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masterwords · 3 years

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Okay, Hotchgan for you (I’m anti Mortch but that’s not why I’m here)

I’ve had this idea of like the two of them having an argument because the team doesn’t know about them and Derek wants to tell them but Aaron doesn’t. So anyway, they argue, and Morgan says he wants a break to work out priorities. Hotch just retreats into his old ways, spends long nights in the office, forgets to eat, anxiety through the roof except when he’s in the field, because . Low key just depressed Aaron but handling it by blocking everyone out. He purposely doesn’t pair himself up with Morgan and avoids him other than strict work things.

Would be super keen for you to maybe write this? With a happy ending. Idk I just wanted someone else to hurt over these two.

Hi! UGH This is too good, and I am really sorry that I took this and turned it into a whole ass novel but here we are.

(On the note of Mortch vs Hotchgan, and entirely lighthearted...I'm all in on both, honestly. Because like, yeah, Hotchgan just sounds nicer. I dig it. But I am in the camp that believes the dominant person's name should come first in a ship and for me...that's Morgan. Plus Mortch totally sounds gross and I am very immature and like that for some reason. I have zero real preference, basically. I use them interchangeably.)

ANYWAY. Thank you for this idea, it broke my heart to the point that I picked out a 3 episode arc to exploit for my own selfish purposes. (S10 - Beyond Borders, A Place at the Table, Mr. Scratch) I hope it lives up to the painful image you had in your head! (And yes...it takes a while to get there but we do have a happy ending.) I appreciate you sharing with me and trusting me with it!

Warnings: Grief, death, blood, some swearing

Words: 5248 (OOPS????)

Shades of Shame

The sun cast her early dawn glow over the island, throwing pools of gold through the blinds. Morgan lay stretched out in bed, the sheet draped over his midsection carelessly while he slept. Hotch couldn't help watching him, keeping his eyes trained on the way the sunlight filtered in and danced on his skin. He was Adonais, he was Achilles, he was everything. Hotch wanted to crawl back into the bed, lock the door, pretend they were in Barbados on vacation. Sleeping in the same bed, sharing his room while Morgan's went untouched two floors below them felt about as close to a vacation as they'd ever had.

(And dangerous, it had required careful planning on their parts to start and end their days.) He peeked through the blinds, drank in the crystal blue water glittering on the horizon and sighed. That they were here to catch a murderer, not bask in the sun with their toes in the sand really said a lot about all of them. He would never have had occasion to come here otherwise, he could barely manage a quick weekend trip up to New York to visit his brother.

“We're not due downstairs for an hour,” Morgan whispered, his voice gravelly, thick with the luxury of sleep. Hotch smiled and turned around, grabbing his shoes from the corner before taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

“I know,” he replied, slipping his shoes on. “My stomach is a little upset this morning, I'm going to go find something to eat that isn't deep fried or greasy.” Morgan rolled over, slipped his arms around Hotch's waist and kissed him, pressed his face into the soft curve of his hip. A year ago Hotch would never have admitted that he wasn't feeling great, would have kept it to himself but he was doing his best to be more open since collapsing in front of his team at work. It was an arduous process, one he hated with every fiber of his being but he hated what had happened more so he dealt with it. Morgan knew all of this, so he made it a point to acknowledge it every time with some reward, in this case a kiss. Simple and effective.

“You're okay?”

“Travel doesn't always agree with me,” Hotch shrugged, leaning into Morgan's embrace. He could afford a few extra minutes for that. “I'm fine.” And he was, it was just nerves. An overseas case with a team he greatly respected but hadn't ever worked so closely with, all of them looking to him for guidance. Leaving Jack with Jessica on the mainland, splitting up his own team between Barbados and home. He tried to share the weight, he'd taken Morgan and Rossi with him for that very purpose, they could bear his loads when they got too heavy but splitting up his team and relying on people he didn't work with every day was a challenge and it was manifesting itself in a small but irritating way that could, if ignored, become a much bigger problem. He was hungry, he was doing a better job of listening to his body, but he'd seen the hotel's breakfast options and he knew it was a recipe for disaster. They cooked to appease American tourists and that meant hoards of eggs and bacon and fried potatoes, heavy food that would make him sick all day. He couldn't handle that kind of food anymore.

“There's a little coffee stand in the lobby,” Morgan said, his face still pressed against Hotch's hip. “They had tea and fruit salad and these incredible croissants. Simmons and I got coffee there yesterday, waited in line behind a group of grannies who ordered yogurt parfaits. You'll fit right in.”

“Very funny,” Hotch muttered, peeling Morgan off of him to stand up and adjust the collar of his polo. He was already sweating. He didn't mind heat or humidity, in fact he rather liked both, but it was awfully early in the day for his shirt to be sticking to him, for sweat to pool at the small of his back. Especially when they had the A/C on in their room.

“Are you happy?” Morgan asked, his face turning serious all of a sudden as he watched Hotch attempt to tame his unruly hair in the mirror. The sweat was helping to weigh it down but did nothing to make it stay in the right place, a constant source of amusement to Morgan.

“Of course,” he replied apprehensively. His neck flushed beneath the collar of his shirt and he didn't turn around, not yet. There was a sudden shift in the mood of the room, it made him uneasy. He had an idea of where the conversation was headed, they'd been skirting the issue for a while now, Hotch was the king of deflecting. There was nowhere to go, now. Nowhere to hide. He leaned on the dresser and peered closely at the lines around his eyes, an easy distraction while Morgan reloaded, prepared to fire.

“I am too,” Morgan said, sitting up slowly. The sheet pooled in his lap, left very little to the imagination. Hotch tried not to be so obvious when his eyes fell on Morgan's hips. “So what's stopping us from sharing that with the people we love?”

“Your family knows,” Hotch offered softly. “Jessica and Jack...Sean...my mother...”

“You know what I meant.”

“Derek,” Hotch said, turning on his heel. He leaned against the dresser, affecting a much more casual stance and training his eyes on something that wasn't as distracting as Morgan. “I don't know Cruz that well yet. You and I are in violation of fraternization rules, we could lose our jobs. If it was Strauss, I would...” he let his voice trail off, cast his eyes down at the pattern in the carpet. There was no way he came out of this conversation unscathed. “The team would understand, but...it doesn't look good to anyone who doesn't know us, doesn't know that I would never abuse my power, you must know that. I just think we need to be cautious.”

“Cautious, got it.” Morgan was snappy, he pulled the sheet up over his chest and covered himself with it. The message wasn't lost on Hotch. “I think I'll sleep in my own room tonight. Wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression, think I was sleeping with the boss to get the fancy room perks.”

...

The late spring days gave way to early summer, pollen coating everything in its thick, yellow haze. Hotch was living in an antihistamine fueled nightmare, pumping himself full of twice as much coffee and tea as usual just to combat the drowsy feeling he was plagued with from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning. They'd returned from Barbados the week prior but there had been no rest, no reconciliation. He was pouring himself harder into work to compensate for his sudden lack of a personal life, filling the void with case files and research papers, anything that could keep his mind focused on one thing. To avoid the comments, he was making sure he left on time every day with his briefcase and his bag full of plenty to occupy him well into the night. It helped keep Jack from asking questions too, if he was so busy at work it made sense that Morgan wasn't coming around. Emails crossed Rossi's desk at 2am with changes to his guest lecture schedule, budget request forms for Penelope with all sorts of questions at 3:30am. It was frustrating, but he was well known on the team for having suffered from bouts of intense insomnia, usually it only lasted a week or two but this seemed to be stretching on forever and none of them could seem to figure out why, what had happened. At work he sounded fine, happy even, was looking forward to a day off to chaperone Jack's class at the Air & Space Museum. He and Reid had talked about it to the point where everyone else would find a reason to leave the room, so whenever anyone got their middle of the night email from Hotch who should have been asleep they were given cause to wonder how bad things must be that they couldn't even read him.

“You good?” Rossi asked one night, a bottle of scotch and two glasses in hand. “You seem...”

“I'm fine,” Hotch interrupted, hardly wanting to hear from Rossi what he seemed. He knew what he was, what Rossi would have to say. Rossi inclined his head, placed the cups on the table and poured a few fingers of the amber liquid. He gave Hotch the glass with more, thought he looked like he could use it.

“Is Jack alright? Tomorrow is museum day, right?”

“We're looking forward to it,” he replied, skirting most of the inquisition expertly. Of course Jack was fine, he wasn't sure he could keep it together if anything happened to Jack. He was barely holding on as it were.

“Any single moms joining you?”

“Dave...” Hotch groaned, sipping his scotch. The walls felt like they were closing in. “Please.”

“I'm just curious, Aaron. Seems like you're burning the candle at both ends these days, maybe a distraction would do you some good...”

...

He wasn't surprised when they got an urgent call while Jack was flying around the apartment getting himself ready for school. He wasn't surprised to find out that it was a high profile case and he couldn't let his team handle it without his leadership. He really wasn't. There had been a part of him that never really believed he'd get to go on the field trip with Jack, but while he wasn't at all surprised, he was disappointed. Incredibly so.

“Aaron, you don't sound good,” Jessica said, standing in his home office watching him shove files and loose papers into his briefcase. He was stuffed up, she could hear it in his nose, in his chest. He had allergies, she knew it, but he was often so well medicated no one would know. His voice had a nasal quality that was hard to ignore and it concerned her. Like a crack in the foundation. By itself it was insignificant but it would give way soon enough.

“Allergies,” he muttered and she nodded, accepting his answer. “Thank you again.”

“I'm kind of looking forward to it, I haven't been to the museum in years...” She sounded distraught but he couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't worry about it. He should have been in his office an hour ago, the police were waiting on them to do a live walk-through of the crime scene before the bodies were moved and he was holding everything up by not being there. He didn't see her face contort, he didn't see her tears. She knew he was going through plenty of his own problems, she'd noticed Morgan hadn't been around lately, hadn't wanted to bother him about it. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her. They shared enough between them, there needed to be room allowed for privacy.

As if he wasn't distracted enough on a daily basis, the desperate call from Jessica sealed the deal. He'd been leaning over Penelope's shoulder, listening to her give him very important information and the next he was excusing himself to go and pick up she and Haley's father after being detained by the police for breaking and entering. It wasn't exactly jail, but he was being held and Jessica wasn't available to help, she was at the Air & Space Museum with his son and his class, where he should have been, which meant he was going to take care of her responsibility while she was busy taking care of his.

Two steps forward, one step back.

He was kind as he signed his name, pulled Roy out, offered him a jacket and was met with the first unruly outburst of anger. It would have hurt even if he was having a good day, even if he'd been at a high point in his life, but hearing Roy growl at him to shut up in the police station, in front of everyone, knocked the wind out of him. He pulled the jacket back to his chest and put his head down, following behind, anticipating a rough car ride.

Not one to disappoint, Roy laid into him. It started out simple, defensive, he wasn't doing anything wrong. He was an old man, he forgot things sometimes. Hotch stayed silent, stared intently at the road, tried to appease Roy, make him feel better. He didn't understand what was happening, Jessica hadn't told him there was anything going on and Roy didn't exactly make it a habit to spend time with him these days.

Once they were in his apartment, Roy let loose. He'd kept it civil in the car, kept it quiet but once they were inside all bets were off.

He couldn't be stopped. It came in intervals, yelling one minute and crying the next, his world topsy turvy and Hotch just did his best to stop, to give him his full attention, not to talk.

He was good at not talking. At not defending himself. Roy was starting to sound like his own father, insults cascading from his lips to Hotch's bleeding heart. He accepted the words as they came, didn't counter a single one. How could he? He'd seen Haley's ruined head with his own eyes, held her, covered his broken and battered hands in her blood. There was no way around the simple fact that she would still be alive if she'd never met him, and as Roy continued to point that out, he had no argument.

There was nothing to be done but float between the case and being yelled at until Jessica showed up, apologetic and teary eyed. How had he missed it? How selfish could he be that he'd missed her cry for help? Did he not once bother to ask her what was going on in her life, if anything was new? No wonder Morgan was upset with him, he was so absorbed in himself he had no time for anyone else.

“He's my father, he's my responsibility, not yours,” she said and he just stared at her, gutted. The ground had gone out from beneath his feet hours ago. She knew what he meant to say, he didn't need to say it. He didn't need to point out how much she gave him, how she'd stepped in and become a second mother to Jack and that their families were inexplicably bound together. He couldn't say it, he had nothing left in the tank, standing there in front of her was as much as he had in him.

And he still had to find more, somewhere. Had to go back to work, to find a killer. Had to help Jessica figure out what to do about Roy because, for better or worse, Roy was his father too. Roy deserved to be taken care of, he'd taken care of Hotch more times than he could count throughout his life. Given him a father's love when he had nowhere else to turn.

In the office it was business as usual. No one stopped to ask him why he'd missed half of the day, they didn't have time and they were aware they'd be met with his steely glare and a reprimand. They couldn't afford the distraction, his day didn't matter. Morgan watched him when he walked in, sat still beside him, let his eyes trail Hotch as he moved silently. There was something wrong, he could tell by his posture, the way his chest heaved like he couldn't catch his breath. By the time they were in their kevlar vests and taking down the unsub, he was the walking dead. He placed his hand on the victim's shoulder as Morgan pulled the unsub, her son, out of the house and he froze there like that contemplating his own paternal lot in life. This boy was given two fathers, one very much alive and unworthy, and one who never existed who could do no wrong. He was caught somewhere in between, a place of anger. What did that make Hotch? Now somehow lost somewhere between an abuser and a phantom, nothing but distant memories every direction he looked. He didn't hear Morgan approach him from behind, pull him away from the now empty table.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, standing a little too close. Hotch blinked stupidly a few times, tried to get his bearings.

“I,” he began, ready to pour it out. Ready to just overflow into the one person who could take it all and put it right, but he stopped short. Shook his head. Morgan didn't want it, he'd made that much clear. He couldn't figure out why he cared now, why he'd watched him suffering for weeks without a sideways glance, how he could walk out of that hotel room in Barbados and write him off entirely and then come here expecting that he still held a place of trust. Even if it was true, even if it was the only true thing Hotch knew at that moment. His stubborn pride won. “You don't get to come and go when it's convenient for you. You're the one who needed time, you're the one who left. I need to get home. Good job today.”

Home didn't feel like home. He wasn't welcome, no one greeted him happily when he walked through the door. Jessica wore a look of pain and concern on her features he didn't often see, while Jack and Roy played video games loudly down the hall. There was pizza on the table waiting for them and he wondered if it was cold, if he'd ruined dinner too.

“Jess,” he said softly, pulling her aside. “You bring it up. If I say anything, he'll turn it down.”

She knew. “Okay,” she said, and the look on his face seemed to so entirely mirror her own. They would smile as she approached her father over pizza, offer him a bedroom with her like it hadn't been planned out by the two of them in any spare minute he'd found during the day to call her. Shuffling between a murderer and the care of a man who hated him. After dinner the mood had lightened, Jessica was relieved and Jack was excited.

“For once, take the low road and tell me to take a hike,” Roy muttered after laying into Hotch again when his daughter and grandson were out of earshot. Hotch chewed the inside of his lip, breathed out to hold the tears back. He was officially beyond his limit for one day. On the verge of taking the low road, of giving Roy what he thought he wanted, Hotch sat silently. He took it, he always did, even when he had nowhere to put it. Even when it overflowed, came back out as tears. Every angry, defensive word he wanted to say died before it reached his lips. Roy would never hear any of them. Roy would die never hearing Hotch defend himself. “You'll be rid of me soon enough.”

Jess saw the tears. She didn't have to hear the words from her dad's mouth to know what he'd said, to know what he was doing. Hotch sucked in a breath and forced a smile when Jack came back into the room with his model airplane. He found the smile hiding beneath the ashes somewhere deep that Roy hadn't burned, not yet. The smile of the teenager who went out and learned how to fish beside a man who had no reason to love him. The smile of a proud young man graduating the FBI Academy and seeing a man who never had to love him clapping for him as if he were his own. He could take Roy's angry words because he could remember Roy's love. It was enough.

Jack cracked jokes while they built his model airplane, jokes that Hotch knew without a doubt Morgan had taught him. Some were inappropriate but elicited laughter anyway. A few were punctuated in sloppy Italian thanks to Rossi or pristine French thanks to Prentiss. They all had a hand in making sure Jack got away with saying things he shouldn't have in languages his father didn't know.

...

“I need you to tell me what's going on,” Jessica said, handing Morgan a cup of coffee. She didn't often make it a point to spend time with him, but she had the morning to herself and Hotch had become almost insufferable so she invited him over to her place. He was wary, but thought it might help them patch things up so he accepted. “Did you two end things?”

“No, I don't think so...” Morgan assured her, swirling the coffee in his mug, releasing the steam into the air around him. “I just thought a little space would do us both some good, help us figure out our priorities.”

