#Kurt is cold and distant and cruel!!!!

[pellicient]

i find it so profoundly fucked up that humans treat each other so badly that every failed relationship is turned into a lesson, another chapter in a book of ‘what not to do.’ a lesson of not to trust, of keeping our guards up and our hearts closed off, of no second chances, to keep the things that make us who we are hidden. our casual lack of compassion for other people, for their hearts and their happiness, is startling and heartbreaking. instead of learning to understand each other we grow further and further apart until we can’t even recognize ourselves anymore. because it’s so much easier to stop trusting people, to lose faith in people, than to let our hearts break over and over, than to let that hurt back into our lives. instead of teaching each other how to love without bounds, we’ve only taught each other that love is some distant fairytale reserved for novels and sappy movies. your best friend turns into a stranger, the man you loved turned into the biggest mistake you ever made, a lesson against being vulnerable, and the next time a chance for something good comes around, you’re too scared to think it’s real, that it will last. the way we treat each other is turning the softest of hearts hard and cold, the sweetest of souls sour and wary. it’s becoming so damn difficult to be comfortable with caring about someone, so feel safe and secure in love and friendship, to not worry about when it’s going to end.

so this is a message to every wonderful person who keeps smiling and loving despite the heartache. i wish we could all be like you, not letting the cruelness of this world take your heart away. i urge you all to refuse to let the bad in this world keep you from loving relentlessly. caring about people, being kind, giving a little bit of yourself when we’re all so accustomed to taking. i’m so sick of this idea that being good and gentle and kind is some sort of weakness. i beg every person who reads this to love and care and cry when you need to. help the world be a little better, a little happier; help us all move a little closer together.

“be soft. do not let the world make you hard. do not let the pain make you hate. do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. take pride that though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.” -kurt vonnegut

#i was thinking about this on my walk into town and now i'm literally sitting in a cafe on the verge of tears while i write it #im so sick of everyone being mean and heartless and unkind #i am OVER IT!!!!!!! #just fucking be nice like it's not hard

[shalebridge-cradle]

Crash, Bang

(Happy Holiday Season. Are you ready to s u f f e r ?)

Veronica doesn’t remember much. A crash. A bang. Black.

She wakes to a blurry red. Heather Chandler, standing over her. She’s not surprised, at this point – Heather had proven many times that even death won’t stop her from bitching. There’s something unfamiliar in her eyes, though, Veronica notes as she scrambles to her feet (and wonders how she got on the floor in the first place).

“Look at me,” Heather commands. Veronica pulls a face – she is looking at her. Examining her is looking. Jaw clenched, lips pursed, Veronica would think that it’s anger on Chandler’s face, if she hadn’t seen anger so many times to know it isn’t.

“Your diary. Get your diary.”

Heather steps to one side, giving Veronica room to move. From her position in her closet (there’s a metaphor there, but Veronica had never been one for acting things out), she looks over her ruined room.

“What happened?” Veronica asks. Heather looks like she’s about to answer, but decides against it at the last second.

“I’ll tell you later. Your diary is on your desk still. Turn to October 12th, and I’ll explain.”

Veronica wanders over to her desk, and she can feel Chandler’s eyes following her. The diary is open, today’s entry unfinished. She can’t remember why, and it’s really starting to bug her.

“October 12th,” Heather repeats, and Veronica rolls her eyes as she turns the pages. Slowly but surely, she winds the clock back to the middle of October. What happened that day that was so important, anyway…?

Oh.

That was the day of Kurt and Ram’s funeral.

That was the entry where she revealed JD had killed three people, and that the guilt was – is – eating away at her.

This is the entry Chandler wanted to see.

Why?

“Good,” Heather hums from behind her, “it’s important for the cops to see that.”

“Cops?” there’s a pang of dread, creeping up her throat like vines.

Heather sighs, and takes Veronica’s hand.

