#even if that means i have to. think of symbols.

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

When someone hurts you, you and Aaron both need time to get better, and to put things right. fem, 8k

cw canon typical violence, graphic scenes and imagery of assault/battery, recovery, mentions of being sick, issues eating. established relationship, lots of angst and comfort, hotch being vulnerable, jack being sweet 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

You lay backward over the luxurious stretch of the couch and sigh as your spine gives a sharp crick. Your head feels heavy after a long shower, your arms ache from a day at work, but the feeling of soft cotton on your legs deters any moping. 

I hope these are more comfortable, his note read, a white post it note stuck to a boutique bag. You wrap an arm around your waist remembering how Aaron’s message had made you feel: spoiled, and considered. 

You’d mentioned in passing that all your pyjamas are old and rough as a consequence, thought nothing of it, and promptly forgot about the conversation entirely. 

When Aaron finally comes home tonight, you’re going to give him a proper thank you. You can imagine his reaction to such a thing, his smile as he says it’s no problem, his eyes shuttering closed as you press a kiss to his cheek. You hadn’t realised how prevalent affection would become in your life after meeting him, but everything he does inspires love. Awful, soft, marshmallowy love where he looks at you and you want to sit in his lap. 

You slide your phone up your chest lazily and click the button on the side to light the display. Aaron hasn’t claimed to know when he’ll be home tonight. All he’d said was to let yourself in. 

It’s odd but not the worst thing in the world to be alone in his apartment. There’s less and less free space each time you visit as Jack begins to outgrow his and his fathers lodgings, but there’s never a stain or bad smell, the Hotchner apartment feels homey. You’re excited whenever you’re invited to spend the night with them. 

Maybe some time soon he’ll ask you to move in, or better, to marry him. You’re not a hundred percent sure how you feel about marriage, about being someone’s wife, but there’s a great well of pleasure to be found in the idea that Aaron would want to marry you. He makes you feel loved already in a hundred different ways but the ring might be nice, like a symbol to signify how much you mean to him. 

You rest your hand across your eyes. It’s silly to think of. Sillier to want so soon. You’ve been together for just under a year, and you have no false hopes about rushing into the future, but it’s certainly a future you want with him (and with Jack, too). He’s taking things slowly for a hundred different reasons but he loves you, and gifts like your new pyjamas cement that. He really listens to you. 

Your phone rings a moment later. 

You smile at the screen. It’s nice to be in love with someone who loves you too. 

“Hey,” Aaron says when you answer, his voice warm even through the phone, “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“How come?” You sit up with a little start. 

“It’s getting late, honey. I called Jess and Jack was already gone.” He doesn’t say anything further. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I wanted to hear your voice, I think.” 

“Well, where are you?” You struggle to envision him speaking saccharinely like this where his colleagues could hear him. He’s nice to you often, but he’s a reserved man. 

“I’m just,” —a crunching sound of metal, the trunk of his car closing— “about to get in the car. I’ll be home before ten. Can I have you until then?” 

“I don’t see any reason to say no. But do you think you could come home a little faster? I have a crick in my neck.” 

“And you want me to fix that?” 

“You always fix my neck.” 

“How have you done it?” There’s a sound you assume to be the car door closing, but you can’t hear anything beyond that. 

“I have bad posture.” 

“You have perfect posture.” 

“No, it’s quite bad.”

He laughs loudly. It took some time to draw the humour from him but he isn’t as stony as you’d think, and for a while he didn’t have much worth laughing for, anyways. Whenever you hear it, you try to prompt it twice. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, Aaron, it’s just like when you said my weird rash wasn’t weird.” 

He laughs again, to your pleasure. “It wasn’t weird, it was a heat rash, I promise. You act like you’ve never seen heat rash.” 

“One of us goes to hot cities all the time and one of us lives permanently in Virginia.” 

“What are you talking about? Virginia’s far from cold. You’re being argumentative, I can see your smile in my head. I’m never going to fix your crick if you keep acting like that.” 

“No, don’t be like that,” you laugh, tipping back into the cushions. “You’re always such a sore loser.” 

“What did I lose?” 

You can tell from his tone that you’ve promised yourself one of those hugs that borders on a straight jacket tightness, his face tucked into your neck as he asks you to repeat yourself. What did I lose? he’ll ask again, kissing your chin, the line of your jaw. Tell me clearly.  

“It hurts,” you say honestly, “please don’t be mad. I really need one.” 

“I’m not mad… I’m going under the overpass, my signal might cut out.” 

“Okie dokie. Hey, did you eat? I can make you something for when you get home. I got groceries.” 

“I’m not hungry, but you can make yourself hot cocoa, and I’ll drink it when I get there,” he says. 

“Or I could make us both some?” 

“It’s much more fun if I drink yours before you can, honey. You know that—”

You pause in the quiet, then hear a quick beeping. You pull your phone from your ear and find the call disconnected. 

Cruel overpass, you think. 

Sure he’ll call you back, you take your phone into his kitchen and set about finding all the things you’ll need for hot cocoa. One mug, because you should hate when he forces you to share, but you love the feeling of his fingers on yours as he takes it and the thankful kiss he dots on your cheek. 

The kettle is uncomplicated. You toy with the stovetop, set the kettle on the burner, and let the temperature rise. It begins whistling lightly a mere thirty seconds later. 

You click your phone on again. He’ll have passed through the tunnel now and will be calling you back any minute. You stare at the phone, hoping to summon him, slouched over the counter with the tin of cocoa powder by your fingers. The kettle whines with growing heat, but cool air kisses your back. 

Goosebumps rise. Up and down the lengths of your arms, the back of your neck—

A sudden chill. 

The lack of air comes before the hand, the pain a rush, a burst to be away from. Leather on your neck creaking without sympathy as a hand tightens and drags your body back against something hard. 

Not Aaron. Your scream comes strangled under cruel fingers as you fight to move forward again, straight for the burner, the kettle shoved across the burner grate and exploding with scalding water, heat of the burner kissing your chest— you scream, only it’s worse than a scream, sound from the deepest part of you forcing itself past the heat at your neck as you try to fling yourself away from the pain. 

You fall with a hard clout. “Stay still!” comes out enraged against the back of your neck. You drop to your knees, the pain lighting flaring up your chest, your gaze frantic as you search for a flame that isn’t there. You’re not on fire, you’re crawling and then scampering up into a standing position when the heavy weight drops itself on you again and smashes your face into the floor. 

All your fight leaves you. Your ears ring. Your panic wanes but the pain stays alert in your mouth. 

A hand grabs you by the back of the head and drives your face into the ground. It’s like light in your eyes and your nose, the brunt of it, the crack of your bone and the hot trickle of blood that swiftly follows. You gurgle in pain, spluttering and gagging against the linoleum, waiting for Aaron to turn you over and say sorry. It’s an accident.

Blood drains from your nose in spurts to match your racing pulse, so much blood you can see your eyes reflected in the dark stretch of it. Water drips down the front of the stove, your breath aches and begs, and your attacker takes a measured breath. 

He flips you over. You can’t slide away, there’s nothing left in you, your head a second body as he raises something. 

Your phone rings on the counter. 

“Please, don’t,” you plead with a sob.

You pass out as the pain connects. Just as quickly as it started, your body takes the reins. 

—

There’s a strange darkness waiting for you. Like waking before your alarm and stealing those last minutes, body aching, not wanting to get up and face the day. Aaron gets up early every morning, sometimes as early as four AM, and whenever you get up with him your eyes hurt for hours. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Hey, hey, I think your boyfriend’s coming.

What will he make of my handiwork?

You didn’t stay awake long enough for that one, did you? But you’re waking up now.

The pain is enough to wake you up again, a hot drag down the side of you to your hip and in. You aren’t aware of the sounds you make, but you can hear them. Your panicked squealing as the heat presses further and further in. Your crying, and your whispering, “Stop, stop.” 

“There’s handsome,” the dark voice says. “I’ve gotta go hide somewhere, does he carry after hours? I think I’ll find out.” 

“Oh,” you say, feeling sickly. You attempt to curl into yourself, when did you turn onto your back? “No,” you mumble, lips wet with something hot. 

“Honey?” a voice asks. 

“Honey,” you repeat, woozy again, darkness falling in all over again, where it stays. 

Honey, are you in here?

—

The window behind Aaron’s shoulder is cold. Rain patters fast like floods, thunder occasionally chewing through clouds, and Jack Hotchner cries sluggish tears into his dad’s shoulder. 

Aaron has his eyes closed. They’ve been at this for a while. “Shh, shh shh, buddy,” he says softly, patting the bottom of Jack’s back. He’d sway him back and forth if his arms weren’t about to fall off. 

Jack squirms closer, no room left between them. 

“I know it’s scary,” Aaron says. 

Jack just cries. This approach of quiet support isn’t working; Jack isn’t a baby that needs to be put to sleep, he’s a panicking little kid, and Aaron needs to change gears. He ushers him away from his chest and crosses his arm behind Jack’s back. Careful, he shifts Jack’s weight to free his other arm and brings his fingers up to the silky brown hair dropping onto Jack’s forehead. 

“She’s okay,” Aaron says, stroking Jack’s hair. His little forehead is clammy. “She’s not hurting. I know it looks scary, honey, but… she’s just resting.” 

Jack looks him in the eyes. “Her face.” 

“I know.” He nods emphatically. “It’s hard to see. Blood isn’t nice. You don’t have to see her again today, not if it’s too scary.” 

Jack lifts a hand to Aaron’s face. Clumsy but with clear attempts to be careful, he wipes at the skin under Aaron’s eye. Aaron bites back a smile. 

“I look tired,” he says. 

