#andforthecoating

[riality-check]

for the mini fic thing! 17 with Steve & Eddie? i love your drabbles!!

This is exceptionally late, and I'm slightly adjusting the prompt, but here you go!

17. "Things I wish you hadn't said"

"You know you gave me the nickname, right?" Eddie says.

He does that a lot, Steve has learned. Starts conversations in ways that sound like the middle of them. It's one thing among many he's noticed about Eddie, since March '86.

"What?" he says, half to make sure he heard him right, half because he's a little slow from the joint they've been passing back and forth.

"The Freak," Eddie explains. He says it like he's talking about the weather and takes another drag of the joint before he passes it back to Steve. "You regretted it right after you said it. Well, right after Carol shouted it loud enough for the whole cafeteria to hear. Could see it right on your face."

Steve remembers that day. His sophomore year, so Eddie's junior. Daniel McCain had gone up to Eddie, angry as anything about something Steve just had to know about.

He's glad he's not that guy anymore.

"Do you know why he came up to me? Danny?"

"No," Steve says. He interrupted that would-be conversation before he could hear any of it. He had to make himself the star of the show, all the time.

A sophomore, and already king.

He was such a prick.

He passes the joint back to Eddie without taking another drag.

"Do you remember my nose being broken?"

Steve has a flash of a memory, of a younger Eddie with hair curling just under his chin, bandages on his bruised face.

He nods.

"I kissed him the day before," Eddie says. He extinguishes the joint in favor of picking at his fingernails instead. "He didn't take too kindly to it."

Oh, shit.

"And you asked him what he had to talk to The Freak about."

For probably the hundredth time in his life, Steve hates the person he used to be. Because not only did he give Eddie the nickname that stuck with him all through the rest of his high school career, not only did he add insult to literal injury, but Steve couldn't even remember this particular cruelty in a sea of cruelties.

He wants to go back in time and shake that kid by the shoulders until his head's back on straight.

"I'm sorry. I wish I hadn't said that," he says, and it doesn't sound like nearly enough.

Eddie waves him off. "Can't go back. Besides, if you didn't say it, someone else would have. Probably me, to be honest."

Steve leans back, propping himself up on his elbows on Eddie's bed. He looks up at Eddie, sitting near his nightstand, cross-legged and still in a way that he never is when he's sober. The way he's backlit makes his hair seem like a gold halo, makes every stark detail of his silhouette stand out in a way that keeps Steve from looking away.

Not that he wants to.

He doesn't think that logic holds up. It's not worth thinking about "what-ifs," but he can't help it. He can't help the thought that if he had watched his mouth for once in his life, Eddie wouldn't have been tormented with that particular phrase.

Eddie doesn't seem to resent him for it, though. Robin always says that no one is as hard on Steve as he is, and this seems to line up with that.

Still.

"If you're not mad about it, then why-"

"I couldn't think of a better way to tell you I like boys," Eddie blurts.

Oh.

Steve has had plenty of people interested in him. He knows how to flirt back, even when they're as awkward as Eddie is, eyes burning a hole through his mattress.

It's not often that he's interested back. Really interested back.

Huh.

Guess I like men, he thinks to himself, and while thinking can wait for the morning, when he's sober, he knows that what he feels isn't going to fade along with the high.

And he knows exactly which moves to pull.

He sits up and moves a little closer to Eddie.

"Why do I need to know that?" he teases.

Eddie's head snaps up. He studies Steve's face with slightly reddened eyes, and when he finds, or doesn't find, what he's looking for, he relaxes. "Because I like you."

"You gonna do anything about it?"

"Yeah," Eddie says, leaning closer. "I'm gonna kiss you, and I hope you won't bre-"

Steve runs out of patience. He grabs Eddie's face with both hands and pulls him in.

It's a good kiss. Definitely not one worth punching over.

"You asshole!" Eddie laughs when they break apart. "You didn't let me finish my line!"

"Are you mad about it?"

"A little!"

"Too mad to kiss me again?"

Eddie pauses, grabs Steve's face, and kisses him fiercely.

Something tells Steve the answer to that last question is a resounding, "Not at all."

Prompts here.

[sincerelyverena]

pls pls pls charles x short!alive!reader? established relationship, maybe just some fluffy moments between the two?

⟡⁺ THE GHOST OF YOU

tysm for the req, anon! 💞💞 ive thoroughly enjoyed my return here, n now the story is yours n i hoped u enjoyed it as much as i loved writing it <3 special shoutout to my dbd betareaders, i love and appreciate all of u sm!

