i'm a firm believer that whoever simps for JD in Heathers also simps for Tom Riddle. Firm believer of that theory. Which to be fair they're fictional and hot so do whatever you want.
(i would also add Zade Meadows from what I've gathered off of reviews and tik tok but I haven't read Haunting Adeline so im not sure.)
OUHMYGODDB YOU WRITEB FOR JD ...... PLSPSLSPLSPSLS AUGH PLS JD HEADCANONS. JD AND NAIVE PARTNER HEADCABONS... NAIVE PARTNER WHO LITERALLY BELIEVES EVERYTHINB HE SAYS.. PLES AE OH TKGID I LOVE HIM SOSOMUCH DONT BLOW UP WESTERBURG BLOW UP THIS PUSDY OH JYY GODOD HELPPP
Omg I'm so sorry this is soooo late but here bestie
Jason Dean
Once he realizes you're an absolute goner btw
This man literally says "Our love is God" about a million times so like you're just,,, fueling his lowkey obsession
That just makes him think you'll do whatever he wants
And that's actually horrible because he will get you into such deep shit lmao
But that's what you're here for, right?
He tests it regularly btw
Like,, just little things at first.
You don't smoke? He's got you shotgunning cigarette smoke (and weed too ofc ofc)
This man has no morals so tbh he'd probably be the same way towards you
Y'all follow each other around like you're glued at the hip
And he loves it
No need to trail behind you on his motorcycle after you leave, so much easier, just being with you all the time.
Tbh he'd probably use how naive you are to just bring you a million times closer to him
Like he'll randomly bring up you moving in with him, and list off made up excuses that itd be better for you.
He's probably just sick of having to climb in through your window though.
Would 100% kill anyone who says anything about y'all being together
Or just anyone in your way in general.
Extremely loyal, he's too obsessed to pay attention to other people.
He also thinks he's always right too btw like most men do,, but you literally give him a reason to, always agreeing to everything.
Sometimes he chalks it down to him being your boyfriend, obviously youll agree with your significant other, but most of the time? He just savors it.
You definitely fuel his god complex every time.
But hey, at least you get a kiss for it, totally worth it.
Despite his reputation as someone drawn to chaos, JD's fingers gingerly trace your skin. A reminder that with the cynical rebellion comes the veiled depth.
It's a feather-like touch.
Down your forearm, around your palm and up again. It becomes a slow pattern until you drift off to sleep, and then you're stuck in a hazy dream filled with ash covered floors and ink blotched skies. With each step you become more unnerved by the blurred, muted colours before you and the inability to do anything but walk. Attempting to leave is futile, and all there really is to cling onto is the faint presence surrounding you, though it remains unseen.
Traces on your skin. The scent of linen, slushie and cigarette smoke. The soft drizzle of rain.
You wake, eagerly taking in your surroundings as you fight through the blurred nothingness of sleep. JD is asleep beside you, his breathing deep though a little disrupted, his thumb idly stroking your skin now and then even when in slumber.
Comfort fights to wash through you as you settle back into the bedding, but there’s an unrelenting unease you can’t seem to ignore burying itself into your bones. You glance over your shoulder at the small alarm clock set on your bedside table.
It’s been four hours since you were lulled to sleep. For four hours you were wandering alone in that dream. Disturbed, parched, you gently slip your arm out from under his touch and move to leave the bed.
JD's hand locks over your wrist, eyes sharp in the soft glow of the room as he sits up and pins his heavy gaze onto you.
A shot of panic burns through your chest. You instinctively freeze, quietly watching him for a moment.
“JD?”
“Where are you going?”
A moment of silence passes before you lean back towards him and say, “I’m just getting a drink.”
JD watches you, scepticism and worry taking its time to melt into realisation. His gaze falls down. “Oh.” His brows crease, his grip loosening before he turns to go back to sleep. “Ok.”
