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thedeviljudges · 3 years ago

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For today’s ‘i really, really love kang yohan’ post, we’re gonna be develing into a little bit of emotional intelligence and the fact that Yohan both possesses it while simultaneously doesn’t, lmao.

Yohan is portrayed as a hunter and a shark. He’s said this himself in his own words. He’s read up on dynamics of humans and instincts and basis himself off of a monster for a couple of different reasons, but the main one being the fact that people believed him to be as such instead of coming down to his level as a child to understand him.

This by far, means Yohan was emotionally neglected (physically too, but that’s, in some ways, addressed in my other meta post) by parental figures in his life except for the nanny, possibly, on occasion, and isaac - but even then, we know it must’ve only been to a certain extent. On top of that, yohan’s only true witness to emotions is through those people in the house, and needless to say, one of them was off the walls abusive.

It’s why we get scenes like the choking one because when Yohan is angry, guess how he’s learned to express that? It’s physical, but it ties in emotionally. Yohan lashes out the only way he knows how, but this is also an indicator that he’s lied about being a monster. Why? Because people with extreme reactions to emotionally charged questions (like your associate judge accusing you of killing your brother, for example) can often mean that it’s more than just a sensitive topic; it actually matters to that person. At this point, gaon does not know isaac’s story, but we later learn yohan’s version of the fire, and it’s slowly revealed through Elijah, specifically, just how much family is a tough topic for Yohan.

And fortunately, gaon sees right through yohan’s bullshit when he calls him out about how he should be a victim, not a monster. Which opens up the door to us understanding why Yohan does what he does and says what he says even more because it’s revealed through that conversation that these are specific words Yohan has heard before. So not only has he been emotionally stunted as a child by way of abuse, he’s had so many people in his life look at him as a callous monster. And when that happens, don’t you start to believe it? Don’t you lose a little bit of your humanity and become the very thing people say you are?

However, this is also yohan’s strength in the world he lives in, especially with the intent to seek revenge for Isaac. He can put his emotions aside and think clearly, even in situations that should rile him up. You can actually see him get… amused when someone tries to put him in a corner. Yohan doesn’t rely on emotions because it’s logic, rational and strategy that gets him every single checkmate. It’s what’s got him to the point he’s at now. It’s how he’s able to push gaon into seeing reason because if you look at things from the perspective of philosophy and science (by way of human nature), it becomes easier to see a path and a plan so very clearly to whatever outcome you’re wanting.

The issue that comes into play circles back around with family. Because Yohan did not grow up in a healthy environment, he doesn’t know what family actually means and what dynamic it should look like. The past several years he’s spent with Elijah, he’s lived it logically because it means keeping her safe without taking into consideration the fact that Elijah is not like himself and did not grow up in the same environment he did. Only, Yohan also has a habit of not telling anyone his plans, and that’s where the miscommunication starts. How is Elijah to know why Yohan keeps her away from the world? It’s revealed she’s been kidnapped twice, but does Elijah truly understand yohan’s perspective? No, she’s a teenager, and gaon was right about it not being fair to keep her locked away.

But I digress. Here you have a man with a plan with repressed emotions and then enter one kim gaon, and he’s asked for trouble. One of the reasons Yohan, I believe, has kept gaon around is because he defies the typical. He challenges Yohan, not in an act of dominance, but out of another way of thinking, and that’s a big difference. Things might go over gaon’s head, and he’s not always right, but he’s looking at all perspectives, even if they’re wrong. Multiple times Yohan has been surprised by gaon’s way of thinking. That’s intriguing and it’s different.

Which lead to situations where gaon’s confronting Yohan about himself, holding up a mirror and asking him if that’s truly who he is or if it’s someone he’s trying to be, if he’s listening to what other people have told him or if he’s actually listening to himself. Which is kind of ironic with Yohan only being able to trust himself, but he can’t even do that, can he? He lies to himself in order not to face what he truly feels. And that’s because it’s filled with pain, and Yohan doesn’t have time for that.

But there is also a reason why a lot of his progress takes place in his house and away from the world because a home is meant for vulnerability and while Yohan and Elijah haven’t had that in a while, Yohan didn’t take into account gaon’s ability to see things differently. Yohan saw gaon’s mind for his plan and for the overarching plot to oust the rich, but what he did not consider is how that would translate into his personal life. Which is hilarious because Yohan is the one that brought gaon into his home in the first place and ultimately ended up with a surprise of a man who’s clearly moved in because Yohan never tells him he has to leave.

So, that��s where things begin to unravel. Gaon tests Yohan’s patience and emotions in ways he hasn’t been tested. Again, gaon’s held up the mirror and asked him to consider looking deeper for the actual truth instead of the façade Yohan lets himself believe is real. Gaon is also one of the only other people in yohan’s life that has actually considered yohan’s feelings and, in turn, elijah’s. gaon is also a man of righteousness and it makes sense that he’s not afraid to share parts of himself if it means it’s doing something good.

We see this particularly with Elijah, telling her about his parents, not reprimanding her over her murder plot, lmao. gaon grew up in an emotionally healthy, and most likely, happy household where he could express himself without feeling like a burden. He has patience and kindness imbedded into his being.

So with that dynamic of being in a home where people are not on display in front of the world, with gaon’s ability to emotionally connect with people, and finding out the looming secrets of the kang household, it becomes rife with opportunity to peel back those layers and expose them for what they are and talk about it and instead of hiding it away in the shadows. Gaon gives them all space to have those emotions, and while he prods and he asks questions, it’s generally in the form of a gentle reminder that other perspectives exists than the ones that are within those four walls. Gaon doesn’t get angry necessarily, and he apologizes when he’s wrong. His straightforwardness and heart-on-his-sleeve demeanor actually works in his favor, albeit a bit misguided at times.

And with all of this, it’s how Yohan slowly begins to open up. Gaon might be accusatory from his distrust of Yohan, but it’s from a place of curiosity and determination to understand, ultimately, rather than a motive of punishment. I think gaon connecting with Elijah is also the icing on the cake and driving motivator that yohan made a good choice in keeping gaon around because Yohan notices the change in his niece and how much happier she is. Gaon’s directly pointed fingers at Yohan and he’s spied on him, but he’s also confronted Yohan about what he’s done head on without taking justice into his own hands. So with those two things combined (helping elijah and wanting understanding), and even yohan’s determination to get gaon on his side, means that level of trust has slowly, but surely, grown into something much more than Yohan ever thought it could be.

Because again, Yohan did not think about the intricacies of living with other people at home and how well you get to know them by merely existing under the same roof. Gaon learns little things about Yohan and doesn’t use them to his advantage or as a slight – maybe in the beginning with the spying, if we want to give him any credit at all for that. Gaon sees a problem and tries to fix it – just like he sees a problem with the world and with corruption and uses the justice system to fix it.

With all of that understanding and poking and prodding, gaon learns how much Yohan cares for Isaac and for Elijah and validates those emotions while still giving Yohan a slap on the wrist for how he’s expressed that care. He learns of yohan’s abuse and confirmed and supported the idea of being a victim and how that’s okay, that Yohan needs to learn to accept it for himself in order to truly heal. He’s berated Yohan for not showing more kindness to Elijah, the only family he has left and just how important that bond is, after discovering what Elijah means to Yohan.

And that’s given Yohan agency with his own emotions. He’s cried over the memory of his father abusing him and wishing he could’ve stopped it. He’s admitted that he hates when gaon looks at him like he’s a monster, and he definitely hates it when gaon makes assumptions and dives in head first without actually thinking things through. But that is also an advantage of Yohan: understanding someone emotionally because it means that Yohan has learned so much about gaon and the way he thinks that when in episode 9 he tells gaon about how he reminds him of Isaac with his assumptions, it comes from a place of discussion rather than anger. He’s realized the way to get through to gaon is through talking and physically showing gaon how he thinks (the prison reveal). Granted, he’s been doing this with gaon since the beginning, but it’s become even more pertinent now.

The thing is, Yohan has recognized gaon’s kindness at this point. He’s witnessed it in his misguided understanding of the justice system. But what’s truly interesting is that Yohan understands gaon’s kindness, but he still doesn’t understand the world’s. Yohan has a very different perspective of what kindness looks like because it’s not actual kindness but motivation and ulterior motives. Kindness to Yohan is power play – it’s people using others by any means necessary to get a leg up. It’s self-serving for their own benefit and not for others.

Which is also how that first seed of trust is planted with gaon – when he saved the little girl and the bus driver. And how more seeds are trusted by way of gaon doing what gaon does best – provoking Yohan with different thoughts, especially when it comes to family.

But this also applies to yohan’s understanding and hypocrisy when it comes to Elijah and kindness. At this point and by episode 9, Yohan has accepted gaon’s kindness. He’s let it in, lets Elijah indulge in it because he’s noticed that their home is happier – by way of making gaon come back because Elijah missed him. Yohan believes Elijah naïve for trusting others who show her any ounce of kindness, but the thing is, Yohan has come to trust gaon. He’s witnessed the kindness and the understanding, and yet it’s much easier to continue believing that it’s actually a cruel and ugly thing, especially in the wake of Elijah getting hurt, and that’s his default method of coping. Kindness got Elijah hurt and in trouble. It’s what makes you weak.

And if there is one thing we know about Yohan is that he’s anything but weak, but it’s another lie. Kindness did not get Yohan anywhere in life. Kindness got his brother murdered and his family taken away from him.

But the saving grace from that way of thinking? Gaon, yet again, telling Yohan why he’s wrong. Gaon tells Yohan every human needs someone to rely on as long as they’re human, and I think that was certainly a pain point of remembrance in how Yohan had no one but Isaac and then no one after. only this time, a point is made by way of Elijah because she only has Yohan now and she, unlike what Yohan convinces himself he doesn’t need, actually wants to experience human nature – that innate thing kang Yohan has so desperately read about and studied without taking into consideration that the carnal desires of humanity don’t always outweigh the good found within.

And isn’t that just a little bit ironic how someone so capable of understanding the human psyche cannot simply recognize kindness when it’s so freely given? If he weren’t the skeptic and the hypocrite, maybe he’d see what’s right before his eyes, and maybe he’d see just how far he’s come in allowing someone to see parts of himself he’d always been led to believe didn’t matter.

Kang Yohan is a complex character, but he has so much room for growth, and it’s exciting witnessing that in baby steps – and that’s all because he couldn’t tell his doe-eyed associate judge no. sucks for Yohan, I guess; getting himself into a mess he cannot get himself out of, an issue of his own doing and one we very clearly have seen he doesn’t want to rectify, lmao.

also one more thing..... that dinner scene in ep 9 is also a true testament of what can be done with just a little provocation because there you have yohan realizeing what a happy home can look like if he just tries to be more vulnerable and that it actually, in fact, does matter.

#x #*#kang yohan #the devil judge #look who write 2.3k about yohan bc im a dumbass and just spit out thoughts #this is not in order at all this is me rambling like the dumb b that i am #god i love yohan so much wow i hope this makes sense bc yikes #this is what happens when u have a lot of thoughts and there's so many components s #even after all this i know ive missed some but lmaooo here is this #does any of this make sense i hope it makes sense bc i dont feel like it's fleshed out how i wanted it #nor is it in order but uh yeah food for thought yall!!!!!!!!

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juniorgman187 · 4 years ago

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The Boy Next Door (Spencer Reid Imagine)

gif credits @toyboxboy Summary: The boy next door falls in love with the girl next door. Need I say more? Category: Fluff, Angst Couple: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Content Warning: Death, unrequited love, heartbreak Word Count: 10.4k A/N: POV switches from Spencer to Reader indicated by “᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Ground coffee, dates, and greek yogurt, all neatly encased in a brown paper bag.

Those were the things I was holding the day I first met you.

(You should know that I wouldn’t tamper with any of the moments that I’ve been so fortunate to have with you - I’ve watched enough “Dr. Who” to know that tampering with the past, even changing the smallest thing, could drastically affect the future). But if I could, I would probably change the precarious position you found me in that day.

When you exited your apartment, I had my knee hiked up embarrassingly high to support the weight of my groceries from underneath, leaving me to balance on one leg while the bag wobbled on my thigh as I ransacked my pocket for my keys. By the time you came out, I had been like this for the past few minutes, and if the task wasn’t already harder than it should’ve been to accomplish, you didn’t make it any better.

You walked out of the door in that wispy skirt and a denim jacket that swallowed your torso whole; your unwieldy boots clunked against the wood floors of our hallway. You even didn’t bother locking your door behind you after leaving - that’s how trusting you were. While I must admit, I found the action, or lack thereof, to be quite naive, it was endearing, too.

I, for one, am a firm believer that actions are indicative of character and from what I gathered: you trust easily, and at times, in a misguided manner.

After several seconds of being in your gravity, I figured you earnestly hadn’t seen me, given the fact that not once had you looked up from your phone to acknowledge my presence. Not to mention, your headphones were buried in your ears, blocking out any noise I could’ve been making with my unsteady stance or seemingly unfindable keys that would’ve, otherwise, made you known of my existence. Your music was so loud I could hear it from where I stood, clear as day.

Still don’t know how you haven’t gone deaf yet, (y/n). One of life’s greatest mysteries, I suppose.

It would be a gross understatement to claim that I couldn’t take my eyes off you. It was more than that. I felt entranced by you, like I was under your spell. Your perfume was poison, wafting through the hallway as you walked past me to descend the flight of stairs. I was in raptures from the way your wired earbuds got tangled with your hair. Normally, I couldn’t bear the thought of sharing headphones with someone, but I’d do it in a heartbeat with you.

I’d do a lot of things with you, actually.

I had to stop myself from trailing your movements when you reached a space in the hall directly behind me, and even then, my actions only ceased because my head couldn’t physically turn that far to watch you.

It was then that I recalled owls and how they’ve evolved into creatures that can turn their head a complete 180 degrees. Of course, that’s a trait meant for survival, merely an adaptation that allows them to detect danger or predators, but I wasn’t watching a predator, and I suppose that’s precisely why I wasn’t given the ability to turn my head so far. Because it was you I was watching - the girl next door (literally and figuratively) - nothing remotely close to a threat. I’d never been jealous of owls before, but in that moment, I wished nothing more than to be one just so I could get another look at you.

I forced myself to resume my unfinished task out of fear that you might finally notice me and become alarmed by my prolonged staring. Once more, I was sorting through the pocket of my pants for the key to unlock my door. Behind me, your foot was about to land on the next step of the stairwell, but instead, it quickly retreated at the sound of my groceries hitting the floor.

If there was ever a doubt in your head that you caused the collapse of my paper bag’s contents, there shouldn’t be.

It was you. It was all you.

I was too distracted by your poisonous scent and chunky boots to even notice my groceries struggling to balance on the precipice.

When I ascertained the mess I had made - the mess I knew you could hear even through your cacophonous music - I wanted nothing more than to find my keys and disappear into my apartment to mask the immediate shame I was feeling. My mind spun into a panic, my body incapacitated from the shock, and the first thing I could think to do was abandon my spilled groceries in the hall so you might not see me before I fled, but you were too quick. Your heart of gold made it impossible for that to be achieved.

“Oh my goodness, here! Let me help you.”

You knelt to the ground before I could even register your sudden presence and the lack of distance between us, let alone comprehend that your warm voice was speaking words meant for me.

“You don’t have to do that. I’ve got it.”

If you thought I was pushing you away, you should know that those weren’t my intentions. I was only emphasizing my ability to do it alone so that you might leave me to my devices - a state of conditions where I could actually think. With you so close, I simply couldn’t do that. Even now, it’s still an uphill battle to talk to you with a clear head.

“No, please. I insist. I’ve got plenty of time.” You assured me, tucking back strands of your hair that got in the way of your sight. I wondered then what it’d be like to do that to you myself. The vision ended there.

“A Teenager In Love” by Dion and the Belmonts cut into my thoughts. That’s the song that was playing on your headphones. And that’s exactly what I felt like.

A teenager in love.

It was also the song you paused to give your undivided attention to me.

“I’m (y/n), by the way. I live right next door. 3B.” You informed me, as if I hadn’t just come to that same conclusion when I observed you walk out of that door only moments ago. You extended your hand into the air between us for a handshake. I wasted no time returning it.

“Spencer.”

You batted your eyelashes and looked up at me with those unassuming doe eyes.

God, were you doing that on purpose? Were you trying to kill me?

When our hands interlocked, I couldn’t help but notice how yours fit so perfectly in mine, like it was made-to-measure. It led me to the belief that my hands were specifically fashioned for the particular use of holding yours. The shake lingered for a second longer than necessary, and I saw it in the way your eyes flickered down to where our bodies met, wondering why it was taking me so long to pull away.

“It’s nice to meet you, Spencer.”

I’ve never liked my name so much until I heard it on your tongue. It made me forget all about the mess and the shame and the fear of disturbing you. That is until I saw you sliding the last of my groceries back into the paper bag.

“I’ll see you later then?”

You had stood up before I could ask you not to go, wiping your knees of any dust they might’ve collected on the floor where you knelt in front of me.

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.” I dumbly answered back, watching you descend the stairs from a distance once more.

“Have a nice night, Spencer!” I heard you say before you disappeared below the ground that I stood on. You already had your headphones back in and were long gone before I could return the sentiment. I did want you to have a nice night, though. Even if I didn’t say it in time.

Then again, I guess there was a lot I didn’t say in time - right, (y/n)?

Two days went by before I saw you again.

You weren’t alone.

I was reading when I heard the sound of footsteps outside my door, unintentionally giving me full liberty to hear the conversation partaking as well.