. . . CHARLES ROWLAND X GN!READER ‘think i like you best when you're just with me and no one else.’ @andforthecoating

inbox is always open for requests!

in whichꕀ

✦ ﹒you love him. and he loves you too. a story as simple as that.

tagsꕀ

✦ ﹒fluff ﹐short!reader﹐alive!reader ﹐established relationship ﹐im still getting a feel for charles character so go easy on me pls ﹐havent written non-smut in a long LONG time

THANK YOU TO MY WONDERFUL BETA READERS: @love-xoxojules﹐@immortal101 ﹐@fadedpictures91 ﹐@charles-rxwlands﹐ @kidbiscuitt @smallestgremlin

Falling in love with a ghost wasn’t on the cards for you, until you met Charles Rowland.

The supernatural had haunted you since you were a small child, being the victim of a near-death experience isn’t easy on any youngling. Especially you. The consequences of viewing these seemingly mythological creatures took years of patience and silent work to endure, more so, because nobody would ever believe you if you told them you saw ghosts. How ghastly.

And as a young child, you couldn’t imagine that decades into the future, you’d be laid between the arms of one. Two bronzed columns that supported the minuscule length of your torso. And for a ghost? Charles is oddly warm. Or maybe that’s you warming up to your idea of your body heat, marinating in the crisp sheets of your bed. A sanctuary the two of you now shared, together.

But it was nice to think that it was Charles too. He was the reason why you felt comfortable and protected after all. In a world of witchcraft, warlocks, dangers, and death Charles was your home.

A pair of bow-turned lips place themselves against your temple, assisting you in drifting out of sleep. Charles murmurs against the surface of your skin, planting scattered kisses along the top of your head in the process. ‘Dove, we’re meeting Crystal for coffee, remember?’

Charles’s gently mustered words are enough to serenade a response out of your sleepy self. You murmur incoherent words, flipping yourself over so that when you inch your eyes open, they can delight in your boyfriend’s beauty.

His ebony-clad curls are fluffed to perfection atop his head, not a hint of bed-head in sight, which you consider impressive before you remember that Charles mostly spent the night just watching you. As if nothing else in the world matters. You extend a hand to the defined curve of his jaw, practically guiding his lips toward your own. They lock together in familiarity, and nothing but pure, honeyed ecstasy buzzes throughout you. This is better than coffee, better than anything. Charles tasted like heaven, hell, and everything in between.

And as you two separated, Charles beamed down at you with something indescribable bouncing around in his whiskey eyes.  ‘I think a sleep-in wouldn’t hurt, now, would it?’ Rising to the day seems like the logical option. Something that barely crosses your mind for a second before you fall captive to those bronzed arms, weaving around the hitch of your waist. And before you know it, you discover yourself half-tossed atop the ghost you had fallen for. The tall length of his legs tangled with your own. And any responsible, adult-like thought dissolved as your lips crashed together. Something oh-so-destructible yet perfect, how could you say no?

And possibly, that perfect destruction is always the reason why you both are considered late to possibly anything imaginable. If Edwin found himself in the depths of the fiery circles of hell again, the entire group would bet that you and Charles would take an eternity to part before he’d get rescued. It’d be more beneficial for Edwin to smuggle out himself.

‘We’re going to be awfully late, angel.’

‘Maybe because you keep distracting me.’

‘Nonsense, I’m brills and can do no wrong.’

You tear your eyes away from your reflection in the mirror before you. You scrutinise Charles with a disbelieving gaze at his words, which shortly dissolve into nothing less than adoration. Nevertheless, you continued to feign annoyance as you combed a single hand through your hair and down your scalp. Fingers adjusting the little strands to suit your desire for tidiness. 

You abandon this aspiration, pivoting upon your heel. The mask of annoyance you pertain slips away into nothingness as a soft laugh escapes you amid your words. Facing your boyfriend, you slip a hand into his own.

‘You’re lucky that I love you.’ 

'I am so very lucky.'

Charles’ adjusted his position as he moved his lips from the curve of your forehead, toward the curve of your lips. There was something passionate about how the deep onyx of hues sparked with something even deeper. Something warm and honeyed, indescribable. And before you could even decipher what it was you could feel the honeyed taste of him upon your lips, Charles scooped you up and threw you over his shoulder.

His arm relented against the small of your back, even as you holler out empty threats and meaningless curses amid your laughter. This merely prompted Charles to bounce you atop his shoulder blade, a chuckle of his own heard as you huffed and puffed. Nevertheless, you would refuse to admit that the action of soft intimacy made you feel over the moon with exhilaration.

A curse of Charles’s own accompanied your laughter as he was a breath away from the side of his torso slamming into the doorway he attempted to parade you through, which frankly made you laugh harder.

