#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)

[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.

[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.

[takeonmetakemeon]

Because I just read part of a column that suggested the Democratic Party stepped in to keep Bernie Sanders from winning the nomination in 2020, I am once again going to point out why that's garbage and needs to be retired.

The first few nominating contests were tilted in Sanders' favor. Iowa and Nevada were caucuses, not primaries. Sanders had previously done much better in caucuses. The only primary in those first three contests was in New Hampshire, a ridiculously tiny state that shares what passes for its long border with his equally tiny state.

Rep. Clyburn did not and does not have the power to sway the votes of most Black voters in South Carolina. Black voters are not sheep who do what they're told. The vast majority were voting for Biden regardless.

The result in all of those first four contests was predictable. The whole election outcome was predictable, frankly.

Giving Sanders' victories in the first three contests any kind of national importance was journalistic malpractice. Repeating it now borders on propaganda.

There is a strong anti-Hillary contingent among political nerds and I am sick of it. It's been eight years and they still cannot let it go.

Look, Hillary Clinton won the popular vote and lost the election by a small number of votes in a few states. Four years later, Joe Biden won the election by a smaller number of votes in a few different states. *After* voters had lived through four years of Donald Trump's unpopular leadership.

But Biden consistently did better against Trump than Sanders did in opinion polls from the time pollsters began asking the question.

Biden was the better choice. And if he was, then so was Hillary, who had almost the same result but in a year that naturally favored Republicans. Biden claimed he could have won in 2016, but he barely won in 2020 when the political environment was more favorable for Democrats. He was wrong. It shouldn't shock anyone. He was wrong about his chances compared to Harris's, too.

Hillary Clinton won the nomination because more Democrats wanted her. And then she lost to an opponent who was more popular than you want to believe. You don't understand how other people view either of them.

Let go of "Bernie would have won" and join us in the real world, where Hillary Clinton was not a flawed, unlikable candidate or the only Democrat Donald Trump could have beaten. Where internet bros have limited reach. Where people don't know what a subreddit is, don't know what YATA stands for and don't care when they find out. Where people think J.D. Vance is an idiot because every sentence he speaks sounds like he does. WhEre tYpInG lIkE tHiS hAs nO mEAniNG. Where post-menopausal women not only outnumber barely post-adolescence men who think 30 is old, but also outnumber men who think 30 is barely adult. Where Black voters who judge candidates by additional rules you don't seem to know about much less understand have an actual say. Who don't have to argue about whether or not it's pandering to say you carry hot sauce in your purse. In other words, a world where people voted for Hillary Clinton—and Joe Biden—by choice.

Additionally, Trump did not remake the Republican Party in his image. He won the nomination precisely because he had more support than long-serving leaders. Party leaders fell in line when they understood that and saw that he could win. You don't need to make up any other story to explain what's happened.

And did party leaders push Biden to step aside? Yes. But they didn't exactly do it in the face of widespread opposition by Democratic voters, or donors, or—most of all—media folks like you.

There is no one behind the scenes controlling the political process.

Honestly.

[enzersquiltingdiary]

8/11/2024 the start is always rocky (basicly day 1 of healing with bipolar)

it is 6:08am when im typing this so im stitching my 1st blocks and i was honestly nervous and stressed when starting. i did 2 types of sitches from the looks of my start but it looks okay. like i said before the point of this blanket is to learn patience so every emotion is gonna be in every stitch. even emotional breakdowns. When i began the 1st 2 blocks my brain was happy, frustrated, worried that this wouldnt work. Mostly that this wouldnt work. But im pushing through and slowly figuring out how to be patient and calm.

I have had bipolar since i was 16. To me its like 2 dragons...One being manic but with Regia Georges voice and the other aggressive with J.D's voice from heathers.. You try not snapping at people when you you hear "Enzer open the door please. Enzer open the door!" 18 years it has bubbled and getting help was even worse.. So i tried hobbies. Crochet semi helped but mostlyy with stress. And then i saww quilting and thought i could try that...so ii did le research and learnedd quilting and embroidery could lower my stress and anxiety. Bingo bongo i was gonna give it the olympics try. Andd its working...slowly...but its working.

I just got wind that the other half of my joanns jelly roll order with the pencils are coming today. so i can thingk about what im gonna put template wise on the quilt..

[freezerbrain]

holly :   how strong is your muse’s sense of intuition ?  are they aware of it ?   do they ever fear that it is only paranoia ?  

from here!

Veronica’s intuition is, actually, pretty on point, especially after Heathers. It’s not something they’re very vocal about; she’s smart enough to know not to do that. In fact, one of the main divergences in canon from both the movie and musical in my portrayal is that Veronica had a feeling J.D. was lying to them about the bullets, so they purposefully missed their shot on Kurt. She’s not normally fully aware of her intuition-- it kind of just comes to them. 

That being said, they do fear a lot of what they feel is their paranoia, and that only gets more complicated with the fact they’re convinced that they still see the people they’ve killed and J.D. around or that, eventually, somebody is going to dig up the cases and put the pieces together. She’s honestly very worried that she can’t trust her head, but on the other hand there’s really nobody for them to trust but themself, and this is a thing she struggles with for most of her life. 

[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’

[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!

[everlarkficexchange]

Clubbing 101

Written by @alliswell21

Prompt 144: She has a night of fun before the start of the semester. She meets this guy, they hit it off that they sleep together. But when she shows up to her class the next day, she sees the guy again. But he’s her professor and he’s way older than she originally thought. #olderPeeta [submitted by @animekpopxx]

Rating: Explicit. NSFW. 

Tags and Warnings: Canon Divergence; College!AU; Age gap, older man/younger woman; The opposite to slow burn? Smut; Unprotected sex; technically impaired consent since alcohol, but their both into each other while sober too 🤷🏻‍♀️; Ethical dilemmas; Teacher/Student relationship (sort of); One Shot, with an ambiguous open ending? Almost 10K words. Unbetaed. 

Notes: Thank you to the moderators once more for putting up with us, procrastinating writers. You gals are saints! Thank you to @animekpopxx for her amazing prompts that never fail to snag my attention and give me the best ideas ever! You rock! I projected this story to be a smutty short thing, but it sprouted words and a background out of nowhere and I had to forced myself to stop adding to it, to get back to my other submissions waiting in my docs. Hopefully, it’s a good read for the ones who take the chance with it. 

Thank you all! 

KPKPKPKPKP

It starts with a harmless ranting. 