“Yeah.” Jack brings his hand back to wipe his eyes. He sobs as he does it. Aaron can’t describe the ache it gives him to see it. 

“Buddy, I’ll do it. Let me wipe your face. I can do it.” 

Jack drops his hands. Aaron turns his hand and wipes the smudge of Jack’s tears from hot cheeks, testing the waters with a little smile. 

“I couldn’t see you under all those tears.” 

Jack does a little smile back. “Yes you can.” 

“I couldn’t! But now I’ve wiped all your face I can see you again. You’re handsome, did we know that?” 

Jack giggles. He sniffles, and he presses his palm to Aaron’s neck. “I don’t want her to be sad, dad.” 

“She’s going to be sad, because something scary happened, but it’s okay. I’m gonna take care of her.” 

Aaron would offer to take him home, but they can’t go home. They may not go home for a long time —the team is still trying to work out how someone made it into the apartment without alerting the building’s security or Aaron’s internal system. And then escaped again without Aaron’s notice. Until then, Aaron has to make a decision about a safe house, for himself, Jack, and Jess, though she's extremely unreceptive to the idea. 

Aaron has to look after Jack, and he needs to take care of you. 

“What do you think, bud?” he asks, cupping Jack’s head in his hand. “Do you want to go home?” 

“You said I can give her a hug.” 

“If it’s too scary, we don’t have to. I don’t want you to get upset again.” 

“I’m not scared. I want to give her the hug,” he says. 

Aaron pulls him in for a hug of his own. “Okay, buddy. Just try to think of it like this. She’s where she needs to be to get better. Everybody here is looking after her. She’ll be okay soon.” 

Aaron looks over Jack’s head down the hospital hallway. It’s a quiet ward, and here between the main ward doors and the hallway that leads down to the individual rooms there’s complete silence. Night is approaching quickly again, and with it comes Aaron’s panic. Your head turned into a puddle, your face lax of expression in the dark. He can’t stop finding the women he loves bloody and on their backs. 

“Ready?” he murmurs. “Can you walk with me? My arms are tired.”

“Yeah.” 

Aaron puts Jack down gently onto his feet. He neatens his hair, chucking him under the chin as he goes to see his smile. He’s so pretty, like Haley was, with shiny eyes. He’s a beautiful kid. Aaron takes his hand and together they make their way down the hallway to your room. 

You’re sleeping. 

Aaron herds Jack through the door and to the plastic covered chair by your side, where he lifts him up and sits him down. He stays between you both. Jack isn’t scared of you, just the blood, but he wants to show Jack that he’s going to protect him from anything he needs protecting from. He also desperately wants to touch you, and reassure himself that you’re still breathing. 

He looks for your hand. Your pinky finger is splinted, but he can take it with care, give the palm of it a squeeze. 

The blood matted in your hair has finally been washed away after a turbulent day, as well as the staining that marred your face. Your nose is broken, and looks it, the bruises so fierce your eyes have turned puffy and your top lip has inflamed. There are second degree burns in multiple places but most affectedly on your chest. There’s a stab wound at your hip, allegedly done with a small blade. It nicked your small intestine. The bandages laid over you are a lump under your hospital gown. 

Aaron looks at you, and he feels a passionate disdain for himself. He wishes he could… be someone else. Someone who doesn’t have such a deep connection to a job that hurts the people around him, over and over. Haley used to say he was obsessed with being the hero, but this doesn’t feel heroic. 

“Do you wanna give her your cuddle?” he asks softly. 

Jack stays sitting. 

He’ll have to give it to you himself. Careful, Aaron leans down over your prone body and presses a half kiss to your ear, the only place that won’t hurt. 

You have an IV drip going into your arm, painkillers, an ECG monitor to the left. The room is white but busy, you’re a burst of colour against it all, your cuts and bruises, the evidence of violence he can’t remove. Aaron’s tired. He perches on the gap of bed by your leg and holds your hand, turning to Jack, who watches with a frown. 

“She’s sleeping,” Aaron says. 

“When can she come home?” 

“In a few days.” He feels the pad of your hand, terrified of your broken finger but needing to hold a part of you. 

“Why is she sleeping all day?” 

Traumatic experiences are exhausting. “I think she might want to be alone, so she sleeps.” 

“Should we go?” 

Aaron shakes his head. “I think we should stay. When she wakes up again she’ll be happy to see us, because we’re not strangers.” 

“We’re family,” Jack says. He’d liked that, when the nurse asked you how Aaron was related to you. Family only.

“We’re her family,” Aaron agrees. 

If he somehow miraculously fell out of love with you, you’d still be family to them. You’ve given so much of your heart since you met them. Aaron wants everything you have to give. 

You wake in a slow, slow upheaval. It takes effort on your part, the opening of sore eyes, the dreary decision to face your pain. Your hand jumps in his but relaxes when he shushes you, your slimmer fingers stilling under his rubbing thumb. For a split second, you keep your gaze half-lidded, jaw soft, like you’ve been indulging in a stolen nap. 

Then your breath catches and you screw your eyes tightly. 

“You’re okay,” he says, quietly, and not as lightly as he means to, “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” in quick succession. 

“Hurts,” you say, and gasp, a whine stuck in your throat. 

He doesn’t know what to do. Jack shouldn’t watch this but he can’t leave you alone. “It’s okay,” he says, holding your wrist to stop it climbing up your bruised face. 

You were worse the first time you woke up. Catatonic, then sobbing. You mumble and whimper now, pain threading goosebumps down your arms. 

“It hurts too much,” you say. A sob falls out of you like you’ve been ripped open. 

Aaron doesn’t think, but an instinct sparks. The pain, to hit you right out of the gate like this, to make you say something like that when you’ve always always made your problems small, must be torture. It must feel new and sudden all over again. 

Aaron checks that Jack is alright and leaves the room. He looks down one hallway and then the other, but there’s no nurse around —he races to the reception desk and begs the two nurses there for help with you, “She’s in intense pain,” he says, grasping the desk. 

The nurse he’s more familiar with clears her throat. “Mr. Hotchner, she’s already had enough motrin for two people at your request, she really shouldn’t need–”

“Pain is just as important to treat as the injury.” 

A second nurse puts her salad down with raised brows. “Do you want to overdose her?” 

“Excuse me?” 

Aaron has always seen himself as a gentleman, but the argument that ensues is tricky to navigate while remaining respectful, and he’s no closer to better treatment for you by the end of it. He gives each nurse a disapproving glower and takes his phone from his pocket, turning on the spot, ready to call whoever it is he needs to call for a second opinion. He’s not gonna listen to you cry when there’s no need. 

He pushes the door open with the phone still clutched in his other hand. Jack’s climbed onto your bed. He cuddles your face, sitting by your pillows and bent over you protectively. 

Aaron lets out a breath. 

“It’s okay,” he says, his arm behind your head and his arm on your shoulder. “W’gonna take care of you.” 

“I know,” you say, crying without sound, shaking under his arms.

His cheek smushes against your forehead. Your eyes are closed and your face braced for contact Jack doesn’t make, careful not to hurt you as he rubs his cheek into your skin. Your blankets are falling off of you from the squirming and your bruises shine with tears in the light, but Jack has calmed you down some. 

Aaron shouldn’t have left Jack with you. He’s been so scatterbrained since he found you when he should be the opposite, but Jack is doing better than Aaron managed alone. 

“I’m sorry for crying,” you say slowly. “I’m hurting, but it’s not bad. I’m okay.” 

“That’s good. You have a big scratch on your face, and bruises.” 

“I know.” 

“Dad says you have a bruise on your tummy too.” 

“I got lots of bruises, but it’s okay. Don’t worry about me.” You bring your hand up injured and uncaring to rub his leg. “You’re being a really brave boy, thank you.” 

A tear rolls down your cheek. 

“It’s teamwork,” Jack says. “I hug you and you hug me.” 

“Is that what you want? You want a hug?” 

“I want to go home,” he says, hugging you harder. 

You grasp his arm loosely where it’s just under your chin. “Jack, can you move your arm?” you whisper. 

Your breath comes quickly, but Jack moves his arm away from your bruised neck and you try to calm yourself down. 

Aaron jolts himself back into action. “Sweetheart,” he says, rushing to sit Jack back and give you more space. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

He watches. Not sure what to say. Not sure saying anything is wise. You squint at him through your lashes, eyes opening slowly, your mouth a line pressed hard to stop from crying. 

“I think it's time for Jack to go home,” he suggests gently. 

“Yeah,” you say, eyes swimming with tears. 

“No.” Jack squeezes your head again, to your panic. 

“Jack, buddy, please don’t touch her neck,” Aaron says, grabbing Jack from your pillow. 

He erupts into tears again. Frantic and vying for you, Aaron tries to calm him and he kicks against his chest, tears turning to disgruntled sobs at not getting what he wants. You wince, pressing your face completely into the pillow. 

Aaron carries Jack from your room, phone in hand. 

—

Is she breathing? Can she talk? 

I don’t– I don’t know, I don’t– She’s breathing. Honey, can you hear me? I don’t know what to stop. I don’t know where it’s all coming from. 

Where’s the worst of the blood? 

It’s everywhere. 

Abdominal? Chest? 

I can’t tell. I can’t tell. 

Mr. Hotchner, you can’t panic. Does she have a chest wound?

Yes. Yes, but– 

Is she conscious? How’s her pulse? Be ready to start chest compressions. 

Honey, can you hear me? 

Your name said clearly. 

“Hey, can you hear me?” 

“Yes,” you murmur. 

“If you need a minute, that’s okay.” 