‘You’re such a dick.’ You managed to wheeze out.

‘I think you may be right about that one.’

Charles’s voice sounded with a tinge of mischief, which crept, announced in his tone. You could almost hear the grin in his voice as he articulated his words, even through your limited peripheral vision as you were held captive in his arms.

‘You love it, though.’

The Charles-like cockiness your boyfriend presented caused you to blow out a breath of feigned exasperation. Yet, unbeknownst to him, the slow ghost of a smile proceeded to creep onto your lips. Especially as he continued to balance you upon the bridge of his broadened shoulder, for a hint of dramatics, of course. Because you did love it.

And as the two of you ventured toward inevitable lateness, you couldn’t help but think how you couldn’t wait to do it all again the following morning.

WORD COUNT: 973 MASTERLIST REQ ME!

[sprnklersplashes]

fic commissioned by @andforthecoating thank you for your donation to Operation Olive Branch

"gabe & natalie. prompt: gabe as a ghost (ambigious if he is or just a hallucination, like maybe he can move things but it might be her doing it idk) that Natalie starts to see/hear at some point in the show and some form of sibling bonding (he takes care of her/they have a talk/her emotions around what he means for the family)."

(ao3) fanfic fundraiser

The house is quiet.

It’s to be expected; it’s close to 2am when Henry drops her home. Every house in the street has lights switched off and curtains drawn. But her house has always felt different, right from when she learned how to recognise it. The rest of the street is quiet, but the silence in her house feels heavier.

Henry says goodnight with a kiss on her forehead. She doesn’t need to turn around to know that he’s lingering there as she opens the door, headlights on and engine softly running. 

So stupid, she thinks, as a faint blush creeps across her cheeks. So ridiculously stupid, she thinks as the smile on her face grows.

Boots in her hand, Natalie creeps through the hall and up the stairs. She’s still relatively new to this whole sneaking-back-after-curfew thing; before now, her late-night study sessions were confined to her bedroom. Still, she’s nothing if not a good student. Quiet on the balls of her feet, quick past her parents’ bedroom, opening her door carefully so it doesn’t creak.

Prom night begins to wear off as soon as she reaches her bed. It fades from her like rain running off a rooftop and she lets out a mighty yawn, limbs already sinking into the mattress. Her boots were tossed on the floor as she came in. Vaguely, she’s aware that she should take off her dress and probably her make-up too, but as her eyes fall closed she’s content with it being tomorrow’s problem. Half-wrapped in her duvet, she presses her face into the mattress, just inches away from sleep when-

“And what sort of time is this?”

Her eyes open.

Natalie bolts up, her thumping heart matched only by the echo in her head. Chest heaving, she scans her room as a small, hopeful voice asks if she imagined it. But she heard it, crystal clear. She couldn’t make that up.

As she reaches for the bedside lamp, the hair on her neck rises, the distinct feeling of being watched washes all over her. Her free hand grabs her purse and reaches for the pepper spray inside.

As soon as the light is on, she sees him. A figure stands against her closet. The scream is wrenched from her throat, and in her haste she forgets all about the pepper spray and chucks a pillow at him.

Her aim is off. It lands sadly just beside him. He looks down at it, bemused.

“Nice shot.”

“Who the fuck are you?” she hisses. “And how the hell did you get in my room?”

“Oh, you love the descriptors don’t you?” he asks wryly. “The fuck. The hell.” Natalie is sitting straight up, pepper spray hot in her hand, plans forming in her mind. She could blind him with the spray, then grab the alarm clock and bludgeon him with it. She could grab a belt or the cord for the curtain and tie his legs together. Yet as the plans pull together, he just looks at her, and in his gaze there’s a familiarity that holds her back. A small, adamant whisper of you know him.

He crosses the room, his gait brimming with false confidence. In the lamplight, she can see the deep brown eyes, dark hair sticking up in every direction. She sees that he can’t be much older than she is.

Then, he’s in front of her. She holds the pepper spray up, eyes bright and hand steady. He blinks, then reaches out. His hand slips through her hair, so light she doesn’t feel a thing. When he smiles, there’s a sadness in it.

“You look so like Mom,” he mumbles. She isn’t sure if he’s talking to her or himself.  

Natalie’s breath hitches, and all at once the realisation crashes over her, a tsunami wave against a tiny coastal town. Her head shakes because no, this is not-

She’s lost it. She has really, truly lost it. 

“Gabriel.” The syllables tremble on her tongue, as if they don’t want to come together. Gabriel smirks, then bows like he’s on stage. Natalie’s mouth hangs open, the sour aftertaste of his name lingering there. Carefully, the pepper spray lowers. 

