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ⓘ 18+ CONTENT WARNING. My work will contain of adult themes and nsfw related content. I can’t control what you view on your device (trust me, I know), what I ask is that you use your initiative and know what you can and can’t handle/what you are consuming. Be safe, respectful and consume my work with discretion. I am a mature writer and I’d expect that my work is treated with the same level of maturity. (Note: Do not loose your whimsical nature however…)
Summary: Spencer takes care of depressed!reader's hair
Word Count: ~900 :)
Warnings: Depression, hints of self-deprecation, reader has hair that can be brushed and braided
You turned your hairbrush over in your hands and felt yourself indulge in the doubt seeping into your brain. You stood frozen by your bedroom door, body waiting for instruction on what to do. You'd managed to think this was a good idea long enough to get out of bed, now you weren't so sure.
Your eyes trailed down to the brush, and then looked up at the sound of Spencer sneezing. The sound had an odd effect on you. Odd, in the sense that it was as mundane as a sound could get, and yet it started to unravel the knot of doubt in your posture.
He continued flipping the pages of his book. You took one step further, followed by another, and eventually enough for Spencer to come into view, sitting on the couch, tucked into one side of it as if people were sitting next to him.
By the wide-eyed look on your face and your uncertain walking, you would think you were approaching a feral animal. Something to be scared of, something to fear. Everything Spencer couldn't be more antonymous with.
He didn't hear you enter, he felt it. The slight shift of energy, the feeling of you staring at him. Almost as tangible to him then as the book in his hands.
His face softened into a smile when he looked at you. "Hi. What's up?"
"Can…" You swallowed dryly, the lump in your throat wouldn't go away.
Spencer followed your gaze to the item in your hand and then he understood. "Do you want me to help you with your hair?"
Without meeting his too-gentle eyes, you nodded, not moving until he gave any indication that he didn't want to you to go right back to your room and leave him alone.
He discarded his book onto the floor and turned his body to face where he hoped you'd sit. "Come here."
Your legs dragged you there and made you sit down harder than you should have. Your dad paid no attention to it and held his palm out to take the brush from you. He placed it to the side and twirled his finger as a gesture for you to turn your back to him.
You did as instructed, with a shaky breath and even shakier hands, but you did.
"Are you cold, honey?"
"A little," you admitted.
Spencer reached over your shoulder and grabbed the throw blanket draped over the couch. He wrapped it around your shoulders, making sure to remove your hair from under it.
His fingers started fighting the tangles that had grown in your hair, working slowly to avoid pulling it. To fill the silence, he told you about the book he'd put aside. Where he got it, the history behind that specific edition, how he'd disliked the author as a child but grew to appreciate their work.
Every time you flinched from an accidental tug, his hands stopped moving and waited for their guilt to subside.
He pulled apart the final knot, picked up your hair brush, and started brushing your hair. He started with the brittler ends and worked his way up until his fingers could smoothly comb through the length of it.
"Can I braid your hair for you?" he asked.
You nodded and turned your head to the side so he could hear your voice through its hoarseness, not raising your eyes higher than his knee. "I didn't bring a hair tie."
"That's okay, I'll just use mine."
Your brain wanted you to protest against him using something of his for nothing more than your comfort, as if that wasn't one of the most important things to him. As if he wouldn't remove it from his own hair to tie yours if you asked.
"I don't have to braid your hair if you don't want me to," he reminded you, in case that hesitation in your parted lips was discomfort.
But he recognized the look in your eyes. It was one of guilt, not preferential reluctance.
"Can you turn your head forward, please?"
You obliged and Spencer's hands went back to your hair, weaving it together, not leaving a hair out of place. His tongue poked out of his mouth while he concentrated on getting it just right. He removed the hair tie from his wrist and swiftly tied your braid to keep it in place.
"Done." He made no mention of the burn in his arms from holding them up for so long.
You turned to face him and finally mustered up the courage make eye contact with him. His irises were more full of love than hazel, you racked your brain trying to figure out why. It felt misplaced, like there had to be something better for him to look at like that, something that deserved it.
He hooked his hands under your shoulders and pulled you closer, you practically melted into his arms. The warmth of his chest was a harsh contrast to your coldness. It thawed your cheeks but also your mind. His arms were tight around your waist, tight enough to make the thoughts go quiet without making it harder to breathe.