“I’m not outgoing, or fun. I’m not even ‘cool’… hell, I don’t care what my sister says, I’m too old for this place!” I tell the handsome, bearded, guy sitting in the barstool next to me, “She’s a med student, you know, but she insists that partying is part of the college experience, especially when one’s career is so demanding… plus, is the last weekend of summer break, which apparently means you’re contractually obligated to party extra hard,” I roll my eyes, “I never saw the appeal personally, but I let her drag me out here so I can keep an eye on her. Is not like I’m gonna let her piss away her future for a night of clubbing,” I scoff, taking a long pull of my beer.

The guy chuckles, but I’m not done just yet. 

I slam down my bottle and continue listing my grievances, “The thing that grinds my gears, is that she begged for a ‘girls’ night out’, and instead of drinking with me and people watch, she goes off with the first fucker that asks her to dance! I mean… did it ever occur to her, I may want to dance with her on OUR girls’ night out?!” I scowl and gulp another mouthful of beer, “then, to add insult to injury, thirty minutes later I get a text from her, saying to go on home without her ‘cause she found a ride, followed by that cursed eggplant emoji, like I needed an illustration of what kind of ride she’s getting,” I mock gag, rearranging the strap of my tiny purse across my chest. 

 “I guess she’s young, and beautiful, and does work very hard, but if you invite me to go clubbing with you, don’t abandon me within the first 15 minutes of arriving!”

My companion winces before sipping his drink, and smiling ruefully, “That’s harsh… sorry you’re having a shitty night,”

“Meh… little sisters, right?!” I shrug. 

The guy smiles crookedly at me, and I find myself enjoying his smile, “I wouldn’t know about that. I’m the baby of three brothers, and the only thing I got away with was learning how to wrestle and spring awesome comebacks on the fly… the brutes kept me on my toes,” he chuckles. 

“Three boys? Sounds chaotic. Your poor mother!” 

“Yeah… life’s chaotic.” He averts his eyes for a second, his smile goes away. I’m afraid I’ve said something wrong, but he suddenly looks back at me, and confesses, “I’m not into clubbing either.” His eyes sparkle, despite the awful, dim, blue lights bathing the place. 

I smile, “Look at us wallflowers, bonding over drinks and sibling shenanigans,” we clink our drinks together and sip. I’m chatty and relaxed, so unlike myself; I guess the two beers I’ve had are starting to get to me. “I’m Katniss, by the way.”

“That’s pretty,” he says, shyly; makes my chest warm up. “Nice to meet you, Katniss. I’m Peeta.”

I arch my eyebrows, “Peter?” I repeat, because I’m pretty sure I miss-heard him over the obnoxiously loud music. 

The guy shakes his head, “Pee-ta… like the bread?” He chuckles. Then adds, “Family name. Everyone on my dad’s side are bakers.” 

I snort-laugh, “Punny!” I say, taking another sip. Yup, beer’s getting to me, I’m not this cleverly funny. “My dad was into survivalism and botany… I’m named after a plant also known as Duck Potato, so I win the weird name competition!” 

“Hey, it’s something else to bond over,”

“Cheers to that!” We clink our drinks again, and partake in our booze. 

He orders another whiskey neat when he’s out… sounds both snooty and distinguished at the same time. Goes well with his put together image, though: nicely trimmed beard, nicely combed hair, nice polo shirt with what I believe is a tiny loaf of bread embroidered on the chest, and dark-wash jeans… I think. It’s hard to tell under the black lights of the club. 

He offers to get me another drink, and I order an appletini.

“J.D. from Scrubs always drank one,” I explain, swirling the coctel in my hand, “I’ve always been curious to try, but didn’t wanna spend my own money experimenting on a drink I could potentially hate.” 

“Makes sense,” Peeta says, “So… what’s the verdict?” 

“Is pretty good, actually. But I think I’ll stick with my Miller Light,” 

Peeta nods, “I honestly don’t enjoy alcohol that much.”

I giggle. “Then, what brings you to this fine establishment tonight, sir, if you’re not much for clubbing, or drinking?” I watch him out of the corner of my eye. 

I like that when he smiles, his eyes crinkle in the corners.

“I lost a bet against a colleague.”

“Oh,” I’m suddenly self conscious and a little uncomfortable. I give the guy a scrutinizing look, and ask suspiciously, “what was the punishment exactly?” 

The man rolls his eyes. “I have to spend one whole hour in the club, without criticizing anything, like the bitter old man I am,” he grins, “My friend’s words. Not mine!” He raises both hands, claiming innocence. 

I laugh at the face he pulls, “Well, you’ve just defaulted on that punishment,”

“How so?” He beams. 

“With the look in your face! It spoke volumes!” 

“Am I that transparent?” 

“You read like a preschooler’s board book, pal!” 

We both laugh, I drink my beer, and he throws back his whiskey neat. 

“So…” he makes a show of looking at his watch, “I still have 33 minutes to kill before I’m allowed to run out of this place… I know I’m not a Med student, co-Ed, sister of yours, but… would you, um, like to dance with me?” He sounds adorably hopeful. 

I glance at the man sideways, toying with my bottle. 

He smirks, mischievously, “I promise, spirits make me more coordinated on the dance floor. I become this amazing dancer when I have a couple of drinks on… or so my brain believes. I probably look like an idiot, but I’m too goofy to know the difference. You’re welcome to be the judge it for yourself,”

I take my sweet time finishing the last dregs of my beer, and wrinkle my nose, “You sure you wanna dance to this shit, kids call music nowadays?” I smirk, pointing a finger up, motioning wide circles into the ether. 

Peeta gives a full belly laugh.

I really do like his laugh! 

“Isn’t it our only choice?” He ventures. 

Not if you follow me home, my thirsty brain supplies; my lips on the other hand, just let through a hint of a smile, because I’m buzzed, but not drunk enough to proposition a total stranger. I’ve never been one to sleep around anyway.

“Okay,” I say, too enthused. “As long as we both agree that this isn’t music,”

“Oh no, this just barely passes as noise!” Peeta agrees readily. 

He guides me to the packed dance floor, and we start moving to the booming, deafening tunes playing overhead. 

I’m not sure if one could call this dancing. Everywhere I look people are writhing against each other, like a pack of zombies without grace or rhyme. 

I’m not sure Peeta will get an accurate assessment of his dancing skills, compared to what I’m seeing, he’ll probably look like a professional; plus, it’s too dark and busy in here to really appreciate anything, really, but after a few minutes of just shifting in place, robotically, I snatch two bottle beers from a waitress walking by, offering one to my partner, hoping that’s enough to get us loosen up. The waitress stares at me until I rummage on my crossbody mini purse and toss a crumple ten on her tray. 

The liquid boost works. Before I know it, I’m grinding my hips against his. Peeta’s just the right height for his thigh to fit between my legs and brush against my front. I get tired of undulating my arms in the air, so I drop them around his shoulders, and feel just how firm and broad he is under my touch. 

