pursuit of enlightenment goes beyond merely attaining an ultimate destination. It demands navigating the intricate labyrinth of moral and spiritual trials that define the journey toward fulfillment. In the narrative of Berserk, Griffith's pursuit of his dream is not only central but also indispensable. It serves as the cornerstone of the plot, propelling the storyline forward with relentless force. Moreover, it raises profound and perennial questions that resonate throughout the series—challenging our assumptions about the interplay between determinism and free will while exploring themes of polarity, consciousness, morality, and the broader view of the world and its utilitarian solutions.

[kquil]

it’s a fleeting idea rn and i don’t know if it’s worth pursuing or not so i need some opinions please

here are the tropes i’m thinking of including :

married wolfstar/jegulus ; surrogate mother reader ; strangers to friends to lovers ; silent pinning ; modern au ; muggle au ; rich wolfstar/jegulus ; princess treatment ; hard pre-relationship pinning ; rough beginnings ; hurt/comfort ; some angst ; miscommunication ; fluff ; happy ending

if this poll turns out in favour of the fic idea, i’ll begin planning as soon as i can after my 1k milestone event but please tell me your thoughts in comments/messages/asks (whichever you’re comfortable with) if you have any ideas or things you’d like to see if you’re especially eager for a fic like this, maybe it’ll give me inspiration and motivate me to write it

taglist : @melinajenkins @aastonishment @until-i-found-you @corp0real @sageskisses444 @celestcies @lovelydoveval @inlovewithremusjohnlupin @calums-betch @futurecorps3 @hihihi1112 @simpingforthe80s @yrluvjane @neeezza101 @chaosofmanyfandoms @storyofaromance @loving-and-dreaming @somewereinthegalaxi @chullu-bhar-paani @ghostgardn @rosalyn-s @seungtelevision @rosaleenablack @samanddeansannoyingsis @marina468 @mess-is-my-aesthetic

[thedreamlessnights]

Someone to shed some light - pt. 6

Astarion x gn!reader

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: You learn your place in Calthir and what that means for your future. An unexpected conversation is overheard, and it changes everything.

Warnings: Threats of suicide/self-harm, very brief suicidal ideation, mentions of blood and death.

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading, you have no idea how much I appreciate you! Your comments on each chapter are so inspiring and I've been having so much fun working on this fic. There sadly isn't as much Astarion interaction in this chapter, but there'll be plenty of that to come. I hope you enjoy! And thank you once again to @aerynwrites for brainstorming over this chapter with me and making the lovely header image!

It’s the harsh light of the morning sun that pulls you from a lovely dream, scalding into the sensitive skin of your eyelids and searing at your skin. Even through the tent, it’s unbearable. Or, perhaps, it’s the memories that accompany it that you can’t stand. 

Within seconds, the dream is gone - a sweet, fleeting picture lost to a bitter reality - and you’re left laying on your side, aching in every part of yourself. Mind, body, and soul.

All your anger at Cal has seeped out of you and left something else entirely: numbness. Gods, you feel absolutely nothing. Or - no, that’s not quite right. You feel hollowed out. It’s as though every muscle of yours has been filled with lead. You can’t find it in yourself to get up.

Astarion isn’t at your side, but when you force yourself to shift a little, you see he’s still in the tent - very clearly eavesdropping on a conversation taking place outside. His head is tilted toward the sound and his shoulders are tensed: ready to leap out of the way should he hear someone coming. He’s nimble enough, surely.

For a moment, you stare at him, the half-view of his form that you’re able to see from your bedroll. Pinched brows, a deep frown, dark eyelashes that meet his cheek when he looks down, lost in whatever he’s listening to. 

What is he thinking? What’s caught his interest so keenly? And, gods, there’s something softened about his features that you’ve never really seen. It takes you a moment to connect why.

This is Astarion as he really is. No show to put on. No royal mask, no seductive charm. Just himself, almost alone in this tent, sitting under the sun and listening to something he shouldn’t. The only thing comparable to this is when you’d caught him sunbathing at the palace, lost in the feeling of the warmth of his skin. 

Even after last night, it’s clear he still hasn’t let his guard down around you. Given everything that’s happened, it’s not difficult to guess why. With time, perhaps. But, for now, you need to stop staring at him. 

Sit up, you instruct yourself. You need to sit up. 

Your body doesn’t budge at first, but you’ll be damned if one measly betrayal is going to rob you of your motivation. You force yourself up, wincing at the stiffness of your joints, shaking away the fog that’s overtaken your head.

Upright as you are, the anger slowly returns. You like it. You thrive on it. It’s something to feed off of, something to fuel you. The numbness hadn’t worked like that. It had been so - empty. You’ll take anger any day.

Astarion still hasn’t moved.

“Hearing anything interesting?” you ask softly, and though he doesn’t turn to look at you, his head tilts ever so slightly in your direction, letting you know he’d heard you.

“That Aris has just arrived,” he says. “I’m sure it won’t be long before they all darken our door.”

“Lovely.” You fold your arms around your knees, stomach suddenly churning. “Freedom was nice while it lasted, I suppose.”

“It was,” he agrees. “A shame. Just when I was almost enjoying it, too.”

Your smile falls weak on your lips, but he can’t see it. You know you should eat, but you doubt that you’d be able to stomach anything. Instead, you pull out one of the bottles of water in your pack and take a tentative sip, praying that it won’t disturb your stomach.

After a moment, Astarion finally moves to get dressed for the day, and you catch a brief flash of the scar on his neck before it’s covered up. Two puncture wounds. The mark of the bite that turned him, marred into his flesh. It doesn’t pass your notice that he chooses a high-collared shirt. 

You wonder if he knows that you’ll die before exposing him to these people.