She shouldn’t be able to do that. Shit, she hasn’t been able to do that, all of her slaps and caresses passing through Veronica with the chill of a winter wind. The fact that Heather is touching her, and the fact that she doesn’t feel ice cold against Veronica’s skin means…

It hits her. Crash. Bang.

Dead.

Veronica sinks to the floor, drained, and Heather’s voice fades into the background.

  The Westerburg gym doesn’t end up exploding.

Everyone’s out of the football field, and the reality seemingly hasn’t set in for most of the students. The cops and the bomb squad have come and gone, and Heather snarks about how they actually did their job, this time.

“How are you so calm about this?” Veronica asks. Heather scoffs.

“Nothing I can do about it. Might as well make the most of it. Simple as that.”

Veronica scans the crowd, bereft of a witty response. She sees a few familiar faces – Peter Dawson animatedly talking to Dennis from the school newspaper. Courtney looking like she’s seen a ghost (and Veronica briefly wonders if she has).

The most important thing is that Martha is there, alive. Leaning over one side of the motorized wheelchair is Heather McNamara, egged on by Betty Finn (Veronica remembers this girl, she gives good answers in the lunchtime poll), and whatever McNamara’s saying is bringing a smile to Martha’s face. Maybe they’re bonding over their suicide attempts, Veronica muses, and she hates herself for thinking it. On the other side was the ghost of Ram Sweeney, looking oddly contemplative. Veronica wouldn’t have thought him capable.

Her focus returns to herself. She feels empty. Hollow. Maybe if everyone had blown up, maybe at least she’d be overwhelmed with anguish and anger and guilt instead of this suffocating nothing.

Seemingly in response to this, Heather gently takes her hand.

“Put it this way,” it’s almost a whisper, and yet Veronica can hear her clear as day over the ocean of voices, “there’s no expectations anymore. No obligations. Five million dollars and a world that’s ending. What do you want to do?”

I want to feel.

Veronica grabs Heather Chandler by the waist and pulls her in for a kiss.

Heather kisses back.

  Veronica attends her own funeral.

There’s an unexpectedly large turnout – the pews at the front were reserved for people who actually knew Veronica, instead of just immediate family members. There are distant relatives, classmates from years past, people from around town and at least two cameramen in the back row.

Heather is scowling.

“There’s at least seventy more people here than there were at my funeral,” she grumbles, and Veronica chuckles darkly.

Father Ripper gives his speech, and Veronica has to admire his ability to turn anyone into a martyr. He speaks of guilt and absolution in the eyes of God, and how Veronica’s dedication to recording everything led police to save hundreds of lives.

He says nothing about her being an accessory to murder. It hangs in the air like a bad stench.

When the coffin is brought to the cemetery and Veronica Sawyer is put in the ground, there’s a finality to it all that breaks her. She hugs herself, trying desperately to hold herself together, to keep all her memories and quirks and her identity from falling into the grave.

Heather tries to help her, but all Veronica can do is babble about how everything’s like a dream and she’s forgotten how to breathe and I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead plays over and over in her head.

“I know,” Heather murmurs, her voice like rain on a raging fire, “I know. I know.”

There’s no point in lying to Veronica, now.

  She visits her murderer in prison.

It’s like a thread, Veronica decides. Something tying them together, tugging at her when she thinks of him, but nothing so strong that she can’t ignore it.

Jason Dean gazes up at her from the floor of his solitary confinement cell with a look of awe, not fear.

“I was fixing it,” he tells her, and even he seems a little unconvinced at the statement, “Everyone gets along in heaven. You wouldn’t have to be stuck with Queen Bitch and her lackeys for eternity if everyone’s with you.”

“You killed me.” There’s an unnatural echo to Veronica’s voice. JD shies away, just slightly.

“I was winning you over with my petition, I know it. It was such a great plan. Still, I…” he pauses, and emotion reaches his eyes for what may be the first time, “I got a little, ah, heated, and my finger was on the trigger when I opened the door. A slip of the hand.”

There’s a distinct lack of apology in the statement.

Veronica leans over him. Studying him closely for a moment.