Warnings: Southern Gothic setting, suggestive themes, longing, age-appropriate obsession, minor religious guilt, emotionally charged romantic tension, kissing, not entirely innocent thoughts, suggestive content, TWINK SCHLATT!!!
Summary: You’ve always watched him from afar. Jay, the loud-mouthed boy with bruised knuckles and a laugh that makes you feel dizzy. You’re sweet, or at least you were, before he looked at you like that. Now you can’t stop thinking about him. And worse, he’s finally started noticing you back.
A/N: Hope this ruins you in the softest, most Southern gothic Ethel Cain way possible. 😘 fr though I love this song with schlatt and this plot/setting just screams twink schlatt to me okay- like all of the skinny trashy boys I had a crush on in high school who smoked way too much weed
You saw him for the first time the summer you turned nineteen, when the heat came in thick and slow like molasses, and the pavement outside the gas station bubbled under your sneakers. You were elbow-deep in freezer burn, rearranging popsicles behind the counter, when the bell above the door rang and your world tilted just a little.
He walked in like he owned the place, all long limbs and loud voice, laughing at something one of his friends said. God, that laugh. Big and brash, like the kind of boy who didn’t apologize for anything.
He was wearing a cut-off tee with a band you didn’t know and a backwards hat that barely contained the curls at the back of his neck. You watched from behind the freezer glass, pretending to look busy as he strutted past the aisle of honey buns and beef jerky, jaw chewing absentmindedly on a toothpick like it had done something to offend him.
He didn’t look at you. Not then.
But you looked at him.
And you kept looking.
⸻
Jay wasn’t the kind of boy you brought home.
He was the kind you watched from across the parking lot while pretending to count scratch-offs. The kind of boy your mama warned you about when she told you to keep your legs closed and your eyes down.
But you couldn’t help it.
He was loud and messy and wild in a way this place wasn’t. The kind of boy who’d get in a fistfight for fun and then kiss you in the fallout. He wore his meanness like cologne and spat sunflower seeds at your feet without saying sorry.
You didn’t know him. Not really.
But you wanted to.
⸻
You made a habit of knowing when he’d show up.
His truck would growl into the lot just after 7PM, rattling like it had a death wish. You’d hear it before you saw him, bass turned up too high, the windows rolled down even though the AC worked fine.
He always parked sideways like rules didn’t apply, and strolled in with two of his friends trailing behind him like bad ideas. His voice was always the loudest. Sharp, cutting, dipped in something vulgar and funny.
You kept your eyes low. Played it safe.
But you felt it.
The pull.
The ache.
The heat that bloomed somewhere just below your ribs and spread like spilled syrup when he walked too close, smelled like smoke and gasoline.
And you started dressing different.
Just a little.
Gloss on your lips. Baby tee tucked tight. A daisy clipped behind your ear.
All soft, sweet things.
Things you hoped he’d want to ruin.
⸻
One day, he looked at you.
Really looked.
You were leaning on the counter, chin in hand, flipping through a trashy tabloid when the bell jingled and Jay swaggered in alone. No friends this time. Just him and the thick heat and the sound of cicadas screaming outside.
You didn’t glance up fast enough.
But when you did—
He was already looking.
Right at you.
His eyes dragged over you, slow and lazy like he had nowhere to be. His smirk curled, and he walked right up to the counter, chewing on nothing, eyes half-lidded and cruel.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you before,” he said.
You blinked. Swallowed.
“I work nights.”
“Shame,” he muttered, tapping the counter with a ringed finger. “Guess I’ve been missin’ out.”
Your face burned, but your voice stayed steady. “You want anything?”
He grinned. “Yeah. What’s your name?”
You told him.
He said it once, trying it out. “Pretty.”
You should’ve laughed.
Instead, you stared at the way his lip curled around the word, the way he leaned forward like he was gonna say something awful, something filthy, and you would’ve let him. You would’ve listened to every word.
But he just winked.
Grabbed a cherry soda from the fridge and left a crumpled dollar on the counter.
