#send me a word and ill give you a sentence from my wip
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heyyyyy i know i haven't been active in literal months, but part of the reason is because im working on a big fic that's been taking up most of my free time for the past year and a half, so i thought it might be fun to update everyone on what's been going on
#thinking about the ask game#send me a word and ill give you a sentence from my wip#but only if people are interested#does anyone even know i exist anymore lmao#the fic is almost at 78k and thats like a quarter of the way through the entire thing#so lmk if yall wanna do the ask gameeee#or even just ask me quesrions about the fic
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navigation | masterlist
ON HIATUS, 10/07/23-11/06/23.
the most heartfelt, biggest thanks to each and every one of you. every comment, reblog, ask and like means so much to me. i don’t take a single one of you for granted. 🤍
2023 KINKTOBER MASTERLIST
submissions run from nov 1st-nov 31st. disclaimer: if you are not 18+ do not send/interact with any 18+/NSFW content on this list.
🎥: pick a 500 word passage from any of my works and ill give you DVD commentary (what i was thinking when i wrote it, why i wrote, why i chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the fic, etc.)
🎶: give me a song & character and i’ll give you a kinky situation
🔥: send me a letter from this list & a character, and i’ll give you a kinky headcanon
🍁: give me a character and ill give you a spooky/fall activity
🤔: send me two kinks or tropes to choose from!
🔪: FMK or One Night Stand/Bestie/Spouse
💭: send me YOUR kinky headcanons and let’s discuss
🖊 wip: ask for a sentence from a wip i’m working on.
📚: give me a kink or trope and i’ll rec my favorite fic
🎨: send me a work that you want circulated and i’ll reblog it. fics, gifs, icons, fanart are all welcome!
❓: ask me anything!
MOOTS ONLY:
🕯️: i’ll tell you my favorite thing about you!
👀 : cast my mutuals as….kinks, blorbos, etc.
🎧: i’ll pick a song that makes me think of you!
tagging some moots for boost: @honeybrowne @juneknight @marc-spectorr @greg-montgomery @doctorstethoscope @hotchs-bitch @h0tch-r0cket @flightlessangelwings @astroboots @campingwiththecharmings @xbellaxcarolinax @stargazingcarol @eyelessfaces @lavendertales @softlyspector @haylzcyon @pedrito-friskito @inklore @psychedelic-ink @missdictatorme @mccn-bcys @toracainz @jaspxr @fightingdragonswithwho @lesbianhotch @hotch-girl @cr1minalskies @sadgirlml @lefthandedhotch @pinkheartem0ji @dudeitiskarev @ssamorganhotchner @masterwords @ivyheliotrope @ivystoryweaver @shurisbraids @wakandas-vibranium @chimneysrebarscar @whatthefishh @my-secret-shame @melodygatesauthor
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WIP WEDNESDAY WRITING CHALLENGE
It’s WIP Wednesday: time for a little accountability, sharing your work, and getting a kick in the pants. The goal is to encourage each other to break down barriers that keep us from creating.
Here’s how it works:
In a reblog of this post (so all players can find you in the notes), post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; NOT titles, document names.
Post a snippet from one of them. The snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any in the last 7 days, go make some and come back to play!
After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. (Make sure your asks are open!) You must then write 3 sentences in that file and respond to the ask with the three sentences you wrote.
FINALLY, please send asks to 3 or more people who have reblogged this post! The game only works if everyone is encouraging everyone - let’s strengthen our community!
That’s it! I’ll be searching the reblogs to find people to send asks to!
If you’re reading this, you’re invited!
If you see someone posting a WIP Wednesday Writing Challenge snippet, send them an ask! Make them write.
If you'd like to be tagged next week, let me know!
I'll start, under the cut:
My WIPS:
- rainy ghost
- threesome fic
- 7hrs or 45mins
- brutus in a birdcage
- sleep paralysis vamp
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Noah loves how easy it is to play Lee until he gets exactly what he wants. They’re a sucker for positions, situations like these where they can’t wriggle free, where they’re forced to contend with his demanding mouth and hands and teeth; where they’re trapped between his hard cock and their own desire - desire that he pulls out like a thread, like an ingrown hair that looks like nothing but comes out long enough to braid - and where it’s easier to just concede to his demands than to flee. They just love playing the helpless maiden, that oh lord whatever can I do but give him what he wants, so I may be free bullshit, and perhaps it’s a bit of a maidenless mindset for him to play into it, but he will always give them what they need in order for them to give him what he wants.
from 7hrs 45mins
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taglist: @throughwoodsanddirt @the-way-of-words @signs-of-ill-portent @cowpokeomens @meekahy
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so since i was a dumbass and accidentally pressed post too early on my last ask: @coffeebanana asked me to do 'eyes' or 'hand' for the wip ask game <3
hihi kayla imma do both of those <3
eyes:
Marinette knows that no one can see them, but it doesn’t stop her from crossing her arms over her chest, nonetheless, in an attempt to mimic the security her suit provides.
