#like i know intellectually that these things happened and have vague memories of all the testing processes and stuff

[crimeronan]

side effect of having my hydroxychloroquine work really well is that i'm forgetting what it felt like to be Really Horrifically Sick. both because of the emotional distance and because of my general memory issues. the memory issues are a LOT worse concerning Times When I Was Horrifically Sick.

so i'm actually pretty grateful to my past self for the amount of time i spent oversharing here. if i scroll back like seven months in my autoimmune tag i can find posts of me essentially going "eh, i'm sleeping for 22 hours a day but i don't really care anymore bc i've accepted i'm gonna die" and "life sux. can't breathe or think or feel my chest but that's constant so i don't wanna go to the ER about it AGAIN" and "docs took 14 vials of blood 4 x-rays several lung images several lung tests and an EKG before i even left the hospital today. even tho they havent gotten my test results back yet" and i'm like god Damn.

I REALLY LIVED LIKE THIS????????

[briar--rising]

Long post about grief and mothers and probably other stuff, idk

Something that I've been trying to process lately is a certain almost loss of my mom. I mean, she's still around, she hasn't died, and I haven't and won't cut contact. But I don't need to cut external contact, because I've cut off our relationship internally, for the most part. And it's been devastating.

For all that our relationship was a toxic abusive enmeshed disaster, I still loved her desperately, and she was still my mom. But as I've been working on recovering I've needed to separate myself from her, become my own person with boundaries, and because of who she is I can't do that and still have a mother left. She can't act maternally towards me without subsuming me, and I can't let her do that anymore. So I can't have a mom. When we talk these days mostly she honestly feels like some random woman who is vaguely intellectually connected to the mom I had in the past. She doesn't feel like a mother at all anymore, not even in the bad ways really. There's just...nothing there. It's not safe for there to be anything there.

I used to hold out hope that sometime in the distant future we'd be able to have an honest conversation about my childhood and our relationship, that she'd be able to hear my perspective and recognize me as an individual and have a healthier relationship with me. And I finally realized that that dream is impossible. It will never happen. She refuses to go back to therapy, she has no desire for introspection, every time I try to raise something she gaslights me, she feels too unsafe to risk vulnerability. It's just not going to happen. You can't buy oranges at the hardware store. I need to be a person, and because of her issues she can't be a mother to a separate person. And I've finally accepted that.

And I am left with such tremendous grief. I read a sentence earlier about someone calling their mom when they were upset in the middle of the night and thought, "I can't do that. I haven't been able to do that in years, and I never will again. I can't trust her with the truth of myself, with my vulnerabilities, with my feelings. She feels like a distant cousin, someone I can make small talk with at family events, not someone who raised me, who knows me, who I can share myself with. She will never be able to learn about the person I am becoming, and I will change more and more from the version of me in her head, and she will not see it. When I feel small and lonely and sad and sick and want a mom to take care of me, there is no one I can call. That does not exist any longer. I don't know that it ever truly did, but I used to have a facsimile of it, and now and forever more I won't have even that."

It is devastating, to realize and start accepting that I don't have a mom, not truly. It is excruciating. I didn't realize, when I started to become my own person and separate from her, that I would lose her like this. I feel in some ways like I didn't know what I was getting into when I started making certain types of progress towards healing, like I didn't give informed consent. I think that's been the hardest part. I was blindsided by this loss, didn't even realize it was happening until it was basically irreversible. I'd like to think that if I had known I would have made the same decisions, that healing and becoming my own person is worth this grief. But I didn't know I was making that choice, certainly not on a conscious level. And now it's done, and I can never go back.

I've been talking about this in therapy, the fact that I can never fully return to the state of person-less-ness I spent my childhood in. Even if I let myself become completely subsumed in someone else again, I would have memories of once being my own person. It would be different than the complete lack of selfhood and subjectivity I had as a child. And of course that's a good thing, of course I don't want to be only an object never a subject. But I didn't know what I'd be giving up, by doing this. I feel betrayed by my own healing. It hurts. It really, really hurts.

[givemearmstopraywith]

hey tthank you so much for being vocal about palestine! it's been so offputting seeing other theologians and the vague jesus side of tumblr be so quiet about this. i know Everyone should be talking about this but i feel it especially disappointing in their cases

hey!! this is really kind of you- i honestly feel like i haven't been saying enough (there isn't actually an "enough" as long as palestine is not free). i can't speak to the experiences and feelings of other bloggers in whatever jesus community we've created on this website but at least in my own experience up until i was in my late teens i had been in christian communities where you weren't given a choice on how to feel about palestine. i don't think there's an excuse for silence, or for passive compliance, but i do empathize with the difficulty of undoing your thinking on a topic that you've been essentially brainwashed into believing, especially when that is tied up with your religious beliefs and convictions (i have a very militantly zionist mother, unfortunately, so i think about this a lot). when i was growing up, and i'm sure it's worse now, it was just a given that as a christian, or someone in a christian space you would be pro-israel. this was the early to mid 2000s, so that came automatically with certain implications about islam, palestine, and the arab world in general that was anchored in fearmongering and very islamophobic. it's basically brainwashing. western christianity and zionism are deeply and inherently bound up- they historically always have been, with christian zionism directly precluding the emergence of fundamentalist evangelical movements in the 19th century. it's as equally bound up in antisemitism, and now with islamophobia, because christianity lends itself to the propagation of political goals and therefore with genocide (there's a reason why part of nazism's platform was the concept that hitler was "finishing" martin luther's reformation). erich fromm writes about this in his paper "the dogma of christ" which i highly recommend- how the messianic movement of jesus became warped by hellenistic greeks and romans so that rather than empowering the working class, it disempowered them to become compliant in their own domination by bonding earthly and heavenly authorities as singular. christianity as a religious ideology could never be used to justify being pro-israel or being quiet about genocide, but as a political ideology it's actually really malleable to support both of those things, and to staying quiet about them.

i think people have a hard time a) wrapping their minds around the idea that christianity is compliant in something that in theory it should be against, like genocide, and b) that a genocide is happening at all. but ultimately, having a hard time with intellectualizing something is a privilege that only the privileged can have: intellectualizing is a privilege. but ultimately this isn't a commentary on the community on tumblr so much as it is on conversations i've had with christians over the last few months, and the point is that none of this matters, because the experience of westerners doesn't matter in the scheme of palestinian genocide, or any genocide. we love to make conversations about ourselves and how hard it is for us to watch, and it does not fucking matter. being vocal is not even the bare minimum, it's just being a decent person. the bar is on the floor and every time i see footage of parents mourning their children i think about my own family who lost children during the holocaust and i feel so enraged because we already went through this once, in living memory, and people were incredibly passive then too, and it frustrates me because over and over agendas and politics and personal feelings wind up mattering more than the most vulnerable people, the people who are actively suffering. the fact that there are sides to take is baffling to me. anyway thank you for this skdfhgdfg

[self-loving-vampire]

Just for fun, I decided to take the COGIATI test and see how bad it is.

My first conclusion is that my definition of "fun" is rather masochistic at times, and I don't expect other people to find this post that entertaining either. Still...

Question 1 is already so much.

"Describe your relationship with mathematics."

"Girl Math" nonsense coming right out the gate, apparently.

"You are at a meeting. Everyone at the meeting is the same sex as you. The leader of the meeting announces that it's time for hugs all around! How do you feel about this?"

I don't know why they have to specify the sex of the other people here. I don't like being touched either way. There isn't really an option that really expresses how much I don't want people to touch me. At most I can just say it's unnecessary.

"As a child, when you played with close friends, how would you describe the type of play you liked to be a part of the most?"

You know this is a boomer test because "video games" is not an option.

"Which choice most closely describes why you dress up 'en femme', as a woman."

All of the potential answers to this question are on a spectrum between "it is sexual to me" and "it just makes me feel better". There is no option for "I don't actually do this."

And like... there's also cis women who don't dress up like that very often if at all, or who feel nothing about it. Even a vaguely GNC cis woman could very easily take this test and get labeled as a man somehow.

Anyway, I don't actually know what to choose here because this time no answer even approximates how I feel. Normally I would just drop the test upon reaching a point like this but I feel inclined to dig deeper so I'll pick a mild "makes me feel better" sort of answer and continue.

"You are parking your car. You must reverse into a somewhat narrow space to park. What do you do?"

I don't drive. There is no option for people who don't drive. You could take all of the insane trad stereotypes out of this test and it would still be bad just because it regularly forgets rather common types of people exist.

"You are about the age of 14. You have to take a test, but you can chose which test to take. Getting a good grade will result in a big reward. Which test would you choose to take, if you had a week to study first?"

Really not a fan of how much of this test is "men are intellectual and do math and science while women are emotional and do literature and history".

"Your penis and testicles are destroyed, perhaps due to an accident or injury, but they are gone forever. You are otherwise the same as now, but you are utterly without your reproductive organs, just smooth, flat flesh. What is the most realistic statement of how you would deal with this?"

Does the person that made this test realize that what seems to be the most popular kind of SRS repurposes those bits and therefore losing them would also prevent further modification later? Pretty sure most trans people who understand that and have a sufficiently long time horizon would not wish for this to happen even if they don't enjoy having the thing.

But instead I'm getting the impression that the "True Trans" answer as evaluated by the test is to cheer at this.

"You are in a restaurant with some friends. It is moderately noisy, but not loud. A song you know comes over the loudspeakers, but done in Muzak (tm) style, often called "elevator music". Would you recognize the song instantly?"

Honestly if the kind of music I like played in a restaurant, even as elevator music, I would be completely shocked.

"Suddenly the entire world is magically changed. Now you exist in a world utterly devoid of gender. All bodies are hermaphroditic, utterly androgynous in appearance, both male and female at the same time. The culture reflects this, as does all human interaction. You, however, are still yourself inside, with all of your memories of living in our world as it is now. Your feelings are intact, only your flesh has been changed. In this new world, everyone dresses, acts, and lives however they feel at the time, and there is no such thing as being male or being female. You alone remember the world of gender. In such a world, would you still need to dress like a woman?"

Starts as an actually interesting premise for a question but then the actual question is "would you still dress like a woman"? I already don't do that. I already dress how I want so going there would not change anything.

"A doctor offers you a painless, absolutely effective means to be completely masculine. All feminine desires and traits would be eliminated, and you would be happy and content to be a man. You would never need to dress, and you would never want to be feminine in any way again. You are assured that after the treatment you would be completely content. Would you take the treatment?"

You don't get it. I don't think either extreme of gendered behavior is in line with most people's true feelings to begin with. Most men who are safe to express themselves do in fact have at least some "feminine" traits. These categories are made up and especially bad when used to prescribe how one should behave.

Furthermore, sufficiently radical and sudden personality changes are kind of like dying and being replaced by someone else who is just using the same body. This is why I wouldn't cure myself of autism too.

I think even men, cis or trans, have reasons to be wary of this treatment.

"When you look at a person's face, how well can you honestly judge what they are feeling?"

I should note that reading and pattern-matching expressions is not actually the same thing as feeling affective empathy. Anyone could learn to do it with practice and memory.

But also I feel like pointing out that trying to make unlikely claims based on things like expressions and body language is extremely dubious and a lot of people end up just imagining how the other person feels and assuming it to be true even though it isn't. It's often best not to make assumptions like that.

"You are having an erection. How do you feel?"

At this point? It should not even be possible.

"It is grade school. The teacher gives you a gold star on your work for excellence. What is it for? I knew how to multiply. The teacher thought I wrote the best poem. I got my addition right. I had perfect spelling with no mistakes. I knew the name of the capitol."

You may live in a strange world in which math is for boys and spelling is for girls, but I live in a story in which I am the mary sue protagonist and am good at anything I try. I could be getting the award for any subject I wanted except maybe the poetry because I don't have any interest trying to do that.

"There is a voice mail on your machine. The person does not leave a name, they seem to expect you to know them. How easy is it for you to remember who called by the sound of their voice?"

There was a similar question earlier but I really have to say: Even if you don't recognize someone's voice the context of what they are saying would give it away quickly enough that the question is not very realistic.

Especially since I just don't expect calls for anything I have not previously scheduled.

"A stranger is happy at meeting you. He wants to give you a hug. How do you honestly feel about this?"

Did there really have to be two questions about getting hugged by strange people? Are women really supposed to enjoy that kind of thing? The way a lot of the ones on tumblr talk I figured at least some would be outright paranoid or at least very uncomfortable about the idea.

Anyway, I got rated as "65, androgynous". This is not surprising to me considering how heavily this whole thing relies on traditional gender roles that do not go well with my autism at all.

The conclusions drawn from this, however, are especially stupid.

"As an androgynous being, both genders, and both sexes are natural to your expression."

This is true of practically everyone in the world. It's why conservatives and hyper-conformists in general need to punish and indoctrinate people into obeying that shit. If gender roles were as natural as they say it would not be necessary to enforce them and train people into them.

"Permanent polarization in either direction might bring significant unhappiness. It is not recommended that you go through a complete transsexual transformation."

Oops. I already did that and it worked great. It turns out that you can be trans and not want to be some kind of motherly bimbo who dresses exclusively in pink dresses with heavy makeup. There's a whole range to trans people, just like with cis people.

Just like how it would be ridiculous to ban cis women from being women if they're GNC, it's exactly the same with same with trans women.

"You might find a partial transformation of value, if you find yourself more attracted overall to the feminine. You are more likely a transgenderist, than a transsexual."

"Transgenderist"???

Oh, apparently that's an extremely archaic (and extremely confusing) term for non-binary.

But I'm not non-binary, just autistic.

Anyway, 0/10 this test is just bad in pretty much every way.

[nightmaredxydreams]

theres no way i have this.

look, heres all the proof you need. im whining about not having DID lmao

who truly has DID and does that? no. body. thats all the proof you need

people who truly dissociate suffer from it. i dont. i love the numbness from my body that experiences so much discomfort (not even chronic pain not even pain like all other DID systems have just fucking discomfort, mostly caused by autism hypersensitivity) i love the feeling of being detached from my own flesh prison ugly undesirable embarassing body. i am fucking faking im prob psycho or sum shit lmaooo

i dont even dissociate that badly. other real DID and even OSDD systems be out here so dissociated they dont even fuckin know their name and feel like nothings real all the time. i never forget my name or personal information, i just forget what i just thought or zone out daydreaming or sum shit and say "whoops! i dissociated sorry" or if im lucky, have few seconds long derealization in little few day long episodes. i dont even fucking dissociate for real. definitely not enough to have DID

i never had severe trauma. i was too disabled and shielded. fuck, the disabilities i was born with prob mimic DID. brain damage to the hippocampus, a majorly affected part of the brain in DID put two and together lmao. who knows how psycho the brain damage made me. im autistic and intellectually disabled, all people with intellectual disability are perverts they get arrested for sex crimes more than other people lmfao ofc i was hypersexual at 3 there was no sexual abuse i am too ugly to be sexually abused or even desired ofc im faking being sexually abused to make me feel better about myself lmfaooo i just cant live with the fact i was born a worthless undesirable unfuckable ugly pervert

if i had DID i wouldnt fucking remember when i was 3 who tf u kiddin

im sensitive to yelling and the least little "threatening" tone or touch or even fucking hand signal. if i was really sexually abused id be triggered by sexual shit, not the least little thing like a trauma free scared little baby

if i had DID id switch out more, especially when triggered or in situations where it would help. idk if i even switch out, i prob js fall asleep, wake up and do shit in the early stages of waking up i dont remember. instead my alters are just back there and do nothing when im being retraumatized and i have to call out mentally loudly to get any alters to respond anymore. then just trying to communicate with them gives me a headache from hell. proof enough my alters are delusions and im some psycho. most of my "alters" are just vague faces with voices and not much of identity. most of them fade away. just like delusions.

i feel like im worthless unless i was sexually abused. my whole worth depends on it for some fucked up reason. i will get defensive toward the two people i live with who say it didnt happen, they arent honest all the time but when they say theres no chance it happened bc i was too shielded even tho i have memories of being alone w him (no abuse memories bc fuck no) i believe it and feel iffy when i even wonder if i was sexually abused. when i think about any other form of abuse i suffered or trauma i have, i feel like that means i wasnt sexually abused. i have no memories of it, i never did until someone pointed out that my hypersexuality at 3 was a sign of sexual abuse so i went diving for the memories myself. then what i got were a few random half ass flashbacks to the sexual abuse. if i was really sexually abused i wouldve had flashbacks to it waaay before i made myself remember. everyone else with ptsd, did osdd etc does

other people with DID feel broken and suffer because of their trauma. they remember it somehow and suffer from the effects of it. i just suffer from wanting to have the trauma to be valid, not knowing if the trauma happened and having things trauma victims have but no memories of the trauma. the only flashbacks i have are to things i deserve, things that other people would agree i deserve and arent anywhere near as traumatizing as it can get for a real sexual abuse survivor. things that dont cause DID and rarely cause ptsd. i have cringe ass trauma. i dont have valid trauma.

i dont really have DID and i wasnt sexually abused. i just held onto the idea as an excuse for me being a worthless, born broken, jealous, delusional psycho pervert who will never amount to anything, never matter enough to get a job, marry or have a family, never mattered enough to be smart or do normal kid things because of my disabilities, never got to be cool and wont be, am trying to be cool and matter when i never will, am so ugly my body doesnt deserve love and sure as fuck wasnt sexually desired as a little kid how fucking sick of me to even want that to matter, and dont matter because of my disabilities. im sorry for faking it all. no wonder my denial was so strong, it was never real anyway. now im gonna do some major fucking harm to my ugly waste of space and resources body and kill myself. im fucking sick and tired of living in hell from my own brain torturing me saying im worthless and not valid and more i cant say here. good fucking bye.