You cover your mouth with your hand. Emily Prentiss has a soft voice like your boyfriend’s when she wants to have it. She’s never spoken to you like this, none of his colleagues have, but since the incident, everybody treats you like you’re made of glass. 

Cognitive interviews are meant to happen immediately after an accident, but you weren’t up for company. Aaron promised this would be on your terms, that Emily is the most practised, and that she’s reaped the most information from them than the rest of the team. So far, it’s worked to drag bad memories to the surface. 

“Maybe we should start from the beginning.” 

There isn’t a beginning. There’s just conversation. Aaron’s hand on your heart and his shaky voice, so unlike him.

“Okay.” 

Emily reaches for your hand. She smiles, and her nice features get nicer. That’s another thing they all share, good looks. “Okay. What did you notice, in the kitchen? It’ll help if you close your eyes,” she reminds you. 

You close your eyes. 

“What stuck out?” 

“Nothing,” you murmur. “I’ve been in there lots of times, and nothing ever changes.” 

“Nothing? Not even the drawings on the fridge?” 

“Jack’s particular about his best work, even if I think they should all be on display.” 

Emily’s voice turns to a shard of itself. “What did you do? Can you take me through it step by step? Make yourself a cup of hot chocolate.” 

“I never got that far.”

“What did you do?” 

“I filled the kettle.” 

“What kettle?” 

You don’t understand the need for specificity, but you answer. “Aaron got it for me, when he… he told me he loved me, and when we got home he’d bought me a kettle and a bunch of stuff to make my being there easier. The kettle, because… he said something about superheated water. How the microwave can be dangerous, and this would be easier than a pan.” 

“Alright. Okay, and what did you do after that?” 

“I put the kettle on the stove.” You lit the burner, and heat kissed your palm, and suddenly the room had felt cold. “I got goosebumps.” 

“When?” 

“The kettle started to whistle, and it was cold.”

“And then–”

“Then he grabbed me.” 

“Yeah,” Emily says softly. 

You touch your nose. “I tried… He didn’t feel like a person. He didn’t feel like someone I was fighting, it was just painful.” 

“Like he was quick on his feet?” 

“He was silent. I didn’t hear him until I made him fall.” 

“How big did he feel?” 

Your stomach churns. Big. He’d felt big. 

Where’s the worst of the blood?

“He said he was going to hide,” you remember. 

“He said that? He said ‘hide’?

“Yeah. And he asked me if Aaron carries after hours.” 

“When was this?” 

It’s a headache. You try to remember more, because that’s what they need right now. If you ever want to go home, if you want Jack to go home, you need to remember more. The BAU are good, but nobody can make a map out of slivers. 

“That was at the end,” you say. 

“After he stabbed you?” 

You wince. “Yes. After.” 

“You’re doing so good,” she praises, “I just want to fill in the gaps.” 

“I can’t remember. I was unconscious.” 

“When Hotch found you?” 

“No, before.”

“Before?” she asks. 

You’re sick of sitting there with your eyes closed. Sick of your hands shaking with nowhere to hide them, and sick of feeling sick, your nausea as present as the stinging pain of your burned wrist against your sleeve each time you move. 

You open your eyes and look around the conference room for something interesting. How nice would it be to think of something else for a few minutes?

“He called it handiwork when he cut me. Asked if I thought Aaron would like it,” you say, bordering monotonous as your gaze fizzles, unfocused, across the room. 

“Okay, Y/N. Okay. I know you’re tired.” She reaches for your hands to squeeze at the same time. “You did really well. Any details at all are details we can use to find him.” 

You’re not in the mood for talking anymore. Tears burn your eyes, waiting for a blink to set them loose. 

“I want to see Aaron,” you confess quietly. 

“I’ll find him for you.” Emily stands but bends, the dark of her hair a contrast to her pale face. She’s lovely, and her hand is gentle on yours. “Are you okay? Can I get you something to eat?” 

So Aaron’s not keeping that to himself. “I want to see him, please.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

This is a horrible room. It’s not their fault, but the big white board is tacked with bad photos of grisly cases —currently your own. You stare at a photograph of your blood in the kitchen and don’t know what to do. Should you look away? You hadn’t realised you bled so much. 

You turn your chair toward the door. Emily looks back as she leaves and smiles at you softly, but your eyes are already moving to the smaller dry erase board by the doorway. It’s ‘Hotch’s turn to clean up on Thursdays. How strange that they make the boss clean the conference room. 

You can picture him picking up coffee cups and wiping down the table. You can always picture Aaron. 

You can see him hovering over you, his hand pressed to the bloody mess of your hip to stop the blood. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, wanting to break from the memory, following Aaron’s example. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” You repeat it into your hands, head tilting down. You sink until your knuckles touch your knees. 

That’s all he says when you panic. He’ll say it over and over again until you can breathe right. I have you, I have you, you’re okay. 

He’s much quieter this time. You hear his footsteps, his familiar gait, your head pounding too hard to move. Aaron makes a sound between a sigh and a hum, like he’s saying a sorry hello as he kneels in front of you. His hand takes your face, rubs softly over your ear. 

“My head’s just hurting,” you murmur. 

He doesn’t respond. You sit together for some time as your mind races with bad memories, your fear a rush of goosebumps down the lengths of your arms and thighs. It’s hard not to think about what happened, mostly because you’re still a walking bruise, your stitches sting when you move, the blisters on your chest ache, all of it inescapable. But it’s your anxiety that plagues you most. You’re in a constant state of dread. 

You had no idea someone could hurt you as badly as they had until it happened, and now you’re desperate not to be hurt again. 

“You have to look after me,” you say eventually, throat sore with how awful it feels to say. 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Please don’t let me get hurt again.” 

Total silence. You sniffle at his lack of an answer, only slightly comforted by his hands at your wrists now, pulling them from your face. “Let’s sit up,” he says, standing himself. “Come on, let’s sit up. You shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on your abdomen.” 

You lean back and everything aches like a stretch after a long run or a bad night’s sleep. 

Aaron pulls a chair next to yours. When he sits, your knees are pressed in between one another’s thighs, so close he could hug you. You might need one.  He’s given you a ridiculous amount of them each day, some for him and some for you. 

He has with him a takeout box and a bottle of water. 

“Here,” he says, popping the seal of the drink. “Three sips.” 

You feel like crying, but you drink. He opens the takeout box to reveal a normal looking sandwich already cut into two halves, but he takes a plastic knife from his pocket, peels away the wrapping, and cuts the sandwich again into quarters. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” you say. 

“No, you’re not. You won’t be.” He presses the sandwich flat with his hands and holds it to you until you take it. “Please, Y/N. You only have to eat what you can.” 

“I don’t want it.” 

“Please.” 

“Did Emily tell you about my interview?” 

He reaches for your thigh. Mildly unlike him when you aren’t at home. You assume it to be a tether for your sake. “No. Is there something you think I should know?” 

“I don’t want to say it again.” 

“Then you don’t have to. Someone will tell me when I get back.” 

You pinch the fluffy bread in your hands, eyeing wearily at the wet insides. “Can I come with you?” 

“You’re having trouble in the cognitive interviews, you won’t want to hear what we have to say.” 

You split the sandwich in half again, watching as salad and mayonnaise ooze from the bread. 

“If you don’t eat, you won’t get better,” he says, a touch stern. 

“I can’t eat when you won’t let me come with you.” 

“I’m not the only person capable of protecting you. I…” He circles your wrist before you can make a mess. “Can you please eat it?” 

You take a bite to appease him, your stomach roiling, food wet and cold on your tongue. You eat the whole quarter queasily, a lump at the back of your throat begging you to stop. 

Aaron takes an empty hand and rubs it tenderly. “Thank you,” he says, that rubbing turned more forceful, his hand journeying to your elbow and back again. 

It’s sweet how attuned he is to your needing his touch, but mortifying. This entire experience had been embarrassing from start to end. Couldn’t defend yourself, can’t get to grips with it, and can’t keep anything down. Aaron looks at you and your bruises and you wonder if he’s seeing you with blood matted in your hair, or hearing you beg for him to get you something stronger. All you’d wanted was a sedative. 

“I’m far from the only person capable of protecting you,” he says. 

“You saved me,” you say. You mean it in every sense of the world. 

“…This is my fault.” 

“I want to be with you,” you say honestly. “I don’t feel okay by myself right now, I just need you, or I feel so sick I wish that I died.” The anxiety is marrow deep. 

Aaron looks gutted. “Don’t say that.” His hand goes back to yours, back to tenderness. “I know you're scared.” 

“Then why won’t you listen?” you ask weakly. 

“I’m listening to you,” he says, his tone a dulcet, pleasing softness you’ve never ever heard before, “I need you to be safe, and I need Jack to be safe, and I can’t do that while he’s still out there.” His brows pinch together, agonised. “I’m sorry you’re scared. I didn’t protect you. But I won’t let anything happen to you again.

“I love you. Please believe that I’m doing what’s best for you right now.” 

You turn your head away. He cups your cheek regardless. 

“I love you,” he says again. 

“I know.” 

“No, I love you.” 

He’s saying sorry.

“I love you,” you mumble back. 

“How are you feeling? Is anything hurting more? Weeping?” 

Your eyes are heavy at his touch. “You only looked at me a couple of hours ago.” 

“Alright. Can I kiss you? I need to go.” 

You don’t answer. Aaron kisses your chin, your jawline, the type of roving, teasing kisses he’d give as he squeezed your sides, only he doesn’t squeeze you, he can’t without hurting you. His hand hesitates just above your deepest wound. 

His bright kiss works to spark a modicum of life back into you. Not a lot, but enough. It was likely his intention, some quick prodding kisses to remind you of something happy between you both. 