“Priorities? You mean like him not knowing how to stop working? Like him cleaning the bathroom grout with a steamer and a toothbrush at 3am on a Saturday because he can't sleep? Priorities like that?” She smiled, she was mostly kidding, she dealt with problems by using sarcasm and jokes. A lot of people tended not to like her because of this but she didn't mind that much, those people didn't concern her. Morgan had always liked it. Made him smile.

“He didn't want the team to know about us. I mean a few months in, fine, I get it man...but it's been over a year now and I guess I thought this was the real deal, end game shit you know? When can I stop lying to my friends?”

“Maybe instead of space, you guys just needed to talk?”

It was all fine and good for her to say that, and for Morgan to ultimately agree with her, but Hotch was still doing his best to run himself into the ground entirely. It was how he coped, easier to avoid painful things if he just worked around them. Helping Jack with his homework, making dinner, putting Jack to bed, working all night. He would sleep at his desk some nights, curl up on the couch others. His bed had been made for two full weeks without him ever touching it. Jessica hovered, tried to badger him into taking care of himself when she could but she had her own plate full of shit to deal with. She loved him dearly but she wasn't his mother and he was, for all intents and purposes, still functioning at a high enough level that he hadn't become a danger to himself or anyone else.

...

Work was work and no one seemed to notice the change. Not really. They'd always managed their relationship in a way that nothing ever looked different from the outside. It was a testament to their professionalism on one hand, and to the incredible closeness they'd developed over the years on the other. No one noticed a change because there wasn't one at work, there didn't need to be. They couldn't seem to find time to talk unless it had to do with work, though. They talked about cases, proof read each other's papers and lectures, Hotch approved a new physical ed program Morgan wanted to try out with Academy recruits. By the time they had a new case, the break was so far from either of their minds it was like it had never happened, right along with years of commitment and time and love. All out the window, but somehow they still found themselves able to function in such a way that no one asked them about it.

...

It was Scratch that changed things. Peter Lewis, for all his evil, managed to fix something that had been, up to that point, completely broken. Seeing Morgan shot in front of him, the warm sticky blood on his face, lifeless body there on the floor, his worst fear was realized. No one was there with him and he couldn't move, couldn't reach out and touch Morgan, just stared at his soulless eyes, every minutiae of the man he loved gone. Only the beautiful perfection of his body remained, bleeding away everything that made him him. Peter Lewis loomed over him, smiled and the images faded. He felt sick.

With a gun in his hand, he stared at the door, ready to shoot Scratch, blinking away the confusion that swirled through him. What was real, what wasn't. He held the gun in trembling hands, shoved it off to Rossi the moment he could and collapsed, tears coursing down his cheeks. He heard Morgan's voice in Rossi's comm, heard JJ, they were alive or he was seeing things again. Everything was faded and hazy.

In the ambulance, Rossi held his hands and listened as he recited what he could remember, his voice shaky and unsure. Recalling Dr. Ragan's blood, Scratch's smile, Morgan's blood on his face. As long as he lived he didn't think he'd ever forget that feeling. It hadn't ever happened but it was as real as Haley's blood on his hands. He shivered violently, the drugs coursing through his veins, his heart thundering in his chest. He was electric, thought he might explode at any moment. He didn't put up a fight when the EMT draped a blanket over his shoulders and told him to slide into the ambulance, helped him up onto the stretcher while Rossi seated himself within eye shot still listening to the story, still asking questions, still holding his hand.

“Is Morgan...” Hotch began and Rossi nodded. He never looked away, not once.

“He's fine. Everyone is fine. Scratch is with the police, the team is okay. What you saw wasn't real, Aaron.”

He had the distinct feeling Rossi had said that to him before. Moments before, maybe more than once. It sounded like a well rehearsed script. He was losing it. His eyes drifted closed, he was so tired and the pain was setting in now. Each movement of his wrist shot bolts of lightning up his arm, crackled in his elbow. He wouldn't tell Rossi, wouldn't pull his hand away. He needed that.

“Dave?” he asked, because he knew his friend was still there. Could still feel his hand, the warmth of his skin, he would know that grip anywhere. When everything started to fade he focused on his grip, on the pain it caused. That was real it had to be. “Dave...is Morgan?”

“He's fine, Aaron, I just sent him a text to meet us at the hospital.”

“Why does he need to...was he hurt?” His voice was weak, the EMT said something about his pulse being thready and slow, but his heart still felt like it was going to explode inside of him. It didn't make sense. “Dave?”

“He's fine, Aaron. You are hurt, not Morgan.”

He lost count of how many times he repeated himself, but at least it meant that Hotch was alive. When he went silent, when the EMTs put the oxygen mask over his face and his eyes rolled back in his head, that was when he worried.

In the hospital, he was treated for minor injuries. His wrist was bandaged and his ribs were bruised, packed with ice against his side while they awaited more tests. They cleaned up the blood on his cheek, the blood he was sure was Morgan's even after Rossi assured him it was his own. It was hours that the team paced the waiting room, hours of Rossi coming out to assure them things were moving, Hotch was in and out of sleep, they weren't going to admit him so they weren't letting him have visitors. Rossi only crept out of the room to give them updates, wouldn't be gone for longer than a minute, couldn't bear to be away from his friend.

They stayed in the lobby for hours, exhausted as they were. None of them could find it in them to walk away not knowing how Hotch was, not seeing him with their own eyes. What Scratch did to people was terrifying and each of them found themselves wondering what they would see when he came back. None of them were prepared for the sight of Hotch walking side by side with Rossi, looking exactly like a person who had just gone toe to toe with their worst fears. He walked slowly, listened as they all stood and greeted him, said they were glad he was okay (was he? He wasn't so sure...) and watched as he forced his way through them to fall into Morgan's chest. Without hesitation, Morgan wrapped his arms around Hotch's shoulders, pulled him as close as he could, held as tight as he felt comfortable. Hotch buried his face in Morgan's neck and cried, he couldn't stop it and for once he just didn't care. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe not, it didn't matter.

“I think they might figure us out,” Morgan whispered and Hotch closed his eyes, breathed in the smell of Morgan's skin, felt his entire body shake with weeks of sadness and anger and pain.

“Don't care,” he whispered, lips slicked with his own tears. I need you, everything is worse without you, I don't care about my job, he meant to say it all. Couldn't make his mouth work, but he held tight, one fist balled up tight in Morgan's shirt, the other, bandaged and painful, resting cradled against the small of his back. His head was a place of chaos and burning, every inch of his body hurt from injuries he didn't remember sustaining, his grip on reality was frail at best but Morgan's arms were solid and they were real and they were holding him firmly in place. It was enough.

“I can't...I can't go home...” Hotch whispered, still squeezing his eyes shut. His eyes that he couldn't trust. “I can't be around Jack and Jessica, not yet...not...I don't know what he did to me...” It was bad, that was all he knew. He couldn't trust himself, but he could trust Morgan. He could always trust Morgan.

“You can come stay at my place,” Morgan whispered back, lips pressed soft against Hotch's damp hair. “Garcia is staying a few days, her apartment building is being fumigated or something...if you don't mind...” He left it hanging, left it open for Hotch to decide.

Yes, he was standing there in front of all of them and yes he was letting Morgan hold him but they could still find a way to explain it. He'd done it after Haley, he'd pulled Hotch off of Foyet and he'd held him tight right there in front of Rossi, in front of Prentiss. No one had ever questioned their closeness, their motives then. They could explain it if they wanted, but Hotch shivered in his arms and pushed himself tighter into the embrace, pressed his cheek into the warmth of Morgan's neck and shook his head. He didn't care anymore and as he stood there, all eyes on him, all eyes on them, he knew he never should have cared in the first place.

None of it mattered.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #angst #hotch whump #mr scratch #hospital #hurt/comfort #hotchgan #mortch #jessica brooks #roy brooks

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hufflautia · 3 years

Text

The Boyfriend

Dedicated to the anon who came up w this idea and to @eatacrackerandstop <3. There's a small Shadow and Bone reference; if you find it, you get a high five✨

Summary: Slytherin and Hufflepuff meet their daughter’s boyfriend for the first time, and Slytherin has a few concerns.

Hufflepuff closes the door behind her daughter, who stepped out to privately wish her boyfriend goodbye on the front stoop, and turns to Slytherin.

“He seems like a sweet kid,” she smiles. Slytherin follows her into the kitchen with a disgruntled expression. He leans against the countertop as she begins washing the dishes.

“What’s taking her so long,” he eyes the door. “It only takes a couple of seconds to say goodbye to someone.”

“They spent the entire night with us. They probably just want a little alone time,” Hufflepuff replies. She glances at him when he sighs and crosses his arms. “Do I sense a little disdain for our daughter’s boyfriend?”

Slytherin scowls.

“I don’t like him,” he states plainly. “He gives me...bad boy vibes.” His scowl deepens when she laughs incredulously.

“Bad boy vibes?”

“Yes,” he says indignantly. “Bad boy vibes! Did you see his smirk when she laughed at his joke?"

"You smirk a lot,” she points out, to which he grudgingly admits. “Besides, is it bad that he can make her laugh?"

"'Course not," he huffs. "But did you see how he put his arms around her?”

"I'm pretty sure that's called a hug, honey."

Slytherin steps between her and the sink. She shoots him a look as water drips on the floor.

“Please get out of my way, Slytherin. You’re acting like a child.”

He takes her hands into his own, not caring that they’re wet. “Honey, you’re not listening to me.”

“I am! I just don’t agree with you.” She continues before Slytherin can object. “You’re worrying over nothing. Our daughter is old enough to make her own decisions on who she hangs out with and what she does with her time."

“She’s only in her seventh year—”

“Slytherin," she says sternly. “Our baby is grown now, believe it or not. I trust her judgment. You should too.”

His brows furrow, and he doesn’t respond right away.

"It's not that I don't trust her," he finally says. "I just don't want her to get hurt."

Hufflepuff softens in this rare moment of vulnerability—his grumpiness and frustration often mask his fears.

"We can't control what happens," she says gently. "We can't control who does what or who hurts who. But what we can control is what we do and how we act." Slytherin remains silent as he considers her words. "I think the best thing we can do is support our daughter. And if things don't end well in their relationship, she will know who to come to: the people who have always been there for her."

Her words sink in, and Slytherin nods.

"You're right."

"'Course I'm right."

He smiles somberly. "I’ve only ever wanted to protect her."

"You will," she assures, pulling him into an embrace. "But you will do so at a healthy and reasonable distance. No threatening the boy."

Slytherin snorts and says, "I'm not that type of dad." He rests his chin on top of her head. "But if he breaks her heart, I keep no promises."

"Good," she murmurs into his shirt. “I'll be right behind you.”

Their moment of peace is interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing. They see their daughter, Giselle, standing by the doorway with a flushed grin.

"Hey kiddo," Slytherin smiles.

She makes a face. “I'm 18, Dad. I'm not a kid anymore."

"Alright." Hufflepuff notices a familiar gleam in his eye and tries not to smile as he continues. "Do you prefer muffin? Sweet pea? Or perhaps cupcake—"

Giselle covers her ears. "Dad!" she groans. "Eat a cracker and stop."

He holds his hands up in defeat as he chuckles. "Okay, okay."

"So," Hufflepuff says once things settle down. "What did Dorian think? Did he like us? What about the food? Was my cooking okay?" A look of horror washes over her face. "Oh shoot, should we have given him some leftovers to take back to his family? He probably didn't get too far, I'll go get the food from the fridge and—"

"Honey," Slytherin laughs, resting his hand on the small of her back before she can scurry off in search of tin foil and plastic containers. "It's fine."

"Yeah," Giselle assures. "The food was great, and he loved meeting you guys."

"And we loved meeting him,” Hufflepuff says warmly. “Tell Dorian he's welcome to come back at any time."

"Okay," she grins. "Can we start our movie night now?"

Slytherin nods. "I believe it's Mom's turn to choose the movie."

"I know exactly what we should watch tonight," Hufflepuff beams. They pile onto the couch, and when she puts the disc into the DVD player, everyone but Hufflepuff's face falls when they see the title.

"Aw, not this movie," Giselle complains. "We watched the trailer last week, and you said it yourself that it looked like trash."

"Wha—I didn't say trash!"

"I think you did," Slytherin interjects. He stifles a laugh when she shoots him a look.

Hufflepuff purses her lips. "Ravenclaw and I watched it at the movie theaters a few days ago, and it was a cinematic masterpiece!"

He arches an eyebrow. "So you're gonna watch it again?"

"Yes! Because it’s that good. And I want you guys to watch it with me. The movie has adventure and plot twists and romance—I mean, what hurts more than a broken heart?"

"A severed head," Giselle replies, to which Slytherin snorts a laugh.

Hufflepuff scoffs and shakes her head, but a smile tugs at her lips. “You’ll see what I’m talking about after we watch it, but I need to use the bathroom first. I’ll bring back some popcorn.”

“Can you also get some Sprite?” Giselle calls after her.

“Okay.” Hufflepuff lingers by the doorway. “Do you want anything, sweetie pie?” she says to Slytherin.

“No thanks, snuggle bunny.” He snickers when Giselle visibly cringes. He and Hufflepuff liked to call each other outrageously sweet pet names in front of their daughter for the sole purpose of grossing her out.

“Yes,” Giselle says in a deadpan voice. “This is the exact spot I want to be in right now.”

Hufflepuff laughs and winks at Slytherin before leaving. He watches her walk away before whispering to Giselle, “How likely is it that she’ll accidentally trap herself in the bathroom and we get to pick another movie?”

“Extremely likely,” she replies. “If we put a rubber item underneath the door to act as a door stopper, she won’t be able to open it from the inside…” Slytherin is looking at her weirdly, and she swallows her words. “...I mean, I don’t know.”

Slytherin smiles but doesn’t say anything. Giselle may have inherited her mother’s looks, but she has her father’s mischief.

While they wait for Hufflepuff, Slytherin speaks. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Sure,” she says cautiously.

“Do you love him?”

Her eyebrows rise—she didn’t expect this question. She takes a moment to think.

"Not yet.”

He nods. "But you're happy?"

"I am," she smiles.

His eyes crinkle. If she was happy…well, that was good enough for him.

“I’m glad, kiddo.”

This time, Giselle doesn’t roll her eyes at the term of endearment. Instead, she takes his hand and squeezes it three times. Slytherin, who taught her the gesture, squeezes her hand four times in response.

“Who’s ready to start the movie?” Hufflepuff walks in with popcorn and sprite, unaware of the father-daughter moment she just missed.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Slytherin sighs, scooting over to make space for her. She plops down beside him and settles the bowl between them.

“Oh,” she perks up. “Before I forget. Accio tissue boxes!”

Slytherin looks bewildered as tissue boxes come flying their way. “Do we really need tissues?”

“Absolutely,” she scatters the boxes over their laps. Slytherin raises an eyebrow and glances over at Giselle, who also looks perplexed.

“My teen angst bullshit is about to have a body count,” she whispers as the movie begins playing.

A/N: This fic is somewhat connected to Different Love Languages, another one of my fics. Is the slytherpuff couple in that fic the same couple in this one? That's up to you, dear reader😌

I lowkey hate the title, but I couldn't come up w a better one. Also, this fic was longer than I planned. I originally decided to write something like this:

“Why don’t you like him?”

“Because I used to be a bad boy, which is exactly why I don’t trust him.”

Basic dialogue, plain and simple. But the darling anon who told me their idea deserves a full-length story <3

Let me know what you thought of this one-shot. Feedback makes me happy <3 If you prefer to stay anonymous, the anon option for asks is available! Be safe and well, everyone.

Tag lists are open✨ Let me know via ask/messages/comments if you want to be added or removed.

@slytherpuff-shenanigans @axieleration @sunnniiee @just--another--bean @determinedpines @zenobiagrace @asterinflower @cinnamon-roll-unicorn @mossy-axolotl @dumbbitch11 @hitchhiker-of-the-galaxy @notsowiseravenclaw @arianatorpotterhead @eatacrackerandstop @luciferswife16 @walkinganomaly @asunshinepuff @lewispoolerpayton @adreameratdawn @thewitcheswords @oncergleekpotterhead @princessstoopid @stardustzainy @flvrqnce @multi-fandom-nutjob @eunnieah @iamahufflepuff @1hufflepuff @introvertedrae @princessstoopid @jasminedayz @magnoliamermaid @HOPEFUL-HUFFLEPUFF-PEEVES @peanut-in-the-goal @pufflehuff929 @sophiexteresa @da-fox-rangerrr @dawinehouse @shipping-book-keeper @xxavaloraxx @silverhetdanes @im-a-solanum-lycopersicum @elegantcroissantplaidpony @theoriginaljohnwatsonsblog @theoriginalsherlockholmesblog @vickeyunicorn @arianatorpotterhead @hmilkwhoney @simpering-simpleton @grandcyclecreation @sweetinvisiblewriter @marvelenthusiast10 @mvlpksvthisht @qiaopa @beardedhumanoid @jadefox05 @justanotherperson @inkedintothepaper @minty-malfoy @trippy-morgan @fangirlgeekandfreak @boilyourteeth @absentmindeduniverse @colettedelaurel @halfelven1 @happy-puff @coloring-bud @in-love-with-remus-lupin @autumnpleaves @crakencc @flyme--tothemoon @hedgepuffgirl @littleemotionalpanda @pancakes-and-sugar @korra4321 @aquietkindofthunder @qixnsriess @porksoba @thatfann @hellounicorn @i-have-a-bad-feeling @aasa2102 @zuko-28 @annie-mcl @clementines-x @writtenfoxscreams @randomwriter23 @cryingabtwandavision @coolninjavoid @urfaveslytherin @malfoys-demigod @tumlbr-trasher @violayaxley @wolfpack-arts-industries99 @zainieees-stuff @blueberry-9-pancakes @stressy-depressy @royalelusts

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fellintotartarus · 3 years

Text

midnight eyes (ralvez)

(gif by the incredible @zhuzhubii <3 )

Summary: On a late night, Spencer thinks about Luke. 1.7k words.