Then, without warning, she shoves her hand through his skull, and JD yells at what Veronica is sure is a very familiar sensation.

“You had a choice, Dean,” she growls, and there’s a flash of unbridled rage in JD’s eyes at the mention of that name, “You could have been more. More than just a copy of your dad with a messiah complex. But you’ve made your decision.”

Veronica pulls away, and gives JD, the lost, lonely boy once last glance.

“Now you’re left alone with your thoughts. I hope they eat you alive.”

Veronica vanishes, and the cell melts away before her eyes, replaced by the somber greys and greens of the Sherwood Cemetery.

Heather is waiting for her.

  Heather McNamara contacts her a few months later.

Veronica never really pictured the head cheerleader as an occult nut. Then again, there’s a lot of things people didn’t know about her, Veronica muses as McNamara, Martha and Betty set up the Ouija board. And candles. Like that will help the process, somehow.

The first question is from Martha.

“Why?”

Veronica feels the cold sting of regret as Chandler scoffs from the corner of the room. There’s a lot of things that word could mean – Why did you cover up the deaths of Heather, and Kurt, and Ram? Why did you stay with Jason Dean?

Why did you lie to me? Why were you so cruel?

It’s a good thing the answer is always the same. Veronica grabs the marker and moves it around the board.

A.F.R.A.I.D.

Weren’t they all?

  By turning the pages of her diary, and moving the wooden marker, Veronica deduces she can interact with some things, but not others.

She says as much to Heather. Chandler nods, understanding, and then that same something Veronica saw on the day she died creeps onto Heather’s face.

It comes out like a confession. “I tried to pull the pen out of your hands, when you were writing my suicide note. That did nothing, obviously. I tried talking to my parents, to Heather, to get someone to notice me, but the only person who heard was you.” Heather pauses. “Sorry. For what I said.”

“No big deal. I deserved it.” Veronica pushes on when Heather opens her mouth to interrupt, “What can you touch? Or, y’know, interact with? Anything?”

Heather thinks for a moment.

“Mirrors,” she says slowly, “All the ones in my house broke after my funeral, when I was yelling at my mom to listen. I think Heather Duke saw me once in the girls’ bathroom, too.”

Veronica nods, connecting the dots in her head.

  Veronica experimentally picks up Martha’s pen. Hypothesis confirmed. Objects connected to her in life.

She knows Martha won’t come up to her bedroom anytime soon – there’s too much animated discussion from downstairs, excited voices floating through Veronica’s ears as she writes. McNamara and Betty have come over for an evening of swashbuckling and true love. Veronica knows at least McNamara hasn’t seen The Princess Bride, since every accidental reference Veronica made flew straight over her head.

She has to make a conscious effort not to go downstairs and join them. It’s not her place anymore, she tells herself. Back to the task at hand.

She’s always been good with words. Even Chandler had grudgingly thanked her for the suicide note (god, that was fucked up), but Martha had been there for Veronica as long as she could remember. She deserved art.

Veronica writes in Martha’s history book. She says she’s sorry for everything she unwittingly put Martha through, for being self-centered and murderous and awful. She says she doesn’t know if life is different after high school, and that she never will, but for Martha’s sake she hopes that life outside Sherwood is better for her, and for her new friends. She tells Martha to keep them close, but to let Veronica go.

There’s a voice from behind her.

“Can you tell her that I’m sorry?” Ram Sweeney asks meekly. Veronica had almost forgotten about him. “I was shitty to her, and I get that now.”

“I’ll consider it.”

She does. Maybe it’ll give him closure, she rationalizes. Maybe then he and Kurt could move on. Maybe they can do all the things Ram’s father said he would.

Maybe she could move on, too.

 (She doesn’t.)

  It gets easier.

Veronica figures some things out. Heather makes a game of scaring the shit out of Country Club Courtney (“I’m trying to make her a better person. I’m scaring her straight.” Veronica doesn’t believe her, but plays along anyway.) Veronica spends most of her time reading books over Heather Duke’s shoulder or drawing on Ms. Fleming’s blackboard. Heather gives her a backhanded compliment on her artistic talent, and Veronica giggles as she wipes the pictures away.