[liskantope]

My Google Pocket Somethingorother that shows me a hodgepodge of articles to click on when I open a new tab using my browser pointed me to this interesting Atlantic article on how much is obligatorially conveyed in typical sentences of different languages via inflection and other devices (for some reason it's behind a sort of paywall now even though I don't think it was when Pocket recommended it to me?). I recognized the article immediately because I remembered posting it to Facebook back around the time it came out in 2016, because it gave a good layperson's explanation (using intuitive terms like "busy-ness") of what having an inflective vs. analytical grammar means. The experience stuck in my mind mainly because of how one of my most active Facebook friends at the time (who remains perhaps the most athletic bending-every-topic-towards-their-special-interests-which-are-mainly-their-marginalized-victim-identities I've ever known, and whose first language is a highly inflected and non-European) commented under it that the author clearly "doesn't like the 'busier' languages very much" but that as a speaker of such a language they could attest that even if the author saw all the inflection as superfluous it was in some deeper sense necessary because "the language wouldn't really be the same without it". I'm trying my best to quote from memory, but I couldn't make any better substance or sense out of that comment than what I'm conveying here, and it struck me as a ridiculous interpretation of the author's attitudes.

On reading through the article again, I found that its author was John McWhorter. This is an example of something similar to what I mentioned the other day where I discovered Destiny and then discovered him again a few months later: I had vaguely known John McWhorter as a linguist from some point in adolescence when I checked out at least one of his books from the local library, and in 2016 I had probably glanced at the name at the bottom of the article and recognized it. But I didn't put McWhorter firmly on my mental map of Public Scholars/Intellectuals I Know until around a couple of years later when I ran into his political commentary on YouTube in conversation with Glenn Loury. (Ironically, McWhorter happens also to be extremely against bending-every-topic-to-one's-own-marginalized-victim-identities-ism, so maybe my 2016-era Facebook friend was onto something by instinctively marking him as an enemy.)

One concerning thing I noticed from the article is that McWhorter mentions the Maybrat language as having no way whatsoever to grammatically convey verb tense, and I couldn't remember having heard of the Maybrat language before, so I looked it up. The Wikipedia page shows that it goes by some other names such as Ayamaru, but I couldn't find it listed under any of its names in my Journey Through Languages Project (which I embarked on after 2016). And yet, it has some thousands of speakers and a Wikipedia page with a lot of details on its (interesting) grammar and phonology, one which I don't remember ever seeing at all. This shows that my project still missed some interesting languages -- in this case, didn't even come close by looking at a closely related language since Maybrat is a language isolate although classified as a Papuan language. I think it's clear that this occurred because the Wikipedia page on Papuan languages shows multiple classifications, and Maybrat only shows up in a 2019 one which may have been posted after I was reaching it in my "journey". But it disabuses me of my proud notion that I am one of the few people who has clicked on every single language page on Wikipedia.

[blookmallow]

ok here is the Post Of Morbid Questions im trying to find answers for due to fallout ocs.... if anyone has any ideas or knows how to find answers on these let me know bc i have Not been successful

what might the Courier's bullet scar look like, and what longterm side effects might they be coping with after taking a bullet to the head

the game's answer to this seems to just be handwavy "stimpacks fixed it" since you don't visibly have a scar when the player character's face is visible, but i want my own designs to reflect that injury and i cannot find a clear answer on what it might look like. mostly it seems like they should've been missing a lot more skull than they were. best answer i could come up with for the side effects is that brain trauma can lead to memory loss, seizures, problems with impulse control/emotional regulation, vision problems, and a whole lot of other things. so ive tried to consider that for my new vegas characters. i havent really done much with anyone other than bonnie though. anyway my attempts at researching this mostly have come up with "you'd just be dead" but what if you DIDN'T dead, though. what happens then

also, as a sidenote question, would it be possible that doc mitchell (i keep calling him doc marten. why am i doing this. stop it) could have extracted the bullet intact enough for the courier to keep it. i want bonnie to have it on a necklace but i cant get a clear answer on that either

2. how exactly would chems work / how would it affect them

i dont really know anything about real world drugs so im not really sure how to approach this subject. i know a little about how addiction and withdrawal works, but not much other than vague awareness of how people act when high on weed, and lsd makes you hallucinate. i dont really know what it feels like, why someone might use them, what longterm effects it might have

i learned med-x is pretty much just morphine, which is intended as a pain killer, also apparently can cause "feelings of euphoria," so that sounds like it would be a very likely addiction in the wasteland. makes it all hurt less. makes you feel good. i think initially taking it for pain (justifiable, it is medicine, after all) and then developing an addiction would be an easy trap for wastelanders to fall into. i think both my fallout 4 protags would be susceptible to this especially if they hang around hancock and get talked into it

psycho seems to cause some kind of... berserker mode mind break, so it makes sense that would be popular with raiders, but im not sure why you'd want to use it otherwise. just sounds like a great way to get yourself killed to me. i never use it in-game so im not really sure what its for

as far as i can tell buffout is just steroids, so. desire to be strong/push yourself to the limit/unbeatable is obvious living in wasteland conditions

mentats seem to be like. adderoll, or something? increased focus and cognition. im not sure why hancock uses them, though. he's told me it's his favorite ("makes me feel intellectual") but im not really sure what recreational purpose that serves if he's not using them to focus on tasks or something. i think im not fully understanding what these do. i think it makes sense for my courier, struggling with cognitive damage after the head injury, to use them pretty regularly though (and new vegas gives you a lot of situations where you can use them to help pass intelligence/perception checks so i Do use them)

jet is the one i really dont understand. i see this one a Lot with in-game chem addicts/find them all over the place in raider drug dens so it's clearly popular but i do not understand what it does. game mechanics-wise it functions to make time appear to slow down, but i don't know why you would want that outside of a combat situation where you need to be able to react fast. the wiki says it also provides a rush/high, i suppose. could just be that it's the easiest to get your hands on

it's also made from fertilizer. so there's that. no one talks about that and i dont know why

3. what changes or long-term effects would the vault 111 survivor have after being frozen for so long

i cant find anything on this and i guess it's probably due to "we don't know" since that kind of cryogenic technology doesn't really exist in the real world. we've never frozen someone for 200 years and then let them out again. the game doesn't acknowledge this having any effect on them at all, and i just can't believe there wouldn't be something. what's preventing them from going into shock and just dying of hypothermia / extreme frostbite. i dont really understand the science of how cryostasis would work. even if we just accept "it just works" i still feel like there should be some kind of longterm side effects. nerve damage, maybe? i think ruby (my first fallout 4 protag) at least has some trauma around feeling too cold or feeling like she can't move. cryo mines/grenades probably fuck her up.

4. follow up question, the absolute most SPECIFIC one i cannot figure out to save my life: if someone were to have an open wound, and then suddenly enter cryostasis for, say, several hundred years, what would happen

i ask this because i think lucas (my second fallout 4 oc) would have reacted violently to his wife's murder. he would have been fighting to get out of that pod until he was bleeding and it wouldn't even have slowed him down. i think he severely fucked up his hands, and then immediately got frozen again. so my question is, what would that do

if we can assume cryostasis does not cause frostbite damage to normal tissue, would it also not damage open/exposed tissue? or would the ice soak in and destroy the cells in that part of your skin. would you just unfreeze and it would resume bleeding again like it just happened seconds ago? would it heal while it was frozen?

my best guess is that it would sort of... heal wrong, like a poorly set broken bone (and if he broke his fingers, it certainly would have) or get infected, at least. i want to say whatever happened caused him to lose a few fingers but i cannot figure out if that's viable or not. i like the image of him stumbling out of the vault confused and angry and broken with several dead fingers he now has to find a way to cut off. i want lucas doing horrendously ill-advised surgery on himself to be a recurring theme

[humble-althemist]

Yes! Exactly! To me the fact that Iorveth gives Yaevinn that nuanced of a description always felt like about as close to praise as he would’ve been likely to give another Scoia’tael who had such vastly different views and approaches to the cause of freedom. It’s easy to see in real life activist/politically active circles how often times the people who want the most similar outcomes can often wind up the most vehemently annoyed by each other if they think they’re going about the thing wrong. So that level of respect always fascinated me and really made me want to see the reverse, hear Yaevinn’s thoughts on Iorveth.

God, I so want to dig into their history together now in a way that’s only been vaguely in the back of my mind for ages. Cause you’re right there’s so much wide open territory for speculation around the few facts we do have. I agree that Yaevinn feels older to me, whether he was being coy about being there for Aelirenn’s rebellion because he was there, or because he’s just a little shit who likes egging Geralt on and making him think he’s more mysterious than he actually is (both being readings I just about equally love). But yeah, that then makes his small role in the Vrihedd Brigade very curious. Agh I need to get on my book reread now, although I know it will illuminate little haha

And yess, absolutely. Iorveth is suchh a hypocrite (affectionate). I think that’s part of why the “sharing dreams” line strikes me so much as a double entendre. Because Iorveth is clearly very capable of having lofty dreams, so the fact that he wasn’t able to join in Yaevinn’s feels more like a “I wasn’t into him quite like he was into me/like he wanted” or a “we weren’t good for each other” kind of thing to me. Which can also be interpreted in a more non-romantic way, too.

But yeah Iorveth being such a clear hypocrite is part of the reason I think he gels so well with Geralt as a character haha

As the center of a story that is constantly and repeatedly about wanting to be neutral and saying he’s neutral and doesn’t give a shit, and then whoopsie giving soo much of a shit and winding up taking sides whether he means to or not, Iorveth is not so much a foil as just like… Elf Geralt. They are both very passionate yet very stoic, both not at all comfortable with the political scheming side of things, but pretty capable of it when pressed.

Which, as an aside, I’m realizing now is also a characterization I like to sprinkle into Yaevinn too, when writing geralt/yaevinn stuff. Not quite to their level, but just in the sense that he’s a very old elf who’s taken very seriously by a lot of his peers, and has worked hard to make it so, so kindling such a bantery/antagonistic friendship with Geralt gives him a chance to get kind of called on things that he normally doesn’t? Lets him realize little inconsistencies in his worldview or whatever that no proud Scoia’tael would’ve ever called him on or even probably noticed, cause they’re right there with him. Part of the intellectual tet-à-tet that makes their dynamic work so well — Geralt getting a lil bit of a speedrun on some character building shit that happened over the course of the books that he no longer has since losing his memory of those events, having to rethink some shit, but keeping up well enough that he’s able to make Yaevinn see some things from new perspectives too.

But back to Iorveth and Yaevinn, I definitely get the impression that Iorveth is half reassuring himself that he’s being fully logical and practical about this whole thing, when he calls Yaevinn’s failed dreams idealistic. And with their histories, it almost makes me think that perhaps part of why they are the way they are by the time we meet them in the games is because of what happened with the Vrihedd Brigade and Dol Blathanna. Yaevinn believed it could work, and when it didn’t it shook his faith in the dream entirely. Made him, at least for now, for the next couple decades maybe (because I imagine with lives on timescales that long, character growth is much more of an ebbing and flowing or circular sort of thing than we usually think of it as, but that’s a whole other talk lol), into a much more practical and present-focused leader. Meanwhile Iorveth, who at least now looking back thinks Dol Blathanna was never going to work out the way it was promised (and I’m fairly comfortable believing that he had his doubts even while fighting for it. sometimes the vibe is just off but you stick with it cause fighting alongside your fellow elves is better than doing nothing), made him that much more susceptible to falling for exactly the kind of messaging that didn’t take him in before because it didn’t take him in before. Because Francesca’s brand of charisma didn’t really speak to him maybe, but Saskia’s does. Or maybe just because the timing is right, and he’s had enough successes lately, made enough human enemies, that he’s starting to think maybe he can do this damn thing.

But agh, you’re right it’s so fun to tug at all the strings of insinuation and possibility and character and theme that all the little crumbs we get for both these characters, across and between various canons, whether carefully picking and choosing between contradictory bits, or explaining contradictions with further lore of our own. An absolute joy, and one that it’s so weirdly rare to find people to gush with about. Like on the one hand I get it, no one should play witcher 1, I have it permanently installed on my computer but that’s because I’m an absolute madman with no self respect, but agh the fandom is much poorer for the lack of Yaevinn in it imho. The contrast between him and Iorveth deepens them both in such endlessly delicious and fascinating ways.

@humble-althemist Thank you for the delightful tags on the post about Yaevinn and Iorveth, I hope you don't mind me addressing them, but it's really just so interesting and engaging to me!! I was equally taken with Yaevinn and Geralt, but Yaevinn and Iorveth are also an interesting pair, I find, despite the fact that they never actually interact on screen. The subtext, though brief, is there, and it’s so very compelling to me. There was a relationship of some kind there, that much can be said for sure. No matter whether or not one takes it as romantic and/or sexual, I think it has to be accepted that there is at least respect and likely some degree of fondness there. Iorveth isn’t the type to mince words when he’s not fond of someone, as can be evidenced in some of his dialogues, but he’s actually quite careful with his word choice about Yaevinn, it would seem. He uses the descriptor “unrealistic”, yes, but it’s not for Yaevinn himself, and he never attacks Yaevinn directly with his criticism. He says that Yaevinn had beautiful dreams and just reasons, and that those reasons were as unrealistic as they were just. It is the world who has no place for this beautiful dreamer, not Iorveth who cannot accept him. Iorveth is in agreement with him, even, he just thinks that Yaevinn could not have rightly expected to fulfil these dreams of his.

There isn’t ever really any more contextualisation of the nature of the relationship that occurred between Yaevinn and Iorveth in the text of the games, just more subtext with which to play. Yaevinn is well-known enough a commander among the Scoia’tael to be deemed “legendary” in his citation in TW3, but he wasn’t a Vrihedd commander, Iorveth was. Additionally, while there are no canon ages given for either of them, it seems likely to me that Yaevinn is the elder of the two; I don’t remember if he confirms that he took part in Aelirenn’s rebellion, but I seem to have a memory of at least the implication of it when he tells Geralt of Aelirenn in the bank robbery sequence, which would put him at least over two hundred years old, with the specifics beyond that getting a little hazy, while Iorveth has been fighting humans for, I believe depending on the dialogue in TW2, either a century or over a century, so he is over a hundred for certain, and beyond that, the specific detail is unsure. Older and potentially more experienced in command, and yet he would have been Iorveth’s subordinate in the Vrihedd Brigade. Did they work closely at all? Did they know each other prior to this? How did they see each other? Yaevinn before his desperate attack at Vizima, Iorveth before he lost his eye, they’d be in quite different positions in the era of the Vrihedd Brigade, which is the last point that can be said for sure that they were both present.

 It’s hard to say with so little evidence to work with, how things were for them. I’m very partial to queer readings of both Yaevinn and Iorveth, and the potential for a relationship there is interesting, but it’s also very interesting to consider it as impartial or platonic, a political relationship, perhaps commander and advisor. There’s so little to be known for sure that one can just run wild with extrapolation.

And, well, with this bit of dialogue that is being examined, there’s some interesting material to work with for both of their characters. I really really like this point, it’s very compelling to me, because it’s absolutely right, it may be dialogue about Yaevinn but it is also very strong characterisation for Iorveth

And one of my favourite things about Iorveth is that he's a bit of a hypocrite? I say this with the utmost fondness, but there are a few different instances I could look at.