You curl your fingers over his hand and turn your face for a chaste peck. He smiles, the curve of his lips evident and relieving against yours. 

“Someone will take you back to the safe house, okay? Give Jack a kiss for me,” he says. 

You nod. Aaron strokes your cheek. 

—

Your assailant could have killed you while you were vulnerable, but he didn’t. “He assumes he’ll have another chance,” Emily surmises. 

“That’s cocky,” JJ mutters. 

“It’s telling,” Aaron says. “But he won’t.” 

The coaching has been extensive. You, sick, a breath from tears and hurting, your shoulders in his hands and his grip too tight. If someone tells you I’m dead, you wait. If Morgan tells you I’m dead, you ask Rossi. If he says I’m dead, you ask Emily. You can’t believe the first thing someone says. No one is going to move you from this safe house to another without seeing me first. If I do get hurt, you and Jack will be moved separately. You will always get my confirmation before you’re moved. 

I’m not gullible, you’d said, wincing at his sharp tone. 

It’s not about that. People will lie, and they will lie well. They will talk their way into the house if you let them. You can’t let them. 

I won’t. 

He’s racing against a countdown, because no matter what he says, what you know, or how many agents wait outside your house, sometimes it’s a force of will. 

Foyet didn’t need much more than that. 

He admittedly feels on surer footing knowing where you are. The decision to guard you without putting you in WITSEC is aching and scary but better, too. He knows where you are. He can be there in ten minutes. No guessing games, but no hiding for you either. 

Your dread is taking over everything you do. Today’s the first day since you came home almost two weeks ago that you could function without a live-in nurse or Jess there to look after Jack, and already he’s worried, because he’d convinced you total honesty was what’s best for the both of you, and so your texts are candid. 

One an hour for his sake, more if you're up to it.

Threw up my beta blockers. Jack misses you, he wants to make you a Lego boat and fishing rod, but I’m not sure how to do it. Please make sure you eat dinner. 

Your next message makes him smile, thankfully. I’m kidding about the dinner thing. Ha. I had one of those gels you got for me, and Jack wants fries, so I’m making waffle fries. 

He texts back quickly. Eat dinner. Please tell Jack I miss him too, and don’t worry about the boat, he’ll work it out. Then, feeling awful, he adds, I love you

Aaron should go home. He’d feel better if he knew he was there to help you keep your medication down, but if he leaves… He knows his team will give you everything they have, but he has more. He can fix this. 

He can’t fix this, god, his head hurts badly. You’re covered in cuts and bruises and burns and he thinks he can make up for that? You’ve been brutalised. Aaron can’t believe this is happening again. 

He rubs his brow. 

“You okay?” Emily asks. 

When he looks up, JJ is gone. 

“I’m fine.” 

“It��s okay if you’re not.” 

He’s not fine, but he knows what she’s asking. “I’m okay enough to do this,” he says. 

It’s hard not to confuse you with memory, your hurting similar to his own, your situation one that he’s already lived. Haley will haunt him for life. It doesn’t usually feel as punishing as he fears he deserves: he gets to remember the best parts of her everyday. He sees her in Jack all the time. He sees her in you, occasionally —you’ll touch his hair or rub his arm like she would’ve done, and it doesn’t make him miss her any more than he does, he’s not in the business of wishing you weren’t yourself, he loves you, but he remembers her. Aaron remembers how he failed her every day. 

He can’t fail you, too. 

“Is it ever easy?” Emily asks. 

Aaron looks around for a bottle of water. “Is what?” 

“Being in love.” 

He thinks about it. “I must make it look hard.” 

She laughs softly. “Sometimes, yeah.” 

Maybe that’s not fair, then, to you. For him to make it seem difficult to love you. To fail to correct Emily when she asks. 

He chooses his words carefully. “Loving her is the easiest thing in the world. But… I continue to work a job I know makes me hard to love in return.” And that puts you in danger. 

It doesn’t feel wrong to be sincere. Perhaps it’s easier with Emily. She saw so much of him during Foyet, and she’s family, truly. He can tell her how intense it’s felt. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem hard for her,” Emily says. 

He shakes his head. 

She continues regardless, “Even during her cognitive, she mentioned the first time you told her you loved her. When it was over she wanted to see you over anything else.” 

But I put her here, he wants to say. Or doesn’t want to say at all, but instead knows with surety. 

“She can’t eat if I’m not home,” he says. What a thing to do to someone. “It’s my fault.” 

Emily smiles, hair slipping off of her shoulder as her expression turns to playfulness. “I think you’re seeing it all wrong. Something bad happened to her, and you’re so safe to her that you make it better when you’re with her. That’s not fault, Hotch. Just love.” 

He turns his attention back to the board without another word. 

—

When the day comes, when they find the man who hurt you, you’re sitting at home with Jack Hotchner in your lap. You’re laughing at his laughing, cartoon fish on the TV, and Aaron’s got a gun in his hand fifty miles away. You both giggle, nearly in hysterics as the safe house living room glows pink and red, Jack’s favourite character swimming hurriedly across the screen, as Aaron negotiates the arrest. 

Usually capable of mediation, Aaron finds his patience completely unravelled. He offers the UnSub two choices: he surrenders now, immediately, and he keeps his life, or he deliberates and Aaron kills him. 

He has reason to believe the UnSub will try again, of course. Will keep hurting you until it sticks. 

He goes home satisfied.

“Dad’s home!” you say excitedly, your movie long finished, your thighs numb and stitches stinging where Jack has leaned against you. You encourage him off of you as the front door closes, the cold air from outside rushing in. 

“Honey?” Aaron calls. 

“Yeah!” You stumble into a standing position, sure you look about as disgusting as you have since the situation began, promptly sitting back down as head rush hits. 

Jack races for the door, meeting Aaron in the hallway with a whoosh. “Hey!” 

“Hi, junior g-man, what are you doing?” 

“We watched Finding Nemo,” Jack says, “and now I’m hugging you, duh.” 

“Duh. Well, I need to talk to Y/N for five minutes. Can you wash your hands for dinner?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“I’m fine.”

You hear the sound of a light kiss, and then Jack rockets across the hallway and up the stairs. Aaron walks into the doorway, tie still knotted but with no suit jacket, and you know what he’s going to say before he says it. He wears a strange expression.

“You got him?” you ask. 

He puts a white bag on the coffee table, looking down at you fondly. “I got him.” 

“How did you find him?” 

He crouches down in front of you. He’s so careful to be harmless to you now, so tentative. “You’re not the only woman he hurt. We dealt with him in the past. From the information you gave Emily during your interview, and the information he left behind, we found him… If you weren’t as brave as you are, I couldn’t have kept you and Jack safe.” He holds your knee. “Thank you.” 

You stare at him. Staring, wondering what he means. “Brave?” 

“Brave.” 

“I’m a coward.” 

He shakes his head. “No. You’re not.” 

All you've done for days is cry and throw up and bleed, literally. You’ve ruined clothes and sheets, thrown up in his lap, terrified and aching. Each time was met with the same gentleness. A kiss on the cheek, or a hand rubbing your back. Is that bravery? You feel like a baby. 

Aaron’s brow is relaxed. He takes your two legs into his hands, and he looks at you with a reverence that leaves you breathless. 

“You’re hurt forever because of me,” he says quietly, you strain to hear him, “because of who I am, and what I choose to be.” 

“How can you say that? It’s not your fault.” 

“It wouldn’t have happened to you if I hadn’t missed his MO the first time.” 

“You’re not putting the knife in anyone’s hand,” you argue. 

“But it keeps happening.” 

His hair shines dark and wet. It must be raining outside, the safe house walls are thick, the windows shuttered permanently, you haven’t heard a peep. You stroke it back from his forehead. 

“Remember… when we first got together, and you told me you were sorry for how hard being with you could be. And I said it was okay, that it wasn’t hard, and you said it would be?” 

“I remember,” he says, practically mouths. 

“I was so afraid when...” You swallow roughly. “I still am. But not– not of you. Not of what you can do. When you told me it was going to be hard, I thought, well, it’s worth it, because I really liked you then and I love you now.” Tears collect in your eyes. Safe. I’m safe. “And you look after me, so– so–” 

You stop as your voice turns to glass, worried you’ll make a fool of yourself and cry in his hands. 

“I didn’t want this for you,” he says. 

“Nobody wants this. Bad things happen to everyone, but who has someone like you to look after them?” 

He breathes out heavily. “Please… don’t cry.” 

You wipe your cheeks, taking a lengthy pause before you say, “I’m okay now.” 

He looks at you in silence. 

“Come and sit with me,” you say, scrubbing your cheeks, hot tears cooling on the backs of your hands. “Your knees.” 

He actually smiles. It changes his entire face. “What about my knees?” 

Aaron sits on the couch next to you atop Jack’s blanket, a bag of pretzels tipping between your leg and his. You attempt to rake his damp hair into submission as his fingers run against your thighs, fishing for pretzels to put back into the bag. 

You’d like for him to grab you and kiss you harshly, give you one of his straight jacket hugs, some roughhousing, but you won’t get that from him until you're better, and even then, it’s up in the air. So much has changed. 

But not everything. 

“I love you,” you murmur, fingertips scratching down behind his ear to the back of his head. 

He turns to you, sagging with relief and exhaustion. “Kiss?” he asks quietly. 

You nod. He holds your cheek, and you close your eyes at the same time for a kiss. It’s not a lot, but you have time. He can give you another one when you’re both better recovered. 

He pulls away. You open your eyes, finding his closed, his face downturned. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

“Was Jack good?” 

“Jack’s always good.” 

“Did the nurse have anything to say about your chest?” 