A/N: Ralvez absolutely owns my ass thanks for coming

Warnings: I can’t think of any .. ? Lmk if you see anything please!

It’s late. They’re all exhausted beyond belief and it seemed even the plane made a tired landing, jolting them with unpleasant bouts of adrenaline in their sleepy states. Matt gently shakes Emily awake and they all trudge off the plane in the silence that only red-eye flights can produce.

Spencer’s head feels full of cotton as he clambers down the stairs and into FBI headquarters. It’s been days--even before the case started--since he’s gotten more than four hours of sleep in a row and he feels it strongly behind his eyes. The world feels dim and heavy as he walks the final few steps across the tarmac and into the building.

Then Luke passes from behind him, placing his hand gently on Spencer’s back as he navigates the tight hallway and Spencer suddenly doesn’t feel so tired. Luke glances back at him, flashing him a small smile before turning back and Spencer thinks he might not need sleep so urgently anymore. As long as he replays this moment in his head, he can make it home to pass out on his bed.

Luke remains a few steps ahead of him all the way to the sixth floor and into their offices, where everyone quickly throws down their case files and turns around to leave. Spencer drops into the chair at his desk, his head falling onto the surface. He knows he should get up, pick up his head and go home because he’s in imminent danger of falling asleep. He knows if he doesn’t get up now, the three AM jetlag will catch up to him quickly and--

He lifts his head. The whole office has gone, only the dim power-saving lights illuminating the personal effects and case files littering the numerous desks. Spencer looks around. It’s so peaceful. He knows, logically, what lies in all these case files, that it shouldn’t feel peaceful, but he can’t help but relax at the altered state of the room where he spends most of his life.

His eyes drift over to Luke’s desk, lingering on the single picture of Roxy that seems almost out of place on the clean-cut, nearly bare desk. He blushes at the thought of the man who occupies the desk, not even noticing a smile creep onto his face.

Luke was a breath of fresh air to the BAU. When he joined from the fugitive task force, everyone found solace in the newness he brought to the team. Spencer noticed people smiling more. Penelope found a new hobby in giving him a hard time. He was a change of pace for the tight-knit group of tired, jaded agents.

Spencer remembers the first time he noticed Luke, like, really noticed him. He was explaining something for a case. He was used to being brushed off--his quirks were conditional, only to be appreciated when he served a purpose. But as he sat there, explaining a tangent to a room full of people the rambling would be lost on, he turned his head and saw Luke. He was looking at Spencer with the utmost interest that Spencer’s speech sputtered and stalled like an old car. He hadn’t even noticed he had stopped talking until Luke had said “What were you saying, Dr. Reid?”

From that point on, Spencer had a hard time not noticing Luke. It never actively bothered him that people brushed him off and gave him a hard time. It was just a fact of life. But he supposed he never really knew how much he was missing. Now, whenever he found himself rambling past the point of no return, his eyes would drift over to Luke, who consistently looked delighted to hear more about whatever it was Spencer was talking about.

Spencer knew he was in trouble when he found himself rambling more and more just to see if Luke was really interested. In his head, there was no way Luke actually enjoyed Spencer and his infodumps. There had to be a breaking point.

But it never came. No matter how uninteresting or gross or frequent he made his speeches, Luke’s gaze never faltered. During one particularly terrible rant about flies and their reproductive cycle when Luke still looked at Spencer like he was revealing the secrets of life, Spencer thought he must be seeing things. It was only after Penelope gave him a knowing smile that Spencer came to realize it might not be in his head.

So he reveled in it. He let his eyes flit over to Luke’s clandestinely when he spoke, his breath always hitching imperceptibly at Luke’s returning gaze. He ignored Penelope’s pointed looks and settled for seeing Luke’s enraptured face when he closed his eyes at night.

A sound coming from the break room snaps Spencer out of his reverie. He turns to look at the offending noise with heavy eyes and finds the object of his thoughts stumbling sleepily out of the break room. He’s so tired it somehow surprises him when Luke walks over to him, almost as if he thought he would’ve been invisible.

Spencer jumps slightly in his seat and, to get rid of the nervous energy that suddenly overcomes him (and seems to everytime Luke approaches him), meaninglessly shuffles papers around on his desk.

Luke smiles, pulling up a chair next to him, not knowing that just his proximity would give Spencer a giddiness that would last until next Friday.

“What are you still doing here, genius?” Luke asks, sighing and settling into his chair. He gives Spencer a warm smile when he clears his throat and shakes his head instead of answering.

What is Spencer still doing here? He’s been sitting at his desk for so long without even realizing it. Everyone else went home at least 10 minutes ago while Spencer sat at his desk daydreaming sleepily. About the man next to him.

Spencer is, and he knows this, terrible at having a crush. It practically consumes him. He acts so weird around them, spouting god-awful facts at terrible times, not picking up on any cues, and never doing absolutely anything about it.

So when Luke looks like he’s about to say something, Spencer jumps to fill the silence first. He shoots into a rant about the first thing his sleep-deprived brain can think of, standing in the process.

“You know, a study recently came out that showed that fist bumps transfer half the bacteria that handshakes do and that people should start employing that as a go-to greeting rather than--”

“I thought you were a proponent of kissing,” Luke jokes softly, rising from his chair.

Spencer blushes furiously. “Well, it’s not so much that I’m a proponent of kissing, it’s more that--”

He’s cut off by Luke’s face a mere inches from his, his breath ghosting Spencer’s face. Luke’s eyes land squarely on his, turning his brain absolutely useless. Even more surprising is the look on Luke’s face. A look Spencer had only seen in front of other people, at work, and that he (seemingly mistakenly) assumed had been a front.

“Not a proponent of kissing, huh?” Luke teases, his voice a mere breath.

Spencer’s voice is stuck in his throat. There is no way this is happening, he thinks, so he breathes lightly through his nose so Luke won’t disappear. He hopelessly stutters out a few syllables--none of them make sense--before Luke takes his hand in his.

A touch that would normally send him into mental hysterics now seems to ground him. Why had he never realized he was taller than Luke? Spencer’s eyes meet Luke’s and flicker down to his lips--the lips that were so soft-looking and pillowy he had found himself dreaming of kissing them more than once--before he realizes his mistake and quickly lowers his gaze to his feet.

“Spencer. Hey,” Luke says, using a finger to lift Spencer’s chin back up to a slightly mismatched gaze. Spencer can barely let the eye contact hold out of embarrassment; he’s sure Luke’s gonna tell him off or reject him before he’s ever said anything. He can feel himself tensing and freezing up.

“How many bacteria are transferred in a kiss?” Luke says softly, and Spencer finds himself relaxing at the opportunity to think about something else for a second. It takes him longer than usual, but he remembers the number fairly quickly.

“80 million bacteria. More if it’s longer, less if it’s shorter, and, obviously one would have to take into account--”

He’s cut off by Luke’s lips pressing firmly against his. Spencer nearly falls over in shock, but once Luke’s bottom lip slides against his, he’s done for. The warmth in his stomach burns, his eyes flutter shut, and he melts into the floor, leaning down the slightest amount and sighing. Luke smiles against Spencer’s mouth and kisses back deeper, bringing his hand up to Spencer’s neck, leaving him stumbling over himself to get closer to Luke.

They remain like that for some time (honestly neither one of them could tell you how long if they tried) before Luke pulls away, out of breath and lips just barely swollen. Spencer almost doesn’t want to open his eyes to face the aftermath of what he’s sure is the best thing that’s happened to him, but the urge to see Luke’s eyes lit up wins over and slowly opens them, shyly creeping his gaze up to Luke’s face.

Luke’s beaming, running his fingers through the curls at the back of Spencer’s head. Spencer smiles back, letting his head fall to Luke’s shoulder.

“You know, for a genius, that sure took you a long time. I thought I would have to hit you over the head or something,” Luke said, his mouth pressed onto Spencer’s ear.

Spencer feels his face heat against the fabric of Luke’s dress shirt. It took him a long time? Did that mean--

“I mean, I don’t know how many times I thought I had given myself away. When Garcia let it slip that she thought you liked me, I thought she was playing a prank on me because of how I looked at you,” he continued.

Spencer picked his head up. “No way,” he said softly.

Luke chuckled, “What, like it’s so hard to believe? Didn’t Morgan call you Pretty Boy?”

Spencer blushed redder and rolled his eyes.

“I just didn’t think… you know,” he replied.

Luke smiled. “Obviously.”

And, this time, Spencer kissed him.

tagged: @pretty-b0yy

#ralvez #spencer reid fanfiction #luke alvez fanfiction #ralvez fanfiction #ralvez fic #ralvez fanfic #spencer reid fic #luke alvez fic

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inactive-luv · 3 years

Text

Normal

normal

TW: depression, gender dun dUN DUN

word count: 2216

a/n: i’ve got a lot more gender neutral Spencer Reid fics loading :P

(Spencer's POV)

On a normal day, I would set my alarm for five in the morning and wake up slowly. I'd pour a cup of coffee and make myself some toast. I take a shower and brush my teeth and maybe listen to an audiobook on my way to work. I got this recommendation from Garcia, Ready Player One. I listened to the narrator's voice at a pace 'normal' people would read.

A part of me always felt self-conscious about myself, how I was different compared to everyone else. My mom called me special but that just made things worse. Special still sounds like there was something wrong with me. And that was just my I.Q, later on, I constantly got made fun of for the way I dressed, how I wasn't 'normal' enough. Never 'masculine' enough.

I haven't had a normal day in months. I started to wake up naturally around three am, if I ever slept. My thoughts kept me awake, thinking about the insults and taunts I got. I lay in bed most days. I told Hotch I was sick and stayed in a comatose state for most of the day. I would stare at the ceiling and wonder about myself.

I couldn't do anything. I couldn't eat, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't use the bathroom. The thought of having to stand up in front of the toilet. Washing my hands in a men's restroom, everything just made me sick. I hadn't gone to work in a week. It sounds odd but I didn't feel safe there. Work used to be where I could concentrate and use my abilities to my advantage, I watched and analyzed people's emotions for a living but now, it became so hard to think about myself.

I felt exposed in the workplace, at home I felt more comfortable using my own bathroom and I could wear my own clothes. I felt like someone else in the bullpen, someone different. Having to hear my name makes me feel imaginary. I didn't feel real in my body.

Getting out of bed this morning exhausted me. I dragged my feet across the wood and looked down at my sweater. The temperature in my house was always hot, something with the thermostat, but I couldn't stand looking at my own skin. I wore a thick sweater and a robe on top of it, long pajama pants and big socks. I knew I had to take off these clothes if I wanted to go to work today. I really did, I missed my friends, I missed having to do something.

Having a purpose meant a lot to me. I lost sight of what I was meant to do with my life, I would just mope around my apartment without doing anything and I still felt exhausted. I hated being here, I needed to do something. I couldn't just stay here for the rest of my life. I so desperately wanted my normal life again, but I couldn't even think about stepping outside my house.

I hate thinking about having to do normal things. I hated using public restrooms and wearing my normal clothes. Life becomes meaningless if you can't even look at yourself in the mirror.

A while back I put towels over all of my mirrors, this morning I lifted the one in my bedroom. I looked at myself for the first time in a long time. I looked at my eyes, the bags underneath them screamed tired and disgusting. My whole face looked blue and purple. I saw the veins in my neck, and when I touched them I winced.

Taking a deep breath, I started to remove the robe in front of me. I watched the fabric fall to the floor when I felt the ends of my sweater. A burst of energy filled my gut and flooded through my veins, causing me to haphazardly lift the shirt fully over my head and shimmied my pants off. I felt angry. Angry at myself for not being able to do the easiest things. And sad watching my body shake and my skin crawl.

I forced myself to stare at my chest. I stared long and hard at the flat shape and bare skin. I started to run my hand over my abdomen and I could feel my ribs protrude out of my skin. Tears started to fill my eyes when I glazed over my underwear. I could see the outline of my legs and the thought of what was between them made me sick. I felt like throwing up.

I rushed to the bathroom and clutched at the sides of the toilet. I quickly thought about all of the germs and bacteria and immediately lunged away from the seat. I washed my hands five or six times until my skin curled underneath the stream. I splashed the water on my face and began to sob. I ran my hands over my face and my eyes tinged from the tears.

When my hands roamed their way back to my chest I fell to the floor in a mixture of emotions. I felt depressed, gross, I felt cheated in my own flesh and blood. I felt contained to the bottom of my bathroom sink. The tears relaxed and I started to slowly lift myself off of the cold tile.

I wobbled back to my bedroom and tried to open my drawers. I reached for a dotted shirt and slowly buttoned the clothes on myself. With each button, I sniffed and let out a heavy sigh. I wanted to change my underwear but every time I slid my fingers past the waistband I cringed. I couldn't bring myself to look past my abdomen.

I just tried to pull on a pair of work pants without my eyes and slide a brown belt through the loops. I stared at myself in the dresser mirror and reached for another layer to put on over my body, a brown cardigan. I wanted to smile. I tried to force the corners of my lips to move upward but they only drooped a little lower. I swallowed my tongue and went to get my coat.

...

I walked into the lobby and saw people walking throughout the halls, I felt so out of place. I slowly slumped up to the elevator and pressed the button. It was halfway through the workday, a little after lunch. It was raining so hard outside I could hear it through the elevator walls, I heard the pat pat pat just outside the floors and I started to feel thirsty. I hadn't drunk much water in public because I didn't want to have to use a public bathroom. It wasn't a problem until one day I had to be sent to the emergency room.

I got nervous as the elevator doors began to open. I lifted my head and was relieved not to meet anyone as I stepped out. A sore feeling manifesting itself in my throat. I look up to see everyone in the conference room. I barely catch Rossi's eye when I start to walk up to the bullpen. Soon I can feel everyone's eyes on my back when I rest my bag on the edge of my seat.

J.J. walks out of the room to wave me over. I watch her walk back into the room, I look at her heels and her pretty blouse. I think back to what I'm wearing and feel gross. Why do I keep stressing about these sorts of things? Morgan doesn't worry about how he's dressed. Hotch doesn't care about shoes or what he has to wear. Rossi was the one who probably cared the most and even he didn't notice the things I do.

I rush up the stairs noticing how everyone is waiting on me. My pace slows down as I get closer and closer to the threshold of the conference room. "Hey, pretty boy's here!" I clench my jaw at the sound of that nickname. My stomach turns inside out and I think about just running out of the room and heading back home, or anywhere but here. "Why don't you sit down we were just starting." Garcia tries to talk to me in her sweet voice. I missed her so much, I missed everyone.

"No thank you," I whisper. I hadn't spoken words out loud in a long time. I don't talk to myself and I hadn't seen anyone else in days. I clear my throat gaining a sliver of strength from the anger in my gut. "No thank you I," I start stronger before pausing mournfully again, "I think I need to say a few things before I come back, officially. C- can you all please sit down." I choke in my breath and all of their faces turn worried when they look at me.

"Uhm, I know I haven't been here in a while but uhm," I turn my head to the floor, "I want to be able to come back, I do, and I uh," It gets really hard to talk without tearing up. I swallow hard when J.J tries to pat my arm, I don't mean to but I flinch and try to push her hand away. "I can't come back until," I'm afraid I'll start hyperventilating, "God I'm sorry." I move my hands up to my face and wipe away a few tears before swallowing and whispering again. "I can't come back until I figure out what's wrong with me."

"Kid there's nothing wrong with you-" "Yes there is! I- I- I can't sleep! I can't get dressed by myself! I can't even use the bathroom without feeling sick!" The words pool out of my mouth in a harsh tone and J.J. steps back when I flail my arms, "I can't look at myself in the mirror," Tears stream down my cheek when I turn my face around the room. "I need things to be different around here." Even Hotch's expression turns saddened and weak.

"I-" I choke and wipe my eyes with my sleeve. " I hate the name 'pretty boy'." I try to turn my eyes from Derek who's leaned over to see my expression, "I hate being referred to as 'Sir' or 'Mr.'" I bite my quivering top lip and draw my eyes back to the floor. "I hate hearing," I pause and clear my throat again thinking it would help stop my cracking voice, "he did this or it was him who," I sniff looking at Garcia whose eyes are also filled with tears.

