#honestly J.D. had a point

[nosnet]

Hope of Mourning

By J.D. Dennis

Time Period:  September 20th, 2018

Perspective:  Vince

Rating:  R

Content Warnings: Talk of Abuse, Talk of Death, Suicidal Ideation, torture, it’s WOD dog it’s gonna be a mess

Word Count: 3,197

Comments: Written literally at the exact moment in the campaign it occurred; there was going to be more, but it fairs well enough as a standalone, I think.

Honestly, Vince thought to himself, this whole saving the world business was starting to get to be too much. 

They’d been working on trying to stop everything - raising Lilith, ending the world, killing all Kindred, the whole lot and then some - for months, and they were barreling down towards the final days at high speed, and he could feel the tension in the air when he walked the halls of their hotel. He could taste it on his tongue when he passed the rooms their allies lounged in, their bodies tense even as they relaxed; he could smell it in the subtle hint of metal and gunpowder and sword oil that drifted between rooms, feel the tingle on his skin as they practiced, and readied, and reloaded, and prayed. He could feel what everyone around him was thinking - that after all the time they’d spent abroad, collecting allies, doing favors, controlling information, getting chased and hunted and rerouted, all the time they’d spent begging and pleading and bleeding and crying and laying themselves out for this cause, it was finally almost over. It was almost over, and that was almost… worse, in its own way, than the anticipation of the event itself. Because there was no telling what would really happen at the end, not even for him. They’d planned, sure, planned and sorted and pushed and argued and eventually agreed on something final, the right way to go about things, but there was no real way to tell if it was right until they got through with it, and once they got started they couldn’t turn the car around and just go home to try again. There was no fail-safe, no backup plan, no do overs. It was win, or die. 

He tapped his pen against the table, their makeshift war table just the dining table in their hotel suit, littered with pages and names and representative figures and layouts, biting down on the end of the pen in an attempt to stave off the urge to have another cigarette while he finished up the compiling work. He was starting to run low - saving the world was stressful, and those he didn’t end up smoking he lost to sharing, or getting shot, or traveling the sewers, or rain - and while he had the ability to go grab a pack at any time, he honestly didn’t know if he wanted to risk leaving the hotel alone. It was the eve of battle, only hours before they were going to convene to give the final brief to the entire force, and the risk of getting killed right then was so much greater than any other point and had far too many consequences to consider. He had their notes, their plans, and if he was caught and the enemy got those things they were as good as dead. But he was itching for a smoke, for something, something more than what he’d been feeling for the past ten days, the week spent on logistics and vetting and planning, a spark to light his veins on fire one last time. 

Because the only thing he’d felt the whole time, almost since the start of this nonsense, once he sifted through the fear that he’d lived in for years, was alone. 

And honestly, while the feeling wasn’t rational, it wasn’t wrong. His first girlfriend, Flidais, was gone, for the moment, and they were considering not asking for her back, which made Vince’s chest ache even if the choice was likely the right one. Besides that, even though she was still feisty and fierce and beautiful, she wasn’t the same and he’d always felt like she was just one step short, and he’d accepted that, but it didn’t help the sick feeling in his gut when he remembered how she was before. Allectus, a fling he’d picked up in England, something not really serious but not really joking either, was around the hotel and slept in the man’s bed, but Vince was always busy, busy, busy, talking and planning and running information and categorizing and sorting and thinking, thinking, thinking, trying to use what his brain gave them to maybe give them just that much of an edge, and the small amount of time they could get was not enough to even remotely spark a feeling in the man’s chest. Al, his husband, had betrayed him; Luis, maybe the start of something nice, wasn’t going to make it back; Haytham, someone kind of willing to really dig deep into the pit of Vince’s feelings, was in time out in another country. And with all of them out of the picture, Vince had an itch in his soul, longing for one of the few people he knew could fill it, truly, fully, and they weren’t around.  He couldn’t do anything to scratch the itch, and every day he spent curled around Allectus, half asleep, shifting, twitching, cringing, he could feel it. He could feel the loneliness pulling at his chest, the fear deep in his gut, and this sense that he wasn’t going to walk away from this final fight. That he was going to walk onto that battlefield, alone, and he wasn’t going to walk away afterwards. 

And he felt sick to think it, but some days, the idea of not walking off that battlefield, the idea that he’d finally be done, almost felt better than living with the things these years had done to him. 

Vince relented, pushing back from the table with an anxious, shaking gesture, his movements now always so twitchy, jarring, erratic, once again like a junky that couldn’t get a fix, desperate in a way that nothing but the right drug could solve. He stepped away to the balcony, throwing the doors open to light a cigarette - he’d taken the smoke detector out, but he knew they’d charge for cleaning and he wasn’t going to go die and leave Damon the bill for his mistakes, as he’d rather the man have no reason to curse him in death - and lit the cigarette that had been floating between his lips for the past few hours. He inhaled, unnecessary for him but required for smoking, feeling the familiar feeling of his lungs expanding, the reminder that his body still could function as a human, before exhaling the smoke into the night air. He had no rush of nicotine, but the feeling of breathing, the habit of smoking, the comfort in the fact that some things just don’t change, took the itch out of his hands. For the moment. 

He looked out onto the dark expanse of night, the deep black clouds that threatened rain, rumbling in the distance, growling at him with soft flashes, a reminder that the world was just as dangerous regardless of the predators that hunted in the darkness of the night. That the world didn’t need them in it to inflict pain if it wanted. He looked, and he smoked one cigarette and then another and another, and he realized in those quiet moments that maybe he’d be better off dying. That dying would just be easier, because after this was all over, after Pip was dead and the world was saved, he had no idea what he’d do with himself. He had no idea how to live without the paranoia, the sense of unease, the concern that maybe he was being hunted still. He had no idea how to survive when the person that had ruled and ruined his entire existence as a Kindred was dead. 

Of course, he could, that was always an option. He was always fond of throwing all the options onto the table, making sure they weren’t missing anything that existed in between the lines of the things they knew and the things they didn’t, so he couldn’t not consider the option with a clear conscience. Having Pip no longer in the world hunting him wouldn’t kill him, not really, not in the way the reverse could. He could viably survive if he made it off the battlefield and the world, of course, didn’t end. But the question was not could, but should, and the more he considered the other option, the idea of living was more terrifying than the idea of dying. Because dying was final - it was an end step, a necessary cost to the gift of living, the price of having a beating heart and a working brain - and there were no questions of after. What happened after he died didn’t matter, because he’d be somewhere else, maybe someone else. He wasn’t sure what he believed, overall - Heaven, Hell, reincarnation, souls, ghosts, the lot - but he knew that if he died, he wouldn’t have to concern himself with the goings on of the world at large anymore. No more bad guys, no more world ending rituals, no more barely safe houses, rented hotel rooms, ducking out of sight before he got shot. No more anything. It was definitely throwing the whole damn baby out with the bath water, but the water was poison and there was no cleaning the tub.

He’d only been a Kindred for a handful of years, and every second of every one he’d spent as a pawn in a game he wasn’t aware he was playing. First the Gulf incident, a setup, a test, then the fae realm, and now this - every event in his life over the course of those years had sent him spiraling down the path of being someone else’s sucker, of being the unknowing mook in a plan to end the world. And Pip was the player, the chess master, the orchestrator, and with him dead, the other thought than the finality of death was the continuity of his unlife, and what that would mean. Every single one of his years as a vampire had been marked by paranoia, terror, erratic behavior, and mostly for good reason, rational behaviors based on things that really happened to him. He’d been attacked, chased from safe house to safe house without respite, trained to look for the threat in every encounter. He’d lost friends in terrible, horrible ways - first Damien, then Ragnar, then Mikah, Alexi, Flidais, in a way - that he couldn’t ever forget. He’d seen things the mind wasn’t equipped to see, understood things the mind wasn’t ready to understand. He’d been used, abused, manipulated, hell, tortured. Nothing felt safe anymore, nothing felt like home, nothing felt permanent. So all those things he hated about himself now, the unpredictability, the paranoia, the constant low level terror, he developed those so that he’d survive. 

They say people come back from war different. Vince, at least, understood why. But there was a strange irony in that the things that kept Vince alive were also the things that made him consider dying. 

The issue with his continued existence was that he couldn’t put any of those things away. He’d been trained to look behind him on dark streets, to double check his phone calls were secure, to doubt any extension of friendship without a price and to lock every door behind him without justification. He’d been taught to measure what kind of trust he gave out, to watch the words he used very carefully; he’d been taught to consider all options before committing to anything, to use his ability to see differently to manipulate and twist every interaction to his favor. These weren’t things he could just turn off when the danger was gone, because at least a year of his manipulation was without overarching incident. Sure, stuff happened, but none of those things were relevant to the plot at large, so even those times of quiet seemed suspicious. He was paranoid, now, erratic, doubting, mistrusting. He was constantly weighing the possibilities, the fears, and rational and irrational against each other, and he knew, deep in his gut, he wouldn’t lose those things for years, if not decades or, unfortunately, centuries. Some of those things were inherent in the blood - Kindred played games, and he was as much a potential chess master as he was a pawn - and some of those things were taught. They kept him alive when he needed them, kept him from ending up like the others, but what was he supposed to do when he didn’t need them anymore? And how was he supposed to know when that was? He was a victim of his environment, and he couldn’t just stuff his paranoia into a recess of his mind and trust again like it wasn’t a big deal, because the one thing for sure he knew from his three years as the undead was that Kindred were always playing these kinds of games. If it wasn’t Pip, it would be someone else, and there was always someone else. The only things that changed were the when, the where, and the why, and those survival instincts he’d developed would become useful again, in time. But he had no idea when that time even was, and no concept of how long he’d have to survive in the meantime. 

Maybe, he thought, staring at the lit end of his cigarette, it was more fair to his friends if he didn’t subject them to the symptoms of his abuse after this was all over. 

Of course, he knew that was a stupid thought. He was right, calling what happened to him over the course of three years akin to abuse, because with the psychological games, the physical terror, and the lot, it rang out a lot like other abusive relationships. Gas-lighting, torture, emotional manipulation - they’d even had honeymoon periods, where Pip was their friend, gave them gifts, made them feel like things were fine when they weren’t fine at all. There was nothing fair to anyone when it came down to it. It wasn’t fair to him that he had to live through it, and it wasn’t fair to them that they had to deal with him after, but that was the lot he was given. Fair wasn’t ever considered. And he didn’t necessarily want to die on the battlefield. There was some hope that maybe he would be wrong, for once. Maybe he’d walk away, maybe he’d find Al and they’d make up and he’d start healing and his friends would give him the space and the patience to try. 

But he’d been right before when he didn’t want to be, so he had no reason to doubt himself. He’d learned better. Fool him once and all that. And it didn’t seem like he’d even have the choice.

He put the cigarette out as he heard Damon return with the rest, the group filing back in the door from their own errands. Damon was rambling about something, because there was always something these days - with the vetting, and the transport, and the blood, and the storage of hundreds of people, there wasn’t any time left for quiet thought anymore. Vince was hardly listening as Damon rambled off something about his superior, Hilda, and staging a ritual site, and then next on how they were going to move fifty horses into the city to stage them. He stepped back inside, stuffing another cigarette in his mouth, keeping it there between his lips so his mind didn’t loose its moorings and drift away from him, noting that he was only a handful from being out again, his last pack almost empty. There was so much to do, he hardly had time to even think about his own Final Death between checking his own notes and putting everything they knew together. 

And then Dan arrived at the door. 

It was like chaos, for a moment, as everything just happened so fast. Dan was back, busted, apparently, due to some slick moves that seemed well played if not as effective, and then the next thing Vince knew Dan was saying that Al was back and right there in the hotel, just doors away, and it took every ounce of Vince’s self-control to shove the lump in his throat down and stop himself from Obfuscating his way into Al’s room. He could feel the tears hot in his chest and the earlier thoughts of maybe dying vanished as he realized his future with Al was something concrete he could invest in, something he could hold onto, that he’d been paranoid and erratic with the man before and Al hadn’t told him off for it. He swallowed, pressed it all down, followed the group down to the room, ears ringing. He could hardly hear the conversation, hardly follow the thread as all he could focus on was Al. 

He was cuffed to the sink, damp from the burst pipe, injured, clearly blood bonded. His hair was a mess, slick with rain they hadn’t quite gotten in Richmond and from the burst pipe. It dripped down his face, pocked, pimpled, red, rashy, the blood so quick to alter the man’s face like it knew the prettiest part to ruin. Vince desperately wanted to run his hands over the man’s cheeks, smooth the pimples there, smooth the roughness, restore the man’s visage and remove any claim that absolute bastard held on him. It was somewhat possessive and somewhat empathetic, somewhere between being unwilling to let another lay claim on his husband and wanting to make sure Al never had to answer to anyone ever again. He had this strange inherent feeling in his gut that with patience and practice and a little bit of help he could, that his blood held the seeds of alteration, that having the bomb that was the entire knowledge of Koldunic Sorcery in his head wasn’t the only thing he’d gained and like a virus it had changed him, deeply and irreparably. He watched Al talk, hardly hearing the words, watching his lips move, his chest heave - god, he was still breathing and that in itself was a gift - smelling the blood on his wrists, hot and thick and filling his nose. He wasn’t hungry, but it touched his brain all the same like he was, asking him to bite down on the familiar tasting warmth one last time, just to taste it. He stared, silent, for once in his life unable to form words, watched Al get dominated just to see, the problem laid out in front of them with no discernible answer. But then they were talking about options, and he couldn’t keep himself quiet anymore. 

He knew what Al needed, and something in him sparked, that itch finally scratched, Al hurting and hungry and tired and needing him in a way no others needed him. That was the itch he couldn’t scratch himself, the feeling of being necessary in someone’s life, needed, desired, and he wasn’t going to let Al suffer anymore. He was going to make the man dinner and then work on solving his issues, one at a time, until the sarcastic, beaming, brightness of Al’s personality was no longer sullied by anyone or anything and could never be sullied again. 