“She said it’s healing okay. That I need to use, uh, scar patches when they start to scab.” 

“I can get those.” 

“I know, I knew you would.” 

He gathers you up for a hug. For a moment, you think he’ll move on, that the end of your nightmare will kill his remorse, but he breathes in, nose wedged against your cheek. 

“Do you think that tonight, we could pretend it didn’t happen?” You’d like to just sit with him, press your hand to his chest and doze. It’s the first night in a while that you’ll feel completely. 

“Yeah. I can do that.” He hugs you rather tightly. “Do you want to see your present?” he asks, relaxing his grip. 

“My present?” 

He grabs the bag on the coffee table and places it in your lap. “I’m worried it’ll remind you of bad memories, but I wanted you to have nice things then, and I still do.” 

In the bag, there’s a pair of pyjamas. Very different to the ones you’d been wearing when you were attacked, they were girly and sweet, soft in your hands, these are sturdy. Still soft, but thick. The shirt is short-sleeved and the pants cuffed at the ankles, a hoodie tucked underneath them, and a packet of minky socks. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

Thanks for everything, for saving you twice, for taking care of you at your worst, and for wanting you to have something comfortable to wear at the end of it. To have experienced an abjectly cruel battering will leave its marks in your forever, but you meant what you told him. He looks after you, and you love him. 

He kisses your shoulder. “You don't need to say that.” 

He doesn’t add anything else, his nose pressed to your shoulder, his hand on your hip. Whatever goes unsaid can be felt in the other’s touch. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u for reading!! it’s been a long time since I wrote a fic for hotch and it’s hard to write him being vulnerable but I hope this is alright anyways and that you enjoyed :D please consider reblogging if you did enjoy it (cos that way my fics get shown to more people <3) ❤️

[cathodic-clairvoyant]

Oh hi there transfem discussing her experience in the trans community i just had a quick question about your post

What does tme mean?

Oh okay i see i understand, thank you.

What does transmisogyny mean?

Ah I see, I get it.

What's a trans woman?

Oof scary. One last question.

What's a woman?

Thank you for being my own personal google (not like you had anything better to do right?) and derailing the point of your post for my own personal education. I will now add nothing of value to this post in return. Bye bye!

[pandorem]

Obviously going feral over the Orpheus and Eurydice quote but also can’t get over the fact that Orpheus and Eurydice are real people in this universe. Like Orpheus is literally Dream of the Endless’s son. I don’t have anything insightful to say about it, even via stories repeating and reiterating and that being such an important theme in the Sandman universe and how some truths become stories and some stories are more than true etc etc.

Also now just thinking of Hob mentioning that people have given King Lear a happy ending and Dream saying that it won’t last because all the great stories will return to their original forms (Shakespeare was actually the one to change it to a tragedy, and yes Neil knew this when he wrote that line). Still nothing coherent to say, just about how Charles and Edwin beat the odds and just how much of Dead Boy Detectives is like… a rejection of the queer tragedy we’ve grown so used to. Saw some people groan and comparing it to the mess of Supernatural and superhell etc which is wild to me because it feels like a conscious commentary and rejection of it.

Like. Simon and his internalized homophobia landed both him and Edwin in hell and its both made clear that the in universe reason that they were there is not because they were queer but because of the ritual sacrifice/prank, but that the symbolic and writing reason is because of the internal and external homophobia that the world subjects them to, and it is Simon and Edwin recognizing each other and Edwin saying that the way they are does not mean they deserve to be there, that it doesn’t have to be torture, that gives Simon the way out of hell. It isn’t Edwin confessing that sends him back, a demon interrupts him from confessing. Edwin has to confess at the door back to freedom so he can leave all of that internalized poison behind him back in hell where it belongs.

This post got super away from me and maybe I’ll actually write something coherent about all of these themes one day but yeah. Charles and Edwin at the gates of hell defied the trends of two tragedies, one very very old, and one that (while building off of tragic stories that have been around for ages) is far more recent

[thefallennightmare]

For headcannon Tuesday-

Noah who has feelings for best friend!reader. she gifts Noah a piece of jewelry that he wears near constantly— a new chain necklace or bracelet or whatever— and he thinks he lost it while head banging on stage or something and gets really distraught :(( she doesn’t understand why he’s so upset and he’s just like “because you gave it to me”

@thescarlettvvitch @mitchhbitch @missduffsblog @hayleylatour @sleepyomens @loeytuan98 @artificialbreezy @marvelousmal @bngurngheart @lma1986 @dsireland86 @wild-child-7747 @calleyx13 @illmakeyousaywow @jaded-and-hollow-souls @exitwoundsx @shayzillaaaa @lookwhatitcost @badomensls @princesspeach-00 @burning-outx @shadowseve @collective-heartbreak @klutzy-kay24 @sorrowsofsilence @sweetlittlekitsune @shilohrosechicken @itsafullmoon @toospooktocute @niicoleleigh @thatchickwiththecamera @hoe-for-daddywise @whenthesummerdies @cookiesupplier @concreteemo @thisbicc @sammyjoeee @pathion @flowery-mess @tashka

"Where the fuck is it?!"

You snapped your head away from looking at the pictures you captured tonight on your camera to see Noah distraught while crawling around on the stage.

"What's wrong?" You asked, setting your camera on one of the stage crates.

It was hours after the show and every fan had cleared out. It was now time to tear down everything and pack up before heading to the next city.

Noah, however, refused to leave until he found what he was looking for.

"I lost my necklace," he said while lifting up the Bad Omens rugs but then threw them down angrily.

Your heart shuddered in your chest for a moment, knowing which necklace he was talking about.

The one you got him for his birthday.

It wasn't anything special, just a simple gold chain.

But to him, that necklace meant everything. He never took it off. It was a private symbol of your relationship. Even though the two of you were just friends he wanted to be more than that.

So did you.

But neither of you could express how you felt about the other.

"How did you lose it?" You asked after you helped him look around the stage and floor for it.

"It must have slipped off when I was headbanging to What Do You Want From Me," he ran a very distraught hand through his hair.

Noah hadn't even changed from his stage clothes yet, wanting the first opportunity to look for the necklace.

After spending thirty minutes looking for it and coming up empty, you stood in front of Noah with a somber smile. "I'm sorry, Noah. It might have gotten swept up when the cleaning crew came through."

"Mother fucker!" He shouted.

You furrowed your brows. "It's alright. It's just a necklace."

He shook his head, those dark eyes begging for you to understand, and he gently grabbed your hands. "You don't understand, Y/N. You gave me that necklace so it means a lot to me."

You swallowed thickly. With the passion emanating from his body, you suddenly realized how much that necklace meant to him.

"Okay," you breathed. "Maybe let's check the green room-."

"Is this what you're looking for?"

Both of you glanced over to see Nicholas standing at the edge of the stage holding a gold chain from his fingers.

Noah quickly snatched it from him and let out a long breath. "Where did you find it?"

He chuckled. "It somehow ended up on my microphone stand and found it when I was taking it down."

You gave Noah's hand a soft squeeze. "Maybe take it easy on the headbanging for a while."

He slipped on the necklace and left a kiss on top of your head. "Sounds like a plan to me, angel."

[meanbossart]

I assume neither your Astarion or Drow would really be interested in a wedding, but do they celebrate their relationship in some way at all along the years?

(Also I'd love to know what you think their hypothetical wedding aesthetics would be...)

Haha indeed neither of them would see much value in marriage. Seems like the kind of thing Astarion would only do if he had a family to cater to/Wow with a big event, and DU drow doesn't care much for traditional customs like that.

Also if I recall correctly elves have a very loose definition of marriage and what constitutes a ceremony. Anything from multi-day parties to exchanging vows alone in the woods. I think Astarion is often conflicted about how much of his elvish heritage he still connects with - often just operating under the assumption that the moment his vampiric condition is made public, it overwrites his race. However, I think he would like to hold on to some of that elvish pride and customs of his culture, if he ever allows himself to.

So, if they might do that eventually. Just some kind of private, symbolic re-enforcing of the relationship. Definitely Astarion's idea that DU drow happily goes along with even if he doesn't fully know what it means. They wouldn't call it a marriage though or change how they refer to each other.

I don't know about wedding aesthetics LOL but I'm sure every few months one of them is like "hey it's totally our anniversary (it's not) we should go out to do something unscrupulous"

And then they dine and dash or something but they look great doing it.

[lacrimosathedark]

There's something that's bothering me about Alastor

I noticed something about Alastor's magic.

So Alastor's magic has either a red or green color at any given time.

Usually, it's green.

But, occasionally, it is red.

It's always red in flashbacks, and the two other times it appears red, Alastor is being intentionally threatening. It also may correlate to his shadow being active.

My concern with the green comes, partially, from this.

The bright green of his magic is the same as those stitching his mouth and arm. (Also now I'm worried his arm was ripped off at some point)

This could entirely be a stylistic choice, but if his magic only started being mainly green recently, maybe it has something to do with his deal.

Alastor's mouth being sewn shut and could mean he can't talk about his deal, or otherwise relate to being forced to smile.

I also think this because the spooky ghosty motif is also green, and might be representative of souls, in regards to Alastor at least, considering this:

and that Husk's leash is green too.

He also repeatedly rejects offers of collecting souls.

Rosie: Ya know, Alastor. I got a primo connect on a guy with about eight blocks of territory and not enough goons to run it. Prime pickins for a deal to be made, my friend. Alastor: Appreciate the offer, but we're here on business of another kind.

Gaining souls is how Sinners get stronger it seems. And we know he's not opposed to collecting souls as he already owns Husk and Niffty. So part of his deal could stipulate that he can't collect more souls for one reason or another.