"I'm not comfortable," I whisper and Emily gapes her mouth as if to say something then closes it rubbing her nose instead. "I haven't been comfortable for a long time. I don't know what I am anymore." The word 'what' sticks in the air for a minute before J.J. tries to pat my arm again and I let her. She eases in to hold me and I shut my eyes to stop sobbing.

"I- I- need," I start before shaking my head, "I'd like people to treat me differently." I furrow my brow thinking what to say next, "I looked online," I wipe my face again trying to slide J.J away from me, "and all the labels really scared me but uhm," I pause again "I think I'd like to try something I've been pushing down for a while." Rossi nods his head.

I feel awkward standing in front of all of these people, my friends. Years ago I could trust them with my life but now I felt so exposed and broken. I was scared of how they were going to react, I felt like screaming in my stance and running out of the room crying. I muttered out the first words before shaking my head and trying again. "I think," I clear my throat again, "I want to try different," I look at the group, averting my eyes off the floor while the edges of my lips curl into a saddened smile, before whispering the last word, "Pronouns."

I see Emily mutter a small "Oh," and Morgan's face turns confused. I slump into a hunched position and continue to cry softly when people start nodding their heads looking up at me. "Well," Hotch starts and people start to look at him. "I think that what you're asking for is," He pauses looking to the group then back at me.

"Perfectly reasonable and we will do or call you whatever you want" They all nod and mutter incoherent words. "Yes, yes of course we can." Garcia stammers wiping tears from her eyes looking at me from across the room. "What, uhm what would you like?" She asks rubbing her hands together, "To, you know," she shakes her hands before wiping more tears from her face.

I smile for the first time in weeks. It's not a toothy smile or a cheek to cheek grin but, it makes me feel safe knowing I can still do the things I used to. Come into work and smile. I catch my sighs and draw in a deep breath before looking at Garcia, "They/them." And the rest of the team smiles too.

...

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mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years

Text

Keeping Vigil || Morgan & Eddie

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @specterchasing & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: When Morgan can’t carry her hope, Eddie is there to help.

CONTAINS: body horror, discussions of death, mortality, decay

After reaching another dead end in her search for answers, Morgan broke down and took an extra long shower to get rid of her smell and wash the rough parts on her body that had been hurt or picked at by bugs. The water pattered on her just right, steadier and softer than rain. When she let it fall into her ear and make the room feel like underwater, she could hold onto the water and nothing else and the aches and cramps faded, and everything was fine. She savored the change in water temperature as it faded from hot to cool as much as the change in the sky from light to dark.

A little later, as she picked at cold fried rice and brains, the waistband on her sweats started to feel a little tight, and when Morgan looked down her coloring had gone another shade of wrong and when she touched her stomach (first in the middle, then all around) she got the sinking feeling she used to once a month: bloating. Maybe it was water damage, maybe it was just that time in the un-life cycle. It didn’t fucking matter, did it?

“Great. First I’m dead, then I’m falling apart and ripped up like a rag doll, and now I’m a dead ripped up balloon doll waiting to pop.” She thought about how she’d announce this latest development to Deirdre when she got home and decided she didn’t want to. So she made some tea, remembered all the chamomile in the world wouldn’t actually calm her and threw it against her studio.

The mug bounced off the wall. Tea splattered the yard.

Morgan picked it up and holed herself up inside the four little walls where she was supposed to be alone. Maybe if she disappeared in a book or a playlist she could forget about what was happening to her body. Funny how she’d dreamed of feeling the world again every day for the last fourteen months; now she’d try just about anything to go numb and float off again.

As Eddie approached the front door of Morgan’s home, an unexpected sound from the backyard caught his attention. He took a few steps back and looked over the fence in time to see the studio door close. If that’s where Morgan was, it would be pointless to try getting into the main house. Admittedly, tracking her down would be a nonissue if she knew he planned to drop by, but Eddie had a sneaking suspicion she didn’t want visitors in her current condition. Be that as it may, he needed to see her. For all he knew, this might be his last chance.

Eddie reached over the fence’s gate and unlocked it from the other side, immediately re-locking it once inside. Even in his haste, he didn’t want to be the reason something unwanted took an open door as an invitation. Eddie quickly bypassed the garden that usually imbued him with a sense of calmness. Today, all it did was put more space between him and Morgan.

At the studio door, Eddie knocked only to enter without waiting for a response. The second he saw her, his heart fell into his stomach. Morgan, for the first time since meeting her, looked dead.

“I heard about what happened,” Eddie announced. He figured wasting time on small talk would be insulting at this point. “I wish you would’ve told me yourself, but I guess it doesn’t matter now.” As he spoke, he walked further into the studio. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of people in your corner right now. Is there room for me to throw my hat in the ring?”

Morgan only managed a few minutes of stillness before she heard a knock. She flinched, dreading what she would have to explain to Deirdre, but before she could work up the nerve to answer, Eddie came in. She was so startled she forgot to cover her face. Her blue-purple pallor was growing new colors, black in some places, yellow in others. Somehow, her skin was peeling and shriveled and swollen at once. Her eyes, now clouded like frost on a window, looked smaller than they should and her lids sagged around the empty space. For a woman who would never age, she sure looked like she had outlived her time.

In the brief instant Eddie held the door open, three flies flew in and circled lazily toward her. They knew a good thing when they saw it. She should probably have been more grateful that maggots and fungi hadn’t found her yet, but the only thought she had room for was, Eddie shouldn’t be here.

“W--what? I--” It didn’t really matter how he found out, did it? “I don’t want to be one of those people that puts their bullshit on kids and makes them carry it,” she sighed. “And I don’t...know what I’m going to do about any of this. If I can do anything about this. I went through the books I had, I tried looking through some others and--” Nothing. She slumped back in her corner on the day bed and covered her face with a pillow. Then, feeling ridiculous, tossed it away and settled for pulling her legs up and hiding that way. “You should probably grab some air freshener from the kitchenette,” she mumbled.

Eddie had never seen Morgan look so small before. In the past, her petite frame always seemed like an act of misdirection. When she spoke, the weight of her words commanded attention. Her laugh charmed a sigh of relief from the world around her. Out of everyone Eddie knew, he couldn’t think of a single person he respected more than Morgan Beck. Seeing her this way didn’t change that, it only proved the severity of the situation. It was time for him to start repaying her for everything she’d done.

“Well, this kid would rather help carry your bullshit than let it bury you,” Eddie replied as he took her advice and walked over to the kitchenette. He wanted to tell her he didn’t mind the smell but lying wouldn’t make the situation any better. Eddie pulled the trigger and a clean-linen scented mist mingled with the smell of decay. It would have to do.

“So,” he continued, moving closer to her before taking a seat beside her on the day bed. “Catch me up to speed, I only know the bare minimum.” Eddie didn’t think being told the details would lead them to a solution but that wasn’t why he came here. Other, more capable people would help Morgan in that area. What he wanted to accomplish was simply to make sure she knew she wasn’t alone. Maybe it wasn’t as glamorous of a purpose as finding a cure but believed it to be important all the same. “You woke up and, out of nowhere, you were alive again?”

Morgan grimaced at the hiss of the air freshener. She had suggested it, but smelling it and knowing how little good it would do was another matter. “You might wanna go a little heavier on that,” she deadpanned. “I’m almost a week into this, and whatever is fucking with me the slow, painful way, has a year’s worth of decay to catch up on.” She let her head rest against the wall and closed her eyes. All her physical senses back, and she still had to endure this latest cosmic ‘fuck you’ in complete sobriety. No rest. No relief.

She curled up a little tighter as he sat by her, as if her death-sickness was contagious. “Uh, if you haven’t noticed, I apparently don’t need to be buried. I can decompose all by myself.” She worked his question thoughtfully, trying to find the right words for it. How stupidly excited she was for so little, and how suddenly it was a little too much.

“I wasn’t alive,” she said at last, face still buried in her knees. “No heartbeat. No warmth. I could just...feel again. The bedsheets were cold. And soft. Weirdly soft. And my girlfriend was soft and cold but different, and the carpet was...coarse and thick and plushy...it was like I’d never been on this planet before. Everything was new. The words I had weren’t enough to describe it. I spent a whole two days convincing myself that whatever was happening it wouldn’t be so bad. Some weird town thing we’d have to reverse. But then I got hurt and it took me forever to heal. And then I didn’t heal at all. And I ate, I had so many brains, but my body was shriveling up, turning color, smelling, all that gross stuff that’s not supposed to happen to me if I do everything I’m supposed to. And do you know how it feels, literally feels, to have your body dry up? Or to--” One of the flies landed on her cheek and began exploring the new terrain. Morgan raised her hand and let it, waiting til it reached her hairline where she wasn’t so sensitive. She slapped it dead and left the goo where it was. “Be food for the bugs? Because that’s something I know now. Can’t wait for everything else to go, or for whatever’s keeping me wide awake for the whole horror science show to...decide what comes next.” She didn’t want to die. She wouldn’t be this frustrated if she did. But being nothing but wobbling bones and leather and dust frightened her just as much as oblivion. She didn’t know which she was really supposed to hope for.

Eddie listened as Morgan described the past few days. At first, her condition sounded like a gift. He remembered when she told him how badly she missed being able to experience the world as a living participant. No heartbeat or warmth meant certain sensations were still off limits but, other than that, he imagined those first two days felt pretty damn good. A false sense of security, obviously. He hated this.

Morgan swatted the fly and Eddie’s lips pursed in response. “Hold on,” he announced, standing up to make his second trip to the kitchenette. Facing the counter, he tore a few paper towels from the roll and wetted them in the sink. After wringing out the extra moisture, he carried them back to the daybed and took his seat again. Eddie tentatively reached out and, as gently as he could, washed away the insect’s remains. When his hand lowered, he kept the damp wad of paper in his hand in case another decided to land on her.

“Morgan, do you remember what you said to me about hope, that it’s a choice?” Eddie asked. Of all people, he knew how unqualified he was to preach the importance of hope but he wanted to try. “You also said that to stop believing in the future is to stop believing in existing.” Even if he lacked the experience to explain the importance of looking for good, he knew Morgan didn’t. He could use her own words to help him navigate the situation.

“This isn’t the first time life’s given you its worst,” he said. “Obviously, you can roll over and accept hopelessness. Or, you can do what you do best and tell death to go fuck itself.”

“Yeah, this is an anomaly—so are you. Nothing is written, right? Don’t give up. Not yet.”

There were a lot of words Morgan had spoken in the past that haunted her now. Magic is going to save my life. All I need is to break the curse. Hope is a fucking choice. What was there to hope for when the only thing on the horizon was another shade of suffering? How could she continue believing in existence, when existence seemed to be shutting her down at both ends? Was she supposed to bone-jangle her way downstairs to breakfast every morning? Or be carried on a stretcher in so many pieces, to and fro? Or would the magic take away her mind too, and this was simply a farewell tour she didn’t have a say in? Morgan didn’t see much hope in that. What had all her suffering been for? A year of half a life, and then this?

Morgan scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and said nothing for a while. Then, just peeking over her knees with dead, swollen eyes, she said, “Death comes for everyone, Eddie. That’s what gives life balance. We end. We go...somewhere. Home. Even if it’s not until this planet implodes or gets struck by the right meteor. Everything is change. To stay stuck one way, that’s the biggest waste of what we have.” She shrugged. “But...stars in the fucking sky above…” Her voice drowned with held-in tears. “I couldn’t find anything about this, Eddie. I haven’t figured it out. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to imagine to hope for. And I’m so tired...I am so tired of climbing back up, of fighting the universe for one scrap of good. And right now...I almost wish I could give up. But I don’t even know what to give up on. All of it looks like giving up something right now.”

Eddie knew death came for everyone. Until recently, he clung to that fact with everything he had. Even now, his grip was only a little looser than before. Death, to him, sounded like a release. Morgan was tired, it made sense for her to want rest. A few months ago, Eddie might not have argued that it wasn’t the answer, but now he knew what loss felt like. If Morgan died, a piece of him would too. Ironically enough, the more he cared about someone, the more selfish he became.

“Lots of things that happen in this town don’t have books written about them. That doesn’t make them impossible to handle,” Eddie insisted before adopting a softer tone. “I know you’re tired. If anyone deserves rest, it’s you, and you’ll get it.” Eddie reached out with his free-hand and took hold of Morgan’s. “Like you said, death’s inevitable but it doesn’t have you yet. As long as you’re here, there’s a chance for things to get better. And—and, no, I don’t know what your pain feels like, but I know my own. Most days, getting out of bed is a fucking triumph, but I still do it; for you. For Alfie, for Bex, and Kyle, and everyone else who’s been kind to me. I don’t know what I’m hoping for exactly. Maybe I’m just hoping for hope.” Eddie paused before speaking again. “Think about that scrap of good, are you ready to let it go?” He meant the question genuinely and without pretense. “If you do, there’s no getting it back. No more garden, no more Deirdre, no more laughter, no more anything. Is there really nothing left worth fighting for?”

Morgan hid her face again as it crumpled with grief. But she let Eddie take her hand, and though her fingers were stiff, she squeezed his back. Mina had told her once that life was a curse of its own; Morgan had brushed it off as a flash of witty irony. But it came to her again now: was this living? Was crawling out of one hole only to fall into another what life looked like from the inside? She couldn’t think of a person she knew who wasn’t crawling out of something right now. The difference was only in terms of degree. When she was alive, human-alive, she had coached herself into accepting happiness as a stolen gift, a thing she would be caught red handed with and have to surrender. It would all be okay, because when the curse was over, she could have as much as she wanted and more. She could chase down every bright thing and know that however it turned out, it was fair as anything on earth could be, and she had given her best. It made her dry organs shrivel just a little more to suppose this was the way of all things, not just a thirty-nine-year blip of existence.

And yet there was no better choice before her. It was just like Eddie said. If she tried to will this bullshit to the end, she would be releasing everything she’d fought so hard to hold. And if she surrendered to the thought of an eternity of true living death, it would be much the same. The world struck no natural balance in the course of a life, and in White Crest it arched toward cruelty, and yet there had to be another horizon. These scraps of good had to be enough because they were all she had. And maybe In another week, a month, in a decade, things would be different. Magic always had a key to unlock itself. What was done might someday be undone. (Might, and with so little evidence to make it feel like anything at all.) She tried to imagine it, coming out of a stupor like sleeping beauty, kissing her own skin for holding its shape and keeping her here just enough to try and make a better balance in the world, kissing Deirdre, and the cats, and having every fresh memory from those early days to guide her toward contentment. She couldn’t hold the image very long. It burnt in flashes. Somehow, it hurt worse than either path of doom she saw. Morgan nodded and let hope in and sobbed, breaking with the weight of it.

She tried to muffle her cries with her other hand, but it was no good. She shook and soaked her sweatpants with her tears and turned Eddie’s fingers red with her grip. At last she noticed the change in the feel of his hand and let go. “Sorry. I’m...s-sorry. Um.” She wiped her face on her sleeve and tried to look at the boy. “You know you’re...a really kind, brave kid, right? And that’s why we all want you to be more careful? Because we need more of that around. We need you. And I wish you could be there for yourself like you are for me right now.” She heaved another dry sob and scrubbed her face again fighting for composure. It was always harder to show up for yourself, especially when you were alone.

“I’m not--uh, this isn’t because--” She gestured vaguely at the mess of herself. “I mean, you’re right. You’re right and I know you’re right and it’s just--” Kind of wish you weren’t. It would be so much easier if you weren’t. She shook her head, abandoning words in favor of meeting his gaze. What she didn’t know how to say was this: it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, holding out for hope and hoping for its own sake. But Eddie knew dark almost as well as she did; maybe he would know this just by looking at her, too.

When Morgan broke down, Eddie knew he’d struck a chord. He could only hope that meant something good and that he hadn’t made things worse. Her grip on his hand tightened exponentially but the pain barely registered. All he could focus on were her anguished sobs—he wondered how long she’d been trying to swallow them. Despair like that didn’t come to term in an instant. It laid in wait, brewing and accumulating more grievances both big and small until it could no longer be contained. If he had managed to help her rethink the release of death, maybe a release like this one would suffice for now.

“No, no, it’s—” Eddie’s dismissal of Morgan’s apology cut off when she spoke again. His expression slowly relaxed, brows raising in gentle surprise. A few people had called him brave now but he never seemed to get used to it. After spending so much of his life in hiding, he didn’t think he deserved that kind of praise. At the same time, he wanted to believe he was wrong. Eddie smiled sadly at Morgan. “One day, maybe. It’s a work in progress.” He didn’t know what to say about being needed but he tucked the compliment away somewhere he could find it when he lost sight of what mattered.