[readingrobin]

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

The hero-narrator of The Catcher in the Rye is an ancient child of sixteen, a native New Yorker named Holden Caufield. Through circumstances that tend to preclude adult, secondhand description, he leaves his prep school in Pennsylvania and goes underground in New York City for three days. -Storygraph

I can see why this book is such a divisive title when it comes to classic fiction. It's a work that has been dissected in many a high school classroom, which doesn't do any favors when it comes to appreciating classic fiction. When you spend hours in school brushing a fine tooth comb over something that you are forced to analyze and have some kind of deep opinion about, it's easy to start resenting the title solely because of the amount of work you have to put into it. Luckily, this wasn't something I had to read in school so I didn't go into it with any sort of negative feeling.

And of course, Holden Caulfield has become synonymous for edgy try hard male teens that feel like society has some sort of hidden beef with them and that they are tragically misunderstood to the point of constant woeful lamentation. That gives the book a bit of a disservice as, while Holden is a privileged upper class white boy living in New York City that definitely spends most of his time complaining and being terrible to women, his unlikability is kind of the point. Holden is not the model teen one should aspire to be. He's a hypocrite, displays multiple incidents of bigoted and misogynistic behavior, and generally hates and complains about everything. Absolutely no one in his life wants to be around him because of his attitude and overall personality. He's the result of what happens when someone goes through a great deal of grief and trauma and has had no support system or coping skills whatsoever.

Holden is haunted by his brother's death, experienced numerous implied sexual harassments/assaults, and has no positive relationships other than with his other, distant brother and younger sister. He's maturing in a world that does nothing for him, populated with artificiality and a constant squashing of innocence. He's aimless, floating around New York City not knowing what the hell to do or where the hell to go. When he wants something, he goes and gets it, only to realize he never really wanted it. He's so lost in this path to adulthood and it's easy to see the fear and resentment he has towards the process. I think everyone who has ever been a teen can relate to that, feeling so adrift in a world that doesn't really care for them and desperately clinging to things that haven't been warped by its malice.

Ultimately, I think I enjoyed this book. I liked finally being able to dissect a character that is practically infamous for his teen angst and I can't really say that I'm surprised when I found out that all of that unlikability is coming from a sad place. The writing style feels exactly how a teen would write, which isn't going to appeal to everyone. Honestly, it's a hard book to like, and it's not for everyone, but for those willing to put up with a lot of angst and read a little bit beyond the surface level, you make get a little something out of it.

(4/5)

[sleepdeprivedsimp234]

Kid!New York?

Kid!New York 👍

Look at im' 🥺🥺 He's so cute help (I'm actually proud of this ngl). Um- @aceontheline look at the babyyyy 🥺🥺🥺

Now time for some HCs cuz why not:

-New York was HELLA shy and quiet as a kid

-he was usually holding Mass's hand, but if he wasn't then either he's not far behind Mass (following him like a little duckling), or he's with another one of his brothers

-just because he was shy, doesn't mean that he wasn't a little sh*t at home sometimes. He would hide in cupboards or under his brothers' beds and jump out and scare them.

-NJ took him to meet the Jersey Devil (they are besties your honor) when he was younger, and Jersey honestly kinda expected York to be TERRIFIED. But York just played with the Jersey Devil and thought they were cool. And J.D. really liked him.

-York definitely got picked on in school because he was tiny and autistic. Mass and Jersey beat the bullys' asses tho.

-he learned to walk at 1, and was able to speak full sentences at 2 (same.). Everybody was kinda impressed tbh.

-York would often sit curled up next to Mass while the older read. He would also point at the pictures in Mass's books if they interested him. Mass thought (still thinks) it was adorable.

-Okay. York was pretty smart as a kid. And he still is, but now he's definitely more street smart. You could ask him a question about something he's interested in and be entertained by his knowledge for a while.

-he has broken exactly 14 bones (in this life). He was a bit of a clutz.

-if you can't tell already, Mass was literally one of his favorite people growing up. You ask him who he wants to walk with? Mass. Ask him who his favorite person is? Mass. Mass still is one of his favorite people, just now he won't admit it.

-York HATED being manhandled to do anything as a kid. He HATED being pinned down for anything. Even in play fighting. He just didn't like feeling trapped and helpless and out of control of his body.

-he had sensory issues as a kid and he has sensory issues now.

-some habits he picked up as a kid include: finger snapping out of nowhere, biting his tongue when he's nervous (to the point where it bled), and fidgeting with zippers and buttons on his clothes. He also had a habit of biting his fingers/fingernails, and that's part of the reason that he paints his nails nowadays. He still bites the sides and tips of his fingers tho, so he has a bunch of bite marks, and bleeding scratch/cuts.

[rileytakeda]

— BASICS

Name: Riley Takeda Age / D.O.B.: 30 / September 9, 1993 Gender, Pronouns & Sexuality: Nonbinary, She/they, & Queer Hometown: San Diego, California Affiliation: Government Job position: Staff Attorney at the Bronx County Public Defender’s Office Education: Bachelor’s in Political Science from NYU, and J.D. from St. John’s University School of Law Relationship status: Single Children: None Positive traits: Resourceful, Compassionate, Perceptive, Ethical, Fair Negative traits: Obsessive, Hedonistic, Argumentative, Blunt, Stubborn

— BIOGRAPHY

TW: Child abuse, parental death

Riley’s parents were career military officers, having met and started their relationship while they were both serving overseas with the Marines, and they started their family while stationed in Camp Pendleton. She grew up half on that base, though her mother insisted that she also attend public school, so she had exposure to the world outside of the armed forces. It was honestly one of the only good things that her mother did for her because it made Riley realize that she didn’t have to follow in her parents’ footsteps, even if it was obvious that they expected that of her, and it gave her an opportunity to explore interests outside of their supervision.

As she got older and learned more about how the world operated, she began to challenge the worldview that she had been raised under, much to her father’s consternation. He was a traditional man who demanded respect in the form of total obedience from his wife and child. He had made it obvious from her childhood that he was disappointed she hadn’t been a boy, and had little interest in being involved in her life outside of making sure that she wasn’t a disappointment to him. To bring home anything less than perfection would earn her a backhand or lashes with a belt, under the guise of trying to prepare her for the military, but really just trying to exert whatever control he could over her.

The first time that she learned these systems weren’t worth shit, Riley was 13 and she had worked up the courage to tell one of her teachers about the abuse. When CPS showed up at her home, they took one look at the medals decorating the family home and were effortlessly charmed by the all-American military man. After they left, he broke Riley’s arm in two places as punishment for running her mouth. He warned her that people would never believe her over him and now she had proof of that.

From that day forward, Riley threw herself into her studies because it had the dual effect of keeping her father off her back and also setting her up to be able to get out. She got a scholarship to NYU, leaving shortly after graduating high school and never looking back. She took out loans and worked third shift to put herself through college, and on a professor’s encouragement, she went on to law school in the area.

Learning about the state’s and country’s legal systems radicalized Riley further. It was proof of what she had known since they were 13: that justice was not the priority of most of those who had the power to do something about it. With her grades, she could have gone to any law firm in the city and worked a cushy corporate job, and she was certainly recruited for the diversity points, but Riley went to law school to help people and that’s what she intended to do.

She’s been with the Bronx County Public Defender’s Office for nearly three years at this point and she’s earned a reputation for being a stickler for the rules but also fighting to be fair. They’re just starting to get a little more responsibility in their cases, taking the lead on simpler matters while making it known that they want to work on the high-profile ones. They still have a bit of an idealistic view of the world, believing that they can stay neutral amongst the various criminal groups while also pissing off the police. Debatable how long that view lasts.

Over the last several months, Riley has taken personal leave from the PD's office to care for her mother who had fallen ill. It's been emotionally difficult, given her strained relationship with her mother, but she also knew that her mother had no one else. The illness progressed quickly, both a blessing and a curse for Riley, and she's finally returned to the city after her mother's death. Being out of the loop for even just a couple months has set her more off-balance than she expected, and is trying to re-establish herself within her office and the fabric of the city.

update (5/12/24)

Due to Riley's budding relationship with Theo Langley, and a perfect storm of events that culminates in Theo's arrest during a protest, Tristan taps Riley to get him out of jail. This is their first true understanding of the organization both Theo and Tristan are a part of, and a leap of faith to become part of it. They still maintain their position with the public defender's office for the time being while trying to keep their head above water in a world they were only tangentially involved with up until this point.

— WANTED CONNECTIONS / PLOTS

CLIENTS - People whose legal matters she’s handled over the years. These could be gang members, civilians, anyone who doesn’t have the money to hire private defense. They could be happy she saved them from getting railroaded by the DA’s office, or they could be pissed because she didn’t do enough to get them off. Riley has a bleeding heart and always wants to believe the best in her clients, even when they might not deserve it.

PROSECUTORS - Lawyers on the other side of the table or the “Dark Side” as they like to affectionately call them. More than likely, despite representing different interests, there will still be some professional overlap, potentially old classmates or co-workers, etc. They can be cordial, butt heads, have rabid theoretical discussions, be really nerdy about law things, and more.

COPS/LAW ENFORCEMENT - Probably something more antagonistic here, regardless of whether they’re corrupt or not. On one hand, she’s fighting to defend “criminals” and on the other, she might be throwing a wrench in carefully-laid plans. But she could also use some allies on that side of the system, someone who either also believes in working through the system, or someone who is willing to take advantage of her shortsightedness.

MANIPULATORS - Riley is in a very specific place in her life where she still has some of the bright-eyed optimism of saving the world while also becoming increasingly more jaded at how slowly the system works. While she currently still believes there is justice to be had by playing by the rules, it’ll only take one or two big things to sway her in one direction or the other. Having an up-and-coming public defender in their pocket would be a boon to anyone playing the long game.

ACTIVISM - While a lot of their life takes place in the white collar sphere, Riley tends to prefer a more down to earth lifestyle in their day to day. She’s been known to knock on doors for local politicians or lend her voice to protests, happy to provide relevant insight if her expertise is helpful, namely getting protestors and other activists out of jail and reminding them of their rights.

[bellamysgriffin]

Hey Dana, I've seen you posting about your new years resolution and was wondering about short stories you're reading/writing, so I thought I should ask you about them! First, I wanted to know if you're picking books of short stories or just randomly reading short stories from various authors, and if you're picking books, do you have any recs?

About your writing: do you come up with a theme for your stories when you're going to begin writing them or do you have ideas in your drafts that you choose to work on depending on your mood for the week? I'd just love knowing more about other people's writing process, so if you don't mind, tell me all about it! Do you listen to music while writing/for insp? Do you plan how many words you have to write or it varies?

Anyway, your New Years resolution inspired me to make one as well, mine is to not let myself get stuck in one of my stories and just write shorter ones, to let myself l more free to write what my brain is telling me at the moment, and it's going well, honestly my head has been full of new ideas! So, thank you! And happy writing, hope you share with us if you feel like it sometime soon!!! X

omg thank you so much for asking! i love talking about this stuff. so i have a HUGE stack of short stories, and i'm varying between reading a collection by a single author and an anthology. right now, i'm reading stephen king's bazaar of bad dreams and the best american short stories of 2009 (i read one every other day)

my favorite short story collection is probably going to meet the man by james baldwin or someone who will love you in all your damaged glory by raphael bob-waksberg. i also adore civilwarland in bad decline by george saunders and how to breathe underwater by julie orringer.

part of this challenge is to make idea generation easier, so i've been starting from scratch every sunday. i wish i had a great google doc full of ideas, but i've never been that kind of writer. i often use a song as a launching point, and the story spirals from there. as far as length, it's whatever the story needs. my first of the year was 6 pages, but my other two have been 18 pgs.

i'm glad that you're doing your own writing project and i hope you get out some good stuff! i'd love to hear how it's going if you ever want to check back in

here is my list of books i'm going to be reading from this year (under a cut because it's looooong):

impossible watch by connie willis

the bus driver who wanted to be god by etgar keret

nine stories by j.d. salinger

men without women by haruki murakami

music for wartime by rebecca makkai

little weirds by jenny slate

close range by annie proulx

drinking coffee elsewhere by zz packer

how to breathe underwater by julie orringer

heads of the colored people by nafissa thompson-spires

love & obstacles by aleksandar hemon

jump by nadine gordimer

the awakening and selected stories by kate chopin

what we talk about when we talk about love by raymond carver

going to meet the man by james baldwin

someone who will love you in all your damaged glory by raphael bob-waksberg

the view from the seventh layer by kevin brockmeier

oblivion by david foster wallace

wednesday’s child by yiyun li

the woman who had two navels and tales of the tropical gothic by nick joaquin

the mysterious stranger and other stories by mark twain

roman tales by alberto moravia

working men by michael dorris

terminal boredom by izumi suzuki

changing planes by ursula k. le guin

rashomon by ryunosuke akutagawa

the journal i did not keep by lore segal

revenge of the lawn by richard brautigan

men without women by ernest hemingway

the pat hobby stories by f. scott fitzgerald

when things of the spirit come first by simone de beauvoir

the road to san giovanni by italo calvino

numbers in the dark by italo calvino

blow-up by juylio cortazar

ship fever by andrea barrett

bible stories for adults by james morrow

in our time by ernest hemingway

stories of your life by ted chiang

palm-of-the-hand stories by the yasunari kawabata

anthologies:

hot and cool by marcela breton

the best american short stories of 2021 by jesmyn ward

stories from the new yorker by deborah treisman

chicago noir by joe meno

the best american short stories of 2009 by alice sebold

speaking with the angel by nick hornby

pulp fictions by peter heining

american short viction vol. 25

popshot quarterly issue 37

flash fiction by james thomas

the best american mystery stories of 2009 by jeffery deaver

monkey brain sushi by kodansha

the showa anthology by van c. gessel

the best short stories of 2024 by amor towles

[bateiapdf]

reasons i need therapy pt. 1

i just said to myself “awe i want a boyfriend like J.D.” i was listening to ‘meant to be yours’

[shythesheep]

Lately I have really had to contain myself from flinging myself into an argument when I see someone slander "The Catcher in The Rye" by J.D. Salinger. I understand for at a lot of americans, they have been forced to read the novel at a young age when they were in school, and honestly fair, if you hate a book after have been forced to read it, then that is understandable. But I need some you fuckers to do just a bit of thinking now that you're older, and I am definitely biased, and realise that your child self may not have understood the novel. "The Catcher in The Rye" is a complex book, it's written specifically to be misleading and uses the readers blindspots to create a facade. The use of Holden as a main character and narrator is very important, he is unreliable and he withholds information and you really need to be on the look out for the small things he lets slip and sort it from the bullshit. Anyway my point is, "The Catcher in The Rye" is a novel that is more than what a majority of people makes it into. It is not overrated, it deserves its place as a classic, and it isn't a red flag to like this book.