What had me thinking, and what really worries me, is this.

The shield he makes in The Show Must Go On sticks out to me. Because the base of it is shadows, and there's that eye motif that is likely indicative of Roo. All of that is black outlined in red. But the veves are all outlined green, and there's this green mist near the base of the dome. Why are the symbols green but the eyes and other crack-like shadows aren't?

I think it might be possible that Alastor had a deal of some sort with Roo almost as soon as he got to Hell. But more recently, he has a new deal, one that limits him in some way, and likely one that forced him to the Hotel if Roo herself didn't order him to. And it's likely got something to do with Lilith, given their absences of the past seven years coinciding and then Alastor returning and going straight to Lilith's daughter.

Whatever this deal is, it limits his abilities. His figurative wings are clipped.

But this raises more questions for me. If he made some sort of deal with Roo or another entity for power, but he still owned his soul, what did he trade in the first place?

If he had so much power already, what would he have to gain from a deal that limits his strength and growth so much, especially at the cost of his own freedom? His own soul?

Who is this new contract with? Roo? Lilith? Eve? And why?

That also leads me to question, are he and Lilith allies or enemies?

Can your soul be owned between multiple parties if they make a deal with each other? Like, if Roo owned his soul and made a deal with Lilith to effectively share ownership, would that work? And what would that mean for them?

And, quite frankly, why Alastor? Was it convenience? Was it his connection to Roo?

This is in conjunction with something I noticed about those eyes that are all over Pride.

They don't appear naturally in any other Rings. And the motif only happens in two places.

There's Loo Loo Land in the Greed Ring.

Which, I'll remind you, is apparently a knock-off of a theme park Lucifer made, Lucifer's domain being Pride where these eyes are naturally occurring. Meaning the eye motif is probably just more mimicry. Especially since they aren't even red.

And then there's one room in Millie's family's house in Wrath.

It's obviously just a design, since none of them move and they look pretty flat, but that stylistic motif is present. The wide red eyes and black shadow tendrils.

And it reminded me of something.

Martha: Satan! We return your FILTHY creatures back to the pits of Hell! May the Root of Evil remain honored as we continue thy work!

If you look around during these scenes, you see a lot of eye imagery, both carved into the pole and scattered about the trees. And then on the top of the pole is Roo's emblem.

So, like, there's some kind of human cult around the Root of All Evil. Enough that the emblem is known.

Martha specifies Satan, who is the Sin of Wrath, where Imps originate. Wrath is the only place there's imagery outside of Pride and Pride-adjacent areas (Loo Loo Land being a knock-off would be just replicating)

So, like...does Wrath or Satan have some kind of connection to Roo??? I mean, Lucifer and Satan are often mushed into one character but are separate here, so maybe it's just human error? Or maybe Roo has some kind of connection with Satan but her influence doesn't extend beyond Pride? I saw somewhere that Imps tend to treat Satan like a god (and they say shit like "oh my Satan" instead of "oh my god") but do they also worship Roo maybe? Or does Satan somehow serve her?

And one of the few places in Pride free of Roo's eyes (to my knowledge at least) is Cannibal Town.

Where everyone's eyes are black voids.

Idk I'm tired and Alastor's whole deal has my head spinning in circles if I'm honest. And I needed to get it out somewhere.

[jesncin]

This might just be me, but I try to make the House of El shield more about the negative space to make it more alien and less 'S' centric

Oh it's not just you, I've seen both fanartists and canon works (MAWS, James Gunn's Kingdom Come-esuque logo, the comics too) that lean towards making the "S" look more alien looking and I get the reasoning behind it!

In the YA graphic novel The Harvests of Youth, a character calls attention to the negative space in the design specifically, and it smartly pays off in the final panel of the comic that I don't want to spoil! Read it, it's pretty good.

I personally like to draw Clark (and Conner!) wielding the more "S" looking symbol as a means of showing how he's several layers removed from his culture, and a nod to how Ma Kent (who made his outfit) translated it to something more recognizable for the people of Earth.

it narratively plays into how he wants to assimilate and the "lost in translation" aspect that happens when Ma Kent created the suit. It's a silly thing- but it makes me think about how when I was little and my family migrated to America, we didn't have any cultural clothes to wear for a heritage event at school. My mom sewed Timorese clothes out of what she had available, and got emotional seeing us wear what she made- even when we were so far from home. It wasn't a perfect replica, but that's what made it special.

It's a matter of preference in the end! I'm just attached to what Smashes the Klan brought into the meaning of the S.

[poppitron360]

Oooo with your leo singing healing fire powers thing. I've always loved the idea that leo could call on the river phlegethon to heal (whether consciously or subconsciously) it would be interesting if he were to subconsciously call on it while singing without even realizing it

YESSS!!!

Leo only ever sees the bad side of his powers- the death, the destruction. I love the idea that he doesn’t even realise how much good he can do with them, but Jason knows it. He sees how important Leo’s sense of humour is to the Seven and how hard Leo works on the Argo II just to keep them moving. He also sees all the good, warming, healing powers Leo’s fire has. He sees how many time it has saved their lives- but Leo only sees the bad. Because it doesn’t matter how much it’s helped people, he can still only think about the damage it’s done, the people it’s hurt. Nothing he can do will compensate for the mistake he made.

And Jason wants so desperately to make Leo see himself the way Jason sees him- to realise how much he means to Jason. But Leo will always just fixate on the bad.

I can take anything and make it Valgrace angst.

I think that Leo’s singing thing only works if he sings in Spanish. Because it ties to the idea of fire being at the hearth- a symbol of hope and home (Anyone else wanting a scene where Leo and Hestia interact?)- which is the good side of fire that Leo never sees. He sings in the language that reminds him of home, of his mother, and that’s what gives him power. Also, his powers have a bigger effect on people who see him as family, as home. That’s why Jason sees what it does before Leo. Leo is always running away from himself, but Jason finds comfort in Leo, his home.

Also, I love the whole “Phlegathon” thing- that might be a cool way to make him closer to Nico, if part of his powers came from the underworld. We were robbed of their friendship.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Drunk six of crows thoughts (I’m drunk)

Six of Crows = FUCKING LITERARY MASTERPIECE

Thinking about Kaz and how he is effectively the third representation of addiction in books where addiction is one of the main themes and although it’s mostly presented through Jesper (if I see one more person poking fun at/making jokes about/undermining his gambling addiction I’m gonna cryyyyyyyyyyyy) and Nina (probably quite clear but parem) but KAZ

Kaz straight up tells us that nothing he can ever do to Rollins will ever be enough to quench his thirst and you know why???? Because it’s an ADDICTION. And it started smaller, with the roper (Fillip, tortured and then left dead with a wind up key shoved in his throat) and the bank (cost him the break of his bad leg, but he was never deterred and his cane became symbolic of everything he was working for and everything that had happened to him and etc I mean COME ON) and also whilst we’re here I am FREAKING OBSESSEd with that bit in Crooked Kingdom when Haskell has the fake gaudy cane to mock Kaz and he holds them both side by side omgggggggggggg the symbolism is so loud I’m so obsessed but anyway I’ve gotten sidetracked

Kaz is addicted to vengeance and burning is every going to be enough to quell the fire or the need Kaz would literally not have survived without the hope of vengeance but it has begun to actively eat at him and it’s almost sad to see but also in a fascinating way we still want him to keep seeking revenge??? Like he deserves to achieve his vengeance but even though the reader knows he is never going to be fulfilled by it they still want to see him try?? It’s a very strange thing to have running parallel to the encouragement the reader feels towards pulling Jesper and Nina away from their respective vices whilst we actively root for Kaz to follow the path of his and I think it kind of speaks to us some kind of acknowledgment that we would be allured the same way he is????

Anyway there is like 99% chance these are nonsense thoughts lmao, I think in done now and I’m tired and still drunk so goodnight y’all

[ryin-silverfish]

Me, staring at the "Nezha is eternally 12/Nezha is often depicted as a kid so he's just a kid and nothing else" crowd: man, have you heard of Child Manjushri a.k.a. Wenshu Tongzi

(This is totally not an excuse for me to find cool statue pictures and talk iconography)

So, here is Bodhisattva Manjushri in his standard "graceful aristocratic prince" form, riding his azure lion. The statue in the picture doesn't have it, but oftentimes, he'll also be holding a flaming sword that symbolizes wisdom's ability to cut through ignorance and delusions.

This is "Holy Old Monk Manjushri", a variant that I came across a few times while temple-touring, but couldn't find many good online pictures of. It seemed like a thing that was popular around Mt. Wutai, based on the "Buddha-palita met Old Man Manjushri" tale. Sometimes his BFF Samantabhadra is depicted as an old man too, for matching purposes.

And this is Child Manjushri, with his five hair buns, often worshipped in an esoteric context. On Mt. Wutai, there are five major temples atop five peaks, each worshipping a different form of Manjushri, and the "middle peak" temple has a Child Manjushri in their main hall. Like, it's far from the most common variant, but neither is it this super obscure form that no longer enjoys active worship.

Lastly, just for fun: this is Yamantaka, a guardian deity/Wisdom King, who, in Tibetan Buddhism, is believed to be Manjushri's wrathful form.

If you wouldn't call Manjushri "the eternal child Bodhisattva" just because he has a child form, why would you say Nezha is an eternal child when he, too, has both child and adult forms?

Even though Nezha's child form is vastly more popular and well-known than Child Manjushri, I think my point still stands: A deity is capable of having multiple manifestations, of varying ages and appearances, each fulfilling a particular function and niche——none of which is the "One True Form TM", just different clothes they wear based on occasions and audiences.