“What’s his name?” Your friend asked you.

Originally, I was adamant about not purposefully eavesdropping - no matter how tempting it was or how amply I could hear. You deserved better than that ... but how could I help myself when I heard you answer your friend, “Spencer.”

It was the sound of my own moniker that lured me to the door, where I pressed my ear against it.

“Is he cute?”

“Very.” You gushed to her, my own heart swelling two sizes too big for my poor chest to contain.

“Do you want to fuck him?” Your friend giggled. You hesitated to speak. “Oh my god, have you already fucked?”

“No!” You defensively screeched.

“But you’ve thought about it!”

“Will you lower your voice? He lives right there! What if he hears you?”

I peeked through the peephole to spy on this encounter, brainlessly ducking down when I saw you eyeing my door curiously. After I finally slowed down the cadence of my heart, the realization dawned on me that you couldn’t possibly have been able to see me from the outside view of my peephole, but it still felt like you had; your eyes pierced through my soul, bewitching my body and soul.

Luckily for you - unluckily for me, I suppose - you and your friend vanished into your apartment before I could hear the rest of that conversation. I didn’t need to, though. What I heard was enough to keep me up all night. Had I heard anything more, I’m not sure how many more hours of sleep I would’ve lost just thinking about you.

Hours I could’ve spent reading. Hours I could’ve spent writing. Hours I could’ve spent, but time that I would never take back. Not for anything in the world.

Our next interaction took place the following week.

It was 5 a.m and Hotch had called us all in early, so I was already out the door before the sun was up, but evidently, not before you were up. Because when I left my apartment, there you were, lingering in the doorway, leaning against - what I had to assume was - your very much unlocked front door.

“Oh!” You flinched and gasped, while ripping the headphones out of your ears. “You scared me, Spencer.”

“Good morning to you, too, (y/n).” I quipped, puckering my lips slightly to reduce the immense size of my zealous smile before grinning back at you again, this time with a much smaller smile - one much less discouraging.

You were exactly what I needed to see to make my morning better, and your hair in a ponytail and your black leggings only made the view that much sweeter.

“What are you doing up so early?” You had asked me inquisitively.

“I got called into work.”

“Oh.”

You sounded so disappointed, and I couldn’t help but feel that I’d just let you down. The pout of your lips and deflation of your shoulders only solidified that.

It was then where I should’ve left you alone and gone to work, which I was already considerably late for, but I couldn’t help myself. I would’ve worried about you all day if I hadn’t asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” You tried to wave me away down the staircase, but I knew better than to leave. You understood my maintained foothold as a silent communication that I wouldn’t walk away unless you told me what was bothering you so you reluctantly gave in.

“Well, honestly, I’ve been standing out here since like 4:30, trying to convince myself to go on a run, but ... I’m actually kind of scared to. I just, I don’t know if I feel safe running alone in the dark.”

You never met my eyes, they were only fixated on the earbud cord you were rolling between your fingers to make brief circles in the air.

“You know what?”

From those words alone, you perked back up.

“I’m already late, so I can ... I’ll run with you. If you want.”

In seven little words, I managed to gain all your trust. That’s all it took for you to never be ashamed of your feelings in front of me. You trusted me to always respond to your vulnerability like this, and I knew then, what the weight of having your trust felt like. I could never wish to break it.

Your joy was so uncontainable to the point where you were emboldened enough to show me your appreciation through a hug so big that I couldn’t understand how your petite body was capable of supporting something of its size. You wrapped your arms around my neck, pulling me down to your height despite already balancing on the tips of your toes. I had to remind myself not to indulge in your embrace too much, otherwise I might never have let you go.

Your hair smelled like a certain flower my mother used to put in a vase on our dining table. It’s the same flower that she grows in the garden of her assisted living home at present. It’s such a distinct scent - magnolias - I’ll never forget. But now whenever I pass those beloved magnolias during my visitations, the flowers from my childhood dining room won’t be what I associate it with anymore.

You’ll be what I think of.

I was met with the cruel reminder of what I’d agreed to when you left my arms. There’s not much I dislike in this world as much as exercise, but for you - I’d run to the ends of the earth. I mean that.

“You’re my hero!” You exclaimed when we reached our apartments again after that treacherous run, which felt more like a marathon and a half to me.

I would’ve said something back, but I was still trying to catch my breath, even folding over my bent knees to stop myself from panting so hard. For a moment there, I was sincerely upset that you weren’t nearly as breathless as I was. Were you just that perfect in every conceivable way? Not even a semblance of windedness from the miles and miles we just ran?

How unfair. Have pity on my poor soul.

“I had so much fun. We should do that again sometime.” You added.

Again, I would’ve responded to your exclamation, but I was still very much out of breath. You didn’t seem to mind, though. You even offered me a sip of your water. I politely declined, which I meant as no insult. I only refused because I would not have been able to handle the effects of tasting you on it.

Thankfully, I’d caught my breath before the next time we encountered each other. This time I could actually speak.

It was two in the morning and I’d just come home from an exhausting case, feeling more ready to sink into the depths of my bed than ever. Almost the entire way up the stairs, I was lethargically dragging my feet up each step to get to my apartment ... until I saw you.

“Hey, it’s you! 2B.”

Like a siren singing to a ship of sailors, your voice called out to me from the top stair, shocking me when I came around the corner - a most welcome surprise.

“Hey.” I cooed back softly.

Despite my mind firing impulses to run to you, my feet weren’t listening. I was stopped in my tracks by the mere sight of you.

It wasn’t lost on me that the bags under my eyes were probably heavier and darker than they ever had been before, and that my hair was in complete shambles from where I’d run my fingers through them in distress one too many times, and that my loosened tie that hung from the collar of my skirt looked disheveled, but you? You were still a radiant view to behold, even at 2 a.m. especially at 2 a.m. The sight of you shocked my onerous heart like a defibrillator on bare skin, reigniting my entire being.

I could finally breathe again.

My posture straightened, my head raised, and my smile returned. You looked just as excited to see me as I was to see you and it was such a warm feeling.

“So where have you been at this hour, young man? Your girlfriend’s?”

I should’ve noticed then the way you slurred your words together, but I think I was blinded by the bliss of being able to see right through you for the first time.

I could see that you were compensating. You wanted to look happy for me in the event that I did have a girlfriend, but underneath, you were morbidly curious, desperately hoping that I didn’t. For you, I chose the more merciful option - giving into your clandestine concern so as not to torture you any longer with the fear that I was in a relationship.

“I -” My own mirthless chuckle cut into my sentence. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

And I saw it - I saw the look of relief on your face.

“I was at work,” I honestly told you, my feet resuming their climb up the stairs. “So, why are you still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

By the time you answered, I’d reached the top step where you were perched, wearing that big flannel. It devoured your figure, the collar of the shirt hanging off your shoulders, the cuffs of the sleeves stretching way past your hands, the hem of the shirt falling at your thighs. That’s all you were wearing for pajamas, just a big shirt, not even shoes or socks to cover your feet from the shiny Merbau floors. It took all of me not to fasten one more of the flannel’s buttons to protect your modesty, but really, who was I protecting you from? Guys just as perverse and impure as me?

My jaw tensed as a reminder to myself not to wonder about what was underneath the flannel, or what wasn’t.

You shifted from the middle of the stair to the side, making room for me to sit beside you. Our proximity enabled me to notice your usual scent of magnolias was replaced with something much less agreeable - a scent that didn’t suit you.

Liquor.

At the exact moment I looked down at your face to locate the signs of intoxication, you’d taken it upon yourself to rest your head on my shoulder, blocking my view. I knew it wasn’t your intention to hide your face from me, but it was hard to believe that you were doing this just to get closer to me. Was it the alcohol that stole your inhibitions and unearthed the confidence to touch me further? Was this what you had wanted to do all this time but couldn’t without liquid courage? And I wonder, even with a calmer disposition created by liquor, were you still feeling first time nerves? Or were you the luckier of the two of us, fortunately avoiding the agony of a racing heart?

“So what’s keeping you up?” My voice croaked, trying to maintain a nonchalant attitude to your otherwise intimidating actions.

“This stupid guy.”

At first, I was sure that you were talking about someone else, and I prepared my weary heart to listen to you pour your soul out about ‘this stupid guy’ to me, but then I got smarter and recalled the conversation that took place not too long ago, the one that kept me up all night.

Was I the ‘stupid guy?’

“Tell me about him.”

“He’s ... he’s so tall.” You had laughed. “And he’s got this great smile. He’s super nice, too. But he’s the kind of guy that you can’t really figure out, but you want to, you know what I mean?”

I trained my eyes to stay forward and not look at you so that your resting head might not be disturbed by the action, but I wanted to look at you. I wanted to see those micro-expressions and read your face. I needed to know if you were talking about me.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“If he were any other guy, I’d be upfront with him, but this guy ... he’s different. He scares me, and his rejection scares me even more,” You went quiet for longer than a second and this time I actually did have to move my head to check on you in case you’d suddenly passed out. But when I went to look down at you, I was met with the shocking view of those batted eyelashes and big doe eyes again.

“What do you think I should do, 2B?”

I knew it. Those eyes can’t lie to me.

You were talking about me.

“I think you should tell him how you feel. You might be surprised.”

“Yeah …” Your voice faded out when you replaced your head on my shoulder. “Maybe.”

“He might feel the same way.” I whispered.

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“How do you know?”

It took me a moment to gather the right answer, but even with as extensive a vocabulary as I was equipped with, every single word in it was failing me. Though ultimately unsatisfactory, the only thing I could manage to say that was honest and quaint was, “He’d be crazy if he didn’t.”

The air was still. Not a word from either of us. Not even a peep, until the sounds of your snores revealed the true cause of the silence - you’d fallen asleep, and most likely before I had found it in me to confess my feelings. I smiled still, though. At least you’d finally gone to sleep.

Without another thought, I slid my hand under your knees with the other hand at the small of your back to lift you off the stairwell and carry you back to your apartment. And no surprise to me when all I had to do was press my arm against the door to open it.

You never do lock that thing, do you?

As I entered your apartment, I did my best not to gape at the surroundings, for it felt like an invasion of privacy without your verbal consent willingly granting me the permission to do so. I quickly located the bedroom using only the profound knowledge of my own apartment’s configuration that, for obvious reasons, identically matched yours. I made sure to sit you upright against your pillows in the event that you choked on your vomit, but I held high hopes that you weren’t so inebriated as to have that come into fruition.

When it came time to leave you, I had to slip my hands out from under your body. I attempted to perform this action with the utmost caution, but I think the coarseness of my hands gliding against your velvet skin made it impossible not to feel. You shivered at my touch, waking ever so slightly.

“Spencer?” You asked in your sleep.

“Shh, it’s okay. Go back to sleep.” I spoke softly, stroking your hair so it might soothe you back to sleep. This alone felt like a pure moment, but it was much sweeter when your small hand wrapped around my wrist while you placed your other one on top of mine. You leaned your face into my palm and gently shut your eyes, trying to maximize your ability to feel my touch. I even saw a smile come upon your face.

“Will you stay with me?” You whispered against my skin.

I couldn’t say no, sweet girl.

I stayed with you for two hours while you slept. I wanted to ensure that you were safe, but I knew that I shouldn’t stay the night. Not because I couldn’t trust myself, but because I was worried that you wouldn’t remember asking me to stay the night before. Honestly, I preferred that you woke up with no recollection of that night. Because while watching you sleep to fulfill your request, I was also experiencing the deepest regret of my life.

If I told you how I felt a second sooner, maybe you would’ve heard me and that night would’ve ended very differently.

I suppose that was our ‘missed chance #1.’

To be quite honest, that night did discourage me, and I made a conscious effort to avoid you in days to follow. I wish I could rationalize my behavior here, but I doubt that any explanation will suffice so I’ll settle for the truth.

I thought avoiding you would make the regret go away, and I hoped my feelings would leave with it. But if anything, the longing I felt to see you again, the urge for fate bring us back together, only made my infatuation greater.

As luck would have it, not even my most extravagant attempts to avoid you would work.

I had heard it from the first floor where I was getting my mail, a strangely familiar sound - the sound of knocking. It was growing more and more desperate with each step I took up the stairs and once I finally reached the top, I found the cause of this noise at last. It was you - knocking at my door.

“(Y/n)?”

You turned over your shoulder; your furrowed brows and disgruntled appearance faded at the sight of me.

“2B! I was wondering where you were. Where have you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

It had only been 9 days, (y/n), but yes, I suppose it did feel like forever.

I responded with an answer I always seemed to give you, an answer you seemed to already anticipate.

“Work.”

“Mmm, it always is work, isn’t it?”

“Yeah …” I sheepishly agreed, looking down to avoid your scrutinizing gaze. It was easier to let you believe work is what kept me away from you, and not the insatiable craving to be with you, but I could feel you sensing my lie.

“Well, I hope you’re not busy on December 21st.”

“What’s December 21st?”

“My going away party.”

My stomach dropped; my heart stopped, and I think I could actually feel the lump in my throat solidify into a pit.

“Going away party?”

“Yeah, I’m going home for the holidays, back to Oregon so I can visit my dad for a while and um …”

I saw the same look on your face that I saw all those days ago when you admitted you didn’t feel safe running alone. The fearful one, where you knew you had to gather the courage to be vulnerable. When you looked back up at me, I wish I would’ve seen those doe eyes, but no. Your eyes were bloodshot and filled with tears.

“I think, I think it might be his last Christmas, so I, I got an open-ended ticket just so I can -”

I didn’t want you to explain any more to me if you couldn’t bear it. “Of course. That makes perfect sense.”

“I’m not really sure when I’m coming back, so I wanted to have a little get together with my friends before I leave. And I was really hoping you’d be able to come. If you’re not busy with work, of course.”

How could I say no?

“I’ll be there.”

You sighed in relief and smiled at me in thanks. “Perfect. Thank you.”

You turned on your heels and vanished into your unlocked apartment before I could offer a hug, but I think even if I did have the chance, it wouldn’t have been enough to heal the hurt that penetrated deep within your soul. That was a pain, I couldn’t fix - no one could.

December 21st came faster than I imagined, and in no time at all, I was standing outside your unlocked door, trying to gather the confidence to enter.

I wore my best suit and tie specifically to impress you, but even if I was decorated with the finest silks, I still wouldn’t have looked as golden as you. Your neck, ears, and fingers were embellished with gold jewelry that sparkled ever so slightly under the pale yellow light of your apartment. You had styled your hair differently than I’d ever seen it, and I felt like I was seeing you for the first time all over again.

“You look …” Heavenly. Dazzling. Magnificent. “Breathtaking.”

“You’re not too bad yourself, 2B.” You drew closer, filling my senses with your poisonous perfume.

“I especially like this tie.”

God help me when you walked your fingers up my tie. It took everything not to shudder at the sensation. I gulped to replenish my dry mouth while I stared into your eyes. Don’t ask me how I did it, but I found the willpower to break away from your hypnotizing gaze.

“So,” I cleared my throat. “Where’s everyone else?” With these words, I walked away to catch my breath by your dining table, unintentionally abandoning you in the living room. In response, you sort of laughed, which made me concerned.

“I actually asked you to come an hour earlier than everyone else.” To my quizzical brow, you answered, “I told my friends about you.”

You can imagine the butterflies in my stomach from the joy of you telling me that. “You did?”

“They had a bunch of questions for me, but I told them to save them for tonight since you were coming. I just thought we could have, like, a pre-party-run-through of what to say.”

“Got it.”

You were shocked at my willingness. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

The only person that I think is crazy, is the person that doesn’t admire you as deeply as I do, (y/n).

In no time at all, we were sitting on your couch, facing each other, while playing a speed round of 21 questions.

Here, we discovered our shared hobby of reading, you unearthed my job as a profiler (not without asking a million questions about it after), and I came to the realization of just how hopelessly devoted to you I was after a three-word question.

“Future baby names?” You casually asked. To say that that one caught me off guard would be the understatement of the year.

“Future baby names?” I repeated; my cheeks flushed while I felt you anxiously waiting for an answer. Your eyes were expectant and the large gulp I took was just a means to stall time until I finally whispered, “Harper.”

You were silent for a second and I felt the need to explain myself. “I don’t know why, probably because of Harper Lee, but I just like the name.”

The biggest grin crept its way onto your face. “Shut up.”

“What?”

“Shut up because that name is literally on my list!” You squealed delightfully.

Truthfully, ever since that faithful first day I met you, I deliberately refused to let myself imagine a future with you, but after December 21st - that’s all I could do. All thanks to your “baby names” question. Would you believe that the first time we ever truly hung out, you were reading off all your favorite baby names and giving me a thorough description of why you liked each one? That seems like only a thing we’d do - after all almost every experience we had together was unconventional to some degree.

That one hour of private bonding came and went, and soon enough, I was surrounded by the closest people in your life. And somehow, your boundless love made me feel like I was part of that close circle, too - like I always had been.

First to greet me was April, your roommate in college. I recognized her voice instantly, recalling it as the one I heard outside my door all those nights ago. I tried not to smile at the memory of her crude question, “Do you wanna fuck him?”

Arriving only seconds after her was Marty, short for Martin, and he’s Drew’s boyfriend. Drew worked with you at the grocery store, which was your first real job during college.

After Drew and Marty, came Jillian and Janelle, twin sisters you met in your “Introduction to Psychology” class, a class you thought you would end up hating, but you actually ended up loving.

“So, Spencer, what’s up with you and (y/n)?”