[ticklishraspberries]

My Youth Is Yours (J.D/Veronica)

Summary: Veronica thinks that her and J.D. would benefit from acting like kids more often. (A commission for the lovely @moose-muffin, thank you so much for the opportunity!)

As their high school years crept closer and closer to the end, Veronica couldn’t help but long for the innocence of youth, the days where the kids who had grown up to be bullies shared snacks with the kids who grew up to be the victims of said bullies.

She wished that things were still simple, when all you had to do to be liked was let a classmate borrow a pen or bring something cool to show-and-tell. High school had the most impossible rules of what was cool and what was not. She wasn’t sure where along the way she had ended up in the “not cool” group.

She also knew that J.D. hadn’t grown up like the average child. His elementary school days were not filled with fingers sticky from glue and story times. Instead, he had been forced to grow up too fast, in a different classroom every month, and learning to live without his mother while being berated for grieving her.

If things couldn’t go back to the way they used to be, when Veronica Sawyer and Jason Dean were still bright-faced children who believed that people were good at heart, then Veronica could at least try to bring some of that carefree innocence back into her boyfriend’s life, as well as her own.

And so, she slipped little suggestions of fun things they could do into conversation, like visiting the local thrift store, pitching a makeshift tent in the yard, and playing board games.

And J.D. seemed to enjoy it, even if he didn’t verbally admit it. He begrudgingly tried on some of the ridiculous clothes Veronica had found at the shop, and he listened as she pointed out the stars in the night sky, snuggled by her side.

Board games, however, lead to something more eventful. Apparently, J.D. had never played Monopoly before, and that simply wouldn’t do. So, after digging through her garage to find the old game that she and her family hadn’t touched in years, Veronica explained the rules and they dove in.

However, J.D. seemed to be taking the whole “acting childish” thing too seriously, as he was essentially disregarding the rules she had so carefully explained to him.

“You can’t just move wherever you want on the board!” Veronica huffed. “Move it back.”

“Or what?” J.D. asked. “Gonna arrest me for trespassing?”

If it were anyone else, Veronica would be furious at their attitude, but she had come to expect this sarcasm and sass from him, and while she hated to admit it, she found it incredibly charming.

“No, but I’ll have to retract your board game privileges.”

J.D. gave a mock gasp of horror. “Oh no! What a tragedy,” he teased, but moved his piece back to where it originally was.

“If you’re bored we don’t have to play,” Veronica said.

“No, I’m not bored. Just messin’ with you,” he replied, giving her a fond, sincere smile that let her know he was actually enjoying himself.

After a few minutes, J.D. decided to joke around once again, not even trying to hide the money he was snatching from the piles.

“Trespassing, now bank robbery?” Veronica asked, raising an accusing eyebrow.

He grinned. “What can I say, babe? I’m an outlaw. You gonna stop me?”

Veronica hummed, considering this. Then, without giving him a verbal answer, she launched herself at him. Luckily, they were sitting on the carpeted floor, so their tumble backwards ended with a gentle landing. And, the game’s board somehow remained unscathed.

Honestly, she hadn’t quite come up with a plan. All she knew was that the smug smirk on J.D.’s face made her want to be closer to him, to make him smile…

Wait. There was an option that she liked.

J.D. gave her a puzzled yet amused smile. “And what do I owe the pleasure of—Hey!”

She had wiggled her fingers against his sides, making him twitch like a livewire.

“You know, if we’re gonna embrace our youth, I think a good old-fashioned tickle fight is perfect,” Veronica said, mischief dancing in her brown eyes.

J.D’s own eyes widened, but he was still smiling, which seemed to mean he was still having fun.

She quickly adjusted her position so she was sort of straddling his legs, her fingers quickly darting underneath his t-shirt to scribble at his stomach.

The laughter that spilled from her boyfriend was exactly the kind she had been longing to hear: child-like, boisterous, and so incredibly genuine. It wasn’t like J.D. was some silent, stoic type, but he rarely let loose and allowed himself to laugh in such a way.

It was the sweetest sound Veronica had ever heard.

She wondered how long it had been since he’d laughed like that, or had someone touch him in such a playful manner. She wondered if he had even remembered being ticklish, if it had been a part of his childhood, with his mother.

Mostly, she wondered which spots she could target to draw more of that sweet laughter from his lips.

J.D. shook his head back and forth, but he hadn’t let out a single verbal protest, only allowing the giggles to spill out. His skin quivered, his muscles jumped beneath her fingers, and his hands grasped at the carpet for some kind of salvation.

Veronica couldn’t help but giggle along with him. “This is what happens to cheaters,” she teased, before switching tactics and squeezing at his sides.

He jumped as the new spot was targeted, elbows coming to his sides to try and block her hands, but it didn’t do much good. “It was just a johoke!” he protested.

“Too bad, you still broke the rules,” she said. “And rule breakers get tickled.”

J.D’s face was blushed pink, something Veronica had never really seen before. He might get flushed after some kind of physical exertion, or in cold weather, but she had never seen him blush in embarrassment. She was just seeing so many new sides of him that day!

In fact, she was so mesmerized by the color in his cheeks, that he managed to sneak his hands towards her thighs and started squeezing them, making her squeal in surprise.

“No fair!” she cried. “This is supposed to be your punishment!”

J.D. grinned, using her surprise as the perfect opportunity to flip their positions, gently guiding her onto her back so that he could hover over her, looking like the cat who had caught the mouse. “I think it’s plenty fair,” he said simply, but there was a sickly sweet, almost sing-song quality to his tone that gave Veronica goosebumps.

She was already giggling nervously, anticipation of his revenge making her skin tingle.

He started to squeeze her thighs again, then switched to scratching behind her knees, making her kick and giggle helplessly. She never thought her legs were especially sensitive, but J.D. was proving her wrong with every touch.

Although she was clearly ticklish there, J.D. figured she had to be hiding some more sensitive spots, and decided to go after her belly next, fingers dancing along the fabric of her sweater and making her head tip back with a newfound bout of laughter.

“Oh, you’re more ticklish here than I am,” he said. “Good to know.”

Veronica wished she could scowl at him, but her face was trapped in a Cheshire cat smile, so she resorted to letting out a loud groan between giggles. “Shut up!”

“That’s not very nice,” J.D. said. “You’re really not in the position to be rude to me.”

Well, perhaps that was true. She would just have to switch their position again.

With a newfound strength, Veronica pulled herself into a sitting position, her arms wrapping around J.D’s middle and tickling his ribs.

He let out a surprised shout before dissolving into laughter once again.

It was so silly, so ridiculous, so freeing. Had it not been for their long, flailing limbs, and the litany of swears muttered between giggles, the scene looked like two roughhousing kids. It would be a truly precious sight, but luckily they were alone, no one to interrupt such a pure moment.

“Cut it out!” J.D. all but whined, trying to curl up and guard his middle from her grasp.

“Oh, c’mon, you love this!” Veronica replied. “That’s the first time you’ve asked me to stop since this started, babe.”

J.D. groaned, burying his face in his arms, but he didn’t deny it, just kept giggling as Veronica prodded at his sides.

Huh. Well, maybe her assumption had been spot on! She hadn’t meant to embarrass him, though. And so, she pushed him back to the carpet, prying his hands away from his face and leaned close to his face, grinning. “You know it’s cute if you do, right? Like, really cute.”

J.D. was blushing like mad, and he refused to meet her eye. “Whatever. You didn’t ask me to stop either, though, so…”

Veronica paused. “Oh. I guess I didn’t…”

J.D. brought his hands up to squeeze her hips, making her squeal. “Since you like it so much, I clearly have to do it all the time now!”

Veronica doubled over, burying her face in his chest as she laughed. Alright, so maybe she did like it. She was actually having a lot of fun. Laughing with her boyfriend, rolling around on the carpet like a pair of playful kittens, the constant back and forth as they fought for the upper hand.

“Okay, okay, I do like it!” Veronica giggled out. “But I need a breather!”

J.D. stopped immediately, his hands moving to instead stroke her hair as she caught her breath. “I guess it’s kind of fun, from either end…” he said softly.

Veronica smiled. “Well, then I guess we’ll have to make this a common occurrence then, hm?”

“I guess we will,” he replied.

Veronica poked her head up from where it had been resting on his chest, and grinned. “You’re so beautiful,” she said, reaching to stroke his blushing cheek.

J.D. huffed, turning his face away. “Knock it off, you sap.”

“Never,” Veronica said, pulling him close by the collar of his shirt and bringing their lips together.

After all that wrestling, the two of them were exhausted, leaving the Monopoly game unfinished in exchange for taking a nap together, curled up on the couch and cuddled close.

Well, Veronica would call that a success. All she had wanted was to bring some of that childlike happiness back into her boyfriend’s life, and she felt as though she was one step closer to helping J.D. realize it was okay to act like a kid. It was okay to have fun, and to have feelings, and to express those feelings freely.

Silly things like board games and tickle fights couldn’t fix or heal their problems, but it was a fun way to unwind and let go for just a little bit. And didn’t everyone need that, every once in a while?

[ultravioart]

But like, Bromantically

I will forever lose my mind over the fact a crew Q&A said Peepers and Hater have J.D. and Turk's dynamic from Scrubs, except it is unrequited with only Peepers feeling that way towards Hater. I mean, it's horrible, but hilarious, but also horrible for Peepers. And probably REALLY weird for Hater. But hilarious because Peepers kind of deserves a little karmatic suffering, as a treat, for all his evil doing. And the image of Hater letting out a scream at Peepers going all heart eyed during a casual pda is hysterical. Just. Watch this. Warning for innuendos if that isn't your thing. Scrubs - Guy Love (HD) - YouTube "We're closer than the average man and wife" "That's why our matching bracelets say CPeeps and Hatey." Peepers out here loving Hater with his entire being, screaming and crying, no labels we die "guy-loving a guy who doesn't guy-love you back" like men LOL And lmao I can honestly really see this bit with Hater and Peepers, regardless of whether Hater would ever get to a point like Peepers: --- Peepers: It's like I've married my best friend...

Hater, manly voice: But in a totally manly way!

Both, giddy voice: Let's go! It's guy love, don't compromise, The feeling of some other guy. Holding up your heart into the sky.

Hater: I'll be there to care through all the lows.

Peepers: I'll be there to share the highs.

Both: It's guy love, between two guys.

Peepers: And when I say, "I love you, sir," It's not what it implies~

Both: It's guy love, between... Two... Guys... --- This is absolutely a weirdly vivid dream Peepers has had before, absolutely more than once. Tell me I'm wrong, LOL.

[galatially]

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 🫧

𝑏𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛

of the essence by @inklore — if y'all haven't read anything from lauren before, let this be your introduction; she's a fucking artist the way that she weaves her characters into existing universes and i can only hope to write half as well as she does

𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑙

lovelorn masterlist by @tomdutch — do you like pining? roommates to possible lovers? all set in a college au with peter parker, reader, and cindy moon? well, s had you covered; or, the masterlist stayed in my drafts to remind me to read the updates and my jobs have killed my brain cells so please read this brilliance and give it lots of love!

sunrise, sunset by @peachyteabuck — i don't need to gush about how much i need lukis to fucking produce epics, but i will lol. they've taken such a sensitive topic and beautifully drawn us a world where grief is complicated and new normals are harder when you love people. honestly, this story made me fucking cry and do all the fangirl feel things and i need them to just never stop writing

𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠

friction by @faeology — this is my first time seeing @faeology on my dash but thank fuck i did because this was hot and needy and i could fucking feel the tension across my own skin between eddie and reader. if you're looking for palpable angst and genuine chemistry, go to sav and you'll be in heaven

it happened one night in detention by @mypoisonedvine — let me tell y'all something! the chokehold this had on me and my drafts was fucking insane! i'm pretty sure i read this five times before reblogging this because i was in such awe; the descriptions, the world-building! i wanna write like j.d. when i grow up lol

i don't play with my pen (i mean what i write) by @edens-pen — as a connoisseur of thirst tweet videos, i wish that this episode was real because goddamn! i love a good cocky!eddie fic and this did not disappoint. something about artists that are hot, know they're hot, but are still fucking cool and shit? unmatched energy. not gon' hold y'all though, i'd have been loud and proud about wanting eddie to just ruin me on twitter dot com lol

june baby: one, two, three by @luveline — i fucking love this series and every day i get on, i'm hoping to see that jade's updated so i can follow the adventures of eddie, reader, and june bug! i'm so attached to these three like they're friends of mine and i love watching their relationship deepen and, as a fervent slow burn lover, i'm foaming at the mouth for them to finally kiss!

a little mean for me by @upsidedownwithsteve — firstly, i love steve harrington, right? like, he went from being this asshole who's only personality trait was his money and his status to being a real fucking person, you know? one of my favorite characters, hands down. secondly, just because of this story, i want him to affectionately bully and kiss the tears away

𝑡𝑜𝑝 𝑔𝑢𝑛

my feet can't touch the bottom of you by @sunderlust — i know nothing about the top gun franchise other than tom cruise is in it and val kilmer used to be, lol. but the way people like laur and sol write about the characters, maybe i'll bite the bullet and watch them? even if i don't, sol's description of jake "hangman" seresin is perfectly arrogant and aloof and i wanted to grind his balls under my foot for hurting my bartender babe

veracious and coveted facade by @inklore — laur, at this point, this is my proposal for your hand in matrimony because why the fuck do you write such masterpieces for mere mortals like me to gaze upon? who told you?

lurk by @zstrn — tori, my love, i stand ten toes on what i said: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw can have his feet planted on my mattress to turn me into slime. UNTIL THE FOULEST OF STENCHES LEAVES THE ROOM OKAY

𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — i didn't read much because of jobs and lack of time after them but i did read some real gems so please, please give the lovely people reads and keep them writing!