Your arms stayed around your torso, they didn't touch him any further than your shoulders. He didn't mind. His head bent down to press a soft kiss into your hair and then rested there. Holding his whole world, in his own two arms, never failed to breathe life into his lungs.
divider creds: @saradika-graphics <3
if you read this far, please consider reblogging <3
Hello!! I was so happy to see you on my feed again 😭✌️
Could you write a hurt/comfort fic where Teen!reader and Spencer get into an intense argument (doesn’t have to be crazy or anything, but I’d appreciate it if it got serious), and ultimately make up? Bonus points if Reader struggles mentally and it affects her personality/reasonings for the argument. 🥹🙏
An Unlocked Door
Spencer Reid + daughter!reader
Summary: Depressed!reader makes a mistake that hits too close to home for Spencer after a case that went wrong
Word Count: 2k
Warnings: Depression, implied suicidal ideation (please read with an ounce of caution) mentions of blood and murder, arguing, anxiety, one single use of y/n (lmk if i missed anything!!)
A/n: thank you so much for requesting, anon!! i'm so sorry for how long this took me. i honestly didn't know how to write an intense argument but i tried my best <3
The subway was where Spencer sorted through his thoughts. A chance to filter through them so he could step off of the train lighter and go home less haunted.
It had been a long time since he felt so worried he wouldn't be able to even attempt normalcy when he saw you. His mind was running a marathon going through the BAU's process that led to their newest failure. He'd been the first one on site, the first to know that there was a house of people they were supposed to keep safe and couldn't.
A step further back, and the cause was an unlocked door — how the UnSub got into every house he ruined. Such a painfully, stupidly small thing. But it would be cruel to blame victims for a lifelong habit. It wasn't their fault one person took advantage of their small town mindset. No, he couldn't blame them. He too had a habit that he held onto like it sustained him: self-blame. And right now he was as guilty of taking part in it as ever.
He could've asked JJ to drive faster. He should've given Penelope better parameters to find the UnSub sooner.
His fingers reached into his satchel for any book he could use to clear his head. A book of crossword puzzles wasn't particularly what he'd hoped for. But it was yours, when you still wanted it. The last completed one dated back to three years prior. The first was nonsensical, from when you were first able to write letters. An accidental time capsule, better than any other book he could've found.
He read the words you had filled in like they were your own. His regret was replaced with a painful sense of missing you.
It would be obnoxious to call someone while on a train full of people, wouldn't it? Spencer figured as much. A text would have to suffice. His fingers stumbled over his phone's keyboard. He sounded a lot less excited to be on his way home than he would've if he could call you. He added a second text clarifying that, just in case. He planned a third one asking if you wanted to watch a movie before bed. He never got to send it because neither of his first two were read.
His brain skipped logic in his thinking pattern and went right to worry. Images that had finally started fading got their colors back, reminding him of the people he'd already failed to protect that day. He couldn't fail to fulfill his duty twice. Not with anyone and especially not with you.
He dialed your number, no longer caring about the opinions of anyone around him. He'd blurt out an apology to everyone if he had to.
His dialing tone laughed at him until the automated voice said that your number was "Unavailable."
Sending a third text would do no good, calling again wouldn't help. He did both anyway and still received nothing.
The burn in his lungs and legs became unimportant from the subway station to home. He took the stairs up to your apartment two, sometimes three, at a time. The irrationality of his behavior was there but he didn't care enough.
At the touch of his key against the doorknob, it didn't go in. The door creaked open, unlocked.
There was a light by the door that was always on when he got home late. Something you started of your own volition when you noticed his dislike of the dark. It served as a warmth that welcomed him home when you were too tired to wait up. It wasn't on this time.
Being scared to walk into his own home was a feeling he thought he'd left in childhood. Child or parent, it was the same type of fear. It burned like the whole house was on fire. He'd much rather run and escape than extinguish any flames but that had never been who he was.
His heart thumped in his ears. all consuming, interrupting his senses at the root. He called your name with desperation, turning on every light he could reach and not seeing you in any ray of it. The second time he said your name, it was enveloped in fear that sounded a lot like anger.
Maybe he was angry. Maybe his fear turned into something else somewhere between the cold outside and colder house. He walked to your room with footsteps that matched his voice. He'd never felt more like his father.
From your place huddled next to his bed, you had no idea how to respond.