To stretch the analogy a little, Manjushri's child form is the formal dress he puts on before attending a religious event, while Nezha's child form is the lotus T-shirt he wears a lot while appearing on TV, to the point it becomes his most iconic attire.

This doesn't mean he only has a single shirt, for goodness sake, and using his child form as evidence for the "eternal child" claim is like saying Nezha's only allowed to wear that one shirt and nothing else.

[sunflowerdigs]

I love the will but to me it's less important in a legal sense and more important in the way that it shows just how much Eddie trusts Buck. I can see it being used for a custody battle if Eddie is ever hovering between life and death, but I can't see the show having Buck try to enforce it in any other context. Obviously, it's TV and 911 isn't a stranger to stretching or outright mangling laws, but I just don't think they added it in so that Buck could ever use it on his own to determine placement of Christopher while Eddie is alive.

In S3, 911 made such a big deal out of Eddie defying his parents and moving Christopher to LA. They assumed he would fail at being a single parent and would drag Christopher down with him without their help. And Eddie ultimately proved them wrong, both because he stepped up in ways that he previously hadn't imagined and because he found a family. He found the 118 and, most importantly, he found Buck, and they gave him the support that he needed to succeed as a single dad. And I just...have such a hard time believing that 911 would write a storyline counter to that one. If Helena and Ramón take Christopher in 7x10, it means that they were right all along. That Eddie was wrong to leave Texas. That he's failed.

Yes, it takes a village. But not just any village. Eddie has a village already, one that he found and he helped build. And Helena and Ramón aren't part of it.

The will as a legal document has never been as important as the intention behind the will. That's why it wasn't a straightforward request from Eddie. The will has never been about what Eddie wants Buck to do for him in death, it's about the things he wants Buck to do with him in life that he can't yet ask him for.

The will is there so that if Eddie is ever unable to fight for Chris for any reason, Buck will. It was Eddie's way of saying "when the time comes, please have my back against anyone who doesn't believe that I can do this, even if that person is me."

Idk, maybe I'm looking at this from the wrong perspective. But I hope that, on Thursday, Buck fulfills the purpose of the will and he fights. When Ramón and Helena inevitably tear Eddie down, I hope Buck builds him back up. And when they convince Eddie that it's best if they take Christopher with them...I hope Buck somehow intervenes and that doesn't happen.

The will is a symbol of Eddie's faith in Buck's willingness to fight for him and for his family. That's the point of it, that's why it was introduced. And so I hope that we see Buck fight like hell on Thursday, even if Eddie falters.

[obeetlebeetle]

genuinely I think the thing that separates contemporary vampires from their 19c progenitors is like. the turning, the before and after. we can see this in iwtv s1, where Lestat is The European Vampire and he arrives in Louis' story as this great confused symbol that is, importantly, only ever a vampire and thus only ever symbolic. like ruthven and carm and drac, his role is the vampire, and all his personhood is folded into our understanding of The Vampire. Louis and Claudia, by contrast, start out human. they are turned; we witness the violence and we know that something in them was annihilated by the turning. we have them before and after all of those signifiers are attached.

but something that has been on my mind in s2 is that those signifiers are both broadly applicable AND unique to Lestat. like. a lot of what he's doing in s1 is originally read as The Vampire, but now that we have access to other european vampires, we can see and are explicitly told that Lestat's role was different than theirs, that he negotiated a new way to read The Vampire as symbol -- and we can infer (or otherwise know) that many of the signifiers he packed into The Vampire predate his vampirism and are direct responses to both his life as human and his own turning. Lestat can't be The Vampire, so he joins Louis and Claudia in their role, and the three of them are set in opposition to Armand -- who is constantly telling us about the Laws of his kind and the Rules of his coven and who tries extremely hard to maintain his status as The Vampire. still, we can't be fooled by that anymore. we know that there was an Armand who was turned, and we refuse to view him as the symbol that we had so easily applied to Lestat before s2. Which is interesting to me bc I feel like Louis and Claudia taking on Lestat's concept of The Vampire is not unlike children learning how to be people by modeling their parents, and their encounters with Armand and the coven respectively feel like when you step out from that framework and learn that no one anywhere knows how to be a person. It gives us a lot of immediate and useful shorthand with which to understand Armand's control over the coven and why it means so much to him, why he wants to be The Vampire and why he needs to redefine himself whenever that symbol gets complicated. and that's not even getting into the religion -> theater -> storytelling progression of his obsessions!

[jennifer-jeong]

[Fluff + Slight Angst] [Wanderer x Reader] “A Name of Your Own”

SUMMARY Giving him an actual name <3

CONTENT Fluff, little bit of angst, mentions of his past, CHARACTERS ARE 18+

AUTHOR NOTES I think it’s so funny that if you try to name him “Dottore” he says “you can’t be serious…” LMAOOO Basically this is what I named Wanderer and this is how I imagine he’d react to the situation hehe Another Wanderer fic for you pookie <3 @thepurestgirll

WORD COUNT: 737

“My own name…?” the confused anemo user asks albeit rhetorically.

You’re in the sunlit akademiya library in the process of choosing a name for Mr Kabukimono/Kunikuzushi/Balladeer/Scaramouche/Wanderer/Hat Guy and he wonders why it feels so strange. He hasn’t really had a name that he necessarily cherished. All were titles given to him that have some alternative meaning or intention behind them. But this time, it’d be a name just for the sake of a name. A name to call him by, a name with a meaning about his soul, not about his status or appearance.

“克仁” (romanized: Katsuhito)

You say the name with a stern look and a gentle smile. He looks up at you, your words pulling him out of his thoughts.

It took you a little bit of research and time to put it together but you decided on this: a meaningful name in his native language.

“I can’t really read the language… What does it mean?” he asks, confused, as you show him the characters.

“克 (Katsu) meaning ‘to overcome,’ and 仁 (Hito) meaning ‘compassionate.’” You explain while writing the symbols on paper, teaching him how to spell his name and how to pronounce it.

“I just thought it fit you pretty nicely. You’ve been through a lot and you’ve come out alive and even after all that… you still somehow have kindness in you. I think that’s what compassion for yourself and others truly is.” You say gently as you look at the paper.

You’re looking at the name but he’s looking at you, his eyes softening at your words and his eyebrows raise ever so slightly. His face reads a mix of surprise and melancholic happiness. He’s surprised that you have such nice things to say about him. He thought that you, the traveler, and Paimon would end up just messing with him when picking a name. But he’s pleasantly surprised and starts to wonder if he really deserves something so nice.

You’d already discussed the name with Nahida and the traveling duo and they loved it. They were also happy to see how much thought you put in it.

“Are you okay?” You ask, looking at him, once again pulling him out of his thoughts. He didn’t realize he was just staring at you instead of paying attention to the paper.

He blinks a few times and stutters out a shy “y-yeah… I just wanted to say… thank you.”

Your eyes widen and then close as you smile at him, “aw you don’t need to thank me, just enjoy your new name!”

He looks down bashfully, trying to conceal his emotions and appreciation. His heart is beating fast, he doesn’t really understand it, especially considering he doesn’t really have an organic one. But he seems to feel emotion the same way you do. This used to piss him off. But right now, he’s kind of glad he can feel this way. He’s glad you make him feel this way.

You’re also feeling bubbly. You’re happy he likes it and it feels like it was a moment for you two to bond. You test the waters a little bit more and say “I was also thinking your nickname could be something like ‘Hito!’”

He blushes ever so slightly as he meets your eyes again. “That sounds…” he stops himself from saying “cute” and opts for “nice” instead.

He was usually pretty irritable and always wore an annoyed look, but because this was important and brought up a lot of emotion at the thought of his old names, he was pretty serious. He was vulnerable. But you didn’t hurt him. He would always remember that.

“Okay! Then it’s settled. Let’s go get some dinner, Hito.” You chime.

“Sounds good…” he replies, uncharacteristically quiet.

You don’t pry though, you know he’s only recently been introduced to the idea of living a life of his own, uncontrolled directly by someone. You figure that this talk about names also brought up unsavory memories.

But he was no longer a puppet to be used. He was just him, and he’d forever be grateful to the people who made that possible.

He watched you jog ahead of him, out of the library and into the sunset. The golden light illuminating your hair and outfit as it flowed in the breeze. You called out to him, telling him how the weather was lovely.

He smiled.

Thank you for reading!

|| MASTERLIST ♡ ||

[corviiids]

the armour of achilles is kind of like a death note and this is going to sound crazy but hear me out. everyone who ever wears achilles’ armour dies. achilles (duh), patroclus (book 16 goes crazy) and hector. the armour of achilles also (at least imo) notably alters the behaviour of the people who wear it — achilles’ anger is literally his defining trait and when patroclus puts it on he begins behaving erratically eg taunting aeneas, mocking cebriones’ death. hector also begins to behave much more brashly, eg yelling at polydamas in book 18 for daring to suggest that perhaps going back into the citadel is a good idea. SIMILARLY the use of a death note 1) dooms the user to being killed by their shinigami and 2) seems to alter in some way light’s behaviour — he has the same ideals before and after he picks it up but the light we see at the start of the series and the light in the yotsuba arc has absolutely no interest in killing people and is deeply offended by the notion he could do so.

like obviously achilles’ armour does not kill people but like. it kinda kills people. like hear me out

ok no you're cooking though. like, i think the thing about the death note is not that it has a supernatural power to alter behaviour, i think what it does is present its user with power on a new scope beyond what they previously considered possible and the overwhelm of that is so dizzying and perspective-changing that it alters your perception of what matters and what's possible. it literally is hubris, thinking yourself totally above consequences, thinking purely in ideals, getting that big picture vision that obscures the danger of the means in favour of walking towards that bright and shiny end

i really LIKE your vision of achilles' armour as being somehow symbolic of that capacity achilles has for inhuman rage and vengeance like, you're kidding about it having supernatural powers but even if we look at it in a purely symbolic way and not supernatural, that's fun as hell. we can even take this further and apply it to the second set of armour too (the one thetis brings achilles after patroclus' death) and change the conditions not even to wearing the armour but simply contemplating owning it, because that ends up being the subject of the feud between odysseus and ajax, and ajax goes so mad with righteous grief and fury that he turns bloodthirsty, and then he kills himself over the resulting shame. how excellent is this armour as a symbol of the same rage and pride that killed achilles!! reaching for something you think you want and deserve, losing aspects of yourself to achieve it, and going mad with the injustice when you don't reach it

and then odysseus wins the armour and survives his journey........ but like, he doesn't keep the armour. he gives it to achilles' son.