[choosing-criminalminds]

One More Time

Summary: Their love was years and years in the making, and even when prison quickly builds back up the walls they worked so hard to break down, Spencer learns just how strong the foundation of their trust is.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!reader(ish) -> told mostly in the 3rd person, from Spencer’s POV

Category: angst (?)

Warnings: mentions of character death (Maeve, Gideon), mentions of blood (Maeve’s death), slight panic/anxiety, language -> let me know if there are any more to add!

Also, un-beta’d, we die like the trash we are.

Length: 5.6k

A/N: Okay yeah so first post. So…this turned out much longer than expected? This is for Ellie’s ( @spenciebabie ) writing contest/celebration and goodness I’m so nervous because I’ve barely written, much less posted, anything in years. Anyway, I guss I decided to challenge myself to write this? I hope you guys like it?

Also, if anyone wants a new friend, please hit me up because I’m too shy to say hello myself.

Prompt was: “Why don’t you make me?”

-*-*-*-

“Trust has to be earned, and should come only after the passage of time.”

—Arthur Ashe

-*-*-*-

For all his genius, Spencer didn’t know what to make of the fact that he found himself inexplicably drawn to her.

It wasn’t until years down the line that he realized he had been exceptionally aware of her since they met, carefully observing, cataloguing the way she so gently and kindly defied every expectation and pushed past every preconceived notion he had of her. By then, she had already settled in a little corner of his heart and helped seal the cracks in his life that he didn’t even know existed.

But when she first joined the team as an intern, he was more than a little reluctant to get to know her. It was during the summer between her college graduation and the start of her graduate studies, and she seemed too worldly, too perfect. She wasn’t like the girls from high school, or even college, for that matter, who were simply mean. On the contrary, she was wonderfully polite and incredibly ambitious, intelligent, and very much the type of girl that was far too out of his league, one that wouldn’t spare him a second glance before continuing down whatever focused path she was on.

That’s why he planned to avoid her as much as possible her first day in the office. She had, thankfully, spent the morning in Hotch’s office, since he was her official supervisor, but when he saw them about to emerge right before lunch, he panicked, muttered a random excuse, and shuffled out of the bullpen, leaving a bemused Derek and Elle in his wake.

It didn’t help that he was ducking out of rooms while JJ was giving her a quick tour and making introductions, and almost every member of the team had cornered him, encouraging him to talk to her, to befriend her due to their closeness in age. (“She’s only what? Two-ish years younger than you?” When he mumbled that exact date, Penelope had broken into a large, wicked grin, poking him teasingly in the cheek. Gratefully, she held back any further comment.)

Spencer had blinked, a little surprised, when Penelope Garcia, who generally disliked change, had only good things to say. Remarkably humble about her achievements, and not in the standoffish fake way, Penelope commented after admitting she had run a background check on her. Genuine, and quite sweet.

Polite, Derek had said, if a little quiet, trying to see where she fits in the team dynamic. You should reach out, be a friend, he suggested.(Spencer ignored the very pretty slipped somewhere in the comment, as well as the knowing smile shot his direction when he felt his cheeks flushing.)

A surprisingly wicked sense of humor, was all Elle said with a sly smile. (Spencer chose to ignore that too.)

And when Spencer tentatively asked the man, Jason Gideon, a man of generally few words, had spoken of her, however briefly, with surprising fondness, because of course Gideon had met her when she was a child, because of course her uncle now headed legal three floors up, and of course her uncle was the last third of the BAU’s Holy Trinity, of which Gideon and Rossi were a part of.

You’ll get along very nicely.

Spencer was incredibly intimidated, to say the least.

And then when he couldn’t avoid her anymore (because of course they were desked next to each other), all it took for her was noticeably catching herself from extending a hand, then offering a small little wave and a nervous smile to leave him breathless. (He pointedly ignored the look knowing look JJ shot him.)

He tried to stifle the little seed of hope—that she definitely wasn’t interested in him, and her saccharine smile was nothing more than a false front to make a positive impression during a lucrative FBI internship meant only to bolster her resume—but the resolve crumbled quickly. She turned out to be so genuinely kind and sweetly humble that Spencer cursed the fact that the internship lasted only through that summer.

It also certainly didn’t help, either, that the very first thought he had when meeting her was a single word.

Pretty.

-*-*-*-

It was almost ridiculous how well she got along with everyone in the office.

She clearly made it a mission to make the most of the time she had and was more than willing to put in the work and prove her worth. Although she was technically Hotch’s intern and her main role was to assist the core field team, Spencer watched as she managed to get on absolutely everyone’s good graces through a combination of unassuming charm, sharp wit, and willingness to learn and to help that was so uniquely her.

For Spencer, it meant that she happily listened to what he had to say, encouraging him to continue when appropriate or saving a quiet question for later when it wasn’t. When she told him that she enjoyed listening to him talk, Spencer was taken aback, stuttering as he tried to figure out if she was only saying that to be polite. She gave him a gracious smile, ensured that she “quite honestly enjoyed” listening to him, and proceeded to ask a few well-timed and well-pointed questions to smoothly nudge him back to their previous topic.

Spencer stared at her, slack-jawed, then smiled bashfully, and allowed himself to hope.

(He definitely didn’t know what to do with the fact that when she knowingly reached out to his hand resting on the table and lightly tapped the back of his hand, he didn’t have his typical knee-jerk desire to pull away. He also mostly certainly didn’t know what to do with the fact that when her thumb grazed over his knuckles to sooth the tension he didn’t even realize he had, he felt an inexplicable calm ease into his very bones.)

-*-*-*-

“It’ll take a good five, six years to finish my J.D./Ph.D., but Hotch offered me an open invitation to join the team when I do, and I’m more than inclined to take his offer when the time comes.”

Spencer peered at her, breathing out a sigh of relief that he didn’t realize he was holding. It was the last day of her internship, and she was making the rounds to say her thank you’s and goodbyes individually to the members of the team. He was the last one, and he had been dreading the conversation the entire day.

While he wouldn’t describe what he felt for her as anything beyond a genuine, platonic friendship—in the grand scheme of things, they’d only known each other for ten weeks—their easy companionship had become very dear to him. And he was terrified and nervous that her time with the BAU would be just a small chapter in her life before she moved on to the bigger and better things, leaving him behind as a fond but distant memory.

She laughed softly at his surprise, before it trailed off into a sigh. She then took a deep breath and asked. “Do you trust me?” Spencer looked at her, a bit dumbfounded. Did he trust her? Her gaze was heavy on him and the question weighty, a gentle demand for an honest answer. Did he trust her? Yes, he did, he supposed, they were friends. Right? He breathed in deeply, squared his shoulders just a bit, and answered in the affirmative.

As if she sensed his hesitance, his unease, she gave him a knowing look and took one of his hands into hers, fingers brushing over fingers, before hooking her pinky around his. “Because I promise you, Spencer Reid, I’ll be back, right here. You’ll be waiting for me, yeah?”

He looked at her in awe, the dim light of the nearly-empty office reflecting off her kind eyes. Warmth spread through his chest, and she smiled so brilliantly that he nearly forgot to breathe, to answer. To answer. He smiled back, twitchy, introspective, and considered the weight of her question. He nodded and responded simply.

“Always.”

-*-*-*-

She managed to remain on the Bureau’s consulting payroll over the next several years, though she was primarily based in the Bay Area as she finished her graduate studies at Stanford. The team as a whole still went to her for a fresh perspective when needed; she video called in to help on cases when necessary and met up in person if a case called them to California.

He knew that she kept in touch with JJ, Penelope, and Derek, and that Hotch and Emily (whom she met shortly after Emily joined the team and a case brought them to LA) were also friendly, if professional, contacts. Spencer himself was known to receive the odd phone call from her.

However, what had Spencer almost covetously pleased was that they had something they shared exclusively between the two of them, because she had steadfastly kept her promise to write to him.

-*-*-*-

Her letters were as beautiful as they were constant, and Spencer handled and read each one with care.

Her handwriting suited her; while it generally was neat and clear little scrawl, he knew it would get a little freer, and little loopier when she was tired, if she was particularly excited, or if she found herself a bit tipsy. (And yet she still managed to always write in an almost perfectly straight line even on a blank sheet of paper. He was envious, and when he told her as such, he could hear the laughter in her response as she wrote it a little more wobbly than usual.) And while he knew her to be tilted more on the quiet, introverted side of the scale, she had a way with the written word, each phrase poetic and thoughtful.

And they were remarkably therapeutic to write in return, Spencer found. Their initial letters mostly consisted of light banter about their mutual and individual interests, updates on the progress of her research (sprinkled amusing tidbits of her exasperation and frustration), bits and pieces about his cases and updates on and amusing anecdotes about the team.

However, over time, he slowly opened up to her, about his fears, his hopes, his dreams. And when he hesitantly divulged bits and pieces about the drugs, his mother, the headaches, he felt the relief in his entire body when she responded with empathy and grace. In turn, she did the same. She was vulnerable, she was open, and as wonderful and quite near perfect as he knew her to be, he was pleased to find her so incredibly human.

Those letters he slowed down to read, committing them to memory with more intention.

(He kept her letters in the drawer of his desk at his apartment, and eventually moved them to a specially designated box when he needed more room. When he learned that she did the same, he couldn’t help the tender warmth that fluttered in his chest. He still didn’t know what to do with the feeling.)

-*-*-*-

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.

It took six years, and an additional five months at the Academy (and then another few weeks as she was introduced to the legal team, with whom she would also be working with in her role as legal liaison), but she kept her promise and found her way back to the BAU, and it was like she was never gone.

This time, in her re-introduction to the team, she was a breath of fresh air.

When she approached him individually with a nervous smile, she reached out, then hesitated, and a sense of déjà vu washed over Spencer. But then, she had placed a hand on his elbow, and when she smiled, he breathed in a sense of peace and familiarity, of comfort.

“You waited.”

He smiled back, and in a rather forward gesture on his part, he adjusted so he could take the hand on his arm into his.

“Always.”

-*-*-*-

She was too good for him.

Whatever relationship they had—Spencer didn’t know what to call it, though friendship seem too trivial of a word for it—he knew it was too good, too perfect to last.

Because in a cruel twist of fate, her first case back on the team, however unofficial it was, was Maeve.

He was hyperaware of the neutral expression on her face when he finally brought his fears to the team. To anyone else she would seem serene and put together, but to him the slight sag in her shoulders and the realization transitioning to acceptance were clear as day. Spencer never mentioned Maeve to her in their letters, but later, in retrospect, he believed she had an inkling, at the very least. You seem happier, she had written, once, not too long after he first became acquainted with Maeve, and that makes me happy.

Did it? Then he didn’t want to know what his misery would do to her because then, Maeve died, and in his grief over another woman, he fought desperately to push her away.

She could share his happiness, but he refused to let her share his pain, his brokenness. She did not deserve that, and he would not be the one to destroy the beauty and sunshine and hope she brought everywhere with her.

But when they finally took Maeve’s body away, and when the blurred commotion of sirens and law enforcement and emergency services and constant hammering of half-hearted condolences and check-ins finally died down, he felt the blanket around his shoulders be adjusted, and a now-familiar pair of hands take in his own, firm, and refusing to ever let go. Thumbs traced over his knuckles as soothingly as he remembered, and only then did he begin to vaguely process the fact those hands had been tucked into his almost the entire evening, anchoring him through the haze and the fog.

As if on cue, she squeezed his hand gently, like she knew exactly when he was slowly becoming aware of her presence, and he suddenly found he lacked the strength to do what he initially intended.

Still dazed, he felt her shift, and she was kneeling on the ground in front of him where he sat on the curb, and softly drew him into a hug. Any form of resistance he previously had dissolved; he clung to her, tears stinging his eyes once again.

It’s okay, I’m here, I’ll stay, she whispered, I’ll stay, always and always.

Just don’t push me away.

“I-” His voice cracked. “I loved her.”

He paused, his voice weakening.

“I love her...”

Hands ran soothingly through his hair.

“I know.”

She always did.

“…so much.”

He didn’t need to see her face to realize that she was crying with him, for him—he could feel her trying to contain the trembling in her chest, trying desperately to remain composed. He tried to do the same, but when she tilted her head and let him bury his face into her neck, Spencer finally felt fresh tears begin to flow, and he allowed her to take his face into her hands and chase the tears with her fingers.

And Spencer wept freely, first for death of the woman he loved, and then for the tears and the grief he caused the one person he could call his kindred spirit, his soulmate.

-*-*-*-

He healed, slowly.

There were good days, when the thought of Maeve did not stir up memories of blood and fear and gunshots but, rather, of auburn hair and admiration and hushed conversations on the phone. On those days, he felt like he was no longer haunted by a ghost and could finally begin to move on. On those days, he could slow down, appreciate the small things again, and focus on how a pair of familiar, steady hands pulled him out of the past, anchored him in the present, and allowed him to hope about the future.

But then there were the bad days when her touch scalded and burned his skin. The warmth and the pulse of blood rushing through her veins and the germs on her hands and her life was overwhelming because Maeve was dead and cold and gone. So, with every glare and with every sharp comment aimed at where he knew it would hurt, he finally made good on his desire to push her away.

It was on those days the bitter voice in the back of his mind whispered how it was supposed to be Maeve, not her, there alive with him, holding his hand as they faced the world.

It was also on those days he chose to disregard the regret that settled in the pit of his stomach each time he heard his own biting voice, and disregard the horror brought on by even thinking of wishing she were dead instead. He began to ignore the tremble in her hands when she reached out to him and brushed her fingers against his in concern, and he ignored how she gradually began pulling back, hesitant, nervous that her touch would be unwarranted, unwanted. He certainly ignored the unconscious flex in his hand, the ache for the reassurance and comfort he had become so accustomed to—

He ignored it all until he woke up, one night, to an empty bed, and a sudden surge of panic rushed through his body and bile rose in his throat. She was right there, when he fell asleep, giving him a small smile and nod when he asked if she could read to him, to stay the night. Now, without a word, she was gone, she was gone, shewasgone and Spencer could feel the tightness in his chest and tears sting his eyes when realized that the only one to blame was himself, himself, himself.