Maybe, if Cal hadn’t betrayed you, Calthir would feel like an extension of you. Your kingdom. Your people. Instead, it’s just another prison. These soldiers mulling the camp are strangers, and you have no loyalty to them. You certainly won’t be what they’d expected of you.

What the hells did they do to you, Cal had asked. Are you the one who is different, or is he? You don’t feel different. Yes, you care about Astarion now. Yes, you’re on the run - or, you had been. But had that shifted you so much? Are you so changed? 

It occurs to you that Cal may not have ever known you at all. 

You scramble into a change of clothes before the leader can arrive, and when you hear the approach of footsteps, your throat tightens. The tent is pulled open without warning, and the sun that streams in burns your eyes. You hold your arm to your face, attempting to block some of it out, but you still can barely see the figures standing before you.

“Come on,” a voice says. “Out.”

You make your way to your feet, keeping your shoulders squared and your back straight. They won’t break you. Your fists are gearing for a fight. Your teeth are ready to draw blood.

Astarion follows after you without so much as a word, and the two of you find yourself in front of a group of armored soldiers. Aris is clear from the moment you see her: her composure says enough, and so does the anxious way her men stand behind her. A high elf. Long, dark hair, braided into a neat updo. Piercing green eyes. 

“My, my,” she says. “It’s not every day that the ruler of Calthir walks straight into my camp.” 

Is that what Cal had told her? He’s nowhere to be seen.

Her glance skates next to you, and when it lands on Astarion, she frowns. “And who is this?”

She really doesn’t know? 

“This is Lirien,” you answer quickly, subtly shifting your right hand over your left to hide your wedding ring. “He helped me escape.”

Aris quirks a brow, cocking her head and folding her arms across her chest. “How interesting,” she says. “You see, I got a report last night that one of Queen Erelin’s carriages was attacked not two days ago. The two occupants inside are now missing, but presumably still alive. Occupants who happen to match your description.” She pauses, keeping her eyes locked on you. “One of whom was her son.”

The blood slowly drains from your face, but you hold her gaze. “That’s strange,” you reply, pasting on a smile. “I’d love to meet these doppelgängers.”

Behind you, Astarion lets out a loud sigh. 

You turn to look at him, staring in sheer disbelief. “Really? You could try to play along!”

“Er - yes,” Astarion says flatly. “I’m Lirien.”

Aris shakes her head, clearly unimpressed. “Had enough?” she asks, framing her hands on her hips. “You brought an Ancunín with you. The heir to our enemy kingdom. I… I’m appalled. I really am. I don’t know whether to call you a fool or thank you for delivering him to us. In any case…” She turns toward Astarion, eyes scanning over him, and something like admiration forms in her gaze. “My deepest apologies, pretty boy. Your death is a necessary sacrifice for Calthir. ”

She makes a gesture toward her guards, crooking two of her fingers, but you act before they can. Your hand flashes out to the side - or more precisely, toward the dagger you know is in Astarion’s belt. It’s removed and pressed to your neck in an instant, the chill of the blade kissing the delicate skin of your throat.

Aris jumps, holding out her hand. “Wait-!”

“What in the hells?” Astarion exclaims, staring at you as though you’re crazy. And, well, maybe you are. But you’ve played your fair share of card games. This isn’t much different.

“Let’s be honest with each other, shall we?” you ask, facing Aris. “I admit it: this is Astarion Ancunín. But you’re not going to lay a hand on him, or I’ll cut my throat here and now, and you’ll be without your precious ruler.”

Aris stares at you, raising a brow. She’s disturbingly calm. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” you ask, pressing the blade further in. It stings, but doesn’t quite pierce the skin. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t exactly have much to live for. If I stay, I’m either a pawn for you, or a pawn for Erelin. Astarion is the only thing I have going for me. Leave him alive, let him stay with me, and I’ll go with you. Do so much as lay a finger on him, and I’ll become very intimate with this blade very quickly.”

“Go ahead, then,” Aris urges, her voice steely. “We don’t need you.”

“Oh, really?” you ask. “So that’s why you’ve spent so long looking for me, wasting - what was it - hundreds of men?”

Her jaw clenches almost imperceptibly. “And who the hells told you that?” she bites out.

“Cal,” you answer. “He raised me, remember? He rubs his neck when he lies. I know he was telling the truth.”

“I can’t do what you’re asking,” Aris tells you, her tone almost pleading. “I can’t let him live.”

“In that case,” you sigh, pressing even deeper. The stinging sensation increases. A drop or two of warm blood streams down your neck, and fear finally enters her eyes. At your side, Astarion goes tense.

“Fine!” Aris says. “Bloody hells. Fine! Just put the fucking blade down!”

You keep it where it is. “Give me your word.”

“What?”

“Give me your word that he’ll go unharmed. Mentally, emotionally, physically.”

“Hells, I’ll put it in fucking writing!” she exclaims. “Just put the knife down, will you?”

You don’t remotely trust her, but you don’t have much other choice. You gently remove the dagger from your neck, reaching over to slide it back into Astarion’s sheath. He just scowls at you, looking shaken. His eyes linger on the blood on your neck for a moment, then snap back to face.

In response to his expression, you flash a smile at him. You’ve just saved his life, after all. He could at least be a little grateful. 

“Can we agree that you’ll never do that again?” he hisses, leaning in close so his voice spills into your ear. He pulls a loose rag out from his shirt pocket, hastily wiping the blood away from your skin. His hands are shaking.

“Astarion,” you say softly, teasingly. “Was that concern I heard in your voice?”

He scoffs. “Just - warn me next time, will you?”

“If there is a next time,” you start, “I promise I’ll warn you in advance.”

Aris is watching you with no small amount of distaste. “If you’ll come with me,” she says stiffly, “I’ll lay down the terms of this… agreement.”