Our chests are tightly pressed together, and I’m at the right angle to just stare at his plush-looking lips. I turn around before I do something brash, like kiss him in the mouth. Peeta doesn’t question it, he just places his hands on my hips, and starts moving to the music’s beat. 

I bring the beer to my lips, but the bottle’s empty… oops! It doesn’t matter, I’m having the time of my life! 

Peeta’s swaying guides me. I basically drape my back over his front, and bump my ass into his groin. I feel the hint of a bulge there, and press my rear into it  again, just to confirm if I felt what I hope I felt. 

Peeta’s fingers tighten on my hip, emboldening me to keep going until I’m practically twerking into him, and his slight bulge morphs into a full blown hard-on. 

I twist in his arms to face him, my lust idled brain barely thinking rationally, “Are your 33 minutes done yet?” I yell into his ear, so he can hear me over the noise. 

He doesn’t even look at his watch, “To hell with time! I‘ll stay here all night, if you want me to,” He answers loudly. 

“Come on, then!” I push off his chest, and snatch up his hand before he can reply. 

Leaving the dance floor is surprisingly easily, considering the crowd bouncing in place together. 

I make no conscious plan on where we’re going; I’m arguably familiar with the layout of this place from my many visits since Prim turned 21; I’m only mildly surprised when we navigate across the club, all the way to the restrooms. It’s like my clit is making all the decisions tonight… good for it! 

There’s a line of disgruntled women waiting to get inside the Ladies Room, but the Men’s Room is available, and Peeta lets me guide him into it, like one of those pull toys children have. 

“It stinks in here,” I comment blandly, but make a beeline for the last stall with a door. 

There’s one guy at the urinal, but he doesn’t even look up from his pants, so I just shrug it off and yank Peeta into the stall with me. 

The space is tight, but once inside the stall, I push Peeta into the door, and attack his mouth. 

He makes a startled noise at the back of his throat, but his hands and arms immediately press me into his body more fully. My own hands trek down to his belt, where I fiddle with the buckle until it’s undone, and I can access his pants’ button and fly. 

He hisses when my fingers graze his warm erection, and bucks into my knuckles. I’m in the process of sticking my hand inside his boxers, when Peeta growls, sucking my lower lip into his mouth, and letting it go with a wet pop.

“Switch places,” he pants against my mouth, and hoists me up, until my back hits the door and his hands grab my hips possessively, jutting my pelvis forward, “I’m hungry, would you mind if I eat you out?” 

“Okay,” I gasp.

Thank you for forcing me to wear your tiny, clubbing dress, Prim! 

“You’ll allow it?” He asks, incredulous, rubbing circles on my hips with his thumbs. 

“Yes… I’ll allow it!”

His smile is sexy, his stare is hypnotic. Damned my drunken ass! I can’t believe I’m willing to do this in a smelly bathroom stall!

Peeta sits on the toilet and licks his lips while staring up at me. His hands disappear under the stretchy material of my skirt, bumping my purse out of his way. He skims his fingers under the elastic of my panties, and I bite my lip, nodding eagerly.

Slowly, Peeta slides my underwear down my legs, the tips of his fingers follow, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced!

Once he brings my panties to my knees, his hands rush back up my thighs, pushing the flimsy skirt around my waist. My underwear drops to my ankles on their own. 

Peeta’s level eye with my crotch, and I squirm restlessly. “Beautiful… absolutely soaked,” he whispers in a daze, he inhales pulling me closer, “You smell divine!” He descends, nose first, into the thatch of dark curls between my thighs, making me moan. He ruts his face against me, and suddenly drops to his knees, grabbing my calf to pull my leg up. 

But the movement gets prevented by my stupid underwear, tangled in my ankles. Without missing a beat, I toe my panties off, so Peeta can maneuver my body however he wants. 

He drapes my leg over his shoulder, opening me up to his ravenous mouth. He grunts, burying his face into my core, and finally, FINALLY, his tongue swipes between my folds.

“Fuck!” I squeak. 

My hands fly to tangle into his soft, perfectly coiffed hair. I nearly smother him, holding his face to my pussy, but he’s doing wicked things to me with his tongue: lapping, sucking, and nipping at my labia; drawing number eight figures around my clit with the tip of his tongue, to then sinking it deep inside my core. I can’t stop bucking into his mouth over and over.

When was the last time I was given head? Fuck if I know! Darius probably, he was decent, but didn’t do it often. And Thom was so boring at it, I actually preferred he didn’t do it. But this guy is amazing! A real expert in the matter! 

“I’m so close! Please… I’m so close,” I wail like a cat in heat, writhing against the door. 

Peeta looks up, and despite the horrendous lighting in the room, I realize he’s got the deepest blue eyes I’ve ever seen… too bad I can’t hold his gaze too long, because he starts rubbing my clit with his thumb, while fucking my hole with his tongue, and is all I can do not shout and scalp him in my delirium.

He doesn’t stop drinking my juices while I convulse above him. On the contrary, he retrieves his thumb, but keeps his mouth busy, lapping away all the slick I give him.

It’s too much.

I tug on his hair to pull him off of my sensitive privates. 

Peeta takes one last lick with the flat of his tongue and looks up at me, smiling wolfishly, “Was that good?” His beard’s dripping with me, he wipes some of it off on his sleeve. 

I snort, unsexy and definitely rude. “You made me cum so hard I saw stars… yeah, it was good. Better than good, really!” I smile down at him, and try to pull him off from the floor. 

All the gel holding his curls in place is gone now, rubbed off on my palms. His hair is sticking up on the top and towards the back of his head. I reach up to try and smooth it back, “I’m sorry, I seem to have made a mess of your hair,” I giggle. It’s adorable, but I feel bad that I ruined it. 

“You can mess my hair any time you want, Katniss.” He says, almost shyly, he places his hands on my waist, over the bunched up dress. 

It’s a big turn on to me, how his words are so flirty, but he delivers them so sweetly and awed. Is unexpected and endearing… which is odd, because I don’t usually find people endearing at all!

We both chuckle. 

He licks his lips, and I feel heat pool in my lower belly again. 

“Come’ere!” I wrap my hand around his nape, and pull his lips to mine. 

He responds immediately, licking the seam of my mouth. I suck on his tongue when he slides it against mine. 

He moans. 

“Fuck me, Peeta,” I rasp into the kiss, palming his dick through his jeans. 

He groans, “Are you sure?” He barely holds back another groan when I squeeze his clothed erection.

“Cock. In me. Now!” I command through gritted teeth, trying to pull his cock out of his pants with one hand, while taking his hand, and splaying it on my boob. 