The only thing keeping her from fleeing, eyes closed or not, is that, standing not even a metre away from her was Chat Noir, in the exact same situation. Her fingers tingle as she imagines running her hand across his, feeling the grooves and edges of a part of him that everyone in his life got to see - and taking it for herself.
hand:
“Hello, Ladybug and Chat Noir, I have a really quick question: If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
[Ladybug] sees her partner’s hand shoot up out of the corner of her eye. “Ooh, milady, can I answer first?” He’s wriggling, like a small child who knows the answer to a question the teacher just asked.
The image of him in an écoles maternelles classroom, cat ears and all, surrounded by loud excitable toddlers comes to mind, and she has to stifle her laughter behind her hand. He would fit in perfectly.
the first ones from a wip i started after @bocadelicate told me that my discord status reminded her of ladynoir (for context it was a lyric from eyes closed by halsey <3) and the second ones from an old ladynoir fake dating wip that ive been looking over lately <3
send me a word (or multiple) and ill give you a sentence that its in in a wip <3
#LOL i spent so long on the first one cos yes id written eyes so many times#but it was so hard to find a snippet i actually *liked*#also yes ik all my recent wips are ladynoir gdfgdgdf#what can i say i love them#ask#coffeebanana
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WIP Wednesday Game Time
You know the drill, it’s WIP Wednesday! (original post + rules here)
Since they bear repeating, the rules:
In a reblog (or new post w/ rules attached), post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.
Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post!
After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can't share from (for example, an event fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.
That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. If you tag me in your post, I will send you an ask request!
If you’re reading this, you’re invited!
If you see someone posting a WIP Wednesday Game snippet, send them an ask! Make them write. (Make me write!)
Tagged by @eriquin, thanks!! Def look forward to these every week. Without further ado...
File names!
Magical Mysteries Never Give a Single Thing Back (Eddie Crossroads Demon)
0 - Tales of the Outer Planes
1 - Emergence
Steddie Witches AU
Til I Lose My Breath
Snippet below the cut!
From Magical Mysteries:
“Right, of course, how rude of me.” With a little wave of his arm, Steve gave a half-assed bow and said, “O master of the dark arts, sorcerer of ill repute who hath bound my unholy anima, what service do you ask of me? Ask, and a deal may yet be struck.” Standing up ramrod straight, nearly Eddie’s height, his perfect eyebrows arched over half-hooded, disinterested eyes. “That more your speed, dungeon master?”
The words ‘dungeon master’ spilling from Steve’s mouth nearly shot Eddie dead on the spot. Those two words shouldn’t even be in Steve’s vocabulary, let alone used in a context that actually sort of made sense. In that moment, Eddie was pretty sure those were the two most erotic words in the entire English language.
Licking his lips, mouth dry like he'd just smoked a dime of Rick’s finest, he nodded and said, “I’m here to trade my soul for my music.” Instantly, that got Steve smiling again, that quirked, curious tilt of his lips that made his eyes sparkle.
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My word is gasp! (Or a variant thereof, like gasping)
let's see... chill or spicy, chill or spicy... heck it, ya'll have been so lovely, you can have some late-game spicy so; LIGHTLY SPICY WARNING
“Breathe,” Hua Cheng murmured, bestowing an open mouthed kiss to his cheek while Xie Lian gasped pathetically.
≺(˵°ω°˵*)
send me a word and ill give you a sentence from a wip
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taps mic. please enjoy the sequel to the wip Wednesday that was actually many more moons ago than i realized. aka, 'hughie forces butcher to do an incredibly experimental treatment for his temp v brain holes, it's on maeve's farm in the kansas flint hills, abba is involved, there's pre-fic polyam negotiations, it's already named after a billy joel song.' i hate me.
He’s prepared to make some kind of smart remark, but any words on his tongue instantly evaporate as he watches Butcher slide slowly into an armchair facing the bank of windows. He’s limp like he’s shrugged out of the shell marked ‘stubborn bastard’ that kept him standing, and something about his beaten-down posture makes Hughie uncomfortably aware of how ill Butcher is.