You follow after her, keeping Astarion close to you. He wraps an arm around your waist, and you wonder if it’s part of the little display the two of you are setting up. You know how this must look to them: that you’d fallen for Astarion, and brought him to this camp like a fool. That Astarion is a spy for Erelin.

And - well, one part of that thought is true. You’ve fallen for Astarion. His touch, though cold, seems to scald you even through your clothes. You’re no fool, though. You certainly hadn’t come here of your own accord, waltzing into camp. And, if Astarion is a spy, he’s doing a terrible job of it. He’d wanted to leave the moment the two of you laid eyes on this place. 

You follow Aris into a tent that’s clearly used for planning. There’s a large, sprawling map of Faerûn spread over a table. Lanceboard pieces are being used to showcase all of Erelin’s forces, as well as some Calthirian outposts. There’s more of Calthir than you’d thought - some along the mountain pass, some along the borders of the city. The battle plans are scribbled hastily along the side, and it looks like there’s some disagreement about them, given how much of the text has been crossed out. It’s illegible, for the most part.

“Here,” Aris announces, scrawling down some words on the parchment in front of her. “I, Aris Alderfate, swear on my life that Astarion Anucnin will come to no harm: whether it be mentally, physically, or emotionally, by myself or anyone under my command. Satisfied?”

“How do I know that your soldiers won’t harm him?”

She clicks her tongue. “Disobeying orders is a death sentence. He’ll not suffer a scratch.”

You stare at her, trying to find any sense of deceit in her eyes, but there’s none. Her gaze is bright, and her face is open - inquisitive. “Alright,” you finally agree. Fear stirs in your stomach, thinking about how trapped you are. How cornered in, with only your life to barter. “What now?”

“Now,” she says, “your handsome prince leaves us. This is private business.”

You shake your head. “He stays.”

“You are asking me to trust the son of our enemy,” Aris hisses, placing her hands flat on the table set in front of her. “The only child of the woman who dethroned your parents. I cannot and will not trust him. I’ve spared his life, as you’ve asked, but he will not be a part of this. Do you understand?”

You can tell that she won’t budge, but it unsettles you to have Astarion out of sight. Out of sight, they can do anything to him. She may have signed that document, but you’re desperately outnumbered, and you don’t have a dagger in your hand as a bargaining chip anymore.

Seeing your face, Aris lets out a quick rush of air. “If any of this is going to work, you’ll need to trust me. This entire operation is built off of intelligence and trust.” She reaches forward, placing a hand on yours. “Trust me when I say that I have your best interests at heart. And, when this discussion is over, you’ll return to your tent and find Astarion just as he is now.”

You glance at him. He gives a light shrug, but you can see the tension etched into the crease of his brow, the squaring of his shoulders. After a long moment of internal debate, you nod. 

Two guards step forward, lining themselves on either side of Astarion. “Come with us,” they instruct. 

He’s led out of the tent, and a pit digs into your stomach.

“Relax,” Aris says. “I’ve given you my word. I’ll hand it to you - you’re stubborn. An idiot, maybe, but stubborn.”

You give her a half-hearted smile. “Is this how you address all your rulers?”

She straightens, letting out a sigh as she walks along the table, trailing her fingers over the map. “No,” she says. “But I don’t sugarcoat my words. Whatever you think he is to you, it’s not true. He’s trying to get you on his side. Cal was adamant you’d be too smart for that, but here we are.”

You lean forward, observing the sight in front of you. “Agree to disagree, I suppose.”

Frustration flashes over her face. “Well,” she says. “You’re a mascot, Highness. An image for the people, and that is all you’ll be. We have the forces. I have the plans. You have the royal blood. None will work without the other.”

“Alright,” you agree. “What, then?”

“We take the throne,” Aris says. “Erelin dies. This is non-negotiable. You take your rightful place as heir, and the kingdom of Calthir returns to her former glory.”

“And?” you ask. “Will I actually have a say in how I lead, or will I just be another pawn to you?”

Her expression tightens. “You’ll have a council that assists you in your decision-making,” she says, but it’s clear enough what she means. You’re nothing more than a face, a sack of precious blood. “Your marriage will be dissolved, and you’ll be settled with someone else.”

Your spine runs cold. “What?”

Her eyes pierce into you like a knife. “You’re married to the enemy’s son. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that’s a problem. Having Astarion in any position of power is a problem. You can keep him around if you like, have your fun with him, but the marriage cannot stay.”

She really does think you’re an idiot, fooling around with a handsome prince. “And who would be replacing him?” you ask. 

“Duke Ravengard has proposed his son,” Aris says. “Wyll is a good man. He’ll be kind to you.”

You flinch at the suggestion. “I know Wyll,” you answer. “He’s an old friend.”

“Then you know he’d treat you with the utmost respect.”

“I do. And I also know he’d hate to be a pawn in your game,” you snap back. 

Aris sighs. “If he refuses, then we have other options. First, we need to take the kingdom. Your suitors are less of a priority.”

“Then tell me how you’re planning to do it!” you exclaim. “What am I here for?”

Gods, you’re tired of her, and it hasn’t even been five minutes. If it’s going to be a lifetime of her breathing down your neck, maybe you really should run that dagger through your throat.

“That’s easy,” she replies evenly. “For you, at least. We’ll write you speeches. You’ll rally the soldiers. For the most part, you’ll sit pretty.”

“Sit pretty?” you ask, unable to hide the disgust in your voice. “I’m your ruler, and you want me to sit pretty?”

“Yes,” she says, “I do. Like I said, you have the royal blood. You’re the symbol - important only because of your image, nothing else. I’ve worked all my life to get to where I am, and I won’t let anything compromise that. So you are going to live a life of luxury, be the face of our revolution, and be fucking grateful for it!”