“Okay… shit… this is… surreal! This has never happened to me before!” He kneads my tit, gently.

I’m not sure I was supposed to hear that, so I pretend I didn’t and turn, facing the door to wiggle my ass, in an attempt to convince him. 

Peeta makes a noise in his throat, quickly followed by the sound of shifting clothes, and a metallic thump from his belt buckle hitting the toilet. 

I whine when Peeta’s warm, heavy cock caressed my bare ass cheek. “Please don’t tease me,” I beg.

“Fuck, Katniss… do you really want this?”

“Yes, Peeta… put your cock inside my cunt, and fuck me all the way to next week! Now!” 

His warm body cocoons mine, “Anything you want, sweetheart,” he whispers into my ear, and I feel the blunt head of his cock parting my folds, coating himself with my natural lubricants.

He finds my entrance, pushing inside just the tip. He gasps, “Fuck!” One big hand wraps around my hip to keep me steady, bracing his other arm on the door, above my head. 

“Peeta… Please!” I wiggle my ass, making him sink another inch deep. 

“Hold still,” He hisses, “I’m trying to hold back… not ramming in too roughly… embarrassing myself, cumming too fast,” His hot breath warms my nape. “You feel like heaven!” He growls, tightening his hold on me. 

I’m torn, wishing he’d drill into me without mercy already, while another part of me is grateful he’s trying to stay under control… I don’t know which I want more… 

When was the last time I had sex? 

As if reading my thoughts, Peeta shares haltingly, “It’s been such a long time for me. I want it to last, but I’m

Not sure if I can,” 

I don’t have time to second guess myself, because Peeta’s moving, and he’s massive! 

“Don’t hold back!” I bleat, “I want it rough… I want it fast!” I gasp, clenching down on him. I paw at the door for purchase, trying not to face-plant on the cold, hard surface, while Peeta’s fat prick stretches me to the brink of pain! I can’t stay put for him any longer; I buck into him.

“I said to hold still!” He slaps my ass, hard. It stings, but it’s a welcomed feeling. 

I moan and melt, finally relaxing enough for him to penetrate me all the way to the hilt. He stays there a moment, breathing harshly into my neck, squeezing my hip on and off. 

“You’re so tight. So warm. So wet, Katniss.” He nuzzles my ear, “I’m gonna move now, I apologize beforehand in case this ends too soon for you…” He drags himself slowly out of me, just to plunge right back in with a swift, hard thrust. 

I squeak; he grunts.. 

Peeta holds me by the waist,  “You’re so pretty and sexy, Katniss. I can’t decide if you’re real, or the most vivid wet dream I’ve ever had…” he’s fucking me like a jackrabbit in rut.

I’m speechless, vaguely wondering if I didn’t dream him instead?

His cock head hits a spot deep inside me I’ve never reached before. I start babbling nonsense— mostly praising his cock and his strength— I don’t really know what I’m saying, but he seems to be enjoying it thoroughly by the increase in his speed and the volume of his grunts. 

I’m joisted up and down his shaft like a rag doll; I wish I’d thought of hanging my stupid little purse somewhere before we started, because now it’s bumping on my thighs, distracting me from the great ducking I’m getting; it’s no matter… I can feel my orgasm building in my belly.

“I’m gonna cum, sweetheart… I want you to cum too,” He nibbles on my earlobe. 

“Yes, Peeta! Please make me cum, I’m so close!”

One of his hands slides around my waist to play with my clit, while his other tweaks my nipples over my dress and bra. That, added to the sensation of my g-spot being prodded repeatedly, sends me spinning over the edge.

I must’ve screamed or something, because he clamps his hand over my mouth, and then he’s grunting, digging his forehead between my shoulder blades, and pulling me back against his unyielding body. 

“Fuck…” he gasps and shivers behind me. I feel his dick pulsing, his rhythm faltering, and then he goes still. 

Peeta sags a little, wedging his shoulder into the door to keep from falling. I’m surprised he still has the strength to hold me up too; I have to be dead weight at this point, since my legs feel like overcooked noodles and my arms gave out a minute ago.

We both try to catch our breaths, too spent and weak for much more, at least for a few minutes.

Peeta stirs. “Are you okay?” He breathes out, ruffling the loose wisps of my hair with his breath. 

I chuckle, leaning my sweaty temple on the cool door. “I can’t feel my toes… which is excellent!”

“Good,” he sighs. 

Three heart beats later, he straightens up and pulls out of me. An indecent amount of spend flows down my legs as soon as his cock dislodges from my pussy, but Peeta shoves something soft between my thighs quickly, before I have time to freak out about the mess.

I look down mildly curious, staring at an embroidery of a tiny loaf of bread. Vaguely, I wonder if that’s his uniform? He said he was a baker, right? At least he’s named after bread or something. I giggle. “Is this your shirt?” I ask, widening my stance to gracelessly wipe myself clean. 

“Yeah,” 

“Thank you,” I say, dazedly, turning sideways to smile at him gratefully. 

He’s wearing a simple, white, cotton t-shirt when I return the polo to him, now spoiled with cum and slick. I’m caught off guard by how broad shoulder he is, and by how nice he smells… cinnamon and sweat. Weird combination, but pleasant. I wonder if he baked any bread today? 

“Um… would you… would you like to put these back on?” He asks awkwardly, leaning down to pick up my discarded panties from besides the foot of the toilet bowl.

I wrinkle my nose, “Not really,” I mumble. “Who knows when was the last time that floor got cleaned. Gross.” 

Peeta smiles and shakes his head, “Here,” he grabs his polo, covered in our juices, and wraps my underwear in it. “Now it’s hidden.”

My body is finally catching up with the advanced hour, the beers and the two amazing orgasms. I’m starting to feel sore everywhere, and my eyelids are getting heavy. “Wow… think I’m officially all partied out,” I chuckle weakly.

“Ditto,” Peeta agrees, his smile is shy. “So… there’s this little dinner about two blocks from here,” he starts, eyes downcast; the space seems to shrink around us, now that the frenzy of our physical activities is done with. “Would you like to grab a pancake or som—“

My phone rings, startling us both into silence. I frown, but scramble to find it in my purse, to check who could be calling me… apparently at 2 a.m.!

My frown deepens. Prim’s smiling face flashes on the screen. She was supposed to be getting some herself! “It’s my sister,” I whisper, tamping down my rising panic. I don’t ask if it’s okay to answer, I just do it. “Prim?” 

“Where the hell are you?!” I have to pull the phone off, or risk eardrum rupture by my sister’s screeching. “I’ve been texting and calling you! I’ve been worried sick!”

I scowl at the wall, confused and little annoyed, “Prim… Prim, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need me to come get you somewhere?” I try to ask.