Yaevinn is unrealistic for considering combat and killing to be poetry, and Iorveth considers himself wholly logical and correct to take the very poetic stance that war is prose with no place for beauty.

Or like how he says to Geralt that the reason he's pursuing Roche so fervently is because he's going after the first commanders of the anti-elven special forces units across the north – in his own words, "Of the commanders first appointed to such units, he's the only one still alive”, but also in his own words, “"The Temerian Special Forces, created by Foltest to combat the Scoia'tael after the first war with Nilfgaard”, and "Vernon Roche! Special Forces Commander for the last four years". No matter whether one takes the book timeline or the modified timeline established in TW1 (the Battle of Brenna therefore being placed in 1265), Roche having been Special Forces Commander for the "last four years" would place him as making command rank in 1268 if Iorveth includes the current year in his count, and at the earliest 1267 if Iorveth does not include the current year, which is in both cases places him after or at least during the second war with Nilfgaard, which makes his point of referral very odd unless Roche is not the first commander after all.

Or how “our women are prepared to die” when he doesn’t want to risk turning back during the escape on the prison barge and risk the lives of the collective for a few, but what leads him to challenge his alliance with Letho and ultimately to capture the prison barge is Geralt referring to his right-hand man; in that moment of challenge, he risks it all for Ciaran’s sake, on Ciaran’s say-so.

Or how he insists Saskia is “different”, that she’s special, but she is not only the same as the others, her broad strokes are pretty well exactly the same as the one who came before her – a personally powerful but politically disadvantaged queen who had the Scoia’tael fight and die for her victory, and when she claimed the valley, she cast them aside. While there is certainly more nuance to each situation, it pretty neatly parallels with what Iorveth describes as having happened with Francesca Findabair and the Vrihedd Brigade when Saskia disparages Iorveth and his Scoia’tael as murderers and terrorists after they’re the ones who won the valley for her, fought and died in her name.

That’s his idealism speaking, the whole entanglement with Saskia is idealism – the fact that he is responsible for the tales of Saskia the Dragonslayer? He told the whole world of the woman that he loved, whether it was a romantic love or a platonic sort of adoration, and that love raised an army, it’s idealism in action, and it’s a powerful idealism. While it can certainly be said that allying oneself to a dragon is a good idea, that's not the source of Iorveth's attachment, it's evident in the way he speaks of her that it's more than that. It sort of begs the question that if Iorveth can do so much on his own, what could he have done if he had shared in Yaevinn’s dreams? If they’d been united, rather than apart?

(As an aside, it’s kind of funny to hold them in juxtaposition like this because, like, Iorveth is the one who gets called a terrorist for ultimately having a regimented and orderly combat with another military force, and Yaevinn is commemorated as a “legendary Scoia’tael commander” rather than a terrorist when he’s the one who basically burnt a city to the ground.)

But nevertheless, Iorveth’s perceived hypocrisy over the notion of idealism is also very interesting as far as his characterisation goes, because the point of the matter is determining what, exactly, is truthful and intentional. He expresses a pretty clear stance on most matters in which he opines, but he must be therefore scrutinised for these stances. As I can see it, the likely possibilities are that he is actually being hypocritical and contradicting himself, that he is lying to others to make a certain impression, or that he is lying to himself.

To apply this to the quandary of Yaevinn and these beautiful dreams, Iorveth might perhaps contradict himself because he wants to decry the perceived lack of realism behind Yaevinn’s reasoning despite being equally fanciful in his endeavours for Saskia. He might also perhaps lie about his stance to make himself seem more eminently practical and capable in front of an ally like Geralt; he isn’t chasing a dream, he has plans and strategies and resources, he has the tools for success. He might also state this aloud as though to affirm it to himself – Yaevinn was a dreamer, and had grandiose visions of a better future and all the right reasons behind him, but Yaevinn failed, and Iorveth is too practical and grounded to fall prey to the same fate.He wants to believe this, he needs to believe this, he cannot fail, and so he affirms it to someone else, as though that might make it real. 

It’s interesting to take this interpretation and juxtapose it with Yaevinn’s apparent disillusionment in TW1, the ways in which they react when the pressure is on. Yaevinn, who is just so tired of the fighting but pushing on anyway and ensuring that every necessary step is taken, to the point of being curt with his friends and companions, like his rather terse letter to Golan Vivaldi, cuts out the idealism of a free nation of elves or a future in which humans are driven into the sea and settles for simply clawing out some modicum of progress for the remaining generations, some small respect or accommodation or freedom hard-won from the humans. Iorveth, on the contrary, leans in more heavily to this idealism, to the idea that Saskia is their best and greatest hope for freedom in the north, that she will win, that she will make things better, she must, she simply has to, because otherwise Iorveth has staked his hopes on her for nothing. And it's also very interesting to have Geralt kind of mired in the centre of all this, an ally and object of affection for both of them, faced with their bravado and cynicism and idealism, as muted or misguided as it may end up being. Geralt is there, Geralt takes part in the battles, Geralt is asked to share in the beautiful dreams.

There's so much more that one could examine even just relating to this little sample, especially if one traverses adaptations and references multiple canons -- Yaevinn's book characterisation versus his game characterisation, for instance, or what Iorveth in the games borrows from Isengrim as a character and how that influences his structure as a character, the inclusion of other characters, like Toruviel, who is linked to Yaevinn and his long-standing rebellion, or Ciaran, the loyal adjutant at Iorveth's side, and what their interpersonal relationships mean to them in the context of their ideals and their motivations for continuing their battle against the oppressive humans. Something I find really intriguing in the context of this matter is the notion that Yaevinn expresses in TW1 that he did once live among humans for a time, and that also shaped his views of humanity and the rebellion, while Iorveth does not seem to have had that experience of intermingling. This is such a small little passage of dialogue and I really think about it a lot. There’s so much that can be extrapolated from so little.

[five-rivers]

Like Kind

Prompt by @dp-marvel94: As soon as Maddie saw Phantom, she KNEW. It had happened, the thing that she dreaded and feared but in the back her mind knew would happen. Her Danny, her baby wasn’t human anymore….but then again he never had been completely human.

 In retrospect, she should have seen this coming from miles away.  Perhaps she had seen it, and her surprise now was the result of having willfully turned away.  But now, it was being rubbed in her face, thrown up in front of her in gleaming neon letters, staring her in the eye.  

The last was literal.  

Phantom floated a few meters above the ground, eyes fixed on hers.  

Phantom, who was undeniably Danny.  Her son.  Her baby boy.

He vanished from sight, flying up through the ceiling.  Maddie waited ten minutes, frozen and holding her breath, before sitting down hard on the floor.  She had thought—She had hoped—

(A memory plagued her.  Out with Vlad and Jack after Vlad was discharged, Jazz with a sitter. Red eyes where there should be blue. Panicked apologies.  Blood on the sheets and an ache radiating through her whole body.)

She had hoped.  

Had hoped that a child born to someone who had been possessed would be entirely human.  

(But even as a young child, something had been… not right about Danny.  He’d stared at empty corners, spoken to thin air, had a bizarre fixation on clocks. There had been other signs.  She’d dismissed them all.  But then.  Phantom.)

(She couldn’t ignore this.)

She went through the rest of the day, even the kidnapping of the mayor and a fight with a whole horde of ghosts in a daze.  Danny was there.  Fighting.  Doing these… these things.  And now she knew.  

Did Jack realize?  Had Jack put two and two together to realize that the boy he’d raised, the boy he’d taken as his own son, was now… this?

Was now a ghost?

.

“He’s our responsibility,” said Maddie, hands clasped under her chin.  She couldn’t meet Jack’s eyes.  “He’s our responsibility, and he’s giving in to his—to his nature.  What he did last night…”

“Maddie,” said Jack, reaching across the table.  “Just.  Stop.  Maybe… maybe there’s another way we can do this. Up until now, he’s been fighting the other ghosts, hasn’t he?  Maybe we could encourage that part.  Guide him to something less, less malevolent.”

“That’s what we thought we were doing from the beginning,” said Maddie.  “It hasn’t worked, Jack.”

“That’s when we thought he was still human,” said Jack. “We can—We could invent something. To help him control his—”

“This isn’t a movie, Jack,” snapped Maddie.  “He isn’t a vampire we can feed animal blood or a werewolf we can lock up during the full moon.  He’s a ghost.  This isn’t going to get better.  It’s going to get worse.”

“We don’t know that,” protested Jack.  “We could at least try, couldn’t we?  Don’t we owe him that?”

“Jack…”

“He’s our boy, Maddie.  We can’t just give up on him.”

“It’s already getting worse.  You’ve seen his grades.”

“It might not be because of intellectual degeneration,” said Jack, urgently.  “If you suddenly found out about—” he waved his hand vaguely “—wouldn’t you have some trouble focusing on schoolwork?  I know I had enough trouble when I was in school…”

“This isn’t the same,” said Maddie.  

“I know, that’s my point.”

Maddie covered her face and sighed.  “Alright,” she said.  She couldn’t let herself hope again.  “We’ll… we’ll try it your way, first.  What do we tell Jazz?”

.

“You already know?” asked Maddie, aghast.  

“Yes, I saw him transform, once, but I thought it would be better to let him come to me, tell me on his own terms.”  Jazz licked her lips.  “Does this mean you’ll stop shooting at him?  Maybe be more supportive of what he’s trying to do?”

“Jazz, he kidnapped the mayor.”

“I’m not sure he did.  A lot of people were possessed this past week.  The mayor could have been one of them.”

Maddie closed her eyes and swallowed, suppressing the feelings that rose in her at Jazz’s casual pronouncement.  

“I mean, a lot of people at school were talking about how little they remember…  Mom, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”  She collected herself.  “Ghosts,” she said, “aren’t human.  They don’t have a human psychology.”

“Danny’s still human.”

“Partially.  For now. We don’t want to lose him to this. Will you help us?”

Jazz looked away, frowning.  “Even if ghosts are different,” she stressed the word, “that doesn’t mean they’re evil.  The wolf ghost helped Danny, didn’t it?  And Danny’s doing good.  I don’t think you should try to ‘fix’ him.  It isn’t right.”

Jack jumped in.  “That’s not what we’re doing,” he said, reassuringly.  “We just want to make sure that he stays himself.  That this doesn’t affect him negatively.”

“But you don’t want me to tell him that’s what you’re doing.”

“Based on recent events,” said Maddie, “we’re concerned that he’ll react poorly and run.  We just don’t want that to happen.  We can’t help him if he runs from us.”

Jazz bit her lip.  “Okay,” she said, finally.  “But you can’t do anything to Danny that he doesn’t want.  No experiments.  No tearing him apart molecule by molecule.”

“That isn’t—”

“Don’t tell me it didn’t cross your mind,” said Jazz, harshly.  “You talked about it at the table at breakfast.  More than once.  I’m keeping an eye on everything you do.”

It was better than her running to the police or trying to free Danny right away because she couldn’t understand.  

“Alright,” said Maddie.  

.

It was a good thing Danny’s physiology hadn’t changed enough to give him a resistance to simple sedatives.  Watching him nod off in the middle of dinner was as cute as it was tragic.

Jazz was… unhappy.  Clearly.  But she didn’t say anything.  

.

Danny knew he was in lab as soon as he woke up.  The buzz of the overhead lights and the hum of the portal made his hair stand on end and his mouth go dry.  

This was bad.  This was a nightmare made real.  

He didn’t move.  Maybe, if they thought he was asleep, they’d hold off on the dissection.

Although… he didn’t seem to be on the examination table. That was a good sign, right?  IT had to be a good sign.  

“Danny.”

His breath caught in his throat and his fingers curled on the surface beneath him.  It wasn’t metal.  Something… not quite soft.  But not hard. Like… a thin air mattress.  

“Danny, we know you’re awake.”

He screwed his eyes shut even tighter.  

“Please don’t hurt me,” he said.  “I’m me.  I’m really me.  I promise.”

“We know,” said Jack.  

That made Danny open his eyes.  “You do?” he asked, hopeful despite the fact he was in a box with thick, plastic walls.  He pushed himself up on the bench.  “Then why—” He was almost hyperventilating.  

“Danny,” said Maddie, “Danny, calm down.  We’re just- We know you’re Phantom, and we’re here to help you.”

“We know how hard it must have been for you, fighting those ghostly urges,” said Jack.  “But we’ll find a way for you to beat ‘em back, son.”

“I don’t- I’m not—” He shook his head.  “If you’re talking about the robberies—”

“That’s exactly what we’re talking about,” said Maddie.  “But it’s okay.  We’re going to keep anything like that from ever happening again.”

Danny bit his lip and felt despair clutch at his heart again.  They weren’t going to listen to him.  But—Jazz. Jazz would notice he was missing. She didn’t even believe in ghosts, not really.  She’d save him.  Or Sam and Tucker would look for him.  

He just had to hold out.  Even if they thought he was… succumbing to his ‘ghostly instincts,’ they wouldn’t hurt him.

Right?

.

“It isn’t working,” said Maddie, head in her hands, surrounded by crumpled by pieces of paper.  “He’s getting worse.”

Jack had to admit that he was.  It was tragic to watch his son fall to what could only be described as a ghostly Obsession.  Just last night Danny had been reduced to clawing at the inside of the containment unit. Crying.  Screaming to be let out to fight ghosts and ‘protect the town.’  

He… didn’t know what to do about it.  Any of it.  

“Maybe…” said Maddie.  “You remember what he said about the portal.  What if he was right?  What if he really…”

What if he really died?

“What if he did?” asked Jack.  “What would it change?”

“He’s not really alive,” said Maddie.  “If he isn’t… maybe we should… let him go.”

“W-what? You mean give up on him?” demanded Jack.  “We can’t do that!”

“No!  Not give up.  Never give up.  But- but maybe it would be better for him if he, if he was among like kind.  If he was…  We don’t have to destroy ghosts after all.  We just have to… have to put them on the other side of the portal.  Close it.  Close it so no more ghosts can get through.”

“You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying,” said Jack.  

“Like kind,” said Maddie.  “You remember that one Grimm’s fairy tale.  The little boy who couldn’t move on.”

“That’s not Danny,” said Jack.  

“I know.  I know it isn’t.  But, still… We…  Please, Jack.  Just… Tell me, what can we do?”

.

Danny tumbled head over heels into the Ghost Zone. He stopped, turned around, sending a blast of ectoenergy from his foot to accelerate himself back towards the portal.

He was too late.  The portal doors slammed shut, then winked out of existence.  

They were gone.  Danny was stuck here.  In the Ghost Zone.  

Fine.  

You know what?  Fine.  

He was here.  He was stuck here, because he didn’t know where or how to find natural portals. He didn’t know what was happening back home in Amity, and he was half out of his mind with worry about it.  

Fine.  

They thought he was a ghost.  A terrible, evil ghost.  Something to be cast off and thrown away.  

Fine.  

He was a ghost.  And he’d be the best ghost.  Ever.

[juniorgman187]

Be Forever Young (Reid Fluff Fic)

Summary: After Penelope’s resignation from the BAU, she attempts to set up her tech protégé, Reader, with Reader’s intellectual match yet much older counterpart - Dr. Spencer Reid. 

A/N: The POV switches between Reader and Spencer, just use context clues to detect who the narrator is.  Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Content Warning: 21 year age gap, headcannon proposal Playlist: Cloud 9 by Beach Bunny Word Count: 6.1k

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

Prologue

Events like these weren’t exceedingly rare. They weren’t anything like Halley’s Comet, by any means, where it only happens once in your lifetime - if you’re lucky. But they weren’t exactly sunrises - something that you can count on occurring every day without fail. 

The best celestial phenomenon I could compare it to are blue moons. Rare enough to still have an element of surprise when they came, but not so rare that I should never expect them. 

These ‘blue moons’ are actually the events in which I meet an intellectual match. 

It’s not too often that I find a mind quite like mine, so you’ll forgive me for the reaction it elicits to watch them transcend the physical level and connect with me on the psychological one. There’s only been a handful of people who’ve ever had the exact standard of aptitude to be permissible into this metaphysical world with me, but now - there’s a handful and one. 

The newest addition to the list is her. 

_ _ _

Getting a word in edgewise when it comes to a conversation with Penelope Garcia is nearly impossible. Getting a word in edgewise when it comes to a conversation with Penelope Garcia about Dr. Spencer Reid is impossible. 