“Jesus, you should have said something,” Hughie says as he rounds the chair, bending to look Butcher in the face as he clumsily seeks out the pulse in his wrist. “Maybe we should get started right now. Frenchie did say the sooner the better–”
Butcher gives him a worthless shove with a grunt. His pulse is fluttery and light, a wounded bird under his fingertips.
“If you try to get all McDreamy on me right now, I’ll take a shit in your suitcase when you fall asleep,” he says, though the heat in his words is like a fire flickering and dying rapidly under a harsh gust of wind. “I’ll make sure to get all of your pants, you’ll have to borrow some from Maeve’s lady, they’ll look like… those short pants that were big, back in the early aughts.”
Hughie lets go of his wrist with a sigh, sitting on the edge of the sturdy wood coffee table opposite the chair.
“You’d have to squat long enough to pinch one off without passing out, which is not a thing you can do right now,” he says, leaning back on his hands. “Plus you’ve been loaded up on painkillers for the last two weeks, you’re too constipated to even think about the phrase ‘bowel movement’. Also, for the record. They’re called capris.” He lets his head fall forward and tries not to yawn. Fuck, but he’s tired.
By the time he drags his chin up from his chest, he finds Butcher’s eyes on him, expression utterly unreadable.
He could ask ‘what is it?’, or even ‘is there something on my face?’ but instead he just looks back at him. Meeting Butcher’s gaze feels uncanny, like unbuttoning his shirt and offering a place between his ribs to stick a knife. He holds it anyway; gently, like something that might break rather than as a challenge. He’s pretty sure it’s only partially because Butcher couldn’t get out of the chair on his own, even if he tried.
Finally, Hughie asks, “You wanna go lay down?”
Butcher shakes his head, expression stymied.
“Just leave me here a while, I’ll get up in a minute.”
Hughie privately doubts that but he leaves Butcher to it, standing up from the coffee table and making his way to the french doors that lead out onto a small deck overlooking the pond. He can hear some sort of bird (or maybe several birds) cheep-cheeping back and forth from the loose ring of trees, and as a dry breeze tugs at the collar of his shirt and plays with his hair, Hughie feels his shoulders start to relax.
He throws himself into a tatty rattan deck chair, legs splayed as he fishes his phone from his pocket.
Oscar has landed in Grouchland! :)
He sends that sentence along with a picture of the pond as the sun slinks away from its high noon position to the group chat MM has set up in a secure messaging app. A handful of seconds later, Annie’s contact picture is lighting up his screen.
“Hey!” He exhales with something like relief, an uncontrollable smile stretching his face. “I wasn’t sure if you’d see that until later, I know you guys are in—“
“Dubai was a bust, actually,” Annie says before he can finish, but she doesn’t sound too upset about it. “Our transport chickened out on us, which I think Frenchie was fine with. He wasn’t too excited about the whole ‘parachuting in’ segment of the plan. So instead–” He hears a paper bag rustling from somewhere in the background, followed by the ambient noise of television at low volume. “- it’s butter chicken, garlic naan, and the last season of Fargo.”
Hughie can almost imagine it, as he sits back in the deck chair with the sun starting to bake him. The exact aroma of the butter chicken, the apple tv remote in his hand, curling on his side after dinner with his head in Annie’s lap while she plays with his hair. It’s not sadness he feels, exactly. He’s somehow a little shocked by it, that the wistful ache kneading his sternum like a friendly cat can coexist with his sharp desire to be here, twisting Butcher’s arm into recovery. Hughie supposes that two things can be true at once.
“Party foul, watching Fargo without me,” he teases, and warms again at the sound of her soft laughter.
“Make Butcher watch it with you,” she says, mouth half full. Hughie can picture the precise scrunch on her nose while she chews, like somewhere in her subconscious she can’t believe she’s talking with food in her mouth. He loves her so much it hurts. “How is mister grimy asshole doing?”
“Not great…” he mutters, twisting to look over the back of the chair into the bunkhouse. The reflection from the sun on the windows keeps him from seeing much beyond Butcher’s slumped form still in the chair, but it’s telling that he hasn’t moved. “He slept the whole flight, and then most of the drive. I barely got him to eat.”
Annie makes a hum that Hughie knows translates to, ‘I’m nervous, but trying to be optimistic.’