They stand there, the silence so full that Natalie fears it will shatter. Gabriel rocks on his heels, his hands in his back pockets. 

He’s beautiful, Natalie can’t deny that. Long lashes and big doe eyes that would drive anyone wild. Dimples when he smiles and a face that’s almost angelic. There’s nothing of her in him; his skin is peachy where hers is pale, his eyes sparkle with no red anywhere. He’s handsome, just as mom always said he was. 

“You don’t look like your baby pictures.”

“Probably because I was a baby,” he says jovially. He speaks like it’s all one big game, which maybe it is to him. She doesn’t know how ghosts operate-if he is actually a ghost and not something conjured by her fucked-up mind. 

“You have questions.”

“Not really,” she says. It’s false. Sure she has questions, the main one being ‘what the fuck’. She also has several things she would like to say to him and the list grows longer by the second. She clears her throat, pushes her hair off her shoulder, and settles for the most obvious one. “Why are you here?”

Gabe folds his arms, his shoulders wriggle. He smiles so innocently, so easily. Like it means nothing to him. Like it’s obvious.

“Is it so wrong to want to see you?” he asks. “I kept trying to talk to you but I just couldn’t. You’re my sister after all. I want to talk to you.” The word sister feels more akin to a slap in the face. She flinches and Gabriel’s eyes widen. 

“You’re a pretty lousy brother,” she tells him. He scowls at that, like a kid being put in the corner.

“I mean… it was not my fault that I died, was it?” He gives a half-hearted shrug, face half-turned away. “Believe me, I was not planning on it.”

Everything hits her at once. Sixteen long, lonely years of living in this house, constantly cold in his shadow. Sixteen years of sitting like a forgotten book on a shelf and counting up every achievement and trophy in the hopes that they’d make her mother see her. Wandering the world like a ghost, like someone who was never fully born. Pausing her movie or closing her book because her mom was screaming downstairs. 

It rumbles, a thunderstorm in her chest, until her fingers shake and her heart is pounding and Gabe is looking at her with concern all over his perfect, lovely face.

She grabs the alarm clock from her dresser and chucks it. 

Gabe gasps and he ducks just a second before it hits him. The clock smacks into the wardrobe, the door shudders with the impact, then hits the floor. The back falls off, batteries roll out. The hands fall limply to one side. 

And then she’s crying. She’s crying because her alarm clock is broken. 

“Natalie?” There’s a knock at her door. Gabe freezes, his expression like a deer in headlights and at once, he dives to the floor and presses against the closet. Covered in shadows, Natalie can barely see him. All there is is the faint notion of him pleading with her. When she looks again, she sees him press a finger to his lips.

“Nat?” her dad asks again. She hastily wipes her face and rushes to the door, positioning herself so none of her room is visible. A voice whispers that she’s ridiculous, because if he looked in he’d find no-one there. But… look there’s only so much she can risk right now.

“You okay hon?” he asks. “I heard-I thought I heard you shouting.”

“I’m fine,” she replies. This part is easy. She’s become something of an expert at lying. “I-I saw a spider.”

“A spider?”

“Yeah.” She nods, taps her nails against the wood. “Really big one. I killed it though so it’s-it’s fine.” Her dad nods once, slowly, skepticism plain as day on his face. He studies her, sleep-heavy eyes drilling into her face. Natalie wonders what he sees when he looks at her. Gabe had said she looks like Mom. Does he see that too? The ghost of the woman he sacrificed everything to save? The ghost of Gabe? Did he ever look at her and see her?

“Well, good night then.”

“Good night Dad.”

She closes the door gently, with a soft and quick exhale.

Then she storms over to her bed, throws herself on it, and cries into her pillow. 

Fuck, she was meant to be done with this.

It’s not long before Gabe sits down beside her. She doesn’t exactly feel it, not in the normal way. The bed doesn’t sink under his extra weight. Instead she senses him, like a small pull in her chest. When she turns over, she finds him cross-legged atop the covers, elbows resting on his knees and picking at a loose nail. His head is slightly bowed, eyes half-obscured by his hair. He looks normal. He looks sad. 

“I hate you,” she mumbles. “I fucking hate you.”

“I know,” Gabe sighs. He pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin on top of them. Guilt prickles against her skin and Natalie wants to scream because why should she feel bad? 

They sit there for a long time. It’s quiet enough that Natalie could fall asleep if she wanted to. She has a feeling Gabe wouldn’t stop her and that’s what keeps her awake. Whether he’s real or a dream or she’s just straight up crazy, she wants to see this to the end. 