I couldn’t tell you when the first time she brought him up was, but I could probably tell you just how many times since then she’s mentioned him. 

A trillion. At least. 

For months on end, he was the only thing she would talk to me about. Morning, noon, and night. Every single day she’d gush about him with the same unrelenting zeal as she had the day before and the day before that. It was both scary and impressive how she never seemed to run out of good things to say about him. 

“You would just die for his apartment. It’s got this super chic dark academia thingy going on. You’d be really into that,” she would say. Or something to that effect. I was never really listening. 

Not that I wasn’t interested in learning about Dr. Reid - I was very interested in him.

As a superior. 

I first learned of him when he taught my Psych 101 class. Freshman year me was simply enthralled with him as a speaker, probably due to the charm of his awkward humor. I found it eerily relatable and touching, in a way. That was probably my favorite class, minus the assholes who made it less than enjoyable at times. (That’s a story for later).

The next interaction I had with him happened not even a year later when he came back after temporarily teaching to sit in on a philosophy class. Even though he was only auditing the lecture, whereas I was enrolled in the course, he ended up sitting in the seat right beside me. Had he not been gifted with an eidetic memory - a fact I found out during one of my obsessive research sessions - I doubt he would’ve even remembered sitting next to me.

Our shared field of work helped to bring us back together repeatedly throughout college. I would run into him at seminars, workshops, once even at a library where we were both looking for the same book. 

But for the most part, our relationship was parasocial. It largely consisted of me learning from him at a distance. I would use his brilliant research to support my own assignments, read the books he recommended, audit the classes he would teach. 

Rather than accurately interpreting my very limited, very professional connection to Dr. Reid, Penelope was deliberately using it as ammunition for her arsenal of reasons why I should consider dating him. 

“You guys are basically already friends, and nothing is cuter than the friends-to-lovers trope!” Now that she actually did say, and the only reason I remember it verbatim was it was so outrageous I couldn’t not remember it. 

And probably because she just said it to me right now. 

“We’re not friends! We’re ... acquaintances. Colleagues, if you will.” My attempts to gain distance from Penelope and this topic of conversation were crashing and burning. The more I tried to walk away from her, the faster she would chase me. It was inconceivable how she managed to do that and continue to pelt me with her perky persistence. 

“Even better! You know I’m no stranger to workplace romances.”

That I did. One Derek Morgan or one Luke Alvez ring a bell?

“Dr. Reid and I don’t work together,” I reminded her, if only to burst her bubble of insanity. 

“Exactly my point! If you two don’t work together, then there’s nothing keeping you apart.” 

I was stopped dead in my tracks, almost causing Penelope to trip since she was right on my heels. 

“Nothing? Really? Try 21 years.” 

That surely kept us apart. 

Our age gap was one of those glaring disparities Penelope couldn’t wave away with her magic wand. Frankly, it wasn’t an age gap so much as it was an age Grand Canyon. He was a whole person of legal drinking age older than me!

Hell - our age gap itself was older than me!

Maybe there weren’t any contracts or agreements or supervisors to keep us apart, but there was still one significant thing doing that. 

Time. Arguably the most important thing you needed to get right for a relationship to work. 

If there were any chance that he and I were good together, that was squandered by our divergence in age. 

Right person, wrong time ... but wrong time by more than two decades.

I could see the smallest fragment of hope wither away in Garcia’s eyes, and it actually hurt to have known that I caused that. Her voice was more solemn when she said, “You don���t have to date him, I just want you to go on a date. Get to know each other better. Who knows? You might finally graduate from colleagues to BFF’s.” 

Not that I was seriously considering the possibility of growing closer to Dr. Reid, but there was one question lingering in my mind.

“Does he even want to go on this date? Have you asked him how he feels about it?” 

Part of why I was wondering was on the off chance that she’d tell me he had the same objections towards this that I did, which would be good news for me since it would mark my reluctance as a sound judgment. If there was anyone whose opinion was worth something, it was his, right? After all, he was the provable genius in the same compromising position as me. 

“Trust me, he’s been dying to do this.” In spite of her preface to trust her, I didn’t. I couldn’t be sure if she was suggesting that he’d been dying to go on a date with me or if he’d been dying to go on a date in general.

No offense to him, but I guessed it was the latter, and if that was the case, he was only being a team player because she hadn’t told him it was me she was setting him up with. Already suspecting that I’d probe further to navigate through her vagueness, she cut in with one last Hail Mary. “One date! That’s all!”

Whether you believe me or not, 100% the only reason why I said what I said next was to put an end to this madness. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Maybe 99.99%.

_ _ _

I never knew how I could lose so much time. Sure, if anyone asked, I could probably account for everything I’d done in my day, second by second. But still, there was this cloudiness, a fog, inhabiting my brain, casting this haze on whatever else dwelled in my mind, too. 

I couldn’t focus on anything for more than 4 seconds at a time, and while that wasn’t incredibly concerning for the average human, it was disconcerting for me. 

What was going on? 

What is going on?

“What’s going on?” 

Suddenly, a hand began to wave in front of my face. “Yoo-hoo? Anybody in there?” JJ wondered aloud, causing me to realize it was her voice that asked the question from before. 

“Yeah, sorry,” I shook my head to regain some clarity, but that did me no good. My foggy brain still remained. It goes without saying my words were worth nothing as well. JJ saw right through me in a way that never failed to scare me shitless. I could never conjure up a lie good enough to follow that look she’d give me. So I settled for the truth. The question that cast the haziness in my brain to begin with. 

“What do you think about me dating again?” 

If I thought that first look was bad, then the one she was giving me now was something of a nightmare. At least with the first, I knew what she was thinking. With this one, I hadn’t a clue. 

To relieve us from some of the insufferable silence, I found myself speaking again in my defense. “Garcia mentioned something earlier about setting me up with someone and it got me thinking.”

Thinking about Max that is. 

Being my most recent girlfriend, it made sense why she was freshest in my mind. That being said, we’ve been broken up for 14 months, which in any other context would seem like more than enough time to start dating again, but therein lies the catch. 

We didn’t just break up. She said “no” when I asked her to marry me, which, if you ask me, is one hell of a way to break up.

So from that perspective, it obviously begs the question: is 14 months too fast to move on from something like that? 

JJ sharply inhaled. “Well, are you ready to start dating again?”

I still didn’t have an answer for that myself. “I don’t know. There isn’t exactly a rulebook on how long you have to wait until it’s socially acceptable-”

“Lemme stop you right there, Spence,” She placed her hand on top of mine. “You can’t just do whatever statistics or studies or science say is right all the time. You not only need to be more in tune with your own needs but accepting of them, too. Screw what anyone else has to say about you dating again - including Socrates, including Einstein, including Aristotle ... including me. Do whatever you think is acceptable by your standards - not society’s. Do what you wanna do and I’ll support that.”

There was something special about having JJ’s approval. It was like getting permission to be excited, something I didn’t know I needed or wanted. 

“I’m ready.”

Born ready, as Penelope herself would say.

_ _ _

I was starting to get suspicious that maybe I had an invisible string attached to me and on the other end of that string was Penelope. It was the only explanation as to how she managed to trail behind me at an isochronal pace. Perfectly equidistant, perfectly equal intervals of time. Must’ve been some form of magic that she was able to synchronize that connection for as long as she did as we pranced around the office, basically chasing me.

“Okay, I know the date isn’t until Saturday, but I really think we need to amp up your wardrobe choices ... like stat.”

Hearing that I was seeing my superior still didn’t settle well with me. I don’t think I could ever get used to the thought. 

I should’ve been offended at her suggestion to change my clothing taste as it implied my stylistic choices weren’t up to par, but a part of me, a very small part of me, knew she was right. And just because I wasn’t keen on the idea of going on a date with Spencer didn’t mean I didn’t want to look nice for him for it.

“I’m assuming you’ve got some ideas in mind,” I said in a teasing voice, knowing that���s precisely why she brought it up.

“See! You are a genius! Exactly why you and Spencer are meant to be together!” Her exclamation was just as loud as it was outlandish. 

“Alright, calm down sparky,” I shot a warning look. “It’s just one date - we’re not soulmates.” 

Then, talking in the quietest voice I didn’t think Penelope was capable of speaking with, she said, “Not yet.” 

I knew the minute I showed even the littlest bit of interest in Penelope’s fashion guidance, I’d end up draped in ruffles, sequins, glitter, tulle, rhinestones, or all of the above. Nothing again Penelope’s personal style - it’s just not mine. 

I was scared to ask, but I had to know. “So what were you thinking?” 

Before my very eyes, Penelope’s constantly-there smile transformed, something akin to the mischievous grin of the Cheshire Cat. “I was thinking …” 

In a Mary Poppins-esque fashion, Penelope produced a dress that in no feasible reality should have been able to fit within that little Hello Kitty side bag. 

I suppose it must’ve been absolutely backbreaking for Penelope to refrain from choosing a multicolor or at least pattern-riddled dress, so as compensation for the fact that it was only one singular color throughout, it had to be a bold one. 

Red. 

“Not too shabby, right?” Her eyebrows jumped on her forehead, knowing she’d made a good choice. 

And a part of me actually died saying this, but it was pretty perfect. 

_ _ _ 

My life didn’t flash before my eyes, per se, the moment I finally arrived at the delicatessen. It was more like a very specific, singular memory had flashed before my eyes. 

That story for later? This is the one. 

Psych 101 was my best class in Freshman year ... by a long shot. Come rain, wind, or snow, I was always excited to go. It was a standout course on its own, but not because it was terribly spectacular or the most fascinating subject in the world, but more so because of how it changed my own person. It challenged me, like all worthwhile things do. 

There were more judgmental meatheads - boys, if you will - than not, who would jump down my throat for being a smart ass or a teacher’s pet if I so much as answered one of Dr. Reid’s questions. Par for the course, really. 

As a result, I had a proclivity to avoid raising my hand. It wasn’t that I was hyper-fixated on managing my reputation, just that participating wasn’t worth the eventual harassment from my dimwitted classmates. 

Nonetheless, one day, I felt compelled to answer Dr. Reid when he asked what our thoughts were about the sampled, pretense manifesto.

No one else was jumping at the chance to speak, perhaps they were just as cowardly as I was, and it was clear that he was going to stand there waiting until someone finally would. The silence was painfully awkward for everyone and so I felt obligated, as a student who was actually enrolled in the class for credit and not just to audit like 90% of the other girls here, to break it.

Slowly, ever so slowly, my hand hesitantly inched up into the air until it floated just high enough above the student in front of me’s head. As soon as I knew he saw it, I let it plunge straight back down. 

“Yes, Ms. (y/l/n)?”

I could already feel the dirty looks and snide comments coming before I even said a word. 

“I know we’re all collectively referring to this unsub as a man, and while that might just be a general assumption or Freudian slip perhaps ... I think the language is steeped in betrayal and contempt. And it would be ignorant not to notice how it reads more like the wrath of a woman scorned than your typical jilted male lover.” 

“Lover?” Someone two rows back snickered quietly, clearly to mock my choice of words. I didn’t even have to look to know it was Brad who had said that. Nevertheless, Dr. Reid was impressed with my answer. His lips curved into the faintest smile as he nodded his head. If he had heard the commentary of one Brad Sterling, he made no visceral reaction to it.

With an extended hand, palm facing up, he gestured for me to, “Please. Stand up.”

I fumbled my way up and out of my seat to possibly delay the shit I’d get for this mere action.

“That, ladies and gentleman, is what it looks like to have courage,” He underlined his words with a grand flourish of his hand in my direction. “Putting yourself on the line even in the event you’ll be mocked and ridiculed or deemed wrong. That’s something you’ll need if you are seriously considering being part of the BAU, or the FBI at any capacity.”

My face was flushed from the acclaim he was showering me with. Suddenly, I was glad I volunteered. 

Taking me completely by surprise, Dr. Reid wasn’t done yet.

“So, Mr. Sterling,” He began, directly calling out the boy in the back who without a doubt made the remark. I wouldn’t have had any reason to believe he heard it since his attention never diverted away from me long enough to catch the comment, much less the culprit. I wonder if he’d heard all the times Brad made jokes at my expense. Was he finally at his wits end with the sarcasm? “Make fun all you want, but might I suggest that if you like a girl, you do the opposite of that.” 

His sickly sweet drawl was followed by a short wink at me as if to say ‘I have your back’, and I was lucky to have already been in the process of sitting back down because my knees would’ve given out underneath me from the sheer exhilaration of his praise. 

The thought never once crossed my mind that Brad was so fixated on me because he had a crush, but it all made sense once it did. And if I didn’t know any better, Dr. Reid only humiliated him and brought it up because the realization dawned on him, too.

Was it possible that Dr. Reid was ... jealous?

In the spirit of complete transparency, that suspicion may have lit the tiniest wildfire imaginable in my chest. A wildfire that, even now, has yet to extinguish. Perhaps that little flame is the 0.01% of the reason I said yes. I could only imagine what kind of omnipotence it would soon gain if this date went well. 

If he could light such an enduring kindle with simple praise, think about what would happen if he smiled at me. If he laughed at my jokes. If he held my hand. 

If he kissed me.  

Dr. Reid’s validation would be something I actively sought from all walks of life, I knew that much. What I didn’t know was how far that desire would take me.

I would have never guessed it would lead me here. 

Standing in front of a fancy restaurant in a pretty red dress with the tenuous hope that the professor inside might just like it so much that he’ll end up liking the girl wearing it, too.

_ _ _ 

No matter how many times I adjusted the bouquet of poppies, they sat perpetually crooked on the table. Much like the dark gray tie around my neck that tightened around my throat with every passing second. I had to keep messing with it to loosen the noose-like grip it had on me. Who knew if it actually was becoming more restricting or it was the flourishing bundle of nerves in my stomach that made it harder to breathe. 

I was never very good at lying in wait patiently. Especially if I was expecting something. Now that I was expecting someone? I could say with perfect clarity - I was not good at waiting. 

I don’t wanna seem the way I do 

Every time the door opened, my eyes flashed to it instantaneously. And every time it wasn’t her, a little part of me was disappointed. It was still too early to say for certain that she was standing me up, but my mind was doing what it did best. It wandered. There was nothing else to do after all. 

Except maybe adjust those blood orange poppies one more time.

I’d picked them out specifically because Penelope slipped in a not-so-subtle comment about her dress being “a perfect match to the color of papaverales” - her words exactly. I thought if she went through that much trouble to find a color coordinated plant and say the scientific name for me to decode, it was worth picking up a bouquet of them on the way. 

It was only the most ironic occurrence in the world that when I went to rearrange them one last time, I devoted my full attention to the action, missing the very moment I was on the lookout for the past hour and a half. 

I didn’t even see her until the red poppies camouflaged into the identically colored setting of her dress. 

Then there she was.

All the disappointment in the world was worth that first time I saw her with fresh eyes. 

I was dumbstruck for a moment, long enough that it warranted an apology for not standing up sooner. 

“(Y/n)! Hi!” I accidentally squealed. I couldn’t control myself, let alone control the pitch of my voice apparently. 

I could see, in her, youthful naivete where, in others, I saw their age. She paradoxically had not aged a minute, and yet a new womanhood was piercing through her ultimately adolescent appearance. 

“Hi, Dr. Reid,” She said through a laugh and a smile, shaking my hand politely and professionally. She was greeting me like I was still her professor and she’d just happen to run into me on an errand. Next, she’d be attempting small-talk for as long as it took for me to let her go. 

Unfortunately for her, I had no plans for that. 

But I’m confident when I’m with you 

“Please, it’s just Spencer,” I reminded her, hoping to break down that governing image of me she surely maintained. 

“Spencer,” She tried again; doing it more to be obedient to my instruction than to satisfy her own desire. It sounded so unnatural to her, just as it did to me. I found it adorable, actually. It seemed like she was breaking this unspoken, and very much illusionary rule to say my first name. “It’s nice to see you again,” She added after I pulled out her chair for her.

“Is it?” I asked when I rounded the table to get to my seat. “I get the feeling you’re a little disappointed.” The only reason I pointed it out was that it was true, not just that I’d observed the notion grow more poignant in her face for the past minute.

“Not at all,” She shook her head, which luckily for me, drew a line of congruence between her body language and verbal language. At least, she was being truthful. “It’s just that I’m sort of embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” I repeated in astonishment, unable to cultivate a list of reasons that would justify her feeling that way. I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d done to provoke that emotion, and it nearly broke me to consider her internal being substantiating it. 