“What?! No. I’m home! But you aren’t, and I’ve been scared shitless trying to find you!”

I give Peeta an apologetic grimace, and blindly feel around for the lock to get out of the stall. “Um… why are you home so early? Last time I heard from you, you were getting a ride,” I’m trying to sound unaffected; It’s all I can think to say in my mortification.

“Never mind that! Why aren’t you home already? I thought you had to work in the morning and then go to sch—” 

While Prim rages at me, I place a hand on the phone and turn to Peeta, still in the stall, awkwardly facing the wall, I assume to grant me some privacy. I’m sure he can hear my sister’s frantic chastisement from where he’s standing. “I’m sorry… you’d think I was a teenager instead of a grown ass adult,” I roll my eyes.

Peeta waves me off good naturedly. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for keeping you so late,”

I’m about to say something else, but Prim yells loudly, something about calling the police and checking the hospitals for me, which truly prompts a reaction from me, “Calm down! I’m still at the club, exactly where you left me!” I cover the phone with my palm again, and turn to him. “I’m… I’m gonna go? Before she threatens to send the marines in,” I try to joke, but our situation takes all the levity out of it, and my attempt dies off, lamely. 

Peeta nods, smiling softly; somehow I can tell it’s not genuine. 

“Little sisters, right?” I offer halfheartedly, twisting my lips. 

“Can I… walk you out at least?” He asks quietly; Prim hasn’t stopped nagging this whole time. 

“I… it’s not necessary, but thank you…” 

Peeta nods again, looking disappointed. 

I don’t get to tell him a proper goodbye, because two dude-bros come in the bathroom, letting the noise from the club filter in; one of the idiots elbows the other, and both start making some lewd comments about me, but Peeta steps in, eyes wild with anger, and tells the guys to knock it off. Prim hears the whole thing of course, and goes nuts herself asking what’s going on?

Peeta looks at me, and motions his head towards the door. 

Message received, I step outside the bathroom and book it out of the club, “I’ll be home in a bit. I’m gonna call and Uber,”

“Call me as soon as you’re in it!” Prim demands.

“Fine! Now stop nagging me, will you?!”

I don’t realize I never looked back at Peeta to wave my goodbyes until I’m in the car, heading home. Regret truly is a bitch. I can’t help feeling like I just lost something important, but I have no idea what it is. 

>>—————> * <————<<

It’s been a very long Monday. I’m mainly running on caffeine at the moment, and can’t wait to get home and pass out in my fluffy bed, to see if I can catch up on last nights lost hours of sleep. 

I enter my last class of the day and find a seat in the middle of the third row. I pull my laptop, a writing pad and my mechanical pencil out of my bag, and watch as my classmates start filtering in one by one, greeting each other and finding their places, lazily. 

I’m the oldest student in this class, which is not surprising. I’ve only just come back from my extended— 5 year— sabbatical; and did it only after I was completely sure I could handle my workload and the financial strain of both me and Prim going to college at the same time, without giving myself an early grave. 

It’s been hard, but I’m glad I came back to finish my schooling, I only need a handful of credits to graduate, which is great!

I check my watch. We still have a few minutes to kill before class starts. The professor— Dr. Mellark, according to the copy of my schedule— is not here yet, so I pull up the banking app on my phone to give it another glance. The balance is still the same as the last two times I’ve seen it, but it doesn’t hurt to be extra careful when one is on a tight budget. I scheduled payments for the power, gas and rent to go out in the next few days, and I want to make sure there’s enough money in the bank to cover them. We’re looking fine for the month, financially speaking. 

The door to the classroom swishes open, and I start signing off my app.

“Good afternoon ladies and germs; I’m doctor Mellark, and provided you’re in this room for an English class, I’ll like to welcome you to the amazing world of Classic Literature!” Says a deep, male voice I find oddly familiar. “By the way, don’t any of you dare to disagree with me on the awesomeness of classic lit… I’m a doctor, I know what I’m talking about… unless you ask me about medicine, then please be free to disregard everything I say, because I’m not ‘that’ kind of doctor!” 

A murmure of little chuckles fills the room; even I smile, silencing my phone and putting it away, before looking up at the professor.

I choke on a strangled gasp when I finally set eyes on the man I assume is the teacher, dumping a worn, leather, messenger bag on the desk near the podium. He’s the last person I would’ve expected to have as a professor.  

Oblivious to my predicament, Doctor Mellark— or as I know him: Peeta!— keeps introducing himself. 

“I’ve been teaching this course for 14th years, but I’m always pleasantly surprised to hear the different points of views my students bring to our discussions on the classics we study, which in a nutshell, is the beauty of this class.” He pulls a ream of paper out of his bag, and gives it to a student in the front, “Please take a syllabus, and pass the rest to the next person, and so on… thank you!” 

My face is burning. I think I’m gonna faint. 

“But enough about me,” his voice booms, making my whole body shiver. “I don’t normally do roll calls or care about attendance, as long as you’re not missing assignments, and are here during discussions, so this is the first and last time I’ll be reading this list,” he rises a piece of paper above his head, I surmise has the students names on it, and he instructs, before reading, “I’ll call your names, and you’ll introduce yourself, briefly, that way we can all get acquainted with each other, yes?” 

Ugh! 

He can scratch my name off that list right now! We’re more than acquainted with each other.

Bile rises to my throat. An intrusive, bitter thought pesters me: how many of his students has he gotten ‘that’ familiar with? 

But the thought dies off quickly. An even worse, more worrisome thought springs front and center in my mind: Did we use protection?!

Panic rises in my chest, a nervous queasiness settles in my belly; a distant memory of warm goo sliding down my legs comes to mind… Oh shit! 

Oh shit, oh shit! We didn’t use a freaking condom? Who does that?! 

Oh shit! 

Would a Plan B still be effective right now? It’s been less than 24 hours… 

Peeta’s reading names. People stand from their seats and talk about themselves. I haven’t heard one word they’ve said, but I’ve been watching how some of the female students bat their eyelashes and speak all breathily, smiling coyly at him… Peeta seems oblivious to the flirting, but I still feel a cocktail of unpleasant feelings in the pit of my stomach. 

I realize, I’m jealous!

My ass is frozen in my sit, I’m not even breathing. I don’t think Peeta’s seen me yet, but… what will he do or say once my name comes up? I send a quick prayer to heaven, he won’t recognize me since I look nothing like I did last night at the club, with my hair down and my face all made-up. Right now and plain ol’ me… the rub is gonna be my name. Darn my dad and his awful naming whims! 