Sometimes Heather holds her, or she holds Heather, because one or the other just remembered what it’s like to die. They keep each other grounded.

The Class of 1990 graduates, short five members. Then the Class of ’91, ’92, and so on. Fleming retires. Gowan resigns.

The world moves on around them, and they stay the same.

It never gets better. Just easier.

#the cradle will write #heathers #chansaw #downplayed #angst #more movie than musical but neither really

[stunudo]

That Got Away: A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction Part 10

Inspired by: Katy Perry’s “The One That Got Away”

Union Pulse’s “Better Days”

Featuring: Spencer Reid x Reader   Setting: Season 4   Rating:  Teen

A/N:  My poor characters! xoxo Stu    Warnings: Violence

I do not own the characters from the show, images or lyrics.

Part 1  Part 8 Part 9

“Finally, you have caught on, Dr. Reid.” Miriam Y/L/N responded over the line. “Now, if you look to the monitor on your right, you will find the thorn in my side. You will also see my “errand girl” as you called her.”

Spencer spun in the security desk’s chair, watching the basement room that was holding Y/N. Another woman had enter the stonewalled room, she was practically prancing toward Y/N. Spencer could see his lover’s mouth speaking to the unsub, the recognition blatant on her features. His stomach felt like it was digesting itself. “Now that you lost JJ, you don’t need to threaten Y/N. Miriam?” Spencer started. “I will come quietly.”

“Oh, I know you will, Dr. Reid.” Miriam mused. “No, this is for your team. They need to learn that deals should not be disrespected.”

The mail carrier unsub approached Y/N, slapping her across her already bruised face. The devilish woman grabbed Y/N’s hair, pulling her up so her eyes peered into the camera hidden high in the rafters. The woman’s dark hair and cruel eyes shone back at the BAU, a clear, “Say Cheese!” on her lips. Spencer swallowed. The unsub wrenched Y/N right arm behind her back, shoving her back to the floor.

JJ ground her teeth and pushed against the barrier above the ladder. The grating of stone on metal muted the sounds of her strained breathing, the mechanical whirling and the distant chatter. It was the size and shape of a man hole cover, but JJ could tell it wasn’t leading to the street.

With an extra boost of effort, she lifted and slid the capstone aside. A rubber mat shifted with the stone, masking it from view. Her strong arms pulled her body over the threshold, on to the next floor. She was in a service closet, only 16 square feet of floor space. JJ tried the rectangular door handle, it was graciously unlocked. Upon exiting, she knew exactly where she was. She stared at the central elevators, just off the hotel lobby. She was free!

She ran to the concierge desk to get to a phone to call somebody down. Once she reached the desk, she heard Emily’s voice.

“Yeah, Morgan, the leader of the team is the aunt. Apparently, the plane ticket purchased for tomorrow was part of their ruse.”

“Emily!” JJ called, stumbling around the desk toward her friend. Prentiss caught JJ as she spun in surprise.

“Morgan, JJs here. I’ve got her.”

By now I've seen what I had not before Love's just like any drug, you need more and more It starts with a rush, then it slows to a drag

And before too long we all just pack our bags

“But it’s so unfair!” Y/N whined into the phone. “Sir-sir, please say you’ll write to me, like last year, but all the mushy stuff this time.”

He could hear she was holding back tears by making absurdly obvious requests. Spencer was oddly quiet on his end of the line. He was cooking dinner, while his mom was holed up in her room. Luckily the phone cord gave him enough length to pivot around the kitchen.

“Was he angry with you, Y/N? Did he yell at you? Because I never wanted you to get in trouble.” Spencer clarified, overthinking and assuming her experience of the conversation with Dr. Y/L/N must have been worse than his; more punishment and threatening than slight shame and gentle authority.

“No, he was serious, but he wasn’t mad at all.” Y/N pouted. “He was civil and logical, it was infuriating.”