She takes in a deep breath, collecting herself. “You can go,” she says. “We’ll retrieve you when you’re needed. The guards will lead you back to your tent.”

Just like they had with Astarion, they cage themselves around you. It’s suffocating. The cool breeze in the air does nothing to stop the feeling.

They lead you to the same tent the two of you had been in last night, and when you crawl through the flap, you find Astarion in one piece. Unharmed, just as she’d said. The guards all leave, and you know exactly why. Cal’s spell is still there. You can almost feel it, still hot on your skin.

You pull the flap shut, absurdly angry, planting yourself at Astarion’s side. You need to hit something. Or scream, maybe.

“That bad, darling?” he asks. “You look like you’re about to explode.”

“Will she find us here?”

He blinks in surprise. “What?”

“Erelin. You said she’d never stop looking for us. Will she come for us, if she finds out the two of us are in this place?”

“Yes,” Astarion answers. “She’ll stop at nothing.” He tilts his head. “Betraying your own people?” he asks softly, though admiration lights his eyes. “That’s low, darling, even for you.”

“I’m not betraying them,” you answer. “But if she is what you say, then she’s going to find us sooner or later, isn’t she?” You pick at the edge of your shirt, hesitating. “Who do you think will win? Be honest. Just between you and me - who will win?”

He inhales sharply. “My mother’s no fool,” he says. “She married you off for a reason. She knew that Calthir was a threat. But…” He shakes his head. “Even if all of their camps are as impressive as this one, I’d place my bets on her. These Calthirian ‘recruits’ are untrained. I doubt they’ve ever seen battle. Even if they do have more men, our experience would overrule the numbers.”

You’re silent for a moment, not knowing how to respond. Which is worse - being under Erelin’s thumb again, never given the opportunity for freedom? Being nothing more than an image, married off to Wyll? 

Gods, something isn’t right. If they’re having you marry Wyll, then they’d never let you keep Astarion at your side, even if they dissolved the marriage. No - something here is rotten. Unfortunately, since you can’t do a thing about it, that knowledge is pointless.

“Then I suppose we’d better wait for her,” you finally say. “And see what happens.”

There’s not much else of a choice.

The tent falls silent as you think, that pit of anger rising and ebbing as your thoughts pull at you one by one. You need them to go away; you need some peace, for once.

“Did you know your father?” you suddenly ask. “I know he died when you were young, but… do you remember him?”

“No,” Astarion answers. “I… don’t remember much of my past. Before Cazador.” He leans back, propping an arm behind himself to support him. “And you? Your real parents, I mean.”

You shake your head. “They died just after I was born. They fell ill, apparently. Cal is all I’ve ever known.” A bitter smile twists itself on your lips. “I used to think… I didn’t need anything else. He loved me, cared for me. He was as much my father as the one dead in the ground, his blood running through my veins.”

Your voice hitches, and you swallow hard. “All a lie, though.”

Astarion stares at you, his brows pinching. When he speaks, his voice is hushed. “When my mother - rescued me,” he starts, shifting, “I was… different than before. She kept trying to get me back - to normal,” he says. He smiles, but it looks more like a grimace. “She didn’t want a vampire for a son. Most days, she could barely stand to look at me. I…”

He pauses, giving a light, loose gesture, then turns his gaze to an empty spot of the tent. “I really thought she cared about me until then. How kind of her to open my eyes.”

Your hands clench into the pillow under you. You force them to relax. “It sounds like she wanted a trophy rather than a son,” you tell him. “You deserve better than that.”

He tuts. “Bleeding heart, spouse of mine,” he responds, leaning toward you. “Come here, darling.”

He pulls you in for a kiss, and the outside world melts away.

When you finally gather the strength to emerge from your tent that evening, Cal is waiting for you. 

The sight of him carves a fresh, bleeding stab of pain into your chest. You keep your eyes very pointedly on the empty space in front of you, and he sighs.

“So this is it, then?” he asks. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

You whirl around on him, hands clenching into fists. “And what would you have me do, Cal? Jump for joy at the sight of you, after what you did? I’ve just heard your kingdom’s wonderful plans for me, and I’m supposed to - what? Be thankful that you’re imprisoning me? You lot are worse than Erelin!”

He flinches at the mention of the queen, but his shoulders square. “Gods below,” he says. “I know you’re upset, but if you’d just listen-”

“-Listen to what?” you ask. “To you, somehow making this better?”

“To reason!” Cal snaps. “For the sake of the gods. Listen to reason, child.”

When you don’t respond, trying to keep yourself from losing it all, he steps closer and lays his hands on your shoulders, giving them a light squeeze. “I know how Aris can be,” he says gently. “I know how you must feel. She is our leader, yes, but only out of necessity. She knows what must be done and is willing to do it. She’s not your parents, or their legacy.”

He shakes his head, continuing softly. “She wants to feel in control, you understand. But it’s you - you’re the one the soldiers are here for. Not her. If she loses you, she’ll have nothing. We’ve worked so hard - and the gods know I’ve tried my best with you. Keeping you safe, keeping you shielded from what you are: it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

He steps a little closer, and the familiar scent of him, cinnamon and sandalwood, is making you want to fling yourself in his arms. When you were small, he used to wrap those arms around you and squeeze, claiming he was squeezing away all your sadness. What you wouldn’t give to feel such comfort again.

“Don’t confuse Aris with Calthir,” he says. “She’s intense, but she alone does not signify what this kingdom stands for.”

“And what does it stand for?” you ask. “Holding a ruler against their will? Sham marriages? Fake governments?”

“It stands for goodness,” Cal says. “How many times have you felt dissatisfied with this world? How many times has an unfair ruling been laid down by the queen?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you bite out. “I won’t even be laying down the new rulings. You’re using me for power, and I’m not getting even a taste of it.”