“I was six when I found out about you,” Natalie croaks. “Because Mom forgot my birthday and then two months later she threw a party for you. I thought it was a make-up party for me but it-it was for you.” She sniffles. “Then when I was seven, I cut my hair real short. I figured since Mom had lost you I’d just look like you and give her you back.” She chokes, a ragged sob tears from her. “Mom took one look at me and ran out of the room crying.”

“I remember,” Gabe says weakly. She looks up at him, eyes blazing. Her hurt is a tangible thing; it hangs in the air like fog. “You wore hats for the rest of the year until it grew back.”

“What did you think?”

“I think you looked ridiculous with it,” he offers. And for some fucking reason, Natalie laughs. It’s a short-lived little thing, but it was there. Gabe pulls himself inward, his thumb rubs circles against his leg.

“I won’t lie to you,” he tells her. He curls in on himself, traces patterns on his jeans. “A lot of the time, I liked it. I liked when Mom looked at me instead of you. Hell, I pushed for it. Because if Mom was looking at me-it meant I was still alive.” He closes his eyes and breathes out. “It felt like I never died.”

“You did though,” she says. It’s so blunt and so cruel that she can’t quite believe she said it. “You died, Gabriel. And you were meant to stay dead.” She gasps, her chest and cheeks burning. The worst taste bitter and she spits them out. “It would’ve been better for everyone.” Hot tears roll down her face. “You ruined my fucking life and you want my sympathy?”

“I don’t want your sympathy,” he sighs. His head falls back, and the light catches the matching tears on his face. Natalie blinks. She didn’t know ghosts could cry. She doesn’t want him to cry.

“I never meant for any of this to happen.” His voice is hollow. “For this whole time, I never thought about what was happening to you. I just-” He swallows, shudders, looks down at his hands. “I was lonely. And I was angry.”

“Join the club.” It doesn’t come out quite as angrily as she meant it. Gabe looks at her, brown eyes so wide that she can’t breathe. At this moment, he doesn’t look like a monster or a ghost or a phantom; he looks seventeen. He looks like her brother. Natalie reaches for the hatred and the anger that she knows and it slips through her fingers.

Maybe she’s growing. Maybe she’s just tired.

“I’m so sorry, Natalie,” he says. And that squeezes her heart like a vice. It squeezes until the edges crack and the pain comes spilling out until it’s all over her and her bedsheets and it’s all over Gabe too, because he’s crawled over to her and his hand is on her shoulder and he’s sobbing with her. And she doesn’t want to push him away. She wants him to hold all over shattered pieces with her.

(How many times can a person be broken and rebuilt in one night?)

For a long, long moment, they’re silent. All they can hear is her beating heart and the catch in her breath and a car passing outside.

“I think in another life we were friends,” she says. Her voice breaks. She feels, rather than sees, Gabe’s smile. His shoulders sag, as if she took some weight from him.

“I hope so,” he mutters against her hair. It sounds real. He sighs, presses his weightless body into hers. Atop her covers, his fingers brush hers and while the physical sensation isn’t there, something else is. Something soft, warm, tickling her skin.

It feels like forgiveness. 

“Get some sleep, kiddo,” he tells her. “I’ll watch over you.”

“Creepy,” she mutters. Gabe averts his eyes as she steps out of her dress and dumps it on the chair. She pulls on a t-shirt and Gabe sits quietly as she scrubs off her make-up. He shuffles aside as she flips over the covers, her eyes half-closed. She’s almost certain that he won’t be there when she wakes up. 

“Hey,” she says. “One more question.”

“Of course.”

“Are you real?” She lifts her heavy head, forcing her eyes open. With tiredness blurring her vision, helooks more hazy. He could fade away in one blink. “Or am I actually crazy.”

Gabe chuckles, a warm, throaty sound. His fingers brush her hairline.

“Would you believe me if I said I don’t know?” 

“Yeah,” mumbles. Her eyes fall closed. “Yeah I would.”

Isn’t it a classic Goodman trait, to not know if you’re real or not?

She wakes late the next morning, when the sun is already blaring through her window. Her room is aglow, painted in yellows and oranges. 

The alarm clock is back on her table. The hands tick steadily.  The closet door is solid, intact.

Her blue dress is hanging against it, carefully pressed and her boots laid underneath. 

She smiles. 

[rainbow-universe]

🥰🥰🥰 love this!!

►These things take time

ao3 saw it first

Summary: 4 times Gideon stops Elle from calling him dad and the one time he lets her.

Relationships: Elle Greenaway & Jason Gideon, Elle Greenaway / Spencer Reid

Word count: 1618

i.