Why, he thought bitterly, why was he like this? Why must he try to push away every good thing in his life?

But then, there he stood, barely aware of the tears on his cheeks and ice running through his veins, as he found her curled up on his couch, franticly wiping away her own silent tears and exhaustion from her eyes. He stumbled forward, upset, upset at himself because he made her cry again. And when she flinched when he cradled her face in his hands, apologizing to him, he nearly choked back a sob, his hands trembling as he tried to wipe away the tears that did not belong on her face.

Neither of them went back to sleep that night, and Spencer began to realize just how strong she was, as she gently told him through her tears the hard truths of his situation and where she stood in relation to him.

I can’t fight with a ghost, she had murmured hoarsely, but I can work with her legacy and her memory.

And then, with a pinky wrapped around his, she promised that she would be there to help him through it, but the only way was if, and only if, he let her.

It was that night (or, rather, morning, as the sun rose) that he began to come to terms that, whether he deserved it or not, she—and her pure and unadulterated goodness—was more or less a permanent fixture in his life, and he felt more at peace than he had in ages. And when the early rays of sunlight filtered through his windows and caught her in a soft glow, he found himself once again in awe. He reached out, hesitantly, and his heart soared when he felt the familiar pressure of her hand slipping into his.

She was steadfast and loyal and strong. She was brave, she was patient, she was kind. Moreover, she was alive, she was breathing, and she was here, present, by his side. It took time, and more painful conversations and more painful realizations, but eventually, the good days were a bit more consistent, the sun just a bit brighter, and his breathing a just bit freer with her hand pressed firmly into his own, her pulse thrumming beneath his fingers until his heartbeat synced with hers.

And Spencer was finally learning, learning about what to do with the fact that with her by his side, he felt like he could truly face the world.

-*-*-*-

Face the world he did.

When Gideon died, he felt his hand twitch, and the compulsion to escape and hide tugged at the back of his mind, and an old, nearly forgotten itch made its way from the crook of his elbow, slowly ebbing into in his veins and nagging in the crevices of the back of the mind.

But when he felt her hand slip into his, he felt it abate, the tension in his muscles eased. When her lips twitched into a knowing, gentle smile, he could see the underlying grief and frustration. Of course. She had known Gideon just as well as he did, if not better.

He breathed deeply and smiled back. It was weak, it was twitchy, and it was sad, but it was a smile, nonetheless. He wasn’t in this alone.

-*-*-*-

They were seated on a large blanket in a secluded park in D.C. on one of their rare days off when she pressed a gentle kiss on his lips, and suddenly it seemed like all the right pieces finally fell into place.

And when she whispered those three little words, and everything made sense. He looked up from where he laid, and again he was breathless at how the setting sun caught in her hair and reflected off her skin and her eyes. But then, when he opened his mouth to respond, the same three little words caught in his throat and his breath hitched, and he wanted to cry. He wanted to respond, to let her know that her feelings were returned, but the words failed him.

“It’s okay,” she murmured softly, and he trembled as he felt her hands cupping his face and fingers gracing over his cheekbones, “if you don’t reciprocate; I’ll live. But I just wanted to let you know–know that I’ll be by your side no matter what happens.”

It wasn’t until they were at the door of her apartment, when he found the strength to push past the nerves and respond.

“I do re-reciprocate, and I want–I want to say it, because I do,” he stuttered out, “but I just…don’t know how to say it yet.”

He suddenly felt like a prepubescent schoolboy, nervous and quaking and terrified. But then, magnetic as she was, she brought his gaze back to her face, and her knowing smile breathed air back into his lungs. His heart blossomed, and the fingers rubbing circles into his hand anchored his attention on her. “Then I’ll wait until you can. Always. Forever.” She paused. “Do you trust me?”

Spencer peered up at her, brows furrowed. Unbidden, the memory of the first time she asked him the same question floated to the front of his mind, and he couldn’t help the breath of amusement. The question caught him off guard, but this time, when he found his voice it was resolute, quick, and sure.

Yes.

He felt a pinky hook around his, and the now-familiar warmth bubbled in his chest.

“Good, because it’s a promise I intend to keep.”

This time, the tears her fingers caught were those of appreciation and relief.

-*-*-*-

And then, the sun set, and prison happened.

-*-*-*-

At first, it was easy to ignore.

Prison changed him. He knew it did, and he knew that she wasn’t naïve to the fact either. He was a bit harder, a bit more defensive, and while he tried his best not to show it, he knew she could see the darkness had just a little bit more of an edge. He was well aware of how she watched him just a bit more closely.

It seemed alright at first. It took a while for him to adjust; there were certainly bumps and bruises along the way, along with some admittedly choice words exchanged in frustration, but that was expected.

But he supposed it was the small things, and small things add up.

The first week her hand naturally slipped into his like nothing’d changed, but his grip was tighter and more desperate than normal, like she’d disappear or slip through his fingers if he didn’t. At the same time, he was also too terrified to touch her otherwise, as if she’d break like glass if his grip on her waist was just a bit too tight.

She never commented, gave him space, and allowed him to initiate physical contact.

She didn’t need to know, he rationalized, it wasn’t her burden to bear.

Then he began to hold her at arm’s length. She pushed, gently, and he pushed back, harder. He knew she was only trying to help, but he needed to figure it out for himself, lest he hurt her again. She only sighed, and relented. While her concern was apparent with how she watched him with just a little more unease, she gave him space.

However, while she was an exceptionally patient person, there was only so much distance and space one could handle. When she reached out, worried, and pressed just a little harder, he withdrew completely, and his rationalization slowly evolved. Stop hovering. Don’t need you treating me like I’m broken. Don’t need your pity.He ignored the pain that flashed in her eyes, the quiet desperation in her voice whenever she called after him after he refused to listen, and the increasingly familiar ache in his entire body when he began to avoid and refuse her touch.

It was the small things, because when the nightmares started, it wasn’t so easy to ignore.

-*-*-*-

“—eathe, Spencer. That’s good, breathe.”

The mumbled affirmations continued as he slowly processed his surroundings.

Queen-sized bed. Egyptian cotton sheets. Breathe in. Goose-feather down pillows. A firmer memory foam pillow that smelled of her shampoo. Breathe out.

Safety.

He was still bleary-eyed when he sunk back down, burying half his face in the pillows and ashamed as he mumbled a quiet apology. Her voice was kind, understanding, telling him it was alright as she tucked a stray lock of curls away from his face. When he seemed to settle back down, her hand gentle rested on his jaw, thumb absently tracing his cheekbone.

“Do you want to talk—”

“No.”

She frowned, sighed, took a moment to flick on the lamp light and collect her thoughts; he could see, through his lashes, the gears turning in her head about how to proceed. Meanwhile, he heaved a sighed, and sat up against the headboard. His eyes closed, doing the same as her. She then reached out, touched his hand, grazed her thumb over his knuckles and drew circles on the back. It started slow, hesitant—she was surprised that he didn’t recoil, and frankly, so was he—but the motion was familiar, grounding, so he let her continue. He knew it helped her focus as well.

“Spence, you’re…you need to talk to someone—it doesn’t have to be me! But bottling it up all inside, it’s clearly tearing you apart.”

“I agreed to start talking with my therapist, haven’t I?”

His voice was flat, defensive.

“But you haven’t, and…knowing you, you won’t be telling them the whole truth.” His jaw tightened and his lips pursed, his hand gripping the sheets flexed, and he looked away from her, intently staring at a random point in the room that wasn’t her. As always, she seemed to know him far too well.

She let out a breath of a sigh; she knew he was beginning to shut her out again. Her free hand lifted to his shoulder, rested in the crook of his neck.

“I’ve told you before, that you’ve started to shut people out. I know–I know you’re so, so strong, but you don’t have to face it alone. You don’t need to hold the weight of the world on your shoulders; we’re not as fragile as you seem to think we are.” She paused, contemplating. “If you need someone with distance that you can trust, call Derek, call Hotch, even, but remember, Spence, I made you a promise: I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

When he didn’t answer, still staring off into the mid-distance, she sighed.

“I’ll leave, give you some space. Think about it.”

She was at the bedroom door when he finally cleared his throat and responded. His voice was bitter as he bit out: “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that.”

A quiet ‘wha���’slipped from her lips as she angled toward him as he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets tightly.

“If you want to leave, fine. You seem to be doing that quite well recently. The door’s right there and you don’t have to come back until you want to make me a charity case again. But if you want me to talk, if you think you can handle it, then be my guest. Take a seat and why don’t you make me?”

He instantly regretted the words, but some dark part of his mind as pleased that he could see the anger and annoyance spark through her as she inhaled deeply and slowly turn around to face him in full. “I will if that’s what it will take.”

Spencer’s gaze hardened.

“You don’t have the fucking guts.”

A brief moment passed as she took him in full, eyes flashing. Spencer raised his gaze, challenging, daring her, and then, the same, shadowed part of his mind was savagely happy that he had finally gotten a rise out of her, because she bit back with venom.

“Fucking try me.”

And then, he watched her warily as she visibly froze, then deflate, her jaw tightening and eyes welling with unshed tears as she stumbled backward to the door.

“But–but not like this. Not like this. I’m–I’m so sorry you didn’t–you don’t deserve…” Her voice was quiet, but it was hitched with a swirl of emotions Spencer couldn’t pinpoint, and he was suddenly aware of the hot tears dripping down his cheeks. “I’m going–I’m going to go…” He heard the doorknob turn, and suddenly the sound of gunshots rang in his ears, and he could the taste the metallic bitterness as blood and dead brown eyes filled his vision.

Wait. Wai- She was halfway out the door when he called out, voice cracking, and through blurred tears he saw her shut the door and shuffled and stumbled back into the room toward him, kneeling in front of him. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear the whispers of his name and the urgency of the apologies. And then his eyes fluttered closed when she reached up to brush the tears away, and the motion opened the floodgates. It was one of the many little touches they shared—thumbs wiping over cheeks and hands cupping faces—and he had half a mind to shove her aside, but dear God he hadn’t felt it in far too long; he leaned, almost desperately, into her touch and he could hear her sniffling back her own tears.

Fuck.

He was always like this.

His passive aggressiveness was his defense mechanism; he lashed out blindly whenever he felt vulnerable, not caring who he hurt and how much. It was something she had been helping him work through, and he thought he was getting better, but here he was, hurting her because of it again.

Not like this.

He barely noticed that she had pulled him into a tender hug, but now that he did process the warmth of her embrace seeping into his bones, he wanted to push it away. He didn’t – he didn’t deserve this but now she was pulling back, and it sent a brief course of panic through his body, a fear that she was pulling away, away from him, away from the darkness and shadows that loomed permanently over him. He wouldn’t blame her, but–but…oh.

Her eyes always spoke volumes for her, and now that she had firmly tilted his chin up, her gaze firm, resolved.

“I know you are feeling vulnerable, and I know that you believe you can do this on your own.” She breathed in deeply. In turn he gazed up at her through his tears, as evenly as he could, and she met it without wavering. “You are strong, Spencer Reid, so, so strong, been so for so long. But…but I made a promise that I would always be by your side, and I’m never going to break it. So please.” Her voice hitched, and his breath caught in his throat. “Please, trust in me, one more time. Just one more time.”

Moments ticked by to the time of his heartbeat before he finally nodded, and the relief and the elation in her eyes soothed the dull pain inside his heart. This time, he drew her into his arms and into his lap and sighed as he leaned into the crook of her neck.

Thank you.

I love you, too.

-*-*-*-

“Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time.”

—Maya Angelou

-*-*-*-

[thinices]

( harry shum jr, cis man, he/him ) the stowe ski resort welcomes EDWIN CHU! they’re a 39 year-old ARCHITECT. the staff says they’re quite METICULOUS, but i heard they can also be pretty EVASIVE. rumor has it that HE IS CONSTANTLY STRESS COOKING, and they like to spend their free time GOING ON LONG WALKS.

hi everyone! still gel (she/her), still 24, and edwin is a soft little ball of anxiety tbh

T R I G G E R   W A R N I N G S :  death

Q U I C K   F A C T S –

full name : edwin chu . nickname : ed , eddie . age : 39 . gender : cis man . pronouns : he / him / his . sexuality : unlabeled . relationship status : divorced . place of birth : san francisco , california . current residency : taos , new mexico / seattle , washington / san francisco , california . parents : mother – vivian chu .                         father – michael chu . siblings : sister ( - 3 years ) – eleanor ‘ellie’ chu children : son ( deceased ) – maxwell chu . occupation : architect . faceclaim : harry shum jr.

B A C K G R O U N D – ( cw : death )

edwin didn’t have a very noteworthy childhood .  he basically just did what other kids did , go to school , hang out with other kids , spend time with his family , etc. and his parents were more than supportive of whatever he wanted to be ( though they’d drop an occasional hint here and there about becoming a doctor or a lawyer or an engineer , etc. ) .  but honestly , he had a great childhood . middle school and high school was no different .  he was on the honor roll , a player on the varsity tennis team , and he was the kind of guy that had his own friend group but was loved by everyone .

after graduating from high school , he attended uc berkeley for their architecture program .  sure , he wasn’t getting a medical degree or a j.d. but his parents knew that he loved it and were just glad his passions would still provide him with a relative stable income .

he met his (now ex) wife at berkeley .  they shared a physics class together and ended up becoming really good friends before finally deciding to date at the beginning of their sophomore year .  to say he was absolutely in love with her would be an understatement .  he would’ve done practically anything for her , including move to seattle after getting his masters in architecture .  as much as he didn’t want to leave his family , he knew that it was close enough to go home for holidays and other family events but far enough to really let him live his own life .

the two got married pretty soon after edwin got his masters so that they could still have the ceremony in san francisco and have the entire chu clan there .  they then moved to seattle and began their life together .  almost a decade later , he and his wife found out they were expecting a child .  with them both at a stable point in their careers and their lives , they couldn’t have been happier . right before their son , maxwell , was born , they decided to move back to san francisco for a year or two to help with the transition ( and to give the grandparents quality time with the baby ) .  and it was all so wonderful .  until it wasn’t .

some time after maxwell turned 1 , there were some medical complications and he ended up passing away .  the death took a toll on everyone , but especially edwin and his wife .  for two years , they tried to make it work between them but they came to the conclusion that it wasn’t something they could work through together , at least not romantically .  they decided to file for divorce and surprisingly , it actually helped them get closer as friends .  they allowed themselves to continue grieving their son and together they helped each other start to recover .

however , with what would have been their son’s fifth birthday ( along with the anniversary of his death ) coming up , his ex-wife saw how stressed and anxious edwin was getting .  neither anniversary had been particularly easy for them but she was growing more and more worried about edwin .  he was throwing himself into his work , taking on project after project and not taking care of himself .  so she forced told him to take a break .