“Yeah, I know,” he says, voice still quiet like he’s in the room with Butcher. “I’m hoping once we get started…”
“You haven’t done the first dose yet?” Her voice sounds clearer, a rustling of a paper bag as she sits upright. Hughie winces.
“He’s…” Hughie looks over his shoulder again; a reflex. Butcher bit his head off when he suggested it. Butcher will probably just throw it up with no food in his stomach. Butcher’s going to strangle him as soon as he has enough strength for it. “...really exhausted. I’m going to get him started first thing in the morning. It feels neater that way.”
“True,” she gives him, and she sounds about as put out as he feels. Or at least that’s what he thinks until she hums again. “So, are you going to tell him before or after he starts healing up?”
Hughie almost drops his phone.
“I’m, I don’t,” he splutters, fighting the urge to audibly gulp like he’s in a Looney Tunes cartoon, his palms suddenly beading sweat. “I don’t know that I really ever need to say anything.” He looks over his shoulder again, like Butcher will suddenly be looming over him and listening to their conversation.
“...uh huh,” is all Annie says, and there’s something sly in her tone that makes his ears burn. “If you say so. It’s no skin off my back to keep you to myself.” It’s the sort of casual approach she’s had since they talked all of this out; though he feels like he can trace it back farther, to waking up with a mile of stitches and both of them standing over him in the hospital.
When Hughie doesn’t respond, she softens her voice. “No matter what happens, he cares about you. In an ass-backward sort of way, but.”
Instead of responding, Hughie laughs softly instead and says, “You are so from Des Moines sometimes, oh my god.”
Because she’s an angel, Annie lets him do it and retorts with, “Ass-backwards is a very normal phrase! People say ass-backward all over the place, city boy.”
“Say ass-backward again,” he whispers, unable to keep a childish grin from spreading across his face.
“Ass-backwards,” she says as seriously as possible, smothering a laugh. His heart thuds at the sound; a dog’s hindleg thumping uncontrollably as it’s scratched just right.
Annie stays on the phone with him for a little bit longer, chewing as she clicks through Netflix and tries to explain the plot of Dead to Me. Hughie swears he’s following along but realizes he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open when she repeats his name a few times.
“...Hughie? Am I lulling you to sleep?” She teases.
“Maybe I just like the sweet sound of your voice,” he says, groaning as he pushes himself up and out of the chair. Without checking the time, it feels like four in the afternoon, which probably means it’s around three.
“Go take a nap, you sound like you need it,” Annie tells him, and when he promises that he will, they hang up.
Wandering back inside on stiff legs, Hughie finds Butcher still in that chair, and soundly asleep. Head craned back and to the side, his chest rises and falls slowly; a modicum of peace on his face. Hughie thinks that somehow he looks younger like this, the developing frown lines between his brows and at his eyes somewhat smoothed out, the tension in his mouth disappearing. And without anger in his expression, his dark dramatic brows give him a quizzical, almost sardonic look.
Not for the first time, Hughie wonders what Butcher was like, before. If he still had these jagged edges, or if some piece of him was irreparably broken away when he lost Becca. But, perhaps he’s always been this rough monument to brutalism and the ends justifying the means. After all, Becca isn’t exactly around to ask, and Hughie’s not even sure what he’d say. If she would have even liked him, seeing as they didn’t get much of a chance to interact in those bare days of her being alive.
Hughie hopes that she would have liked him.
Carefully finger combing dark hair away from his forehead, Hughie tries to gently cram a throw pillow from the couch between Butcher’s head and the back of the chair. It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to take the strain off of his neck. He yanks the plaid flannel from the back of the couch and settles it across Butcher’s lap.
“There you go, asshole,” he whispers, almost fond as he steps back to admire the effect.
Hughie knows he could poke around and find one of the bedrooms, but being too far away makes him feel uneasy. He pictures Butcher waking up and trying to go to the bathroom, only to crumple to the floor facedown, unable to call out loud enough to rouse Hughie. So instead, he kicks off his shoes and folds up on the couch after he sets a timer for six pm, letting sleep yank him away from consciousness for as long as he can afford.
#okay..... last wip update before i buckle in#the boys#butchie#is.... is that the name#also there is hughie x annie because hughie has two hands#hughie campbell#billy butcher#jesse writes fic
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‘good’ for the ask game
i don't have good, but i can give you great?
Turns out running half the length of the city in torrential rain is a really great way to catch a cold.
(send me a word and ill post a sentence from my wip!)
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WIP game: tremor, giddy, style!
Oh these were fun! Thank you for playing!