What she said—or, more accurately, didn’t say next resonated exactly as she expected it to. “It feels impossible, doesn’t it?” Eddie asked before his smile returned. “Kind of like when you’ve been in the dark for so long your eyes adjust to it and suddenly a light comes on and blinds you.” He gingerly rubbed the back of her with his thumb. “We’ll adjust to the light the same as we did the dark, just gotta give ourselves some time.”

Morgan nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Slowly, she unfolded her legs. There wasn’t much of her left to hide, and the second fly was already crawling along her skull. She thought about what Eddie said when it came to the light and the dark, and wondered how long it would take for her vision to get screwed up from so much back and forth that everything hurt. It would have to be a long time from now, wouldn’t it? She would have to make it that way.

After what seemed like a long time she said, “You know, for someone who lumped in hope with the evils of the world, you’re getting pretty good at being hope’s cheerleader.” Then after another silence, “You don’t have to stay with me though, okay? I’m not gonna go off the deep end, or do anything I shouldn’t. Deirdre will probably be home soon anyway.” Time had a way of moving funny when you were miserable, something Eddie was probably familiar with too, but the last thing she wanted him to carry was more worry about her. She nearly reached over to pat his arm, reassure him in a performance of her good ol’ self, but she remembered how she looked and let it fall empty instead. “Thank you though,” she said quietly.

Since Eddie last gave Morgan his opinion on hope, a lot had changed—was still changing. He didn’t find comfort in misery as much as he used to. Now, he understood happiness took a little elbow grease and that brains need to be re-wired every now and then. Some days were harder than others, he didn’t always believe his positive affirmations, but he was trying. For himself and everyone he loved, he was trying.

“When you’re wrong, you’re wrong,” he said with a shrug. “I thought I might as well give your outlook a shot. It’s going pretty okay so far.”

When Morgan next spoke, Eddie considered her carefully. He didn’t want to linger if she needed time to decompress but he also didn’t want to risk leaving too soon. Finally, he said, “Okay, if you’re sure.” Eddie stood up and took a deep breath before turning to face her. “If you need anything, anything at all, call me. I don’t care what time it is. I know it sucks to feel like you’re weighing people down but I love you, Morgan. I like helping you.” He leaned down to wrap his arms loosely around her. “Don’t ever feel like a burden.”

“I love you too, Eddie,” Morgan whispered. “Go on now. Be good and I’ll see you soon.”

Eddie straightened up and walked over to the kitchenette to toss the wadded up paper towels in the trash. Afterwards, he headed for the door. “See you soon,” he said, glancing back at Morgan before taking his leave.

#keeping vigil #wr eddie #wr chatzy #wr eddie chatzy

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floggingink · 3 years

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OH HERE WE GO LADIES IT’S RIVERDALE, CHAPTER EIGHTY: “Purgatorio”

I’m tuning in to be VERY entertained on the grounds that I missed almost the entirety of S4 and will not understand anything

we open with an incredible analogue comparing the football team to the Army, as men do construct rituals: football players get blown into the sky, etc., in a heartrending mash-up of Archie’s innocence + the American ideal/expectations/pipeline of masculinity

Archie Company is decked out appropriately to storm Hürtgen Forest

that art direction trope where a character’s hearing goes EEEEEEEEEEEEEE after an explosion……...delightful

the Vixens and friends cheering him on from the sidelines as if Archie can only process his unprocessable present through the lens of his past………...hits the spot

distressingly wood-based rifles for our purposes

Archie > Dawson: I don’t mind telling you I felt emotion upon Archie hoisting his war buddy over his shoulders to that quadruple-toned “Chivalric Archie Using His Strength for Good” tune, like when he broke his whole hand busting Cheryl out of Sweetwater River

WHEN HE SAW HIRAM LODGE, I’M TELLING YOU!

Hiram’s dragon-scale gloves? absolutely savory; he would

“Yonkers” is one of those New York place names I don’t totally buy is real (Poughkeepsie is another)

the sepia-toned light in this hospital room rings true judging by all the Captain America fanfiction I’ve read; I also like the mint-colored hand towels draped on Archie’s bedframe bought, one assumes, using the Department of Defense’s Kohl’s Cash

Archie made Sergeant, which is the best ranking for a fictional character: important enough that they can be a leader, get into trouble; low-profile enough that you don’t have to write them in the room making terrible decisions; probably won’t die immediately, as a Captain or Private might be

Fifth period is AP English: Archie reads A Farewell to Arms to Corporal Jackson, a WWI novel by Hemingway that Jug definitely turned him onto

Christ, Archie looks good in that on-leave jacket thing

I like Jackson’s subtle graph paper-print hospital gown

Gay?!: was Jackson in love with Archie? is he gonna bus to Riverdale once he’s off his pain meds? RAS, is that you in there?

God you know I love that haunted-ass Exorcist wooden bench bus light lighting

how long has the WW been relocated under Pop’s??? I do NOT know what happened to La Bonne Nuit

Sexy, aesthetic Southside: Fangs’ hair? his Tony Stark glasses? the girls’ “I’m a Slave 4 U” Burmese pythons? Toni’s headdress and immaculate glossed lip?

Sixth period is Intro to Film: the only part of From Dusk till Dawn I’ve seen is Salma Hayek putting her toe in Quentin Tarantino’s mouth but judging from that I figure I’d like the rest

The female gaze: Jesus Sweet Pea still looks good

Toni’s stage is flanked by twin pillars of melting candles and I would like someone to track those down for my bathroom

if they lay one hand on Pop Tate…

Betty appears to be, on her own, running the FBI training course. Betty is such a freak

Betty’s FBI-appointed psychologist is “Dr. Starling,” wears a great yellow blouse; Betty eats what appears to be a mini-sized Milky Way

her blond FBI trainer-boyfriend (uh) Glen appears to be an unholy fusion of Jimmi Simpson and that one actor with brown hair and really sharp light eyes whose acting credits I can’t think of right now, you know who I’m talking about (not the guy from Vampire Diaries)

I quite like her patterned blouse and I hate his yellow (gold?!) and blue tie

Please protect Betty: obviously we stan the Silence of the Lambs shit even as it remains infuriating Bryan Fuller couldn’t get his hands in it

Betty’s cat’s crying was so disturbingly baby-like that I had to leave the room once I realized it was in fact a cat

I’ve watched the Elisa Lam tape too many times in recent hours to handle this hallway shot

REALLY GROSS LICKING NOISES

the Trash Bag Killer coming at her was scary :(

Betty’s lovely blue knit cardi with the puffed sleeves!

50 Shades of Betty: clearing her throat before the doctor quite finishes her sentence—Lili Reinhart continues to be great at conveying “slightly perturbing subterranean tension”

was Charles a serial killer too??? oh damn!

Betty has been successfully holding off giving Glen a key to her place until now, an era that must come to a close

fellas, “Do I at least get a kiss?” is a bad move

Veronica was rich: Veronica’s new digs: exposed brick, bougiely avant-garde chandelier; possibly an elevator door right there behind the dude?

Veronica has married Hiram, to no one’s surprise

Chadwick looks like Jimmi Simpson and brunet Evan Peters plus a jaw

Veronica’s single-puffled-sleeved gown…..madamn (she has absolutely been taking secret birth control pills)

Summer + Blair = Veronica: of course Veronica would be great at Howard Ratner’s job; I MUST know what “specialty showcase haute couture offense” Vinnie has committed

T-Dubbs’ green jacket

Veronica pretended she was working at like, a department store? but she MISSED the EDGE post-day-trading

their apartment is so expensive that their bedroom is totally exposed

oh my god, Hermione

Best costume bit: please get me these satiny green high-waisted slacks?! and ugh her blouse has shoulder tassels……..she’s flourishing

“That’s threatening to an alpha like Chad.”

yes, they have a private elevator. fine.

Glen and Chad get their ties from the same Men’s Warehouse

“When that helicopter went down on the way to Martha’s Vineyard…”

you know kissing is 4-real when one person cups their hand to the back of the other person’s neck all close

I don’t understand the drop of the Glamergé egg but I appreciate that there is one and that Veronica is like, get this the fuck out of my house

Veronica’s shiny cropped tweed two-piece, Yvonne’s weird feathery coat that matches her bf’s shirt (you know she’s supposed to be “too much” because she’s got big hoop earrings)

God, Jughead is next and I’m not gonna be able to handle it

OH GOD IT’S SO MUCH WORSE THAN I THOUGHT

Alphabet City?! the piano?? the fucking East Coast Beat typewriter shit—the day robe? I’m—READING CLUBMASTERS? FORSYTHE???

OH GOD HE’S DATING ANOTHER WRITER (she has nice pants)

Jughead eats: “that place you like” is a HOT DOG STAND in the middle of SOME GRASS

I’ve seen Brick like thirty times: Jughead wears high-ankle light blue jeans, grey socks, and spectators that blend to create the illusion of wading boots. I’m going to commit a crime

Jughead doubts it: “So did Kerouac. And Hemingway. And Fitzgerald.”

fuck yes I love Floundering Jughead, and his Pushy Agent who pronounces “career” like “Korea,” and the continuing tradition of Jughead getting kicked out of his house

I like Literary Grifter’s sweater

the Brat Pack, and most of the Rat Pack for that matter, were actors, but I assume RAS couldn’t resist the rhyme

I was 100% afraid we were about to learn Cora was an uncomfortably-young undergrad

the musical cue as she reaches into her bag is absolutely as if she’s taking out a gun, and it might as well be! it’s the scariest thing in NYC: an unpublished manuscript

showrunners doing a classic I Love Lucy job partially concealing Vanessa Morgan’s pregnancy via medium close-ups, draping black clothes

Cheryl slowly turning to ask if doesn’t she look okay 10/10 icon

Cheryl’s pins: she has either a tiny spider or maybe a tick

Cheryl’s sheaths: the lacy red thing, amazing

why is Cheryl’s left hand gloved?

Cheryl’s a chaos angel from hell: Cheryl’s going to forge a Rembrandt, which unfortunately means she’s my favorite person on the planet (she does not look happy about doing this)

btw is Nana Rose an Immortal?

please tell me about Toni’s eyelashes

EXTREMELY HAUNTED DOLL?!

“Damn good coffee”: Archie’s earnest “Where are people gonna sit for the bus?” slayed me

fuck YEAH Ghoulies party house! terrible music but really good skull spray paint art

Jug looks LOW lol

Veronica’s blouse + buttons, impeccable

I’m writing a scene where it’s gay.: Tabitha/Squeaky

the hellscape semi’s red backlighting and its skeleton’s red eyes

I like Linette’s glossy bomber!

the trucker who’s about to kill her can’t also be the Trash Bag Killer….truckers have to stick to too much of a schedule….but he could be Betty’s meandering serial

I loved this episode

NEXT WEEK: Archie brings the FBI down on some people paying their rent :(

#riverdale #i say #commentary #tropes

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metanoiyed-archive · 3 years

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The Ahistorical “Burning Times”, Or: Why White People Shouldn’t Be Trusted To Record History

*cracking knuckles* If you saw this post about this post, you know what this is about. If not, read them and come back. Without further ado: The Ahistorical “Burning Times”, Or: Why White People Shouldn’t Be Trusted To Record History.

“The important backdrop for this group is the time period that modern witches and pagans refer to as The Burning Times.”

So the first thing you’ll notice about posts or books that mentioned the ‘burning times’ is that they use very purposeful wording and diction. Notice how the OP says ‘that modern witches and pagans refer to as’ and not, “what historians refer to as”? That’s because historian’s don’t refer to it as the burning times, they refer to it as the ‘Witch Craze’ or ‘Witch Hysteria’, where many people in medieval Europe and America [14th-17th century, but 16th and 17th were the most popular years] were often falsely accused of witchcraft and hung - not burned - for the crime. During the Salem Witch Trials, especially, people like to say ‘we are the granddaughters of witches you couldn’t burn’ -- but no witches were even burned at the stake in Salem (1). Accusing someone of witchcraft was very, very often a political tool used by the Roman Catholic Church or others who operated under it to execute whomever they wished, but we’ll get to that in a second.

“Europe and America were thrust into a moral panic and hysteria over alleged satanic witches. Most of those accused were midwives, healers, poor women, women suffering from mental health issues, and women who were practicing preChristian traditions.” So... Yes to: hysteria, healers and women suffering from mental health issues and practicing pre-Christian traditions. No to pretty much everything else. Men who were healers or suffering mental health issues were also accused, but that’s because anyone could call witchcraft like a boy crying wolf and it was believed. In my ‘A Deed Without A Name’ notes, I go over how in some cases it appears that a certain aspect of people who are in some way different can indicate they’re touched, but often in the past I’m inclined to think in most cases it was simply used to execute people. Also, they killed people practicing pre-Christian traditions because they were racist Europeans and colonialists, and most of the time those pre-Christian traditions were by POC. 14th Century-17th Century is by no means pre-Christian, by that point a lot of folk belief in Europe had been touched by Christian belief, not so much that it entirely changed it, but enough. ‘Alleged’ Satanic witches? Are we just purposefully looking away from Isobel Gowdie’s confession before she was executed? Confessions of people [of those who confessed and were actually witches] who made deals with the Devil/Man in Black/Witchfather in some form are overwhelmingly common. (2).

“Many witches fear a return to the Burning Times, when any old woman was burned at the stake for merely existing below the poverty level.” I really have nothing groundbreaking to say about this one, just that I hate the OP for making me look at it and I hope they stub their toe. ‘fear a return to the burning times’ my ass.

“The total number of those murdered under the guise of witch accusations varies widely by source. Many historians have argued that the number is anywhere between 40,000 and 60,000. Other sources, however, have claimed the number is closer to 100,000 with potentially hundreds of thousands more unaccounted for. It has even been suggested that there were 392,000 in Great Britain alone. The highest number, and number that has become part of popular legend, is approximately 9 million (with the fullness of the Crusades and Spanish Inquisition included). It will never be certain how many women, men, and children were killed, and truthfully the numbers game is irrelevant in the face of trauma. Any genocide, no matter how big or small, is a moral stain on our history.”

Other sources? What sources. You don’t name any of yours, I noticed. ‘Any genocide ... a moral stain on our history’ yet I am sure you turn a blind eye to the plight of those right in front of you, while my people suffer a real continued genocide, you make a fantasy crime. Statista did a chart on how many people were tried and executed between 1300 and 1850, and the number is even lower than you think. (3).

“The Burning Times were a systematic rooting out of female power and autonomy, and non-christian practices. The midwives and healers posed a threat to the structures and systems of politics and medicine... both groups challenging the patriarchy.” This sounds... so fishy. Doesn’t this sound like a weird radical-feminist argument? I’m not implying anything about OP, but the way this whole paragraph reads while trying to include ‘men, women and children’ and then focusing on how this was a whole attack on the women against the patriarchy just... grosses me out, a lot. Because it was never about that, has never been about that, and will never be about that. I also just don’t trust people who refer to women as ‘females’ but that’s just me.

“Most of the following women were (wrongfully) believed to have had sexual intercourse with Satan, signing their names into his black book with their blood.” Again, are we just ignoring Isobel Gowdie’s straight up confession? Or any of the other confessions from Scotland, England, and surrounding areas? This stupid purity culture of wanting to be seen as better to outsiders is so annoying. “I’m not like that trope of witches you’ve seen, we don’t actually have sex with the Devil or sign his black book with blood!” Just because some of us aren’t worried to get our hands dirty and you are doesn’t mean that other witches don’t do that. “wrongfully” where the fuck are you getting your information? Many confessions that they did get included detailed accounts of joining the Man in Black for sabbats, having sex with him, and signing his black book. Not everyone continues the practice today, but some definitely do, they definitely did, and it definitely wasn’t “wrongfully believed”. They were powerful women in their own right. If anything OP, by trying to separate themselves from the legacy of these women, has disgraced them in that way. It takes courage and strength to work with infernal forces from the otherside like that, and here this asshole is just shittin’ on their name pretending they never risked their lives doing it. A source on this from Isobel Gowdie, “As I was going betuix the townes of Drumdewin and the Headis, I met with the Devil, and ther covenanted, in a maner, with him.” and from ‘A Deed Without A Name’ by Lee Morgan, “As we can see when we look over the testimonies of witches from earlier times not everyone is initially approached by an animal spirit. Isobel Gowdie seems to have initially been approached by ‘the Devil’, Bessie Dunlop by a faerie man who claims to have once lived as a human man, others were taken by faeries or by the spirit of another living human practitioner.” (4)

And obviously there are various other sources, these are not the only ones. I’m just too tired to go through my library, cite them all, attach them all - y’all gotta do your own work for once. Read actual history, please. Learn discernment. I don’t even have the energy to go through the list of people the OP put as ‘in memoriam’ because I have no idea if those are historical reasons, either, but honestly I don’t even wanna know. Anyway, it’s bullshit and ahistorical, thanks for coming to my tedtalk. If you push this narrative you owe Black, Native, Jewish people and anyone else otherwise affected by the witch-craze repatriations immediately, I don’t make the rules except I do and those are the rules.