I knew the question was bound to come up, and it came as no surprise to me that April was the one to be asking it. After the conversation I overheard weeks ago, I came to the discovery that she is someone who is all but forthright. Given the fact that this was the singular opportunity to catch me alone, since I was practically attached at your hip the entire night, April wasted no time in jumping at the opportunity to back me into a corner at my most vulnerable.

“We’re just friends.” I said through a cheeky smile that surely gave me away. The lie stung my tongue as it passed through my teeth, and I knew it was impossible to have fooled her.

“(Y/n) would kill me if she knew I told you this, but I’ve known her since she was 17, and I have never seen her light up the way she did when she was talking about you. Sometimes I catch her just smiling out of nowhere, and I have to think that you’re the reason why.”

At the moment, my expressions were a completely separate entity from my mind because I could not control the grin that crept onto my face and I had no control over the minimization of it either. No matter how hard I tried to reduce it, it was impossible.

“Ever since her dad got sick, she’s been a different girl. But tonight, I think I finally have my old friend back again ... Thank you.”

April’s pursed lip smile, in any other exigence, could be seen as insincere or facetious, but here, I knew it was a smile of gratitude and thanks. As April left my gravity, you were simultaneously entering it with a sly grin on your face.

“What were you two talking about?”

“You.”

“Me?” Your voice heightened in pitch as you pretended to be shocked. “What about me?”

“Just about how much we both really like you.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Indeed, it is so.”

You came closer, wrapping your arms around my waist to draw me in nearer. You had your head cocked all the way up to look at me with those once again, batted eyelashes and doe eyes.

“Well, I really like you too, 2B. And so do all of my friends.”

A genuine laugh escaped me as I pushed you away from me and nudged you backward so we could integrate with the rest of the party again. It was all a charade to get you to look away from my visible joy. In the back of my mind lied the thought about what April said about your dad and how different you became following his diagnosis, but I knew better than to bring that up here, right now.

Once we immersed ourselves back into the group, I found you being even touchier with me. You would lock your arm around mine, or lie your head on my shoulder. Even while we were sitting on the couch, you were practically on my lap. I don’t think you were intentionally being so coquettish, but if you were - it was pure evil. Especially, when you left my lap to answer a call in the other room.

I deliberately tried not to stare into the room you wandered in so that I could look as present in the moment with your friends as possible, for it would’ve been rude both to ignore them and to invade your privacy, but I could see your body language even in the poorly lit space.

Something was wrong.

In a one minute and fifty-three second phone call, December 21st went from the best night of my life, to the worst night of yours.

I saw the way you came back into the living room with your eyes blankly staring into space. You were a walking ghost, a shell of a woman.

“That was Adriana, my dad’s nurse,” You told us, commandeering the entire room’s attention. And somehow, we all knew what was to follow.

“My dad just died.”

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

“I’ll take care of her, I promise.” I heard Spencer whisper to April as he walked her out.

I felt terrible for letting him walk out all the guests I invited, while I simply sat on my couch staring into the nothingness. I should’ve said goodbye to them, but I was paralyzed even when he came back into the living room.

“I know this is a dumb question, but - you okay?” I could see the way his eyes ran over my face to examine me. Were you profiling me, Doctor?

“It’s weird,” I admitted. “It hasn’t hit me, yet. That he’s dead.”

Even as the word left my mouth, my brain still couldn’t register it.

“That’s not weird at all. Statistically speaking, after the death of a loved one, 32% of people reported that they stayed in the first stage of grief the longest.”

I wasn’t familiar with what he was referring to, which was something I’d have to get used to considering I was talking to a provable genius after all. “What’s the first stage of grief?”

“Denial.”

And that was true, I was in denial. Even hours before my flight home, I was still in stage one. I was packing the last of my things when Spencer called to make sure I had everything I needed.

“Wallet?”

“Check.”

“Passport?”

“Check.”

“Ticket?”

“Check.”

“Door?”

“Door?” I repeated. “What do you mean door?”

“Have you locked your door?”

“I never lock my door.” I scoffed, partially recognizing my own naiveté.

“Yeah, I know you don’t. But will you please lock it for me when you leave?”

“Okay, okay, fine. I’ll lock it on my way out.”

Following my own promise, I hauled my suitcase through my apartment and turned the doorknob to exit, but I quickly stopped when I saw Spencer standing right outside.

“Spencer? What are you doing here? I thought you were at work.” Soon after my statement, I ended our phone call considering there was no need to be on the phone with Spencer since he was standing right there in front of me.

“I, um, I needed you to lock your door after you left because I won’t be around to do it myself when you’re in Oregon.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m coming with you.”

All the anxiety and stress left my body at once and there was nothing for me to do but show him my deepest appreciation by engulfing him in a hug.

“You’re coming with me?” I nearly cried.

“I couldn’t let you do this alone. And April practically threatened that if I didn’t buy a ticket, she’d kill me.”

I chuckled mirthlessly in recognition of April’s tendency to be harsh in pursuit of something she wanted. I was so pleased to hear she wanted him to be with me in Oregon as badly as I wanted him to come. Her approval meant the world to me, and to know that she brought us that much closer together, even under these circumstances, truly showed her support of us.

In the hug, my head was hanging over Spencer’s shoulder giving me the opportunity to see his hidden luggage that if I had noticed earlier, would’ve revealed this little surprise, but I was glad I was blind to it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have felt the sweetest relief imaginable, it would’ve only been a combination of diluted relief and satisfaction of confirmed suspicion - a mixture not half so rewarding.

“Thank you.” I whispered.

. . .

There’s something about driving through your hometown after years and years of being gone. It’s like listening to a song you used to play over and over again, after not hearing it for a while. Both are like little time capsules that simultaneously preserve those memories while also transporting you to them. Whether that was a good or bad thing was still undetermined.

“Home sweet home.” I sighed, the weight of everything coming down on me the minute I stepped foot in the doorway.

I could actually smell the interior of the house and it brought back so many memories. I lived here for so long and never once could I smell a scent so distinct as this one, but now, with how long I’ve been gone - I could distinguish it, as if it were just another person’s house, and not my own from childhood.

“(Y/n), is that you?” Adriana’s voice wavered as she ran towards me, embracing me with a warm hug. “I haven’t seen you in so long. Lemme look at you.” Adriana pulled back to stare at me in my entirety, and there was something about the look on her face. It was full of pride and sorrow - pride to see me in my full transformation into a woman but sorrow to be seeing me for these reasons.

“Your dad would’ve been so proud to see the woman you’ve grown up to be.”

Her teary eyes only brought on my own flood of tears. I hadn’t cried yet, but that was probably only because I was so distant from everything, but now, here in my childhood home, I was right in the middle of it.

Adriana inhaled sharply after realizing how long our hug had lingered and the fact that she hadn’t yet greeted Spencer. “Oh forgive me for being so rude, I’m Adriana. I was (y/n)’s father’s nurse.”

“Spencer Reid.” He kindly greeted. “How are you, Adriana?” He asked her, a question I realized I should’ve asked myself. Somehow I’d forgotten that this couldn’t have been easier for her either.

Walking through even just the front of the house was enough to overwhelm me with a plethora of memories. I was far too busy gaping at how much it hadn’t changed over the years to insert myself into Spencer and Adriana’s conversation.

“Well, right now, I’m just working on cleaning up the house. For when it goes on sale.” I heard Adriana tell Spencer.

I turned quickly over my shoulder in shock. “On sale?”

“Your father figured you would sell this house. He left it for you, but he didn’t think you’d want it.”

I should note that: here is where the seed was planted. The seed of doubt.

Should I keep the house and move back to Oregon?

“Oh and before I forget,” Adriana tapped her pockets until she found what she was looking for. “He wanted me to give you this. He wrote it for you a couple days before he ...” She couldn’t even bring herself to say, ‘died’.

It was an envelope with what appeared to be a letter inside of it. I never knew my father to be a writer, so I opened it with such passionate fervor that I nearly gave myself a paper cut. Adriana and Spencer must’ve recognized my overwhelming eagerness to read it because they disappeared into the kitchen to give me the privacy to do so.

To my dearest (y/n),

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you I was getting worse.

But what I’m not sorry about is not asking you to come home. I made a lotta mistakes when you were growing up, but I think the smartest thing I ever did was not ask you to come back home, because ever since I was diagnosed four years ago, you were ready to run home at the drop of a hat and rush back here in no time at all. That’s no way to live. You can’t just put your life on hold for my imminent death - and that’s certainly not what I want you to do when I actually am dead.

I want you to live your life, (y/n).

Never press pause. Keep going.

Live a long and happy life ... for me, alright, kiddo?

Love, your old man

All at once, I departed from the first stage of grief and straight into the second.

Anger.

I hurled the note with as much force as I could, screaming at the top of my lungs with an earsplitting shrill. After seeing the letter fall onto the entryway table, I took my outer arm and swept every single thing on the table off of it out of anger that his letter didn’t go far enough. I could still read the words - I could still hear his voice. I watched in dignity as I let the decor, lamp, and picture frames fall where they may. The lamp landed on its side, clattering beside fallen decor and the picture frames’ glass split in two. I saw the remnants of the mess I created, and I was even angrier at myself. I only created more destruction for me to fix later. My face felt fiery hot and my skin was burning. I was fuming with rage when I finally looked into the mirror and saw the person I hated the most.

Myself.

I was consumed by a deep loathing of the woman staring back at my in the reflection.

How could she? How could she not visit dad until now? How could she let Adriana take care of him instead of taking care of him herself? How could she not check in every day? How could she spend years away from him?

How could she not know he was going to die?

“I hate you!”

The anger took over my body and in one swift motion, my fist collided with the glass, shattering the dead center of the mirror. I cried out in immediate anguish as I felt my wrist go limp and a shooting pain going up and down my arm. Horror must’ve filled my eyes when I saw tiny shards of glass piercing my fist. I think I might’ve actually blacked out from the pain because all I could remember next was waking up in a hospital bed with my arm in a cast that extended all the way to my elbow. I blinked slowly to readjust to the glare, but thankfully, Spencer’s hovering face shielded my eyes from the bright florescent light.

“You know, for someone so small, you pack a pretty good punch,” Spencer chuckled mirthlessly. “You managed to dislocate your wrist, shatter a bone in your forearm, and fracture your elbow. Remind me to never get into a fist fight with you.” He kidded, making the joke just to see me smile, which it did, but he wouldn’t stop there. He had to actually see me laugh again.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say you’re in the second stage of grief now, huh?”

A soft giggle escaped me, and he knew his plan had worked.

“But seriously, how are you feeling?”

His question was accompanied with the delicate stroking of my hair out of my face, and I was transported to all those nights ago when I asked him to stay the night. I couldn’t remember much from that night either, but I could remember this feeling. The feeling of his touch.

I felt so loved.

I shut my eyes in an effort to hide the tears that were glossing them, but that only made them stream down my cheeks.

“Oh, (y/n),” Spencer frowned, replacing his stroking hand to the back of my head to bring my forehead closer to his lips where he would place a chaste kiss on it. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re feeling right now, but I am going to be right there for you - through every single emotion.”

His warm words only made me sob harder. I didn’t deserve his good heart.

“If I could take your pain away and experience it myself, I would. In a heartbeat.”

Only his words I could trust wholeheartedly.

I was discharged from the hospital several hours later, the loopiness I was experiencing from the anesthesia just barely wearing off, and I was forced to face the consequences of my previous actions in the form of a shower.

Yes, you heard that correctly - a shower.

“How do I even shower with a cast on?” I asked out loud to myself after turning the water on. My question was quickly followed with two knocks on the door and a, “Need any help in there?” from Spencer.

There was a quick moment of contemplation which ultimately led to a bashful, “Yes, I do.”

My timidity fell away shortly after seeing Spencer fumble into the bathroom with his hand over his eyes.

“I won’t look, I promise.”

My laughter erupted in the room at the sheer amusement I got from his sinless actions. “I’m not naked! You don’t have to cover your eyes.”

He made a gap between his middle and ring finger for his eyes to peek through just enough to register if I was really telling the truth and upon the discovery that I was, he removed his hand from his face. Afterwards, he left me with careful instructions to not wet my cast and carry on with the rest of my shower routine as normal.

My shower, though mildly inconvenient because of my cast, was just like any other - ending in me shuffling from the bathroom to my bedroom with just a towel to cover me and collect the water from my sopping body. It was after I shut my bedroom door behind me I was met with yet another daunting task - putting on clothes.

Unfortunately, my short temper didn’t bode well with my struggle to put pants on followed by my complete inability to find a shirt that had sleeves big enough to fit my cast through without excessively stretching the fabric. This resulted in the downright termination of the act after minutes of trying. I’d been rummaging through my luggage for minutes, but it wasn’t like I was planning to end up in a cast, so naturally - I didn’t bring clothes fit for such an occasion. And anything that was left in my closet were clothes that hadn’t fit me since high school.

“(Y/n)?” I heard Spencer knock gently then saw him opening the door with painfully slow caution.

“Down here.”

His eyes followed as my words told him, and there he found me, lying on the floor with my towel still wrapped around my upper body.

“What are you doing down there?”

I should add that, along with his playfully spoken question, he got down on the floor to further lie on his back, too. It was a simple thing really, but it meant more to me than he knew. He wanted to join me as I rested on the carpet; he didn’t want to be standing above me, talking down to me. He saw me as his equal and he was going to lie with me on the floor, too - no hesitation whatsoever. He was more than content to follow along with my peculiar schemes, to humor my weirdness.

How many people in your life can you say that about? There’s not very many in mine who will go along with whatever I do or say just to make me happy, and for that, I thanked my lucky stars for giving me Spencer.

“I’ve been trying to put on a shirt, but none of them would fit around my cast and I just got frustrated and gave up.” I bluntly told him.

“I can see that.” He jestingly noted, his eyes skimming over the mess in the room that I created trying to find a shirt that would fit. I could see the gears in his head turning for a solution to my problem.

“What if I give you mine? Do you think it’ll fit?”

He disappeared out of my bedroom and in less than a minute, he came back into the room with a worn Caltech shirt, and of course, it was a perfect fit. Almost made-to-measure.

After my content finding of a proper shirt, we resumed our position on the floor, lying side by side.

“I really like your room, by the way. I especially like your stars.” He pointed at my ceiling that was spotted with glow-in-the-dark stickers in the shape of stars and planets that I’d put up there as a child.

I tried not to laugh as to not insult his admiration of them, but I couldn’t contain the slight giggle that left me from the amusement of his childlike wonder.

“Why?” I had to ask.

“I dunno, it’s just nice to look at. It’s kinda like we’re stargazing.”

“Hmm, I guess we kinda are.”

“Oh look!” He quickly motioned to a different sticker than the one he’d pointed to before. “There’s a shooting star! Make a wish.”

“Shut up!” I childishly giggled, reaching across my body to shove him with my good arm.

“Come on it’s a shooting star - you have to make a wish!”

In the same way that he humored my silly antics, I knew I had to indulge his.

“Alright, I wish -”

“No, you have to close your eyes!” He insisted. “Your wish won’t come true unless you close your eyes.” To my furrowed brows and deadpan stare, he responded, “I don’t make the rules! You just have to!”

I played along and shut my eyes all while inhaling deeply in preparation to make a wish.

In that same breath, Spencer leaned over me, letting his face hang above mine for just a second to look at me. Even though I couldn’t look at him back, he didn’t mind.

“I wish . . .”

I parted my mouth to say something in addition, but my words were cut short when he placed his lips on mine.

The stars were aligning.

It was a shy kiss, just as I always dreamt it would be. He didn’t move his lips; he only puckered them against mine, and I could feel him begin to pull away. Before he could, I raised my head to follow his mouth, drawing him in closer with my one good hand on his cheek.

That was the only thing stopping him from kissing me harder before. He needed to know that I wanted it just as much as he did. And I did. I really did.

Now with more encouragement, he snaked his hand under my neck, supporting the back of my head, tangling his fingers in my still-damp hair. He cocked his head to the side, sharply inhaling so my own mouth would be forced to open, too, creating an entryway just big enough for his tongue to slip in.

I started seeing stars, and not the ones on my ceiling.

The moment was too quick and ended before I wanted it to, like all moments I had with him. He placed one small chaste kiss to give me solace, our lips clinging together briefly, bouncing back into place when ours faces were fully apart, making a small pop noise from the moist separation.

“Your hair smells like magnolias.” He drawled, seemingly in a daze when his eyes fluttered open.

It sent me into a fit of giggles - a sound he couldn’t resist. I noticed him eyeing me as I laughed and I tried not to let it get to my head, but God, if looks could kill. I wish I could see me the way he saw me. He looked at me like I was a galaxy full of stars, even if I felt like a dark abyss that would swallow him whole.

“I can’t believe it.” He dreamily whispered in awe.

“You can’t believe what?”

“When I first met you, I couldn’t get over how beautiful you were. And now, I’m smelling your shampoo while you’re wearing my clothes, kissing me under the stars?”

I’d never seen someone look so grateful. It was the purest vision.

I never did finish saying my wish, but if I had, it would’ve been to stay in this moment forever. But like all our moments together, this one, too, was gone in the blink of an eye.

Soon enough, all this would just be a memory of the past. Another moment locked in time, never to occur again.

. . .

The week later we buried my father.

I’d somehow skipped stage three and four - bargaining and depression - and was well on my way to stage five - acceptance. But it wasn’t really the acceptance of his death, more so the acceptance of what I had to do in the wake of it.

I heeded my father’s words of not pressing pause on my life, but what I did next wasn’t really pressing pause, just rewinding a bit.