NOW :  and that’s how he ended up at stowe ski resort in taos , new mexico .  his ex-wife had recommend the place , saying that a close friend of hers thought it was a perfect place to go to when people wanted to shut themselves from the outside world .  he’s been here for a few weeks now and after many unsuccessful attempts at skiing and snowboarding , he’s mostly stuck to just walking around the resort and stress cooking in his apartment .

A E S T H E T I C S   /   P E R S O N AL I  T Y –

a ball of nervous dad energy .  he’s incredibly friendly , though he’s a bit more reserved now than he used to be .  but he’ll never be rude !!

wardrobe leans a little too close to business casual .  khaki pants and button ups / collared shirts .  when he goes on walks , he’s got like a big trench coat because even though san francisco and seattle aren’t sunny beach towns or anything , they’re still much warmer than taos during the winter season .

loves people but sometimes he just gets overwhelmed and has to leave a crowded situation tbh .

he tends to ‘dad’ people , whatever that means .  sometimes it’s annoying , sometimes it’s sweet but it really depends on the situation .

can’t sing for shit BUT if you get him drunk enough , he’ll do it .  decent dancer though , but the most he’s ever really danced was at his wedding with his ex-wife lol

big tea guy !  not so much a coffee connoisseur but his ex-wife is so he learned how to use all those fancy contraptions – pourovers , moka pots , french presses , aeropresses , etc.

W A N T E D   C O N N E C T I O N S –

E X E S !  probably from high school since he met his ex-wife in college and they started dating in their sophomore year and got married like five years after that .  he hasn’t seen anyone since they got divorced last year

F A V O R I T E  E M P L O Y E E S !  idk tbh if there’s a space he frequents a lot , he definitely tries to befriend the people there .  he’s just a very cordial person

F R I E N D S  /  C O N F I D A N T E S !  he’s a little ball of sad nervous dad energy , like he really needs friends tbh

F A M I L Y   C O N N E C T I O N S !  he’s got a pretty big extended family so it wouldn’t necessarily surprise him if his cousin’s friends are around or even if your muse knows his sister .

F O O D  R E C I P I E N T S !  basically he cooks like a lot because he’s always cooking when he’s in his apartment which means that he’s always giving it away bc he is literally just one person and cannot eat all of it so

A N Y T H I N G !  if there’s anything else your beautiful mind can think of , pls lmk and plot with me !  i love plots and i want all the plots so pls

[mdawritings]

Wanna Be Yours: Ch. 3

I.III

Masterlist

Content warning: smut

"Most of your essays were… well, to put it bluntly, they were abysmal," Hotch paces at the front of the classroom the stack of essays piled in his arms. Your eyes remain focused on those arms of his, just slightly exposed by his rolled-up sleeves. You can’t stop thinking about how it felt, his fingers on your skin. The way he was so close. The way his lips just lightly brushed yours. Even now as he occasionally strolls past your desk you can swear you smell his cologne.

"Unless clearly stated on your paper, please don’t show up unannounced to my office. You can get on your knees and beg me, but I won’t change your grade." At that, your mind floods with images of you on your knees in front of your professor, his hands tangled in your hair, holding it away from your face. Hotch slides the paper onto your desk, pulling you out of your daydreaming. You glance up at him and you can see the smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth.

You try your best to reciprocate a small smile, but you get the impression that he can read your mind and knows exactly what you were so focused on. You flip the paper over and your heart drops into your stomach. A big red C is circled at the top of the page with a note at the bottom that says ‘Come see me. Immediately.’

You feel Katie leaning over your shoulder to look at your paper and she lets out a small noise of surprise, "Wait… Did I do better than you?"

"I’m telling you, he hates me," Your grip on the paper tightens, the edges crinkling in your hands. This whole hot and cold thing is starting to piss you off. You busted your ass over this paper and you got a C? You don’t get Cs. You flip to your schedule, looking for when Hotchner’s office hours are: this afternoon. Great.

You block out the rest of class, unable to focus on anything but your horrible grade. You flip through the pages of your essay, seeing minimal markings on the nearly 12-page essay you slaved over for hours. With every minute your anger grows. By the time Hotchner is dismissing the class, you feel like a cartoon character with steam coming out of your ears.

"Hey, kid," Katie nudges your arm as she packs her bag, "It’s just one paper. You’ll recover."

"I hate him," You mutter through your clenched jaw. You shoot the professor one last hate-filled glare but he barely catches your eye-line as students swarm his desk, holding their papers out, already begging for grade changes and explanations.

"Come on, let’s get you out of here," Katie grabs your upper arm and pulls you towards the door, "You got time to get lunch with me?"

"Yeah, his office hours aren’t until 2:00." You nod glumly.

"Hey," She smiles and stops for a second to stand in front of you. She reaches forward and tilts your chin up with a smile, "Keep your chin up."

"That was terribly cheesy," You tease but can’t resist returning her smile.

"He’s being an asshole. But you’re going to go into his office and you’re going to be confident, prepared, and tell him that you worked hard. You want to do well in his class," She grinned, "You’re going to kiss his ass like you always do, teacher’s pet."

You roll your eyes, "He said he wouldn’t change the grade though."

"Who knows?" She shrugs before resuming walking and you hurry to catch back up with her, "Maybe you’ll be the exception to that rule. Maybe you can change his mind. Melt that cold dead heart of his just a little bit."

Katie drags you to get lunch but you can’t stomach anything but another coffee which just makes you more jittery and on edge about your meeting with Hotch. Honestly, you’re terrified to be alone with him. He’s intimidating and cruel and cold and purely mean, but there’s something so attractive about him to you. You want to hate him, you do hate him, but every time you think of him, you think of the way his hand felt under your chin, pulling your face up to look at him. You think of the way you get sucked into those warm brown eyes.

"I have to run but you’re strong and smart and capable," Katie stands up from your table, ruffles your hair a little bit before giving your arm a supportive squeeze.

You furrow your brows and attempt to fix the mess she’s made of your hair. "Thanks, Katie."

"See you at home," She grins before walking across the quad towards your apartment building. You let out a small shaky breath and look over the essay you’ve had clutched in your hands for the past hour. The edges are crumpled, the text is a little smudged from you running your fingertips over it, reading and re-reading your work, and there’s a small coffee stain on the third page. You stand up, throw out your hardly-touched lunch, and start back towards the law building.

Your heart is pounding up in your ears as you walk down the quiet hallway of offices on the third floor. Your eyes fall on the nameplate you’re looking for:

#335

Aaron Hotchner, J.D.

Criminal Law

You see the door is closed and you can hear two voices coming from inside. You resign yourself to leaning against the wall just outside the office and start to read your paper for what feels like the hundredth time.

The conversation inside his office grows louder in volume and you can faintly hear two distinct voices: the deep voice of Professor Hotchner and another, higher-pitched female one. You lean in a little closer, unable to help your curiosity when the door swings open and you stumble backward out of the way of a young girl storming out of his office, tears streaming down her face.

Just as you watch the girl hurry down the hallway and you turn to walk into the office, practically colliding with Professor Hotchner who stands in the doorway. He has his hands tucked into his pockets, sleeves rolled up sloppily, and he leans a little against the doorframe, "Miss Y/L/N." He nods at you.

"Professor Hotchner—"

"Hotch," He cuts you off, "Come on inside, we have a lot to talk about." He steps out of the way, leaving just barely enough room for you to make it through the door frame so that when you walk through, your body brushes up against his. You take a few steps into his office and take a look around.

You hear the door shut behind you but you can’t turn around to face Hotch just yet. Your eyes are running over the massive wall of books. The entirety of one wall of Hotchner’s office is shelves upon shelves of books. Your eyes scan the wall, noticing that, surprisingly, most of the books aren’t law textbooks or any titles that you recognize that relate to law in any way whatsoever. You look around at the rest of the office. For such a strict, harsh, professor, there are papers everywhere.

The entirety of his desk is covered in loose-leaf pages of paper, pens tossed around haphazardly. There are crumpled balls of paper around the trashcan. You notice a small antique typewriter on the edge of his desk. The blinds are closed, making the office dark, the only light comes from his desk lamp.

Hotch clears his throat behind you, finally pulling your attention back to the reason you’re standing in the middle of his office. "Miss Y/L/N? I assume you didn’t just come here to ogle at my books or judge my mess."

You while back around, embarrassment filling you and your entire demeanor, "I’m sorry Professor, I’ve just never seen so many books." Your anger and frustration has disappeared as you’re so entranced by his collection.

"You’re here because of your essay? I’m not in the habit of changing grades if that’s why you’re here,"

"Sir," You furrow your brows, growing confused at his actions. He’s always fucking confusing, "You’re the one who wanted to see me."

"Oh yes," He nods and moves past you to lean against his desk. He places his hands firmly gripping the edge of the wood. Sitting against the desk has lowered him to your height, his eyes directly at your eye line. "But not really about the essay."

"But sir–" You hold out your paper.

Hotch takes it from you, "Hotch. Remember? I don’t think you were that drunk that you can’t remember."

You stumble over your words a little before starting again, "Hotch. I worked really hard on this essay and I know I deserve better than a C. I don’t mean to sound stuck up but for christ’s sake, Katie started her essay the night before, I’m sure mine is better than hers. If you just look," You take a few steps towards him and lean forward to point out a few places in your essay. Just as you lean forward you see his eyes dart up off the paper, first glancing at your chest and then at your eyes. You pause before continuing, "If you just look again you’ll see–"

"You’re right." He puts the paper on the desk beside him, "Your essay is better than everyone else’s. But you can do better than this. This?" He places a hand on the paper next to him, "This is C work for you."

"Professor" You start and you see him raise a brow at you, "Hotch… that’s entirely unfair."

He suddenly stands up and moves past you, looking over his bookshelf, pulling out a book before turning to you, "You said it yourself, you’re smarter than every one of those fucking morons kissing my ass every day."

You’re slightly taken aback by his language and glance down at the book in his hands. He gives a subtle nod before continuing, "You have the potential to be a great lawyer. I want to give you the knowledge you get with years and years of interning experience." He holds out the book and you take it from his hands.

You flip it over, noticing it has no title, no name on the spine but once you open it, it’s filled with practically illegible scribbling. You finger through the pages quickly, "Sir, is this yours?"

"They’re notes from some of my most prominent cases," He takes a step closer and points down into the page you’re on, "That was one of my first cases as a federal prosecutor."

Now you’re really confused, "So you gave me a C on my paper to tell me I’m smart and capable?" You look up, his face much closer than expected and your eyes dart down to his lips.

"I gave you a C because your work should be way better than what you handed in,"

"You have to grade me against the same criteria as everyone else." You shake your head. You’re definitely not as angry as you were when you stormed in here, and maybe it’s the way that his whole office smells like his cologne, or how close he’s standing to you right now. He notices you staring at his lips for a second too long before smirking. That urges you to force your focus back on the book in your hand.

"Do you want to be great or do you want to be like everyone else?" He crosses his arms across his chest.

"I’m just confused–,"

"I want to tutor you, once a week," He doesn’t let you finish your thought.

"I really am grateful, Sir, but this book is… I can’t take—"

Hotch reaches down, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at him, "As much as I love hearing the word ‘Sir’ come out of that pretty little mouth of yours, I mean it. Call me Hotch."

You stumble over your words a little, feeling the heat both rising in your cheeks and throughout your whole body. His fingers are still under your jaw, his thumb gently stroking your chin lazily. You know exactly what he means. He wants to tutor you and sleep with you. And God, do you want to sleep with him. You know it’s a bad idea. You know he’s manipulating you. He’s taking advantage of your aspirations for success. You pull out of his grip and hold the book tightly against your chest, moving to lean against his desk.

It feels as if he can read your mind because the next words out of his mouth are, "You don’t have to have sex with me for the lessons." He clarifies.

Your eyes shoot up to his, widening slightly at his blunt phrasing, "I didn’t think that—"

"I’m offering you a chance at greatness here," He walks closer to you again. "No matter what, I want to help you reach your fullest potential." He reaches his hand up to cup your cheek but you sense him pause, closing his fist before lowering it a little. He’s waiting. He might be an asshole, but he’s waiting to get a sign from you that it’s okay to keep touching you.

You put the book down on the desk, standing up straighter. Your body close to his, "When do we start?"

"Every Wednesday, 2 pm," He nods, a smile spreading across his face. He lifts his hand, cupping your face, thumb rubbing your cheek gently, "I’m going to push you to your limits, think you can handle that?"

Your eyes flutter closed at his touch and you let out a soft ‘mhm’ in response.

"Look at me," Hotch commands and you feel him jerk your head up, so that when you open your eyes you’re looking up at him.

"What I wouldn’t do," His fingers slip through your cardigan, gently brushing the bare skin of your shoulder, "To tear these clothes off your irresistible little body," His voice is hoarse and low and you immediately regret looking up into his eyes.

His lips are on yours in an instant. Every time he pulls away from the kiss for a second, you feel his hot breath fan over your face. You quickly slip off your cardigan, leaving you just in your tank top.

"You had some dirty thoughts today in class," He groans against your lips.

You mumble in agreement as his hands run up to rest on your waist. He gives a tight, bruising squeeze to your hips before roughly lifting you up onto the edge of his desk.