“Embarrassed isn’t the right word, but I can’t find a more accurate one for what I’m feeling,” She shied away from my eyes when she lowered her head as she spoke. 

“You could try to explain it to me?” I offered gently. It took an overwhelming amount of self-restraint to not offer my hand with it. It would’ve been so easy to slide my hand across the threshold to enter her territory of the table, but who knows if doing so would just make her that much more uncomfortable. 

“Well for one thing, I don't really go on dates,” From this alone, I could already relate to her enough to laugh at the fact. “Don’t laugh at me! You know how dangerous first dates can be,” She swatted her hand in my direction to chastise me. 

“I do! I do! I think it’s really good that you’re protecting yourself to the point of avoiding dates,” I was teasing the implication that she wasn’t asked to go on very many, which was thankfully delivered well enough to make her laugh again. 

“Hey! Many people have wanted to go on dates with me, thank you very much. You included.” 

“Me included.” I nodded in approval. We sat in a short period of silence while we exchanged one soulful glance, borne from the insinuation of what I just said. 

“And for another ... I respect you too much as a figure of authority to see you in that way.” 

_ _ _ 

“In what way?” 

Rather than tossing me a lifeline, he was feeding me to the sharks. Forcing me to dive into the deep end. He wanted to see me struggle to stay afloat in the sea of his sticky toffee eyes. He knew I'd get suspended in them when he gave me that look. How much I’d be willing to get lost in them just so I could wander in the depths of his honeyed orbs for a little bit longer. 

That look ...

“You don’t find it weird?” This was the most honesty I could’ve demonstrated. 

“Find what weird?” For someone with such a high IQ, you’d think he’d be quicker on his feet. 

“This! You - me. On a date!” I gestured to the space between us. “You’re ... well frankly, Spencer, you’re old enough to be my father.” 

“Does that make you uncomfortable?” He genuinely cared about the answer.

“Only in theory. Not in actual life,” was the most precise response I could give.

“So what is making you uncomfortable?” Again, I could tell my answer mattered to him. 

“You were my professor once, and now I’m just supposed to go on a date with you and see you as my equal when I’ve spent the entire time I’ve known you, putting you on a pedestal? Do you know how much pressure that puts on me? To be perfect?”

“Who says you have to be perfect? Who says you’re aren’t already?” 

That one caught me off guard. I had to gulp down the lump of shock. 

“You think I’m perfect?” 

“That, or you’re pretty close to it.” 

Lately all I feel is bad and bruised

I could’ve smiled, I could’ve thanked him, I could’ve fallen at his feet and thrown my dignity down there along with it, but I just laughed. I laughed. 

“That’s ridiculous! You barely know me.” 

“You’re wrong,” He simply replied with a firm shake of his head and a cavalier sip at his drink. It showed just how confident he was in his answer. How cocky he was. 

“How am I wrong?” 

He cleared his throat as though he were preparing to deliver the world’s greatest speech. Then, he leaned forward, motioning with his fingers for me to do the same. 

“If I’m remembering correctly, which you know I am, you were the student who had the gall to raise your hand and correct me on my gender identification of the unsub, right?” 

The second the sentimental thought, ‘aww he remembered’, came into my head, it was soon followed by, of course, he did, idiot. Eidetic memory, remember?

Tired of tripping on my shoes

“What does that have to do with me being perfect? Or so you claim?”

He was piercing deep into my eyes now, his gaze overwhelming my senses and sending shockwaves akin to the feeling of butterflies everywhere … and I mean everywhere.

“Bravery is the audacity to be unhindered by failures, and to walk with freedom, strength, and hope, in the face of things unknown.” 

I recognized the quote as one of Morgan Harper Nichols, but the words went right to my chest like they were his own. 

That damn wildfire just got a whole lot bigger. 

“I’ve always thought about how if I could be unfazed by failure or even just the prospect of it, if I could just be strong enough or have enough hope to face what I couldn’t predict, I’d be set. I’d be golden,” He paused. “I’d be perfect ... but you? You, little one, have already got that figured out. So whether that means you’re perfect on your own because of your bravery or you're a perfect match for someone fainthearted like me, is up for you to decide. Whichever interpretation of being perfect you choose would be correct, but you should know - I meant both either way.”

But when he loves me I feel like I’m floating

When he calls me pretty, I feel like somebody

Even when we fade eventually to nothing

You will always be my favorite form of loving

“Do you want to get out of here?” He asked when he finally refound his voice. 

“Since the minute I walked in.” I replied after refinding mine. 

_ _ _ 

“You always take girls to your apartment on the first date, Doctor?” Asking this in the name of taking a jab at him was the most clever way I could think to conceal my underlying motive of trying to gauge how giddy I could let myself feel about the fact that he’d taken me to his ‘super chic dark academia’ themed residence - Penelope’s words, remember?

“Well, in my abundant dating history,” He sarcastically began, “I can’t say I ever have, no. You’d be the first.”

That shot another quick bolt of lightning to the wildfire in my heart that I’m ashamed to admit made the heat reinvigorate. The flame must’ve been too much for my chest to contain so it had to relocate to my face, where my cheeks were left to burn under his gaze and thanks to his admission. 

I was the first. 

He must’ve seen the glint localizing on my countenance and decided to speak on it. “Why does that amuse you?”

“I don’t know,” I dumbly but truthfully replied. He didn’t need any more information to get his answer, though. Because even if I didn’t know what amused me about being his first, I never denied that it did, and that was more than enough confirmation for him. 

“You promise to be here when I come back?” He wagged a cautionary finger at me like it might persuade me to stay and hold me accountable if I didn’t. 

Spencer needed to go into his room to collect an item that ‘shall not be named’ but was apparently essential for our super secret plans tonight (secret to even me) and he was leaving me in the living room while he did so. I guess being the initial girl he took home on a first date was okay, but being the initial girl he took into his bedroom on a first date was crossing a line. 

That was alright with me, though. I was in this for the long haul.

“I promise I pose no flight risk, Your Honor,” I taunted with a coy tone. “But I can’t promise I won’t snoop around some.” Hey, at least I was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 

“Snoop around all you want,” He laughed ruefully, demonstrating an openness I quite envied and admired. “You’ll probably learn a lot about me that way. And you won’t even have to talk to me to do that!” I knew he was only saying that out of self-deprecating tendencies he harbored, but I couldn’t help feeling that a small part of him actually believed that I wasn’t interested in talking to him.

“Spencer, you know I do like talking to you right?” I caught him just before he ran into his room. Already halfway in the door, I could still catch the megawatt smile on his face. 

“So stay then,” His smile grew impossibly bigger. “We can talk all you want when I get back.” 

The door closed, and then suddenly reopened to let just his face through, a face that said, ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

After a few minutes of loudly sorting through his room, I heard the sanctimonious cry of victory. “Found it!” 

I could hear the little pad of his feet and he happily trotted out of the room. “Ta-da! My stargazing kit.” He said it as though he were introducing the basket he was holding to me, and me to it. Like it was a real person he wanted me to know. I almost felt obliged to say, ‘Hi stargazing kit! It’s so nice to meet you. I’m (y/n)!’

“Let’s go,” He smiled, reaching for my hand. 

I unabashedly took it, because although it meant that I was truly leaving his apartment, I had a very strong feeling that I would be back here again one day. 

_ _ _ 

We were lying there on this big quilted comforter that was stashed away in that stargazing kit of his, staring up at the sky, drunk on the sound of our occasional fits of laughter. 

“It’s Earth Day, you know that?” I wondered aloud in a state of complete euphoria.

“I actually did,” He said through a sheepish laugh, almost as if he was admitting the knowledge of it against his own will to protect my fragility. 

From out of nowhere, there was a small tug on the skirt of my dress. I looked down to find Spencer’s hand there, playing with the fabric until it lay perfectly on my leg. 

I coughed to possibly relieve the tension brewing in my loins. “So then you know the Lyrid meteor shower is tonight,” I moved the tiniest bit closer to lean into his touch.

“At exactly 4:33 a.m,” He moved too.

“Is that why you brought me here? To watch the shooting stars? To make a wish?” I thought for a second that I would appear exceedingly childish - more so than I already did being 21 years his junior. But he didn’t judge me at all for the kid-like notion of making a wish on a shooting star or the implication that I still believed in those things. 

In fact, I piqued his curiosity, telling by the way he moved only his head to the side to watch my reaction. “Say I did. What would you wish for?” 

In the throws of dreamy elation, I softly murmured the only honest answer. “To be older. But not the unfulfilling 9 to 5, loveless marriage, ‘I do my taxes for fun’ older. I want to be old in the ways that the stars and the sky are old. I want to be infinite.” 

“...To be infinite.” He whispered my wish back, sounding sort of in awe of me. 

Just then, the overhead horizon grew larger. With no buildings or people to block the view, it was just us, the stars, and the sky. I could actually feel that I was lying on a planet. It was so wide. So infinite. 

“Can I hold your hand?” I asked softly, in a manner so vulnerable it scared me.

Without any words or hesitation, he put my hand in his.

“The universe seems so big right now. I just needed something to hold onto.” I explained quietly, practically with the hopes that he wouldn’t hear me. But he heard.

“I’m here.”

We didn’t know what was ahead of us then. We were just two people, looking up at the sky on a cold February night. We weren’t divided by power, or age, or space. We were ourselves and no one else. 

My eyes fluttered shut again and a smile stretched across my face. “Stargazing was a good idea.”

The world and the sky and the stars and I - we were all infinite. I couldn’t have felt bigger in my own body. In the best way possible, I was taking up so much space. I was occupying the earth. I was made up of matter. I mattered. 

Just as I began to open my eyes, I caught a glimpse of a fading shooting star. Though I had wished to be older, I still felt like a child. Then it hit me. I didn’t feel older because I wasn’t older.

I was infinite. 

Yes, I was a child, but not in the pinch your cheeks, bottles and pacifiers, babyish way. I was a child in the ‘you have a life full of possibilities ahead of you’ way.

You are young. He tells me with his eyes. And that is a good thing. Be forever young. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

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[archangelgabriel]

idk if you guys remember my drawings of dean winchester jr, his sister, and the fitzgerald kids being friends, but here’s the part TWO (better this time)

(tap for better quality)

hcs under the cut:

idk of these look like teenagers but sam and cas are both 18, dean is two years younger than them at 16, and jody is two years younger than him at 14

oh yeah dean has a younger sister. her name is jody. honestly i’d name her something different now but my friends who invented her came up w jody and i feel like paying homage to them so it’s jody now 😌 maybe i’ll change it eventually since this is kinda my version

they all live in the same modest suburban area and investigate supernatural happenings together + kinda keep tabs on the secret life of the monster youth

sam (winchester) told his kids about the supernatural and they’re all just kind of witchy in their day to day lives. every other friday the winchester-leahys preform the family bonding Blood Ritual to summon auntie rowena over for dinner

jody and dean are both fluent in asl and often use it to their advantage. id like to imagine they go to the same high school and will sign things to each other from across the hallway and then get in trouble bc they called jody’s mean physics teacher a cunt right in front of him

dean inherited his fathers weird thing about serial killer podcasts, except he likes to investigate cold case files. his favorite thing is looking at some old super famous unsolved mystery and realizing that it was probably because of a ghost or vampire or some shit, bc it makes him feel special that he (and a few other ppl) are the only ones who’ll ever know the real answer

it’s kind of a family of nerds. jody pretends not to be but she is and she regularly participates in dean’s freakish magic science experiments

they regularly almost burn down the house together. eileen is so long-suffering (sam w. contributes to the chaos although he denies it when she’s around)

their prank wars are like magic prank wars. lots of (mostly) harmless hex bags are placed into each other’s backpacks

OH JODY MAKES THEM ALL FILM TIKTOKS WITH HER ADJHJNWJGD. THIS IS TRUE AND FACTUAL she is on witchtok and like just posts complete bullshit but with enough real magic to the point where she can fuck with people. it brings her great joy

sam (fitzgerald) very willingly does the trends with her he thinks it’s fun. actually lets talk about the fitzgerald twins

so basically they have the sweetest most loving least nuclear nuclear family ever. from my vague memory of the ep it’s just them, garth and bess, and their older sister who’s probably moved out so yknow. rowdy 18 year olds with the house to themselves. they’re super different but love each other and know how to live with each other after like over a decade of being the top and bottom bunk on the bunk bed (cas got top, sam was afraid of heights as a child)

they both wear the silver bullet necklaces that the whole family wears, n both are happy to. sam kind of secretly wishes he could just be a regular human boy, so he appreciates the message of “you’re just like a human! you are no better than them, so love everyone equally :).” cas actually kinda likes being a werewolf but he appreciates the message the necklace offers of “hey ur stronger and better than literally all humans but you can still die so, don’t eat them i guess.”

oh if you couldn’t tell cas is the emo one. sam took after the general fitzgerald household vibes of overeagerness and love and happy times! cas just tries to be… anything but that. he probably listens to, like, death grips.

he’s still a big hugger, though. kind of ruins his image when he’s saying goodbye to some acquaintance and almost instinctively goes in for a snuggle.

they both kinda tend to get into fights. there’s a similarly peaceful vampire family in town who just thinks they’re ~so much better~ than them, and it even pisses SAM off and he’s like a walking talking marshmallow cookie.

sam actually has like a secret aggressive streak just bc he’s very defensive over his family and friends. listen i know he sounds like a mary sue shut up shut up shut u—

sometimes cas gives jody piggyback rides if she asks nicely. he pretends to be super annoyed by it but he likes the opportunity to use his super strength every once in a while. sam is also very easily persuaded if jody asks nicely, but usually she is asking him to pick up dean just to piss him off.

i think it’s very funny how dean and cas are like the Intellectuals and they’ll talk about politics and current events and social justice and jody and sam are the Artists and will interrupt them to be like “look we broke two skateboards in half and then stuck them together in a plus sign shape to make the Mega Skateboard” and then jody tries it out in the driveway and then they have to drive to the hospital. huzzah

im out of hcs so here’s some bonus doodles

[i-believe-in-melinda-may]

So, I deleted what I posted last of the first chapter of my Rederina fic as it didn’t feel right, the characters didn’t feel Authentic. I re-wrote and I feel much better about this version so I thought I would share.

For Elizabeth Keen it has been a long few days, a long few weeks, but as she stares at a beautiful piece of art, with the man she knows as Raymond Reddington sitting next to her, some of the stress, and pain, of the last few weeks steps away; while her desire for answers remains all to noticeable.

“It really is exquisite, in it’s way,” Reddington says, putting the casket into it’s own little bag, and Liz can’t help but role her eyes.

“It’s exquisite because of what you know about it, where it came from, who made it, it’s intellectual, I prefer art that’s more emotional,” Liz says, there being a double meaning to her words.

“The forger certainly played on our emotions,” Reddington comments, and Liz realizes that this is the opportunity she has been waiting for, but she has no idea if she is going to take Ressler’s advice.

“The forger, the one you found but won’t turn over to us,” Liz comments.

“The counterfeits are nearly flawless, which is enough,” Reddington comments. “Because our desire for them to be real obscures any imperfection,” Reddington says. “Much like your desire for the women in Paris to be your mother blinded you to the fact that she wasn’t,” Reddington says as he needs Liz to understand, to know, that the women she believed was Katarina wasn’t.

“It wasn’t just my desire,” Liz comments.

“So, she told you she was Katarina,” Reddington says, being both glad to know exactly what Tatiana told Liz, and also extremely worried as he knows what it could lead to.

“She did, and its difficult for me to believe she wasn’t because while I don’t understand everything it made sense, everything she said,” Liz comments, wanting to give Reddington one more chance to tell her the truth she is so desperate for before she does what she has to do if he doesn’t.

“Elizabeth, she wasn’t your mother,” Reddington says, needing her to believe that, and Liz can’t help but be annoyed by the fact that his voice is completely calm.

“How are you so sure?” Liz asks, an edge to her voice and realizing that she has nothing to lose Liz decides to be honest because maybe, just maybe, if she is honest with Reddington then he will be honest with her and finally tell her the truth she so desperately desires. “Because I know you’re not Ilya Koslov, or the real Raymond Reddington,” Liz says, revealing what Reddington desperately hoped she didn’t know. “So who are you to her that allows you to know the truth no one else does?” Liz asks as it doesn’t make sense to her. “Who are you to my family that causes my grandfather to lie to ME about who you are?” Liz asks, her voice becoming more angry and more upset.