Citations:

Andrews, Evan. “Were Witches Burned at the Stake during the Salem Witch Trials?” History.com, A&E Television Networks, 13 Aug. 2014, www.history.com/news/were-witches-burned-at-the-stake-during-the-salem-witch-trials.

Wilby, E. (2013). The visions of Isobel Gowdie: Magic, witchcraft and dark shamanism in seventeenth-century Scotland. Brighton: Sussex Academic Press.

McCarthy, Niall, and Felix Richter. “Infographic: The Death Toll Of Europe's Witch Trials.” Statista Infographics, 29 Oct. 2019, www.statista.com/chart/19801/people-tried-and-executed-in-witch-trials-in-europe/

Morgan, Lee. A Deed without a Name: Unearthing the Legacy of Traditional Witchcraft. Moon Books, 2013.

#witchcraft #witchblr #isobel gowdie #bessie dunlop #a deed without a name #lee morgan #emma wilby #burning times #ahistorical narrative #ahistorical #history lesson #history #witch craze #witch hysteria #long post #history of witchcraft

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whump-town · 4 years

Text

Quantico Hope

Based on the text post created by @criminalmindsgonewrong so lots of praise goes to her (if not for the idea than because she’s a queen and I love her content). All of my medical scenes came from E.R, Grey’s Anatomy, or Chicago Hope so don’t come for me. Hotchniss is the main ship, warning for language

Emily Prentiss wakes up in a stranger’s bed. The comforter is thick, soft but the pattern is something only a bachelor would choose. It’s a flannel pattern, blue flannel. Knowing that no woman would willingly buy it is a small comfort. She’d never done it on purpose but she can still think of more than one occasion in which a one night stand came to a crashing halt as a spouse made their existence known. She had been chased from quite a few apartments half-dressed.

Topless, she wraps the sheets around her breast as she sits up. Her John is laying on his side and she has to lean close to see his face. She peaks over his shoulder but her quick movement catches nothing but thick brown hair and a five o’clock shadow. It does nothing to spur her memory so she places a hand on his hip to stabilize herself as she leans over him.

“Fuck,” she grunts, pushing herself back away from him.

On her back, hand slapped on her forehead she breathes out a shaky sigh. “No, no, no,” she rolls off the bed. Blindly scooping up her things on the floor. Waking up in a stranger’s bed can be disorienting but waking up in a bed that is unfamiliar with your best friend sleeping right beside you- so, so much worse. This is all Jennifer Jareau’s fault. Her and her stupid sentiments about how one more drink can’t possibly hurt.

She hears a groggy groan from the bed and she winces as she draws her arms to her chest. It’s instinct to squint her eyes, her subconscious encouraging the childish idea that if she can’t see him he can’t see her. As still as she can, frozen in her spot she waits for him to move.

She is beyond relief when he sighs and settles back down.

This time, she tiptoes, now far more conscious of the noise she’s making. Her eyes sweep the floor, searching for her lost bra. She’s missing a sock too but she can leave a sock here and not think twice about it but a bra?

Last night is mostly a blur. She has a faint memory of his hand cupping her bare breast.

“Hotch,” she breathes against his neck. She’s working his belt off, letting him attack her neck. “Jesus,” his pants fall to the floor, weighed down by his useless belt. Her mouth opens to make a comment about how hard he is but the rough pads of his fingers cup her breast and she arches into the touch.

“Are you sure?” He whispers. “I don’t want you to-”

Both of her hands wrap around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. “Trust me,” she says, breathlessly. “I want this.” She’s wanted it for as long as she’s known him but he was married. So, she stuck to being his friend. His sounding board. “God,” she’s standing in his room, his rough hands pulling her panties to the side to work a finger inside her.

He pushes her onto the bed, laughing that silly laugh that makes her chest ache, and for the first time in her life, she’s able to kiss him. She shares his goofy joy and she can feel him smiling as he kisses her tenderly. It occurs to her that their quick drunk fuck isn’t going to be so simple. His eyes are sober and his actions are soft.

His lips start to wander and her stomach flutters as he kisses her hip bones. He looks up at her suggestively, his hands spreading her thighs. He kisses the inside of her thigh, smiling as she can’t control the way they shake.

“Aaron!”

Emily shudders as she’s pulled from the memory, heart pounding as he groans from beneath the mound of comforter he’s curled under.

The sheets rustle and Emily turns from the door to watch Hotch bolt upright in the bed. He’s on his feet in a flash, stumbling to the bathroom. He’s not of the state of mind to shut the door behind him so she hears as he gags and vomits into the toilet.

She closes her eyes and curses him. She can’t leave him alone and if the clock on his nightstand is right, she’s got three hours before she’s due for rounds anyway. Which means, she’s just an awful friend to leave him like this.

“That was gross,” she leans against the bathroom door frame. “You got a little-” she pats the side of her lip. She’s grinning ear-to-ear at his expense. He may be her best friend but it’s still far and in-between when she gets to see him so human. Without the white coat and stoic frown, he can be himself. He can be the stressed-out single father, going through a tough divorce, who spends nearly all of his waking hours depriving himself of comfort.

He drops his forehead against the cool toilet lid and groans. Wrapping a hand around his stomach, he curls his long legs beneath him. “Why are you being mean to me?” He rubs at his mouth, disgusted when his fingers find a bit of vomit on his lip. It makes his stomach roll with a vengeance that makes his head pound mercilessly. He ends up, gagging miserably again, nothing coming up.

“Alright,” Emily steps in, rubbing at his back. She stands beside him, rubbing his back until he pulls his head up. “Let’s get back to bed,” she hooks her arm under his. It takes a moment, he doesn’t want to let her help him. She doesn’t relent and he caves, allowing her to ease him to his feet.

She’s pretty tall for a woman but getting him to his feet is nothing short of a small feat. "Jesus, " she grunts. He stumbles, leaning heavily on her. Everyone had noticed the weight he dropped after Haley filed for divorce. She can barely keep him on his feet now, she'd hate to have had to do it three months ago. "You're heavy!"

Hotch stops, glaring down at her. It’s a mystery to her how he can look exhausted, nauseated, and angry at the same time. He puffs like an angry little fish, strangely cute. “Are you saying I’m fat?” He makes a failed attempt to stand up straighter, making a soft grunting noise as his stomach revolts against the idea.

Emily rolls her eyes, drama queen. “No,” she pushes him onto the bed. “You’re just a giant.” He bounces as he sits, frown set right in place. “Aaron,” she puts her hand on her hips and frowns right back at him. “Just take a nap, nurse your hangover, and remember to be in at ten when your shift starts.” She pats his shoulder and plants a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll bring you a coffee, huh?”

He yawns, grimacing as his head and stomach both protest. Sleepily, he rubs at his eyes, laying back on his bed. “I gotta…” he yawns mid-sentence. “Going to a parent-teacher meeting.”

She tries very hard not to look completely devastated. “Oh,” so no coffee. “Okay, I’ll see you after that then.”

He nods, “and I’ll bring the coffee.”

__________

Last Friday when Aaron had cornered Dave and asked him to cover some basic stuff for him, Dave imagined he’d be doing some rounds, picking up after an intern, or fussing with an attending. He hadn’t expected a very specific, in-depth list of things for him to do:

8 a.m. take Reid to check-in on patients (keep communication at a minimal)

8: 30 a.m. bust Savannah Hayes (the nurse from the Emergency Room) and Derek Morgan in the second-floor on-call room

8:45 a.m. bring Garcia a non-fat almond milk vanilla lattee--

The man has stones… and that wasn’t even half the list. There are annotations, they came color-coded with sticky notes on additional pointers. Thumbing through the several pages worth of notes and instructions, Rossi shakes his head. Of course, he knows his old prodigy is a busy man. As much as he would like to think he’s what keeps this hospital on its feet… Aaron has a lot to do with it, too.

He’s got a knack for running into trouble just as it’s happening and juggling fixing the problem with making sure it never happens again. Which, in this hospital,-- a cesspool of one night stands, rule-bending, and overbearing masculinity-- makes him a very valuable member for the good side. Good meaning one of the few members of staff without his hands in another staff member's pants.

The problem is, Dave’s hardly got the time to comply with the whole list of nonsense demands Aaron wants him running about doing. He loves Aaron dearly, the boy is like his son but he’s a bit anal-retentive and Dave just… well, he doesn’t want to do all of this stuff. The hospital isn’t going to fall apart if he doesn’t meet every single thing on this list.

Well… hypothetically, right?

“Where’s Hotch?”

Rossi steps out of his office and finds Reid standing on the other side, weirdly close. “Woah,” he takes a step back when the genius doesn’t. He shakes his head, folding the list in his hand in half before regarding the doctor in his doorway. “Reid,” he acknowledges, stepping around the genius, and shutting his office door behind him. “I believe we’ve got rounds to attend to, correct?”

Brainbox is what a few members of staff have taken to calling the young genius. Hotch had made a point to talk to the other leading heads in departments to make sure they weren’t calling Reid that and for the most part, that had slowed down the spreading of the nickname. Dave understands why Hotch got ahead of that problem but on the same hand, it’s kind of fitting.

Reid nods, looking around Rossi and into his dark office. “Yeah but Hotch always takes me.” Technically, taking Reid on rounds is supposed to be Dave’s job. Hotch just made time for it. If Hotch times everything just right, he can get Reid on the second floor near the on-call room to bust Derek and Savannah with enough time to get Garcia her coffee and have time to swing by the cardiac wing and say hi to Emily.

Speaking of--

“What are you two doing down here?” Emily and JJ are standing where Dave is supposed to be, a smooth-talking Derek and meek looking Savannah standing between the pairs. Which means that the pair busted the couple before Dave could. It burns Dave. That skinny little runt. That bastard. Hotch has Emily on the same hunt as him because Hotch doesn't think Dave would do the list.

He’s right but… still, it kinda hurts.

Emily isn’t wearing her signature smirk. For once, she’s got a one-up on him and she’s not biting. Something’s got her down. She offers a simple tight-lipped nod. “Hotch has me trailing you,” she informs him and Rossi understands exactly what it is that’s bothering her or better yet who. “He just doesn’t want the hospital burning down.”

So much for Dave’s earlier sentiment of Hotch keeping his hands to himself. Now, what’s he to do? He’s pissed that Aaron has hurt Emily but they’re both like his kids. What he needs to do is strangle for being stupid. Aaron for never outright telling anyone how he feels and Emily for letting men hurt her.

God, they just… The little idiots get under his skin like nobody else.

“He’s a tight-ass,” Rossi mumbles, shaking his head. And a dumbass if he’s right about Emily. He puffs, “this place isn’t going to fall apart just because he misses a few hours.” Dave has been doing this for a long time. He didn’t get Chief of Surgery dicking around… well, he did a little bit but that’s not the point being made.

Emily smiles, even if it looks a little forced. “Tell him that,” she offers with an eye roll. “I’m just not going to waste my energy with that argument.” Arguing with Hotch is a very taxing and pointless excursion. Especially, if the subject at hand goes against his paranoias and anxieties. So, in other words, the idea that the hospital won’t burn down without him.

Rossi can feel the mood shift and Derek must too because he kisses Savannah's cheek and excuses himself. “I’ve got my own rounds to attend to,” he admits. “Pretty boy,” he calls Reid to him. “Care to join me?” Morgan can handle a little responsibility. He won’t let Reid’s work slack on account of him.

Reid looks between Dave and Prentiss, unsure if he’s allowed to agree with Derek. Ultimately, he sees no qualms being raised by either of them so he nods and his head. He tucks his hands in his pocket and stands by Morgan’s side. Waiting for the plastic surgeon to leave.

“I’ll catch you later,” Derek says with a wave of his hand. Fully intending to make good on that promise at lunchtime where he’ll attempt to tear down Emily’s walls to get her to talk about whatever is bothering her right now. With any luck, it’ll be something juicy.

Rossi turns and watches the pair walk away, wondering how many more chores he’s been left to do. “I should probably--” he lets his voice wander off as he pulls the list from his pocket. He motions to with an air of defeat, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Can I trust you two to behave?”

JJ smiles, “I think we both know that the only pair you should be worried about just walked off to do rounds.” Her smile broadens as she considers all the mischief Reid and Morgan can get into. “However, if I were you, I’d go investigate what they’re really off doing because I’ve never known Morgan to do his work on time and not last minute.”

Dave is obviously not buying her diversion but she’s planted the seeds of fear in his mind. Unable to think of anything aside from whatever Morgan and Reid are out ruining, he lets them go. Besides, he’s certain he’ll figure it out sooner rather than later anyhow.

As soon as Dave turns the corner, JJ turns back to Emily.

“So,” the blonde inquires knowing they’re both working on a tight schedule. “You and Hotch?”

Emily nods. She doesn’t regret it. That’s what she’s learned from her morning full of nothing but introspection. She wishes she regretted it because then she’d be able to tell JJ that she's not madly in love with him. “We were drunk,” she tells her because somehow that makes it okay. But then she remembers how he kept asking if she was okay.

It’s the bare minimum but… no one’s ever actually done that before.

“I’m surprised he could,” JJ admits. “He had a lot to drink.” They’d been celebrating… something. Reid and Garcia were celebrating, actually. The rest of them were just drinking away another miserable day at this hospital.

Emily nods her agreement. It’s unusual for Hotch to drink let alone get drunk enough to have sex with her. “He was very sweet,” she admits.

JJ smirks… What else was she expecting? Hotch can be an asshole but the majority of the time he really is a gentleman. Unless you incur his wrath and if you do… well, that’s your business. He’s a bit of a hothead but it does take a lot to get him worked into yelling.

Besides, Hotch is nothing but a sweetheart to Emily. They can act as blind as ⅔ of the three blind mice but that doesn’t change the heart eyes they exchange. It still leaves a lot to be desired on a lot of their exchanges, though. The way he reaches over and, without prompting, opens boxes or bags for her. The way Emily creeps into his personal space and he doesn’t comment or even step back.

“I don’t think it’ll work out, though.” Emily takes a long sip from her coffee, eyes thoughtfully trailing off. Actually, she’s not sure it won’t work but she’s about thirty percent sure he doesn’t love her and she needs someone to tell her that she’s not making it up.

JJ scoffs at that.

Emily stops walking, eyeing her friend up. “What?” Of course, she wants to know exactly what’s warranted that reaction.

JJ rolls her eyes, “Emily, I have watched you two make some of the most disgustingly adorable faces at each other for the better part of the last year. I’ve seen Haley watch your every move.” JJ picks her pace up, leaving Emily in her momentary frozen state. “He’s hopelessly in love with you Emily and if you don’t feel that way back then you’re lying to yourself and to him.” JJ turns around, walking backward so that her words are met with Emily’s full attention. “And you both deserve better than that.”

__________

Penelope Garcia is certain that someone is leaving her out of the loop.

For starters, Derek and Spencer are giggling in one of her observation rooms. Meaning that they’re not being watched… as they should be.

Emily and JJ brought her coffee this morning.

Dave has been MIA, besides coming down here half an hour ago to ask where Morgan and Reid had “fucked off to”. She would have happily informed him of the shenanigans, no doubt, happening in her emergency room, but Morgan had gotten to her first. Who is she to say no to her Chocolate Thunder so of course, she told Dave she hadn’t seen him yet this morning.

“MVA with three vics incoming!”

Garcia sighs, standing up from behind her desk. She looks over the doctors and staff floating through the emergency room. “Charlotte,” she calls the baby nurse over. Baby being the term she’s using because Charlotte is all of about twenty-three. She finds it adorable. “Honey, do you know where Hotch is?”

Another nurse, Savannah Hayes, steps up to the station. “Uhm, he’s on call.” There’s something about her knowing smile that tells Garcia exactly why Savannah knows that: Derek Morgan. “Off to a-a…” she snaps her fingers as she tries to recall what Morgan was telling her earlier that morning. “Parent-teacher meeting,” she recalls. “He’ll be back later though.”

Garcia frowns, making a mental note to ask about the meeting later. She’s about to ask how Morgan is since she hadn’t seen him that morning when the emergency room’s doors open and the EMTs run-in with the first victim.

“Forty-year-old car crash victim, head-on collision.” The EMTs come in running, shouting out information to whoever will listen. “Pressure is 50 over palp, his respirations were shallow in the field.” The stretcher is relinquished to the closest E.R. doctor. “Pupil dilation was equal and reactive at sight. ”

Garcia pulls herself together, clearing her throat as she steps up to the stretcher. “I want--” the order dies on her lips. The man on the stretcher is pale, paler than normal. His black hair plastered to his scalp, not in it’s usual combed but contained mess. His brow isn’t furrowed and he’s not looming and glooming but she’d know him anywhere.

Her brain blanks. Training and training and protocol and protocol but… It’s not very often she gets a friend in here. “Uhm,” she can feel the emotions taking over where she should be calm. Hotch needs her to be calm. “I need you to take him to--” her mind blanks but her pointing finger guides the seasoned EMT well and the two separate with a business-like nod.