Soon enough, he reads a name that makes him stutter, “Kat…Katniss? Everdeen?” He does a double take, “Katniss Everdeen…” his eyes are the size of saucers when he scans the lecture hall, swiftly. When he finds me, he looks back down at his paper, and says the name out loud again, unsure, “Katniss Everdeen?” Like he doesn’t believe what he’s reading. 

I stand up woodenly, my voice cracks a little, “I’m—I’m Katniss Everdeen… hi!” 

I’m about to drop back into my chair, but Peeta kinda mumbles, “You know, Arrowhead, or Katniss is a water plant? The root is edible… like a swamp potato?”

There are quiet little giggles all over the place. 

Peeta clears his throat, his eyes flit away; his face’s blank of emotion, but his cheeks seem pinker than a second earlier, “I just read that online, believe it or not. Interesting facts about local flora, people. Reading is knowledge, but so is learning from one another… what can you tell us about yourself, Miss Everdeen, besides that you have a very unique first name?”

“I…” I harrumph, avoiding eye contact with Peeta at all costs, “I’m a part time student. Majoring in Botany. I took this class to fulfill my last English credits requirement for graduation. I do love books and classic literature, in particular.” 

“Thank you… Miss Everdeen,” he rasps. 

I sit down, clumsily, hoping this horrible, horrible moment is just a nightmare and that I’ll wake up any second now, drooling on my desk, with indentations of my notepad on my cheek, because anything would be less embarrassing than what I’m going through at this point.

Mercifully, Peeta calls a different name, and then another, and then another. I don’t look up from my notepad once.

Peeta for his part, sounds stiff and monotonous— or so I’d like to think— no more jokes or clever sayings. Maybe he’s not as affected as I am about this ordeal, and I’m just making it a bigger deal than it really is? Maybe he does have experience sleeping with students— I mean, it’s not unheard off, right?— Not that either of us had any idea we were engaging in a teacher-student affair last night… 

Although, calling it an affair is generous; it was a measly one night stand. A chance encounter. Two people letting off steam before a busy week ahead. 

I’m getting increasingly angry with all this thinking… and the class seems to drag on. It feels like an eternity, and my mind keeps churning up all kinds of questions: Why would he not say he was a teacher at this particular college? Did he lie about being a baker? Is his name even Peeta? 

I scoffed at the thought.

To my horror, I hear him ask, “Anything to say, Miss Everdeen?” 

Looking up at him requires a great deal of bravery and self admonishment, but I do my best and face him— he’s wearing glasses now, which makes my belly tightened for inexplicable reasons— “No, Doctor Mellark, nothing of consequence anyway,” I retort as venemosly as possible, without alerting anyone else there’s something weird going on between me and the professor. 

Peeta grimaces slightly. Then looks away, “Very well, as I was saying, we will start with the basics: The Iliad and Moby Dick, since those are High school level works, I expect your reports to be sufficiently well researched, and your personal ideas on the text somewhat fleshed out. It doesn’t have to be in-depth. I’m just looking to determine everyone’s style and needs for the semester ahead…” he continues his spiel, and I feel free to go back to my stewing and my musings. 

Before I know it, Peeta’s dismissing the class, wishing everyone a good rest of their evening. 

I jump into action, packing my stuff with my head bowed, but then I hear him again.

“Miss Everdeen, a private word, please?” It’s much too quiet to have been said from his podium. I still startled when I look up and find him standing right against the first row of desks, directly in front of me. 

His face is not quite stern, but he’s definitely less smiley than when we met. 

I force down a gasp, because under the better lighting of the lecture hall, and close up, I can see a plethora of details I missed at the club; like the arresting blue of his eyes, the slight reddish of his neatly trimmed beard, peppered with silver whiskers all over, while his perfectly combed hair is almost all silver on the temples, and ashy blonde on the top. His shoulders are even broader than I remember. 

He’s overall stockier than I originally thought, and just a smidge shorter, which is fine, he’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t mind climbing him like a tree—

I shake my head off the intrusive, lecheros thoughts. I’m literally lusting after my teacher, for goodness sakes! This is beyond a silly schoolgirl crush!

Peeta arches one dark blonde eyebrow at me, expectantly. 

I nod curtly, because my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and gesture for him to lead the way.

I shove my laptop into my bag, and hastily shoulder the straps, hugging my writing pad to my chest, following my professor like a chastened little girl. 

My stupid eyes find his ass, and I blink twice, at the exquisite sight in front of me. I groan internally. 

He grabs his own bag, takes off his spectacles and slides them into his shirt pocket. 

How old is this man?! He said he’s been teaching this class for 14 years, when do professors start their teaching careers? How did I never see him before now roaming campus? Is his age the reason he ate pussy like a master? 

I shake my head, cursing my horny brain. 

Peeta opens a door I have no idea how we came across, and then stands aside, gesturing for me to go in first. 

I duck my head and step into a warmly decorated office, with a small desk and two chairs in the middle of the room. Bookshelves full of tomes line the office. A handful of pictures and framed diplomas hang from the only available wall space in the room, but I don’t get to study them before he catches my undivided attention. 

“Let me start by apologizing,” Peeta stars, closing the door behind himself, “I assure you, it wasn’t my intention to cause you any stress, or embarrassment out there.” He pauses, “Would you like to sit?” He offers, wincing. He doesn’t wait and steps around me, to pace on the other side of his desk, “I… um, never been in this position before,” he scowls, “I’m not sure what assurances I can offer at the moment, except, that I will start the process to recuse myself from this class immediately, to not interfere with your academic—“

“Recuse yourself?” I cut him off, “what do you mean?” 

Peeta squirms a little, and sits down heavily on his chair. My bag slides off my shoulder, and I just dump it in the empty chair I was offered a moment ago. 

“Well, Miss Everdeen, it’s the right thing to do, given our circumstances. We’ve breached the appropriate boundaries of our pupil and teacher positions, and staying in the same class together will put you at a disadvantage… is a power imbalance situation, that calls for action.”

“Can you stop calling me ‘Miss Everdeen’? It’s weird…”

“I’m just trying to maintain an acceptable level of decorum between us,” he says sheepishly. 

“That ship has already sailed,” I say tiredly.

“Perhaps, but it’s my responsibility to still try,” he rubs his forehead. “Anyway, I’ll call my department and see what is next. Stepping down myself is the only fair solution I see so far… it would be terribly unfair to ask you to switch classes. Simply disrespectful, but we both can agree this uncomfortable situation needs to be nipped in the bud, for both our sakes, Miss Everdeen.”

“This is bullshit!” I snap, “What happened in that club, isn’t that terrible of a problem! What we really need to do is stop acting so stiffly and guilty. By the way, you sound like a walking thesaurus!” I accuse, looking him in the eyes for the first time since he called my name at the lecture hall. “Stop it!” 