“Elizabeth…” Reddington starts to say, using the tone which tells Elizabeth he isn’t going to tell her anything.

“No…. I’m done,” Elizabeth says, surprising herself with her words and causing Dembe to look at Reddington through the rear view mirror. “Seven years ago, you walked into my life and offered me crumbs and nothing but vague answers about who you are and I’m sick of it,” Liz admits, while she is surprised by her own words it doesn’t make them any less true.

“You don’t know what these questions will lead to, you cannot imagine the danger you, and Agnes will be in if the wrong people learn the truth,” Reddington says to Liz as he needs her to see that everything he is doing is for her protection.

“That’s my point, so many people have been killed and hurt,” Liz says annoyed, with pain in her voice. “I don’t want the truth because just because I’m curious I want to know so I know what I’m, what we’re, up against,” Liz explains.

“I can protect you,” Reddington tells Liz as that is what he has spent the last thirty years making sure of.

“We both know that’s not always true,” Liz tells Reddington. “I care about you, even without knowing who you are you are family to me, and I love having you in my life, but I can’t handle the lies and secrets anymore; I don’t want them, and I don’t want them around Agnes,” Liz admits. “I let Maddy Toliver get close to my daughter, and if she’s not my mother then I put Agnes in incredible daughter because I didn’t know the truth, isn’t that exactly what you want to protect me and Agnes from?” Liz says, trying to use Reddington’s own logic to realize just what his secrets are doing.

“Elizabeth…” Reddington says, once more trying to get Liz to understand that he keeps the secrets he keeps for a reason.

“I know you say it’s dangerous, but doesn’t everything that just happened prove that those dangers are already here?” Liz asks, making an extremely good point not that Reddington wants to admit that. “I can’t protect myself, or my daughter, if I continue to be in the dark,” Liz says, bringing up Agnes partly because she knows that, despite everything, Reddington does care about her. “Ignorance isn’t bliss, it’s not protection,” Liz says. “So, I am asking, begging for the truth, or this... you being in my life, is done,” Liz reveals, not realizing how much her words hurt, while Dembe wishes he could tell the truth Reddington refuses to. “That’s something I really don’t want, but I will if I have to,” Liz admits. “I will say goodbye to you, and the taskforce to find out the answers to the questions you refuse to answer, no matter where they take me,” Liz admits, as she realizes that she can’t just wait for someone to tell her the truth anymore, she has to find it herself.

“Elizabeth, when I say you cannot comprehend the danger the truth will bring I mean it, you go down that path and it only ends one way,” Reddington reveals. “I have the spent the last thirty years doing everything to make sure that does not happen,” Reddington explains.

“Why? Explain it to me so I don’t have to find answers on my own, so I don’t go down that path, so that I don’t bring that danger down on us,” Liz requests, deciding that this is Reddington’s last chance to tell her the truth, if he doesn’t she will do whatever she has to do to find answers on her own. “Why are we in danger? how are you so sure that the women from Paris, Maddy Toliver, isn’t my mother? How do you know she’s not Katarina Rostova?” Liz asks, and as he looks at her face Reddington realizes that Liz is serious about what she is saying, and that this one moment could undo everything he spent thirty years doing. So, against every single one of his instincts Reddington knows there is only one thing he can do; even if it’s the last thing he wants.

“Because I am,” Reddington says, saying the words he never intended to say.

For the last seven years Elizabeth has considered many possibilities about who Reddington is, but as he finally gives her the answer she has wanted for so long it’s not one she ever considered, and is certainly not one she was ready for.

“What? No…. it can’t be,” Liz says, having no idea what to believe as logically it makes more sense for Maddy Toliver to be her mother, but at the same time it also makes perfect sense.

“It is,” Reddington says, realizing that Liz is so shocked that she is not truly reacting to what he is saying, not comprehending it. While he is unsure that it is a good idea Reddington knows there is something he can say to help Liz believe the truth. “When you were a child, before the fire, we were at the Summer Palace, we were in the garden. I told you to bring me some treasures, I was digging the hole when you ran up towards me,” Reddington explains. “I said, ‘There you are, did you bring some treasures? Oh, these are beautiful, this is a time machine, one day you will come back here, open it, and remember me,’” Reddington says, switching to Russian as he speaks the words he said all those years ago as he hopes that, even with a lot of Liz’s memories being removed, that it will be enough to remind Liz of something only the two of them know.

“I remember that… remember my mother saying that to me,” Liz says, tears coming to her eyes as she never told anyone what she remembered, as she searches for her mother’s face in Reddington’s.  “How… Dom said…” Liz starts to say, trying to make sense of everything.

“What he wanted you to believe,” Reddington reveals. “Most of what Dom told you was the truth, except when it came to my identity,” Reddington explains. “He told you want he wishes was real, he could never fully accept the truth,” Reddington admits, admitting what is painful for him. “He told you that I was Ilya rather than the truth that the daughter he… so dearly loved, but could never full accept, changed everything about herself,” Reddington explains.

“I don’t understand, how? Why? How would you do it? Why would you do it?” Elizabeth asks, as she needs to understand what is going on and she just can’t make it make sense, can’t make her mind work to put the pieces together.

“It’s a long story,” Reddington admits. “One full of ambition and hope, love, and loss,” Reddington explains. “And I will tell you the whole thing when you’re ready to hear it,” Reddington tells Liz, as he can see that she is becoming overwhelmed, who once more feels anger rise up inside of her.

“I think we both know that I am beyond ready to hear it,” Liz tells Reddington.

“You’re not as ready as you think,” Reddington admits as that he can see. “I can see it in your eyes, you’re not sure if you can believe what I’m saying, and I understand that,” Reddington reveals.  “When you’re ready to listen and have an open mind I will tell you everything,” Reddington says as he knows that now that he has told Elizabeth his identity, he needs to tell her everything, but he also knows that he cannot do so before Elizabeth is ready to truly listen to everything he needs to say.  

“When? When do you think I will be ready?” Liz asks, as she feels that she is ready now, but she also can’t deny that it is a lot to comprehend.

“That’s up to you,” Reddington admits, and Liz can’t help but roll her eyes. “I have some business to attend to for the next few days, but I’ll be back in time for Agnes’s performance,” Reddington reveals.

“You’re coming?” Liz asks, not even surprised that he knows about it.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Reddington assures Liz. “Elizabeth, even if you don’t see me I will be there, and we can talk when you’re ready to put aside everything you think you know and listen to the truth; listen to my story,” Reddington explains, as Dembe stops the car outside of Elizabeth’s apartment.

“I can do that,” Liz says as she isn’t overly sure she knows anything anymore. “But I need you to promise me something,” Liz admits. “Promise me that you won’t just disappear into the shadows, promise me that when I come to you ready to hear the truth you will give it to me, no more talk about danger and protection,” Liz requests.

“I can’t talk about one without the others,” Reddington admits. “But I promise Elizabeth, I will not disappear, I will tell you everything,” Reddington says, meaning his words completely, and to his surprise Liz reaches over and puts her hand over his hands, and even though it is just for a few fleeting seconds it means a lot to Reddington.

“Have a safe trip,” Liz says to Reddington. “Both of you,” Elizabeth says, looking at Dembe.

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” Dembe responds and Elizabeth gets out the car.

As Liz gets out the car, she feels unsteady on her feet. For so long she has been wanting the truth about who Reddington is and now that she’s gotten it there is a part of her that isn’t sure she can believe it, but at the same time there is a part of her that desperately wants to. While she is uncertain about so many things, in this moment as she stands on the side walk, Liz is sure of one thing, and one thing only, and that’s that she wants to see her daughter.

“You did the right thing,” Dembe says as he and Reddington watch as Elizabeth finally walks inside.

“Did I? To protect Elizabeth I may have just put her in the crosshairs,” Reddington comments, doubting if he made the right decision.

“Raymond we both know she was already in the crosshairs, now that she knows the truth she can prepare,” Dembe points out.

“We should go,” Reddington says as he isn’t sure he wants to talk about this right now, even with Dembe. “We have a plane to catch,” Reddington says as he stares out the window and Dembe pulls away from the curb.

[magalidragon]

dragon in a waterfall | a “bird on a wire” drabble

I don‘t know where this came from but I wrote it very fast at lunch. It is a missing piece to “bird on a wire” aka the Princess and Bodyguard fic. It is vaguely referenced in one of Dany’s thoughts in that fic. This is ANGST. Apologies for boo boos.

There was a ringing in her ears when she flicked her eyelids up, confused, wondering how come an alarm was going off-- shouldn't it be the middle of the night?  Was she sleeping this entire time?  Perhaps she was dreaming?

She tried to sit up, her chest aching, pressed on concrete, her evening gown torn from her shoulder and the skirt ripped in several layers around her knees and feet; she was really cold.  She never was cold; dragonblood, everyone joked, kept her running hot even if the frigid climes of the far North.  Except now she shivered, head to toe, her skin pebbled to gooseflesh.  The ringing was getting worse, when she tried to sit up, and she blinked again, her cheek scratched, and her side damp, like she'd landed in a puddle of water.

And she realized she was not dreaming.

Oh no, this was a nightmare.

"Jon!" she screamed, her throat vibrating from the exertion, the volume in her scream.  It came from her collapsed lungs, expanding them painfully, the horror at what had just happened settling into her memory, returning from the blacked out moment on the concrete.

She tried to stand up, but Barristan was grabbing her around hte middle, liftin gher bodily from the ground; her shoes were missing.  Her bare feet scrabbled on the cobblestones, unable to gain traction, her arms flailing, scratching at the bodyguard, refusing to listen to his commands.  Viserys was screaming for her, from the backseat of an SUV, before the door slammed on him, and she thought she heard her mother sobbing for her as well, and where was Rhaegar?  Did it even matter?

Nothing mattered.

None of her family mattered to her, because she had realized now what had happened, and why there was a damp spot on her side, and her body bruised and battered, and the chaos swarming them.  She could only see, tunnelvision, everything black on the edges of her sight, the figure lying in the center of the courtyard, blood pouring underneath him, Ser Arthur hovering over him, staunching bleeding with the shawl that had formerly been around her shoulders, and now was trying to keep blood in someone's body.

All she could see now was a hand, off to the side, fingers unmoving; fingers that had been in her palm only moments before, that had squeezed her hand deftly, when no one was looking, before she entered the Casterly Rock gardens for that evening's outdoor gala, to celebrate Rhaegar's coronation, while on a tour of the Westerlands.  It was never meant to be, it seemed someone was unhappy with that idea, and they'd decided to slip in under the guise of a waiter?  A driver?  Another bodyguard?  She did not know, nor did she care.

BEcause whoever it was had called her name and she turned, and then there was a shocking pain in her side and then she went flying on the ground, because Jon had lunged in front, throwing her behind him, and taken the hits instead.  At least, that's what she had envisioned in her mind, everything blurry and fuzzy, but it was making sense.

And he was lying there, dying on the stones, and she was somewhere else, ignoring Barristan as he tried to wrap a bandage around her, in the back of an SUV, while she clawed at the glass window, the door handle, screaming and desperate, not feeling anything but the need to get to him.

"Jon, Jon, Jon!" she repeated, delirious, screaming, her throat hoarse.  She spun on Barristan, trying to crawl over him, over Ser Gerold, who was barking at the chauffeur to get them to the pre-arranged hospital and ensure there was a full detail there.  "Let me out ! I'm fine!  Let me out! I need Jon!"

"Princess you're injured!"

"No I'm not!" she howled, evne though her hands were red, staining the inside of the SUV, and her head was swimming, everything staring to get fuzzy again.  Gerold was saying she was in shock, she had to stop, but she kicked at him when he moved to wrap her in a blanket, and continued to sob for Jon.

If he dies, I will die too, she thought, the last image before she passed out, of his face, before he'd pushed her, before everything went to the seven hells, when for a brief moment, they were a couple entering a party, to enjoy an evening, to dance, and maybe kiss under the stars.  His shy smile, tugging at the corners of his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling, so very handsome in his black suit, and even with that wiggly little wire that came out of his ear and threaded down his neck and arm to the microphone in his hand.  She jokingly called it the Sea Snake.  She'd given it a name, after the famous Sea Snake himself, saying "Corlys must be with us today" when he had to wear it around her.

He had been smiling because she whispered to him that they were practicing for a real date, one day, and it had been joyful, but sad too, because they didn't know when or if or how they could ever have such a day.  A day where he was Jon and she was Dany, and they were just out having fun.  They were strangers in a bar, they met, and they went back to his place or hers, and then coffee the next morning.

It was easy to pretend, because she knew they couldn't have it the other way.

Not yet.

They were working their way there, they were going to try, one day, but not yet, because things were too new with Rhaegar as king and Viserys was sick and too many changes at once were too much for her family to handle.

And now it was all gone.

She was going to lose him, before she could ever really have him how she wanted.

Stolen kisses in alcoves, disappearing in crowded dance floors in illegal clubs, and running into the night from hidden passageways, with sometimes months in between each.  She lived in a constant state of missing him, aching for him, even when he was inches away from her, always there, her protective shadow.

He had his hair back that night, like he did on big events, to keep it from his face, and she'd joked in the car over-- it had just been them-- that he looked like an aging hippie.  He teased her that he thought he looked like a young intellecutal.  "You, an intellectual?" she joked, kissing his knuckles.  "The man who has comic books on his nightstand?  Hardly."

"I'll have you know those comics are pretty deep, talking about man's fight against nature and his own inner self."

"Jon, it's about a cartoon Night's Watch ranger."

"Exactly, he's fighting against his internal demons because why else would he join the NIght's Watch?"

"You did."

"Aye," he admitted.  He turned to her, and stole a quick kiss, only because the partition between them and the driver was up.  He whispered, earnest, squeezing her hand hard.  "And it brought me to you."

She brushed her hand over his cheek, regretfully sighing when the car came to a stop.  "Hold my hand before we go in?  Just for a moment?  We can be on a first date."

"Save me a dance," he murmured, kissing her again, chaste, breaking away quickly to step out of the car first, to run around and hold open the door, and she blinked back tears, and plastered her smile on, breaking her cheeks and forcing it back, so when she climbed out of the car, waving at the crowds that had gathered outside Casterly Rock to see the royal family and other assorted celebrities enter for the grand event, she would be envied and beloved.

Daenerys, Princess Royal, didn't everyone want to be her?  She was so beautiful, so famous, so lucky.  She could have anything she wanted-- a horse, cars, planes, a castle even, and she never had to work, never had to give up anything for it, because that's the type of life she could have.

And they never knew that the glow to her cheeks was from sobbing before they left the hotel, the shine in her eyes was unshed tears, and her heart was breaking, each and every single day.

The Dragon Queen, the tabloids called her, even if she was but a princess.

She dreamed now, a world that was not her own, and perhaps she was dead.  Was this the afterlife, have I been burned like my ancestors before me, she wondered, drifting through trees, the ground soundless under her bare feet.

And she emerged in a beautiful clearing, with waterfalls in a pool, crashing against stones, jagged and lurching upwards from the ground.  It was breathtaking, snowcapped mountains surrounding the valley, hiding it from anyone who dared to enter such a peaceful sanctum.  She smiled, her fingers dragging along some flowers bunched around the rocks near the pool-- blue winter roses.  They smelled so sweet, i twas like they were emerging from a wall of ice.

She tugged on one, and lifted it to her nose, inhaling the lovely aroma.

"They make me think of you."

Turning at his voice, she was not startled-- of cours ehe was here with her.  He approached slowly, not in the all black suit he'd been wearing or the black uniform he favored or even his clubbing attire of black leather and boots.  He was relaxed, just like her, barefoot and free, white button down and loose gray pants.  She noted she was in a white dress; are we getting married, she briefly wondered.

She let him take the flower from her fingers, reaching to tuck it into her hair, his hand dragging down her jaw and to her throat, his finertips alighting on her pulse.  "Jon," she gasped, hands upon his chest.  "Is this just a dream?"

"If it is a dream, then it is a good dream," he answered, lifting her lips to his, kissing against the backdrop of the falls.  She moaned softly, returning the kiss, and clutched at his shirt, desperate for it, praying it would never end.  Except it did, and he broke away, the side of his nose against hers, breaths mingling.  "Blue winter roses are strong and survive in the harshest of winters, like you do Dany.  My dragon."

She blinked away tears.  "Are we dead?"