“I need someone to--” Garcia turns and Charlotte is right there. “I need you to call the Chief down here and-and Derek and everyone!” She doesn’t look back or check to make sure she’s understood, she follows Hotch into the next room. There are ethics and protocol and so many things running through her head as she grabs her boss’s hand but there’s not a chance in hell anyone’s pulling her away.

Once in the room, she sets about doing her job. Looking up only as the curtain is thrown back and she finds David Rossi looking back at her.

“It’s Hotch.”

Garcia cuts through his shirt, the thin Hanes material giving like butter with her scissors. Tears sting her eyes, “oh, my liege.” She looks up and Derek and Spencer are right behind Dave, everyone filing in. It takes them a moment, just as it did her before they throw themselves into their jobs.

Rossi pulls the cut shirt away, shaking his head. “Chest movements are paradoxical,” he informs them, moving his hands to palpate Hotch’s abdomen. “Abdomen is rigid, too.” He places the stethoscope on Hotch’s diaphragm, sighing. “I need to place a chest tube, get me a cart.” He throws the stethoscope cord back around his neck, stepping to the side.

Out of the corner of her eye, Garcia sees Rossi going for the tools he needs for a chest tube. She doesn’t want to say they don’t have time for that but… “Pulse ox is 82,” Garcia informs them. “It was just 88.” Her hands are trembling as she moves around them, a flurry of movement all of them trying to do their jobs. “Oxygen is dropping.”

Morgan curses, “I need to intubate him.” The utensils are already gathered in his hands-- muscle memory to reach out for the tools that are cold and familiar in his palms. “Do you want to be the one to tell him he’s got heart damage or worse because we let his oxygen drop to below 80?”

Reid, standing by Hotch’s head, interlaces his fingers and shakes his head. His anxiety is sky high, it’s all too much. “Can’t,” he mumbles, shaking his hands out. “If a patient with pneumothorax or other indication for tube thoracostomy requires intubation and mechanical ventilation, the chest tube should be inserted first to avoid creating an iatrogenic tension pneumothorax.” He presses his palms into his temples. All the noise, everyone shouting is overstimulating him.

It’s why he doesn’t work in the emergency room.

“I just need a second, dammit!” Rossi’s hands are shaking, “let me get the chest tube in!” The scalpel in his hand trembles over Hotch’s skin. He’s pale from adrenaline and clammy to the touch. The emergency room feels different without Hotch looming over them. He’s not shouting out orders into the chaos or guiding anyone through procedures with his scarily calm voice.

“Dave? Come on, man!”

Rossi shakes his head, clearing his dismal thoughts. He clenches his jaw and makes the incision into the fourth intercostal space. “Clamp,” the cold metal is pressed into his palm and he places it inside the area. “Dissecting the pleural space,” he mumbles, working the clamp under Hotch’s skin so that the area can accept the tube.

Hotch’s body jerks away from Rossi, a soft grunt coming from his mouth. Reid steps back to his head, clicking his penlight on. “Right pupil is five millimeters and reactive,” Reid hovers by his friend’s head. He guides the light to Hotch’s left eye, yelping when the man jerks his head away from the light. “Hotch?” His eyes blink open, his head turning from the penlight. “He-He’s conscious!”

Rossi stands up from his spot, pulling his bloodied gloves off. He moves to Hotch’s head, “Aaron? Aaron, can you hear me?” He presses his warm hand to Hotch’s cheek, guiding Hotch’s attention to him. “Can you hear me, son?”

Hotch’s eyes are jerking around the room, his mouth open but silent as he writhes in pain. He can’t breathe. His chest is heavy but he’s only thinking about one thing: Jack. The strangled sound that leaves his mouth is inhuman, he doesn’t recognize it. The pain becomes excruciating.

“Sedate--” all too familiar with that word, Hotch turns his head towards Derek. The other man is red in the face, his anxiety bubbling into rage. Profanities litter his speech but Hotch’s mind is too exhausted to nitpick out the words. For now, the only one worth thinking about is sedate.

He pulls away from the bed, a burst of energy leaving him trembling but upright in the stretcher. “N-No!” Jack. Jack was in the back seat. He couldn’t reach Jack. He has to get to-- Something cold runs into his arm and looks down, body suspended by his friends and coworkers, and it’s Reid. In his hands is the syringe Garcia had gotten out. Hotch feels his chest tighten-- he feels betrayed.

“Easy, son.”

Hotch feels himself falling back but he doesn’t hit the hard surface of the gurney beneath him but rather hands. Gently, he’s guided back down. Sweat sleeks his hair to his face and he’s limp in the hands as Derek steps towards his head. They’re talking-- words he understands but…

Derek cranes his neck back, Hotch can see his lips moving, but he’s not taking in any of the words. He knows they’re asking him to do a simple task: blink on command to questions or offer a thumbs up. His inability to do these tasks, to even focus on anything other than the cold air on his exposed flesh is the reason they keep moving around him. Shouting as if he isn’t really there at all.

A thumb presses on his chin, forcing his jaw open. He grimaces as cold metal slides into his throat. Floating between conscious and unconsciousness, he gags and feels himself twist to get away from the tube pressing into the back of his throat.

“Easy--” someone comforts as hands press his shoulders down.

Air fills his lungs, it hurts-- every muscle, bone, tendon, everything hurts. He can breathe though, full lungfuls of air. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the ambu bag, bright blue, and in Reid’s hands. They make eye contact and Hotch watches as Reid syncs their breathing. The young genius’s shoulders rise as Hotch’s lungs fill and fall as he exhales.

There was once a time when Hotch had stood by Reid’s side, his hands covering Reid’s over the ambu bag. He’d always been able to be more patient with Reid than he was with many other students. Reid’s just a kid. So he made a point to remember that in every interaction he had with the genius.

And he’d grown to appreciate Reid’s unique sense of humor. He’s a good guy.

A good kid.

“Hotch?” Reid’s throat tightens as he watches a pained grimace come across his boss’ face. He’s uncomfortable and in pain but Reid can’t do much besides keeping the ambu bag moving at a steady pace. “Garcia?” He feels a flutter of anxiety knotting his heart up. “Can’t you do something? He’s in pain.”

Morgan interrupts whatever Garcia’s going to say with a shout, “just pulled a positive tap!” A second later, the metal starts hitting the table with a clatter. The wheels of the stretcher unlock, the guard rail going up. “He’s got blood in his abdomen, he needs to get into the OR, now!”

Dave takes a stumbling step back, his arms raised above his head. It’s muscle memory to pull them away from the field-- the field, of course, being his friend's bleeding body. His heart sinks to his feet but follows in the direction that Derek is pushing Hotch. His voice barking out orders that echo down the hall.

Dave watches them go.

“Sir,” an attending waves him down. “Hotchner’s wife is gonna need heart surgery.”

Dave’s got another job to attend to.

He has Savannah call Emily to the OR. He meets his team in the room. They’re working with silence. “If you can’t pull yourself together,” his voice is harsh because they’re past life and death. “Get out of my OR.” He looks around the crowd of faces, nurses and doctors he’s known for years. There’s a solemn understanding.

They wait on edge.

“Prentiss won’t know,” Dave tells the team. His eyes move to the woman on the table and without a word, he draws back the blue cloth over her eyes. The room stands in silent shock. All of them recognize her.

Haley Hotchner.

They’ve seen the evolution of the divorce. The way Aaron came into the hospital fresh-faced and new. Haley used to bring him lunch and Dave used to catch them in the on-call room. They’d gotten pregnant, had their ultrasound a floor down from where Haley now lays. Had their boy, Jack, and fallen into a pit.

Haley stopped kissing him between visits to the hospital.

She stopped visiting altogether.

Then Emily had come.

“Prentiss can’t know.”

She won’t know.

Emily Prentiss has mastered the art of chugging hot coffee and running, which is what she’s currently doing. Emergency heart surgery, she’s thrilled. Even more so when she steps into the room and things are already in motion.

“Dave,” she greets the older man as she steps into the operating room. Her hands are raised, waiting for a nurse to place gloves over her hands. “What’re you doing in here?”

It takes every ounce of his self-control to keep his voice steady. He clears his throat, “thought I’d watch the master at work.” Sure, Dave, win her over with flattery. Maybe then she won’t hate you for lying. “That alright with you?”

Emily shrugs, “I don’t mind dazzling you.” Gloves snapped into place, she adds, “but I do prefer Heart Goddess. You know, for future reference.” She turns to Savannah, who she recognizes behind her mask. “What do we have?”

Savannah glances at Dave. For a moment, Dave’s certain the cat’s about to be out of the bag but before he can fill the silence, Savannah clears her throat. “Thirty-five-year-old female with a suspected arterial wall collapse.”

Emily frowns as she walks past the patient, eyes scanning over the ultrasound that’s pulled up. “Suspected?” she repeats. She doesn’t like the sound of suspected but she’s not complaining. It could certainly be worse. She shrugs it away. “I’m gonna time myself,” she announces. “Have you started her on L.R.s?”

“Two liters L.R. and a unit of packed cells.”

Emily nods her head and moves back to the patient. “Alright, sounds good to me.” She extends her right hand, “ten blade.”

They all watch in baited silence as she sets to work.

“It’s a goddamn…” the frustration in her voice is clear. Her brows furrow and she falls silent.

Dave tries to keep himself calm but taking a deep breath doesn’t settle his nerves. He leans over the operating table, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches. “How’s it going,” he asks. He’s a damn good surgeon himself but it’s been a long time since he was running a heart surgery like this one. His specialty runs more towards general.

Emily shakes her head. When the monitors sound in alarm she doesn’t look up to see what it is, the curse she lets out says she already knows exactly what’s wrong. “Her…” Emily pauses as she works. “The inferior vena cava is completely collapsed. I don’t know how she’s--” Both of their heads snap up as the heart monitor sounds out in alarm.

Emily pulls her hands up, shaking her head as she works. “I can’t do anything,” she tells Dave. “Everything’s a mess. She’s bleed dry and I’ve maxed out the dopamine ....” Emily blows out her breath, letting herself think. “Let me try…” she leans back over Haley.

Whatever she’s doing, causes the monitors to get louder. “Dammit!” Emily keeps working, asking for different tools as fast as the nurses can hand them to her.

The monitor flatlines.

Emily pulls her hands out and she looks over at Dave. “There’s nothing I can do,” she admits. “The heart was shredded.”

Dave refuses to believe this. “No,” he tells her. “There has to be something.” His attention snaps up as Derek steps into the room adjacent to the operating room. He’s come for news but Dave can see his eyes travel to the monitor. His shoulders sag and his mouth opens in disbelief.

Dave looks to the ground, “go talk to Derek.”

Emily frowns at him, “what is your problem?”

He doesn’t mean to. It’s nothing against her. None of this is her fault. He stood right here. He saw. She did her best but sometimes there’s nothing you can do. “Go, Emily!”

Sulking away, looking more like a pissed-off teenager than an award-winning surgeon, Emily pulls her gloves off angrily. Making a point to throw them away where Dave can visibly see how hard she throws the limp latex. She shoves her way through the door and shakes her head at Derek. “What the hell is his problem?”

Dave watches through the window.

Derek starts talking, his hands gathering near his chest as he gestures and tries to work around telling Emily the truth.

Emily takes a step back, shaking her head. She argues with him, disbelief. No. Then her head turns to Dave and to the woman laying on the table. To the sandy blonde hair she just barely recognizes until Dave reaches down and moves the blanket draped over Haley’s face.

Dave can hear her muffled shout. Her voice grows frantic and angry as she accepts Derek pulling her to his chest but her fist hitting him. Fighting with everything she’s got for this not to be true.

For Haley to be alive.

Dave begins the slow process of pulling his own garments off. Someone’s going to have to tell Aaron.

He assumes that job is going to be left for him as well.

__________

It takes Dave a minute to find JJ. She’s lost in a sea of children, crouching so that she’s level with them as she speaks. Judging by the bandanna wrapped around her forehead, she’s got them into some game. Which explains how she’s oblivious to the news he’s carrying.

“Hey, kiddos.” He tries and fails to appreciate the youthful hope written across the snotty faces beaming at him. “I’m gonna need to steal Miss JJ for a moment, okay?”

JJ looks up and tells him to wait a moment, before she manages to wiggle out of the grasp of a rather small snot nosed child. Still, she gives the kid a pat on the head before stepping to the side with Dave.

“Aaron was in a car accident--” he tells her everything. That he lied to Emily and that Haley is dead. She takes it in stride. Nodding and inquiring about the surgeries. About Hotch’s outcome.

“But you think he’s going to be okay?” she asks.

Dave hesitates before agreeing. “His intracranial pressure is being closely monitored but… they all worked to the best of their abilities and--”

JJ nods, right. They’ve got great surgeons under this roof. Hotch would be safer no place else.

“I need to ask you a favor, though.” He rubs at the back of his neck, sheepishly recalling his short-circuited shout at Emily.

JJ already knows, “I’ll take care of her.” She steps to the side, attempting to make good on her promise.

“She’s with--”

“Aaron,” JJ finishes. “I know.” Because where else would she go? When Emily seeks comfort, she goes one to two places. To JJ or Hotch and considering Emily hasn’t been on the ward, the children love her so she’d know she must be with him.

It doesn’t take long for her to find Hotch's room. JJ steps in, feeling her light bubble pop under the pressure of the blood not completely wiped from Hotch’s face. The additional loom and gloom do not help. “How’s he doing?” The room is devoid of all things light and cheerful. Sucked through the dark whole of her friends’ current moods.

His vitals are good. A steady resting heart rate of seventy-two. He’s alive and that’s more than they can say for other victims of the crash.

“He won’t wake up.” Emily stands up from his side. Uncurling her long legs from underneath her as she stretches out. Muscles ache and joints pop as she moves for the first time in several hours. She doesn’t look at him for too long, it makes her chest tight and her throat hurt to see him like this.

She prefers the medicine of everything.

She can understand pulmonary edemas, kidney failures, pneumothorax, and flail chest but… The comparison is medicine makes sense. Show her a blocked artery and she’ll work around it. Bypass isn’t an option? No problem. The surgery is over. Vitals are steady. There aren’t chest to crack or hearts to massage. All she can do is sit back and take watch.

Her best friends sitting in a hospital bed hooked up to machines and she can do nothing.

“Of course, he isn’t,” JJ grumbles, walking over to the light switch and turning on the lights. Bathed in the dark room, windows shut to cut out all natural light, and surrounded by artificial sound it’s no wonder he’s not waking up. They haven’t given him a reason to. “Emily, you’ve shut out all the natural light. Half of recovery is atmosphere and, if I were Hotch, I’d feel like everyone had given up on me.”

JJ pulls open the blinds, the bright light making Emily recoil. The room, though, brightens, and JJ can feel the warmth in her chest. It occurs to her that maybe Hotch isn’t the only one who needs some looking after. While they can rest assured that Derek, Penelope, Dave, and Spence will cycle through the room periodically. Each of them checking sutures, drain tubes, and reflex responses.

No one’s checking on eachother.

“Em,” JJ places a hand on her friend’s shoulder. Emily’s shoulders feel rock hard under her palm. “When was the last time you showered or ate?”

Emily’s too tired to even think of numbers. Instead she leans into JJ, allowing her head to rest against the space between the blondes neck and shoulder. She’s fighting tears before JJ even hugs her back. “Are you sure you don’t want to run away with me?” she asks. “We can run away right now and do gay crimes and leave all the men in our lives right here.”

JJ cups the back of Emily’s head, rubbing her back as she considers the offer Emily has been making a lot here lately. After a moment, JJ decides that she loves her best friend with all her heart and that gay crimes sound thrilling but she can’t. Besides the fact that she knows how good Emily is at sex and the gay crimes would be very gay and very nice… Neither really want to leave. “I think we’d better stay here, love.” She kisses Emily’s temple, “besides, I can’t leave in good conscience while Hotch is like this.”

Emily pulls away from JJ, moving her body so that she can lean into the smaller woman. She’s accepted with open arms and they stand leaning and silent as they watch Hotch breath.

It’s artificial and that comes with it’s own sort of sting but it’s still him.

“I killed his wife,” Emily whispers after a long moment between the ventilators hissing.

JJ knows. Dave had come to tell her the minute Haley’s heart stopped the first time on the table.

“She’s not going to be able to save her,” he’d whispered, hushed and frantic. “It’s going to crush her.”

Now, as JJ feels Emily sobbing silently beside her, she wonders how Dave knew. Emily’s never taken losing well. She’s heavily competitive. So, maybe this is the worst kind. Emily didn’t just fail… she let her best friend’s wife die.

“Ex-wife,” JJ corrects. Because that’s what Hotch and Halery were. Separated. Anybody with two eyes could see they still loved each other but the job always came first for Hotch. Haley… she wanted more. “She was his ex-wife.” Besides that, the distinction is important.

Emily knows it doesn’t matter. “I still killed her,” she replies. “He’s never going to forgive me.”