You heard him, it was hard not to. Never in your life had your name sounded so harsh coming from him. Not when you wanted to touch a stove top out of curiosity, not when you spent hours locked in your room refusing to talk to him. Never.
You stood up on numb legs, waiting for him to find you and work to fix whatever was wrong.
When it became clear that his room was the last place he'd check, you drifted out into the rest of the apartment where he could spot you easily.
His heavy breathing got cut short when he saw you, alive and unharmed.
"What were you thinking?" he asked through clenched teeth.
"What are you talking about?" you asked back, your voice already turning sour.
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, pinching at the bridge of his nose and begging for his brain to shut up. "Why didn't you answer your phone?"
You frowned, confused by such an innocent question coming from him when he was visibly irate. "It died and I didn't feel like charging it."
The way he laughed told you to straighten your posture, caustic, bleak. Nothing like how your dad laughed.
"You didn't feel like it?" he restated your words as if he had to ensure he heard you right.
Frustration grew in your chest. You didn't force yourself out of bed and to school, ignoring the overwhelming urge to waste away, to have him be upset the second he got home. But you had no strength to argue.
"You left the door unlocked," he continued before you could speak, staring at you with an unforgiving set of eyes.
"What? No, I didn't." You wouldn't do that. Normally, you wouldn't do that.
"Oh, so it just unlocked itself with no key in sight?" He nodded his head with ridicule.
Every second of seeing his shoulders stay tense further drained your energy. Home was always safety, for both of you. When the world erupted into chaos the way it did, there was harmony at home. Cases, assignments, darkness, it stayed out. Sometimes you had to force it out together like you were barricading a door, but you would do it. Him and you, against the rest.
"I'm sorry." You meant to sound a little bit desperate, hoping it'd kick-start the forgiveness portion of your argument. All he heard was dismissiveness.
"Do you have any idea what I thought I was coming home to when you didn't pick up your phone? I thought you were bleeding out on the floor I—"
"Would that have been better?" you asked dryly.
There was no misconstruing your tone this time. It wasn't sarcastic or meant to hurt, it was inquisitive.
You watched as the wires in his head went from being on fire to a pile of ashes.
"No," he said with a faint shake of his head, more sure than he'd ever been of anything.
His shoulders lost their tension. He would forgive your worst mistakes a million times over if it meant keeping you safe, the stricken look in his hazel eyes told you that much.
You couldn't look at him anymore, and even if you could, tears clouded your vision — made you stumble on your way to your room. You walked past him, your arm barely grazing his. The swiftness of your movements caused a breeze that knocked all the wind out of him.
Your door didn't slam shut, it closed so quietly he didn't hear it. He gravitated to it a minute later, knocked on it with a tired fist and rested his head against it. His usual concerned, sweetened tone reattached itself to your name but it didn't matter much anymore.
Turning a light on was as much proof of life as you could give him. He took it and trailed away, you figured he was going to sulk in his room.
You didn't expect to hear him come back a few minutes later. There was movement on the other side of the door before he knocked again, less hesitant, more as a courtesy. He didn't say anything but you could practically hear his restlessness.
He opened your door slowly, head tilting in time with it to look at you piled next to your bed with your knees to your chest.
"I made us some tea," he said as he reached to pick up a teacup and saucer that he had to set down to have a free hand to knock.
Disheveled hair that he tried to make neater but couldn't, suit jacket and shoes gone, he looked like himself again. One of his socks was a fluorescent pink, the brightest thing in the house and a strong contrast to the boring gray one by its side.
"Can I sit next to you, please?"
"Fine." A salty tear slipped into your mouth, reminding you of how dry it felt.
In a better state of mind you would have admired how he managed to sit down without spilling a drop of tea. His lanky legs were stretched out in front of him.
"I'm sorry," you said, more genuinely than before.
"You had no idea you left the door unlocked did you?"
You shook your head no.
Spencer pushed your tea closer to you while he brought his to his lips, his pinky held in the air before dropping with the tone of his voice. "Is there a reason you were so distracted you didn't notice?"
Your hands wrapped around the cup, its warmth stinging your skin. Your thoughts had been tangled all day, inextricably woven together and getting progressively more twisted. But Spencer had a knack for disentangling knots most would view as impossible to untie.
"Did something specific happen that made you feel off?" He continued.
"No."
"How long have you been struggling this much?" Spencer pulled gently at a thread that you knew would unravel everything.