I did say that whether coming to my hometown after years of not being here was a good thing or bad thing was still undetermined, and I think this was me realizing that it still is undetermined, and I wouldn’t be able to figure it out if I left. And really, I couldn’t leave. Not again. Not when Adriana needed me most to upkeep the house. Not after I’d purposefully bought an open-ended ticket to stay here for longer.

I was meant to stay here, and consequently, I knew what that meant for me and Spencer.

We were on our way home from the funeral when Spencer parked the car in the driveway and shut it off. The rain was pelting the windshield as the window wipers robotically swept from side to side. We’d been listening to the sound of rain and automated windshield wipers for the entire duration of the time we sat there. He was waiting for me to say what he already knew.

I wasn’t coming back to Virginia.

The loud silence was broken with my words, “I’ve never felt this way for anyone before.”

It almost seemed like he didn’t hear me because of the way he kept looking straightforward instead of at me, but I feel that it might’ve been so I wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

“Spencer, I love you.” I honestly confessed, the simultaneous feeling of weight being lifted off my shoulders and a new weight being placed onto them coming over me.

For the first time, he swiveled his head to the side, giving me full view of his crestfallen expression. I almost wish he hadn’t.

“I love you, too.” His voice croaked.

“But it wouldn’t be fair to start a relationship with you like this.”

“That’s what I was afraid you would say.” He whimpered.

I needed to take care of Adriana, look after the house, and recover from my dad’s death, and it would be so easy to escape all that if I went back to Virginia. But if I honestly wanted to grow from this, I had to accept the responsibilities I had waiting for me here. Nothing needed me in Virginia - nothing but Spencer.

And if I knew him as well as I thought I did, he would understand that I couldn’t come back just yet.

And he wouldn’t ask me to.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

It’s been five months now, and somewhere around month two I got the sneaking suspicion that you were lying when you said you loved me. Because why wouldn’t you fight for us if you really did?

But you knew if you told me that a long-distance relationship was too much to handle on top of everything else you had going on, I would’ve offered to move to Oregon with you, but you didn’t want that. You didn’t want me to uproot my life for you, and you knew that’s exactly what I would’ve done.

So after three more months of that thought brewing, I’ve come to the realization that you weren’t lying. No, you loved me too much. Too much to make me choose between you and my life in Virginia, but I’m telling you right now - if you asked me to, I’d choose you. Over and over and over again.

I’d choose you.

But that’s just it - you wouldn’t let me choose you, and you didn’t. That’s why you didn’t ask. I’m mad you never gave me the option, but I know that you only did that out of love.

And I guess if that’s your way of saying “I love you,” then this letter is mine.

I only wrote this instead of telling you it in person, because I think, for the first time, I want to trust the world as much as you trust the world.

I want to have as much blind faith in something as you have in that unlocked door of yours.

I want to trust that when you come back to Virginia and find this letter, whenever that may be, we’ll be different people, and that maybe then we’ll be better for each other. But until that time comes - until that faithful day when you return from Oregon, I will wait.

I will wait, and I will not forget you - I promise that.

It’s quite hard to forget someone who gave you so much to remember.

At this time, you and I haven’t spoken a word to each other since the funeral, so I have virtually no idea what your current state of affairs are, but I should let you know that by this time next week, I will be living in a real house, which also means I am moving out of this apartment at the end of the week. I'm quite disoriented from this to say the least, but I’ve never been more ready or excited to start a new chapter of my life.

As for us - this isn’t our last chapter. I know it. There’s more for us.

I have faith.

And if there’s one last thing I wanted you to know, it’s that:

You have given me a lifetime of happiness, 3B.

Sincerely yours, 2B

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

#the boy next door #spencer reid kiss #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid soft angst #juniorgman187 #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfic #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid

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iobartach · 1 year ago

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Once an alien notion, the return to fatherhood, of playing the part of caregiver... come handler... comes with remarkable ease, a feat that surprises even Miguel himself in hindsight. Had he felt any concerns with the rapid manner in which he had stepped so willingly back into a role that had previously left him so emotionally devastated, he gave no indication that such views resided in his thoughts. Nothing rose to the surface other than a growing fusion of well-intentioned interests and misguided adoration.

Entrenched in analysis, for all the attention he gives to Gabi, he misses the signs of her anxiousness bubbling just beneath that slowly faltering, humanlike exterior. It showed in an instant that like his deceased counterpart, he wasn't completely infallible, but was at least making an effort to try prove otherwise.

With her hands uncovered, he leans in close to inspect the changes seen, pulling up a holographic interface next to him as he did so. Knitting his brows together, he traces the contours of the altered, hair-covered digits individually, taking note of their hook-like manner and enhanced dexterity, more fit for purpose than the agony-steeped extremities that came before. Probing her new glistening talons with his own feather-light touches, Miguel, after staying quiet for a good few minutes, cuts across the other, mid-sentence, halting the course of her runaway concerns by acting blunt in manner himself.

"Relajarse, estar a gusto. I had anticipated that might happen." It's a white lie uttered on her behalf, shielding her fears from the truth. To resolve her discomfort, he had opted to hasten what had already been a slow, ongoing restructuring of her hands. His experiment had merely hit the fastforward button on the process. "You didn't mess up at any point. In fact, this is a great result overall."

Taking hold of her warped hands, he placed them on his lap, thumbs kneading the palms in a manner comprised of duel focus, a tender, yet also investigative gesture. "Rather than listen to me, what would you like to do, mija?" Keeping one hand held between his fingers, he studies his daughter for a moment, a sympathetic look gracing weather-worn features until he opens his mouth. "Shall we proceed with testing your new hands? Or would you prefer to rest?"

It was strange getting to know this new version of her papa. He was the same in so many ways, but somehow still terribly gentle. Maybe it was because they were closer to the same than she had been with her father.

He kept the lights soft in their rooms because it suited him too, but it meant the world to someone who had been kept in a lab of bright lights and too strong smells.

She worried as he began researching her condition that she would do something wrong. She was always letting her other father down. What if she did the same to Miguel now?

She tried now to look too nervous as she held out her bandaged hands to have them uncovered. She was expecting to see human hands again. That was the goal, wasn't it? But as her hands were revealed it was all too clear that they were even less human than before.

The talons that had previously been attached to the tips of her fingers seemed to make up most of the digit with the first knuckle gone. Her fingers were thinner and the joints that remained seemed better articulated - she would climb better, she thought. There was course hair along the backs of her fingers and up to her wrists. She looked at Miguel uncertain, bottom lip trembling.

"Did I...I'm..." She didn't understand what had happened. "I'm sorry. Did I mess up your experiment?" Was something wrong with her? "He always said it was my fault...I did everything you said."

#gabriellatrn1042 #verse; is fearr a fhios ag athair #tw

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aroclawthornes · 3 years ago

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Blooming Brilliant, an Aroace Willow Park Manifesto

[id: a gif of a heart locket opening. One half of the locket displays a picture of Willow Park from The Owl House, winking and making peace signs with her fingers. Blue and yellow stars surround her. The other half reads "willow park my beloved." /end id.]

Greetings! It’s me, User Aroclawthornes, and instead of working on all the time-sensitive homework I have I sat down and wrote an essay explaining why I think Willow Park OwlHouse could plausibly be read as aroace, and why it would be a thematically enriching interpretation. I’ve never written anything like this before, so it’s oddly formal, a little pretentious, and contains a lot of qualifying language, but I'm confident that it gets my point across. I’m not intending to speak over other interpretations of Willow or assert that it's the only true way to read her, but it's a headcanon I find interesting, and I think there’s a lot of evidence to back it up, between certain elements that Willow’s arc employs to some good old overanalysed symbolism. If you're aspec, I hope this is validating; if you're not, I hope it's interesting; if you don't care, scrolling past it is quick, free, and easy.

Some disclaimers on terminology: I’m speaking from an aroace perspective, and so when I say “aspec coding” I’m generally referring to both orientations as a catch-all - a lot of the coding surrounding Willow could go either way. I’m also going to be talking about commonly accepted “aspec” narratives, but I’m aware of the limitations of this insofar as my experiences are only a single facet of the diverse range of aspec people in this world, so anyone who wants to add or argue anything - respectfully - is encouraged to.

Analysis below the cut!

The Thing About Plants

I’m not going to pretend that an association with plants is historically indicative of aspec coding, because, frankly, there haven’t been enough aspec characters to establish it as a convention, and it’s also a fairly wide-reaching branch of symbolism. However, I am going to propose that lighthearted comparisons between asexual people and plants (however misguided on functions of plant reproduction they are) are fairly common elements of budding ace teenage humour, as are related quips about photosynthesis.

[id: a screenshot of Willow from "I Was A Teenage Abomination", depicting her sitting on the ground while casting a spell over a small, pink flower. /end id.]

I’m also not going to claim that the colour green Belongs To Aromantics, and therefore that All Plants Are Belong To Us, but in tandem with everything else I’m about to cover, the connection between Willow and plants seems like a fairly plausible nudge to a relatively common element of aspec humour.

“Half-a-witch” Willow and the Late Bloomer Experience

[id: a screenshot of Willow with glowing green eyes, from "I Was A Teenage Abomination", depicting her summoning a mess of thorned vines. /end id]

Willow is literally nicknamed “half-a-witch”, in reference to her supposedly incomplete state - this is a sentiment eerily reminiscent of the pressure to find one’s “other half”, which affects aspec - especially aromantic - people particularly profoundly. She’s considered a late bloomer, someone who hasn’t reached the societal milestones of growth at the expected age, and who is derided and considered immature as a result of this perceived failure. However, we quickly discover that Willow is, in fact, an exceptionally competent and powerful witch - taken out of the restricting frame of the Abominations track, she’s able to grow into her own, “complete” person, therefore proving that she was never really lacking in anything in the first place. Like real-life aroace people, she was perceived as limited and immature based on the expectations and judgements of other people, but Willow was never deficient in anything, least of all herself.

[id: a screenshot of Willow and Luz from "I Was A Teenage Abomination". They are holding hands - the former is laughing with her eyes closed, and the latter is grinning, while covered in abomination goop. /end id]

As far as symbolism goes...the track Willow is initially put in literally requires her to conjure up another humanoid entity, with the expectation that she will therefore prove herself to be a whole and mature person. Only with this ability, she’s told, will she be successful and happy as an adult. The shapelessness of her attempts at conjuring an abomination reinforces this connection in my mind - if I may reference this quote from Ducktales 2017‘s (absolutely stellar) A Nightmare On Killmotor Hill, in which the protagonists explore their own subconscious fears via. the dream realm, for a second:

“I think that’s supposed to be my romantic interest, but I’m too threatened by the concept, so it never takes shape.”

A lot of young aroace people find themselves in situations where they attempt to convince themself of their interest in someone in an attempt to be “normal,” or end up lying in response to family members or friends’ questions about crushes. While Willow’s abominations, first and foremost, represent the expectations from her school, classmates, and family to be a successful, “complete” witch with a profitable future, I think that with an aroace interpretation of Willow they could also very easily be read as representing some latent insecurities over a lack of attraction, or pressure to find a significant other.

(I’m not condemning Willow’s dads, by the way - they seem like perfectly lovely fellas, and I’m confident that they were doing what they thought was best for her. They’re certainly very quick to drop everything to assure her future in Escaping Expulsion, so obviously they care about their daughter very much.)

Greens, Blues, and Yellows: Colour-Coding Willow Park

A while back, I made this post comparing Willow’s palette to the aromantic and aroace flags:

[id: a screenshot of a post depicting the aromantic and aromantic asexual flags, colour-picked from images of Willow in her Hexside uniform and casual dress respectively - these are overlaid on top of the flags. The caption reads "observations on willow park". /end id.]

The grey-and-green aromantic flag has long been the accepted mainstream symbol of aromanticism, and, as the above post - and many others - demonstrate, Willow’s palette reflects it near-perfectly. This could easily be a coincidence, owing to the palette of the standard Hexside Plant Track uniform, as well as her hair and eye colours - which are obviously supposed to be reflective of her plant-related abilities. However, given how fond of employing hidden meanings The Owl House has shown itself to be, I don’t think it’s far-fetched to claim that there’s at least a chance that her palette was constructed with the flag in mind.

The latter is...a bit more problematic for me, although it’s fun to joke about. The blue-and-yellow aroace flag was only created in December 2018, relatively late into The Owl House’s initial production, and it’s still relatively obscure, although on the rise in popularity as the accepted aroace flag (I only recently started using it myself), so I don’t know if Willow’s casual wear is enough to verify the presence of any deliberate subtext. I think it’s a fun coincidence, however, and (as was pointed out in this post) it’s cool that these blue and yellow stars surrounding Willow occur in the same frame as Luz’s bisexual decor:

[id: a photograph of Luz, Gus, and Willow, all surrounding a disgruntled-looking Principal Bump. Luz has flowers in the colours of the bisexual flag decorating her hair, while Willow is surrounded by bright blue and yellow stars. /end id.]

also seen above: powerful bi/aspec solidarity

Conclusion:

Do I genuinely believe that Willow is being deliberately written this way? If you’d asked me, say, two months ago, I’d have said probably not - as far as queer representation in kids’ cartoons has come, it has a ways to go, and focusing on transgender characters seems like a more obvious (and equally invaluable) route to go down. I can name maybe five explicitly aspec characters off the top of my head, two of whom have been written as alloromantic and/or sexual in adaptations or continuations of the source material (I have...some grievances with 2005 Doctor Who). But the emergence of Raine, an explicitly nonbinary character on Disney Channel, has given me a little spark of hope, and so, even if it’s never confirmed, it’s comforting to be able to see a character with such strong elements of aspec coding and think to myself, just maybe, that there might be some intent behind it.

I also...really want to see interesting things done with Willow. We’re halfway through Season 2, and despite some promising setup for her arc in the Season 1 finale, she’s sort of been left by the wayside lately in favour of developing the more “plot-relevant” characters, such as Luz, Amity, Eda, and Hunter. Frankly, I think it’s a disservice to her Season 1 development, despite how much I adore all the characters I just listed - beyond any personal motivation, the prospect that Willow could be aroace adds a lot of sorely-sought depth to her, and, as detailed, a lot of this has already been set up in her earlier episodes. I just...I think it’d be neat. Rarely do you get a kids’ show so brazenly queer in its themes as Owl House, and aspec people deserve to be included in that.

Willow would also be great aroace representation because, well - those five or so aspec characters I mentioned being aware of are all white or “raceless” (...also written as white, basically), and so an aspec Asian character would be a really lovely step forward in this area. Additionally, all the characters I referred to are also conventionally skinny, and Willow is not only fat, but written in a way that doesn’t treat this feature as a caricature. People who are more knowledgeable on these topics than I are absolutely free to make additions, as is anyone who feels like I’ve left certain details out.

tl;dr: Willow’s association with plants could be read as a cool nod to aspec humour, her “late bloomer” narrative is eerily reminiscent of some common aspec experiences, her palette speaks for itself, and it’d be really cool if we could diversify the so-far fairly bland sphere of aspec representation.

I’m going to conclude this by linking Rose by The Oh Hellos, because they’re my favourite band, they share The Owl House’s initials, and I also think it’s a good Willow song. Peace out.

youtube

#the owl house #willow park #pspspspsps you will read my 1.5k word aroace willow essay #hooting #meta #willow #aroace willow manifesto #fuck it. this is getting posted

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handwrittenhello · 3 years ago

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sweet little lies

Rating: M Warnings: Assassination attempts, poisoning, bombing Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer Word Count: 6.2k Summary: “He’s very…” Geralt trailed off, arms crossed. "Pretty?” Yennefer finished for him, appraising the man in front of her. He seemed entirely unconcerned about his state of near-nudity, and even less concerned about the fact that the entire court was ogling him, including the Warlord of the North and her right-hand man. “Thank you,” the man said, bowing deeply. “I do try.” -- When Yennefer of Vengerberg, Warlord of the North, receives Jaskier as tribute, she doesn't trust him—the rumor is that assassins and spies are trying to infiltrate her court. And despite being sent unwillingly, Jaskier seems perfectly happy—too happy—to be there. As tensions with the bordering country of Rivia grow stronger, she must beware, and figure out who she can truly trust.

or, yet another warlord au (but with warlord yennefer this time), inspired by @inexplicifics! read here on ao3.

“He’s very…” Geralt trailed off, arms crossed.

“Pretty?” Yennefer finished for him, appraising the man in front of her. He seemed entirely unconcerned about his state of near-nudity, and even less concerned about the fact that the entire court was ogling him, including the Warlord of the North and her right-hand man.

“Thank you,” the man said, bowing deeply. “I do try.”

He did indeed try, judging by how heavily his face was made up and by the numerous precious metals and jewels that adorned his ears and fingers and even one nostril. Yennefer didn’t think she’d ever seen more piercings in her life. The wealth the stranger wore on his body was simply astounding. Besides the more conventional jewelry, he also wore a shirt—if one could call it that—of fine gold chains interlaced, studded intermittently with shimmering gems. He wore no trousers, only a sheer wrap accentuated by a belt, made of yet more fine chains entwined. Finishing the ensemble were golden cuffs around his wrists—the entire outfit seemed to subtly shout prisoner, in fact, when she looked for it.

“And who sent you?” she asked, her voice ringing clear through the hall.

“I come to you as a gift, courtesy of King Vizimir of Redania,” the man replied, sinking into another low bow. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Master Bard, and Esteemed Courtesan, at your service, my lady.” He made no mention of his own involvement in the matter, Yennefer noted darkly. She would not take slaves, expensive tribute or not.