Tremor: This one's coming from my Hobbit WIP, How Far Ahead the Road Had Gone. I had to go quite a ways into the future of the fic to find it, but while I was looking I found a place where using 'tremor' would fit wonderfully as a descriptive word. But putting it in a new sentence felt like cheating a little, so here's where I already used it.
The dwarves circled round the hobbits, Balin started off in a voice that tremored slightly, but grew stronger as the words came, and they all began singing.
Giddy: Another one from my Hobbit WIP. This one kinda surprised me, giddy isn't a word I use too often, but I found it this time.
Giddy with relief, and feeling a little impish and smug, for she’d gotten herself out of danger all on her own this time, she set off to catch up with them, planning on giving them a little surprise when she appeared in their midst out of nowhere.
Style: I combed through so many WIPs to find style. I've used it a bunch in already posted stories, or unfinished pieces that were never going to see the light of day. But eventually I found it in a possible future scene for Our Dear Empress.
Likening oneself to a god was more her predecessor’s style.
WIP Guessing Game: Send me a word (or more) and Ill share the sentence it shows up in from my WIPs!
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'looks' for the ask game :O
hi dustyyy <3
“You look terrible.”
She doesn’t think she looks that bad. Then again, she hasn’t exactly checked herself in the mirror lately. “Rude.”
#this is from my aa sickfic... 2! mia edition#ty for the ask <3#//#answered echoes#hyper-circuit-official#ask game (send me a word and if its in my wip ill give you the sentence)
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WIP - moan 😇😈
for that gif, you get this
“Cum inside me Daddy wanna feel you,” I moaned as he continued to fuck me, my walls convulsing around him, drawing him in, trying to milk him.
who knows what fic it’s from, cause I seem to only write with Daddy Kink these days. :D
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hii i wanted to ask if you’re willing to share some of your wips (work in progress) if you have any?? i love your work sm literally makes my day when i see that you’ve posted and i can’t wait to see what u come up with next!!
Oh man, this is quite the ask :) I have so many ideas and requests that it’s hard to figure out right where I want to start because I’m literally so excited for ALL OF THE IDEAS.
I’m currently 2.3k into my next fic so I suppose I can share a little bit of that ;) Not edited yet but here you are lovely. <3
***
His voice surprised you even though you knew he was coming. “You need to come with me.” You turned from your spot, seeing the High Lord’s Shadowsinger standing a few feet away, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his knife. His shadows slithered around your property and you bristled at his rudeness, no greeting, no chivalry, just stalking onto your lands like he was free to do what he pleased.
You had never seen him before, not even in visions of the King of the Court of Nightmares. You had known he would appear to you, having seen it in a vision of the High Lord’s, though you hadn’t been able to make out the Spymaster at all. You wondered if it was a Shadowsinger trait, that you couldn’t see him with your sight.
“No thank you, Shadowsinger,” you reply simply. Just because he wasn’t going to be polite doesn’t mean you weren’t, even if it did mean you had to fake it. You knew exactly why he was here, that the High Lord needed help, but you refused to go with someone who was so ill-mannered.
“It wasn’t a question.”
You study him, holding a hand up to block the sun from your eyes. He’s devastatingly handsome in his leathers, cobalt siphons flickering with power, like he was aware of who you were and what you could do. You watched his scarred hand tighten around the butt of his knife when you made a face. “I don’t care,” you reply boredly, returning to the book in your lap, “Please leave.”
“Get up, and come with me,” he says, deathly serious. His tone sends a shiver up your spine and you grip the edges of your book tighter, “I will not ask again.”
You swallow harshly, rereading the same sentence over and over again in your head. The empty darkness swallowed her whole but inside she felt alive. The empty darkness swallowed her whole but inside she felt alive. The empty darkness swallowed her whole but inside she felt alive.
“You don’t have to ask again,” you cringe when your voice falters, “I’ve spoken my answer.”
Your reply is barely out of your mouth when he’s ripping the book from your hands and tossing it into the grass. You hadn’t even seen him move. Your cry is cut off as he grabs your arms, pinning them together with a band of blue from his siphons. He scoops you out of your chair and launches into the sky, your stomach dropping with the insane movement.
You curse and struggle against him. His grip is so tight that you know you’ll have bruises imprinted into your skin from his fingers.
“I have no problem letting you fall,” he threatens. You look down below, so far up above the city, the people tiny specks on the street. But his attitude fills you with rage. Why does he think that he is better thank you? Because of his ranking? Who was he to trespass on your lands and rip your book out of your hands, all for what?