The tangle got interrupted. It didn't change in strain, it got stuck. The unmentioned monster that had been lacerating your mind was caught and Spencer wasn't about to let it go. "A while."
Spencer's face crumbled into softness and his posture with it. "Why didn't you tell me?"
You finally took a sip of your tea, hoping to wash down the emotion clogging your throat. "I don't know. You're busy."
Gently, he took your cup and placed it next to his. You had nowhere to turn or hide. His soft grip on your hands put an end to their trembling. "Y/n, I don't care if the whole world is relying on me for help, if you need me, I'll be there." He paused. "But I can't do that if I don't know when you need me."
"I'm sorry."
His thumbs grazed over your hands, the motion being soothing to him and you.
"I should be the one apologizing," he asserted. "I overreacted earlier when I should've noticed that something was wrong, and I'm sorry."
"I'll forgive you if you forgive me," you offered.
"I think we can make that work."
You moved to lean your head on his shoulder, hoping you could put off talking about your mental state a minute longer. Right now you just wanted to rest.
"I'm happy you're home," you whispered.
He brought your hand up to his mouth, his lips were warm against your skin for the fleeting second they were there. "I'm happy you're here."
divider credit: @saradika-graphics, lq gif was made by me
if you read this far, please consider reblogging <3
Spencer Reid x Rossi!daughter who didn't realize they were dating [1.7k words]
CW: fem!reader, Rossi's adult daughter works for the BAU [mother unknown], reader's referenced abandonment issues and is said to be commitment averse, reader's implied to be wearing a dress/skirt and stockings, sweet Spencer
Morgan often takes any opportunity to tease you for actually doing your job for once, but you hunched over case files isn’t actually as rare of a sight as he might lead one to believe.
You’re a pain in the ass, for sure; Hotch’s mostly, his own a bit, and probably your father’s too, though Dave has the fatherly duty to love you for it anyways. But in spite of this – and any grief you cause the Bureau – you’re a damn good agent.
So, no, it’s not rare to see you dutifully finishing up your casefiles to submit to Hotch later. It is rare, though, to see you doing it alone.
“Where’s your lover boy?” He asks as he drapes his jacket over the back of his own chair a few desks over.
Your head doesn’t move an inch but your eyes dart up from the files to meet his gaze. “Me? What lover boy?”
Morgan snorts. “What? You have more than one?”
You smirk as your gaze returns to the file in front of you. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Morgan is saved from responding (or, perhaps, you’re saved from his response) as a coffee appears in your eyeline, carefully placed beside your paperwork by lithe fingers attached to a delicate wrist.
The groan the sight elicits from you is nearly pornographic. “Thank you, Spence.”
“What? No coffee for me, loverboy?” Morgan drawls.
This, he notices, has your head popping up.
“You know what?” Spencer offers, “I’ll give you my coffee if the croissant in that paper bag you’ve got there is for me.”
Checkmate Morgan thinks with a smile when Penelope appears in the bullpen as though the promise of croissants (or, perhaps, the sound of Derek’s voice) was a siren call signalling her demise.
“You stay away from my sweet, sweet treat there, boy wonder.” She squeaks as she swipes the pastry from Derek’s desk.
“That’s alright, Reid, we’ve all got our favourites.” Prentiss chuckles as Penelope munches gratefully and you take a sip from your coffee, narrow eyes fixated on the rest of the team as Spencer heads to place his lunch in the fridge in the break room.
“My sweet, dashing deliverer of all things good in the world,” Penelope addresses Derek, likely speaking about the croissant she takes a pleased bite out of, “you know I love you more than life itself but why were you bargaining with my croissant?”
“Oh relax baby girl, I’d never slight you like that. What my girl wants, my girl gets, just like Spencer’s girl over there.”
You snort a laugh at that, though you’re still scrutinizing Derek like you don’t completely trust him. With your life? Sure. With your feelings? Not a chance.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You really don’t know, do you?” Emily asks then, her posture softening as she considers you.
“Know what?”
“That you and the doctor over there are dating.” Morgan answers.
“And have been for the better part of a year.” Emily adds; Penelope nodding in agreement.
For perhaps the first time Derek can ever recall, you look genuinely stunned; perplexed, even.
“What? No. No, no. I don’t date.” You tell them, shaking your head as you busy yourself with organizing your desk.