“Or so you’ve been told,” Cal replies. “Aris doesn’t trust you. How can she, when you brought an Ancunín with you? Gods, even I was wary, and I raised you! I - I still don’t understand your attachment to him!” 

You just stare at him, giving a slight shrug. “Erelin makes him suffer as much as the rest of us, Cal,” you murmur. Your voice is quiet, choked. “You don’t understand.”

He takes in a long inhale. “You have a good head on your shoulders,” he says. “I want to trust you on that. It’s not like you to be swayed by a pretty face, but… gods, I don’t know.”

“Try to trust me, then?” you ask. “I’d appreciate that, considering that no one will even be trusting me to rule. I won’t even have a say in my own kingdom.”

His brows pinch. “That’s not true. You’ll be on a council of ruling. Multiple people in power. And, no matter what Aris says, you’d have your vote on that.”

He takes another step forward, and his hands seem to scorch through your clothes, warming you from the outside in. “You could do so much good,” he says. “Give it time. Aris will soften. She’ll see who you are, just like I see you.”

“And what do you see?” you ask weakly.

He smiles. “Someone strong. Who does the right thing, when it comes down to it. Someone fit to rule.”

You look in his clear, grey eyes and wonder when exactly it was that he stopped actually seeing you. 

You gently ease out of his grip, heading toward the edge of the camp, but you can feel him watching you. You can feel that damned spell of his still present on your skin. He thinks he’s doing the right thing, no doubt. It’s the complex so many have: that in order to succeed, things must be compromised, precious things sacrificed. 

You’d just never thought that it would be you on the table, a lamb up for slaughter. 

The next few weeks consist of the same progression of events, over and over again, played like a hellish retelling of the same story. You and Astarion are escorted around, but given no real freedom. Even the woods seem like an upgrade - at least you’d been able to choose the direction you were walking in. Such a brief taste of it, before it had been robbed from you. 

You’re taken to and from meetings. You’re provided with books to keep yourself entertained. You’re provided with decent rations, clean clothes, and the occasional bath. These are the luxuries your life consists of. 

You and Astarion lightly chat at night, but there’s nothing more than the occasional kiss, a brief touch of his thumb over your cheek. A shared bedroll. The circumstances of your situation are off putting enough, but it’s the soldiers and their constant, loud conversations through the night that ruin the mood for anything else.

As for the camp, there’s something unmistakably brewing in the air. 

You hadn’t been able to feel it at first, but as you and Astarion spend more and more time in this place, it’s immediately clear that something is happening. You hear whispers, bits and pieces of things you can’t make out, but something is clear: there’s a restlessness to the place, like something held in chains but waiting to break free.

You may hate Erelin, but you at least admire her intelligence, her cunning. Aris, you despise through and through. 

She treats you like a puppet. For the few, brief meetings you’re permitted to attend, she speaks over you, ignoring you when you chip in, not even looking you in the eye. It’s very clear that you are nothing more than your title to her, and at night, you dream of setting fire to her precious battle plans and watching the smug look on her face fall flat.

Astarion plays more bored than anything else, but you see the occasional slip of anxiety in his shoulders, the restless way he paces about. Wherever Erelin is, how will she know you’re here? Will she really use your blood to track you, like he’d told you in the carriage all that time ago? 

Cal, meanwhile, has taken to following you around. It seems that he thinks, with enough time, you’ll forgive him. You don’t even look at him. If he’d ever agreed to you living like this, then he really couldn’t give a shit about you. You’re determined to mirror that feeling back to him.

Three weeks in, the camp begins its march. From what you’re hearing, Aris is joining forces with another post outside the city, but what it means for you is that you and Astarion are dragged along with the soldiers, forced by day to endure the burning sun, and given a barren tent to rest in at night.

It’s a long journey, consisting of aching feet and sweat-stained clothing and the faint brushes of relief under the shade. There must be a thousand times your eyes flit to the trees, aching to break free from this hell, but you know it’s useless. Cal puts a new tracking spell on you each morning to ensure it doesn’t expire. You shoot daggers at him through your eyes and hope he knows you hate him.

When the group finally, mercifully arrives, there’s so much chaos that you can barely think. You can’t even rest. There are so many soldiers milling around that you can’t possibly imagine how the city doesn’t realize they’re there - or maybe they do, and just don’t care.

Baldur’s Gate in of itself has no resources for war. Erelin might, and she has control over the city, but it’s not so simple. War means planning and resources and death. War means defending your actions to your people. If Calthir hasn’t attacked any major sections, then any preventative action Erelin might take will come off as dealing the first blow. 

Even with the spell on you, you’re tempted to run. You’re not sure how accurate the tracking is, but in the city, you could blend in with the crowd. It’s hectic enough here to get away without anyone noticing, likely not for hours. You could hide with someone you trust. Someone who knows magic well.

But you don’t dare to risk it. If they catch you and Astarion, who knows what will happen to him. Instead, you stick by his side for the most part, wandering about long after the sun has set and the night has brought in her velvet skies. He retreats to your assigned tent once it’s dark, but you don’t follow him.

As you stroll along your new boundaries, passing by a small, inconspicuous tent, a raised voice catches your attention. Cal’s raised voice. It stops you in your tracks. You’ve seen him devastated, frustrated, determined. This is none of those. This is pure rage like you’ve never seen, bellowed anger that you’re not supposed to overhear.

“-cannot stand for this,” he’s saying. “I know you hate the boy, but this? This is not who we are!”

“This is who we must be,” comes a voice that can only be Aris. “We don’t stand a chance by ourselves. Alliances must be formed, and we cannot be stingy about our choices. Rebellions require sacrifices, Cal! If we let every moral dilemma stop us, we’d be nowhere!”