“Fuck you,” you growl, catching the look of surprise on the Shadowsinger’s face when you use your bound hands and swing them across his face, shoving yourself away from him and teetering out of his arms.
***
I suppose I can also share a few ideas that I will be working on writing in the future:
Unlike Azriel who was all silence and shadows, you were day and light. People wanted to be around you, wanted to tell you whatever it was you wanted to know, and you played that to your advantage for years. Gained their trust with a few shy touches, encouraging words, fake emotion. You didn’t have to do all that sneaking around, no, they would willingly give up anything you wanted to know. And Azriel hated it.
They’d pinned you up to the tree by your wings. You could still feel the faebane in your system, rendering your powers useless. Inch by inch the nails tore through the delicate flesh of your wings.You were prepared to die here.Woozy from the loss of blood you weren’t sure if your mind was playing tricks on you or if it really was the most handsome man you’d ever seen tending to your wounds.
It turns out Azriel is the ravishing type.
Daddy Az cooking with the baby and you’re watching lovingly and his shadow asks what you’re standing there watching for and you reply that you love seeing him like this, when the baby can pull him out of his slump after a tough mission. Sure, you were always there for comfort and to talk to when he needed it, but his baby made him so happy, no matter what.
***
And then there are some of the many requests I have that I can’t wait to write and some of those are along the lines of:
oooh can i request a nightmare trope with az where it’s kind of angsty then turns to fluff?? maybe az has a nightmare that reader dies and he wakes up to find her not in bed and he panics but turns out she’s just in the kitchen or something like that
Az is super nervous when he finds out he has a mate and the reader take it as he wasn’t interested in her ? A bit of angst and fluff
part 2 to The Games We Play where az and his mate reconcile after what happened with elain?
So yeah, there are many stories to be written!
But if any of you have any super interesting ideas that no one else is writing about please feel free to send me requests because I don’t want to write the same prompts that everyone else if writing if you know what I mean so that WOULD BE SUPER AWESOME :))))))))
SEE YOU ALL SOON!
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https://lynne-monstr.tumblr.com/post/682531471813132288/send-me-a-word-if-its-in-my-wip-document-ill
Cat?
oh no, anon, can you believe I have ZERO cats in my fics this is such a sad day!!! (okay I do have ONE mention but it is in the secret big bang fic that I am not allowed to post yet because it's still a secret.)
i can't believe i talk so much about cats and have zero cats in my fic, I am so ashamed!
give me a word and I'll give you a sentence from a wip it's in!
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Wip Wednesday
Untitled fic (Correspondence)
Summary/Story so far: HotchReid, slow burn, AU where Reid never joined the FBI, but got roped into consulting for the LA field office while working and teaching at Caltech. Hotch gets his email from a fellow agent, and they start to work on cases together -- until they start talking on a regular basis. Regular becomes frequent, frequent becomes constant. We are now months into this... tentative thing that is beyond friendship, beyond flirtatious, they still don't know much about each other on paper... but this feels a lot like dating. And then one day, Hotch abruptly stops answering his phone.
(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)
(Set in season 6, unbeta'd, still the first draft, text/email templates are temporary)
((Notes: Spencer's POV this time, he is 29 and working at CalTech, Hotch still doesn't know how old he is though he does know that he's at least younger than 45 now. Hotch has been MIA now for about 18 hours.))
.
Spencer spends way too long online that morning, searching for anything about the case Hotch is working. There's nothing about a raid, or a shooting, or even an arrest -- which could all just be apart of the ongoing media blackout -- but it also does nothing to stop him from panicking.
With a drafted email pulled up to Ms. Penelope Garcia, the BAU's personal tech analyst, he ponders how to... even word this without it sounding too personal. Too much like he and Hotch have more than just a working relationship.
Because they do. They have... something.
Something that gives him fluttering sensations in his stomach, makes him check his phone constantly, and react to even the slightest chime similar to his text tone. Makes him smile when he sees Hotch's name on his notifications, in his email inbox, makes him message the man in the middle of the day at the most random thoughts. Just because he wants to make him laugh.
.
[]You're going to get me in trouble.
[][]Did I make you smile?
[]I'm at a crime scene. There's a dead body in front of me.
[][]Then why are you checking your phone?
[]You know why.
.
But that’s not something that is shared with the rest of the team, he’s sure. So he should be careful how he words his email, lest Ms. Garcia realize that Spencer isn’t asking purely as a colleague.