JJ looks at the man on the bed. There’s nothing she wants more than to reassure Emily that’s not true. She’s seen the way Hotch looks at her when no one else is watching. But she can’t really know. “Let’s go clean up,” she deflects. “You’ll feel better.”

God, Emily hopes she’s right.

__________

“We’re having a party.” Penelope Garcia is standing in front of her family, sans Hotch, with her hands on her hips and enough conviction in her tone to convince them that’s a solid plan. “JJ’s right,” she informs them. They had lunch together like they do every day. It may be normal to have one or two of them missing-- general surgery logs Hotch random hours and heart and brain surgery tend to run on the long side-- this is the first time any of their own have been on the table.

The first time Reid wasn’t at the table because his hands were meticulously placing holes in Hotch’s head.

“This place is way too gloomy,” and she’s right of course. Even with the light funneling into the room from the blinds JJ pulled up, Hotch is still surrounded by their dismal moods. “We’re having a party.”

After a long moment, each of them rolling this idea around Dave speaks. He’s not against the idea but he’s not exactly going to give it the go-ahead, not yet. “Aaron would hate the attention,” he deduces because that’s the truth. Hotch wouldn’t even talk to them about the divorce.

The papers for which were delivered in the middle of the workday. JJ had been the one to go get Hotch. He was in the middle of a surgery… one that someone else had to finish.

“He won’t even know,” Garcia informs them. “Reid’s keeping him in the induced coma for another night.”

This is, of course, news to the rest of the room. Reid had gotten out of the surgery and gone to collapse in bed. Exhausted. Emotionally and physically.

Emily speaks up for the first time since the meeting had been called. “He could--” she realizes how helplessly hopeful she is as soon as the words start to come out. “He could still wake up.”

He could. Reid had decreased his dosage a little post-operation before he’d gone home but before Reid could even leave the hospital Hotch’s intracranial pressure had increased.

“He could,” Garcia agrees. “That’s why, if he does. He’s going to be surrounded by us. Having a good time.”

And if there’s one thing that rings true through-out that hospital… If Garcia says it, then it’s Gospel.

“I feel stupid,” Emily grumbles, sitting still but not going through the party process as well as her friend would like. She’s in a dress because Garcia wants this to be a fancy party. Full of drinking and music. Emily knows Hotch would be just as happy if she were barefoot and daisy dukes.

JJ taps her cheek, a small soundless reprimand for moving away from the eye-liner JJ is so meticulously placing on her eyes.

Emily sits for the remainder of the make-up JJ paints onto her face. She can’t actively see it going on but she still knows it’s a lot.

“Oh my God,” Garcia beams when she sees Emily. “You’re gorgeous.” She looks at JJ, “I love it but we’re not trying to shock the man into another coma when he lays his eyes on our total bombshell babe!”

Emily rolls her eyes and shakes herself loose from Garcia’s grip. “I’m not sure I can do this.” She admits, sinking back against her chair. “How am I… I couldn’t… I couldn’t fix Haley and I can’t fix my own heart… so, what am I, JJ? Because a heart goddess certainly isn’t it.”

JJ drops her knee, ignoring the way her own dress rides up her thigh. “Emily, you’re the heart Goddess whether you like it or not.” She cups the side of Emily’s face, wiping her thumb across a tear that dares to fall from her friend’s face. “Dave had you do the surgery on Haley because you’re the best surgeon in the damn county.” She shakes her head, “hell in the nation, probably. If you couldn’t save her then no one could and her best chances were when she was on your table.”

Garcia offers a hand on Emily’s shoulder. She squeezes lightly, “you did you best, Em. You tried to save Haley but now we have to go save Hotch.”

Emily nods, caving to the idea. “Fine,” she mumbles, “but I’m not dancing.”

She lasts four seconds because as soon as she steps through the door, Dave sweeps her up. “Dance with me, bella?”

It’s mostly shifting back and forth but she can feel the tension leaving her body as she accepts Dave’s proximity. After a moment of listening to Reid and Morgan’s bickering, Dave clears his throat. “I wanted to apologize for everything that happened earlier,” he tells her. They step closer to one another so that they can hear each other over the sound of the music and monitors.

“It’s okay,” Emily whispers back, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I know…” she sighs, she’s not sure what she knows.

Dave rubs her back, keeping them moving. “At the very least,” he offers, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

She pulls away from his embrace just enough to stand on the tips of her toes and press a kiss to his cheek. “I forgive you,” she promises.

Air cleared and feeling a little better Dave looks over to Hotch. The kid looks better. It’s hard to tell if that’s a placebo or the truth. “Is it just me,” Dave asks, “or does he seem to be getting more popular?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Maybe I should go into a coma.”

Emily snickers, “Dave, if you went into a coma… how would we ever know?”

Dave stops dancing, mouth open in shock. “I--” he shakes his head. “I can’t…” He shuts his mouth with an audible snap, “I can’t believe you’d say something like that!”

Behind them, Morgan and Reid are still in the heats of an argument about plastic surgery.

“Anybody can--” Morgan flusters, “it’s called aesthetic awareness, pretty Ricky. You don’t have it. It’s a fine-toothed skill and you can’t even color inside the lines.” He looks at Savannah for back-up but his girlfriend doesn’t offer it. “Never mind your mismatched socks. You just don’t have it, kid.”

Before Reid can offer a rebuttal on the matter, Garcia calls his name out.

“He’s waking up!” She dances at Hotch’s side, motioning them all over with a hurried flick of his wrist.

The music is turned down as Reid pulls out his penlight.

“Hey, kid,” Dave greets softly. He takes Hotch’s left hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’re all here. Reid, JJ, Garcia.” They watch as his eyes open, it’s just a sliver but the soft brown of his eyes greets them back none-the-less. “Morgan and Emily.”

A shiver goes down Emily’s back as his eyes turn over to her. She steps up, feeling awkward as the other’s part to let her through. Garcia lets go of his other hand, letting Emily takes his hand. “Hey,” she greets softly. She smiles, unable to contain her tears when his finger slowly crawls back around hers.

“You’re gonna be a-okay,” Dave promises. “We’re all here, okay? You can get some sleep.”

His eyes flick over to Dave for a second before returning to her.

Emily looks around the room, uncertain… but her gut is forgotten by her heart as she leans over and places a kiss on his forehead. “Get some sleep, Aaron.”

Dave takes a step back, “good night, kiddo.”

She holds his hand until his eyes slip back shut. Waiting for another moment, just to be sure.

“He’s going to be okay,” Reid reassures her.

Emily steps back from the bed and nods. “I hope you’re right.” But Reid is never wrong and she holds onto that hope with everything she’s got.

@ssaic-jareau @emilyxprentiss @purple-scarf-mistress @blatant-attitude @torimea @jetaime-jespere

#criminal minds #greys anatomy au #hotchniss #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #spencer reid #david rossi #derek morgan #penelope garcia

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seblaine-rph · 3 years

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While you're looking into rps can we talk about Devereux Academy for a minute? A basic look at their main and rules reveals Kristin Stewart as an FC but she's asked repeatedly not to be used in rp, people getting originally tested for being Dom Switch or sub at 17, the rp wording is almost an exact replica of another rp that ran for a while, and they are allowing the Motta family to be whitewashed with a white Robert Pattinson FC. I'm sure theres more i was just too disgusted to keep looking.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been told to take a look at @devereuxacademy or heard about it being problematic. I can’t tell you about the dash and I’m not going to troll through everyone’s blogs, so if there is something on the dash that anyone would like to share with me (problematic plots, not tagging triggers, admin behavior,etc) then feel free to send another ask.

More than one person came to me when this rp first hit the tags, asking if I thought they had stolen parts of their rp. I reported this by answering multiple different asks about it and they never responded, which is very telling. Honestly, I think they did. Intentionally or not, they do have a lot of parts of other, existing roleplays in their plot and there are so many copy and pasted things that it looks to be done on purpose. You can say, “but it’s a D/s academy rp and there’s only so many ways to rp in a school, so of course it looks similar to other rps of the same genre” except for the part where even academy rps have their own unique plot points, including the history of the world, social economics, and the school as well as the history of the administration. And that wasn’t the last time it was brought to my attention, or the only reason. I do see it, if we’re looking for my opinion on the matter of stolen plot content. I can see at least three different roleplays that were already in the tags for a long time, weaved together to make this group. I don’t really see anything that is original in the plot or worldview info, aside from maybe the intense details on IVF as the reason for there being so many triplets. Don’t quote me on that, though, it may have been used before. I just haven’t seen it.

It weirds me out that they have all of their characters being thrust into nsfw situations before 18, with what should be an 18+ concept like BDSM, and at the same time they’re a discord rp as well as a tumblr rp. It says on their application that the characters are tested to find out which mark they are at 17. That’s a minor, being tested in a nsfw way because however you slice it BDSM and D/s are nsfw and nobody under the age of 18 can legally or morally be allowed to even dip a single toe in and that includes taking a test to find out what kinks they like and whether they’re going to want to be catching or receiving when it comes to sex. It just makes me wonder what’s being hidden in the discord. I’d also like to mention that they do have the option to play teachers as well as students, which is just weird and gross to me in this instance. The content is nsfw, clearly some students are going to get with teachers. It’s weird enough when it’s a sfw college rp and students do not smut with teachers, but being a teacher is a respectable character choice so I can see why you’d want to do it. If you were going to focus on talking to other teachers and developing plots with other teachers. In this instance though... the power dynamic between teachers and students are way different and there is a sexual overtone automatically because this is a kinky smut rp. You can also play a character as young as 21, which just makes me hope there are no relationships being written out by naive 21 year olds with their 30-40-50+, way more mature, could be their parent teacher. That might sound like I’m making up something that would never happen, but I have seen someone try to play a 62 year old lesbian that was predatory towards 19 year olds and even claimed one in a D/s rp like this. We all know how Glee rps work, we all know this line has already been crossed. We all also know why that’s gross- it’s an abuse of power and there is no way that a teacher/student dynamic could be cute because there will always be a sense of one person being way more mature than the other and being in a seat of power. Another reason to wonder what’s being hidden on this discord.

There are incorrectly casted families. In particular, I’m seeing POC families with fcs that should not belong because they do not match. I’d really like to know how it is that two Filipino girls and a black girl are twins. As a general note to the admins, you can’t erase half of someone’s ethnicity either. There are other families where one or more character is half right but also half wrong in an offensive way. And some families that are just wrong. I do give them props on some of this being right, but that doesn’t erase the other problems. You can’t whitewash people. Not all Asians are the same. Not all Latinx people are the same. Brown people aren’t interchangeable. Let me just list these so they’re easier to fix:

In the Adams family, Alex Newell is African-American but the fc has a sister that’s British, Polish and Caribbean. That might be picking at straws but I always find it offensive when people pick and choose how to group ethnicities- like deciding all Asians are the same so they can be related. Either way, she’s over half white which doesn’t match up.

Laura Harrier is Rachel Berry, she is half black and half white with Jewish background so that’s a really nice choice but then she’s twins with two Haliee Steinfeld fcs? Hailee who is Filipino... She’s also been accused of using the N word and being racist so she’s on a lot of people’s banned lists for the same reasons as Lea Michele.

Brianna Tju is in a Chinese family but she’s half Indonesian. She’s also a Disney Channel star, so some people find that problematic from the start, because most of her resources are from kid’s shows at an age that is too young to be roleplaying. She’s only 22 now, which is old enough to rp, however the only real resources she has are from something that aired in 2015 and was likely filmed in 2014 or earlier. When she was definitely a minor.

Kaya Scoldelario is Brazilian. She’s whitewashed by being placed in the Clarington family.

Zoe Deutch is Jewish. Her siblings are Matthew Daddario (Slovak, Italian, Irish, Hungarian, and English) and Haley Lu Richardson, who has a white background that doesn’t include Jewish. This is the Corcoran family as well, which should be Jewish, since they’re all related to Idina Menzel.

Victoria Pedretti is Jewish and she’s in the very white Evans family.

None of the older Fabrays are Jewish, and Ashley Johnson is Native American but also somehow a twin of the white Frannie Fabray.

Principal Figgins is played by someone that is Pakistani but the Figgins on the masterlist is played by Dev Patel, who is Gujarati Indian.

Tyler Hoechlin is also partially Native American, but he is placed in the Flangan (Irish, like straight out of Ireland) family that has Rory recast as Thomas Dogherty (Scottish) with an Ariana Grande (Italian) twin as well.

Kristen Stewart is on the masterlist but she has asked numerous times not to be used in roleplay because it makes her uncomfortable. I just covered this for another roleplay, and I’ve seen other people mention it, so it’s common knowledge at this point. She has been saying this for a long time. She’s also placed as the twin of Danielle Campbell, who is Mexican and Cajun French while Kristen is just white and the canon family member (Gilbert, so Adam Lambert) is Jewish.

Zendaya is also placed as a twin to Samantha Ware. Zendaya is mixed race, half black and half white, while Samantha is black.

Yvette Monreal is the twin to Demi Lovato. Yvette is Chilean. Demi is Mexican and Portuguese.

Avan Jogia is a Hart, but he is Gujarati Indian and white. He would be a better family relation to Dev Patel than anyone else on the masterlist and vice versa. As a refresher, Samuel Larsen (the canon fc for the Hart family) is Mexican, Danish, Spanish and Persian.

Maddison Jaizani is Iranian, but she’s listed as a Holliday which makes her related to Gwyneth Paltrow... a blonde, white woman.

Jacob Elordia is Basque and his sibling on the masterlist is Marie Avgeropoulos, a Greek actress.

Rafael Silva is Brazilian, but he is a Lopez triplet, related to a Mexican-Irish sister (Lindsay Morgan) and a Mexican-Jewish sister (Alexa Demie).

Sugar Motta is played by Vanessa Lengies on Glee, an Egyptian actress. Her family is whitewashed with two white fcs, Kelli Berglung and Robert Pattinson.

Kaylee Byrant is Japanese but she is twin to Madison Beer (Jewish) and Daisy Ridley (white).

The Puckerman family has lost its Jewish heritage. The only two on Noah’s side are Adelaide Kane (white) and Luke Pasqualino (Italian). Jake Puckerman has been recast as Justice Smith, who is half black and half white but is not Jewish. His sister is Samantha Logan who is half Trinidadian and half white and Pauline Singer, who is full Fijian.

Antonia Gentry is cast as a Weston. She is Jamaican, her listed twin is half white and half African-American. The newest acceptance for a Weston is for an African American fc.

Lili Reinhart is on the masterlist, but she’s problematic. She’s defended the abusive behavior of her cast mate, Cole Sprouse, who was very publicly accused of sexual assault and abuse. She’s also been accused of blackface annnnnnnd she’s used queer baiting to get people to watch the show. (She teased a girl on girl relationship publicly, telling people to watch the show because they might finally get to see something between Betty and Veronica, knowing that the fans wanted it, but then when she was asked about it in a later interview she scoffed and acted like it was absolutely impossible and would never happen, some would say she even sounded offended by the thought-- which is what everyone got mad at Melissa Benoist for doing with Supergirl.)

David Corenswet is Jewish, cast with Emily Browning as a sister, who is not.

I applaud the Brazilian change for Lauren Zizes, but Ashley Fink was a welcome representation of plus size actresses and the new fc is less than half her size. She’s still plus size technically, but she’s “model plus size,” which is not at all the same as Lauren’s body type. I ran this by someone that this change would affect and they were not pleased. They were the one that pointed this out to me, because it bothered them as a plus size person to see one of the few plus size characters recasted with a skinnier fc.

Dove Cameron is also on the masterlist, but she’s on a bunch of people’s banned lists. She replied to a fan that said they wanted her to notice them that they were stupid and had no life if that was one of their goals. She’s been rude to cast and crew on set. Dove has also been accused of throwing a fit and making the writers change the Descendants script to take the relationship that was written out for a black actress. She’s being accused of yellow fishing, which I believe is the term for trying to look Asian. She wore a Native American headdress in a cultural appropriation type of way. She’s been accused of being fatphobic and hiding behind photoshop on her social media while saying she doesn’t photoshop, so she’s giving off a false sense of reality to her fans. She’s been talking badly about someone that is trying to get their sexual assault story out there. The latest thing that’s come out about her is a rant about how mental health isn’t real and that people just need to logic their way out of depression? Which would be coming from a seat of high privilege. She wrote a series of tweets on the topic, calling negative mental health and the feelings they cause “a choice.” There’s a whole hashtag on Tumblr for her.

I’m not at all surprised to see that all of the diverse characters are open. No Artie, no Unique- who could definitely be recast as an actual trans woman, now that we’re living in the age of recasting for reasons of problematic natures- if we can have a new Puck, new Finn, new Rachel, and new Santana why not an appropriate Unique? She is literally the only canon trans woman, why not treat her with respect? They recasted Cooper to better fit the proper ethnicity, so...

#glee rph #glee rp #glee twin rp #glee multiples rp #smut rp #ds rp #kink rp #rph #rpcw #rpcha #sebastian answers #devereuxacademy #Anonymous

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