But to publicly refuse such a gift would show blatant disfavor, and may spark an unwanted war. “You may tell King Vizimir I accept his gift,” she told the messenger who had accompanied Master Pankratz. “And you,” she turned to Pankratz, “may come with me.” She turned and left the hall, trusting him and Geralt both to follow her.

Whispers rose up in her wake, titters at what she might do with the new esteemed courtesan, but she ignored them. One did not become Warlord of the North by caring what courtly gossip featured oneself.

She pushed open the doors to her room, Pankratz just behind her, and Geralt, silent, bringing up the rear. He was good at that sort of thing—protecting her, always, and always with the taciturn seriousness most knew him for.

Only few knew what truly lurked beneath the surface. She was privy to more than most—as her right-hand man, bodyguard, and occasional lover, he let her see more than most. She could see a hint of it peeking out through his stony exterior now—he was disturbed, unsettled, though she couldn’t tell the cause.

She sat herself in her customary armchair by the hearth, Geralt taking a place looming behind her, and after Pankratz hesitated, she directed him to the armchair across from her. He sank into it quickly, giving the ridiculous impression of a puppy aiming to please its master. She rolled her eyes.

“We can drop the bullshit,” she stated plainly, and his eyes widened. “Do you truly wish to be here? Speak truly.”

He swallowed. “My lady, it is truly the greatest honor to be in your presence—” he began, but Yennefer cut him off with a look.

“I said no more pretty lies. I have enough of those in my court—I don’t need you adding to that pile of shit.” There was little more she despised than venomous intentions disguised. The best attack was one that could be anticipated.

“Very well, my lady. Though it is true I did not come here willingly—” Geralt stiffened at that, his hand going reflexively to the hilt of his sword, though Yennefer gave no outward indication of her disgust. “—I did not come here willingly, but, having found myself in your court, I find that there is little else I could wish for. In truth, I would much prefer here to whence I came.” He said the last bit in a black tone, hinting at some strife Yennefer knew not of.

“Well, I would give you the option, then,” Yennefer replied. “You may leave, if you so wish—I will supply you with enough to get by until you can establish yourself, wherever you may choose to go. I hear Toussaint is nice this time of year.” Pankratz smiled. “Or you may remain in my court, but know this—I tolerate no treachery, no spies, of any sort.” She leaned in close; the smile dropped from his face. “If I discover that you’ve been sent as some foreign agent to engineer my demise—” she locked eyes with him “—your demise will not be swift.” She spoke the last words softly, so softly, but plenty intelligible in the absolute silence of the room. “But you’ll wish it would be.”

Pankratz gulped.

“Have I made myself clear?” she asked, leaning back, releasing him from the uncomfortable closeness.

“Crystal, my lady,” he answered, smiling shakily. “And, if it’s all the same to you, I would rather not try my luck out there. Much easier to earn my keep at the luxury of the court.”

Yennefer wasn’t surprised by the attitude; clearly this was a man well accustomed to luxury. “Very well. And how do you plan to earn your keep?”

“Well, my lady,” he began, voice dropping into a sultry register. “You’ll find that I’m quite good with my fingers and tongue, as it were.” He slid from his chair, somehow managing to make it look effortlessly elegant, and shuffled closer to her on his knees. Geralt stiffened; Yennefer waited for Pankratz to dare touch her. But no touch was forthcoming, despite the strange flutter of arousal in her stomach that spoke to how she almost wanted him to try.

“Presumptuous of King Vizimir,” was all she replied. “And what if I have no need of a bedwarmer?”

Pankratz sat back on his heels. “Well, I have other talents. I studied at Oxenfurt—you may also hear me called Jaskier the Bard, at your service,” he said, giving a little half-bow, all he could manage in a kneeling position. “I would sing of your victories for all to hear and be warned, lest the—the Raven Storm come to batter down their doors!” He punctuated his sentence with a grand gesture, one that nearly knocked him off balance.

“No.”

“N-no, my lady?” Jaskier questioned, his arms dropping. “I can come up with something else, if you don’t like the name—"

“It’s not the name,” Yennefer said dismissively. “It’s the exaggeration. I’ve already told you, I value honesty alone. I won’t have any pretty ballads hiding bastard truths.”

Jaskier looked as though he wanted to argue, but wisely held his tongue. To soften the disappointment, Geralt came around and offered him a hand up. Jaskier took it, and also took a moment to stare appreciatively at Geralt. He was lucky she wasn’t the jealous type—she could have his head for it.

“You may stay,” she declared. “You need not pay for it in my bed, though if you do truly mean what you say, then we can discuss your… talents, as it were. For now, Geralt will find you rooms of your own and show you around the palace. You may have the rest of the day to acclimate, though I expect you in the dining hall tonight at sundown.”

It was a clear dismissal. “Thank you, my lady, you’re too kind,” Jaskier said as Geralt led him out of the room.

“No flattery,” she reminded him, but they were already gone.

Jaskier settled into life at her court like a duck to water. He did indeed have a talented tongue and fingers—which he proved the first time he sang for them, with a lute to accompany it. He bounced around the room, capturing the attention of all he met—he was impossible to ignore, loud and bright as he was, bedecked in jewelry.

Geralt had tried to offer him clothes when he first settled into his rooms, but Jaskier seemed more than content to prance around nearly naked. Geralt hated it—he complained to her, one night, that Jaskier was too distracting, pulling Geralt’s attention away. He took his duties very seriously—formerly a knight of Rivia, he now devoted himself to her with the same near-religious fervor, taking her protection upon himself.

It was sweet, if a little misguided. She could protect herself just as well, but it was nice knowing that he was there behind her, always ready to support her if she faltered.

“I don’t like it, Yen,” he said to her, late one night, as the fire burned down to embers in the hearth. They were curled side by side in her bed, sweat cooling on their damp bodies, Geralt occupying himself by playing with strands of her hair. “Unrest in Rivia is growing stronger—we could have a revolt on our hands before the harvest.”

“I’m not worried about Rivia,” Yennefer replied, waving a hand lazily. “Little more than whispers on the wind. King Reginald, gods spit on his soul, has too few supporters left to be any real threat. The rest either died with him in the coup or fled like the cowards they were.”

“I’m serious, Yen. Word on the street is that there’ll be an attempt on your life before the year is out.” A furrow creased his brow, his fingers growing tense in her hair. Gently, she disentangled them before lacing their fingers together.

“Is that not what I have you for?” she asked, a smile quirking her lips. He worried too much—his consternation was almost cute. “Relax. If any assault comes, we’ll be well prepared for it.”

“It won’t be anything as obvious as an attack on the city. Rivian forces are smart—they’ll send spies, or assassins, or both. You wouldn’t even see it coming.”

“If it will make you feel better, then you may begin vetting those in the court you find suspicious,” Yennefer relented.

Geralt hummed, his eyes slipping closed in satisfaction. She too closed her eyes, but the thought nagged at her—did she trust everyone in the palace? Most of them she’d known for decades—they’d worked under King Demavend with her, and had helped her overthrow him when he became too cruel to stand. She’d rewarded their loyalty with a place at her side, and they’d remained trustworthy through the years.

There had been few new arrivals since then—Geralt himself was among them, having joined her during the Coup of Rivia. And of course there was their newest arrival, Jaskier.

He seemed perfectly content in his new role. She had to admit it suited him well—he loved attention, and got it in spades when singing or when draped seductively next to her throne. He made good decoration, though she had yet to negotiate a more intimate role with him. She never held back from staring, though—and though he often caught her, he seemed pleased more than anything else.

Was he too comfortable here? It was true, he had settled in remarkably quickly—did he have a hidden purpose? But what use would King Vizimir have for a spy in her court, especially one as useless as Jaskier? He wasn’t present at any strategy meetings, or even privy to her company more than most. Perhaps he was an assassin biding his time?

Yennefer huffed. This was how paranoia set in—whispers and rumors crept in and set the mind aflame with possibilities until it drove itself mad. She resolutely cleared all thoughts of betrayal from her mind and tried to sleep.

Geralt commenced his investigation as soon as he was able, but Yennefer heard little else from him about it. She assumed that meant the search for traitors was proving unfruitful.

She interrupted him one day with a task at the southern border—there were reports of skirmishes breaking out, most likely bandit attacks. He departed with a promise to return by the month’s end, and she watched him leave with a pit in her stomach.

It wasn’t the first time they’d parted—so why was her stomach twisting so? Why were her instincts screaming that it would all go wrong?

There was nothing to worry about. She needed to take her mind off it, that was all. She went back into the palace and headed for the southern wing—where Jaskier’s rooms were.

“My lady Yennefer!” he greeted her happily, springing from his writing desk upon her entrance. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Then he paused, frowned. “Where’s your shadow? I can’t hardly think of a time I haven’t seen him hovering menacingly over your shoulder.”

“He’s away for the time being.” She motioned him closer, and he went as if reeled in by a fishing line.

“Luckily you still have me,” he replied, biting his lip. He was yet unsure of his advances—good. She would keep him on his toes.

“And would you give yourself to me?” she asked, stepping even closer, until there were scant few inches between them. “Let me have you?”

“In a heartbeat, if my lady so wished,” he breathed, leaning in. She didn’t wait for his lips to brush hers; she surged forward at once, attacking with brutal efficiency. The kiss was more a clash of wills than anything tender. To her delight, he didn’t simply let her plunder his mouth, but gave as good as he got, hands coming up to clutch at her dress. She pushed him away, and his face split with confusion until she pushed him again, back onto the bed. His hands fisted in the covers as she climbed on top of him, finding the clasps that would free him from the confines of the chains that draped over his body.

Soon she had stripped the gold and gems from his body, and at some point her own clothes had disappeared as well, and finally she was free to take him how she wished. He was a good lover, enthusiastic and skilled—his talents truly were as good as he’d made them out to be.

Her only point of contention came near the end, when he began to murmur sweet nothings into her hair, praising her and begging in turn. Even after, when they lay panting atop the sheets, he continued to weave pretty lies, complimenting her prowess and beauty until she rolled over and pinned him down.

“What have I said about lying?” she bit, but there was no real heat to it.

“And as I’ve told you a dozen times, I speak nothing but the truth,” he replied, “but if you wish my silence, well—I suppose you’ll have to find a way to shut me up.” He grinned.

She was gratified to see that he was no longer the deferential pretty thing that had been gifted to her, but had instead grown into his role here and thus felt comfortable enough to tease and prod.

In fact, as the days passed and they spent more time together, he turned downright annoying, at times, whining about how cruel silver was to his skin—did she know that he was one sixty-fourth fae? How it itched so—but gold didn’t go as well with his complexion, and really, he should be wearing sapphires, not rubies, since they brought out the blue of his eyes better…

Yennefer tolerated it with confused amusement for all of one day before she took his suggestion and found ways to occupy his mouth, just so that the inane chatter would stop.

She was almost disappointed when the day that Geralt would return drew near. She looked forward to his triumphant return, of course, but she was apprehensive of how he would react to her getting so close to Jaskier in his absence. She was lucky that she didn’t have to contend with jealousy from him—he simply wasn’t the type—but nor did she want him to distance himself from her, afraid of intruding on something new.

And though she’d succeeded, for the most part, at distracting herself from his absence, she couldn’t shake the sense of dread that still came over her at odd times when she thought of him. He was plenty capable; there was nothing to worry about, she knew, and yet that didn’t stop her traitorous heart.

As the days passed, however, with no sign of his imminent return—not even a letter—she knew her worry was well-founded. On the second day of the new month—two weeks since she’d last seen him—she resolved to ride to the border with all the forces she could gather.

Jaskier worried at her departure—“My lady, you would leave the palace so defenseless?”—but she would not be swayed.

“You’ll be fine. The city can protect itself; you need not worry about a thing.”

“It’s not myself I worry for,” he replied flatly, a moue of displeasure overtaking his face. He didn’t grace her bed that night, and she resolutely told herself she wasn’t bothered.

The sun rose early, and she with it, saddling her horse and donning her armor. The air held a chill, heralding the coming of autumn, though it was unusual so early in the season. As the morning mists in the fields began to burn off, she and her forces rode out, heading south.

They were scarcely a mile away from the palace when she spotted something on the horizon. She called them to a halt, sending ahead scouts to report on what the disturbance was. They returned in short order, shouting joyously—Knight Geralt was returned, unharmed, though he’d lost his men in the interim.

“Yen,” he greeted her warmly, pulling short his ill-tempered mare as he approached. She seemed especially ornery today, hardly responding to his commands, but Yennefer supposed that after weeks on the road, she would be ornery too. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You should be,” she answered, but couldn’t maintain her anger for long, not upon seeing him safe and whole. “What took so long? And where are the men who accompanied you?”

He frowned. “They’re not back yet? I’d thought they’d arrive first.”

“No, we’ve heard nothing since you left. What happened?” It was unlike Geralt to leave his men behind—his sense of chivalry demanded otherwise.

“It wasn’t bandits at the border—it was Rivian insurgents making trouble. Easy enough to mop up, but in the fight, I got separated. Ended up having to lay low for a few days in Spalla. I gave the men instructions to return to Vengerberg if anything went wrong.”

“Do you think they’re still out looking for you?” Damned loyalty. While she valued it, it often proved to be quite the pain in difficult situations.

“Could be. We ought to send another team out, round them up.” She was grateful that he didn’t suggest going back to look for them himself—she would have expected that from him, stubborn as he was, but she wasn’t ready to lose him again so soon.

She motioned over the captain of her guard, Ivenka. “Take your best fighters and track down our poor wayward soldiers.”

“Yes, my lady,” Ivenka replied. The party split; Yennefer and Geralt led the rest of the forces back to Vengerberg.

Upon their return, Jaskier launched into a rousing song of victory—if he was surprised to see them back so soon, he didn’t show it. Geralt bore the attention as he always did, with an uncomfortable grimace. Once the commotion settled, Yennefer pulled Geralt into her rooms for a full report on what he’d found at the Rivian border.

“The talk of insurgence was right. A resistance has formed, with more support than we thought. King Reginald had more friends than we knew.” Geralt delivered the bad news with no inflection, which was how Yennefer knew it was a grave matter indeed.

“A resistance? How strong would you say? Have they any support from the commonfolk?” That was how battles were won, Yennefer knew—it all depended on the attitude of the peasantry. If their favor had shifted against her, they could expect full-blown war within the year.

“Not yet, though they’ve changed the minds of a few. More than anything they’ve sown dissent—talk of crop shortages, of trade disturbed. Trying to make you out to be just as bad as Reginald.”

Yennefer cursed. “We need to head this off before it grows any worse.”

“Parley? They might be open to discussion—this incursion may have been a way to get our attention.”

Yennefer nodded. “Send a messenger at once,” she instructed.

Geralt inclined his head in acquiescence and left her to her thoughts.

He had been right about the coming rebellion—was he also to be believed about the rumored attempts on her life? She would have to keep her guard up.

They received the Rivians a few nights hence at a banquet, meant as both a display of wealth and numbers. The entire court was assembled, and the visiting party arrived wide-eyed and trying to hide it.

Yennefer herself was seated upon her throne in full gilded plate armor—everything but a helmet. Geralt stood beside her, arms crossed, a scowl writ upon his face, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. And on her other side, draped across the arm of the throne, was Jaskier, in his finest jewels and with a full face of makeup, not looking even a bit vulnerable though he wore almost nothing.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” the man leading the visiting party said, inclining his head in lieu of a bow. Beside her, Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “I am Gudros of Scala, and accompanying me are Velah of Hawksburne and Ozrias of Scala.” He gestured to the two behind him, who had so far stood silent and still, their expressions unreadable beneath their helmets.

“Vengerberg welcomes you,” Yennefer announced. “You may partake of food and rest from your journey. Once you’ve had your fill we may retire for more formal talk.” Gudros bowed his head again, and the feast resumed.

“I don’t like this,” Geralt murmured, barely audible over the voices and instruments overlapping in the hall. Yennefer glanced up at him—he looked torn, lips pursed and hands clenching and unclenching into fists.

“Keep an eye on them for me?” she replied. He nodded and slipped away—Yennefer looked forward to his report on what they were saying.

She was so intent on watching the Rivians that she hardly noticed it when an attendant approached with a tray carrying goblets of wine. “Milady,” he greeted, offering her a glass. She reached out to take it, but was beaten there by Jaskier, who snatched it out of the attendant’s hands before she could.

He grinned cheekily at her—this was almost too bold. She’d have to put him in his place later tonight. But she let him have it and reached for her own goblet, just as Jaskier took a sip of the wine.

The smell hit her nose as soon as she raised the glass to her lips. It was hardly detectable, but she’d learned a thousand and one ways under King Demavend’s reign to brew poisons—she recognized instantly the characteristic sour odor it held, the way it slid, oily, down one’s throat, the way it burned from the inside out.

She threw the goblet to the floor, heedless of the way that it shattered into a million pieces. “Geralt!” she screamed, wrenching Jaskier’s goblet from him—though it was already falling from his stiff fingers, his eyes bulging and his face reddening in mere moments.

Geralt appeared at her side instantly, as if he’d never left. Seeing Jaskier in trouble, he threw the consort over his broad shoulders and followed Yennefer as she fled to her old workshop—Goddess willing, she would still have enough ingredients to prepare an antidote, though it had been years since she’d set foot there.

The doors flew open under her hands, dust swirling about the room and cobwebs shuddering in the sudden breeze. Yennefer drew on the spark of chaos buried deep inside her, hardly used, but called forth in full force now. The torches flared to life at once, jars and pots flying off the shelves into her hands.

Geralt laid Jaskier down on the worktable in the middle of the room, now wheezing and coughing, spittle flecking his lips. “Yen,” he tried to wheeze, but she paid him no mind. She needed every ounce of concentration to prepare the antidote, something she hadn’t done in years.