Surely they know he has friends, though?
Chewing his lip, Spencer types out a brief email asking if Agent Hotchner is feeling well since he missed an appointment the night before and hasn’t been returning his calls. It’s a phrase he’s used often, so it comes naturally to Spencer as he types it out, and he realizes… he hasn’t called. He’s sent a dozen text messages, but not a phone call. Never a phone call. That was against the rules.
He looks to his phone beside him on his desk, and tries to fight back the dueling forms of panic clawing at his chest. Panic that Hotch might not answer, panic what that means for the man he’s been… becoming more and more inclined to than any other person he’s met in so long. Panic if he does answer, breaking that barrier of written words to spoken, and the opportunity to hear Hotch’s voice. But he would also hear Spencer’s, and then there would be no hiding just how… how young he really is.
But his phone is in his hand before he can stop himself, and Hotch’s contact pulled up and his thumb hovering over the phone number with baited breath.
Was he really going to do this?
He presses the touch screen and can hear the line connecting, the dial tone ring even before he gets the phone up to his ear and waits. It rings, and rings, and rings a fourth time -- before clicking over to voicemail. And Spencer’s hyper-fast thought processes realize he’s going to hear Hotch’s voice for the first time. Frozen in a panic, unsure if he wants to or if that had been something he wanted them to do together that the seconds slip by and suddenly it’s too late.
“You’ve reached the voicemail box of -- (703)-567-8790 -- this caller is not available. Please leave a message after the tone--”
It’s an automated, female voice that rattles off the numbers and generic call back message, and Spencer hangs up before it can begin recording him. Exhaling a shaky breath, that nothing had been ruined between him and Hotch thanks to an ill-timed phone call.
He keeps the momentum going without much thought, and adjusts his email to Ms. Garcia before sending it.
It feels so understated, and yet over dramatic the more he thinks about it. The more he reads it.
.
Please let me know of his well-being.
.
God, no wonder Hotch thought he was in his 60’s.
But Spencer has to keep the façade up, not give away anything he doesn’t want to just because the emotional part of his brain is running rampant over the rational one. There are… many explanations as to why Hotch isn’t answering him. His gut feeling aside, he doesn’t need to be panicking like this. The world is still turning, he still has work to do, so Spencer tries to gather himself into some semblance of order and preps to talk to his doctoral students within the hour.
.
--
.
His morning routine progresses as usual, to start. Dr. Reid has his mandatory round up with his doctoral candidates going over thesis and dissertation parameters, class lecture schedules, updates, the works. Like morning announcements, but he requires them all to be there and to listen, and they all show up. Everyone knows of Spencer’s eidetic memory. He will certainly not forget a single date or schedule change, and he expects his students to not forget as well.
But this morning Spencer is fully distracted, his mind elsewhere, somewhere in the state of Delaware with an agent who may or may not be in danger. Because Spencer cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. It almost seems more like a fact than a feeling.
He becomes even more distracted when his email pings, a response from Ms. Garcia of Quantico, VA flashing across his laptop screen, right in the middle of his department announcements. Spencer’s eyes skim the preview sentence in the pop-up box, and his voice trails off as his mind… whirls.
.
Dr. Reid, I’m sorry to tell you I don’t know when Hotch will be available again. There was an incident, and he’s still in surg-
.
Surgery.
Surgery.
That vice-like grip of worry that has taken hold of him since last night tightens further, to the point Spencer can’t breathe. Hotch is hurt, he’s in surgery, and if he hasn’t been answering his phone since last night -- or even late yesterday afternoon -- it was not a minor thing.
Hotch is hurt.
“Dr. Reid? Are you okay?”
“I--” he’s still looking at the email pop-up box, and is clicking on it before he can stop himself. Immediately disconnecting his laptop from the projector as his email loads there. It takes him a faction of a second to read the email. “I’m sorry, an emergency just came up. Kimmy, finish reading off the schedule for me?” He doesn’t even wait until she answers him, just picks up his laptop and retreats to his office as fast as his long legs will carry him.
.
--surgery and we’re still waiting on word. I know you 2 talk on the reg so I’ll keep you posted.
Fret not, genius professor, our fearless leader has been through much worse than this.
.
She’s using informal speech patterns, which she has never done before. It bleeds her nervousness, and worries Spencer even more. Ms. Garcia also revealed she knows he and Hotch talk, but surprisingly that doesn’t have the effect he thought it would on his already rattled nerves. Instead, any and all reservations fall away as he types out a response much in the same way he and Hotch had started their friendship all those months ago.