"Wanted to get on your knees like a little slut, didn’t you," He growls out, kissing under your jaw, nipping your skin roughly.

"Yes," You moan out.

"Tell me what you want," He reaches for the strap of your tank top and yanks it down, revealing the silky cups of your bra. He palms your breast fiercely, your skin and hot and pliable in his hands.

"To pleasure you," Then you realize what he wants. You can read him perfectly. You know exactly the kind of man he is, "Sir." You purr out the last word and he growls into your mouth.

You open your legs so he can stand between them. His hands are rough and the pace the two of you are moving at is wild, uncontrollable because you don’t want him, you need him.

He presses his firm form against you, his hands splayed, groping and exploring your flesh. Your skin is warm in his hands. Your kisses are frantic, his mouth warm and wet on yours. It’s chaos. It’s wild, animalistic. You grip the collar of his shirt tightly in your fists, his hot breath fanning over your neck, then your collar bones, then the tops of your breasts. He pulls your tank top up over your head. You attempt to pull him closer, wanting to grind your hips against his.

"Look at you," He drawls out against your bare shoulder, his long fingers ghosting over your ribcage and then down to the top of your pants. He slowly works to unbutton them. "A moaning, squirming mess and I haven’t even begun to touch you."

"Please, I’m sick of you teasing me," You let out impatiently. At that his hand comes to your throat, his thumb jutting under your chin harshly. He brings his face close, eyes searching yours.

"If you can’t handle this," He tuts disapprovingly, the same tone he takes when you get something wrong in class, "What I have planned for us will absolutely ruin you." You find yourself clenching your pussy around absolutely nothing at that. Just his words manage to make you unbearably aroused.

He releases your neck, fingers hooking into your pants and underwear at the same time to rip them down off your legs. "What do you want from me?" He groans his hand slipping between your bodies, two fingers lazily stroking your clit.

"Please," You whine and jump at his touch, "Please sir." You’re begging. You need more.

"Please, sir." He mocks you, taunting you, trying to sound bored, "Please, sir… what?"

You moan in response as his fingers circle your clit harder. "Well?" He grips the nape of your neck, forcing your face close to his, your noses pressed against one another but he keeps you at a distance so you can’t kiss him. "Remember I said you have to learn to use. Your. Words." At that last word, he gives a small smack to your clit before resuming his slow but harsh circles.

"Please," You grip the edge of the desk tightly, "I want to fuck your mouth." You stumble over your words through the moans. Hotch released your head forcibly, placing his hands on your thighs, pushing you further onto the desk. You place your feet on the edge, spreading your legs to give him full access.

He releases a small moan in response, eyes focusing on the view between your legs right now. Then he’s sinking to his knees in front of you, burying his head between your thighs and absolutely devouring you with his tongue.

You knot a hand into his hair, messing it up and tugging slightly at the roots. Your moans are loud and unrestrained. His tongue laps against you, exploring you and sucking lightly on your clit. As he works you over, you let out a string of curses and chants, ‘Fuck just like that! Please, sir more! Professor!’ He seems to like the names you’re calling him instead of Hotch now.

You’re melting under his touch. The way his tongue smoothly laps against your heated skin, the way he pays attention to what makes you moan louder and then proceeds to make your eyes roll back in your head. He’s not just good, he’s amazing. Your stomach tightens and you feel the familiar tingle of pleasure working its way through your body.

Your breathing stutters as you attempt to form any sense of coherent thought as the powerful rush of pleasure fills your whole body. You hear yourself chanting ‘Yes sir’ over and over as your orgasm rocks your body wildly. Hotch’s mouth and tongue are unrelenting, stroking, licking, and sucking throughout your whole orgasm.

He pulls away as your heart rate slows down. You let your eyes close for a second as you catch your breath and he steps between your legs again, reaching for your cheek to kiss you again. Once you catch your breath and open your eyes you settle on the growing bulge in his slacks. You reach in between the two of you, palming him through the fabric, tracing the outline of his hard cock. He hisses response but soon grips your hands tightly stopping you.

"Did I say you could do that?" He wrenches your hands away.

"I just want to return the favor, sir," You pout up at him and he forces your hands back to your sides.

"Oh you will," He nods, stepping away to walk around and sit at his desk chair behind you. He pulls out a paper and you scrunch up your face. You crane your head around to look at him. "Just not now." He gives a small nod, "See you on Wednesday."

You hop off the desk rushing to get dressed and gather up your things. He holds out the notebook from earlier and you take it from him, your hands brushing against his, sending sparks up your arm. You’re not even quite sure what to say to him. You can sense he’s getting impatient as you linger there longer. You turn to the office door and when you place your hand on the knob he calls out from behind you, "Miss Y/L/N."

"Next meeting… wear a skirt," Hotch gives you a small wink and you nod, quite honestly still reeling from the events of the past hour.

Chapter 4: I.IV →

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Tick Tick Tick

Jason ‘J.D.’ Dean x Reader

Words: 2552

Part One of Two

Summary: After killing your perverted ex boyfriend, you finally learn to accept the dark feelings inside you. J.D. copes with real feelings as you pull him out of the numbnesses of his life. 

Notes: This imagine is not for the faint of heart guys. It’s gonna be dark and the reader is not going to be a good person. Murder is going to be depicted as an accepted part of her life and she is going to like it. Both parts of this imagine will be dark and bloody. I mean, it’s J.D. from Heathers. That’s the point. So please please please, if you are uncomfortable, just skip this. It won’t be for everybody.

Warnings: Murder (duh), sex (not smut, but definitly more than I’ve ever done before), language, the whole shabang. 

-

He was dead. Holy shit, he was actually dead. As far as the rest of the town was concerned, Tommy killed himself with a handgun. He’d rather die than spend a single day in prison for molestation and child porn- all of course he ‘admitted’ in his suicide note. Half of his brain was splatter against the concrete outside the football stadium. The other half covered your face. 

You could honestly say that you hadn’t expected to kill your ex boyfriend. But you couldn’t exactly say that you regretted it. Hell, you couldn’t get the grin off your face. You looked at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Ew. You looked like shit. Not only were you covered in blood, sweat matted your hair down from running through the parking lot. You’d also have a bruise from where Tommy slapped you, but you didn’t care. He’d never touch you again. He’d never touch anybody again. You had to bite your lip to keep your smile from growing even more, tasting just a tiny bit of blood on your tongue. 

You stripped out of your clothes that you would probably be burning later and stepped into the shower. You turned the heat up until it was scalding. You listened to the water thunder against your skull, massaging the brain matter out of your hair. You didn’t hear the creaking bathroom door open or the click of it closing again. With your eyes closed, you didn’t see the shadow of the figure lurking on the other side of the curtain. You didn’t open them until you heard the curtain being pushed to the side. 

You felt your heart start to pound. His green eyes scanned you hungrily as he stepped into the shower, his t-shirt quickly adhering to his chest. Your breathing hitched, his finger tracing your jawline while his other hand snaked behind your back. You pushed down the nervous feelings stirring in your stomach and lifted your chin to confidently meet his gaze. J.D. smirked. 

“Hi.” He greeted, his hand slowly making its way up your spine. You didn’t waste a second before pulling his bottom lip between your teeth. J.D., spurred by your enthusiasm, pulled you closer, one hand on the small of your back and the other cupping the back of your head. You pulled apart just enough to peel his soaked t-shirt off his chest, raking your fingers down his torso. Before long, his clothes were discarded beside yours on the floor. 

With your bodies pressed together, you could forget about everything. Tommy, your piece-of-shit house occupied by your piece-of-shit mother, and that fucking school that Tommy and his band of rapists disguised as the football team used to rule. With J.D. kissing you, you held the world in your hands. With J.D. fucking you, you threw the world into oblivion. 

A couple rounds in the shower lead to a couple rounds in his bed before you finally settled with a post-sex cigarette. With his arms wrapped around you, you took the cigarette from his lips and brought it to yours. He watched you blow out a puff of smoke, watching the grey haze linger in the air for just a moment before vanishing. 

That was his life. Briefly existing in a dark cloud of smoke before scattering into nothing. Smoke didn’t feel. It blinded and it choked and it only came when something was burned. Everything he touched went up in flames and he was all that was left behind. He knew that whatever the hell this was would end the same way. And that gave him a weird, stirring feeling in his chest. Shit. 

“Do you think they’ve found him yet?” You asked, flipping onto your stomach so you didn’t have to strain your neck to look at him. He shrugged, plucking the cigarette from your mouth and taking a drag. 

“It’ll be the talk of the town tomorrow, that’s for sure.” He clicked his tongue and narrowed his eyes at you, trying to read your expression. If there is one thing the six high schools he’d gone to taught him, it was how to read people. “Do you regret it?” You almost laughed. 

“Are you kidding?” He raised a brow to tell you he wasn’t. You kept your eyes on his and kissed a freckled on his shoulder. “No. I don’t regret ridding the world of that sad excuse for a human. Besides,” You traced circles around the spot you kissed. “It was, like, self-defense anyway, right? Who knows what that asshole would have done if you didn’t blow his brains out?” 

The original plan was to knock him out and drive his car off a cliff. You lured him out by telling him you wanted to get back together with a little blowjob under the bleachers. When Tommy figured out he would be getting off, he got pissed and slapped you. That's when J.D. jumped out from his hiding spot and Tommy turned around to get a bullet between the eyes. 

“The only thing I regret is not pulling the trigger myself.” After everything that pig put you through, you would have loved to be the one to send him to hell. J.D. ran a hand from your thigh to the nape of your neck, the motion sending chills across your skin in its wake. You closed your eyes and laid your head against his shoulder. 

There it was again. That feeling in his chest that almost made it hard to breathe. What the fuck? Something was tearing through the numbness, making him feel shit that he hasn’t felt since, well, ever. He didn’t feel things. Feeling shit meant he was tied down to something or someone and that was never part of the plan. 

He sat up suddenly, letting your head fall onto the pillows. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked over to his dresser for a t-shirt and some flannel. After he got dressed, he clapped his hands together and faced you with his usual smug smile. 

“Who knew the combination of murder and fucking could work up such an apetite, but I, for one, am starving.” He grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt, tossing them at you. 

“What are these for?” He rolled his eyes. 

“Well, darling, we can’t have you wondering town in my bed sheets.” His little term of endearment was said with sarcasm, it still made you smile. You stood, letting the sheet fall around your feet. J.D. bit his lip, starting to regret his hurry to leave. You smirked and pulled his shirt over your head. It was a little big so you tucked it into the jeans and found a belt. J.D. tried to ignore how fucking good you looked in his clothes, but he couldn’t help it. He pulled you to him by the belt loops and caught your lips in his. 

“Slushies on me?” You offered, walking your fingers up his chest. He chuckled and nodded.

“Our love is god.” 

-

You didn’t know it was possible to feel like this. If what you felt for Tommy was a spark then this was a wildfire. After grabbing a bite to eat, you went back to his place to burn your clothes, watching the blood stained fabric shrivel into ash. J.D. dropped you off at your house on his motorcycle. It was almost midnight but you knew you wouldn’t be getting any sleep. You stopped at the fridge to grab a bottle of cola among the endless cases of beers. 

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Your mother stood in the doorway with a joint dangling from her lips and a half-empty bottle in her hand. You rolled your eyes. 

“Why the hell do you care?” She laughed, tossing the butt in your direction. You had to jerk away to keep from being burned. 

“You and I are the same, kid.” She took her lighter out of her pocket and flipped it open and shut. 

“Fuck you.” You scoffed, moving towards the stairs. Her hand latched onto your arm. 

“He’s gonna leave you just like your daddy left me, sweetheart and do you know why?” She shoved you against the wall, keeping an arm on your neck while her other hand brought the lighter up to your face. “Because you are a pathetic whore.”  

“Get the hell off of me!” You shrieked, trying to break away. Her arm started to press against your windpipe, making it harder to breathe. 

“Say it.” She spat, flicking the lighter on. The flame danced menacingly, inching closer and closer to your left eye. You stared at her with as much malice as you could. “Fucking say it!” 

“Go to hell.” She clicked the fire off and pressed the burning metal against the skin of your shoulder. You tried to hold back your scream, but you couldn’t help it. Your mother brought the flame back up to your eye, slamming your head against the wall again. 

“Say it!” The heat made your eyes sting, already watering from the searing pain in your shoulder. You leaned towards it. 

“I’m a pathetic whore.” You submitted, gritting your teeth. 

And just like that, she dropped her arm and walked into the living room like nothing had happened. You broke into a sprint, running up to the upstairs bathroom and hurling up the french fries and coke slushie you had less than an hour ago. Your shoulder was screaming at you, the smell of burned flesh stinging your nose. You felt empty and stupid and worthless. Most of all, you felt weak. You felt the tears stream down your cheeks before you could even think to stop them. You collapsed onto your bed, screaming as your shoulder hit the mattress. 

J.D. carefully climbed in your window, silently moving in front of your bed. The gun felt heavier in his hand than it did before. He had to do this. You were breaking through the ice that kept him numb and he couldn’t let that happen. But as he raised his weapon to fire, he heard your sob, muffled by a pillow, but still loud enough to send his mind reeling. There was that damn feeling in his chest again. The feeling that wanted to hold you and never let go, taking down anybody who stood in his way. This couldn’t be what love was. Another cry filled the room and he turned the safety of the pistol back on and tucked it in his waistband. You heard a strange click and looked up. 

“J.D.?” You wondered, seeing his figure looming over you.  Please, not now. He couldn’t see you like this. Pathetic. Just like she said you were. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I wanted my clothes back.” He lied. He didn’t give a shit whether or not you kept them. In fact, he thought it would be fitting. Watching your blood stain his shirt. Come on, just kill her. 

“Oh, right.” You felt your body shrink a little as you slid off of the bed, walking towards your dresser. “Just let me grab something to change into.” You hoped that in the dark room, he couldn’t see the tears on your face. As you brushed passed him, J.D. grabbed your arm, making you cry out as your shoulder jerked back. He roughly pulled you back to him and examined the hole singed into his shirt and the bloody and blackened skin underneath. “I’m sorry about the shirt, I-”

“Did that bitch do this?” He snapped. Seeing your eyes filled with tears set something off inside him. A feeling that was familiar to him. Rage. 