“Right.” Emily scoffs at the same time Derek laughs “Yes, you do; you’ve been going steady since at least the Christmas party last year.”
He thinks he notices you fluster at the memory; tipsy kisses under a mistletoe that – if Derek didn’t know any better – definitely led to some far less tipsy and way more intentional canoodling later on in the evening.
The team had been smart enough not to comment on it though; the shift so slight but completely undeniable. The two of you have been basically inseparable ever since.
Whenever a case required shared rooms, you and Spencer were always quick to volunteer. When a case hit you particularly hard, Spencer was the first one you went looking for. In turn, you doted on him endlessly after a case got the better of the infamous Doctor Spencer Reid. Most of your free time outside of the BAU saw the two of you together as well, and the last time Spencer went to visit his mom, you travelled with him.
For you, that pretty much translates to married with kids.
It’s quite clear to those who know you that you try to hide any potential abandonment issues and fears of commitment behind a facade of being a player. Derek’s just beginning to realize that Reid has found a cheat code to this when Emily carries on.
“Tell me this then, Junior,” Emily smiles as she rests her hip against her desk, “when’s the last time you went on a date?”
Your brows furrow at her question but you begin wracking your brain for an answer.
You’re coming up short.
“I… well-” you stutter, shaking your head imperceptibly as though you couldn’t believe you were drawing a blank on this “I guess…when I went for drinks with that guy after the case in Vegas, but-”
“Wrong.” It’s Penelope who interrupts you. “Last weekend you let Reid drag you to that screening of the documentary about chimpanzees.”
“Okay, first of all, he didn’t drag me; I went willingly.” You bite out scathingly. Penelope doesn’t seem perturbed by your icy demeanor. “Secondly, that wasn’t a date.”
“No?” Emily goads, sharing a knowing look with Derek. “So I suppose that the run to the grocery store and then the dinner the two of you cooked together later that same evening wasn’t a date, either?”
You’re about to ask her how she knows about this or, perhaps, what the fuck her problem is, when Spencer walks back into the room.
“Hey Reid,” Derek starts, “what’s the exact definition of a date?”
Spencer’s stride slows as he makes it to his desk, brows furrowed though he answers dutifully. “A date is understood as the day of the month or year as specified by a number.”
“Not that kind of date.” Penelope chides gleefully, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet as she looks between the two of you. “A romantic date!”
And if Spencer is confused by the line of questioning, his eagerness to transmit the improbable amount of data bouncing around in his skull wins out.
“Well, I guess the understanding of a date would depend on the people involved…” He starts carefully. “What might be considered as a romantic gesture or event may not be considered romantic by someone else. But, I suppose spending time with another person who you feel fondness for by doing things you think they would enjoy, or that they think you would enjoy, and enjoying it simply because you're doing it with them could be considered a date. Generally it might involve food, drinks, movies, sightseeing, or something else depending on the people involved. Why?”
“So, sort of like what you and Y/N have been doing for the past year, then?” Emily encourages as she stares resolutely at you.
Spencer, for his part, has the grace to look somewhat bashful as he chances a look in your direction.
“We’ve…been dating?” You whisper, lips parted as you look at Spencer. “Did you know?”
Spencer’s mouth pinches uneasily but he nods his head yes anyways.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” And if Derek didn’t know any better, he’d think you sound almost gutted at the realization – not that the two of you were dating, but rather – that Spencer hadn’t said anything about it.
“Well…you’ve been happy.” Spencer starts carefully, clearly monitoring your face for any signs that you might lunge at him or take off running – neither option is completely out of the realm of possibility when it comes to you. “I don’t claim to be an expert on this by any means but I was fairly confident that I was making you happy and…and I knew you’d be less happy if I tried to put a label on it and, well, I was okay not acknowledging it if that’s what you needed.”
And dammit, if Derek Morgan’s big-brother heart didn’t nearly bleed right out of his chest at that.
Spencer seems slightly winded by the end of his admission, but he chances a few cautious steps in your direction. When he’s convinced that the probability of you taking off is slim to none, he closes the gap and crouches beside your chair, putting the two of you at more equal height.
“I know this is…tricky territory for you,” he murmurs with a gentle brush to your stocking-clad knee with his thumb. Emily has the grace to make herself appear busy in order to award the two of you a modicum of privacy; Penelope and Derek have no such qualms and watch in awe, “nothing has to change. Or everything can change. We can drop it all together; this doesn’t have to be anything. Whatever you want.”