They’re on the phone the first time it happens. There’s a case, like most days, and Elle is stuck with Morgan in the SUV they always end up driving. He’s been blasting music for the last twenty minutes, so when the phone rings Elle is quite happy to hear the signal. She motions for Morgan, who’s not heard the signal, to pause the cd player as she picks up the phone and checks the caller ID.

“Hey Gideon!”

“Are you on your way to the crime scene?”

“Yeah, we’re driving there now. Care to brief us?” She says and out of the corner of her eye she can see Morgan snickering.

“The victim is Peter Andersen, white male, 43 years old. Stabbed multiple times in the abdomen. We think the unsub is still in the area.”

He pauses and Elle takes it for what it is, a warning, and most likely the end of the briefing.

“Ok, anything else?”

She can hear him breathing in and then, with a voice laced with worry, he says

“Be careful.”

And honestly she can’t take the way he sounds so genuine, can’t take the way it makes her stomach twist. So she sighs exasperatedly and rolls her shoulders, satisfied when they make a small cracking noise.

“Yes, dad.”

“Not your dad, Greenaway.”

ii.

She’s sitting beside Reid. Up until five minutes ago they had been together in companionable silence, which had now been disturbed.

The paramedic who had previously forgotten about her is on her like a hawk and insisting he take her to the hospital. She knows it’s stupid but she wishes the paramedic would leave her alone a bit more.

Elle’s really not that hurt except for the gash in her forehead, which isn’t even bleeding that much anymore. And the headache, but she has those all the time. So really, she’s not that hurt.

When she spots Gideon walking over to them, she can feel a small sliver of hope burning in her chest. If it were Hotch she wouldn’t even ask, but with Gideon, she thinks there might be a small chance he’ll help her.

“Gideon, will you please tell him that I don't need to go to the hospital?”

“Regulations are regulations.” He says sternly before looking her up and down. If Elle didn’t know better she’d say he looks concerned: “You're all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, dad.” And, God, didn’t that slip out a little too easily. She can feel Reid tensing beside her even though he’s trying to cover it by faking a small shiver.

Gideon is the one to break the silence:

“Hey Elle?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ever call me ‘dad’ again.” He says.

As she watches his retreating back she turns to Reid, who’s stayed right next to her for the whole conversation, albeit a little awkwardly. She smiles a little, shakes her head, and deadpans:

“How do you think he’d feel about ‘mom’?”

That earns her a lopsided smile and a:

“Let me know when you’re going to do that so I can uh- run.”

iii.

The team is in the conference room when it happens. It’s been a rough couple of days and Elle knows they’re starting to take a toll on her.

She knows because when Reid asked if she wanted sugar in her coffee this morning, she’d said yes. Today, she might actually have a shot at beating his standing record of the amount of sugar in one cup of coffee. She and Morgan have been trying to one-up each other on that front for months, but she usually can’t take more than two sugars and Morgan never manages to finish his coffee when he tries.

“Elle, you take Reid and go over the evidence the Philly PD sent us.”

Elle looks up from her coffee, the spoon in her hand still swirling around in the cup. She shakes her head a few times to try and get rid of the fog in her head.

“Yeah, dad- I mean… dad. Uhh- Jason! Sir.” She can hear Morgan snickering behind her, and honestly, isn’t this just great. Spencer (and when did he become Spencer?) gives her a small, shy smile before he too lets out a quiet giggle.

“Just Gideon, Elle,” Gideon affirms and just like that Morgan’s outright chuckling.

As if the mortification of saying the wrong title at 7am wasn’t enough.

Elle slides down a few inches in her chair and stretches her legs, aiming to kick Spencer under the table, while attempting to send a murderous look Morgan’s way. She probably doesn’t look as intimidating as she wants to.

vi.

Spencer is sitting in his desk chair while Elle’s taken the liberty to sit on his desk, her legs dangling off the end and awkwardly brushing against his knees. The coffee cup his hands are wrapped around has ‘pretty high degree’ written on it in bold black letters. According to Elle, it’s the best cup they have in the office- and it’s definitely not just because she has the best humour of the team and had bought it specifically with him in mind.

Her phone rings, disturbing the peace and quiet (or as much of it she can get at the BAU). From across the room, she can hear Morgan whistling.

“Not a boyfriend,” and then, because she’s a tease and she loves to balance the scales “I’m interested in someone else, actually.”

She can see Morgan’s eyebrows raising.

”Get off it, Morgan.” She sighs “I don’t think he likes me anyway.”

“It’s actually highly unlikely that he doesn’t like you. It’s called reciprocal liking, if he thinks you like him, then he’ll start to like you even more. And some peo- “

“Reid,” she interrupts with laughter in her voice, “thank you. But I don’t want someone to like me just because I like them.” She pauses for a moment: “Besides, I’m pretty sure this guy doesn’t fall into the statistics.”