“Mistletoe… wartweed… ground lichen…” she muttered, adding each ingredient in turn. The potion began to bubble, a haze descending on the workshop as it released puffs of smoke.

“Yen, he's not breathing,” Geralt called, and she cursed, stirring faster. Finally, finally, the sickly shade of green gave way to a deep turquoise, and then a solid blue. She rushed to Jaskier’s side, forcing his mouth open with one hand and pouring the antidote down his throat.

He convulsed, and, sensing that he was about to spit it up, she clamped his mouth and nose shut, putting her full weight into holding him down as his limbs juddered and jerked. But with no other choice, he eventually swallowed, his throat spasming under her harsh grip, and then he went abruptly lax.

She took her hands away, letting him breathe—it was a long, tense moment of waiting before he took an easy breath, no wheeze present. Yennefer breathed too, the tension lifting from her shoulders.

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open. His gaze flitted around the room for a moment, landing first on Geralt and then on herself. “Yen,” he said urgently, struggling to sit up. “You’re alright?”

“Of course I am,” she snapped. “I’m not the idiot that drank poison.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” he sighed. “I mean, I had a suspicion, but I didn’t want to die for nothing—”

Yennefer froze. “You had a suspicion?”

“Well, yes,” he answered, frowning. “I highly doubted the Rivians were here under good intentions, and as Geralt has been saying, an attempt on your life was bound to come sooner or later, so—”

“You knew it would be poisoned, and yet you drank anyway? Why the fuck would you do that, Jaskier?” She dug her nails into the tabletop, itching to wring them around his neck.

What sort of fool would knowingly drink poison? Only the braindead or suicidal, and while Yennefer did hold his sanity in question at times, it still didn’t make sense.

He blinked. “Do you really have to ask? It’s as I’ve told you a thousand times in a thousand ways.”

No. No, he couldn’t mean—

“I love you, Yennefer of Vengerberg. I would, in fact, die for you, as we’ve proven.” He grinned. “Don’t say I never live up to my promises.”

While, yes, he’d said as much before, it still stunned Yennefer to hear it said so blatantly, and with such tangible commitment. She’d thought them pretty lies, the fanciful words of a jester that wanted only to flatter his lord.

Unable to come up with a response, she turned and fled. If she stayed in that room, she might end up saying or doing something she would later regret—whether that was wring his fool neck or have him right there on the table, she would never know.

So caught up was she in whirling thoughts of truth and lies, she didn’t notice Geralt was following her until she was nearly to her rooms. “I don’t want company right now, Geralt,” she said tersely, whirling around.

“We need to talk,” Geralt replied, stepping closer. “The Rivians—”

“Leave me alone!” she snarled, which was enough to make him pause, giving her time to dart into her rooms and slam the door behind her. She locked them with a fierce finality, relishing the heavy click that signified she was alone with her thoughts. She pressed her back to the door and her hands to her eyes, seeing the stars that burst behind her eyelids from the pressure.

If she could have but a moment to think, to sort out the mess of thoughts churning in her mind—but no, even now, she could hear raised voices, shouting, the clang of steel on steel. What kind of leader was she, cowering in her rooms like a confused animal, simply because of an ill-timed, unexpected confession of love?

She straightened her armor and drew her swords before opening the door and heading out to face whatever chaos lay in wait. As she grew closer, the voices grew more panicked, and she hurried her steps along until she was nearly running.

Jaskier came stumbling out of her workroom, looking worse for the wear and confused, searching for the source of the commotion the same as she was. “Go lie down,” she snapped. “I just saved your life. I don’t need you undoing all my hard work.”

“But what’s happening? Where’s Geralt?” he asked, craning his head. Then he spotted the swords she carried. “What do you need those for?”

She started to reply, and then—

An explosion. All-consuming, fiery hot, ripping her eardrums apart. She flew backwards and hit the wall, stunned. Through blurry vision, she saw Jaskier tossed like a ragdoll, slumped opposite her, bleeding from the temple.

Her ears were ringing; she blinked. Chunks of stone rained down on her like hailstones, a fine white powder covering everything in a thin layer of dust.

Slowly, slowly, her vision stabilized and her hearing began to return—the first thing she heard were screams.

Her people—she had to help her people. She tried to struggle to her feet, but it was as if her limbs were encased in plaster. She looked down and saw that a large chunk of stone was pinning her legs to the ground—with monumental effort, she lifted it off herself, grunting. She closed her eyes and breathed, in, out, and then staggered upwards.

She checked on Jaskier first—he had a head wound, bleeding profusely, but nothing more serious than that. She clumsily slapped his cheeks a few times until he roused, groaning, eyes squinting shut.

“Are you alright?” she shouted, her own voice hardly reaching her ears. He nodded, eyes still closed, and she left him to recover. Staggering into the hall, she took in the sight before her—it was as if a bomb had gone off, and maybe it had.

The entire hall was bathed in sepia-toned light, the torches guttering in and out in the wake of the blast. Chunks of stone and broken pieces of furniture littered the floor, which had fallen through to the dungeons below. To her surprise and immense thankfulness, there were few bodies—perhaps they’d had advance warning and had fled, screaming.

Four people stood in the middle of it all—she recognized Gudros, flanked by Ozrias and Velah. The fourth had hair as white as bone—“Geralt?” she called, and he slowly turned around. Wrong, wrong, wrong, all her senses screamed.

“Not quite.” He laughed, a chilling sound, unlike Geralt’s own rare laugh in every way. She knew then—this wasn’t Geralt. This hadn’t been Geralt for a good while.

“When?” she asked, though she knew exactly when. It had been that damned trip to the border. “Who are you? Really?”

“We are the rightful leaders of a free Rivia, and we would see her prosper once more, no longer under your bloody banner!” Gudros cried. “You have bewitched Rivia’s citizens. We’ll not see you reign any longer!”

“I’ve bewitched no one,” Yennefer snapped. “If you speak of your loyal knights turning against you—that was your king’s own doing, with his wicked deeds and cruel heart.”

“No! Geralt of Rivia was a good man—we’ll break whatever spell you’ve placed on him, right after we parade your desecrated body through the streets!”

Not-Geralt smiled, all teeth, and dropped the illusion—suddenly, he had changed forms, and now appeared as Yennefer herself. “You’re a doppler,” she said, teeth gritted. “What stake have you in this fight?”

“I’ve lived a long life, you know. To tell you the truth, I’ve grown rather bored with it—and what better game to play than this?”

“You’re sick,” Yennefer spat. “You’ve aligned yourself with murderers and oathbreakers.”

“Would you have me align myself with you, Kingslayer?” the doppler purred. “I see it all, you know—I’m in your head. I see how you kill, and lie, even to yourself.”

With a wordless yell of rage, Yennefer threw herself at the doppler, who met her swords with a sword of its own. It was an even match—perfectly even, with all her skill as a fighter reflected back at her. And with the other three Rivians advancing, it looked to be a quick end for her.

Her people would die, and Jaskier would be captured and most likely enslaved, and Geralt would remain captive to those who believed him brainwashed, subject to tortures as they attempted to break whatever enchantment they believed lay over him. And she would be brought up as an example, her dead body held up to the world to say: this is what happens to those who fight back.

She dodged the first swipe of Gudros’ sword, but it left her open for the doppler to press her back, putting her off-balance. Her foot caught on a chunk of rubble and she teetered backwards, falling to the ground, the doppler pouncing on her at once.

“Here lies the Raven Storm; blustered herself out, little stronger than a gust of wind at the end,” the doppler cackled. Yennefer looked into its eyes—her eyes—and braced herself for the end.

And then a chain looped around the doppler’s neck, choking, burning. The skin beneath the silver links smoked and cracked, blackening, the doppler’s hands scrabbling uselessly at the chain and burning too.

Yennefer looked up to see Jaskier standing tall behind the doppler, one of his many decorative body chains in his hands, his face creased in furious fierceness. Yennefer pushed the doppler off of her, rolling to the side just in time to avoid yet another blow from Gudros. She yelled inarticulately and stabbed upwards, piercing his gut through. Without bothering to check if he was dead, Yennefer turned to Velah and Ozrias, both of whom were advancing on Jaskier, swords drawn.

“Behind you,” she shouted, and he ducked a swipe meant to behead him. She darted over and shoved Velah away with a kick to the side, and in the same motion brought her sword up to parry Ozrias’ next strike. Behind her, she heard the doppler let out a guttural noise and collapse—hopefully dead—and out of the corner of her eye she spotted Jaskier trying to avoid Velah’s wildly swinging sword. He barely dodged the last one, and earned himself a neat score along his cheek, blood pouring forth from the small wound.

Luckily, Ozrias proved to be a rather weak swordfighter, and she killed him with a swift dodge and counterattack, cutting off his head in one swift motion. She threw herself in between Jaskier and Velah just in time, handily disarming her while Jaskier cowered and yelped behind her.

Pointing her sword straight at Velah’s throat, Yennefer demanded, “Where is he?”

Velah threw her hands up. “He’s in Spalla. Please, don’t kill me.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes. “You hurt what’s mine.”

“Please, mercy—” She didn’t finish; she was dead before her body hit the floor. Mercy granted her a quick death, but nothing more. Not after kidnapping her right-hand man, her lover, not after bombing her palace and killing her people, not after hurting Jaskier.

Jaskier took in a deep breath, letting it out shakily. “Whoo. That’s enough excitement for me, I think. I need to sit down,” he said, and sat down right there in the middle of the wreckage.

Yennefer busied herself with cleaning her sword. “So you don’t want to come to Spalla with me?” she asked casually, and he sprang back up to his feet—albeit shakily.

“No, no, I’m in! Someone has to write sweeping songs of your victories there.” He paused. “Just, maybe, a moment to catch my breath? I’ve never really—ah—never had to fight for my life before. Never killed anyone, either. I think my body might be shutting down?” he squeaked, sinking to his knees. “My—my heart is beating so fast, gods, and my hands feel all tingly, and I’m shaking—”

“That’s the adrenaline,” Yennefer answered, kneeling down as well. “It will pass.”

“Good. Because this—well, is this what you feel all the time?” He looked up at her, a dawning sort of respect in his gaze.

She shrugged. “You get used to it eventually. But yes, more or less.”

“Color me impressed, then.” As they spoke, the color began to return to his cheeks, and his frantic breathing slowed, and his shaking died down. “Alright. I’m feeling better, I think.”

“Good,” she echoed, sheathing her sword and helping him up. “Because now we ride for Rivia.”

“To Rivia,” he repeated. “Hey, do you think Geralt will be impressed? Bet he’s never killed a doppler before.”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” she replied, but couldn’t hide the small smile that graced her face.

Her palace was in ruins, and Geralt had been kidnapped, and they were about to go to war with Rivia for the second time, but somehow she knew—it would be alright.

#the witcher #geraskefer #yenskier #yennskier #yenralt #geralt #jaskier #yennefer #warlord au #accidental warlord au #hurt jaskier #jaskier whump #in the rare event that i write more ask to be tagged

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callistolivia · 5 years ago

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Lilith in the Birthchart

“Within Black Moon Lilith, we find a woman’s turmoils and fears, the balance between how people see women and how we wish to see women, the internal and external rejection of womanhood, absurd reactions and compensations to actively change perception (transformation), the snake. Lilith isn’t of lust, isn’t a creature, demon, seductress, witch, nor Adam ex-wife... She is purely a metaphor of young womanhood and coming to terms with woman’s fears and desires; the uniqueness of the female experience.” Look at this post here for my full interpretation of Black Moon Lilith.

I realize this post, as well as my other post on Lilith, plus other posts I’ve done on feminine asteroids, will be controversial to a lot of people as it heavily focuses on women/feminine experience. To me, I think the astrological placement of Lilith (among other certain placements) hold particular importance to the female experience. So I pardon my blatant exclusion of male experience and I can imagine that a lot of the themes I am describing can work in a male’s birth chart. The psychological history behind Lilith has strong connections to female representation which is why I interpret it this way. With that all said, everyone has both masculine and feminine energies working within their chart which is to be remembered.

Black Moon Lilith in the Birthchart

Interpret by house first, as the house Lilith is in uncovers more of the whereabouts to its themes in your life. Though, by sign will also uncover themes, especially in a strong sign such as Scorpio. Aspects to Lilith can also indicate the condition of the affected house.

I House/Aries Lilith here is on the forefront and becomes an integral part of the individual’s identity. Its as if Inanna herself is personified in the individual (especially true if Lilith conjuncts the ascendant!) and she is on a quest to carve her throne in the Huluppu tree. The fears enveloped here revolve around being true to oneself and having an authentic feminine experience in their lifetime. There are also fears of being perceived in an unfavoured way and others making poor assumptions about the individual. These individuals will go through many trials of what is means to be a woman, especially in very pivotal moments of their life. They’re going to go through many moments of questioning their identity and will likely struggle at times to accept that they are perfect just the way they are. These individuals may go out of their way to seek validation for who they are and these outlets aren’t always good (especially if Lilith is ill-aspected). Natural attractiveness is common for individuals with this goddess placement, but they should be wary of this power to draw energies force (Some already are and may even fear attraction of others, especially when its for superficial reasons). It’s important for the individual to stay with the right crowd and not worry so much about their authenticity as it comes more naturally than they think.

II House/Taurus Lilith in the house regarding value explores themes of self-value. Lilith at its worst here can manifest in issues dealing with body image; the individual may have trouble loving their body and neglect to care for it. The individual’s relationship with food and nutrition can be particularly troublesome, especially if Lilith is ill-aspected here. Compensation is another theme to follow as a consequence to issues dealing with self-value. The individual may compensate in areas where they feel inadequate with themselves by material means. Spoiling oneself, food, money, beauty, extreme alteration, or anything to mask one’s true self are all second house compensations Lilith looks for to feel better, worthy, or secure in this world. Remarkably, the individual’s capacity for transformation is great. If they can heal their wounds and fears around the value of themselves, they can redirect that perception of unreachable perfection into their work. Artists in particular can benefit from this redirection of energy. It’s really important for these individuals to navigate away from material things giving them importance to this world; every material thing they think they need is really just a compensation for something they failed to see within themselves that has always been there.

III House/Gemini Lilith here resembles a tale of trickery, when the goddess Inanna intoxicates “lord of wisdom,” Enki into giving her all of his knowledge and wisdom. Symbolically, Lilith holds all of truth, wisdom, and knowledge here. Particularly the theme of women holding knowledge and the empowerment in that is strong here as well. Individuals with this placement tend to be cunning; this placement is comparable to Mercury-Pluto or Mercury-Moon aspects. Lilith speaks through the individual, some of what the individual has to say evokes fear, though there is just as much power to negate and heal fear as well. Lilith here at its worst can make individuals liars and manipulators, at its best unravellers of mysteries and forecomings of truth. Since the third house has rulership over siblings and early education, this placement can have a “coming-of-age” theme to it. Often the fears and anxieties the individual has is stems from observing their siblings and peers go through their struggles at a young age and they reflect on what that means for them (especially for young girls). Some of these fears and insecurities from their youth stick with them and they continue to ponder their adolescence as an adult. These individuals tend to have a fixed perception (especially true if the third house is occupied by a fixed sign) of womanhood and aren’t afraid to speak their mind about it. They are easily disgusted and troubled by observing others with opposing perspectives. With that said, some of these individuals tend to be hypocritical and aren’t aware of it. The individual may need to learn to be more of a safe-haven for open discussion to work through their insecurities.

IV House/Cancer Lilith presenting itself in the first of the three soul houses demonstrates ancestral fear, turmoils, and mysteries. Often these individuals fears start out very subconsciously and are developed from witnessing other family members (maternal figures especially) go through something traumatic. Witnessing their mother struggle through their own perceptions of what it means to be a woman in this world has a tremendous effect on the individual, especially at a young age; it often shapes how the individual will view themselves and their place in the world. It can also make the individual have many preconceived ideas on motherhood, domestic life, and relationships between parents based on being their mother’s observer in their youth. If the relationship between the individual and their maternal figure(s) isn’t good, it can be difficult to address and heal these traumas. Sometimes these individuals can be total estranged from their maternal figures and have an unclear idea of what their stories are; many secrets can be kept from the individual and there can be a bit of loss in identity (e.g. no feminine guidance in youth/how to be feminine/rejection of femininity). The individual’s household can sometimes be a reflection of their inner turmoils, they may neglect making it their safe space or they see it as a cause to a lot of their issues. Lilith here can also express itself in a form of past life karma or a karmic cycle the individual may be in. The individual needs to work through what their fears, turmoils, and angers are tied to in order to break this cycle.

V House/Leo Lilith here is a trial of what a woman is allowed to do. Since the fifth house rules over creations and pleasures, there is a lot of experimentation in just that. The individuals feel as though push their limits and test the waters in everything because the world is antagonistic towards their identity. Their fear is being casted into an archetype; at an early age they would be introduced to concepts of how the world perceives the role of femininity. A lot of their behaviour can be excessive or reckless, especially in their youth. There is a tendency towards promiscuousness especially; they’re putting the two feminine archetypes on trial and attempting to destroy the notion that you can only be of the two based on what you do; the virgin Mary or the prostitute. Though a noble intention, these individuals can often be misguided with their excessive behaviours. They spend too much energy on trying to prove something to the world about their being when they don’t need to. Lilith here has the capacity to transform and redirect this noble energy into creative efforts. Artists can benefit with this placement as their creations are often thought provoking and, in essence, demonstrate trials of femininity. The creative expression of Lilith here is much more healing, gratifying, and gains more positive recognition. Lilith here can also indicate either the choice of not having children or that the individual’s child will be very Lilithian in nature.