Spencer actually laughed, “Yes, well leave it to Graham to be to the point. And naturally your temper was ignited instead of sound counterarguments.” His fondness for their family was only hindered by this impending parting. His understanding of their personalities and small family unit an enthralling account of the social interactionist perspective. Also, a warped mirror image of his own small family. While Y/N had stability and authority with her father, Spencer had uncertainty and a reverse care giving scenario with his mother.

“When can I see you?” Spencer whispered, knowing this was shortening their rattling conversation.

“I don’t know.” She admitted, “He took my keys, so I can’t drive the Volkswagen, just pack it up. I don’t think it is a good idea for you to come over, though I want you, here, I mean.” She was rambling and oversharing, Spencer could picture the embarrassment on her face.

“Alright, call me when he gets back,” Spencer sighed. “I will try to stop over tonight, but my mom gets worse as the day goes on.”

“Sir-sir, just come, okay?” She was sniffling audibly now.

“I will do my best.” Spencer vowed. “Later, Y/N/N.”

“Bye, mon chevalier.”

The force with which your face hit the floor, blurred your vision. You knew a concussion was in store, but were not sure if Michelle was done with you yet. After a few minutes laying there and taking the beating, you decided to try and fight back. Though you had absolutely no idea how to fight. Swinging wildly, you punched her in the stomach. She easily dodged your obvious attack, palming your forehead and pushing you back to the cold ground.

The vertigo was sending waves of nausea through your dehydrated body. You tried to stand, but leaned back on to the wall in temporary defeat. You attempted to calm your breathing to fight back against the bile. Your heart rate accelerated as it anticipated another attack.

“Why?” You gasped. “Why are you helping her, Michelle?!”

There stood your old friend: all five feet eight inches of tri- athletic muscle and pure mental instability. You hadn’t seen her in at least seven years, but by the way her mouth curled at your question; she wasn’t having one of her “good” days.

But in another life I would be your girl We'd keep all our promises Be us against the world

You had called Spencer three times. The phone kept ringing and after your second message on their generic machine, you had given up. He had warned you that his mom was bad at night. You knew he had way more to deal with than just your leaving town. Your mind knew all these clear and sound explanations. Yet all hope of a romantic send off from your first love was vanishing like the Athena Parthenos.

You moped through a few games of Backgammon with your dad. You finished the laundry you had started after your tantrum the night before. You forced yourself to go through the motions of preparations, but your mind always settled on a bony boy who had too many thoughts in his head.

You fell asleep with the windows open, just in case he thought to sneak into the yard and be all Leo as Romeo romantic. Spencer probably hadn’t seen the seminal Baz Luhrman adaptation, but your love-laced heart still could dream.

You were woken by the smell of sausages on the griddle. Breakfast was in progress and morning had arrived. No Spencer. No sad goodbye. Just no.

Spencer was completely focused on the ordeal that her aunt was putting Y/N through. The younger female unsub was beating her, leaving her staggering around the small box of cement they held her inside. His brown eyes were scrunched, his hand flitting between his neck and his chin as he held the phone to his ear determinedly.

“Miriam, that is enough. We are all very much aware what you two are capable of.” Spencer’s voice cracked as his tone leveled. “Where shall I meet you?”

Hotch stood in front of the panel of screens, blocking Spencer from view of the cells. One empty, one very occupied. “Out of the question, Reid.”

“Dr. Reid, I believe Agent Jareau can show you the way down. No weapons. No tricks and no wires. Understood young man?” Miriam barked her conditions haughtily.

“You forget we don’t have JJ,” Spencer spat back, closing his eyes in annoyance.

“No, Dr. Reid, Agent Prentiss is coddling her as we speak.” Miriam tutted. “I’ll be seeing you shortly.”

Like any love song, he won't soon forget He just might take his time paying off the debt

Spencer was asleep between two cushion-less hospital chairs. His mother had a violent episode the night before and had managed to mangle his bike into some bushes. The E.R. doctors had let him stay with her as her injuries were minor. They held her for observation, awaiting her doctor’s evaluation that morning.