“J.D. it’s fine, I can handle her.” You couldn’t let him think you were weak. His jaw clenched and he stormed out of your room, his booming footsteps thundering down the stairs. You quickly followed, figuring he was just running out after seeing how fragile and pitiful you were. 

Luckily, your mother was fully passed out on the couch so J.D. wouldn’t have to deal with her intoxicated criticism. Instead of running for the door, he stopped in front of her, pacing back and forth. He had hoped she would be awake. He wanted to see her face as she paid for what she did to you. But he would just have to settle for this. 

He rummaged through the drawers until her found her stash of heroin and a syringe. He filled it as much as he could.

“J.D., what are you doing?” You asked, watching him hold out her arm.

“It’ll look like an accident, right? An overdose.” The needle punctured her skin and he injected the drugs into your mother’s bloodstream. She stirred slightly so you had to act fast. You grabbed a pillow from the couch and put it over her face, holding it there firmly until she stopped moving. And just like that, your mother was dead. Similar to the feeling you had when J.D. shot Tommy, any weakness you felt was gone, replaced by pure power. 

“She’s dead.” You gasped. J.D. couldn’t read your expression. Were you upset? 

“Look, I know that there’s that whole mother/daughter bond thing, but-”

“She’s finally dead.” You laughed, throwing your arms around him. You’d been waiting your whole life to be free of her and now you finally were. “We can get out of here. Run away. Together.” You ran back upstairs to your room to grab a bag. J.D. followed hesitantly. Hearing you say you wanted to run away with him brought back that stupid grip around his chest, squeezing and suffocating until he faced what he feared. 

“Y/N, I need to tell you something.” He said softly. You paused. You’d never heard him talk like that before. Almost like he was… nervous. You wrapped your arms around his waist and gave him a smile. 

“What’s gotten into-” You froze, your hands brushing against the cold metal tucked into his jeans. You lifted the gun into your hand and backed away. “Why did you bring this?” The look in his eyes told you before any words left his mouth. Then you remembered. The click right before you saw him. It was a fucking gun. You scoffed. “You came here to kill me, didn’t you?” 

“Y/N-”

“No, no. Don’t let me stop you.” You put the pistol in his hand and wrapped his finger around the trigger. You sat on the edge of the bed and aimed his arm up at your face. “Do it. You’re afraid that you feel something for me. I saw it when we were in your room. So go ahead, J.D.” You leaned forward so that your forehead was touching the barrel. “Do it.” 

There it was. The aching in his chest. The reason he came here to shoot you. Your eyes stared into his and he decided that he wasn’t going to be afraid of this anymore. He controlled it. He tossed the gun aside and crashed his lips into yours, climbing on top of you and lifted his t-shirt over your head. Is this what love was? 

Who the fuck knows?

-

Christian Slater Tag list: @staxryskxes; @adeliness​

[johnnyraine]

Heathers (movie) - J.D. x Male Reader - Croquet.

Words: 545

31st of May, 2020

xxxxx

Jason Dean will admit, today's a good day. He's spending time hanging out with his boyfriend Y/N and his friends playing croquet, though admittedly he would have liked it better if it was just him and Y/N, especially since his dad is going to be home late because of work, unfortunately, his boyfriend already made plans so now he's here. He's a sucker for him.

He loves Y/N he honestly does, the moment he had bought him a slushy, he knew he had to make a move. They've been on a few dates already, a few bike rides, a few "innocent" walks near bullies' houses, - no no-one was hurt, but they certainly got the message - it was all great, but he can admit that his boyfriend has flaws. One of which is his stubbornness, which is normally good but he tends to not ask for help, such as right now.

Watching Y/N with a smirk, J.D. can tell that he doesn't fully know what he's doing.

Lining up his shot, Y/N slammed the ball and watched it as it knocked Veronica and Betty's balls away, making them groan. After which, he walked towards J.D. and watches as the others took their turns, oblivious to the looks everyone exchanged.

Putting an arm around his shoulders, Y/N kisses J.D.'s cheek before speaking, "It's a nice day isn't it?"

"It is," J.D. said, putting his arm around Y/N's waist.

"I'm sorry, I know you wanted to spend some quality time today, but I already told Veronica that I'd come over today," Y/N said.

"Though we aren't doing what I hoped for," J.D. said before looking up, the sun still high in the sky. "I do think we still have time."

Staring into each other’s eyes with hooded gazes, each tightened their hold on each other. In hushed tones, they spoke.

"I can't wait," Y/N said, slightly stroking J.D.'s neck with his thumb.

Moving his arm lower, J.D. spoke with a pointed look, "I think I can't wait, more."

Immediately, both knew what they were talking about and hooded looks became sharper commanding looks.

"How about a bet?" Y/N asked moving to cross his arms.

"What kind?" J.D. replied, not moving in the slightest.

"I bet I win and when I do," Y/N spoke before being cut off.

"If."

Glaring at his boyfriend, bringing himself closer to his ear, Y/N said, "When I win, I'm taking charge today."

"And if you lose?" 

Looking back at the game with an off smirk, Y/N said, "I'm sure I'll win."

Staring at him for a moment as Y/N refused to look at him, J.D. decided to voice what he already knew.

"You don't know what you're doing, do you?" J.D. asked with a smug smile, looking at Y/N.

With an obviously fake smile, Y/N replied, "If I'm still winning, is it really that important that I know what I'm doing?"

Hearing that, J.D. bent down in laughter, still clutching onto Y/N's waist which made him stumble a bit. Though as funny as he found it, at the end of the day, his boyfriend still somehow won. Even though he didn't agree to the bet, J.D. still let Y/N "take charge." He really was a sucker for his boyfriend, all well.

[luulapants]

Digging into the Teen Wolf credits

So I fell into a bit of a rabbit hole researching the shift in writing and directing credits in Teen Wolf, trying to find some explanations for the lack of continuity, whiplash change of directions on storylines, and the messiness of the later seasons. A lot of people (myself included) tend to focus on casting issues and Jeff Davis as the be-all-end-all of these issues, but here are a few interesting things I’ve put together:

1. Waning involvement from the original producers/directors - 

Russell Mulcahy was a producer/exec on all 100 episodes and directed 39 episodes, including every season finale and all but one season premier (5a). He was a big-shot music video director in the ‘80s. According to his Wikipedia, “Mulcahy's work is recognisable by the use of fast cuts, tracking shots and use of glowing lights, neo-noir lighting, windblown drapery, and fans.”

Tim Andrew came on as a supervising producer and progressed to executive producer, holding a producing credit for all 100 episodes. He directed 35 episodes, including some of fan-favorite suspense episodes like Night School, The Girl Who Knew Too Much, and Riddled.

While their producer credits stayed steady, it’s the director credits that interest me. Between the two of them, they directed 75% of S1, 100% of S2, 83% and 75% of 3a and 3b. S4, it drops to 58%. Back up to 70% and 90% for 5a and 5b, then plummeting to 60% for all of S6. It’s worth noting that S4 is the first season where we start to notice that whiplash effect, not really sure what characters’ motivations are. In one episode, the focus seems to be family financial drama, and then we forget about that and focus on Lydia’s powers. Then the focus is assassins, then Kate Argent - and what the hell is up with Peter?

It’s hard to say for sure, but one could draw the conclusion that the decline in director credits from Andrew and Mulcahy also suggest a decline in interest from them in maintaining the show’s storylines.

In fact, in 5b and season 6, you see a third long-time producer, Joseph Genier, step in to direct a few episodes: the rather sloppy Maid of Gevaudan, Blitzkrieg, and Genotype. We can’t give him too hard a time over it, since his only other directing experience ever was a 2016 Netflix horror movie The Secrets of Emily Blair, shitty even by Netflix standards. He also has some late-season writing credits, but we’ll get to that later.

2. The curious case of Angela Harvey - 

In order to understand the writing on TW, you need to know Angela Harvey. She climbed the ranks from personal assistant to writers’ assistant, then, starting in 3a, staff writer.

A staff writer is a salaried, stable figure in the writing department, who works with what is often a rotating door of producers and head writers. They’re usually not the “ideas” person and don’t get the final say, but they help the head writer work through the story and stay on track. Most larger shows have a whole team of staff writers. TW never had more than one at a time.

Shortly after her promotion to staff writer, Harvey got her first full writing credit for Frayed, which is a controversial episode! It’s both praised and detested for the non-linear storyline, the sometimes confusing flashbacks, and Allison’s emotional hallucination of her mother.

After that, she went back to staff writer and was a rock for the show for all of S3 and 4. In S4, she got full writing credit for I.E.D. and Time of Death. Both got mixed reviews on-par with the rest of the muddled mess of S4, but I will note one thing: the human factor. I.E.D., for me, was the first episode that really gave a more rounded picture of Liam, who until that time felt very much like a new puppy coming in to replace our favorite old dogs that went to live on the big farm in the sky.

S5, Harvey gets a promotion to ‘story editor,’ which is pretty much just a title and pay promotion. She wrote A Novel Approach and Strange Frequencies, two more mixed-bag sort of episodes with some golden moments and some crippling larger-story issues. Then she writes the slightly stronger The Sword and the Spirit and... 

Gone. She vanishes from the credits for the rest of season 5. I haven’t been able to find any specific explanations, but I did find a rather telling quote from her in an article about how black writers get hired but not promoted in TV:  “I repeated staff writer four times,” she said.

Harvey then returns for 6x2 with a shiny new title: executive story editor. I can only draw one conclusion from this sequence of events, which is a contract dispute. Harvey demanded a promotion (as she should have, given her longevity on the show!), was denied, and walked off. The show floundered in her absence and begged her back with the new title.

She got full writer credits for two more episodes for S6 but left the show for good after the second, After Images.

To me, it seems clear that they had a strong, stable voice in Angela, but her commitment to the project waned as she realized that the show had no commitment to her. She may not have been the strongest head writer, but she was an essential core, a beating heart of the show. Her contributions were undervalued and, ultimately, the show suffered because of it.

3. The rotating door of writers - 

It’s not unusual for head writers to come and go on shows. Then again, most shows have a stable core in the writers’ room to host those head writers. TW had Jeff Davis, who has frequently been acknowledged to be overly hands-on with the writing (even in episodes he did not take writing credit for), and a single staff writer: Angela Harvey and, before her, Andy Cochran (who was staff writer for S2).

S1 did not have a staff writer, but that was because Jeff had a very firm grip on the story and also because there were only four writers other than Jeff Davis (and the original Teen Wolf movie writers). Interestingly, none of those 4 writers ever returned to the show after S1. This would become a theme for TW writers.

Jeff kept even tighter control on S2, writing 8 of 12 episodes with the help of Cochran. Other than them, there were four other writers, two of whom were a writing team.

Jeff wrote 15 of 24 S3 episodes and brought in 6 new writers and one S2 writer, Christian Taylor who also produced and directed. Of the new writers, only Ian Stokes, who wrote The Fox and the Wolf would become a regular writer afterward (though Alyssa Clark did write two more episodes in S4). Stokes wrote three S4 episodes and three for 5a.

Jeff wrote 6 of 12 episodes in S4, 5 of 10 in 5a, 4 of 10 in 5b, and then did not write again until the series finale.

Starting in Season 4, the writing credits are all over the place. Most writers come in for a single episode and never again. The few notable exceptions are:

Eric Wallace, a later seasons producer

Will Wallace (not sure if related) who was a writers’ assistant that seems to have been randomly granted writing credit for 5a’s Ouroboros, despite having no other writing credits to his name previously. He got writing credit for 4 other episodes in S5 and S6, plus a random staff writer credit for 6a’s Ghosted. 

Lindsay Sturman, a lalter seasons producer who now writes and produces for Supergirl. 

And producer Joseph Genier who, as he had been allowed to direct later seasons with no previous directing credits, was also allowed head writer credit with no previous writing credits.

What can we divine from this? Chaos, honestly. An inability to resist the uninformed and careless whims of the producers. The lack of lower-level writing staff, who are usually the ones there to give stability and cohesion to the story, meant that every new writer brought in new and contradictory ideas of what the story was about and where it should go. Looking at these credits, I can’t tell if the problem was that everyone wanted to write and writing spots were being given as thank-yous in exchange for producers laying down money or if they had such a difficult time finding quality writers willing to work in that environment that producers had no choice but to step in and write as well as they could given a lack of resources.

4. The vanishing first assistant director - 

Compared to the other issues, this one seems minor. However, it seems like TW gave up on the position of ‘first assistant director’ at some point. This position is essentially the right hand of the director, making sure that set runs smoothly and the director has everything they need. 

James J.D. Taylor held the position for 50 episodes, including all but 4 episodes in S1-3a. In the first 3, Jeffrey January filled in. For the fourth, Eric Sherman, who would come to be Taylor’s backup, it seems. For 3b and the first half of S4, Sherman and Taylor traded off every other episode. Taylor tried his hand at directing for S4′s Monstrous, at which point Sherman started trading off episodes with Matt Rawls.

Taylor went back to first assistant director for S5, but intermittently and with no backup for his position. 8 of 20 episodes in 5a had no first assistant director. Taylor directed 6x2 and was first assistant for 6x4 and 6x5, but 17 of 20 episodes of S6 had no first assistant. 

Sure, there were second assistant and second second assistants, but it seems very odd to neglect such a pivotal position. What is especially baffling is that 6b had first-time directors Tyler Posey, Linden Ashby, and Joseph Genier all working without a first assistant director. To me, this speaks to staffing issues and difficulty organizing a show that was clearly on its last legs.

In summary -

Where the early seasons had focused attention and investment from the original core producers, directors, and the show runner, clearly their attention and care for the project waned over time. They failed to promote the show’s most valuable workers and failed to bring in lower-level staff to do the grunt work in the writers’ room. Instead, they pulled in more and more higher level executives, who tend to have lofty ideas about where a show goes but no willingness to dig into the nitty gritty details. Film schools could make a study of Teen Wolf: “How to run a show into the ground.”