“Morals are the entire gods damned reason we’re doing this!” Cal protests. “Or have you lost sight of why we’re truly here? What we’re fighting for?”

“We’re fighting to win,” Aris replies. “Everything else is secondary. I thought you understood that.”

There’s a long, cutting silence. Your heart pounds erratically in your chest.

“They’ll never trust you after this,” Cal says. His voice sounds thick, strangled. “I hope you know that. You’ll ruin every chance of them cooperating.”

“If that’s the price that must be paid, so be it,” Aris replies.

You hear footsteps approaching and instantly duck behind the tent, waiting for the sound to fade until you’re sure they’re both gone. Alliances, she’d said. The word itches at your mind, burying itself within your distrust. Alliances with whom? What are they planning?

As carefully as you can, you sneak into the tent they’d been in. It’s small and dark, with only the barest bit of light from a torch outside spilling inside. It takes a bit of digging to find anything behind basic battle plans and lists of stations, but when you do, your heart sinks down to your stomach. Something sick and nauseating flows under your skin.

It’s simply a letter, accepting an unspecified plan. Bring what I ask for, it says, and I will fight at your side. What’s most important, though - what’s sickeningly relevant - is not the contents, but rather, the person it’s from.

In a neat, cursive scrawl at the bottom of the page is the undeniable signature of Lord Cazador Szarr.

tags: @amica-aenigmata-naboo @sadslasher13 @peachy-possum @the-lonely-abyss @maddiedrmr @starved-kitten @catching-fire-in-the-wind @aoirohi @g0retash

[ritualofcirice]

When Zestial first started courting you… (Zestial x Reader)

🐑 ♡ All twenty eight Zestial fans where are you? Come simp with me on main ♡🐑

Part of a collection of imagines and scenarios for various Hazbin Hotel characters.

Teen and Up Audiences, No Warnings, F/M, M/M, Other/M, Tag(s): Scenario, Flirting, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Short, Ambiguous Gender Reader, POV Second Person

Find it on ao3 ♡ WC: 372

I was inspired to try out imagines and scenario based shorts from reading some of @6esiree's (MINORS DNI) amazing stories! They're so good, like so so good, like so so so 100% worth your time to go and check out ♡

When Zestial first started courting you...

♡ He continued to pride himself on being a companion above all else. To him, being by your side had always meant being a reliable ear, kind word, or gentle touch. He saw no reason for this to change with your courtship. In truth, he was touched that you trusted him above all else to share your life so intimately.

♡ He confided with you that he had feared the reciprocation of his feelings was driven by ulterior motives. Fear too, perhaps. It was a thought that whispered in his ear and told him he was not cared for by the common Sinner. Overlords held power. You did not. Was it that which pushed you to stay with him? It was the same thought he quickly squashed when you looked up at him with a smile that held the warmth of the last hearth fire. He trusted your word, but the way you looked at him held truths unspoken.

♡ He made every attempt to accommodate your needs as you adapted to the sudden shift in the social hierarchy. Sinners gave you a respectable distance when Zestial was nearby, but he could tell it stung. Old ‘friends’ left you. New connections were difficult to come by. Even when you carried your head up high, he made sure to let you know that you were never truly alone.

♡ He treasured everything you gave to him. Fleeting touches became ghosts that haunted his waking hours. The words you spoke were a song lost to time. Memories became a currency of which he was forever poor. Desire drove him to seek more of you, so when you gifted him something tangible, he kept it safe. He kept it in perfect condition. His tiny part of you.

♡ He knew he would never stop courting you. What he did set the baseline for what you could expect. With time, things would become complex. Detailed. There was so much left to learn about one another, and the future was something neither of you could predict. Zestial planned to savour the moment, only to let time age your memories like wine. Together you would built an intricate web of shared experiences to reflect upon in the candlelight.

[askgildaseniors]

Dakota Meyer explains that winning, losing, failing, and succeeding are only fleeting occurrences in life. He underlines that these events do not define a person forever but are part of their journey. The emphasis should be on the ongoing endeavor to develop and do good rather than on these transitory moments. Dakota's remarks inspire, urging others to find meaning in their everyday activities.

Dakota emphasizes that how people are remembered is more about the good things they do and the influence they have on others and society. The ultimate measure of a person's legacy is the good they do and the contributions they make to their nation and the globe. This inspiring viewpoint fosters a mindset focused on regular and meaningful acts.

Dakota encourages individuals to get up each day with the conviction to make the world a better place. Maintaining this mentality ensures one continually goes in a positive direction, regardless of temporary setbacks or accomplishments. This everyday commitment to good transformation is portrayed as a dependable and motivating road to a meaningful and influential existence.

[dalekofchaos]

Context

Context for choice 3.

Here is what I mean about The New Republic and The First Order.

What happens after you win a war? How do you not make the same mistakes or become the thing you fought. What happens in a power vacuum? The New Republic should have been the dominant emerging power, and the Remnant should have been a small, secretive, unknown order, striking strategically from the Unknown Regions where they hid, and causing fear and panic to spread in the NR. After the Galactic Civil War, The New Republic commanders the Imperial Fleet and starts protecting systems who join the NR, all while chasing down and fighting any of the Remnants (Moffs, Warlords, Crime Lords, etc) who have grabbed power in the resulting vacuum. We could have seen an evolution of ships from Old Republic to Empire to NR ones. They could have renamed Star Destroyers into Star Defenders. Hell, they could have had a Republic of independent systems, each with their own sizable military, so that power isn’t centralized.

But no, instead of telling an interesting story, we are force fed the recycled poorly written rehashed Rebels vs Empire and the Rebels are made to be weaker than The First Order. The First Order are a terrorist movement, they should not be reigning after Hosnian Prime’s destruction, ESPECIALLY AFTER LOSING STARKILLER BASE!