VI House/Virgo Lilith here presents itself irrationally, particularly, and sporadically. Though the individual doesn’t feel Lilith’s influence on a constant, it can be experienced on a day to day basis temporarily while doing minute or seemingly regular things. The fears brought upon here correlate to injury or illness (diseases, losing limbs, loss of function, etc.). These individuals find themselves irrationally thinking of the “what ifs” of rather normal situations. It should be stressed though, that often these individual’s fears are often not debilitating, just invasive and vivid. However, a strong 6th house/Virgo influence coincide with Lilith being there can indicate some obsessive compulsive behaviours and just in general lots of situations where the individual feels the need to do something a certain way to negate harm. The other prominent theme of Lilith here is a women’s experience in the working world. The transition between a young, inexperienced woman to an experienced one is a pivotal moment in Lilith’s expression here. There may be many difficulties, assumptions, and fears correlated to getting work, job experience, and moving up in their field. The individual’s fears often are related to feeling inadequate based on their identity, presumptions about themselves, and inhibitions because of their heightened awareness that their identity (especially for women, as a woman) places them in a particular way in the world. Their own perceptions of themselves are often the most inhibiting; the best way to transform and feel empowered with Lilith here is to be unapologetically yourself and take the world by surprise.

VII House/Libra In the seventh house, Lilith expresses fears of counterparts, peers, and juxtapositions. Lilith here usually hints to a tainted perception of relationships developed at a young age (e.g. abusive relationships firsthand or observed). The individual can be very suspicious and distrusting of close relationships and partnerships, they are very skeptical of others motives, especially of the opposite sex. This may be troublesome for the individual in relationships as they can be suspicious of their partner even with constant reassurance and stability. These issues can only be healed over time with positive, healthy relationships. Lilith in the seventh house is also troubled by their perception of themselves in comparison to others and vice versa. In particular, the conscious awareness of differences (and similarities) between genders and gendered experiences. Alternatively, Lilith here manifests as the individual’s reflection in others. The individual encounters people whose stories inspire things within their identity they’ve failed to see before. The mirror Lilith presents to the individual can be empowering and beautiful or destructive and ugly. When the individual chooses to surround themselves with empowering and inspiring individuals, it will bring out the good Lilith has to offer, especially for female experiences.

VIII House/Scorpio Lilith presenting itself in the second of three soul houses demonstrates yet again, a level of ancestral fear, turmoils, and mysteries. Fears experienced on a more conscious level, but run as deep as their soul. Often their fears revolve around sexuality and severe distrust of other people’s motives. It’s very difficult for these individuals to ignore harsh realities and they may even go out of their way to witness gruesome things which awakens outrage within. These individuals can view sex and intimacy as something traumatic and have a difficult time opening up to their partners; intimacy requires a tremendous amount of trust. Even when that trust is gained, there can be a deeply rooted discomfort in being viewed in a lustful manner. They can be very hateful towards the opposite sex and protective of their own. These individuals hate (or fear) to appear small or vulnerable and may even act dominant or controlling in relationships. These individuals need to work towards trusting others in order to let go of the grip Lilith has here. Another theme Lilith expresses is a fear of death, fear of knowing, and fear of the occult. This can be especially difficult for a person who is psychically sensitive. The individual may go out of their way to inhibit or block their own gifts due to the fear of it showing something they were not prepared for. Again, trust is a big aspect of overcoming these fears, but also knowledge and perceptiveness to know how to keep oneself from harm.

IX House/Sagittarius Lilith in the ninth house carries some of the same themes as Lilith in the third, however the difference is that instead of fixed perceptions on womanhood, their perceptions are more like beliefs and morals. They think their beliefs are imperative and the highest of truths which ultimately can be dogmatic and misguided. Their fixed beliefs are usually rooted from fear and superstition. They can be just as hypocritical as Lilith in the third too, especially when their consciousness isn’t clear (drugs or alcohol or any sort of substance abuse involved). Inner insecurities need to be addressed and healed to have a more rational perspective on life. There is a hyperfixation on the higher learnings of womanhood, some of these individuals can become reclusive; some women with this placement even opt to not marry. These individuals find empowerment in independence. Lilith at its best here can become a teacher to others, particularly beneficial for people interested in women’s studies and women’s health; however these individuals should be wary of their biases and their perceptions that are deeply rooted in their personal experiences thus far. Themes of feminine ritual take place here as well, which is in part of their tendency to superstition. Individual’s ritualism is developed at a young age and becomes a prominent part of their truth and reality as an adult.

X House/Capricorn Lilith here can be rather difficult for the female experience. The themes brought upon here are a lot to do with the public’s speculation of the individual. These individuals tend to have a seemingly easy-breezy path towards the top of their field, in fact, one might say the top of their ambition drew them in as much as they drew it. However, Lilith here has a magnifying glass over it; the watchful eyes of the public seeing, judging, and speculating the individual’s every move. The individual may find themselves dealing with a lot of rumours about them, prosecution by association, misconceptions, unwanted drama, and assumptions. A lot of the troubles are correlated to society’s perception of how a woman should behave. The public sees the individual as the dark and mischievous version of Lilith, the public desires and feeds on that perception of the individual. As a result, the individual may purposefully act out or feel complete shame and go into hiding. Issues dealing with feeling vulnerable all the time because of their identity are very present within the individual. Lilith at its best here can make a notable feminine figurehead, the individual just needs to work on transforming the public’s perception of femininity as something empowering. The other theme with Lilith in the tenth house is potential issues with the paternal figure in the individual’s life. There’s potential that the paternal figure had a great impact on the core of individual’s feminine experience and perceptions in life.

XI House/Aquarius Lilith in the eleventh house deals with themes of the individual’s collective consciousness being at the core of their feminine experience. Collective consciousness usually meaning their friends; prominent, reality shaping experiences with their friends and peers at a young age are at the core of their insecurities, fears, and perceptions of feminine energy. This placement does demonstrate not so great relations with friends, especially female friends. In fact, that is Lilith in the eleventh house at its worst; bullying from female friends and the psychological damage from that. It’s very easy for individuals with this placement to alienate themselves from others based on negative experiences. At its best, collective consciousness can be beneficial for exploring and understanding femininity and female experience as a whole, but the individual with this placement will have to navigate through to find the right people, or their people. Individuals with this placement may be interested in helping others struggling with feminine identity and some of the struggles of womanhood as they are quite empathetic to that experience. Another theme with Lilith here is the value of platonic relations. Individuals with this placement struggle with the stage between a platonic relationship and blooming attraction. There’s a deep discomfort with it, especially if they value the relationship as just a friendship and nothing more. They can also be suspicious of the motives of new friendships, perhaps from deeply rooted insecurity or simply that they don’t want a romantic/sexual relationship.

XII House/Pisces Lilith presenting itself in the third and final soul house is completely unconscious; Lilith is asleep and almost absent here. Loss of feminine identity takes place here. Individuals with this placement will experience Lilith’s themes within their dreams and times of total darkness. Individuals with this placement aren’t always aware of their trauma, fears, or turmoils. There’s a chance something traumatic happened to them at a time they cannot remember or it’s something they blocked out entirely, but tends to haunts them within their dreams. These individuals tend to be very angry at themselves for things they cannot control and for things that are often not their fault. These individuals are also escapists; they are very susceptible to addiction or obsessive compulsive behaviours. Though, Most 12th house Lilith individuals escape through sleeping. Excessive sleeping, however, leads to guilt. These individuals fear death and don’t want to watch life pass them by. There’s a big theme here of push and pull; doing everything you can in life to not regret missing out and the absence of living life. Lilith here needs to seek balance and acceptance instead of pondering too much about what fate lies within them. The unconscious traumas within them need to be carefully addressed and healed as well to feel comfortable with their identity and place in this world (especially as a woman).

#astrology #lilith #Black Moon Lilith #lilith in the houses #lilith in the signs

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rainingpouringetc · 4 years ago

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Hi! So, I’ve been wondering what the problem with Anna Lightwood is, because my brain saw that she was bending gender norms and hit love. But, now that I’m on tumblr, people are saying that she is problematic?

hi! i’ll try my best to explain, idk if i’ll hit everything but i hope this helps. and i’m sorry it took me a while, i wanted to do it justice so i tried to cover my bases and do my research.

basically, anna has said and done things that came across to many as ignorant, racist, and even misogynistic.

first, let’s look at “every exquisite thing” from ghosts of the shadowhunter market.

“If I were to tell my parents the truth about myself, if I were to reveal who I really am, they would despise me. I would be friendless, cast out, alone.”

Anna shook her head.

“They would not,” she said. “They would love you. You are their daughter.”

Ariadne drew her hand back from Anna’s. “I am adopted, Anna. My father is the Inquisitor. I do not have parents who are as understanding as yours must be.”

“But love is what matters,” said Anna.

this is from when ariadne was trying to explain why she would be getting engaged to charles. anna is very lucky: her family loves and accepts her and she’s able to live her life as she wishes, which we see her doing in chain of gold. ariadne, however, is not as lucky, and she has to take into consideration the conditions of her parents’ love. anna apparently struggles to understand this, ignoring ariadne’s valid concerns and telling her that it doesn’t matter because “love is what matters,” as if it makes everything perfect.

this is where anna’s ignorance begins to show through. ariadne is: (a) a woman in the late 1800s/early 1900s (i don’t remember for sure what year this story took place but i’d assume 1900s), (b) indian at a time when india is under british rule, (c) adopted, and (d) a lesbian shadowhunter. we know enough about how intolerant people have been about homosexuality, but shadowhunters are a whole other story. put all of this together and you have someone who is terrified of letting down her family and being shunned by society more than she already has been. in ariadne’s mind, she has no choice but to hide who she is.

anna ignores this. entirely. she doesn’t take the time to talk to ariadne about her concerns, but rather skirts around them and insists that what she wants is what’s more important. this is highly indicative of her privilege and how she puts herself before others and others’ feelings.

now let’s look at chain of gold. there are two scenes in particular that i want to look at, but there are more.

“I quite like your mother. She reminds me of a queen out of a fairy tale, or a peri from Lalla Rookh. You’re half-Persian, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said, a little warily.

“Then why is your brother so blond?” Anna asked. “And you so redheaded--I thought Persians were darker-haired.”

Cordelia set her cup down. “There are all sorts of Persians, and we all look different,” she said. “You wouldn’t expect everyone in England to look alike, would you? Why should it be different for us? My father is British and very fair, and my mother’s hair was red when she was a little girl. Then it darkened, and as for Alastair--he dyes his hair.”

“He does?” Anna’s eyebrows, graceful swooping curves, went up. “Why?”

“Because he hates that his hair and skin and eyes are dark,” said Cordelia. “He always has. We have a country house in Devon, and people used to stare when we went into the village.”

Anna’s eyebrows had ceased swooping and taken on a decidedly menacing look. “People are--” She broke off with a sigh and a word Cordelia didn’t know. “Now I rather feel sympathy toward your brother, and that was the last thing I wanted. Quick, as me a question.”

this scene is from cordelia’s tea with anna. i won’t touch so much on the “peri from lalla rookh” comment so much as i’m afraid i don’t feel well enough qualified or researched to adequately represent people’s concerns about this statement, but i do know that there were several posts going around about people discussing how it rubbed them the wrong way, so i thought i would include it as well.

the rest, though, is a bit more obvious. one of the things about books is that it can be more difficult to interpret someone’s words and their meaning because we don’t have things like tone or facial expressions or any of that unless the author explicitly includes it. however, we can draw on the way other characters react to certain comments. cordelia goes on the defense, answering anna’s question “a little warily,” setting aside her tea and explaining rather bluntly that not all persians look the same. it’s pretty easy to infer from her reaction that she’s uncomfortable from anna’s words. now, is that to say anna was intentionally being racist toward cordelia and her family? absolutely not. this is where microaggressions come into play. we see them with anna and also with matthew and even jessamine (though we see hers in the infernal devices rather than the last hours). microaggressions, while often unintentional, are still a form of racism. given the times these characters have grown up in, it’s not necessarily a surprise, but that certainly doesn’t excuse her behavior.

there is, however, a more intentional party to this scene that really rubbed me the wrong way. it’s her discussion of alastair. cordelia has just explained that alastair dyes his hair to stop people from staring at him when he’s walking down the street, and anna replies that she feels sympathy for him and that is “the last thing” she wanted. i understand that she has her own feelings about alastair, likely from listening to the merry thieves’ depiction of him, but that doesn’t excuse her. she even starts to say something about it, likely drawing on her own experiences of wearing menswear at a time when fashion was much more strictly regulated in society than it is today. but she stops herself and instead goes on to reemphasize her dislike for cordelia’s brother and changes the subject.

She held up a small black-bound memorandum book... “This,” she announced, “will hold answers to all our questions.”

...

Matthew looked up, his eyes fever-bright. “Is this your list of conquests?”

“Of course not,” Anna declared. “It’s a memorandum book... about my conquests. That is an important but meaningful distinction.”

...

Anna flipped through the book. There were many pages, and many names written in a bold, sprawling hand.

“Hmm, let me see. Katherine, Alicia, Virginia--a very promising writer, you should look out for her work, James--Mariane, Virna, Eugenia--”

“Not my sister Eugenia?” Thomas nearly upended his cake.

“Oh, probably not,” Anna said. “Laura, Lily... ah, Hypatia. Well, it was a brief encounter, and I suppose you might say she seduced me...”

i hope i don’t have to explain this one too much. there’s just something... unsettling about the fact that anna is held up as this feminist icon and yet she keeps a book with the names of and her encounters with all the women she’s slept with... and then reads those names aloud to everyone. it’s a bit much, don’t you think? and all of this is even without touching the leak we got about her and ariadne, which i’d rather not speculate on too much but is also quite damning.

all in all, i’d like to believe anna is really a good person who’s just misguided and confused, much because i love the idea of a genderqueer character, especially one in an era before stonewall, but her actions and behaviors have led me to believe that she has a long road ahead of her. as i said earlier this week:

let me get something clear: i would die for fanon anna but canon anna needs to get her shit together before i’ll willingly breathe in her direction

i really hope this was helpful... i did my best lol. if anyone else has more to add, please feel free.

#ask answered #anon #anna lightwood #tlh #the last hours #chain of gold

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themilky-way · 4 years ago

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like water {din djarin}

gif credit: no-droids

pairing: the mandalorian/din djarin x fem!reader

summary: when the one person he cares about is threatened, he lets himself indulge in the aftermath of defending them.

warnings: some violence in the beginning, choking (not in the fun way), depictions of scratches, punches, and minor abrasions; the reader is hurt basically. oh and mando’s gun bc yeah❤️umm that’s it i think? nothing too horrible tho but if this thing triggers you, please don’t read !!

author’s note: not to be conceited or anything (is that even the right word for it lol?) but im super proud of how this turned out! requests are open btw for anyone who wishes to submit anything (if unsure, just ask which fandoms)!

----------

cyar’ika-> darling, sweetheart

nothing in that exact moment had made much sense. one minute the most precious thing to ever exist to him was snatched away, and the next his hands were gripping the treasure beneath his holster. his knuckles were lily-white at this point, holding the gun as hard as his body would allow him to without crushing underneath him, and the urge to cock it made him visibly shake. he’d been given a command, and out of all the merciless men in the filthy galaxy, he needed to follow it, so his weapon of preference stayed where it needed to.

the meager specks of emotion that still lived within him betrayed his prominent composure, the view in front of him blocked by the sudden glaze of his eyes. the small drops of saltwater puddled together in his now hazy orbs, holding on until it was nearly impossible to stay put and then rivered down his cheeks. the cause? well, you.

you were filling up the mandalorian’s line of vision, his eyes darting between you and the bounty that had gone wrong. an alienated hand was wrapped around your innocent throat, your feeble hands wrapped around its wrist in a dumb attempt to break free. the ground you were roaming on before appeared to be never ending, and in the same way, the darkened sky absorbed you whole. vertigo was now in full effect; any quick movement caused you to shut your eyes tightly and hope to the maker you’d get through it. it took a few seconds for you to regain your balance, a sharp pain pinging around your neck forcing you to find it. you half expected to be back on the mud again, to have the man you had spent the past year flying around with pulling you to safety. instead, you found din frozen in place, an instinctive action rooted in the steel handle of his pistol. he wasn’t moving, too scared to blink as if you’d disappear if he did.

perhaps you were; someone like you seemed too good to be true. in all actuality, it may be that you were a fever dream, a celestial that had come down from the sanctity of your home to finally rescue him from his burdens. amidst his frantic glances, he reminisced every second he’d spent with you since your unforeseen arrival, and that somehow worked for him. the gears in his brain started to turn again, and with every ounce of his strength, he pounced on the quarry and did what he should’ve done the instant you were taken from him. anger took over his worry, the effects illustrating themselves in a collage of mitted fists and blood. the pistol residing on din’s waist was useless compared to his hits; the softened position of his jawbone was locked firmly as a result of his gritted teeth and he was going to need more than your delicate hand on his shoulders to ground his senses.

the mandalorian never expected to succumb to anyone, nor to feel remotely joyful upon hearing someone’s laugh. the idea of kindling a relationship was ludicrous, utterly impossible if only he weren’t bound to the chains of his creed. oftentimes, he wondered if someone would one day traverse his path and make him question every moral he’d been taught. din had dismissed the thought, as any other member of his intricate society would have, but the wondrous insight depicting a different lifestyle always lingered faintly in his mind.

today, the very same visions behind his recurrent insomnia framed themselves in a frail art piece. din’s focus laid directly ahead, the fingers navigating the center controls as tight as they’d been on his gun. his eyes deserved to rest, perhaps take in the splashes of color nature was offering him, but he landed them on the same lovely sculpture adorning his cockpit.

you were seated in the chair adjacent from the pilot’s, with your knees closely tucked to your chest. one large scrape designed itself on your leg-a dull reminder of the ordeal you were involved in hours earlier-with flakes of arid blood protecting the wound. bouncing off the skin of your throat were shades of red and purple, now properly mixing into a deeper complexion that’d require you to hide it for some time. besides the scattered nicks living on your face, and the other couple dozen on your arms and legs, the outcome wasn’t as terrible as the one your attacker received. it was a rule of thumb to not mess with a mandalorian, much less with the pretty little lady clutching his arm as if it were second nature. the foolest of fools wouldn’t even have done such a foul thing, and this particular creature came to know the punishment for harming what wasn’t rightfully his.

it truly amazed him; the way you seemed to be so unphased by a traumatic circumstance. the woman beside him-the same one who couldn’t sleep unless a window was open-had endured pain, and the marks on her skin proved themselves in jagged indications of it. through the darkened screen of his visor, din could make out your hands neatly intertwined around your folded knees, your chin simultaneously resting on top. you’d been as observant as you always were, hardly missing his actions as he navigated his newfound family to a safe stop. sure, you were unaware of the loving term he considered of you and the baby, but it didn’t hurt to keep it a secret, right?