.
Please, is there anything you are allowed to tell me about the case or his condition? We --
.
Spencer pauses, bites his lip as he considers crossing this boundary into the uncomfortable unknown, and then thinks about Hotch on a hospital operating table three thousand miles away.
“Screw it,” he mutters and continues to type.
.
--We’ve become good friends and I’m very worried.
.
The reply is almost immediate.
.
That makes 2 of us, boy wonder, but I’m already hacked into the hospital records database and Prentiss is in the waiting room.
I’m sending you the case files and the incident report from last night. Maybe you can see some shiz we can’t b/c the bossman is tough but he’s been in surgery a long time.
.
Of course, whatever he can do to help. Spencer’s heavy heart-beat triples in his chest as pulls up the files and immediately prints them out so he can read through them faster. But then his mind sticks on something from the email.
Boy Wonder.
Ms. Garcia knows how young he is.
She must have done a background check on him, that would make sense since he’s been consulting so much lately. But why would Garcia know his age, and not Hotch?
.
Ms. Garcia, did you update my dossier with the bureau after you ran my background check?
.
If you’re referring to why Hotch seems to think you’re rocking the senior discount at restaurants and not still getting carded for beer, then no I didn’t update it. I’m very anti-gov files having every detail of our lives in them, that’s what I’m for, and I figured there was a reason he didn’t know. Your secret is safe with me, sugar bean.
.
The real reason is Agent Anderson of the LA field office is a dick, with a bully streak he never outgrew after high school, and didn’t bother filling out a full file on him the first time Spencer consulted for the FBI. Then, he couldn’t be bothered to update it when his consultations became more than a one time thing.
But that was all in the past now, and Spencer can’t even be upset about it. Because now he has Hotch.
.
Thank you, Ms. Garcia. I’ll let you know my findings soon.
.
He skims the file quickly, pulling information out at lightning speed. It appears a very straight-forward case. As straight-forward as a murderous sociopath can be, anyway. Very anti-establishment, specified targets that devolved to anyone in a uniform. Anyone who appears too official, or lables as official.
It’s easy to see, now why the unsub attacked Hotch instead of running from him. He practically served himself up on a silver platter. But there’s something about the kills that’s bothering Spencer. The knife wounds, bludgeoning, even the gunshots during the first murders -- it’s all overkill. Rage. Every single target has died from massive internal bleeding, M.E. reports all label the knife wounds and beatings as the cause. But the amount of blood left over, measured during autopsy, doesn’t add up. They bled too much. No wounds indicating intentional bleeding occurred, and the tox screens are all clean.
Except, every victim has elevated potassium rates.
“Oh, God,” Spencer whispers, quiet and horrified. “Hotch.”
There’s no time for email.
He picks up his phone, goes to an older email that has full contact details in the footer, and dials Ms. Garcia’s direct line in Quantico.
“Speak, and behold greatness.”
“Ms. Garcia, it’s Dr. Reid,” Spencer says, and his tone and quickened speech patterns gives way to his panic.
“Dr-- Dr. Reid?”
“Yes, quick there’s no time. Do you have Hotch’s hospital records in front of you still?”
“Yes,” Garcia says, her voice a musical thing even in it’s breathless reaction to his heightened state of haste. “Updated every two minutes.”
“Is his potassium elevated?”
Some quick typing of keys that move faster than even he could ever hope to type. “... Yes.”
God. “Okay, okay I need you to call the hospital right now,” Spencer says in a spiel that all sounds like one word. “Whatever you have to do, he needs Sodium Polystyrene Sulfonate as soon as possible, to counteract the chemical imbalance or he’s going to go into kidney failure and bleed out.”
.
tbc...
#THIS IS JUST A SNIPPET#I s2g it is but it is also long af#legit this ended up being 1900 words i just didn't feel like stopping you know?#so yall get like... 25% of the entire chapter basically#sorry not sorry#expect a wip every week now#wip wednesday#HotchReid#Heid#katyswriting#don't ask about the dots tumblr and I are in a formatting fight and aren't on speaking terms rn
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look (for the wip ask game!)
hiiiiiii poppy :D
this isn’t from my most recent wip, but:
Ladybug sighed. “How on Earth is that natural? You look like a cardboard cutout!”
send me a word and if its in one of my wips ill give u the sentence!
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Word: gyrating
lol. unfortunately that one is nowhere to be found in any of my wips
send me a word and ill give you a sentence from a wip
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