"No."

"Then where are we?"

He glanced around, smiling and shrugged.  "Appears we are in the North...I remember this place.  I came here as a boy."

"It's beautiful."

"So are you."

She wanted to stay there forever; she knew it couldn't be.  "We could stay a thousand years," she said, watching his face, the happiness there and then the sadness, his gray eyes clouding over.  "No one would ever find us."

"We'd be pretty old."

THen we'd be pretty old, we could grow old together, you and I, away from it all.  She allowed him to embrace her, kissing her, and swallowing her up, the dream falling away, like water trickling through her fingers.

And she woke up, lying in a bed, harsh hospital lights on her, and a tube in her nose.  She was stiff, cold, awkward.  The linens were scratchy and they'd placed her in a gown.  She had an IV in her arm, which she ignored, turning and struggling, her strength returning.  An alarm beeped, like the ringing in her ears from after hte attack, and someone  yelled that the Princess was awake.  I have a name, she thought, her feet hitting the cold title floor.  She whipped off the oxygen tubing around her ears and nose, fighting at the IV line connected to a stand next to her.

A door burst open, her mother rushing in-- still in her deep plum evening gown-- with a doctor and a nurse and Barristan.  "Your Highness!" Barristan exclaimed.  "Please, the doctor did not want you moving."

"Daenerys, darling, please listen to them," her mother called, grabbing for her hand.  "You need to rest, you've been hurt!  Oh gods, please just stay put for once in your life, stop trying to run away!"

No!

"Jon!" she exclaimed, pushing at them.  "I need to see him!  Is he dead?"

Barristan shook his head and Rhaella pushed her towards the bed in the brief moment she paused, focusing on the old guard.  "No, he's in surgery, please, do not worry about..."

"I have to worry about him!" She knocked away a nurse who was moving for her IV, after the doctor said something about a sedative.  "Don't you drug me!  I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and I am the Dragon's Daughter and you will not stop me from seeing him!"  All the strength inside of her raged, fire flaring from her eyes and heaving in her chest.  She did not care.  "He is my Jon, he took a knife for me, and I will not be pushed aside like a simpering little girl!"

They didn't even tell her what had happened ot her; she guessed from the bandages wrapped around her middle, the ache there, that hte knife had swiped her, but not enough to do significant damage, as she could walk and talk.  They all stared at her, stunned, but she didn't care, pushing Barristan aside and struggling towards the door.

Rhaella drew her shoulders back, voice cold.  "Get her a chair, at least a robe, she will not be stopped."  She smirked.  "I know my daughter."

"But Your Highness," a doctor began, but silenced upon the glare Rhaella shot him. He nodded meekly and hurried out.

She collapsed into a wheelchair, head in her hands, and allowed htem to wrap her in a red robe that had bene in her hotel room last she remembered.  Time meant nothing to her; it could be days later, or hours, and she grabbed at Missandei-- her best friend of course had managed to get in-- when they went down the hall, seeing her urnning towards them from an open set of elevator doors.

Missandei cried, grabbing for her.  "Oh gods Dany!  I was so scared!  You're alright?"

"Jon was stabbed," she said hollowly.

Understanding, Missandei pushed away a nurse and took the chair, pushing her where they led, into an elevator, up a few flors, and down some hallways.  They pushed her into a room, dark, only lights from the operating suite it flanked, and she realized it was where the doctors and nurses scrubbed up before surgery.  She forced herself to her feet, grabbing the edge of hte window, staring at the activity going on in front of her.

Doctors and nurses flurried about the prone body on the table, bloodied materials tossed on the floor around their feet and tray tables at their elbows.  There were flashes of metallic objects as they worked, and monitors seemed to be hanging and standing everywhere, she couldn't focus on one or the other.  Some had lines going across them, numbers blinking and flashing.  Others magnified the activity going on on the table, all red and confusing.

There was something pulsing in the doctor's palm and she realized in shock it was his heart.  They were fixing his heart, stitching it together.

But that's my job.

That's my heart too.

"Is he going to be okay?" she croaked.

Someone said that he'd been stabbed seven times, one straight to the heart, and the doctors were doing all they could.  Her mother lightly touched her elbow, whispering.  "He did his job Dany.  I know you were close darling, but he did his job.  He protected you."

No we weren't just close. It seemed Barristan had realized that, even if her mother hadn't yet.  They would soon, because she wasn't going to stop.  She whispered, shaking her head.  "He saved me, Mother.  he didn't protect me, he saved me."  He saved me in all the ways you can be saved.  So many, many ways.

"We need to get you back to your bed," Barristan murmured.

She shook her head.  "No, no I am staying here.  I'm not leaving and when he's ou tof surgery, yo uwill bring me to his bedside."

"Dany," Rhaealla began.

She whirled on her mother, shouting.  "No!  No Mother, I love him, don't you get it?  He's not just my bodyguard, he is the love of my life and he's lying there on a table, bleeding for me!"  Her shoulders shook, the wails taking over her, and she released everything she'd been holding in, unable to take it, and fell into the chair, no longer able to speak, because she missed him and she hurt everywhere.

It was out, the secret was out.

Months and years of hiding, gone now, and she didn't care.

Time passed; she knew htey drugged her and she drifted away into a dreamless state, and came in and out, noticing that Rhaegar was there and then her mother, and she caught snippets of them saying Viserys had gone catatonic and was being taken back immediately to Summerhall for treatment.  She thought she heard Rhaegar say something about "if he pulls through we need to move him" and her mother saying that "it wasn't time for that."

She wanted to be out somewhere, in a club dancing, partying, and she wondered where Drogo wa shaving one of his latest raves and bashes.  It would be fun, she thought, tasting the alcohol on her tongue, her nose burning from smoke.  She came to again and this time there was no one in the room except Barristan, who ordinarily was her mother's guard, and for some reason was here with her.

"Barristan," she mumbled, blinking; her eyelids felt like there were weights on the lashes.

Barristan smiled and touched her hand, whispering.  "Princess."

Understanding, she tried to sit up, panicked.  "Jon, is Jon..."

"He's out of surgery.  Come Princess.  Before your brother finds out."  Barristan helped her from bed, into a wheelchair, and bundled again.  He took her from her room, in a fancy private suite, and said something to the other Kingsguard, so many of them flitting about, in their black suits with white shields on the lapels.

In another wing, in a smaller room, with a window looking from the hall into it, he pushed her towards a bed, where Jon was lying, his chest marred with bandages and tubing, arms locked down from wires and monitors.  There was a tube for oxygen around his nose, but no ventilator, and monitors beeping erratically around him.  Barristan leaned down, whispering.  "His heart rate has been...worrying.  It keeps dropping.  They needed to shock him twice."

Tears did not fall now.  She pushed herself forward, towards the bed, her limbs clumsy.  He was so still.  He was sleeping, but it was scary, because his skin was ashy and his cheeks gaunt-- had he always been so thin?  She traced his collarbone, where a few lines went into his skin, and along his pulse.  It thrummed under her touch.  There were dark bruises under his eyes and his dark curls were lank, pushed under his head and out of hte way.  She noted that his muscles were hidden under bandages, but he was strong, in so many ways, and he would recover.

He had to.

She touched his hand, sliding hers into it, and held tight.  It was limp against her.  "Jon please," she whispered, squeezing.  She leaned in, lips against his ear, begging.  "Please I need you.  I love you.  Come back to me."

Careful of everything, she crawled onto the bed next to him, her head beside his on the pillow, and she ignored Barristan trying to say that maynbe it wasn't good for her to be there, they should get her back to her room.  No, I'm not leaving. She kissed the corner of his mouth, sighing.  "Jon, come back to me, I love you, you can't leave me.  You're mine."

A monitor beeped.  She darted her eyes towards her, the heartrate increasing, and then steadying.  She knew it would.  He could hear her; he was in that clearing somewhere, waiting for her, and she closed her eyes, to fall asleep and go visit him there.

"Da....da..."

The raspy sound kept her from falling into that world, her eyes springing open.  "Jon?" she breathed, looking down at his face.

His eyelids fluttered, cracked lips trembling.  "Da...ny."

"Jon, oh gods Jon," she cried, kissing him, holding his face in her hands.  "It's me, I'm here."

His eyes opened, giving her a glimpse of the cool gray, and his lips pulled back, barely.  "Da-ny," he slurred.  "Love..."

"I love you, I know, don't talk.  Don't talk, I'm here."

They would deal with the repercussions later, the fallout from the attack, from everyone knowing.  Of course they knew now, because she thought she saw Arthur in the hallway which meant Rhaegar was nearby, and when her brother the King discovered that his sister the Princess, was in love with her bodyguard, it would have to end.  It would be too difficult to maintain impartiality, it would look wrong, and it could never happen.  He could not be her match, because she was the Princess of hte Seven Kingdoms and he was just Jon.

She didn't care right now.

It would fall out the way it would fall out.  They could deal with it then.

Right now, he was alive and in her arms, and that was how it should be.

[ashdoesfandomarchieved]

should i stay (or should i go)

ao3

Varian sits on the cold-stone steps.

His own screams still echo in his ears. It’s only been a few hours since-since-

But it feels like it’s been a lifetime.

The sun is slowly rising, heating up the well-beaten town roads, and shining windows and the very steps Varian’s been sitting on for the past three hours. It peeks over the walls of the city, rays unfurling out in every direction. It’s a familiar sight, one he’d seen in the sky every morning until his imprisonment and one that he’s seen in Rapunzel’s magic...everything. He’s seen her hair and her eyes and her smile glow both metaphorically and literally as bright as the star lighting their planet.

He thinks he hates it.

Behind him, the castle looms like a thousand eyes watching, waiting to devour. He feels like it’s going to collapse on him, swallow him up. It’s a far cry from how he used to feel about Corona Castle. Before, it used to be a sanctuary, a warm, welcoming place that he could go to for a friend or protection. Now, Varian sees it for what it is. A prison.

The sun may be warming the town, but the palace shadow cast over Varian chills him to the bone.

The castle has been Varian’s prison for about a year. Well, until yesterday, at least. It’s been a prison for those deserving, like Andrew and his gang of thugs, and a prison for those undeserving, like Rapunzel last night and Eugene many years ago. Varian doesn’t know if he was deserving of that cell or not, but now? Now, it doesn’t matter, because Rapunzel had dragged him out, dragged him out of the prison he’d been thrown in physically by her father’s decree and dragged prison he’d thrown himself in metaphorically since the day of the amber, dragged him out into her light, demanding that-that-

Rapunzel.

He doesn’t hold it against her, not really.

Not anymore.

When she’d taken him back to Olde Corona and put a bucket in his hands and said stop me if you have to and whispered in a voice not hers, Varian had been terrified, but had listened. Had trusted. When the amber broke into a million pieces, revealing a truth that Varian had known for a very long time, his terror faded into numbness.

He doesn’t remember much of the journey back to Corona, just that Rapunzel had spoken in very soft voices and said very gentle things to him that he can’t remember.

Rapunzel had been rushed off the minute she entered the city. King Fredrick and Queen Arianna’s memories were still pretty fried, so all of their duties had fallen to the exhausted princess. She had tried to keep Varian with her, but with the townfolk still angry at him and the millions of orders and duties Rapunzel now had to delegate, Varian had quietly reassured her that he was fine for the time being and would find her later.

She had been reluctant. Perhaps, if Varian had been more present he would have remembered the last time she’d left him in the name of duty, but right now? He didn’t really care.

So here he is, on the stone steps of the palace, watching the sunrise on the first day empty of his dad.

(He known. Of course he’d known. Varian wasn’t an idiot.)

As the sun lights up the town, its people also start rising. The place is soon filled with noise as shops open and repairmen work and children play and women gossip and men argue and animals clop through the town.

“Hey,” a low voice says behind him. Varian glances briefly over his shoulder. It’s Lance. Varian’s spoken to the guy a couple of times but doesn’t really know who he is besides Eugene’s childhood best friend. Varian doesn’t have the energy to even try to drudge up any kind of a response, so he turns back to looking at the sky.

The guy doesn’t seem bothered by his lack of response though. He settles down with approximately a foot’s distance between him and Varian. He has a dish of stacked cucumber sandwiches in one hand. He offers one to Varian who just stares at him. Shrugging, Lance retracts his hand, instead giving the sandwich to a subdued Ruddiger, who’s curled around Varian’s feet.

“It’s a little cold out here to be without a jacket,” Lance says, after a long pause.

Varian shrugs. He’s aware, intellectually, that he’s cold right now, but the rest of him doesn’t really feel it.

“Might be warmer inside,” Lance presses on, regardless.

Varian stares down at his shoes, at Ruddiger, shivering on them. He nudges the raccoon gently with one foot. His companion chirps at him, pulling at his pant leg with one paw. Ruddiger doesn’t deserve to be cold just because Varian wants to die out here. Varian stands up.

Lance stands up with him, casual expression falling away to relief. He places a hand on Varian’s shoulder and gently guides him inside. Ruddiger follows the two at a close distance. The inside of the castle is still undergoing repairs. The floor is broken and burned and the walls are scratched and torn and the place vaguely smells like chemicals.

Varian is carefully lead past all that, upstairs, toward where Varian knows the guest chambers are. This particular part of the castle looks mostly untouched. If Varian could feel something right now, it would be relief. He’s had enough of destruction to last him a lifetime.

Eugene meets them in the hallway. He stops short when he sees Varian, expression going carefully blank. Ruddiger makes a sound, low in his throat. Lance firmly grips Varian’s shoulder. He can’t tell if it’s meant to be reassuring or to hold him in place. It doesn’t matter. Varian’s done running.

“I think Varian should get some sleep,” Lance says when Eugene stays silent.

Varian doesn’t offer an opinion on that. He stares up at Eugene. The guy looks tired-really tired like today is just the last day in a string of very bad days....which honestly sounds about accurate when reading between the lines of what Rapunzel had let slip. Varian knows something happened between them and Cass, but things had been too chaotic to glen any kind of answer and now-

Now Varian doesn’t really care.

Eugene must see something in Varian’s expression-probably his lack of expression-because something in his tense stance changes minutely. He gives a short nod, indicating a door to their left. Lance says something back to him, something that Varian misses, and then he’s pushing Varian through the door, into the room.

Varian’s only ever been in one of the castle bedrooms-Rapunzel’s at once point, he thinks-and even though this is far smaller, it’s still twice as grand as anywhere he’s ever stayed. The windows a huge and the ceiling is vaulted and the bed could fit like seven people in it easily. The carpet is an expensive blue shag that Varian kind of wants to collapse onto and never get up again, but Lance would probably just peel him off the floor and give him that worried expression again so he doesn’t. Instead, he stares at the room and then back to Lance.

“You should sleep,” Lance reiterates. “We can sort everything when you wake up.”

Varian doesn’t want to know what that means, so he just nods and slowly makes his way toward the bed. When Lance still doesn’t leave, Varian obediently perches on the edge of it. That seems to put Lance’s mind at ease, because then he finally leaves, telling Varian he’ll be back in a few hours. Once the door clicks shut, Varian jumps back onto his feet.

The bed’s too soft.

Varian sits down on the ornate chaise by the massive lit fireplace. It’s comfortable enough that he melts into the cushions, but not too comfortable like the bed. With Ruddiger curled up on his lap, he watches the fire for a while until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore, and then it’s with great reluctance that he lets himself fall asleep.

When Varian wakes up, there’s a blanket draped over him. The fire is almost embers and judging by the position of the sun, it’s midday. On the end table, by the chaise, there’s a tray of...it smells like breakfast food. Varian pulls the cloth up to reveal a full breakfast-porridge, bread rolls, eggs, bacon, toast, juice, milk, water... It’s almost like someone couldn’t decide what to get him. Or, more likely, rich people actually have enough money to afford this kind of breakfast every single morning.

At that thought, something sour curls in Varian’s stomach. He drops the towel back onto the tray, but not before he grabs a few bread rolls to stuff his pockets with. He tosses some bacon to Ruddiger, who devours it immediately.

The hallway is deserted when he leaves the room. Varian wanders down the length of it, trying to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible. They still echo obnoxiously in the empty corridor along with Ruddiger’s quiet noises, but it’s the thought that counts. Varian makes his way down two flights of stairs, several corridors, and a courtyard before he finally comes across someone in one of the long, twisting halls.