Peeta inhales deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Miss Everdeen, our actions last night may have been honest, and even innocent in nature, but they still carry consequences… unexpected ones, especially in light of the facts. And the facts are, that it would be unethical for me to remain in a position of authority over you. In any case… if you feel the need to report me to the school administration, for… harassment or inappropriate behavior or anything else, I won’t dispute any claims. I promise to distance myself from you and give you space so you can continue with your education without interference, in a safe environment.”

I grunt, “I’m not going to report you, because you didn’t do anything wrong. Sure, I thought you were a baker… I mean your story about your name, and that little loaf of bread embroidered into your shirt, I thought it was your uniform,” I shrug one shoulder. 

“Sorry about that… I never meant to mislead you,” he says bashful. 

I ignore him, “Either way, I was the one pulling you into that bathroom. I threw myself at you. I begged you to do things to me, and you just granted me my wishes…” like a sexy gentleman, “The sex is on me. I’m 26 years old, I’m not some bumbling teenager who hasn’t learned to take responsibility for her actions, so, please… stop trying to shield me, or protect me, or whatever it is you’re doing,” my arms flap around in frustration. I finally push my bag off the chair, and sink into it. “Look, Peeta—“

“Professor…” he corrects, frowning a little.

I roll my eyes, if he knew he’s just making it sound kinkier than it already is, he wouldn’t be so adamant about the freaking titles. 

“Fine… Doctor Mellark,” I enunciate, pettily. “I specifically chose your class as my last English elective for two reasons. One: it’s exactly the amount of credits I need to graduate at the end of the semester. And two: it fits my schedule to a T, which is important, since I do have a full time job when I’m not a college student. So, I’m sure we can both be adults about this unfortunate situation, and simply forge on. There’s no need for you to recuse from teaching this class, and I have absolutely no intention of switching. We both can wear our big people britches, and pretend last night was a… what did you call it?” I wave my hands, as if the answer will materialize from thin air, “A vivid wet dream? And leave it at that!”

Peeta glares at me, looking aggravated for the first time since I met him. “It’ll be unethical to continue like everything is normal, Miss Everdeen.” Peeta argues, stubbornly. 

“Nobody has to know about last night,” I say, exasperated, then a horrifying thought flashes in my mind, “Unless you bragged about it already!”

“No!” He straightens in his chair, looking offended, “I would never do something so vile,” He looks indignant, “plus, the fact still remains that something did happen last night, and I know about it! I can’t, in good faith, be your teacher.”

“Are you planning on showing me favoritism because you know what my pussy tastes like, Peeta?” I deadpan, “Or are you gonna blackmail me into doing it again?” 

“Stop calling me Peeta!” He growls through his teeth, his very thick fingers clenching into fists on his armrests. 

I blink at his reaction owlishly, realizing I’m truly pushing it this time. 

“I’ve always prided myself on keeping my nose clean. Being a decent man and tutor. Never in 17 years of teaching have I slept with a co-ed, let alone a student in my own class.” He breathes deeply, then pins me to my chair, with those arresting blue eyes of his, burning with controlled anger, “I would never extort you or anyone for sexual favors, Katniss. While I don’t really want to lose my tenure or face other disciplinary actions from the school authorities, the one thing I truly don’t want to damage are my personal standards, and my self image.

“Katniss, I’m already biased when it comes to you. Being your professor won’t be exactly fair to anyone. I’m not saying I would give you A’s willy-nilly, nor that I would grade your papers any differently than I’d do your peers or that I’d be less critical of your work,” 

“That’s reassuring,” I roll my eyes. “You’re telling me that if I bring you a shit essay, you might not be persuaded to let me redo it?” 

He sighs, “I don’t know…” he scratches the back of his neck, “I’ll most likely hover over your desk a disproportionate amount of time compared to your classmates. There’s also a chance I’ll call on your name more often than the rest of them?”

“I still don’t hear one unscrupulous, wrong reason, why you can’t do your job, and teach this class.”

We sit there, staring at each other, at an impasse. 

“Why are you so set on keeping me in that room, Miss Everdeen?” He asks, softly. 

Finally, I relent, relaxing my tense shoulders, and exhaling tiredly. I raise my hands in defeat. “I don’t know, Peeta. Because I want to protect you, the same way you’re trying to protect me. But… recuse yourself if you have to. I still believe you’re a better man than your urges.” 

Peeta relaxes in his chair too, “Thank you, Katniss.You didn’t have to say that, specially because you don’t know me. It still means a lot.”

I chew the inside of my lip, calculating stuff in my head. “You’re right, I don’t know you, but I consider myself an okay judge of character.” He opened this door, it’s time for me to walk through it, “Can I ask you some stuff?” I ask innocently.

Peeta arches his eyebrows. “Shoot,” he says. 

“How old are you?” 

“45. I’m sorry. I knew you were young last night… I just didn’t quite grasp just how young,” his eyes shift downwards, sheepish and uncomfortable. 

“I’m an adult. I’ve been the head of my family for years. At this point, age is irrelevant for me.” I state, dismissively.

“What about your family?” He asks, tilting his head sideways.

It takes me a minute to answer. I cross my arms over my stomach, and exhale, “It’s been only Primrose and I for five years now. My mother had cancer. My father passed when I was eleven.” I rock in my chair, slightly, “That’s why my sister was being such a clingy bitch last night. She can’t bear to lose anyone else. Neither can I for that matter.”

Peeta leans forward on his desk. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Katniss.”

I sit back, feeling like a huge weight just got lifted off my shoulders. “It’s okay, really. I’m back in school, about to finish my last semester, Prim is doing great in university, the only debt we have right now is Prim’s car and my Target card… we are actually okay,” I smile, meekly at him. 

“That’s… that’s good, Katniss. Admirable, really.”

“Peeta?” I start cautiously, “Would you really remove yourself from the class because of me?” 

He looks me right in the eye, sincerity emanating fro his eyes. “Absolutely. Without hesitation. As soon as you leave, I’ll email my Head of Department, explaining my situation. Don’t worry, I won’t mention any names or details—“

I shake my head, vehemently. 

Peeta squints, studying me cautiously, measuring me. 

“Please… stay with me…” 

Something in my tone catches his attention, and he eyes me curiously. “I’ve already told you why I can’t,” he says, almost soothingly. 

I stand up. Go around my chair, and drop back down into it. I start shaking my leg nervously. “I had this feeling in my gut since last night. Like I lost something precious, I just couldn’t put a finger on it… I still can’t, to be honest. All I know, in my loins, is that I can’t let you step down from your position, and I sure as hell won’t walk away on you without figuring out what this…” I wiggle my fingers, pointing to the mouth of my stomach, “feeling is about.”