“hey.” it came out more hoarse than he intended it to, but the emotion behind it flowed out nonetheless. “you okay?”

not really. i don’t feel good. it was easy to say exactly that, to speak the truth, but it was even easier to lie. for the sake of his own worry, at most. your eyes were still glued to his armor, taking in the rough outline of where you imagined his skin would be underneath, or moreso the abstract idea of feeling it with your hands. reflections of your yearning came and went like the mandalorian’s missions, almost impulsively at times, and the curious, teasing tilts his helmet would bid you only encouraged that craving. much like now; the black “T” of his expressionless face leaned to the side, asking you to earnestly respond. “mm, yeah. ‘m kinda tired, though,” you mumbled.

you threw him a lie and he caught it. “don’t lie to me.” din swiveled his chair to accordingly match the peripheral of yours, his elbows coming to rest on top of his beskar-clad legs. “can you look at me?” he inquired softly. then, his intent fell on the slow shift of your head and how it turned to face him, your cheek settling on your unscathed knee. a breath fell from his lips at the doting admiration swimming in your stare. “there she is,” he confirmed with an upward curl of his lips. “is there anything i can do?” it was sincere; a genuine concern to accompany his question. you hummed in response, fearful to accidentally voice the confessions you hid from him. you blinked once, twice, until his question became a plea. “please, cyar’ika.”

reasonably, you were too busy exploring the shape of his helmet, permitting your creative imagination to paint images of the man next to you; so when your ears perceived his sudden name of endearment, there was nothing amongst the stars that you could’ve possibly denied him from. “you’ve never called me that before,” you smiled, all big and brilliant.

“i’ve wanted to,” the man replied. what resembled ages of pent up stress released with a few curated words. his muscles relaxed, something he never believed to be attainable given his vigorous profession. “god, i’ve wanted to.”

he followed it with a humble laugh. a sound so familiar and warm, so genuine that it empowered your grin to spread higher. “by all means, keep saying it.” now it was your turn to nervously giggle, and him who embraced the noise with everything he could. a mutual infatuation, so wonderfully obvious, yet it was refused acknowledgment. “i think there is something you can do, though.” silence advised you to continue, “can i sleep with you tonight?”

the misguided pieces of your minds’, maybe even your souls’, reattached themselves that very same night. as the both of you slept, hands, calloused and smooth, intimately merged against the cushions of the warrior’s bed. tender kisses planted to your forehead left electricity in their wake, and the dark ambiance of his dwelling favored the entanglement of your tired bodies.

“i wish i could see you, din,” you sighed. the manner in which it was expressed, full of sleep and everything akin, urged him to lift your weightless wrist to his lips.

“you’ll get to one day, cyar’ika. for now just let me hold you, yeah?”

#not me writing fanfiction better than ap literature essays #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin #star wars #pedro pascal #my writing!

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cno-inbminor · 4 years ago

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adsentio - stagnation

a/n: we’re back with prince!akaashi, royalty!au, extra part. i promise i was writing the wedding scene, but then it started storming pretty heavily...and my brain said, “no, Kay. it’s rainy hours. write angst. you know you want to.” and...this happened.

NOTE: for this specific scenario, it’s not 100% necessary to read ‘adsentio’, the main story. however, there are details that reference it and subsequent parts. the basic idea is: you and prince akaashi had been set up to marry since you were children, and while the both of you were against it for a while, feelings changed for the better.

summary: after a few years of being married, you find yourself firmly concluding that indeed, akaashi no longer loves you.

genre: angst!! with happy ending though. wc: ~2.9k

main story: adsentio (pt. 1) | bonus letters (pt. 1.5) | the masque (pt. 2)

Whenever torrents of rain cascade over the kingdom, down the vine-ridden castle walls and pattering upon the lake, many will pause in their tasks and gaze out the nearest windowpane. Thunder may rumble and lightning may strike, yet everyone registers the same twist in their stomachs. An unease lies beneath their skin; a chill that wickedly summons horripilation. In an effort to battle the shadows, fires begin to roar, one by one through the castle. Aches and pains arise in bodies as the masses wait with bated breath for the rainbow to appear as it always does.

Smoke floats through the chimneys and taints the air, evident by the wisps of gray and onyx. Yet they are unnoticed and in stealth on this dreary night where everyone must succumb to the understanding that there will be no rainbow. The controller of the tides will peak above the midnight clouds and attempt to shine, but never strong enough to guide the nightly travelers.

Even with the tamed inferno in the chambers, a puff of visible air leaves your lips. Your hands clasp tightly together, your fingers intertwining with each other in your lap as you sit in front of your vanity. Raindrops beat against the glass of the balcony doors, glistening in their trail towards the ground. Yet as soon as they fall onto stone, the drop shatters and colors the surface. It paints and paints until the blemishes appear and the imperfections glare towards the skies.

Jewels sit heavy on your figure, your crown resting on a cushion atop your vanity. But in this moment, nothing weighs more than the wedding ring on your left hand. It’s crushing, suffocating; it burns a print and imprisons your appendage, reminding you of unspoken promises ghosted against your ear. The gems hold decades of memories, being passed down from queen to future queen, and you wonder if any of them proceeded with what you plan on doing.

Akaashi had entered the room as smooth as a serpent, silent like a zephyr. Your only warning of his presence is the raised hairs on the back of your neck, your body tensing just as his hands placed themselves on your shoulders from behind. Another breath is drawn from your lungs as he peers into the mirror at you, the faintest expression of happiness drawn from his lips. But it’s lifeless. It’s the one he reserves for meetings and pleasantries, for when he disagrees with his father but has no choice to comply. His eyes are darkened with death and dissatisfaction, and has been for almost two weeks now.

His brows only marginally furrow with concern at your lack of reaction, how you seem to be looking past him. Your own expression comes off as solemn yet nervous, as if you’ve committed a grave sin.

“Is anything wrong, my dear?” He asks gently, watching carefully.

Your lips purse as you turn your head towards the hand on your right shoulder. They no longer provide the warmth and comfort that they did so many years ago, but only serve to freeze your soul and weave together the insecurities that you had painstakingly unraveled. Akaashi continues to gaze at you in silence as you stand from your seat, wordlessly beckoning for him to take your place. With guarded hesitation, he does as you say. Instead of standing behind him as he did you, you instead take the space on his right, facing his side profile. Feeling unnerved, he turns to face you rather than his own reflection.

In times of vulnerability, you have always struggled to find your footing, to feel that you are powerful. You believe there is a strength in possessing self-awareness and having the ability to convey those thoughts to someone who cares and knows. Just because you feel small in the moment does not mean you must be small. You can tower over the other person as you do now, forcing your prince to lift his chin to speak to you.

“You are unhappy,” you whisper ruefully.

“I don’t…I don’t understand,” he fibs, his eyes wavering as he directs his gaze away from yours. In that brief moment of eye contact, you had seen the show end, but the curtains lifted, the gears turning and unveiling his chaotic despair.

“You cannot lie to me, milord. And only you are incapable of doing so with me.”

He lets out an arduous sigh and slouches his back, a pose of defeat and exhaustion. A dagger twists his heart at the title, but his reticence allows you to continue.

“I can only imagine that there have been many women in my position before, where they must continue to rule with locked lips and the key thrown. There must have been many who were as hopeful as me, and yet as time aged us, we had to turn the other way and simply learn to accustom ourselves to the new surroundings. With how long we have known each other, I know almost everything about you. To most, you may only have a few sitting postures. But to me, you have tens. Each little movement indicates something different, something you happen to be thinking or feeling at that moment. It’s ingrained into my brain by sheer force and repetition, and I’m beginning to wish I was more oblivious. Perhaps, then, I would at least have been a happy fool, content with my misguided beliefs.”

“What are you trying to say?” He enquires as he dares to face you again. With regret, loss, and grief, he watches as your eyes begin to shine with tears and the most bittersweet smile on your face begin to form.

“You no longer love me.

“And I have no objection to that,” you continue, raising a hand to stop any of his interjections. “I should have known that you would eventually tire and wish for what I had voiced all those years ago: some freedom, some choice. As much as you had convinced yourself that marrying me was unequivocally your free will, you no longer believe it. All of your interactions with me scream so, and I have no intentions to attempt to convince you otherwise. Doing so would be hypocritical of me. So for now,” you pause, looking down at your hands while catching your breath.

Akaashi can hear the tremble of your lungs over the crack of thunder and the beating of the heavens. But everything deafens when your right hand hovers over your left ring finger. They hesitate and shake, reaching then reclining, before grasping the ornate band and slowly, lamentably removing it. You then extend a hand to gently grasp one of his, placing the piece of jewelry in his open palm, then curling his fingers closed around it.

“For now, I shall return this to you. You may do as you wish, as I will not stop you. Perhaps…we were not lucky enough for love.”

You sleep with your back to him that night, unwilling to face him when only mere inches exist between you two. You miss how Akaashi turns to face your back, how his arm tentatively reaches to wrap around your waist before pulling back, and can only slip into his dreams when counting the strands of your hair.

“The Prince urgently requests that you meet him in the library, Your Highness.”

“Now?”

“Preferably, yes.”

“Very well, I shall be there shortly,” you sigh, your turning away signaling the messenger’s dismissal. Your head bends down to take one last look at the embroidery in your lap, your fingers finishing some last few stitches for an appropriate stopping point. Fingers cautiously smooth the wrinkles of your day dress, and you take one last deep breath.

The journey to the library is painstakingly laborious, as though each step you made had been done with shackles around your ankles. There is a weight to the sound of your heels clicking against the ground. Maids and butlers shuffle past you with heads bowed, though you seem to deep in a trance to observe.

Much of the energy and power that you felt you had exuded those nights ago had soon dissipated from your body. Your body resembles an empty shell, devoid of a plan to stand on your feet and continue with your normal activities. Your left ring finger screams into the numbing void, the missing weight almost bearing its own scarlet letter. You stayed in your room as much as possible, requesting meals to be delivered to the chambers. Akaashi nearly always needed to be away, taking care of kingdom affairs in preparation for his inevitable ascension to the throne. The only times you were ever near him were in the mornings and nights. You understood he was allowing some space for you, yet to request your presence…

Soon, you stand in the doorway of the royal library, the wooden entrance left ajar. The space acts as a safe haven for anyone in the castle; you gently press it open with the pad of your fingers. Hundreds of books on shelves line the walls with a few tables and lounging couches, yet it is eerily empty. Typically, there would be another person climbing one of the ladders to reach a high book, but even those are gathering dust for now.

Akaashi is in the farthest corner by the window, small stacks of bound journals and novels on almost every available space of the surface. He stands tall by the glass, looking out towards the gardens with his hands clasped behind his back. You take this moment of his oblivion to appreciate the back of the man before you, choking back and battling the agonizing twist of your heart. It is a moment you feel that you no longer deserve, but whatever it may be, the matter seems far less urgent than what the butler had told you.

You near him and clear your throat, the noise causing him to spin on his heels. He looks somewhat taken aback, but quickly composes himself as you curtsy. “I am here, Your Highness. I was told you had urgent matters to discuss.”

Akaashi sighs somewhat before sitting in the chair, beckoning you to come closer to the desk. His complexion seems pale and almost gaunt, and in turn, you frown. Was he not sleeping? Or eating? Has his father been putting too much pressure on his shoulders?

“I must confess,” he begins softly and refuses to meet your eyes. “The matter isn’t as urgent as I made it out to be. But I wanted to see you as soon as possible as it is still important and does concern you.”

“Did I…do something wrong?”

“Of course not,” he immediately denies, taking a hasty glance towards you before turning back to the books on the desk. “If anything…I am the one who has wronged you, and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me,” he continues, his voice trailing towards the end of his confession. The desperation for forgiveness and repentance drown his words until they are all you can feel, yet you were so unsure of why he was seeking those. Did he pity you? Your emotions?

“I believe there is no reason to forgive you, as there is nothing you should feel sorry for,” you say stiffly, hands subtly wringing together.

“I must concur,” he kindly retorts. “Here, please have a look at this.”

He hands you a journal from the top of a stack, encouraging for you to take it. The leather feels aged and worn, but it is one you recognize from many, many years ago.

‘You could consider it a memoir.’

“Open it, please. And read what’s inside it.”

With a curious look, you unwind the ties and peel back the cover. The first page holds nothing, but when you turn the yellowing parchment, familiar handwriting greets you. A date sits in the top right corner, marking it a little less than a year before your eighteenth birthday.

‘I must say, I was pleasantly surprised to receive a letter from the princess. In my mind, she would have better things to attend to than to reply to me. After all, we both have our own duties, and in addition to hers, she must be attending some of her father’s meetings. I cannot deny the fact that my heart began to race swiftly when I saw her signature at the bottom of the letter. Even in her writing, I could hear her voice in my head, reading it the same way as if she were speaking to me. How I long for the summer months to quickly come.’

The beginning entry ends there, but as you thumb through the other pages rapidly, they are filled with his writing in neat, onyx ink. You begin to recall the days when you both were here in this very room, him scribbling away as you read your subject of interest. Your eye the other similar-looking journals and he confirms your unspoken questions.

“They’re all about you,” he smiles, though it seems sad and apologetic. “As you can see, I filled quite a few journals over the many years, but…unfortunately, as I grew busier, I was unable to write as much. When you said those words to me that night,” – a grimace on his complexion – “I couldn’t believe myself. Did I truly not love you anymore? At first, I struggled to find an answer…until a few days ago. I have spent much of my time reading through these pages, seeing what I have written.”

“You read…all of these? There must be almost twenty journals here,” you say in a mixture of disbelief and awe.

“I couldn’t quite put them down, I must admit. Some of my best work, perhaps.”

He stands from his seat and walks around the desk until he’s in front of you. Those pools of cobalt blue still find it difficult to meet your own eyes – they swim with contemplation and hesitation, but a sheet of determination soon clouds them. After you recognize that, he grasps your left hand with both of his and kneels on one knee, his forehead bowed down onto your knuckles either out of embarrassment or absolute respect.

“Keiji, what are you—”

“I was wrong. I had been so wrapped up in my own affairs that I failed to look after you as I had promised at the altar. I neglected you and unwittingly led you to believe that I no longer loved you. You do not deserve such a foolish man, so ignorant to forget how good you are to me, how there can be no other woman because you are my perfect match. I have been reminded of all the reasons of why I love you, and I swear on my existence that I love you more than I ever have.

Yet the truth is, I shouldn’t need to be reminded. You should never need to question my loyalty to you, and for that…I can only give my deepest apologies,” his voice trails to a volume so soft, yet so shaky with remorse. “The regret that I feel can’t even begin to hold a light to the pain that you must have kept bottled inside you, where you kept the cork in for as long as possible as to not burden me. I have failed you, and I will spend the rest of our days correcting my wrongs. In this very moment,” he pauses, inhaling a deep but quivering breath.

“I desperately and humbly request of you to give me this one last chance, to prove that I can be the man you deserve. I am begging you, my future queen, to forgive me.”

Your breath hitches with the last statement.

A prince never begs.

Yet he was here to lay it all out for you, imploring that you stand by his side, again, in more ways than one.

“Please rise, Your Highness,” you call out softly, your hand reaching out to try lifting his chin and meet his gaze.

He stubbornly shakes his head. “Not unless you give me your answer.”

“Keiji, you don’t need—”

“Your answer. Please,” he beseeches with the last word, breath held. You know that when Akaashi becomes insistent, he never backs down yet somehow still allowing the other person to have a choice in the say. No thinking needed to be done, as your answer should be quite obvious.

“How could I ever refuse you, Keiji?” You tease softly with a smile.

Since the first moment he had kneeled before you, he looks up to see your face. Unshed tears glisten from the sun’s rays streaming through the glass. Your words are more than enough for him to stand on both feet again, soon wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head into your shoulder. These acts of affection are only a small portion of what you had sorely missed, and you were counting on Akaashi to fulfill his vow.

“You are everything to me,” he breathes unsteadily into your neck. “And I will make certain that you never forget this, even after we pass.”

“I can trust you?”

“Yes. I promise.”

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