It’s Rapunzel. Her usual immaculately braided hair is a mess and her eyes a red-rimmed like she’s been crying. She’s wearing different clothes than she had been earlier, much to Varian’s relief, indicating that she’s at least had time to change and maybe rest. It’s weird, caring about her after all this time. Anger is an emotion too strong for Varian to tangibly hold onto right now, though. It’s probably best to let it lie.

When her eyes meet Varian, her face kinda...falls.

Varian stops in his tracks. The two are about eight feet apart, silently staring at each other. Then,

“Varian,” Rapunzel says, voice quiet. There’s a warm undertone to it Varian doesn’t understand. “I hope you got some sleep,” she says, hesitantly, confirming Varian’s theory that it wasn’t her who’d given him the blanket. Probably Lance, then.

Varian just nods in response, hands clenched together in front of him. Ruddiger crawls up Varian’s side until he’s curled around his neck, face resting on his shoulder. The weight is comforting, grounding. Varian absentmindedly reaches up to pet him.

Rapunzel sighs. “I've been looking for you,” she goes on, taking a step toward him. Varian wants to take a step back, but forces his feet to stay planted. “Are you-”

“What happens now?” Varian can't keep the question from bursting out. His voice is cracked from disuse. “I-just tell me. Please.” He breaks on the please.

Rapunzel’s face softens. “Well,” she says, closing the distance between them and laying a hand on his shoulder. “I was hoping you'd stay with me.”

And that's the final straw. The grain of salt that tips the scales. Because it's bad enough that Rapunzel has gone to hell and back for him in the past twenty-four hours, bad enough that he's somehow gained the forgiveness of the one person who doesn't owe him anything, but for Rapunzel to offer her home, her life, to him?

Varian bursts into tears, hands coming up to hide his face.

“Oh-oh Varian-don't-” the hand on his shoulder squeezes and then pulls. “I'm sorry,” Rapunzel says, nonsensically as she folds him into her arms.

“You're not the one who needs to be sorry,” Varian sobs. “I-I knew, I knew, I knew, but I still-I still did it all even though I knew-”

Rapunzel shushes him, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair. “Varian, it's okay.”

“It's not okay!” he shouts, pulling away, furiously scrubbing at his cheeks. “None of it is okay!”

Rapunzel’s eyes are glassy, like she's on the verge of tears herself. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, it's not-it's not.” She anxiously twists her dress in her hands. “But it's also not okay that you're hurting. Please, just-” Rapunzel lets out a whoosh of air. “Stay with me.”

Varian deflates. “I-what about your parents?” he mutters. He crosses his arms. “Your dad-”

“Is still amnesiac,” Rapunzel counters. “Let me worry about my parents. I just-...you’re my friend Varian. Let me make it up to you.”

Varian presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He laughs. It sounds broken and gnashed. “Make it up to me,” he chokes. “I-there's literally nothing for you to make up for.”

“Isn't there?” Rapunzel's face is grave. It reminds him of last night after the incantation, after-

Varian takes a steadying breath. “Of course there isn't,” he says. Promises. Lies. “Of course there isn’t,” he repeats, like if it says it enough times he’ll believe it.

Rapunzel doesn’t. She smiles, sadly, but doesn’t call him out. “Then you’ll stay,” she says. Confirms.

Varian shuts his eyes, against her smile, against her forgiveness against her love and her stubbornness and her gentleness and her hypocrisy. “Okay,” he says, testing the word on his tongue. He opens his eyes. Rapunzel looks so relieved she might start crying this time. Varian doesn’t want that, doesn’t know how to handle someone else being an emotional mess right now, so he reaches out for her, slides his hand into hers.

“Okay,” he says again, more firmly. “I’ll stay.”

[celesterunewhisper]

Day 11 - Watch

Tik. Tik. Tik. The slow sounds of an unseen grandfather clock audibly marked the choking silence that engulfed the elaborate living room. On any other day, the room might have felt comforting, perhaps even welcoming; however, the tension that wove itself with that damn ticking almost made sitting in the room unbearable. In the center of the den, two large couches—red and gold in hue, as was the rest of the decor—were set facing each other with an elegant coffee table between them. Next to the couches, an oversized chair sat to meet the entire room, sitting there like a throne; the fireplace flickering behind the high-back chair only served to cast a menacing shadow over any who sat in it. Compared to the rest of the furniture, it was clear the chair was moved deliberately into the room for whatever purpose the mysterious gathering served. The rest of the decorations of artwork and statues were purely there to display the wealth of the Crimsonburn family. Sitting in the throne chair, a middle-aged Quel'dorei man gazed out at the crowd of three with his beady, contemplating blue eyes. His complexion was lined with not only age but experience in the thralls of stressful politics. He wore elaborate robes of red and maroon and had his white-blond hair slicked back for the occasion. Lord Norath Crimsonburn glanced to the two men on the couch to his left. The elder of the two—looking not too much older than Norath—had long straight black hair, partially braided to keep his bangs from his face sporting robes of violet and slate-gray. A younger man sported the same hues in attire and hair; however, he had his short and slicked back similar to the Lord of the house. “You have met my wife, Lady Larae Crimsonburn, Lord Velvetlight?” Norath then glanced to the woman on the opposite couch who was meek in appearance with short, curly red hair and gorgeous robes of crimson. He smirked when her matching blue eyes locked with his, only for her to look to the table with discomfort seconds later. It thrilled him to see her so obediently in her place. The raven-haired gentleman raised a dark brow at the Lord of the house. “Indeed. A fetching catch. However, it is your daughter, my son, and I wish to meet.”

“Her tardiness is unorthodox, I assure you. Perhaps, she is nervous about being among such distinguished companies.” Norath replied, his voice icy and uncomfortably calm. Lord Velvetlight simply sighed before reaching forward towards the coffee table. An array of refreshments rested upon the wooden surface, including snacks, tea, coffee, and wine. The guest Lord helped himself to a glass of the latter. A superb Dalarn red; year 450K.C, much before the wondrous city made its floating charge to Northrend. An expensive taste with the delicate bite of a lingering arcanic crisp. Not enough to quell Lord Velvetlight's patience, unfortunately. As if the swelling distaste was the perfect queue, a young elven woman was politely escorted into the room by a servant of the manor. Her short hair matched both the curliness of her mother's and the pale blonde hues of her father's, and just like her parents, the Crimsonburn colours painted her corsetted, victorian gown. The servant didn't stay long and left the young woman to linger awkwardly at the door; her blue eyes glanced to her father's with an apologetic expression. Norath smiled, yet no humour or kindness touched his eyes. “My daughter; Lady Celeste Crimsonburn. What a pleasure for you to have finally indulged us with your presence.” Celeste winced, immediately curtseying before Norath, with her head low, “My apologies, father,” she spoke carefully, turning her attention to the two guests in their home. “I thank you for your patience, my Lords.” Her politeness was useless at this point; she had already disappointed Norath to irreparable levels that night. But, she still had a role in maintaining, lest she made it worse for herself. “Take a seat, Celeste,” Norath instructed cooly. “You remember Lord Velvetlight, don't you?” Truthfully, Celeste did not. However, she forced herself to dig through her memories in an effort not to embarrass herself further. She took a shot in the dark. “You...were a guest speaker at Sunstrider University. You taught a lecture for my Introduction to Political Theory class.” As she spoke, attempting to sound confident in her answer, she sat beside her silent mother. “Ah, so you do remember. Excellent.” Lord Velvetlight looked pleased. “I also met you in your adolescent years, but I do not expect you to remember something eighty years ago.” There was a momentary pause as the Lord took a sip of his wine. “I would like to introduce to you my son, Lord Zan Velvetlight. A proud Magister of Quel'thalas and Scryer under the ranks of Astalor Bloodsworn's trusted Arcanists.” Zan stood to his feet to bow towards Celeste, “A pleasure, my Lady.” Instinctively, Celeste held her hand towards the expecting man, to which he took and placed a gentlemanly kiss upon it. She was used to such gestures with her family's position in the noble hierarchy; however, she could never bring herself to enjoy that flavour of attention. It took everything in her power not to grimace as Zan retook his seat. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Zan.” “Celeste, why don't you elaborate for Lord Velvetlight more about your education,” Norath commented in a thinly veiled order. “Yes, indeed,” Lord Velvetlight began, “I am very interested in hearing more about the daughter Lord Crimsonburn has been raving about.” Celeste rose a brow at the strangeness of the conversation, and she couldn't help but glance at her mother for answers. However, when Larae met her daughter's gaze, her bright eyes glazed over with sadness. For some reason, the woman could not bring herself to speak out of turn and left her daughter to the thralls of confusion. “Right,” Celeste breathed, now looking to Lord Velvetlight—vividly aware of her father's icy gaze boring down on her while she spoke. “I have been studying the economics of the country primarily. Provincial stabilization, governance, representation through the monarchy, and the delicate balance of power and influence.” She took a deep breath, “I hope to follow in my father's footsteps of becoming a member of King Sunstrider's advocates.” This, of course, was an utter lie. “Ah, such high expectations. So much in common with my son.” Lord Velvetlight hummed with satisfaction. Zan spoke to provide context to his father's statement. “I hope to enlist within the Kirin Tor eventually. Put more experience under my belt to either rise further with the Magisters of Quel'thalas or, perhaps, a cozy seat on the council of the Magus Senate.” Arrogance coated his tongue as he spoke a matter of factly. Celeste forced an interested smile to her face and spoke with perfunctory attentiveness. “How do you not burn yourself out from such strenuous tasks?” Zan's ego predictably inflated as he smirked with bottomless pride towards Celeste. “Because I am superior. Other low-lives let opportunities pass them by, while intellectual men must rise to guide this wayward Kingdom. I intend to learn all I can to do so.” Celeste felt her blood run cold as her smile faltered. “Ah—your...father is right about...sharing high ambitions, then. I suppose.” Another lie. She wanted nothing more than to leave both the conversation and company. Norath spoke up once more, “It is as I said, Lord Velvetlight. It would be a flawless arrangement that will benefit both sides of the political spectrum. We must act upon the traditions of the monarchy's system before the ambitious Prince threatens to change the whole thing. What with that Theron whispering in his ear.” “Father, what are you talking about—” Celeste began. “You will speak when you are spoken to.” Norath snapped. Then turning back to Lord Velvetlight, he continued as if the outburst never happened. “What say you?” “Zan?” Lord Velvetlight glanced to his son, asking a vague question Celeste still did not understand the context of. The younger lord gave Celeste a once-over before smirking. “I find it both an excellent strategy and a rather lovely match. I agree to Lord Crimsonburn's proposition if you are inclined to act upon it, father.” Lord Velvetlight smiled. “Then our deal has been settled. The ceremony will be scheduled for the end of the month as planned.” “Perfect.” Norath grinned. “I have already arranged for their housing, as well. A gift for the new family, hm?” Lord Velvetlight chuckled, “So generous, my Lord.” Zan bowed his head, “I generously accept, Lord Crimsonburn.” Norath stood to his feet, and the other two lords followed suit. “A rather short meeting, but I understand you and your son are rather busy this evening.” “It has been a pleasure, Lord Crimsonburn. Till the ceremony, then.” And soon, Celeste was alone in the den with her father. Her mother couldn't bear to be in the room any longer, and she still didn't understand why. Norath gestured his hand silently towards Celeste, allowing her to speak freely. “What was that all about, father?” “We plan on uniting our causes together, Lord Velvetlight and I. The details are none of your concern, but we came up with an ideal way to permanently seal our partnership. A bargaining chip, if you must.” Norath responded as if Celeste's question was foolish. “What was the bargaining chip?” she asked hesitantly. “You, my dear,” Norath said. “You are.” The silence was almost deafening if it wasn't for that rhythmic ticking. “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was almost inaudible. Norath sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ignorant girl. You are to wed Lord Zan. What did you think I meant when I said 'ceremony'?” His blue eyes narrowed at his daughter. Celeste's jaw nearly dropped to the floor; however, she closed it quickly before her father sneered. “Wait,” she breathed, “I just met him. I don't even know him!” “Frankly, my dear, I couldn't care less if you loved him or hated him. This is out of your control.” “You can't make me marry a stranger!” she shouted, standing to her feet. Norath was swifter than Celeste anticipated, and as he stood to his feet as well, the back of his ringed hand made contact with his daughter's cheek with an audible slap. Her face jerked to the side from the force, and her hands immediately went to cup the welt with a shaking whimper. “I can.” Norath towered over his trembling daughter. “Just watch.”

@daily-writing-challenge​ @howlingowl-wra​

[bijoharvelle]

doing these prompts! today is “soft summer rain” & it’s dedicated to @starclaire​ bc, i didn’t realize until after i finished writing, but this one was heavily influenced by her beautiful ficlet. [CW: mention of temporary character death, vague spoilers referenced] read the whole series!

Dean wakes up, and that’s the lucky part. He wakes, startled and panting, with sweat beading stale over his collar and forehead. His hands are reaching, scrambling for something, and he can’t catch his breath. He wakes reaching for Cas, who isn’t there. His chest heaves, skin slips, and there’s blood on his shoulder, over his face. There’s the ringing of the bunker alarm in his ears, choke of ash in his lungs and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he -- 

A whine catches his attention and before he can look for the source there’s a solid weight on his chest. Solid, and furry, and panting, and licking his face. Colt. His dog. The dog that he and Cas adopted a few months ago, a few months after they moved into this house. Dean twists his fingers into her coat, clutches a little, counts his breaths, and remembers.

Inhale. He’s not in the bunker. He’s not in Kansas. Exhale. There’s no more Darkness, no more Chuck. Heaven and Hell and Purgatory and even the Empty, all sealed off. Inhale. The blood washed from his face and hands, out of the sleeve of that jacket. Exhale. Cas is alive --

Intellectually, he knows that last one is as true as the other affirmations, but Cas isn’t right there, immediately, so he can’t allow himself to believe it. Not yet. He takes another few breaths, pets Colt, and then eases the dog off of him. She follows as he pads from the living room and out to the front porch. It’s raining, so Cas should be --

There he is.

Cas is there, of course, sitting cross-legged in one of the Adirondack chairs, eyes on the pattering rainfall. The branches of the small Japanese maple in their front yard are bowing and bouncing gracefully and if Dean looks close enough he can trace Cas’s eyes following the movement.

“Hello, Dean,” he says.

“Cas,” is all Dean can say back. He moves toward Cas, planning to drape over his shoulders from behind. But then he finds himself in front of Cas, on his knees, folding his arms in Cas’s lap and hiding his face away. 

Cas’s fingers go into his hair. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. One hand pets through his hair and the other smooths along his arm gently. Colt flops easily onto the floor, her nose just brushing Dean’s ankle. Eventually, he turns his head so he can meet eyes with Cas. Cas’s gaze is unwavering blue. One hand slips forward and he thumbs a mostly dry tear-track from Dean’s cheek. “You were napping when I came outside. Did you have a nightmare?”

Dean nods, pauses. Shakes his head. “Memory.” He swallows. Cas’s hand moves to cup his chin, tilt it up so he can press a kiss to Dean’s forehead. “Of the day before Jack beat Chuck. When we - When we had lost you.”

Cas keeps his lips pressed to Dean’s forehead.

They breathe together.

“Only for a moment,” Cas says. He dips his face so their noses brush, their cheeks press. “You only lost me for a moment. I came back to you.”

“We went looking for you.” Dean’s knees ache but he doesn’t move, holds himself close, holds his face against Cas’s. Dean went looking for Cas, like he always would. Cas came back to Dean, like he always would.

A sigh. “You came back...” Dean shifts and stands, bracing his weight against his hands on the armrests of Cas’s chair, so he’s looking down at him. Cas’s lips quirk up and Dean mirrors the smile. They kiss, as quiet and steady as the storm. Dean sighs again and edges to sit in the chair next to Cas’s.

Their hands stay linked between. 

The rain falls. 

tags below, as always pls let me know if you wanna be removed or added!

@prayedtoyou • @folklorecastiel • @good-things-do-happen-dean • @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you • @nesnej •  @bianca29753 • @spaceshipkat • @601218764 • @nickelkit • @dizzypinwheel • @epple-benene • @kayrosebee • @feraladoration • @queenvee08 • @destielangst • @destiel-is--real • @brazencas • @destielle • @flowersforcas • @50shadesofsubtext • @multifandomagic • @fluffiestlou • @gmotheemo • @geo-val • @menjiiii • @top13zepptraxx • @valleydean • @lanaserra • @eccentriccas • @trasherasswood • @angelresort • @starlightcastiel • @starclaire