He stares at me. 

I stand up again, and this time I just pace, to the wall with the pictures, and stare at a bunch of faces, too similar to Peeta’s not to be related to him somehow. 

“I know I’m not making sense, but I just needed to say that.”

He watches me for a long beat, weighing his options no doubt, before answering, “I can’t be your teacher, Katniss…” he sighs, and rubs his forehead, “because I’m afraid seeing you every week, without being able to touch you will be absolute torture.”

“Really?” I bite my lip, giving him an open once over, not feeling one iota self conscious about. “How come?” 

Peeta huffs, avoiding my eyes. “I’d be wondering what your breasts look like the whole time.” He confesses, flatly. “I didn’t get a chance to see them last night, and it kept me awake an indecent amount of time.” He twists his lips, “I’m gonna be pinning the whole semester, whether you’re in the classroom or not, craving the taste of your juices in my tongue, and worse of all, I’ll probably embarrass myself, giving me involuntary hard on’s just fantasizing about you.”

I practically prowl towards him. “You poor thing,” I coo, pouting. “Would you go home to masturbate on the soiled pair of panties I left behind on that dirty, bathroom floor?” I ask… more like, purr, really. 

Peeta chuffs out an incredulous laugh, covering his face with both hands. He grunts, “Aw, fuck! That sounds so… it’s probably exactly what could happen. I’d try to stay professional in the classroom, but in the privacy of my home…” he chuckles weakly, shaking his head.

“What kind of fantasies are we entertaining here?” I ask, invested, and sit on the corner of his desk. 

Peeta thins out his mouth, “Katniss… that’s a slippery slope you’re trying to climb,” he warns.

“Humor me?” I cajole. 

He takes a stuttering breath. “I’ll bring you into this office, same way I did today, except I’ll rip your clothes off, throw you on the desk and take you hard and fast. From behind.” 

I can’t stop a small sound at the back of my throat, nor the need to rub my thighs together. 

I clear my throat, “I expect you’d want to fuck me on every surface in this office?”

Peeta pulls on the collar of his shirt, his face turning crimson, “And probably the lecture hall as well,” he adds conversationally. 

I nod, scooting closer to where he sits. “I’m curious too you know. I didn’t get to see ‘any’ part of you naked. But my muscles still are deliciously sore from last night. A girl has to wonder… just how big a dick has to be to cause so much wreckage?” 

It doesn’t take much effort at all to work him up. Peeta’s pants are tented in what looks like the most uncomfortable erection ever; he shifts in his chair to try and hide the effect my words have on him, yet, his hands remain folded on his lap, white knuckled with the effort of keeping himself in check. He’s really committed not to touch me while I’m still his student, but he rasps a question, full of concern. 

“Did I hurt you?” His eyes search me, earnestly. “I’m sorry I was too rough, really,”

My heart gives a little somersault. “No, Peeta. You were pure perfection. I loved how you handled me.”

His lips twitch, and I’m amazed at how expressive his face is, even partially hidden under his near facial hair. “You said you were hungry last night before you got on your knees…” I murmur, “I think, next time I’ll return the favor,”

“Next time?”

I slide closer to him, but we both keep our hands to ourselves.

I lick my lips, resisting the urge to drop on my knees between his legs and gobble up his cock. I didn’t lie about wanting to see him in all his naked glory, but I can show the same level of restraint he does; I respect him for trying to keep a moral and ethical compass.

I smirk at him, slyly. “Are you sure you wanna abandon your post as my professor, now that my education is on the balance? We can wait a handful of months, Doctor Mellark… I promise not to tease you,” With that, I mean, I promise not to aggravate what could potentially be the worst case of blue balls in the history of slow burns.

Peeta hisses a mirthless chuckle, “You’re too much of a temptation, even if you don’t actively try teasing me, Katniss,”

I start playing with the end of my braided, dark hair. “You know what I’m most really looking forward to, from when I’m no longer your student?” I pose, shyly, “Going to that dinner you mentioned last night.” I shrug one shoulder. “I’ll let you buy me a stack of pancakes to celebrate my graduation. I’ll probably introduce you to my sister, Primrose… and we’d go from there… if you wanted to…”

Peeta smiles, disarmingly. “I’d love that too, Miss Everdeen.” He says quietly.

I let go of my braid, and hug myself, “Stay in the class?” I practically beg one last time. “We can do it, I know we can. We can have a platonic, completely innocent teacher-student relationship until I’m done with college,”

Peeta shakes his head. “We’ll see after I talk to my head of department. Who knows, maybe all the schedules are already locked in place, and I have no other choice but to stay put. There’s no guarantee a replacement is available for me.”

“We’ll make it work!” I say enthusiastically. 

“Maybe…” he sighs, not entirely convinced. 

I pull my phone out of my pocket to check the time. Time is running out, I gotta get to the pharmacy before my window of opportunity closes. 

“Hey, Peeta… um, invasive, weird question?” 

I wait for him to nod.

“Have you by any chance, have gotten a vasectomy at any point?” 

“Mmm no, never had. Why?”

Aw shit! 

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Hopefully no reason.” I say quickly, too nonchalant for my own good, and he catches on it, I can see the gears turning in his brain, “Okay,” I make a big show of yawning and stretching my arms, “I have to run some errands before going home and crashing for the night.”

Peeta cringes, “Are you… okay? Really, okay? You said you were sore?” His eyes rove over my face full of concern. 

“I’m fine,” I smile, “nothing a long soaking in Epsom salts can’t cure.”

“Okay,” he says, unsure. “I don’t want to overstep any worse than I already have, but… I’ve been anxious, wondering if you were alright, if you got home fine to your sister since you left the club. Which, obviously you did… but, I wanted to kick myself for not asking your number, just to be able to check on you… and this is frown upon, a d completely unethical, but—“

“I’ll email you,” I say quickly. “Nothing explicit. But I’ll let you know I’m home and okay.” I’ve spoken to people in code before, this shouldn’t be a problem, and really, sending my professor an email with a time stamp and some innocuous question about the syllabus doesn’t have to be nefarious at all. 

“Alright… Just let me know if there’s anything wrong, okay? I swear this won’t become a routine thing or anything, just this time, to give me peace of mind, and because it is late… and well, yesterday…”

“It’s fine, professor. I don’t mind. And… everything will work out,” I say shouldering my bag and pocketing my phone, “everything will work out, even if my Plan B doesn’t,” I smile and scurry out the door, before the puzzlement in his face has time to settle. 

After all, a semester is only 15 weeks long, give or take… that’s plenty of time to figure things out. 

[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 →