Choice 4. Here is how I would give Kylo Ren motivation as to why Ben Solo fell and his main motivation as Kylo Ren.

Choice 6. I don't think there was absolutely no need for a Palpatine clone and eventually Palpatine himself(🙄) we all knew what was happening around the time this trilogy was being made. Trump. Base Snoke around the mango Mussolini and his lunatic fringe followers. An Alt-Right cult leader who cultivates the worst people imaginable. All The First Order needed to be was pointing out The New Republic brought the galaxy to an age of scum and villainy. A lawless state that usurped the rightful rulers that brought law and order. Basically "Make the Galaxy great again with Imperial Greatness"

You see, originally Lucas was going to make Palpatine JUST a politician and base him around Richard Nixon.

“George Lucas has spoken on various occasions of the way that the Nixon administration and the Vietnam war had an important influence on how he shaped the plot of the early films in the saga. The impact that these two events had an American in the 1970s started him thinking about the ways in which democracies can sale and how they deteriorating to dictatorships when corruption goes unchecked. He’s quoted as saying that Nixon - Who he viewed as having subverted the Senate and as acting an increasingly imperialistic way - what is the direct inspiration for Emperor Palpatine the supreme leader of the evil Empire in the first Star Wars trilogy”

So I don't see why they couldn't do something similar with the CLEAR FUCKING EVIL going on in the world at the time this trilogy was being made. No Sith master was needed.

In this scenario, I would call The First Order, The Imperium

Now you might have questions. What about the Stormtroopers and Kylo?

Stormtroopers? Don’t abduct kids, nationalize and recruit them willingly. Abducting children and training them to be Stormtroopers instantly made The First Order out to be cartoonishly evil from the start. So what do you do instead? Use propaganda. Nationalize them. Make them believe The Empire was right and convince them that the life of a Stormtrooper will help bring order in a chaotic galaxy. We’ve seen cults do something similar, Far Right Wing groups do it and we’ve seen Trump radicalize and nationalize white supremacists, so it’s not impossible for The First Order to do the logical thing.

Finn only leaves because he sees they are murdering unarmed civilians and chooses to leave. He is an example that it isn't too late to leave harmful fringe cult movements.

So how would Ben turn in this scenario? He's radicalized by Snoke. Ben starts hearing passionate speeches in the senate and Ben is moved. "I know he opposes my mother, but he's making a lot of sense" "He's right, we need to bring order to the galaxy" and Ben is radicalized by this Imperium movement and what he believes is Snoke's righteous cause. To Snoke, Ben represents everything great about the Empire. Snoke collects Sith Holocrons and uses the holocrons to turn Ben Solo into Kylo Ren.

In this scenario, I wouldn't redeem Ben. He is far too gone. He's committed atrocities in Snoke's name, for The Imperium and to bring order to the galaxy. While Finn represents those who could break away from Right Wing movements and Cults. Kylo Ren is far too gone, he's radicalized to the point where he's a die hard believer like Hux and Phasma and he's willing to fight and die for this indoctrination.

Choice 11. The Episode IX rewrite with Ben living and Reylo ending

Choice 12. The original plan for the Sequel Trilogy was to just get three young directors together to direct the Sequel Trilogy. It was supposed to be JJ, Rian and Colin Trevorrow, but Colin's IX was bad and his Jurassic World trilogy was terrible. So I would make either Matt Reves or Greta Gerwig as the director for Episode IX and ideally they would plan the trilogy out together instead of JJ setting up Mystery Boxes and expecting Rian and others open said mystery boxes and Rian subverting expectations.

[ayoarticulate]

sydney scene episode ten thoughts n shit below ‼️‼️

okay, so. syd sees the review from her braised cola short ribs and risotto on her fridge in the last ep, and begins to see all her beef/bear family and moments take over.

i think carmy has become this thing where… he’s sydney’s greatest inspiration and greatest de-motivator. carmen doesn’t know how to properly critique and show people how they can do better without being incredibly intense in a way that takes you down a few inches at the knees.

i don’t think he realizes who he is, so he doesn’t realize the impact his actions have on people in a professional capacity.

syd’s relationship with carmen reminds me of a friendship that i used to hold onto that was genuinely poisoning me. this friend of mine would generally be very mean to me, in a dismissive kind of way, that made me feel like she couldn’t care less about what i was doing, while simultaneously making me feel like i wasn’t enough to be around her. BUT. she’d have these moments where, we’d talk and she’d be so kind and we’d have this great back and forth. but then that conversation would end and the next one would start and we’d be back where it started.

it took me forever to leave that relationship because, we still had our good moments right?? we still had those moments where she was so sweet and everything was good, and that balanced out the hundreds of other times she would make me feel like literal shit. but it’s not! it’s not worth it!

syd and carmy have these fleeting moments in between moments of absolute insanity, and i think syd holds onto those little nuggets of joy as proof of “look! he cares i swear i swear he does!” to justify staying. but it’s not enough.

i think she knows that. it’s so hard to to come to terms with that feeling and that relationship, but sometimes it just is the truth, and you have to go! but letting go in this case means losing the family she fought so hard to make her own. and i think that’s enough to make her freak and think “do i believe i deserve more enough to leave it all behind and start over?”