When the morning nurse came in to check on Diana, Spence awoke, falling all over himself and on to the floor. After gracelessly standing, he listened as the nurse quietly soothed Diana’s alarm at Spencer’s fall. “I’m fine Mom,” Spencer’s eyes held hers. He scratched the back of his head when he noticed the clock on the wall. 8:23am. Y/N was already gone. He had missed her.

Spencer sat down and cried in frustration. His life never felt more unfair than it did that sunny morning in August.

The entire team had retreated to the conference room where Derek had been assigned to much of the day. Hotch had Detective Chang manning the security desk and Y/N’s prison footage. The evidence boards were up and thorough, considering Morgan’s limited access to the previous boards held at Pasadena PD. JJ was guzzling water and refusing paramedics. Rossi had already ordered room service to be delivered for the whole team. The idea of a last meal crossed through Spencer’s mind, but his confidence in himself and the team remained intact.

“JJ, where were you being held?” Hotch began once the chaos of her return had subsided.

JJ sighed, “Literally below ground. I climbed up into the custodian’s closet across from the main elevators. I am guessing whoever set this up knows the building or the surrounding ones better than we do.”

“The Unsub is Miriam Y/L/N, Y/N’s aunt.” Spencer confided in his resilient friend.

“What?!” JJ balked, “I tackled the aunt? What does she have against Y/N? And you for that matter?”

“We still don’t know.” Rossi admitted, walking to the evidence boards. “We still have no Kurt Hansen. The mail-lady is also muscle as Reid and Hotch witnessed her rough up Y/N just now. Miriam Y/L/N is a wealthy, sixty-year-old, retired teacher. What pushed them to commit murder and a double kidnapping?”

Spencer crossed the room to his messenger bag, rifling through his notes from the station. He paused as his fingers caressed the soft lace of Y/N’s panties. In his rush to get her into the shower that morning he had forgotten them in her hiding spot. Her mischievousness made him ache for her, a hollowness encased his chest.

Spencer cleared his throat, returning to the case. “I believe the other woman is Michelle Braxton. She was contacted about the funeral shortly after Miriam was, as they were in the same area code.”

“So who is she, Reid?” Morgan held his hands apart waiting for the explanation.

“She grew up next door to Y/N’s aunt and the two of them became close the summer of ‘99″ Spencer explained.

“Wasn’t Y/N in Pasadena that summer,” Morgan verified. “With you?”

Spencer shook his head at Morgan, exasperated. “It doesn’t matter why she was in San Francisco, it just matters that Michelle Braxton had all the markers for a resentful stalker, then. Just imagine what she is capable of, now.”

“If the kids goes down there, we have nothing they want. They have all the cards.” Rossi looks to Hotch.

“That’s why I am not giving him clearance to go.” Hotch agreed.

“Hotch, I am not going to stand here and watch them torture Y/N.” Spencer’s voice raised. “Not when I can do something about it.”

The room reeked of tension and testosterone. Emily’s concerned face floated its gaze from one team member to the other. “JJ, is there any other way we can get SWAT down there?”

“Not without the unsubs hearing them coming, besides there was only one way in and no doorknob on this side of the door. Breaking it down would give them plenty notice.”

“There has to be another way in though,” Rossi countered. “Didn’t Garcia say Kurt Hansen used a luggage trolley to move JJ and Y/N from the penthouse?”

Morgan nodded. “There has to be elevator access.”

Part 11

@sparkle-dinosaur, @dontshootmespence @reiding-and-writing @speedreiding @reid-my-fortune @sapphire1727 @holagubler @cherry-loves-fanfic @lookingforgalifrey @miss-gleek-freak-geek @criminal-minds-fanfiction @reidbyers @sortaathief @imagicana @milkandcookies528

#Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfictions #spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer imagine #teen angst #stu #poor y/n #union pulse #sorry james #katy perry #vw #ouch my heart #am i going too fast?