Derek thinks you might start crying, which has him both intrigued and alarmed. He’s saved from having to decide how to navigate an emotional you by JJ, Hotch, and Rossi descending the stairs into the bullpen.
“We’ve got a case.” Hotch announces at the same time JJ asks “what’s going on?”
“Ah, good; have you finally told my daughter that the two of you are dating, kid?” Rossi sighs in that way that only a tired and fond father can, barely sparing your…boyfriend(?) or his own daughter’s completely affronted expression a second glance as he breezes towards the conference room.
“Everyone knew?” You nearly wheeze.
“I think you’re the only one who didn’t, nepo baby.”
“Morgan.” Hotch reprimands, seeing the rest of the team quickly shuffle into the conference room. He does, however, spare you and Spencer a quick, proud, quirk of his lips that could possibly be misconstrued as an infamous Hotch almost-smile. “It’s about time, though.”
── .✦ The doctor said she was lucky. She has not yet found a way to explain to the doctor what that word does to her now. What it costs her every time someone says it. Lucky. Like surviving was something she did to someone.
── .✦ He goes over it. Every night, every version, every small decision that split into this outcome and not another. If he'd been thirty seconds faster. If he'd said something different. If he'd just—the math never changes...
── .✦ "You made it," they keep telling her, like that's the part she's struggling with. She knows she made it. She was there. She made it and he didn't and nobody seems to understand that those two facts live in her like something at war.
── .✦ She laughs at something on TV and for three full seconds everything is normal. And then it crashes back in. The guilt of the three seconds, the guilt of the laughing, the guilt of still being someone who can laugh, and she's back under again.
── .✦ He visits the grave more than he probably should. Stands there and doesn't say anything most times. Sometimes he says it should've been me and means it completely and waits for something to argue back. But nothing does.
── .✦ "You need to stop blaming yourself," they say, and she nods, and she means to, and then she's alone again and the blame is right there where she left it, patient as anything, waiting.
── .✦ "I should've been there," he said, for the hundredth time, and she finally looked at him and said, "And then what? Then I'd be standing here saying it about you?" He didn't have an answer. He's still looking for one.
── .✦ She is so tired of being the one who made it. She is so tired of carrying the weight of a life that sometimes feels like it belongs to someone else.
── .✦ He built a whole future out of guilt. Every good thing he does now he does with her name underneath it, like a foundation, like a debt he'll never finish paying off. He doesn't know if that's honoring her or punishing himself. Maybe both. Maybe that's the same thing now.
── .✦ "Do you ever think about why you?" her therapist asks. Every day, she doesn't say. Every single day I think about why me and I never come up with an answer that doesn't make me want to disappear.
── .✦ The hardest day wasn't the funeral. The hardest day was six months later when she woke up and for one terrible, beautiful, unforgivable second--she'd forgotten.
── .✦ He's good at it now. Surviving. He's built a whole life around the skill of it. Some nights he hates himself for how good he's gotten.
── .✦ She doesn't talk about it. People think that means she's healed. People think silence is the same as peace. She knows better. She knows silence is just where the loudest things live.
Body snatching is the secret removal of corpses from burial sites. A common purpose of body snatching, especially in the 19th century, was to sell the corpses for dissection or anatomy lectures in medical schools.
Damnatio memoriae Latin phrase meaning "condemnation of memory", indicating that a person is to be excluded from official accounts.
Decanonization is the removal of a person's name from the calendar of saints; the opposite of canonization.
Desecration of graves involves intentional acts of vandalism or destruction in places where humans are interred and includes grave sites and grave markers. Urinating on someone's grave is a form of grave desecration.
Gibbeting is any instrument of public execution (including guillotine, executioner's block, impalement stake, hanging gallows, or related scaffold), but gibbeting refers to the use of a gallows-type structure from which the dead or dying bodies of criminals were hanged on public display to deter other existing or potential criminals.
Grave robbery is the act of uncovering a grave, tomb or crypt to steal commodities.
Headhunting is the practice of hunting a human and collecting the severed head after killing the victim, although sometimes more portable body parts (such as ear, nose or scalp) are taken instead as trophies.
Human trophy collecting involves the acquisition of human body parts as trophy, usually as a war trophy, or as a status symbol of superior masculinity. Psychopathic serial murderers' collection of their victims' body parts have also been described as a form of trophy-taking; the FBI draws a distinction between souvenirs and trophies in this regard.