Spencer takes a sip of his probably diabetic inducing coffee and looks up at her.

“Most people do. That’s the point of statistics.”

“I guess so,” she amends, in an attempt

To end the conversation. She has to get out- and fast. ”I’m getting more coffee, want some?”

“Please,” he says and hands her his cup.

Elle grabs her own disregarded cup from beside her on the desk and hops off it, thankful when she doesn’t upend the whole desk. She makes her way into the kitchen seemingly normally but she can feel the ghost of their conversation as a weight. It’s not that she cares what Spencer thinks, not really, but it’s also the fact that she does care.

It’s all too confusing for 2 o'clock in the afternoon so she settles for pouring the coffee from the coffee pot, trying to silence her thoughts. Just as she’s taking out the creamer from the fridge she feels someone’s presence behind her in the kitchen.

She turns around; Spencer’s cup in one hand, creamer in the other and the fridge door wide open.

“How are you?” Gideon asks and he looks genuinely concerned in the way only he can- where it’s phrased like a throwaway question and you can’t really see the tenderness behind it unless you know what to look for.

“I-“ she hadn’t realised she’d been choked up but as she tries to answer him she is made acutely aware of the overwhelming something she feels. “I just don’t think Reid’s right, you know,” she settles for and takes a deep breath.

“Well, it’s only human to be wrong.”

“I know,” she sighs and turns back to the coffee, closing the fridge door as she does so, and seeming the conversation over.

“And, Elle?” Gideon says and she looks over once again at where he’s standing in the arch-way to the kitchen with a knowing gleam in his eyes, “Any boy would be lucky to have you.”

She swallows, shock probably written plain across her face. Sure they’re all profilers and Gideon’s been on the job for longer than any of them but she still can’t quite fathom how he got it right on the nose.

“Yeah, yeah I know,” she elbows him after a moment, before mockingly adding “dad.”

“Elle, I’ve told you not to call me that.”

+ i

Gideon stays behind in the hospital, even though he can feel his eyelids drooping. He wants to blame it on the lack of sleep but, if he’s honest with himself, it’s mostly because he knows Elle’s in there, fighting for her life. She’s out of surgery now but he’d insisted on being there until she’d woken.

People can say whatever they want about Gideon (old, naive, fatherly) and most of it would be right, as proven by how his back is starting to hurt from the plastic hospital chair.

“Dad?”

An unsure voice permeates the deafening silence of the hospital room and Gideon lifts his head from where it’s been resting against his hands and is met with an awakened Elle.

Gideon takes her hand in his larger ones, almost hiding them from sight, and lets out a relieved sigh. She looks so, so fragile, as if she’ll flicker away any second. Her eyes are bloodshot and skin is sickly pale. He can see the bandages peeking through where her shirt has bundled up and he resists the urge to straighten it.

She looks horrible but at least she’s alive- she’s alive and she will recover- and that’s all that matters right now. He takes another steadying breath and squeezes her hands.

“Yeah, I’m here Elle. You’re safe.”

[drerry]

Hey I love your idea with the non-rates, it seems like an amazing way to spread positivity 💫🌙

hey thank you i’m glad you like this idea! if i can ask what’s your url from? and god your posts are on point!! i hope your day is being good! ♡

[minuses]

br | I love eleanor and park 💫

thats such a cute book tbh

url: not my type / meh / good / amazing / can i have ur url pls???

icon:  not my type / meh / good / amazing / flawless

mobile theme:  not my type / meh / good / amazing / i can’t stop looking at it, it’s absolutely stunning !!!

desktop theme:  not my type / meh / good / amazing / i’m going to steal it

updates tab:  not my type / meh / good / amazing / so litttttt where did u get it from?

posts:  not my type / meh / good / amazing / so aesthetically pleasing omg

overall: not my type / meh / good / amazing / perfection

thoughts & comments: you should change your desktop theme to suit your aesthetic better tbh

following?: no(t) yet / + follow / yes / ofc i am, can we pls be friends??

[ao3feed-kleinsen]

And suddenly (it didn't make sense anymore)

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2xGUdpm

by andforthecoating

Evan needs a friend, and Jared doesn't mind.

(or Jared is ridiculously in love and Evan is oblivious.)