No change.
No goodbye.
You watched him walk out into the heat, long and golden and made of sharp edges.
You didn’t breathe for a whole minute.
⸻
You started writing about him in your journal.
Nothing serious.
Just little things.
Like the way he scratched the back of his neck when he was bored. Or how he always seemed to know when someone was watching him and looked smug about it. You wrote down the songs he played when his truck idled in the lot. You imagined what his voice would sound like in your bedroom, saying things you weren’t supposed to want to hear.
You didn’t love him.
You just wanted to kiss him so hard your teeth ached.
You just wanted to be his, even if only for a night.
⸻
Two weeks later, he showed up again.
This time, he leaned on the counter and said, “You ever been out to the creek?”
You blinked. “What creek?”
“The one past Miller’s farm. Little spot with the rope swing.” He smiled like he knew you wouldn’t say no. “You should come.
You didn’t ask why.
You just nodded, heart jackhammering against your ribs
.
“Tonight,” he said. “Ten sharp. Don’t be late.”
And just like that, you were his.
⸻
You told your mama you were staying at a friend’s.
Put on your shortest skirt. Slicked on lip gloss that tasted like strawberries and sin. Walked barefoot down the gravel path until his headlights found you.
He didn’t say hi.
Just opened the passenger door and looked you over like he’d won something.
You climbed in, silent and sweating.
The cab smelled like sweat and spearmint and a boy who never cared what time it was.
He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting just a little too close to your thigh.
The radio played something low and slurred, and he tapped the beat on his knee like he didn’t even notice you were staring at his hands.
You were.
You couldn’t stop.
⸻
The creek was quiet.
Moonlight hit the water in soft ribbons, and the trees whispered secrets to the wind.
He cut the engine and leaned back in his seat, one arm slung lazily behind your headrest.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
You shrugged.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
You glanced at him.
His eyes glittered in the dark.
He grinned.
“You watch me a lot,” he said.
You froze.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb. You think I didn’t notice? Thought it was cute.”
You looked away, heat crawling up your neck.
He leaned in.
“Gotta admit,” he murmured, “I been watchin’ you too.”
You turned to him, lips parted, but he was already there—mouth on yours, hands rough on your hips, kiss sweet and sharp like peach candy and bad intentions.
It wasn’t gentle.
But it was good.
Too good.
And when he pulled back, eyes hooded, lips shiny, he whispered, “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this.”
You didn’t say a word.
Just climbed into his lap and kissed him like you were starving.
⸻
You weren’t a good girl.
Not really.
You wore white dresses and said thank you and smiled at old ladies in church.
But under it all, you ached.
For him.
For something real.
And Jay?
He was real in all the worst, best ways.
He bit your bottom lip when you teased him. He pulled your hair when you got too mouthy. He kissed your neck like he was marking territory.
You let him.
You wanted him to.
⸻
You met like that every week.
Sometimes at the creek.
Sometimes behind the old laundromat where the lights flickered and the pavement smelled like bleach and burnt rubber.
He’d press you against brick walls and tell you how pretty you looked when you blushed. He’d call you baby and trouble and sweet thing like it meant something.
And God, it did.
To you, it meant everything.
He wasn’t your boyfriend.
Not really.
But he called you his.
And when he drove you home with one hand gripping your thigh and the other curled around the wheel, you felt like you could die right then and be happy.
⸻
You never told anyone.
Not your friends. Not your mama. Not even yourself, not really.
Because to say it out loud would make it real.
And you weren’t sure you could survive that.
He was your secret.
Your summer sin.
The thing you prayed about in the quiet, trembling on your knees with dirty thoughts and clean hands.
You were the girl who watched him from afar and wanted him anyway.
And now?
Now he wanted you back.
⸻
Some nights, you still lie awake and think about the way his hands felt on your waist, the way he laughed like the world was ending and he didn’t care.
You think about the way he said your name—low, rough, reverent.