[wholesomefluffdaddy]

Wednesday's new court mandated therapist is having her keep a journal of her thoughts and feelings. Wednesday finds this to be a complete waste of time and decides instead to use it to record her observations of her unusual roommate Enid Sinclair. Wednesday POV.

——————————————

Entry 18

Current Moon Phase: Waxing Crescent 🌒

Today Enid suggested we head into Jericho for Christmas shopping. I informed her that this was unnecessary for me as I had already finished making my Yuletide gifts before the final month began. She looked a little taken aback but I was quick to clarify that it did not mean I wouldn't join her in town. I donned my jacket and took her hand in my own. She lit up again at once and immediately pulled me out of our dorm.

As we walked through the halls on our way down to the bus she asked me many questions about Yule. I had no qualms in educating her about its history, symbols, and traditions.

'Woah! So it's kind of like an old timey Christmas?' Was her response. I cannot describe the physical pain this caused me. 'Willa, are you okay?' She asked as we boarded the bus.

'Perhaps it would also be prudent to discuss the history of the holiday you celebrate as well.' I said, taking a calming breath as we sat down. I could tell that it would be a long trip to Jericho.

-YourFavoriteFruitBat is now livestreaming-

"What's up guys! YourFavoriteFruitBat here along with my girl GayMerGirl as we head into town! We're going to see how long I can stand in the local churches before I catch fire!"

"You're not seriously doing that are you?"

"Hey chat it looks like we've got a guest appearance by QBB - Queen Bee Barclay!"

"Don't call me that."

"So what are your plans for town today?"

"Well, I guess they now include staying away from the churches."

"Aw, come on Bianca don't be- Wait, chat's going crazy. Hold on. Oh shit! I guess we've also got an impromptu episode of Wenid Watch!"

"So this is still a thing?"

"Yeah, it's become even more popular over the past couple weeks. I remember when Yoko started filming them occasionally as a joke but now everyone is super invested."

"Like, their relationship?"

"Yup! It's the whole 'will they won't they' kind of thing. Except they're finally together now, I think."

"Shh! Quiet you two! This is a rare sighting of the two love bats outside of their nest!"

"-and it was the psychoactive component of the amanita muscaria, or fly agaric, that caused hallucinations, with the most common hallucination being that of flying reindeer."

"Wow! But wait, if people only hallucinated the reindeer flying then how did the Christmas Werewolf win the werewolf games?"

"The… what?"

"The werewolf games! How did the Christmas Werewolf win if the reindeer he ate didn't actually fly?"

"I am unaware of such a tale."

"You not know about the Christmas Werewolf? Ha! Quit joking!"

"This is no jest, cara mia."

"You know, the Christmas Werewolf."

"Mi amor, I am afraid that you repeating it does not give me any greater clarity."

"…You? You really haven't heard the story of the Christmas Werewolf?"

"No. I am woefully ignorant."

"…"

"Please enlighten me."

"Okay! So my dad always told the story just before the twelve days of Christmas began back when my brothers and I were just cubs-"

"Cubs?"

"You know, kid werewolves."

"Ah, I see. Continue."

"The Christmas Werewolf, okay so you know how werewolves remain wolfed out for the twelve days of Christmas right?"

"No..."

"Really? Okay, uh, there's a lot I'm going to need to cover then. Anyway, werewolves who have completed their first full wolf out stay wolfed out during the twelve days of Christmas. That's when we compete in the werewolf games."

"And what happens in these games?"

"Well, we test our strength and stuff, like running and hunting and jumping. There's also alcohol involved but that's mainly for the older werewolves. Anyway, so the story goes that a long time ago on a cold winter's night all the local werewolves gathered together for the werewolf games. Everyone got to play except for one little werewolf. None of the other werewolves would let him join in the games because they said he was too small and weak and could never hope to compete. The little werewolf was very sad but determined to prove them wrong."

"The other werewolves laughed and said they would let him join in the games if he could jump over the wall of a nearby castle. The little werewolf saw how tall the wall was and knew he could not jump it all by himself. He wandered off into the woods and that's when he saw it: Santa's reindeer. The little werewolf got an idea. If the reindeer could fly, maybe he could too if he ate one."

"That took a rather unexpected turn."

"So, he comes up with this whole big plan to catch one of the reindeer. Long story short he succeeds and eats one of the reindeer and goes back to the other werewolves. Anyway, he wins because he can jump super high now and gets crowned the Christmas Werewolf."

"And how did Santa respond to the death of one of his reindeer?"

"Well, I mean, that's why Santa doesn't deliver presents to werewolves. And why we can't enjoy hot chocolate at Christmas. And also why his reindeer wear silver bells, so werewolves never eat his reindeer again."

"That… makes sense."

"I know right? But if the flying reindeer were hallucinations, how did the Christmas werewolf make the jump?"

"I would suppose that with this werewolf being quite clever he found some alternative way to clear that castle wall."

"I guess."

"Enid, if the character of Saint Nicholas refuses to bring gifts to werewolves why have you hung stockings?"

"Oh! Those aren't for Santa! It's for the Christmas werewolf to leave dried venison. It's symbolic of the meat of the flying reindeer."

"Why stockings?"

"Well, you can't wear stockings when you're wolfed out, silly. That's why he puts it in there."

"Of course. And the tree?"

"Werewolf Christmases are mostly spent outside, since almost everyone is wolfed out. So we have two trees that are decorated the same. One inside for the cubs that haven't wolfed out and one outside for everyone else. You can find your family by the tree outside that is decorated like the one inside."

"There appears to be much I do not know about werewolf Christmas."

"I don't know. I think they're mostly the same. I mean, you spend time with family and people you care about, you give gifts, and you compete to see who is the strongest."

"Must one be a werewolf to partake in these games?"

"Uh, technically no but they are very challenging if you aren't."

"What is the prize of winning said games?"

"Well, you get to be the Christmas Werewolf."

"And what does that entail?"

"You get first pick when it comes to meals, everyone has to listen to you, you get bragging rights, and you hunt the Christmas reindeer so you can put venison in everyone's stockings."

"Interesting. Tell me the games again."

"Willa? You're not- you're not thinking of competing are you?"

"Would it be inappropriate for me to?"

"No but, you're not, you're kinda-"

"Yes?"

"You're small."

"Is the story you told me not about the small and clever overcoming brute strength?"

"Yes but Willa- My family is super competitive."

"As am I, querida."

"Willa no."

"I am merely curious, mi loba."

"Well chat? What do you think? Do you think Wednesday Addams has what it takes to compete in the werewolf games?"

"I worry for the werewolves to be honest."

"Bianca's got the spirit! I'm adding a poll down in chat. Chat, do you think Wednesday has a chance? I guess we'll have to wait till after winter break to find out!"

-YourFavoriteFruitBat has ended the livestream-

[skayafair]

Witches, Birds and Snakes

Guys I think we underestimated just how much DBD was tailored specifically for us. Yes, still.

I was thinking about Esther and how her main symbols are a bird (not just a crow, she's a finch herself) and a snake (the one who keeps her young and is also in her poster), and how they are both born from an egg, and that maybe there's some symbolism in their unity. I looked into it, and boy THERE IS.

So far I've started to read "The Monstrous Goddess: The Degeneration of Ancient Bird and Snake Goddesses into Historic Age Witches and Monsters" by Miriam Robbins Dexter and "The Bird, the Snake, the Woman" by Martini Fisher. I can't tell how credible they both are but at least the first author seems to be an actual archeologist so I have some hopes and this is interesting.

So I've just barely peeped into this rabbit hole but I can already tell it's gonna be a long and spiraling one because apparently there's a lot. The shortest version is that together a bird and a snake are often attributed to a goddess who represents the cycle of birth, death and rebirth. Very fitting to Esther if you ask me, and her turning Monty into a human and back through something closely resembling death (followed by a "rebirth") only reinforces this idea.

Also a bird seems to be a symbol of a heavenly realm, of somethig good (again, even Monty ties into this very well with his development), while a snake represents evil, everything low, the earth and beneath, etc. (let's leave aside how unfair that is for now). It may point to the fact that even while being an evil witch, Esther is still a wronged woman who isn't bad inherently, who has this spark of something good left in her - remember how she reacted to Crystal's words in the finale? It makes her more three-dimentional, not a cardboard villain (even though her flourishing personality is already enough for that). It also doesn't mean she should be forgiven for what she's done because every villain has their sob story, it doesn't excuse their actions.

The fact that Esther wanted to become a goddess (even if only for her small town, I'm sure her appetite would have grown in case of sucess) ties into all this very neatly, too.

Really, Esther Finch is so rich in symbolism - a woman, a wronged woman, a witch, a goddess, a bird, a snake, a villain, the beauty, the youth, life, death, rebirth... so much. Such a great character.