Words: 1206, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Jared Kleinman, Evan Hansen

Relationships: Evan Hansen/Jared Kleinman

Additional Tags: pining!jared, Pining, Unrequited Crush, Or Is It?, Anxiety, Evan is oblivious, and also adorable, The Insanely Cool Jared Kleinman, Kleinsen, Kleinsen (one-sided), This only sucks a little bit, Fluff, Jared just wishes he didn't fall in love so easily

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2xGUdpm

[sincerelyverena]

. . . DEAD BOY DETECTIVES MASTERLIST

‘it is the stance of this department that a misplaced dead child causes more trouble than a live one.’

⇀ CHARLES ROWLAND @andforthecoating

› THE GHOST OF YOU · gn!reader

MASTERLIST REQ ME!

[rainbow-universe]

cute!!

►Picnic Date

also on ao3

Summary: You and your boyfriend Jack go on an impromptu picnic date. You probably shouldn’t be surprised that he worries about the ants on your blanket.

Inspired by this post

Word count: 853 :)

The past few weeks had been stressful for both you and your boyfriend Jack

First there had been the amount of essays from your second year psychology students you’d had to grade, then you’d gotten the flu and the amount of work you had to do had just piled on. Sure, Jack had made you tea and tried his best to cheer you up, but it was hard when he barely had time to be at home and you had to spend the dreary November days largely by yourself. His work had been hectic as of late and Brennan didn’t hesitate to ask him to work over most days.

Therefore, when you’d gotten on top of your work again, you’d decided an impromptu afternoon trip to Park Washington was the best course of action. The day was beautiful, the crisp autumn air refreshing.

When you’d met up with Jack at the Jeffersonian and hastily greeted his team you’d dragged him to the car park, eager to surprise him and spend the day away together.

You’d had the directions on your phone, careful not to disclose too much as you guided the way to the park. Of course, the ride was only 10 minutes but you wanted to keep the air of suspense.

As soon as the road started to be surrounded with trees he turned towards you for a moment, a tentative smile on his lips.

“We’re going hiking?”

You shook your head.

“Maybe another day! I was thinking we could do a picnic if you want?” You said, suddenly worried that it might’ve been an idea that only pleased you. “I made sandwiches before work today and I have coffee and cookies as well.”

“That sounds perfect, baby.” He pulled up to a parking spot and put the car in park as you reached your destination. “Do you want me to carry anything?”

“Yeah! If you take the blanket I’ll take the basket,” you said and opened the car door to take the basket that was in the backseat. “Do you remember the nice place we were last time?” He nodded. “I think that’s just a few minutes away.”

The two of you started following the gravel path toward the place you were talking about and soon enough the trees started scattering. The opening in the forest was pretty, the afternoon sun streaming in through the trees surrounding it.

There were a few other people there already, mostly families with kids. You looked around until Jack tugged a little on your hand.

“There?” He said, gesturing toward a spot on a small hill to the left.

“Yes, that’s perfect.”

-

You’d just finished your sandwich and Jack was on his second when you felt something tickling your foot. Anxiously, you looked down and saw two or three ants running around up towards your ankle. You swatted them away and cuddled closer to Jack, trying to get some of his body heat.

You closed your eyes, breathing in his scent as he laid is arm around you, pulling you even closer.

Soon enough, though, it became impossible to ignore the continued tickling on your leg.

“I’m pretty sure there’s ants running all over this, Jack,” you mumbled against his shoulder, a little worriedly. You weren’t afraid of insects, per say, but you were also not the biggest fan. “Could we just shake them off really quickly?”

“Of course,” he comforted you, carefully disentangling himself from you as he stood up and moved the basket from the blanket.

You followed his lead, grabbing one corner of the blanket as he grabbed the other,

“If you’re a bug just be careful, okay?” Jack said, looking at the picnic blanket. He looked so cute like this, curls all tousled and a flush on his cheeks. The worried look in his eyes as he warned the eventual bugs didn’t hurt either.

“I didn’t know you were such an advocate for ants, baby,” you said with a smile.

“Maybe I can make an exception for these ones.” He grinned and shook the blanket once. You almost lost your balance with the force of it and his grin grew larger.

When the two of you had rustled it enough times that you were positive any possible insects had fallen off you laid down on your back.

Jack laid down next to you, your shoulders brushing, and you took the hand closest to yours in yours.

“Let’s hope the ants don’t carry a grudge for this.” You said, still looking up at the sky.

He chuckled and you turned your head towards him. He looked so happy and careless like this. You’d known he’d been stressed lately but you nothing could’ve prepared you for the difference his laugh made. You wished you could bottle it up, somehow, and save it for all those days when everything felt just a little hopeless.

“They’ll have a vendetta for three days for sure. Maybe they’ll have time to build a machine to conquer us with,” he joked.

“Oh my god, imagine!”

“That’d be pretty crazy.”

“Yeah it would,” you agreed, nuzzling into his side.