[broodwolf221]

prompts based on unusual or rare words

send the word and a character/relationship (romantic, familial, platonic, adversarial, etc.) and i'll write something based around it! (feel free to use/rb/etc)

accismus - feigning disinterest in something while actually desiring it

aestivate - to spend the summer in a state of torpor or dormancy

agathism - the belief in the ultimate triumph of good over evil

agelast - a person who never laughs

anemoia - nostalgia for a time you’ve never known

apatheia - freedom or release from emotion or excitement

apotheosis - the highest point or peak, often used to describe the pinnacle of achievement or greatness

apricity - the warmth of the sun in winter

apricate - to bask in the sun

aureate - something that is golden, shining, or brilliant

bêtise - an act of foolishness or stupidity

cacography - bad handwriting

chrysalism - the peaceful feeling that comes from being indoors during a thunderstorm

clinomania - an excessive desire to stay in bed or a reluctance to get out of bed

efflorescence - a blooming or flowering, often used to describe a period of creativity or prosperity.

eleutheromania - an intense desire for freedom or liberation

ephemeral - something that is fleeting or short-lived, often used to describe a moment or feeling

eunoia - beautiful thinking or a well-disposed mind

galvanize - to arouse to awareness or action

hypnagogic - relating to the state of drowsiness or transition to sleep, often used to describe the strange, dreamlike experiences that can happen during this time

insouciant - casually or smugly indifferent; nonchalant

irenic - promoting peace or reconciliation, often used to describe a peaceful personality or a peaceful solution to conflict

limerence - the state of being infatuated or obsessed with someone or something

makebate - one that excites contention and quarrels

matrisate - to imitate one's mother

metanoia - a fundamental change in one's beliefs

nihilarian - a person who deals with things lacking in substance or meaning, often in a philosophical sense

noctivagant - going about in the night; night-wandering

nubivagant - wandering in the clouds, often used to describe a dreamer or someone lost in thought

numinous - something that is spiritual, mysterious, or awe-inspiring

obfuscate - to muddle; confuse; bewilder

patrizate - to imitate one's father or forebears

pernicious - causing great harm; destructive

perspicacious - having keen judgement or understanding; acutely perceptive

pessimum - the least favorable environmental condition under which an organism can survive

philostorgie - the love of parent's towards their children

pot-valor - boldness or courage resulting from alcoholic drink

prevaricate - to behave in an evasive or indecisive manner, usually in delay

recogitate - to think over again

redame - to love in return

saudade - an emotional state of melancholic or profoundly nostalgic longing for a beloved yet absent something or someone

scintilla - a spark or tiny amount of something, often used to describe a small flash of inspiration

scripturient- having a strong urge to write

sehnsucht - yearning; wistful longing

selcouth - describes something that is unfamiliar, strange, and yet marvelous at the same time

sempiternal - something that is eternal or everlasting

solivagrant - rambling alone; marked by solitary wandering

supernal - something that is heavenly or divine

timorous - full of or subject to fear; timid

velleity - a mere wish or inclination that lacks the motivation or intention to act on it

verisimilitude - the appearance of being true or real

[neo-novaa]

*ੈ✩ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: sub!jake sully x na'vi!reader

*ੈ✩ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: tired of the dom!jake rhetoric, i wanna hear this man whimpering!! inspired by this post; thank you for putting sub!jake in my head <3

it’d start out slow and easy, like you teasing him throughout the day and only letting him fuck you once he’d ask for it

but it’d quickly spiral into jake crying, begging you to let him cum.

and i mean begging. like, tears in his eyes, whimpering, he’d be on his hands and knees if you weren’t the one on top of him.

“please,” he whines, fingers digging into the soft soil beneath you. his chest is heaving as you keep your slow and steady pace on his cock, riding him leisurely. “c’mon, you’re gonna have to do better than that.” you croon, your hands snaking from his hips to his waist, admiring how tense his abdomen is.  jake can’t even speak-- the only things that are coming out of his mouth are half-spoken words and hopeless whines. neither of you knows precisely long you’ve been at this, but it’s been long enough that jake can’t even think straight with how well you’re fucking him. he knows he can’t touch you, but with the sun on you, highlighting your curves and your muscles, he can’t help but grab your hips and push you down onto him. jake’s hips rut into yours, and his back arches from the sudden burst of pleasure.  but in a moment, it’s all gone, because your hands find his wrists and plant them into the ground. you stop moving, and jake swears that he can feel his heart stop the moment you do. “what’d i say, baby?” you say, christening him with the nickname he’d once given you. “you don’t touch me while i’m fucking you, got it?” jake nods, vigorously. a part of you knows that if you told him he’d only be able to finish if he never breathed again, he’d take his chances with life without air. “good boy,” you hum, rewarding him with a soft kiss against his forehead. “disobey me again and i won’t fuck you for a week, you copy?”

he loves it when you use that military lingo on him ;)

and i just know he loves to eat you out

you were really adamant about it at first, only because the idea of it was so foreign to you

but once jake had done it a few times, you were hooked

you almost never explicitly ask for it, as you were worried that coercing him into giving you oral would make him lose his eagerness

but what you don’t know is that there is nothing in this entire universe that could ever make jake lose interest in diving into you like a man starved.

you try your best to be quiet. but with the way that jake’s tongue is circling your clit and his fingers prodding into your cunt? silence is nearly impossible. you’ve resorted to biting on the back of your hand to keep yourself quiet, the shuffling of others right outside your tent giving you the motivation to maintain your silence. your other hand is deep in jake's hair, pulling him closer you. you can’t help how you’re arching into him, hips rutting against his face, legs closed around his head. his free hand is gripping one of your thighs, shrugging it over his shoulder as he digs his fingers deeper into you. in moments you're cumming on his face, and jake is keen on letting your juices flow onto his palm.  you feel him crawl up to you, his lips haphazardly meeting yours. you can taste yourself on his lips. you murmur quiet praises against his mouth before you readjust yourself, your knee heedlessly brushing against his hard cock. jake hisses into your neck, his entire body twitching at the fleeting satisfaction. “fuck, i need you. i need you bad.” he whines into the crook of your neck, his hips involuntarily rutting against your thigh to chase that satisfaction. and who are you to say no to that?