Maschalismos is the practice of physically rendering the dead incapable of rising or haunting the living in undead form.
Necrophilia is sexual attraction towards or a sexual act involving corpses.
Posthumous execution is the ritual or ceremonial mutilation of an already dead body as a punishment.
⟢ PICK THREE DETAILS MAXIMUM! your reader doesn't need to know every piece of furniture. Give them the broken clock on the mantle, the smell of cigarettes embedded in the couch, the water stain on the ceiling shaped like Italy. Their brain will fill in the rest. You're not writing an insurance inventory!!!
⟢ Use the senses people forget. Everyone does sight and sound, but what about: the metallic taste of fear, the way humidity makes your clothes stick, the phantom itch of being watched, that gross feeling when you touch something unexpectedly wet. GET WEIRD WITH IT
⟢ MOTION IN YOUR DESCRIPTIONS!! (Please?) don't just tell me the curtains are blue, tell me they're "shuddering in the AC blast" or "hanging limp like they've given up." Static description is a sleep aid. Make things MOVE
⟢ Your narrator's voice should COLOR everything! A depressed character won't describe the sunset as "beautiful mauve and amber streaking across the sky," they'll think "the sun's dying again, doing its whole performance art thing with the clouds"
⟢ Stop with the mirror descriptions! :( "She looked in the mirror and saw her auburn hair and green eyes" NO. Banned. Forbidden. Find literally any other way. Have another character notice. Show through action. Slip details in naturally. The mirror thing is lazy and we all know it
⟢ Similes and metaphors: COMMIT OR DON'T DO IT! "like" is not a get-out-of-jail-free card. "Her anger was like a storm" is BORING. "Her anger rolled in with the methodical inevitability of a hurricane, and he was standing in a trailer park in Florida" now we're TALKING
°˖➴ SHOW THE EVIDENCE, not the time!! don't say "three months later" and have everything exactly the same. Show the evidence: the houseplant is dead now, there's a new coffee shop, their hair is longer, the season changed, the relationship shifted
°˖➴ People don't pause their lives!! during your time skip, other characters didn't freeze. They got new jobs, started dating someone, developed opinions, had experiences. When we come back, there should be GAPS in what your POV character knows
°˖➴ Anchor it with a CONCRETE detail!! "The last time she'd been in this room, there'd been snow on the ground. Now the garden outside was screaming with roses." Give the reader something tangible to mark the passage
°˖➴ What DIDN'T happen is interesting!! "Six weeks and still no word from him" or "Another year of birthday candles she didn't make wishes on" sometimes the time skip is defined by absence and waiting
°˖➴ Compress boring stuff, expand important stuff!! "The trial took three months" can be one sentence. But the five minutes after the verdict? That might be three pages. TIME IS ELASTIC in fiction, use it!!!
°˖➴ Characters should FEEL differently about the skip !! time passing changes perspective. Something that felt devastating last year might feel trivial now. Or vice versa. What seemed certain became a mistake. SHOW THE SHIFT
(๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) TEXTURE MATTERS MORE THAN TASTE!! "it tasted good" tells me nothing. "The crust shattered into a thousand buttery shards" or "gummy, like chewing a tire" NOW I'm there. Crunch, slime, melt, chew, squeak (yes some foods squeak and it's horrible)
(๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) Food is memory!!! your character doesn't just eat chicken soup, they eat the chicken soup that tastes like being home sick from school, like their grandmother's kitchen, like the last good day before everything changed. FOOD CARRIES STORY!!
(๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) Temperature is a character!! scalding coffee that burns your tongue, ice cream so cold it gives you a headache, room-temperature pizza at 2am that tastes like regret. Temperature changes the entire experience!!!
(๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) The SOUND of eating reveals character. Do they slurp? Chew with their mouth open? Cut everything into tiny pieces? Eat standing over the sink? These tiny details tell you who someone IS
(๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) Describe what it does, not what it is!! Don't say "the spicy curry" say "the curry that made her sinuses open up like floodgates and her eyes water and why did she think she could handle this"
(๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) Use WEIRD comparisons. "tasted like chicken" is boring. "Tasted like what I imagine a leather couch feels like" or "sweet in that chemical way that makes your teeth hurt" get SPECIFIC and strange.
